They’re CCTV stills from the road that runs along the rear of Robyn’s apartment building. Time and date-stamped of a dark Mercedes pulling onto the road near Robyn’s apartment.
“Is this your wife’s vehicle?” I ask.
He stares at the photographs. A muscle near his temple twitches. He swallows, and a bead of sweat traces a slow line from his hairline along his jaw. He doesn’t wipe it away.
“Of course not.” His voice has thinned. “There must be… There must be dozens of that model on the island. Hundreds, even.” He flicks at one photograph with the tip of his finger. “It isn’t hers because we were home. If you wish to continue this farce, you can do so through my lawyer. I have patients to?—”
I place another photograph on the table. It’s the same vehicle, but a closer angle, and a different camera, taken from the side. The registration plate is clear. The time and date-stamp, too.
He stops with one hand on the back of the chair. The breath goes out of him in a small, audible release. After a long second, he sinks back down and pulls the photograph toward him,turning it under the overhead light as if a different angle might rearrange the numbers on the plate.
“Does the number on that license plate belong to your wife’s car?” I ask.
“It…” He clears his throat. “It is.” He pushes it away, but his hand stays on it. “I cannot account for this. I cannot account for how her vehicle came to be there at that time. It—” He stops and then starts again. “The vehicle must have been stolen.”
“Stolen.” I push out a laugh because really?
“Yes. It is the only explanation, since neither of us left home that night.”
“Why would anyone steal a car, drive it to the rear of Dr. Keller’s apartment building on the one night someone attempted to enter her home, and then return the vehicle to your garage? It doesn’t make any kind of sense.”
His hand on the photograph trembles, only a little. “I am being framed.” He says it with conviction. “Someone has gone to extraordinary lengths to frame me.”
“Have they now?” I open the folder again. I take out the still I have been saving. He sees it before I have laid it flat on the table, and the color drains from his face.
It is a clear shot of him in front of his wife’s vehicle in front of Robyn’s apartment building. His hands are at his waistband, tucking a clear envelope holding documents into his pants.
“I can show you the entire video of you leaving your wife’s vehicle with documents and then running back with a crowbar and leaving at speed.”
He looks at the photograph for a long time. “Not necessary. It only proves that I was at that address with a package.”
“A package that looks very much like the one found in her office.”
“I was outside her building. Nothing more. There is no footage of me on her property. There is no footage of me plantinganything. You have nothing.” He stands up again, more steadily this time, although his hands are shaking and he does not try to hide it. “I am done. I am calling my attorney, and I am filing a complaint against you for harassment. You have circumstantial photographs and a great deal of theater. You have nothing of substance. If you had enough for an arrest, I would already be in handcuffs.”
He’s right.
Fuck!
I push my chair back and stand up too. “Please don’t leave. Sit down. Let’s talk about this.” He pauses at the door, his hand on the frame. “I know someone got to you,” I say. “I know they threatened you. Or they threatened your wife, or your children. You’re afraid. I know you wouldn’t have done this otherwise. Someone made you do this. Let me help you.”
“I have no idea what you are talking about.”
“I can offer protection to you and your family. We can fix this, but we need you to come clean.”
“There is nothing to come clean about.” He turns back to the door. “I am leaving. We are finished.”
“Robyn Keller is looking at twenty years.”
He stops. His back is to me. His hand stays on the frame.
“Twenty years,” I repeat. “She didn’t do this. You know it, and I know it.”
For just a second, it looks like he might confess, but then he straightens.
He turns his head a fraction. “I’m sorry.” It’s a whisper.
I’m on my feet in the next second. “Then I’m going to the media. I will give every photograph in this folder to every paper and news station on the island. I will name you, Doctor.”
