Cold-Blooded, page 23
Tears stung the backs of Jocelyn’s eyes. This was what their mother had fought so hard for. Year after year after year. Rehab facility after rehab facility.
“It’s not over,” Camille added. “I still struggle. All the time. But my life is different now. I’m different.”
“I’m glad,” Jocelyn said.
Camille met Jocelyn’s eyes, staring hard at her older sister with a fierce intensity. “But I know that Olivia is yours. I accept that.”
Jocelyn swallowed over the lump in her throat. “Okay.”
“I got your texts,” Camille said, changing the subject. She put the clean dishes in the drain board and dried her hands on a kitchen towel. “I’m sorry about Knox.”
Jocelyn sighed, blinking back the Knox-related tears that threatened to come atop the Camille-related tears. “Thanks.”
Camille walked over and took Jocelyn’s hands, squeezing gently. “Are you okay?”
“No,” Jocelyn said. “I don’t think I am.”
“Is there anything I can do? Take Olivia to school? I don’t have to be on a list to drop her off.”
Jocelyn shook her head. “No, thank you, but I want to do it. I want normal right now.”
“Okay,” Camille said, releasing her sister’s hands. “So what happens now? With your case, I mean?”
“Trent will run a search on the gun Francine had to see who it’s registered to, if it’s even legal, and go from there, I guess.”
“You killed that woman.”
“Yes,” Jocelyn said.
“Does it bother you?”
“No. Maybe it should, but it doesn’t. She was going to kill me. She was a truly deranged person.” Jocelyn’s body quaked involuntarily. Whispering, in case Olivia came into the kitchen, she recounted most of the things Francine had told Knox.
Camille listened with rapt attention, her frown deepening with each one of Jocelyn’s words. “Wow,” she said. “It’s hard to believe someone like that could fool so many people for so long.”
“I know.”
“That’s almost scarier than a person who’d just walk up and shoot you. I think I’d take a straight up violent psycho over Francine’s brand of psycho any day.”
Jocelyn nodded. She suddenly felt very sleepy, and she knew she was going to crash soon. “I need to get Olivia to school.”
“I’m meeting with the DA today,” Camille said.
“Okay,” Jocelyn said. Even though she knew she’d never be able to stay awake, she offered, “Do you want me to go with you?”
Camille smiled. “Thank you but no. I can handle it. But I am going to need you to talk to Whitman for me and soon. Not today, but soon.”
Jocelyn nodded. “I’ll do it. I’ll call him before I crash and see if he can meet me tomorrow or the next day.”
Camille went into the dining room, where her purse sat on the table, and returned with a computer printout. She handed it to Jocelyn. “All his information is there.”
“I thought he was a Criminology professor at the University of Pennsylvania.”
Camille said, “Evidently, the child porn charges took a toll on his career.”
Jocelyn stared at the phone number for Whitman’s office at the Community College of Philadelphia. She felt a measure of satisfaction, which she tried to tamp down. From the very beginning, he was the only one of Camille’s rapists who had ever shown any signs of remorse. He hadn’t participated, he had been the lookout, but that had always struck Jocelyn as equally horrific. What kind of person watched something like that and did nothing to stop it? Immediately afterward, it was Whitman who ratted the other boys out to Bruce Rush. It was Whitman who had finally acknowledged the crime and apologized for his part in it when he came face to face with Jocelyn the year before. It was Whitman who had helped her crack the Schoolteacher case. As contemptible as he was as a human being, he was a brilliant criminologist. As disgusting and despicable as what he’d done to Camille was, he was now being punished for something he hadn’t done. It was undeniable that Jocelyn felt joy at the prospect of Whitman suffering after what he’d done to her sister, but she generally didn’t believe that people should be crucified for things they hadn’t done.
“Joc?” Camille said, drawing her out of her reverie.
Jocelyn looked at her sister. “I’ll take care of it.”
Camille grabbed Jocelyn and hugged her tightly, whispering a thank you into Jocelyn’s hair.
Jocelyn took Olivia to school, grateful for the normalcy of the act. Olivia kept her grounded, tethered to sanity. It was on the way home that Jocelyn started to crack. Tears streaked her cheeks. Her whole body hiccupped with sobs. She had to blink away the tears blurring her vision repeatedly. Of course she hit every red light on the way home. She willed the pedestrians on Ridge Avenue not to look at her.
At home, Camille was gone, but Caleb was there. He had come for her after working all night. She walked straight into his arms and cried until she had no tears left. They fell asleep on her bed in a tangle of limbs, fully clothed. Camille woke them in time for Jocelyn to pick up Olivia from school. She left Caleb passed out in her bed and took a shower, hoping to clear the fog from her head. She checked her phone before she left the house. She had a return call from Zachary Whitman. He had an open appointment Thursday morning.
They ordered pizza for dinner, and Camille and Jocelyn watched Olivia and Caleb play Just Dance on her Wii, laughing till their sides hurt. Caleb had a lot of things going for him, but dancing wasn’t one of them. Trent called her around six that evening. “Guess who the P90 is registered to?” he asked without preamble.
“The eleventh grade biology teacher.”
Trent sounded disappointed. “How did you know?”
“It was a guess.”
“Hmph. Well, a damn good one. Guy’s name is Craig Hubbard. His Ruger P90 was stolen from his truck two months before Sydney’s murder.”
“Interesting,” Jocelyn said.
“Guess what other kind of gun he has registered in his name?”
Jocelyn sat up straight, excitement stirring butterflies in her stomach. “Tell me.”
“A Smith and Wesson Model 48. Takes .22 cal.”
November 19, 2014
Craig Hubbard was every bit the weak, sniveling loser that Francine had described. Watching him weep in fear behind his desk at Franklin West, Jocelyn couldn’t believe Francine had ever let Hubbard touch her. He was thin and slight, mostly bald with a bad comb-over and what Inez would have called a perv mustache. But it was his uncontrollable sobbing the moment he saw Trent’s badge that really made him unattractive.
“Oh God,” he cried. “Please don’t tell my wife.”
Jocelyn and Trent stood side by side in front of the large metal desk. They exchanged a raised brow look, and Jocelyn knew they were both thinking the same thing.
What the hell did this guy do?
“That depends on you,” Trent said. “If you cooperate with us, we don’t need to tell your wife.”
Hubbard’s sobs lessened, the quaking in his shoulders subsiding. “I couldn’t help it,” he cried. “Men have needs. I have needs, and Francine—well, she could be very pushy, you know? She had ways of . . . convincing people. I know I’m weak. After the last time, I swore I’d never be with her again. Please don’t tell my wife.”
Jocelyn and Trent exchanged another look.
Trent leaned over the desk and looked into Hubbard’s eyes. “Mr. Hubbard, the police don’t show up when you’re having an affair. That’s your personal business. It’s not cool, but it’s not a crime. You need to stop lying to me right now, or I’ll drag your sorry ass downtown, and we’ll have to call your wife.”
Hubbard threw up his hands. “Okay, okay,” he said. He looked behind them, toward the doorway, as if he expected someone to appear there at any second. He lowered his voice. “Is she really . . . gone?”
They had notified the school staff of Francine’s death and Cash’s arrest but had asked them to keep it quiet. Trent was trying to keep it out of the press until he sorted the mess out. He looked from Hubbard to Jocelyn and back. Jocelyn leaned in and put both hands on the desk. “I shot her myself. She’s dead. Now let’s hear what you’ve got to say.”
Hubbard stared at her for a long moment. Jocelyn heard the clock above the man’s head tick. He slumped in his chair and brought a hand to his forehead. He breathed in and out in short, rapid breaths. When he looked back up at them, the tension in his face and body loosened. He looked almost droopy. It was relief, Jocelyn realized. Craig Hubbard was relieved to be free of Francine Rigo. How many years had she held him in her sway? How many other people had she manipulated into situations they wished they could get out of? How many people would be relieved to hear of her death?
Jocelyn shivered.
“I didn’t know what she was going to do with it,” Hubbard said. “I swear to God. She asked me for it—”
“For what?” Trent asked.
“The listeria.”
Trent frowned. Jocelyn realized that he thought Hubbard was talking about the gun. He was likely thinking that Hubbard had given it to Francine and then reported it stolen.
“She asked you for something that people get food poisoning from, and you just gave it to her?” Jocelyn asked. Her anger simmered as she thought about the night she’d spent wrapped around the toilet.
Hubbard wouldn’t meet her eyes. “You don’t understand,” he whined. “She threatened to—”
Trent tapped his fingers on the desk to silence the man. “How many times did she ask you for it?”
“Not many. Four or five times.”
“How long were you two having an affair?”
Hubbard’s cheeks burned red. He continued to look at his lap. “On and off for sixteen years. It wasn’t really an affair though. I mean at first it was, but then I wanted to stop and she didn’t. That was the first time she asked me for it. That was the agreement. I would grow it and give it to her, and she would leave me alone.”
Trent said, “She asked you for listeria?”
“No, no. It wasn’t like that. The students were experimenting with Gram stains, and one day she started asking me about different organisms—what you could grow. She was interested in antibiotics actually. I was just talking about different bacteria and brought up the example of food poisoning organisms. She asked me to grow some—to show her—so I did. But it was a weakened strain. Then she wanted the samples. She said there was a neighbor who kept coming over whenever they had a party and making unwanted advances.”
“Of course she did,” Jocelyn said.
“So you thought Francine poisoning this neighbor was a good solution to her problems?” Trent asked skeptically.
Hubbard threw his hands up again. “No, I didn’t, but I just wanted—needed—her to leave me alone.” Tears filled the man’s eyes again. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. Please—”
Jocelyn slapped the desk hard. “Don’t,” she snapped. “Just answer the questions.”
Instantly cowing, Hubbard looked back and forth between them. Trent went on. “Okay, so you gave her the listeria. Then what happened?”
“She left me alone for a long time. Years. I thought it was really over. But every so often, she’d find me. I tried to avoid her, not to give into temptation but she—she did things.”
Hubbard said the words “did things” in a tone that was half revulsion, half awe. “I’m sorry,” he repeated. “I couldn’t say no. God help me, I couldn’t say no.”
“She asked you for it last week, didn’t she?” Jocelyn asked.
He nodded as a sob worked its way up his windpipe. “I’m so sorry.”
“She ever ask you for anything else?” Trent asked.
Hubbard hiccupped, looking at Trent in earnest. “Like what?”
Trent folded his arms across his chest. “You know what, Mr. Hubbard. Now, come on.”
The man’s shoulder blades drew together, his body tensing. “Wh-what? No, no. I don’t.”
Trent sighed. He pulled the Ruger P90 out of his coat pocket and put it on the desk. It was wrapped in clear plastic, and Hubbard recognized it immediately. He leaned forward. “A P90. I used to have—oh my God, is that mine? Where did you get that?” He stood, pushing his chair out of the way and backing up against the dry-erase board behind the desk. He pointed at the gun, his voice so high it sounded like a creaking door. “Where did you get that?”
“From Francine Rigo,” Jocelyn said quietly.
A vein in Hubbard’s neck throbbed. “I did not give that to her. I would never—that was stolen from my truck. I filed a police report.”
“Are you a firearms enthusiast?” Trent asked.
“I have some handguns that I use for home defense, and I have a concealed carry permit. It’s all legal.”
“What kinds of guns?” Jocelyn asked.
Hubbard’s eyes darted toward her. “What?”
“You said ‘some guns.’ What kinds?”
“A Smith and Wesson Model 48, a Beretta 92FS and a Glock 23 that I bought after my P90 was stolen.”
“So you never discussed firearms with Mrs. Rigo?” Trent asked.
Hubbard shook his head. “She hated guns. She would never let her husband buy one. It was not a topic she ever wanted to discuss.”
“Then how did your P90 get into her hands?” Jocelyn asked.
Hubbard’s eyes watered. The fear rolling off him was palpable. “I don’t know. I swear to you I don’t know. It must be some kind of mistake.”
“Oh, no mistake, Mr. Hubbard.” Trent pointed at the gun. “We got that from inside Francine’s home. From her dead body. It’s registered to you.”
“I swear to you, I didn’t give her that gun. It was stolen from my truck fourteen years ago. I’m telling the truth. I swear.”
Trent waited a long moment. Hubbard said nothing. He simply stared at them with a desperate, pleading look in his eyes.
“Tell me about Sydney Adams,” Trent said.
What appeared to be genuine confusion wrinkled the man’s brow. “Who?”
“Sydney Adams,” Trent repeated.
He looked back and forth between them, waiting for one of them to give him an explanation. Then he said, “Oh my God, is that the neighbor? Is Sydney Adams the neighbor Francine poisoned?”
“Sydney was a girl,” Jocelyn said. “A senior here in 2000.”
Again, the man waited, looking at them expectantly. There wasn’t even the briefest flicker of recognition in his face. He really had no idea who Sydney was, or at least he didn’t remember her. Although he had clearly heard about Francine’s death from his colleagues, he obviously had not heard about Cash’s arrest.
“She was shot in Fairmount Park,” Trent supplied.
Hubbard shook his head, his face scrunched with the effort of searching his memory banks. Then his face lit up as he hit on something. “She ran track, didn’t she? Her murder was just in the news recently, wasn’t it?”
“That’s right,” Jocelyn said.
He stared at them with no desire to fill the awkward silence, Jocelyn noted. Either he had no involvement whatsoever in Sydney’s murder, or he was just as skilled a liar as Francine had been.
Trent sighed. “We’re finished here. Thank you for your time, Mr. Hubbard.”
The man looked surprised but smiled at them, obviously relieved that they’d be leaving soon. “Oh, sure, okay.”
Jocelyn waited until they were outside of the school before asking Trent, “What about the Smith and Wesson Model 48?”
As they got to the car, Trent opened the passenger’s side door for her. “I sent two officers to his house with a warrant for it before we came here. Someone in the crime scene unit owes me a favor. He’ll fire it and check the ballistics against the rounds pulled from Sydney’s body.”
Jocelyn stood by the open door but made no move to get in. “What happened to not telling his wife?”
Trent said, “What happened to not cheating on your wife?”
“Good point.”
“Maybe he didn’t shoot Sydney Adams—we’ll know by tomorrow. But he gave that psychopath the poison. He knew what she was using it for. He’s every bit as guilty as she is.”
“Right,” Jocelyn said, thinking of Zachary Whitman. Like Whitman, Hubbard was a bystander who saw what was going on but made no move to stop it.
Bystanders made her skin crawl.
She sat in the car. Trent closed her door and went around to the driver’s side. After he started the car, he took one last look at Franklin West.
“Fuck him,” he added.
November 20, 2014
Jocelyn sat in the hall outside of Zachary Whitman’s office at the Community College of Philadelphia. She could hear him through the partially closed door discussing an assignment with a student. She looked at the time on her phone. She was ten minutes early. She leaned back against the gray cinderblock wall and closed her eyes. The hall was dimly lit, making it hard for her not to curl up on the bench and take a nap. She’d managed to get a full eight hours of sleep the night before, but she still felt exhausted. She hadn’t felt right since the poisoning, no matter how much sleep she got. Her eyes burned, her limbs felt heavy, and her legs ached. She’d had two cokes that morning. She still couldn’t drink coffee. The caffeine had helped clear her mental fog, but her body still felt like it needed to sleep for a week.
The squeak of sneakers on the tile floor down the hall startled Jocelyn. She opened her eyes to see a group of students passing by, completely oblivious to her. She blinked several times and pulled her phone back out, re-reading the texts that Trent had sent her earlier that morning. The ballistics tests on Hubbard’s Model 48 came back negative. The bullets that killed Sydney were not fired from his gun. Moreover, Jocelyn had checked the news footage of Lonnie from the night Sydney was killed and spotted Hubbard in the background, standing on Franklin West’s steps, which gave him an alibi, even though neither Jocelyn nor Trent believed that Hubbard had done it.
