Endowed with Death, page 25
Cash ground his teeth, glaring at her. Baker didn’t push. She just sat there waiting for him to correct himself or to move on to something else.
“My personal life is none of your affair,” Cash insisted. “Neither are my financial affairs.”
“They both have a bearing on our investigation.”
“How?”
“You weren’t getting along with your wife. Going to someone else instead. You have a prenup, and you know that the fact that you were cheating on her means that she will benefit from the prenup, and you lose out. You are already having money problems, and that would ruin you.”
“And what does that have to do with anything?”
“Men who are losing everything sometimes find ways to take their families out of the picture. It bothers them so much to be a disappointment to their families that they would rather kill them than to have them see their failings.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“An annihilator would rather see his whole family dead than admit that he has failed them. Or failed to reach whatever financial goal he thought he should have achieved. They have a wildly distorted idea of what they can accomplish in life, and when they cannot reach that goal, they feel the need to…” Baker shook her head, looking for the appropriate metaphor. “To burn everything down,” she said finally.
“I haven’t burned everything down.”
“You’re losing it.”
“I am not losing it!” he raised his voice, shouting the words back at her.
Baker just smirked. “Really.”
“You’re trying to provoke me,” he accused.
“You are not acting like the calm, collected congressman you were trying to portray when you first walked into this room.”
“My son just died. And the woman who raised me. How do you think that makes me feel?”
“I think you killed both of them.”
The astonishment on Cash’s face was comical. Surely he had seen that coming? He had seen that was where they were going, what they were hoping to prove.
“I did not kill either one of them!”
“Prove it.”
“Michael’s body was found outside, nowhere near where I was. By Sylvia. How does that make me guilty of Michael’s death?”
“You were in the house and dropped his body over the rail. You may think that you go unobserved in that house, that everyone just works in the background and doesn’t see your comings and goings, but that isn’t true. People see you. They pay attention to where you are at all times. So they can tell us a lot more about where you were and what you were doing than you think.”
“I didn’t do anything to hurt him.”
“Oh, didn’t you?” Tuttle exploded so unexpectedly that Cash jerked back from him, raising his hand to his face protectively. “You hit that boy,” Tuttle accused. “Don’t even try telling me that you didn’t hurt him. Do you know how many people can testify to that fact?”
“How I choose to discipline my son has nothing to do with you. And nothing to do with his death. I did not kill him.”
“Discipline. Is that what you call it when you beat the hell out of a toddler for interrupting you? For getting underfoot?” Baker challenged.
“That’s a misconstruing of the circumstances—”
“That is exactly what happened. You know it, and I know it, so you might as well not even try.”
Cash folded his arms again, glaring at her. But he didn’t deny it. Maybe there were too many witnesses and he was trying to think his way out of the trap he found himself in.
“Do you know how often your nanny had to take that boy to the emergency room to ensure he didn’t die from the injuries you inflicted on him? But this time, she couldn’t get there in time to save him. She was too late. So the two of you concocted a plan to make it look like he was killed in an accident instead of being beaten to death. You would drop the boy over the railing. She would scream and attract everyone’s attention. You would all play the part of hurt, grieving parents, and no one would be the wiser. That’s how you thought it would all play out. You weren’t planning on the medical examiner being able to tell that he had been dead before he was dropped.”
“I may have lost my temper once or twice—”
“And sent him to the emergency room with broken bones, a lacerated liver, or internal bleeding,” Tuttle finished grimly.
“No. I never caused that kind of damage. Never.”
“We have the hospital records, Mr. Wade. He was hurt that badly. Just how hard do you think you can hit a kid without causing major damage?”
He shook his head insistently. “I am not that kind of person. I just… I just was under a lot of stress. He always wanted attention. He was always crying and demanding attention. He didn’t know when to stay out of my way.”
“Like… all of the time?” Baker suggested.
“You don’t know what you’re talking about. I loved my son. I loved to do things with him, to spend time with him. But sometimes he wanted to do something with me and I had work to do. Or I was… having a discussion with his mother. He just didn’t know when to stop and leave me alone.”
“He was barely more than a baby. You can’t expect him to be able to predict human behavior. You can’t expect a child that old to know when to leave you alone or to follow instructions. Both you and your wife seem to have this… blind spot where your son is concerned. It’s like you think he was an adult rather than a baby. Like he chose to annoy you and was being disobedient when he couldn’t do what you expected him to. He was a toddler. Can’t you understand that?”
Cash put his hands over his face, trying to compose himself. “Look… I admit that I had hit him once or twice. I just got so… frustrated and angry. I’ve always had a temper. That’s not my fault. But you can’t judge me by that. I didn’t kill him. I would never do that.” He removed his hands and stared earnestly at the two of them, trying to convince them by his sincerity that he was innocent.
Baker looked at Tuttle. They didn’t say anything for a minute, but were clearly communicating with each other. Baker stood up.
“Mr. Wade, remind me of your real name?”
“I go by Cash on everything.”
“Is it Christian?”
“Crispin.”
“Crispin Wade, you are under arrest for the murder of your son. I assume you will want to consult with your attorney—”
Cash covered his face again. “No, no, no! I told you, I didn’t want him to die. I just… couldn’t stop it.”
“Mr. Wade, you need to call your lawyer. Anything that you say to us now is on the record and is going to be used against you—”
“I should have stopped. I shouldn’t have let it go so far. But it wasn’t my fault.” Kenzie thought from the snuffling and sobbing Cash was making behind his hands that he was crying now, finally letting himself go. “How could I let that happen my son? I never thought it would go that far.”
“Are you prepared to make a statement? A full and honest confession could mean a lighter sentence. People understand how difficult parenting can be, especially when you have a high-needs child and a lot of stress in your life,” Baker was echoing back what she had heard Cash say, trying to prompt him to go on and tell them more details.
“I can’t. I just… you wouldn’t understand. You think that I’m responsible and… I guess I am, but…”
“It’s time to get it off your chest,” Tuttle said firmly. “But let’s get a waiver signed first. Then you can explain the whole thing to us. You’ll feel so much better when you do.”
Baker laid her hand comfortingly on Cash’s shoulder. “Come on, Mr. Wade. Try to pull yourself together. We need this signed, and then you can explain what happened. I’m sure that once we understand what took place…”
She trailed off, not promising him anything in particular. A hint of sympathy and the possibility that they could be understanding and forgive a misstep if he just explained what had happened. It was very subtle.
It took a few minutes of encouragement to get Cash back under control. He went through half a box of tissues and several spells of self-recriminations that didn’t lead anywhere. They managed to get him to stop crying and positioned the Miranda waiver in front of him, encouraging him to sign it and then tell them all about what had happened.
It looked like the show was over. It was only a matter of time before they got a complete confession from Cash Wade and prosecuted him for his son’s death. With his power and influence, Kenzie knew he might only get manslaughter. They would say that he had been in extreme emotional distress, that he hadn’t known what he had been doing, and hadn’t been able to stop himself from killing his son once he had started. But there was one problem with that.
Cash had not beaten his son to death.
49
Kenzie suspected that the house staff had a much better idea of what was going on than anyone was willing to admit. They were trained to be discreet. They had been keeping the family’s secrets for too long. Kenzie didn’t know if there were any others who, like Sylvia, had been there since Cash was a child. He had been cosseted and protected when he should have been forced to take responsibility for his own behavior. As a grown man, he was still trying to blame his own behavior on someone else.
A learned pattern that had been in place for many years and everyone in the household had been taught to toe the line. Cash was a golden child. The wealthy, brilliant, up-and-coming heir to the throne. Not someone who had to follow the same rules as everyone else.
What Kenzie knew was that Michael had not been beaten to death. The old bruises certainly showed a pattern of abuse. His injuries had landed him in the hospital in the past. But there was a difference between hitting and asphyxiation. Nothing Cash had said hinted at asphyxiation.
Kenzie used a quiet interview room to put a video call in to Hilda, the housekeeper. The woman had a number of problems getting on to the live video chat, pecking randomly at the screen and peering at it closely so that Kenzie got an excellent view of her nostrils. But eventually, they were face to face, Hilda sitting down with her phone propped up on the table. In the kitchen, from what Kenzie could see. She would have preferred somewhere more private, but it was essential to keep Hilda feeling comfortable and not confronted, so she let it go.
“Hilda, we need to know more about what happened the day Michael died,” Kenzie told her. “There are too many different stories, too many inconsistencies. And I think you and the rest of the staff know much more about it than you have told us up until now. I know that you are used to keeping family matters quiet, but… Michael and Sylvia were family.”
Hilda was already dabbing her eyes and nose with a tissue, which she balled up in her hand. “I have known Sylvia for thirty years. Had known her. Now she’s gone. But I know her. She would have told us to keep quiet and not cause anyone in the family trouble. She was family. More than any of us. She always saw Cash as a son. Her firstborn son. Even if she never carried him, she was the one who raised that boy, who took care of all of his cuts and scrapes, nourished him.”
“I know. It must have been really hard for her to see what he had become. To see him being so abusive toward his own son.”
Hilda shook her head. “I never saw anything,” she proclaimed. “I never saw him hit the boy.”
“But he did. He’s admitted that to the police. And I can tell you… Michael was black and blue with bruises. Maybe you already knew that. Maybe you helped Sylvia when she bathed him or saw him running around in his diaper. He was covered with bruises.”
“Maybe he had one of those diseases that makes you get bruises from the littlest things…”
“He didn’t,” Kenzie said flatly. “Those bruises were real. Evidence of severe abuse.”
Hilda dabbed at her eyes. “I always hoped… we tried to keep Michael in the nursery, away from them, so that he wouldn’t get hurt. But you can’t control a toddler.” She said it fondly. Someone who knew a lot more about childhood development than Cash Wade. They couldn’t force him to stay and play in the nursery when he wanted to be with his mom or dad. There were probably prohibitions against locking him in or forcing him to do anything physically. Certain boundaries that a servant was not allowed to cross.
“You knew that he was being hurt.”
Hilda didn’t admit it or deny it.
“You knew that Sylvia took him to the hospital? Not just once, but multiple times. Because she knew he would die if she didn’t.”
Hilda looked away from the phone screen. The cook passed behind her. Other conversations were going on around her. Too quiet for Kenzie to hear, but there were still a lot of people aware of the conversation. Cash would not be happy if word of this got back to him.
“You knew about the hospital visits,” Kenzie said, wording it strongly.
There was a very slight nod from Hilda.
“You knew that his father hit him.”
“But—”
“Sylvia tried to intervene, to make sure that he got medical treatment, to save his life.”
Hilda swallowed and nodded, a bit more firmly this time. “Yes. Of course. We were all concerned, but Sylvia most of all. She was the closest to him, physically and emotionally. She was his caregiver.”
“Who paid for those hospital visits?”
“What?”
“Hospital visits are not cheap, especially where lifesaving surgery is required. And Sylvia never used insurance because that would tip the hospital off regarding Michael’s identity. Sylvia didn’t have that kind of money. So who paid for it?”
“I suppose… Mr. Wade.”
“You suppose? Or you know?”
There were several seconds of silence while Hilda considered this.
“The truth will come out,” Kenzie said. “Whether you say what happened or not. There are financial records. Bank transfers, deposits, payments. She wasn’t paying for major surgery from the petty cash in her wallet. That money was used for things like more baby Tylenol to keep him quiet. For milk and other treats to settle him down when he had to sit and wait in the emergency room. Who paid the hospital bills?”
“Mr. Wade.”
“So he can’t deny that he knew about them.”
“No,” Hilda admitted.
“He knew how badly Michael was hurt.”
“I… I guess.”
“What did Sylvia hear that day?”
“What do you mean?” Hilda’s brows drew down in puzzlement, confused by Kenzie’s change in direction.
“Sylvia’s statement said she had been working in another part of the house. She had not been with Michael. But she heard something that made her go check on him. So what did she hear?”
“I don’t know.”
“Was she working in the kitchen? Maybe I should ask the cook what Sylvia heard.”
“She heard…” Hilda swallowed hard again and licked her lips. She looked around the kitchen, but no one supplied her with a water bottle or another drink, and she didn’t seem inclined to ask anyone else into the conversation.
Kenzie was expecting to hear that she heard a scream or cry from Michael. She knew the sound of her baby’s voice and dropped whatever she was doing to go to him. But she was too late to stop Cash from doing what he had. And then she couldn’t make herself do anything to implicate her “oldest son” in the child’s death.
Finally Hilda spoke.
“She heard an argument.”
50
Kenzie felt cold. “What argument?”
“It was…” Hilda was having a difficult time speaking, putting the words together to tell Kenzie what had happened. She looked around her again. Kenzie could no longer detect any background conversations on the video chat. The other staff members were silent, waiting for Hilda to tell her story. None of them seemed to be trying to stop her, which Kenzie thought a good sign. Maybe more of them wanted to talk about it, for the story to go public so they didn’t have to shoulder the silent burden alone.
“Mr. Wade and his wife,” Hilda finally managed to get out.
“Did you hear the argument too?”
“I… yes. He was… very loud.”
“What did he say?”
There was a long pause while Hilda thought about this, gathering her thoughts or trying to figure out all of the implications of telling someone in law enforcement what had actually happened. The story would contradict her earlier statement. At least Kenzie assumed it would. It had been left out of her account, even if she hadn’t covered it with lies. And it would contradict the statements of other staff members, Sylvia, Cash, and Terri-Lyn. They had all carefully left the argument out of their accounts.
While Hilda was gathering her thoughts, Kenzie tried to picture what had happened. How had an argument resulted in Michael’s death? She first envisioned the boy trying to get his father’s attention while they were fighting and getting hit and thrown out of the way for being in the wrong place at the wrong time. But as she had already reminded everyone involved, Michael had not died from a blow.
“Mr. Cash, he said…”
“What did you do?” Cash screamed. “What have you done?”
His wife’s replies were more difficult to make out, her quieter, higher voice not carrying through the walls and floors as easily. Cash’s bellow was like that of an enraged bull. No one in the house could have failed to hear it.
“He’s your son! He’s only a child!”
Terri-Lyn railed at him, screams of anger and self-defense. “It’s your fault!”
A crash sounded as someone’s body hit the furniture or a heavy piece of furniture was thrown over.
“You said it wouldn’t happen again!”
“You’re never here!” Terri-Lyn screamed, “You’re always off with that woman! You don’t even care about your business, your home, how I will live when it’s all over! You think I will be content to be your ex-wife while you marry that piece of fluff?”
“He was my son! My only son!”
“You’re taking everything away from me. You thought I would just stand by while you ripped my life to shreds? And while you’re gone, he’s here. Whining at me. Pawing at me. Always underfoot.”
