Chapter 6: The Man Who Smiled at the Funeral
Dana Forsythe called me four days later.
Her voice was brisk and precise, the voice of someone who had learned early that warmth and effectiveness were not the same thing.
She asked me to come to her office the following morning.
She said she had already spoken to Arthur and reviewed the materials.
She said she had some questions.
I was there at eight-thirty.
Her office was on the fourth floor of a building downtown, small and organized, every surface clear except for what was currently being worked on.
She shook my hand once, firmly, and gestured to the chair across from her desk.
"I've gone through the notebook," she said.
"And the photographs.
And I've pulled the original accident report." She opened a folder.
"The report is thin.
Dangerously thin for a two-vehicle fatality on a dry road with no mechanical failure found." She looked up.
"The investigating officer was a man named Roy Calhoun.
He retired eight months after the accident.
Full pension, no disciplinary record."
"My grandfather noted that he and Marsh attended the same church," I said.
"They did more than that." She turned the folder toward me.
Inside was a printed document — property records.
"Roy Calhoun sold his house fourteen months after the accident.
He bought a new one, significantly larger, in cash." She paused.
"Gerald Marsh's property management company handled the transaction."
I looked at the document.
"He was paid," I said.
"That's what it looks like." She closed the folder.
"I can't prove the payment was connected to the accident report.
Not yet.
But it establishes a financial relationship between Marsh and the officer who closed the case.
Combined with your grandfather's records, it builds a pattern." She leaned back.
"I want to bring in a forensic accountant to go through the original company books.
Do you have access to those?"
"My grandfather's records show account numbers and transaction codes.
Would that be enough to subpoena the originals?"
"Possibly.
I have a contact at the state financial crimes unit.
I want to brief them informally before we file anything." She looked at me steadily.
"This is going to take time.
And when Marsh realizes someone is looking, he will not sit quietly."
"Arthur said the same thing."
"Arthur is right." She paused.
"There's something else.
When I pulled the accident report, I found a witness statement attached to it.
A driver who was on the same road that night.
He reported seeing a vehicle following your parents' car at close range for approximately half a mile before the crash." She held my gaze.
"That statement was logged but never followed up on.
The witness was never interviewed a second time."
The room was very still.
"Is he still alive?" I said.
"He is.
He's seventy-four.
He lives about thirty miles north of here." She slid a piece of paper across the desk.
"I'd like you to come with me when I speak to him.
He may respond better to family."
I picked up the paper.
A name.
An address.
"When?" I said.
"Tomorrow, if you're available."
"I'm available."
She nodded.
Then, almost as an afterthought: "One more thing.
I looked up Gerald Marsh's public profile.
Business associations, community involvement, that sort of thing." She opened a second folder and slid a photograph across the desk.
It was a newspaper photograph.
A charity fundraiser, about twelve years ago.
A crowd of well-dressed people at a dinner table.
Gerald Marsh was near the center, laughing at something.
Seated two chairs away from him, smiling politely at the camera, was a woman I recognized immediately.
My grandmother.
I looked up at Dana.
"She didn't tell you," Dana said.
It wasn't a question.
"No," I said.
"They moved in some of the same community circles for a period after the accident.
Before she lost the house." Dana's voice was careful.
"I'm not suggesting anything.
But you should ask her about it."
I looked at the photograph for a long moment.
My grandmother, two chairs from the man who she believed had arranged my parents' deaths.
Smiling for the camera.
I thought about the newspaper clipping she had kept for three years.
The car park she had sat in for twenty minutes.
I thought about how long a person could carry something before it changed the shape of them.
May you like
I folded the photograph and put it in my bag.
"I'll talk to her tonight," I said.
