Incriminating Evidence. Amanda Stevens
about her in the paper. The article had highlighted her profession as a forensic anthropologist in general and, more specifically, her efforts to help identify human remains that had recently been recovered from an abandoned house.
Nick knew the woman slightly from his brief time as a homicide detective. He remembered her as dedicated and meticulous in her work. Quiet and thoughtful in her demeanor. He had forgotten how attractive she was. That part had taken him by surprise when she walked into his office.
He let his gaze drift over her features as he wondered why he’d never gotten around to calling her once he’d closed the case. The spark had been undeniable. He felt it now as he took in the long, dark hair, still glistening with raindrops, and the wide brown eyes that observed him with a hint of suspicion.
She wore a fitted gray top with slim black pants and sneakers soaked from the downpour. The only hint of color in the whole of her presentation was an emerald ring that glowed in the too-bright lighting of his office. He’d turned up the glare in order to chase away the dreariness of a rainy day, but a cozier ambience invited candor. He started to get up and adjust the dimmer, but he didn’t want to interrupt her train of thought. Or his, for that matter.
“When did your mother pass away?” he asked as he pretended to jot notes on a yellow legal pad.
“Just over a week ago.”
“I’m very sorry for your loss,” he said, noting the shadow that flitted across her expression and the telltale sheen in her eyes, which she quickly blinked away.
“Thank you.”
“You’re here because you found some old newspaper clippings among your mother’s possessions?”
“I’m here because I found them hidden beneath the floorboards of my mother’s closet. I hadn’t been by her house since she died. I wanted to gather up a few of her things to take home with me and to try and figure out what to do with the rest. Mostly, I wanted to feel close to her.” She cleared her throat and drew a deep breath as she smoothed her hands down the tops of her thighs. She was nervous. That much was obvious. Uneasy, too. Her eyes kept darting to the doorway and to the corridor beyond as if she expected to find someone listening in on their conversation.
They had the second floor to themselves and the receptionist wouldn’t be able to hear from her post in the lobby, but Nick got up and closed the door anyway. Then he surreptitiously dimmed the lights a notch. Catherine didn’t seem to notice. She picked up the plastic bag at her feet and extracted a shoebox.
“You brought the clippings?” Nick walked back over to his desk and sat down.
She nodded. “I noted a loose floorboard when I went into my mother’s closet. I pried it up and found this box inside.”
“When we spoke on the phone, you said the articles are about a serial killer.”
“Not just any serial killer.” Her gaze lifted. “Orson Lee Finch. The most infamous monster in this city’s history.”
“But not the most prolific,” Nick felt compelled to point out. “Delmar Gainey now holds that distinction.”
“Yes, I know. I’m working on the remains that were recovered from his property.”
“I’ve been keeping up with the case. I saw the article about you in the paper. How’s it going?” he asked with genuine curiosity.
She tucked back damp tendrils and seemed to relax. “We’re lucky in that most of the skeletons were found intact, with only a few missing bones. We also have all the skulls. I don’t have to tell you how helpful that is. It allows us to check dental records and, if necessary, reconstruct facial features.” She paused thoughtfully as if something had suddenly occurred to her.
He leaned in. “What is it?”
She said in surprise, “I’m sorry?”
“You look as if something just came to you.”
“I was thinking about one of the victims. There’s a rather puzzling inconsistency.”
She had a way of making everything sound dreamy and mysterious. A conversation about human remains and serial killers should have evoked gruesome imagery, but instead her melodic voice mingling with the sound of raindrops against the windows mesmerized Nick. If he wasn’t careful, he might find himself drowning in the unfathomable darkness of her eyes. “What kind of inconsistency?”
She seemed to catch herself then, shaking her head slightly as she clutched the box with both hands. “That’s a discussion for the police. It has nothing to do with why I’m here.”
Nick leaned back in his chair feeling oddly thwarted. “Back to Orson Lee Finch, then. The Twilight Killer.” He took a moment to pretend to read his notes. He felt a little rattled and he didn’t know why. For all his shortcomings—and he had more than a few—a lack of confidence in his cognitive abilities had never been one of them. Yet he couldn’t seem to get a read on Catherine March. Beneath that ethereal demeanor, something dark and unsettling simmered. “When you called this morning, you mentioned a photograph.”
She glanced down at the box. “It ran in the local paper at the time of Finch’s arrest. The image is grainy, but it appears to be Finch. He’s holding the hand of a little girl who looks to be about two. According to the accompanying article, the photo was sent to the paper anonymously and is the only known shot of that child. It was speculated at the time that she was Finch’s daughter, but no one could ever locate her. Finch would never confirm or deny the rumor. Detective LaSalle... I mean... Sorry...” She faltered uncomfortably, realizing she’d addressed him by his former title. He wondered if she knew the circumstances of his departure from the police department. If so, he could only assume she’d reconciled the rumors to her satisfaction or she wouldn’t be here.
“Call me Nick,” he said.
She looked relieved. “There’s no easy way to say this. I’ve reason to believe that I’m the child in that photograph. If true, then there is a very good chance that Orson Lee Finch is my biological father.”
She’d shocked him, but he tried not to show it. “That’s quite a leap from one old photograph. Do you have more substantial evidence?”
“No,” she admitted. “Only that my mother saved every newspaper article written about Finch and she told me before she died that it had all been a lie.”
“Meaning?”
“She didn’t elaborate. Couldn’t elaborate. It was near the end and she was in and out of consciousness, but she seemed lucid in that moment. Still, I might have chalked it up to delirium if not for the clippings and the fact that she took such pains to hide them from me.”
“So, to be clear, you think Orson Lee Finch and your mother—”
“No!” Her voice rose. She took a moment to collect herself. “I was adopted when I was two. Laura March was the only mother I ever knew. The woman who gave birth to me had a relationship with Finch.” She glanced away with a shudder. “At least, that’s the assumption.”
“How long have you known you were adopted?”
“For as long as I can remember. My mother and I spoke openly about it since I was a small child. She told me that my biological parents were very young. My father joined the military right out of high school. He died in a helicopter crash before they could marry, leaving my mother—my biological mother—alone and destitute. She tried to make a go of it, but she was too young and poor with no formal education and no job prospects. She gave me up so that I could have a better life.”
“But you don’t believe that.”
She hesitated. “I did for a long time, but now I think Laura March invented the story because the truth was too painful...too stigmatizing. And perhaps she wanted to ward off my curiosity.”
“What about your adoptive father?”
“Aidan