I Am the Monster

By LS Sygnet

Helen Eriksson is embroiled in a 30-year-old mystery in an unlikely setting, with conspirators who are determined for different reasons to see that Helen fails to discern the truth, and the crime remains unsolved.

• Language: English
• Publisher: LS Sygnet
• Release date: Sep 29, 2015
• ISBN: 9781311965226

LS Sygnet

LS Sygnet was a mastermind of schoolyard schemes as a child who grew into someone who channeled that inner criminal onto the pages of books. Sygnet worked full-time in the nursing profession for 29 years before her "semi-retirement" in March 2014.She currently lives in Georgia, but Colorado will always be her home.

Book preview

Chapter 1

There are certain sounds in life that become unforgettable. The sound of your child's first breath, his first word—mama. His first laugh. The first time the one who holds your heart says I love you.

Those are precious.

Then there are the nightmarish ones I wish I could somehow scrub from my memory.

Yes, there is irony in that wish, all things considered. But there are no great gaps in my knowledge now. Certainly, there are fuzzy weeks, days, hours and moments where everything still feels oddly blunted and disconnected. But I find comfort in that, because those things I remember are more sensory than tangible, visual recollections.

For instance, the sharp metallic tang that comes with the scent of fresh blood, and the ringing in my ears that accompanies the throbbing blast of gunshot report. I still have these flashes in my sleep, where the bright burst of a shot fired into the darkness, the sound that accompanies it makes my muscles think they should jerk in shock, but the numbness I felt toward everything kept it all muted and depressed back into a corner in my heart where all things normal had been trapped.

Today, another sound joined the nightmarish band. It was a loud hum followed by the rolling friction of metal against concrete, a clang as a cell door slammed shut.

This time wasn't some undercover escapade where I knew I'd be released just as quickly as I could get the information someone above me in the food chain wanted.

This time, it was real, and I wouldn't be leaving for months—if I behaved myself—or years, if I couldn't control my ingrained nature.

I think that was the part that hurt me the most, accepting the truth about who I'd become, how the choices I'd made molded me into one of the monsters I once chased. It was time to face facts. I knew there would be no peace, and certainly no chance to lay the past to rest once and for all if I kept skating by without consequences.

Those were the brave moments.

Now that reality has placed me in this hellhole, I have doubts. For more than four months, I've been kept segregated from the general population. I don't know how Daddy did this for eighteen years. But he did it. I've had eighteen weeks, and I'm about to climb the walls.

Eriksson! my muscles were free to jump when startled now, and did so when the guard barked my name like a female drill sergeant with PMS. Warden wants you in his office now.

I rose and assumed the required position for my transport anywhere within the state prison. Someone with my skills in hand-to-hand combat couldn't be allowed something so simple as an unfettered escort. I had to be shackled when I left my cell.

Oddly, the guards didn't hate me. Not many of them anyway.

Redemption is an odd creature. A couple of years ago, the U.S. Government granted me blanket immunity for the horrible crimes I'd committed. The one I'm incarcerated for now garnered nothing but sympathy and a public outcry for leniency. Even though I testified to the judge during my allocution that I didn't commit any act I wasn't capable of committing had I not been tortured, manipulated and forced into a dissociative fugue state, the sympathy was still inherent.

The judge didn't want to sentence me to prison.

The prosecutor didn't want to try the case.

It ended up being a guilty plea because nobody believed that twelve impartial jurors could be found for a trial, though they believed a jury would acquit, I knew otherwise. Of course, I didn't want to plead not guilty.

Your husband was here after hours last night, Darlene said. She was the guard for the segregated wing of the prison. At the moment, I had six neighbors in a cellblock that could hold fourteen women in single occupancy cells. I was the only one who wasn't in residence because of fighting or contraband.

He brought you a bunch of books. We're going to get a list to you today so you can pick which one you'd like first. Can't believe how fast you burn through them, Eriksson.

I understand, I said as I kept my body pressed close to the wall in my cell while Darlene shackled my feet first, before wrapping the chain around my waist and cuffing my wrists. Then she padlocked the wrist restraint to my waist.

How many times could you have prevented me from doing this to you? she asked softly.

None, because I deserve what happened to me, and this is exactly where I belong.

She laughed. Eriksson, I've been a corrections officer for nineteen years. I know bullshit when I smell it.

A rear assault isn't that difficult to deflect, I said. But you're not assaulting me, you're doing your job, Darlene.

You'd hold your own in the general population, of that much I'm certain, she said. "But we're going to get you out of here on good behavior in no time at all, so we're not putting you in a position where you might have to defend yourself."

I shrugged. Twenty-six months hardly seems like recompense for what I did. And who says I'd fight if someone attacked me?

She frowned. Do I need to put you on suicide watch?

I shook my head. I've done enough damage to my children as things stand without adding that baggage to their lives, don't you think? Besides, having experienced the loss of Johnny once, even though it wasn't real, was enough for me. I'd never intentionally do that to him. I doubt you need to worry about me committing suicide.

I shuffled out of the cell and we headed down the long corridor of the cellblock. Any idea why the warden wants to see me? I asked.

I'm just a lowly corrections officer, Helen. I get an order, and I carry it out.

Hmm. Maybe he agrees that my incarceration shouldn't include being coddled and segregated like some great injustice has occurred.

He's not a murderer, and that's exactly what he'd be if he ordered you into the general population, Helen. I'm not sure if you realize this or not, but one of the women you captured is serving her life sentence here.

Katherine Jaeger Fangshorn. I shuddered. Is she in the general population?

Uh-huh, and medicated to the gills, so she probably wouldn't try anything if she did see you, but whether you realize it or not, inmates do have access to the news and current events. It seems that when you or your husband get involved in something, it tends to be pretty well known. Papers. Evening news. You catch my drift.

Yeah, I guess I do.

It took almost five minutes to shuffle all the way to the warden's office. I'd met the man once, the day I arrived to begin serving my sentence. Frankly, he was probably part of the very small minority of people who behaved as if I'd gotten too light a sentence. He made a point of telling me that he'd better not hear my name, not even a peep associated with any kind of trouble, or he'd see to it that I served my full sentence without any possibility of early parole for good behavior.

He seemed chagrined too, that he had no choice but to put me into a protective custody for the term of my sentence, that it somehow thwarted his desire to make sure I was here for every second of the twenty-six months of my sentence.

"It hardly seems fair, does it? You slaughtered a man. Your hands. Mitigation be damned. You need to understand that I hope you fail in here, Ms. Eriksson. The idea of this slap on the wrist and confinement for such an inappropriately short term for an even more inappropriately deemed manslaughter sickens me to the very core of my being.

But, unlike you, I follow the law, and the lawful order of the court is that you are to serve twenty-six months' confinement, and shall be eligible for early parole after eight months should you manage by some unfathomable miracle, to behave yourself.

Those words echoed in my head for the achingly slow trek to his office. Had he found some legal loophole that would grant him his fondest wish? If he put me in the general population and I had to defend my life, more charges could be brought against me.

Don't be nervous, Eriksson, Darlene said quietly. He's tough, but not a bad guy.

He knows a monster when he sees one, I said, assailed once again by guilt for all the terrible things I'd done in the past. Maybe he was right. I didn't have to request parole when I became eligible for it. It would make a lot of people worried that something was still wrong with me, but it would be better than Warden Herbert Marceau's assessment that I had received too light a punishment. I happened to agree with him.

Darlene waited until Marceau's administrative assistant waved us through the open door.

Inmate Eriksson, please, sit down.

My eyes widened only marginally—because hiding my shock was simply a learned behavior—when I saw Johnny and my attorney, Carlo Stefano already present in the warden's office.

I sat down without acknowledging their presence at all. Good afternoon, Warden Marceau. I trust everything is in order today.

He smacked one hand onto his desk, maybe to startle me (it didn't), or perhaps as a gesture of frustration. My inmates in this institution are expected to work and earn a wage. For the past eighteen weeks, you have been given preferential treatment because of your former status as both a local law enforcement agent, but previously, for your work with the FBI and Department of Homeland Security.

My peripheral vision focused on Johnny. Even without turning to look at him, I could see the muscle in his jaw ticking with a furious rhythm.

The other problem I've had in assigning an appropriate work duty for you is that it seems there are skills that the entire goddamned state thinks are stagnating with you lawfully incarcerated. Every suggestion we have put forth has been met with… he gritted his teeth. Objections, legal challenges and assertions that removing you from your cell for more than your allotted hour of time alone in the yard puts your life at risk, and that any alteration to your current daily routine constitutes cruel and unusual punishment.

I held my tongue, even though he looked at me expectantly.

Well? he finally broke the tense silence.

Was there a question? I asked.

Don't you get lippy with me, girl, he spoke in anger, bright flashes of it in his dark brown eyes.

My apologies, Warden Marceau. I'm not sure what you want from me, sir.

Work duty! he thundered with another smack of his hands onto his desk.

Oh. Well, what are the options?

Ask your attorney, Marceau sneered. It seems he only thinks something related to psychology is appropriate, even though I've explained to him that the prison already employs a full-time psychiatric nurse practitioner.

Yes, I said. Lia Washington. She manages the infirmary. She's very astute, very competent. I hold her in the highest esteem. She doesn't need my help with anything, nor would that be appropriate. As everyone in this room knows, even though medical charts are confidential, they are still subject to court review, and anything with my name on it officially would be harmful to the inmate, to the judicial process and useless to the courts. I couldn't understand why Marceau seemed so stunned.

Because I'm an inmate myself, sir, I clarified.

He seemed to calm down instantly. Maybe he thought I was directing Stefano to be a pain in the ass, but I wasn't.

I'm glad you understand that, Ms. Eriksson.

Johnny's tension radiated around me, more than tension. It felt like he was about to blow his top. Maybe it was over the name thing. I didn't care to be called Mrs. Orion at the moment, and well, my status as a doctor was certainly not yet resolved. It might not be legal for me to treat anyone in the future. Generally, felons aren't allowed to retain such licensure.

There is one thing that occurred to me just now, Marceau said. It would be something we could do to put your skills as a clinical psychologist to work without actually engaging in therapy.

Stefano spoke for the first time. I'm open to any reasonable suggestions, Herbert, but again, I will insist that Helen not be exposed to the general population. There are far too many people inside prisons that will target law enforcement agents whether or not it was the specific one responsible for their incarceration. Helen has served four and a half months of her sentence. She'll be eligible for early release in another three and a half months, and I intend to see that she not be put into any situation where she might need to defend herself against physical assaults. So let's just be clear that my stipulations, nor those of the judge will be waived under any circumstances.

Marceau sighed heavily. "Yes, Carlos, I understand your position. Believe me, I've been reminded often enough. Would you like to hear what I had in mind? I promise you, if Inmate Eriksson were to be successful in this endeavor, the parole board would absolutely grant her release in three and a half months, guaranteed."

What is it? I asked.

Well, Helen, first time he addressed me by name rather than Ms. or Inmate. We have a pretty decent success rate with our parolees from this prison. They go before the board and acknowledge what they did, express remorse, reintegrate into their communities. More than ninety percent don't end up back in prison.

I nodded. You want me to do something with the ones who do?

No, he said. I want you to talk to the eligible parolees who refuse to admit their crimes, or more specifically, the one who refuses to feel any remorse whatsoever for the crime she committed.

The hair on the back of my neck prickled. He really only had one person in mind for me to talk to…and my interest was already spiking.

Tell me what she did that she's not sorry for doing, I said.

Marceau chuckled, Oh, you'd best be hearing that from Ms. James herself, Helen.

Stefano drew in a noisy breath behind me. I turned to finally look at him and my husband directly. Stefano was on the cusp of the most vehement objection I'd ever seen, and Johnny just looked incredibly sad.

I'll do it, I said. When can I meet Ms. James?

Chapter 2

I need to speak to my wife privately, Johnny said the moment I asked to meet Ms. James. Now, warden.

The man seated behind the desk was no simpering weakling. He was older than Johnny, for certain, but not much smaller, and looked like he took physical fitness quite seriously. I beg your pardon!

The level of bluster in the room was about to explode. "Are you thinking that you can deny me visitation with my own wife?" Johnny snarled.

Warden Marceau, if you're finished with me, perhaps it would be best if we worked out the logistics of how I'll be able to talk to Ms. James later, I said.

No, Johnny said flatly. I see this for what it is, and Helen's ignorance is working against her this time. I think you know it, Marceau, and if you believe I won't go before the judge with Mr. Stefano myself for this ruse of yours—

Ruse?

Helen, Stefano said gently, you weren't in this state thirty years ago, he said softly. Hell, you weren't even an adult when all of it happened, so you don't know what the warden is really asking of you. He's dangling successful parole in front of you for a task he damn well knows is impossible. Cara James will never express remorse for what she did.

Tell me why, I asked, ignoring the warden completely now.

Johnny sat beside me and reached for my hand, still shackled to my waist. He grunted in disgust before procuring a key and releasing the wrist cuffs and let them hang where they'd been padlocked to the chain at my waist. He took both into his and soothed my wrists as if I'd been cuffed too tightly. I hadn't been. Darlene was always very careful with me.

Commander Orion, I must object to you releasing her restraints!

Shut up, Marceau. In case you haven't noticed, my wife happens to agree with you that she's somehow the scum of the earth and unworthy of a light sentence. We all know the truth. She doesn't belong here at all.

Johnny, please don't do this again, I pled.

Hush, and listen to me, Johnny said. Cara James lived in Cherry County thirty years ago. She was a single mother, doing the best she could to raise her daughter. From all accounts, even Ms. James' own testimony at her trial, Lori James was a bit of a wild child.

Back up, I said. Where is Cherry County?

Adjacent to Bay County, but further east, he said. Maybe twenty miles beyond Tony's property out along the Elegiac River. That's not important right now. What matters is that Lori James was murdered in the summer of '86. She was found dead in a pasture outside Oakdale. It's a town of about twenty-five thousand now, but back then it was a bit less.

How much less? I asked.

Five thousand, give or take, Stefano piped up.

So the police hadn't yet closed their case, Johnny said. Cara James believed she knew who had raped and murdered her daughter. There were a couple of local boys that Lori and her best friend had been running around with over the summer, one of them was Monte Wheaton.

Johnny paused and glared at Marceau. I glanced at him to see how well received the look on my husband's face was. Marceau had his arms crossed over his chest and wore a smirk of smug satisfaction.

Monte Wheaton was the son of the county sheriff, Tyler Wheaton.

Would he happen to still be the sitting sheriff of Cherry County? I asked.

He is, Johnny said. Cara James believed that her daughter had been murdered by the sheriff's son.

So she killed the sheriff's son, I said softly, my eyes still riveted to Marceau.

That is correct, Ms. Eriksson, he almost crossed that line between smug and gloating. You understand of course, why she refuses to express any remorse for her crime.

How long has she been here? I asked.

Twenty-eight years, Marceau said. "She was eligible for parole after fifteen, thanks to yet another liberal, hippy judge."

Wait. You're telling me that this woman has been denied parole for thirteen years? Why? She's not likely a danger to anyone else. She killed the man who killed her daughter. You can't expect her to really feel sorry for that, can you?

"Oh, but I'm afraid the parole board expects, no, requires sufficient expression of remorse before they'll grant a request for parole."

Good Christ, how long was she sentenced? It was obviously a crime of passion, second degree murder at best, I said.

Twenty-five to life, Johnny said. If she won't show remorse for killing the Wheaton boy, she'll die in prison, Helen. I'd imagine she doesn't care too much either. She testified that she knew she'd rot in prison for what she did, told the judge flat out at sentencing that she wasn't sorry and accepted the consequences for what she did, that she knew she'd go away for the rest of her life. She said it was worth it to make sure Monte Wheaton never raped and murdered another girl again.

So was Wheaton guilty? I asked.

Johnny's eyes fluttered shut.

Marceau sounded like a bleating sheep. "He absolutely was innocent, Inmate Eriksson, not unlike your victims."

He hissed the S on victims, letting me know that he not only disdained me and my actual sentence, but the immunity agreement I'd made with Homeland Security for my other crimes, including my ex-husband's murder.

Surely when the actual perpetrator was arrested, she learned that she was wrong.

This time, Johnny actually cringed.

Oh for God's sake. Are you telling me that they never solved the murder of Lori James?

They didn't, Johnny said.

And would that perhaps be some sort of retribution against Cara James for killing the sheriff's son? I asked, mindless of the need to filter my thoughts in front of Warden Marceau.

Of course it wasn't! Marceau gasped in outrage.

Hmm, my apologies for sounding insensitive, warden, I said. Naturally, thirty years ago there weren't as many tools available for solving such cases. I'm sure you're right. They did the best they could under the circumstances.

Johnny groaned softly, but I heard it.

So you think I'll be wasting my efforts on Ms. James, warden?

If it were possible for her to feel remorse, I'm certain that the parole board would be duly impressed with the person who helped guide her to that place she should've gone thirty years ago before she committed her crime, he said. But you should be advised that Sheriff Wheaton has appeared at every hearing for her parole to—

Demand that the board deny it, Stefano spat. And she has nothing but her good behavior speaking on her behalf.

Regardless, Marceau drew himself up stiffly, she's not sorry for what she did.

I'll talk to her, I said. It can't hurt to listen to what she has to say. It might even help her come to terms with dying in this place. I turned my disdainful eyes on Marceau. I take it you and this sheriff are well acquainted, warden.

I've come to know him quite well over the past thirteen years, Marceau said. If you could get this woman to apologize for killing an innocent child, I'm sure it would mean something to Sheriff Wheaton.

I shook my head. "Exactly how old was this child when he was killed?" I asked.

They were both eighteen, Helen, Johnny said. Lori James was eighteen. Monte Wheaton was eighteen.

Okay. I'll talk to her. How can we make it happen? I asked Marceau.

The glee, the diabolical sparkle in his eyes came as no surprise to me. He thought he'd found some way to trap me into doing something that would guarantee I'd screw myself out of parole too. Of course, the man didn't know me at all. If he wanted mind games, I had one thing to tell him.

I'll have to talk to Lia Washington, he said. Of course, she'll have to be present for these conversations, Inmate Eriksson. Surely you don't object to that.

Naturally, that's fine. Welcome even.

I'll get something set up for tomorrow.

I pulled my wrists out of Johnny's grasp and re-cuffed them myself. With a direct stare into Marceau's eyes, I said the one thing I had left to say. Well, then game on, warden. Game on.

Darlene ushered Johnny, Stefano and me to a private visitation room where she did remove my restraints.

Johnny fidgeted until she was finished, and then pulled me into a tight embrace. You're out of your mind, Helen, he murmured into my ear.

It's part of my charm. How are you? The boys? My parents? How is everyone, Johnny?

Everyone is okay. We miss you terribly of course, especially Jack.

Is he still crying himself to sleep at night? My heart sank. My sensitive baby was too attached to mommy sometimes.

Wendell put up a big calendar on the wall in the boys' room. Jack marks off a day every night at bedtime. We have your parole date circled in green, Helen. Wendell wants to bring them to the hearing so the board can see how much you're needed at home.

Johnny, that's a very bad idea. What if they deny this petition that I'm not even sure I want?

Look at this, he pulled out his phone and opened a video. It was Jack and Erik telling me they love me and miss me and want me to come home right away.

I know you're worried about Jack, sweetheart, Johnny said. Frankly, the fact that he's expressing his emotions is a comfort to me. Erik is the one that scares me to death.

Why? I asked. My eyes suddenly stung and burned.

Because he won't talk about it at all, Helen. I find him every morning in the same spot—standing on your side of our bed staring at the empty space where his mommy should be.

God… I swiped at the tears sluicing down my face. Let me send a little message back to them.

Helen and Johnny, you're not supposed to be doing things like this, Stefano chided. You'll have to put that phone in my briefcase, Johnny. I'm not sure how you managed to get in here carrying it to begin with.

Johnny grinned unabashedly. Because nobody but that prick warden agrees with Helen's incarceration either, he said.

He focused the phone on me and I spoke briefly to Erik and Jack. Hi boys. I love you! Mommy can't wait until the day when she can come home and hold you and snuggle you again. Be good for Daddy and Nana and Papa. I'll see you in just a few more weeks.

I blew kisses at the screen, and Johnny stopped recording.

Helen, let me bring them to see you, he pleaded.

No. I don't want them exposed to this horrible place, I said firmly.

Helen, we need to talk about this thing that Marceau suggested, Stefano said. "He is trying to make you stumble so you won't be granted parole at your first hearing. We've got a good shot regardless of his opinion on the matter. Marceau wasn't lying about this parole board's success rate. Over ninety percent of the people appearing before them who are granted parole don't end up violating, and they manage this prison's population very well.

I'm not sure how aware you are on the overcrowding statistics for prisons nationwide—

California's is the worst, I interrupted. They've got more inmates than space to hold them, which is why they've started farming some of them back to county jails to serve their sentences. Believe me, I'm aware. Even though nobody is happy about being in prison, including me, the inmates in this facility have a good system. Nobody can fault Marceau for how he runs this place.

Stop praising that bastard, Johnny growled. "He wants you to fail, Helen. You have no idea the bullshit this buffoon has tried to pull over your work. The judge flat out told him that because you don't need to support yourself in prison, that a work detail isn't necessary at all. I'm half tempted to call him and tell him that Marceau hasn't given up yet, and now he's conned you into some game."

One he cannot win, I said softly. Johnny, let me do something other than exercise an hour a day and compulsively read. Remember when we were in Hawaii, and I complained that people kept interrupting me before the storm and I couldn't finish a single novel? I'm tired of it now.

I know, but you said it yourself. It's only three and a half more months. Fourteen weeks, Helen. You can hang on for that long. Please reconsider doing this thing. You know he'll put it in your file that you tried to get another inmate to express remorse and failed. He'll use this somehow to make it look like you're not really ready for release.

I peered up at Johnny, wide-eyed. "You doubt my ability to get Ms. James to admit what she did was wrong and express remorse for it?"

He grasped my hands again, tightly this time. "Helen, she will never be sorry for killing Monte Wheaton. Never. She knows he killed her daughter, and frankly, she's probably right about that."

But nobody knows that for certain. You said it yourself. They never actually solved the crime.

Sheriff Wheaton won't let anybody solve it, Stefano said. Believe me. You had him pegged, Helen. His punishment to Cara James is exactly that.

Stupid, I muttered. "That kind of nonsense is like he's admitting that his son was a murderer. If it were me, I'd be out killing myself to prove my son's innocence. I'm sure it might've resulted in a harsher sentence for Cara James if he could've gone to the court and said, look, this woman murdered a completely innocent young man. This is the perpetrator of the rape and murder of her daughter Lori James. So why hasn't he done that? Because he's afraid that Cara James was right. Maybe he had no intention of solving the crime in the first place."

Johnny's grip on me tightened. "That's exactly why you have to recant your agreement with Marceau, Helen. There is no winning this for you. The only way Cara James might express remorse would be if she was offered proof positive that someone else killed Lori. There would have to be an arrest of the guilty party. If we were to prove someone else did it, maybe she'd realize what she did was very wrong and be remorseful.

But if we ended up proving that Monte Wheaton was in fact the perpetrator, she'll never be sorry for what she did. Don't you see? You cannot win this game with Marceau, and he knows it.

And Helen, Stefano added, what sort of life would this woman have outside prison? She's been here close to thirty years. Her daughter is dead. Her parents are dead. She has no one.

My eyes fluttered shut, to the backdrop in memory of my own tiny cell. Fresh air and unrestricted movement were rewards enough to me. Maybe Cara James didn't feel that way. She wasn't in isolation like me, true. Maybe she had some sort of work in the prison that helped pass time for her. Perhaps she'd even made friends here. But I couldn't conceive that freedom would be worse for her than this life inside.

No.

Helen—

Johnny, I said no. I can't explain it to you. I just know that I need to at least talk to this woman. She…

What? Johnny prompted me with that sense of urgency he used to always display when he knew I was on the cusp of a big realization in an investigation.

"She probably needs to talk to someone about her life, about why she did what she did. And who better to talk to than me? I understand it, understand her. Good grief, have you forgotten who I really am, how much blood is on my hands? I know how it feels to relish taking another's life because they weren't going to see justice any other way."

Helen, don't ever say anything like that to anyone else! Stefano looked like he was about to choke on my statement. That's the sort of thing that will negatively influence a parole board. The fact that this nurse practitioner will be party to anything the two of you might say to each other…my God, that's what Marceau is hoping for.

I turned and faced my attorney. "Carlos, you're a great defense attorney, and without you, I'd probably be a million times worse off than I am. But you need to understand that I worked for the other side for all of my adult life until I was the one standing accused. The notion that even twenty-six months in prison would remotely serve as adequate recompense for the things I've done is obscene. On that much, Marceau and I agree.

I have children who apparently need me more than I imagined they would, my voice took on an aching quality, low and saturated with guilt for the pain I'd caused far too many people, truly innocent people. I'm going to be careful, and I won't do anything to jeopardize what my sons need. Okay?

Johnny's arms wrapped around me from behind. How can I help you? he asked.

I don't know yet. I need to talk to Cara James before I know what she's thinking, or more correctly, what she thought at the time she killed Monte Wheaton. I presume Cara was tried in Cherry County.

She was, Stefano said. I can supply the trial transcripts if you think that will help you, Helen.

It might. I'll let you know. Darlene is on my block Monday through Friday. If I need to call you, she's very good about getting me to a phone where I can contact the outside world. Otherwise, we can just communicate every week when you and Johnny come to see me.

Stefano snorted softly. I know you, Helen. I know how quickly you work and come up with things that your team will have to investigate for you.

Hold on, I said. My job here is to get this woman to transition to remorse for her own good. I'm not solving any mystery here.

But Johnny's right, Stefano said. The only way I see remorse from Cara James is if someone finds out that another person killed her daughter.

How hard can that possibly be? I threw up my hands in exasperation. "Rape kits have been collected for decades now. Do you really believe that one wasn't when Lori James was murdered?"

It was collected, Johnny said. I don't know if it was processed or not. Like I said, there wasn't much investigating done.

How old were you when this happened? I asked. You couldn't have been much older than the victim at the time she was murdered.

Lori was actually a couple of months older than me, Johnny said. I skipped a grade in school and graduated early so, I was between my freshman and sophomore years at Metro State studying Criminal Justice during the summer of '86, Helen, so yeah, I'm pretty familiar with the case. In fact, the next year, we followed the trial in one of my courses.

Cara's trial? I asked.

Well, there wasn't one for Lori's murder, so yes, that would be the only trial held. As I recall, it was maybe a week, two at most, before Cara murdered Monte Wheaton.

Lori would've been nineteen a couple of months after she died, Stefano said. "As