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“Correct. Rhett Cohen was arrested just days after it happened.”
Marino pauses, then seems to decide something. He gathers the images, taps them against the table then stuffs them into the folder. “Alright, I’ll speak to everyone who was involved in the case and we’ll go from there. Anything else?”
“W—wait. That’s it?”
His brow cocks.
“Hang on…” I exhale loudly, my impatience evident. “What if Rhett Cohen didn’t kill my mother? Do you remember how much he proclaimed his innocence? What if he was right? I mean who else would have this necklace? Only the killer—right? And you yourself just agreed that it seems impossible that Rhett Cohen could have been in possession of this necklace for the last twenty years and just randomly decided to send it back to me. It doesn’t make sense, does it?”
As I say it, I realize the magnitude of the words coming out of my mouth. Am I implying that an innocent man was charged with murder? That an innocent man—whoItestified against—has spent twenty years locked in a state prison for nothing?
My God, what am I doing?
As if reading my thoughts, Marino states the obvious. “You just said a whole mouthful there, Miss Stone.”
“I know. I just… I’ll never forget how adamant he was that he didn’t do it. It always stuck with me, bothered me. And now… this. Her necklace, and weird letters with intimate, detailed information only the killer would know.”
Marino scrubs his fingers through his hair and begins pacing again. Now I know why he’s so skinny.
“Okay, let’s imagine for a minute that you’re correct. Cohen is innocent and the real killer is still out there. Why in thehellwould he, the real killer—the man who got away with it—walk right up to your front door and drop letters and a piece of evidence from the crime scene that would unquestionably reignite the case?”
“I don’t know. I have no clue of the motive there. Maybe he wasn’t the one who delivered it. Maybe he paid some idiot to do it.” My eyes round with epiphany the moment the words leave my lips. “Oh my G—Mrs. Taylor’s son… Jesse…. He went missing around the time I got the letters, right? What if…?”
Marino inhales deeply and I realize he’s already put this string together.
“What was Jesse wearing when he was last seen?” I ask, much too quickly. “Do you know if he owns a black sweatshirt with a white skull and crossbones?”
“Yes, he does, Miss Stone. That is the description of what he was wearing when he was last seen. The information was released to us and the news.”
My jaw drops. “It’s him, then. That’s the same clothing the man was wearing who delivered the letters. It’s got to be him. What else do you know? Have you—”
“I’m not at liberty to discuss other cases we have going on.”
“But, do you know why, or where—”
“Ma’am—”
My mind begins to race. Was Janet Taylor’s son the one who delivered the letters? Does he know the killer? Or,ishe the real killer? No, that would be impossible. Marjorie was killed twenty years ago, which would make Jesse around eight years old when it happened.
Marino slides the case file under his arm, signaling that he is done with this conversation.
He gathers the envelopes. “Darla will meet you in the lobby with your paperwork. You can leave once you’re done with it. If you get another letter, I want you to call me immediately. Don’t touch it, just leave it there on your doorstep and call the police.”
“Okay.”
“Also, whether it is innocent or not, please act accordingly as if you have received a real threat. The last letter is a clear threat to your safety and well-being. I want you to document everything. Anything that feels odd to you or out of place, write it down and let us know. And mix up your daily routine, check your mailbox at a different time than you usually do, take a different route to the grocery store, etcetera. Lastly, remember there is strength in numbers. If you go anywhere, take a friend or family member with you.”
I don’t bother to tell him that I have neither.
He continues. “I’m sure I’ll have some follow-up questions—is that alright?”
I’m upset that the officer is not giving me more time, and information for that matter, but I don’t want to push it. I’ve done what I came here to do.
“Of course that’s fine. Do you have a piece of paper and pen I can write my number—”
“I’ve got it, don’t worry about it.”
“Oh.”
