Page 118 of Don't Tell Me How to Die

I took a hit on my wine and looked around. It was early. The restaurant was relatively empty—mostly older couples and families with kids. I leaned in and lowered my voice. “Remember all those times we were using your friend Sean’s house? Minna Schultz had a camera planted in the bedroom.”

He didn’t blink. “I know.”

“What do you mean you know?”

“When Minna went missing, Montgomery and I went to her house to make sure she hadn’t died in her sleep. The place was empty, but I snooped around, opened a few drawers, and I found printed screenshots of the two of us.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“What good would that have done? I’m a cop. First thing on my mind was finding Minna and talking to her—in private. How did you know about the camera?”

I knew he’d ask, and since I couldn’t tell him the truth, I was ready with a credible answer. “A few days ago, I was cleaning up some of Alex’s things, and I stumbled across the same pictures.”

“Those were just the tip of the iceberg,” he said. “After they found Minna’s body, I got a warrant to search the place and look for a suicide note. I started with her computer and found the screenshots immediately. Ten minutes later I turned up a thumb drive with all the original footage. I spent the next three hours combing the place and destroyed everything I could find, but I knew she’d already sent some of the photos to Alex.”

“She was trying to blackmail him into scrapping the plans for the new trauma center,” I said.

“That was her plan. But according to the ME, she apparently had a change of heart and decided to kill herself instead.”

“You never bought the suicide ruling, did you?”

“Not for a minute. It’s not easy to fool the medical examiner, but Alex did it. And it’s not easy to fool me, but he knew that even if I figured it out—which I did—I’d never charge him with anything. Those pictures would be Exhibit A at the trial. Your life, his life, and mine would be ruined in one shot.”

“How long have you known?”

“I first suspected him when he told that story about Minna screaming she’d get even with the hospital if it were the last thing she did—emphasis onlast thing. Remember he said she yelled, ‘Mark my words. I will haunt you’?”

“Yes.”

“After that interview I questioned Harold Scott and Joe Stuart, who were at that same meeting with Minna and Alex. They don’t remember her saying it. I knew Alex was just laying pipe to make us think suicide.”

“That doesn’t prove a thing. It you brought that to the DA, he’d laugh.”

“What if I could put Alex’s Lexus at Minna’s house the night she drowned, and then told you he drove from there to Magic Pond? Would the DA still be laughing?”

“How did you?—”

“I’ve had a GPS tracker on his Lexus for over a year. It wasn’t exactly police work. It was strictly personal.”

“And unquestionably illegal.”

“So is murder,” Van said. “It doesn’t matter. I never planned on going to the DA, and if you hadn’t found those pictures, I never would have told you. I’m sorry, Maggie. I know you thought the world of Alex, but sometimes even the best of us can be guilty of the most unthinkable acts. You of all people should know that.”

For a split second my stomach clenched, and then I realized he was talking about everything I had seen as a criminal prosecutor, not of the unthinkable acts I had committed myself.

“Thank you for telling me,” I said. “This explains a lot.”

“What do you mean?”

“The police still consider Alex a missing person, but I’ve accepted the fact that he’s dead. My question has been why. He was too experienced a sailor for me to believe it was an accident, and I couldn’t wrap my head around the suicide theory. But this—this changes everything. I’m sure if Alex did kill Minna, he thought he was doing it for the good of a lot of people. But it must have eaten him up inside, and he finally couldn’t live with himself. It helps me understand why he didn’t leave a note.”

The words came off the top of my head, but they couldn’t have been more effective if I’d scripted them.

“I’m sorry for your loss, Maggie. You and the kids. That might sound hollow coming from the guy who was...” He stopped and looked around the room. “Anyway, I’m sorry. If there’s anything I can do...”

“Thank you,” I said. “You can start by losing that soulful look on your face. You’re not coming off like a police chief at a business meeting with the mayor.”

“Gotcha,” he said, snapping out of it. He picked up his pen, wrote on his pad with businesslike efficiency, and handed it to me.

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