Page 80 of The Lost Heiress
“So what happened?” Leland asked.
“The judge overturned Blackwell’s conviction,” Church said. “And the paper ran another piece:Man Wrongfully Convicted in Cold Case Goes Free. There were accusations about shoddy police work and evidence manipulation. The photo lineup that I’d conducted included headshots from the local 1973 high school yearbook,” Church said. He recalled the headshots vividly, each young man dressed neatly in a suit and tie with a uniform background. “Only, Ben Blackwell had dropped out before his senior year, so his photo had been a candid one pulled from an old family photo album,” Church said. Ben had worn a T-shirt and stared unsmiling at the camera, the sky a bleak, pale canvas behind him.
“Shit,” Leland said.
“Yeah,” Church concurred, scratching the back of his head. “The judge ruled the photo lineup had been prejudicial. There was talk that maybe I had staged it that way to manipulate the witness into choosing Ben Blackwell’s picture.”
Of course, he hadn’t meant to manipulate anything—he had just been working with the photos that were available to him.
“I was placed on administrative leave while the department conducted an official investigation into my conduct,” Church said. He still felt shame when telling this story, even all these years later. “They eventually cleared me, but, by then, the damage to my reputation was done.”
Doubt—it followed him everywhere after that. Like a potent, toxic scent that clung to his skin. It preceded him into any room and lingered long after he’d left. People couldn’t see him clearly, couldn’t see his work clearly, sometimes even now, all these years later, because of the stench of it.
“So, yeah, you’re not the only person who’s ever fucked up a case,” Church said, standing. “And I’m sure everything sucks right now, and it probably will for a while. But you’ll get through it. I mean, look at me. I’m still here.”
“Any advice?” Leland said. “You know, for surviving the shitstorm?”
Church shook his head. “Sometimes, the only way out is through,” Church said.
Chapter Thirty-One
May 1960
It was no easy matter to keep RJ fooled. In fact, keeping up the farce was wearing Florence almost to exhaustion. They would always leave the house together, Florence and Astrid, on their way to do preapproved activities. But down the street and out of view of the house, they would part ways—Astrid to the studio in Notting Hill, and Florence to any number of places: the Red Cross to help organize donations, an art class at the local university, tennis lessons at the club. Then they’d meet up again, Astrid slipping into the appropriate attire for whatever activity she was supposed to have come from. They’d get their stories straight so that Astrid could keep up the conversation at the dinner table—how Margaret Thompson had mislabeled the kitchenware at the Red Cross and Astrid had had to spend all afternoon redoing it, how Professor Wallace was having them paint still lifes this week, how she was working on her backhand serve.
Tonight was Astrid’s first recital. She was going to wear the steel-boned tutu that RJ had bought her when she’d first started dancing—the one with delicate layers of tulle and organza. Florence and Astrid left the house together at 5:00 p.m., and while Astrid headed to the studio, Florence went to the will call box at the West End theatre topick up their tickets toMy Fair Lady, their cover for the evening. She’d leave the torn stubs on the front hall table for RJ to see. Then, she took a cab to Notting Hill.
The studio was set up as a makeshift stage, rows of chairs facing the mirror. It was crowded by the time Florence got there; every chair was taken, so she stood in the back and craned her neck to see. Madame Petrov introduced each act, and Mary accompanied them on the piano. There were young girls, age twelve, doing pirouettes and older girls doing a dance fromSwan Lake. Florence looked expectantly for Astrid in her grand tutu—surely, she would be impossible to miss—but every act came and went, and she did not see her. Then Madame Petrov was standing in the middle of the stage, thanking them for coming and wishing them all a good night.
Florence waited by the back door as the guests and dancers filtered out. Madame Petrov was one of the last to leave. Florence reached out and touched her arm to stop her.
“Madame Petrov,” Florence said, “where is Astrid? I thought she was supposed to perform tonight.”
“Perhaps she got cold feet,” Madame Petrov said, clucking her tongue. “I gave her the solo she begged for, but she never showed up.”
Florence couldn’t get home fast enough. She didn’t even take her coat off or remove her gloves at the door, she was in such a rush. Her hand was on the railing, her foot on the first step, when she heard his voice.
“Florence,” RJ said. “I’ve been expecting you.”
A cold dread filled Florence’s body, and she inadvertently shivered. She turned to see RJ standing there, just outside the parlor.
“RJ,” she said, “I didn’t realize you were home.”
There was a party in Mayfair; she’d expected him to be out all evening.
“Yes, there’s been a lot of that going around tonight,” RJ said. “Misunderstandings. Realizations.”
Florence swallowed hard. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“If you’re looking for my wife, she’s upstairs,” RJ said.
Florence’s hand tightened on the railing.
“I’d ask you not to disturb her at the moment, though,” RJ said. “She’s resting. It’s been a difficult night for all of us. You see, she’s had an accident.”
Florence’s heart quickened. “An accident?”
“Please, come sit with me in the parlor,” RJ said. “There’s much I’d like to say to you.”
