“She let me and my men into the locker room.”
“And that’s it?”
“That was the extent of her involvement at the time.”
“Are you fucking kidding me?” Jo wasn’t sure she’d heard that right.
“Did he just make that all up?” Nessa asked, one hand clenching Jo’s arm.
A professional lawman’s hunch led to a smoking gun—a Polaroid of a naked girl. The moment Chief Rocca saw it, he knew it was the same girl they’d found dead by Danskammer Beach weeks earlier. On the upper right corner, forensic technicians found a partial thumbprint.
“Who did the thumbprint belong to?”
“It belonged to Mr. Chertov.”
“How do you think the picture ended up in the locker?”
“We believe Mrs. Harding discovered it among her husband’s belongings at home and placed it there for safekeeping. Unfortunately, that discovery likely led to her untimely death.”
“What did you do after you identified the owner of the fingerprint?”
“We immediately sought to bring Mr. Chertov in for questioning. But we wanted to do so without tipping off his employer, whom we knew to be a flight risk.”
“You were worried that Spencer Harding would get wind of the plan and fly away.”
“Yes, literally.”
Jo turned down the volume as the show transitioned into another commercial break. “Have I stepped into an alternate universe?” she asked. “In my world, none of this happened. Am I right?”
“You are indeed,” Harriett said.
“Franklin said there were no fingerprints on the photo—just two partial prints inside the locker that couldn’t be identified,” Nessa pointed out.
“Clearly someone was lying,” Harriett said. “I’m fairly certain it wasn’t Franklin.”
“But this is the chief of police. How could he make something like that up?” Nessa marveled.
“Who’s going to call him a liar? The case is closed,” Harriett said.
“We could!” Jo argued.
“He hasn’t mentioned our names once,” Nessa muttered. “It’s like we don’t even exist.”
“He’s rewriting the story,” Harriett explained in a tone that suggested she shouldn’t have to. “You guys have been around the block a few times. Don’t you know this is what they do? By the end of this, we’ll have a whole new set of heroes and villains.” She pointed at the television. “Go ahead, turn it back up.”
Unfortunately, Danill Chertov proved elusive. It wasn’t until the evening of June eighth that he was pulled over by a Mattauk police officer stationed along Danskammer Beach Road. Over the next twenty-four hours Chertov would make a confession that would chill even a seasoned law enforcement officer like Chief Rocca to the bone.
“He told us Rosamund Harding had been killed because she discovered evidence of her husband’s secret fetish.”
“Fetish?”
“Spencer Harding had a sexual fixation. He liked very young women.”
“You mean girls?”
“Some of them were underage, yes.”
“But that wasn’t where his deviance ended, was it?”
“No. Harding liked the girls to be unconscious when he abused them.”
“As though they were dead?”