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He waved her off. “It was a note she did for law review. I’m sure it was a requirement for graduation when you graduated as well.”
Finley nodded. “A make-or-break moment for some.”
“Well, Michaels wrote about how the law and justice are not the same thing. She cited several cases of possible vigilantism. The victims were all men who ended up dead under vaguely suspicious circumstances; the cases were never solved. More than half a dozen cases over the course of about five or so years—at that time. Charles Whitmore. Ronald Atkins. I don’t recall the other names. By graduation time I was spending a lot of time in the bottle just trying to survive. Anyway, Michaels wrote about this subject.”
“These cases were all in the Nashville area?” Finley remembered Professor Michaels but not the cases Jack cited. They were well before Finley’s time.
“They were. The note created a bit of a stir,” Jack pointed out. “Personally, I think she wrote the piece because there were several rich, arrogant males in our graduating class. She wanted to make a point.”
“I should talk to her.” Finley nodded as the idea meshed with her theory. “She might be able to provide insights that would be useful to our case in the event this thing goes further south.”
Or maybe Finley just needed someone to tell her that the lines she had crossed weren’t so bad ... were normal under the circumstances.
Wishful thinking.
“Fin,” Jack offered, “why don’t I talk to her? We were classmates. I doubt she’s forgotten me, though I missed the last two or three reunions.”
Finley laughed. “Like she would talk to Jack Finnegan, a self-professed womanizer.”
“Ladies’ man,” he amended, then cleared his throat. “I suppose you’ve got me there.”
“Besides, you have a three o’clock.” Finley stood, cleaned up her lunch mess. “I’ll give her a call and see if she’s available.”
“Keep me posted,” he called after her.
“Will do,” Finley called back.
She wondered what Professor Michaels would think of her now if she knew how Finley skirted the fringes of the law these days. Like going into Marsh’s unlocked home. Or not reporting a homicide she’d witnessed. Well, she had reported it eventually.
Or maybe Michaels had a point—the law and justice weren’t always the same thing. The debate hearkened all the way back to Plato.
As she climbed into her Subaru, her cell vibrated. “O’Sullivan.”
“Finley, I have that information for you.”
Dennis Shafer from the ME’s office.
“Thanks for getting back to me.”
“No problem. Duncan’s cause of death was listed as an accidental overdose. Tox screen showed Xanax and fentanyl. The levels were just barely enough to be lethal, which explains theaccidental. Generally, those who set out to do the job go unnecessarily overboard so as not to wake up with more problems than they started with.”
Unless the person administering the dose intended to make it look that way.
She didn’t have to ask him if he was sure about the fentanyl. If he said it, it was in the report. Trouble was, Duncan, according to her neighbor, had only been prescribed Xanax. Which meant Marsh had brought the fentanyl to the party.
The thought knotted Finley’s gut. If Marsh had offed her partner, that was one thing, but to take an innocent victim’s life—that was entirely another. If Pettit and Winthrop knew this ...
“Do you know if the family requested a copy of the autopsy?” Some did; some didn’t. But if Duncan’s family had, Winthrop or Pettit would have recognized the discrepancy in the drugs.
“Hold on a sec.” He hummed as he checked for the answer she needed. “Yep. A Laney Pettit picked up a copy.”
And yet they hadn’t pointed out the drug discrepancy to the detective investigating the unaccompanied death. With this new information, there was no backing away from this scenario. There were far too many pieces that fit. Far too many coincidences.
“Thanks, Dennis. I owe you one.”
If Marsh murdered Nora Duncan, she likely wouldn’t have had any qualms about killing Grady if he was in her way.
Her prints were on the murder weapon. Marsh had motive, means, and, apparently, opportunity.
