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Then, we filter through the photos, laying out the ones with the clearest pictures of the appliances in the background.
Microwave clock: 8:14 a.m..
Stove clock: 8:16 a.m..
Coffee pot: 8:23 a.m..
3:02
3:04
3:11
“The clocks are exactly as you said.” The officer meets my gaze. “You have one hell of a memory, Miss Stone.”
“It’s hard to forget. Trust me.”
“When did you put it together, assuming your theory is correct?”
“Last night. After the fourth letter. See?” I point to each photo. “The times in the letters align with each clock. I really think these times signify the exact time she was murdered.”
“Okay, so let me get this straight.” Marino stands from his chair, begins pacing. “The last four nights in a row, someone leaves an envelope on your doorstep, each envelope containing the—presumed—exact time Mrs. Stone was murdered, marked by three different appliances in the kitchen. The last letter however, appears to be a threat, and included with this letter is your mother’s bloody necklace.”
“The one I am sure she was wearing the day she was killed, yes. Whoever killed her took the necklace.”
Marino stares at the photos.
“The person who sent these letters has to be her killer, right?” I say. “Who else would know about the clocks, and who else would have the necklace? He took it from the scene, maybe thought it was valuable or something. It’s him, it’s got to be.”
“Rhett Cohen is still in prison, if memory serves me correctly.”
“I know, but…”
Marino looks at me, tilts his head to the side. “You’re suggesting that Rhett Cohen removed your mother’s necklace after he killed her, and then either A: Somehow smuggled it into jail, where he has sat on this piece of evidence for twenty years, and has now, for no apparent reason, decided to mail it back to you, along with a handful of creepy letters. Or B: Hid it somewhere before he was arrested and has paid someone to uncover it and deliver it to you,twentyyears later. And somehow was able to communicate these instructions to this unknown person without the prison guards catching on.”
“Sounds impossible, I know.”
“Yes, it does.” He crosses his arms over his chest. “Let’s just start from the beginning—who else knew the intimate details of your mother’s case? Enough to know the timeframe of her TOD?”
“Not many people. Me, of course.”
“Did you tell anyone? That specific information? Her time-of-death? What about the mismatched clocks? Did you tell anyone about that?”
“No.”
“No friends? Boyfriend? You’re sure?”
I nod. “I’m sure.”
“Think on it for a few days—it was a long time ago. Memories fade.”
“I didn’t have many friends then and I don’t have many friends now. I didn’t tell anyone that information, I’m sure of it.”
“Okay, then we look at who had access to the coroner’s report, which indicated her exact time of death.”
“Lots of people had access to it, right?”
“Not as many as you’d think. The coroner, the responding officers, the detective on the case, the DA, the defendant’s attorney, the judge.” He thinks for a minute. “If I recall, the case didn’t drag on, correct? It was closed rather quickly.”
