Chapter 7 - The Unraveling of Elm Avenue
While the surgical team at St. Jude Memorial was meticulously elevating the fractured bone fragments of my skull, two miles away, Detective Aaron Beckett was standing in the dimly lit, windowless interrogation room of the Central Police Precinct.
On the other side of the heavy two-way mirror sat Richard Vance.
My father looked dramatically different from the pristine, commanding figure who had stood on the lawn of Elm Avenue hours earlier. His tailored golf shirt was rumpled and stained with white dust from the crushed drywall of the holding cell. His hair was disheveled, and his wrist was handcuffed to a heavy iron loop anchored to the center of the wooden table.
Yet, his expression was still dominated by an arrogant, stubborn refusal to acknowledge the catastrophe he had created.
Detective Beckett pushed open the heavy steel door, holding a thick stack of printed documents in his hand, and sat down in the metal chair across from my father.
"Mr. Vance," Beckett began, placing the papers squarely on the table. "I thought you might want an update. Your daughter Sadie has just entered emergency neurosurgery to treat a depressed skull fracture caused by the blunt force trauma of the brick you threw at her head."
Richard didn't flinch. He leaned back in his chair as far as the handcuffs would allow, his jaw set.
"It was an accidental impact during a physical altercation initiated by Wyatt Thorne," Richard said, repeating his rehearsed script in a flat, mechanical voice. "I was defending my home and my family. My wife and younger daughter will corroborate every word of my statement."
Detective Beckett leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table, a cold smile touching his lips.
"That might have been a viable defense, Richard," Beckett said softly, "if we didn't have high-definition video from an electrician’s van showing you picking up the brick, walking six steps toward an defenseless woman, and swinging it directly at her head while Wyatt Thorne was standing two feet away with his hands at his sides."
Richard’s eyes flickered slightly, but he remained silent.
"And it might have worked," Beckett continued, "if we didn't have six independent neighbors who watched the entire event from three different angles and gave sworn statements that you stood over her bleeding body and told Wyatt Thorne he was engaged to the wrong daughter."
Richard’s hands twitched against the iron ring, the metal clinking loudly in the quiet room.
"Furthermore," Beckett said, pulling a fresh document from the bottom of his stack, "ten minutes ago, your wife, Evelyn, cracked under questioning in Interrogation Room B. When my officers showed her the dash-cam footage and informed her she was facing felony conspiracy charges, she offered a full statement."
Richard’s head snapped up, his face suddenly draining of all color. "What did she say?"
"She confessed that the three of you discussed ways to force Wyatt Thorne to marry Melanie for the last four months," Beckett revealed, watching my father’s reaction like a hawk. "She admitted that today’s confrontation was designed to physically scar Sadie so that Wyatt would find her unappealing, creating an opening for Melanie to comfort him. It was a planned, premeditated assault."
"She’s lying! She’s hysterical!" Richard spat out, his voice suddenly rising into a panicked, high-pitched strain. "She doesn't know what she’s talking about!"
"It’s over, Richard," Beckett said quietly. "You're going to state prison for attempted murder. But that’s not why I’m here right now."
Beckett pulled out a copy of the business card left by Samuel Grayson and slid it across the table, placing it directly in front of my father’s eyes.
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"An hour ago, Samuel Grayson dropped this off at the hospital," Beckett said. "He left a message for Wyatt Thorne. He told us to look into Arthur Vance’s final will."
For the second time that evening, the absolute, impenetrable armor of Richard Vance vanished. His mouth opened slightly, his breath catching in his throat as his eyes locked onto the gold-embossed name of his father’s estate attorney. A cold sweat broke out across his forehead, glistening under the harsh fluorescent lights of the interrogation room.
