At My Brother’s Funeral, His Lawyer Pulled Me Aside: “He Left You This. Don’t Let Her See It”…
The Evidence
I opened the private investigator’s report. Photo after photo of Christine meeting with a man in expensive suits: having lunch, having coffee, having very intimate conversations in parked cars.
The man was identified as David Wickham, a financial consultant with a history of helping people hide assets offshore. The bank statements showed money moving out of Marcus’ accounts. Small amounts at first, then larger, transferred to accounts in Christine’s name only.
The emails were between Christine and David, talking about the timeline. About “elderly asset acquisition.” About making it look natural.
I felt sick. “She’s going to kill me,” I said out loud. “She killed Tommy, and now she’s going to kill me. And then Marcus will inherit everything, and she controls Marcus.”
Martin’s face was grim. “We need to go to the police.”
“With what? Circumstantial evidence and a recording? She’ll say it’s fake. She’ll say Tommy was paranoid. She’ll say I’m a grieving brother seeing conspiracies.”
I stood up. “I need to see my son. I need to see Marcus face to face.”
“She won’t let you near him.”
“I’m his father. She can’t stop me.”
Locked Out
But she could, and she did. When I went to Marcus’s house that evening, Christine answered the door. She was calm, pleasant.
“Richard, I’m sorry, but Marcus really can’t see anyone right now. His doctor thinks family stress is making his depression worse.”
“I need to talk to him. Five minutes.”
“I can’t allow that. I’m protecting him from his own father, from stress. You’re grieving Tommy; you’re not yourself. Marcus doesn’t need that energy right now.”
I tried to push past her. She stepped back and said loudly: “Richard, please don’t force your way into our home! I’ll have to call the police.”
A neighbor was watching from across the street. Christine waved at her, playing the victim. Playing the concerned wife protecting her sick husband from his aggressive father. I left. I had no choice.
That night, I sat in my house and listened to the recordings on Tommy’s flash drive. Christine’s voice, clear as day.
“He’s old, 66. The heart attack will be believable. Everyone will think it’s natural.”
A man’s voice—David Wickham presumably: “And the brother, Richard? He’ll be easy. After Thomas is gone, he’s got high blood pressure already. Another year, maybe two. And then we’ll have everything.”
“And Marcus?”
“Marcus is handled. He believes everything I tell him. Poor thing thinks he’s depressed, thinks he needs me. I’ve got him on medications that keep him foggy, compliant. By the time his father dies, he won’t even question it.”
“You’re certain the dosage is right? You don’t want him actually damaged.”
“I’m careful. I learned from the mistakes with husband number one. Marcus will be functional enough to inherit and sign papers, but not functional enough to fight me. It’s a delicate balance, but I’m good at delicate.”
Laughing. They were laughing. I stopped the recording. I couldn’t listen anymore.
Fighting Back
My brother was murdered. My son was being drugged. And I was next on the list. I sat in the dark for a long time thinking. Then I made a decision. I called Martin Breeslin.
“I need you to file a legal motion. I want a full investigation into Tommy’s death. I want an autopsy review, and I want a court-ordered medical evaluation of Marcus. Independent doctor. Not whoever Christine has in her pocket.”
“That’s going to take time, Richard. And money.”
“I have time. I have money. Do it. She’ll fight it. Let her fight. I’m not letting her get away with this.”
The next six months were hell. Christine filed counter-motions. She got a restraining order against me, claiming I was harassing her and endangering Marcus’s mental health. I couldn’t go within 100 meters of their house.
Marcus never called me. Never reached out. I tried to call him, but Christine had changed his number.
I hired my own investigator. We dug deeper into Christine’s past. Found husband number two, Gerald Mats—died from a fall down the stairs. Found husband number one, Robert Chen—died from an accidental overdose of heart medication. Found that in both cases, Christine inherited everything.
We found that she disappeared for two to three years between husbands, presumably to avoid suspicion. Found that her real name was actually Allison Draper, and she’d been arrested twice for fraud in her 20s but never convicted.
We took everything to the police. Detective Sarah Chen, Toronto Police Fraud Division, took the case seriously. But she said the same thing everyone said. “It’s all circumstantial. We need something concrete.”
“Get me access to Marcus,” I begged. “Let me see my son. He can tell you he’s being drugged.”
“If he’s being drugged the way you claim, he won’t be reliable,” Detective Chen said. “His testimony would be dismissed. We need physical evidence. We need to catch her in the act.”
“So what do we do?”
Detective Chen looked at me carefully. “We set a trap.”
Setting the Trap
The trap was simple. We’d leak information to Christine through her lawyer that I was dying. Stage medical records showing I had late-stage cancer. Make her think her timeline was accelerating naturally. Then we’d watch. See if she made a move.
“She’ll come for the business,” Detective Chen said. “If you’re dying, she’ll try to get Marcus to sign paperwork transferring your assets before you’re gone. She’ll want to lock it down.”
“And if she tries to speed up my death?”
“We’ll be watching. You’ll be protected.”
I didn’t feel protected, but I agreed. We planted the fake medical records, made sure Christine’s lawyer would “accidentally” see them during a deposition. Waited.
Three days later, Christine called me. Her voice was honey-sweet. “Richard, I heard about your diagnosis. I’m so sorry. I know we’ve had our difficulties, but you’re still Marcus’s father. He’d want to see you.”
“He would?”
“Yes. He’s doing better now. The new medication is really helping. He’s been asking about you. I think it would be good for both of you to reconnect before… well, before time runs out.”
Before time runs out. The audacity. “I’d like that,” I said carefully.
“Why don’t you come for dinner tomorrow? I’ll make your favorite pot roast.”
Pot roast. The meal she’d put the poison in, most likely. “I’ll be there.”
