I am in a serene place after yoga. I wrestled with the crime scene in my mind all during meditation but breathing through all those sun salutations allowed me to just pay attention to my body and the pouring out of yesterday’s stress. Abe used the Sanskrit word for corpse pose once before. Laying on the floor, legs slightly splayed and listening to his soothing voice, knocks me out. I awake (for the third time in this house in a week) feeling rested, alert, and closer to getting the answer that Jake’s bedroom was trying to tell me. It will come to me, I am sure.
I see two State Police cruisers in the Borough Hall parking lot, which is next to the courthouse. It’s not uncommon to see them there. Our little town, wedged between a mountain and a river, is also the county seat. I walk up the steps and pull on the heavy oak door.
Vickie, the Borough secretary, is seated at her desk gazing at her flat screen monitor. She smiles and then frowns when she recognizes me and tries to avert her eyes.
“Hey, Vickie. How are you?” I taught this girl not more than a dozen years earlier. She is the mayor’s youngest daughter.
“I am doing well, Mrs. Strong.” She appears nervous and tries tapping a few keys to make it as if there is something more important than Instagram cat reels on her screen.
“Still going to the community college?”
“Taking just a couple of night classes this semester.” She’s not making eye contact with me.
“The credits add up, Vickie.” I try to sound hopeful, but I suspect that this is her way of slowly convincing her parents that more schooling is not for her. She did just enough to get by and fly below the radar throughout eight grades, then I heard nothing otherwise about her at the regional high school. What was that thing that Ken and I talked about the other night about kids swimming in a fishbowl?
She looks up at my smiling face and then over her shoulder. She whispers to me, “They are talking about you in there. What did you do?”
I am taken aback. I sputter, “Nothing criminal, but I hoped that you would have a police report for me on the Jake Dawson death by suicide from last Friday night.”
“That’s what it’s about then. They’ve been in there for the last half-hour talking about something. They told me that if you came in to tell you that the case is reopened and you aren’t allowed to have the report.”
Her words punch me in the gut. The wind leaves my diaphragm, and I cannot speak for a moment. What happened overnight that would cause them to reopen the investigation? I am betting it is two words—Gwendolyn Strong.
I rest my hand on the counter until I stop seeing stars, only to open them and see the bewildered look on her face. “Are you okay? Mrs. Strong?”
It is as if the last two glorious hours of meditation and yoga never happened. What do they call the term? Fight or flight? I see Mabel, Warren, and Jake Dawson in my mind’s eye. I remember the hugs with Sharon McGrath. I had to learn to fight for myself when I was a kid. I never backed down then. I will not run away now.
“Please tell Officer Williams that I would like to see him.”
Vickie looks like she doesn’t want to be the ping-pong ball in this match of wills. “Okay, I will do that for you, Mrs. Strong.”
She gets up and knocks on the door of the office, then is ushered in. I stare at the door until it opens slightly and see Moe, Larry, and Curly staring back at me. The door closes quickly, and more hushed tones slip under the one-inch gap at the bottom. I know Ken didn’t hang that door.
Eventually, she returns red-faced with downcast eyes. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Strong. Officer Williams is busy in a meeting with the State Police.” She talks as she walks back to her chair and makes it obvious in the way she collapses into it that she is not getting back up.
“Thank you, Vickie. Please tell them I will wait here.” Louder I say, “They can’t hide behind that door forever.”
She reaches for her phone just as the door opens, then the angry-looking police officer I know motions me forward.
The crowded office contains three seated law enforcement officers, two in uniform and one in a well-tailored suit. His shoulder holster is a giveaway. His short black hair is cut military-style; he is squared jawed and clean-shaven. Slightly older than Barney, but trim and athletic, he speaks without introduction and with none of them offering me a seat. “What is your interest in Jake Dawson's death by suicide, Mrs. Strong?”
“As of five o’clock last night, it was closed with the coroner finding it as such. When did that change?”
“Who is Erin LeGrande, Mrs. Strong?”
Of course, he would ask about Erin. This guy is good.
I answer his question with a question. “More importantly, what is the status of her FOI request?”
“According to witnesses, you were tampering with a crime scene last evening before dark. What do you have to say about that?” We are playing hardball.
“I seem to be at a loss here. Who am I speaking with, and why hasn’t one of you offered me a seat?”
He doesn’t move, but Barney jumps up, scoots his chair around the desk, and stands against the far wall. “Thank you, Barney,” I say. “You always had good manners in school.” I sit down and then pull the chair close to where my knees are nearly touching my accuser’s. “Let’s get off on the right foot. You are not talking to some scared teenager blinded by a flashlight beam in their face on a lonely stretch of interstate. You know my name, and you know darn well that Erin is my daughter, because she went to Milford Elementary around the same time as Barney. As far as tampering with a crime scene, I hope you don’t play poker and try to bluff when you have nothing in your hand.”
The man smiles. “Detective James Shafer, and you are right. I don’t play poker very well. Yes, I became involved after your visit to Officer Williams last night and when we received your daughter's request. The investigation has been reopened, uh, for my review. My superiors would like me to go over it, but,” he stops to look at the other two men in the claustrophobic setting, “I’m not sure why. Mr. Dawson had GSR on his hand, and there was stippling against his temple.”
I narrow my eyes, cock my head, and ask evenly, “Motive?”
He clears his throat and looks at the others. “We don’t need to show motive.”
“That’s true for most crimes, including homicide,” I say, “but death by suicide always includes looking for motive. You always look for a note. There was no note.” It’s my turn to shade the truth. I don’t know this for 100 percent.
“How do you know that?” he asks. This time, he is polite.
“The parents would have been told when they were notified.” I count on my index finger. I look at Barney. “Two,” I add my middle finger, “the people that transported him would have said something. After all, we are a small town. And three,” I add my ring finger, “the coroner would have mentioned it when the toxicology report findings were released to the family.” I smile plainly.
“Okay,” he says. “Let’s agree there is no note.”
He says that too quickly, and I make a mental note of how he says it. “One thing is bugging me though.” I push the chair back and stand.
I wait until he asks, “What’s that, Mrs. Strong?”
“Why did he shoot himself with his non-dominant hand?”
I can tell by their furtive glances that the trained law enforcers hadn’t asked themselves that question.
“Mrs. Strong, how do you know that?” Shafer asks.
I smile. “I’ll point out how when you and I go over the crime scene photos, Detective.”
He cranes his head to look around me. “This woman was your kindergarten teacher, Barney?” Shafer shakes his head at me. “Sorry, no can do. Like we said, the investigation is reopened.”
“Please keep one thing in mind as you go about your investigation, Detective Shafer,” I say. “Jake Dawson died the night before his wedding precisely because his life would change the next day. Figure what that change was, and you will find how why he died.” I look down on him, then over to his two meek companions. “May I have your card?”
He reaches into his credentials and pulls out a crisp one, handing it to me.
“You know how to reach me from both our FOI requests.”
I end the meeting with a swoosh out the door.
I smile at Vickie. “Good luck in school, Vickie. Say hello to your mom and dad for me.” My head is throbbing. Is this what a migraine feels like?
I walk quickly past the cruisers. My vision narrows. There is an aura surrounding what I see. I try to breathe deep, but I can’t. I am reduced to panting open mouthed like the time I ran a 5K on a muggy day and did not train for it. I shuffle down the sidewalk between the courthouse and Borough Hall to the rear alley where the trash bins are kept. I lurch around the corner, then pull on my last bit of energy to push myself behind a dumpster. I throw up.