Dead Air
Season 1, Episode 4
The Call to the Castle
Gwenda Bond
1.
The day after getting the ax, I sit in my bedroom, at my laptop, stewing. I still can’t believe my professor came in at one in the morning to do someone else’s bidding and forbade me from even entering the building where the studio is. I have never been in trouble with an authority figure in my life. Macy flies so far under the radar, she may as well be in Wonder Woman’s invisible jet.
But that pales before my biggest problem.
People will expect my next show and it won’t be there. I can’t just vanish—not when I’m certain the Carlisles’ and their friends’ donations to the university had, oh, everything to do with my getting kicked off the radio. I can’t prove it, but I don’t need to in order to post about it on Reddit.
Heads up: It’s not as easy to silence people as it used to be, great and mighty powers that be.
I don’t want to quit. I don’t think I can quit. I feel a responsibility to see this through.
But . . . I’m awfully close to crossing the streams of my life: Mackenzie and Macy. So I have a new question to ask—of myself and everyone else.
Well, not everyone. I know exactly what my mom would say. This is getting serious enough that it may follow me after I graduate. Getting fired from the radio station will, especially if I talk about it online.
That’s the only way to find the answer I need, though. And I’m all about answers these days.
Topic: The Future of Dead Air
MisforMurder: Hey gang,
This is Mackenzie here, host of Dead Air on UK college radio—or it used to be. Now the university is insisting on actual dead air during my time slot. Yes, listeners, they fired me. They told me they’ve had complaints. I’m not even allowed in the building. But I have my theories about the real why—the source of these mystery complaints. Am I getting too close to the truth? Making wealthy donors uncomfortable? All of the above?
But I turn to you to answer the essential question I’m left with: Does what I’m doing matter? Is it worth risking my future for? Should I continue with a weekly podcast? Or are we done here?
I don’t think we are, but without you, I’m nothing, dear listeners.
I hesitate—but not for long—before I send the post live.
My phone buzzes and I grab it and answer as quickly as I can when I see the caller ID: DEPT OF PUBLIC ADVOCACY.
“Yes?” I say. “This is Mackenzie Walker.”
“And this is Greg Duncan—I defended Brandon McDonal, or at least I tried to . . .” a man’s voice says. He talks fast. “You’ve worn me down. Can you meet me outside the county courthouse at noon today?”
Two hours from now. “Absolutely!”
He laughs at my enthusiasm. So much for my cool journalistic professionalism.
“Have your phone on, and not on silent,” he says. “See you then.”
He hangs up before I can ask about the bizarre directive.
I don’t have time to wait for the Reddit responses to come—or not come—in. I’ll find out their verdict later. No way I’m going to risk being late to this meeting, not after the revelations about McDonal’s family back home in Ireland suddenly bathing in money around the time of the murder. The conspiracy theorists are in love with the idea that it was either the nanny or Irongate Farm’s Cox, but I’m not feeling either as real possibilities. I need more intel.
The administration and/or Ryan’s family wants to shut me down? Fine. Then it’s time for Mackenzie to go to war and dig up whatever they’re hoping to hide.
2.
The courthouse plaza smack in the middle of downtown hosts a wide cross section of people at lunch hour—lawyer types in suits, defendants and plaintiffs in the closest thing they have to suits, homeless guys hanging out, people who work in offices downtown . . . A smattering of reporters are hanging around across from the federal courthouse up the street.
I get a little thrill from knowing I’m one of them, with or without a station to host me. This may not have started out as straight-up journalism, but it is now.
A little research quickly explained why it was so hard to convince Greg Duncan to squeeze me into his schedule. Almost every story about public defenders in Kentucky is about how overwhelmed and underfunded they are. They handle a ridiculous number of cases as a whole, more than 150,000 per year, and almost eighty percent of criminal circuit cases, aka the bad ones. He’s now in charge of the local office rather than just an attorney on staff like he was eighteen years ago, but apparently that still means plenty of court time. Which is why I’m meeting him here instead of at his office.
My phone trills just as a knot of people exit the building, and I answer. “Um, hello?”
“Macy Walker? Look to your left.” It’s an unfamiliar male voice.
I did just get kicked off the radio. Is this whole meet-up someone messing with me? Someone who lured me over here—maybe to threaten to take me to court? Anyone who’s heard the show knows I’ve been trying to get an interview with Duncan. My heart pounds and I think about taking off . . .
But then I hear a laugh, and look in its direction. I recognize the laughing man in a suit from the photo on the Department of Public Advocacy website. He waves at me. He has his phone in his hand and he taps the screen and pockets it. I walk over, collecting myself.
“Sorry if I startled you,” he says. “I don’t like spending forever looking around for new people. We’re walking and talking,” he says, and waves for me to join him. “See you guys later,” he calls to his companions, a younger woman in a skirt suit and a fresh-faced guy with his tie already loosened.
The woman smiles at me and says, “If you’re a law student, get out now! Switch majors!”
“What she said,” the guy adds.
And then they’re gone.
“Don’t listen to them,” Greg Duncan says. He seems amused as he starts to walk. I hurry to keep up. “Well,” he continues, “unless you want a life of sanity, then do listen. Why are we meeting again? Class assignment?”
“Something like that.” I hold my recorder between us and ask, “You mind if I record?”
He blinks at me, pausing on the sidewalk. Someone passing us greets him and he waves, but I stay focused.
“You don’t have to ask,” he says, “not in Kentucky. It’s a one-party state. Only one party in the conversation has to consent to being recorded.”
“Does that mean yes?”
“Fine,” he says, “now I’m interested.” He holds up his hand. “Wait here.”
He ducks into a diner on the corner and I wait, making sure I’m ready to record. I never really noticed that downtown isn’t just pretty spots for the tourists mixed with perennial greasy spoons and hipster magnet hotspots. There are also signs for law offices everywhere, now that I look closer, on almost every other building. Makes sense with the courthouse so close—but I never noticed. Just like with the police station.
I’m finally peering below the skin of the city, to the blood and bones. The heart.
Duncan emerges from the diner with a paper bag and pulls out a hamburger wrapped in wax paper already going thin with grease. I resist the urge to steal it from his hand. I’ve never understood how people forget to eat, but I skipped breakfast this morning.
“I’ll try not to answer while I’m chewing,” he says. “This way.”
I hit record as we continue up the sidewalk and turn on Short Street, and wish there wasn’t so much ambient noise. But this is the time I have. I’ll have to make do.
“Brandon McDonal—you were his defender briefly, after Peg Graham’s death. Do you remember him?”
He chews slowly, considering.
“I can understand if you don’t,” I say.
He swallows, and keeps walking. “I do,” he says. “High-profile case. One of the first ones I ever had. You don’t forget the ones the parasites hound you on.”
“Parasites?”
“A little pet name for the media,” he says.
Fantastic. “Charming. I’ve been reexamining the case—the Graham murder—and I think the cops may have missed something.”
Greg Duncan stops and turns to me. He stashes his burger back in the bag. I notice there’s a Kentucky Public Defenders sign on the building we’re in front of. “This is your office?” I ask.
“You won’t need to come in,” he says. “You’re the one who’s been talking about it? I haven’t heard your show, but there’s been some chatter at happy hour.”
I feel a ridiculous thrill at the idea of lawyers discussing me over drinks. “That’s me.”
“I think I’d like to say what I have to say off the record, if I can?”
I hesitate, knowing I could challenge him. He told me I could, legally. But then I stop recording. But then I remember one of my journalism professors saying it’s always best to try to get a source to stay on the record.
“I’m reporting this story,” I say. “I’d like to keep recording.”
He weighs that and finally nods. “Look, I appreciate what you’re doing, and god knows, the cops do miss things all the time. They did back then, too, and they weren’t as clean as they are now, either. Which still isn’t squeaky. But . . .” He sighs. “Brandon McDonal was young and he’d never been in the system before that I could figure out, and there was all this media heat. He was in a foreign country. That’s usually the kind of client who’s overwhelmed by circumstances. The kind who’ll listen. But not him. I’ve never met someone so determined to go to jail.”
“Why do you think that was?” I ask.
“He never opened up to me, and if he had . . . attorney-client privilege. But I will say that I feel I did the best I could with a client who didn’t want to be helped. He pled guilty against my advice. My only client who ever ended up ineligible for parole. He got life without, and he seemed almost happy about it. Well, satisfied. I don’t think you’re going to find anything.”
I dodge back to let a police officer on a bicycle pass us.
“They shouldn’t be on the sidewalks, you know,” Greg says.
And I realize that even if Brandon was an odd case for him, it’s still just his day-to-day. He lives under the skin. He’s part of the city’s nervous system.
“I’ve already found enough to keep going. UK just made me leave the campus radio station, because I wouldn’t stop. I think . . . There’s a rumor that Brandon’s family seemed to have a lot more money after he went to jail.”
He looks at me, bushy eyebrows lifting. “They did?” He pauses. “Okay, that is interesting, because to qualify for my services, the kid had to be poor. He didn’t have money, neither did the family—they were contacted even though they were in Ireland.”
Hmmm. I never thought to ask . . . “Why wasn’t he sent back there?”
“Extradited? Ha,” he says, with a dry smile. “That’s not how it works for guys like him. You do the crime here, you do the time here. He’s been in jail for ages now, maybe long enough to be ready to open up? You could go talk to him, if he’ll agree. He still has the right to talk to the press. It’s worth a try for a parasite-in-training.”
“I’ve been trying,” I say. “No response from the prison.”
“I might be able to put in a call,” he says. “In case you did find something. Which I don’t necessarily believe that you have. But if.”
He lifts the bag and waves, and I know I’m being dismissed.
“Thanks,” I say. “I appreciate anything you can do. This was helpful.”
“Good. I hate wasting time, mine or anyone else’s.” He winks and opens the door to the office building. “Not all parasites are bad.”
Really? Faint praise if I’ve ever heard it.
I walk back around the corner and get a burger of my own. I’ve got to get Brandon McDonal to talk to me, some way, somehow.
3.
Reddit exploded while I was out. I skim through responses.
CerealFan: You can’t quit now. That’s what they want! (It was probably Cox who complained. Would the Carlisles be that obvious?)
BlahBlahBlond: Keep going! We’ll donate if we have to.
FUKU: FUCK THEM JUSTICE FOR PEG
I open up a reply window. We covered the basics of how to distribute podcasts in my AV production class, and I already know how to do all the editing.
MisforMurder: Message Received. Podcast, it is. And I think I’ll have some very interesting revelations for you. More to come. New episode of Dead Air will go live Tuesday at midnight at your podcast provider of choice. I’ll post the link here, too.
I click over into my audio files and pull up Brandon McDonal’s 9-1-1 call.
BRANDON MCDONAL: [slurred speech, Irish accent] I’m calling to say I did it. I killed her. Margaret . . . Peg . . . Peg Graham.
I get no further revelations from hearing him confess again. He sounds perfunctory, sure, but also convincing. I can hardly blame the cops for believing him.
I’ve sent in numerous requests for an interview with Brandon already, but I do so again. I fill out the same form online and submit it to the warden’s office, along with what I hope is a bolstered case of having talked with the inmate’s former counsel, who recommended I speak with him. Not only will the warden have to approve, but McDonal has to say yes. I cross my fingers Duncan can help out with that.
Then I set up the accounts I need to distribute the podcast when it’s ready.
My phone buzzes. It’s Ryan.
They fired you from the station?!?
I guess I need to catch him up. I’m oddly comforted that it’s news to him. That he didn’t know it was coming before I did. At least, that’s what I want to believe. Part of me has to admit that the only reason I didn’t ask him already if it was his family was because I was afraid he’d say yes and that he thinks they’re right.
And yet.
I’m starting to trust him. And I want to kiss him again.
Neither feels like a particularly smart move to make.
And yet.
4.
I’m going to prison. Oh, happy day.
Brandon McDonal agreed to see me. Apparently Greg Duncan called the media office and pled my case, so to speak. The warden’s office sent a time late in the week, and a laundry list of rules I have to follow. I ask Ryan if he wants to come with me, expecting he’ll say no.
But he insists on not just coming with me but driving, even though he can’t come inside for the interview. No way we’re trying to add a Carlisle to a prison visitor list for Brandon McDonal. The Kentucky State Penitentiary is three hours and change away, in Eddyville. My alarm went off at five a.m. I half expect Ryan to oversleep, leaving me to drive myself, but he’s right on time. I keep underestimating him.
And so, at o’dark thirty on Friday morning, Ryan eases his pickup onto the parkway.
“So,” he says, “music? Podcast? Do you need to stop for coffee?”
“Whatever you want.” Why I agreed to the ride, I suddenly don’t know. I like Ryan—too much—but the reality sets in that we are trapped in this car together for hours and there is nothing to keep me from being my awkward self. He smells really good, as always, and the fact that I noticed that already means I’m doomed.
He turns on the radio, flicks it to a satellite channel playing the National. I approve. He also leaves the volume low enough for conversation.
“You can sleep if you want,” he says. “I’ll wake you up when we get close.”
Clearly he is unaware that I am basically filled with electricity at the moment. I’m on my way to interview a man in prison for life without parole, to ask him if he made a false confession and shouldn’t be there. And I’m in a tiny enclosed space with the most beautiful boy who has ever noticed I exist. Oh, and the murdered woman in question was his mother.
“That doesn’t seem fair,” I say. “To you.”
“True. But you know what they say about life.”
I do, at that.
Ryan goes quiet, and I stare out the window at the dark landscape shrouded in fog. The rolling hills are hidden in this predawn dark. No horses are visible, either. No homes. We might be in a horror movie. The only car on the road, the only people left alive.
Ironically, this thought makes me recant my worry about the length of the drive with Ryan. I wouldn’t want to be out here alone. I can just imagine getting a flat, some creepy guy offering to help, then me running for my life through the misty morning. Robert Ben Rhoades, aka the Truck Stop Killer, is believed to have picked up fifty victims whom he raped, tortured, and killed over the fifteen years he was active. I wish I didn’t know these things, but I do.
“You, uh, have questions prepared for McDonal?” Ryan asks.
I’m glad for the interruption of my train of thought. “I always do the homework,” I say, blushing. I shift sideways in my seat, so I’m studying his perfect profile. “I’ve got a few. Anything you want me to ask?”
He’s quiet again for a long time. So long I don’t expect him to answer. “Ask him . . . if he has a favorite memory of her. My mom. Maybe that’ll get him talking. If he was really in love with her, he should have one, shouldn’t he?”
“Good point. I’ll keep that one in my pocket.” I seriously doubt I’ll get an answer. Brandon might have killed her. But I don’t think so, and I know Ryan doesn’t, either. And if he did have good memories of her, they’re probably all gone after eighteen years in prison.
Ryan drums his hand on the steering wheel. He seems as antsy as I am. “Why do you think he said yes to the interview? After all this time?”
I shrug. I have my hopes that the public defender is right and he’s ready to talk. But . . . “Maybe he doesn’t get many visitors. His family’s all still in Ireland.”
His supposedly well-off family.
“Do you think your family would come visit you if you were in jail?” Ryan asks, and I’m surprised by the question.
“Yeah,” I say, “but I can’t imagine being in jail. Ever. You?”
“Me neither. But if I was, Grandma Georgia would come. And no doubt terrify the guards.” He pauses again. “I never really asked . . . What made you start all this?”
I could answer this in a million ways. But I go with the truth. “My cousin Delilah died. Overdose on bad heroin, hotel room party. Eight months ago. I got a little obsessed with death afterward.”
“Delilah?” Ryan repeats it. “Did she go to UK? I think I knew her—it’s not that common a name. Was she dating a guy named Travis?”
“You knew her?” I sit up straighter, feeling like an exposed nerve. “Travis is a friend of yours?”
I’m not entirely surprised, but I am grossed out at the prospect. The guy showed up at her funeral looking hungover. For all I know, he’s the one who has her missing phone.
“Not a good one,” Ryan says quickly. He glances over at me, sympathetic . . . or is that an apology in his eyes? “Friends through family only. So you were tight with her? Delilah?”
Delilah. The name hangs in the car between us. She dated one of Ryan’s “friends.” Travis, the rich douchebag who I suspect introduced her to heroin. Ryan probably knows more about her life around the time she died than I do. What is the reality of Ryan’s world, underneath all the glitz and money and horses? How well do I really know him?
“Since we were kids. How well did you know her?”
“I only met her a couple of times.” There’s something guarded about it. He’s being careful with what he says.
I watch him closely. “Then you know, she was . . . special. She was like that even when she was a kid. She had this way about her.” I never say this much out loud, not about Delilah. But I keep going. “Bursting with light. She was going to do big things. We all knew it. I was always . . . grateful? Yeah, grateful that she hung out with me. Like it was a big deal to be close to her. She was a family celebrity.”
“I know what you mean,” he says. “But that’s a lot to carry.”
“Spoken like someone who is their family celebrity,” I say, which I know is not very charitable. I turn away from him, and watch the foggy landscape blur past. “She asked me to go with her the night she died, to the party. I’m not a big fan of parties. So I told her I couldn’t get off work.”
“You feel responsible?” he asks, giving me a disbelieving look.
“I should have gone with her.”
“What did she tell you when she asked?”
“Just that it was a party and she didn’t want to go alone.” I answer before I realize it’s a weird question to ask.
“Who was there?” he asks.
I don’t understand where he’s going with this. When I check his expression, he’s just driving, eyes forward.
But this is weird. Or am I just being paranoid again? Not trusting him is exhausting. Especially when I basically want to do nothing but stare at him and his perfect handsomeness.
“I don’t know,” I say. “I didn’t go, and whoever was there took off before her body was found.”
“No security footage?” he asks.
“Are you investigating Delilah’s death now?” I snap.
“Of course not,” he says, obviously taken aback. “Sorry.”
The silence that fills the car goes back to awkward.
“I’m sorry if I overreacted,” I say a few minutes later, though I’m not sure it’s true.
“I shouldn’t have pushed.” He pauses. “I guess . . . You’re one of the only people I’ve ever talked to about my mom and how she died. I’m here to listen, if you ever want that.”
I feel like a jerk. “So how much longer do we have?”
“Oh, you know, two and a half hours.” His tone is light, forcing things back to casual. He’s good at it. “I’ve been out west before—the fam hits Fancy Farm every year. It’s a boring-ass drive.”
Fancy Farm, where the powerful and political kick off their campaign seasons at the end of summer. I’m reminded that while we may both have losses in our pasts, our presents are very different.
“Maybe I will take a nap,” I say.
I close my eyes, but I don’t sleep a wink.
5.
The Kentucky State Penitentiary has a nickname: the Castle on the Cumberland. As we approach, the reason is easy to see. It’s a sprawling, green-roofed medieval fortress built from granite, quarried from up the river by Italian stonemasons in the late 1800s. Some outbuildings and the like have been added, but the primary effect is forbidding.
The parallel to Peg Graham’s fairy-tale farm design isn’t lost on me. But these are distinctly different kingdoms. This one is fond of razor wire. A tall entrance tower with toothed walls, narrow barred windows, and a steep set of steps is the only immediately visible way to get in. Or out. It’s an abandon-all-hope sort of place. And beside it all, the lovely flat expanse of the Cumberland River, flowing by in a muddy green-blue counterpoint.
Ryan pulls up to the curb on the street along the hillside, overlooking the water. Neither of us seems to know what to say—it’s not like there’s etiquette for dropping off the podcaster who’s investigating your mother’s death at a prison.
Finally, he asks, “You want me to wait here?”
“You may as well go get some food. It feels like it’d be weird for you to sit out here knowing he’s in there.” The confessed killer. Who may be innocent. “I can text you when I’m ready for you to come back?” I offer.
“Okay, good luck in there,” he says. He reaches over and touches my hand. “Thank you for doing this—I know it can’t be an easy thing, going in there. I wish I could go with you.”
I’m surprised at the sentiment. “Do you?”
His head tilts as he considers. “I don’t even really know what he looks like . . . the man who went to jail for killing my mother. That feels as weird as anything else.”
Fair. “I better get going or I’ll miss my window.”
He only nods acknowledgment. Nervously, I gather the handful of items I’ll be allowed to bring in with me—ID, recording device and microphone, my phone, a few bucks for the vending machines in case I need to bribe my interviewee with a snack. I leave my wallet and purse in the car with Ryan.
He drives away and I head up the sidewalk toward the stairs. I’m wearing a nice pair of jeans and a loose-fitting sweater. Certain parts of the dress code restrictions for women made my skin crawl. Namely, provisions b through e:
There’s more about the exact acceptable length of skirts, and forbidding spandex, et cetera. Guys have the same underwear rule, but other than that it’s mainly that they can’t wear tank tops, muscle Ts, or “inflammatory” T-shirts. As usual, women are a distraction, a problem, simply because we possess bodies. Why else are we here but to be ogled, to disrupt, to corrupt and make trouble? Then again, given that the 850-ish inmates housed here aren’t exactly model citizens, maybe the rules are for our safety.
Gah. My paranoia’s finally kicking in. I’m about to enter the “state pen,” where the death row inmates are. The man who killed a five-year-old boy and his teenage sisters before raping and attempting to murder their mother and setting fire to their home. The one who broke into a doctor’s house and murdered his daughter, stole his valuables, then got a second death sentence for brutally murdering an older couple to steal from them, too. Crimes that turn the stomach, that freeze the blood. Probably the only reason Brandon isn’t on death row with them is because of the speed of his guilty plea—a jury trial has to be involved for a death penalty sentence in Kentucky.
Besides death row, there’s the rest of the worst the state’s supermax system has to offer. Are there people here who shouldn’t be? Yes. As far as I’m concerned, I’m visiting one of them.
But this is still where the waking nightmares of my mind live.
I start up the steps to the front entrance. Because I went through the media process, so I could record, I’m entering all by my lonesome. It’s not a visitors’ day.
Maybe I should’ve had Ryan wait in the parking lot, after all.
But, no, best not to risk him being with me today. Lurking outside a prison is a sure way for him to get questioned and for word to make it back to a family attorney.
So, no—no help or comfort from Ryan on this one.
The steps go on, turn on a landing, and continue up, the castle looming over me like it’s watching my progress. Every window is barred, including the one in the front door I eventually come to, which is also covered with warnings. I press a buzzer beside it, and it opens. A guard raises his eyebrows at me behind a glass window. There’s a small waiting room.
The shocking thing is how quiet it is compared to the police department.
The guard is youngish, with a buzzed haircut and small eyes in a hard, tight face. No trust anywhere in his expression. He waves me forward and I approach, donning Mackenzie mode like a shield.
“Purpose?” he asks.
“I have an interview scheduled with an inmate.” When he says nothing, I add, “Media.”
His expression doesn’t change. “Cleared through the warden’s office?”
“Yes.” I wait for his next question, but it doesn’t come.
“I’ll get the public information officer to come escort you. I’ll need your ID and you’ll need to sign in.” He taps a sign-in sheet and waits while I hand over my ID.
“Should I give you my phone, too?” The instructions said I wouldn’t be allowed to take it to the interview.
He takes it, then nods for me to take a seat and picks up his own phone.
Thanks for the welcome wagon. Once he hangs up, he says, “She’ll be right down.”
I feel an immediate relief at having a female escort.
The waiting room is dim and gray and it remains quiet. There’s an antiseptic smell, grime and sweat masked by powerful cleaning supplies.
Given the size of the sprawling castle complex, I don’t suppose it’s a surprise how long it takes the PIO to arrive.
“Sorry to keep you waiting,” the woman says the second she breezes through the door beside the guard. Even the small window on it has bars. “I didn’t figure you’d want to wait inside while they brought inmate 4368 up from his cell.” She’s petite and blond, an ID badge hanging around her neck, wearing casual slacks and an untucked blouse. I guess she’s the call Greg Duncan made. “He should be ready for us now.”
She stops moving suddenly, which is shocking because she is so in motion. Then she shakes her head. “My manners. Sandy Moody,” she says, offering me her hand. “You’re the podcaster?”
I nod. “That’s me.”
“Where’s your stuff?” she squints.
“What stuff? I gave my ID and phone—”
“No, your stuff. The stuff I have to tell you to leave in a locker.”
“All I’ve got is my microphone and a recorder—just like the rules said. I already gave the guard my ID and phone.”
She tilts her head. “You read the rules! First time for everything,” she says to me and the guard. “Okay, come with me. Stick close.” And she’s moving again. “I was a huge fan of that Serial show.”
I follow her through the door into a long, dingy hallway with fluorescent lights. More barred windows. “Me too,” I say, though it’s probably obvious. “Um, do you mind if I record as we walk? Get some sound?”
She stops again and considers. Like thinking and moving are separate activities and each takes too much focus to do them at the same time—which, fair. I like people who stop to think.
“I guess so, as long as you turn it off if I say so. Immediately. Agreed?”
“Agreed,” I say, and hit record.
“We’re not going to see much of interest where we’re going,” she says. “Though I can see if the warden has time to give you a tour.”
I want to say yes, but Ryan. “Maybe another time.”
She shrugs. At the end of the hall, she punches a code into a lock and swipes her badge to open a door. There’s another guard on the other side, and in the far distance through another door, I see men in khaki jumpsuits passing by in a line.
“Gen pop,” she says, “wears khaki. Green is inmates in protective custody, under threat. Yellow for administrative separation—inmates in isolation for violent behavior, starting fights, or jumping other inmates. Then there’s the country club kids—minimum security—they’re dark green and have outside work detail. Red is for death row. It’s so we can see at a glance who we’re dealing with, keep prisoners where they’re supposed to be. You want them where they’re supposed to be.”
No doubt.
“So, you think this guy’s innocent?” she asks as we pause at another door. “He was in isolation just last week. Only reason you can talk to him is he’s back in gen pop now. No visitors when they’re in isolation.”
There are bars on this door, too. Through them is Brandon McDonal, though it takes me a long moment to understand that’s who I’m looking at. He’s aged, obviously. The lines on his face don’t match the police booking photo. He still has brown hair, but the lanky twentysomething is gone. This guy is all muscles and tattoos beneath his prison khaki. What was he in isolation for? Do I want to know? I decide I can always ask later.
“I’m trying to figure that out,” I say. “Whether he’s innocent.”
“I don’t know if I believe in innocence anymore,” she says. “Most of the people in this place did something that landed them here. But I did like that show. Serial.”
“Me too,” I say, for the second time.
She knocks on the door and a guard appears inside and admits us to the visitation room. A smattering of unoccupied tables surround the one where Brandon sits. It’s not so different from the rooms like this I’ve seen on TV.
Only a few feet will separate us once I sit down. I think specifically of all those Mindhunter episodes I’ve watched. About how quickly an inmate can turn the tables on a visitor without the proper security. Especially when you’re interviewing a killer.
“Your visitor,” Sandy the PIO says to McDonal. Then, to both of us: “You’ll have twenty minutes, tops, for this. I can terminate the interview at any time if I feel the situation warrants it or if the inmate does. Mr. McDonal, can you affirm that you agreed to this interview in writing?”
He’s studying me like I’m a book. Or an experiment. A curiosity. Or a potential victim?
“I did,” he says with a nod.
“Okay, I’m going to wait over here with the guard, observing. I’ll be quiet unless something warrants interruption. You say the word if you’re done early.” Sandy glances at her watch and, dizzying personality aside, I expect she will end this in exactly twenty minutes, whether I’m done or not.
I sit down, my palms already damp with sweat.
Brandon stares at me. Stubble dots his cheeks. There are dark circles in addition to the lines, and, up close, a yellow and purple fading bruise still visible around his right eye. Probably from the fight that landed him in solitary.
I pull every bit of inner strength I’ve got together. I’m about to interview a confessed killer.
Me. Macy Walker.
“Thank you for agreeing to this,” I say.
He doesn’t move a muscle. Man of few words. That may be a problem.
The tattoos visible on his neck have a roughness to them, and I spot a poorly drawn naked breast on his bicep.
“Would you mind stating your name for my recording?” I ask, indicating the microphone. I place it carefully between us on the table.
“Brandon McDonal,” he says.
His tone is flat, but the hint of his musical accent from the 9-1-1 call remains, and gives it a slight lift.
“My name is Mackenzie,” I say. “As I said in my interview request, I’m doing a radio series about the crime for which you were convicted.”
“What do you want from me?” He puts his hands on the table.
He’s not wearing shackles. I do my best not to flinch.
The guard moves away from the wall, but then settles as Brandon gathers his hands in front of him and stays leaned back in his chair.
“I’d like . . . your side of the story. I have some questions.” Which are in my notebook in the car.
What a pro.
“I did it.” He frowns. “What other questions are there?”
“About that.” I sense that he wants to stay closed off, give me nothing. So I scrap my plan and seize on Ryan’s question. “A friend asked me to find out . . . do you have a favorite memory of Peg Graham? Something you think of when you think about her?”
Stony silence greets me.
“Well?”
“I don’t understand what this is about,” he says.
“You were in love with her, weren’t you?” I ask. “You must have a good memory of her. Did she ever . . . encourage your crush?”
“My crush,” he repeats it with venom. He gives me a speculative look. “You don’t know anything about men like me.”
At least he’s talking. “I know you’re here because Peg died.”
“You mean because I killed her.”
“If you say so.”
He raises his eyebrows and the stare he gives me is chilling.
I swallow. “The memory, do you have one? I guess I should tell you whose question this is—it’s her son’s.”
The intensity of his stare is deadly, but I force myself to hold it.
My voice is pitched low when I speak, in an effort to keep it from shaking. “I’m here because he deserves the truth, too. If you were really in love with Peg, wouldn’t you have a memory like that?”
Brandon rolls his neck and I watch the blade of a tattooed knife stretch with the movement.
“It’s been hard for him,” I continue, “without a mother. Though at least he’s out in the open, living his life, while you’re stuck in here.” I pause. “I’ve been trying to understand . . . why you confessed to a crime you didn’t commit. Why you threw your whole life away.”
“I fucking killed her.” But something changes in his face. There it is. He doesn’t want to think about what he’s lost. A slight crack, something to work at, to pry open. To get a real reaction.
I lean forward, prop my elbows on the table, and make myself talk, even though the smart side of me wants to bolt from this room. “You must have people outside, too. People back home. People who love you, who you miss in here, who you haven’t seen in eighteen years. Do they still talk to you? Did you do it for them?” I pause, and when he doesn’t respond, I press harder. “Some people say that your family back in Ireland is doing pretty well financially. It’s not too late to tell the truth, Brandon. You could see them again.”
“My family is none of your business. None of this is your business. Leave this the fuck alone.” He straightens in his chair and lowers his voice, “Do you have a death wish?”
I sit back.
Sandy is beside the table in a blink, the guard with her. “Was that a threat?” she asks.
Brandon looks up at her, and I can’t tell what the answer is. I can’t tell if I believe he could kill a woman because she rejected him or not. But I know anyone can be capable of anything, given the right pressure. Any man is capable . . . but . . . did he kill Peg Graham?
“If it was a threat, this is over,” Sandy says.
“It was . . .” Brandon hesitates. “. . . A figure of speech. Nothing to get upset about.”
This can’t be over, not yet. “I’m fine,” I say. “It’s okay.”
Sandy holds my gaze for a long moment, but then nods and backs off. She and the guard stay closer to the table this time, though.
“Are you suggesting I’m in danger from someone on the outside?” I ask.
He glares at me.
I tremble but try to hide it. My breath is shallow. Sure, the guard’s right there. The PIO.
But so is an unshackled Brandon McDonal. There’s a reddish tint to his skin. I’m upsetting him.
“I’ve been trying to understand,” I tell him. “Why you confessed to a crime you didn’t commit. Why you threw your whole life away.”
He puts one hand back on the table, speaks directly at the microphone, enunciating every syllable. “I fucking killed her. I killed Peg Graham, and I’m right where I should be. I am paying for my crime. I shot her, right through the heart. She broke mine, I broke hers.”
“I don’t . . . I don’t believe you. Why did you confess? Don’t you want to see your family? Want them to know you didn’t do it?” I can see I’m getting to him. I came here for answers. I owe my listeners answers. And so, hating myself a little for it, I embellish on the truth. “I’ve heard your mother is sick. She must want to see her son again.”
He goes absolutely still for a moment, and then lunges over the table. I scramble back in a blind panic and then the guard has him, wrestling his arms behind him.
“You will leave this alone,” Brandon snarls. “Me and my family. I confessed because I killed the bitch. I’ll die in here.”
Even his accent can’t make those words sound musical.
“You must want to see your family again. Peg’s son deserves the truth.” I can’t stop the words, and they connect with him almost like a blow. I can see that he’d come for me again if the guard didn’t have hold of him.
“Interview is over,” Sandy says, appearing at my elbow.
“Time to go, inmate,” the guard says, dragging him toward a door on the opposite side of the room.
I’m shaking, but I was getting somewhere. Shit. “If you change your mind, if you want to tell the truth . . . I’ll leave my number. Call me anytime. About anything.”
And Sandy’s dragging me out by the elbow now. This has gone the exact opposite of the way I wanted. I thought I’d leave this interview certain that the wrong person was locked up, and with a new lead to follow.
Brandon says he did it, and with what just happened, I no longer doubt he’s capable of it. I’ve heard him say it eighteen years ago and again now. Who am I to argue? What if he’s telling the truth? What does that mean for me—and for Mackenzie?
This isn’t supposed to be about me. It’s supposed to be about Peg Graham. But I’m barely thinking of her right now.
I’m thinking of how I’m going to face Ryan and tell him I still don’t have any answers. How I’m going to face my audience.
6.
I’m still buzzing with adrenaline once I’m outside, and I don’t text Ryan right away. Instead, I wind my way down to the water. There’s a chilly breeze, a dull gray sky over the muddy river.
Pulling out my recorder with shaky hands, I replay Brandon’s parting words: You will leave this alone. Me and my family. I confessed because I killed the bitch. I’ll die in here.
Did he say it that way just to get a rise? Or is that the anger of someone whose love has turned to hate after being locked away for so long? Is it the anger that made him kill her in the first place?
I feel like I don’t know anything. But if I am doing a podcast this week, I’ll need a description of the prison. I press record and talk about entering the Castle on the Cumberland as it crouches behind me.
Ryan doesn’t take long to come back after I finally text him. I meet him at the same spot where he let me out.
“I was beginning to get worried,” he says as I climb in. “How did it go?” He must read the answer on my face because he says, “That good, huh? You okay?”
I laugh weakly and search his face. “What if we’re wrong? What if he did do it?”
Ryan’s eyes widen. “He convinced you he did it? You think he killed her?”
“Not a hundred percent,” I say. “He got upset. And . . . he insisted he did it. It was . . . hard not to believe.”
“What does that mean?” Ryan asks. “For us,” he clarifies.
“I don’t know yet.” I don’t even know if he means “us” as in the two of us, our whatever-you-want-to-call-this relationship, or just the investigation.
Ryan leaves it and puts the car in drive. He navigates through the streets of Eddyville back to the highway.
Something’s still bothering me about the interview, beyond my doubts. Brandon’s implication I’m in some kind of danger. That I have a death wish. I shouldn’t have to worry about any real threats if the killer is in jail, other than meddlesome rich people getting me kicked off the air.
I feel like I’m missing something, but I can no longer tell if I’m just deluding myself because I don’t want to give up. Neither Macy nor Mackenzie is sure what to do next.
When my phone buzzes, I have a moment’s hope it’s already Brandon calling me from prison to add to what he said. But then I frown at the ID: LEXINGTON HERALD-LEADER.
Why is the local newspaper calling me? “Hello?”
“Is this Mackenzie Walker?” The voice belongs to a man.
“Who’s this?”
Ryan raises his eyebrows, glancing over.
“I’m Daniel Spears, with the Herald-Leader,” he says, and rushes on. “There’s been some chatter online—we got a tip—that the university kicked you off the radio. That you’re starting a podcast to continue to investigate the Peg Graham murder?”
“Um, yes?”
“I’d like to interview you, if that’s all right,” he says. “We’re going to do a story this week.”
“How did you get my name?” I ask, like my worlds aren’t colliding. My parents read the newspaper every freaking day.
“Reddit,” he says. “Someone posted it there, along with your number and home address. The board moderator already grabbed the post and redacted all that, but I didn’t think you’d mind if we contacted you. Someone in the newsroom managed to screenshot it first. We’re fans of citizen journalism here. You’ve got everyone talking.”
“I’ll call you back.” I hang up, suddenly having trouble breathing. “They know who I am.”
“Who?” Ryan asks. He pulls off to the side of the road, clearly concerned.
“That was the Herald-Leader. They said someone doxed me on Reddit.” I am this close to tears, but I won’t let it happen in front of Ryan. “Let’s get home,” I say.
“Mace, it’s okay. It’ll be all right. You were using your name the whole time.”
He doesn’t get it. Mackenzie might be my real name, but it’s a persona. It’s who I wish I was.
Who I felt like I was starting to become.
Now all that is beginning to seem like . . . a lie. I’m not like Ryan. I can’t afford to screw up my life, and for what? For a murder that was probably solved all along?
“Just take me home,” I say, and regret how sharp it sounds. I pull up the Reddit boards on my phone and start scanning to see how bad this is.
7.
The only comfort by the time we pull up at my apartment is that my mom hasn’t called me yet. The reporter hasn’t called back, either. And neither have any randos.
The Dead Air subreddit may be exploding, but the mod got my name and number off there quick. My skin prickles when I spot the same cop car that’s been hanging out on my street too often. But I don’t mention it to Ryan.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” Ryan asks. “I feel like I shouldn’t leave you alone. Are you working tonight?”
“No, but I need some time to think,” I say. “You’re sweet to worry.”
Our eyes meet, and I want to kiss him so badly, suddenly I can’t stand it. I really am freaking out.
“What are you up to tonight?” I ask.
His gaze slides away. “Meeting up with some of the boys. You?”
He doesn’t sound all that happy about it.
“Watching my life implode.”
“That sounds fun,” he says, and lifts his hand to my cheek. “I’m sorry today didn’t go how we wanted. Don’t give up yet. I’m still here to help out.”
But what about when your family puts two and two together and works out that I’m the girl doing the podcast and the one you’ve been hanging out with? If they don’t know already . . .
Which gives me the beginning of an idea of how to handle the reporter.
“I told you we’d find the truth, and I meant it. I’ll text you later,” I tell Ryan. I go to get out of the car and he reaches for my arm, pulls me back, and gives me a soft kiss, easy and casual. I return it and then head upstairs, reeling. I feel closer to him after today. I’m also afraid I’m going to disappoint him.
Kara is on the couch when I unlock—the bottom lock only, grumble—the front door and let myself inside. There’s a box of Kleenex beside her and she’s watching the Hallmark Channel. I’d know even without the logo. There’s a certain soft-yet-cheap focus quality to that particular brand of sappy movie.
“Macy, thank god,” she says, hitting pause on the remote.
I have a momentary heart attack. Did some true crime nut get our address off the Internet and show up here?
“What’s wrong?” I cross the room.
“I didn’t know if you’d come home in time, and I didn’t want to interrupt your date,” she says, and blows her nose. “Can you take my shift tonight? No one else can cover it.”
“Oh,” I say. So much for my planned evening of existential and ethical crises and moping. “Sure.”
“You’re a lifesaver. Because I honestly feel like I’m dying. Don’t get too close.”
She clicks the TV back to life as I head for my bedroom. “You’re on at seven!”
Once inside, I shut the door and sit down on the bed. I decide to record the conversation with the newspaper just in case, feeling vaguely sketchy about it. But hey. One-party state.
Then I call the Herald-Leader back and proceed through way too many steps to get Daniel Spears’s desk.
“Daniel, this is Mac—Mackenzie Walker,” I say.
“I wasn’t sure you’d return my call.”
“Neither was I.”
“At least you’re honest.”
Ha.
“You made it sound like you’re doing a story either way,” I say. “Is that true?”
He waits a beat. “People are interested. It’s news.”
“I need to ask you a favor. I need you to not use my full name. Not yet.”
This pause is longer. “I’m not sure I can promise that. Why?”
I take a breath and go for it. “I don’t know if you’ve heard the previous episodes, but—”
“The radio station took them off the site,” he interrupts. “But someone else had been saving the audio and put them up online already. I listened this afternoon.”
“Look . . . I have an inside source. If my name becomes public, that source is compromised and probably goes away . . . and I might be in danger.”
“You really believe you’re onto something? You think McDonal didn’t do it?”
“I’ll be honest with you,” I say. “I’m not sure anymore. But I need a little more time before I’m splashed all over the paper. Before this story is about me. It never was supposed to be. This is about getting justice for Peg Graham.”
Saying it feels like resetting my internal compass. It reminds me why I’m pursuing this. It’s the truth. I promised Ryan answers. I’m not certain Brandon’s innocent anymore, but I’m still not certain he’s guilty, either. I have to keep going.
“So . . .” I continue, “will you protect my identity? For now?”
“I’ll have to ask my editor, but . . . I can probably convince her to hold it back for now. We might even be able to hold off on a story unless someone else moves on one.”
“No one else has called me.”
“Good.” He pauses. “This is more of a small town than a big city in a lot of ways. You know it’s only a matter of time, right? Until you’re out there.”
“I do.”
“And you’ll promise me an exclusive interview?”
Honor among journalists. I can’t blame him for the ask. “I mean, anything has to go on my show first, but other media, yes. You’ve got a deal.”
“Okay,” he says. “Can we set up some time to talk more?”
I agree and hang up, praying that’s the end of that for the time being. It’s a double standard to stay hidden when I’m exposing other people’s secrets. But I can’t deal with my mother on this yet, not after the way she lost it over a few questions about horses and doping.
And I still need to figure out what to say on the podcast about my interview with Brandon. What my next step is.
But first, an evening pouring drinks and avoiding ass slaps.
8.
The shift manager appears at the end of the bar and motions me over. We’re packed already, even though it’s early. He should be happy about the crowd, but he doesn’t look it. He hardly ever does, though.
“Macy, can I pull you back to the private room for a bit? Ana’s still getting the hang of it. She’s doing initial orders right now, but she may need a hand.”
“Sure thing.” I dry my hands on a towel, let the other bartender know she’s flying solo for a while, and make my way through the bar. I’m about to barrel into the private room when I get a glimpse of the group inside it.
They must have come in through the patio doors. No way I’d have missed their entrance up front.
Travis Holcomb III, Delilah’s douchebag boyfriend, is here. And, right next to him, looking as cozy as a best friend, is Ryan.
The sight hits me like ice water tossed in my face. So much for his not being that close to Travis.
I duck into the shadows beside the door and take in the whole group. Ryan said he was going out with the guys, and that much seems true. I recognize Cal from the track, too. They’re all dressed up for the night, and I can practically smell the pricey aftershave and trust funds from here.
Ryan’s laughing and relaxed, by all appearances in his element. The group is obviously all from the same economic echelon. It’s blindingly white, too. I forgot this is part of who Ryan is—maybe this is more who he is than the person he’s been with me.
Just because you’re paranoid, doesn’t mean you’re not right. Someone wise said that.
Ana is on the far side of the square wooden table taking orders, and I notice a guy in a green polo looking down her tank top. I want to go in and interrupt his ogling, but I hear something that stops me in my tracks first.
“How long until we have to be there?” a guy calls across the table. “The ceremony?”
“Shhh,” Travis says, joining in the ogling of Ana.
The boys all smile like they have a secret. I stay hidden where I am. I’ll apologize to Ana later.
Polo shirt guy reaches out and touches Ana’s hand in a creepy caress, still looking down her shirt. She skates away and says, “I’ll be right back with your drinks.”
She stops when she hits the hallway and I motion her over with a jerk of my head. “Sorry about abandoning you,” I say, “but I think that’s . . . my roomie’s boyfriend in there and he’s supposed to be somewhere else tonight. Mind if I eavesdrop and you pull in Stacey to help you?”
Her big blue eyes widen. “Sure. Your friend better be careful with those dudes.”
No kidding. I go back to my hiding spot, still trying to decide if I’m going to confront Ryan on the spot or what. I feel like a complete idiot for even considering trusting him.
“We’ve got plenty of time,” Travis says, now that they’re alone again. He loops his arm around Ryan’s shoulder. “This St. Franklin virgin needs a couple of drinks first.” He winks and the rest of them laugh. “No one should go sober to the first stage of their induction.”
“The security guy’s getting antsy,” one of the guys says. “He texted to say everything’s ready. We better drink and dash.”
Taking in the group, I notice something else—all of them except Ryan are wearing pins on their collars. Douchebags who even dress alike.
Ana returns and she and Stacey exchange a look with me and maneuver into the room with trays of shots.
What was it they said before—St. Franklin? There is no Saint Franklin that I’m aware of. And that word . . . induction. Ryan’s being inducted into something. But what?
“We better get cracking,” Ryan says, picking up a shot glass.
He hands one to Travis, too. He’s awfully chummy with the guy who introduced my cousin to heroin.
Now it feels like ice water runs through in my veins.
The rest of the group takes their shot glasses in hand and then, after an awkward hesitation, Ryan says to Ana and Stacey, “I’m sorry, could we have some privacy?”
“Of course,” Ana says, and they come back out and pass me, shaking their heads.
“They better tip well,” she mutters.
I’m sure they will, even though I don’t know this Ryan. I only know he’s not who I thought he was. And so I stay and listen to their toast.
“To the Order of St. Franklin, and its soon-to-be newest member,” Travis says.
“To Ryan,” the boys chorus, their voices low, and I’m the only one not in the room who hears them say it.
What the hell is the Order of St. Franklin?
I’ll find out. That much, I do know.