August 2014
Henry and Anna drove away from the third post office they’d visited that morning. Like Cinderella’s slipper, the Sisterhood key was proving to be a tough fit.
“I’m beginning to think it’s not for a post office box,” Anna said.
“Well, we know it’s not a box at a bank. We’d have found something by now in her records. Or maybe the key’s obsolete, for something she either lost track of or didn’t renew.”
“If you hid a secret key in the ceiling, would you lose track of what it fits?”
“Okay. Then maybe I’m just tired.”
“Or having a doughnut crash.”
“You know, before we met I was eating yogurt and fruit for breakfast.”
“On the morning I hired you, weren’t you frying eggs and bacon?”
“I didn’t say it was yogurt every day”
Anna’s cell phone chirped in her handbag. She glanced at the number.
“Sorry, I need to take this.”
Henry reached over to turn down the radio for her, with the welcome side effect that he could hear every word. It was apparent right away that the call was about her job, and for the next few minutes Anna spoke about various children. Tywon would need more meds soon. Holly had to be kept away from her uncle at all costs. Darren was a handful, yes, but with coaxing and the right treatment could be a dreamboat, too. She spoke with an undertone of affection.
The last minute or so of the conversation returned to the topic of logistics for Princess, the itinerant cat. Then she signed off, reached for the radio and turned the music back up.
“Another Princess update?”
“You know, it just occurred to me why I’ve never wanted a child of my own. What if, after the first three months, I decided to give him back? Too many parents like that already, don’t you think?”
“I doubt you’d be that way. Like mother, like daughter, you said that the other day, and she never gave up on you or Willard.”
“True. And it couldn’t have been easy for her. Maybe that’s what really worries me—having another Willard because of something in my genes.”
Henry was trying to come up with a tactful answer to that when her phone chirped again.
“Shit,” she said, eyeing the number. “I need to take this one, too.”
This time she turned in her seat to face the passenger window. Henry reached again to turn down the car radio, but she shook her head. Obviously she wanted some privacy, so he acted as if he wasn’t the least bit interested even as he tried to listen in. She sounded annoyed, and her body language came across as one big frown. Briefly she raised her voice, and for a few seconds he heard every word.
“You know, we’ve been over this before. And if you can’t see why this is a bad time to go over it again, well…” A pause, while Anna nodded rapidly. “I know, but you’re just going to have to be patient…Okay, then…Right. Bye.” Followed by a muttered “Jesus!” as she dropped the phone back into her bag.
“Sorry you had to hear that,” she said.
He let that hang in the air for a moment before following up.
“Some guy?”
“Does that have any bearing on our work?”
“No.”
“Then it’s really none of your business.”
“Sorry.”
“No need to apologize. It’s your job to ask questions. Just don’t expect me to answer all of them.” An awkward pause, ten seconds that felt more like sixty. “But yes, I am involved with someone. I guess you might say he and his needs are on probation. Until I’m done with all of this. Or until I’ve got my head back on straight, whichever comes first. What about you?”
“Me?”
“Involved or not?”
“Not.”
She nodded as if it was exactly the answer she’d expected.
“The kind of work I was doing didn’t leave much room for forming attachments.”
“Or maybe that’s how you were already inclined, and the job was the perfect excuse for staying unattached.”
It was close enough to the truth to make him uncomfortable.
“How about pulling into that store up ahead for a cigarette break,” she said. “I keep telling myself I’m buying my last pack, then the minute I run out I want another one.”
Henry flipped on the blinker, happy for the opportunity to change the subject.
He followed her into the convenience store, which was chock-full of the usual junk and glory. Anna went straight to the checkout counter, where a fairly jolly-looking fellow with a potbelly and a plaid flannel shirt eyed her closely as she scanned the tobacco offerings along the back wall. Henry rummaged among the cheese curls and potato chips.
“Pack of Newports,” Anna said.
She was scowling, still in a bad mood after the phone call, and the attentive clerk noticed.
“Smile!” he said, all cheerful and chirpy.
Anna leveled him with a glare.
“That’ll be seven seventy-five,” he said meekly.
Poor, clueless fellow, Henry thought, having instantly known the remark would piss her off. His previous job had forced him to spend more time than he would’ve liked on social media, searching for behavioral clues among the staffers who were the subjects of his investigation. Most of it was crap—snapshots of meals, or of children and pets. The only worthy takeaway had come from studying the postings of various women and their like-minded friends, a witty commentary with a subterranean lava flow of anger directed against the male of the species. Not him, or anyone else in particular, but the general cluelessness and violence of his gender.
At first he was bewildered, a little stung. Had they always felt this way? He then began to view it from a more analytical and, finally, more sympathetic frame of mind, and he was soon thinking wryly of himself as a fly on the wall in the Facebook equivalent of a Maoist reeducation center. Even from that jaded perspective he couldn’t help but be influenced.
Henry thought of all that as he watched Anna snatch up the cigarettes and head out the door. In lieu of advice—Hey, buddy, they hate it when you tell them to smile—he bought a cup of scorched coffee and left a one-dollar tip. He said little for the rest of the drive.
Back at the Shoat house, where Anna was hoping to plow through the last two boxes in her mother’s closet, the message machine was blinking. When Anna pressed the button, the voice of Stu Wilgus filled the kitchen.
“Anna? Sorry to bother you, but I figured you’d want to hear this. Ran into Cilla Miley this morning over at the grocery store, a friend of your mom’s from way back, and she tells me she saw Willard a few days before…before all the unpleasantness, walking across the far end of one of their fields with his rifle next to some other fellow who, as far as she could tell, wasn’t even armed and definitely wasn’t your dad. Bearded fellow, she said. So, maybe they were hunting and maybe they weren’t, but she was kind of surprised to see him way over on their side of the county, since they live probably ten, fifteen minutes from your place. So, anyhow, you might want to touch base with her. That’s Cilla and Stan Miley, right off of Showalter Road. Hope all is well with you, and take care of yourself.”
The message ended. Anna paused the machine and looked at Henry.
“Bearded,” she said. “Like our pal Merle.”
“You know this Cilla Miley?”
“From years ago. Did some charity work with Mom, and we’d have dinner over there sometimes, but it’s been ages. Shit.”
“What?”
She was looking at her cell phone.
“I also missed a call on my cell. It’s from the county cops. They left a voicemail.”
She put it on speaker so he could listen. It was a Captain Saunders, who’d called only a half hour earlier, probably while they’d been in the convenience store:
“Just thought you’d want to know, ma’am, that the forensic report is in, plus the last of the postmortem results from the state medical examiner. You’d wanted to know when they were available and you might want to come in for a look before we release them to the media.”
“You got that right,” Anna said, as the message ended. “Let’s go.”
The police, to their credit, were solicitous and gentle, and didn’t seem to mind she’d brought along her own amateur detective. Captain Saunders, an older guy with a brush cut and an outdoorsman’s tan, led them to an interview room where the reports were already stacked on a table next to a water bottle.
“I can make copies, if you’d like.”
“Thank you,” Anna said.
“Can I get you any coffee?”
“No, thanks.”
He paused at the doorway of the interview room.
“I knew your dad, back in the day. Not long after high school. Good man. It was a terrible thing.”
“Yes it was. About these reports, have you looked at them?”
“Yes, ma’am. About an hour ago.”
“Anything stand out?”
“Well, that footprint, the one in the mudroom at the back of the house—you’ll see it in there—that’s the only item that was a little curious, but I wouldn’t lose sleep over it. Probably one of the first responders.”
“Show me.”
He grimaced a bit, like he wished he hadn’t said anything. But he dutifully picked up the report and flipped to the third page.
“Down toward the bottom,” he said, pointing. “There’s a photograph of it, too. Although I wouldn’t recommend you look at all those pictures. They’re kind of, well…”
“I understand. This says the print is from a Vibram sole?”
“A partial, from the heel. Yes, ma’am.”
“So, like a hiking boot?”
“Or some kind of work boot. Those would be your possibilities.”
“Is that normally what the EMTs wear?”
Captain Saunders shrugged.
“At that hour of the day I’m guessing they throw on whatever’s handy. The call came in around six a.m., I believe. I’ll get those copies for you. That’s the one for the press room that you’re looking at, by the way. Fair warning, we’ll probably release it around seven this evening. Might want to keep the phone off the hook tonight.”
“Thanks.”
“And could we also see the photos?” Henry asked. “Or at least the one of the boot print.”
“They’re digitized. I’ll pull it up for you on my desktop.” He looked down at the floor, shuffling his feet. “Just the one, if you like. To minimize your, uh, your exposure.”
“Yes,” Anna said quickly. “Thank you.”
“Just let me know when you’re ready, and I’ll escort you back to my desk.”
He left like he couldn’t get out of there fast enough.
As Henry expected, the crime scene report made for gruesome reading. There were explanations of patterns of splattered blood on the bed, the ceiling, and the wall. There was a vivid description of Willard’s face when he was found on the porch that mentioned numerous red speckles and traces of something darker and more gruesome. Anna stared at the wording for about ten seconds before abruptly setting the page aside.
On the next page, someone had mapped out Willard’s movements after the shootings, based on his bloody footprints, and also on the dew, dirt, and blood that ended up on his trousers and bare feet. Anna shook her head and set it aside, but Henry picked up the page.
Accompanying the text was a drawing of Willard’s entire journey, all the way out to the highway sign and back. It put Henry out there again on the dewy shoulder in the stillness before dawn, and he again wondered what idea or motivation must have sent Willard on his single-minded errand.
Of further interest to Henry was the investigator’s conclusion that Willard hadn’t simply curled up on the porch when he returned home. The trail of footprints showed that he had instead walked back to his parents’ bedroom, as if to check on his mother and father. He’d stopped by the bed and then turned around, bypassing his own room to go out to the front porch, where he left the door open and fell asleep.
When they were done, Anna flipped the pages back to the mention of the partial boot print. The print was made with her mother’s blood, meaning that whoever made it had either been in the bedroom or had stepped on one of Willard’s tracks.
“If it was a first responder, why weren’t there more of them?” Anna said. “It’s almost like somebody was being real careful not to leave a trace and then made one false step right before he left the house.”
“It was pointed toward the door?”
She nodded.
“And it was the only one,” she said. “From the heel. Like somebody was walking on clean tiptoes and lost his balance.”
“I can see where a first responder might do that, trying to not contaminate the scene.”
“Okay. But if he was that careful, wouldn’t he have put on those plastic overshoes they use?”
“I don’t know. I’m not familiar with their procedures in this county. Maybe you should ask a real detective.”
“Maybe I will.”
For the first time she sounded a bit disappointed in him, and he was surprised by how much it bothered him.
“Let me do the asking,” he said. “Earn my keep.”
“Fine. Let’s go see the photo. Then we can read the medical examiner’s report.”
They tracked down Captain Saunders, who cleared his throat and turned to his keyboard.
“Maybe you should stand over there until I find the right one.”
Anna nodded stoically.
He clicked around for a few seconds, his mouth in a tight line. The brightness of the screen flashed in his eyes as he scrolled from image to image.
“Here we go. I’ll get out of your way. Click on print if you want a copy. When you’re done, just X-out in the upper right corner.”
He retreated to the coffeemaker as Anna settled into his chair. Henry watched from over her shoulder.
The photo took up most of the screen. It was a heel print, just as advertised, with the waffle pattern you’d expect from a Vibram sole. By the time the photo had been snapped the blood had already turned brown. Anna clicked for a copy, and they heard the printer hum to life across the room.
She hit a keystroke by mistake, and before Henry could stop her she’d advanced to the next photo, a garish shot of her parents sprawled in the bed, shot to pieces like in a gangland movie, blood spattered across the sheets and headboard. Her father’s head was practically exploded, and her mother’s eyes were bulging half out of their sockets. Anna froze, mouth open, a strangled gasp trapped in her throat. Henry leaned in, took the mouse in his hand, and clicked. The image disappeared. Left in its place was a scattering of icons across Captain Saunders’s wallpaper, a photo of him proudly holding aloft a two-foot rockfish in the back of a fishing boat.
Anna exhaled loudly. Henry touched her right shoulder.
“I’ll get the printout.”
She drank some water to calm down, and then announced that she was ready to read the medical examiner’s report.
“We could wait. Since they’re making copies, I mean.”
“No. Let’s get it over with.”
She skimmed it, while Henry read over her shoulder. It wasn’t as if there had been any doubt about the cause of death, but at least there were no photos. She didn’t slow down until reaching the results of the tests for toxins, narcotics, and pharmaceuticals.
“What the hell? This says Willard was taking an antidepressant.”
“Which one?”
“Zolexa.”
“Is that new?”
“New to me. I’m surprised Mom never mentioned it. I didn’t know he had any issues like that. Or not lately.”
“He did earlier?”
“In puberty. The whole hormonal mess everybody goes through, except worse for him, for obvious reasons. That doctor I mentioned, she prescribed something for a while, but I don’t think they were happy with it. Later he stopped altogether.”
“But you said they’d stopped seeing that doctor.”
“They did. Ages ago. I finally remembered her name the other day. Sandra Patel, over in Easton.”
“Maybe they went back. That’s a half-hour drive. We could be there by three.”
“Anything to get all this stuff off my mind.”
They collected their copies, thanked Captain Saunders, and left.