The Girl in the Motel

by Chris Culver

I wanted to run away, but I couldn’t move. All I could do was fall asleep. As my eyes closed, I felt his breath on my neck and his hands unbuttoning my pants. In my dreams, I cried.

  13

  Scott Gibson, the private investigator who had questioned Pastor Brody, worked for a defense attorney named James “Sherlock” Holmes. We drove to his office in Clayton and parked in the parking garage next door. Many of the buildings around us stretched fifteen or twenty stories to the sky while expensive cars filled the streets. The homes we had passed on our way there likely cost well into the seven figures. Clayton wasn’t the wealthiest suburb in St. Louis County, but it was close. I had never felt comfortable there.

  Sherlock’s office suite occupied the second floor of a low-rise building across from the county courthouse. The interior was modern with a slate-tile floor and a receptionist’s desk made from a dark-stained wood. The receptionist looked at us and smiled.

  “Can I help you, Detectives?”

  If she recognized us as detectives right away, she must have known Ledgerman.

  “We’re here to see Scott Gibson,” said Ledgerman. “He around?”

  The receptionist’s hands flew over her keyboard almost faster than I could see. Then she glanced up at us.

  “Business or pleasure?”

  “Business,” said Ledgerman. She paused and tilted her head to the side. “Maybe some pleasure depending on what he’s got to tell us.”

  She typed again before glancing at us and smiling. “Mr. Gibson is unavailable at the moment. If you’d like, I can leave a message.”

  “If he’s unavailable, what’s with all the typing?” I asked.

  She glanced at me and gave me a chipper but fake smile.

  “I was checking his schedule.”

  We both knew that was a lie. She could have checked a schedule with a couple clicks of a mouse.

  “Is Sherlock around?” asked Ledgerman.

  The receptionist turned her vapid smile to her.

  “He’s on his way now.”

  “So that’s what the typing was about,” I said. “You have an interoffice messaging system, and you were exchanging notes with the boss.”

  The receptionist’s unwavering smile grated on me.

  “One more minute, miss.”

  I glanced at Ledgerman. She nodded and sat on one of the padded chairs in the waiting room. I sat next to her without saying a word. Sherlock arrived soon after that. He was in his late forties and had black hair with a few wisps of gray, and he wore a navy suit that hugged an athletic torso. He didn’t look armed, but he had enough muscle on his upper body to be a threat if he wanted. Since I had a firearm, I wasn’t too concerned.

  “Afternoon, Detectives,” he said, looking at the two of us. For a split second, his eyes traveled down my body before meeting my gaze. I smiled as if I hadn’t noticed, but he winked anyway, knowing full well I had caught him checking me out. What a douche. “How about we talk in my conference room?”

  We nodded, so Sherlock led us into the office suite itself. There were four cubicles, two private offices, a lavatory, and a conference room inside. We were the only people on the floor as far as I could tell.

  “You sure you don’t want anything?” asked Sherlock, holding the conference room door open for us as we walked inside. The afternoon sun glinted off a television mounted to the wall and the glossy wooden coffee table in the center of the floor. Ledgerman and I pulled out black leather office chairs from around the table and sat without saying a word.

  “We’re here to talk to Scott Gibson,” said Ledgerman. “His name has come up in a homicide investigation we’re working.”

  “I see,” said Sherlock, nodding as he walked to the side of the table opposite from us. He sat and looked at me. “Before we discuss Mr. Gibson, who are you?”

  I reached to my belt and unclipped my badge.

  “Detective Joe Court. St. Augustine County Sheriff’s Department.”

  He looked at my badge before looking at Ledgerman.

  “Based on the mutual trust we’ve developed over the years, I’ll accept that Detective Court is who she says she is.”

  Ledgerman didn’t blink. Her expression was as emotionless as a corpse’s.

  “Your trust fills my heart with joy.”

  “I’m glad,” he said, crossing his arms and leaning back. “Tell me about your interest in my investigator. I will help as much as I can.”

  Ledgerman gave him a basic outline of our investigation so far. The lawyer nodded along but didn’t ask questions—not that we would have answered anything. When Ledgerman finished, Sherlock laced his fingers together and leaned forward.

  “So your concern is that my investigator asked Pastor Brody about the whereabouts of his sisters.”

  “Emily and Megan were in hiding,” I said, leaning forward to match the attorney’s posture. “Your investigator looked for them. A week later, someone murdered them. That seems suspicious.”

  “So your question comes down to timing,” said Sherlock. “Had Scott asked about them last year, you wouldn’t be here.”

  “Sure, let’s say that,” said Detective Ledgerman. “Why was your investigator looking for our victims?”

  Sherlock cocked his head to the side. “Attorney-client privilege prevents me from answering that question.”

  “If this involves attorney-client privilege, he must have sought them on your orders,” said Ledgerman.

  Sherlock drew in a breath and seemed to think for a moment before nodding.

  “Yes. That’s right. I requested that he find Emily and Megan.”

  “Why?” I asked.

  He hesitated and narrowed his gaze at me. “I believe I’ve already told you I can’t answer that. What part of that didn’t you understand?”

  Detective Ledgerman spoke before I could snap at him.

  “Let’s talk in hypotheticals. Hypothetically, why would a defense attorney ask his private investigators to seek two young women like Megan and Emily?”

  Sherlock opened his eyes wide and shrugged.

  “I could think of many reasons. Do you know what they did for a living?”

  “Independent pharmaceutical sales,” I said.

  He smiled at me. “You’re a detective. Why would a defense attorney seek two young women who sold drugs for a living?”

  “So you can kill them?” I asked, lowering my chin and smiling.

  He shook his head and sighed as he looked at me. “I had hope for you. At least you’ve still got your looks.”

  “Excuse me?” I asked.

  Ledgerman tried to say something, but Sherlock spoke over her.

  “I’m sorry if that was a little fast for you, Detective. You’re pretty, and I’m glad for that, because you’re not intelligent. It’s nice to have at least one natural advantage over your colleagues. Detective Ledgerman doesn’t even have her looks going for her anymore. In future conversations, I’ll remember your mental limitations.”

  People had insulted me in interviews before, so it didn’t bother me, but most lawyers were polite enough to hold their tongues.

  “Why did you ask Mr. Gibson to find Emily and Megan Young?” asked Detective Ledgerman.

  “It’s possible that someone accused one of my clients of a crime committed by Emily Young.” He looked at me and smiled. “Or perhaps I have a client in prison for Megan’s murder. That’d be interesting, wouldn’t it? Can you imagine the shit storm that would rain down on this city if it turned out St. Louis County detectives had sent a man to prison for a murder that didn’t even happen?”

  My stomach twisted.

  “So Christopher Hughes is your client,” I said.

  “Would that be a problem, Mary?” he asked, looking at me.

  “Please call me Detective Court,” I said.

  Detective Ledgerman glanced at me but said nothing. Sherlock lowered his chin and leaned forward a hair.

  “But you are Mary Joe Court, right?”

  I drew in a bre
ath before nodding. “I am.”

  He gave me a curt smile and then looked to Ledgerman. “Did your partner tell you about her relationship with your victim?”

  “They lived with each other in foster care,” said Ledgerman. “It was a long time ago.”

  “Good,” said Sherlock, nodding. He gave me that same curt smile before focusing on Ledgerman again. “As Detective Court guessed, Christopher Hughes is my client. Two weeks ago, I received a tip that Megan Young, the young woman whose death resulted in Christopher’s incarceration, was alive and well. My investigator followed up but couldn’t find her. I’m saddened to hear of Megan and Emily’s deaths, but neither I nor anyone in my office played any role in their murders.”

  Ledgerman looked at me and then to Sherlock before standing.

  “Thank you for your time, Mr. Holmes. If I need to talk to you further, I’ll be in touch.”

  He stood and smiled. “I’ve enjoyed seeing you both.”

  I had questions to ask, but Ledgerman wouldn’t have ended the interview without reason. I followed her out of the office and to the stairwell. There she appraised me and crossed her arms.

  “Before we go any further, I need to know everything,” she said. “You found a body in a hotel in St. Augustine this morning. You then went to St. Louis to track down your victim’s next of kin. There, you discovered another body. You were in foster care with both victims in the house of Christopher Hughes. Do I have that right so far?”

  I nodded.

  “Christopher Hughes allegedly murdered your victim twelve years ago. He didn’t, though. Correct?”

  Again, I nodded. “You’re two for two.”

  She blinked a few times and then cocked her head to the side. “Why would Megan and Emily set him up for murder?”

  “Because he raped them and a lot of other girls in his care. He raped me, too.”

  Ledgerman blew out a long breath and then turned around. For a moment, she said nothing. Then she faced me once more and nodded.

  “Okay, Detective,” she said, nodding. “I appreciate all the help you’ve given me on this case, but I can’t work with you anymore. There’s a reasonable shot Christopher Hughes ordered these murders from prison. If he raped you, you cannot investigate him. You can’t be objective. It’s as clear cut a conflict of interest as I’ve ever seen.”

  I wanted to argue with her, but she was right.

  “I get it.”

  “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry for what happened to you.”

  “Me, too,” I said.

  We walked to her car and then drove back to my borrowed SUV without saying a word. As I stepped out of the cruiser, Ledgerman cleared her throat.

  “Do you have a number I can reach you at?”

  I took a business card from the inside pocket of my jacket. “That has my office number.”

  “Good,” she said, taking the card from my outstretched hand. As I closed the door, she called out again, her voice low. “Hey, Joe, make sure you stay in Missouri for the next few days. I will need to talk to you again. This may get ugly for you. Sherlock is sleazy, but he’s a good lawyer. If we charge Hughes with ordering Megan and Emily’s murders, he’ll drag you through the mud.”

  I swallowed and nodded. “I guess I’ll just buy waders, then.”

  “Good luck, Detective,” she said.

  I thanked her and shut the door. For a few moments, I sat there, breathing. For years, I had thought I was done with Christopher Hughes and Megan and Emily. I wasn’t, though. The monsters of your past never die. They just go dormant, waiting for you to turn your back on them so they can strike unseen.

  14

  March 2006

  Almost three months had passed since Christopher assaulted me, and I had yet to sleep through the night. I had lost fifteen pounds and quit my job at the movie theater. No one else knew what Christopher had done. He was rich and charismatic. Everybody liked him. Even if I wanted to tell somebody, it would be my word against his. I tried to pretend it hadn’t happened, but I couldn’t ignore my nightmares.

  Some of my teachers must have recognized that something was wrong because they contacted my high school’s guidance counselor. The guidance counselor thought I was depressed, so he talked to my social worker and Christopher and Diana Hughes to make sure I was okay. We even had meetings where I sat and listened as they talked about my mental health. I wanted to run and never stop, but I had nowhere to go.

  Then, one Friday night, Christopher came into my bedroom after everyone else went to bed.

  “I saw your light on, so I wanted to make sure you were okay.”

  “I’m fine,” I said, pulling the covers of my bed to my chin. “Please leave.”

  He crossed the room and sat down on my comforter. “I don’t know what’s going on with you, but I’m worried. You should talk to me. I’m your dad.”

  “You’re not my dad.”

  A wicked, knowing grin spread across his face.

  “Are you scared of me?”

  I tried to tell him no, but my throat had tightened so much I couldn’t say anything. He brushed the back of his hand across my cheek, wiping away a tear.

  “You have no reason to fear me,” he said, whispering. “I could be a friend. I could give you anything you want. Money, alcohol, clothes. You name it, and it’s yours. Just give me what I want.”

  “Please get out,” I said, scooting across the bed so I was as far from him as I could get. “I won’t tell anybody what happened. Just leave me alone.”

  He sighed and then nodded before standing. Part of me thought he would leave. My shoulders relaxed, and the tremble left my knees. But as he crossed the room, he didn’t leave. Instead he locked the door. My heart thudded against my chest, and my breath became ragged.

  He walked toward me again. I wished I had a gun.

  “Please just leave me alone,” I said, pleading with him. My entire body trembled. “If you touch me, I’ll scream.”

  He knelt beside the bed and looked in my eyes. His shape was blurry through my tears.

  “You’ll do what?” he whispered.

  I tried to tell him I’d scream for Diana or Emily, but my voice caught in my throat. He shushed me and then reached forward to stroke my hair.

  “Sweetheart, this is a big house, and I built it for privacy. Even the interior walls have six inches of insulation. You can scream all you want, but nobody will hear you. We need to talk about your future. I was very proud of you in your guidance counselor’s office. You didn’t make up any lies about me.”

  “You mean I didn’t tell him you raped me,” I said.

  His smile broadened. He liked seeing me cower.

  “You remember things one way, and I remember them another. I’ve been thinking about that night we spent together. I could contribute to your college fund if you wanted. Would you like that? If you cooperate, everybody gets what they need. If you don’t, I will make you scream every day of your life, and I will take what I want anyway.”

  He put a hand on my upper thigh and then scowled as he looked down.

  “Oh, you are disgusting,” he said, standing up quickly. “You’re cleaning this up right now.”

  He left the room and slammed the door shut behind him. I didn’t know what set him off until I looked down and saw that I had peed the bed. I cried until I didn’t have tears anymore, but then I changed the sheets and did the laundry.

  Christopher didn’t return that night or the next or even the one after that. Life went on. I didn’t sleep well at night, but I slept some.

  Then, four weeks later, I got home from school and found Emily grinning from ear to ear. I had taken the bus home while she had gotten a ride from a friend with a car. She smelled like weed—which she always did when coming home from school. She had three or four ounces of it hidden in the storage shed behind the house. I suspected she had money, too, although I had never seen that.

  “Why are you so happy?” I asked.

  “You’ll fi
nd out any minute now.”

  I didn’t know what that meant, but I didn’t care. I sat with my back to the wall at the table in the sunroom so I could do my homework. At ten to four, the doorbell rang, and Emily sprang to get it. I heard happy voices, so I walked to the foyer to see what was going on. Emily was hugging a young pretty girl in the entryway while Christopher and Mr. Ballard, my social worker, stood off to the side, beaming. Mr. Ballard and Christopher both smiled at me and beckoned me over.

  “It’s nice to see you, Mary,” said Mr. Ballard. “I’m just dropping off your new foster sister.”

  Emily pulled away from the girl. Both had happy tears on their cheeks.

  “This is my sister,” said Emily.

  “I’m Megan,” she said, smiling at me. She had skin like caramel and bright brown eyes. She had the face of a young teenager but the body of a much older girl. I felt sick to my stomach knowing what would happen to her in this house.

  I looked to Mr. Ballard.

  “Isn’t there a rule about housing siblings together?”

  “Shut up,” said Emily, stepping close.

  “It’s okay,” said Mr. Ballard, holding a hand to her to keep her from coming any closer. He focused on me and gave me a patronizing smile. “We prefer to keep siblings together where possible. I think this is a great house. You guys will be very happy here.”

  Emily stepped behind me and squeezed my arm hard. “We are happy. We’ll be fine. We’re sisters.”

  “That’s what I like to hear,” said Mr. Ballard. He turned to Christopher. “I’ve got paperwork for you to sign, and then Megan is all yours.”

  I wanted to shout that Christopher had raped me and that he’d do it to Megan, too, but then I felt a sharp pinch at my back. Emily leaned forward so that I could feel her breath on my neck.

  “Not another word, or I will gut you right here.”

  So I kept my mouth shut until Christopher and Mr. Ballard left. Emily shoved me away and then showed me the knife she had pressed to my back. The blade was small, but it had an edge that glinted in the afternoon light.

  “What the fuck is wrong with you?” she asked. “This is my sister. You want to break up my family?”