by Chris Culver
Ezra looked at him. “Mr. Holmes had words with your daughter on at least one occasion. In addition, he filed a harassment complaint against her with our department after a meeting in his office in Clayton.”
“I’m sure he had words with many people,” said Dad, standing and crossing the room. He put himself between me and the detectives. “The man was a lawyer. That’s what they do. They file complaints.”
I put my hand on my dad’s arm.
“It’s okay, Dad,” I said. “They’re just doing their jobs. Why don’t you and Julia go around back?”
Dad looked at me and raised his eyebrows. “You sure?”
“Yeah,” I said. “Travis is here. If they get out of hand, he’ll shoot them. Then you, Julia, and I can bury the bodies together as a family while he leads the other cops away. It’ll be a bonding experience for all of us.”
The detectives from St. Louis didn’t look amused, but Dad smiled a little. He and Julia held hands as they walked through the kitchen to the back door. I focused on the two officers.
“Okay. I did not kill Mr. Holmes, and I do not know who did. Until you showed up, I didn’t know he was dead. I had no reason to want him dead, and I did not blame him for the actions of his client.”
“Let’s back up,” said Beth. “You were involved in a shooting in St. Louis. Tell us about it.”
I looked at Travis for advice. He nodded, so I sat on the couch and repeated to them the story I had told the city detectives two nights ago. When they pressed me for details, I told them they could talk to the actual detective assigned to that case. They didn’t like that answer, but it shut them up.
“Has Mr. Holmes ever come to your house?” asked Ezra.
I shook my head. “Not that I know of.”
“That’s an interesting answer,” said Beth, sitting down and then resting her elbows on her knees. “It’s kind of weaselly.”
“In what way?” asked Travis, sitting beside me. The lieutenant looked at him.
“It’s the answer a politician would give. If we find evidence that Mr. Hughes came to the house, you haven’t committed perjury, but you have misled us. It’s weaselly. Will we find evidence that he’s been here?”
“Not with your head up your ass,” I said.
“Joe,” said Travis, touching my elbow, his voice low. I straightened and shut up. “It’s the perfect answer. She means she hasn’t asked him here or invited him here. If you find evidence that Mr. Holmes has been to this house, it would surprise us both.”
“Are you her lawyer now, Sheriff Kosen?” asked Ezra.
“I’m her commanding officer,” said Travis. “You wouldn’t have driven all the way out here to ask questions you could have asked over the phone. You came out here because you thought you’d make an arrest. What have you got?”
Ezra looked to his boss. Beth reached into her purse for a notepad.
“At five this morning, a jogger reported seeing an attractive blonde woman drag a body from the bed of an old red Dodge Ram pickup truck and dump it on the shore of Creve Coeur Lake. The truck had a license plate that began with PL2,” said Beth, looking up from her notepad at me. “You have an old Dodge Ram pickup truck with a license plate that begins with PL2.”
“I do,” I said, nodding. “And thank you for calling me attractive. I appreciate that.”
Ezra locked his eyes on mine. “You have the only old Dodge Ram pickup truck in the state with a license plate that starts with PL2.”
I looked at Travis. His smile was bemused, but he looked away before I could say anything. I looked at the two detectives.
“What’s this jogger’s name?”
“Your attorney will get that information as part of the discovery process,” said Ezra. “We found him credible.”
“Judgment isn’t your strong suit, is it?” I asked.
Ezra sat straighter. “We followed the evidence, Ms. Court. A witness saw your truck at the site of a body dump, and you have a history with the victim. How do you explain that?”
“I don’t think I have to,” I said.
“We’d prefer if you did,” said Beth.
I looked to Travis. “You want to take this?”
He blinked a few times and then cleared his throat. “Detective Court was here with me at five this morning. She wasn’t in Creve Coeur.”
“See, that’s a problem,” said Ezra, smiling. “If you’re her lover, too, your word won’t carry the weight you think it does.”
I shouldn’t have laughed, but I did anyway. Travis sighed and shook his head.
“Something amusing?” asked Beth.
“Yeah,” I said.
They waited for me to clarify, but I wasn’t in the mood to help them. Beth crossed her arms and looked from me to Travis and then back again.
“Enlighten us,” said Beth. “What were you two doing at five this morning that kept you so busy?”
“Well,” I said, thinking for a second. “I was in bed. It had been a long night. I don’t know what Travis was doing, but if he says he was here, I trust him.”
Beth narrowed her eyes. Travis spoke before she could say anything.
“Christopher Hughes came to Detective Court’s home last night. He shot the detective’s dog before discharging his weapon at her. Detective Court defended herself and killed him. There are at least a dozen witnesses from my department who can verify Detective Court’s location. If my officers don’t convince you, there were several detectives from the Highway Patrol here, too. At five this morning, the truck your credible witness described as being near Creve Coeur Lake was in the parking lot of a bar called The Barking Spider.”
Neither Beth nor Ezra said anything for a moment. Then Ezra looked to Travis.
“You could have told us about the attack on the phone, Sheriff Kosen. It would have saved us a trip.”
“You could have told me why you needed to see my detective. Instead, you tried to ambush her. You wasted everyone’s time.”
Ezra started to retort something, but Beth put a hand on his shoulder, stopping him.
“We’ve got three dead men connected to you,” she said. “Warren Nichols, Christopher Hughes, and now James Holmes. If you didn’t kill them, I’m guessing you have a good idea who did.”
I leaned back and shook my head. “I killed Christopher, but I don’t know the other guys. But on the plus side, there’s a good chance you’ll have more evidence soon. Something tells me your shooter isn’t done yet.”
39
Beth and Ezra stuck around for about twenty minutes longer, but I couldn’t get them to tell me much about their investigation so far. And that was part of the problem.
We had five bodies tied to this case—Megan and Emily Young, Christopher Hughes, Warren Nichols, and James Holmes—and four different law enforcement agencies with jurisdiction over various parts of the investigation. Our departments communicated with one another, but we didn’t have a central information clearinghouse. It was a mess.
Ideally, stakeholders from each department would sit down and share information, but every department had different procedures and reporting mechanisms. We talked about evidence in different languages. Not only that, we’d have massive egos and the department politics of four different government agencies to contend with. With this many bodies on the ground and the media attention this case was already getting, somebody would take one on the chin. Cases like this ruined careers.
And I was glad to stay out.
The detectives left after our interview. Julia and I took a walk while Dad made dinner. At six, we sat down together around my kitchen table as a family. It was comfortable. I joked and laughed. Roger would come home once he recovered. I’d go back to work. Life would go on.
But things were different. Christopher Hughes had ruined my life, but he hadn’t taken it. With his death, I felt like I had it back. I laughed easily, I smiled freely, and I felt happy.
At about seven, we finished dinner. Julia and Dad drove home. They
offered to stay the night, but I felt okay. Christopher’s death had transformed my world. I wanted to face it on my own. Once Julia and Dad’s car disappeared, I sat on the porch and drank a soda as the stars rose. A beer would have tasted good, but I decided against it. I liked the thought of having a drink, but I didn’t need one.
That was a new feeling, too. I didn’t feel like I had to run from anything. For the past twelve years, I had walked around with an ever present sense of unease, a feeling of wrongness that followed me everywhere I went. It was my shadow, and I drank to make it go away. But now I couldn’t see it anymore.
So I sat and rocked and thought. At about eight, I saw a pair of headlights in the distance. I lived far enough in the country that few people drove by my house. If you were on my street, you had a reason to be on my street. And this vehicle did. It was a news van from a station in St. Louis. As I watched, it pulled into my driveway and then turned around so it could park on the side of the road nearest my house.
Angela Pritchard stepped out of the front passenger seat. She wore a red dress with a scoop neck that showed a scant amount of cleavage. Her hair seemed to flow like water in a soft, evening breeze. A man in jeans and a yellow sweater vest—her producer, more than likely—stepped out of the driver’s seat and joined Angela near the side of the van. Their cameraman—a younger guy with scruff on his chin and unruly curly hair—opened the rear sliding door and stepped out.
The cameraman and the producer pulled a pair of tripods with lights from the van and set them up facing the woods across from my house. As the crew prepared for their shot, Angela walked down my driveway toward me. Her smile almost looked genuine, but something in her eyes told me it wasn’t. She waved as she got near.
“Detective Court?” she asked. “Angela Pritchard. We met the other day outside your station.”
“I remember,” I said, nodding. “Can I help you?”
She looked toward her crew and then to me. Her smile faded and turned into a concerned expression.
“I heard about the shooting near your home. I’m so sorry. Are you doing okay?”
“Fine. What do you need?”
“My producer and I were hoping we could get shots of the area for a piece we’re producing on Christopher Hughes and James Holmes. Did you know they called him Sherlock? We found that out this afternoon. I thought it was interesting.”
“I have met Mr. Holmes,” I said. “Someone told me his nickname.”
Her fake smile came back. “Since I’m here with a camera crew, I’d love to get your side of things.”
“I don’t have a side.”
“How about a statement?” she asked.
I shrugged. “Off the records, Christopher Hughes was a monster. The world’s a better place without him. His lawyer wasn’t much better.”
Angela lowered her chin. “Are you sure I can’t quote you on that, Detective?”
“Please get off my lawn,” I said.
She walked toward her van but then stopped.
“We’ll still film. It’s a county road. I checked before coming out here.”
“That’s right,” I said, nodding. “It’s a story, and you’re reporting it. You’re doing your job. I don’t blame you, but I don’t want to be a part of this.”
“I can respect that,” she said. “If you change your mind, we’ll be here for about an hour. I’d love to talk to you.”
“Not going to happen, but thank you,” I said. “Good luck with your story.”
I stood and walked inside before she could respond. The moment my feet hit the hardwood floor, I braced myself for an impact that never came. It was habit. Every day when I walked in that door, Roger would careen toward me. Now, there was nobody to greet me. I missed my buddy, but he’d be back soon.
I closed my door and told my voice-activated sound system to play the blues. Almost immediately, I heard the strumming of a guitar. Then Lightnin’ Hopkins began begging his baby not to go. Hopkins’s voice was harsh, as I expected, but the music sounded warm and rich and comforting in a way few things were. I had always liked the blues. More than that, I liked the stories those songs told. The blues singers of old refused to let oppression or segregation silence their voices. The emotion was real and raw. It was human in a way modern music wasn’t. I liked that.
So I sat and listened and relaxed and felt my day disappear. The news van left, and I put on a trashy TV show. I didn’t watch TV often, but people at work talked about The Bachelor often enough that I felt like I knew the cast. Most of the girls vying for the bachelor’s attention seemed nice enough, but the actual bachelor seemed like a jerk more interested in playing the girls against one another than meeting someone. From the conversations around the water cooler at work, I gathered that was part of the show’s appeal.
I grabbed a beer from my fridge and watched until ten. Then I flipped to channel three. The evening’s lead story focused on a thunderstorm bearing down on the area, but I knew the second story right away. The screen split into two parts. The left showed an image of two newscasters in the studio while the right showed a satellite image of St. Augustine and the surrounding area.
“Breaking overnight, a terrifying scene involving a detective with the St. Augustine County Sheriff’s Department who was forced to take drastic action against a man with a gun. It happened outside her rural home near the community of St. Augustine. And that’s where we find our own Angela Pritchard. She’s attempting to learn more about this terrifying story. Angela, good evening.”
The screen shifted so that the newscasters and the map disappeared, replaced by a live shot of Angela Pritchard on Main Street in St. Augustine. Dozens of people milled around her, most of whom seemed oblivious to the camera. Two kids made faces, but Pritchard ignored them and nodded to the camera.
“Tom, Lisa, good evening. As you see behind me, young men and women are enjoying St. Augustine’s annual Spring Fair. One of St. Augustine’s own is not, though. Last night, at around two in the morning, Detective Mary Joe Court received a most unwelcome visitor when Christopher Hughes showed up on her property with a firearm.
“Even twenty-four hours later, details are still a little sketchy. From what I can gather, though, Detective Court’s heroic bullmastiff alerted her to a potential intruder on the property. When confronted, the intruder, Christopher Hughes, opened fire upon Detective Court’s dog and her person. A chase ensued in which Christopher Hughes was shot.”
The screen split again with the newscasters on the left and Angela on the right.
“Is this the same Christopher Hughes who was released from the Potosi Correctional Institute?” asked one of the news anchors in the station. Angela held an earpiece against her head, nodded, and drew in a breath.
“It is. As you can imagine, the story is complicated. I’ve done some investigating, and what I’ve found is shocking.”
I sat straighter and held my breath.
“Christopher Hughes and Detective Court knew one another well. In fact, twelve years ago, Detective Court lived with the Hughes family as a foster daughter. While in his care, she accused him of sexual assault. No sexual assault charges were ever filed.”
My fingers trembled. My beer slipped through my hands, and the bottle bounced on the hardwood floor. Cold liquid spread onto my feet as my breath caught in my throat. This was why she had wanted to hear my side of the story. She thought there were multiple sides to this story.
“What are the police saying about his shooting?” asked one newscaster in the studio. Angela nodded and tilted her chin down.
“They’re playing this one close to the vest. As Detective Court is an employee of the St. Augustine County Sheriff’s Department, they’ve turned the investigation over to the Highway Patrol. Interestingly, though, Detective Court’s supervisory officer is one of the detectives who first investigated Christopher Hughes for sexual assault twelve years ago. The other detective on that twelve-year-old case is now Detective Court’s adoptive mother. There are a
lot of story lines here, and it’s a little hard to keep things straight.”
“That’s a complicated case,” said a newscaster.
“It is, and it’s about to get more complicated,” said Angela. “In a stunning revelation, I’ve discovered that the psychologist hired to screen applicants for the state police academy recommended that Detective Court’s application be placed on hold pending further psychological evaluation. This hold was overruled by Sheriff Travis Kosen of the St. Augustine County Sheriff’s Department, citing a need in his department for more female hires.”
“And Sheriff Kosen was the detective who investigated her sexual assault claims twelve years ago?”
They kept talking, but I couldn’t hear them over the sound of blood roaring through me. That was my life they were tearing apart. Those were my secrets they were sharing. It was almost surreal. For a split second, it was like a dream. I closed my eyes, hoping to wake up when they opened.
But that didn’t happen. This was real. My fingers trembled. My throat closed. Waves of nausea and revulsion passed over me.
I threw the remote at the TV as hard as I could. It bounced off the screen and hit the ground. The batteries rolled across the hardwood. I may have broken it. I didn’t know.
“You witch,” I said, my lower lip quivering. “You evil, fucking witch.”
My phone rang, but I couldn’t move. Angela Pritchard had just told the world I was a murderous, unstable rape victim who shouldn’t have had a badge. It was a lie, but a ribbon of truth moved through it. People who didn’t know me well would believe it. My colleagues might even believe it. Already, I could see cracks growing in my carefully constructed life.
More than anything else, my past had been mine to keep a secret. Christopher Hughes had drugged and raped me. I survived, but I had scars. The world didn’t need to see them. I didn’t need the world’s judgment or pity. Those scars were mine. They made me who I was, and I chose whom to share them with.
I stood and balled my hands into fists. There was no one around to hear, but I screamed anyway. This was my story. Angela Pritchard had just ripped it away from me. She had stolen something sacred from me and paraded it around as something cheap and tawdry. Vile, black hate built inside me. Every part of me felt violated. I wanted to lash out at her, find her, and choke the life out of her. I wanted to beat her. I wanted to scream.