The Truth About Gretchen

by Alretha Thomas

  Chapter 32

  Regina

  Standing over Gretchen, waiting for the images to appear on her tablet, I grip the top of her chair to steady myself. I’m having another damn dizzy spell. It’s probably the onset of perimenopause, mixed with all this drama.

  Gretchen shakes the tablet. “What’s taking this damn thing so long?”

  “Patience, sweetie. It’s a virtue,” Kate says.

  No longer able to stand, I stumble to the sofa and sit with my head between my legs. When the dizziness subsides, I slowly sit up and lean back on the sofa, thinking this may all be a waste of time, thinking about my brother and the people he grew up with. How they’re still living their lives. Sure, they say they miss him, but that’s hard to tell. Lorraine’s smiling face pops in my head, and I try to repel images of her and her son running to my car when I pulled in front of her house today.

  ******

  I sat in my car, looking at the green house with brown shutters and the pretty white picket fence, thinking about Robert. If he and Lorraine had worked out, and he’d continued to play for the Dallas Enforcers, Lorraine would be living in a mansion.

  My thoughts about houses were replaced with Bertha’s voice, her telling me about what happened to Robert. I know she was scared, but damn, she could have said something, anything. I remember her expressing her condolences to my mother. What a phony. The thought pissed me off so much I started to skip out on Lorraine, but she peeked out of the window and then opened her door. She ran to my car, grinning and waving like we were old friends who hadn’t seen each other in a few days. She motioned to me to lower my window. I did so, and she leaned in. Fine lines covered her face, and her faded green eyes had crow’s feet at the corners, but she was still pretty. She ran her hand through her sandy-brown hair that bled into gray at the roots.

  “Who’s that, Mama?”

  She turned at the sound of a tall man’s voice behind her. “This is Robert’s sister, Regina. The lady I told you was coming by.”

  For an instant I thought I was seeing Robert. I rubbed my eyes into focus, and it wasn’t him. The man was in his mid-twenties, with light skin, freckles, green eyes, fine features, and straight hair. He looked biracial.

  “Regina, I want you to meet Calvin.”

  I got out of my car, and she pulled me into a hug and introduced me to her son, who embraced me like I was the aunt he should have had. Afterward we went inside, and she filled me in on what she’d been doing for the past twenty-six years. I regretted that I’d come. She said she had no idea who killed Robert and that she was sorry.

  After listening to her ramble about being the top realtor at her company and Calvin playing basketball, I excused myself and called Gretchen. She begged me to tell her what Bertha had revealed, but there was no way I could get into it at Lorraine’s place.

  ******

  “Regina?”

  I look up through moist eyes at Gretchen holding her tablet and Kate frowning. “Sorry—just thinking about some things. Did any pictures come up yet?”

  “My battery died. That’s why it was taking the images so long to upload.”

  “Let’s use our phones,” I say.

  “There’s a computer in the office here. Let’s use that. Patty says it has a widescreen monitor. That’ll work better,” Gretchen says.

  We follow her out of the living room and down a short hall. At the end of the hall, she presses open a door. She flips the light switch, and we step into the small room. A desk with a computer on it sits against a wall covered in black-and-white prints of vintage cars. A small sofa is next to it. In the corner of the room is a six-drawer filing cabinet. Folding chairs are stacked near a bookshelf. We grab them and sit at the computer. Gretchen powers it up and inputs the search terms.

  “Let’s cross our fingers, toes, and eyes,” Kate says. She looks at us cross-eyed, and we burst out laughing. It feels good to laugh.

  The images populate the screen, and the first picture is of Star Trek characters. Then there’s a picture of a police officer’s funeral. Gretchen scrolls, and our eyes scan all the images, looking for the man who drove the Mercedes, the man who killed my brother. We see photos of other people who have been accused of murder—O.J., Casey Anthony, Jodi Arias—but no pictures of a white man in his late fifties with ties to the Klan.

  “This isn’t working,” Kate says.

  We release a collective sigh. Gretchen starts to shut down the computer, but then she freezes and says, “What the freak?”

  “What, what do you see?” I ask.

  She points to a woman flanked by two police officers. “That’s Jeffrey and Buford Barnes.”

  “It is,” I say. “They look younger, but it’s them. The widow’s peak and the big nose.” I point at their faces.

  “And the woman looks like them too,” Kate says.

  “Click on the photo,” I say.

  Gretchen does so, and the picture fills the screen. We read the caption: Jeffrey Barnes, Nancy Barnes Crawford, and Buford Barnes attending Matthew Simmons’s funeral.

  A chill sweeps through me. “They knew Matt.”

  “I think we’ve found our Nanny,” Kate says.

  “That’s where I first saw that look. The widow’s peak and the nose—I saw it on that woman, in another picture,” Gretchen says, her fingers flying over the keyboard.

  “What are you doing?” I ask.

  “Googling her name.” More pictures come up. “That’s it. That’s the photo. At home I had looked up the Enforcers coach and the owner, and that photo of the coach and that woman came up. Coach John Crawford. That’s his wife, Nancy Barnes Crawford. That’s the connection. It’s the coach, Coach Crawford.” Gretchen rises and walks in circles, failing her arms.

  “Shut the hell up,” Kate says, jumping up.

  Trembling, I look up at the women, afraid to join the celebration. With so many previous false leads, I’m afraid to let myself believe we’ve found Robert’s killer.

  Gretchen returns to the computer and looks at more photos. “There’s a picture of the coach when he was young. He’s tall and athletic-looking. Robert was asking him if Nancy was with him. He would have been surprised and happy to see his coach. Look, there’s a photo of him wearing a red knit cap.”

  “But why would Coach Crawford kill Robert?” I ask.

  The women pipe down, look at me with questioning eyes, and sit back down. Gretchen squeezes her eyes shut then opens them. “When I transported to the party, I … Robert was talking to the bartender, who talked about how much the coach loved Matt Simmons. He said the coach wasn’t happy about Robert landing the quarterback position, but the owner overruled him.”

  Kate nods and says, “Maybe the coach lost his mind when he found out Matt Simmons had committed suicide. Maybe he blamed Robert.”

  My stomach flips. “That makes sense. I could see that,” I say. “Google Matt Simmons’s funeral. Check in images.”

  Gretchen does, and we look at the photos. Dozens appear on the screen. Many feature the coach, his wife, and Jeffrey and Buford Barnes. I also notice a picture of Robert sprawled on the ground in his bloody tuxedo. I turn away from the computer.

  “What’s wrong?” Gretchen says.

  “There’s a crime scene photo of Robert on there.”

  “I thought that’s what that picture was,” Kate says.

  “I’m sorry you had to see that,” Gretchen says. She hugs me close.

  “I’ll be okay. We need to keep researching,” I say, moving out of her embrace.

  “Let’s get out of images,” Gretchen says. “Hey, here’s an interesting article.” She clicks an article posted on an entertainment and gossip website.

  Former Star Quarterback Has a Funeral Fit for a King

  The funeral for Matt Simmons, former Dallas Enforcers quarterback, was attended by both celebrities and elite athletes from across the country. Coach John Crawford, a pallbearer, was inconsolable and had to be escorted from the church during Simmons
’s eulogy. Simmons was like a son to Coach Crawford, who says he still can’t believe Simmons is gone.

  Crawford and David Beck, Enforcers owner, have barely spoken since Beck decided to draft Robert Parker. The young, gifted athlete took Simmon’s place. Many believe this move sent Simmons into a dark abyss and contributed to his suicide. In an ironic twist, Parker, who had gang ties, was killed by a rival gang two days after Simmons took his own life.

  Kate rises and stretches. “Ladies, I think we’ve found our smoking gun.”

  “We need solid proof. I don’t want to screw this up,” Gretchen says.

  “Bertha said Buford gave the coach a card, and Crawford put it in Robert’s pocket. She also said he had blood on his hand. There’s probably a print on that card,” I say.

  “Where’s the card?” Kate says.

  “Probably with the other missing evidence,” Gretchen says.

  “Maybe it’s not missing. Maybe we can convince Williams to find it. Talk to him. Tell him what we’ve discovered. I think he’ll believe us,” I say. “He could find out if Coach Crawford flew from Dallas to Los Angeles that week. He could get rental car records. He has access that we don’t.”

  “It’s worth a shot,” Gretchen says, her enthusiasm waning.

  “What’s wrong?” I ask.

  “I just want to be sure.”

  We leave the office and return to the living room.

  “I need to charge my tablet,” Gretchen says. She retrieves her tote from the table, then freezes.

  “What is it?” Kate says.

  “I have an idea.”

  “Tell us,” Kate and I say.

  “I think I know how to confirm that Coach Crawford killed Robert.”

  “How?” I ask.

  “I’m going to see if I can use that crime scene photo of Robert to transport.”

  I flop down on the sofa, images of Robert’s dead body filling my head. Gretchen sits next to me. “Are you okay with me doing this?”

  “Yes—do it.”

  Chapter 33

  Gretchen

  Clutching my fully charged tablet, I sit on the sofa. Kate and Regina stand over me. I’m not even sure if this plan will work, and I’m not sure what will happen to me when I transport. If I experience being shot dead. Maybe the me now will die; maybe my body will go into shock. My heart could stop. Who knows?

  Regina parts her lips to speak but continues to stare at Kate and me. Then she says, “What if something happens to you?”

  “I was thinking the same thing, but we’ve come too far. I have to, Regina. I have to know firsthand what happened.”

  Regina looks toward Kate. “What do you think?”

  “Kiddo, I’ve always been a risk taker.”

  Then back to me. “Are you really sure you want to go through with this?” She sits next to me and places her hand on my arm.

  “I love football, and I love Tom Brady. Once he said, ‘To me, football is so much about mental toughness, it’s digging deep, it’s doing whatever you need to do to help a team win and that comes in a lot of shapes and forms.’ You, Robert, Kate, Cookie, Patty, and I are a team. I want us to win. So if winning means I have to take on Robert’s form, I’m willing to do that.”

  “How does this work? Is there anything we need to do?”

  “I need you guys not to freak out. It’s bizarre, and I’ve never done it with anyone around me, so I’m not sure what you’re going to hear on your end, if anything at all. Transporting is like past life regression therapy.”

  “What’s that?” Regina says.

  “It’s when you go under hypnosis with a therapist to recover memories of past lives or incarnations. The photos of Robert act in that same way. They take me back, and I don’t just recover memories—I experience them. It’s like past life regression therapy 2.0.”

  “We should record you,” Kate says.

  “All right.”

  “What if something happens, goes wrong?” Regina says.

  “It won’t. But if it does, I’m sure you’ll know what to do.”

  Kate and Regina exchange wary looks.

  “What time is it?” I ask.

  “Almost 2:00 a.m. We’ve been at this a long time,” Kate says. “I can’t believe I’m still standing.”

  “Do you want to transport in here?” Regina says.

  “It’s the biggest room in the condo. Let’s move the coffee table,” I say, setting my tablet on the sofa. We do so, and I grab my tablet and sit in the center of the floor. I bring up Robert’s photo, and Regina looks away.

  “We’ll be close by,” Regina says.

  “It may take a while. I have to focus. No matter what I say, don’t stop me. It can be a little wild. Even if I say I’m scared. Don’t touch me. Turn the lights off. I really need to block out everything.”

  “Okay,” they say.

  I shut my eyes then open them, concentrating on the photo, pressing my fingers on the screen, tracing the outline of Robert’s crumpled body, the gaping hole in his head, the blood on his white shirt, his tuxedo jacket and trousers. His open eyes full of shock and pain.

  I tremble. I’m so cold my teeth chatter. The room tilts, and I press on the floor to keep from toppling over. The room jolts and spins, and a wave of nausea twists my stomach. I try not to throw up. The coldness intensifies. “I’m freezing. I’m so cold, it hurts. Help me. Oh god, I’m falling … I’m … it’s happening. It’s happening. No, I’m scared. I can’t … no … no … help me. Save me.” The lights, they’re so bright. I can’t see. I can’t—

  ******

  “Who is that?” I squint into the glaring headlights. A horn blows, but I’m not sure if it’s from the music playing in the house or from the white Mercedes coming to a stop in front of the house. The headlights suddenly turn off. A horn blows again, and I step off the porch onto the sidewalk. I stare at the car, and the driver opens the window. A whistling sound precedes a firework display that fills the sky with red, white, and blue stripes and stars. A familiar voice from the car captures my attention.

  “Robert. Happy New Year, and happy birthday!”

  “What the hell? I can’t believe you’re here. Is Nancy with you?”

  “No, she’s still in Dallas. You guys are really partying. I could hear the music a block away.”

  I feel like a little kid whose father just returned from war. I’ve always looked up to Coach Crawford. I wanted to have a father-son relationship with him, like Matt has, but I knew that was wishful thinking. Coach never warmed up to me. When he looked at me, I could see anger and hurt in his eyes, hatred even. I was a reminder to him that Beck called the shots. I was a reminder that the man he saw as his son had been put out to pasture—Matt Simmons had partied, drank, and drugged his body into the ground. Coach was losing him. I was the replacement, but he didn’t want me. That’s what I believed. But I was wrong. He flew all the way from Dallas to Los Angeles to celebrate my birthday. I’m going to make sure I give him a win on Super Bowl Sunday. It’ll be my third one.

  I step away from the car when he gets out. He’s wearing his lucky red cap. He hugs me, and I bask in the warmth of his acceptance. Then he pulls away from me and looks me in the eye. The rumors about him being affiliated with the Klan try to invade my brain, but I push them away.

  “Coach, why don’t you come inside? I want to tell my mother you’re here.”

  “In a minute.” After an awkward moment of silence, he says, “Son, you are so talented, so amazing. You have a great future ahead of you.”

  “Thanks, Coach.”

  “Matt was talented and amazing too. When I first met him, he also had a bright future ahead of him.” My stomach sinks a bit when I notice tears in his eyes. “Now he’s dead.”

  My knees buckle, and I struggle to say upright. “Dead. What do you mean he’s dead?”

  “He committed suicide two days ago in Vegas. Took a bunch of sleeping pills and alcohol.”

  “Damn. I didn’t know. I’m sorry
.”

  “Nobody knows. We’re keeping it quiet for now. The funny thing is, he really didn’t kill himself.”

  My eyes widen, and I say, “Who killed him?”

  “You did, Robert. You killed him.”

  I move away from him. “What are you talking about?”

  “I’m talking about you, you uppity black bastard. You fucking nigger. You could have signed with the New York Crushers. They wanted you. Matt was the son I never had. He was on his way to being rehabilitated. He was making a comeback until you came along, Mr. Cocky. I know all about your gambling. You don’t deserve to be on the team. You don’t deserve to live. Happy birthday, Robert.”

  He takes a gun from his waistband, and terror clutches my heart. “Don’t kill me! Please, don’t kill me. Please.”

  There’s a huge explosion, and the ground rushes up to meet me. I feel blood gushing from my head, and cold air swirling around my face. I hear faint background sounds. Another car approaching, voices. I feel a hand in my pocket, and then I’m swallowed up in darkness.

  ******

  “It’s dark. I can’t see. Help me. I don’t want to die. I can’t breathe. Help me, please. Don’t let me die. I can’t breathe, I can’t—”

  “Regina, turn on the lights!”

  “Oh my god, she can’t breathe. I don’t know CPR.”

  “I do.”

  “Is it working?”

  “No, she’s still not breathing.”

  “I’m going to call 911.”

  “Hurry. We’re losing her, Regina. We’re losing her.”

  ******

  My eyes snap open, and I look at Regina and Kate, who are standing over me. My gaze darts around the white room and lands on the IV needle in my hand. Panicked, I jerk my arm.

  “Careful,” Kate says, in a soothing tone. She gives me a tentative smile.

  “Where am I?” I try to sit up, but Kate places her hand on my chest. I lay my head on the pillow that reeks of disinfectant.