by O. J. Lovaz
The stench of smoke must have stuck to her hair. Why did she not think of washing it? The unsettling fact was that she had not even thought about it. Somehow, she herself had not smelled a thing before Detective Wozniak questioned her about the unmistakable scent. Only then, after taking a long sniff, she sensed it, although she still lied to the detective. “I really can’t smell anything,” she said to him, hoping that he would doubt his own senses. His partner, whatever his name was—Officer Mitchell, that was his name—didn’t smell anything. What a relief. Maybe that had been enough to, literally, throw him off her scent. Maybe, just maybe.
Anna had come home and changed clothes after her clandestine bonfire in the woods with Michael, but only because she had tripped on a raised root and fallen down on her hands and knees, getting her pants dirty. Her face had come close enough to the ground to smell the moist soil, a jagged stone staring at her. Thankfully, she didn’t get any cuts or bruises that she’d later have to explain to the police. Oh, Wozniak would’ve had a field trip with that.
The question in her head now was whether she and Michael had driven far enough from the house before stopping to get rid of the baseball bat. She reckoned they must have gone out at least two miles down the road. How far out could Wozniak extend his search? How many police officers would they put under his command? Could the county’s scanty budget save the day for them sinners?
Anna had not wanted to risk coming back to the farmhouse and finding the police already there, so they drove both cars. Anna followed Michael this time; he found a place which was perfectly secluded, if also very frightening. From the main road they turned right on an unmarked narrow road which went on for about half a mile. The only structures out there were a small, fenced-up electrical substation and an abandoned, torn-down, creepy old house. They pulled over at a small clearing from which a rough trail zigzagged deep into the woods.
Michael’s countenance betrayed trepidation, but he wouldn’t say a word about it. He must have had questions but stopped her when she tried to explain. She only got out bits and pieces of the story—Marlene going back inside as if possessed, a terrible argument, a slap on her father’s face, the fear on her mother’s eyes, the baseball bat in her hands. “You can tell me everything later,” he said while leading the way with a small flashlight that barely illuminated the next three feet in front of him; that’s when Anna took a tumble.
After walking nearly two hundred yards, they veered off the trail and picked a spot to do what they were there to do. The air was cool, and the silence deafening. The first time the shovel hit the ground, it hit a rock and made a piercing sound that, for all she knew, could have traveled for miles. Reason abandoned her for an instant, and she had the distinct feeling of having her father standing behind her. Even now, she shivered at the thought. Michael dug up a hole about two feet deep and long enough to fit the baseball bat. He put it in, doused it in lighter fluid, and lit it up. He kept it burning, periodically pouring in additional lighter fluid, until only a thin charred stick remained.
And so, the murder weapon was all but gone, except for the blood-stained splinter Anna had kept inside a mint tin case in her purse, a decision which she didn’t yet fully comprehend. A vague but powerful idea had descended upon her when, alone in the basement with her father’s corpse, she first saw the flung-off splinter lying on the floor—if everything else failed, at their most desperate hour, she could still use that tiny piece of damning evidence to save her mother from her father’s ultimate vengeance at the hands of Detective Wozniak, though it would require a great sacrifice from her.
Anna kept wrecking her brain, her very tired brain, trying to see all the angles. So many questions flooding her mind. What would Wozniak do next? Who did he suspect? What did he know already? What mistakes had she made? Would her mother break under pressure? Would Aunt Marlene? Did the crime scene really look like a break-in gone bad? Had she made it too obvious? What hadn’t she planned for? The storm of thoughts was overwhelming. Her exhausted body could go on no longer.
She slipped in and out of consciousness; she rested her eyes for a minute, but thirty minutes passed. She saw her mother swinging the bat in terror, eyes closed, tears streaming; then her father lying dead on the floor, like a dragon slayed in its own cave. Her saintly mother now a murderer. A dreaded nightmare reimagined, rewritten, but just as ugly as the original. “Guilt is the cruelest of creatures,” Frank once declared. What a prophet he had turned out to be. Here it was, indeed, showing its ugly face, sneering, baring its fangs, just like he’d said.
Her eyes were closing again; she could hardly fight it anymore. At the outer rim of consciousness, delirium awaited its turn to whisper some final commentary. Is Dad in hell, Frank, or is he nothing now, molecules being returned to the universe to make other, better things? Hope you’re right, Frank. Hope he doesn’t know, feel, suffer, want, or hate anymore. These thoughts became more weightless and farther apart with every passing second—or perhaps minutes, hours? She drifted off into a deep, dreamless sleep, like death itself.
She woke up in a panic, a name echoing in her head as if the devil himself had just whispered it to her ear—Mark Goddard. That slimy bastard. He was the unforeseen storm she’d been dreading, wasn’t he? How was she only now thinking of him? Mark would spill his guts, without a doubt. Not only would he give Detective Wozniak a full account of the ghastly, scandalous affair that abruptly ended the family gathering shortly before her father had been killed, but he would certainly do anything he could to smear her mother’s character and make her the primary suspect for her husband’s murder. Victor Goddard had been not only his uncle, but also a revered mentor and an example of strength and success he aspired to emulate. Surely, in his twisted mind, his uncle’s exploits with the Wilde sisters had been justified by the man’s stature.
To Anna’s dismay, her phone confirmed that she’d been out cold for six hours. It was noon now. Surely, Detective Wozniak had not taken the morning off. He must have had a black coffee at 7:30 a.m. and headed out to solve the murder case. He could have already ordered a sweep of all areas surrounding the farmhouse, searching for the murder weapon. There’s a lot of woods in a two-mile ratio from the house, though. Also, that charred remain they’d buried, were he to find it, couldn’t possibly tell him much, could it?
More crucially, though, by now Wozniak could have already talked to Mark. He could have talked to poor Grandma Rose, too. “How come, Mrs. Wilde, all that food was just left out there to rot—the perfectly good lasagna, the meatballs—all gone to waste, attracting animals and insects; it’s just strange, isn’t it? Something must have happened. What did happen, Mrs. Rose? Please tell me everything.”
Grandma Rose wouldn’t lie about it. How could she? She wouldn’t even know what to say. Diane, too, if Wozniak interviewed her, could only speak truthfully about it all. Therefore, Anna reckoned, none of them should lie about the scandal. All their stories must line up.
Wozniak would unavoidably come to know everything about her father’s affair with Marlene, and about Diane, their long kept unholy secret that just happened to have been revealed in dramatic fashion hours before the murder. No doubt, he’ll conclude that her mother could have killed him; Marlene too; but that does not mean any of them did kill him. He could have very well been killed by an intruder. Without the murder weapon or some other hard evidence, the mere existence of a motive would not be enough for a conviction. How long before Wozniak got his hands on some kind of evidence, though? Mistakes are always made, and it was all so fast.
Anna saw now that she’d missed phone calls from Frank and Diane. She’d call Frank first; she was dreading calling Diane. What if no one had told her anything? She could be calling just to talk, maybe even to apologize for the mess last night, not knowing that what they did, and what she did, ended up causing the death of her—well, the death of Victor Goddard.
The moment she made the call, while it was ringing, Anna wondered if it was even safe to be ta
lking on their mobile phones. In movies, cunning gangsters always said it was a bad idea. Wozniak himself, or his people, could be listening in to all their calls. She just couldn’t know what was real and what was fiction. True career criminals, cops, and lawyers—only they knew all that stuff. She would have to tread carefully, like the rookie she was.
“Anna,” Frank answered at the third ring, “how are you holding up?”
“Um, okay, I guess. Still pretty shaken up, though. Now, I have to call Diane, and I just—”
“Don’t need to, not right now. I already talked to her.”
“You did? Oh God, thank you. And, how is she?”
“Well, she’s devastated, same as us. I told her that the police will likely want to talk to her, because she was at the family reunion.” Frank was being careful not to say anything incriminatory. He watched more crime movies than she did and was likely wary of speaking freely on their phones.
“And did you tell her that, if they call her, she should just be calm and tell them what she knows, just the truth?” She changed her intonation slightly at the end, like she did at the dinner table when they were kids—he’d get it. That message was also for him and her mother.
Frank paused for a moment. “Yes, of course, I did. She’ll be fine.”
“Great. Is Mom resting?”
“She is. Do you want me to get her?”
“No, no, let her rest. Can I ask you to call Aunt Marlene?”
“Yes, I got it,” said Frank. “Take it off your mind.”
“Thanks Frank. I’ll, um…I’ll talk to you later.”
Anna barely had time to drink a cup of coffee and shower. She was towel drying when her phone rang. It was an unknown number, and she knew it could only be one person. She took a deep breath and answered the call.
“Am I speaking to Anna Goddard?” She recognized Detective Wozniak’s rich, polished, assertive voice.
Anna sat down on her bed, shaking all over. “Yes, this is her speaking.”
“Good afternoon, Anna. This is Detective Andrew Wozniak. I hope you were able to get some rest,” he said in a rather gentlemanly manner. “Are you holding up okay?”
“Thank you, Detective. I’m doing as well as I can, considering the circumstances,” Anna said dejectedly, taking care not to overdo it. She figured Wozniak could probably spot cheap acting from a mile away. The thought made her heart race faster.
“Yes, of course. I can only imagine how hard this must be for you. Anyway, I was hoping you could come down to the precinct, just for a moment, this afternoon. I only need to ask you a few questions. It is my experience that the immediate family members of a victim often know details that might seem irrelevant at first, but actually end up being critical in solving the case. Memories, however, aren’t impervious to the passing of time—they can be quite fickle, in fact—which is why it is of the essence that we speak today.”
Anna remembered a lawyer in some TV series saying that it was never a good idea to talk to the police without a lawyer. She thought of responding, “I’m going to need a lawyer first,” or perhaps ask, “Should I get a lawyer?”
But the common belief is that guilty people need lawyers, and if she were to lawyer up already, she would certainly bring suspicion upon herself. So, what she did respond was “Sure, what time would be convenient for you?”
“Um,” Wozniak paused casually, as though he had not thought about it in any precise terms until now. “How about around five? I don’t want to rush you, and I have plenty of things to do between now and then.”
“Five it is then, Detective. Until then.”
“Until then, Anna,” Wozniak responded with unnerving gracefulness. Somehow, a tough cop act would have been less threatening.
Alone with her thoughts, half naked and cold, an awful sense of impending doom came over Anna. What if Wozniak was already on to them? The forensic investigation may have uncovered some sort of evidence. He may have squeezed something out of Marlene. He may have gotten some dirt from Mark. Wozniak could already have enough on her, or her mother, or both. There was a distinct possibility that she might never come back from that police station. She could be arrested and read her Miranda rights as soon as she walked in there.
And then Anna remembered—she still had the mint tin case in her purse, and her father’s rent money under the spare tire in the trunk of her car. She’d already almost been caught last night. Now was the time to smarten up. She couldn’t afford any more mistakes.
CHAPTER XVIII
Two hours before her appointment with Detective Wozniak, Anna arrived at the Green Valley Mall, on a mission. Inside her purse, $11,000 in cash and a grisly souvenir—her fingerprint stamped on her father’s blood dried upon a wood splinter that was shaped uncannily like a dagger, unceremoniously placed inside a mint tin case. She bought a small plain vanilla ice cream and sat down on a bench near the locker rentals.
Casually observing her surroundings, Anna ate her ice cream mechanically, the way a cow grazes on grass, with no interest in tasting it, let alone enjoying it. It was a mere decoy. A moment later, satisfied that she hadn’t been followed, she rented a locker, put the tin case and the money inside, locked it, and got out of there fast. Outside, azure skies without a cloud in sight, and a balmy breeze caressing her face—deceptively glorious, an invitation to recklessness.
Her next stop was Michael’s apartment. As she fumbled and dropped her keys, the door opened from the inside and there he was, looking a little tired, but charming as ever. They fused in a tender, loving embrace, and for a moment, Anna felt protected from the ominous shadows lurking inside her own head. If only they could disappear together. Was it horribly selfish of her to even imagine a future with him as fugitives of the law? Would he want to live that kind of life? No, it wouldn’t be right. If she truly loved him, she wouldn’t let him sacrifice everything for her. He could still do great things—he would do great things. True love demands sacrifice, she reproachfully reminded herself.
But even as the sting of her verdict lingered, a more urgent matter made its way through her crowded mind and insisted to speak with the boss at once. Michael had kept all that stuff in his car! What if the police showed up with a search warrant right this instant?
Anna pushed Michael inside and closed the door behind her.
“Are you okay?” Michael asked, off-balance, with a hand on the wall and another behind her back. She crashed into him, pinning him against the wall. It would have been sexy had she not been so scared. Scratch that—it was sexy anyway. Bad timing, though.
Anna’s heart raced as she imagined cops pounding on the door the next second. “Listen, Michael, the shovel, the lighter fuel, the matches; did you—”
“Yes. Yes, I did. I threw the whole box of matches in the fire, and I used up all the lighter fluid. Remember?”
She didn’t but still nodded. “And the shovel?” Her voice came out breathy, the question more like a plea. Please tell me you got rid of it.
“I took the shovel and the empty can with me. After we split up, I stopped at the mini mart and bought vinyl gloves, an abrasive sponge, and a bottle of dishwashing liquid. Then I drove fifteen miles just to find an empty, coin-operated car wash. Long story short, by midnight both the shovel and the lighter fluid can were sparkling clean and far away from here. Dropped the can in a dumpster and threw the shovel inside an abandoned work site covered in tall grass. Then I cleaned the interior of my trunk.”
“Goodness,” Anna said breathing easier now, “I’m very impressed with you.” She felt her shoulders and neck relaxing; she closed her eyes, exhaled with relief; their noses touched. They stayed like that for a moment, even as Michael spoke again.
“Well, you know, watching all those gangster movies have been a real education,” he said. “Speaking of which, I had just got off the phone with a police detective when you got here.”
Anna pulled her face away. “A detective spoke with you? Just now?” Her heart was racing again.
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“Um, yes, a Detective…Andrew…Wozniak, yes, Andrew Wozniak, that was his name.”
Oh, this wasn’t good. But why wouldn’t Wozniak question him? She would have if she was him. But why him first? There must be a reason, a logic, a system to how he conducts his investigation. “Wozniak, yes. We’ve been acquainted, Detective Wozniak and I. Met him last night. What did he want with you? What did he ask you?”
“He asked me some general questions about myself, our relationship, how long we’ve been dating, if I knew your parents before yesterday, that kind of stuff. He’s very polished, this guy, let me tell you. He can talk.”
Anna felt like she’d start shaking any moment now. “What else did he ask?”
“He asked what time I got there, when did I leave, oh, and he wanted to know why you and I went there in separate cars.”
All good questions. Wozniak was setting up his traps. “And what did you say?”
“I just told him the truth, that you wanted me to be free to leave anytime if I didn’t feel comfortable. Of course, he wanted to hear more about that. I didn’t tell him much, but I did tell him that your father was hard to get along with, that we didn’t exactly hit it off. And then I used that to dodge his most dangerous question.”
“What question?” she asked.
“He asked why I left so early, and by myself. I told him that I felt out of place and decided to take off right after dinner.”
“So you lied to him then,” said Anna, her voice betraying disappointment. She should have thought of preparing Michael for a police interrogation. Just the latest evidence that she wasn’t in control; Wozniak was.
Michael opened his eyes wide. “Well, I had to, Anna. The truth would have instantly made your mother the main suspect.”