Tear Me Apart

by J. T. Ellison

  “Files are what they are. I’d like to hear your point of view, verbally, instead of reading and watching the old tapes.”

  “Looking for inconsistencies in my answers and body language?”

  “Of course. But it’s better for me to understand the case from your perspective. Helps keep me from making assumptions. I know it’s been a long time, but I bet you have a lot of insight to share.”

  She is a cool customer, he’ll give her that. He looks at Parks, who nods encouragingly.

  “Unfortunately, there’s not much to tell. I was in lower Alabama. My mom was dying—late-stage breast cancer. Vivian wasn’t due for a couple of weeks. Even though I wanted to stay close to home, she encouraged me to go down, be with my mom. She was adamant. So I went and had a chance to say goodbye, and we buried my mom the same day Vivian was murdered.”

  He recites these facts with as little emotion as possible, though inside his gut is churning. He wasn’t expecting to reopen all his wounds this afternoon.

  “And you were injured in the line of duty, yes? That’s why you were home in the first place?”

  “I had a meet go sideways, and was shot. They sent me home to recover. I jumped at the chance to get back stateside before the baby was born.”

  “According to your statement, your wife didn’t call you when she went into premature labor, nor after she had the baby. Why do you think that is?”

  “I don’t know. She wanted a home birth, was working with University Hospital’s midwife program. They delivered Violet at home with no issue, left her there with a planned follow-up OB appointment that she didn’t show for.

  “Trust me when I say I regret not getting in the car and driving home immediately when I couldn’t reach her, but I had my hands full with my mom. It wasn’t unusual for my wife not to answer. When I was overseas, I caught her only about half the time. After several missed calls, though, I finally got scared and headed home. And as we all know, after she had the baby, someone broke in and stabbed her twice, once in the stomach, once in the neck. The baby was taken. Whoever did it wore gloves, there were no fingerprints or outside DNA found, other than the midwife, who was cleared right away. And me, of course.”

  “You found her.”

  “I did. The following day. She’d been dead for a while.” He looks off into the distance, out the windows, over the city. The dog sets her head on his knee. He pets her ears absently.

  “I’ve seen the photos. It was bad,” Starr says, not unsympathetically.

  Bad. The understatement of the century. “Yes, it was.”

  “Do you have any ideas who could be responsible?”

  “No. There was a thought that I got too close to discovering something in an operation, and they needed to warn me off.”

  “So the suspect or suspects were sending a message. But you left the Army after this incident?”

  “I did. I resigned my commission and went back to school. Finished my Ph.D., landed a tenure-track position at Vanderbilt. I got lucky. They don’t hand them out like jelly beans.” He didn’t need to add—and with some people thinking I was a murderer...

  “You teach English, is that right?”

  “Right. English Lit, creative writing, comp, the works.”

  “So how was your relationship with your wife?”

  Zack gives her a look. “It was good, outside of the fact that I only saw her once or twice a year while I was deployed. We kept up by phone and email, some online chats when we could. It wasn’t as easy as it is now. I was off the grid for a large part of my deployment.”

  “What did you do in the Army? I mean, counterintelligence is rather vague.”

  “That’s classified, ma’am.”

  She flips a page, glances down. “You were attached to the Special Operations Aviation Unit. SOAR. First, you were a part of the Night Stalkers, flying helicopters, then you moved into Alpha Company, 902d MI Battalion, as an intelligence team leader.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “You have a wad of medals, including a Bronze Star and Purple Heart, right?”

  “Yes, ma’am. A wad.”

  “And the prevailing wisdom is someone took offense to your work, killed your wife, stole your baby.”

  “That’s right.”

  “And you gave it all up to become an English teacher.”

  “Again...”

  “I don’t buy it.”

  “Ma’am?”

  Detective Starr shifts in her seat. “It doesn’t make sense. Why would they attack your wife if they wanted to send you a message? Why not kill you? Or is that what happened when you were shot? They were trying, and when they didn’t succeed they came to Nashville, killed your wife and stole your child?”

  “I dealt with ruthless people. They don’t always think logically. They’re more the burn down the world, ask questions later type.”

  “It also suggests a terror operative was in Nashville.”

  “It does.”

  “And that jibes with your experience? It’s likely to be the case? It feels very convoluted to me.”

  “Ma’am, what the government chooses to share with local law enforcement is way above my pay grade, then, and now. Likely? I can’t tell you that, but I wouldn’t say it was impossible. Look at 9/11. They were here for months before they attacked, coordinating. For all I know—”

  Careful...

  He stops. “Sorry. I can’t go there. Everything I did was highly classified, still is. Suffice it to say the scenario is not outside the realm of possibility.”

  “Scary,” Starr says. “Still, I don’t get it. Why take the baby? That in itself ruins the terror suspect profile for me.”

  “Punishment.” Zack’s voice is strained. “Sheer, unadulterated punishment.”

  * * *

  They run through it, front and back, a couple of times. Everything that happened, everything he knows. The biggest stumbling block is, of course, Zack was the one to find Vivian. Not only that, he hadn’t seen his wife for several days before she was killed, and she’d managed to deliver their child without him knowing, too.

  He can see Starr draw a few conclusions.

  He is an unreliable witness.

  He is to blame for Vivian’s death.

  Simple.

  An hour into the conversation, Parks checks his watch and nudges his detective, who smartly closes the files and pulls a DNA swab kit from her purse.

  Zack swirls the brush around the inside of his cheek, spits into a cup, and hands them both back. He has nothing to hide.

  But he has a strange sense that Parks and Starr do.

  They promise to be in touch and slide out the door, leaving him no wiser as to the real reason they are interested in the case again. Oh, their claims made sense—Parks is new to the job, Starr is their—ahem—star detective for cold cases. It will be a big win for them if they solve something so heinous and so old.

  And yet...

  Zack walks down the hall to the guest room, sits for a few moments staring at the walls. There has been nothing new to pin up for over three years. No talk, no articles. From the beginning, no real new information has ever come out. The case is as cold as it gets.

  Except there is a living, breathing child out there somewhere. His child.

  And he gets the sense these detectives have a fresh lead.

  Zack taps his finger along the sharp edge of the desk, then, with a deep sigh, pulls the door closed behind him and heads off to grade his papers.

  37

  “Well done getting him to agree to the DNA swab.”

  Parks and Starr are back in the unmarked, heading to their new offices on Murfreesboro Pike.

  “Think he suspects anything?” Starr asks.

  Parks smooths his mustache with two fingers, his left wrist draped casually on top of t
he steering wheel. “The man was a decorated military intelligence operative and is now a professor. Both professions rely on an ability to understand what motivates people. Yes, I’d say he was very suspicious.”

  “Yet he still allowed me to take his DNA. Either he’s wily, or totally innocent. How long do you think you’ll be able to hold him off?”

  “I think he did us a professional courtesy letting us walk out of there. He smelled a rat. Over under...three days, tops. Will that be enough time?”

  Starr nods. “I’ll put a huge rush on it, see if I can call in some favors. It will be tight, but I’ll make it happen. At least we’ll be able to update everything and do a search for the girl with fresh eyes and fresh samples.”

  “Then what?”

  “Good question. Do we sit him down and tell him what we found in Gorman’s files?”

  “We’ll have to. He deserves to know. But Colorado... I don’t know, Breezy, this doesn’t feel right to me. Too much of a coincidence that Gorman dies while hunting down the first lead he’s had in years. Maybe it was just an accident.”

  “To me either, boss. That’s the problem. Should we get in touch with law enforcement out there, see if they can shed some light?”

  “What do we say? Our old boss went skiing with his family, fell off a cliff, and we think it smells to high heaven? No, hold off. Keep looking. Dissect everything. It’s too early to bring in outsiders.”

  “Roger that, sir.”

  “And, Breezy? Do me a favor, and check soldier boy’s travel records.”

  “He’s an English teacher, Bob.”

  “Once a soldier, always a soldier. He knows how to move without drawing attention to himself. Humor me and make sure he hasn’t been a very bad boy, okay?”

  He pulls into the parking lot, and Starr gets out, then leans in the window. “Aren’t you coming in?”

  “No, I think I’ll take a drive.”

  “Where are you headed?”

  “Thought I might stop by and see Andrea Austin.”

  “Gorman’s widow? Smart idea. Check in when you get back. I’ll update you with what I know.” Starr slaps the roof of the car and walks into the building.

  Parks heads to Green Hills. He doesn’t bother to call ahead. Andrea is a freelance journalist who works from home. If she isn’t around, he’ll call, but chances are...

  He is right. Her Prius is in the driveway.

  He knocks on the door, noticing the soffit has come loose by the porch light. He needs to come over and do some work.

  It is something they do, the boys in blue. When one of their own is widowed, they band together and try to take on some of the weight of chores and home upkeep. And everyone liked Gorman, and in turn, Andrea.

  The bell chimes, and a few moments later, Andrea opens the door with a grin. She’s lost weight but looks better than the last time Parks saw her. Her hair is in a ponytail; she is wearing yoga clothes and sneakers and a sense of impatience.

  “Heading out?”

  “Hey, Bob! You just caught me. Come in, come in. It’s so good to see you.”

  She has a southern lilt, sweet as honey. He follows her to the kitchen.

  The interior of the house is faring better than the outside. Seagrass green walls with white wainscoting, an updated kitchen in grays and white, creamy cabinets with a dark island. They’d just done the house in honor of Gorman’s upcoming retirement. Parks knows there is a large great room off to the right done in wood paneling and leathers. A man cave, as Gorman called it. Parks wouldn’t mind something like it himself, one day.

  Always the hostess, Andrea has already pulled out sweet tea and ginger snaps and is arranging them on the counter.

  “I don’t want to put you out—”

  “Oh hush, you. You need a good feeding now and then. How’s Linda?”

  “Somewhere in Florida, I think. We haven’t spoken in a while.”

  She gives him a sympathetic smile. “I’m sorry to hear it. I thought you two might put things back together.”

  “I’d hoped to, but taking the sergeant’s job shut it all down. Junior’s on the street now, too, doing the family proud. I think two cops in the family is more than she can handle. It’s all good. Paperwork’s final next week. We’ve kept it civil.”

  “It’s still a shame. But Junior, he’s a good boy. Handsome in that uniform. Mine are rebels. I don’t know if they’ll ever grow up.”

  Andrea and Gorman have twin boys, and Parks knows she isn’t kidding, they are both wild. Fun, and fearless, and smart. They are juniors at Sewanee now. Gorman was so proud the day they were accepted, bragging to everyone he’d come in contact with.

  Andrea pushes a glass of tea toward him and gestures for him to sit at the island. She stays standing.

  He takes a deep drink of the tea. “I assume you’re wondering why I’m here.”

  “I figure it’s something about a case Gorman was working on.” She says her dead husband’s name with barely a wince, and Parks is proud of her.

  “You’re right. It’s the Armstrong case.”

  “Oh, the missing baby? Gosh, that was years ago.”

  “Right.” More tea, a cookie nibble.

  “Spit it out, Bob.”

  “Gorman had his own case files, yes?”

  “Every homicide detective does, you know that. You need the Armstrong files? After all these years, too. Imagine that.”

  “It might be nothing. Zack Armstrong made a call yesterday. Apparently he called Gorman regularly, hoping for updates.”

  “He’s not the only one. But yes, he called, on schedule, twice a year. I guess no one told him about...well, Gorman’s been gone long enough, I can say it. That he died.”

  “Armstrong wasn’t aware of the accident. He was caught off guard, for sure. It’s probably nothing, but I took a look at the case files, just to familiarize myself. I hadn’t seen them, figured what the heck. There was a recent notation that piqued my interest. A handwritten Post-it note. Gorman’s writing. I was hoping his personal files might explain what it meant.”

  “What did the note say?”

  “‘Colorado.’ It was underlined three times.”

  She stills, and her eyes become hooded. A hand snakes to her throat.

  “Did he mention that he might be looking into anything while you were out there?”

  She shakes her head, still pale. “But he wouldn’t have told me. It was a family vacation. Winter break. We’d never skied the Rockies, he thought the boys would love it. He said he wanted to experience it while his knees were still good, and while he was still fully insured with Metro, in case he broke a leg.” She stares into the backyard. A squirrel is swinging wildly from a red ball feeder. “It was almost like he knew something was going to happen.”

  “You know how we are, Andi. Superstitious to a fault.”

  “I do.” She meets his eyes again. Hers are misted, and she gives a weak smile. “He didn’t mention anything to me that I know of, but let’s go look at the files. I know where they are.”

  She leads him up the stairs to Gorman’s office, all dark wood and heavy desk. It is immaculately polished and dusted, the bookshelves gently lit, as if their master will be home to peruse them at a moment’s notice. It makes Parks’s heart hurt.

  “I haven’t messed with anything. Haven’t seen the need. I rarely came in here when he was alive. It’s not like I need the space, not with the boys away at school. If one of them decides to come back home for more than a week, I’ll think about it. These kids now, they have to live at home because they can’t afford to buy a house and live on their own. Oh, look at me, I’m babbling. You go on in. The Armstrong files will be with the rest, in the closet. I’m just going to...” She starts to back out of the room.

  “I’ll be quick.”

  “No, no, take your time, hon.
I’ll make some more tea.”

  “Your class? I don’t want to keep you if you need to go.”

  She stops, cocks her head to the side, purses her lips. “I think I’ll skip yoga today. I was thinking about playing hooky anyway, going to Parnassus and browsing instead. I haven’t read anything good lately. You take your time,” she says again, and he lets her leave.

  She is a tough nut, Andrea Austin.

  The files are where she said, in the closet. A corrugated box, and inside, thick stacks of paper. He sets the box on the desk and digs in.

  There is a skiing magazine. Photocopies of various Colorado ski areas, timetables, competition schedules. Parks is confused but keeps thumbing through.

  He sees nothing that stands out. Had Gorman lost his marbles and tucked his winter break ski research into the wrong file?

  Another page flip and he sees a story printed out from Ski Magazine stapled to the magazine’s January cover. On the cover, a young woman holds a pair of skis and grins, a gold medal dangling from her right hand. Her goggles obscure her face, but it is easy to tell she is young. In red marker, the twenty-point font headline name is circled.

  Mindy Wright, Skiing’s Next Superstar.

  “Mindy Wright?” Andi’s voice startles him. She’s come up the stairs again, silent and soft, and is standing behind him.

  “Do you know who she is, Andi?”

  “You haven’t heard of her? She’s one of the best young skiers out there right now. Gorman was following her career like a hawk. She was expected to get onto the Olympic team this year.”

  “Was? What happened to her?”

  “Blew out her leg at a World Cup event last month. God, Gorman would be so disappointed if he knew. He thought she was the next Lindsey Vonn, only better. More focused, more athletic. Less likely to get injured because of how she trains. Boy, was he wrong.”

  “I had no idea Gorman was such a ski fanatic.”

  Dimples flash in Andrea’s cheeks. “Oh, he loved it, though he rarely had the chance to ski himself. The boys decided they wanted to learn how to snowboard a few years back, so we took them to Snowshoe in West Virginia for winter break. They liked it well enough, but Gorman, he was hooked. Like a fish to water. I’d only ever water-skied myself, and I thought it was fun, but it was so cold, and I kept falling down because I couldn’t get the hang of leaning forward instead of back.