“A poodle was murdered?”
“Ayuh. Looks like it. Throat slit. Someone took it from its backyard and killed it out on a green belt.”
“God, that’s terrible. Who would do that?”
“Well, that’s what I spent my day yesterday trying to figure out. Still no clue. Owner is out of her mind.”
“I can imagine,” Colin said. “Sounds like a warning.”
“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” Sike replied. “Dog wasn’t known to be a noisy one, and if a neighbor had an issue, there would’ve been a history of complaints, but nope. And using a knife on a dog? That’s pretty brutal. My guess is it has nothing to do with the dog.” He cleared his throat with enough force that Colin recoiled from his handset. “So that’s what’s going on here. Now, what can I do for you?”
Colin leaned back in his chair and looked around the department. He didn’t know why he felt guilty for talking to Sike about something not related to the McKay case. Maybe because Colin knew he was grasping at straws and his sergeant would certainly admonish him for wasting his time.
“Well, here’s the thing, Chief, and it’s going to sound a little out there.”
“You have some new theory about the Yates woman offing her husband?”
“No. This is about Caleb Benner.”
“Benner kid? Don’t tell me that’s your new pet project, ’cause I’m sure you got plenty other work to do there. Best to leave Bury crimes to us.”
Colin tried to swallow but found his throat dry. “I agree, Chief. I’m not trying to step on any toes. But worlds are colliding and I’m just trying to make sense of things.”
The sigh of a man with little patience and a backlog of work came through the phone. “Okay,” Sike said. “I got a few minutes. But just a few. I know how you Midwesterners like to drag on, so I’m asking you not to. So go on now, tell me.”
And so Colin did.
With great efficiency, Colin told Sike everything that intersected about the Riley McKay death and the Caleb Benner disappearance. The connective threads were few and frayed but strong enough to make shape of something, even if Colin didn’t quite know what that something was. His main points were:
1. Riley McKay’s death was too suspicious to be ruled an accident, in Colin’s opinion. The man died of an overdose of alcohol and sleep medication, the same way a character died in one of Rose Yates’s books. When he approached Yates, she quickly became defensive and uncooperative.
2. Twenty-two years earlier, Caleb Benner disappeared in Bury. The last person he was seen talking to that night was Cora Yates, sister of Rose. The transcript of her interview with the police felt oddly abridged, ending at the point in which the Yates patriarch, Logan Yates (in attendance), mentioned some of the flooring and stairs in his house had just been restained.
3. In her upcoming novel, Rose Yates writes about a sixteen-year-old boy who is murdered in a struggle with his girlfriend. He’s stabbed and then falls down a flight of stairs, breaking his neck. The character’s name is Corey Brownstein. Same initials as Caleb Benner.
Colin barely got these points out before Sike interjected.
“You trying to pull my pud here, Detective?”
“Sorry?”
“You are a detective, right? I’m just trying to confirm I’m talking to Milwaukee PD Detective Colin Pearson and not an eight-year-old with a junior G-man badge.”
Colin had no idea what that meant. Sike didn’t wait for a reaction.
“Because this is Conspiracy Theory Bullshit 101,” he said. “And you want me to do something with this? What am I supposed to do with this?”
Colin heated up, a bit due to anger, another bit due to embarrassment. But he pushed through, trying to keep his voice steady.
“Excuse me, sir, but I wasn’t done.”
“Oh?” Sike said. “Do tell. I have another thirty seconds to spare.”
“I called her publisher,” Colin said. “Her editor.”
“Yeah?”
“I told her we were just looking to confirm that the story wasn’t based on any actual open-case investigations,” Colin said, “given Yates’s history of working with the police in her stories. I mentioned the upcoming book, the one with the murder on the stairs. I asked if she knew if any of that book was based on fact. The editor didn’t have anything helpful there. But she did say about a few weeks ago, Yates wrote her asking to remove the Brownstein murder from the book entirely, or at least change the character’s name. I asked if that kind of request was unusual, and she said it was, mostly because of how close they are to releasing the book.”
Colin paused, tried to swallow again, but found only sand in his mouth.
Sike filled the silence. “Okay, goddamn it, I’ll admit it. That’s kinda interesting. Did they change the book?”
“Nope. The publisher said it was too late, and they didn’t want to anyway. They said the scene is crucial to the book. Which, I agree, it is.”
Sike let out a tired groan. “So you think the Yates woman you’re already looking at for the McKay death and her sister had something to do with Caleb Benner?”
“I think it’s worth asking some questions. You have a unit for cold cases?”
“Nope. It’s just us.”
Colin had one more piece of information he saved for last. “Michael Patterson, the lead on the case at the time, had transcripts on each of the kids he talked to, all the kids from the party. They seemed like complete interviews except for Cora’s, which ended abruptly. Almost as if the tape recorder died or something.” Colin knew he had to tread carefully with this next question. “Now, you said Patterson died back in oh-nine, right?”
“Heart attack.”
“And for all you knew, he was a good cop?”
Sike didn’t answer immediately. “Didn’t know him all that well. What’re you getting at?”
“I’m just wondering if Patterson followed all the leads he could have,” Colin said. “Talked to Cora a second time.”
“Are you saying Patterson intentionally backed off of Cora Yates?”
“Her father has a lot of money. Maybe he made it worth Patterson’s while to focus his attention elsewhere.”
Colin wasn’t sure how Sike would react to his hunch, but he was glad he’d finally said it. He wanted a second opinion. Was Colin just a bit too obsessed with the Yates family, or was there something here?
“Look,” Sike said. “I’m not saying this is all completely without merit. Maybe it is. But the case has been buried for some time.”
“Maybe it’s time to dig it up.”
“Easier said than done. Budget’s tight and cold cases don’t get much priority. If Benner’s body had ever been found, then we’d have a murder case, and the argument for continued investigation would be easier. But no body, no murder. As far as the state’s concerned, Caleb Benner is still just a missing person.”
This was about what Colin had expected to hear, but that didn’t make it any less disappointing.
Seeming to read this disappointment, Sike added, “Look, I’ll do a little poking around. Maybe you weren’t sent the entire case file.”
“That’d be helpful. Thank you.”
“You plan on coming back here anytime soon?”
“Not on the department’s budget,” Colin said. “There’s just not enough evidence to bring Rose Yates back to Wisconsin.”
“Ayuh. ’Bout what I figured.”
Helplessness overcame Colin, manifesting itself in a long, slow exhale. “It’s just…”
“Just what, Detective?”
“There’s just something here, I know it. Something about that Yates family. There’s…I don’t know. A rot there.”
This time, Sike laughed, the throaty chuckle of a smoker. “Well, Detective, there’s rottenness everywhere. So put your big-boy pants on and accept people
do bad shit all the time, and we only see a fraction of it, much less bring justice to those evildoers. Always been that way, always will be. And on that note, I need to go figure out who nearly decapitated this poodle.”
Sike disconnected the call, leaving Colin wondering how many more years he’d need on the job to reach the mental ease associated with such acute cynicism.
He hoped never, but knew that was unlikely.
Forty
Bury, New Hampshire
November 10
The harbinger of my apocalypse is a dead poodle.
The moment I hear about the slaughter of the dog, something clicks into place in my mind, and not in a good way. A sudden certainty that my life path—carved from billions of decisions and actions—is now on an ineluctable course toward doom.
I’m working checkout at Tuli’s when a familiar customer leapfrogs past the small talk as I ring up her groceries.
“Did you hear about that awful incident?”
My mind goes to something national. A shooting somewhere. Maybe some worse-than-normal political story. I intake the news in small doses, and not daily ones, trying to keep the balance between being informed and overwhelmed by the ugliness of the world. In the last few months, I’ve hardly paid attention. My life has enough of its own dark melodrama.
“No,” I say, hoping she won’t tell me. But she does.
“Do you know Tasha Collins?”
Bury is small, but it still has several thousand residents. Maybe Tasha Collins is more popular than I realize, but the odds in this situation are I wouldn’t know her.
“Yeah, actually, I do. What about her?”
The woman shakes her head, her salt-and-pepper hair shimmying against her shoulders. She casts her gaze down.
“It’s just so awful. So, so awful.”
And in that split second, I’m thinking Tasha is dead. It has to be that. Tasha had some terrible accident. Car crash, maybe. And then I think of her boy. Oh god, let Micah be okay. My mind races with possibilities. I need to call Alec. See if he’s—
“Someone killed her dog,” the woman says.
“What?”
She looks up, the excitement of the story betrayed in the gleam of her eyes.
“Killed. Like, with a knife.”
I stop scanning her groceries. “What are you talking about?”
She places a hand on the laminate counter separating us, as if she needs to hold on for the ride.
“It happened the day before yesterday. It was in the online version of the Bury Gazette this morning, and I know someone who’s friends with her. Acquaintances at least. Neighbors, but they aren’t really that—”
“What happened?”
She purses her lips and gives a surreptitious glance to each side. There’s no one else in my checkout line.
“Somehow the dog got out of the backyard. The gate was found open, so maybe someone just came and took the thing. But whatever happened, they found the dog on the green belt behind the elementary school, over a mile away.” She leans forward and whispers the next part. “The poor thing’s throat had been cut.”
“Oh my god.”
She nods. “It must have been awful. With all that white fur and… Well, I just can’t imagine. But now, everyone is freaking out. Rumors about animal sacrifice. Satanic things. Here, in Bury. I don’t even understand it. I mean, who would do such a thing?”
It comes to me immediately, without thought or consideration. Just enters my consciousness and burrows like a bad memory I can’t turn off.
Cora would do this.
I ball my fists because I have to squeeze something.
“What…what are the police saying?” I ask.
“I have no idea,” she says. “I can’t imagine they’re saying much at all right now. All I know is, if you have a dog, keep it inside the house. That’s what I’m doing. It’s all just so horrible.”
I force myself to finish ringing her groceries, then close down my lane. I’m the only checker working at the moment, so I head into the back office and find Erika, a new employee, working on inventory sheets. I ask her to cover me for five minutes, telling her I’m not feeling well and need some air. It’s the truth.
I walk out of the back of the store and suck in dumpster air. The chilled air is wet, snow to come. My mind spins and, with it, my body. I turn slowly around, not even aware why, like a dancing figurine set atop a music box. Scanning my surroundings, three hundred sixty degrees, as if looking for holes in my reality.
John, my manager, comes scurrying through the back door and joins me outside, his salt-and-pepper mustache twitching faster than normal. He has the nervous look of a gerbil burrowing through wood shavings.
“Rose, you can’t take a break now. Erika’s not properly trained to work the register yet.”
I stop turning and face him, a sudden wave of nausea washing over me.
“She’s fine, John. She’s done it before, and I just need five minutes.”
He sucks in his face, as if allergic to logic. “You need to ask me before taking breaks. You don’t just leave your post.”
Post. Like we’re taking turns keeping watch for zombies in some postapocalyptic world.
“Fine, John.” I don’t hide the attitude in my voice.
He keeps looking at me, but with only rapid-fire bursts of eye contact. His agitation is apparent and disproportionate to the minor infraction I’ve committed.
“I just need a minute,” I say, my stomach still unsteady.
He doesn’t leave. He just twitches more.
“What?” I ask him.
“You know, Nate called me up, asking about you.”
Nate. Nathan Carnes, owner of the store.
“What about?” I’m not sure I want the answer.
“All these…all these rumors.” He waves his arms as if the rumors could be seen, swirling about in toxic clouds.
I take a step toward him. “What rumors?” I ask.
“You know.”
“I don’t know, John. I want to hear you say it. What rumors?”
I’m calmer, the nausea subsiding as I take another step. I’m only a couple feet away, and all that is going sideways in my life has manifested itself here in John, a mid-level manager of a gourmet grocery store. He is the embodiment of every mistake I’ve made, of every wrong done to me, whether I caused it or not. And as I bask in his nervousness, my control kicks in, something I haven’t savored in some time.
He looks away. At the ground. In the sky.
“What rumors, John?”
John clears his throat. “About the cops talking to you about…you know. Your husband.”
“What about my husband?” I inch closer. This has turned into a sociology experiment. I’ve become the alpha, absent of fear, and I’m measuring the impact of my aggression on the beta.
John doesn’t answer. Eye contact is no longer a thing.
“What, the rumors that I loved my husband?” I ask. “Or that we were living happily ever after until he accidentally overdosed? You have to say it, John. I won’t know what you’re talking about unless you say it.”
His shoulders hunch forward, a flower wilting in extreme heat. God, how easy. I never knew it was so damn easy to be dominant. All I ever had to do was shed my fear and stop caring, and then I become the one to be feared. If only I’d know this earlier in my life, how many different paths would I have taken? Where would I be now? Certainly not here, in the back of this grocery store, arguing with this man about taking an unauthorized break.
He mumbles, but I give John credit for finally saying it. “About…whether or not your husband was murdered.” He waits, swallows, then spits the next two words out like poison. “By you.”
Now I’m in his face, and less than six inches separate our noses. John doesn’t back away, bu
t his eyes dart everywhere to avoid contact with mine.
“That’s some rumor,” I say. “I mean, that’s just crazy, right? And Nate… He doesn’t even live in Bury. How do you suppose he heard some kind of insane thing like that?” I lean just an inch closer, and only the thinnest of a children’s book could be slipped between our faces. I smell him, that sweet tang of middle-aged mediocrity, basted over with Old Spice and accented by halitosis. “Did he really call you? Or was it you who called him?”
He closes his eyes, swallows, then summons a modicum of resolve. “You really need to get back to work now, Rose.”
I pull my face back, almost feeling high. Dizzy and delightful. I untie the back of my work apron and then take it off.
“I like to consider myself a nice person,” I say. “Sometimes even too nice for my own good. That person was working checkout five minutes ago and just needed a break. Just a short break. A mental-health break, really. But you couldn’t even let me have that. Now that person is gone, and this one is here.” I drop the apron to the ground. “So fuck you, John. And fuck this job.”
“You’re quitting?”
His sublimely stupid remark makes me laugh out loud, pulling me back an inch from my anger.
“Yes, that’s what happening here. If you didn’t help spread those rumors, then no hard feelings, okay? But if you did, you’re a god-awful person.”
John turns and walks back inside, no other words spoken between us.
I look down at the apron on the ground.
Tuli’s Gourmet Grocer
Bury, NH
Est. 2008
Next to the words is a cartoonish rendering of the actual Tuli, the owner’s dog. Just the animal’s big, dopey face, wide-eyed, mouth open. I always thought that dog looked so happy in the company’s logo, but now I think it looks dead. Those eyes have no life in them, the mouth only open because the muscles to close it no longer function. I picture that dog with a slit throat. Or worse, headless.
The nausea is back, and this time, it wins. I double over and retch onto the apron. The little that comes up lands on the poor dog’s face.
I stand, wipe my mouth, and walk to my car. As I glance up and spy the menacing snow clouds closing in, my world has suddenly never felt so suffocating.
The Dead Husband Page 17