by Chris Culver
Harry looked at me, his expression a mix of sympathy and annoyance.
“Detective Court, if you continued working this case, could you find Laura Rojas’s killer?”
“I don’t know. The tornado tore apart our crime scene, we’ve got no eyewitnesses, and there’s little forensic evidence to work with.”
“We appreciate your honest answer,” said Councilman Rogers, nodding. He turned to Harry. “You’ve got to put George Delgado on this. He’s got the experience, and he’s willing to put St. Augustine first.”
I didn’t understand what it meant to put the county first, so I said nothing.
“What more do you need to make an arrest?” asked Deveraux.
I looked at him. “Better evidence than I have.”
“How do you plan to get it?”
“For a start, I’d love to look at Laura Rojas’s office. She was a practicing attorney. It’s possible a client killed her, but I can’t get a peek at her client list without a warrant. I’d also like to talk to Aldon McKenzie. He and Laura have exchanged dozens of phone calls over the past two weeks. Not only that, someone murdered Aldon’s wife yesterday.”
Deveraux drew in a breath and then nodded.
“I’ll call the prosecutor’s office in St. Louis County and see about putting together a warrant for Laura Rojas’s office, but it won’t be easy. The court will appoint an attorney to examine her files so we don’t see anything protected by attorney-client privilege. It’ll take time, and I can’t guarantee you’ll find anything helpful.”
“It’s a start,” I said.
“I think George Delgado could handle this case better,” said Rogers. “He’s an experienced man.”
“Detective Delgado is busy on a case already,” said Harry, his voice sharper than it had been a moment earlier. “If we had more detectives, I might move him around, but since we’re already shorthanded, Detective Court will do. Repeated questioning won’t change my mind. Is that clear, Councilman?”
It wasn’t a ringing endorsement, but at least Harry had shut him down. The civilians bickered for ten more minutes but left when they ran out of complaints. Harry asked me to stay. When we were alone, he looked at me and sighed.
“Sorry about that,” he said. “Small-town politics. It’s nothing personal. You know how it is.”
Actually, the previous sheriff had kept me pretty well insulated from it in the past, so I didn’t know.
“What do you want me to do?”
“Your job. Close this case,” he said, standing. I stood and walked toward the door. Harry followed a few feet behind me. “Councilman Rogers is an asshole, but people listen to him. You don’t close this thing soon, we might both lose our jobs.”
“So no pressure,” I said.
He smiled. “Good luck, Detective.”
I probably needed it.
21
As much as I wanted to find Laura Rojas’s murderer, I had little to do on the case until George Delgado found Aldon McKenzie, or until Shaun Deveraux got my warrant for Laura’s office. Even apart from Laura’s case, though, I had enough work for three detectives, which meant I had little difficulty finding a project.
I left the building and drove home at three in the afternoon. At this time of year, the sun would be up for at least another four hours, and I didn’t plan to waste the time. Once I reached my house, I changed into clothes appropriate for walking in the woods, filled up my canteen, gave Roger a couple scoops of food, and then got back in my truck. Roger whined at me, clearly wanting to go. A year ago, I would have taken him, but now, he’d slow me down too much.
I waved to him from my truck’s cab and backed out of the driveway. When Paige Maxwell’s parents had come and said their little girl was missing, I hadn’t been too worried. I figured she might show up pregnant, but I thought she’d come home when she ran out of money. Harry had convinced me otherwise, though. This wasn’t a missing-person case anymore. It had become a homicide investigation in all but name.
I drove to the area in which we had found her car and parked on the side of the road. Dozens of sworn officers and volunteer searchers had scoured the surrounding countryside, so I didn’t expect to find anything. Still, Paige and Jude might have died there. Maybe their killer had even buried their bodies nearby. The tornado that had ripped through the area might have unearthed them or even scattered their bones across the landscape. Almost anything was possible.
I stepped out of my truck and onto ground still wet from a recent rain shower. Thick woods surrounded me. The Highway Patrol’s wrecker had left deep furrows in the mud when it picked up Paige’s car. Rainwater had filled those furrows, creating a perfect breeding ground for mosquitoes. The air was still. Even the birds were quiet. It was both eerie and beautiful.
I walked through those woods for two hours, wondering whether Paige and Jude had ever seen them. Their killer could have dumped Paige’s car anywhere. Why did he choose here? Ross Kelly Farms was about four miles to the west. The interstate was at least five miles away. I didn’t even know where the nearest home was.
This place was special to our killer. It meant something to him. The steep hills and jagged limestone outcroppings didn’t make for great farmland, but hikers and campers should have loved it. If I hadn’t been making so much noise, there’d be deer and other wildlife, too. Hunters should have been all over this place. Despite that, I hadn’t passed a single trail, campground, cabin, or deer blind. I made a mental note to stop by the library and read up on the history of the property.
Birch, box elder, and black gum trees swayed in the warm breeze around me as shafts of light cascaded down through the forest canopy and struck the ground at my feet.
“You were here,” I said, my voice almost a whisper. “You know this place. Who are you?”
Nobody answered. I continued walking—and stumbling—until the sun set. I found nothing, but I felt an ominous presence while walking those hills.
When I got back in my truck, I downed the last of my canteen of water and wiggled my toes inside my hiking boots. So far, my hiking boots had held up well considering I had purchased them at a secondhand store for five bucks. Already, though, the padding beneath my heel had grown stiff, and the arch support had disappeared. A pair of inserts would make them more comfortable, but these boots had served their purpose. I could raid my home-improvement fund and buy some decent ones. Until we found Paige and Jude, I figured I’d be spending a lot of time outside.
I drove back to St. Augustine and hit the town proper in about fifteen minutes. My fridge at home held little food, so I stopped by Able’s Diner for a tuna melt sandwich and a cup of soup. It wasn’t even nine yet, and already there were several intoxicated undergraduates from Waterford College inside the restaurant. If they had acted rowdy, I would have called the college’s security office to have them picked up, but they were behaving themselves.
I walked by their table and showed them my badge. They smiled. One girl fluttered her eyes at me. I didn’t understand what she was trying to do, so I ignored her and focused on the others at the table.
“You guys have a sober driver tonight?”
“We’re not drunk, officer,” said a boy. He didn’t slur his words, but he smelled like alcohol. “We’re just having dinner.”
“Dude, people lie to me every day of my life,” I said, shaking my head. “You suck at it.”
He didn’t seem to know how to respond, but a girl in the corner held up her hand.
“I’m the driver. I don’t drink.”
“Good,” I said. “Just checking. You all look like you’re over twenty-one, so I won’t ask for ID. Have fun, but don’t be stupid. Okay?”
They nodded, one of them so effusively he almost butted heads with the man in the booth behind him.
“You guys be careful,” I said, stepping away from the table. The girl at the register handed me a paper sack with my sandwich and soup a moment later, and I got back in my truck. My drive home took me right b
y Waterford College’s main entrance. Outside, a young woman sat on a bench as if she were waiting for the bus. She held a paper sack from which she took drinks.
I pulled off the road and parked near her. She didn’t even glance at me as I shut my door.
“June?” I called. She looked at me with eyes muddled by booze.
“Yeah?”
“It’s Joe Court,” I said.
She grunted and took another swig.
“What do you want?”
I said nothing. Instead, I sat beside her and held out my hand for the bag. I didn’t drink anything, but I took a big whiff once she handed it to me.
“Peach schnapps, huh?” I said, handing it back. “I’m more of a straight vodka drinker.”
She reached into her purse for a plastic pint of vodka.
“That’s next. I wanted something that tasted good first.”
“Not a bad plan,” I said, nodding. “Any reason you’re out here getting drunk?”
She shrugged. “Roommate’s fucking her chemistry lab partner in our room. Figured it’d be awkward if I stayed to get drunk while that was going on.”
“I can see that,” I said, nodding.
She took another sip of her peach schnapps. Neither of us spoke for two or three minutes. Then she looked at me.
“Are you going to arrest me for public intoxication?”
“You don’t look that intoxicated,” I said, tilting my head to the side. “I could arrest you for minor consumption, but I don’t want to fill out the paperwork.”
“Why are you here then?”
I shrugged and leaned forward so my elbows rested on my knees. “I saw somebody who looked like she needed a friend.”
She looked at me. By the way her lip curled, I thought she was going to puke, but then she snorted and took another sip of her cheap booze.
“You’re not my friend.”
“No, I’m not,” I said. “But I’m here. Are you getting drunk tonight for a reason, or is this how you spend your nights?”
“None of your business,” she said.
“All right,” I said, taking out my phone from my purse. “I’ll call Waterford’s campus police and have them pick you up.”
She looked at me with genuine hurt in her eyes. “Bitch.”
“You’ve stung me to the core,” I said, thumbing through my address book for their number. June stood up. She wobbled for a second, but she didn’t fall down.
“I got it, okay?” she said. “I’m going home.”
“Stay and talk to me instead. Most people think I’m a nice person.”
“I’m fine.”
“If you say so,” I said.
She hesitated and then walked away. Her footsteps were plodding, and her head and torso leaned to the left, drawing her off course. Before she fell over, I jogged toward her and put an arm around her shoulder to lead her back to the bench. Her shoulders were thin, and the stink of cheap alcohol came off her in waves.
She didn’t fight me, so I helped her sit before taking the bottle of peach schnapps from her and dumping it out on the street. Then, I reached into her purse for her vodka. That, too, I opened and poured onto the street.
Once she realized what I was doing, she sat straighter and reached for my arm.
“That’s mine,” she said. “Give it back.”
“You’re underage, and you’ve had enough to drink for your entire sorority,” I said, fending her off with my right hand while I poured with my left. Once both bottles were empty, she crossed her arms.
“You’re such a cunt.”
I narrowed my eyes at her. “That’s not a nice word.”
She didn’t respond, not that I expected her to.
“Have you eaten anything today?” I asked.
She said nothing, so I repeated the question.
“I’ve got a meal card,” she said.
“That doesn’t answer my question, June.”
She closed her eyes and shook her head. “I’m fine.”
“You’re drinking cheap booze alone on a plastic bench outside your school,” I said. “Does that sound like healthy behavior to you?”
She said nothing for a time. Then she looked down.
“I’m fine.”
“You want half a tuna melt sandwich?” I asked. “I’ve got potato soup, too, but that’s mine.”
She seemed to think for a moment. “Would it matter if I said no?”
“It always matters if you say no.”
“Not to Chad,” she said. “And he’s still out there.”
“He is,” I said, softening my voice. “We can talk about that over dinner if you want.”
Neither of us said anything for at least five minutes. Finally, she looked at me and sighed.
“I could eat,” she said.
“Good,” I said, standing. “Let’s talk and eat.”
22
June and I walked to my truck for its comfortable, padded seats, but the moment we got inside, she wrinkled her nose.
“It stinks like a wet dog in here.”
“I’ve been searching the woods for evidence in a double homicide. Give me a break,” I said, glancing at her and then reaching into the paper sack between us for the sandwich. I gave her half. “You’re not a Georgia peach, either, honey.”
She took a bite of her sandwich but said nothing. I ate my soup with a plastic spoon. The Styrofoam container had kept it warm, but I would have preferred an actual bowl. It would have felt like dinner instead of diner fare. When June finished her half of the sandwich, I glanced at her.
“You can eat the rest of the sandwich, but if you puke in my truck, I’ll make you clean it up tomorrow when you’re sober.”
“I won’t puke,” she said.
I nodded and ate. “You drink alone often, or is this a new thing?”
“New thing. I wanted to try it out,” she said, shrugging and reaching into the bag for the other half of the sandwich. She paused and looked at the dashboard. “I hate him, you know. He walked past me today and smiled at me like we were old friends or something. I wanted to scratch his eyes out.”
“I assume you didn’t attack him,” I said, finishing my soup and putting the empty container back in the bag.
“No, but I wanted to.”
I nodded and shifted on my seat to get comfortable.
“I appreciate your restraint.”
“So what happens now?” she asked. “I pretend that I’m fine?”
I shook my head.
“The next step is up to you. There are therapists if you want to talk to someone. I can give you some names.”
“Talking won’t help,” she said, looking out the window. “I’ll remember what he did for the rest of my life, and he gets to move on like nothing happened.”
I looked at the steering wheel and considered how to respond.
“You won’t forget what he did, but it will get better. You can heal.”
She shook her head and reached for her door. “I don’t need this shit from you. I hear it all day from my sorority sisters. They don’t know what I’m going through, and neither do you.”
She opened her door and stepped out, but I spoke before she could take more than a step.
“My foster father drugged and raped me on the living room sofa of his house in Chesterfield when I was sixteen.”
She stopped trying to leave, but she didn’t close her door.
“What happened to him?”
“Prosecutors sent him to prison for murdering one of his other foster daughters. He raped her, too.”
“Whoa,” she said. She got back in the car. “That’s for real? You’re not just saying that?”
“It’s for real,” I said. “It’s a long, old story, but it made the news a few weeks ago. You can look it up.”
“I’m sorry,” she said, her voice low. Neither of us said anything. Then she looked at me. “You seem so normal.”
I smiled just a little. “Aside from drinking cheap schnapp
s alone on a bench, so do you.”
We lapsed into silence. She mulled things over.
“How did you get over it?”
I looked at my steering wheel so I didn’t have to see her.
“I didn’t. My anger isn’t as bad as it used to be, but I still hate him. I still have nightmares, but they’re not as bad as they used to be. I don’t like my hate, but I don’t want to let it go, either. Some days, it’s the only emotion I can feel.”
“I hate Chad, too,” said June. “I want him to die.”
I said nothing.
“Does it get easier?” she asked.
I looked at her and tried to smile but found it was harder than expected.
“Depends on what you mean by easier.”
She blinked and looked at the dashboard in front of her.
“Like when you’re walking around,” she said. “I used to have a lot of friends who were guys. Now, I see them on the sidewalk, and it’s like I’ve got a weight on my chest. I can’t breathe. I just turn around and run to my sorority house.”
I nodded and tilted my head to the side.
“That got easier after a month. I’m still uncomfortable being alone with a man, but I’m okay talking on the street or at work.”
“Are you married?”
“No,” I said, not looking at her.
“Do you have a boyfriend?”
I shook my head. “I had a boyfriend once. He was a nice guy. He’s a fourth-grade teacher in Glendale now. He married another teacher. I see him on Facebook sometimes. He had a daughter about three months ago. He looks happy.”
“What happened?”
I didn’t want to answer her, but she deserved an answer. I drew in a slow breath.
“You really want to know?” I asked.
“If you think it would help,” she said.
I kept my eyes on the dashboard so I wouldn’t have to look at her.
“Sex. I was a junior in college. My boyfriend and I had been dating for three months. He wanted to do it. I thought I did, too, so I got drunk and pretended the situation didn’t terrify me. Afterwards, I cried so hard he wanted to take me to the hospital. He thought he had hurt me.”