“Makes you very vulnerable,” she says.
“In one sense, sure. But in another just the opposite.”
“Maybe.”
“You sayin’ you have no woes?” I ask. “That’d be a very sad way to live.”
“I’m not a—Do you think I’m a sociopath, John? Do you? I’m not. I feel. I love. I have a conscience. And just because it’s not calibrated the same as yours doesn’t make it bad.”
“Never said anything like that. Never would. I’m certainly not saying my calibration is any better than anyone else’s. You seem a little touchy about it, though. Might be something to look into.”
“I might just do that,” she says, “while I’m sipping on Sex on the Beaches and soaking in the sun, I’ll give it some thought. Oh, and I’ll be thinking about your Black JonBenét case too. That’s what those fucks are callin’ it, you know. Anyway, if you need help with it just let me know.”
246
“The prints are the nightmare we thought they’d be,” Jessica says. “But there doesn’t seem to be any real big surprises. Not really.”
It’s later that night and she’s calling because Reggie told her to the moment she had gone over the results. So instead of waiting until the next morning and telling us all at the same time in the office, she is calling all four of us individually and going over it with us.
“Lay it on me,” I say.
“The nightmare part is just how very many prints there are,” she says. “Hundreds. Because of the party, I guess. We’ve identified some of those—the ones of family and friends who we printed and got writing samples from—but there are hundreds more that we don’t have matches for. A defense team would have a field day with it. We’ve got the guest list, but I haven’t heard if we’re going to try to print everyone on it or not. That’s a Reggie call, but . . . can’t imagine it will do much good. No way we can find them all. And what about the crashers? We don’t even know who they are.”
I think about what she’s saying and what we might do about it.
“And evidently some guests toured the house while at the party,” she says. “Their prints aren’t just downstairs. They’re on all three levels—Ashley’s mother and brother, Arlene and Hank, Jr., but they’re not in her bedroom, just the hallway, doorjambs, staircase, bathrooms, things like that.”
“Okay,” I say, “we’ll get to the broader house, but let’s start with Nicole’s room.”
“Nicole?”
“Sorry,” I say. “Mariah’s.”
“Who’s Nicole?”
“Sorry about that,” I say. “A victim in another case. Certain things about Mariah remind me of her. Been thinking about her and . . . Let’s zoom in on Mariah’s room first, then pull back and look at the rest of the house.”
“Sure,” she says. “Like I said, no huge surprises. Of course Mariah’s are all over, as are Brett’s.”
“There are a lot of Brett’s?” I ask.
“Nearly as many as Mariah’s,” she says. “There are less but still a good bit of Trace’s, Ashley’s—and probably more of Nadine’s than the two of theirs put together. The aunt’s are on the picture frame and earrings like she told you.”
While I was in Atlanta I got fingerprints and handwriting samples from Nadine, Deidra, Pick, Rhonda, and a couple of Trace’s friends and bodyguards who were at the party on the third.
“Andy Finch’s,” she continues, “Ronnie Wyric’s, and Arnie’s are also in the room—mostly on the doorjamb.”
“Can’t believe they didn’t wear gloves,” I say. “But I didn’t think Andy went in—oh, I guess when he first searched the house. Okay.”
“There’s a lot of one other as-yet-unidentified set of prints,” she says. “And they’re pretty much all over the place.”
“From a smaller hand?” I ask.
“Yeah.”
“I figure that’s from the little boy from next door who played with them,” I say. “Caden Stevens. I’ll get his prints when I interview him.”
“Great. I’ll get them processed and compared when you do.”
“How about Irvin?” I ask.
“One partial.”
“So he was in there at some point.”
“Yep. Now, the entire house was cleaned before the family arrived—and we have several of the maid’s prints everywhere, including Mariah’s room and bathroom—so . . . I was surprised to see some of both the owner and rental agent in her room.”
“They found both Roger Garrett’s and Justin Harris’s prints in Mariah’s bedroom?”
“Yep.”
“Thought you said there weren’t any big surprises?”
“Well, it’s not like we found the Zodiac’s or OJ’s.”
“Where were they?”
“Justin’s are sort of all over the place—it’s that way in the rest of the house too—on and round both the bedroom and the bathroom doors, on the bed, one the—”
“All the beds or just Mariah’s?”
“Just Mariah’s. On the wall near her bed and the windowsill on the left.”
“Where were Garrett’s?” I ask.
“Partial palm print on the bedside table,” she says.
“Was it in a place that the maid might miss when she cleans?”
“No, not really. It was right there on the top front like he leaned on it. They way you’d expect if he were maybe leaning down over the bed. And there’s another thing that makes it very suspicious—there’s not a single other print of his in the entire house—not even the safe room.”
“Sometime,” I say, “we’re gonna have to talk about your definition of big surprises.”
247
That night I dream of JonBenét.
I’m a detective assigned to her case.
I’m in conflict with my colleagues over what I perceive as their too-narrow focus and the influence they’re letting the media have on the investigation.
Walking through the house. JonBenét beside me. Alive. Helping me solve her murder. She is who she was before she was killed and doesn’t know who killed her any more than I do.
Unlike the media portrayal of her, she is and acts like a typical kid. Active. Energetic. Entertaining.
Suddenly she is with me in Roger Garrett’s mansion on Cape San Blas.
She’s motioning for me to bend down to tell me a secret.
I know who killed Mariah, she whispers.
Who?
The bad, bad man.
With no warning or transition, I am back in the Ramsey home in Boulder, but this time Mariah is leading me through the house.
Do you know who killed JonBenét? I ask.
The bad, bad man, she says. He killed me too.
Not the same man, I say. You don’t mean that.
No, not the same. I don’t mean that.
We climb a spiral staircase.
John, why do the innocent suffer? Why is there so much pain in this world?
I shake my head. I don’t know. I’m so sorry. I wish I did. I wish I could take it back, make it stop, undo what has been done, but I can’t. And I can’t explain it. Please forgive me. I’m sorry I can’t.
I feel terrible regret and guilt at not being able to give her the answer she seeks. I feel as though I should be able to and it bothers me more than I can say that I can’t.
Do you think it’ll do any good to catch who killed me?
I do, I say. Will it not? Am I wrong? I believe it will help or I wouldn’t be doing it.
Won’t help me, she says.
No, It won’t help you. Do you not want me to?
I wanted to live, she says, wistfully. To love a boy. To get my ears pierced. To learn to drive. To make a record of my own one day. Just to live.
Tears start streaming down my cheeks.
Anna and I are at dinner. We’re talking about adopting Mariah as a way of saving her, removing her from the environment and situation that led to her death.
And then—
Then I’m
awake and my cheeks are damp and my heart hurts and I feel as if I’m in a shroud of deep darkness and sadness I can’t slough off.
248
“I miss you man,” I say. “How much longer you gonna be up there?”
It’s the next morning and I’m talking to Merrill by phone on my drive out to the Cape to meet Justin Harris and Roger Garrett.
“Was supposed to already be back,” he says, “but after the shooting at the funeral home, he asked me to stay on a couple’a extra days. Said I would, but . . . not sure how long any this gonna last. They’s all kinds of trouble in paradise.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Miss Nadine quit,” he says. “Already gone.”
“She told me she was done, that she had only been there for Mariah.”
“Yeah. I think it hit her harder than anyone.”
“Told me it was like losing her own daughter,” I say.
The day is gray and overcast, the morning sun hidden by clouds. The ground is still wet and another storm is gathering in the distance.
“Can’t imagine Trace and Ashley are gonna be together much longer,” he says. “Be surprised if she hasn’t moved out by the end of the week.”
“Does it seem mutual?” I ask. “Or more one than the other?”
“Hard to tell . . . Times I think it’s more him wanting her gone. Others seems like what she wants—more for Brett than herself maybe. Not sure.”
“Figured after the way Trace snatched Brett around at the funeral . . .”
“Yeah, it’s that . . . but not just that. From what I gather, they weren’t really havin’ problems before Mariah’s murder.”
Makes me wonder if one suspects the other—or maybe more than suspects. Knows.
“And it’s not just losing Mariah,” he says. “Which is the main thing. But . . . looks like Trace is losing everything. Tours and sponsorships and albums and TV appearances are being canceled. Says nobody returning his calls. Think he’s feelin’ pretty damn isolated. And the media’s still houndin’ hell out of him. Always at the house. Everywhere he goes. And the shit they sayin’ about him and her and even Mariah is . . . It’s fucked up. All that pressure makin’ things ’round here ready to explode or implode or somethin’.”
“Have there been any other threats or assaults or anything?”
“No.”
“Probably won’t be after they see your YouTube video.”
“Not ’less they suicidal,” he says with a laugh.
“Randa was impressed by it,” I say.
“She call back, tell her to come see me, I’ll give her a private demonstration.”
“Already told her you said anytime.”
“Hope like hell she takes me up on the offer,” he says.
“Me too.”
“Looks like they comin’ downstairs,” he says. “Better go so I can guard them while they eat their cornflakes.”
“I appreciate the information,” I say.
“I ain’t sayin’ one or both of ’em did it ’cause I don’t have a clue who did,” he says, “but I am sayin’ ’round ’bout now be a good time for those follow-up interviews.”
With about ten minutes left of my drive, I call Frank Morgan.
“I could kiss you, son,” he says.
“Why’s that?”
“Getting me this gig,” he says, “Haven’t felt this useful in a while. Quite a while. And the cause . . . the cause is so damn righteous. I mean . . . these poor women. The work they do here is . . . extraordinary. Feels so good to help them out. And I’m not just doing security. Deidra says it’s good for the women to be around a decent and gentle man. I’m actually helpin’ with their recovery and reprograming.”
“That’s great,” I say. “So good. You’re the perfect man for the job.”
“Spent so much of my career chasing down the lowlifes after they had killed or raped or assaulted someone. So different to help prevent them from doing that instead of tryin’ to catch them afterwards.”
“Speaking of chasin’ down bad guys,” I say, “anything happening on the shooter?”
“Found the vehicle,” he says. “It was abandoned and torched. Had been stolen. Even still . . . I hear there’re some good leads. Should know something soon.”
“Good.”
“Not sayin’ it’s him, but . . . guess who’s nowhere to be found?”
“Little Swag?”
“How can you say that without laughing?” he says.
“It’s not easy.”
249
I arrive at Roger Garrett’s Stars Haven mansion to discover his attorney is with him.
“My client is not responsible nor can be held liable for what another person does in one of his rental properties,” Hugh Browning III says.
“Nobody’s saying he is or can be,” I say.
“Then why ask to see him?” he asks.
Justin Harris acts nervous and looks as if he’s uncomfortable with conflict.
“Just wanted to ask him about the house and where he was on the night of the Fourth.”
We’re standing in the living room on the main floor. Around us the house is in disarray, as if a crime scene unit has tromped though it. Fingerprint dust around doors, on walls, and other hard surfaces. Evidence markers strewn about. Crime scene tape across the exterior doors, its ragged ends flapping in the Gulf breeze.
“Why? Surely, you’re not suggesting he’s even a suspect. We already submitted fingerprints and handwriting samples . . . this is just too—”
“You know how this works,” I say. “We have to eliminate everyone we can so we can narrow our focus onto—”
“I know that’s what y’all always say,” he says. “But . . . in my experience I find that y’all spread a lot of suspicion about but rarely publicly clear anyone.”
“An arrest is the best way to clear everyone else,” I say. “That’s what we’re working toward. It’s why I’m here. Why I’m tryin’ to eliminate any and every one I can.”
“I’ll talk to him, Hugh,” Roger Garrett says. “Quit bein’ such a little bitch about it.” He looks at me. “What is it you want to know?”
“Before today, when’s the last time you were in the house?”
He looks up and appears to think about it. “Not sure. Been a while, though. Only came today to say goodbye to the place.”
“You’re selling it?”
He nods. “Got some true crime nut makin’ me an offer I can’t refuse. But he insists that nobody rents it or uses it and that we don’t clean anything. Wants all the fingerprint dust left where it is, the carpet cut up, the evidence tape and markers.”
“Who is it?”
He shakes his head. “He insists on anonymity for the deal to go through, so . . . It’ll be public record as soon as the deed is recorded.”
I wonder if it’s the killer trying to destroy evidence. Of our actual suspects, only Trace could afford it.
“When is closing?” I ask.
“I’m sorry,” he says, “but I don’t want to say exactly. I’m not tryin’ to be difficult or uncooperative, but I don’t want y’all setting up some sort of sting at the title agency or my real estate attorney’s office.”
“Will you at least tell me if it’s soon?” I say. “Is he in a hurry?”
“He’s already told you, detective,” Browning says. “He doesn’t want to—”
“It’s soon,” Garrett says. “And he does seem in a mighty big hurry, which is just fine with me. I used to love this place, but no more. It’s . . . forever spoiled for me.”
“Did you remember when the last time you’d been in was?”
“Have to be back in the spring sometime, I’d say. Can’t be more specific than that.”
“Do you have the maid clean your safe room?” I ask.
Garrett whips his head around and stares at Justin, who has been so quiet I’d almost forgotten he was there.
“You’re worse than a damn woman, Justin,” he says. “Can’t
keep a secret for shit.”
“Sorry, Mr. Garrett. I thought they already knew about it. But I mean . . . it’s a . . . murder investigation.”
“Good thing I’ve got nothin’ to hide,” he says. “Not even my goddamn top secret hidden room.”
He looks back at me.
“No,” he says. “I do not. I would’ve said none of them even knew about its existence, but Mr. Can’t Keep A Secret over here probably told them too.”
“Who cleans it?” I ask. “How often?”
“To my knowledge no one,” he says. “I’m the only one who uses it—or so I thought.” He turns back toward Justin. “You been going in my room? Take your girlfriend or wife or whatever? Throw parties down there.”
“No, Sir. Never. Absolutely not. No, sir.”
“Bad enough you rented my big blue masterpiece to some low rent jigaboo child killers,” he says. “Now you tell everyone about my room.”
He looks back at me. “It’s supposed to be a secret. That’s the point. Not really worth havin’ otherwise. It probably needs cleanin’ ’cause I’ve never cleaned it, but I’m not much of a maid. What’s with all the questions about the last time I’ve been in the house or safe room and if I clean it?”
“Because I’m wondering why your prints are inside the victim’s bedroom and why they’re not in your safe room.”
“Okay,” Browning says. “That’s it. This little discussion is over. Not another word, Roger. You have any other questions for my client, submit them to me in writing, understand?”
Garrett starts to say something, but Browning stops him.
“I’m serious as fuck, Roger,” he says. “Not another goddamn word.”
“That went well,” Justin says.
Garrett and Browning are gone. Justin and I are alone in the huge house.
“You probably just cost me my business,” he adds.
“How?”
“I’m about to go under as it is,” he says. “Without him as a client, I’m done. Did you have to mention the hidden room?”
I nod. “But I didn’t know I wasn’t supposed to,” I say. “I’m sorry. Didn’t intentionally try to jam you up.”
True Crime Fiction Page 97