by Amber Kay
The midsize room contains nothing, but desks cluttered with stacks of manila folders and disheveled piles of paper. Several phones ring in unison like a chorus of trilling birds. A mesh of voices answer the calls, speaking in authoritative tones. Uniformed cops dressed in their regulatory palettes of blue, monitor most of these hotlines.
Karen escorts me through the chaotic area toward the centerpiece of the room—a massive bulletin board with thousands of WANTED posters announcing this month’s batch of uncaptured criminals and unsolved cases. I tense upon seeing Sasha’s face staring back from one of these menacing posters. This is what makes it official.
Seeing her picture as background to the words “Unsolved Homicide,” brings my heart to a momentary standstill. I stop midstride to gaze at that photo, instantly remembering the day it was taken. Two years ago, at some crappy photo booth we’d found on the Newport Pier, Sasha pleaded with me to participate. Her hair rests in platinum pigtails—some crazed result of a bad dye job that left most of her hair frayed.
Somehow, she wasn’t ashamed to go out in public with that white hair. She took it in stride and told anyone who asked that she’d dyed her hair in preparation was some Halloween party. I remember begging her to go to a professional stylist to fix whatever she’d fucked up. It took almost a year for those platinum tips to grow out.
“Cassandra?” Karen calls. Her voice anchors me back to reality, reminding me of the present. I turn to her like a battery-operated toy, as if someone pulled a string on my back, triggering my reaction.
“Are you okay?” she asks.
“Where’d you get that picture of her?”
Karen glances at the spot on the bulletin board I point to. With a frown, she turns back to me.
“Her parents brought it down to aid in the investigation,” she says. “I’m sorry for not mentioning them on the phone. They arrived this morning and were the first ones at the station.”
“They hate me,” I say. “I don’t blame them.”
“You mentioned during the last interrogation that what happened to Sasha was your fault,” she says. “What did you mean by that exactly?”
I feel an imaginary tug at my arm, urging me to shut up just as Adrian had the first time this question was asked. I deliberate what I’ll say in my own defense, though I can’t figure out why I feel like I have anything to hide at all. I didn’t kill Sasha, not with my own hands, but being with Adrian instead of her, contributed to her death. I'm at fault no matter who actually perpetrated the crime.
“I should have been looking out for her,” I say. “We promised to look out for each other, especially at parties. I wasn’t with her when she died. Her parents know that and they blame me for what happened.”
Karen’s eyes narrow; suspicion blooms behind this sidelong gaze.
“Cassandra, I don’t want to sound accusatory, but I have no other choice,” she says.
“If you weren’t with Sasha that night, then where you exactly?”
I glance back at the photo of Sasha pinned to the bulletin board then at Karen who’s expression is one of formality. She is no longer in the maternal mood to comfort me. She has put on the cop hat. Those eyes now see a murder suspect, not a troubled youth grieving a dead loved one.
“You think I killed Sasha, don’t you?” I ask outright, wanting to clear the air.
“I don’t know what to think,” she replies. “You’re not exactly giving me much room to form an opinion. You need to tell me the truth about what happened that night. Everything you remember, every person you spoke to, every conversation you had—all of it needs to be put out in the open. Otherwise, I won’t be able to help you.”
“Help me? With what? You mean to tell me that I actually am a suspect?”
“I think we should take this conversation somewhere more private,” she says after noticing the heads of every nearby officer turning in our direction to eavesdrop on the commotion I’ve caused.
“Before I go anywhere with you, I need to know whether or not I should call a lawyer.
If you have any proof that implicates me in what happened to Sasha, I damn well deserve to know what it is!”
I ignore the bystanders, setting my focus solely on Karen. A small audience pools around us—listening and whispering. All I can see are condemnatory eyes staring back at me. Do they all know what Karen isn’t telling me?
“We interviewed everyone at the party,” she says. “Most of them have alibis.”
“What about Francesca?” I ask abruptly.
“Who?”
“Francesca, Adrian Lynch’s receptionist/ex-girlfriend. We talked at the gala. She was really bitter and pissed at everyone. She warned me to take care of Sasha an hour before I found her body. Did you check her story out?”
Karen gives this some thought then nods. “Francesca Evans was seen on surveillance at a local convenience store around 8:50 that night, half-an-hour before Sasha’s time of death. She left the party early. She couldn’t have committed the crime.”
“Are you sure? What about Vivian? Or the hundreds of other guests? Surely, someone saw something,” I say.
“Of the four-hundred guests that attended Vivian Lynch’s gala, you are the only one that hasn’t been very forthcoming with me. The way you and Mr. Lynch reacted to my questions led me to be suspect the worst. With his reputation and history with the law, I almost understand his reluctance to cooperate, but why you? Why did you insist on having him sit in during the first interrogation? Why did you leave the party with him? Witnesses saw you two getting into his car around midnight.”
I feel these words stab into me, puncturing arteries and vital organs. If words could kill, I’d be lying in a pool of my own blood right now. More eyes find their way to me. More whispers erupt throughout the room, gossiping and speculating about me. I shake my head, wanting to them all to shut up.
“I had just discovered my best friend’s dead body,” I retort. “I was a little traumatized. Wouldn’t you feel the same way under similar circumstances?”
Karen shakes her head. “That doesn’t answer my questions. I need you to be upfront with me.”
“I wanted Adrian there because I didn’t want to be alone.”
A look of Aha sparks in her eyes. I catch only a glimpse of it, but I know what she’s thinking.
“Do you have a habit of ‘confiding’ in Adrian Lynch whenever you’re feeling…alone?”
I glare at her, infuriated by the insinuating tone of her voice.
“You’re not just accusing me of Sasha’s murder,” I say. “Are you?”
“I only want the truth Cassandra, but I will say that things don’t look very good for you.”
“Ask the question you really want to ask,” I snap.
“Does this mean you’re waiving your right to an attorney?”
“Is there any reason I shouldn’t?”
“This line of questioning can’t proceed until you do,” she replies. “Your choice. I can either help or hurt you.”
I glance at the assumptive faces of every cop in the room. I'm out of my element. Completely outnumbered.
“Fine,” I say. “I waive my rights. I did nothing wrong and I'm not gonna let you people make me feel like I have.”
Karen offers me a tentative smile and saunters away, prompting me to follow her.
“We’ll continue the interrogation in a proper setting,” she says while escorting me down the corridor. We reach a dead-end after a short walk. More cops stop midstride in the hall to gawk at me, each one more presumptuous than that last.
Karen leads me into a small room with faulty lighting. A single bulb flickers from a cord overhead. A chill lingers in the air. I shiver on cue, caressing my arms with my hands to generate some warmth. In the center of the room, there’s a metal table accompanied by two matching metal chairs sitting on opposite ends. To my left is a large glass wall, possibly some two-way mirror monitored by whomever is standing on the other side.
“Don’t wor
ry,” says Karen. “No one will be listening to this interrogation. I figured you’d appreciate the privacy.”
“What makes you think I need privacy? I already told you I have nothing to hide.”
“Good, then there should be no room for hesitation,” she says. “Let’s get to business.”
She sits at one of the chairs then gestures for me to take the other. I try appearing nonchalant, to fix my face so that it exposes nothing. As a cop, she’s bound to know bullshit when she sees it, so I don’t lay it on too thick. I don’t put on a cheesy smile or rely on some crappy ass-kissing façade.
Her trusty tape recorder makes a reappearance. I watch her remove it from her jacket pocket then sit it atop the table after pressing the PLAY button.
“You don’t mind if I record this, do you?” she asks.
“Does it matter if I mind? Aren’t you gonna do what you want to do regardless of how I feel about it?”
She doesn’t reply to that. Her silence is enough of a YES for me. At least this time, she doesn’t have the notepad.
“First things first,” she announces abruptly after rubbing her hands together. “Are you having an affair with Adrian Lynch?”
“What? No!” I say in a high-pitched yelp. “What kind of question is that? The man is married!”
“Married men have affairs all the time,” she retorts.
“Not with me, they don’t!”
She reaches for her tape recorder and presses the STOP button.
“Cassandra, I'm gonna be straight with you,” she says after an exasperated sigh. “I know that you’re lying about something. I can’t confirm or deny that until you tell me otherwise, but woman-to-woman, I know that something is off about your story. Just call it…female intuition.”
“Your automatic assumption is that I'm fucking a married man? You’d rather believe that over the truth?”
“Off the record? I think you and Adrian Lynch might have gotten a little too close in the heat of the moment and now you regret it. To reconcile those feelings of remorse and guilt, you’re in denial about the entire incident.”
“No,” I say, shaking my head. “It’s not true.”
“It’s alright Cassandra,” she says in a patronizing voice meant for a child. “I’d understand if you admitted it. I don’t even blame you. Adrian is a handsome, more experienced older man. You are young, naïve and impressionable. It wouldn’t surprise me if you fell for his charm. To be honest, I don’t even care if you’re sleeping with him. I just want the truth.”
I shake my head again. “No.”
“Adrian Lynch is an affluent and highly publicized man with a lot to lose if he becomes embroiled in another scandal,” she says. “If you were sleeping with him and Sasha somehow found out, I imagine him jumping through many hoops to ensure that she didn’t tell anyone. If he killed her and you witnessed it, you won’t be charged.”
“It’s not true!” I say after slamming my hands onto the table to shut her up so I can think. Karen silences. I sit, rubbing my eyes, imagining familiar judgmental faces around me.
She watches intently as I collect myself.
“Cassandra, I'm trying to help you. You need to let me.”
“You’re painting me out to be Adrian Lynch’s whore,” I say. “I feel like I'm being railroaded.”
She sighs again and leans back in her chair, folding her arms.
“I’m not the one painting this picture.”
“What?”
She rises from her chair and leaves the room without saying another word. The seconds of solitude leave me fidgeting in my chair, paranoid that they are watching me from the other side of that glass. When Karen returns, she’s carrying a laptop. I watch her take her seat and sit for several minutes typing something.
“Perhaps it’s time you see the verdict from the court of public opinion,” she says before turning the laptop toward me. I glance at the screen and something lodges in my esophagus, something that feels like a punch to the throat.
“What is this?” I ask in a hoarse voice that sounds like I'm speaking with a swollen tongue.
“The Lynchs have made national news again,” she says. “Only now, you’re the headline.”
The screen staring back is an article on CNN’s main webpage with a headline that reads:
Recent Murder sparks new scandal for Orange County’s most eccentric couple
Below the headline is a familiar picture of Vivian and me from the gala. Her arm wraps around my waist, making us appear friendlier than we actually are. On her face is a phony, platinum smile. On my face is a look of whiplash, caught off guard by the sudden flash of a camera I had no idea was there. That spontaneous photo opt she ambushed me at the gala with is now a CNN exclusive with an article that reads:
High society has conjured a new mystery. The murder of nineteen-year-old college sophomore, Sasha Hawthorne, has reopened old wounds and created new ones. Socialite Vivian Lynch and her amorous husband Adrian are no strangers to scandal, but the implication of a third player has garnered the interest of many. Cassandra Tate (seen pictured above), also a sophomore at Northham University, is considered by many “the third Lynch spouse” after reports of her seen coming and going from the Lynch manor on several occasions. Not much is known about the reclusive young woman, just that she and Vivian reportedly have “a very close relationship” and that she and Adrian—as some have said—are “even closer.” Though the Lynchs are known for their eccentricity, the nature of this odd relationship with the young student leaves a bad taste in the mouths of many and generates suspicions about the young woman’s motives. With Adrian Lynch’s previous murder conviction of a former mistress in mind, is Miss Tate his new target? Was she the intended victim when Miss Hawthorne was killed? Was she an oblivious bystander or a willing accomplice?
After I read the article, Karen looks at me and my body goes numb.
“Well?” she says. “What am I to think after reading something like that?”
I repeatedly shake my head in protest. With no actual words to defend my position, my reaction feels ineffective.
“It’s not true,” I say. “Nothing in that article is true.”
“Really?” she replies indifferently. “That’s all you have to say?”
“What else do you want?”
She shrugs. “The truth would nice.”
“This is a smear campaign!” I ask. “Someone is submitting these phony articles to implement me in something I had nothing to do with! How many more of these articles are on the internet?”
She exhales a small sigh before speaking.
“You really want me to answer that question?” Her voice exposes some suppressed aggravation. I can’t tell if it’s me she most frustrated with or the situation itself. I sit, rocking back and forth in my chair, trying to find the proper words. I trace patterns with my fingers atop the table to busy myself from the pressure weighing like a dumbbell in the pit of my stomach.
“You won’t believe me no matter what I tell you, will you?” I ask.
“You never know until you try,” she replies. “My only interest is in solving this case. I don’t give a damn about your sexual liaisons with Adrian. I’ll leave that topic for the media to scrutinize.”
“I can’t believe this,” I say as the words from that article haunt me. “Are they all talking about me?”
“This is one of a few articles I found on the internet after the gala, “she says. “It looks like Vivian knew many reporters. Unfortunately, for you, most of them were at the party. I’m not trying to ruin your reputation or make you out to be the villain. I assumed that you had already seen these publications. I'm sorry you had to find out about them like this, but maybe it’s a good thing.”
“How is any of this…good?” I ask, my hands clenching the table’s edge. “If my parents read those articles—if this ends up on television I won’t be able to look my father in the eye. My mother is going to have a meltdown.”
Karen blin
ks slowly, somewhat unfazed by my outburst. Amidst this cool exterior is the mask of a meticulous woman, readying her troops and prepping for battle. She looks at me while rubbing her chin and composing a response.
“If you start by telling me the truth, I will work diligently to help clear your name,” she replies after clearing her throat. “You know how the media is. They’re sharks. They smell fresh blood and come running. Right now, you’re the wounded party. You are the scapegoat. They aren’t looking at the Lynchs. They expect this kind of behavior from them, but you are fresh meat. The only way to feed them is by standing up for yourself.”
I look at her and feel an unfamiliar sense of liberation. For the first time, I see an exit, an escape away from the Lynchs. I can taste it. It’s so pungent that I’d like to savor the sensation.
“Alright,” I say. “I know how it looks, but I swear it’s not what you think it is.”
“So tell me what it really is.” Her eyes pierce me. I stand my ground, refusing to blink or turn away from her glare.
“The truth is…that I'm not sleeping with Adrian Lynch, but you’re right. I was with him the night Sasha died. I got a little high. He was a little drunk. We kissed and that’s all. I didn’t want tell you because I know his reputation with women and I didn’t want everyone thinking the worst.”
She gives me an indifferent look and shakes her head. “I don’t buy it. Keeping something that minor a secret to prevent humiliation? Come on Cassandra. You’re have to do better than that.”
“I'm telling you the truth!”
“Not all of it,” she replies. “I’m willing to keep this off the record, but you have to cooperate with me.”
“Tell me about the toxicology report,” I say. “You mentioned it over the phone? Sasha’s Dad told me that there were drugs in her system. What kind?”
“Rohypnol.”
“Isn’t that…the rape drug?” I ask. “Does that mean that Sasha was—”