But they didn’t.
Still off duty, Sam spent the next couple of hours at work, checking names on the list against a database of known drug users and dealers. Anyone who’d ever been picked up for drugs in the county was recorded. She executed cross-checks between the two lists and came up blank.
While she was there, the sheriff had a visit from the coroner. And because they ran an open ship in Fort County, she heard what the coroner had to say.
“That girl’s death wasn’t a suicide,” she reported stoically. The doctor was an older woman, sixtyish, and had been at her job a long time. “The bruising on her throat, the way her neck broke, she might have been hung, but she didn’t kill herself.”
“You’re sure?” the sheriff said. Sam sat frozen, her hand on the computer mouse, and waited.
“Positive. There’s more. Her arms were bruised up pretty badly, too.”
“Had she been raped?”
That would have been Sam’s question.
“No. She was a virgin, actually.”
A child. Who’d barely started to live.
Calling up the county jail prisoner database from the night before, Sam read every profile, looking for someone who had a reason to kill a sixteen-year-old girl.
It took Chuck five minutes to come up with the answer. He’d arrived at the tail end of the coroner’s visit and was as upset as Sam about the turn of events.
They’d been responsible for bringing the girl there. Locking her up.
“Hank Long,” Chuck said, wheeling his chair over to Sam’s and taking the mouse from her hand to scroll down her screen to the man in question. “He made a couple of comments when I walked through with Ms. Reynolds. Apparently she’d stiffed him on a deal a few months back….”
Hank Long. She looked at the profile on the screen. Wanted for robbery, attempted robbery, assault…and drug trafficking.
The man was thirty-five years old and had already done ten years for rape.
“Look at this,” Chuck said, pointing to the screen. “His career, locksmith. Explains how he could get in and out of Glenna’s cell.”
Or he could have stolen keys from the deputy on duty. Fort County jail hadn’t been updated since the days of The Andy Griffith Show. They didn’t usually keep hardened criminals there.
The city jail, across town, was brand-new and housed both county and city inmates whose crimes were of a more serious nature.
“Why was he here?”
“He’d just been brought in on OVI,” Chuck said. “Williams brought him in and was still processing him, but locked him up because he was being so belligerent. That’s how I knew the guy’s name.”
“So where was Williams, or whoever was in charge here, when the guy had enough time to kill a helpless girl? And why would he do that? Risk a murder rap over a few bucks worth of drugs?”
“He’d have done it if he’s way more involved than we know and the girl was going to snitch.”
So this Long guy could be the cook? Or at least know who the cook was.
“And it wouldn’t have taken a guy like that long to knock someone off,” Chuck added, and the sheriff nodded. “A couple of minutes, tops. He could have been in, done and out while Williams took a piss.”
There’d be an investigation of course. Fingerprints taken. DNA would be sent to the major forensics center in Cincinnati that processed most of their evidence.
Sam sat there, listening to the two men analyze the death of a sixteen-year-old girl as though they were solving a crossword puzzle, and feared that a year ago she’d been just like them. And for the first time in her life, she wondered why she’d wanted to be a cop.
27
Chandler, Ohio
Monday, October 4, 2010
After two weeks of hell, that weekend in Chandler was the calm after the storm. I was home most of the time, not wanting to be far away, in case Maggie or Lori Winston called. I’d told the girl’s mother when I’d left them just before midnight on Thursday night that I’d be available any time if Maggie needed me.
I hated leaving the girl.
But she was my client. Not my child. I was only there to facilitate.
And so I went home and worried about her. And prayed that her mother would keep her close all weekend.
Lori Winston had been sober when she’d pulled up not all that long after I’d called her—not even a hint of alcohol on her breath. She’d been immediately attentive to Maggie, taking the child under her care as only a mother could do. I’d been impressed, in spite of my doubts about the woman.
And I wondered about the girl Glenna. About Shane, and tennis courts and drugs. I agreed with Sam. Something was going on. I just wasn’t sure what. And I wasn’t sure how my client played into the scenario. Maggie wasn’t dealing drugs. Of that I was sure. But the fact that two of the people with whom she associated had been involved with a meth deal made me nervous.
Really nervous.
Which is probably why I was so startled when I escorted a client out to the front office Monday after school and saw Maggie waiting there. Deb had left early—she and Cole were going to see a counselor—and the door was unlocked. Again.
Maggie waited silently while I finished with the middle-aged woman who’d just found out her son was gay.
“Are you busy?” Maggie asked as soon as we were alone. The girl looked all right. A little tired, maybe, but her hair was clean. She had on a blouse under her hoodie instead of a T-shirt, and she was wearing her usual tennis shoes.
“Not for another half hour. Come on back.” I led her to my office and tucked my long cotton skirt under me as I settled with her on the couch. My arms ached to hug her, but that time had passed when I’d left her with her mother.
She didn’t seem very huggable today, anyway. The three days since I’d seen her seemed to have changed Maggie—distanced her. Or matured her. Death had a way of doing that, but I hated to see it in this special young woman who’d already had to grow up so fast.
“I’m glad you came by,” I told her. “I’ve been worried about you.”
“I’m fine.”
“How was your weekend?”
“Okay.”
“How about school today?”
“They had grief counselors in Friday and today. It was pretty stupid. They told us all it’s not our fault. That we shouldn’t feel like, as Glenna’s friends, we could have done something for her. But how do they know?” Maggie’s tone had a new, bitter note.
“I mean, really,” she continued, “that’s what they’re always telling us. Things aren’t our fault. If our parents get divorced it’s not our fault. If someone commits suicide it’s not our fault. Jeanine’s suffering wasn’t our fault. Being alive and healthy when she had to die wasn’t our fault. Like our actions have no effect at all, you know?”
Maggie had never been so talkative. I hoped that she was finally comfortable enough with me to open up, but knew that she was also rambling her way through a difficult situation. Death wasn’t easy for anyone and most particularly children, who so often had perceptions of invincibility.
“We do matter, Dr. Chapman. And we can make a difference, too. One of us probably could have helped Glenna. And kids are sometimes partly responsible for parents’ divorces, too.”
“What about you?” I asked her as she sat, feet flat on the floor, toying with the zipper on her dark blue hoodie. “Is there some way you could have prevented what happened to Glenna?”
“I could have paid more attention when she talked about her mom. I could have told her that she could stay with me if anything happened to her mom. Maybe I could have taken more babysitting jobs to help with the money so she didn’t feel so alone.”
“And how about your mom?” I asked, listening between the lines. “Is there something you could do to help your mom?”
“Grow up,” Maggie said without hesitation. “I ruined her life, you know.”
Eyes narrowed, I ached for a pen. A pad.
“D
id she tell you that?”
“No. She didn’t have to. It’s just obvious, you know?”
“Obvious how?”
“She was like Glenna, Dr. Chapman. A straight-A student. She didn’t have much at home. No money or anything. But she could have gotten a scholarship just like Glenna did. Except that I came along and she had to quit school.”
“Tell me this.” I chose my words carefully. “Did you have anything to do with the fact that you came along? Did you put yourself here?”
“No. Of course not.”
“That’s right. You didn’t. Your mother made a choice. And you were conceived as a result of that choice.”
Maggie was quiet for a moment and I hoped I’d pierced the shell she’d wrapped around herself.
“Still, she chose to keep me, to raise me even though it was hard for her.”
“Yes. Which tells you she must love you very much.”
“And that I have to love her back that much and hurry up and grow up so she can still have time to have her own life.”
My chest tightened.
“Did she tell you that?”
“No, Dr. Chapman, she didn’t tell me any of this. Mom doesn’t even know I think about things like this, but I do and they’re true, and now, with Glenna…I don’t know, I just have to try harder. To make sure that what I do is the best thing for the people I care about. Look at Glenna. I was so wrapped up in my own stuff that I just let her suffer all by herself.”
“No, Maggie, you didn’t. You were her friend. The rest—taking care of her—wasn’t your job.”
“Whose job was it? Her mom’s? She couldn’t help that she was sick.”
“Her mom could have asked for help for Glenna. The school could have done more. The minister at her church. All people who are qualified and responsible to her in different ways. It wasn’t you.”
“I had no idea she was dealing drugs.”
And that hurt. I understood that completely. “You couldn’t know, because she didn’t want you to. I’m guessing she realized how you feel about illegal substances since you knew how she felt about them. She probably also figured that you’d think less of her if you knew what she was doing. She didn’t want that, so she didn’t tell you.”
“I should have noticed something.”
“How? If she chose to deliberately hide it from you?”
“But everybody hides things.”
Ah. Hah. “I suppose so.”
“So how do you ever trust someone?”
“Trust is something you give, Maggie. It’s not based on something someone gives you first. And sometimes the person receiving it doesn’t recognize it, doesn’t know you gave it or doesn’t want it. Those are the times you get hurt.
“And there are other times you give your trust and the person knows the value of it and takes care of it like you’d take care of a newborn baby, or maybe a pot of gold. And that’s when people are really happy. When they can give trust, and have it cherished.”
“So how do you know when to give your trust?”
“You don’t always. Sometimes you just give it because you feel, deep inside, that it’s the right thing to do. That’s how it is with things like faith and trust—there are no guarantees. Except for one.”
“What’s that?”
“I can guarantee you that if you never trust, if you never have faith in anything, you’ll never be happy.”
Her brow creased, she sat still for a long moment. And then nodded.
I had to say more because she was a child and I knew she was on the verge of trouble.
“There’s another side to trust, too,” I said. I might confuse the issue but it was a chance I had to take. “If someone knows that you’re lonely or hurting, he might pretend that you can trust him, and then take advantage of you and use your trust to gain something for himself.”
She was listening, her mouth slightly open, her hands still on the couch.
“Because trust is one of the keys to happiness, you have to be very careful with it,” I continued. “You can’t just give it to every person you meet.”
“I don’t trust our landlord. I think he wants to sleep with my mom.”
I figured he already had.
“Right. Sometimes it’s obvious who not to trust. Like strangers on the street. They might be perfectly nice, but in today’s world you just can’t take that chance. You don’t hitchhike because you never know who’s going to pick you up.”
“Or take candy from strangers, I know,” the girl said drily.
“But that’s not really what we’re talking about here, is it?”
Maggie’s silence warned me, but I think, in some way, I already knew. I’d known since I saw her face that afternoon. I just… I thought if we kept talking…maybe we wouldn’t get there.
Ever.
As if the girl could sit safe and sound in my office for the rest of her life. Safe and virginal.
“So why don’t you tell me what we are talking about,” I said softly, rearranging the colorful yards of cotton skirt around me.
“I…”
No.
“I… This weekend…Saturday, my mom had to work and I…well, it had kind of been building and he was so sweet, Dr. Chapman. He understood all of it. About Glenna. And my mom. And he knows me. He understands me. He…”
Loves me. “…loves me.”
Shit. Total shit.
“Did you have sex on Saturday, Maggie?”
“Yes.”
“Full intercourse?”
“Yes.”
Okay.
“With this man, Mac, that you told me about?”
“Yes.”
I was a doctor now. Under oath.
“Did he tell you his last name?”
“No. I didn’t ask.”
“Does he know yours?”
“Yes.”
This was getting worse and worse.
“Where did you meet up with him? How?”
“I went to the park, hoping he’d be there, and he was. That’s how I knew it was meant to be. Like some force had told him how badly I needed to see him.”
“Where did you have sex?”
“In a tent. Out on some road I’d never been on. He was so sweet, Dr. Chapman. He had everything done up and it was so romantic. He had sleeping bags on the floor, and candles and music that I like, and chocolate and cream sandwich cookies because he knows I love them. He just wanted to take care of me.”
Take care of her, my ass. The slimeball was going down. Way, way, way down.
I didn’t get angry often. But I was now. Well and truly, one hundred percent angry.
He’d premeditated the entire thing. A tent. Romance. Sleeping bags. Candles and music.
I wanted to vomit all over the jerk.
And to cry.
I was devastated. But that emotion had no place in my practice as a psychologist.
“Did you see what kind of car he drove?”
“No. He was on a bike and so was I, and we rode out to this place in the woods outside of town.”
Because he knew damned well that what he was doing was illegal. Immoral. The sin of all sins.
Just plain wrong in any terminology.
“What color was his bike?”
“I don’t know. Blue, I think. It had speeds. Mine doesn’t.”
“Did he say why he was in the park?”
“He said he was just out riding and started thinking about me. Like I was out riding and thinking about him.”
Or the pedophile knew that Glenna had been killed. He’d known that Maggie was going to need a friend. And he’d gone looking for her in a place he was sure to find her.
He’d known about Glenna because he’d been her dealer. Just as Sam had thought.
“He was so gentle,” Maggie said, and it took everything I had to keep a neutral look on my face so that I could get every drop of information out of her. “I thought it was going to hurt, and it did just a tiny bit at first, but he k
new how to take care of that and…then it wasn’t bad at all.”
Wasn’t bad at all. Just what every mother wanted for her daughter’s first experience at love.
A fourteen-year-old should be thinking about highlights and makeup and playing tennis. All of the things we’d worried about with this sweet child.
“It’s like you said, Dr. Chapman, it’s a matter of trust, and I know, deep inside, that I can trust Mac.”
No, you can’t. But you can trust me. Though, very shortly, you aren’t going to think so.
Everything she told me had potential information in it for Sam to use in her investigation. Because Samantha Jones, Chuck Sewell, the entire Fort County sheriff’s department, the Chandler police and the FBI were going to hunt this fiend down. And when they found him, he’d better hope that he never came face-to-face with Kelly Chapman.
“Did he use protection?” I couldn’t retrieve Maggie’s virginity, give it back to her. We had to move on. The future was what mattered now.
“Yes. Of course. I’m not going to end up like my mom.”
Sad thing was, the child was making choices exactly like her mother had made. And probably for the same reasons.
But there was one major difference. Maggie had me.
28
Recognizing the number on her cell phone display Monday afternoon, Sam picked up on the first ring. She was out in a cruiser, on speed-gun duty, where she’d found herself every shift since Friday’s disclosure from the coroner.
She understood. The sheriff. Chuck Sewell and Todd Williams. They were all worried about her. Thanks to her dad and Pierce. And the Holmes suicide. They had no idea what she’d do now that a child had been murdered due to the meth lab that didn’t exist in their county.
“Deputy Jones?”
“Yes.”
“This is MaryLee Hatch.”
A car passed. Doing fifty-six in a forty-five.
“Is everything okay?”
“Daniel just called. A girl approached him at school today. She asked him if he needed help with homework and gave him a flyer like the one Nicole had.”
“He didn’t call the number, did he?”
The Second Lie Page 24