I felt comforted to be back at my job after visiting Detective Belson, though. I knew that as soon as the van pulled up, I had direction, tasks to complete, and I understood that I would focus on what needed to be done. My job gave me boundaries. It led me to the underbelly of society, right where I belonged. In law enforcement, I saw the darkest side of the human existence—what people were capable of doing, how they inflicted harm on one another. It could be brutal, but it was precisely, in my opinion, where someone who had already done the tragically unthinkable belonged.
Once Ali filled me in, I told her that it would be best to get the truck to our lab garage where we could look at it under our ultrabright lights and UV lamps, and could also make it dark so that we could use the solution called Luminol, which would fluoresce in the presence of blood. She agreed and I told her that we’d at least get all our photos and footprint plasters before towing the truck.
Luckily, while Ali and I were still talking, the van rolled up the Tuckmans’ long drive, dust pluming behind it and blowing to one side with the wind. Ray pulled up, lowered his window, and asked where he should park. Ali pointed to a clearing close by and he drove to it, hopped out, and grabbed our suits. We slid them on, along with our gloves, and grabbed the cameras and the carrying case with our plaster kits.
“We’re going to need to photograph everything around the truck first, mark all footprints, and get plasters. We’ll need to hold off on all trace and the dusting until we get it to the garage,” I said to Ray. “I want this under bright lights.”
We went over and started taking pictures from all angles, making sure to photograph all visible footprints around it. Ray began to ready the plaster kits. When we finished grabbing tire prints, I looked inside the truck. The first thing that caught my attention was that it was clean. The driver’s seat had a rip on its fabric seam closest to the door where drivers had scooted in and out over the past decade and a half. I opened the door and ran a finger in one corner of the dash. No dust. “That’s strange,” I mumbled to myself.
“What?” Ray asked.
“No dust, old farm truck like this in one of the driest, dustiest summers ever?” I wiped the inside panel of the door with my latex-clad forefinger to find the same. “Shit,” I said. “We may not find many for Wendy to lift,” I said. “Smell,” I held open the door for him to peek in.
“Lemony. Bleach?” Ray asked. “Some kind of antiseptic spray?”
“That’s what I’m thinking. Let’s hope it’s not the kind they use in hospitals to kill infectious matter. If it is, all trace might be destroyed too.” I knew that sprays like this not only killed bacteria but also destroyed skin, hair, and sweat. “If this is the truck, and it’s looking mighty suspicious, this person knows what they’re doing.” A cold finger of dread traced up my spine.
We got to it quickly, continually glancing up at the gathering gray clouds. We were glad there was a carport over us, but if it began to pour and the wind continued this strongly, it would blow the rain sideways right onto us.
Monty showed up while we were processing the site, and I could see him talking to Ali and Herman, nodding and writing things down. I went to them, removing my gloves. All three turned to me. Ali squinted in the grayish glow of the day and Herman bowed his head in his stylish sunglasses. Monty looked exhausted, and I was sure he’d been up all night. Herman had told me that it had been he and Ken who’d found the truck.
“Hey,” Monty said, giving me a faint smile, and I saw Ali notice. In contrast, she held her face stern. Herman looked neutral even behind his glasses as he often did, with an enigmatic air and a softness about him in spite of his size. He looked like he’d freely give you a hug if you needed it, no matter who you were, but still wouldn’t tell you any of his secrets.
“How’s it looking?” Ali asked.
“Not entirely sure yet, we’ll dust when we get it into the lab. Thankfully we have Jeremy’s already entered from the Ohio Child Find program they partook in when he was little, so if we get some and there’s a match, we’ll know soon. But chances are the ones we get from the exterior are from the farmhands, although we won’t know until we get comparison prints from them, if they’re willing to give them. But you should know that there might not be much to grab from the inside.”
“Why not?” Monty asked.
“I’m not seeing any dust.”
“Son of a bitch,” Ali jammed her foot into the ground. “There are multiple drivers of this truck. There should be some damn prints. He’s wiped it down. Is that right?” she asked. “Has it been wiped?”
I nodded. “We think it’s been sprayed and wiped down with an antibacterial cleaner, but we’re not sure yet. Just smells like it could be bleach.”
“Shit. This guy knows what he’s doing. Hollywood, find out if Walt or any of the hands has cleaned the truck lately. Recheck Walt’s and the golfer’s alibi, for God’s sake, and the other guy, Brady. Where is he?” she looked around. “He should be here by now. If he’s not here yet, we may need to put out an APB on him. Fishing, my ass. And”—she continued to address Herman, whom I figured she called Hollywood—“see if Walt, the wife, and the one guy we have agree to giving their prints. And Mr. Steady-Eddy,” she barked. “You look like shit.” She was directing that one at Monty.
“Thank you,” Monty said.
I halfway smiled. I couldn’t tell if she disliked him or had some kind of schoolgirl crush on him and felt the urge to badger him. Because I largely missed out on interacting with males from the age of fifteen until eighteen, when I moved to Seattle, I didn’t have the best radar for this stuff—flirting, attraction. I looked at Herman, but couldn’t read his expression through the sunglasses, though I wasn’t sure what they were shading his eyes from, since the clouds blocked the sun.
“Go get an hour of sleep. Muscles too, wherever he is.” She briefly scanned the property, I assumed looking for Ken. “I don’t care if it’s in your car, but get an hour so you’re fresh again soon.”
“I’m fine, Agent Paige,” Monty said. “If the truck’s been wiped, chances are it’s the one. We could be close. I won’t be able to sleep anyway. You need someone to go get Mr. Stewart—”
“No, you’re going to get an hour’s sleep so you’re worth a damn. Herman, you grab Stewart. You and Ken . . . you’re both off now, for a little while. You’ve been up for too long. You’ll start making mistakes and I don’t want mistakes. I’ll call you if anything comes up as the search progresses.” She motioned to all the men swarming around the place.
Monty looked at her incredulously. “We’ve already met Paul Stewart. Been to his house. Had coffee. It’s easier for us to go grab him.”
“Monty,” Ali said. Apparently, she didn’t use a nickname every time she addressed someone. “I don’t need officers falling asleep at the wheel. Go. Sleep. Just a little while—half an hour. I’ll call you when we find the other hand. I want to take Walt, Anna, and the two hands all into the county building where they can sit in real interrogation rooms. Plus, forensics is moving the truck to the lab anyway to check for blood, hairs, and fibers. If there was blood, the son of a bitch can’t wipe it clean when Luminol’s around; I don’t care what he used.”
Ali trod off back toward the barn while Herman pulled out his keys.
“This is crazy,” Monty said. “I know exactly where Stewart lives and Ken and I have already broken the ice with him.”
“Yeah, I know,” Herman offered. “But she’s probably right. Usually is. Don’t let her get to you. Underneath the hard shell, she’s got a heart of gold.” Herman smiled.
“I guess,” Monty said. He told Herman how to get there and the fed strode away. I turned to Monty. “Sleep, huh? Mr. Steady-Eddy?”
“I knew it would happen eventually. I guess I should feel relieved that it’s not something worse. And she’s got a point about keeping her staff fresh, but it’s going to
be hard to make that happen.” He snapped his fingers. “Turn it all off, just like that. The other hand needs to be found. How am I supposed to sleep?”
“Where’s Ken, anyway?”
“You mean Muscles?”
I smiled. “Yeah, him.”
“In the car,” he said.
“Sleeping?”
“He started to doze off on the way here.”
“At least one of you knows how to stay on her good side,” I said.
He let loose a laugh. It was strained, but I recognized the need for a flash of levity. I joined him for a moment, then let it fade. “Monty,” I said. “I want to talk to you.”
“About what?”
“Some past cases I’ve been looking into.”
He regarded me seriously and nodded. “Shoot.”
“No, I need to wrap things up here first, and then I’ll find you,” I dug into my pocket for my keys. “In the meantime, go to my car. It’s over there.” I pointed to it in the distance, near the pine trees to the side of the drive. I shoved my keys into his hand. “Go somewhere where you can sleep for an hour. We won’t be done for a bit anyway. Ray’s still getting plasters and we’re searching for trace around the carport. And you obviously don’t want to be in your car with Ken.” I grinned. “He probably snores. If anything comes up here, I promise I’ll come wake you if she doesn’t.”
Monty studied me, looking like he might just give in, when a county officer I knew, a deputy named Luke Brander, came up and put a hand on his shoulder. Neither of us saw him approach from the side and Monty jerked away quickly, startled. I registered that he really was spent—or the jumpiness was a remnant from his earlier life, from being on guard around his older brother. I’d met Monty’s brother during a case we’d worked, and knew he’d been hard on him growing up, a bona fide bully, as Monty had called him.
“Sorry, Harris,” Brander said. “Didn’t mean to catch you off guard.”
“No worries,” Monty said. “What’s up?”
“Looking for Agent Paige. We’ve got the other farmhand, Brady Lewis. Just showed up for work much later than expected. Looking clueless, if you asked me.”
“She’s over there.” We both pointed toward the barn.
“Where’ve you got him?” Monty asked.
“Over by the main house. I’ve got a deputy with him now.”
Brander left to go inform Ali, and I looked at Monty. “You’re not going to take me up on that offer, are you?”
“No, I’m not,” he said. He motioned toward Ali. “I’m guessing she’ll be busy with the farmhands and she’s going to need someone around who’s already questioned one of them and the owner of this place.”
“Don’t be so sure,” I said, swiping the hair out of my eyes.
Monty tilted his head and I could tell he was looking more closely at my forehead again. “How’d you get that?”
“It’s nothing. Just ran into something.” I covered it with the tips of four of my fingers, embarrassed. He studied me curiously as the elderly detective had.
“Just ran into something?”
“Yep,” I started to back away. “I did. I know, goofy.”
“And I’m the one people think needs sleep?” He gave me a cockeyed smile.
“Yeah. Look, sorry, I need to get this truck off before it pours on us.” I turned and hurried back toward Ray, but Monty called out my name. I turned to see him holding my keys up. I held out my hands and he tossed them. I caught them, the weight of them crashing into my palms and for some reason making the ever-present emptiness slide through my being like cold heavy raindrops on glass. “Thanks,” I said, shoving them into my pocket and turning back to the Chevy truck sitting safely under the carport.
• • •
Afterward. After the insanity. There shouldn’t have been an after for me at all. I should have somehow taken my life right then and there, but I was confused and I wouldn’t have known how, and I didn’t have the courage anyway. So there ended up being an afterward and it went like this.
After the ambulance took Per to the hospital, I was taken with cuffed wrists to a police car in front of our house and put in the backseat, still in the white T-shirt and pink pajama bottoms that I’d worn to bed. I looked down and saw blood splattered across them. The car was on to provide heat, the muffler breathing into the cold air like a dragon. Red lights from the strobes flashed across the snow-covered lawn while at least eight or nine neighbors gathered and stood off to the side, gawking nervously. Behind them stood their houses, some of them adorned with strings of white Christmas lights around the entryways. Near the car where I sat, two police officers talked to my parents, who were also still in their pajamas. My mom had a down coat on and my dad wore only his ratty, blue robe, but they both had snow boots on their feet. In a way, it looked like a normal, winter’s night, as if neighbors were only out and about strolling or caroling. Except the flashing lights from the police car strobing across shocked expressions jarred me into reality.
“I don’t know,” my mother was saying in a high-pitched, frantic voice that I could hear through the closed window of the car. “I don’t know what happened. She was like a zombie. We yelled at her, but she just”—she shook her head side to side—“she just kept hurting him.”
“It’s as if she didn’t hear us at all,” my father added. His voice was fraught with anxiousness and confusion too. I’d never heard him sound like that before—as if he was on the verge of crying or shouting. “Like she looks when she sleepwalks,” he added.
“She sleepwalks?”
“Yes, ever since she was little. She gets up and does weird things. She’s even made herself sandwiches in the middle of the night and rearranged furniture without realizing it.”
“Okay, Mr. Larson, thank you.” One of the policemen who had been taking notes put his notepad back in his coat pocket. “I know you’re anxious to get to the hospital.”
I saw my mom look at me from the lawn. She took a step toward me like she was instinctively going to come and comfort me, but then she stopped, her face confused and racked with pain as if she was asking me, Gretchen, what have you done? What is wrong with you? I put my cuffed hands on the cold glass, to wave, to reach toward her, to beg for forgiveness . . . but she didn’t move any closer. The second officer looked at her looking at me, frozen in her step. He put his hand on her shoulder and said, “Mrs. Larson, I know you want to get to the hospital, so if you can just get us a coat for your daughter to take with her, we can let you go for now.”
“Of course,” my mom mumbled, looking away from me and hurrying into the house to grab me a jacket. I could hear the faint, muffled sound of some neighbors talking in hushed tones from the side of the street. When she came back, she didn’t even glance at me. She went over and gave it to the police officer. He thanked her, and she went back inside.
My dad walked over and the other officer, who’d hopped into the driver’s seat, rolled the window partially down for me to speak to him. I looked at him, not knowing what to say. “Pappa” was all that fell from my lips.
“Gretchen”—he looked at my white T-shirt, saw the blood, and winced—“we’ll bring you some clean clothes soon.”
“But,” I said, “where are they taking me?”
“For now, to the police station. We’ll be there soon. Right now, though, we need to go to the hospital to check on your brother.”
“Is he okay? I want to come there.”
My dad’s Adam’s apple moved up, then down as he swallowed hard, his eyes tearing up. He looked away from me to the house.
“Pappa, is Per okay?”
“I don’t know, Gretchen. I don’t know that yet.”
“Is Mamma mad at me?”
“No, no, not mad. She’s in shock.” He took a deep breath, then said, “I have to go now. We need to get to the hospital. We
will see you soon.”
I watched him leave, his shoulders slumped. The window was still partially open. I listened to his boots scratching the ice as he walked away, a lonely and forsaken sound. It receded farther and farther away into the cold night until the policeman whose name I didn’t even know rolled the window up from his control pad, put the car in gear, and drove me away from my home.
• • •
Recalling the early days after it happened is very difficult. They were jammed with emotion: agony, despair, ruin, fear. I hardly slept at all at the psychiatric hospital in Bergen for the first few days after it occurred. But when I did, I underwent a series of sleep EEGs where they hooked colorful wires with electrodes to my forehead, the crown of my head, the base of my skull, and my chin to measure my electrical impulses while I slept. A small device was hooked beneath my nose to monitor my breathing patterns. The test results would be used to decide if the case would go to the Norwegian court system or not—in essence, if I should actually be charged with manslaughter or murder. One morning, the neurologist and sleep specialist administering the exams looked at me over the top of his glasses while unhooking the electrodes. I wrapped my arms around my chest and was shaking slightly.
“You poor thing,” he said, pulling up the blanket for me. I wasn’t cold; that’s not the reason I shook, but I took it anyway. “You’re a mess, aren’t you?”
I didn’t answer for fear of breaking down in front of him, but I knew I looked pale, scared, and thin. The evening before had been miserable. I pulled my hair, dug my fingernails into my scalp until I drew blood, and ended up feeling so sick I threw up. Oatmeal-colored vomit splattered across the white floor, and I sat there wishing I had thrown up whatever was in my soul along with it—the hurt was too great to bear. I had rocked back and forth in my hospital room, groaning like a wounded animal, praying to rewind time to before I went to bed that night, but each time I closed my eyes, I only saw Per still and bloody in his bed. I wanted to die, but even that would change nothing . . . make nothing better for my parents and certainly not bring Per back. I’d barely been able to eat either, and when I did throw up again, I could only dry heave. I kept seeing Per in a stretcher being placed in the ambulance, bright blue and red lights flashing across the white snow, still in a confused state, not understanding that it was the last time I would ever see my brother again.
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