When David Died: A True Story

by John Locke

  Michael says, “The naked photos.”

  Broadus shakes his head. “He didn’t erase the dozens of calls he made and received from a number we can’t identify. It appears to be a throwaway.”

  Without looking in my direction, Jess asks, “What’s a throwaway?”

  “A pre-paid phone.”

  “You mean like drug dealers use?”

  “That’s right.”

  “You think Daddy was a drug dealer?”

  “No, but he was conversing regularly with someone who didn’t want his—or her—identity known. Have any of you been using a pre-paid phone?”

  No one speaks up, which is pretty interesting, since Jessie knows I have a throwaway phone in my suitcase and I happen to know Alison has been using one for months.

  “How about you, Miss Hill?”

  I shake my head.

  Broadus says, “Reason I ask, the day the money was transferred to your account, David made two calls to that number in the space of thirty minutes: just before, and just after the transfer was completed.”

  “So?”

  “Considering there’s no record of you and him calling each other, I’d say that’s quite a coincidence, wouldn’t you?” He removes his phone from his pocket, selects a number from his call list, and says: “I’m going to call that number right now. Wouldn’t it be funny if we hear it ringing somewhere nearby?”

  “Hilarious.”

  Once again I feel Jessie’s eyes on me, or at least on my suitcase, as Broadus presses the key. And though we’re all listening intently, I already know the phone he’s calling can’t possibly be heard ringing, since I stomped it into pieces and flushed it down the toilet in the women’s bathroom at the Chevron station at Exit 53 on I-64 outside Frankfort, Kentucky, while Michael was gassing the car up yesterday. The throwaway phone in my suitcase was purchased last week by a teenager I met in a shopping center next to a Wal-Mart, and hasn’t been used yet. When Broadus ends his call, I ask, “Was there anything else, Detective?”

  “Yes. Do you off-hand know your social security number?”

  “No.”

  “You don’t?”

  “I do, but I’m tired of playing your stupid games. If you want it badly enough, look it up in your law-enforcement database.”

  “Actually, I did that last night. And you know what I learned?”

  Of course I do. But I wait for him to say it:

  “Nicki Hill doesn’t exist.”

  Poor Michael. Despite realizing he’s just become a millionaire, he’s having a rough time, evidenced by the look of total bewilderment on his face. He points his finger in my direction and feebly says, “She’s right there.”

  Broadus says, “She might call herself Nicki Hill, but her real name’s Katie Walker.”

  My eyes go straight to Alison’s face to see how she reacts, and all I can say is, either the lady doesn’t know the name (which I doubt) or she deserves an Oscar. Apart from the split second her eyes may have widened, it’s hard to tell. But what strikes me as curious, for all the astonishing police work Detective Broadus has accomplished in the last twenty-plus hours—and let’s give the man his due, he’s done an amazing job—even he has no idea who Katie Walker is, and why this revelation has just become a total game-changer.

  Part Two:

  Michael, Jessie, and Alison

  1.

  Michael

  EIGHTEEN MONTHS AGO I was sitting in a Starbucks waiting for a 22-year-old divorced aerobics instructor named Chrissy to show up and rock my world. We met on a dating site, but she obviously changed her mind about me because she never showed. At the point she was officially 30-minutes late, a stunning brunette (think: Alicia Vikander, the actress) jumped into the seat across from me and whispered, “Act like you know me.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “There’s a guy,” she said, as if that explained everything.

  I started to look over my shoulder to see who this guy was, but she said, “Don’t do that. You’ll tip him off.”

  “To what?”

  “The fact I’m ditching him.”

  “Is he your boyfriend?”

  “Excuse me? You honestly think I’d go out with a guy like that on purpose?”

  “I have no idea. I haven’t actually seen him yet.”

  “Well I just saw him, and I’ve got a bad feeling.”

  “Fair enough. Can I ask you something?”

  “Please do! It’ll make us look like a couple.”

  “If you keep sitting here, am I apt to get beat up?”

  “Do you think I’d put you in that sort of position?”

  “I truly don’t know.”

  “Want me to leave?”

  “No.”

  She smiled. “I’m not telling you my name.”

  “That’s okay. I’m Michael Thorne.”

  “Hi Michael. Thanks for letting me sit here. Don’t worry, I’ll bail as soon as it’s safe.”

  “No need to rush.” I paused. “Why are you afraid to tell me your name?”

  “I’m not. I just know you’ll forget it.”

  “That’s impossible. You’re literally the prettiest girl I’ve ever spoken to.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Tell me your name. I’m dying to know.”

  She stared at me a moment, then said, “Nicki Hill. Say it three times.”

  After I did she said, “You’ve been great. Want my digits?”

  “Absolutely!” She took my phone, typed her name and number into my contact list, then stood, walked to the front door, opened it, looked in all directions, and left.

  By then I was completely under her spell.

  From that day to this we’ve argued 90% of our waking hours, broken up more times than I can count, got engaged twice, and in all these months I’ve fucked her exactly—don’t laugh—three times. We’ve done a lot of fooling around, meaning I get to touch her from the waist up on a semi-regular basis, but not below the waist, because she’s got serious issues.

  How serious?

  Let’s put it this way: every time I tried to touch her private area she broke up with me. As for the three times we had actual intercourse? None lasted more than a minute, and in all cases she locked herself in the bathroom afterward. The first two times she vomited, and last night she accused me of rape. On the bright side, she loves my sister Jess, and my mom, and they adore her. And when she and I are alone and she’s in a good mood (which is rare) she’s funny as hell, fun to be around, gives great hand jobs, and has no problem peeing in front of me or walking around the house completely naked. I mentioned the peeing not because I’m weird, but because you’d assume any girl who doesn’t want to be touched below the waist would also feel uncomfortable peeing in front of me. But strangely, it’s not an issue.

  2.

  FOR THE LONGEST time I had no idea why Nicki was so freaked out about the touching. Then Mom told me about Nicki’s childhood, and how she bounced from one foster family to the next, after being subjected to the worst abuse imaginable. It broke my heart. I decided whatever Nicki’s shortcomings might be, the good outweighed the bad. And until yesterday we’d been getting along better than ever. She was even considering seeing a therapist to help her with her intimacy issues.

  What’s that they say? What a difference a day makes? Yesterday we were in the same coffee shop where we met, laughing and having a great time…then Mom called to say Dad hanged himself, and from there everything turned to shit and Nicki morphed back into Crazy Nicki. It started the minute we got to Mom and Dad’s house, when the detectives separated us and asked us tons of questions about Nicki’s relationship with my dad.

  My dad?

  Next thing you know, Mom’s convinced Nicki’s been having an affair with Dad. I knew better, but didn’t want to tell her about Nicki’s intimacy issues. Then last night we were in bed and I was upset and Nicki was being super nice, trying to comfort me. With all the emotions swirling through my brain, I went for it. The entire
event lasted maybe forty seconds, and as always I didn’t get to finish because she rushed to the bathroom and locked herself inside until I fell asleep. A couple hours later I noticed she’d left the room and I went looking for her and found her in the hotel lobby, telling Jess I raped her.

  And Jess totally bought it.

  That was the final straw. I get that Nicki has serious intimacy issues, but I dare her to show one bruise or mark anywhere on her body that would offer the slightest suggestion of rape.

  But that’s Nicki.

  I’ll stop short of calling her a liar, because who knows what goes on in her mind during the act of sex? But as God is my witness, I didn’t rape her, and nor was I rough with her. Was I excited? Yes. After all, she didn’t retch. Did I approach the event with great enthusiasm? Certainly. After all, she didn’t throw a fit when I touched her down there.

  Mom said it best a while ago: since yesterday afternoon we’ve been on an emotional roller coaster. Between Dad hanging himself while jacking off, and the revelations from Jess about how he stole Nicki’s panties last March, and all the crap Detective Broadus has accused Nicki of, and her bombshell that Dad paid her more than a million dollars to dump me and run off with him—it’s just too much to deal with. But through it all, Nicki’s good qualities were on display. Astonishingly—if she’s to be believed—instead of keeping all the money Dad gave her, she transferred it to me. And the crazy thing is, I believe her. I absolutely do. Because one thing I’ll say about Nicki: she’s immune to money. Never once has she asked me for any, or asked about our family’s money, or what my dad did for a living, or even what sort of assets or trust funds I might have.

  She doesn’t have a greedy bone in her body.

  3.

  I’LL TELL YOU something else about Nicki: my dad was a very nice-looking guy who looked years younger than his true age of forty-two. And while that’s a big age difference for Nicki, I doubt many women would turn down $1.2 million to have an affair with my dad. True, she wouldn’t have wanted the sex. But Dad probably would have settled for what she’d offer, same as I have, and I say that because he gave her the money anyway. And of course, Nicki could have taken it and left me, had she wanted to.

  But she gave it to me.

  So here we are, in the hotel lobby, and Nicki’s packed her suitcase and—big surprise—she’s leaving me again, and I’m coming across very badly because I was already in a foul mood before she accused me of raping her. Detective Broadus keeps hammering her with accusations, and even though she’s acing her responses, I’m learning one shocking fact after another. But to Nicki’s credit, even though I’ve been ugly to her, and Mom cursed her, and Jess slapped her, here’s Nicki, telling Broadus how much she loves our family.

  So I’m going to do what I always do: give her some space and time and take her back the moment she’s ready. And when she moves back in I’ll try like hell not to touch her below the waist.

  Which reminds me…

  4.

  ONE OF THE most peculiar things about Nicki is the way she references things she wants to avoid. For example, she’s repulsed by testicles. Doesn’t want to think about them, hear about them, and especially doesn’t want to see or touch them, even by accident. In Nicki’s perfect world, there’d be no testicles! And yet she calls them “friends,” as in: “I can’t stand your friends.” So instead of saying, “I’ll give you a hand job if you cover your balls,” she’ll say, “I might give you some relief tonight, but I don’t want to see your friends.”

  Even weirder, instead of saying “I can’t stand intercourse,” she’ll say, “I don’t want children,” which is very confusing when we’re out with friends and they ask, “Why are you guys always breaking up?” And she’ll say, “Michael wants children, and I don’t. Every fight we’ve ever had boils down to him wanting children.” And then they look at me, like, “Jesus, Michael. You’ve got this incredibly beautiful girl and she wants it to be just the two of you, and you’re fighting about kids? Are you crazy?”

  –I just shrug and say nothing, content to love her, and keep her secrets.

  But that said, I’m stunned about Dad. You think you know someone after spending a lifetime with him, and suddenly learn he’s into kinky sex, lusts after your fiancée, steals her panties, ogles her nude photos, and pays her a fortune to leave you and run off with him. I swear, if I’d found out all this shit before yesterday Dad wouldn’t have had time to kill himself. I would have strangled him with my bare hands.

  Detective Broadus has hit Nicki with everything but the kitchen sink, and she’s killing it for one simple reason: she’s innocent. But he’s made it his life’s mission to make her look guilty of something. Did she have an affair with Dad? No. Then why are her nude pictures on his phone? I took the pictures, Dad transferred them to his phone. Why did she quit her job? Her boss came onto her. I believe her, it’s happened before. Why didn’t she tell me? I let it slide the first time, but like she said, she knew I’d go to her former workplace and make a scene.

  Now it gets interesting:

  5.

  DAD GAVE HER $1.2 million? Yes. Was she blackmailing him? No. Can she prove it? Yes: it’s not blackmail if she didn’t ask for the money, and didn’t keep it. And here’s the kicker: she gave it to me, which was the biggest mistake she could have possibly made. Why? Because Dad gave the money to Nicki, not me, so Nicki owes the gift taxes. Yes, she transferred the money to me, but that doesn’t eliminate her tax burden. She still owes the IRS the gift taxes on $1.2 million! So do I, since she transferred the money to me. But luckily I now have $200,000 with which to pay my tax burden.

  In other words, I have complete and total power over her future: if she leaves me, she won’t be able to afford to pay her taxes and the IRS will put her in jail. But if she marries me, we’ll pay the taxes as a married couple.

  She’s in a tight spot, and has but one way out: marrying me.

  Poor Nicki has no clue what she’s done, or how it could affect her. But fortunately for her, I still love her and want to marry her.

  Now Broadus is asking for Nicki’s social security number, and claims she’s not who she says she is, but rather someone named Katie Walker. So I immediately start wracking my brain, trying to figure out if this is one of Nicki’s weird things, like how she claims not to want children, except that she’s telling Detective Broadus she can call herself whatever she wants as long as she’s not using a fake name to break any laws. That doesn’t sound right to me, but surprisingly, he agrees with her and admits there are no outstanding warrants anywhere in the country for either name. Still, he asks why she feels the need to use a fake name.

  Nicki responds, “I’m no longer that girl. I wanted to put that name and that life behind me.”

  Broadus says, “Then why not make it legal? Why not go to court and have your name legally changed?”

  And Nicki says, “I planned to. I just haven’t gotten around to it yet.”

  I ask, “How long have you been using the alias?”

  Detective Broadus answers for her: “Eighteen months.”

  Which of course is the exact amount of time I’ve known her.

  Mom says, “Detective, I appreciate all the hard work you’ve put into this, but Nicki’s clearly got nothing to do with my husband’s death. She’s a friend of the family, and I regret that your comments last night made us doubt her.”

  Broadus says, “Miss Walker?”

  Nicki says, “If you want my cooperation you’ll call me Nicki Hill.”

  “Very well. Miss Hill, would you be willing to take a polygraph?”

  “About what?”

  “I’d like to see what the polygraph says about you having a sexual relationship with David Thorne, or if you were blackmailing him.”

  We all look at Nicki, who says, “If I take the test and pass it will you accept the result and guarantee no police officer or detective will ever question me about this again?”

  “Absolutely.”

&
nbsp; “Will you put it in writing?”

  “We don’t work that way.”

  “Then no. Sorry.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because it’s one more thing, and I haven’t done anything wrong. You know for a fact I wasn’t even in Lexington when David hanged himself, and nor did I have an affair with him, and nor did I ask him for money, and nor did I keep the money he sent. I’ve never committed a crime and never used my old or new names for illegal purposes.”

  “You didn’t want the money David offered?”

  “Of course I did. But I’m not a prostitute.”

  “I didn’t claim you were.”

  “You claimed I was blackmailing him.”

  “Weren’t you?”

  “Of course not.”

  “You said you never asked him to pay you the money.”

  “That’s correct.”

  “Yet he wired the money to your personal account.”

  “So?”

  “If you weren’t blackmailing him, how did he know your account information?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “How did he know your personal bank account number and the bank’s routing number? It seems to me the only way he’d know that is if you told him where to wire the money.”

  6.

  NICKI ROLLS HER eyes because once again Detective Broadus is making her look bad when she’s done nothing wrong.

  “I’ll take this one,” I say. “Dad does all our taxes. Last year he offered to do Nicki’s, and she didn’t want to impose, but this year she said yes. So he had all her financial information, including her checking account number.”

  Broadus frowns and looks at Rudd.

  Rudd shakes his head.

  I can see it in their eyes: they’re done. Mom sees it too, and says, “Detective? Please. Let it go. We just want to move on.”

  Broadus says, “It doesn’t bother you that your husband sent this young, good-looking lady a million dollars?”