The Dark Heart

by Julie Cave

  There was thick fog outside: thick, fat fingers surrounded the building, softly embracing it. Angus felt like he was hiding in the midst of the fog, but the moment the high sun started to burn it away, it would expose him. He was lost in his thoughts, his fears, the dark shame of his past.

  We all do it, I think. We present a façade to the world, presenting ourselves as good and acceptable people. We construct walls around our lives that other people might peek over, but will never breach. Each wall represents a compartment in our life that we disguise or twist so that other people see a distortion of the truth.

  The truth as other people see it:

  I’m a good father. See how he loves his kids!

  I’m a loving husband. He really takes care of his wife.

  I’m a trustworthy pastor. He speaks the truth to us.

  I’m a compassionate citizen. He helps other people all the time.

  I’m generous and kind. He never seems to think of himself.

  Perhaps our families see part of the truth. Our children sense the truth when we lash out in anger in words or deeds, and fear skates over the shiny surface of their eyes. Our wives see part of the truth when without even raising our voices, we cut them down with our words, and worse, we feel a thrill of satisfaction because we have won. Our friends and colleagues and acquaintances might glimpse the truth occasionally when we tell pithy and self-deprecating stories about ourselves but we never ask about them. As for the towns and cities in which we live, where we are known only by reputation, the citizens there will never see the truth.

  We put on a show, a shiny, happy show that masks the truth of who we really are. We lie even to ourselves. We are unkind and ungracious, and blame the other person for being awkward. We lose our tempers because someone else provoked us. We are selfish because nobody else cares for us. It can’t possibly be my fault.

  This is the lie we tell ourselves. I am a good person.

  I’ve laid awake in the dark dead of the night, and I’ve stripped away the defenses that cover my heart. I’ve put aside the lies we tell ourselves about our own goodness, and I’ve looked at what lies deep in my heart.

  I’ve seen the truth of who I really am. My heart is dark. It is black with sin and violence and pride.

  Angus looked around his office, an extension of what he felt was all that was false about him. Books lined the walls: serious books about law and history and philosophy. They told people that he was intelligent and thoughtful and even perhaps wise.

  I haven’t read the books. I don’t know who wrote them. It’s all a lie.

  The office I hold — the leader of this church. I say the things I know I should say and I smile when I know I should smile. But it’s an empty shell.

  Nobody knows me or the things I’ve done or the things I know I’m capable of doing. You never really know this until you are thrust into the furnace of suffering, when the flames are burning away everything but your basest instincts; it is then you come to know yourself intimately. And you see how dark and shameful you really are.

  Angus thought that the detective seemed to understand this. Perhaps it was her keen instinct for sniffing out human frailty, but he sensed that she could see in him the latent violence that he had once unleashed. It’s a taint, a smell that you can never truly exterminate, despite the erection of thin walls.

  This dark, sinful heart of mine seeks to do harm. It’s self-preservation.

  Angus knew that the detective would find out about his past, in spite of all his efforts to conceal it, and he would be forced to confront the truth. Worse, his wife and children and the church would be forced to confront it, too. And when they find out who I really am, my life will be over.

  This war rages in my soul. My desire to keep lying, to keep running, to keep the walls in place, to keep the show going wrestles with the painful relief of giving up all those burdens. But this one thing I know for certain: if I run, I will forever be tainted with the deaths of Malia and Lola. And I did not kill either. I need to stand and face the truth, no matter what might happen.

  Angus lay his head on his desk and closed his eyes, wishing he could escape himself. He wished he could turn off his thoughts and lie down and sleep for a year.

  A knock at his door startled him and he sat up. John Rowland poked his head in. “Have you heard?” he asked.

  “Heard what?”

  “There’s been another woman murdered,” said Rowland. “On Rushcutters Road. I hope this doesn’t cause any panic.”

  Angus’s heart seemed to stop beating altogether. Around a bright pain in his chest, he asked: “Who was it?”

  “The murdered woman?” Rowland shrugged. “I don’t know who she is. They haven’t released a name.”

  Angus was not sure how he managed to say upright in his chair. He felt like a quivering cup of Jello. I know who it is. I know.

  “That’s awful.” His voice sounded like it was coming from someone else, a vast distance away. “What should we do?”

  “Let’s just wait and see,” suggested Rowland. “If there starts to be some panic-mongering in the media, we’ll issue something. More police on the streets, that kind of thing.”

  Angus nodded. “Good, sounds good. Thanks.”

  Rowland disappeared and Angus sank down into his chair. Every one of his limbs shook and he couldn’t seem to catch his breath. They’re coming for me.

  He was seized with a powerful urge to leave this town. His fear and panic was suffocating. But he needed to be done with running. He needed to stand up and tell the truth, be strong for the first time in his life. It is time to do the right thing.

  ****

  The setting sun threw long, dark fingers reaching across from the horizon as the temperature fell even further. Darkness had already enveloped the building when Elise glanced out of the window and said to Dinah, “You ready to go?”

  As Dinah wound her scarf around her neck, Elise’s phone began to buzz on her desk, startling her. It was Dr. Walker. Elise put the speaker on.

  “Hello, Detective,” he bubbled. “Sorry to interrupt your evening, but there are a few things I thought you should know right away.”

  “Sure, Dr. Walker,” Elise said. Dinah smiled. It was impossible to talk to Dr. Walker without smiling.

  “About 25 feet from the woman’s body, farther into the woods, we found a purse and a cell phone,” said Dr. Walker. “We have a preliminary identification of her: Lola Albright.”

  It was confirmation of what they already knew, but that didn’t stop a satisfying feeling in Dinah’s stomach. “That’s great,” Elise said. “I mean, it’s mystifying, but I’m always happy to put a name to the face.”

  “I thought I’d drop the cell phone over to you, since I’m passing by on the way back to Norfolk,” said Dr. Walker. “I’ll have the autopsy for you in a few days, I hope.”

  Fifteen minutes later, Dinah held Lola Albright’s cell phone in her hand, hoping that it would divulge more than Malia’s phone had.

  She started with the list of contacts. Interestingly, Lola had not ascribed a name to any phone number in her contacts list. She had simply given each number an initial.

  Next, she moved to the text messages. There were several messages to and from someone with the initial M, which appeared to be Malia. Dinah recognized some of the messages from Malia’s phone. Those messages seemed to revolve around Lola checking on her friend.

  There was also a number of messages from someone with the initial A. The most recent had come through only a few days ago, and it was short: call me! Immediately, Dinah thought of Angus, who had hotly denied knowing Lola Albright.

  Elise shared her theory. “I’ve got an idea,” she said. “Let’s call that number and see if Angus answers.” Dinah sat back in her chair while Elise used the office phone to call the number tagged with the initial A. Listening to a dial tone, she was tense with anticipation.

  “Hello?” a male voice answered. It sounded familiar, and anxious. “Hello?” />
  “Hello, with whom am I speaking?” Elise asked.

  There was a pause.

  “Angus Whitehall. With whom am I speaking?”

  “Detective Elise Jones.”

  There was a long silence while that bombshell was digested.

  “How —? I mean —” The pastor actually sounded flabbergasted.

  “I would ask the same question of you,” snapped Elise. “You told me that you didn’t know Lola Albright. Imagine my surprise when I see your name and number in Lola’s phone.”

  There was another long silence.

  “And what do you have to say about this phone number I’ve just called? You have two cell phones. You forgot to tell me about that.”

  “What happened to Lola?” Angus asked, at length.

  “I was hoping you could tell me,” said Elise.

  “I haven’t seen her for weeks!”

  “Well, she’s dead.”

  “How?” Angus didn’t sound shocked.

  “She was murdered. Just like Malia Shaw. Know anything about that, sir?” Elise asked.

  “Of course not! When did this happen? How did this happen?”

  “Where were you last night, Mr. Whitehall?”

  “You think I did it?”

  “Here’s the thing, Mr. Whitehall. You tell me that you have no idea who Lola Albright is, let alone where she is. Suddenly, we discover she’s been murdered and the truth is that you did know her, well enough to be texting each other several times a week. On a second, secret cell phone. So you’ll forgive me if you seem like a bit of a suspect right now.”

  Another silence. Dinah would have paid the entire contents of her checking account to see the man’s face right now. She was willing to bet Angus Whitehall’s hands were Irish dancing across his knees.

  “So, now that we’re being honest with each other,” said Elise. “How did you know Lola?”

  The silence went on for a long time. Finally, Angus spoke with great reluctance. “The truth is that we are all old friends. Malia, Lola, and I have known each other a long time. We went to college together.”

  “Where?”

  “San Diego, California.”

  “How did you all end up in Ten Mile Hollow, Virginia?”

  “I moved here first. They followed.”

  “They both followed you here to this town?” Dinah scribbled this information down furiously.

  “Well, Lola was looking out for Malia, so really Lola followed Malia.”

  “So you moved here . . . what, about 15 years ago?”

  “Yes. I think that’s about right. Just before my daughter was born.”

  “Why did you lie about knowing Lola?”

  “I . . . I don’t know.” Dinah could hear the bald fear in the pastor’s voice. “To tell you the truth, I’m a little worried.”

  “What about?”

  “Two friends from college are murdered — don’t you think I might be next?”

  Dinah and Elise glanced at each other. “Who would want to kill you all?”

  “I don’t know!”

  Dinah shook her head. Now he was veering into untruth.

  Elise remained silent, also seemingly skeptical of his story.

  “I believe we may need to have another talk,” she said, at length. “It sounds like we need to go through your old contacts from college.”

  “Ah,” said Angus. He didn’t sound thrilled with this idea, but since he’d brought it up, he now had to go with it. “Well, whenever you are free, Detective. I’m happy to work with you on this.” Elise hung up after bidding him goodbye.

  Dinah’s investigative instincts told her that it was improbable that he’d lied about Lola simply because he was scared. A normal person would have brought her up immediately, worried about her safety as well as his own. He was hiding something — if not murder, what? What motive would he have for killing two college friends? These questions whirling around in her head, she and Elise finally left for the evening.

  ****

  The following morning, Elise had the unenviable job of working her way through the mountain of paperwork on her desk. It fell to Dinah to make the necessary phone calls. Sheriff Wilder sat at his desk nearby, snuffling his way through a packet of chips. The noise was supremely irritating. Dinah listened for a moment — Wilder would crunch through the chip and swallow with a weird snorting sound, like he was a pig eating a treasured truffle. Though Wilder was frowning fiercely at his computer screen, it wasn’t because he was concentrating on work. Dinah knew that the Sherriff was playing solitaire. She sighed and tried to concentrate on her own work.

  Her first phone call was to the university in San Diego. Apparently, this was where Angus Whitehall, Malia Shaw, and Lola Albright had met and become friends. They had formed such a fast friendship that they had all decided to settle in the same small town in Virginia, half a world away from southern California. Dinah was still skeptical of this story — she had left her own hometown to go to college, and had built her own life. Her college friends hadn’t followed her. They’d built their own lives, their own families, and their own paths. It was all just too weird.

  It was earlier in the morning on the West Coast, but a receptionist transferred the call to Student Services, who in turn, transferred Dinah to the vice dean. With each transfer, Dinah’s temper deteriorated. When the vice dean answered the phone, Dinah was hot all over with frustration.

  “My name is Dinah Harris and I’m a consultant with the Ten Mile Hollow Sheriff’s Department,” she said, as pleasantly as she could. “I’d like to ask some questions about some previous students.”

  The vice dean launched into a predictable speech. “I can’t divulge grades or other personal information. That would be a violation —”

  “I understand,” interrupted Dinah. “Let me explain what I need, Ms. —. I’m sorry I didn’t catch your name.”

  “My name is Victoria McHale.” Had there been a superior sniff following this statement, Dinah wouldn’t have been at all surprised.

  “I’m investigating the backgrounds of three people,” said Dinah, “two of whom have recently been murdered.” Using the word “murder” usually gets attention.

  The vice dean wasn’t cool enough to hide her gasp of dismay. “Oh dear,” she said, her voice a little warmer.

  “During our investigation, I’ve uncovered some information that suggests that these three people attended your university. All I want to know is whether this is true and when it was they attended.”

  “I see,” said Victoria McHale. She seemed a little relieved. “Well, our records only became computerized in about 1990, so I’ll do my best.”

  “I’d like you to check ten years ago to as far back as your records show, please,” said Dinah.

  “Certainly. What are the names?”

  “Angus Whitehall, male.”

  There were several moments of silence save for the clicking of a keyboard. Dinah watched the sheriff licking out his chip packet while she waited. A porcine snout sniffing through a trough of rubbish would have been more elegant than Wilder. Elise looked over in Dinah’s direction and stuck out her tongue in disgust. Dinah smiled.

  “Okay,” said Ms. McHale. She drew the word out as if she was uncertain, and in that moment, Dinah felt a tiny tickle race up her spine. “I’ve checked from the year 2000 right back to 1991, which is as far back as I can go on our computerized records. I can’t find that we’ve ever had a student by that name.”

  Dinah thought about that. “Is there any male at all with the last name Whitehall?”

  There was another pause. Thankfully, Wilder had thrown his empty chip bag in the trash and had lumbered out of the office.

  “The only Whitehall to attend this campus is a female, and in fact she’s still here,” said Ms. McHale. “There are a couple of Whites, a Whiteley, and a Whitman.”

  Dinah wrote this down. “What about Malia Shaw, female?”

  After several minutes, Ms. McHale reported the sam
e finding. “Nobody by that name, I’m afraid. There are a few with the same last name.”

  “And female, Lola Albright?”

  Again, the answer was negative. Angus Whitehall, Malia Shaw, and Lola Shaw had not attended UC San Diego — at least not under the names they’d been known by in Ten Mile Hollow. Dinah dug up the false identification documents they’d found in Malia’s apartment.

  “What about these names?” she asked. “Theresa Scott, Lexi Hollingsworth, Amanda Wallace?”

  There was a very long pause. As she waited, Dinah’s mind raced. Angus Whitehall had been caught in a blatant lie — but what precisely had he lied about? His attendance at the university? Meeting the women in San Diego?

  “Ah,” said Victoria McHale, a different tone in her voice. Dinah stilled.

  “What?”

  “Well, we do have a Theresa Scott. She came to this campus for an undergraduate degree in the mid ’90s.”

  Dinah sat back in her chair, her mind temporarily cleared by the white-hot flare of revelation.

  “Detective? Are you still there?” Ms. McHale asked, when the silence had stretched on awkwardly.

  “I’m sorry. That is very interesting information. I appreciate your help,” said Dinah, not bothering to correct the woman labeling her a detective. “Thank you.”

  She hung up.

  She thought about one dead woman, meeting death alone in a dirty apartment, surrounded by needles, by the despair of her life. She thought of the most recent dead woman, lying like a frozen angel in the woods, stumbled across inadvertently. While across town, the pastor lived in a warmly lit home, his family around him, a worthy and productive life.

  He knew why these women died, Dinah was sure of it. He might have had a hand in their deaths — whether directly or by orchestration, she wasn’t sure.

  I’m going to get the truth, one way or the other.

  ****

  Later that afternoon, Dinah felt her eyelids begin to droop despite the coffee. The late night was catching up with her.

  Elise noticed. “I feel much the same way. Want to have an early finish today?”

  “Sounds like a plan,” agreed Dinah.

  She had closed down her computer and turned off her lamp when Elise’s phone rang again. “Hello?”