Keep Her Safe

by Sophie Hannah

  The woman’s short—not much taller than the chair the man’s sitting on—with wavy, golden-brown hair in a ponytail. She looks to be in her forties. Her face, particularly her mouth, makes me think of a duck. She’s walking slowly around the man. In her hand is a paintbrush with green paint on its tip. After circling him twice, she stops, stares at the camera and says, “The great image has no form.”

  The man, also straight to camera, repeats the line: “The great image has no form.”

  “Everything is a continuum,” says the woman.

  “There are no objects, only non-objects,” says the man.

  Her: “Art cannot be separated from reality.”

  Him: “Art is not a representation of reality.”

  Both of them together: “Art is reality and reality is art.”

  The woman uses her brush to paint the word “The” on the man’s forehead, then passes it to him. He gets up out of his chair, revealing himself to be considerably taller than her. Then he bends down and paints something on the stage. When he straightens up and stands back, the camera angle shifts to show what he’s painted on the floorboards: “great image has no.”

  The woman steps forward, and the man paints the word “form” on her forehead. They hold hands and bow.

  That’s it: clip over.

  “Kristie and Jeff Reville?” I ask. “I read online that he’s an art teacher and she’s an artist.”

  “Yeah, that was Jeff and Kristie. I wanted you to see that. So you’d know.”

  “Know what?”

  “That they could never hurt anyone. They’re good people. Some of the best.”

  Did he watch a different clip from the one I saw? To me the Revilles seemed deranged. Anyone who makes a video of themselves painting green words on each other’s foreheads . . . that doesn’t say normal to me.

  Also, when the person vouching for you is a man who kidnaps women and holds them at gunpoint . . .

  “Was it one of them who wrote the book, the Melody book? Jeff or Kristie?”

  “Why do you think that?”

  “I notice you’re not saying, ‘Of course not. Melody wrote the book.’ I can’t think who else it could be apart from Kristie or Jeff Reville. I doubt it was you, and it’s hardly going to be Annette and Naldo Chapa. The bit I’ve read so far doesn’t show them in a good light.”

  “Cara, Cara.” He exhales slowly. “When it comes to those two, there is no good light. If you doubt they deserve to be where they are, then I’ve got something else you need to see.”

  “However terrible they were as parents, if Melody’s alive, they shouldn’t be serving life sentences for her murder.”

  He’s reaching for the laptop again. “See what you think once you’ve watched this. You’ll see Annette and Naldo didn’t lose any sleep over their missing daughter. Not a wink.”

  FROM JUSTICE WITH BONNIE

  August 27, 2012

  BJ: Welcome back to the show. We have with us in the studio, computer forensics analyst Dr. Lucie Story. Welcome, Lucie.

  LS: Thanks so much, Bonnie. It’s great to be here. I’m the biggest fan of the show.

  BJ: That’s so sweet of you. Well, we do our best here on Justice with Bonnie to help deliver justice to victims and their families. Although, in this case, as you probably know, this show believes that the family of little Melody—her parents, Annette and Naldo Chapa—are the guilty parties.

  LS: Bonnie, after what I’ve seen firsthand, I can’t disagree with you, though obviously that’s for a jury to decide at some point in the future.

  BJ: I only wish I had the faith in juries that I once had. But, Lucie, you’re here today to tell us what you found when you did a forensic analysis of Annette Chapa’s online activity during the period between when Melody went missing and when Annette and Naldo Chapa were charged with her murder. You performed this analysis yourself, didn’t you?

  LS: Yes, I did, at the request of the Philadelphia police.

  BJ: And what did you find?

  LS: Melody disappeared and was reported missing on March 2, 2010. At first, as I’m sure most people are aware, the suspicions of the investigating detectives were focused on the next-door neighbors, Jeff and Kristie Reville. The first time there was any indication of suspicion in the direction of Annette and Naldo was March 22, when you said unambiguously on this show that you suspected them, Bonnie.

  BJ: That’s right. I’m proud to say that I wasn’t afraid to speak up when everybody else was either too stupid or too scared to put their neck on the line. I could see it right away: those parents knew where their daughter was because they’d put her there. But tell our viewers at home, Lucie—how is that date, March 22, relevant to what you found when you examined Annette Chapa’s laptop?

  LS: Okay, here’s the thing: between March 2, when Melody disappeared, and March 22, when you said live on this show that you believed Annette and Naldo Chapa were responsible for their daughter’s disappearance, there was a pattern to Annette Chapa’s internet use.

  BJ: And the relevant issue here is the times at which she used the internet, not so much what sites she visited, correct?

  LS: Yes. Though later, the sites she visited become relevant—but I’ll come to that in due course. So during that period—March 2 to March 22—Annette Chapa didn’t work. She was at home, focused only on finding Melody, according to her. Finding—

  BJ: Finding her dead, not alive. She seemed convinced little Melody was dead.

  LS: Exactly what I was about to say. Finding her body, and her killer—and we have that from Annette’s own mouth. So, during this period—March 2 to March 22—Annette was online, not constantly but regularly. With reasonable frequency all day and evening. Then, at around eleven, eleven thirty at night, that’d be it—no more online activity. And then she’d be offline until around eight, eight thirty the next morning.

  BJ: And so a reasonable person would assume . . . ?

  LS: That she was asleep.

  BJ: Sure. I mean, who wouldn’t get an unbroken nine hours’ sleep a night immediately after their daughter got abducted, right?

  LS: I suppose Annette Chapa might not have been asleep throughout those nights. I mean, she might have been lying awake sobbing for all we know. And I can’t comment on the psychology of it, Bonnie—that’s not my area of expertise. I know Ingrid Allwood has said that misery, anxiety, depression—these things can lead a person to take refuge in sleep, and even, in some cases, bring on a sort of narcolepsy—that’s assuming Annette Chapa was asleep—

  BJ: At this point, I’m not willing to dignify any more of Allwood’s nonsense with a response. But let me ask you this: Did you check the pattern of Annette Chapa’s online activity before March 2, 2010?

  LS: Yes, I did. Pretty much the same, though obviously Annette was working right up until the day Melody disappeared, and her online activity reflected that. But the pattern in the evenings was the same. Eleven, eleven thirty, it looks as if she logged off and went to sleep.

  BJ: And then no more online activity at all until eight, eight thirty the next morning?

  LS: No, when she was working she woke up earlier. Her first log-in was typically six thirty, seven.

  BJ: Which makes sense if she had to go into the office. But, Lucie, you agree with me that eleven thirty P.M. to seven A.M., changing to eleven thirty P.M. to eight A.M. after Melody disappeared—we’re not seeing a radical upheaval to her routine here, are we?

  LS: No. It’s more or less the same.

  BJ: Which is why a certain celebrity psychotherapist is talking out of her rear end. Whatever misery or depression Annette Chapa suffered after Melody disappeared, it didn’t cause her to sleep all that much more than usual—only an extra hour or so in the morning, and that was clearly because of not needing to get to the office. She sure had herself some lazy, leisurely mornings after murdering her daughter! I’d love to ask Ms. Allwood—I refuse to call her “Doctor”—if she’s ever before come across a mother whose beloved c
hild goes missing and it barely affects her sleep patterns at all.

  LS: Bonnie, I’m not pretending to claim that I know the hours Annette Chapa slept or stayed awake in March 2010. The evidence I’ve gathered shows only when she was on- and offline.

  BJ: I understand that, and people will draw the only conclusion that’s plausible: that Annette Chapa did not lose any sleep over her missing daughter. On the contrary, she got an extra hour of shut-eye every day thereafter. Now, tell us what changes after March 22, in regard to Annette’s internet use?

  LS: From March 22, the pattern completely changes, Bonnie. I assume Annette must have grabbed a half hour of sleep here and there, but from March 22 onward, there are no long eight- or nine-hour stretches when she was offline. And when I say none, I mean it: none.

  BJ: That is truly fascinating, isn’t it?

  LS: It really is. There’s not much of a pattern at all after March 22. Some nights internet activity would stop at around two or three A.M., other nights it’d stop at four or five. Once stopped, it might start again an hour and a half or three hours later. But what can be said with certainty is that, after March 22, Annette Chapa did not get another decent night’s sleep. And it’s particularly noteworthy that, March 22 through March 25, she seems to have gotten no sleep at all.

  BJ: She was on the internet all night?

  LS: It appears so, yes.

  BJ: All right, so let me get this straight: Melody’s disappearance didn’t keep her mom awake nights, but it seems that my saying live on air that I thought she was guilty as sin . . . did? Is that a reasonable conclusion to draw?

  LS: Well . . . certainly when I looked at Annette Chapa’s internet activity between March 22 and March 25, I found that a lot of it was focused around you. In layman’s terms, she thoroughly checked you out.

  BJ: And I guess that’s not surprising. If someone went on America’s favorite legal show and accused me of first-degree murder, I’d do a whole lot more than check them out. What’s more surprising is what happened between March 22 and September 28, 2010, when Annette and Naldo Chapa were finally—thank the Lord in his mercy!—charged with little Melody’s murder. Tell us about that.

  LS: As I’ve said already, Annette Chapa did not get a solid night’s sleep after March 22.

  BJ: So that’s six months of no proper sleep. That’s incredible! And also horribly telling, in my opinion. Look, I spoke up on March 22, sure, but no one listened. No one wanted to listen. The whole world was convinced Kristie and Jeff Reville had abducted and killed poor Melody, and convinced I was wrong and dumb and vindictive to insist otherwise. The evidence, back then, seemed to point to the Revilles, and that didn’t change until September 2, when I had Mallory Tondini on the show. So why on earth didn’t Annette Chapa calm down on, for example, April 2 or 3, and think to herself, “Looks like no one’s paying attention to that horrible Juno woman—I don’t need to worry about her”? Why didn’t she start sleeping nights right around then?

  LS: Obviously I can’t answer that, Bonnie. I don’t know what was going through her mind. I can tell you, though, that in her shoes, I’d have been petrified if I thought you suspected me of murder, and I don’t think that fear’d be easy to lose. Everyone knows you’re tenacious, that you care passionately about justice and you’re unlikely to give up. Also, that your specialty—and this show’s specialty—is cases where the wrong person falls under suspicion while the right one’s ignored.

  BJ: It’s true that I can’t abide detectives and DAs who take one look at a case and decide to play Pin-the-Guilt-on-the-Patsy. . . . Well, there we have it, ladies and gentleman: when it was only an insignificant little irritation like a missing daughter who might be dead, Annette Chapa still managed to get her regular eight or nine hours’ sleep every night. The moment she perceived her own well-being was at stake—that I suspected her and would do whatever I could to bring her to justice—suddenly she doesn’t sleep so well anymore, poor little lamb.

  LS: I suppose it’s possible to be a selfish, unloving mother and still not be a murderer, but—

  BJ: Oh, please!

  LS: You know, Bonnie, I hope I’m not speaking out of turn, but I feel a little uncomfortable about the forthcoming trial and the charge of murder specifically, when no body has been found. I wanted to ask you—

  BJ: No body, but plenty of blood, Lucie, and strands of little Melody’s hair showing clearly that she was poisoned with arsenic while alive, and what’s known as coffin flies in two locations where Melody’s blood was also found—the kind of flies you only get where there’s a dead body. That’s why, even without a body or a crime scene or eyewitnesses, a grand jury made the decision it did: to put Annette and Naldo Chapa on trial for murder. It’s only a shame the death penalty was taken off the table. Thank you, computer forensics analyst Dr. Lucie Story, for joining us. And we’re back after the break, when we’ll be joined by Naldo Chapa’s former assistant, Julie Smithfield. We’ll hear what it was like to work closely with Melody’s father, and I’ll be asking Miss Smithfield how she feels about Chapa’s imminent trial for the murder of his daughter, and whether she can shed any light on the character of his wife and the nature of their marriage and family life.

  13

  October 14, 2017

  So Swallowtail, in addition to all its other assets, had a maze. Only a small one, Priddey had been told by Dane Williamson, but popular with guests nonetheless. It was known as the Meditation Maze on account of the guided meditation walks that took place within it on Tuesday and Thursday evenings and Sunday mornings.

  “Don’t worry about reaching the butterfly,” Williamson had said with a grin as he’d waved off Priddey’s club car. “It’s not the destination that counts. It’s all about the journey.”

  Priddey had been on that journey, on foot, for nearly forty minutes, looking for Tarin Fry. No chauffeur-driven club cars in the maze, sadly. The green passageways were too narrow. Each one looked identical to the others. Every corner seemed to whisper, “Try me, try me. You haven’t before. I might be the one.” Priddey had discovered that the more a corner looked like a rock-solid option, the more likely it was to lead to a dead end. None of the bristly slabs of hedge had any distinguishing features. Wherever he was in the grid of green, the sun beat down on him. If he’d known he was going to be stuck in here this long, he’d have brought a hat.

  What the fuck was the point of a maze? And what did people do who never chanced upon the right route? Statistically it stood to reason that that would occasionally happen. How did they get back? Once you’d found the center of the maze, was that it: ordeal over? Was there a quick way out? Priddey wished he’d asked Dane Williamson some or all of these questions before setting out.

  As he walked, he called out Tarin Fry’s name and Cara Burrows’s also. A maze would be the perfect place to hide out, as long as you had weatherproof clothing and supplies of food and water. If you heard footsteps getting nearer, you could easily move off in a different direction.

  Priddey hadn’t told Williamson why he wanted to check out the maze. He wasn’t normally secretive, but with Bonnie Juno and her crew hanging around, he felt inclined to keep things to himself for as long as he could. Truth be told, he didn’t want anyone to know what he was doing until he himself knew. Did he care that Zellie Fry thought he was a jerk? Or was it that this wanting to know—about Melody, about Cara Burrows, about Riyonna Briggs—was contagious? If so, where did that leave the resolution he’d made eight months ago? If it was work, he wasn’t supposed to care.

  He sure as hell didn’t care for being lost in a maze with only the word of a Swallowtail maid to go on. She said she’d seen Tarin Fry at the entrance to the maze an hour ago. The rest of her story was verging on the incredible.

  After another ten minutes, Priddey decided to stop telling himself that any left or right turn in the distance looked promising.

  “Mrs. Fry!” he called out wearily. “Tarin Fry? Can you hear me?” Hearing a scrambling sound, h
e stopped and called her name again.

  “Who is that?” a woman’s voice answered. Nearby. American. Wherever she was, she was close. Hallelujah.

  “This is Detective Orwin Priddey. Is that Tarin Fry?”

  No answer.

  “Is it Riyonna Briggs?”

  “Oh, please. You think Riyonna’s hanging out in a maze? Is that your best theory? Why? Just for kicks?”

  “Ma’am, what’s your name? Who am I speaking to?”

  “It’s me—Tarin. Hate to disappoint, but there’s no girly get-together in full swing here. I’m alone.”

  “I need to talk to you.”

  “You are talking to me. If you want to see me while we talk, come find me at the center. You’re almost there.”

  “Any idea how I get to you?”

  An incredulous laugh from Tarin. “Come on, you’re right here. If I stick my finger through here I can touch you.”

  Priddey scanned the foliage around him, but saw no protruding fingers.

  “Can’t you see the butterfly? Large, hideous sculpture, wings poking up over the hedge?”

  “No. Going by the experience I’ve had so far, if I walk in what I think is the right direction, I’m going to end up farther away. Do you think you could come find me?”

  She said something in response, but he couldn’t hear it. From the tone, it sounded like a grumble. Then, “Sure. Don’t move.”

  Half a minute later, Tarin Fry appeared in front of him. “Come on,” she said, beckoning.

  “Where are we going?”

  “Back to the butterfly. There are benches there, and shade.”

  Priddey wanted to get out of the maze, but he said nothing. A little while longer wouldn’t kill him. Same as with the job. He’d get out soon enough—out of the police and out of this grid of green.

  The butterfly turned out to be a stone sculpture at the center of a large, round water feature that dribbled and spouted in several directions at once. Around this, in a small hexagonal courtyard paved with hexagonal stone slabs, were five benches with curved backs. Priddey and Tarin sat side by side on the only bench that wasn’t in direct sunlight, under another sculpture: a shiny silver tree with a curved-mirror trunk and wide, flat, leaves providing much-needed shade.