Fractured Truth

by Susan Furlong

  “Question Nevan? Why? He loved that girl. They were getting married.” Her lips flattened. “You suspect him, don’t ya?”

  I made no comment.

  “Listen up, child. The Meaths are well respected around here. I won’t have you—”

  “We just needed to question him. That’s all.” I drained the rest of my drink, surprised I was at the bottom of the glass already. I wanted more, but didn’t dare, with Gran watching me. “It’s procedure in a case like this.”

  “And are you muskers questioning any settled people?”

  “Gran, please don’t call me that.” Muskers was a not-so-polite Pavee word for “police.”

  “It’s what you are now.” She sat back, her arms crossed over her thin frame. Her words, laced with disappointment and bitterness, cut to my core. She got up and scraped her dinner into the garbage. “Nothing’s changed, has it? Us gypsies are going to get blamed for everything that goes wrong in this community. The muskers go after us when something goes wrong. Now you’re doing the same. My own granddaughter. And people don’t like what you’re doing. That you’re working for the cops. And I’m paying for it. My friends, they don’t trust me no more.” She slid her plate onto the counter and tossed the fork into the sink with a clink, and then stood with arms folded over her chest.

  Enough. I crossed to the cupboard and took down the bottle again, felt her blazing eyes watch every move, but I said nothing, refused to be condemned for doing my job. Or having a drink.

  I’d just filled my glass when the front door burst open. Meg rushed in, wearing a white T-shirt with telltale mustard stains from her shift at the diner. She carried something in her hand. Her face was flushed.

  “What is it?” I snapped, then instantly regretted taking my feelings out on my cousin.

  “This was at the diner, where we stash our coats and purses.” She handed me a small composition book. I turned it over in my hands a couple times, unsure where she was going with this. “A journal,” she said, “in Maura’s cubby. I brought it here as soon as I found it.”

  I paused. Any recent entries in this journal could reveal Maura’s mental state or any conflicts she might have had leading up to her murder. It needed to be turned in. Yet it was also the words of a Pavee girl. What was between these pages wasn’t only the private words of a teenager, but could reveal aspects of clan life and attitudes that outsiders would find offensive. Seemingly damning secrets to those who didn’t understand. I felt the weight of Gran’s stare on my back.

  I looked toward Meg. “Did you read it?”

  She fidgeted with the tie on her apron.

  I sighed and glanced at the wall clock. Not yet 6:00 P.M. Pusser was probably still in his office. I gave Meg a quick hug. “This is big. Thanks for bringing it to me. I’m going to take it in right now.”

  I got Wilco, ran the journal out to the trunk of my car, and slipped it into an evidence bag. Gran’s words came back to me about Pavees always getting blamed for local crimes. She was right. Even now, Pusser was looking heavily at the clan.

  I slipped on gloves, pulled out the journal.

  I paged through the entries, about two dozen in all, from Christmas through the week she was killed. I took out my cell phone and snapped pictures of each page. Against department policy, sure, but once this journal was entered into evidence, I might not get a chance to see the whole thing. I was the only one on the force who could fully understand the writings of a young Pavee girl.

  I read the first entry:

  December 26

  Yesterday was one of the best Christmases ever. I remember thinking it might not be, since Dad couldn’t be there with us, but Mom was all happy and everything. She didn’t cry. Not once. And she even cooked ham for supper and we all got presents. I got this new journal from Nevan. He’s so good to me. . . . I can’t believe only a couple weeks ago I had doubts about Nevan and me being together. I was so stupid. I never should have doubted us—I love him so much.

  A flash of movement from the trailer caught my eye. I looked up. Gran’s curtains parted, her tiny form illuminated against the backlit room. She looked my way, and I hoped for a brief smile or small wave. But she shook her head and yanked the curtains shut again, blocking out the outside world. Blocking out me.

  * * *

  Grabowski kicked back in a chair, while Pusser sat at his desk signing papers. The agent had a take-out burger in one hand and a framed photo in the other—the picture Pusser kept on his desk of a young lady with straight brown hair parted over a roundish face, soft eyes, and a slightly crooked smile. I’d asked Pusser about her once. He’d ignored me and offered no explanation. Pusser’s past was an enigma, even to those who knew him well, which weren’t many. He outdated even the oldest member of the force by twenty years. All I really knew about him was that he’d lost his wife many years back. Maybe this was a daughter. Strange that he’d never talked about her.

  Grabowski looked my way. “The chicken farm was a bust. He’s selling game fowl, alright, but the show type, not the fighting type. And I don’t think there was a bird at that farm that would go for under a hundred bucks.”

  I took the other seat. “Overpriced for our local occult?”

  He slid the photo back onto Pusser’s desk. “More than likely.” He pointed to the bag in my hand. “What’s that?”

  I held it up. “My cousin worked with Maura at the diner. She found this, says it’s Maura’s journal.”

  Pusser leaned forward and reached out. I handed it over. He gave a quick once-over of what I’d written on the outside of the bag, raised his brows, and punched a number into his phone. “Cheryl. Send someone up from the evidence room. I’ve got something that needs to be processed and recorded.”

  He hung up and looked my way. “There were a few empty bottles of beer in the back of Maura’s vehicle. We found a receipt on the floorboard for a convenience store on Hampton.”

  “Lenny’s?”

  Pusser nodded, took a bite of cheeseburger, and washed it down with a swig of iced tea. Supersweetened, probably. Between the doughnuts and the fast food, he’d packed on another five pounds this winter. “Yeah. Lenny’s. I’ve got an officer over there now. The receipt was time-stamped for seven-thirty P.M., Friday. Either she bought it, or a friend did. If so, they might have been the last person to see her alive.”

  “The Joyce girl, maybe.”

  “Maybe,” Pusser said. “Or the girl’s baby daddy bought the beer.”

  An officer came in for the evidence bag. Pusser handed over the journal and turned back to me. “What did you know about the pregnancy?”

  “Nothing. I was surprised by it.”

  Pusser squinted. “You think Meath knew he was going to be a daddy?”

  “I don’t know. Has anyone questioned Ona about it? Or the brother?” I pictured Eddie out in the woods, tears streaming down his face, his bloody eye swelling around the protruding twig.

  Grabowski spoke up. “You should talk to Ona. She’d be more willing to open up to you than one of us.”

  Doubtful. Especially from what Gran had told me about Ona’s sudden distrust of our family. But I wasn’t going to attempt to explain clan dynamics to Grabowski. “I’ll stop by their place first thing in the morning.” I stood and motioned for Wilco. “I’m heading out.”

  * * *

  The next morning, I put off going to Ona’s house and headed to Mayor Anderson’s place instead.

  The mayor lived in a Norman Rockwell portrait: two stories of white brick, a deep columned front porch and snow-covered shakes. This was the real Americana, baby. Only I knew Mr. Mayor had cultivated a lie. The home, the luxury SUV, the beautiful wife, and two overachieving kiddos . . . they were really hollow-chocolate-bunny people—solid-looking on the outside, until you bite through the sweet, shiny exterior and discover there’s nothing but empty air inside. Maura must have figured that out the hard way after she ended up pregnant by the mayor’s boy:

  February 2

&nbs
p; Everything is such a mess. I saw Nevan in the hall and couldn’t hug him or anything. I know he’s hurt and can’t do a thing to help. It’s all my fault, anyway. Being in love is so hard.

  Nevan found out today that it’s Hatch’s baby. So stupid! Plus Mama knows and is taking the news hard. She’s been crying a lot. I don’t know if the other kids at school know about the baby or not. It doesn’t really matter. They all hate us, anyway.

  I know Nevan still loves me. I just don’t see how we can be together now, after what’s happening.

  It was just one of the couple dozen entries, but the only one that mentioned the father of her baby by name. I dialed Pusser’s cell. He answered on the second ring. “You at the Keenes’ place?”

  I’d planned to talk to Ona first thing, but after reading the journal, talking to Hatch seemed more pressing. “No. I’m—”

  “That’s okay. It can wait. We got a positive ID on the kid who bought the beer. He’s on surveillance. It was the mayor’s kid.”

  I blew out a long breath and told him about the journal entry I’d read.

  “Yeah. I figured you checked out the journal before you turned it in.” Checked out, not photographed. Pusser would be ticked if he knew the whole truth.

  He continued. “The kid’s been nothing but trouble. What a screwup. Vandalism, shoplifting, possession . . .”

  “And the mayor runs interference. Keeps his name out of the papers and his offenses off the records.”

  “Yup.”

  “Murder is too big for that.”

  “You’re jumping to conclusions.”

  “He was possibly the last person to see Maura alive, and I figure . . .” The front door to the mayor’s house opened. Hatch swaggered out, a book bag slung over his shoulder. Tall, athletically built, with blond hair framing chiseled features, he was every young girl’s dream. And quite possibly Maura Keene’s nightmare.

  “I’ll let you know what I find out.” I hit END, pocketed my phone, and got out of the car, leaving Wilco in the back seat for now. No need to escalate things. Just get a few answers. “Hatch Anderson? Deputy Callahan, McCreary County Sheriff’s Department. I need to ask you some questions about Maura Keene.”

  Hatch pulled a key fob from his jeans, aimed, pressed, and popped the locks of a sleek black Range Rover several feet away from him. “I don’t have anything to say about her.”

  “Nothing to say? She’s dead. Murdered. You two were friends. Good friends.”

  He widened his stance and looked down at me, blue eyes intense and piercing under a flop of yellow bang. “You don’t know nothing about Maura and me.”

  “I know you were having sex with her.”

  “Yeah. We had sex. So?” He admitted it without the tiniest bit of shame, the way someone might admit he had a blister on his foot.

  “I don’t get it, Hatch. How’d you two connect?”

  He rocked back on his heels, his eyes shifting to the side. I could see him remembering the day they met, maybe a party, maybe at school, how it all came about. He opened his mouth, about to say something, when the front door opened. The mother, Gina Anderson, crossed the yard, a plastic smile on her Botoxed face, sleek hair, and designer jacket. “Get in the car, Hatch.” She turned to me, all polite-like with blindingly white teeth smiling down at me, friendly on the surface, but without any actual warmth. “What can I do for you?”

  “I have a few questions for your son about Maura Keene.”

  “I’m sorry, it’ll have to wait. We’re superbusy this morning.” She waved her son toward the car, but he still didn’t move.

  “Well, this is superimportant. It concerns a murder investigation. And it can’t wait.”

  “I’ll have my husband call you. Set something up.” Hatch still lingered. She scowled. “I told you to get in the car, Hatch.”

  I stayed on him. “When did you see Maura last?”

  “We’re not answering these questions.” Gina grabbed her son and turned him toward the car, then wheeled on me. “This is ridiculous. Harassing my son like this.” All pretense of civility gone, she got in my face. “What’s your name again?”

  “Callahan. Deputy Callahan. I was just—”

  “You are just leaving.”

  * * *

  Twenty minutes later, I was at the station, catching hell from Pusser. “What were you thinking?”

  “Just doing my job. Trying to get some information from the kid.”

  “The mayor’s kid.”

  I bristled. Wilco sauntered over and lay next to my chair. “Why does that matter? He’s a viable suspect. He could be the governor’s kid, for all I care. I don’t play favorites.”

  “Play favorites? That’s what you think this is? Me kissing up to the mayor?”

  Yes. “Sounds like you’ve done a lot of puckering around the mayor’s kid already. You said it yourself. He’s been in trouble for about everything, but nothing ever comes of it. The mayor’s boy must be above the law.”

  We stopped talking, Pusser staring me down, me squirming in my seat, running my fingertips back and forth along Wilco’s spine. A vision of Gina Anderson flashed through my mind, those bleached-out teeth of hers sneering at me while I sat in the hot seat getting my butt chewed out by my boss. To her, I was a pesky fly, annoying, troublesome, something to squish and brush off....

  The phone rang. Pusser yanked out his toothpick and answered. “Tell him to hold.” He slammed down the receiver and pushed back from his desk. “You’re such a screwup, Callahan. Letting your personal crap influence the case, like this.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “You’re paranoid. You think everyone is out to get you because you’re a ‘Pavee.’ ” He made quote marks with his fingers. “Like it’s all about persecuting your people. You talk about me running interference for the mayor’s kid? You run interference for those Bone Gap people all the time. That’s what you were doing today, wasn’t it?”

  “No. I was just trying to get some—”

  “Bull. You drove over there this morning because you figured I wouldn’t do anything about it because he’s an Anderson. That I’d be trying to pin it on a Pavee. ’Cuz in your mind, that’s how all us cops operate. Congratulations, Callahan. You’re just as prejudiced as us ‘settled’ people.”

  I tried to think of the right thing to say. Couldn’t. Pusser was right. I’d read Maura’s handwritten journal last night and found out about Hatch. The mayor’s kid. How would the sheriff respond? I’d tossed in bed all night thinking about it. This morning, I should have gone to Ona’s, like I was told, but I’d done what I thought was needed. For the truth. My truth.

  “FYI,” Pusser said, “I already had something in the works. After the convenience store video showed his connection to the Keene girl, I put an officer on him. At eleven last night, he purchased a sizeable bag of pot from one of our undercover cops. It’s still in his vehicle. Harris was in position to pull him over for a traffic stop this morning and bring him in on a possession charge. That way, we could get him alone. Away from his parents. You blew that for us. What do you wanna bet he cleaned out that pot the moment you left.”

  I tensed, heat rising in my cheeks. Blew it; I sure as hell did. “I didn’t know.”

  He pointed to the phone. “That was the kid’s attorney. They’ll be in this afternoon for an interview.”

  “I’d like to be in on it.”

  “You won’t be here.”

  Yeah, well, hell, no surprise there. I was canned from my last three jobs, why not this one, too? At least Gran wouldn’t have to deal with—

  “You’re heading back out to the crime scene.” I shot a look at him. He shuffled through a stack of papers. “You and your dog. Parks will go with you. I want every inch of earth within a two-mile radius sniffed out.”

  “Why? We already—”

  “Because.” He tossed a printout my way. “This came in over the transom. A Jefferson County girl, Addy Barton, same age, same basic physica
l description, went missing Friday.”

  “The same day as Maura.”

  “Yes. Grabowski is heading down to talk to her family, but we need to make sure we didn’t miss anything up there in those mountains.”

  “She could be anywhere. There might not even be a connection.” This felt contrived. Like Pusser was working extra hard to get me out of town while he handled the mayor’s boy. It was better than being fired, but . . . “There’s better ways I could be spending my time.”

  “No. There’s not. I need you up there with your dog.” He nodded toward the paper. “There’s a connection, alright. Read the trace report on her credit card.”

  I scanned the document. Her last charge was made on Friday, the same day that Maura disappeared: $7.54 at the McCreary Diner.

  CHAPTER 7

  I straddled his backside, clamping my knees around his neck and pulling his head upward, flinging off my glove and sticking my fingernail into his left nostril, digging deep, going for gold. My knuckle brushed against his soft, spongy snout as I flicked out the impacted muck. There was nothing easy about picking my dog’s nose.

  I went for the other nostril. He wriggled away, backed up, and stomped the snow, prancing and clawing while thrashing his head. I moved back in for another try, got ahold of his collar and leaned in just as he raised his head and let out a sneeze. Dog snot and debris sprayed the front of my parka. I jumped back and swiped the front of my coat. Gooey blobs morphed into two brownish streaks running along either side of my zipper like racing stripes.

  Parks scrunched her nose at my fingertips. I swiped my hands through the snow a few times, rubbed them along the side of my jeans, and held them out for her inspection. “All clean now.”

  She didn’t look convinced.

  We continued our search, Wilco working ahead, us following, snow crunching like broken potato chips under our boots. A cold breeze sighed through the barren tree branches overhead and my muscles loosened a bit. I’d always found a bit of peace in these hills. But like everything else, that was changing. Perhaps it was age, or the type of reluctant wisdom gained from encountering morbidity on a daily basis, but peaceful respites were slipping from my mind, replaced with gruesome memories of death and decay. What would Wilco find next? The Jefferson County girl? Another young woman left slaughtered and mutilated in a cold mountain cavern? I shuddered.