Fractured Truth

by Susan Furlong

  “Your face,” Pusser said. “What happened to your face?”

  I pulled my attention from my dog.

  “It’s nothing.” I’d missed the morning status meeting, said nothing about Pete’s visit, and was trying to get up-to-date on the case. Pusser and I huddled in front at the stat room’s white board. I told him about Jacob Fisher visiting Maura at the diner; then we looked over some photos that’d been added to our lineup, a few snapshots of the Barton girl. She’d been pretty, had dark hair, round brown eyes, a cleft in her chin. “Did they find her body yet?”

  “The divers are out. No news yet. The parents are on their way. Grabowski is at the scene waiting on them.”

  “The only connection we have between Addy and Maura is the credit card charge at the diner, right? Or did something else come up?”

  “No. But the drugs in the Barton girl’s purse were Rohypnol pills.”

  “Roofies?”

  “Yeah, date-rape pills.” Pusser gritted his teeth. “I’m trying to push through the tox workup on Maura. If she had the same thing in her system . . .”

  I patted my pocket, glad for the pill I’d taken earlier, my first necessary layer of defense against the day’s onslaught. More buffer might be needed later. But not yet. I needed to cut back a bit. The last few days had taught me that. From here on out, I’d be more in control.

  “What really happened to you, Callahan?”

  “I cut myself on some glass.” A half-truth, but it didn’t matter. I pretty much knew Pete Riley was responsible for last night’s ordeal, and it had nothing to do with the case. Or everything, maybe, but not in the way Pusser would think. Pete had gotten one thing right. Some things needed to be taken care of within the clan. That’s why I couldn’t tell Pusser anything. Even though I wanted to tell him everything.

  Pusser moved across the room and wedged himself into one of the chairs, the type with the small desk attached, almost big enough, but not quite, for a notebook. Wilco followed, curling himself at Pusser’s feet.

  Pusser bent to give him a pet and let out a little moan, his buttons straining on his shirt. “He did great out there yesterday.” He pointed to the seat next to him. “Sit down, Callahan.”

  I did and waited. Pusser and I often discussed work alone, face-to-face. But not like this. His chin lowered, his neck muscles tensed, it unnerved me. His beady eyes scrutinized me through the folds of his pockmarked cheeks. My test results. That’s what this is about. I failed the urine test. I shifted and tugged my collar up higher on my neck and steeled myself for the news. A small part of me welcomed it, like a child about to be scolded for something she knew she deserved. Boundaries had never been my thing, neither by heritage nor nature. The Marines had rules and orders, but boundaries were defined in other ways as well. Pusser had established rules, sure; yet with him, it was different, more personal, like . . .

  “Are you clean?”

  “Yeah.” I lied. “Why?”

  “I may not be able to hold the mayor off much longer. He wants you out.”

  “Because his kid’s a screwup?”

  “Pretty much.”

  “He’s threatened your job, too, hasn’t he?”

  Pusser grunted.

  “Can he do that?” I asked. “His kid is under investigation. It’s obvious what he’s trying to do.”

  “He’s got the authority to do whatever he wants.”

  “You want me to walk?”

  “No.”

  “What do you want then?”

  “Tell me your urine test is going to come back clean.”

  “Yes.” My answer came fast, too fast. My sweaty palm squeaked on the hard surface of the desk. Pusser raised a brow. Neither one of us said anything. What could I say? Was I clean? Hell no, not now. But I’d done everything to be certain my piss in the cup would pass muster. Would it work? I had no idea.

  CHAPTER 31

  It was “double-up” night at the McCreary Pub, two beers for the price of one. I was already on my second double-up. Yeah, I was drinking in public. Not the smartest thing, considering, but Wilco and I were celebrating, or lamenting, take your pick.

  Wilco’s nose had once again proved successful. At three-thirty this afternoon, despite murky-water conditions, a female body was pulled from the bottom of the river. And for that, I was grateful. It meant a family saved from the lifetime sentence of ambiguity of “presumed dead.” No more searching, hoping, waiting, and contemplating the “what-ifs.” I thought of Pusser always wondering what happened to his daughter. The Bartons, at least, had a body, and, some might say, a semblance of closure. Although, I’d seen this type of thing before and knew that wasn’t true. When a loved one dies, especially a child, the casket may close, but each shovel of dirt that covers it clouds the air with a dust that never settles over a lifetime of grief. There would be no closure for the Bartons.

  Blurry-eyed, I leaned on my elbows and stared into my glass as if the frothy amber alcohol held life’s answers. It didn’t. Two girls dead and I couldn’t get a handle on anything. Maura and Nevan, Maura and Hatch, and how did Addy fit into the picture? I picked up my phone and scrolled through the journal entries again, focusing on the early entries, the ones where Maura had talked about her relationship with Nevan.

  January 12

  Nevan and I can never find any privacy. No one ever leaves us alone. I think his sister suspects that we’re doing something.

  January 13

  Nevan and me got in a huge fight over something stupid. He thinks I like another guy. I don’t. I only love him. I wish I could make him believe me. He hates me now. I saw him in the hallway at school and he wouldn’t even look at me. My heart aches. I can’t live without him.

  January 15

  Good and bad news. Nevan and me made up today. It’d been so long since we’d been together, so we snuck back to his bedroom while his mother was sleeping. Then Riana came in and caught us. She was so mad.

  January 16

  Nevan and me can’t see each other anymore. I think I’m going to die of a broken heart. I’ve got to see him.

  January 17

  Something horrible happened and it’s all my fault. I’ll never forgive myself.

  Normal teen angst. At least by Traveller standards. Riana caught the kids in the act, they got in trouble, the consequence being that they couldn’t see each other anymore. That made sense. And the “something horrible” was when she realized she was one month pregnant—by Hatch. I scrolled back to the end of her first entry at Christmas:

  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.

  So in early to mid-December, she’d had doubts about her and Nevan. And the “stupid” could have referred to sleeping with Hatch.

  I scrolled forward, found the line in that February 2 entry:

  Nevan found out today that it’s Hatch’s baby. So stupid!

  Again I wondered: Maura and Nevan. Maura and Hatch. But . . . no mention of Addy Barton.

  I looked up again when the barmaid pointed her lacquered nail my way. “Ohmigodohmigodohmigod! That’s her!” Then her digit shot toward the television above the bar.

  A couple fellows at the bar turned, looked my way and then to the television. An image of Wilco and me in the patrol boat flashed across the screen. The discovery of Addy’s body had made the evening news. Great. I went back to my beer.

  “How’s it going?” One of the guys suddenly leaned over me, beer in hand, grin on his face. He was a dark-haired guy with lots of stubble on his face and eyes like pestering flies that darted from my face to my breasts and lingered. “Can I join you?”

  “No.”

  The grin faded. He glanced at his buddy, who was still at the bar. They exchanged some sort of knowing look before he turned and zeroed back in on me. “You’re that cop on television.”

  “Uh-huh.” Wilco was curled at my feet. I nudged him awake. He lumbe
red out from under the table and yawned.

  Another glance at his buddy. A nod. An encouraging smile. He turned back to me. “We heard that the girl pulled from the lake was all chopped up.”

  He’d heard wrong. “I can’t comment on the case.”

  “That other girl . . . guess she was carved up, too.”

  Wrong again. Wonder where this guy got his information.

  “Thing is, my buddy and I might know something.”

  “And what’s that?”

  “There’s this gypsy guy who comes in here Friday nights with his buddies. A big guy. A real jerk. He buys beers for a couple of the locals, chums them up and then challenges them to a friendly fight. Bare-handed boxing.”

  “For cash?”

  He took my interest as an invitation, pulled out the chair next to me, and plunked down. Wilco went back to his nap. “You didn’t hear this from me, okay? But last Friday night, there was a lot of them here.”

  “‘Them’?”

  “Gypsies. Pikies. Whatever you want to call them. Bone Gap people. Anyway, must’ve been a dozen or more. A bunch of kids from the high school were here, too. Some big fight was going down between ’em. Money was changing hands like crazy.” He grinned. “And not a cop in sight.”

  Over his shoulder, I saw Grabowski come in the back door. He caught my eye and veered toward the bar.

  The barmaid suddenly appeared at our table, smiling down at us with crimson lips and eyelashes that looked like fuzzy spider legs. “Another round for you two?” I shrugged. Why not? He puffed up like he’d won some trophy. Yeah, jerk, enjoy paying for my beer.

  “What’s your name?” I asked.

  “John.” His lips curled upward. His voice dropped an octave. His eyes wandered back to my breasts. “What’s yours?”

  “Something happen at that fight, John?”

  “Nothing at first. My buddy and me, we watched a few of the fights. They were bloody, but legit. The pikies usually win. Them gypos know how to fight. Never seen anything like it. Anyways, one of the high-school kids wanted to get in on the action, take a turn with the winning knacker. The big gypsy who runs things—Pete, I think they called him—said no, but the kid flashed around a wad of cash. Probably a few hundred bucks or more. Must’ve been too much to resist.”

  Two more beers came. John drained his old one and started on the new.

  “So, they fought?”

  “Not really. The kid didn’t make it for two seconds. Took a punch to the face right away and went down. He weren’t too happy about it, neither. Like I said, there was a bunch of high-school kids there. They were laughing and shit. The blond kid didn’t like that too much.”

  “Blond?”

  “Blond, good-looking kid. Drove one of them big SUVs.”

  “A black SUV?”

  “Yup. Anyways, the gyps started to divvy up his cash and the kid sort of went crazy. Called that gypsy who’d clobbered him a fag.”

  That got my attention. Gypsy, pikey, gypos—the ugly words never stopped. But out of all the words leveled at any Pavee man, that one would boil blood. Ironic, really, that a culture that faces so much prejudice would in turn project the same hatred toward other marginalized people. But Pavees, especially the elders of my clan, condemned homosexuals. Gay Travellers were ostracized as if their very existence was a contagion that could threaten the clan’s idolization of manhood, family, and clan obedience, the holy trinity of our patriarchal society. Questioning a Pavee man’s sexuality was akin to the highest form of insult.

  “That gypsy didn’t like that none. He went nuts. Went back after the kid. Got him a few times in the face. That’s when the kid pulled a blade.”

  “A knife?”

  “I’d say. A frickin’ big knife. One of those with a button on the handle that makes it pop out. The sucker was huge, though. Big enough to carve up a deer.”

  Or a person.

  John gulped down some beer and swiped his lips with the back of his sleeve. “Them gypsies backed off right away.”

  “I bet. What’d the kid do?”

  “He was still pissed off. I’m thinking he was half high, the way he waved that knife around, making threats. Said the gyps cheated him. Hit him before he was ready, or some crap like that. Sore loser if you ask me. Full of hate. Kept saying that there are only two ways he liked pikies.”

  “Oh yeah? What’s that?”

  “Legs spread or dead.”

  * * *

  “You okay? You look upset.” John had gone back to his buddy, and Grabowski took his place. He had a beer in one hand and his reading glasses in the other. Reading glasses? Really? In a bar? My eyes weren’t about to focus again anytime soon. I shook my head.

  “How’d you find me?”

  “You are, if anything, predictable. The body has been officially identified. It is Addy Barton. Autopsy is still in progress, but there were multiple stab wounds to the chest cavity.” He slid a piece of paper my way. It was a copy of a newspaper clipping. “And there’s another connection.”

  I glanced over it. A human-interest article on a young Addy Barton. She’d won a blue ribbon at the state fair. Poultry division. “Chickens? You think that’s the tie-in?”

  He took a drink and shook his head over the rim of his glass. “I can’t be sure. According to her parents, Rick and Gayle, their daughter raised a very specialized breed of bird. That’s what Addy was doing down here. She brought birds down on a regular basis to sell to another breeder.” He cocked an eyebrow. “That’s what the parents said, anyway.”

  “Really? Denial?”

  “Ignorance, more likely. Apparently, earlier she struggled in school, social issues, some experimenting with drugs and alcohol, typical teen stuff, according to Gayle. Then Addy got involved with a local 4-H chapter. A wholesome pastime, or so the parents thought.” He took another drink and then continued. “Rick is a professor at UT in Knoxville. He sold the downtown condo and relocated the family out to the countryside a couple years back, so their little darling could do the rural thing.”

  “What’s Gayle do?”

  “She’s a social worker at a counseling firm in Knoxville. They specialize in troubled teens.”

  “Figures.”

  Grabowski smirked. “Glad I never had kids.” He spoke with conviction, but I noted a tinge of regret in his eyes.

  I mulled over this new information about Addy. Or tried to. I wished I hadn’t had so many beers. My thoughts wouldn’t stick. I couldn’t think of the right questions to ask. I stretched my legs under the table to where Wilco was still sprawled and ran my foot along his back. I hit on one of his sweet spots and he rolled onto his side, lifting his legs, begging for a belly rub. I pulled back. Belly rubs were for training and work only.

  Grabowski picked up the thread again. “I know there’s some sort of connection to this cockfighting thing, but I can’t connect it to Maura’s death. And the way she was killed.”

  “The satanic ritual?”

  He nodded slowly. His mind was working on another track. “The profiles don’t match.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I worked up a profile on Maura’s killer, based on the death scene. No face trauma, shaving of the hair, or any effort to depersonalize the body. We see that with serial killings, some sort of deep-seated hate for women, usually due to an abusive mother/son relationship, serves as a catalyst for murder in which the killer seeks to degrade and punish his female victims.”

  I drained my beer.

  Grabowski went on: “Other than being tied down, there was no other evidence of torture. A single stab wound, targeted, quick, efficient. No sexual penetration, or any evidence of sexual contact from the killer. In fact, her body was well covered, positioned almost . . . virtuously.”

  “Chastity was important to the killer?”

  “Yes. Or he is totally inept with women. Inexperienced. Unpracticed.”

  “That could point to Nevan.” I recalled that too-clean Ken-doll look about
him. His reaction when Grabowski accused him of not being man enough. The diary indicated they were having sex when his sister caught them, but it may have been a one-time thing or rare at least. Hatch, however, had a reputation for being more experienced with women.

  “Yes. And the crime had several staging elements, which also make me lean toward someone who knew the victim well. Again, most likely Nevan.”

  He hesitated, his brows furrowing.

  “What is it?” I asked.

  “I’ve worked a lot of occult killings. Especially back in the eighties, when I was first in the Bureau. Occult stuff was big back then. People blamed everything on devil worshipers. Satanic Panic they called it. Wear black, you’re a Satanist. Tattoo? Satanist. Every adolescent in America was suspected of practicing the occult. In reality, most killings weren’t by actual Satanists, but wannabes. Or copycat crimes. Often imitating something from pop culture. Kids obsessed with heavy metal, really into violent video games or slasher movies.”

  “Is that what we’re looking at here? Kids acting out?”

  “That’s the thing. With an established Satanist, or even with kids mimicking what they’ve seen in the movies, there’s usually something consistent with the symbolism or method of murder at the scene. All we have is a makeshift altar, and several random symbols that don’t quite make sense.”