by Abigail Haas
CLARA: But the detectives there . . . I know that investigation is being led by a Klaus Dekker—
MARLEE: Dekker, that’s right. He’ll be arguing—and this is something I’ve heard from several sources within the police department—their case is that the blood was there in the hallway all along, that saying she didn’t see it is suspicious, a sign of guilt. And with the fingerprints—
CLARA: The fingerprints on the bloody knife, used to stab Elise. A five-inch blade, from the kitchen—we don’t have photos of the murder weapon, but I’m showing you a similar model up on-screen now.
MARLEE: Exactly. We heard just a few weeks ago about this bombshell evidence, with the knife and the fingerprints, and I don’t see how you can get around this in court. These are serious questions the defense will have to deal with if Anna is going to have any hope of pleading innocent.
CLARA: And Anna is in custody right now, in the prison, awaiting trial.
MARLEE: That’s right. You can see behind me, here, the Aruba Correctional Institute where Anna has been held for the last five months now. It’s a small prison; they house the male and female inmates in separate wings.
CLARA: And what other kinds of criminals will she be living with? Aruba isn’t known for its crime.
MARLEE: No, most prisoners will be here on smaller charges: drug trafficking, petty theft, that kind of thing. Murder is rare here, and sentiment on the island is that this is very much an outside crime, perpetrated by an outsider.
CLARA: Thanks, Marlee, and we’ll be checking back in with Marlee tomorrow for all the latest breaking news in the investigation. Now, after the break, shocking new photos of Anna in prison, and we chat with her friend, Akshay Kundra, who discovered Elise’s body that night. We’ll be right back.
CLARA: Welcome back. I’m Clara Rose, with a special Elise Warren murder edition of the Clara Rose Show. We’ve seen the shocking crime-scene photos and evidence against Anna, Elise’s former friend, now the authorities on Aruba have released photos of the murder suspect in prison. I’m joined by Dr. Martin Holt, a specialist in psychopathic killers, and the author of the true crime book, Beautiful Evil: The Kayla Criss Story. Now, Martin, let’s take a look at these photos just released. I guess there’s been speculation about Anna’s treatment in prison, and this is the Aruban authorities’ attempt to counter those concerns. . . . Well, she looks just fine to me.
MARTIN: Indeed. These are candid photos of Anna about her daily routine in the prison. She looks relaxed, some might even say carefree. She takes a walk in the exercise yard, sits for lunch. In some of these shots, you can even see her smiling, which—
CLARA: I don’t know about you, but that seems kind of off to me.
MARTIN: Exactly. In any normal person, you’d see signs of stress, fear, exhaustion. Let’s remember, she’s lost her best friend to a brutal murder; now she’s locked up awaiting trial. If that were you or me, we’d be a wreck, but Anna looks like this is just an ordinary day at the mall.
CLARA: And that’s a warning sign to you?
MARTIN: Absolutely. What you have to understand is that psychopaths, and sociopaths, their brains are wired differently. They lack empathy, they lack understanding, they don’t care about causing pain and suffering. They are essentially incapable of reacting to situations the way a normal person would.
CLARA: And Anna, here, this isn’t a normal reaction to being locked up in prison.
MARTIN: Not at all. And if we look back, to the photo of Anna on the balcony just hours after Elise’s body was discovered, again, she looks happy, totally unconcerned.
CLARA: Yes, that photo. I don’t know about you, but that gives me the creeps. I think, when we saw that photo, we all thought, “Hang on, something isn’t right here.” It was the first sign.
MARTIN: Right, and these warning signs, they’re always there, but the tragedy is that we don’t notice until it’s too late.
CLARA: Thanks, Martin; that’s Martin Holt there, author of Beautiful Evil: The Kayla Criss Story, in stores now. And joining me in the studio after the break, someone who can talk to us about these early warning signs, who was there on the island for the murder, classmate and friend Akshay Kundra. Don’t go anywhere.
CLARA: I’m Clara Rose, welcome back. Tonight: the Elise Warren murder, the truth about prime suspect, accused murderer Anna Chevalier. Before the break, we talked to acclaimed psychologist and true crime author Martin Holt about Anna’s psychopathic tendencies; now I’m joined here in the studio by a friend and classmate of the suspect, Akshay Kundra. Welcome back, Akshay.
AKSHAY: I’m happy to be here, Clara.
CLARA: We just heard disturbing reports from Dr. Holt about these new photos and Anna’s state of mind. Were the warning signs there for you?
AKSHAY: Sure. I mean, looking back, it’s a tragedy we didn’t see this coming.
CLARA: But why not? If the warning signs were there, then why didn’t anyone say anything? Why was this unstable, possibly violent girl allowed to just walk around—I mean, even you yourself considered her a friend.
AKSHAY: We all did. And this is one of those things . . . in hindsight, it’s clear, but in the moment . . . You’ve got to understand, Anna is a really smart girl—she would have known how to keep all of this under wraps. On the surface, she seemed like just an ordinary girl. We trusted her—you know, she was our friend.
CLARA: She was Elise’s friend.
AKSHAY: Right. And that’s something we’re all going to have to live with, that we never saw—I mean, she was obsessed with Elise, that was clear.
CLARA: Tell us about this obsession.
AKSHAY: They were always together; you couldn’t get them apart. She was new to our school, junior year, and she just kind of latched on to Elise. She took her away from all of her other friends, and I think Elise found it suffocating, you know, and eventually she started pulling away, trying to get some distance. That’s when we started hanging out, that summer—it was like she needed other people around, to keep Anna at arm’s length.
CLARA: Because Elise was a good girl, is what I’m hearing. Straight As, drama club, student government, and then Anna comes along . . .
AKSHAY: Yeah, she pretty much cut Elise off from all of that. She was a bad influence, we all knew that. They were drinking; I know that Anna took pills sometimes—
CLARA: You saw this? Drug use?
AKSHAY: Yes, a couple of times, but I know it happened more. And Elise went along with it; I guess she felt the pressure, or maybe she was worried about what Anna would do.
CLARA: Did she ever seem scared to you? Scared of what Anna would do if she ended the friendship?
AKSHAY: I . . . I mean, no, not as such, but I don’t know what was going on inside. Maybe she didn’t feel like she could tell us, or maybe she never thought Anna would do something like this.
CLARA: To all appearances, Anna seemed normal.
AKSHAY: Right.
CLARA: And in the days leading up to the murder, how did the girls seem to you? We’ve heard a lot about this supposed affair. Tate Dempsey—son of prominent Boston investment banker, Richard Dempsey—we’ve heard he was hooking up with Elise behind the accused’s back. Is this what drove Anna to the edge, you think?
AKSHAY: Yeah. I mean, to find out something like that . . .
CLARA: But according to the police investigation, they wonder if Anna knew all along—if, instead of this being a crime of passion,—which, in case you don’t know, can be used as a defense, you know, temporary insanity—well, they’re saying, maybe this wasn’t a shock. Maybe Anna knew, for who knows how long, and maybe she planned it. Maybe she came to Aruba with the full intent of getting Elise alone, away from the rest of you, and killing her.
AKSHAY: I . . . I mean, that’s awful, to think, if it’s true. There was no sign of it; she seemed normal, just having fun, hanging out, you know?
CLARA: So you don’t think
she knew?
AKSHAY: If she did, then she hid it really well, acting like nothing was wrong.
CLARA: Which could, in fact, be another one of those warning signs. Dr. Holt?
MARTIN: Hi, Clara, yes, from what you’re saying, this could be more evidence about her damaged mental state. To plan a murder in this kind of premeditated fashion takes us away from a jealous frenzy and into the territory of a cold-blooded killer. It’s a big difference, especially if, down the line, we come to a murder versus a manslaughter charge, or some kind of plea bargain in the trial.
CLARA: “Cold-blooded killer,” there you have it people. These are questions I’m sure the police on the island will be following very closely. Was it rage? Was it planned? I don’t know about you, but the more I’m seeing of this girl, the more . . . I guess damaged, is the only word for it. Damaged, and dangerous. All right, that’s all for tonight. Stay tuned for the news on the hour with Dave and Erin, and coming up tomorrow, more on the Elise Warren murder: The local trader who could have seen everything—a witness disappears. Could he hold the key to the truth? Join us tomorrow here on KCFX, your destination for news and sport.
BACK
The show cuts to commercial again. This time, every woman in the room is staring at me.
I try to remind myself how to breathe.
I knew it was bad out there. Even locked up, I’ve seen glimpses of newspapers and TV news. It wasn’t as if I thought everyone would be lined up, protesting my innocence, but still, Clara’s show takes my breath away. I thought it would be more . . . balanced. Isn’t that what the news is supposed to do? Present both sides of the story, fairly, not jump to conclusions based on leaked information, and biased statements? We’re still months away from the trial; even Ellingham swore they didn’t have enough evidence to convict, so where’s the support? Some kind of outcry about my arrest? Instead, they showed nothing on my side—no mention of Juan, or Tate’s lies and cheating; the balcony issue, or all the problems with the crime scene—nothing, not one hint I might be innocent in all of this.
They assume I’m guilty, and they can’t wait to see me burn.
“Killer.”
The voice comes from behind me, loud and clear. I turn. One of the other inmates is lounging back on a chair, her legs draped wide. I’ve seen her before, in the mess hall, or the yard. She’s short and bulky, in her early twenties, maybe, with dark tattoos dancing across her collarbone, hair braided in tight cornrows that swing to her shoulders. The girl gives me a sly smile, eyes dark as her stare meets mine, unflinching and direct.
She says it again, with a curl of amusement to her lips. “Killer.”
I drop my eyes and start to walk away, heading back toward the far doors, but the girl uncoils herself from her seat and moves to casually block my path. “Where you going, killer?” she asks, folding her arms.
My pulse kicks. I try to sidestep, still looking down. She mirrors, blocking me.
I feel a shiver of fear.
“I don’t want any trouble,” I tell her softly, holding my palms out, like surrender. I glance quickly around the room, but the guard who usually loiters by the doors is nowhere to be seen. The other inmates start to circle, their body language snapping alert.
My fear shifts to panic.
I’ve seen this before, the lunchroom fights and exercise yard beatdowns. The women here like to brawl, violent and vicious, and I’ve watched from a distance how quickly the trouble in here flares, like everyone’s a powder keg, waiting for a spark to go up in flames. I’ve spent every day so careful not to catch someone’s eye or accidentally jostle them in the hall. Head down, eyes down, just keep moving, stay out of trouble. But now trouble is here, determination clear on her face in front of me.
“It’s okay,” I say again, backing up. I just have to hold her off until the guard gets back. “Please . . .”
“Please?” the girl repeats, smirking. She turns to the circle. “Killer’s got manners. Please and thank you, yes ma’am.” She turns back to me. “So, did you ask your girl permission before you slit her throat?”
I look away, knowing it’s useless even as I mutter the words “I didn’t kill her.”
“No? So what are you doing in here?” The girl’s sneer slips, becomes something cruel and full of anger. “I seen you, walking round like you’re so much better than us. You think we don’t know? Huh?” She gets closer. “We’re all the same in here, killer.”
“I didn’t do it.” I hear my own voice, stronger, even before I register the words are coming from my mouth.
It’s a mistake. There’s a pause, so electric I can hear my blood pounding, and then the girl lunges at me. I barely have time to get my hands up in defense before her body is on mine and she’s tearing at my hair, clawing at my face.
We tumble to the floor as yells go up from the crowd. I manage to deflect her blows, rolling out from underneath her, gasping for breath, but then she’s coming at me again, her face twisted, violence in her eyes like I’ve never seen before.
For all of Elise’s and my adventures in the dark city streets, I haven’t come close to violence, a physical threat of any kind. They gave us self-defense classes in gym freshman year: staid, awkward routines where we’d carefully lunge at each other and sidestep in a polite ballet, but this is a world away from the neat choreography: a vicious assault, too quick to think, too fast to do anything but grapple and claw, rolling on the hard tile floor as the other inmates holler and howl, flinching as her blows hit home, blood sharp like metal in my mouth.
The girl drives her elbow into my stomach, making me gulp for air. Her face is lit up, breathless and bright; nose bloody from one of my desperate blocks. She grins through the smear of scarlet, raising her fist again, ready to smash it down into my face, and from some distant place, I realize: She’s enjoying this. She likes it. The fight, the pain, the struggle.
Her joy is her power.
I snap.
Ducking to the side, I turn to block her fist, then bring my elbow sweeping up in a glorious arc that cracks against her face. Her head snaps back, her momentum lost, and I pull myself up, rolling so she’s trapped underneath me, still dazed. I slam my elbow down against her face, her throat, her chest, again and again. There’s screaming, sharp and grotesque, but the roars of the crowd recede like the waves until I can’t hear anything but my own drumming heartbeat and the dull thud of bone on tile as her head cracks back, blood spilling on the pale floor like blossoms in the snow. It’s almost beautiful, but I don’t care. I’m not here anymore, I’m not anywhere—all I am is sheer, pure rage and fists and skin.
I’m still swinging when they pull me off her, strong arms grabbing at me, slamming me to the floor. The screaming won’t stop; it echoes through the room long after they carry the other girl out. It’s not until they come at me with the syringe that I realize: The screaming voice is my own.
Then there’s nothing but black.
WINTER
“Where have you been?”
The voice startles me in the dark. I flip on the living room lights and find Elise waiting on the couch.
“Elise?” I stare at her, startled. She’s still in her uniform, neat plaid skirt and blazer. “What are you . . . ?”
“I waited for you,” Elise says, her expression bland and unreadable. “Outside school, like we said.”
“Oh shit.” I feel a flush of shame. “I’m sorry, I forgot. . . . We skipped study hall,” I explain awkwardly, “and went back to Tate’s.”
“I can tell,” Elise says quietly, “It’s written all over you.”
I flush. I’m still breathless from the hours Tate and I spent together, wrapped up in his old quilted comforter and each other. It’s no wonder she can see, when I still feel Tate’s hands on me, the burning path across my body.
“I called.” Elise’s voice twists, bitter. “I left you a ton of messages. And then I thought, maybe something happened, with your mom, so I came . . .” She stops. “Your dad let
me in.”
“My phone died—I never got the messages, I swear.” I take a few steps forward, toward the couch. “I am so, so, sorry. I completely forgot. It’s awful of me, I know. What can I do? You want to order pizza? I was going to just do homework, but we could study together for that test tomorrow, or watch a movie, or . . . anything you like.” I’m babbling, I know, but there’s something so unnerving about her expression, perfectly detached. “Elise?” I ask again, nervous. “I fucked up, I’m sorry.”
The bland look slips, and Elise giggles—but it’s not a happy sound, there’s something twisted about it. “Do you know what it felt like, just waiting for you? I sat there for an hour, until everyone was gone.” She hugs herself, looking painfully young for a moment. “I was worried, thinking about everything that could have happened. An accident, or a car crash, or your mom . . .” She shakes her head, her expression hardening. “And all that time, you were off fucking him.”
I flinch. “Don’t.”
“Don’t what?” Elise leaps up, and I see her face clearer: the out-of-focus smudge to her gaze. “It’s the truth, isn’t it? That’s all you do these days, hump away like a pair of fucking rabbits.” She laughs, bitter. “And you were always such a good girl. Who would have thought you’d turn out to be such a slut. Well, how was it?” she demands, grabbing my arm. “Go ahead, tell me everything. Is he good? Does he make you come?”
I reel back—from her harsh words and the faint slur in her voice. “You’re drunk.”
“Bzz! Wrong! Guess again.”
“Elise?” My heart skips. I look closer. “What did you take? Oh God, are you okay? Do I need to call someone—?”
“Relax.” She cuts me off, rolling her eyes. “Don’t look at me like that. Just a couple of my mom’s pills. Prescription. It’s all good.”
“A couple?” I demand, still panicked.