by Gable, Kate
It takes me a few moments to realize what happened.
She hit me with a rock.
"Don't run!” I yell after her, but she's already around the car and making her way over the median.
"They're going to shoot you!” I scream after her.
I jump to my feet still feeling quite woozy. Luckily, the rock didn't do much harm besides just stun me for a moment.
I can hear the walkie-talkie in my hand and Medvil telling everyone to get ready. But then to stand down because I'm blocking their shot.
I run after her, clear the median and over to the other side. We cross the five-lane freeway. She's been hurt and she's hurt me, but I manage to catch up to her.
I grab onto her arm, take a few steps, and force her to trip over her legs by propping my right foot in front of her ankle.
She starts to fall but before she hits the ground, I catch her, protecting the baby as much as I can. Trish tries to tussle with me, but I put my knee into her back and snap the handcuffs onto one wrist and then the other. Then I pull away from her and bring the walkie-talkie to my lips.
"I got her handcuffed," I say in a huff, grabbing my head and feeling the smooth, warm liquid that's pouring out of the gash.
My head feels woozy and everything goes black for a moment. When I come back to it, cops are swarming around us.
Uniformed officers are leaning over me, talking about me as if I'm not here.
The sirens blast in the background and I don't make out much distinction in the voices. And somewhere in the distance, I see her being placed in the back of a police car, tears streaming down her face once again.
Chapter 37
After Derek is pronounced dead and Trish gets checked out by the paramedics to make sure that she doesn't have any injuries, we bring her in to the interrogation room for a talk.
She looks alarmed, surprised, but not as shocked as you'd expect. In fact, there's a calmness in her demeanor.
She cradles her arms around her baby and looks up at me with her big wide eyes with the expression on her face, like "What? That was wrong?"
I show her photos of the luminol, the cleaned-up blood spatter from the walls.
"I don’t know what you’re talking about," she says.
"Really? Because I know for a fact that you and Derek are responsible for the Islingtons’ murders."
"What murder? They're missing," she says with a casual shrug.
"You took them out on the sea trial that day. You used your baby to make them feel comfortable. I mean, a pregnant woman wouldn't do anything bad, right? You took them out and you killed them. You tossed their bodies in the ocean."
"Did you find those bodies?" Trish asks, raising one eyebrow.
For a moment there, I see her true nature, the one that's bubbling under the surface; sinister, distant, without an inkling of emotion.
Who is this woman? And how is she only twenty-eight years old and so horrid already?
By all accounts, she had a nice childhood, nice parents, loving, supportive.
So, what happened? This is what I need to find out.
"Why did you run?" I ask.
"Because you were chasing me."
"Why didn't you stop? Why didn't you talk to us?"
"Because he knew you were dangerous. I talked plenty to you. I told you what I know, but Derek said that you suspected us. He said that you were going to make us pay for whatever happened to the Islingtons because you had to get this case off your books."
"We didn't have a case before," I say, taking a seat across from her and taking my time.
She's the kind of person who needs to be talked to, someone who needs explanations, someone whose trust will take a while to build.
I have time, but I want to get back home to Big Bear, to look for Violet so I need her to open up.
“I talked to the notary, Marina Oakhurst. Remember her?"
The blood starts to drain from Trish’s face. Her lips turn thin like one little line across her face as she purses them tightly.
Finally, I see an inkling of emotion, fear. People can hide a lot of things, but fear is a hard one.
"Marina told me the truth. First time, she lied. But when she saw the blood splatter, she admitted it all. She said that you paid her $10,000 in cash in an envelope. You exchanged the money at the Starbucks and she made a note that the Islingtons both signed in front of her giving you the title of the boat. Why did you need the boat?" I ask.
She looks like she's been punched in the gut, but she gathers her composure, focusing her eyes on mine again. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"Well, you said you did a sea trial and you bought the boat, right?"
"Yes, that's right," she stumbles.
I want to smile, but I don't want to alarm her.
"Yeah, we bought the boat from them. I don't know what happened to them after that. We came back and they were fine."
"And what about all this luminol and all this blood splatter all over the boat?"
"I have no idea. Look," she leans over, her cries pleading for me to help, "this was all Derek's idea. Okay? I didn't want to go with it, but he did not want to live with my parents anymore. We were having a baby he said. We needed a place of our own. And he was obsessed with not paying taxes."
"Did he have money?"
"He had a little bit of money. He works at a pizza place. We couldn't afford an apartment so he came up with this idea of us having this money and using it to go on a sea trial, taking a boat, forcing them to sign the paperwork over to us."
"And what was the plan?” I ask.
"Definitely not killing them. He never told me he was going to do that."
“So, he's the one who killed them?"
"Yes, that's what I'm trying to say. He did it all by himself."
She's lying. I can feel it in every molecule inside of me, but she's also smart and blaming all of this on her dead husband might actually work, especially with that sad face and that baby in her stomach.
"Tell me what happened," I insist, sitting back in my chair.
She leans forward more.
"It was all his idea. We were going to take them out on the boat. He was going to threaten them with a gun and they were going to get scared and sign the boat over to us."
"And what? Come back to shore?"
"Yes."
"You didn't think they would go to the police?"
"He said he was going to blackmail them with something. I don't know. I wasn't clear on the whole plan."
“So, what happened?" I ask, staying skeptical, knowing that her story is falling apart before her eyes, but I have to listen to it anyway.
"We went there and Mr. Islington grabbed the gun away from Derek. He threatened him. He couldn't do that, right?"
"What are you talking about?" I ask.
"Well, it was self-defense. I had a knife. I had to protect my husband. Mr. Islington was threatening us."
"Well, your husband did point a gun at him first, right?”
"Yes. But that was over."
I stare at her unable to put the pieces of this ridiculous puzzle together.
“So, what did you do?" I ask.
"I had to help my husband. There was nothing else to do. Mrs. Islington just kept yelling and wouldn't stop. I had to make her shut up."
"Why was she yelling so much?"
Cold sweat runs down my back. She narrows her eyes and I see her digging her nails into her palm and then pressing hard on her eyeball trying to make herself cry.
"I had to stab him. I had no choice."
Trish buries her hands in her face and becomes hysterical. I try to calm her, but she just gets worse. The sounds are fake, but they're loud and powerful.
Chapter 38
After Trish breaks down in tears, I give her some time to clear her head. I head to the back office where Captain Medvil and the rest are watching the interrogation.
Everyone pipes in with advice. This is what you say. This is wh
at you don't say.
"She's part of it, I just know it," Thomas says.
"I hate to agree with him, but I can't help myself,” Catherine says, tapping her fingers on the polished table.
I turn to her. "What do you think?"
"She's using it as an excuse,” Catherine answers. "Her husband's dead so she blames it on him. No harm, no foul. She doesn't seem like the kind to be bossed over. You think she's the mastermind?”
"Captain Medvil?"
He shakes his head, narrows his eyes. "Something's off with that girl."
I get back into the interrogation room. It was an almost unanimous decision before I went in, that I should be the one who conducts this conversation.
I had met with her before I met her mother. I even met Derek. I'm the one who has established a rapport with the family. I would have fought anyone for this chance, but now I feel a little uneasy.
It's not that I'm taking pity on her, far from it. It's more the baby in her belly. The father is dead. Mother most likely orchestrated a double murder. The mother is responsible for at least half of the deaths of two innocent people. And if this goes well, she will serve the rest of her life in prison.
And what about the baby? Trish’s parents seemed like decent people, but I can't help but wonder, how did she turn out this way?
We're always tempted to not blame the parents, but that's the place where they lived all their life. Those were the influences on them for better or worse.
"Are you feeling okay?" I ask Trish, walking back inside.
"Yeah, I think I'm better. I'm sorry I broke down like that."
"It's fine. It happens. Do you want to go over what happened? And you can tell me the truth this time?"
"I was telling you the truth."
I tilt my head to the side acting more like her big sister, rather than the suspicious detective/mother figure that I think I was portraying earlier.
"Look, I'm here for you. I understand. I want to hear what you have to say. You have to trust me."
"How can I trust you? You're a cop. You're just here to get some confession out of me, aren't you?"
"No, I'm here to get the truth."
"And I tell you the truth is that Derek came up with the whole thing. I had no idea that it was going to happen."
"Is that the truth, though?" I ask. "What about what you said about shooting Mr. Islington?"
I've noticed that she calls him by his formal name rather than Deacon and never deviates from that fact.
"He was threatening my husband. He grabbed the gun away from him and he was just going nuts. What did you expect me to do?"
"What happened after that?” I ask.
“I stabbed him and then Derek managed to grab the gun and shoot both of them. I didn't want Mrs. Islington to die. She had nothing to do with this, but he kept saying that now it was too late. We can't let her go because she'll tell everybody."
I glare at her.
I look at her, searching her face for any inkling of dismay or remorse and she doesn't have any. In fact, she seems more incensed than annoyed by the fact that Ruth and Deacon had the audacity to pass away and put her in this predicament.
I talk to her some more, asking for more details. Trish just goes in circles. She justifies what she has just said, and then justifies it some more.
"Can you tell me why you wanted the boat in the first place? I mean, you couldn't afford it, right? You didn't have a job. You were living with your parents."
"My husband had a job."
"Well, not one to be able to afford a, what? $600,000 boat."
"No, but they were selling it. They clearly didn't need it anymore, and Derek said that we wouldn't have to owe any taxes if we lived out there on the ocean. We wouldn't owe anybody anything."
"But you'd have to come back to shore, right?"
"Yeah, I guess sometimes. But he'd get a guest slip at the marina and he'd sent over all the documents to the DMV and the Coast Guard. And no one would believe them that we did anything wrong."
I still have no idea why she believes this to be the case, so I ask her directly, "Why would no one believe you? I mean, the Islingtons had no criminal record. They were upstanding citizens in the community. He owned a gym at one point, sold it, and that's how they were able to purchase the boat."
"No, that's not what ... No." Trish shakes her head.
I tilt mine, trying to figure out exactly how much she knew or may not have known.
"You're wrong. Derek told me that they were criminals. That they stole all of this money to buy the boat. They were shady and they were going to be going to prison. He said that, that gym they owned sold drugs and guns, and they were involved in a whole lot of nefarious things. And that's why they would never go to the police."
"And you didn't think that if they couldn't go to the police, that you would have bigger problems like with the mob?"
"He said it would be fine. He said no one would know."
The conversation continues and loops. When I take my second break, I leave her alone with a large cup of Pepsi and ice and return to a room of puzzled looks.
"I know, it feels like she's telling the truth," I say.
"She still shot him for no reason,” Catherine pipes in.
This interrogation is not going to go as fast as I thought it would. I return to the room with Trish bent over the table, her hands propping up her head. She looks like a child, a five-year-old. She asks if she can watch some TV.
We go over the story again and she starts to trip up.
"You guys did the sea trial, right? What happened? How did it actually begin?” I ask.
"Well, we did the sea trial and then we were talking and Mr. Islington said that he was not so sure that we had the money even though we showed him our bank statements. We insisted on it. But something changed. He threatened us. He said, ‘You think this is a joke? You think that we have time to waste?’ Of course we didn't think it was a joke. This was a very serious matter. And that was when we gave each other the nod."
"The nod?"
"No, I can't tell you this. This is bad,” Trish whispers.
"You can tell me anything," I insist. “It's going to be fine.”
"You promise?"
It's my turn to reassure her. And I'm only slightly feeling bad for lying, but what other option do I have?
She killed two people and I need justice.
“Derek and I agreed to give each other the nod when it was time. And if one of us didn’t want to, then that was it."
"And so you both did?" I ask, my heart thumping out of my chest. I thought that the records from the notary were bad enough.
"Yeah. We both exchanged looks,” Trish admits.
"And what?" I ask.
"I don't know. I wanted to take it back, but it was too late. He just went along with it and started."
"And everything else happened just like you said before?"
She nods. I ask her to repeat herself. She does then asks, ”Can I go now? I mean, it's clear that I had nothing to do with this."
Now, it's my turn to stare at her dumbfounded.
"I mean, my husband, Derek, was the one who was responsible, clearly, right? I don't feel so good and I can't stay in here anymore without my phone."
"No, you can't go,” I say, shaking my head. "Absolutely not."
"What are you talking about? You said you would protect me."
"I said I would try to help you and I will."
"But you're not."
"I am. I'm here for you, if you want to tell me anything else."
"Oh, shut up. I won't talk to you anymore. Okay? Go away. I need a lawyer."
And with those magical words, I leave.
Chapter 39
Ruth and Deacon's granddaughter was named Ruth Deacon in memory of her beloved grandparents who never got to meet her, but so desperately wanted to. They had given up their dream retirement in order to spend time with their first grandchild and the fact that they will ne
ver know her will haunt me forever.
The blood that was found on the boat matched theirs as well as Trish and Derek’s. Their fingerprints were found all over the place.
The murder weapon was found in Trish's neighbor's backyard after their dog, who was prone to digging up anything, found the treasure of a lifetime: a blood-soaked knife with Trish’s fingerprints on it.
The knife had been washed and buried on land, rather than dropped into the ocean. It was still a fluke, the highest unlikelihood that something like that would be found, but it was. And sometimes you get breaks like that in life.
I attended Ruth and Deacon's memorial service and funeral. The first being held just a week after Trish’s arrest. And the second, six months later after Ruth's body was found, washed ashore, on one of the oil islands off the coast of Belmont Shore. These are oil derricks that can be seen from the beach, that the city had put palm trees on in order to beautify them to some degree.
Her body had all of the wounds that Trish had confessed to as well as a lot of signs of decomposition after being in the water for so long. Trish had her baby in the LA County Jail still awaiting trial and the baby was given to her parents to raise. I hope this time, for all of our sakes, they do a better job than they did the first time around.
The funeral is held in the morning, ten a.m., and I show up a few minutes early in a black suit and black pumps that I'm not used to wearing. I give everybody my condolences and I take a seat in the back to not draw attention from the family.
Little Ruth, as everyone started to call her, is a beautiful little baby with plump cheeks and who looks strikingly like her grandfather, especially since he had the same thick neck and bald head to match.
My phone vibrates against my thigh, and given that the funeral hasn’t started yet, I slip out the back to talk to Luke. Unfortunately, despite the fact that I've been up to Big Bear a number of times, no new evidence has become available in either the murder of Natalie D’Achille or my sister’s disappearance. No one wants to admit this, but the case has gone cold.
Even though Natalie's body was found, there were no fingerprints or DNA evidence. I can't make evidence appear out of nowhere, something that I have tried to explain to my mother a number of times. Mom has fallen into a dark hole, refusing to take my calls, she’s probably drinking a lot more. Even though I suspect that Neil and his father had something to do with one of their disappearances, there’s nothing really that I can do about any of it because they're not talking. And I have nothing concrete to go on.