Trust Me When I Lie

by Benjamin Stevenson

  “Someone’s put a lot of effort into making it look like I’m a serial killer. But they beat her first. She died quickly; a single blow, I’m told. They were trying to fish details out of me, is how I know,” he said, anticipating Jack’s question. “The strangling came after. She was already dead. Ergo, staged. Ergo, copycat. Ergo, there’s the door.”

  “It’s not a copycat,” Lauren repeated. “It’s the same killer.”

  “And Eliza?” Jack found himself saying, louder than he’d intended. He saw Curtis’s face darken, the muscles shift in his neck. By the doorway, Lauren unfurled. “If they’re copying a murder, who are they copying?”

  “Did you just ask me what I think you did?” Curtis grabbed the armrest, cocked his elbows, preparing to rise.

  “Careful.” Lauren took a half step into the room, and Jack realized she hadn’t been supervising the room to protect Curtis. She was there to protect Jack.

  Jack stood up to leave.

  “Sit the fuck down.”

  Lauren flinched. Jack sat down.

  “When we first met, you told me a few things,” Curtis said. “You remember those?”

  “I told you my words would make you famous.”

  “And there was one question you promised you would never ask me.”

  “I did.”

  “Are you asking that question?”

  Everything around Jack seemed to slow. The steam lingered on the rim of his mug. He gently placed it on the tray so he wouldn’t spill it. Was it hot enough to be a weapon? Probably not. He could hear Curtis breathing, a fat man’s whistle. Jack shouldn’t have come.

  “I am,” he said.

  “Okay. Ask it properly.” Curtis ran his tongue over his teeth, bulging his lips, clawed the armrest. Jack swallowed, straightened his back.

  “Leave him alone,” said Lauren.

  “Ask. It. Properly.”

  Jack was properly scared now. Curtis’s hands had shaken when he poured the tea. That rage had simmered underneath the whole time. This meeting was a trap. Jack saw, on the top of the bookcase behind Curtis, the stock of a rifle. The same rifle Curtis had shot at the drone with? If Curtis got up and made a move for the gun, could Jack get out of the room fast enough? He figured he probably could, but he was too far in to back out now. He took a breath and said the words he’d promised not to.

  “Did you kill Eliza Dacey?”

  Curtis ground his jaw. For a second, Jack thought he might go for the gun and kill him right there. Instead, he stood and went to the door, brushing past his sister. The question, now voiced, had torn through whatever bond the two men had formed during the documentary. Maybe Curtis really had thought Jack still was on his side. Jack was starting to see just how black-and-white Curtis saw the world: Andrew Freeman a villain; himself a hero; Jack his sidekick. In prison, those fictions must have been comforting.

  Curtis paused in the doorway. He had sounded heartbroken on their last prison phone call, but now he wasn’t disappointed; he was furious. His shoulders shuddered with each breath. In turn, that incensed Jack—what right did Curtis have to be pissed off?

  Lauren was stoic, still coiled, but aware that the knife-edge had tilted back to safer ground as Curtis made to leave the room. Curtis turned back.

  “You think so little of me.” Curtis’s voice was thick, holding back hot, livid tears. “And you’re the smallest man I know.”

  Then he was gone. Deep in the guts of the house, a door slammed.

  Chapter 14

  Lauren walked with Jack to the driveway in silence. It was different outside, her face relaxed, hazel eyes not analyzing everything. She accompanied him down the driveway without asking, still no shoes, blackened toes kicking at the largest stones.

  The sun was high, the sky completely clear, though the trees that lined the drive filtered the light, dappling the ground with long streaks of shadow. Shade to sun in rapid blinks, it was like walking through an old cartoon optical illusion. A zoetrope, Jack knew they were called. He’d made one when he first studied film—you spin the cylinder and watch the bear dance through the slits. Lauren blinked in and out of Jack’s vision. The world reduced to a frame rate.

  “He’ll calm down,” she said at last. “Sorry. I thought that would go better.”

  “Your career as a fortune-teller would be short-lived.”

  “I foresee”—she touched a finger to her head and waved her other hand in front of her—“unemployment.”

  Jack surprised himself by laughing. Throughout their interviews, they’d never traded pleasantries, even during breaks. Lauren and her father were rigid and focused, the two of them set up on that broken couch, Jack’s voice offscreen. The spotlight on, heating the room, dust rising from the carpet with the temperature. It was clear that Lauren had been coached to respond only to the simplest of questions and with the simplest of answers. At the time, Jack thought he was getting the yes or no answers of a moody teenager (even at twenty, he still thought of her as the sullen sixteen-year-old in the courtroom), but now he realized how unfair he’d been: to ask about such horrors, about murder and violence and her own brother, of a girl who barely knew the world. He’d seen her as a character to play in his narrative, but here she was, real and young and laughing alongside him. Jack supposed that was it—they were always talking about her brother. Outside, alone, it wasn’t about Curtis. And she seemed alive to him, for the first time.

  “You didn’t have to pitch my case,” he said. “Thanks though.”

  “We both want the same thing, you know? I want the world to see what really happened to Eliza too.”

  “You knew her well?” Jack asked. Lauren raised an eyebrow. “I know, I’ve already asked you this. But you might remember some small detail. It would help me, at least, to go over it again.”

  “We were kind of friends, I guess. Though maybe she thought I was just some kid that pestered her. I thought she was the coolest. When she was working at the Freemans’, I was only fifteen, remember, and I’d lived in country towns all my life, and here’s this confident, amazing, twenty-five-year-old who’s traveling the world on her own like a goddamn boss.” She placed a hand over her mouth and her shoulders lifted, stifling a chuckle. A good memory bubbling out of her. “She swiped a bottle off Andrew once, and we drank it sitting out here, under the vines. That was a nice night. It’s how I like to remember her.”

  Lauren tilted her head and soaked in the sun as if recharging. She looked back at him and smiled.

  “Come back tomorrow night,” she said. “We’ll have the restaurant to ourselves. I used to fill in with the chefs, so I can make you something.”

  “Yeah. Okay…” Jack said, but he must have hesitated, because Lauren immediately called him out.

  “Did my brother scare you?” she said. “Fuck, he scared me too! You’re lucky. You can imagine if I ever brought a boyfriend home…”

  Now they were both laughing again. A magpie took flight with the sudden noise, rippled through the air. Their laughter faded, and there was no more to be said. Jack kept expecting Lauren to turn back to the house, but she stayed with him, thumbs poking out the front of her jean pockets, palms flat on her thighs. They crunched down the drive.

  “He killed her,” she said. Kicked a rock.

  They kept walking. The world flickered.

  “He’s guilty,” she said. “He always will be. It doesn’t matter if he actually did anything or not. There’s been too much press. Too many podcasts. Too many shows. Don’t you see? Even the supporters, well, Alexis dying has changed their minds. Yours too, I can see it. In the public eye, he’s guilty. It’s just a different prison he’s living in now. A bigger room.” They’d reached the end of the drive. The van was gone. “So sometimes it’s easier to just think he killed her. Because even if he didn’t, wherever we go, my brother will always be the guy that strangled that young woman
. No. My family will always be the family that strangled that young woman.” She sighed. “And now we’ve gone and killed another one.”

  Jack didn’t have anything to say. Lauren’s life sucked away by her brother’s actions. The only way to move the spotlight was to get the real truth out there. She needed him. He turned to leave. She reached out and grabbed his arm. Hard. Farmer’s fingers clinched around his bony wrist. Her hand was sweaty and slicked his skin. She shot a look back at the farmstead.

  “Help us.”

  Lauren turned back at the main road as if some invisible force field separated the Wade property from the town. It may well have.

  Leaving that house had been like stepping back into the world. Curtis kept all the curtains closed. Jack wondered if Curtis had done that prior to his visit to intimidate him, but more likely it was to block out photographers and their drones. The main road of Birravale was clear, and the light so sharp that everything looked colorless. The Brokenback’s usually vibrant canopy was bleached a pale green.

  The road was narrow, so Jack walked in the dirt. Crumbling blocks of bitumen scooted off his toes, the road shrinking ever inward. A sheep transport blew past him, and he felt the world shake. The smell of piss and wool bathed him. Hot diesel lingered in his sinuses. The truck rattled on.

  Jack liked walking. Out the front of the hospital, where they’d been fed, he hadn’t been allowed. The nurses had forced everyone to catch the bus home. They’d supervised them to the stop, watched them board, and ticked their names off a list. Packed full of calories, the message was clear: we don’t want you wasting them walking home. No one had the guts to get off at the first stop, in case the driver was a snitch. Someone would always cause a fuss though. I don’t have any change, they’d complain, animatedly patting their pockets. The nurses were ready for that—producing ziplock bags with the exact fare in coins inside. Was Sydney’s public transport funding so bad, Jack used to joke, they had to prop it up with fares from bulimics? We’re light, another patient said once. Saves fuel.

  His phone rang. A blocked number. The man on the other end was talking before he could say hello.

  “I hear you’ve been hassling the Wades.”

  Winter.

  “I wasn’t hassling. I was invited.”

  “No journalists are allowed on the property. Do I need to take you through Trespass 101 again?”

  “I’m not a journalist. I told you, they invited me.”

  “Curtis did?” said Winter.

  “Lauren, actually. Why didn’t you tell me how Alexis was killed? She wasn’t strangled; she was beaten. Curtis told me.”

  “I don’t have to tell you anything. You’re not a detective. What else did he say?”

  “I don’t have to tell you anything either,” Jack parroted.

  Jack ran his hand over the steel railing, a minor barrier where the road bumped, crossing a small creek. The road had started to level out, and Jack could see the whole town in a straight line, every building lining the main street, with their purposes labeled on their awnings in large block letters, as if they were all attending the same high-school reunion, sticky labels on breast pockets. Hi, my name is: NEWSAGENT. It looked like less of a town and more of a movie set. He supposed that was actually half-right. Birravale wasn’t a real town; it was a service depot. Just enough drink and food and beds to recharge the wine guzzlers. A community reduced to its basic functions. Like Liam in his bed. He reached the end of the railing. Rust roughened his fingers, and he rubbed them on his jeans. He was sweating, and it had only been a short walk from the Wades’.

  How had Winter known he’d even been there? The van. It wasn’t really a media van. The satellite on top must have been fake.

  “Why are you keeping tabs on Curtis if he’s not a suspect?” he said.

  “Bad press. If the Wades are talking to you, you might be useful. Tell me something.”

  It was clearer now. Winter might be a good detective—Jack had no idea—but he was also a media cop. The sort they bring in on the high-profile cases. His job was as much PR as it was solving the actual crime. That was modern policing, Jack supposed. Curtis was actually on the radar, but Winter didn’t want to blow into Birravale with helicopters and handcuffs. Not until he had bulletproof evidence, anyway. And Curtis wasn’t letting anyone without a warrant on his property. Except for Jack. So they could help each other out.

  “Curtis said he didn’t do it,” Jack said.

  “Tell me something new,” Winter said.

  “He’s right about his motive. As much as I want to believe it, it’s not there. How much of a case do you have?”

  “Not enough. Help me clarify some things from your interview. This isn’t us working together…” Jack imagined Winter leaning back in his chair, checking the office for prying ears, dignity shaken that he was asking Jack Quick for help. “Just so we’re clear.”

  “That low on suspects, are you?” Jack couldn’t help rubbing it in a little.

  “The company line is that we are actively pursuing several promising leads.”

  “So. Fuck all.”

  “We are actively pursuing several promising leads.” There was the sound of Winter flicking through a notebook. “Her boyfriend. Do you have any clue who he was?”

  “I don’t think it was technically a boyfriend. She was flippant.”

  “Is it you?”

  “Fuck’s sake.”

  “I have to ask,” Winter said, one of his standard lines.

  “It’s not me.”

  “Is it Curtis?”

  Jack paused. Winter, whether he knew it or not, was being obvious. Like with Eliza, a rape kit would have been used. Judging by the way Winter was flinging out darts at any target, Jack guessed that, like with Eliza, the kit had turned up nothing. That meant that she hadn’t slept with anyone in the week or so prior to her death, the longest period that DNA collection could be considered viable. Or, at the very least, she hadn’t slept with anyone they had a profile on. People who watch crime shows think it’s as easy as punching into a database, but most average citizens aren’t on it. Curtis was—his DNA collected during the first arrest. Jack had a sudden flash of Alexis pinned under Curtis, the whistle through his teeth, fat and panting.

  “I’d be surprised,” he said.

  “I have”—more rustling of pages—“that the boyfriend called her twice during your meeting. And sent her a text. Right?”

  “Like I said, I didn’t see her caller ID, but it seemed like the same guy rang her a few times.”

  “Hmm,” Winter muttered. “Time?”

  Jack told him. A Land Rover thrummed past.

  “Don’t see it,” Winter said to himself. There was a clack clack clack down the line, the tapping of a pen against his teeth. Of course, Jack thought. Winter was looking at phone records.

  “Which phone?” Jack said.

  “Hmm,” Winter said again. “Interesting.”

  He hung up.

  Jack held the phone in his hand, recovering. Which phone? The police hadn’t known about her second phone. And if her boyfriend was a new fling, it was likely that second phone was the one with his messages and phone calls. She’d told him it was cheap, prepaid. Hard to trace. Was it in the house when he was there? He tried to remember. And why hadn’t he told the police?

  He’d just forgotten. Surely. But maybe, subconsciously, he’d held it back on purpose. Because a part of him wanted to be the one to solve the damn thing. If I didn’t do it, it’s not about you anymore, Curtis had said. Maybe he was right. This whole investigation just an exercise in selfishness.

  Jack’s thoughts were swirling. He was close to town now, walking on the footpath instead of the dirt. He needed someone to talk to. A good listener, someone who wouldn’t judge him. He was still holding his phone. He dialed his father.

  “Hey, Dad,” he
said.

  “How’s it going?”

  “Is Liam there?” Awake, he meant. Of course he was there. He couldn’t physically be anywhere else. He’d meant to say awake.

  “He’s here.” They’d almost become used to that accidental language, imagining him as a real person, just for a glimmer.

  “Can you put me on speaker?”

  “Jack,” Peter said gently, “I don’t know if this is—” He stopped himself short of saying healthy, as if the word itself might leap out of the phone and make his son sick. He sighed. “Okay. Let me grab the paper.”

  There were a few moments of quiet, then a crinkling of paper, a series of thuds, and some crackling interference. Peter had walked up the stairs, gone into Liam’s room and sat in the armchair, crossword smoothed on his lap. His voice, when it came, was from farther away. “You’re on.”

  “Hey, mate,” Jack said. “How are you doing, Liam?”

  There was no reply except the soft, intermittent beep of a machine, and the gentle scratch of Peter’s pencil.

  “Listen, that case we’ve been working on. Can I run some things past you?”

  A quiet beeping.

  “I just don’t understand. If a boyfriend murdered her, it almost makes sense. It was a single blow to the back of the head, you know? That’s a murder of passion. Violence like that comes from fire, anger or impulse, right?” Jack saw it in his mind, a hulking shadow in the cobblestone lane, weapon in hand. Alexis’s boyfriend panicking. Staggered by what he’d done. Needing to draw attention away from himself, to run. Realizing, as he slipped Alexis’s second phone into his pocket, that the perfect cover was as clear as the impending dawn: imitating the most high-profile crime in a century.

  No answer but the dull scratch of a pencil in the background.

  “No, I don’t know who she was sleeping with, mate. I don’t know her type.” He paused, waiting for answers that weren’t coming. “You’re right. I really didn’t know her at all.”

  Beep.