“Not good. It’s been really rough for all of them. I really hope they find out who took that picture.”
• • •
“How was school?” Mr. Stone asks the second I shut the door and take what has become my usual seat next to his desk. He’s leaned back in his chair, eyes resting on the ceiling.
“Good,” I answer. There’s no way I’m mentioning getting busted taking those pictures of Henry. I deleted the shots—well…all but one…I couldn’t bring myself to trash the one by the window.
“What do you need me to do today?” I ask.
I thought it would be a nightmare to work on this case, but I’ve found it’s exactly what I need. I need the person who shot Grant to be caught and prosecuted. I need Stone to sway the grand jury into indicting one or all of those boys. And I’m glad of any way I can help the process along.
He swivels around in his chair and grabs a large box on the floor behind him and puts it on his desk. “Help me see what I’m missing with the boys from that morning. The interviews with the River Point Boys aren’t that long. Then there are the videos of the witnesses from the party the night before.”
The party where I was supposed to meet Grant.
“Okay. Am I looking for anything in particular? Or just something that seems weird?”
Mr. Stone thumbs through some papers on his desk. “Anything that throws negative light on them, even if it doesn’t have to do with the shooting, can only help us. There was a lot going on that night—some fights and all-around bad behavior. This case is a tricky one; almost every person who gives their version of events, whether it’s the River Point Boys or the witnesses, was drinking or high that night, which makes their testimony unreliable, but it might lead us to something else we can use. Your mom has you set up next to her desk. My plate is full right now with this stuff the detectives on the case sent over.” Mr. Stone rummages around in the box, pulling out random paper bags labeled with their contents. “I’ve got Grant’s clothes and his wallet among other things.” Then he pulls out a black bag. “And his phone.”
The sight of his phone makes my knees buckle. Has he examined it yet? Has he read through the conversations we had over the last several weeks?
“Wha…what did you find on the phone? Do you need me to look?”
He shakes his head. “No. Not much here. I’m getting the idea that Grant had an unusual sense of humor. Most of his contacts are listed under nicknames or initials, so it’s hard to decipher who he was actually talking to.”
“What do you mean nicknames?” I ask. I would give anything to know what my nickname was.
He lets out an awkward sounding cough-laugh. “Some of the more colorful ones are Big Juicy, Pit Stains, and someone called Blunt Roller.”
Okay, so maybe I don’t want to know what my nickname was.
“I’ve got a list of the numbers that make up the text messages and calls sent and received in the forty-eight hours before his death. In between everything else your mother is working on, she’s matching up these ridiculous names to real people with the help of a list the phone company sent over. There are some discrepancies between the call log on his phone and the records from the phone company, so it looks like Grant was also in the habit of deleting calls. But the really interesting thing is that phone records show a call made the morning of the hunt, but it’s not on the log in his phone. The number matches the contact name Booty Call 3, so that’s no help determining who it is. The name on the account with the cell phone company for that number is a big accounting firm in town that does business with the River Point Boys’ families. In fact, several different numbers in Grant’s contacts are all under this one account. Needless to say, we’ve asked them to tell us who uses these numbers—we’re assuming the phones are used by the children of some of the employees there—but they’re dragging their feet getting back to me. Just help me with the tapes for now.”
I backtrack out of the room to the area where Mom is working, shoving my shaking hands deep in my jeans pockets. At some point they’re going to match my messages to my number…Oh God, my number that is in Mom’s name. I cringe when I think about Mr. Stone and Mom reading them. I know he said it’s not a big deal if I talked to any of them before, but I’m sure they’re going to wonder why I didn’t tell them exactly how often I texted with Grant.
“Over here, Kate,” Mom calls from her desk.
I didn’t notice it before, but on the table next to her desk sit a screen, headphones, and some sort of microphone. “Are you ready to start?” she asks.
“I guess. What is it I’m supposed to do?”
I follow Mom to the small table and she motions for me to have a seat; then she cues up a video. “You won’t be watching the entire interview, just the sections Mr. Stone has flagged. This one is a portion of John Michael Forres’s interrogation.”
She hands me the microphone and the headphones. “This will record both the audio from the video plus any comments you make, so just jump right in when you want to say something. Don’t worry if you accidentally talk over the boys or the officer—he’s listened to these tapes a hundred times by now.”
She points to a button on the keyboard. “Just press this when you’re ready to start and then this button when you’re done. The rest of it is all ready to go.”
Mom moves back to her desk while I put the headphones on. They are noise canceling, so instantly I’m thrown into my own quiet little world. John Michael’s face is frozen on the screen, and it’s almost like we’re having a staring competition. I press play and John Michael’s voice surrounds me, and suddenly it’s like we’re all in the same room, John Michael, the officer, and me.
Here we go.
TRANSCRIPT OF THE OCTOBER 5 INTERROGATION OF JOHN MICHAEL FORRES BY DETECTIVE FONTENOT, WITH BODY LANGUAGE COMMENTARY BY KATE MARINO
DET. FONTENOT: So it seems like your place is the place to be.
KATE: John Michael shrugs.
JOHN MICHAEL: I guess.
DET. FONTENOT: You’re the one with the camp. You’re the one with the vehicles and all the toys, right?
JOHN MICHAEL: Yeah.
DET. FONTENOT: Man, I’d get tired of everybody using all my stuff all the time. Inviting people to my house, trashing it. That must get old.
KATE: He shrugs again.
JOHN MICHAEL: I like it. What good is having all that stuff if you can’t enjoy it with your friends?
DET. FONTENOT: Sounds like you provide more than just entertainment. I hear you can get anything you want at your place…pot, pills…you name it. Is that right?
JOHN MICHAEL: I have no idea what you’re talking about.
DET. FONTENOT: Okay, we’ll play it that way…for now…John Michael, take us back to the beginning of yesterday. When did y’all get to the camp?
KATE: He relaxes just a bit in his chair. Shoulders drop, grip on the chair loosens. Eyes are red as well as his nose.
JOHN MICHAEL: Shep and I got there first. We rode together in my car. We unloaded some stuff…our clothes, some food…some…
KATE: His expression changes. Looks nervous.
DET. FONTENOT: Booze? Y’all unloaded some of that, too, right?
KATE: He coughs and worms around in his chair. Looks uncomfortable.
JOHN MICHAEL: Anyway, it was still early. Logan, Henry, and Grant were about a half hour behind us.
KATE: He’s shuffling around in the chair, eyes darting around the room. I’ve never seen anyone so fidgety.
DET. FONTENOT: So everyone gets to the camp, all the stuff is brought inside, everyone is gearing up for a big night. So what next?
KATE: Another cough.
KATE: Another twitch.
KATE: Another turn.
JOHN MICHAEL: We decided to do some target practice. Grant wanted to make sure his sights were zeroed in for the hunt the next morning.
DET. FONTENOT: Where did you do the target practice?
JOHN MICHAEL: On the back of the property, we ha
ve a range set up. We rode the four-wheelers back there. Shot off a few rounds. Headed back to the camp.
DET. FONTENOT: Whoa, whoa. Let’s walk through it. Whose four-wheelers?
KATE: He rolls his eyes.
JOHN MICHAEL: Mine.
DET. FONTENOT: Y’all were shooting at targets? Was that it?
JOHN MICHAEL: Yes.
DET. FONTENOT: What guns did y’all use?
JOHN MICHAEL: We just shot Grant’s Remington.
DET. FONTENOT: You each fired that gun?
JOHN MICHAEL: Yeah.
DET. FONTENOT: We had an officer ride around the property. We found where y’all were practicing. Y’all were shooting at more than bull’s-eyes.
KATE: He throws his head back against his chair.
JOHN MICHAEL: We were going to give it back.
DET. FONTENOT: You were going to give it back…full of bullet holes? Who shot it?
KATE: He blows out a deep breath, looks straight at the officer.
JOHN MICHAEL: We all took a turn shooting it. It was just a prank.
DET. FONTENOT: Seems like there were a lot of pranks that went on at St. Bart’s.
KATE: He shrugs.
JOHN MICHAEL: I’m not sure what you’re talking about.
DET. FONTENOT: There have been a lot of parents calling our office, and your name, Grant’s name, hell, all of y’all’s names have been thrown around. They’re pretty pissed off.
KATE: He chews on his bottom lip.
JOHN MICHAEL: I really don’t know what you’re talking about.
DET. FONTENOT: So y’all are shooting things, drinking, taking pills, smoking joints until how late? Midnight? Two a.m.? Dawn? What all do you have in your system right now?
KATE: He looks really uncomfortable. Actually, he looks like he’s about to either vomit or pee on himself.
JOHN MICHAEL: I don’t know.
DET. FONTENOT: You don’t know, huh? ’Cause once we get a blood test on all of y’all, it’s gonna tell us everything we need to know. Might as well fess up now.
JOHN MICHAEL: A little of everything. I don’t know.
DET. FONTENOT: And y’all didn’t see anything wrong with picking up a gun and going hunting?
KATE: He’s squinting his eyes now. Obviously not liking where this is going.
DET. FONTENOT: Just like you didn’t see anything wrong with all the drugs and drinking you let take place on your family’s property. What else did you let happen there? Maybe one of your friends asked you to keep quiet about him using the Remington and promised you he’d be quiet about all the bad shit that happened at your place. And since most everyone who parties out there is underage—how mad is Daddy going to be if he goes down for the stupid behavior of you and your friends? I think he’s got enough on his plate right now as it is. Or maybe you were using too much of your own product? Maybe you were careless with your daddy’s gun?
UNKNOWN VOICE: His parents are here and requesting a lawyer be present for any more questioning.
KATE: He leans forward. His eyes dart around.
DET. FONTENOT: Do you want a lawyer?
KATE: He nods his head. Looks relieved.
JOHN MICHAEL: I want a lawyer.
SEPTEMBER 8, 10:52 P.M.
GRANT: What’s up?
KATE: Editing some pics I took at Columbia Park
GRANT: Where’s that?
KATE: Near Highland. My favorite place.
GRANT: I should check it out if it’s your favorite
KATE: Make sure you sit under the big oak tree in the back corner. It’s the best spot.
The best fried catfish in town is prepared in a ten-foot-long trailer that’s parked in front of an abandoned strip of old stores on the edge of town. Mom and I discovered this place when we were meeting someone to test-drive a used car several years ago. The same car we share and that I’m driving now. Mom has hours of work in front of her, so I thought it would be a nice surprise to pick up her favorite dinner for her and Mr. Stone.
John Michael’s interrogation tape is still fresh in my mind. It took me a few minutes to get up the courage to ask Mr. Stone what they had been shooting at the practice range. Thoughts of dead rabbits and other small defenseless creatures littered my brain but it turned out not to have been as gruesome as that. Weird, but not gruesome.
They had stolen the stuffed mascot from the junior class at St. Bart’s—the one used in the Battle of the Paddle game—and shot it full of holes.
Everyone in town knows about St. Bart’s annual Battle of the Paddle game and the prank war between the juniors and seniors that leads up to it. There are more vandalism complaints in the two weeks before the game than the entire rest of the year. There was a car that had cow manure stuffed down the air vents, some senior girls who had paint-filled balloons thrown at them outside the movies, a house that had gotten egged, and a junior’s car that someone covered in plastic wrap, among other things.
Since St. Bart’s isn’t big enough for a regular football team, the Battle of the Paddle is more like a pickup game. No pads or helmets. No real tackles. Junior class plays the senior class. Winner gets to hang an old wooden paddle—it’s a paddle some military person used in the Civil War when this area got flooded or something like that—in either the junior or senior hall for the rest of the year.
I pull into the parking lot, and wave to Pat, who’s manning the fryer. Once I’m out of the car, I skirt around the small crowd at the picnic tables and work my way to the back side of the trailer.
“Hey, girl. Haven’t seen you in a while. How’s your mama?” Pat asks when I get close. Pat is a tall black man who played two seasons with the Dallas Cowboys before an injury to his back took him out of the game. Even though his hair is now mostly gray and there are wrinkles around his eyes, he’s still built like a tank. There’s barely any room for him to maneuver around in the cooking trailer.
“We’ve been busy, just like you,” I say, and nod to the group of people on the other side of the trailer.
“Your mama works too hard. Just like me,” he says with a laugh.
“I agree. But I don’t see either one of y’all slowing down anytime soon.”
Pat does a hundred things at once. He batters catfish fillets, turns the ones in the fryer, mixes up his secret sauce, and takes orders, all while carrying on a conversation with me. He fills a Styrofoam box up with catfish and fries fresh out of the fryer and ladles several plastic cups full of the sauce he knows Mom and I adore. He slides it all to me while I offer money I know he won’t take. We’re getting far more food than what usually comes in one of his to-go orders.
“It’s bad enough you let me cut in line, but I’m going to quit coming if you don’t let me pay you. It’s not right.”
He gives me a smile and a wink. “You’ll be back and you know it. Best catfish in Louisiana.”
Mom and I haven’t paid for a meal in over a year since Mom helped him out when he got caught running this business without a license. She made some calls, pulled some strings, and helped him go legit.
“Well, it’s not right,” I say.
“Tell your mama don’t work so hard.”
I roll my eyes. “If she won’t listen when I tell her that, she’s sure not going to listen to you.”
I grab the bag with the fish and sauce. “Thanks, Pat! You’re too good to us,” I say and turn back toward the car. My eyes graze across the crowd on the other side of the trailer but stop suddenly on a small group not far away.
You can’t stare at faces for hours without burning every detail about them into your brain. I recognize them immediately.
The River Point Boys stand together in a tight circle on the other side of the parking lot against the backdrop of their expensive vehicles. I gaze at them as if I’m in a trance. I analyze their movements just like I would for Mr. Stone.
They are almost shoulder to shoulder, their heads bent forward. Whatever they are saying, they don’t want anyone to hear them. Henry and She
p, the tallest of the four boys, stand across from each other, and by the jerky motions of their shoulders, I’d say they’re arguing over something. What are they fighting about? Logan nods along with both of them, his thick, dark red curls bobbing back and forth. Reagan calls him “Ginger-licious” and I have to agree. John Michael stands there, seemingly absorbed with whatever they’re saying, his eyes darting back and forth between Shep and Henry.
I study Shep. The uptight attitude he shows at school is intensified by stiff shoulders and a scowling expression. He’s attractive, but in a rough sort of way. His dark hair is shaggy like he’s missed his last haircut, and it always looks like he needs to shave. Even though Henry would be considered the hottest guy in that group, there’s something about Shep. But then I remember the few texts he sent me after I met him and Grant, and I can’t stop my lip from curling up.
Any pleasant thought I have about him evaporates. His personality drops his hotness down to subzero.
“Whatever is happening over there, Kate, you need to stay a hundred miles away from it,” Pat says, breaking my concentration.
I turn to him. He’s stopped working and is watching me.
“Do you know who they are?” I ask.
He nods. “Everyone knows who they are.” Pat glances in the direction of the boys and shakes his head, like he’s disgusted. “Been meeting out here almost every night. Stupid boys, like no one they should be concerned with would spot them here. Hell, just before they showed up yesterday, the chief of police and his wife were picking up dinner.”
I get why they would think they were safe. It’s in the middle of nowhere, definitely off the beaten path, but they didn’t take into consideration how many people come out this way to get Pat’s food. Or rather, how many people from the courthouse come out this way because Mom told them about Pat’s food.
“Okay, I’m leaving. ’Bye, Pat, and thanks again for dinner.”
I turn away from Pat, heading back to my car, and questions run like wildfire through my head. Why are they driving way out here to meet? What are they talking about? Or arguing about?
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