This is Our Story

by Ashley Elston

  I crumple up my brown bag and stuff it in the trash.

  “I’m heading up,” I say. Camille waves ’bye, but Reagan just gives me a nod.

  I trudge up the stairs, exhausted from my restless sleep last night. I dreamed about Grant and his blond wavy hair and devilish smile. He was walking off that field, his arm wrapped around Lindsey, but instead of the football jersey he was wearing that night, he was dressed in camo just like the boys were in the video interviews. And then he staggered back, the bullet tearing through his jacket and ripping his chest open. Lindsey was kneeling on the ground next to him, crying.

  A shudder runs through me and I shake my head quickly to rid myself of the images.

  I relieve Mom so she can go get lunch, and I head into Mr. Stone’s office.

  He’s eating a chicken salad sandwich at his desk with his headphones on. I wonder if he’s listening to the recordings Mom makes when she reads stuff for him or if he’s listening to the ones I’ve been making of the interrogation tapes.

  He pulls off the headphones when I move closer to his desk and presses stop on the player.

  “I’m here. Need me to do anything?” I ask.

  Before he can answer, there’s a knock on the door. A short, balding man sticks his head inside Mr. Stone’s office.

  “Yes?” Mr. Stone says.

  The man holds up a thick file folder. “Here’s the coroner’s report on the River Point case.”

  Mr. Stone nods for him to put in on his desk and thanks him before he leaves. I can’t help but think this is why the River Point dads were in Gaines’s office this morning. I bet they already have their own copy.

  He shoves the report into a messenger-style bag and throws the rest of his sandwich away. “Damn. I was hoping to get this before I left for River Point. I’ll try to read the summary on the way while your mother drives.”

  “Why are you going to River Point?”

  “I scheduled a visit to the scene. I need to get a feel for what happened that morning.”

  He can barely see across the room. What’s he going to be able to see in the woods?

  Mr. Stone seems to be looking for something on his desk and not doing a very good job.

  “I know what you’re thinking, but your mother will be there to help me,” he says.

  I can’t believe I’m about to offer this, because it’s the last thing on earth I want to do, the last place I want to be.

  “Would you like me to come? I can bring my camera, take pics of everything.”

  He stops and turns his head to the side so he can look at me.

  “This is a crime scene. A boy you know was killed there. Are you sure you’re up for that?” he asks.

  I swallow hard and say, “Yes.”

  We remain there in tense silence for what seems like forever until he finally asks, “Do you have your camera with you?”

  “Always.”

  “Grab your bag.”

  I gather my things and send a quick text to Reagan while Stone tells Mom about the change in plans.

  I’m going to River Point with Stone.

  And I’m freaking out.

  Freaking out is actually an understatement, because I’m not sure I can handle seeing where Grant died, even though I just promised I could.

  REAGAN: You’re going there? You’re going to see where he died?

  ME: YES!!!!!!!!!!!! I’m not sure I can do this

  REAGAN: Just try not to puke or faint or anything like that. Call me when you’re done.

  I drop my phone in my bag and take a few deep breaths before I follow Stone to the employee parking lot.

  I crank the car once he hands me the keys.

  “Do you know how to get there?” he asks.

  I nod. “Yes, sir. I think so.” There have been maps of River Point on the news attached to almost every story they do. Everyone knows how to get there now.

  He settles back in his seat, pulling out the report that was just delivered to him. From the first glance, I can see the type is small and there’s no way he can read it on his own. Just before I’m about to put the car in reverse, he hands the report to me.

  “Before we go, read me the top summary page, please.”

  I hate how sad his voice sounds.

  “Okay,” I answer.

  There’s a lot of technical jargon, words I can’t pronounce, but by the time I finish there’s a smile starting to form on his face.

  “Okay, you’re going to have to translate what I just read to you because I have no idea what I just said.”

  Mr. Stone punches his fists in the air at a rapid pace. I don’t know if I’ve ever witnessed this sort of excitement from him. “I can do better than tell you—I can show you when we get there.”

  We’re quiet for the rest of the drive and I’m thankful his eyes are closed. My hands are shaking and a thin layer of sweat pops out on my forehead. I want to help Stone any way I can, but I don’t know how I’m going to make it through the afternoon. And whatever was in that report had him almost giddy. I’m trying really hard not to get my hopes up, but for the first time since we got this case, I’m feeling somewhat hopeful.

  I don’t know what I expected, but I’m surprised by all of the cars when we pull through the gate at River Point.

  “Who are all of these people?” I ask.

  I park off to the side and wait while Mr. Stone gathers his stuff. “That’s the thing,” he says. “We can be here, but so can everyone else. When I scheduled this visit, I was informed Mr. and Mrs. Forres insisted on being here, since it’s their property. I believe the Carlisles will be here as well as Mr. Moore and Mr. McCullar; even the boys were checked out of school to be here. Also, the defense’s legal team is here, making sure they are aware of whatever we may discover. Grant Perkins’s father requested to be here, so I also made sure there was a deputy on duty in case there is a problem. Also, Detective Pierce will be here to assist us and show us around the property.”

  The River Point Boys are here. Maybe volunteering to come along wasn’t that great of an idea. I swallow hard when I step out of the car. “I didn’t realize the police would let them all be here like this.”

  Mr. Stone lets out a grunt. “This isn’t a closed crime scene anymore. All the forensic evidence has been taken, so it’s not like they can mess anything up.”

  We walk slowly up the driveway toward the cabin. Although it’s not a cabin. It’s a mansion-cabin. The place is made from rough-cut wood and is at least two stories tall, with huge glass windows on every side. Off to the left is a detached garage where most of the bays are open, showing everything from all-terrain vehicles to jacked-up trucks to ski boats. This is definitely a sportsman’s paradise.

  A crowd of men are gathered on the back porch, waiting for us. I hold my camera up in front of me like it’s some sort of shield. And then I spot the group just inside the house. Four of them, watching us from the big windows.

  The River Point Boys.

  I take a slow breath in and then let it out.

  Mr. Stone puts a hand on my arm, stopping me. “This is going to be difficult for me, as you know. Take pictures of everything. Notice everything. It’s probably for the best that you came with me instead of your mother. I’m counting on you.”

  He’s counting on me.

  I stand up straighter and pull my camera closer. I can do this.

  “They’re all staring at us,” I whisper to Mr. Stone.

  “Forres and the others will try to intimidate us, make us rush, make us feel bad for being here, but we’re going to ignore them. We have every right within the law to be here. We can stay as long as we need. We can look anywhere we want, take pictures, take measurements, whatever,” he answers with a wink.

  When we reach the back patio, everyone introduces themselves, and it’s not hard to notice the divide: Mr. Perkins and his team on one side, and the four River Point dads and the defense lawyers on the other. And to think these five men were close friends before this ha
ppened.

  Mr. Stone puts his briefcase on a stone table and pulls out some papers. “All right, we’d first like to see the spot where Grant was found.”

  My eyes cut to Mr. Perkins and he winces, the pain still fresh on his face. The deputy motions for us to follow him, and we move off of the flagstone patio into the woods. Everyone else follows close behind us, but thankfully the boys stay inside.

  I lift the camera to my face and start taking pictures. It’s absolutely beautiful here. Giant trees dot the landscape, but with the limbs bare, sun filters in through the space. The ground is covered with leaves that crunch with every step we take. Most are dead, but some still cling to their bright orange and yellow colors.

  I’m surprised by how close to the house we are when we finally stop. There are little orange flags stuck in the ground in the rough shape of a body, and I know we’ve made it to the spot where Grant died.

  My jaw feels tight and it’s tough to swallow. Blinking back the tears, I drag in a deep breath, hoping to get myself under control. I can keep it together. For Grant.

  And what makes it worse is seeing Mr. Perkins. He’s started crying and has to lean against a nearby tree for support. In this moment I really want nothing more than to stand with him, hug him, and cry as openly as he is. The others are quiet and keep their distance, uncomfortable with Mr. Perkins’s display of emotions.

  “Kate, please start taking your photographs. I want pictures of the ground there,” he says and points to the flags. “And a shot from every direction.”

  Mr. Stone turns around to the crowd. “If you please, when my assistant turns in your direction, move out of her shot.”

  They nod and I get to work. Hopefully, focusing on the task at hand will help me block out the total despair radiating from Mr. Perkins.

  “There are no wildlife cameras in this area?” Mr. Stone asks.

  The River Point dads all look at each other and then to their lawyers. One of the lawyers answers for them. “I believe you have all of the pictures from any wildlife cameras.”

  “I understand that. What I’m asking is if there is a wildlife camera in this area.”

  The lawyer just stares at Mr. Stone, clearly not giving him anything to work with or use against his clients later. Finally, Mr. Stone turns around and opens a file folder but goes to great lengths to hide what he’s reading. I move around in a tight circle, still snapping away.

  “Kate,” Mr. Stone says quietly. “Please take a look at this.”

  I move next to him and peek inside the file folder. It’s a color image of Grant, dead on the ground. My throat gets tight, and there’s that funny feeling in my mouth that comes right before you puke.

  Turning away from the photo, I stare at the trees in the distance and try to push the sick feeling away. Deep breaths in. Deep breaths out.

  “I’m sorry you have to see this, but I need your help orienting me to the direction he was facing when he fell,” he whispers in my ear.

  I skim across the small type under the image, trying desperately not to look at Grant.

  “The report says he was facing northwest.”

  Mr. Stone nods, closes the folder and repeats the direction to the officer, asking him to find that direction.

  It takes a few seconds for the officer to point us the right way.

  “Officer, the coroner’s report states that, based on ballistics, the shooter was twenty-five to thirty yards away.” Stone hands him a tape measure from his pocket. “Please measure thirty yards from this spot in that direction.”

  I spin around to Mr. Stone and see that same smile he had in the car.

  “That’s pretty close,” I whisper.

  He gives me a quick nod.

  The officer does as he’s asked, and the only sounds are of the birds flying through the trees above us. I notice the investigators Mr. Perkins hired are taking their own pictures and scribbling in notebooks. The other group waits off to the side, but it’s easy to see how tense they are.

  Once the officer is in place, I’m shocked. I could probably throw a rock and hit him from here.

  Even though Stone knew the shooter was close from the officers on the scene, it’s different seeing just how close he really was. “Kate, stand next to me and take a picture in the direction of Officer Jones. Then go stand by Officer Jones and take a picture in my direction.”

  I do as I’m told, trying to forget about all of the eyes on me right now.

  My mind spins out of control when I focus in on the officer. There are no bushes or trees blocking the view. I can see him clearly.

  Wouldn’t that mean the shooter saw Grant?

  We stay in that small part of the woods for over an hour, and by the time we head back to the cabin, I’ve taken nearly five hundred pictures.

  The others walk ahead, but Mr. Perkins waits for us.

  “My wife and I have been searching for Grant’s watch and class ring. They’re not at home, and the Forreses say they’re not here. We were given a list of Grant’s things that were…on him, but the watch and ring weren’t listed. Have you seen any mention of those items anywhere?”

  Mr. Stone puts a hand on Mr. Perkins’s shoulder. “I’m sorry, no. I haven’t come across that, but I will keep an eye out for it. You should fill out a report, though. At least you could file it on your insurance.”

  Mr. Perkins nods and says, “It’s not the money I’m worried about. We just wanted his things back.”

  Mr. Perkins walks away and Mr. Stone and I let him get a little ahead of us before we start back.

  “I guess I always thought the one who shot Grant mistook him for a deer,” I say quietly. “But…the shooter had to have seen him.”

  “Of course he did. These boys were drunk and stupid. They were probably walking out to their stands, screwing around, and someone was clumsy with their gun. They were extremely negligent. That’s why they’re not giving up the one who pulled the trigger, because there’s no way a jury would let them off.”

  I swallow hard. “So it was an accident?” I ask.

  He slows down, increasing the space between us and everyone else. “That’s where it gets tricky. Could this have been an accident? Yes. A stupid, senseless accident. Could it have been more than that? It very well may be.”

  “Do you think he was…murdered?” I whisper. I can barely wrap my head around this.

  Stone stops. “There’s only one thing separating negligent homicide from murder, and that’s evidence of intent. We’re still trying to figure which one of them pulled the trigger. If we can’t discover who did it, there’s no way to know if there was intent. We have to take this one step at a time.”

  We start walking again, and just before we reach the others, Stone says, “I’m really proud of how you handled yourself out there.”

  I can’t help but smile.

  Mr. Forres moves toward us, gesturing to where our car is parked down the driveway, and says, “I’m sure you’ve gotten everything you need.”

  Mr. Stone shakes his head. “We’d like to inspect the inside.”

  Oh God.

  Mr. Forres consults with his defense team, and there is a quiet argument while Mr. Stone acts like he has all day.

  And, just as Mr. Stone called it, Mr. Forres has to let us enter the house.

  I follow Mr. Stone inside, and he turns to the boys, who are standing near the kitchen area.

  I keep my eyes down because I’m scared to death to look at any of them right now. The disgust roiling around inside of me when I think about how they’re protecting each other makes me sick.

  “Maybe you boys want to wait outside while we’re in here,” Stone says to them.

  I hear them shuffle out, but I don’t move until it’s quiet.

  “Kate, do your thing.”

  And I get to work. Mr. Stone and I move through every room while I take detailed pictures of every inch. Mr. Perkins and his investigators follow every step I take.

  I pass through a small den a
nd recognize the couch where Shep was questioned, then the office where Logan sat near the desk. Moving through the house, there’s the room where Henry sat nervously on his barstool. Toward the end of the tour, I see the bedroom where John Michael was questioned.

  When we circle back to the main room, the sun has dropped farther down in the sky and the light has turned a fuzzy orange color. I zoom in close to a wooden board with a map stretched across it. There are nails sticking out in different areas across the map, and small, circular metal tags hanging from the nails. On each disk, there are names engraved…GRANT, HENRY, JOHN MICHAEL, LOGAN, and SHEP. I take several pictures of the board before moving on.

  “We’re done, Kate. You can head to the car while I say our good-byes.”

  I can’t get out of there fast enough. I exit through the front door while Mr. Stone goes to the back porch, where everyone else is waiting. I’m just out of the door when I hear a voice.

  “Kate, can I talk to you?”

  And there is Shep, standing on the porch, watching me.

  “No,” I say, my voice full of disgust.

  I move down the front steps and hear him following behind.

  “I had no idea you would be here. I know how hard this is…for you. But I need to talk to you.”

  I stop and throw a glance at the house, checking to see if Stone is witnessing this, but we’re all alone out here.

  “There is absolutely nothing you need to say to me unless it is admitting to killing Grant or telling me who did.”

  His clenched fists hang by his side.

  I spin around, and just before I stomp off to Mr. Stone’s car, he says, “I didn’t shoot him.”

  A deep breath shudders out of me, but I don’t turn around or move until I hear him walk away.

  The second all the lawyers and that prosecutor and the girl with the camera left, they sit us down and start chewing our asses out.

  They’d known the one who shot Grant was near him, but no one was prepared for how damning it looked when the officer measured off the distance.

  “It’s time to stop all this bullshit and tell us which one of you pulled the trigger,” one of the dads says.