Summit Lake

by Charlie Donlea

  “Kelsey Castle? Is that correct?”

  She turned to see Stan Ferguson, a man she knew from her research and with whom she’d spoken last week as she planned her trip. He was well into his sixties, and the unlit cigarette that hung from his lips was surely the source of the wrinkles that road-mapped his face. The same habit contributed to his coarse voice, which was reminiscent of a man recovering from laryngitis.

  “Yes,” Kelsey said.

  They shook hands and Commander Ferguson pointed to the front door, pinching the unlit cigarette between his fingers. “You mind if we talk outside?”

  “Sure.”

  They stood on the sidewalk in front of the old building. The commander lit his cigarette like he’d done a million times before. When he spoke, diluted smoke dripped from his nostrils.

  “What can I do for you, Miss Castle?”

  “I’m here to write a piece about Becca Eckersley, and I was wondering if there was anything you could tell me about the case.”

  The commander smiled. “I could tell you a lot, depends on what you want to know.”

  “This is your police force, right? You’re in charge here?”

  “Never had another job. Been here forty-plus years.”

  Kelsey pulled a notepad from her purse. “Can you tell me a little about the night Becca was killed?”

  The commander took a pull from the cigarette and looked down the street, toward the lake. “Becca Eckersley was killed on a Friday night—February 17th. What’s that, two weeks ago? Just over? She was alone in the family’s stilt house the night she died. You familiar with stilt row?” He pointed toward the lake.

  Kelsey nodded. She remembered the row of stilt houses she saw during her trip to the top of the falls.

  “Came up here from George Washington University, where she was a first-year law student, to study for an exam. Get away from all the distractions, I suppose. She spoke to her parents earlier in the day—a call placed from her cell phone in the morning hours when she was on the way down, and a second call placed from the Eckersleys’ home phone just after seven in the evening. It was around 10 p.m. when the next-door neighbor noticed the Eckersleys’ patio door wide open. With temperatures in the twenties, he knew something wasn’t right. He poked around and found Becca unconscious on the living room floor.” Another puff from the cigarette. “She died at Summit Lake Hospital the next morning.”

  “Did you see the house that night?” Kelsey asked.

  The commander nodded.

  “Can you describe the scene?”

  “Evidence of a struggle. A helluva one, too. Overturned furniture, stools and such. Becca’s study materials strewn across the floor. Dishes were broken, all in the kitchen, so we know most of the struggle happened there. But no evidence of forced entry—no broken windows, no jimmied locks. Doors were all in good working order and all the windows were locked.”

  “So she opened the door for him?” Kelsey asked.

  “Or he had a key. Or he was already in the house when she got there. A few different possibilities.”

  “What’s your take?”

  The commander shrugged. “Doubt he had a key. The family could account for all of them—both parents and both kids. No duplicates. None were hidden, and no neighbors had any. I also doubt he was in the house before Becca got home. There was a security system that was always set when the Eckersleys were out of town. We checked with the security company and they pulled a log of each time the security code was entered. On the day Becca was killed, the code was registered at three in the afternoon—presumably when Becca got into town. She disengaged it when she entered the house. Then a half hour later—when she left the house, it was reengaged. A third and fourth time right about seven o’clock, when she got home. So it looks like she turned it off when she got home, then reset it immediately knowing she wasn’t going out again. This coincided with the phone call she made to her parents at about that time. Then once again the code was entered, about eight o’clock.”

  “When she opened the door for her killer,” Kelsey said.

  “That’s the thought.”

  “So it was someone she knew.”

  “That’s one theory, yes. Mine, maybe. But not the most popular.”

  “No? What’s the most popular theory?”

  “The vic’s purse was missing, so some around here are running with a burglary-gone-bad presumption.”

  “But no leads?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Do you have any suspects?”

  “Had a bunch at first. Always do. But click by click we checked ’em all off the list.”

  “Family members?”

  “All cleared. Solid alibis and no motive. Good family, close. Wealthy and clean-cut. Parents aren’t even on my radar, and Becca only had one brother, who was in New York the night she was killed.”

  “Boyfriends?”

  “Working on it.”

  Kelsey paused. “I’m trying to get hold of the autopsy,” she said. “And maybe the notes from the EMTs who were first on the scene. Can I access any of that from you or your department?”

  The commander finished his cigarette. “What are you after here, Miss Castle?”

  “The truth.”

  The commander let out a horsey laugh. “And you’re going to find it before I do?”

  “Before or after, sir. I’m just here to write an article for my magazine, not get in your way. But I want to write an accurate article. I want to write about what actually happened, not what some people think might have happened. I feel for this girl who senselessly died, and for her family. And for this town and this police department. So when I write about all that, I want to make sure I’ve got things straight.”

  The commander closed his eyes for a second. “Sorry to come at you. We’ve never had so much press around, asking questions and second-guessing everything we do.”

  “Let’s make a deal,” Kelsey said. “Besides maybe a newspaper or two that’s got wide circulation, Events will be the biggest medium to cover this story. If you help me out—and I mean only me—give me exclusive access to what you know, I’ll make sure anything that gets printed has your approval first.”

  “And what if I don’t like what you write?”

  “It goes in the shredder and I start over,” Kelsey said, knowing Penn Courtney would disapprove of such a promise. This shredder policy was usually reserved for him.

  The commander raised his chin slightly as he considered this. “There’s been some unflattering things written about us so far. Like we don’t know what we’re doing, and we’re screwing this case up from here to Hell.”

  “You’ve got forty-plus years of experience to draw from, yes?”

  “Sure. Not forty years of homicide cases, but I’ve been trained in such things and have been on the periphery of other homicides in neighboring counties.”

  Kelsey shrugged. “The way I see it, this is your town and nobody knows it better. If anyone’s going to figure this out, it’s you and your force. So help me out. And along the way, if I come across anything useful, you’ll be the first to hear about it.”

  “Hold on,” the commander said, disappearing up the steps and into the building. He came back fifteen minutes later with a heavy folder two inches thick. He did the stare down to the lake again, then handed her the folder. “This is everything I have so far.”

  “On the Eckersley case?”

  He nodded.

  “You’re giving this to me?” Kelsey said, taking the folder.

  “I know who you are, Miss Castle. I’ve read your stuff, and I know you’re fair. There are some hacks up here, and they’re gonna print anything that sells. The more sensational, the better. But the truth?” He shook his head. “That’s on the back burner for them. I hold you and all your accolades to a different standard.”

  Kelsey quickly slipped the folder into her bag. “Thanks for your trust.”

  “On top of all that, a fresh set of eyes never hurts. And I did
n’t give you any of that information if anyone asks.”

  “You run this place, so who’s going to ask?”

  “I used to run it. The state guys are here now.”

  “Who?”

  “The state detectives, assigned from the District Attorney’s office. They’ve essentially put the cuffs on me and my department. Not only us here in Summit Lake, but the county sheriff, too. They’ve taken this case from us, end of story. I was involved for the first few days, then they took over under the pretense that they’re better suited at handling a homicide than my little department here.”

  “How does that happen?”

  “Politics. Becca was killed in my town. But because we’re so small, her father put pressure on the governor—whom he’s close with—and the governor put pressure on the DA, and the next thing you know we’ve got state police poking around up here, making sure we know what we’re doing. Then state detectives showed up and reminded me that no one around here has ever handled a homicide before. I don’t argue that point. But if I had a little room, and free flow of information, I’d do just fine.”

  “Isn’t Becca’s family from Greensboro?”

  The commander nodded.

  “How can her father—an attorney from Greensboro—control information the police receive here in Summit Lake?”

  The commander held up his thumb and index finger. “Money and connections.”

  “But why? Wouldn’t her father want this solved more than anyone?”

  “I’m sure he does. But he wants it solved his way, and he wants all the messy details controlled. Becca’s father, word has it, is getting ready to leave his private law practice for a judgeship. And if it comes out that your family, your daughter in particular, was out of control . . . well, it looks bad for him. How can he take the bench and control the public if he can’t control his own daughter?”

  Kelsey made some notes. “This robbery-gone-wrong theory. That comes from the state guys?”

  The commander nodded.

  “But you’re not on board with it?”

  “Not even close.”

  Kelsey thought for a moment. “You said you needed a free flow of information. Like what?”

  “You asked me about the medical records and autopsy? I haven’t seen either yet.” There was a long pause as the commander fished a fresh cigarette from his pocket and stuck it between his lips. He cupped his hands around his face and flashed his lighter, bringing the cigarette to life. “So this town that’s been mine for decades? I guess I don’t run it as much as I thought.” He blew smoke out of the corner of his mouth. “But not a minute goes by that I don’t think of that girl who died in my town.”

  Kelsey nodded her head as she stared at Stan Ferguson, a troubled man plagued by a murder he’d never have the chance to solve.

  “Anything else you can tell me before I dive into all this?” Kelsey asked.

  He did the stare again, toward the lake and then back. Ran his tongue around the inside of his cheek, flicked an ash from his cigarette. “She was hiding something,” he finally said.

  “Who?”

  “Becca.”

  “Hiding what?”

  “I don’t know. And trust me, I’ve spent many hours working on it.”

  “Why do you say that? That she was hiding something?”

  “When a politically connected father works this hard to control the flow of information, it usually means there’s something being covered up. Something they don’t want the public to know, and certainly not an investigative reporter from Miami.”

  A familiar wave of anticipation coursed through her, a feeling Kelsey always experienced when she knew there was something to a story. She took some quick notes.

  “Are you starting to see why I’m willing to help a reporter help me?” the commander asked.

  “I am. But I’m not sure I’ll be able to get any further than you. Not with these roadblocks in my way.”

  “Just stay in the shadows. Don’t let the state guys know you’re poking around. If you come across anything interesting, let me know about it.”

  “For sure. But to figure this out, I’ll have to know everything about this girl. Who she dated, who she hung out with. I’ll need her e-mails and Facebook postings. I’ll need to talk to her family and friends and her professors.”

  “You’re going to have to do without all that stuff, Miss Castle. Her family is not going to talk to any reporters, and there’s no way for you to get to her e-mails. Her Facebook account was scrubbed the day after she was killed. And the state detectives will be on you in a heartbeat if you start tracking down Becca’s friends, which is exactly what they’re doing right now.”

  “Her e-mail and Facebook accounts didn’t simply disappear.”

  Commander Ferguson cocked his head. “Worse. They were subpoenaed by the District Attorney’s office, and from my current position—with staties all over me and this case—that means they’ve more than disappeared. They never existed.”

  “So where do I start?”

  “Right here. Summit Lake is a small town, Miss Castle. But it’s a special town, too. People around here love this place, and they don’t like what happened here. Summit Lake has a way of talking to you, through those people who love it so much.” He took a drag from his cigarette. “I know Becca spent some time at the coffeehouse the day she died. She was studying for a law school exam. She was there for a couple hours. Got eyewitnesses who placed her there, and the owner knows her parents real well and said she talked to Becca briefly that day. I’ve talked to everyone in this town, and no one saw Becca after she left that café.”

  Commander Ferguson pulled on the cigarette again until the red glow shrunk to the filter. He stubbed it out on the bottom of his shoe and stuck the filter in his pocket. He looked up and down the street, as if he were about to give up a secret. “If you want to heat up a cold case,” he said with smoke billowing from his nostrils, “start by looking in the last place the victim was seen alive.”

  CHAPTER 7

  Becca Eckersley

  George Washington University

  December 10, 2010

  Fourteen months before her death

  Thom Jorgensen was a GWU professor of logic and critical thinking, and Becca knew what she was doing was wrong. Technically. In reality, she reasoned it was harmless since she was no longer his student. There were no rules against students befriending professors, but the university had strict canons against professors engaging in inappropriate relations with students. The technicality, in Becca’s mind, came from how one defined “inappropriate.” Many would argue that she and Thom could not date one another, as this would breach the trust all students place in professors. The counterargument that they could date since she was no longer his student was what lawyers called a “difference without distinction,” a thought that made Becca cringe, since her mind was already working like her father’s and she hadn’t even been accepted to law school yet.

  However she argued it, this rendezvous was just breakfast with an old professor who was leaving the university. And breakfast was better than getting drunk with him on rum and Cokes, like she did earlier in the semester when they ran into each other at a bar in Foggy Bottom. There was the occasional text message sent back and forth and a once-in-a-while coffee grab. If pressed, Becca would never deny that Thom Jorgensen was a good-looking man and that she liked his attention. But she always paid her own way and there was nothing illicit about the friendship. He was a thirtysomething-year-old, single, soon-to-be-former GWU professor who was on his way to New York. When friends leave, they say good-bye.

  “So what’s so great about New York?” Becca asked as the waitress poured coffee.

  Thom shrugged. “Cornell? It’s beautiful and it pays better. Plus . . . you know, the status.”

  “Oh, come on. It’s Ivy League. Since when have you been into status?”

  “It’s prestigious, that’s all. I can’t turn it down.”

  She took
a sip of coffee. “Well, I’ll be sad to see you go. I always liked spending time with you.”

  “You’re one of my more unique students. And whether I left GWU or not, you’re done after this year so our paths were bound to diverge at some point.”

  “Maybe. I applied to GW Law. Haven’t heard yet. But if I get accepted, I might be sticking around.”

  Thom shrugged. “What if Cornell accepts you?”

  Becca turned her head sideways. “How did you know I applied to Cornell?”

  “You told me. A couple months ago when we met for coffee. Plus Harvard and Penn. So don’t get so disgusted about me heading to an Ivy League school when you’ve applied to three.”

  Becca smiled. She didn’t remember this conversation, and she was certain only her parents and Gail knew all the law schools she applied to. “Fine, I’ll cut you some slack about becoming an Ivy Leaguer. So what’s the deal? When do you start?”

  “Officially next year. But I’ll be done here after this semester. I’ll have an office at Cornell where I’ll be preparing for my class, which starts fall semester next year. I’m required to publish, too, so I’ll be working on that most of the spring semester.”

  “So you have a semester to do nothing?”

  “No teaching and no students. Lots of paperwork and research.”

  The waitress walked over with their plates and refilled their coffee.

  “So, listen,” Thom said as he forked his sausage and eggs. “I was thinking, since I’ll no longer be employed by the university in a week or so, maybe you and I could actually go have a meal without worrying about being seen together.”

  Becca stopped cutting her omelet and stared at her plate for a second. “What do you mean? We’re having breakfast right now.”

  “Yeah, and we’re both sitting here worried someone might see us. Worried we’re doing something wrong. It would be nice if we could spend some time together without that fear hanging over our heads. No?”

  Becca’s eyes widened. “No. Yeah, I mean. That would be fun. I guess I’m always a little worried about getting in trouble when we hang out. Although I think, really, you’d get in more trouble than I would.”