by John Farrow
Breached
Run!
He didn’t follow the advice granted to him and now he’s trapped. Don’t move, don’t speak, don’t surrender, don’t run, figure it out over the long haul.
He hates third options.
Such is the urgency of the moment that his full deliberations take no more than a hurried second. An eye blink. The police aren’t bothering to ring the outside bell. They’ve opened the door. Maybe they’re not cops. Killers? They’re mounting the stairs. Phil Toomey steps carefully over the blood and approaches his lover. He still drips rainwater from his clothes. He desires to kiss her, hold her, bring her back to life. Those times that he performed well cleaning up a scene that involved extreme prejudice, he impressed his bosses by merely following his instincts. He does that now. He loves her. Lust is gone, vanished. At the end he understands what defeated him at the beginning. He loves her. He does not recognize what he takes from her. He’s never seen it before. As he had removed intimate identifiers previously, in other theaters of operation—rings, a watch, a medical bracelet—he now takes the necklace from around her neck. Change what is. Skew the comprehension of a scene. Cause the exceptional to look mundane, gift the ordinary with intrigue. He removes a shoe of hers as well, and will drop it on his way through the kitchen. A blood-soaked cushion he’ll drag down the hall. Hoist a sharp knife from the dripping tray by the sink and stab it into the floor. Figure that one out, coppers. He knows to do this but his motives are also more complex. He wants anything of hers and has no time to look around. The necklace. He hears the slow mounting of stairs. He had a key. They must have picked the lock. What cop does that? Who are they? He will not ever be back here. He removes his key to this apartment from his pocket, rips off a sheet of paper towel, wipes his prints off the key and places it on the radiator. Holding the towel, he takes two plastic apples from the kitchen table’s decorative setting. Behind him, the steps have turned on a landing, are almost at the upper door. He strides quickly, silently, to the back exit, lifts the locking latch. He leaves, and while closing the door gently slips the plastic apples back inside, where they would have been knocked aside had anyone gone out that way. He departs by the exterior staircase down to the backyard and the shelter of the pouring rain.
In the time it takes to draw a breath, he’s thinking, I’m out of here. I’m gone.
Yet he needs to go somewhere. He needs to weep until his lungs ache and his heart submits to being shattered. He also needs to know: Did he cause this to happen? Is there anything about him, mired in his past or a thing unknown, a breach, a failure to run, that precipitated his beloved’s death? If it comes down to that and he has to forgive himself for a personal failing, Professor Phil Toomey has already sworn that he will not.
He runs in a straight line, no deceptive circles this time.
PART 2
TEN
The four women and Émile Cinq-Mars pile into his Escalade. Texts, e-mails, and voice messages exchanged on their mobile devices have convinced the girls that wherever they go they’ll be inundated with queries and dramatic reactions. They consent to accompany Sandra and Émile back to the farm, to take a quiet hour or two to permit news of the tragedy to settle, both within themselves and throughout the community.
The girls never did get around to eating a full breakfast, and the police wore them out with repetitive questioning. Even amid their current distress they’re ready for lunch. The three sound apologetic for being hungry. For the first time in their lives they’ve been staggered by a sudden and incomprehensible sorrow, and possess no road map on how to react. A simple need for food feels embarrassing, as if attending to the necessities of life betrays their lost friend. On the drive over they’re sullen, and yet, by the time they enter the farmhouse, they’ve pulled themselves together enough to pitch in. Sandra attempts to thwart their initiative and take on the lunch preparations by herself, only to discover that letting them loose in the kitchen is the best tonic for the younger women. That’s fine, except that she discovers herself stuck with time on her hands.
Sandra puts a call through to her sister, Charlotte, Caroline’s mother, who’s taking her turn at the palliative care center.
She’s informed that their aged mom is tired and uncommunicative. The most significant signs of life come from the machines plugged into her. As grim as that report may be she is obliged to trump her sister’s sad news. She tells Charlotte about the murder.
“Is she all right?” She means Caroline, although Sandra is sufficiently disoriented on the day to be confused for a few seconds. Charlotte realizes her verbal miscue first, adding, “I mean Caro. How is she? Where is she?”
“Right here. She’s upset. The girls have endured the shock of their lives.”
“Can I speak to her?”
“Of course.”
Sandra intuits the result of that conversation. After the hushed tones and an exchange of information, more tears are shed. Caroline can barely believe the news that she’s obliged to relay. Listening in from the next room, her aunt is reminded that this is how the process works, that in speaking of what cannot be fathomed, reality finds a way to take hold, to be present. The unbelievable gradually becomes apparent. She’s proud of her niece, of how she manages to carry on talking even as tears flood her eyes and she gasps for a breath now and then as the tragedy simmers inside her. She sees for herself the inherent strength of this young woman.
Turning away, Sandra notices that while she was assessing Caroline, Anastasia has been observing her. Perhaps drawing a similar conclusion, perhaps admiring her own inner strength. The two manage a faint smile of encouragement. Sandra’s guessing that whatever the girl has on her mind will emerge in due course. For the nonce the student returns to halving cherry tomatoes for the salad.
Off to find Émile, she discovers him standing by the front bay window. Hands in his pockets, staring out at the rain. Not much to see today, other than the havoc of the wind in the trees. Sandra comes up to him and presses against his side, hugging him and pinning both his arms in place.
“Don’t say it,” Émile cautions.
She’s uncertain what he means.
He adds, “I know. I know. I know. One more murder.”
“The question that begs an answer,” Sandra ponders, with a note of whimsy in her voice, despite everything, “do murders occur because you happen to be in the vicinity, or do they occur everywhere constantly. You can’t help be around when they do?”
“Hmm,” Cinq-Mars grunts. In a way, he’s forced to, she’s squeezing so hard.
“What?” Sandra pushes him.
“There’s a third possibility.”
“With you, there always is.”
“Maybe it’s not a coincidence that murders occur wherever I go.”
“Oh, so God arranges this? You’re religious, but you’ve never been a silly fatalist.”
“That’s it. I may be forced to become that sort of fatalist.”
He seems depressed by this latest death in his vicinity. “People do seem to die around you, dear. Still, I prefer the option behind Door Number Four.”
“Which is?” She releases him, and in permitting her husband to be more flexible he leans down to receive a peck on his cheek.
“What you said. Coincidence. Bad stuff happens. You make it your habit to be around when it does. Only this time … that poor girl. Addie was so bright. I feel sorry for Caroline and the others. In a way, I feel guilty. This is going to be hard on them. I don’t think they know how much yet.”
“Why guilty?” Émile asks.
“My woes about Mom are put into perspective. This hardship tells me to buck up. Mom’s death is not tragic. Intellectually, I’ve known it about my mother, that it’s time. Emotionally—it’s a hard river to cross. But this, Addie’s murder. My God, it’s horrific. She’s so young. Mom, when she passes, that’s nature taking its course after a long life, fully lived, well blessed. Sad, but I’m ready for it. Mom is not being robbed of he
r life. Addie has been.”
Émile gives his wife a kiss on the forehead as he tucks her more firmly into his side. He knows what she’s saying. They hold each other awhile.
Like her, Émile has also been taken by the inner fortitude of the young women. He has not always been enamored with the character and the resiliency shown by the sons and daughters of the privileged: This group contradicts his customary bias. Changing the subject to strike a more positive note, he remarks, “They’re holding up well, the girls. I’m impressed.”
“I noticed.”
“Meaning?”
“You would’ve made a great dad, Émile. I’m sorry that it never happened.”
She means the comment to take them in another direction, still, Émile strikes out on a different tangent altogether. “I was wondering a moment ago if there’s not a kind of psychic exchange that goes on. A form of compensation. If I had kids, would I have spent my life getting mixed up in all this nastiness? Probably not. There’d be less time for it anyway. I know this sounds weird. Not having kids, does that put me in position to help the people who do, particularly the ones who suffer tragedies? Somehow, it seems to be what I’ve been given to do. For the sake of a family, I figure out who killed a mother or a father or a sibling or…” He hesitates, not wanting to finish the thought, but a truth confronts him. “Or a child.”
Sandra pats his back. “You’ve done good work.”
He straightens up. “Takes a toll,” he mentions.
“Not only on you,” she reminds him. The stresses on her and on their marriage have come between them.
Anastasia is in the room. She’s overheard a portion of their conversation. Noticing her, they can tell that she’s been waiting for the right moment. The coed manages a smile, and reports, “Lunch is ready if you are.”
They step through to the dining room, gathering up Caroline along the way as she concludes with her mother. She and Sandra hug, then enter.
* * *
After lunch, another girlfriend, this one with a car, arrives to return the others back to their dorm rooms and apartments. It’s hard for the young women to separate from one another, but necessary. They weep again as they depart, Caroline hugging each friend in turn. Suddenly they’re gone and that’s when the day’s tragedy hits home. For a while she needs company, then solitude, and later in the afternoon she seeks out her uncle Émile. She finds him ensconced in an upstairs room used as a home office, sitting at the desk facing a laptop, the machine asleep. He’s either deep in contemplation or half-asleep himself, while his wife naps in the next room. The young woman curls up in a wicker love seat along the wall opposite him and pulls a cushion over her knees. In response to her silent attention, Émile folds down the clamshell screen on his computer and returns her gaze.
“Dowbiggin will step up,” she tells him. “A vigil. A memorial.” Public opportunity for remembrance feels vital.
“Good. Good. That will be good.” Sympathy is evident in his tone.
She makes a gesture with her lips that’s difficult to decipher. He gathers that she doesn’t have small talk on her mind.
“You’re a detective, Uncle Émile,” she points out to him.
“A more accurate statement when delivered in the past tense.”
“Not what I heard.”
True. He has kept a hand in, even postretirement.
She wants to know, “Are you going to be involved in this case?” The question sounds like a challenge.
“That won’t be possible, Caro.”
“Why not?”
“There’s no way I can be.”
“Why not?”
He separates his hands, as though to emphasize that there’s nothing he can do. “Policemen guard their jurisdictions as avidly as a jealous lover guards a sweetheart. Imagine a guy going to another guy, the jealous type, asking if he’d mind lending out his girlfriend.”
“Gross.”
“Bad illustration maybe.”
“More than maybe. Has that stopped you before?”
“A bad illustration?”
“Police jurisdiction.”
“Not necessarily,” he admits. “I have no traction here. I won’t be able to get anywhere. Making any sort of clear headway will be impossible unless I’m invited onto the investigation. That’s not going to happen anytime soon. Not in my lifetime, anyway. If I’m not invited in and still try to investigate on my own, I’ll be cut off at the knees.”
“Not necessarily,” she counters, perhaps using his own words with deliberate intent.
“How do you figure that?”
Caroline has long made her ambitions well known, and has organized her life accordingly. If invited to a party, she’s more likely to attend if she knows who’s going, and if she feels that whoever’s going might be beneficial to her future career. She’ll avoid a party if the guest list is uninspiring, no matter the promise of fun or entertainment. Even while she’s sitting with a relaxed posture on the sofa, Émile notices that she’s intent, wanting to gain something in this talk.
“What did those cops do?” she asks him.
“What do you mean, do?”
“A few were running around dusting for fingerprints or whatever those technicians busy themselves with, but the detectives, the ones who are responsible for the actual investigating, the ones asking questions, what did they do? Who did they talk to?”
He’s rarely at a loss in such a conversation. He feels that he’s missing the point with his niece.
“Tell me,” Émile suggests.
“They interviewed us. Me, Kali, and Anastasia.”
She lets that point, a good one, hang in the air.
“And what did you tell them?” he wonders.
“Ask us and find out.”
“I see what you’re getting at.”
Her intelligence has always been augmented by her drive, her interest in making her own way in the world. Sandra explained to him once, when Caro was much younger, that her niece was a talented rider, but that she would never be a great one. Her reasoning? Following the family business would never be sufficiently challenging for her. Instead, she followed a compulsion to do things differently, and do different things.
Émile can tell that she perceives that she’s beat him on this point. “You might have your own questions, no? You’re supposed to be a great detective, right? Even if you ask the same questions and we give you the same answers, you might understand them differently. Isn’t that possible? Maybe you should ask us and see what that does. I mean, if it helps find Addie’s killer, why not? If it doesn’t”—she shrugs—“no damage.”
The office chair is on wheels and Émile, remaining seated, rolls it away from the desk and places his hands behind his head. “Do you ever think about staying in law, forgetting about being a CEO?”
“Nope. I’d be bored. Why?”
“I’m trying to compliment you on being a strong proponent for your side in a discussion. All right, I’ll start with you.”
She smiles. She likes this victory.
“Did any of the questions asked by the other detectives surprise you, or did any of your answers to any question at all either surprise you or make you uncomfortable or surprise them?”
She shrugs. “No.”
“I don’t need to go over the common ground. I know what they must have asked. I can guess how you answered.”
She’s inclined to believe him.
“Do you think Addie brought this on herself?” Émile puts forward.
“What?”
“I’m asking.”
“That’s not fair. You’re blaming the victim? That’s wrong.”
“Do you want fair or do you want the perpetrator caught? I only blame the killer, by the way. He’s not here. I can’t ask him any questions. The only other person in the room is you and you knew the victim. I’ll try again. Do you think there’s any possibility that Addie brought this on herself?”
She’s fuming, a reaction that subsides
, and rather than return Émile’s penetrating stare she gazes out the window at the rain on the glass.
“I can rephrase the question,” Émile offers.
“Can you? I think I’d appreciate that.”
“Imagine the four friends together, including Addie. Let’s say a year ago. A seer looks into a crystal ball and tells you that this will happen. One of your group will be murdered. Back then, whom do you guess it might be?”
“Addie,” Caroline says, without hesitating.
“Why?”
“Aren’t you the bastard?” she says.
“The truth can be a bastard, Caro. That’s what we’re interested in here.”
She concedes with a slight head bob. “Addie’s impetuous. Semireckless. I mean, come on, anybody our age is. If you’re twenty-two you should be allowed to be twenty-two, right? Her danger filter is a lot more porous—was more porous—than, say, mine, or Anastasia’s. Forget about Kali’s, she’s chickenhearted. I’ll walk down a dark alley when I’m curious or excited about the alley. If I’m genuinely apprehensive, or scared shitless, or if I happen to know better, I either don’t go down or keep a very watchful eye. Keep an escape route clear. Mentally, I wear running shoes. With Addie, it’s almost as though she likes to be scared shitless. Wild side? A dabbler, I’d say, not a commitment thing. She dabbled when it suited her, and it suited her more than the rest of us. You know, the police never asked me any of this.”
The furniture in this room is old and sits uncommonly low to the floor. Émile, reluctant still, reminds himself that this interview of a witness is no different than any other. His first task in such an inquisition is to remove the comfort level of the person being questioned. Comfortable people tell lies and are better at it than those under duress. Caroline might believe that she’ll only speak the truth, but if he strikes a raw nerve or two, she might change her mind in a twinkling. He remembers how she didn’t want to talk in front of him back at the library.
“They should have,” he points out to her. He’s not down on them. He knows they may have taken an entirely different tack to suit the circumstances and garnered results Caroline may be unaware of. “Your friend was murdered in your school. Whether you like it or not, that puts you closer to an understanding of what happened than any investigator can be at the outset. Your friend. Your personal knowledge. Your turf. You may not know that the truth is around you, it’s close to you, it may flow through you. The police would have been remiss not to question you at length. Perhaps they were being kind. They may get back to you. Caro, this may not have occurred to you yet. You or one of your friends may have been the last person to see her alive. At least while she was still safe. More than anyone else, you have knowledge of her contacts, her habits, her situation, and her whereabouts except for obvious limitations. The key to this could lie with you. If it doesn’t lie directly with you, it could well lie within your scope. Within your wider circle of friends, for instance—”