The Second Stranger

by J P Tompkins

  Dr. Benson let me vent, then pressed me on why I felt it was so important not to use those words. I gave him my thoughts—about how people use terms like that to emphasize how bad someone is, when all they’re actually doing is shielding themselves from the unsettling truth that ordinary people do horrific things. Dr. Benson listened to all of that, seemed to agree, and moved the conversation to the next topic, making me think it wasn’t important, but here it is months later and he recalls it.

  “What did it tell you about me?” I ask.

  He takes off his glasses and slides them into his shirt pocket. “It told me you’re analytical. That you prefer logic over emotion.”

  “My emotions are winning that battle today.”

  “And that’s okay. More than okay, it’s a good thing.” He smiles and continues: “Your views on those words told me you’re not the type of person to use words or phrases just because everyone else does. You reject groupthink. You like to look at things from different angles, make up your own mind about what you’re seeing and what it all means. That’s why you’re good at your job.”

  I’m not good at taking compliments. They make me feel awkward, like I’m put on the spot for a reaction. So I just give him a little smile, a wordless thank you.

  “And,” he says, “that’s also why you put your entire self into your work. There’s an upside to that, but also a downside. The upside is obvious, and the downside—”

  “The downside is why I’m sitting here right now.”

  “Exactly.”

  Another short period of silence, letting me absorb what we’ve just discussed.

  “Your guilt is misplaced, Kate. More than misplaced. Totally unwarranted.”

  I dab my eyes, wiping away what I hope are the last of the tears.

  I know our time is running out because he jots down one more note, flips the pages of his legal pad back in place, and closes my folder around it.

  “Are they letting you back in your house tonight?” Dr. Benson asks.

  “Yes.” As I answer, it’s the first time I’ve really thought deeply about walking back in there, what it will be like and whether I can stay there.

  I think again of how I woke up standing in the bathroom last night, clothes soaked with cold sweat, momentarily confused about where I was. Will that happen when I’m back in the house? I almost bring that up with Dr. Benson, but our time is running out.

  We discuss my next appointment and he rises from his chair. I do the same.

  We step toward the door. He leans around me and opens it. “Call me if you need anything. Even just to talk. Any time, okay?”

  “I will.” I step out into the hall.

  “And Kate? Go easy on yourself.”

  I give him a little nod, turning to walk down the hall, outside to my car. Next stop: home. And I have no idea how I’ll handle it.

  Chapter 18

  My street looks normal again. The TV news trucks are gone. The neighbors aren’t huddling in small groups on various lawns, gawking and shaking their heads and holding up their phones to take pictures and video.

  I haven’t received official notice that I’m allowed back into my own home yet, but since the yellow crime-scene tape is gone and there’s no law enforcement vehicle blocking my driveway, that’s good enough for me.

  A small memorial has begun along the curb in front of my house. Just a few flowers. They’re just lying on the ground and might look discarded if you didn’t know why they were there.

  Stepping out of my car, I remember that I have to get the cleaners here, but decide to go inside and take a look first.

  I get as far as the front door and I see it. Fingerprint dust on the handle, all around the lock and up the doorjamb. I slide the key into the lock, turn it and…breathe, breathe, breathe.

  I push the door open. The inside looks like it usually does. No furniture is out of place. There are no latex gloves on the floor. No discarded swabs. No unused evidence envelopes. I walk through the den, turn the corner, into the kitchen, and find it the same way—as if a group of strangers hadn’t tromped through here for almost a full day.

  And then down the hall toward the bedrooms. Mine first.

  I remember Detectives Hogle and Roark telling me the floor was wet and I told them why it was wet, how I had left Erin’s room and briefly gone back into mine. So it’s no surprise when I step onto the carpet.

  The door to Erin’s room is open just a sliver. I push it open, not yet stepping into the room, and take a look around. This is where the mess is.

  The room already smells musty from the water on the bathroom floor seeping into the carpet. When I step into the room, I feel and hear the squish as my shoe touches the soaked carpet, much more than in my room.

  The smell is even more jarring because it’s so different from how Erin’s room normally smelled. She was into candles, but not candles like most people are into candles. Look at her collection and you’d never find lavender, roses, or apple. Certainly not daffodil and absolutely no way would she ever have vanilla.

  She prided herself on finding more unique scents, most of which had to be ordered online or at a candle specialty store she frequented. Often I would come home to a new scent wafting through the house and not be able to recognize it. Only later I would find out that it was something called “cherries and rum,” or “chocolate covered pretzel,” or “cough medicine.” She even had a bacon-scented one.

  They’re all lined up, there on her dresser, a collection of jars with the candles melted down and only little smudges of soot here and there. Not one of them out of place. All undisturbed by the violence that occurred in this room just two nights ago.

  Had there been much of a struggle? Maybe not. He could have been on her before she had to a chance to react in any way. No opening to fling herself from the bed, throw a punch, and kick at him. No opportunity to scream.

  There’s fingerprint dust on the windowsill and on the glass itself. I don’t have to inspect it closely to know they didn’t find prints. This guy wears gloves in every attack. The best the crime scene techs can hope for is to find a match with the gloves used.

  My phone buzzes in my pocket. I slide it out, look at the screen to see if I want to answer, and then I swipe to accept the call.

  My hello is almost a whisper, like I’m somehow respecting the scene of Erin’s death. And maybe I am, considering who’s calling.

  “Kate, how are you doing?”

  I know why Mrs. Thorpe is calling. They want to come to the house and go through Erin’s things. But she starts out by asking me how I’m doing and it’s a crushing reminder of how I feel responsible for all of this. The guy came to this house because of me. He murdered Erin as some kind of taunting of the one person in the world who was giving him the coverage he so desperately craved. They’re all like that. All the serials. So it’s not a stretch to assume he’s the same.

  “I’m okay,” I say. I’m really not, but that’s not her problem. I feel like I should ask her the same question in return, but I hesitate because I hate when that question is asked of victims’ family members. This isn’t for a story, though, it’s not for the record. It would be an act of courtesy.

  But before I can ask, she speaks: “We didn’t want to bother you earlier, but we’re just wondering if you’ve been let back into your house yet.”

  “I’m actually here right now.”

  “Oh, good, good. I mean, I’m…I know it must not be easy, it being your house and all.”

  I can’t take much more of her concern for me. “It’s nothing like what you and Mr. Thorpe are going through.”

  “If it’s not too much trouble, we’d like to come get Erin’s things as soon as possible,” she says.

  “The place is a mess. I haven’t had time to get the cleaners here.” As soon as I say it, I realize she may think I’m talking about regular cleaners, the kind who vacuum and dust and do the windows. There’s a good chance she’s not familiar with crime-scene cleaning co
mpanies. Many people aren’t.

  “That’s not important to us,” she says.

  And now I’m sure she doesn’t know. “I mean crime-scene cleaners.”

  “Oh.”

  There’s a long pause.

  “Is it…bad?” she asks, lowering her voice, maybe not wanting Mr. Thorpe to hear what she’s saying.

  I quickly decide the best way to answer this is: “It’s not like you see on TV. There’s a lot of water around, fingerprint dust, things like that.”

  “Okay.”

  “But most of Erin’s stuff is clean and dry.”

  “That’s all we want. We just want to get her things.”

  I’m in no position to argue with her, so I tell her to come by whenever they’d like.

  The call ends and I know I have just a few minutes before they arrive.

  The bathroom door is closed, just like it was before I opened it and found Erin in the tub. I open it again, this time not knowing what to expect. Towels line the floor, all sopping wet. A few inches of cloudy water remain in the tub. Several long hairs are stuck to the tiles on the wall, looking almost like cracks.

  I stand there for what seems like minutes, but is really only seconds, as images flash through my mind—the door opening in front of me, Erin’s exposed back just above the water, like an island of flesh.

  And then something else. A series of images, rapidly flashing in my mind. Hands around her neck. Her arms and legs flailing, sloshing water out of the tub. Shampoo and conditioner bottles knocked off the little shelf. Erin trying to grab something, anything, the faucet, the side of the tub, reaching up and clawing at the face of the person squeezing the life out of her.

  I have to back out of this bathroom and I pull the door shut, continuing to walk backwards as if I fear turning my back on the room and not knowing what’s behind me.

  It’s the first moment of true fear I’ve had in my own home. I wasn’t scared when I found her; it was all shock then.

  ◆◆◆

  While I wait for the Thorpes to get here, I go back into my bedroom.

  My closet door is closed. I know they went in there—Hogle mentioned my “creepy closet”—so I want to check on my things. I open the door and am surprised to find the contents of the closet looking mostly as I had them.

  One box of evidence is open, the lid propped up against it. All the others are closed. Each victim’s shelf is in order, mostly undisturbed. The pictures on the walls are still there, as are all of my notes, the map, everything.

  The closet has served as my little study only since Erin moved in, but now it’s probably time to move all of this back into the living room. With at least one more victim to add, I’ll need the space anyway.

  But not until the Thorpes are finished going through Erin’s things. They don’t need to see their daughter’s picture among the dead.

  Just as I’m considering that, the doorbell rings. I go to the front door, open it, and see Mr. Thorpe standing there with two suitcases, Mrs. Thorpe with a box of garbage bags and some cleaning products.

  “I can’t let you do that,” I say to her. “No way.”

  “You said it wasn’t that bad. We just want to help. We want to do something.” There’s desperation in her voice. I look to Mr. Thorpe, standing there looking emotionally destroyed.

  “I’ve already called the cleaners,” I say, even though I haven’t. And why haven’t I? What am I waiting for?

  I take a few steps back to let them inside.

  Mr. Thorpe, still holding the suitcases, says, “At least let us pay for it.”

  “Already paid,” I say, another lie.

  “How much was it? We’ll split it with you.”

  These people, these sad, broken people. So lost and shattered, offering to split the cost of cleaning up the crime scene where their daughter was killed. I can barely take any of it. “I appreciate the offer, I really do, but it’s all taken care of.”

  I motion down the hall and show them to what was once Erin’s room.

  Her father is first, but he doesn’t walk in. He leans in, just his head, looks left and then right. He’s checking it out before his wife sees what’s in there, I think. Finally, he steps in. She follows.

  I stay where I am, out in the hall. “I’ll be in the living room.”

  No response.

  Just as I sit on the couch, my phone buzzes. I pick it up and see a text from Cole: Back home yet?

  I write back: Yes. Her parents are here getting her stuff.

  Cole: How bad is it? The mess?

  Me: Water, fingerprint dust. Not terrible. About to call the cleaners now.

  Cole: Gotta run. Sorry.

  I know the name of the cleaning company that handled the other scenes. It sticks in my head because it seemed so blunt, even bit ghoulish. I look up their number, step outside onto the back porch, and make the call.

  A cheery woman answers. “Aftermath Cleaners, Linda speaking.”

  After telling her my name and address, she immediately recognizes that it’s the scene of the latest attack.

  “I’m so sorry for your loss,” she says. “We can have our crew out there later this afternoon.”

  “That’s fine.”

  “Just a few questions to get started.” Her voice has changed from cheery to clipped, professional.

  She asks me about the scene, starting with the basics: how many rooms affected, discarded items left by medics and forensic techs, fingerprint dust, and whether there’s a lot of it.

  “Not really. Well, dust, yes.”

  “Okay. Is there any blood?”

  “No. Well, not that I know of. No visible blood, at least.”

  “We can find it, if it’s there,” she says. “Any other biohazard concerns? Vomit, urine, feces, anything like that?”

  I shake my head and close my eyes, my voice coming out deflated: “No.”

  “Where was the body located?”

  “Bathtub.”

  “About how long was it there?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “A rough estim—”

  “I don’t know.” My voice has recovered from its flattened state, frustration and stress forcing their way into my words. “Sorry, I just wasn’t expecting all of these questions.”

  “I understand. We just like to have an idea of what to expect when our crew gets there.”

  That was the last of the questions about the state of the house. I asked about how much it would cost, she told me I’d have a quote when they were able to assess it in person. “Homeowner’s insurance typically covers a good portion of it. We’ll be glad to look into that for you.”

  She tells me to expect the crew to get here around four o’clock, three hours from now. That leaves plenty of time for Erin’s parents to do what they need to do in her room.

  For now, I stay in the quiet of the living room, trying to decide if I want to spend the night in my own home.

  Chapter 19

  It’s just before eleven p.m. and my house is quiet and free of outsiders for the first time in over thirty-six hours.

  After Erin’s parents finished in the bedroom, I helped them load bags of clothes into their car. We had a small audience for our goodbye in the driveway; just a few neighbors outside pretending to be doing something else when what they were really doing was watching us.

  There was some discussion about who would drive Erin’s car. Mrs. Thorpe said she didn’t think she could do it—not back to the hotel, and certainly not all the way back to their home.

  Her parents told me they would be in town until Erin’s body was released, which they were hoping would take only another day or so. They would work on funeral arrangements in the meantime.

  Erin’s mother asked if I would be able to attend and I told her yes, of course I would, no way would I miss it. She reached out to hug me. It wasn’t a thank-you-for-saying-that gesture. And it wasn’t her way of communicating I’m-glad-you’re-okay-please-be-careful. It was a literal reachin
g out, clinging to someone who had not only been close to Erin in her final hours, but the last person to see her alive, as if there was some part of Erin’s existence attached to me that her mother wanted to hold, remove from me, and take with her.

  That’s what I thought, anyway, as she held onto me tightly. When she released me, I thought maybe I was more exhausted than I had realized, maybe I had read too much into that.

  And then she said I should join them for dinner. I politely declined, feeling awful as I did so, because she interrupted me and said I should call if I reconsider, especially since my parents were so far away.

  My parents. I should call them, I thought. Was that what Mrs. Thorpe was doing? A now-childless parent reminding me to call my mother and father? I assured her I would even though I had no intention of doing so.

  So now I am here, alone, in my home-turned-crime-scene. But a clean one. The crew has left and now my house looks almost normal. It doesn’t feel that way, though.

  Do I really want to stay here? Can I? Should I?

  My mother would flip out, if she knew, that’s for sure. My father would object as well, but probably with less emotion than my mother. I’m not sure what Dr. Benson would say. But it doesn’t matter. This is my decision to make.

  I walk around to each room, looking at the floors, the walls, the windows.

  The window. Detective Hogle told me the window in Erin’s room was unlocked. How did I forget to look at that earlier today?

  I go into her room. The first thing I notice is the carpet. It looks fresh, clean, with swirl marks all over it where the carpet-cleaner sucked up all the water and whatever else was there. Stepping on it for the first time, it’s soft and dry.

  Approaching the window now, at night, with the light on in the bedroom, all I can see is my reflection. Nothing outside. Nothing past the glass, as if it were painted glossy black.

  The window is locked now. I know I always kept this window locked, like all the others. I never opened any of them. Erin must have opened it at some point, trying to let in some fresh air. But with no screen, in the spring and summer, with the kinds of bugs we have here? And not locked it again?