The Second Stranger

by J P Tompkins

  When I got to the part about Erin having been an athlete, how she still worked out, and remained in great shape, I paused, hoping he would know what I was about to say. But he didn’t, so I continued.

  “She fought him off. She wasn’t like the other girls. They were more…I don’t know. They were just smaller. Thinner. You know? Dainty even. I don’t think they had half the chance she did,” I tell him. “That’s why there was no hair missing. He didn’t have the opportunity to cut it.”

  He uncrosses his legs and leans forward, reaching for his paper coffee cup. He takes a sip and then slides back into position.

  He’s thinking deeply, not saying a word, leaving it all up to me.

  “It may explain why the usual signatures weren’t there. In so many of those other cases I read about, there were failed attacks. When one of these serial offenders runs into resistance, it looks different. They have to change their M.O. because they don’t have the control they usually do. But more to the point, they’re not getting the same kind of…satisfaction out of the attack. So that could also explain why her hair wasn’t cut.”

  He thinks about this for a moment as I let the thought linger there. I recall reading about this in one of the many true crime books I’ve read. Some of the books were all about police procedure and the facts of the case, the details of the attacks, light on the psychology. Others dealt with it more in-depth.

  “But,” I go on, “the one thing that doesn’t fit is the lack of brutality. Usually when something like that happens, when their attack is thwarted, the attacker becomes enraged, and they end up bludgeoning the victim. That didn’t happen here. That doesn’t mean the attack didn’t happen the way we think it did, though. Right?” I ask, adding that last word because I want him to say something.

  He shakes his head. “Right. It could still be the case. It would just be an exceptional case.” Dr. Benson flips to his last page of notes. “Let’s talk about you going in there last night. The bedroom. Why do you think you went in?”

  I look away from him, out the window. It’s a gray day. Clouds are building, thickening, darkening. Trees sway in the breeze. I watch as a single leaf from one of them is torn off by the wind, carried out of view.

  “I don’t know.” I look back at him.

  “How many times have you been in there since she was killed?”

  I shrug, truly unable to remember. “Not many. Maybe three times.”

  “Day or night? I mean, before last night.”

  “All during the day.

  He shifts in his seat. “What was different about last night? Do you remember what you were thinking just before you went into that room at…what was it, about four a.m.?”

  “A little after four, yeah.” I pause, trying to recall what I was thinking just before I stepped across the hall. “Nothing. I really don’t think I was thinking about anything. I had just looked at that message board and closed my laptop. I stood up to stretch because I’d been in the same position on the bed for so long, I was really tight.”

  “Stressed.”

  “Yes.”

  “About what you were reading on the message board.”

  “I know, I know. Ignore it. It’s just people on the Internet, so who cares.”

  He raises his eyebrows and smiles a little, as if saying, Can you disagree with that? I can’t disagree with it, at least as far as it concerns random people on the Internet.

  “It’s not just them,” I say. “It’s the cops.”

  “They’re going to do what they’re going to do.” Dr. Benson flips the pages back over on his pad. Our time is almost up. “They’ve made a decision based on the evidence and they’re probably not going to change their minds. It’s really beyond your control, and we talked about that.”

  “I know.”

  “There’s not much you can do about what they’re thinking. All you can do is stay true to what you think is right, which I’m sure you’ll do.”

  We’re quiet for several long seconds as I think about it. Part of me knows he’s right, but, for better or worse—okay, worse—I’m not ready to let it go.

  Chapter 24

  I’m almost back to my car—moving quickly through the rain, dodging puddles in the parking lot—when my phone rings. I look at the screen. It’s Neil.

  “Kate, are you coming to the office?” he asks.

  “I wasn’t planning on it, but I can.”

  I click the button on my key fob. The car beeps twice, the lights blink, the doors unlock.

  “Are you close by?” His tone is urgent.

  “What’s going on?”

  “The detectives are here. They want to speak with you.”

  I start my car. I’d left the radio turned up loud and the sound of drums, guitars, and bass flood the space around me. I reach for the radio and turn it down. “Sorry. Did they say what they want?”

  “No.”

  I pause for a moment, thinking how strange this is. Did they try my house first? Or did they go right to the paper?

  “Okay,” I say. “I’m about ten minutes away. I’ll be right there.”

  ◆◆◆

  It’s raining harder by the time I get to the paper. The lot is almost full, so I’m stuck parking near the back. I move through the downpour in a light jog, remembering along the way that Erin had asked to use my umbrella a few weeks ago and hadn’t returned it.

  Lisa, the receptionist, greets me at the entrance. “Really coming down out there, huh?” I nod, give her a fake smile, and keep moving. “Oh, Kate. Hang on. I can’t believe I almost forgot about this.”

  I stop and turn back toward her.

  She stands behind the desk, holding out a slip of paper. “I gave them your email address, but they said they’d already tried that. I didn’t want to give them your phone number.”

  I take the paper and see a name, phone number, email address, and then the name of a national cable news network.

  I look up at Lisa. “When did they call?”

  “They didn’t. They were here. A camera guy and the reporter. I guess they thought you might be here.”

  I look back at the paper, fold it, and slip it into my pocket. “Thanks.”

  When I round the corner into the newsroom, I look first to the conference room. There, behind the closed door and the large windows, I see Neil standing with Detectives Hogle and Roark. All three men have their arms crossed. None appear to be speaking. Just waiting.

  The restrooms are just to my right. I slip into the ladies’ room and use some paper towels to dry off as much as I can manage.

  Standing in front of the mirror, I see a ragged mess—damp and straggly hair, face red from the coarse paper towels, puffy bags under my eyes that give away my sleep deprivation but also make me look like I’m having an allergic reaction to something. And I couldn’t care less. I just want to know what they’re doing here.

  I can feel eyes tracking me as I move across the newsroom. My co-workers are no doubt wondering what’s up, why these detectives are here to talk to me. I feel like a kid called to the principal’s office.

  Hogle notices me first through the glass, then Roark and Neil turn to look. I open the door, step inside, and close it behind me, gently, as if trying not to disturb the newsroom even though nobody is working with this going on right in front of them.

  The detectives don’t appear to have brought anything with them. No folders, no notebooks. They each hold drinks in their hands, bottles of soda. I wonder if they brought them or if Neil got them from the break room, playing host.

  We all sit down, Neil at the head of the conference table, Hogle and Roark on one side, me on the other.

  Hogle begins: “We just have a few questions. This shouldn’t take long.”

  I don’t say anything. I just look across the table, keeping a straight face, projecting confidence. It’s starting to dawn on me why they’re here. I don’t know why I didn’t think of it earlier, I really should have, but I give myself a break and chalk it
up to extreme fatigue.

  “Are you sure there were no signs of defensive wounds?” I ask, taking over the room.

  Hogle looks at Roark, then back at me, both men looking puzzled. Neither says a word.

  “I know the autopsy didn’t indicate any,” I continue, “but is it possible they were missed somehow? Maybe minor ones?”

  Roark leans forward, resting his elbows on the table. “I’m sorry, are we talking about—”

  I lean forward to match his movement. “Erin. She fought him off. That’s why the scene is different. That’s why she wasn’t raped.”

  Roark remains in the same position, his eyes squinting a little, looking at me like I’m crazy.

  “There were no defensive wounds,” Hogle says. “And the lack of sexual assault isn’t the only thing that’s different. Her hair wasn’t cut. We’ve been over this.”

  “Yes, I realize that. But there’s a good reason for it.” I run through the theory I had discussed with Dr. Benson—why the fight would have changed everything about the attack, including the lack of the signature cutting of the hair. I rattle it all off quickly, but thoroughly. I hadn’t rehearsed it—hadn’t planned on having to recite it all—but it’s been on a constant loop in my mind since it came up during the appointment.

  “That’s not why we’re here,” Hogle says.

  “So you’ve already considered it? Dismissed it?”

  He shakes his head. “What you’re describing didn’t happen.”

  “Do you have any suspects? I mean, aside from Paul Daugherty. The easy one.”

  Now Hogle looks pissed. He tries to hide it by dropping his stare from me to a spot on the table in front of him, as he clasps his hands together, fingers interlocking, squeezing. And I can see him run his tongue up under his upper lip, across his teeth, like some kind of automatic response when someone challenges him. I’ve seen him do it before.

  “Did you go through her phone?” I ask. “Any clues in there?”

  Roark says, “Of course we did.”

  I glance over at Neil, who is sitting there like a stone figure, unfazed by what’s happening. I know he’ll have my back when this turns bad and I know it will when the detectives get around to the reason they’re here. I just wanted to get my theory in before they got to their question.

  “I’m just going to cut to the chase,” Roark says, taking over for his partner. He looks over at Neil. “You ran a story this morning with some sensitive information in it.”

  Neil stares at him, still expressionless.

  Roark slides his eyes from Neil to me. “The profile. We need to know who your source is.”

  “No chance,” I say without hesitation.

  Neil moves for the first time, sitting up straighter in his seat, ready to go to battle for me, for the paper. “We don’t do that.” Simple, straightforward. I like it.

  Hogle chuckles. It’s a fake laugh and my disdain for him grows even more as he does it. “You don’t do that,” he says, mocking Neil. “Well, one thing we don’t do is ignore crimes when they’re committed.”

  “What crime?” Neil asks.

  “Misuse of official information. Ms. Downey has received, maybe even solicited, information from a law enforcement officer for personal benefit. That’s a felony, punishable up to ten years.”

  “I’ve never heard of that,” Neil says.

  Hogle gives him a sideways grin. “State statute. You can look it up. Punishable up to ten years,” he says again, now looking directly at me.

  “You’re not getting anything from me,” I say.

  “Hold on.” Neil rises from his chair. “Kate, don’t say anything. I’ll be back in a minute.” He leaves the room.

  We sit in silence for a minute, then two.

  “Sure you don’t want to say anything?” Roark says.

  I say nothing. I take the paper out of my pocket, the one with Lisa’s handwriting and the information for the cable reporter. I send him a text and he replies within thirty seconds. He says his name is Ryan Belker and he wants to meet and interview me for a story they’re doing on the case, a story that will run tonight.

  I reply, telling him I’ll probably have some free time this afternoon.

  Neil is still outside the conference room, talking on the phone. I glance over at Hogle and Roark, who are now both sitting there with their arms folded across their chests, stone-blank expressions on their face, except for the little wrinkles between Hogle’s eyes, signs of annoyance.

  Ryan Belker and I exchange a few more texts. I tell him I’ll call when I’m free and we can pick a time and place to meet, and then return to the uncomfortable silence in the room.

  Neil comes back into the room a minute or so later, holding his phone. He places it on the table. “Ken? You there?”

  “I’m here.”

  “This is Ken Ingram on the line,” Neil says, by way of introduction. “Ken, you want to introduce yourself?”

  I’ve never met him, but I know the name.

  “Kenneth Ingram. I’m an attorney here in town and I represent the paper on most matters. Neil—uh, Mr. Elliot tells me you have a problem with something they ran in their publication.”

  “Privileged information,” Hogle answers. “It’s not just about the dissemination of the information but also the way in which Ms. Downey obtained it.”

  I want to speak, but I know I shouldn’t. I want to tell him he can fuck off with the implications in what he’s saying. The way in which I obtained it? Like I did something in exchange for it.

  “And what way is that?” Ken Ingram asks.

  “The information she wrote about—copied it word for word, actually, right off the document—hasn’t been released to the public for good reason, and could only have been obtained from a member of law enforcement.”

  “That doesn’t answer my question, but it does tell me you have a leaker,” Ingram says. “That’s an internal problem.”

  I think of Cole. Does he know this is going on?

  “We’re working both sides of this. What we’re looking for here is some cooperation. There’s no question that the paper, and especially Ms. Downey, have violated the statute.”

  I’m waiting for Hogle to use the We can do this the easy way or we can do it the hard way line but he doesn’t.

  “You do what you have to,” Ingram says. “But Mr. Elliot and Ms. Downey are done speaking for now. Neil, give me a call when they leave.”

  “I’ll call you in a few minutes,” he says, and they end the call.

  Hogle stands, Roark follows his lead, and they move wordlessly toward the door.

  Neil opens it for them and steps aside.

  Hogle turns around. “I don’t know what else you have, but you should think twice before making it public, whatever it is.”

  It makes me wonder what else there is, what Cole might not even know about. Or maybe he’s just fucking with me, which makes me even more pissed off than I already was.

  “It seems like such a waste, spending resources on this,” I say. “Especially since you have a killer to catch.”

  They leave, walking briskly through the newsroom, so many of my colleagues’ eyes tracking them the whole way.

  Neil closes the door and dials Ingram again.

  “I’ve been looking,” Ken Ingram says when we get him on the line, “and it appears this statute has been used exactly one time since it was put on the books. No wonder we’ve never heard of it. Anyway, it says right here, almost twenty years ago a detective was charged with telling a reporter the name of a murder victim before the name was officially released. The reporter wasn’t charged and the detective resigned in exchange for the charge to be dropped.” Silence, then: “Huh. Interesting.”

  “What?” Neil asks.

  “It wasn’t one of your reporters, but this story is from your paper. You don’t remember this?” He laughs.

  “I don’t remember every story we’ve ever run.”

  “Just asking.”

&nbs
p; “You don’t seem too worried about this,” Neil says.

  It’s now that I notice he’s fiddling with a rubber band. It’s always something, usually a paper clip, but now it’s a rubber band and as I look at it stretch around his hand, it becomes something else. I see electrical cord. Just like I did with Cole and Dr. Benson. It’s becoming my thing—picturing the men close to me as capable of doing what this killer is doing. It’s irrational, but like all irrational thoughts, it comes out of nowhere and it’s not easy to stop.

  “I’m not worried,” Ingram says. “And you shouldn’t be, either. They’re harassing her with it. If they do it again, call me and we’ll try to do something about it. Let her know.”

  “I’m here,” I say. “Thanks for the advice.”

  “One thing, though,” Ingram says. “If I were you, and if you give a damn about this source of yours, I’d let them know what just happened.”

  Chapter 25

  Cole isn’t worried when I call and tell him about the meeting with Hogle and Roark.

  “Too many possibilities,” he says. “The source could be almost anyone in the department and there’s nothing linking me to you, anyway. And I have to say I’m a little offended.”

  “By what?”

  “You don’t think I would be sloppy about any of this, do you?”

  “No, no, I—”

  “Kate, I’m kidding. Look, I’m not concerned about this for myself and it sounds like the lawyer isn’t worried about your position, either. So forget about it.”

  “Okay.” I go on to tell him about my snide remark to Hogle and Roark as they were leaving.

  He sighs, then laughs a little. “Well, if you were looking for a way invite them to harass you even more, that should do it.”

  “I know. I wish I hadn’t, but there’s no taking it back now.”

  “Hey, who knows, maybe that’s the end of it.”

  I doubt it, but I don’t say that. “I think she fought him off.”