by J P Tompkins
“What?”
“Erin. I think she fought him off. That’s the only explanation for this.” Without going into who I talked it over with, because he doesn’t know I’m seeing a therapist, I lay it all out and tell him it fits with accounts I’ve read in articles and true crime books.
There’s silence for a moment, as he thinks it over.
“Maybe,” he says.
“Doesn’t that make sense to you?”
“Yeah, it does. But the problem is evidence.”
“What evidence?”
“Right,” he says. “What evidence? There isn’t any to back it up. So she wasn’t sexually assaulted. That doesn’t tell us much of anything, really.”
“So…what, you agree with Hogle?” My voice is raised. I try to lower it, but it comes out just as loud and forceful when I say: “You don’t think it was the same killer?”
“I don’t know who it was.”
This is the first time we’ve had any kind of conflict at all. It doesn’t feel right and I regret raising my voice at him. I’m about to say as much but he speaks again.
“Her hair wasn’t cut, either. That’s the one thing that hasn’t been made public. And that’s why I think it was someone she knew. Paul’s alibi is shit. You know that.”
I don’t say anything.
“If the DNA test comes back and shows he was the father, that’s going to give him a hell of a motive and what happened to Erin is going to look very different.”
“He has a motive either way,” I say. “He was so controlling, I could see him losing it if she got pregnant by another guy.”
“You’re making a pretty good case for it being Paul.”
I close my eyes and shake my head a little, like I’m trying to clear it out. “That’s not—I wasn’t trying to make a case.” I guess I was, though, and didn’t realize it. But that wasn’t my intent. “My point was there’s no shortage of motives for Paul. But it wasn’t him.”
“Either way,” Cole says, “there’s still a serial killer out there.”
I look at the time. 3:24 p.m. “Shit, I have to go meet a cable reporter.” I tell him about Ryan Belker’s request.
“I’ll be watching.”
◆◆◆
Later in the evening, after meeting the TV reporter, I camp on the couch, notes spread out in front of me on the coffee table. The TV is on, but I’ve muted it. I glance at it occasionally to see what they’re talking about. Politics, mostly, but the coverage is broken up with updates on the latest mass shooting and a story about irate passengers who were trapped on an airplane on a runway in Seattle for five hours.
Ryan, the reporter, told me the segment would run in the nine o’clock hour, so when I get a reminder on my phone at 8:55, I put aside my work and unmute the TV.
I flip through the channels mindlessly, killing time, trying to remember the last time I just sat here and watched TV. It makes me think of the DVR and I pull it up and scan the list of all the shows I used to watch. There weren’t many of them, just a half dozen, but I liked them enough to keep up with them.
Back then, at least. Before all of this started. I hadn’t thought about these shows in so long. They had gone the way of almost everything else in my life—pushed aside, forgotten, relegated to the pile of things that didn’t matter anymore.
Maybe I’d go back and catch up, picking up where I left off. Or maybe I’d have to start at the beginning, watch the ones I’ve already seen, to refresh my memory. Or maybe I’d never think about them again.
When nine o’clock finally comes, I switch to the news. They recap the headlines of the day, then tease a few stories they’ll be discussing this hour.
“But we begin tonight with a story of a serial killer and a local reporter who has been on his trail for the better part of the year,” the host says. “Ryan Belker spoke with that reporter today. We want to warn you, some of the details in this story might be disturbing to some viewers.”
The picture cuts from the host to a shot of a street here in town. It’s blurry, but within a few seconds everything comes into focus. It’s a neighborhood street, quiet, but brightly illuminated by every front porch light.
I sit straight up, move to the edge of the sofa, and turn up the volume a little.
The story begins with pictures of each victim, photos taken from social media or submitted by the families. Belker’s voiceover solemnly recites the name and age of each victim and a brief recap of when they were killed and how they were discovered.
There are clips from law enforcement press conferences. Hogle, mostly, but also some quotes from local detectives, the chief, and the mayor.
Then come the scared residents. The ones who are willing to speak on camera, anyway. Belker notes that many weren’t, for fear they’d be targeted.
They show the crowd that had gathered in front of City Hall for the Take Back The Night rally. That’s when they mention me and they cut to the interview I did today.
I met him and his crew on the grounds of City Hall. Belker said it would be a good transition, showing clips from the rally that night, and then cut to us standing on the same expanse of lawn, now relatively free of people.
At first, it’s just my voice, with the screen showing a slow sweep of the huge gathering the night of the rally: “The city has never experienced anything like this. We’re not a small town, but a crime like this is something most people around here would associate with a much bigger city. Or something on a crime show. But never here.”
Then Belker’s voice: “This is Kate Downey, local reporter for the City Herald. Which, until recently, was the city’s second-place newspaper. Now, thanks to Downey’s reporting, they’ve become the go-to source for everything related to this case.”
They cut to me, standing there with City Hall as the backdrop. It was late afternoon, but the summer sun was still high in the sky, so I was squinting, which makes me look even more worn-down than I usually did when looking in the mirror.
I had my sunglasses on to start and then the producer asked me to take them off. Having never been on TV before, I figured it was standard, something they preferred to do in order to give the viewer a look at the eyes of the person being interviewed. But now I’m not so sure.
It’s a shock seeing myself like that, but only because I wasn’t expecting it. Honestly, I don’t care. This isn’t a beauty contest. And it really does fit with the interview, especially the part where Belker asks me how much work I’ve been doing.
“Day and night. Lots of long days, lots of sleepless nights. It’s the only story I’ve been working on for almost a year now.”
The shot goes back to Belker, who, by contrast, looks at first glance like he’s just stepped out of a men’s fashion ad, except for one little strand of hair that broke free in the breeze. His face is also flushed, very red, and the closer I look, I notice a streak down the left side of his face. A sweat trail. I hadn’t noticed when we were recording the interview, but now, as I listen to him speak with an accent, I attribute his overheated appearance to the very real possibility that he’s from the north and has never spent so much time outside in this kind of heat and humidity. Welcome to the South.
“Now, this case has hit close to home, quite literally,” Belker says. He leaves it at that. No question. Just a statement put out there, waiting for my response.
I sit here on the couch watching myself tell the viewers what happened. I don’t recall feeling as shaken as I look on the screen, but it’s obvious. I also watch as I repeatedly lift my hand to remove strands of my hair that the wind has blown into my face, some of it sticking to my mouth.
When I was done, Belker immediately hit me with this: “Have you returned to your home after such a horrific thing happened there?”
“I have.”
When he brought this up, I knew where he was going with it.
“You don’t have any fear that he will come back?”
“I don’t.”
“Why is that?”<
br />
I paused and then told him directly, “I don’t want to answer that on camera.”
He looked at me, puzzled, raising his eyebrows. He looked to his producer, a woman about my age, who nodded and said, “That’s fine. We’ll take the question out.”
“I mean all of it,” I told them. “Even the part about me going back to my house. I don’t want that in there.” Then, with more force, “You can’t use that.”
The producer assured me they would take it out.
And they did. None of that appears in the report I’m watching right now. They jump right to the next series of questions.
“Part of this story is about you. About how you have an inside track on the investigation.”
I see myself nodding.
Then Belker’s voiceover, as they show the police department: “Downey has an inside source. It’s a point of contention with investigators, who are not happy with the leaks.”
Then, back to my face and Ryan Belker’s voice: “We learned today that law enforcement has approached you, asking you to give up the source.”
“They have, and I won’t.”
“You won’t,” Belker says, echoing my words.
I shake my head. “No. I’ll go to jail before I do that.”
I like the way I look saying that on TV. Sure of myself, defiant.
I recall this is the part where Belker asked me about someone he called “the survivor” twice. He was talking about Beth Callahan, who had successfully avoided media attention this long and wasn’t likely to talk about it, ever, and I saw no point in addressing it. So once again, I asked them to cut that question and move on to the next one. The producer agreed.
“You’ve followed this case for so long,” Belker says on my screen now. “Do you have any reason to believe they’ll catch the killer?”
I recall how I felt when he asked this. I cut my eyes toward the camera—which the story on TV now shows me doing—and then I looked back at him.
“I really don’t know. I guess you could look at the statistics and speculate how likely it is that this type of killer will be caught, but…I’ve seen nothing so far that makes me believe they’re any closer to getting him.”
On the screen, the recorded portion of the story ends and they go to a live shot. Ryan Belker stands in front of City Hall, now illuminated by the bright floodlights from the lawn.
“And that’s how so many people in this previously tranquil southern town answered that same question when we spoke with them today. The city is gripped by fear and uncertainty. And, for now, there’s no end in sight. Back to you.”
They go back to the studio. The words on the bottom part of the screen tell me they’re going to a different story now.
I turn off the TV.
Two hours later, I take my sleeping pill. I only remember being awake for a minute or so before falling asleep. When I wake up, I feel that hangover again, the dry mouth, the fog on my brain. I have no idea how long I’ve been asleep, but sunlight pours in through the bedroom windows.
I reach for my phone. It’s 9:53 a.m. I’m shocked by how long I slept.
There are three missed calls, all from Neil. Two are from his cell, late last night. One is from his office number at the paper, made early this morning. Three missed calls, no voicemails. Never a good sign.
I’m still looking at the time as it changes to 9:54 and then the phone buzzes, the screen changes again, displaying the caller’s name: Paul.
Chapter 26
“So who was he?”
That’s what Paul says when I answer with the speakerphone. I’ve been awake for roughly a minute, my head humming with the sleeping pill hangover, the world not quite making sense yet. The kind of awake that doesn’t really count.
“Who was who?” I ask, propping myself up on an elbow, turning to swing my legs over the edge of the bed. I feel a hundred years old. This is the worst I’ve felt from taking that fucking medicine. If I’m going to feel like this in the morning, I might as well start drinking myself to sleep.
“They called with the DNA test results. I’m not the father.”
The last couple of times I’ve had a bad morning, it took a while for me to recover. More than a few minutes. One time I just let it run its course, waited for it to wear off. Another time, it was a hot shower and a strong cup of coffee that revived me.
Now, hearing Paul’s words, not having to ask him to repeat it because there’s no mistaking what he said, I’m instantly more alert than I was just seconds ago.
“Who was he, Kate?”
“I have no idea.”
“Bullshit. She was living with you and you had no idea there was another guy?”
Another guy. Like Paul was the guy in Erin’s life and anyone else was another.
“I never saw her with a guy. She never mentioned anything about a guy.”
I swipe the screen and am reminded of the missed calls from Neil. I’ll call him after I get rid of Paul.
“Well, obviously there was another guy,” Paul says. “And the police don’t know who he was?”
“Not that I’ve heard.” And not that it would matter, I think but don’t say, as I stand for the first time today, making my way to the bathroom. So Erin had something going on. It doesn’t matter. It’s not relevant to the case.
“Do you?” he asks.
“Do I what? Do I know who he is? You already asked me that and I’ve already answered.”
He sighs heavily, not saying anything for a few long seconds.
I flip on the light in the bathroom and reach for the mouthwash, wanting to flush out this dry-mouth bad breath. I open the bottle, consider pouring some into the cap, but then decide to just take a swig. Before I do, though, I tell Paul I have to get going and get ready for the day.
“They find this guy…” he says, and pauses, letting the words hang there for a moment before he finishes the thought: “That’s who killed her.”
I say nothing, not caring that he’s wrong, that he’s falling into the same trap as the cops, thinking this was something personal with Erin. I look at the mouthwash bottle.
“But you know what?” he says. “I don’t even give a shit now that I know she was fucking someone else.” He hangs up and I tip the mouthwash bottle to my mouth.
◆◆◆
In the shower, my mind is consumed with thoughts of Paul not being the father, Erin being pregnant right here in my house and I didn’t even know it, and the mystery father. Maybe that’ll be something to look into, but not right now.
I get out of the shower and my phone rings on the bathroom counter. I blink the water out of my eyes, look at the screen, and see that it’s Neil calling from his office at the paper. Shit. With all the Paul stuff, I had let the missed calls from Neil slip my mind.
“Good morning, TV star,” he says. “Any reason you didn’t tell me about it?”
“Was I supposed to?”
“No, not really. But you were representing the paper, in a way. Maybe a quick courtesy call kind of thing would have been nice.”
“Sorry.”
“Forget it,” he says, and I know he means it because he says, “You were great. This is great. Great for the paper.”
Great for the paper. Probably so. But that’s not why I did it. I’m beyond that now, beyond the point where I care about how the paper benefits from my stories, beyond caring whether my articles rank at the top of the leader board at work. I know they do—how could they not?—but I don’t care.
All that matters now is getting answers.
◆◆◆
I told Neil I was headed into work and that I’d see him shortly. But as I’m coming out of the coffee shop, hot cup in one hand and a muffin in a paper bag tucked under my arm, I get a text from Paul: I’m going to see her parents.
I text back: Where? Did they ask you to?
Paul: The hotel and no.
I’m just minutes away from the hotel and when I get there, the parking lot is full so I pull up alo
ngside a curb. I walk quickly toward the front entrance, grab the door handle, and then stop. I hear voices. Voices I recognize. Raised voices arguing.
I turn and see Erin’s father and Paul standing between two cars. They’re talking over each other. Mr. Thorpe is pointing an accusing finger at Paul. Paul has his arms outstretched, open, like he’s asking What do you want me to do?
Mr. Thorpe sees me first. He says my name. Then Paul turns his head toward me.
“Can you do something about this? Get him away from us?” Mr. Thorpe asks me. Like I have some kind of power over Paul. Like I’m a cop who can order Paul to leave. This is what a desperate father looks like. And the desperate, broken mother, his wife, sits in the car with the windows rolled up.
I try. “Paul,” I say, holding up my hand near his chest.
“I just want to talk,” he says. His mouth stays open, a big O, his eyes sharply focused on me and he shakes his head. More desperation, but different coming from Paul.
“We have nothing to say to you right now,” Mr. Thorpe says. He reaches for the car door handle, pulls on it, but it’s locked.
Mrs. Thorpe isn’t just sitting in there with the windows rolled up. She felt like she needed to lock the doors too.
Mr. Thorpe knocks on the window. “You have the keys. Open up.”
I see her face clearly now. She’s holding one hand up to it, holding a tissue against her mouth and nose. The windows are slightly tinted, so I can’t see the color of her face but I know it’s red, I know her eyes are bloodshot, red veins under pools of tears.
She unlocks the doors.
Mr. Thorpe grabs the door handle again, opens the door just enough to have it open, no longer locked out, and he turns to me. “They called us about Erin. They’re releasing her to us this morning.”
I study the face of a shattered man who is just trying to take his wife to claim the lifeless body of their only child.
He gets in the car, closing the door softly, not slamming it like you’d expect. I think he was doing that for his wife. That, or he’d just had enough.