The Second Stranger

by J P Tompkins

  “Yep.”

  “Paul doesn’t have that kind of money.”

  Cole laughs a little. “He doesn’t need it. Luckily for Paul, Caswell hasn’t been in the news in what, a year? He’ll take this case just to be the center of attention again.”

  Henry Caswell is one of the area’s most famous lawyers. He’s more like a quirky character in a TV show than a real-life person, wearing seersucker suits and speaking with a Southern accent that sounds like a bad actor’s attempt at doing one. To hear locals talk about him, you’d think he was a joke. But he’s lethal in the courtroom.

  His legal record speaks for itself, with far more acquittals than convictions, many of them coming out of the most controversial cases around the state, most of them involving husbands and boyfriends accused of murdering their wives or girlfriends. In one of those cases, it was both.

  “You’re not having doubts about Paul, are you?” Cole asks.

  I just look at him.

  He brushes his hands together, a few crumbs falling onto his plate. “What are you thinking?”

  “I think it was whoever the father is.”

  “Why?”

  “It’s just the only thing that makes sense.”

  Cole wipes his hands with a paper towel. “Suppose she hadn’t been pregnant.”

  “But she was.”

  “She was,” he says, “but I’m asking you to think like an investigator here. Suppose she wasn’t pregnant. Knowing that Greer didn’t do it, who would be your first suspect?”

  “Paul.”

  “Why?”

  I shrug. “Statistics.”

  “And motive.” He holds up his right hand, forefinger extended, counting.

  “And opportunity.” Two fingers. “And his past behavior.” Three fingers. He pauses as he lowers his hand. He leaves it at that for a long moment, letting it sit, and then: “There’s nothing that points to anyone other than him.”

  I say nothing.

  “He did it, Kate.” Cole raises his eyebrows when I look at him. “Somehow, he found out she was pregnant. Maybe she told him. But he found out and he lost it. Paul killed her.”

  I reach for my coffee cup, take a sip, thinking. Everything he says makes sense, but I’m still not ready to accept it.

  But now, a memory comes back, and I must have shown it on my face or in my body language, because Cole says: “What?”

  “The morning I found Erin, when Paul showed up he was driving his truck.”

  “And?”

  The thoughts come flooding out: “He was working. He never drives that truck when he’s working. It’s big and loud, Erin always hated it. He can’t drive clients around in that thing. I wondered why he was driving it but I didn’t ask.”

  Cole waits for me to finish.

  “And he wouldn’t have driven it to my house if he was going after Erin, because it would attract too much attention.”

  “So he drove his car,” Cole adds, “and he couldn’t drive the car the morning after in case someone recognized it, especially with all the cops around.”

  I nod, stunned silent.

  “He did it, Kate.”

  I don’t say anything. I’m just trying to absorb what has just become obvious.

  “Mind if I use your restroom?” Cole asks.

  “No, go ahead.”

  He stands and leaves the kitchen.

  As I sit here, I replay parts of the interrogation video of Paul in my mind, trying to judge what I saw, what he said, how he said it. I may have to watch it again. I’ll need to clear my mind and discard the assumptions and speculation that are clouding my thinking.

  As Cole comes back down the hallway toward the kitchen, it occurs to me that there are three doors in the foyer. One is a closet, another holds the heating and AC unit, and the third is the half bath. We walked past the doors when he got here. They were all closed. Cole didn’t ask where the bathroom is.

  I see him with electrical cord in his hands, the cord wrapped tightly around his left hand as he coils it around his right.

  But it’s not real. I’m imagining it.

  I blink hard. Once, twice.

  Cole doesn’t seem to notice.

  “Got a call,” he says. “Work. I hate to run, but—”

  “It’s fine,” I say, standing, reaching for the bag that held the Danishes. I point to the plate. “You want to take these with you?”

  “No. You keep them.”

  He’s heading for the front door, in a hurry.

  “I’ll let you know if anything new comes up about Paul.” I follow, almost catching up to him. He gets to the front door and turns to face me. “Thanks for letting me in.” He smiles.

  I force a smile back.

  He pushes through the door. Gone.

  I close and lock it.

  Leaning against the wall, I hear his car door close, the engine start, and then it fades as he drives away.

  Guilt sets in, as I realize I shouldn’t suspect Cole of anything. I look at the doors, all closed again. The closet door is slightly narrower than the other two. The door next to it, the one where the heating and AC unit is, has a vent panel on the bottom.

  The only one left, to anyone with any sense and logic, is the bathroom door. That’s how Cole knew. And yet my mind, my wearied and warped mind, made me think Cole had been in this house before and put him in front of me with cord in his hands.

  I’m mentally exhausted from the last year, and all of this—Erin’s murder, the fact that Greer didn’t do it, the fact that Paul is the prime suspect, the existence of an unknown father of her baby—it’s making my thinking all wrong.

  I do need to get away from here. Maybe not for long. Maybe just a day or so. Just a couple of days away from this house, this city. I will go somewhere to get answers about Erin.

  Chapter 43

  Despite being roommates with her for four years in college, and despite the fact that we were just two hours from her hometown, I’ve never been there.

  Until now.

  I am here for her funeral.

  She always referred to it as “my little town.” The downtown part of it is indeed small, just a few blocks, lined with old buildings. I roll through slowly, seeing a furniture store, hardware store, a bank, barber shop, a women’s hair and nail salon, two small restaurants. Most of the buildings are shuttered, a few in disrepair and looking like they could collapse at any moment. There’s a lawyer’s office, the attorney’s name painted on the window, but it looks like it hasn’t been open in years.

  Outside the immediate town limits is where the people are. Big houses on sprawling tracts of property, long driveways. Few trees on each. They all look like plantation mansions.

  I drive by the Thorpe house, where Erin grew up. There’s one large old oak next to the house, providing shade and also equipped with a tire swing.

  A cop pulls up behind me as I slowly cruise past the Thorpe home. I speed up and so does the cop, checking me out, checking out my car. This is the kind of small town where the cops follow cars they don’t recognize, cars that don’t belong here.

  I remain below the speed limit as I make my way to the church. When I pull into the parking lot, the cop slows down, coming to a stop but staying on the road. I watch in my rearview mirror as he pulls away, around a bend and down a hill.

  When I get out of my car, the heat is like pressure, the air thick with humidity, no breeze.

  My hair is up today, not because of the heat, but because I never wear it up and I don’t want to look like myself today. I want to blend in, preferably in the back of the church. It’s not a great disguise, not much of one at all, really. But maybe just enough here, where people don’t know me, where people aren’t expecting me.

  I keep my sunglasses on as I enter the church and find a seat on the last pew.

  I look around for Paul. There’s no way he should be here, but the same could be said of me, so I check. No Paul.

  Erin’s casket is on the altar, shrouded in f
lowers. A large picture of her rests on an easel. It looks like one of the formal pictures her mother had her get when we graduated from college. I stare at Erin’s face, that smile, those eyes, and think of what she really looks like now, inside that coffin.

  Minutes later, solemn music starts.

  ◆◆◆

  Instead of joining the procession of cars to the cemetery, I decide to drive around.

  I didn’t go to Amanda’s burial fifteen years ago. I wasn’t prepared to see it. The first time I saw a casket lowered into the ground, my grandmother was in there. What stuck with me was the permanence of it. You’re alive, part of the world, and then you’re not. They put you in a box and lower you into a hole, cover you with dirt, and you’re gone forever. So I didn’t go to Amanda’s burial. I have also never seen her gravestone.

  For about an hour, I cruise around the neighborhoods and through the main street part of downtown a couple of times. I swing by the Thorpe residence three times, waiting to see when people start gathering at the house.

  When they finally do, I park down the street and walk up to the house, doubting myself with every step but resisting the urge to turn around and leave.

  This could be a problem. I replay in my mind the last time I saw them—in the hotel parking lot, with Paul there, the Thorpes convinced Paul killed their daughter.

  The late afternoon humidity fogs my sunglasses when I get out of the car. I take them off, wipe them, put them back on and head toward the house.

  Hushed conversations, car doors closing, and my shoes on the concrete are the only sounds I hear as I approach the house.

  The front door is wide open, inviting. Strangers give me pressed smiles, which I return. Nobody here knows me, nobody recognizes me from my appearance on TV. Not yet, anyway. I step inside and see the house Erin grew up in.

  There are lots of family pictures on the wall in the hallway leading to the living room. I walk slowly, looking at each one. It’s like a timeline of their family. Mr. and Mrs. Thorpe as newlyweds, a picture of them with Erin as a newborn, photos of Erin and her parents that seem to represent each year of her life. At least until she was a teenager. There are years skipped in this photographic chronology. The last two are Erin’s high school and college graduation pictures.

  I step into the living room and immediately see Mr. and Mrs. Thorpe standing near the fireplace talking to the minister. He’s holding her mother’s hand, speaking quietly.

  When I decided to come here, I had one thing on my mind, one thing I came here to do. Now, standing here just feet away from Erin’s parents, I question that decision.

  But it’s too late. I can’t turn around and leave, vanishing as if I were never here.

  Erin’s mother has spotted me.

  “Kate,” she says, and the instant I hear her voice, her tone, I know it’s okay that I’m here. Mr. Thorpe turns to look, sees me, then turns back to the minister.

  She walks toward me. I instinctively smile, realize it’s the wrong emotion to express, and I stop it cold.

  “I’m glad you’re here,” she says. “I know Erin would have wanted you here. Were you at the service? I didn’t see you.”

  “I was.”

  “Oh, good.”

  “It was beautiful,” I say. “Very moving.” I hate saying these things because that’s not how I feel. It’s just what you say in situations like this. But you can’t tell people that the funeral was sad and depressing and you wish you hadn’t been there.

  “I’m so sorry about how things went that morning at the hotel,” she says. “Emotions were running high and Jack and I were just lost and confused and…” Her voice trails off.

  “I’m sorry that happened, too,” I say.

  She leans toward me, hugs me. “It’s all right. He’s not getting away with this. That’s all that matters.”

  Mr. Thorpe is looking at us as his wife hugs me. He walks over and thanks me for being here. I start to say something, but another man puts his hand on Mr. Thorpe’s shoulder and he turns away from me.

  “There’s plenty of food in the kitchen,” Mrs. Thorpe says. “I hope you’ll stick around for a little while. I don’t mean to be rude but I should greet everyone who’s here.”

  “Of course,” I say. “I’ll be around.”

  She squeezes my forearm as she looks around and decides who to approach.

  In the kitchen, I find people hovering over the table, a feast spread out before them.

  A flash memory: thirteen year-old me at Amanda’s house after the funeral, people standing around talking and holding little plates and drinks in their hands, like it was some kind of party. I remember thinking how odd the ritual was, like an invitation had been sent out with a date, time and location, and the occasion along the lines of: Someone has died. Mourn with us and then enjoy free food!

  Cynical? Maybe. But Dr. Benson says the purpose of this ritual is something I couldn’t see back then. Communal comfort in a time of grief. That I couldn’t understand it back then was due not so much to the fact that I was just thirteen, but rather because I was dealing with the death of a friend and I was feeling guilty that I ran away. I was finding something to be mad at, something that served as an outlet for the turmoil I was feeling.

  I grab a bottled water from a cooler full of ice on the counter. I’m not getting in line at the table. I’m not hungry and I wouldn’t feel right eating, anyway.

  I glimpse the backyard through the window over the sink and see kids playing on a swing set and think of Erin out there. Her parents could have stood right where I’m standing now and watched their only child smiling and laughing, joyous, her long hair in the breeze as the swing went back and forth, forever young in the eyes of her parents. Now dead in reality.

  I watch the kids out there now. Kids who just attended a funeral, returning to their carefree lives where the only thing that matters is the moment, and right now it’s about who can swing the highest.

  I leave the kitchen as it becomes more crowded and walk through the dining room, a formal living room, turn the corner, and now I’m facing the staircase that goes to the second floor. Nobody is around, nobody can see me here. I could go up the stairs and find Erin’s room.

  I could, but I don’t. Not just because I realize it’s a bad idea, but also because someone says my name. I turn to look and see a woman my age moving toward me, arms outstretched, presuming there’s going to be a hug. And there is, more on her part than mine, but it happens.

  “I can’t believe it,” she says.

  Well, here we are, all at her funeral, not much to not believe, I think but don’t say, my filter catching the sarcasm before it can escape my mouth. If there’s one thing I’ve learned in therapy, it’s introspection, and I recognize the source of all of this sarcasm and cynicism about funerals. I’m uncomfortable and this is how I’m dealing with it.

  “I grew up with Erin,” the woman says. “Alexis Kirby. Ridell is my maiden name.”

  She looks at me as though I should recognize the name. I don’t, of course.

  “I knew who you were because I saw you on TV,” she says. “I’m so glad you’re okay.”

  Again, I have nothing to say because while I’m physically unharmed, I’m far from okay.

  “Do you think they’re getting close to arresting him?” she asks.

  “Who?” I don’t know if she means Erin’s killer, whoever it is, or if she’s already decided Paul did it.

  She tilts her head to the side a little, confused that I would even have to ask, as if the answer is obvious.

  “Paul.”

  At this point, I wonder if she knows something, maybe has some information about their relationship that could be important to the case. Or maybe she hasn’t spoken to Erin in months, even years, and her opinion is based on the talk shows.

  “Don’t you think he did it?” she asks.

  I ignore her question and ask: “When was the last time you talked to her?”

  Alexis doesn’t hesit
ate. She gives me the exact date: two weeks before Erin was killed. “I checked my recent calls. She sounded so good. She was finally free of Paul.”

  “Did she ever mention anyone else?”

  “Like another guy? No. I was surprised as anyone when I heard Paul wasn’t the father. She didn’t even say much about her friends when we talked. But she did say she was glad she had someone to talk to about everything that was going on. As an old friend, I want to thank you for being there for her.”

  Before I can tell her that Erin and I hardly spoke of Paul after that first night she moved in, we’re interrupted by a scream from just outside the screen door. A child’s wail. Without hesitating, Alexis moves toward the door and calls out, “Jackson?” She pushes through the door. I follow, staying inside, and watch as she crouches down to pick up her child who had apparently tripped on the sidewalk and fallen down.

  This is my chance to avoid talking to her more, so I take a step toward the den. Something on the table next to the door catches my attention. An envelope. It’s facing away from me, but I can see it’s addressed to Erin. Curious, I turn it around and see the return address. The envelope is unopened, but I have to see what’s inside.

  I slip the envelope into my purse and walk briskly out of the house, down the steps, down the sidewalk, moving faster but without running, without looking obvious, down the driveway.

  Once I’m on the street, headed for my car, out of sight, I pull the envelope out. I get to my car, open the door and now I can look inside.

  And when I look, I have to look twice, a third time. It’s a bill for an outstanding balance. The location is the office where Dr. Benson works, along with more than a dozen others. The office visit detail says: Psychiatric Services. The visit is dated four weeks ago. And Alexis just told me Erin had someone she could talk to.

  It’s a big office. All the doctors in that office are affiliated with the Medical University. The odds that she was seeing Dr. Benson are slim, but not zero.

  My adrenaline rushes. My head throbs. The heat in this car isn’t helping. I put the key in the ignition, turn it on, and blast the air conditioner, letting the cool air wash over my face as I start the two-hour drive home so I can confront him.