“Yes, I know.”
She tipped her head. “That could be a contributing factor.”
“What do you mean?”
She looked up. “You know. If an individual was abused themselves, they’re more likely to—Oh.” She stopped. A frown creased her forehead.
“What?” Georgia said.
“Well, it says here the couple dropped the case a few months later.”
“Dropped it? How come?”
“Apparently, they separated and got a divorce.” She snorted. “Guess they found other lawyers to give their money to.”
If the couple dropped the case, without a conviction, how had Cam been labeled a sex offender? Georgia made a note to follow up. “Is there anything in his file about him being violent, threatening violence, or doing harm to anyone?”
Moore looked through the file one more time. She shook her head.
“Do you think it’s possible that someone like him, given his record, could suddenly snap and murder a complete stranger?”
Moore gazed at her. “Anything is possible with mentally impaired individuals. But, based on his file and my experience with him, I would be surprised.”
Georgia felt an unexpected sense of relief. “We’ll probably have to subpoena the entire file.”
Moore waved a noncommittal hand. “Whatever.”
Before heading home, Georgia stopped to buy copies of the newspapers. Word about the hazing was splashed above the fold in the Trib and on the front page of the Sun Times. While experts rued the growing violence among teenagers, Chief of Police Eric Olson denied it would affect the outcome of the case. There was no comment from the State’s Attorney’s Office.
CHAPTER TWELVE
“SARA HATED to get up in the morning,” A sad smile flickered across Melinda Long’s face. “I still wake up thinking it’s time to get her out of bed.”
“I’m so sorry,” Georgia said, aware how useless the words were even as they came out of her mouth.
A tall, lanky blonde, Sara Long’s mother retrieved some hangers and garments from the dressing room at New Ideas, an upscale but casual women’s dress store in Northfield. After reading where she worked in the police reports, Georgia decided to take a chance. She wasn’t sure Sara’s mother would be back at work, but she figured it would be less painful to talk outside her home. If she talked at all.
When Georgia walked into the store, she was surprised at its cozy, comfortable feel. A cheerful jumble of brightly patterned sweaters, pants, and even jewelry, New Ideas had a mix of the countrified, horsy fashions worn by North Shore matrons as well as the trendier workout styles favored by the young. Drawn to a rack of sweatshirts and pants, she let her fingers slide down the soft, fleecy garments. She even imagined herself in one of them—the blue one—until she saw the $240 price tag.
“People are shocked I’m back at work,” Melinda said a few minutes later. She nodded toward a woman behind the cash register who was chatting with a customer. “I know Janelle was. But what am I supposed to do? I took a week off, but I just couldn’t bear staring at four walls.” She shivered. “Sara’s brother, Jamie, went back to school. And Jerry’s at work.” She frowned. “I’m sorry. What did you say your name was?”
“Georgia Davis.” It hadn’t been hard to talk to Sara’s mother. She’d recognized her right away. Melinda had the same blonde hair and slim build as her daughter. When she asked if Georgia needed help, Georgia nodded. The conversation had turned to Sara almost immediately. In fact, her eagerness to talk—especially to a stranger—puzzled Georgia, until she recalled that people dealt with grief in all sorts of ways.
“You’re an investigator?”
“That’s right.”
A strange look came over the woman’s face. “Forgive me, did you say you’re with the police?”
Georgia tensed. She didn’t want to mislead the woman, as she’d done with Claire Tennenbaum, but telling the truth might mean the end to their conversation. Still. “Actually, I’m working for some people who want to make sure the right person is held accountable for your daughter’s murder.”
Melinda clutched the hangars and clothes to her stomach. “You’re working for that—that creature, aren’t you?”
“Yes,” she said quietly. “But I’m just trying to find out the truth. I have no bias.”
Georgia figured she had about five seconds before the woman kicked her out of the store. But Melinda’s expression was unreadable, and after a moment she headed to a nearby rack and started to hang the garments. “You know, if you had come in here a week ago, I would have thrown your butt out of here.”
Georgia nodded. The woman could see inside her soul.
“I wanted to nail Cam Jordan. I wanted to tear him from limb to limb. Make sure his sorry ass never saw the light of day. It was all so—senseless.” Melinda sighed. “But then, I don’t know. Things started moving so fast it made my head spin. Everything all tied up in three or four days. With a big, shiny ribbon on top. Closure, they say.”
“You had a problem with that?”
“While I was at home, I started to think about it. And now—well—I guess it doesn’t really matter.”
“Oh, but it does,” Georgia blurted out. “If you have any reason to feel Cam Jordan might not be responsible for Sara’s death, you have to speak out.”
“I don’t have to do a damn thing.” Melinda turned around, her eyes flashing.
Georgia’s stomach flipped. Great move, she scolded herself. Her first break in the case, and she’d patronized the victim’s grief-stricken mother. She started to apologize but was cut off by a woman loaded down with jewelry who called over to Melinda in a high-pitched voice. “Do you have this in a six?” She picked up a striped black and white outfit that looked like a zebra costume.
Melinda stiffened just for an instant. “Let me check.” Her voice was tight.
“I’m sorry,” Georgia said. “I was out of line.”
Melinda gave her a curt nod.
“Please. Let me buy you a cup of coffee.”
Melinda looked at her watch. “I’m off in twenty minutes, but I have to go home and start dinner.”
“I can meet you at your house.”
“I—I don’t know. I don’t think it’s such a good—”
“Fifteen minutes. That’s all.”
Melinda started over to Zebra lady. Then, “Fifteen minutes. No more.”
***
Georgia pulled up to a small house in western Wilmette, an area some considered the “wannabe” section of the North Shore. Just inside the boundaries of Newfield High School, the neighborhood consisted of mostly split-level homes on tiny lots, although realtors inexplicably called them colonials.
The bricks on the house needed tuck-pointing, and the white shutters could use a coat of paint. There was an older model blue Camaro in the driveway. Still, it looked like the kind of house Georgia’s parents aspired to, once upon a time. Georgia remembered her mother chattering on about how they’d move to the suburbs, live in a house with a garage. Georgia would take the bus to school every morning, and her mother would meet her every afternoon when she came home. They’d make cookies together in winter, play in the back yard in summer. She was little, maybe five or six. Even then, had she believed any of it would happen?
Melinda led her into a living room so choked with furniture that Georgia pulled on the neck of her sweater.
“I’ll make a pot of coffee,” Melinda said. “Make yourself comfortable.”
Georgia squeezed past an oversized sofa patterned in red and blue and sat gingerly in a large red-brocade chair. The fabric on the arms was frayed. Framed family photographs sat on an end table. A foursome, then the two kids by themselves. The pictures of Sara looked recent.
“Thank you for letting me come,” Georgia called.
“Actually, I was wondering how long it would take for someone to get around to it,” Melinda answered from the kitchen. “Now that the hazing’s out.”
&nbs
p; “What do you mean?” Georgia noticed some brownish stains on the white carpet. She hadn’t seen a dog.
“When you live in an area like this, you learn to size it up pretty fast.” Melinda came into the living room carrying only one coffee mug. She sat down on the sofa and took a sip. “We knew moving out here was a risk.”
“In what way?”
“We knew the kids would be exposed to—to different values. That they’d be around people with a lot of money. But Newfield is a good school. We wanted them to have a chance.”
“Where were you living?”
“In the Austin neighborhood. Jerry and I grew up there. No, that’s not true. I grew up on the East side near Cal Park but moved to Austin when we got married. The schools down there… well, we knew we could do better. So we scraped together what we could, and moved up here…” She looked around as if seeing the room for the first time. “We’re hanging on, but barely.”
Georgia nodded, unsure where Melinda was going. “You said you were wondering how long it would take…”
Melinda took another sip of coffee. “I wait on women who come into New Ideas and drop a grand on clothes as casually as you and I—well me, at least—drop a couple of bucks for a latte. Then they come back a week later and do it all over again.” She hesitated. “When people throw money around like that, I wonder what else they’re throwing around.”
“What do you mean?”
Melinda gazed at her. “I mean there are people around here who, because of their wealth or their position, expect certain things… to be taken care of. Fast.”
“Do you mean covering up the hazing or coming up with a suspect in your daughter’s murder?”
“What’s the difference?” Melinda set her mug on a dark wood coffee table with a thud. When the coffee sloshed over the rim, Georgia realized where the carpet stains had come from. “Sara was a little girl when we moved up here. Her brother was even younger. They didn’t know why certain kids never invited them to birthday parties. Or sleepovers. Jamie didn’t care so much, but I remember Sara crying when she discovered a party she hadn’t been invited to. That happened less as she got older. But there were always some girls who excluded her. And then, when she got so pretty, those same girls—well—they resented her. They were jealous.”
Georgia glanced at the family photographs. With her long blond hair, blue eyes, and clear, rosy skin, Sara was beautiful. “What girls?”
Melinda shook her head.
“Mrs. Long, I can’t do anything unless you can be more specific.” When she still didn’t answer, Georgia leaned forward. “Do you have any reason to believe Cam Jordan didn’t kill your daughter?”
Melinda fixed Georgia with a grim look. “Look. I knew what they were planning to do in the Forest Preserve. And I wasn’t the only one.”
Georgia arched her eyebrows.
“The rumors were flying for weeks. Ever since school started.”
“Did Sara tell you?”
“No. Actually, I heard it in the store. Customers—some of the mothers—were talking. It had been two years since the last hazing incident. The girls had learned their lesson. They were going to resurrect the game. After all, it was a school tradition. But it would be harmless this time. Well, maybe a little teasing. But nothing major. Nothing violent.”
“Did you know Sara would be one of the targets?”
“Of course not.” Anger hardened her face. “Sara might not have been part of the ‘in’ crowd, but she had friends. Enough, or so I thought, to keep her from being picked on.” Melinda went on. “She wasn’t like them, anyway. She had a job. She worked after school and on weekends.”
“Where?”
Melinda picked up her mug. “At the café in Old Orchard. Inside the book store. She paid for all her clothes. And cell phone. Got discounts on books, too. She knew the value of a dollar.”
“So you weren’t aware of any problems.”
“What are you getting at?”
“One of Sara’s friends said Sara was too involved in everyone else’s business. Reading diaries. Stealing notes. There was some talk about teaching her a lesson.”
“Sara? That’s just—ridiculous. Sara spent her time, except when she was working, trying to look like them and sound like them… it’s got to be gossip. High school girls being bitchy.” But Georgia saw the hurt spilling out of her eyes.
“Who were her friends?” Georgia asked gently.
Melinda struggled to regain her composure. “Heather and Claire, of course. She’s known them since grade school. And Lauren Walcher.”
“Do you like them?”
Melinda shrugged. “I—I accepted them. Maybe I shouldn’t have.” A faraway look came into her eyes. “You know, now that I’m thinking about it, that was why she went there in the first place.”
“Went where?”
“To the Forest Preserve. She said she wanted to talk to Lauren.”
“She said that?”
Melinda nodded. “I was surprised. She’d said the night before she wasn’t planning to go.”
“Did she say why she wanted to talk to Lauren?”
“No.”
“You didn’t ask?”
“I didn’t want to pry.”
“Do you know the Walchers?”
“Andrea, Lauren’s mother, comes into the store sometimes.” She looked down. “She pretends she doesn’t know who I am.”
“So you haven’t talked to any of Sara’s friends since…”
“Even if I wanted to I couldn’t. Their parents have locked them down tight. That’s my point.”
Georgia cocked her head.
“The hazing. It was a such a brutal… savage act. Throwing a bucket of fish guts on her head? Threatening her with a baseball bat? Can you imagine the hatred they must have had toward my daughter? And then, when you realize the same thing happened two years ago, and several girls went to the ER, well, I just don’t understand. Why didn’t anyone anticipate it could happen again? Why didn’t the school prevent it?”
“They did forbid it.”
Melinda shook her head violently. “No. They issued an edict. Then they buried their heads in the sand, and prayed like hell it wouldn’t happen again. Can you imagine the stupidity? Where were the counselors? The social workers? No one, not the school, not the parents, ever tried to get to the bottom of it. No one took the responsibility to make sure a child would never be hurt from this—this…” Her voice cracked, and she didn’t finish her sentence. “My daughter paid the price for their—incompetence.”
“Are you saying you think one of the girls killed Sara?”
“I don’t know who killed Sara. Maybe it was that… excuse for a man they found in the woods. Maybe it wasn’t. The problem is I don’t think we’re ever going to find out. Everything’s ‘solved’. Done. That’s what’s driving me crazy. I need to know the truth. And I don’t think I’m gonna get it.” Tears rimmed her eyes.
Georgia waited until she pulled herself together. “Mrs. Long, would you mind if I looked at Sara’s room?”
She looked at her watch. “I don’t know. It’s almost five—”
“I’ll be fast.”
“The police were here, you know. They took her laptop and her cell phone. It was one of those camera phones. She just bought it.” After everything she’d endured, Melinda’s voice still held touch of pride. “You won’t take anything…”
“Of course not.”
Melinda hesitated, then stood and led Georgia down a hall. Sara’s room was the second on the right. It felt as oppressive as the rest of the house. Wallpaper teeming with tiny flowers. A double bed. A bureau with several drawers open, a closet with a bi-fold door.
“I haven’t been able to go through her things,” Melinda said, her voice raw.
When Georgia opened the closet door, she was greeted by a pile of clothes on the floor. She rummaged through shorts, tank tops, halters, and high-heeled sandals. She checked the shoes. Manolo. Then she moved to the
bureau. Two pairs of Guess jeans. More tops, some of them glittery and revealing. A price tag was still attached to one: Fifty-nine ninety five. Opening the bottom drawer, she found a large mint green purse. The label said Marc Jacobs. Next to it was a digital camera and an iPod. She closed the drawers. Sara must have made a lot of lattes.
“Do you remember if Sara took her cell phone to the Forest Preserve?”
“No. It was here on her bureau when the police came.”
Georgia wondered if the police had checked the call log on the cell. If so, it would have been in the discovery documents, but she hadn’t seen anything. Which either meant they hadn’t checked it or they hadn’t gotten the log back yet. Knowing Robby Parker, she’d bet on the former.
Georgia turned around. “Okay, Mrs. Long, I think that about wraps it up. Thank you. I know this wasn’t easy.”
Melinda stepped heavily back down the hall. Georgia followed her back to the living room.
“How was Sara doing in school?”
“She had a B average. Mostly level three classes. Which was good considering how much she worked. Truth was, between her work schedule and ours, we didn’t see that much of her.”
“She always did her homework?”
“She had a couple of free periods at school. She did her homework there.”
“Who was her advisor?” Georgia recalled that Newfield girls shared the same advisor during all four years of high school. Advisors were teachers who met with small groups of students before class every morning. With over three thousand students at Newfield, daily advisories were like homeroom, designed to give students a sense of belonging to something.
“Ms. Beaumont. Jill. Teaches social studies. Nice woman. She’s called a couple of times.” Melinda faced Georgia. “Tell me. What are you looking for? You obviously think the guy they arrested didn’t do it.”
Georgia weighed her response. “I do know that Cam Jordan is not considered a violent man. And while he is a registered sex offender, his offenses never involved direct physical contact with anyone. I also know his sister is convinced he didn’t do it. And that Jeff Ramsey seems to be rushing this through the courts.”
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