Stain of Guilt

by Brandilyn Collins

  “Please don’t run it, Adam. At least not now. Don’t you understand it could tip off the killer? I know that’s a remote chance, but why take any chance at all with the high stakes here? Look, I’ll talk to you all you want after the show airs.”

  “Good, we’ll talk then too. But I’m not pulling this story. It’s breaking news now.”

  Anger flushed through me. I paced a few steps, thrusting a hand in my hair. “Let me make this very clear. You run this story now and you won’t talk to me after the show. In fact, I won’t discuss a case with you ever again.”

  “Ms. Kingston, it can’t be that bad. All I want—”

  “All you want is to put your own desire for a story over the needs of other people. People who’ve grieved about these terrible murders and worked on this case for twenty years. And I won’t be a part of that.” My voice rose. “As far as you’re concerned, I’m not working on any such case. In fact, I have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about!”

  I yanked the phone away from my ear and punched off the line.

  My daughter’s music still ragged at my ears.

  “Kelly!” I yelled toward her open window. “Kel-leee!”

  “What?” Her face appeared above me, creased with irritation.

  “Turn that music off! Now.”

  “Sheesh. Okay.” She disappeared. The noise stopped.

  I leaned against a log pillar, phone dangling from my hand. Had the reporter called Delft yet? Oh, the sergeant would not be happy. When he found the leak in the department, he’d probably call for the person’s head on a platter.

  How about Emily and Edwin Tarell? Had Adam called them? I did not want to be the one to tell them this news had leaked. They were counting on the American Fugitive show so much.

  “Hey, neighbor.”

  I raised my head to see Dave Willit standing on my sidewalk, dirt-caked gloves on his hands. He looked at me as if not sure whether to bother me or not, green eyes half squinted. Sweat trickled from his blond hair down his temple. I felt my cheeks flush. How could I have yelled at Kelly like that in front of him? And been so loud on the phone? He’d probably heard every word I said.

  Ten months after his wife’s death, I still didn’t feel quite comfortable around Dave, whether around the neighborhood or at church. Although he continued to assure me I had no reason to feel guilty about what happened—in fact, he seemed to have nothing but praises for me—I couldn’t entirely shake my sense of culpability. Or maybe his now being a single father and my being a single mother set up a propriety alert within me. I didn’t want people to jump to any conclusions about our relationship. Our daughters were best friends, that was all.

  Propriety alert. Now there was a phrase.

  “Hi, Dave. You must have knocked off work early.” Dave owned commercial real estate in Redding and worked from an office in his home.

  “Yeah, well. It’s Friday.” He glanced at Kelly’s window. “Sounds like our girls are getting obnoxious.”

  “Oh no, they’re fine.” What to do with my free hand? I hooked a finger into a belt loop on my jeans. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have yelled like that. It’s just . . . I . . . this was not a good conversation—” I indicated the phone—“and the music is a little much.”

  “Would you rather they come over to our house for the night? I’m home, so it makes no difference to me.”

  “No, really, it’s okay.” I smiled at him. “The girls are the best thing going on in this house right now.”

  Oh, great, Annie, what a lead line.

  He pulled off a glove and wiped sweat from his face. I had the sense he was stalling, wondering whether or not to ask questions. “Is it Stephen? I mean, a few times Erin has mentioned that he’s . . .”

  “Still giving me trouble?” I set the phone down on the porch, cradled my elbows. “Yeah, he is. And I’m afraid I’m not very good at handling it.”

  He pulled in a deep breath. “Remember last summer I told you I’d be willing to help with him in whatever way I can? It’s a hard age in a boy’s life.”

  Especially without a father around. I knew that’s what Dave was thinking.And he was oh, so right. But who was I to ask for his help? He was trying to raise a teenage girl alone while dealing with his own grief. Every time I laid eyes on Dave I saw the pain etched into his face. He’d loved Lisa with his heart and soul. Their life together had looked perfect. Before meeting them, I’d seen only the dark side of marriage, thanks to my cheating father and equally unfaithful husband.

  “Thanks, Dave. But I really don’t know what you—”

  “You help so much with Erin, Annie. You have her over all the time, and you’re always watching out for her. Sometimes I feel like I owe you the world, and there’s no way I can pay you back. So anything I can do to help with Stephen, believe me, I’d love to do it. Maybe I can take him out sometime, do something with him.”

  I stared at him. Owe me the world? I couldn’t think of a single word in response. “Okay. I thank you. Very much.”

  How stilted that sounded. I gave him a self-conscious smile.

  The phone rang. I narrowed my eyes at it, knowing I would not answer. Shouldn’t I explain all this to Dave? What if he thought the caller was a friend of Stephen’s? What if he did something crazy like suggest he take Stephen out right now, tonight? I knew what my son’s response would be, given his current mood. Erin’s dad? The boring Christian man Stephen saw every Sunday when I dragged him to church? No way.

  “It’s probably just the reporter who called before.” I folded my arms. “He wants information that I can’t give him about the case for American Fugitive. I’m assuming Erin told you about that, since I know Kelly told her. But people aren’t really supposed to know. And the reporter’s not supposed to be doing an article before the show airs, but you know how they are. No doubt this will be front-page news in tomorrow’s paper. And what if the worst-case scenario happens—”

  Good grief, I was running on. I looked away in embarassment.

  Dave shook his head. “I remember all the reporters’ calls last July. The last thing I wanted to do was talk to them. They just seem to have no sense of . . . propriety.”

  I almost laughed. He’d used that word.

  “Yeah, I know.” I raised my shoulders. “Well, guess I better get inside. I’ve got work to do on the case.”

  “And I need to get back to my flowers.”

  “They’re beautiful, by the way. As always.”

  “Thanks.”

  As I started to open my front door, phone in hand, Dave called my name. I turned back to see him at the curb.

  “This case you’re working on? Growing up in Redding, I remember when it all happened. Seemed like it was about our only news for a long time.” He hesitated.

  I let the silence hang between us, waiting.

  “The guy’s . . . really a cold-blooded murderer,Annie. Not like the last few drawings you’ve done of petty robbers and car thieves. This one’s more like . . .”

  “I know.” I didn’t want him to have to finish his sentence.

  Dave took his time pulling his gloves back on. “Just tell me you’ll be careful.”

  My throat tightened at his concern. “You know I will.”

  He nodded.

  I watched him start across the street, then I turned back toward my house. Stephen’s rap music thrashed my ears the moment I opened the door.

  Saturday, May 8

  Chapter 7

  American Fugitive to Air Redding Murder

  The front-page headline mocked me from the sidewalk as I retrieved our morning paper. I scooped it up and hurried back inside the house. Fortunately the kids weren’t awake yet. Like a moth drawn to flame, I could not keep myself from reading the article. And I wanted no interruptions, no teenagers’ presence requiring me to pretend everything was fine.

  Unfolding the paper across the kitchen table, I sank into a chair and read.

  On June 2 American Fugitive will feature
the 1984 Redding double homicide of businessman Don Tarell and his associate Peter Dessinger. Local forensic artist Annie Kingston, known for her composite last summer in the Lisa Willit murder case, will do the “fugitive update” drawing of suspect Bill Bland, who has been on the run from the law for the past twenty years.

  Neither the Shasta County Sheriff’s Department nor Kingston would comment on the show. Calls to the homes of Edwin Tarell, son of one of the victims, and his mother, Emily Tarell, were not returned. The producer of American Fugitive, Michael Erwin, would not affirm or deny they are covering the case, saying only that their episodes “depend on surprise” in the apprehending of featured suspects.

  “No kidding.” I pressed my fist against the paper, wishing it was Bendershil’s head. “Thanks for spoiling it.”

  Don Tarell was founder and CEO of Tarell Plastics, a—

  The phone rang. I eyed the receiver warily. Was this another reporter?

  A second ring. Steeling myself, I picked up the phone. “Hello?”

  “Annie. It’s Emily Tarell.”

  I let out a silent breath of relief. “Emily, please know I had nothing to do with the news story. The reporter called me yesterday, and I tried my best to talk him out—”

  “I know, Annie.” Her tone mixed frustration and resolve. “I just called to say thank you for not telling him anything. I realize this could be a lot of publicity for you, yet you backed off for the good of the show. I’m grateful.”

  “You don’t have to thank me. I didn’t want to talk to him.”

  “Exactly. Give yourself credit for your integrity.”

  Integrity? The guy just made me mad.

  “I called Sharon back east this morning to tell her about the article. She got in touch with her daughter’s boyfriend, who writes for the show. He said not to worry. The show’s not going to be cancelled or anything because of this. And it certainly isn’t the first time local news has divulged information on one of their segments. Of course they don’t like it when that happens, but all we can do is hope Bill Bland doesn’t hear about it. Even if he did and ran from whatever new identity he’s created, it’s still quite possible for leads to put law enforcement on his trail. Knowing where Bill has been for the past few years, and what name he’s been using would be a good place to start.”

  “Emily, thank you for telling me this.” I imagined Sergeant Delft had already been in touch with the American Fugitive producer over this issue. Talk about not wanting to lose control. Even with these consolations, I doubted the man would feel pacified. “Believe me, I’m going to do everything I can to make my drawing right—for your sake. You so deserve to see an end to all this.”

  “I know you will, dear. I know you will.”

  Clicking off the line, I turned back to the newspaper article. It continued on an inside page, recapping the crime and speaking of Edwin and Emily, both of whom still lived in Redding.

  Edwin. I had an appointment to interview him at three-thirty.

  I leaned back in my chair, picturing his face, thinking over some of the follow-up statements he’d made to Sergeant Delft all those years ago. Evidently, Edwin came to rely on Delft heavily during those first few days following the murders, often showing up at the sergeant’s office to tell him “one more thing that might help.”With the weight of such a case on his shoulders, Delft would have been very pressed for time. Yet he met with Edwin again and again, just letting the young man talk, taking notes of Edwin’s ramblings in case a clue lay buried somewhere.

  One scene that Edwin recounted particularly haunted me—the time at which the shock had worn off enough for him to realize his father was gone forever. My own mother had died when I was sixteen. To this day, I remembered so well that moment the reality of her death hit me full in the face. It was like being slashed deep inside, the pain so great that it tore all breath away. As I read Edwin’s description of his own emotions, tears had filled my eyes.

  I gazed out the kitchen window, remembering Edwin’s words. Of its own accord, my mental projector clicked on, bringing the scene to life. I could feel Edwin’s grief as he returned to his own town house a few hours after the shootings. Could hear the silence as he

  slips inside, hands trembling. He scurries from room to room, turning on every light. In his heart he knows Bill Bland is long gone, but his erratic heartbeat forces him to search every corner for the man. No set of walls will feel safe anymore; no lock will put him at ease. If tragedy unfolded in his father’s house—and from the hand of a trusted employee—it can happen anywhere. Nothing will be the same again. Ever.

  Edwin finds himself sitting on his bed. He doesn’t know how he got there. One shoe is off. He is staring at the dresser against the far wall, looking through it until it blurs. He visualizes the similar wood on the desk in his father’s study. Sees his father’s knuckles rapping on that desk. Rap rap, rap rap. The sound repeats until it cycles with the beat of his own heart like some inner circadian rhythm.

  Rap rap.

  Only then does Edwin notice it. The blood on his shirtsleeves. Spatters and streaks on the white cuffs.

  The last drops of his father’s life.

  His chest grows hot, and his throat closes. He touches a spot with a fingertip, then presses it between thumb and forefinger until his hand cramps. I couldn’t save him, I couldn’t save him, I couldn’t save him. Anger swells within Edwin. His wrists begin to prickle as if the blood is biting him, and he shoves to his feet, tearing at the buttons, yanking off the shirt. He throws it onto his bedroom floor. It taunts him, screaming at him from the carpet. He grabs it again, runs into the kitchen and drops it into his trash compactor. When he kicks the compactor door closed, he can still hear the shirt’s cries.

  They will drive him crazy.

  With a curse he opens the compactor door and seizes the entire bag of its contents. Then out he races into his attached garage, where he flings the bag into a garbage container and clamps down the lid. Suddenly he remembers what day it is. Tomorrow morning the truck will be around to pick up garbage. Edwin hits the button on the wall to open his garage door, then drags the rubber container outside.

  He scuttles back into the garage, closes the door, hurries to the light of his kitchen. The shirt is far enough away now. He cannot hear its cries—

  “Hey, Mom.”

  I jerked my head around and stared at my daughter, unfocused. Erin appeared behind her, leaning against one of the tall log support beams that separate our kitchen from the great room.

  My daughter frowned. “What’s wrong?”

  “Oh.”With one hand I folded the newspaper, turned it over. “Nothing. I was just . . . daydreaming. What are you doing up so early?”

  She shrugged. “Dunno. We were hungry.”

  With that, her head disappeared behind the refrigerator door. Erin gave me a half-asleep smile. “Morning.”

  “Hi. Your orange juice is in there.” I indicated the refrigerator with my chin. Neither of my kids liked orange juice, but I always kept a bottle for Erin.

  “Thanks.”

  I poured myself some coffee and drank it while chatting with the girls, trying all the while to push away my nagging thoughts about the news article and my upcoming interview with Edwin Tarell. But something about the girls’ presence only made me feel the weight of my responsibility all the more. Their slim young bodies clad in pajamas, their shiny hair and smooth skin, pulled at my mother’s heart in ways I couldn’t quite define. Perhaps my love for them reminded me how much I had lost in my own mother’s death. How much Edwin had lost. And Emily.

  The girls rummaged around the kitchen, pulled out two kinds of cold cereal from the pantry, then decided they wanted pancakes.

  “Have at it.” I lifted a hand toward the box of mix that Kelly placed on the counter.

  “Oh, Mom, can’t you do it?”

  “Sure I can. But so can you.”

  I made my exit then, carrying the newspaper and my mug of coffee. “Just clean up when
you’re done.”

  Three hours later, it was almost noon. I’d looked over the case files some more and was fully prepared for my interview with Edwin. I’d argued—again—with Stephen, who got up in a particularly foul mood. And I’d talked on the phone with Jenna. Whined was more like it. First about Stephen and how miserable he made me, then about the case.

  Regarding my son, Jenna empathized completely. She knew how difficult he could be. As for the Bill Bland assignment, she’d now heard me give her a dozen reasons why I shouldn’t have accepted it. Being Jenna, she shot every one of them down.

  “Annie, knock it off. You’ve got to stop thinking of all the things that could go wrong. Think instead of what can go right. Imagine how you’re gonna feel if they catch that guy. When they catch that guy.”

  The house phone rang while I was on my business line with Jenna. I vaguely heard Stephen answer it from the TV room. A moment later he stuck his head in my office.

  “Mom, I gotta talk to you. Right now.”

  “Just a minute, Stephen, I’m on the phone.” As if he couldn’t notice.

  “Mom, now. Please!”

  Only Stephen could make that word sound more like a curse. My son was wearing me down on the grindstone of motherhood, and the weekend had just begun. I couldn’t argue with him anymore. Sighing, I told Jenna I needed to go and hung up the phone.

  “Can I go to the school baseball game tonight with Jeff?” The receiver still dangled from Stephen’s hand, apparently with Jeff waiting at the other end.

  Jeff. One of those kids I didn’t like the looks of.A shaved head, ear piercings, and a permanent slouch.

  “If you let me take you and pick you up.”

  “Jeff’s got a car.”

  “So do I. I’ll take you.”

  He flexed his jaw, started to say something, then stopped. “Okay, fine. But Jeff’ll bring me home.”

  That was even worse. No telling what they would do between the game and home. If they stayed at the game at all.

  “No. I’ll come get you.”

  Stephen’s face reddened, his eyes narrowing. “Come on, Mom! What is wrong with you? You never let me do anything. It’s just a baseball game!”