If it Bleeds, it Leads (An Avery Shaw Mystery)

by Amanda M. Lee

  “Do you think now is the time to make fun of a dead girl?”

  I shrugged noncommittally. “Depends on if it’s funny or not.” Admittedly, my comment hadn’t been that funny. “What are you guys so worked up about? You didn’t even know her.”

  “I’ll have you know, young lady, that we all had lunch together in the back cafeteria a couple times a week.” I didn’t know the woman who spoke, but since she was about 30 years old -- and wearing plaids and florals together, blech – I didn’t think she had a lot of room to condescend to me.

  “So did she tell you anything important?”

  “What do you mean important?”

  “I mean, did she have an abusive ex-boyfriend? Was she a former prostitute? Did she have a heroin problem?” Essentially, who had she pissed off that would want her dead? These were standard questions in my line of work. The accounting women didn’t seem to understand that, though.

  I realized, suddenly, that these women were looking at me the way I looked at Gertrude. Not good.

  “No,” plaids and florals sputtered.

  My attention had been drawn to a bowl of candy on the table by the door; I was hunting for a Kit Kat. I realized the room had become uncomfortably silent. I looked up; putting my best “You can trust me” look on my face.

  I’m fairly sure they weren’t buying it. The room was becoming increasingly small. It was like I was in ‘The Birds.’

  “Did you need something?” Florals and plaid again.

  “Uh, yeah, I need her address from the files. I have to go talk to her family.”

  Uh, oh. All the women were looking appalled again. What had I done now?

  “Young lady, you leave that family alone. They’re grieving.”

  Of course they were grieving. That was the time to get to them, before they had a chance to think about what to tell and what not to tell. I wasn’t stupid. I couldn’t tell these women that, though. Besides that, I had a feeling they would think I was stupid – or at least insensitive – regardless of what I said.

  “I know, but since she was an employee we want to do a really special piece on what a great person she was,” I said this with what I knew to be fake sincerity, but what I hoped they would take to be heartfelt and true remorse. “We want to use cute baby pictures and have her family give us their favorite memories of her. We want to include all of her accolades. You know, basically canonize her.”

  I could tell I was starting to melt some of the women over. Florals and plaid wasn’t one of them.

  “Then why did you ask if she was a prostitute?"

  “I didn’t.” When in doubt, deny.

  “You just did so!”

  “I was just making a bad joke. So, can I get that address? I love your outfit by the way, I wish I could carry something like that off.” When denial doesn’t work, try diversion.

  It took another few minutes, but I finally got what I was looking for and left the accounting department. I never did get that Kit Kat.

  I was surprised when I realized the address was on the east side of Detroit – not Macomb County. Great.

  I got in one of the company cars – I didn’t want to risk mine getting stolen in that neighborhood – and plugged the address into the GPS in my phone. It looked like the ride was going to take about 20 minutes. It was in a subdivision called White Plains. I thought that was an odd name for a subdivision in Detroit, but I figured it had been named a long time ago. I was wrong.

  The first thing I noticed when I pulled in was this wasn’t a subdivision at all. It was a trailer park. And, as far as trailer parks go, it was pretty frightening.

  As I turned into the park, I noticed someone had painted over the “Welcome to White Plains” sign with red spray paint. It now read “Welcome to Pittsville.” Looking around, I could see how apt that was.

  I finally found the address I was looking for – debating once I got there whether I really wanted to go inside. This place was so rundown they would have to come up with a new word for rundown.

  I took a deep breath, grabbed my reporter’s notebook as I got out of the car, and steeled myself for what to expect from the grieving family. Situations like this are always hairy. They could be glad to see you. Or they could try and chase you away with pitchforks. I was hoping this would fall in the “glad to see me” category. I didn’t want to imagine what these people would look like if they were chasing me with pitchforks.

  I carefully made my way up the front porch, tripping only once over a loose board on the steps, and then knocked carefully and took a step back. If things went south I wanted a head start to get back to the car. I had kept the keys in my hand instead of depositing them in my pocket or purse just in case.

  I was surprised when a big guy came to the front door. When I say big, I mean big. He looked like he belonged working a farm instead of wedging himself into a teeny little trailer. He was dressed simply; ripped blue jeans and a black wife beater tank top. Hey, sometimes the best stereotypes are the easiest to embrace, and he had a red bandana tied over his shoulder-length blond hair. He also looked like he hadn’t showered in two days.

  When I met his red-rimmed eyes I tried to decide if it was pot or grief that had left him in that state. I decided to give him the benefit of the doubt and go with grief. It was probably a mixture of the two, though.

  “Hi, my name is Avery Shaw.” I extended my hand, trying to act respectful.

  He ignored it.

  I pushed forward anyway. “I work at the Monitor. “

  Still nothing.

  “Darby Pitts worked there and there was . . . an incident this morning.”

  I was starting to wonder if this guy could talk.

  “This was the address we had listed for Darby.”

  Apparently I needed to be more forceful.

  “Is this her house?"

  “It’s not a house.” Finally, he spoke.

  “Well, did she live here?"

  The guy nodded.

  “Did you know her?” I prodded.

  He nodded again.

  This wasn’t getting me anywhere.

  “Willie, who’s at the door?”

  I peered behind Willie to see a shrunken lady in a bathrobe, sleeping cap and coke bottle glasses push her way past him.

  I introduced myself again.

  “I’m Darby’s mom, Cheryl,” the woman said, grasping my hand in her own and warmly and welcoming me inside. Suddenly I felt a little guilty for not feeling worse about Darby’s death.

  Cheryl pushed Willie out of the door and inside the trailer. “Sit down,” she said with a wan smile.

  Surprisingly, the inside of the trailer was much nicer than the outside. The furniture – while not expensive – was clean and color coordinated. If I was being truthful, it was nicer than my house.

  I sat down on the blue couch and politely declined a cup of coffee from Cheryl. I only like coffee if I have to spend $5 on it and it’s half milk and half chocolate. The whipped cream helps, too.

  “So what can I do for you?" I was surprised that Darby’s mom was so put together at a time like this. I started to worry that no one had told her about Darby’s death. I wasn’t the person anyone would want delivering that news.

  “Have the police been here?”

  Cheryl nodded sadly. “They told me about Darby. It’s just awful. I thought she would have been safe working up there in Mount Clemens. I never thought anything bad would happen to her up there. She was so close to getting out.”

  “She was going to move from here?” Really, who wouldn’t?

  Cheryl seemed to stir from wherever her mind had just drifted for a second and she returned her attention to me. “Yes. She was saving up her money to buy a house out there. She had put quite a bit away. She was so excited at actually thinking about buying her own house. She’s never lived anywhere but here.”

  I felt really bad all of a sudden. I couldn’t imagine growing up in a trailer park, let alone scrimping and saving to buy a ho
use and being excited about it. When I thought about my house a sense of dread washed over me – mostly because I couldn’t afford a maid to clean it.

  “Well, I know it’s not much, but we were hoping to do a really nice story on Darby for the paper. You know, print some pictures of her when she was a kid and maybe get some fun stories of when she was younger from you and Willie.”

  Cheryl’s face brightened up immediately.

  “Really? Like making her a star?”

  I didn’t know about a star, but people would certainly be talking about her tomorrow. “Yeah.”

  I spent the next hour talking to Cheryl, Willie and a few cousins who had made their way over to the trailer with a varied array of casseroles and flowers for their aunt and cousin. I found out that Willie had been Darby’s older brother and they’d been especially close – so he was taking her death really hard. I felt sort of bad for him. He didn’t really want to talk to me. I didn’t blame him.

  “Darby always had the best heart.” This was Lucy, Darby’s cousin, talking now. “She always loved animals. I remember when she brought home three dogs in one day that she found abandoned.”

  Cheryl smiled sadly at the memory. “I about broke her heart when I told her she couldn’t keep them but this place was barely big enough for the three of us – let alone three dogs.”

  “Was she always an animal lover?”

  “Oh, yes, we would have had 50 animals if she had her way.”

  The conversation so far had been comfortable and easy. I was dreading getting to the question I had to ask next.

  “Mrs. Pitts,” I started.

  “Cheryl, honey.”

  “Cheryl,” I corrected. “I have to ask, do you know anyone who would have wanted to hurt Darby?”

  Cheryl looked me straight in the eye and shook her head, biting her lip to fight off tears. “I can’t imagine why anyone would want to hurt my baby girl.”

  After hearing Darby stories for the last hour, I couldn’t either.

  Cheryl put together a package of 10 photos for me to take back to the paper after I promised I would send them back myself the next day. She and Willie walked me to the door where she embraced me warmly.

  “I’m glad a nice girl like you is writing the story.”

  Guilt was creeping in again. I decided to change the subject. “Why do they call this place Pittsville?” Looking around, I could imagine why.

  “Oh, because our whole family owns the entire park,” Cheryl answered.

  “Your whole family? You mean like there are five of you?”

  “No, I mean the entire park is our family. There are no outside families.”

  I couldn’t believe what she was saying. There must have been 50 trailers here and if they were all Pitts . . . Ah, hence Pittsville.

  “You must be a close family.”

  “Oh, yes,” Cheryl said with a laugh. “We all have a barbecue every Sunday and a lot of the boys own a garage downtown and they all work together. We’re a very close family. It’s like ‘The Godfather.’ Once you get in, you can’t get out.”

  For a second I thought I sensed something akin to rage in the statement, but Cheryl’s face didn’t reflect that assertion.

  I thanked everyone for their stories and promised I would send extra copies of the paper with the photos tomorrow. I was surprised to find that Willie had walked me to my car. As I opened the door to get in, his hand shot out and grabbed my arm roughly.

  I jumped in surprise.

  “My sister was a good girl,” he said.

  I swallowed hard and nodded.

  “She was an angel.” Willie then walked away and back into the trailer.

  I just stood there for a minute, marveling at the weird world I had found myself in. I caught a glimpse of movement out of the corner of my eye and saw a dark haired teenager about three trailers down staring at me.

  I stared back.

  The girl furtively looked around, and then beckoned for me to follow her.

  I debated the intelligence of the move, but ultimately my curiosity got the better of me. I shut the car door quietly and made my way towards the girl.

  “Hi.”

  Up close, I realized even though the girl was small like a teenager, she actually looked like she was in her mid-twenties up close.

  The woman looked up at me with sunken brown eyes while pushing some dirty brown hair behind her ear. “You’re here asking questions about Darby?”

  I figured she was worried I was going to write something bad.

  “Yeah, I’ve got some good stories about how she loved animals and how she donated her time to the area churches. Essentially, she sounds like a saint.”

  The woman barked out a harsh laugh.

  The sound took me by surprise.

  “You have a different opinion?”

  “This place, it isn’t what you think and Darby . . . Darby isn’t what they pretend.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Darby isn’t some angel. She’s a slut.”

  That didn’t exactly mesh with what I had heard about Darby.

  “She’ll sleep with anything that moves.”

  “That can be said about a lot of people,” I answered. Not me, of course.

  The woman nodded in grudging agreement.

  “She used to have this boyfriend. He was a real loser. He was a drug dealer.”

  Well this was a surprising turn of events.

  “How do you know he was a drug dealer?”

  “He used to carry around a book of acid – he called it ‘Alice in Wonderland ‘ -- and he’d sell it to the teens in the park. He’d give them a discount because they were Darby’s family, but he was a real dirt bag.”

  I let the woman continue to talk.

  “After awhile, he started bringing other stuff. Heroin. Meth. Oxy. He tried to get as many of the kids hooked as possible – and then he wasn’t giving out discounts anymore.”

  Well, that is how drug dealers work. “Were he and Darby still together?”

  “No. She broke up with him a few months ago. She said she was sick of him and what he was doing to the kids . . . but I think something else was going on.”

  “What?”

  “I don’t know. It just felt off. Before that Darby was acting like he was a prince or something. He was anything but a prince. I can tell you that.”

  “Do you know his name?”

  “Walker. Kevin Walker.”

  “That’s a pretty common name.”

  “Yeah, but his dad owns one of those big car dealerships out in Macomb.”

  “Do you know what it’s called?”

  “Walker Automotives.”

  Crap. Walker Automotives was the biggest car dealership in the county. They were also one of the paper’s biggest advertisers.

  “Do you think this Kevin Walker was violent?”

  The woman met my gaze evenly. “I don’t know.”

  “What’s your gut say?”

  “My gut says that Darby wasn’t killed in some random act of violence in the suburbs.”

  I had to agree. The odds of that were almost astronomical.

  Five

  I went back to the office after that, the woman’s story running through my mind. I tried to get her to tell me her name, but she balked at that right away and beat a hasty exit – only turning around once to see if I was leaving or hanging around. I guess I couldn’t blame her. I wouldn’t trust me either. I have a really big mouth.

  When I got to the office, I noticed an interesting dichotomy forming. The people in the newsroom were dissecting everything having to do with Darby’s death. How her body had been found. What she had been wearing. Did anyone know anything personal about her? While there were a few people here and there who seemed genuinely sad about the unfortunate turn of events – everyone else seemed more excited that a story had literally landed in our lap.

  In the other departments, however, things were quite different. All the women in classified adv
ertising, for example, were acting pretty much like the accounting ladies had earlier in the day – like a dear friend had passed. I wracked my brain trying to remember a time when I had ever seen Darby over there talking to them. I couldn’t come up with a single instance. Call me cynical, but I hate fake sympathy. It’s like when a celebrity dies and everyone freaks out about it. Yeah, it’s sad, but you didn’t personally know this person so there should be no real grief attached.

  In the retail advertising department – where it’s an even mix of women and men – the women were crying in corners and the men were trying to make them feel better by patting them on the back and rubbing their shoulders. I couldn’t really tell if any of the men were all that upset or if they were just trying to cop a feel, but the women sure were.

  That’s when the glaring differences between reporters and the rest of the world became obvious to me. Okay, I already knew, but this was a poignant reminder. Reporters are just better at compartmentalizing. It’s not that we didn’t care about Darby’s death; it’s just that we were used to seeing and writing about it. If you couldn’t disassociate yourself from your emotions, you’d never get anywhere in this business. That being said, while I felt genuinely bad for Darby, I doubted I’d go home and shed any tears about it. The only thing that makes me cry is ‘E.T.’ and old episodes of ‘Little House on the Prairie.’

  I went straight to my desk and wrote my story. I didn’t feel like gossiping with anyone – mostly because I was afraid they’d try to entice me into some long, drawn out conversation about feelings and mortality. I was really hoping Marvin wouldn’t make an appearance before I left. As a radical hypochondriac, I couldn’t wait to see how Marvin explained his new imaginary (and invisible, I might add) gunshot symptoms. Marvin is one of those people that hears about an ailment or injury and then instantly thinks he has it. Once a month he gets cramps and bloating with me. I’m not sure if he ovulates – but since listening to him sometimes reminds me of a PMSing 14-year-old -- I wouldn’t rule it out.

  Once I’d filed the story and sidebar on Darby’s life and childhood, I decided to go home and relax. It was early October, which meant the weather in suburban Detroit varied wildly. You could have 80-degree days and 30-degree nights in a 12-hour time frame. It had been a 65-degree day and I wasn’t sure what the night would bring, but there were rumors we were supposed to get an inch of snow later in the week. That was not something I was looking forward to. I’m one of those people that’s constantly threatening to move to a warmer climate. So far, they’ve been empty threats. If I left Michigan, I’d have a cadre of family members phone stalking me until I came back.