The Forgotten Girl

by Rio Youers

  The call didn’t go the way I’d hoped.

  “Chief Newirth—”

  “You need to come home, Harvey. Right now. I don’t care what you’re doing or who you’re with. You get on a plane and get your ass back to Jersey.”

  No more Mr. Nice Guy, apparently. The chief sounded harried. Ugly, almost. A far cry from the man who dressed up as Santa Claus every Christmas. I knew then that something had gone very wrong.

  “Is this about my dad?”

  “You know damn well it’s about your dad.”

  The rocks in my gut returned. More of them, even heavier. I’m surprised they didn’t drag me off the seat. Randall looked down the bridge of his nose with interest. Even Calhoun—sensing the atmospheric shift—momentarily stopped making the coffee.

  “Is he okay?” I asked. My face was numb from the icepack. Everything inside was numb, too.

  “Come home, Harvey.”

  “Is he okay?”

  “You need—”

  “Is my dad okay?”

  Silence across the line, filled with terrible things. Randall’s chair offered an inquisitive squeal as he leaned forward. Calhoun’s coffee pot bubbled morosely. Several throaty choppers rumbled down 66. I heard these sounds all too clearly, but at the other end of the line there was nothing.

  Until …

  “We know, Harvey. We know everything.”

  “I don’t understand,” I responded timidly. But I did. I understood perfectly—knew exactly what the chief was going to tell me, because Jackhammer had made a promise to fuck me up, to crush everything I know and love, and simply killing Dad was not enough. Tears flashed from my eyes. I dropped the icepack and covered my face with my hand.

  “He confessed, Harvey. To the murders.” Chief Newirth’s voice was rain-gray and each syllable felt like a bullet striking something vital. “We have it on tape. He confessed to them all.”

  Twenty

  It’s crazy how things work out; Sally and I were scheduled to arrive in Blythe, California, at 8:25 p.m. Instead, I—alone—touched down at Newark Liberty at exactly that time, to the minute. One of Chief Newirth’s off-duty officers met me in arrivals. He was my age, prematurely balding. I remembered him from high school. We called him Jimmy Banana because he always ate a banana for lunch. Nothing else. Now he insisted I call him sir, or Officer Adams, even though he was out of uniform.

  Walking toward the exit—pulling Sally’s luggage along behind me, backpack hanging off one shoulder—I saw Dad’s face on one of the airport TVs. It was his old post office photo. A nice shot of him; the lighting had softened his scars and he was smiling. The caption read: MURDER SUSPECT MISSING. The scrolling text: Gordon Anderson wanted for questioning in Green Ridge murders. And: Police discover videotape confession in Anderson’s home. And: Suspect’s home a “den of violent contraptions.” I stopped and stared at the screen with tears of rage flooding my eyes. Officer Adams took me by the arm and tried to urge me along, but I didn’t budge. I could have been bolted to the floor.

  “Come on,” he snapped.

  My jaw was locked tight and my breath whistled as it exited my broken nose. Adams tugged me again and this time I moved, but stiffly. We stepped out of the terminal, into the fumy Jersey night. I didn’t say a word until we were westbound on I-78, after Adams called Newirth to tell him that we were en route to the station.

  “Call him back,” I said. My voice could have produced sparks. “Tell him to meet me at the house.”

  “We’re going to the station.”

  I gave him a look that depicted the earthquake inside me: a nightmarish landscape of destruction, where fires still burned and lost souls drifted. I imagine it was quite chilling.

  “Why do you want to go to the house?” he asked.

  I said, “Because I know where my father is.”

  * * *

  A cackle of news vans had assembled at the bottom of Dad’s driveway. I barely glanced at them. I focused, instead, on the house as it expanded in the headlights, thinking even then that it looked lonely. Chief Newirth’s cruiser occupied Dad’s parking spot—not that Dad would need it anymore, with his faithful old truck sitting at the bottom of a lake somewhere in Kansas—with a second vehicle, a beige sedan, off to one side. I saw Newirth talking to a couple of plainclothes cops with chiseled faces. The female’s suit was crisper, and her hair shorter, than that of her male counterpart.

  Adams pulled up behind Newirth’s cruiser, shut off the engine. Before getting out, I took a second to look at Dad’s house. It was odd to see it so lifeless; there were usually lights burning or windows open, drapes swaying in the breeze, or any number of cats arranged on the sills. And there were times I’d walked up the driveway to find Dad sitting on the porch, usually reading, but sometimes drinking lemonade and listening to the radio. I clung to the thin hope that these signs of life would one day return, but for this to be possible, and even assuming the old man was still alive, I had some work to do.

  * * *

  “Harvey, these are Detectives Sharpe and Lambert from the county prosecutor’s office. They’re leading the investigation. I need you to cooperate with them one hundred and ten percent. Do you understand?”

  I looked at Chief Newirth and nodded, then turned to the investigators who were set to pin three sexual homicides on my innocent father. The earthquake boomed again and it was all I could do to keep from expelling smoke and rubble, knowing I needed to come across as a decent young man, raised by decent parents, to have any hope of clearing Dad’s name. So I drove the anger deep, smiled at them both, and offered my hand. Only the female detective—Sharpe—reciprocated.

  “What happened to your face?” Lambert asked. He had a front tooth missing, affecting his speech. Face became faith.

  “I was beaten up,” I said, thinking it a good idea to begin with the truth.

  “Again?” Chief Newirth said. “The same guys as before?”

  “Yeah,” I said.

  “Do you make a habit of surrounding yourself with bad people?” Lambert pressed.

  “I try not to,” I said. “But you can’t help but run into them occasionally. That’s exactly what my girlfriend did. And this”—I pointed to my damaged face—“is what happens when you get caught in the crossfire.”

  “You know where your father is?” Sharpe asked, bringing us back to the matter at hand. Her voice matched her name.

  “I think so,” I said, meeting her gaze while fighting to contain my emotion. “And rest assured you’ll have my full cooperation. I need you to know the truth. But first, I’d like five minutes with Chief Newirth. Alone, if possible.”

  “Something you can’t tell us?” Lambert’s eyes drilled into me.

  “It’s not like that,” I said. “I’ve known Chief Newirth all my life. He’s known my father for over forty years. I need that kind of sensitivity right now. And Chief Newirth will tell you everything I tell him.”

  The two detectives exchanged a look. Something passed between them. An imperceptible communication developed through years of working together. Or maybe it was just a cop thing. Something wired into their DNA.

  “Five minutes,” Sharpe said, holding up five perfectly manicured fingers. “Clock’s ticking, Harvey.”

  She and Lambert took several steps toward their unmarked car. Chief Newirth gripped my upper arm hard enough to bruise and dragged me in the opposite direction, toward Officer Adams, who was propped against the open door of his car, waiting to see if he was still needed. Newirth shooed him away with an impatient hand gesture. I’d never seen him like this before. He had an earthquake of his own.

  “How long have you known?” he snapped, wheeling me toward him.

  “Known?” I said. “Jesus Christ, Chief, he didn’t do it.”

  “How long, Harvey?”

  “He. Didn’t. Do it.” I looked the chief squarely in the eye. “You know my dad as well as anyone. He would never—”

  “What I know, Harvey, is that your recent
behavior has been suspicious, to say the least.” He loomed closer, five inches shorter but filling my personal space as if he’d had to crouch to get in. “What I know is that you asked me to check on your father. I’m guessing you were struggling with your guilt—with how much you could tell me—because all you said was that he seemed crazier than usual.”

  “Yeah, but normal crazy,” I said. “Not fucking serial-killer crazy.”

  “So I came over, like you asked me to. No sign of your dad, just a lot of spooked cats. The front door was open so I walked in, nosed around, and found the video cassette on the kitchen table. Imagine my surprise to see my name written on the label. I took the cassette back to the station, rolled the VCR out of retirement, and well … here we are.”

  “A confession proves nothing,” I said. “Dad has mental health issues. He believes Obama is a reptilian overlord, for God’s sake. That confession isn’t worth the tape it’s recorded on.”

  Newirth gestured toward the detectives. “That’s not what they think.”

  I shook my head and stewed in the cruelty. I at least wanted to believe that Dad had put up a fight when Lang and the hunt dogs came, that he’d skulked through his overgrown, trap-infested garden—KA-BAR knife locked between his teeth—like he was back in the Delta. Maybe he even took a couple of those motherfuckers out before they dragged him in front of his clunky old video camera. Even then he wouldn’t have confessed. But Lang had crawled into his mind, placed all eight legs on the controls, and turned his scarred face toward the camera. My name is Gordon Anderson. Lang’s words, Dad’s voice. This is my confession …

  Chief Newirth looked at Sharpe and Lambert, held up two fingers. The gap in Lambert’s teeth was as distinct as a bullet hole. I kept my cool, knowing I could play my trump card at any time, but to do so at that moment would appear desperate. I needed to build my case, provide reason.

  “This so-called confession,” I said. “How detailed is it? I know police withhold certain information from the public in order to eliminate false confessors, and to ensure they catch the right guy. Did Dad offer any incriminating detail that only the killer would know?”

  “Let me put it this way,” Newirth said. “There’s enough in that confession for our friends from county to want to question your father very badly.”

  “And the search for evidence…” I flicked a finger at Dad’s house, where the only color came from the yellow police tape marking an X across the front door. “Did you find anything? Guns and knives, sure, but he’s a former serviceman. I’m talking about evidence that links him to the murders. Blood samples, locks of the victims’ hair, whatever crazy souvenirs serial killers collect.”

  “The search is ongoing.” A muscle in Chief Newirth’s jaw flexed as he clenched his teeth. “You have one minute, Harvey, then I’m handing you over to the detectives. My advice is that you quit playing Perry Mason and offer your full cooperation.”

  “They don’t know me like you do,” I said, lowering my voice to a whisper. “They want this case closed, and that confession has them running down a one-way street. I need you to help direct them.”

  “I think he did it, though.” The chief’s tone was detached, without any of the compassion and understanding I associated with him. “The confession may not be detailed, but it is genuine. I think he murdered those women, and if you knew about it—and your suspicious behavior suggests you did—that makes you an accessory after the fact.”

  “Is that why I called you from New Mexico this morning?” I asked, and there was enough emotion in my voice to make up for us both. “And why I jumped on the first plane back to Jersey … to confess to being an accessory?”

  “I think this whole thing has left you confused and conflicted. Not remembering why you bought the shovel is evidence of that.”

  “You’re wrong,” I said, and imagined shell-shocked survivors clawing their way from my mouth and ears. “So fucking wrong.”

  “Really?” The chief’s nostrils flared. “So tell me, Harvey, why are you so certain he didn’t do it?”

  I took a deep breath and wiped tears from my eyes. It was time to play my trump card.

  “Because,” I said, “I know who did.”

  Twenty-One

  Sitting at the edge of Spirit Lake, fishing for memories, I once asked Dad what he liked most about Sally. The first thing he said was that she danced spontaneously, that he admired her energy. He followed this by saying that she had a pretty singing voice. This triggered no memories at the time, but I remember now how Sally loved to sing. I would hear her around the apartment all the time, while she was fixing lunch, taking a shower, or just relaxing with one of her favorite albums. She had a breezy tone that was always cajoling, but threaded with a vulnerability that breathed realness into every note. I tried numerous times to get her to perform with me—there would have been a lot more money in my guitar case at the end of the day—but she never would. She didn’t like the spotlight, she said, and now I know why.

  She sang when she was distracted, or when she felt comfortable, which meant the customers at the Health Nut sometimes heard her while she stacked shelves or refilled the bulk bins. On one quiet afternoon in May 2015, Sally—singing quietly to herself—was approached by a customer who wanted to know where he could find the gluten-free bagels, but who was also keen to note that she had a wonderful voice.

  “Thank you,” Sally said, blushing. “I really shouldn’t sing in the workplace.” She offered the sweetest smile. “The bagels are in the freezer. There are some on the rack, but they’re close to their sell-by date.”

  The customer thanked her, took two steps toward the freezer, then turned back.

  “Have you ever thought about singing professionally?” he asked.

  “Oh, no.” Sally shook her head emphatically. “Absolutely not. My legs turn to jelly in front of a crowd.”

  “Well, that’s a confidence issue, which can be remedied. But there’s always background or session work.” His intelligent eyes gleamed and he took a step toward her. “Do you know who I am?”

  Sally nodded. “Swan Connor. You’re a record producer. My boyfriend told me about you.”

  “My reputation precedes me,” Swan said with a smile. “I launched the careers of Marlene Starr and Isaac Jefferson. I also took the Groove City Players from the Philadelphia club circuit to the biggest arenas in the world.” He tipped an immodest wink. “I know a good voice when I hear one.”

  “You won a Grammy award, right?”

  “Three Grammys,” he said, and shrugged as if it were no big deal. “I retired a long time ago, but I still have contacts in New York, LA, and pretty much everywhere in between. If you’re at all interested in developing your vocal talents…”

  Swan left the invitation hanging but held out his hand. Sally—knowing the discussion was over; she could never do anything so brazen—took it out of politeness, and was about to thank him when she inadvertently tuned in to one of his thoughts. It was so clear and violent—bitch I’ll BLEED and FUCK you and BASH BASH BASH you—that she leapt backward with a cry, as if Swan’s hand had transmuted into a tentacle that coiled itself around her forearm. She bumped into the shelf behind her, spilling several cereal boxes to the floor.

  “Is everything okay?” Swan asked.

  She stared at him, cupping her elbows in her palms. Her mouth moved soundlessly for a second, then she managed to say, “A shock. Static, I think. You didn’t feel that?”

  —STAB and BLEED and STAB and—

  “No.”

  “Maybe just me,” Sally said.

  “Or my electric personality,” Swan said, and as he turned to leave she touched his mind and saw there just a few of the monstrous things he’d done—feral, soulless crimes that need not be detailed here, but that crippled her, and blackened her all over. She fell to her knees and stayed there until Joy Brady—the Health Nut’s owner—found her. Sally said she’d suffered a moment’s nausea, a small lie supported by her trembling and s
hortness of breath. Joy sat her down at the back of the store, administered a homoeopathic remedy, then sent her home for the day.

  “Rest,” Joy said. “Take tomorrow, if you need it.”

  Sally thanked her and walked the scenic route home, through Green River Park and up Chime Hill. Easily thirty minutes longer, but it gave her time to consider her predicament. She could take matters into her own hands: a red-bird lobotomy, turning Swan into a quivering vegetable. But doing this would place a blip on Dominic Lang’s psychic radar, and the hunt dogs would come drooling. Goodbye, Green Ridge. Goodbye, Harvey. Her other option was to go to the police—an anonymous tip so she wouldn’t draw attention to herself. But would the police take her seriously without proof? And even if they did—if they produced a warrant to search Swan’s house and discovered all manner of incriminating evidence—would the wheels of justice spin truly? Swan wouldn’t be the first celebrity to get away with murder. Or maybe, if the evidence was overwhelming, he’d plead insanity and spend the rest of his days in the kind of “psychiatric” hospital that offers mani-pedis, cable TV, and a choice of organic soups. She recalled what she’d seen in Swan Connor’s mind—she heard those women beg and scream—and had to ask herself, what kind of justice was that?

  * * *

  “I knew what I had to do,” Sally had said to me. Her eyes flicked to the clock on the nightstand, ticking steadily toward 5:30, when our bus—the bus we would never catch—was scheduled to leave Cypress. “I always knew, from the moment I saw those terrible things in his mind. The only way to make sure Swan paid for what he’d done, and to ensure he never did it again, was to take care of him myself.”

  “You did the right thing,” I said. I felt numb inside. Swan Connor, my dad’s old pal, who’d always had a story and a smile, but who Mom—astutely, as it turned out—had never really taken to. Swan Connor, to whom I’d recently given a flower intended for Mom’s grave. Jub, he’d said, and I’d actually felt good about that. Swan rapist-fucking-murderer Connor, who was now a driveling, sack-of-shit vegetable with nothing in his mind but old rags. The victim of a devastating stroke, or so everybody thought.