Trace of Evil

by Alice Blanchard

  “What outside source did she use?” Natalie asked.

  “I’ll print out the information for you.” He typed a few commands and hit the PRINT button. “Of course, if she showed up for a visit here at MCF, we would’ve asked for her ID and been able to confirm her age. However, since your niece was using an outside registry, we didn’t have any control over it. At any rate, we’ll be reviewing our procedures going forward.”

  “I still don’t understand, she’s only fifteen. How could you not know?”

  “To be blunt? Your niece fudged the guidelines.” He scrolled through the directory. “Our records office has a strict protocol for assessing all correspondence, but in this case, your niece disguised her identity to get past the restrictions. She listed her age as twenty-two.”

  “I see,” Natalie said, deeply concerned. She’d caught Ellie in numerous lies so far, pointing to potentially deeper deceptions. “How many times did she write to him?”

  The warden studied the monitor. “She stopped corresponding five months ago. We only received three incoming letters from her.” He leaned back in his seat. “Again, Detective Lockhart, my sincerest apologies. However, you can rest assured that Inmate Fowler has been a model prisoner. He received his correspondent’s college degree—not an easy feat, and now he tutors other prisoners. He’s earned his privileges. The guards have never found him to be threatening in any way. It’s been nineteen years, and there’s barely a blemish on his record.”

  “I’d like copies of all the correspondence, if that’s okay,” Natalie said.

  “As long as the prisoner doesn’t object, I don’t see why not.”

  “Did you talk to him about my request?”

  “Yes, and he’s willing to meet with you.”

  “Can I see him now?”

  Northcutt stood up and shook her hand. “I’ll have a guard escort you to C block.”

  The inmates were monitored twenty-four/seven by armed personnel using state-of-the-art technology. Doors hissed open and shut. Justin Fowler was housed in C block—three tiers of cells made of thick concrete walls and iron bars under a cavernous forty-foot ceiling, an enormous space that echoed Natalie’s footsteps back at her.

  The guards were all built like linebackers, and C block was hard core—populated by killers, rapists, and assorted sociopaths. This morning, post-breakfast, the gallery stood empty and the prisoners were locked inside their cells. Some of them clutched the iron bars and stared at Natalie as she walked through the lower level on her way toward the supermax visitors’ room, a windowless cinder-block cube painted life-sucking gray.

  The taciturn guard didn’t flinch at the clanging, metallic bang of the massive steel doors as they boomed shut behind them. This morning, the visitors’ room was sterile and empty, full of government-approved plastic-molded chairs and tables, their legs screwed into the cement floor so they couldn’t be used as weapons. Natalie took a seat in front of a bulletproof barrier, and several minutes later the prisoner was escorted through a back entrance into the enclosed Plexiglas booth, from which escape was not possible.

  “Hello, Detective Lockhart,” Justin Fowler said politely as he took his seat.

  “Hello,” she said, returning the greeting and choking back a cloying sense of outrage. This was going to be more difficult than she thought. He had a pensive mouth and sober eyes. Oh God, how painful—they let him have eyeglasses. They let him read books, whereas Willow was dead. “Thanks for agreeing to talk to me,” she said.

  “I’m glad to have the opportunity.” His prisoner number was printed on the breast pocket of his beige uniform. He wasn’t shackled or restrained in any way. She remembered the slender, good-looking boy he used to be; and now here he was, a middle-aged man wearing dark-framed glasses, his salt-and-pepper hair combed neatly behind his ears. He held a cup of orange liquid, a disgusting-looking brew of unfiltered tap water and powdered institutional indifference.

  Back in high school, Justin had been a bad boy from the other side of the tracks with a sexy Ryan Phillippe pout and Johnny Depp hair. He was deeply in love with Willow. Nobody ever doubted that. All through the trial, he maintained his innocence, despite the mountain of evidence against him. Now he was serving a life sentence and would most likely die in this place.

  It looked as if Fowler’s lawyer had prepared him for Natalie’s visit. “I shouldn’t be here,” he said emphatically. “I didn’t kill your sister. I’m completely innocent. This is a gross injustice. I’ve been saying it for decades.”

  “Okay,” she said cautiously, giving the devil his due.

  “And even though my latest appeal for parole was denied last month, my lawyer’s looking into this latest killing as a possible means for a new trial.”

  “Daisy Buckner’s homicide?” Natalie said, taken aback.

  The prisoner nodded. “Same death date.”

  “Yes, it’s quite a coincidence. But they’re entirely different cases. Different MO’s. Different everything.”

  “He told me he was looking into it.” Justin sipped his beverage. “Anyway, let me just say up front … I’m very sorry about your sister, Detective. I loved Willow. I never would’ve hurt her, not in a million years. But the media kept pressuring the police to make an arrest. My conviction was a fiasco of biblical proportions.”

  “I’ve seen the transcripts of the trial,” Natalie told him. “I’ve read your statement. You deny everything, and yet the police found plenty of evidence—your footprints and tire tracks at the scene, Willow’s blood on your clothes. You had no alibi. Why should anyone believe you?”

  “I had nothing to do with her death. All I know is, I was at home when she called me after school and told me to meet her at the Hadleys’ farm in half an hour, and I said okay. She had a surprise for me, she said. So I drove over to the farm and found her dead. I tried to revive her. It ruined my life. I went into shock and never recovered. A year later, I found myself locked up in this place. Guess I came across as cold and heartless to the jury, which worked against me. But I was in shock. What happened, all that blood … it blanked me out. Imagine finding yourself locked up in prison for something you didn’t do.”

  “Why didn’t you call the police?” she asked.

  “They already had me on possession charges. I’d been to juvie my freshman year. Come on. I figured they’d assume I did it, so I panicked.”

  “You found her dead and fled the scene? You didn’t call the cops, and instead you dumped your bloody clothing in a dumpster … but somehow you’re innocent? Because those are the actions of a guilty man.”

  “Look, I’ve been over this a million times in my head, wondering how it could’ve turned out differently,” he said in a low, circumspect tone. “So, okay. Maybe if I’d called the police, maybe if I’d cooperated. Maybe if I hadn’t tried to get rid of my clothes? In prison, your thoughts bounce off the walls. Sometimes you can’t turn them off. The gears keep turning. But you have to, for your own sanity. Like I told the judge at my trial, I was a dealer at the time—it’s in the court records. I was up front about my mistakes. I came clean. I’m from the west side, with all that implies. I wasn’t one of those middle-class kids, headed for Harvard. My parents couldn’t afford to hire a decent attorney, and I got stuck with a public defender. Justice was lopsided.”

  “But why would somebody kill Willow and frame you for it?” Natalie asked.

  He waved a dismissive hand. “Willow had lots of guys chasing her. She was gorgeous, she was funny, she was smart as hell. She could really put a guy in his place if she wanted to. I watched her slam a few dudes pretty hard. Maybe one of them wanted vengeance?”

  “Who’s your top contender?”

  “You aren’t going to like it.”

  “Why not?”

  He put down his plastic cup and said, “Brandon used to call me a poseur, but he’s the one who was slumming it. There he was, this swaddled upper-class kid, the trust-fund baby driving around in daddy’s Prius. Only one of us
was the real deal. Only one of us grew up dirt poor. Of course, I didn’t have much in my life back then, but I had style. Doc Martens, motorcycle jacket, safety pins, studs and spikes. I listened to Pearl Jam and Alice in Chains, and so of course Brandon had to listen to them, too. He was a wannabe.”

  “Brandon Buckner?” she repeated.

  “He was a head case over her.”

  “Willow?” She drew back—she’d never heard of this before.

  “He had a thing for her, but she blew him off in a big way.”

  “Brandon? Everyone knows he had a lifelong crush on Daisy Forester. And I never once heard Willow talk about him.”

  “I’m telling you, for a period of time there, she had to shake him off plenty of times. She used to get super annoyed. The putz was two years her junior. It drove her nuts. He used to leave notes on her car,” Justin insisted. “He followed her home a couple of times. He’d stare at her in the parking lot. He acted like a fucking weirdo.”

  “And you think he killed her because she rejected him?” Natalie pressed.

  “He worshipped her,” Justin said. “I’m telling you, the guy was certifiable. And now he’s a fucking detective with the BLPD. And here I sit, locked up in prison. You tell me how justice was served.”

  Natalie recalled the crime scene photos—Willow’s slender arms frozen in repose above her head, her blood-soaked blouse, twenty-seven stab wounds. A crime of passion.

  Justin sighed heavily, and she could see it in his eyes—this was all he ever thought about. “You’ve read the court documents, right?” he said. “There were several unidentified partial footprints in the mud—not mine—that the rain hadn’t completely washed away. Willow’s Nokia phone logs show her in the vicinity of the Hadleys’ farm up to an hour before she told me to meet her there. The murder weapon was never found. Willow’s phone was never found.”

  The guard poked his head in the door. “Two minutes,” he announced.

  “Thanks, Jesse.”

  The guard nodded and disappeared.

  “Look,” Justin said quietly, “I’ve been locked up for twenty years now, and I’ve got nothing to do all day but stare out my window at the razor wire. I didn’t do anything wrong, and yet I’m being punished every day for it. It gets tedious in here. Boredom’s a real killer. The world goes on without you, and nobody seems to care. One of the few things that cheers me up is the mail. Your niece. That was nice of her. To write me like that.”

  “Those letters should’ve never gotten through,” Natalie said. “She’s fifteen.”

  “Hey, I had nothing to do with that. The warden’s in charge of who gets the mail.” He shook his head. “But I’m grateful, just the same. One thing you find out when you’re locked up is who your friends are. Anyway. Tell her I said thanks.”

  48

  It was late afternoon by the time Natalie pulled into Grace’s driveway. Grace answered the door in cut-offs and a baggy T-shirt. “Sorry about last night, Natalie.”

  “That’s okay, I totally understand,” she said. “Can I come in?”

  “Yes. Please.”

  As Natalie stepped inside, she could smell the booze on Grace’s breath.

  “It’s called Sex on the Beach,” she said with a slack smile. “One ounce vodka. Half an ounce peach schnapps. Cranberry and orange juice. Tastes delicious. Want one?”

  “No, thanks. Are you okay, Grace?”

  “Hell, I’m upset.” She frowned. “It feels like my life is falling apart.”

  “Nothing’s falling apart.” Natalie took away the half-finished drink. “Make us some coffee, okay?”

  “Sure. Be great.”

  Natalie followed her into the kitchen, where Grace grabbed hold of the back of a chair, steadying herself, and Natalie dumped the drink down the sink.

  “Sit down a minute, Grace.”

  She dragged the chair out and plopped into her seat.

  Natalie took a seat next to her at the marble kitchen island. “Where’s Ellie?”

  “Upstairs. Grounded for life. Fifteen years old and she knows everything. Right. Give me more of your shouty wisdom.”

  “You know I only want the best for you both, right?”

  Grace nodded listlessly. She looked depleted, her face washed with worries, little grooves of unhappiness embedded in her forehead. “It scares me,” she admitted, “being alone in the middle of the night, when everything’s closing in around you…”

  “It’ll be okay. She’s tough,” Natalie assured her. “You’ll get through this.”

  “God, I hope so.”

  “Let’s go into the living room, okay?”

  The house was full of solid blocks of furniture with well-established boundaries—assertive dark wood tables, a sectional sofa, obstinate armchairs with tufted upholstery. The antique chest was stacked with Vanity Fairs and New Yorkers. The windows were open, and a mild breeze played with the drapes. The earthy smell of cedar and pine intruded.

  Natalie took out photocopies of Ellie’s prison pen pal letters and spread them across the coffee table. “I visited Justin Fowler in prison today.”

  Grace gasped. “You did? Why?”

  “These are the letters Ellie sent him. I talked to the warden, and he assured me it will never happen again. As a rule, they inspect all correspondence before forwarding it to the inmates, but Ellie was using a third-party website for prison pen pals, and she lied about her age on the guidelines. As a result, the prison staff didn’t red flag it. They had no idea she was fifteen.”

  Grace frowned. “I’d like to read them.”

  “Okay,” Natalie said.

  Grace sat mute and immobile, reading them all.

  Ellie’s first letter to Justin was dated seven months ago.

  Hi, Justin,

  I found you through a prison pen pal website that listed your name and profile. It says you killed your girlfriend, but then your lawyer explained what really happened on his blog, and I don’t believe in judging people. I doubt you could’ve hurt someone you cared about so much. Would you like to be my pen pal? If so, please write me back. My address is on the envelope.

  Sincerely, Ellie Guzman

  The second letter was more revealing.

  Hi, Justin,

  Thanks for writing me back so quickly. Well, I have a confession to make. I wasn’t entirely honest with you before. Willow Lockhart is my aunt. But I don’t believe in judging people until all the facts are known, and after checking out your lawyer’s website, I agree that you at least deserve a new trial. One of my friends thinks you were railroaded. I was wondering if you could answer a few questions for me? I’m writing a report for my creative writing class, and I could present your point of view to my class. I feel bad that you’ve been locked up for so many years—that seems like such a long time. I’m an open-minded person, and I really liked your last letter describing what prison life was like. If you don’t mind telling me more, I could include it in my report.

  Sincerely, Ellie

  The third was a birthday card of an illustrated owl, saying, Whooo’s one year older? Inside, Ellie had written,

  Happy birthday, Justin!

  I enjoyed your last letter. I didn’t realize prison life could be so funny and awful at the same time. I hope you had a nice birthday. Did they at least give you a piece of cake?

  Your friend, Ellie

  Justin’s letters to Ellie were detailed and friendly. In response to the birthday card, he wrote,

  Dear Ellie,

  Your card was my favorite birthday gift. No, I didn’t get cake, but we all got an extra slice of nutraloaf today, which is a special type of prison food that’s a gag-worthy combination of oatmeal, beans, raisins, applesauce, garlic, meatloaf, and spinach. Yep, it’s disgusting. Nutraloaf is so terrible, in fact, that some courts have ruled it unconstitutional. But they still serve it here every Monday. Believe that? Anyway, your card came as a pleasant surprise, and I’ve been wondering lately, how do you measure a life? William Wordsw
orth once said, to paraphrase, The best portion of a good man’s life are all his little, nameless, unremembered acts of kindness and love. Well, I have to say, your birthday card was certainly an act of kindness. Say a prayer for me, Ellie.

  Your pal, Justin

  Visibly shaken, Grace put the letters down. “Ellie and I have talked about this. She knows he killed Willow. Why would she do this?” She began to sob.

  “Hey.” Natalie squeezed her sister’s hand, then reached for the box of tissues, and Grace plucked one out.

  “Sorry,” Grace sniffled. “It’s been a terrible week.”

  “I’d like to talk to Ellie,” Natalie told her gently.

  “Why?” Grace asked with a nervous gulp.

  “No one’s in trouble here. I just need to talk to her.” When her sister hesitated, she said, “You have to trust me.”

  “Okay.” She blew her nose and wiped her eyes, then went to stand at the bottom of the stairs. “Ellie?” she called out. “Aunt Natalie’s here. She wants to talk to you.”

  After a moment, the girl came traipsing down the stairs.

  Grace pointed at the letters on the coffee table and said, “I read what you wrote to Justin Fowler. We’ve been over this before, Ellie. You know he killed your aunt. The police evidence was irrefutable. He was tried and convicted by a jury of his peers.”

  “Grace,” Natalie said.

  “Tell me you aren’t this naïve,” Grace went on. “All prisoners claim to be innocent. How could you fall for such a scam?”

  “Grace, please,” Natalie said firmly.

  Ellie sat down on the sofa and curled herself into a wounded ball. The living room smelled of vanilla incense. Late afternoon light shone through the gilded windows. “Mom, I told you, it was part of my school assignment.”