A Shattered Lens

by Layton Green

  Blue, of course, knew all too well how flawed the popular narrative was. She knew firsthand how the other half lived. But the other half weren’t the ones who bought shit.

  And the half who did?

  They liked to be titillated. Force-fed. Abused.

  She planned to release her masterpiece straight onto the Internet, because she knew no one was ever going to give her a chance. She had to go and rip her opportunity right out of its smug fortress. She would release her film, and then she would do whatever it took, whatever it took, to help it go viral.

  Naked videos of her neighbors. Cheating spouses revealed. Domestic violence caught on camera. Every single piece of latte- encrusted dirt on the holier-than-thou residents of Wild Oaks brought into the light. Every lurid detail of the lives of Blue’s trailer park neighbors exposed. Honey Boo Boo? Duck Dynasty? Hollywood producers clearly had yet to discover the Carolina sticks. She had stories to tell that would make Jerry Springer’s toes curl.

  She didn’t care if she went to jail for invasion of privacy. The notoriety would be a blessing, because she would be famous. And in today’s world, in the Roman Empire of the digital age, that was all that fucking mattered.

  Only one problem stood between Blue and her destiny. A terrifying, implacable, knife-wielding problem named Cobra.

  People in the trailer park were scared. Desperate. Alibis were being revealed or invented, laid at Cobra’s feet like an offering to appease some brutal young god.

  Thinking about what to do occupied her every waking moment. She had gone so far as to consider investigating David’s death herself, so she could give the police the evidence needed to find the killer and get Cobra off her back. The desperation of that thought made her laugh out loud. What did she know about investigating a homicide? She would only get herself picked up by the police or killed by the murderer.

  But she couldn’t sit around and do nothing. The noose was tightening. She estimated she had a week, at best, before Cobra eliminated all the possibilities and zeroed in on her. He, and whoever he worked for, knew there was a witness out there. The only witness. They would do whatever it took to find her.

  Someone knocked at her door, and a chill swept through her. Her hands shook as she went to the bedroom and pulled back the blinds, just an inch, enough to see that it was one of her neighbors. Old Billy Flynn, a retired plumber who eked out an existence on Social Security and Medicare, a useless drunk if ever there was one. A pedophile too. He had given Blue the eye ever since she turned ten.

  What the hell did he want ?

  She opened the door, flinching at the stench of alcohol and cigarettes and unwashed flesh leaking from his pores. His long gray hair, stiff and shiny with grease, fell like oily strands of rope atop his bony shoulders.

  “My mom will be home soon” she said, her first line of defense against the predators in the trailer park. Mention an adult. Get them thinking.

  “It ain’t your mom I’m after.”

  She started to close the door, but he stuck a wiry hand out, holding it half-open. “Just wait.”

  She tried to force the door closed, but he was stronger than he looked. After casting a furtive glance to either side, he hopped inside her trailer and shut the door behind him. Blue screamed and backed away, looking for a weapon. Trailer walls were thin. Someone could hear her, she was sure.

  But would they care ?

  “Shush, girl. I ain’t gonna hurt you.” He put his hands up and stayed by the door. “See ? I won’t come no closer.”

  She fled into her bedroom, yanking her phone out of her pocket as she ran. She managed to unlock it just as Billy stepped inside the room, his eyes whisking greedily over the unmade bed and pile of undergarments on the floor.

  “Put it down,” he said, stepping closer. “If you do, like I said, I won’t hurt you.”

  She started to dial 911, and he smacked the phone out of her hand. When she started to scream again, he said, “Shut up. Shut up or I’ll call Cobra right now.”

  Blue slowly closed her mouth.

  “That’s right,” he said, a nasty grin spreading across nicotine- stained teeth. “I know it’s you he’s looking for.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I seen that keychain before. That Ghostbusters one. Yeah, I seen you with it.”

  Her first thought was that he was lying. She almost never took the keychain out, unless she was in her bedroom. Then she looked out of the window and saw his trailer parked a hundred feet away. She almost always closed her blinds, but maybe she had left them open once or twice, when she was depressed or really tired.

  She saw the knowledge in his eyes.

  “I seen that and more,” he said.

  The leer on his face made her wish she had a gun. “Get the hell out of here. I’m not kidding, my mom’s on her way.”

  “You think I ain’t lived here for twenty years ? Your momma gets home after eight, when she gets home at all.”

  Again Blue looked around the room, her eyes resting on an old baton in the corner. Not the best weapon, but if she could poke him in the eye . . .

  “Even if it was mine” she said, “which it’s not, you can’t prove it to Cobra.”

  “It ain’t a court of law. And I got nothing to gain from lyin’. I seen you leave the night that boy disappeared. I seen you go in the woods with that camera. What do you think Cobra will do when he hears about that?”

  “If you don’t get out of my house right this goddamn second, I’m going to scream until my throat gives out.”

  He put his hands up. “I ain’t gonna force myself on you, if that’s your worry. But you listen up and listen good. Next time that wetback killer comes around, and I’m guessing it’ll be soon, I’m telling him what I know. That is,” the sly grin returned, “unless you and I can work out some kind of arrangement.” He backed toward the bedroom door, slowly, his eyes roving up and down her body. “I’ll stop by real soon, and you can tell me what you decide. Ain’t no one gotta know but us.”

  After he left her trailer, Blue choked back her vomit and walked straight to the kitchen. She reached for the whiskey again and took two quick shots, welcoming the burn. Anything to help wash away the stench of that foul man.

  She curled up on the stained cloth sofa, hugging her knees and staring at the brown paneling on the wall. Knowing what she had to do, a cherished remembrance sprang into her mind, a memory of sitting beside her father on Christmas Eve and watching The Christmas Story. She hadn’t laughed so hard since. If only life were that corny, and a little mishap with a BB gun was the worst thing that could happen. That same night, her mother, in a rare moment of domestic inspiration, had made reindeer sugar cookies and hot chocolate while snowflakes as big as silver dollars had drifted down from outside, mesmerizing Blue, transforming her little world into a winter wonderland.

  On that night she had been sitting on this very same couch, in the same mobile home, in the same grimy trailer park. Yet back then, when her daddy was still around and magic was real and the rusted swing set by the creek was all she ever needed, life couldn’t have seemed any better.

  Blue knew it wasn’t the food stamps, or the sagging couch, or even the trailer park that was the source of her unhappiness. The immediate problems, yes. But not the foundation. She imagined people in North Korea or Guatemala would kill to have what she had.

  Her problem, the problem with all of America as she saw it, was one of expectation. She saw the wealth that existed all around her and knew how low on the ladder she was.

  Even worse: She had known a father’s true love, and because she once had, she felt her loneliness all the more keenly.

  Expectation.

  She was ready to start her masterpiece, aching for it, but it would have to wait a while longer. She wasn’t about to make a deal with disgusting Billy Flynn, and she had no doubt he would make good on his promise. And once that dirty old man told Cobra about her, the gang assassin would never leave her alone. Not un
til she, too, was rotting in a swamp.

  Her decision was simple now. She had to lower herself even further, into the streets. As much as she despised the trailer park, it was all she had ever known, all the memories she had. She had no idea where to go next or what to do.

  But if she wanted to live another week, she knew she had to leave Creekville.

  12

  As the tech vans and patrol cars arrived, blue lights strafing the sides of the houses, sirens slicing through the cold air, Preach stood on the street in front of Claire’s house like the calm center of the storm, his chin level, hands tucked in the pockets of his overcoat.

  Yet he felt anything but calm as Claire stepped out of her house with a bewildered look on her face, cringing as if she had not seen daylight in months. She had added a sleek calfskin jacket atop her shawl, as well as a pair of pink and purple sneakers. Her expression turned incredulous as Preach led an evidence team into the woods without speaking to her. After he pointed out the pile of bloodstained leaves and ordered a thorough search of the area, he left the woods and walked toward the circle of officers clustered around his car.

  Claire cut across her lawn and stepped in his path. “What’s going

  on?”

  He stopped walking and eyed her for a long moment. “I found something in the woods. A pile of leaves covered in blood.” He decided not to tell her about the silver lighter. “It might be the crime scene, Claire. The real one.”

  She put a hand to her mouth and stepped back, knees buckling. At first he thought she was going to fall, and he took a step forward to catch her, but she found her balance and straightened. “I don’t understand. Here ? Behind the house ?”

  “Are you sure you didn’t see David again that night? After he left?”

  She drew back. “Of course I’m sure. Do you think I wouldn’t remember the last time I’d seen my son?”

  “What about any noises in the house? Footsteps, voices, anything at all?”

  “Have you ever taken an Ambien? I took two that night.”

  He pressed his lips together and glanced at the officers by his car. “I have reason to believe David returned home that night, and that someone was inside with him.”

  “What? Who told you that?”

  “Doesn’t matter right now. Are there any of his friends who come around more often than most? Especially women, or males smaller than David?”

  Claire put her fingers to her forehead. “I can’t believe this. Someone he knew?”

  “It’s almost always someone familiar,” he said quietly.

  With a disbelieving shake of her head, she said, “He doesn’t really bring girls around. There’s one, Victoria Summit, who he studies with sometimes. Most of his friends were big guys. Football and all, you know ? The only smaller one I can think of is Wes Hood. He lives down the street. They’ve been friends since childhood.”

  “He comes over often?”

  “Once a month or so. He’s a good kid. Smart. I think they play video games together. They went their separate ways a bit in high school but stayed friends.”

  Preach wrote down the information. “Brett mentioned a girl he really likes. The one who works at the Courtyard.”

  “Mackenzie Rathbun.”

  “Has she ever been to the house ?”

  “Not to my knowledge. And I think I would have known.”

  “Why?” he asked.

  “Because I’m his mother,” she snapped.

  He paused a beat, keeping his tone neutral. “How often do you take Ambien at night, Claire?”

  Her eyes flashed, and she jabbed a finger at his chest. “How dare you?”

  “It wasn’t a barb. I need to know how often David was alone, or virtually so. How many times a week does Brett sleep over, and how often do you take Ambien?”

  With an effort of will, she composed herself. “I only let Brett stay on the weekends. The Ambien,” her eyes slid away, “maybe two or three times.

  “Per week?”

  With a sob, she clutched his arm. “This is all my fault. I should have known what was going on. I’m a horrible mother, Joe. And now he’s gone”

  He wanted to pull her close and comfort her, as he would any grieving parent. Yet as much as she appeared to be telling the truth, he had to do his job. “Claire, I’d like permission to search your house.” Her eyes flew upward.

  “It’s standard procedure. I wanted to give you time to grieve—but I didn’t realize the murderer might have been inside the house.”

  She touched her temple again. “God.”

  “Claire?”

  She slowly looked up. “Of course. Yes, you can search.”

  “I’d also like to take the computer to the station.”

  After a few blinks, she swallowed and said, “Okay.”

  No one liked their house searched, especially their private communications. Yet he knew his next request would hit home.

  “Can I have your permission to search everything on there ? Not just David’s documents and communications?”

  Claire’s gaze slipped away. She looked from the woods to the house and then back at the detective. “Am I a suspect?” she whispered.

  “I just want to see everything on the home computer. Did Brett have access to your password?”

  “You didn’t answer my question.”

  “Did he?”

  “Yes.” She took a step forward, her voice hardening. “I told you not to waste your time. I didn’t kill my son, Joe. Are you going to arrest me?”

  “I’m not anywhere close to making an arrest.”

  “So I’m a suspect.”

  “I’m simply looking into all the angles. Why did you tell me you argued inside with David that night, Claire ?”

  She looked perplexed. “Because we did.”

  “I heard otherwise.”

  Her eyes went distant, and she shivered into her jacket. “The whole night is fuzzy. And the Ambien . . . sometimes it distorts my memory. Maybe I stepped on the porch as he was trying to leave, and we exchanged words. To be honest, I don’t really remember.” She held his gaze, chin uplifted. “Do what you need to, but if the other person inside was a woman, make sure you look into Lisa Waverly. Something about her . . .”

  “I’ll look into everything, Claire.”

  She took another step forward, close enough to grab his hand. The challenge in her eyes turned to grief. “I mean it. Anything that helps. Take my house down brick by brick if you need.”

  Her hand was soft and warm, and he felt uncomfortable, as well as self-conscious in front of the other officers. He stepped back, told her she was welcome to stay inside during the search, and strode away to give orders.

  That evening, after Preach was the last to leave the office, he wolfed down a yellow curry at his favorite Thai restaurant, pondering the case.

  The evidence team in the woods had matched the blood on the leaves to David’s. For some reason, Claire’s son had gone into the woods behind his house, and he hadn’t come back out.

  On further reflection it might make sense, if the murder had occurred in the home or in the backyard, to move the body to the woods. Maybe the pile of leaves was the initial dump site, but someone had gotten nervous and moved the body again, to the sump behind the mill.

  A thorough search of Claire’s house had revealed nothing suspicious. This made him doubt the murder had occurred in a fit of rage inside the house. Forensics would have uncovered a spot of blood somewhere. Still, that did not preclude a cold-blooded kill when David was sleeping and a quick removal of the bed sheets.

  The very thought of that made his head throb. That scenario meant Claire had murdered her child while he slept, or someone had known she was out cold and decided to take advantage.

  There was also a third choice: Claire hadn’t committed the murder herself, but ordered it done.

  But still—why?

  Nothing else had turned up in the woods, though the search would continue the next day. Before Pr
each left the office, the forensic report for David’s body had come in. Besides the bullet wounds, there were no other injuries except the type of minor bruising typical of football players during the season. No skin under the nails, drugs in the system, or signs of sexual intercourse. No identifying fingerprints, shoe prints, blood, hair, or slivers of unknown material. No residue of lipstick or makeup or cologne that had survived the water saturation. On David’s clothing, they did find soaked fibers from the sisal plant—used to produce hemp—which reinforced Preach’s theory that someone had used a burlap sack to drag or carry the body into the woods behind the mill and dump it. The same fibers had turned up near the leaf pile behind Claire’s house.

  The two bullets, one lodged in David’s spine behind his stomach cavity and the other in the parietal bone, near the back of the skull, had come from the same gun. A garden variety nine millimeter. At least it wasn’t Claire’s Ruger, but only a true fool would shoot someone with a home weapon, deny it, and leave the weapon in place.

  Though impossible to pinpoint after a few days of water immersion, the coroner had estimated that David had been killed soon after midnight on the night he had argued with his mother.

  Exactly when Sharon Tisdale said she had seen him.

  After dinner, Preach headed to Jimmy’s Corner Store. He needed to get a grip on the case in his head. Different detectives did this in different ways. Some preferred the familiar buzz of the station, some preferred a home office, some the shooting range or a running trail or the gym.

  When Preach thought through a case, he liked to be out in the world, in the community where the crime had occurred. Watching. Absorbing.

  In his experience, the best detectives were regular people. Not exSpecial Forces or braniacs or charismatic types, though all of those skills were useful, but real people who wanted to make things right and who could relate well to other human beings. Someone who used their instincts and experience to draw information out of witnesses from a wide range of backgrounds.