A Shattered Lens

by Layton Green

  “Can we come in?” Preach asked.

  Brett pushed up the sleeves of a ribbed sweater that was a touch too small on him. He was also wearing cotton drawstring pants, a class ring, and slip-on loafers. “Sure, sure” he said, his clipped tone failing to disguise his annoyance.

  Once inside, Preach said, “Some new information has come to light.”

  He watched Brett closely for his reaction, noting how his thumb moved to the underside of his ring and began to rub it. The detective had already eyed his clothing and everything else within easy reach. Preach also kept an eye on the coffee cup in his hand. He’d once seen a guilty suspect throw a kettle of boiling water into the face of an arresting officer.

  Brett remained standing a few feet inside the door. He was smart enough to stay quiet.

  “Do you recall a text exchange between you and David the day before he was murdered?” Preach asked. “October 1?”

  Brett’s face reddened. “I said I wasn’t okay with you looking at my phone records. Don’t you need a warrant for that ?”

  “We didn’t look at your records,” Preach said calmly. He let that sink in, until the blotches started to drain from Brett’s face. “Is there anything you want to tell us ?”

  Brett looked from one officer to the other, his stance firm and his eyes challenging, as if waiting for one of them to break.

  “‘This is your last chance,’” Preach said. It took a few seconds for Brett to realize the detective was not quoting a Spaghetti Western, but the text conversation with David. The businessman’s face contorted into a snarl, and for a moment, Preach thought he might be foolish enough to rush them. The detective’s hands opened at his sides, and he sank his weight into his heels.

  “Your last chance for what?” Preach continued. “Why would David threaten you?”

  “Get out of my house,” Brett said.

  “Tell who something by Friday—Claire ?”

  “Get out.”

  “I need you to answer me.”

  “I didn’t kill David.”

  “I’m not sure you understand. I’m a homicide detective investigating a murder, and I’m asking you a question. What was the text exchange about?”

  Brett locked eyes with him, balled a fist at his side, and then let it unclench. His jaw worked back and forth, and he said, “I want a lawyer. Right goddamn now.”

  “You’re not going to discuss the texts with me?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Terry,” Preach said, not taking his eyes off the other man, “read him his rights.”

  As Terry recited the Miranda warning, Preach unhooked the cuffs from his duty belt and took a step forward. Brett looked stunned. “What the hell are you doing?”

  “Put the cup down and turn around, hands behind your back,” Preach said.

  “What? I—”

  “Do it”

  Moving as if in a daze, Brett set the cup on a table beside the couch, turned around, and clasped his hands behind his back. “I said I wanted a lawyer.”

  Preach didn’t hurt the other man when he tightened the cuffs, but he didn’t make it pleasant. “That’s your right. But saying those words doesn’t keep you out of jail.”

  As Officer Haskins took Brett to the station for processing, Preach radioed for a forensics team, then performed a thorough search of Brett’s house pursuant to a warrant he had obtained that morning. He had the team fingerprint every single one of the guns, swab the toothbrushes, collect the hairs on the counters, and commandeer the technology: Brett’s laptop, phone, and even the Amazon Echo.

  He preferred to have forensics deal with the electronics right from the start. Still, he couldn’t help glancing at the recent texts on Brett’s phone. The only thing he saw was a few normal exchanges with Claire that morning and the previous evening.

  Everything else had been wiped.

  After finding nothing of interest in the house, Preach left forensics to do their thing. When he returned to the station, he stopped by Terry’s office and found the officer taking his navy peacoat off a hook inside his cubicle, preparing to leave for the night. With a wife and two kids in elementary school, he preferred the day shift.

  Terry held his coat in his hand. “Did you find anything ?”

  “A wiped phone.”

  The junior officer frowned. “Don’t much like the look of that guy.”

  “Me, either.”

  “You need me tonight ? I’ll stay if you do.”

  Preach debated asking Bill Wright to help him, then decided he’d rather wait on Terry. “The morning’s fine. When you get in, check the history on those guns, then dig into Brett’s life. Finances, school records, everything. You’ve got an accounting degree, right?”

  “Never used it, but yeah.”

  Preach cocked his head. “You didn’t feel like making some real money after school?”

  “I tried. Couldn’t get hired.”

  “Ah,” Preach muttered, feeling bad about his comment. “Tough economy.”

  Terry was one ofthe more self-effacing men Preach had ever known, a small-town kid from one of those lost-in-time mountain valleys in western North Carolina. He didn’t know him that well, as Terry preferred to come to work, do his job, and return home to his family.

  “Anything else ?” Terry asked. He had set his coat down and was taking notes on a sticky pad.

  “His lawyer will try to stonewall, but I want a warrant ASAP on the phone records and laptop. I’ll write that out tonight. Once we’re sure we have access, I’ll put you on those too.”

  Terry finished writing, then shrugged into his peacoat. His eyes possessed a hard glint that Preach wasn’t used to seeing. “This job?” Terry said. “It was the only one I could get when we moved here. My wife files medical records for the county, and we need two incomes to survive. She made fun of me at first, and I laughed with her. Before my training, I’d never held a gun and couldn’t win a wrestling match with my dog.”

  This was more words than Preach had ever heard Terry utter, in all of their other conversations combined.

  “Anyway,” Terry continued, “the first time I put the cuffs on someone, some drunk who gave his wife a black eye, I decided this gig wasn’t so bad.” He peeled the sticky note off the pad and stuck it next to his computer. “Catching someone that killed a kid?” He bent to pick up an insulated canvas bag with handles he brought to work every day, usually with a packed lunch inside. “Best job in the whole damn world.”

  After Terry left, Preach stopped by the chief’s office to fill her in.

  “So Brett’s hiding something” she said.

  “For sure.”

  “You think he’s our guy?”

  Preach had been thinking about that very question all day. Though Brett had looked genuinely surprised by the arrest, in the detective’s experience, people with money never expected the shoe to drop. “I don’t know yet. But I’m about to turn his life upside down.”

  “He’ll get a good lawyer.”

  “He still has to tell us about those texts, unless he wants to take the Fifth and face the grand jury. My guess ? Either he’s guilty, or a night in jail will loosen his tongue.”

  Preach checked his watch as he left the station and then braced against the chill. A cold front had swept into town, threatening frost in the gardens and leaving the trees quaking in the wind, the streets clogged with fallen leaves. October in the Piedmont was as fickle as any lover. The temperature ranged from winter-coat nights to short-sleeve days and everything in between, depending on the range of sultry air pushing out of the Gulf, or the advancement of the cold fronts from up north. When the two collided, it spelled the sort of dark, heavy, too- still sky that threatened a tornado.

  Seven-thirty at night. A good time to meet with the families of David’s friends.

  First he chose Victoria Summit, the study partner Claire had mentioned. From a records check, he knew her family lived on Hillsdale Street, the toniest section of Creekville. He
pulled to the curb in front of a historic cottage with the name of the family carved onto a bronze placard in the front yard. The house had a fresh coat of ruby red paint with yellow trim.

  A mousy teenage girl with saffron-colored hair opened the door. She was barefoot, thin as a spindle, and wearing a Creekville High marching band sweatshirt over a pair of blue scrubs. He noted she was about Claire’s height.

  She blinked at him with mischievous, intelligent green eyes. “Hi.”

  “Victoria Summit?”

  “Yeah?”

  Before he could ask if her parents were home, a tall and angular man with a handlebar moustache appeared in the hallway, followed by a woman draped in a fur shawl. Her arcing cheekbones and sour, lined mouth screamed to Preach that she had once been beautiful and would forever resent that fact.

  As the man addressed Preach, he grabbed a sleek leather coat from the foyer, slipping it on over his high-collared blue dress shirt. “Can we help you?”

  Preach flashed his badge and introduced himself. “I apologize for the inconvenience, but I was wondering if I could ask your daughter a few questions.”

  “About what ?” his wife asked, in an acid tone.

  “About David Stratton.”

  The man zipped up his coat. “Ah. What a terrible tragedy.” He stuck out his hand. “Ted Summit.”

  Preach accepted the gesture, then glanced at Victoria, whose eyes had slipped to the floor.

  The woman checked her watch and nudged her husband. He hesitated, then said, “Is Victoria in any kind of trouble ?”

  “Not at all,” Preach said. “I’m just here to fill in a few gaps concerning David’s school life.”

  “They weren’t that close,” the woman said. “They studied together a few times.”

  “I understand. I promise to keep it short.”

  “Vicky?” Mr. Summit said to his daughter. “Are you okay with this ?”

  The daughter sniffed and looked up. “Sure.”

  “Good. You won’t mind if we step out, would you? We’ll miss the show if we don’t leave.”

  Victoria glanced at Preach, rolled her eyes, and said, “It’s fine.”

  Ted clapped her on the shoulder. “We prefer to treat her as an adult. Unless you need us here?” he said to Preach.

  “Not at the moment,” he said evenly, wondering what kind of parents let their daughters talk to homicide detectives by themselves.

  Ted tugged at his moustache and extended an arm to his wife. “We’ll be home by midnight,” he said to Victoria. “Make sure you lock up. Oh, and detective,” his voice turned somber, “we’re behind you on this.”

  “I hope so, Ted.”

  Victoria watched with an embarrassed look as her parents drove off. “What do you want to know?”

  “How well did you know David ?”

  “Well enough, I guess. We met in study hall last year and became friends.”

  “You helped him with his homework?”

  She laughed. “Is it the band sweatshirt? The football thing? He helped me with my homework. I’m lousy with essays.”

  “Sorry. I didn’t mean to presume. Do you know anything about the night he was murdered? October 2? Where he went or what he did?”

  “I don’t.”

  “If you had to guess ?”

  Her jaw started to tremble, and she tried to speak but broke down. Preach gave her space, taking a moment to take his coat off and fold it over his arm. After finding a tissue and composing herself, she said, “He was very popular. To be honest, we didn’t talk about our lives very much. I don’t think either of us was that happy with them.”

  “Why wasn’t he happy?”

  “I dunno, he felt like everyone expected so much of him. His coach, his mom, his teachers, the fans. It’s hard being the center of attention all the time, unless that’s really your thing. It wasn’t David’s.”

  “If you didn’t talk much about your lives, what did you talk about ?”

  She waved a hand. “Things. Books, movies, music, ideas. I don’t think he had a lot of people to talk about that stuff with. We made out a few times too,” she said, almost as an afterthought.

  Preach wasn’t quite sure how to respond to that, so he didn’t. He sensed she was letting out some feelings.

  “I know, it’s surprising,” she said. “I’m hardly in his league. And yeah, I was kinda in love with him. I think he did it out of a sense of duty or something. We never talked about it. It just happened sometimes, in our rooms.”

  “How was his relationship with his mom?”

  “I don’t really know.”

  “Do you know Brett Moreland?”

  Her mouth curled at the edges. “Yeah. David couldn’t stand him.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because he’s a rich douche ?”

  Preach smirked. “Did you ever hear about any fights or arguments they had?”

  “It was always tense if he was there. We’d just go straight to David’s room. I only saw him a few times a month or so. Even less during football season.”

  “Do you know if David had a girlfriend?”

  “A steady one? No. Everyone would have known. He hooked up plenty, I’m sure, though he never told me details. He was good like that. A gentleman. Come on, I’ll show you something.”

  She walked him down the hall and into her bedroom. It was filled with candles in colored sconces, a few plants, and vintage furniture with a beige-and-lavender theme. He hesitated, feeling strange entering her room without her parents in the house, then stepped inside and stayed close to the door.

  Victoria hinged opened a cabinet set into her headboard and took out a leather-bound diary covered in occult symbols. She flipped it over and showed him the inscription on the back. “Magic Exists Within.”

  She started to tear up again. “He gave me this for my birthday. I’m Wiccan. It was a perfect gift.”

  He knew Wicca referred to some type of modern-day witchcraft. A harmless hobby, he thought, though he wasn’t really sure. “Was David a . . . Wiccan?”

  She gripped the journal in both hands. “He didn’t know what he was. Just a searcher, a lost soul like the rest of us.”

  Victoria, Preach thought, was a little bit deeper than her parents. “Thanks for showing me. Can you think of anything else I might need to know? Anyone who might have wished him harm? Enemies at school?”

  Her eyes slipped to the side, an evasive look Preach had seen a million times before. “Victoria?”

  “I’m not sure I should say anything.”

  “Let me be the judge of that, okay?”

  One of her feet turned outward, and she fiddled with a star-shaped earring. “Do you know who Ms. Waverly is ?”

  “I do.”

  “I’m not sure if this means anything, but . . .”

  “Would you rather wait for your parents ?” he asked gently.

  She barked a laugh, dismissive. “I won’t get in trouble at school for saying this ?”

  “Not as long as it’s the truth.”

  After a slow nod, she said, “I’ve seen Ms. Waverly looking at David. A lot. I mean, who wouldn’t? I didn’t think too much about it, to be honest, because, well, let’s just say that Ms. Waverly looks at anything with a pulse.”

  She broke off, and her face crumpled, as if realizing the heartbeat of the person they were discussing no longer pumped blood through a warm body. After a moment, she said, “Do you know about the Face- book post?”

  “Yes.”

  “That same day, I drove home late. Band practice ran long, almost to six-thirty. We had a competition coming up.” She stared at the journal again. “I went to dinner with a friend, then to someone else’s house to study. By the time I headed home it was after nine. I drove right by Ms. Waverly’s house. Everyone knows she lives on Blackburn Avenue because she runs through the park in a sports bra all the time. When I passed her house—I slowed down to be sure, because it was dark—I saw David’s Jeep parked in the drive
way.”

  15

  “How did you know for sure?” Preach asked, keeping his face calm while he churned inside at the information. “That it was David’s Jeep ?”

  “He has two stickers on the back. An OBX surfboard and a UNC heel.”

  Preach had seen both those stickers on the Jeep parked in Claire’s driveway. OBX was local parlance for the Outer Banks.

  “Was that the only time you saw his Jeep at Ms. Waverly’s house ?”

  She sniffed again. “Yeah, but I don’t usually go that way.”

  “Did you ask him about it?”

  “I only saw him once after that. I just didn’t . . . I didn’t know how to start the conversation. Hey David, are you sleeping with the English teacher? Like I said, we’d never talked about those things before, so it would have been weird to bring up.”

  “Based on what you knew of him, do you think they were . . . together?”

  Without seeming to be aware of what she was doing, she twirled the silk ribbon bookmark attached to the journal around one of her fingers. “I’d like to think they weren’t. But I’m not sure I do.”

  Wild Oaks subdivision was less than a mile away. After returning to his car, Preach stopped by Wes Hood’s house, the neighbor David had known since childhood.

  Two signs, one protesting toxic coal ash dumping and the other objecting to fracking, bookended the front yard of the brick ranch.Preach rang the doorbell. A trim black man wearing horn-rimmed glasses, slacks, and a white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up answered. “Can I help you?”

  After Preach introduced himself, his father looked down his nose at the detective. “Why do you need to speak to my son?”

  “Just routine investigation. We don’t know where David went the night he disappeared, and I’m gathering any information his friends might have.”

  “I see.” The father took so long to decide that Preach feared he would deny his request, but finally he said, “I’ll need to be in the room.”