By His Own Hand

by Neal Griffin

  Tomorrow would be another full day, she thought, settling onto the couch and picking up the remote. First order of business would be to reinterview Carla Hayes. Get more of a read on Henry’s lifestyle. And she really needed to get started on the church interviews. Rich could help with that. But all that could wait. Like Connor was always telling her, sometimes she just needed to take her pack off and chill. She clicked the remote, figuring she’d catch the last couple of innings of the Brewers game. Falling asleep on the couch until Connor came home sounded like a nice evening. The screen came to life and what she heard and saw was so unexpected she spoke loud enough to draw the attention of Ringo, who’d finally given up on the bowl.

  “What the hell…”

  On the TV screen, Mortimer Kowalski stood at a podium that Tia recognized as the one at city hall, used for occasional press briefings. Behind Kowalski stood Dietrich Andreasen, mayor of Newberg, along with the Reverend Ezekiel Mills. Off to one side stood Sam Mills and Carla Hayes. Whatever was going on couldn’t be good. She pulled her cell phone from her pocket, checking to be sure she hadn’t missed a call or text from the department. The screen was blank. Nothing from Ben or Travis.

  Kowalski read from notes. “Based on my analysis of the evidence collected at the crime scene along with the results of the autopsy, I’ve concluded that the manner of death in the case of Henry Hayes was suicide. I’ve conveyed my findings to the victim’s family along with the condolences of the Waukesha County Medical Examiner’s Office. I will be forwarding my report to the Newberg Police Department and I anticipate this will conclude any investigative proceedings.”

  Kowalski fumbled with his papers and remained behind the podium looking awkward and out of place. Mayor Andreasen stepped forward, pulling Kowalski by the arm and away from the podium, allowing the mayor to take center stage.

  Tia didn’t know much about Mayor Dietrich Andreasen other than what she had witnessed since he took office less than a year ago. A Swedish immigrant who came to America on a temporary college visa, Andreasen married his way into permanent citizenship. A mere twenty-year resident of Newberg, he was a bit sensitive to his shallow local roots, but ran for mayor nonetheless and surprised everyone, winning by less than 1 percent on a 20 percent voter turnout. He’d run on a platform of fiscal conservancy that he quickly turned into nothing short of scorched-earth austerity. Known to be an avid tennis player, the mayor made sure the public courts near his home were maintained, but all other city parks had fallen into disrepair. Then came the closure of the library, which the mayor pointed out was an obsolete institution in a day when most people read books on electronic devices. When a group of concerned citizens objected, pointing out that not all families with children were so fortunate to have such luxuries, the mayor said, “Those kids can’t read anyway.”

  “This tragic situation has been a shock to our community.” Mayor Andreasen spoke with solemn self-importance. His Nordic accent was still thick and at times made him hard to understand. “I’d like to thank Dr. Kowalski for his quick determination in this case and I, too, offer condolences, on behalf of the entire Newberg community, to the Hayes family.” He nodded toward Carla Hayes, who appeared tiny in the row of men. Her hands were knotted together in front of her, and at the sound of her name her eyes went from staring into the camera to the floor.

  “I’d also like to extend a formal apology to Reverend Ezekiel Mills,” Mayor Andreasen continued, “for the impact this incident had on his church and its annual retreat, a summer highlight for hundreds of young people from around the region. It is regretful Reverend Mills was left with no alternative but to cancel the festivities.”

  The mayor turned slightly to face the Reverend. “And of course, we deeply regret any initial misunderstandings with members of our police department.”

  “Seriously?” Tia shouted and stood up from the couch. Ringo, using his canine instincts, clearly sensed her anger and hunkered down. He pressed his head against the floor, and his tail went flat and still. The mayor droned on:

  “Every citizen of Newberg greatly appreciates the role Reverend Mills plays as the spiritual leader of our community. I know it will come as no surprise to anyone to learn that Reverend Mills and his congregation have reached out to assist the Hayes family during this very difficult time.

  “Now I’d like to invite Reverend Mills to say a few words, to provide us with his perspective on this tragic event.”

  Tia scoffed aloud as Ezekiel Mills stepped to the microphone. His tan skin glowed under the lights and his hair was coifed to perfection. Tia hadn’t picked up on it before, but with Sam Mills still visible in the background, she saw the subtle resemblance between father and son.

  “This indeed is a tragic and senseless loss of a human life,” Mills began in his clear, well-practiced evangelical delivery. “A heartbreaking reminder not of the failing of any one person, but instead a failing that we all must share. But I do see God’s hand at work, for when young Henry committed his desperate act in so public a way, it demands we take notice of the suffering of others.

  “Suicide among young people of Henry’s generation, particularly in the Native American community, is at an all-time high. It speaks to a sense of despair and hopelessness that permeates our society. But that is a larger issue, one that we must address over a long period of time. For now, we at the Church of the Rock will do all we can to help Henry’s mother, Ms. Carla Hayes, and her surviving children work through their grief and loss.” The senior Reverend Mills turned to look over his shoulder. “Now, I’ve been told that Ms. Hayes would like to say a few words.”

  Tia’s voice was venomous. “Oh, don’t you even…”

  Tia watched as Sam Mills escorted Carla to the microphone, his hand lightly touching her elbow. The grieving mother wore a modest, long-sleeve, navy-blue dress straight off the rack at JCPenney. The collar went all the way to her throat, and her face was chalky white, thanks to a thick layer of foundation and cover-up heavy enough to fill in and smooth over the pockmarks and speed bumps. The makeup was miracle enough, but Carla had clearly spent some time in a salon—Tia wondered if the Church of the Rock had paid for the work. Her hair, which had been filthy, oily, and lank less than twenty-four hours before, was now washed, brushed, and pulled neatly back off her shoulders. It was quite a transition from the half-conscious woman on the couch and Tia figured the average viewer would be sucked right in at the sight of this grieving mother.

  “I—I just want to say thanks to Preacher Mills,” Carla stammered, her gaze darting from the camera to the row of men behind her. She looked down at the podium where, Tia assumed, her comments were scripted out. Sure enough, Carla fell into a cadence of reading. “I mean, Reverend Mills, for all his help. His son, too. I know my boy Henry had problems. I only wish he would have come to me. I wish I could have been there for him. I don’t like thinking of him all alone in the woods.”

  Carla stopped and looked up, sounding as though she had gone off script. “Dyin’ that way. He was a good boy and this is gonna be a hard time—”

  The woman buried her face in her hands and Sam Mills stepped forward to offer comfort, putting his arms around her. Tia didn’t buy any of it. Her feelings hardening, she yelled at the screen, “What a crock of shit!”

  The cop in Tia watched Sam Mills guide Carla away from the podium, assessing the woman’s current state. The street-grade heroin, she guessed, had been replaced by something more sophisticated, a smoother balm. Methadone. Maybe even Oxy. Enough to make her functional without destroying her shot at earning the public’s sympathy.

  The mayor returned to the podium. “Thank you very much. That concludes our press conference. Out of respect for the Hayes family, we will not be taking any questions.”

  Tia shouted, “No shit, you won’t!”

  The men huddled together and shielded Carla until the camera panned away from the now empty podium. Tia saw that several camera crews from Madison and Milwaukee were in the room. The famil
iar face of Lucy Lee-Jones came on screen and she began a recap of the story. The reporter spoke with the usual mix of high anxiety, unease, and groundless innuendo.

  “Well, there you have it, folks. The story that we originally broke on Channel Eight Action News has now been officially ruled a suicide.”

  The reporter’s image disappeared from the screen, replaced by the video of Tia and Mills on the stage at the campground.

  “Oh for—not again.” Tia had seen the video a dozen times. Just about every cop in the county had emailed her a link along with smart-ass commentary. Some good-natured. Some not so much. The video had a roadkill sort of pull to it and as much as Tia wanted to turn away she felt herself sucked in. The reporter’s voiceover continued to provide details.

  “This investigation, marred from the beginning with oversteps by local police, now appears to be drawing to a close, but conflict may be brewing within the walls of Newberg PD. An anonymous but reliable source familiar with the investigation has told me that while most officers with knowledge of this incident concluded the death was a case of suicide, apparently one individual detective insisted that the death of Henry Hayes was the result of foul play. This appears to have exposed a rift within the organization that my source says is an ongoing problem at the Newberg Police Department. This is Lucy Lee-Jones, reporting from Newberg City Hall.”

  Tia sat down hard on the couch, resisting the temptation to throw the remote at the screen. Instead, she stabbed at the television with the device, and the picture on the screen collapsed in on itself, along with the mood that had been so promising just minutes earlier. Oversteps by local police. An individual detective. Ongoing problem.

  Anonymous but reliable source, Tia thought. No way that’s anyone other than Youngblood. Tia could accept that; she expected no less from him. But another conclusion left her feeling like she’d been sucker-punched.

  What was Ben’s role in all this? And what about Travis? They’d both met with Kowalski behind closed doors. Kicked her out of the office. They must have known what was coming. Hell, she thought. Maybe one of them was the anonymous source.

  Anger and a sense of isolation overtook her. She felt a tightness in her throat and she swallowed hard to fight the tears she knew were coming. Why does any of this surprise you? she thought. When are you going to learn? You’re alone. You’re a fraud. An imposter. You aren’t even the person you pretend to be. You will never be part of the club.

  Tia took a deep breath and exhaled, the air coming out loud, ragged, and full of emotion. She looked at Ringo, who was still plastered against the floor. His eyes met hers, and he halfway rose up off the floor and low-crawled toward her. He nudged his head under her hand and she knew exactly what he was trying to communicate: Don’t do it. I’m here.

  She gave the dog a single pat on the head and looked at her phone. Still early. Plenty of time. The solution was obvious and she grabbed her keys off the wall. The overwhelming sense of surrender was in and of itself intoxicating. A minute later she was in the GTO, top down and at high speed, already feeling the euphoria of the first drink.

  TWENTY-TWO

  When Tia pulled up in front of the trailer, the bright colors of the new plastic jungle gym stood out in the early morning sun and got her immediate attention. The Gremlin was out from under the tarp, washed clean and sitting on four good tires. A pink bicycle with training wheels and purple banana seat sat next to what looked to be a brand-new trike. The trailer itself appeared to have been power-washed and the weeds were gone. The surrounding hard-packed dirt had been raked smooth and dotted with potted plants. A rust-colored pickup truck, raised up high on four knobby tires, was pulled up close to the trailer. Tia saw a “Make America Great Again” sticker plastered in the back windshield.

  Tia climbed the short steps, still debating the wisdom of her plan. As soon as she had woken up, she’d decided to drive to Carla’s trailer alone, without first checking in at the PD. As far as she was concerned, the Henry Hayes case was still an open homicide and she wasn’t going to take the chance of being shut down. She didn’t need anyone’s permission to do her job and if she had to work it alone, then so be it. Alone wasn’t so bad. It had worked the night before.

  After watching the press conference, Tia left the farmhouse and drove south on State Highway 83 to a roadside tavern, ten miles past the county line. The place was dark and dank, lacking in any of the typical fanfare that encouraged socializing or casual conversation. She took a seat at the end of the bar and ordered up a double shot of well tequila, glad to see the one other patron paid her no mind. She stared at the glass and mentally threw it back over and over again, imagining the glorious burn of the cheap liquor that would start on her lips, move to her throat, past her lungs, and then settle in her gut. When the bartender announced last call she was the only one left, still staring at the untouched glass of clear liquid. When the lights went up, he came over to stand in front of her, his hands resting flat against the bar, a dishrag thrown over his shoulder.

  “So, what did you decide?” He looked to be a bit gruff but his voice carried the keen insight of a man who’d seen this act before. “You gonna drink it or not?”

  Tia pulled a ten-dollar bill from her shirt pocket. She picked up the still-full shot glass, placed it on top of the bill, and slid it across the bar. The bartender took the ten spot and went to the cash register to make change.

  “Keep it. Rent for the barstool,” Tia said, nodding her head in appreciation for his patience. She stood and walked to the door. When the bartender called out she heard no judgment in his voice.

  “Come on back if you change your mind.”

  Tia had driven home to find Connor sitting with his elbows on the kitchen table, staring ahead, both fists in a tight ball covering his mouth. His prosthetics were off and on the floor next to him. She sat down in the chair across the table, filled with love for the man and personal pride for herself. It would have been easy to toss back that two-dollar shot, but she knew it would have been the most expensive drink of her life. Then again, sitting on a barstool at one o’clock in the morning, she knew, it’s easy to wonder who really needs work, friends, and self-respect. But Tia also knew the only thing that had kept her from giving in was this moment. The chance to look straight into the eyes of Connor Anderson, and know she had not let him down.

  She told him everything. The press conference. The sense of betrayal. The overwhelming feeling of self-doubt. Her life as an imposter. All of it on a night when she was alone and on the edge. But most important was one simple fact: he was the one thing in her life worth living for. If that required sober living, so be it. They made love for the first time in six weeks. When she’d left the house he was still asleep.

  *   *   *

  Tia put her ear against the trailer door and heard nothing. She banged hard against the thin metal and stood back. She waited a half minute, then cop-knocked it, and the door shook under her fist. Still no response.

  Tia leaned over the railing and used her fist to pound against the metal siding. “Carla, open the door.”

  A few seconds went by before Tia heard the shuffle of footsteps. The door opened six inches, revealing Carla’s face, still caked with makeup that didn’t hide the dark circles under her eyes. She was wearing a Spotted Cow beer T-shirt that came down to the middle of her thighs. Her hair was matted and flat on one side, and Tia picked up on the smell of bourbon when the woman spoke. “I ain’t supposed to talk to you.”

  Tia knew she should try to cajole Carla into being more cooperative. Show sympathy and try to regain the woman’s trust, but it just wasn’t in her. “Oh yeah? And who told you that?”

  “My lawyer.” Carla said the two words defiantly and Tia got it. For the first time in a long time—maybe for the first time ever—Carla felt like she had the upper hand on somebody. Like she counted for something.

  “You mean the church lawyer?” Tia tossed her head back toward the car and new toys. “Is that all
it took, Carla? Couple of tires and some toys for kids you don’t have? Now you’re going to take advice from a bunch of people who don’t care about you or what happened to your son?”

  “You don’t know anything,” the woman said. “They’s good people. They all came out and fixed up my place. Took up a collection and everything. Said they’d help me get my kids back, bought ’em toys. They’re even going to help me find a job and stuff. That’s more than any cop ever done for me.”

  “That’s just what you want, right, Carla? A job.” Tia laughed. “What happened to ‘Henry would never kill himself’? Isn’t that what you told me? You sounded pretty damn sure of yourself.”

  “I talked to the doctor. He explained everything.” Carla’s voice cracked with what sounded like sincere emotion. “Henry killed his self.”

  “Kowalski? Is that who you mean?”

  Carla shook her head. “I don’t want to talk to you. They said you’d try and trick me. I want you to leave.”

  Before Tia could answer, the door opened wide and a man filled the doorway—more than filled it, in fact. Dressed in nothing but boxer shorts and a tank top, his face was beefy and red. Tia picked up on the same strong smell of alcohol, along with sweat and drugstore cologne.