by Jon Mills
“But the papers and cops did.”
“Of course. They wanted a scapegoat. He fit the bill. Guy who had already been previously accused of sexual assault, a single man who lives alone, his home butting up against Fairground Woods. He didn’t stand a chance in hell of wiggling out of that one. They set him up.”
“Who did?”
“Cops. County. FBI. Surely, someone like yourself knows how easy it is for them to bungle a case.”
She thought back to the Swanson case. All the people involved, and the contaminated evidence, the family friends traipsing through the house, and the DA’s office trying to keep everyone happy. Kara had to admit; she’d become jaded by investigations. Unless a case was clear-cut, or could be swept under the rug and wrapped up in a tidy bow, it often turned into a political game — one which required ensuring people stayed employed and their reputations intact.
He chewed with his mouth open and would occasionally lower his voice and look around the diner like he was sure someone would overhear him.
“He’s from around here.”
“What?”
“Your mother. She believed he was a local. Someone from Clallam County. She couldn’t be sure if he lived in Blackmore, Forks or Port Angeles but she was convinced he was from around these parts.”
Kara didn’t know about that. Of course she was aware her mother thought it wasn’t Kyle Harris but she must have overlooked the part about him being a local.
“And you believed her?”
“Of course. You seen the wall?”
“In the basement.”
He nodded, eyeing a truck as it pulled up outside. “She invited me for dinner one night, a few years back. Showed me it. Fuck. Craziest shit I’d ever seen. But she wasn’t crazy. Oh no.” He shook his head. “That woman had her head screwed on right. But the cops wouldn’t listen to her.”
“Blackmore or County?”
“Both. Now having said that, she did say she was making some progress with a detective from County. I forget his name.”
“Noah Goodman?”
Sam stabbed the air with his fork. “That’s it.” He nodded. “She said he was the only one that listened to her.”
“So he took her seriously?”
He shrugged. “Well let’s say he didn’t turn her away like the others. You know, I heard what people in this town said about your mother. How she had lost her marbles. The grieving mother. They acted like they cared to her face but spoke behind her back. It wasn’t right. But me, I believed she was on to something.” He stopped eating and stared at her. “They might not have believed her. But you,” he jabbed again. “They’d believe you.”
Kara scoffed and leaned back against the red leather seating. “Nah, I’m not getting involved. I’m just home for the funeral, to help my father and I have to return to New York. Whatever ideas my mother had about Charlie are buried with her.”
He shook his head. “No, they’re not. They’re on that wall. She was meticulous about it. Labels, tags, notes, thread. You just need to follow it, Kara.”
She pursed her lips and smiled. She snapped the elastic around her wrist a few times and Sam eyed it. “Sammy, I’m not setting aside my life and risking my career to chase someone who may not even exist.”
“You do it all the time.”
“But that’s different.”
“How?”
She groaned. “It’s been twenty-five years.”
His chewing slowed as he studied her. “You believe it was Kyle Harris, don’t you? You’re just like them. You think your mother was crazy.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“No, you don’t need to,” he said, before picking up a napkin and wiping his lips. “It’s written all over your face.”
“Even if I wanted to, I couldn’t. I just don’t have time.”
“How long are you staying?”
She shrugged. “A few days.”
“Give it a week. Rattle a few doors. See what you can uncover. Use your position to go through some of the doors that were closed to her.”
She scoffed. “Sam. Things like this don’t get resolved in a week. You know how long the investigative team worked on this case? It took them five years to even get something on Harris. I can’t work miracles.”
“You seem to forget all of the cases you’ve solved.”
He had been following her career. In her time with the bureau she’d worked at the helm on a number of high-profile cases, some of which had taken years to crack. But every case was different. They weren’t dealing with the same M.O.
“Besides, your mother has already done the hard work for you. You’ve just got to pick up where she left off.”
Kara shook her head and looked over towards the counter. There were eight older men and women seated there, drinking coffee, eating cake and yakking about ordinary life. People who had lived life, seen it at its worst and best. She’d often wondered what tales she’d have to share when she had grandchildren. Her career had given her so many already and one day she’d look back on it with a sense of pride, or a sense of regret.
“It was the not knowing that bothered her,” Sam said before taking a sip of his coffee. “She told me that even if he was dead, at least knowing what had happened would give her some sense of peace. Don’t you want to know?” he asked her.
“Of course I do.” A pained expressed masked her face. There hadn’t been a day gone by that she hadn’t thought about what Charlie had gone through. Seeing the Swanson boy’s lifeless body had brought those questions to the surface. Maybe that’s why she walked away from the case. It hit too close to home.
He set his cup of coffee on the table. “Then look into it. Go through what she gathered.”
“I already have. Well at least some of it.”
“And?” He leaned forward with an eager expression.
“I…”
“Can I get you some more coffee?” A young woman approached cutting her off. She smiled politely and nodded. Sam didn’t take his eyes off her even as he pushed his coffee mug to the end of the table to be refilled. He waited until the waitress walked away before he continued.
Sam ran a hand over his jaw. “Look, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have brought it up. I just… I know how much it meant to your mother. I guess I wanted to believe she could find him.” Sam tossed down his napkin and Kara asked for the check.
After paying the bill, she took him home. Outside waiting for him was the same woman he’d had an argument with before leaving. Sam groaned and shook his head.
“Here we go again,” he said climbing out.
It felt bittersweet as she wasn’t sure when she’d see him again. Sam bent down and leaned into the window. A smile danced on his lips and she recognized in his expression the twelve-year-old boy that used to bug the hell out of her when he came around to see Charlie.
“It was good seeing you again, Kara. Next time, I’ll buy you lunch.”
She nodded. He turned to leave then looked back in again.
“And about what I said. Think about it. Have a little faith in yourself. I know your mother did.”
He slapped the top of the vehicle and headed over to his trailer, stopping for a second to wave to a neighbor before disappearing inside. And that was it. All three of their lives had gone in separate directions. Bobby’s towards married life, stability, four kids and a suburban home; Sam’s on the lower end of the scale, single, rocky, barely scraping by. Each of them swayed and impacted by her mother’s refusal to give up on Charlie.
As Kara pulled out of Sunrise Trailer Park and followed the road back to her parents’ home, she took a detour and pulled on to Westborough Road. It was just after one in the afternoon as she got closer to the farmland road that ran through Fairground Woods. She pulled into a country lay-by that overlooked the fields which led up to the woods. A shiver washed over her as she got out and looked up and down the road. So much had changed about the landscape; a new housing development had been built on
the plot of land that was often used by a traveling fair. Back in 1991 it was nothing but open fields and woodland. Kids would often trek through the fields on their way home from school. Older teenagers would drink and hang out in the woods. Before the abduction, it was notorious for parties. Back in the day, they’d often find the charred remains of wood in fire pits, crushed beer cans and used condoms up there. Carved into tree trunks were initials, confessions of love and the dreams of the hopeful. Before the incident, it represented innocence, coming of age and the young and wild. Now the well-worn trails that were trampled down by teenagers had grown over with long grass, wildflowers and weeds. Everything that it had once represented was forgotten, and plans were in place to clear the woods. Maybe that’s what the new development was for.
A cold October wind nipped at Kara’s face and she pulled her jacket close peering over a farmyard gate into the field. Her fourteen-year-old voice echoed. She could still see the path they took as they ran. She could still hear her brother’s voice pleading, and the man’s threats. Changed. Lost. Time was the great divider, shaping, covering and forming the past into something new. For those who would come and live in the new neighborhood, most wouldn’t know. But she did. She could never forget. Now it only reminded her of terror.
As much as she wanted to face her fears and walk up the path that led her to the abduction site, she couldn’t, not now, not until she knew for sure.
That’s what Sam didn’t realize. He hadn’t asked her that question.
The one that she’d been asking herself ever since they’d locked Kyle Harris up.
Was it him?
Chapter 11
Clallam County Detective Noah Goodman spat the foul-tasting coffee back into the paper cup and tossed it in the garbage by his desk. From outside his office, Sergeant Tremonti burst out laughing and rocked back in his chair. Noah reached for a pastrami sandwich with dollops of mustard and took a huge bite.
“I keep telling you to stop buying that cheap crap,” he said before taking a sip of his coffee.
Noah wiped his lips and shook his head. “I refuse to pay $3.40 for a medium Americano. How the hell Starbucks gets away with it is beyond me.”
“Supply and demand, my friend, supply and demand.”
He fished through the mountain of paperwork in front of him, trying to create some order. Behind him were tons of jam-packed binders lining the shelves. Some days he just felt like a glorified pen pusher. “Bullcrap. They have warped the minds of America, mainly the hipsters, into thinking it’s cool to order something that expensive when it only cost them less than 50 cents. It’s a sign of the times, Tremonti. People are getting stupid.”
That only made him laugh harder. Noah returned to wading through reports related to a domestic incident that ended up as a triple homicide of a mother and her two children. The guy had been on their radar since assaulting his girlfriend, and then a Blackmore police officer about four months ago. After he sobered up, he was all apologetic to law enforcement and his ex who welcomed him back with open arms. It would be a fatal mistake. It happened too often. Victims of abuse would forgive and buy into their promises to never do it again only to suffer a worse fate.
“How’s the case coming along?” Tremonti asked.
“His next appearance in court isn’t until the end of the month. I can’t wait to see them put this asshole put away.”
“Did you get out of him why he did it?”
“I did,” he said gazing down at the report.
Officers finally found him at his residence and arrested him without incident. When interviewed about what had set him off, he said the woman spilled his coffee. They got into an argument and he lost his temper and beat her to death with a statue. The kids were just in the wrong place at the wrong time. They were seventeen and twelve. On top of that, her six-year-old child was with her grandmother at the time. Now she would grow up without her mother.
Noah had been working for the Sheriff Department as a detective for the past four years. Before that he’d been a deputy patrolling the highways until he felt it was time for a change. In the short time he’d been a detective he’d seen it all; arson, sexual assault, theft, homicide, robbery, assault. There were days he felt elated when he managed to get a confession out of a suspect, and the court system did its job, and there were times he second-guessed it all and considered a career change. Sometimes it didn’t matter how good they were at dotting their I’s and crossing their T’s, evidence got contaminated, judges threw out cases, and criminals slipped through their grasp. Contrary to what people believed, police work wasn’t bulletproof. It involved a lot of people and if one of them screwed up, it could mean the difference between making or breaking a case.
Jamie, another officer, called out to him. “Goodman, there’s a woman here to see you. Says she’s related to Anna Walker.”
He looked up from his desk and nodded. “I’ll be there in a few minutes.”
Now there was a woman who’d been a thorn in the department’s side. Although he agreed with the rest of the staff that her frequent visits with newfound evidence and tips tended to eat into their duties, he found it difficult to turn her away. Maybe it was her adamant belief that a serial killer was still out there or her belief that County had screwed up the investigation of her son’s abduction. Either way, he tried to make time for her, if only to give her a sense that they cared.
As he got up from his desk, he noticed he’d spilled coffee on his white shirt.
“Oh shit.”
Of course Tremonti immediately noticed and chuckled. When he wasn’t riding some officer’s ass he was cracking jokes to lighten the mood in the office. However, not all his gags went over well. Noah headed down to the changing room to get another shirt but there wasn’t one as he’d forgotten to do his laundry. He groaned, used a cloth to wipe it clean and glanced at himself in the mirror. At thirty-four he still had a full head of dark hair, it was no longer cropped short like it was when he was a patrol officer. He also no longer missed wearing the uniform. He adjusted his gray suit jacket and tie and headed back up. Five minutes later an officer buzzed him out into the lobby.
The first thing that struck him about the woman was her dark hair. It was short, wavy and unruly. She wore a pair of jeans, a tight light-brown rain jacket that showed off her hourglass figure, and knee-high brown riding boots. She had her back turned and was looking at the cabinet that held numerous thank-you letters, certificates and sponsorship banners that the department had received.
“Can I help you?”
He glanced at her reflection before she turned.
“Kara Walker,” she said extending her hand.
He shook it, fixated on her eyes. They were a striking rich blue, the kind of blue seen in wolves, the kind of color that some might have said looked unnatural. “Detective Goodman. Noah.”
She got this pained expression on her face. “Um. You’ve got mustard on your tie.”
He glanced down and rolled his eyes. He’d been so focused on the coffee stain that he hadn’t seen the blob of mustard. Embarrassment turned his cheeks a bright red and he wanted the ground to open and swallow him whole.
“I was hoping to speak to you about my mother.”
He hesitated for a second, still mesmerized by her features. Her eyebrow shot up and he snapped out of it. “Right. Anna. What can I do for you?”
“She passed away a few days ago.”
His eyes widened. “I heard. I’m sorry.”
“Anyway, I was told she spoke to you on numerous occasions about Charlie.”
“Charlie. Right.” He clenched his jaw and knew where this was heading. Every time Anna came in it was the same. It didn’t matter what workload he had, he was looking at half an hour of his day being eaten up. Phoning in a tip, or leaving evidence with the front desk never sufficed. She always wanted to meet face to face. He figured her daughter would be the same. He looked around then gestured for her to follow him into the office area. He led he
r past a row of tables. Officers worked away, punching keys, answering phones. A couple glanced at her as he took her into an interview room out back.
“Your mother mentioned you a couple of times. Said you work as a police officer in New York?” he said over his shoulder as he held open the light brown wooden door.
“I work for a division of the State Patrol. The Bureau of Criminal Investigation.”
Was she putting that out there to cut through any of the bullcrap he might spew or simply to make it clear that she, like him, wasn’t a run-of-the-mill trooper? Kara brushed past him and he caught the scent of perfume. He’d never been one for women wearing strong scents. Most of the time it made him want to gag. Too strong. Too flowery. But not this time. He felt a twinge in his stomach and an urge to ask her what she was wearing but instead opted not to. It would have come across as unprofessional and slightly odd.
“Can I get you a coffee?” he asked with hesitation knowing full well the vending machine sludge tasted even worse than the crap he had earlier.
“Actually, I’m good.” She gave a thin smile.
The interview room didn’t contain much. A two-way mirror, two chairs and a table, a clock on the wall and a small window that gave them a gloomy shot of the weather outside. Noah took a seat across from her.
“So what would you like to know?”
“What information did my mother share with you?” she asked.
“Mostly tips. She gave us names, persons of interest that she wanted us to look into or bring in to interview.”
“And did you?”
He had to refrain from smiling. Most would have assumed they had done their due diligence and followed up on a lead, however, most didn’t know her mother.
“Where it made sense, yes. Not all of the leads your mother gave us warranted a follow-up. How do I put this…?” He trailed off trying to be tactful, especially in light of her recent death. “You probably know better than anyone else how cases are treated once they are considered closed. We have limited resources as a department and that’s why we rely on a number of outside agencies to assist us when it’s required. In your mother’s case, it wasn’t required. Had it been an open cold case, maybe, but twenty-five years have gone by and someone is already locked up in the pen for that crime.”