by Annie Ward
Why was there a bloodstained baby blanket on the stairs when no one upstairs was injured? (Follow-up question: Assuming it was used to wipe blood from Madeline’s face, why would a woman fearing for her life and the life of her child stop running from a threat in order to clean up?)
You hurted me. Who hurt Charlie? When, where and why? No one mentioned Ian hurting Charlie.
Diane hadn’t gotten to the sudden transformation of Maddie’s fingernails and was still typing when Leslie, the very young, sweet blonde office administrative assistant, tapped her on the shoulder.
“Officer Varga?” she said, obviously a little bit excited. “The lady murderers are here.”
Diane stood up and took a deep breath. “And the homicide detectives from Kansas City? Are they here as well?”
“They’re not coming,” Leslie said, her face falling. “Didn’t you get my email? They looked everything over, and they’re not interested. They’re not coming.”
“Not interested? So it’s just me and Detective Shipps?”
“Detective Shipps is on an important call with the district attorney. He’d like you to start without him.”
“Oh,” Diane said, ashamed of how afraid she sounded. She was a patrol officer. She was not supposed to conduct this type of interview.
“Don’t worry. He’ll be joining you right away.”
“Okay,” Diane said, picking up her notes and smoothing her hair back in its bun. “No problem.”
She walked rather stiffly to the front of the station, where Maddie and Jo were waiting. Charlie was not there. Diane stood up very straight. Why were these women so intimidating? They filled up rooms with their worldliness, their big words and their general aura of disdain. They made Diane feel even smaller than she was.
Jo wore a bright, bohemian, fringed scarf around her neck. Diane paused, looking at Maddie’s hand brushing back the dark hair at her temple. There was something about those very short metal-gray nails, almost bitten in appearance, but straight and neat.
Maddie noticed Diane’s fixed stare and folded her hands into fists. Diane forced her eyes away and said efficiently, “Okay then. Shall we get started?”
Jo laughed, her voice hoarser even than the day before. “Go on, Mads. I brought a book.”
“I’d actually like to start with you, Joanna. May I call you Joanna?”
“Just call me Jo.”
“All right. You and I will chat first, if that’s okay?”
The two women glanced at one another, and Jo shrugged. “No problem.”
“Maddie, I’ll be with you shortly. Jo? If you would just follow me?”
Diane led Jo past the coffeemaker and the bathroom to the tiny interview room.
“The same lovely accommodations as last night?” Jo said unhappily. “The eensy-weensy room. Can’t we talk somewhere we can actually breathe?”
Diane said, “Sorry,” as she used a remote control to turn on the camera. “This is where we do our recordings.”
Inside was a card table, two folding chairs and a fan on the floor in a corner whirring softly on low. Diane switched the fan to medium and said, “Summer in Kansas. Sorry.”
Jo shrugged.
“My superior usually runs these interviews. He’ll be in shortly.”
“You call him that? ‘My superior’?”
“Sometimes I do. I suppose. So, you’re being recorded now, and it’s my duty to tell you that you have the right to remain silent—”
Joanna said, “Yeah, yeah yeah.”
“So,” Diane went on. “I know you’ve been an aid worker most of your life. That’s really admirable.”
“Well, thank you, Officer.”
“But you’re unemployed now, though?”
Joanna glared at Diane with the intensity of an insulted adolescent. “At the moment.”
“And where do you live, Joanna?”
“I go back and forth between the States and Europe. Right now I’m in Virginia.”
“That sounds nice. I always wanted to travel. I always wanted to go to Italy and just eat my way around.”
Jo looked tickled and stifled a laugh. “Awesome, you should do that. You look like you’d love it.”
“You like it, going back and forth?”
“Not always, but yeah, it’s okay.”
“First time in Kansas?”
“No, I have a vacation time-share in Wichita.”
“What? You’re joking!”
“Who the fuck has a time-share in Wichita? Of course I’m joking. I have been here, though. Probably five times in the early nineties, visiting Maddie and her family.”
“That’s nice.”
Joanna laughed and looked incredulous.
“Well. Okay. First things first,” Diane said, “Let’s get another look at your bruising.”
As Jo began loosening the scarf, Diane said, “The reason, really, that I wanted to talk to you first is because you hadn’t seen Maddie in a long time, and then you got a pretty intimate, long visit with her just prior to what happened. Did you notice anything off? Did she say or do anything in the last week that might have given you reason to believe that Maddie was angry at Ian?”
“Yeah. He promised her the world and then stuck her in a suburb in the middle of nowhere, got her pregnant and then when there was a screaming baby to make shit worse, he took off.”
“Did she say that or is that your take?”
“That’s my take.”
“Do you think that could have made her angry enough to want to kill him?”
Joanna paused, her fingers still hooked in her scarf. She stared Diane down with disgust and disbelief. “Maddie loved Ian. She loved him from the minute she met him. It was like a disease. Do I have any reason to believe that Maddie was angry enough at Ian to want to kill him? I’ll give you a good reason why Maddie might have been angry at Ian.”
Jo pulled off the scarf, revealing a neck mottled with red and brownish marks. A few dark purple impressions dimpled the skin at the rear of her neck, where the force had been the greatest. “Why don’t you write this down? According to Joanna Jasinski, Madeline Wilson was very fucking angry at her husband Ian. For trying to kill her best friend. Got it?”
Diane swallowed and nodded. Then she raised the digital camera and took the photos in complete silence. Finally she said, “You can put your scarf back on now if you wish.”
Jo moved slowly, deep in thought. “You know something?”
Diane looked up. “What?”
“Maddie called you. She called 911 before anyone got hurt. She tried to stop what was happening. You should be ashamed of yourself, going after her. She called you for help, and you didn’t get there in time. This, Officer Varga, is on you.”
Behind Diane, the door opened. It was Shipps. “Ms. Jasinski,” he said amiably, “we’re done for the day. You’re free to go.”
Diane whirled around, her mouth agape. “What?”
“Yeah. Sorry, Diane, I’ll bring you up to speed shortly, but these ladies can go. Both of them.”
Joanna stood up and continued tying her scarf back in place. As she walked past Diane she gave her a sidelong look of triumph.
When she was gone, Diane looked at Shipps with helpless disappointment. “I had my list!” she said. “I didn’t even get to my list.”
Shipps patted her on the back. “Come into the lunchroom for the debriefing. I think you’ll understand.”
Diane followed Shipps to the lunchroom, the only room in the station large enough to host a team meeting. CJ, Bill and Leslie were already seated and waiting. Shipps pulled out Diane’s chair for her and she sat. He paced.
“Okay,” he said, going over a printout in his hands. “This is what I got from criminal records in Liverpool. When Ian Wilson was a military policeman in Germany he was inves
tigated for grievous bodily harm when he ran over a soldier with his police car during an arrest. He did tours in Rwanda, Bosnia, Iraq and Northern Ireland just to name a few. At least one army psychologist thought he was dangerous enough to deny him clearance. He was arrested in Chester, England, five years ago for punching his fist through a car window and grabbing the driver around the throat. CJ, tell everyone what you told me. Everything you gathered from the family.”
CJ stood up like a high-school debate student giving a speech. “Ian Wilson had nine brothers and sisters, seven still living. Mother and father passed away. His sister Lynn was not surprised. Said he was a ‘lovely boy’ but had a ton of problems including alcoholism and PTSD. His brother John was devastated. He confirmed the PTSD and a fondness for vodka. All the others said pretty much the same. A good man destroyed by war and liquor.”
Shipps put a hand on Bill’s shoulder. “Son? Let’s hear what you shared with me on Madeline Wilson and Joanna Jasinski, please.”
Bill had only a Post-it, stuck between his finger and thumb. “Nothing on Madeline. Joanna has a misdemeanor for using a false ID.”
“That’s it?” Shipps asked.
Leslie tittered and then went silent. “Nothing else,” Bill said again. “Nothing more than that.”
Shipps pointed at Diane. “Neighbors?”
Diane wiped her suddenly sweaty hands on her pants as if trying to figure out how to proceed. “He’s not a popular guy. That much is clear but...”
“Not a popular guy doesn’t quite cut it, Diane. His own family admitted he was bad news. The neighbor told Bill last night that Ian was sarcastic, rude and antisocial. He also said he was a psychotic alcoholic doomsday prepper who seemed the type who might hurt his family.”
“I’m not sure that Wayne Randall is actually a credible—”
“And finally,” Shipps said, interrupting. “Matt at KBI Crime Lab was kind enough to offer some early, unofficial reactions. Blood splatter looks consistent with Ian Wilson being stabbed in the back while hunching over Joanna Jasinski’s body. The knife used is the one Madeline says she used. The home phone smashed at the base of the stairs is consistent with the 911 call we believe was intended to stop the escalation of violence. The scrapings from under Joanna’s nails are skin. We’re waiting on DNA, but given that Ian Wilson’s face and arms are torn up, we can reasonably conclude that the skin under her nails will turn out to be his. Joanna Jasinski was strangled nearly to death. That’s confirmed. We’ve all seen the basement. The wife was seeing a therapist who corroborates the narrative that the deceased was a broken, secretive, delusional and dangerous man.”
Diane leaned over and put her head in her hands.
“Diane?” Shipps said.
“Nothing,” she said. “I’ve got nothing.”
“We also have a number of things Madeline Wilson wrote for her psychologist that, in my opinion, seal the deal.”
“And how’d you get stuff from her psychologist?” Diane asked, not bothering to hide her skepticism.
“I didn’t. When I asked, Ms. Wilson volunteered copies of the documents. I’m telling you, this guy was scary. He was like a character out of a Guy Ritchie movie. He was a fucking time bomb.”
“Then why didn’t she just leave him?”
“Many women don’t, Diane. It doesn’t make them liars. And I want you to know that the reason I stopped your interview is that I’ve already spoken with the district attorney. She agrees with me that we’re looking at justifiable homicide. She won’t sign off until the labs are back, but we both agree that this is a no-brainer.”
Shipps was right, Diane realized. The local prosecutor, Elizabeth Monroe, had started her career in St. Louis volunteering at shelters and prosecuting domestic violence charges. “So no arrest,” she said, trying to wrap her mind around the speed and finality of the decision.
“No crime.”
“Right.”
“No crime, no arrest. Justifiable homicide.” Shipps stood up and stretched, signifying the end of the team meeting. As CJ, Bill and Leslie walked out of the lunchroom, Shipps offered Diane a sympathetic smile. “The most obvious example of my career.”
Diane tried sadly to crack a joke, trying to realign with him. “Or the only?”
“I have seen a body before.”
“Your wife’s, you mean.”
“I’m going to tell Megan you said that,” Shipps said, touching her shoulder. “Oh and, Diane?”
She looked at him, expecting another joke.
His expression was an unexpected blow, a mask of controlled rage. “If you ever enter an active crime scene on your own again, child involved or not, I will not keep your fucking secret. Understand? I will report you to the chief. I’m not happy with you right now.”
Diane’s shame rushed over her body like she’d been doused with warm water. She bit her lip and walked away as fast as she could, so that Shipps would never know that he’d made her cry.
* * *
When Diane arrived back at her desk, she was shaking and entertaining thoughts of quitting her job and moving to Alaska. Or Costa Rica. Anywhere. She hated Shipps. No, she didn’t hate Shipps, she hated being reprimanded. But she’d known what would happen, and she’d done it anyway. And she’d do it again.
Waiting for her, like a slap in the face, were the photocopies of Maddie Wilson’s writing therapy. She resisted the urge to sweep them off her desk along with her phone, stapler and files in progress. She squinted and leaned down to read the Post-it Leslie had stuck to the top of the pile. Dammit, on top of everything else now she needed to get some reading glasses.
No luck getting anything from the hippie psychologist, the note said, but it turns out Madeline Wilson had photocopies of all their work. Shipps asked me to leave these on your desk. Here they are. (What a basket case! )
Diane started to read through the photocopied pages. Her eyes skimmed over the heartbreaking confessions.
When Charlie cries. Anything bad happening to Charlie.
When Ian drinks vodka in the basement. Or when he won’t wake up.
When Ian gets angry at Charlie.
When I have to leave Charlie with Ian.
Jo, this hurts. I hope you still don’t think I chose him over you. I didn’t. I swear to God that’s not what it was. It was just a mistake is all. I made a mistake and I’m sorry. I would love to see you again.
I wanted to live so badly. I had to live! I had to run in the dark. That’s what I was doing, running away in the dark at the campground. I had to escape. If I didn’t, what would happen to Charlie?
So that’s it then. That’s it, Cami J. Oh my God. I was being chased. And maybe I didn’t fall.
Diane made a face and then felt ashamed. Why? Why, somewhere deep in her gut, did she still have doubts about this timid, anxious, fearful, loving mother? Was her doubt (and, yes, that little bit of righteous indignation) all because Ian was a soldier like her dad? Probably.
She needed to learn to be more objective. It was clear. The journal entries helped confirm everything Detective Shipps believed; Maddie had lived in terror of a man who was bottoming out, binge-drinking and doomsday-prepping. He’d been to all the worst, most evil places in the world, seen plenty of murder and had become either numb enough or damaged enough to become capable of trying to commit it himself.
Diane felt troubled by the fact that while both women claimed Ian Wilson had threatened the child, neither one had said that he’d actually physically harmed him. And yet the child had been in shock, repeating, “You hurted me,” when Diane found him. She was also bothered by the bloodstained baby blanket, those bizarre fingernails, the baby knife and the ballpoint pen. Emotionally she couldn’t stop brooding over Candy Crush and the happy family photos on the computer screens, the backyard abundant with toys for both dogs and kids, and those two little Boston terriers that seemed ve
ry eager to return to life with such a horrible man. Such a horrible man with those half-closed, kind, sad eyes, searching for someone or something in the dark corners.
Nevertheless. Case. Closed.
IAN
Day of the killing
Ian caught a glimpse of himself in the rearview mirror, along with the curious eyes of his young Uber driver who appeared to be working up the courage to start a conversation. What will Maddie say? he wondered. Not only was he tanned from the Nigerian sun to the color of a toasted nut, but he’d been sick and lost some weight as well. Optimistically, he imagined the combination probably made him look a bit younger and fitter, and she might quite like that. In any case, even his George Hamilton tan couldn’t be any more amusing than when he’d shown up in New York with his hair dyed like a hyena. He laughed out loud.
The kid smiled in the rearview mirror. “You seem to be in a good mood.”
“I’m forty minutes from home, and I haven’t seen my wife or my son in three months. I’m in a fucking great mood. If only I could get the smell of soot and ash out of my nose everything would be perfect.”
“Sorry?”
“Nothing, mate. Don’t worry about it. Just get me home.”
“I’ll do that, sir.”
Ian rubbed his nose and began to wonder if he really was going to be stuck with the smell of the massive fire in the Nigerian oil field forever. Eh, it didn’t matter right now. In a short time he’d be on the couch tickling Charlie and fussing over the dogs, and Maddie would be most likely cooking him his favorite, a big pot of steak chili.
He smiled out the window. The flat countryside sped by the highway as they drove south from the airport. It was a dry summer, and the fields were yellow and stunted, but Ian still felt comforted by the simple beauty of the quiet home he’d found.
He got out his phone and called Maddie.
“Ian?”
“Hiya, Petal! What’re you doing, baby?”
“I’m at the dog park.” Pause. “With Charlie. Where are you? This isn’t Skype.”
“I’m almost home. Get your arse back to the house so I can take you in my loving arms!”