“I’m afraid my cold medicine is fogging my brain. The courthouse is a block down on the right,” I said.
“But the place where the courthouse used to be in the middle of town is where you want to go,” he explained with a patient smile.
“I see.” I didn’t, really, but I’d go wherever he said if it meant I was closer to getting home.
The little Okerson girl’s haunted turquoise eyes flashed through my thoughts and I stood up straighter, thanking him and trying to stride back to the car. Mind over matter, my mom always said.
I found the sheriff’s office right where he said it would be and parked next to a pickup from the same era as the gas station/antique store. After blowing my nose, I climbed out of my car and started down the sidewalk. The hastily-stenciled “Sheriff” sign hung over a door next to what had to be the coolest vintage fire station in Virginia, a soaring two-story red brick building with twin open garage bays and an honest-to-goodness fireman’s pole. The sheriff’s temporary front door stood open to the April breeze, voices carrying to the sidewalk.
“Dammit, Zeke, you got to do something about this,” a deep baritone boomed. “Those old bats are gonna skyrocket the divorce rate ’round here, and we don’t have the manpower at the courthouse to handle the uptick in paperwork.”
“It’s not my jurisdiction, Amos.” A tired sigh followed the words. “And they’re not doing anything that’s against the law.”
“Neither are we,” the baritone protested.
“Didn’t say you were,” the sheriff replied. “All I’m saying is I can’t help you.”
A tall, barrel-chested man in a sport coat, slacks, and polished black boots stormed through the door, nodding at me as he passed. The pickup’s door groaned a protest when he jerked it open.
I peeked around the doorframe. The cavernous room held a handful of mismatched office furniture. A twenty-something woman with spiky hair the color of the fire engine next door sat behind a dispatch unit in one corner, flipping through a magazine. A man in a chocolate-and-tan uniform slumped in a wooden swivel chair in the center of the desk tangle.
“Excuse me,” I said, wincing at my nasal twang. The Sudafed hadn’t even made a dent.
They looked up—his sun-bronzed face softened into an interested smile, while she raised a brow.
I smiled, focusing on the sheriff. He didn’t look old enough to have a name like Zeke. I’d put him mid-forties, with dark hair, curious eyes, and a medium build that spoke more to leanness than muscle, but was fit all the same.
“What can we do for you, miss?” he asked.
“I’m Nichelle Clarke, from the Richmond Telegraph,” I said. “I came out to talk to Tony and Ashton Okerson, and I want to ask you a few questions about TJ.”
The dispatcher returned to her magazine when the sheriff nodded.
“Not much I can tell you that his folks couldn’t, but come on in.” He waved to a chair across his desk. “I’m Zeke Waters.”
“Nice to meet you, Sheriff,” I said, falling into the chair he offered. It took effort to lean forward and scrounge a pad and pen out of my bag. “I don’t suppose you have a tox report back on TJ yet?”
I knew the answer to that was almost surely “no,” since it hadn’t even been a day, but it was a small town. Maybe there wasn’t that much for the coroner to do.
“We probably won’t have it for several weeks,” he said. “We don’t have a crime lab or a coroner, so everything goes to Richmond for autopsy and testing. From the looks of the scene, they’ll find a combination of narcotics and alcohol. Most kids who try to kill themselves don’t actually pull it off, either because they don’t really want to die or because they do it wrong. I can’t tell you how much I wish TJ was in that group. The whole damned town is already in an uproar, and it’s only going to get worse when word gets outside our little corner of the world.”
“And y’all assume it was a suicide because?” I raised one eyebrow. I couldn’t figure why it was the first place everyone went.
“Because smart kids don’t chase a whole bottle of narcotic pain meds with booze if they don’t want to die.” Sheriff Zeke leaned back in his chair and folded his arms across his chest. “TJ Okerson was a smart kid.”
“But his parents say he wasn’t troubled. Good grades, steady girlfriend, popular… I’ve written about teen suicides before. This doesn’t fit. Are you opening an investigation into his death?”
“Of course we are,” he said. “I examined the scene and talked to the other kids who were out there with him last night. A couple of the boys said he was talking about missing his girl, and worried about his baseball season because of his knee.”
I scribbled. “So he was a little upset. There’s a difference between bummed and suicidal.”
“You trying to tell me how to do my job, Miss Clarke?” Sheriff Zeke’s tone flipped from conversational to stiff. “Because this is not my first rodeo. I know everything you’re saying.”
“Then why are his parents convinced he killed himself?” I asked.
Losing a loved one to suicide is hard, because the guilt that stays with the survivors can eat a person alive. I’d only been at the Okerson’s house for a couple of hours, but I liked them. I didn’t want them living with the “what if.” And my gut said something was off. Even if the sheriff was looking at me like I was a moron.
“Because right now it’s the most plausible answer. He was upset. Alcohol is a depressant. And I don’t see a scenario where anyone made a kid as strong and fast as TJ Okerson swallow a fistful of narcotics.”
“But you don’t even know that’s what killed him,” I protested. “You don’t have the tox screen back.”
“It’s the most likely possibility.” He sighed. “Look, it’s not like I assumed this all by myself. His parents said he got the pills yesterday. They’re gone, he’s dead, no evidence of trauma. How does two and two add up in Richmond? Because out here, it’s usually four. This is a small town. I hate like hell the idea that a kid with everything in the world to live for decided he didn’t want to anymore. But it happens.”
I studied him. His whole posture was one of resignation and exhaustion. He didn’t want this case any more than I did.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to sound like I was questioning your investigative skills. They just seem like such nice people,” I said. Maybe he was right, maybe he wasn’t. But arguing with him wasn’t going to get me anywhere but frozen out of the loop. “Was there anything else unusual about the crime scene?”
His face and voice softened again. “Beach party. Bonfire. Beer bottles. Just kids blowing off steam on vacation,” he said. “I was out there for over three hours this morning combing the shoreline. It’s a sad situation. Got everyone on edge. But I’ve been at this for more years than I want to admit. The simplest answer is usually the right one.”
I nodded, adding that to my notes.
“Thank you for taking the time to talk to me,” I said, fishing a business card from my bag and handing it to him. “It was nice to meet you. When you hear about the tox screen, will you give me a call?”
“I’m about to get buried by the media, huh?” he asked, tucking the card into the top drawer of his desk.
“Very likely. But if it helps, national folks don’t ever hang around long.”
“Our local paper and some of the TV stations and the paper in Newport are about the only reporters we ever get in here,” he said. “This will be different.”
I smiled. “I’m sure it’s nothing you can’t handle.”
“I’d rather not have to.”
I smiled understanding and turned for the door.
Back in my car, I contemplated napping for a full two minutes before I started the engine and turned out of the square, aiming the headlights toward home.
For most of the drive I tried to convince myself that Sheriff Zeke was right, but my inner Lois Lane chirped that he wasn’t looking hard enough. Honestly, I wanted him to be wrong.
Murder was a sexier story all the way around, both because it would be easier on the people who loved TJ in many ways, and because murder sells papers. Plus, something about the sheriff’s words nagged the back of my brain. I just couldn’t grasp what through the germs and exhaustion.
After arriving home, I filled Darcy’s food and water on my way to bed, thankful for her doggie door. Perching on the edge of my cherry four-poster, I kicked off my heels, too beat to even put them back on their shelf. I figured out what bugged me about the sheriff’s story as I snuggled into my pillows.
Why would TJ Okerson be worried about his upcoming baseball season if he planned to swallow a fistful of Vicodin?
3.
Exclusive
My head was no less stuffy the next morning, but I had work to do. I trudged into the newsroom at seven-thirty to write my story on TJ before the budget meeting, while texting Parker so he would check the article before I turned it in. I was paranoid that my allergy meds had made my head so foggy I’d get something wrong.
TJ Okerson’s favorite color was green. He loved football, the beach, and his twin little sisters. As a junior, he led the Mathews Eagles to a state championship last season, appearing set to follow in the footsteps of his famous father, retired Super Bowl champion quarterback Tony Okerson.
“He had the best smile,” his mother, Ashton Okerson, said. “I know the saying is that someone’s smile lights up a room, but TJ’s smile lit up the world. My world, anyway. He made it a better place.”
Ashton and Tony talked to the Telegraph exclusively about their son Thursday evening, after Tony found TJ’s body on the beach near their home on Gwynn’s Island that morning. Local law enforcement officials said the death appeared to be a
I paused, staring at the blinking cursor. I didn’t want to type the word “suicide,” because my gut said there was something else there. On the other hand, the Okersons believed Sheriff Zeke. I didn’t want to upset grieving parents and friends, either.
I blew out a short breath and sipped my coffee, scrunching my nose when my beloved white mocha syrup tasted more like tomato sauce thanks to my stuffy head.
“How’s it coming?” Parker asked from behind my left shoulder. I smiled and turned to face him, waving a hello to his girlfriend as she dropped her bag to the floor in the cube next to mine.
“Slowly,” I said, studying his face. The dark craters under his emerald eyes were unusual, and told me I should probably keep my mouth shut about why it was coming slowly.
Parker loved this kid, and I didn’t want to make my friend sadder. “These stories are always hard. And his parents were so nice,” I finished simply.
He shook his head. “Of all the kids I’ve ever met, TJ was the least likely to do something like this.”
I laid a hand on his arm and caught Mel’s eye. She looked tired, too. She just shook her head, a pained look on her face.
“I’m so sorry,” I told Parker.
“What did the cops say?” he asked.
“That they’re looking into it, but they think it was a suicide.”
“Why?” He stepped back and shook his head.
“Why what?”
“TJ loves his baby sisters. He loves his family. I just saw him two weeks ago. He was happy. Why would he do this?” Parker sat heavily on the edge of my desk and dropped his tousled blond head into his hands. Mel massaged his shoulder and offered me a helpless shrug.
I tried to pull in a deep breath, but the stuffy nose netted me a small gasp.
“His parents don’t know. The cops don’t know,” I said. “It doesn’t sound to me like a typical suicide, if there even is such a thing.”
Parker raised his head and leveled his green eyes at me.
“Are you saying what I think you’re saying?” he asked.
“I’m not sure what I’m saying,” I replied hurriedly. “My gut says there’s something off, Parker.” So much for keeping my mouth shut.
“Are the cops out there really looking into it, or are they placating Tony and Ashton?”
“I can’t tell. The sheriff seemed like a nice guy, but I don’t know him or anyone else in the department. I’m flying a little blind, here. He said he’s waiting for tox results, but they don’t have their own lab, so that could take a while.”
“How long a while?”
“A couple of weeks. Maybe three,” I said. “It’s not as complicated as a DNA analysis. Just testing his blood for hydrocodone levels and alcohol. It depends on what’s in the queue.”
“Painkillers?” Parker raised an eyebrow.
“There was an empty bottle in his pocket. His folks said he just got the prescription refilled.”
“And alcohol? TJ wasn’t stupid,” Parker said. “He knows better than to drink and take painkillers.”
“I think that’s their evidence that he did it on purpose,” I said gently. “It’s the why that doesn’t fit for me.”
“Yeah.” He shook his head again as he stood. “I should let you finish your story.”
“Bob wants it early. Thanks for the scoop. I hope I do it justice.”
“You will,” he said, turning for the hallway that led to his office. “Keep me in the loop, huh?”
“Absolutely. I’m not sure how far I can get a foot in the door down there. It is a small town. Like, one stoplight, the-7-Eleven-clerk-gave-me-the-stinkeye-because-I-don’t-belong small. But I’ll keep after it.”
“Thanks.”
I finished typing my story, alternately giggling at funny anecdotes the Okersons had shared and swallowing tears at the memory of the little girls who missed their brother. Reading through it, I hoped it was good enough to make Ashton Okerson’s day a teensy bit easier.
I copied Parker when I emailed the article to Bob, just in time to sprint to the staff meeting. Well, it felt like sprinting, but was probably more like dragging ass thanks to what I suspected was a full-blown sinus infection.
I stopped short when I rounded the corner into my editor’s office and found Shelby Taylor parked in my usual seat.
Standing just inside the door, I shot Bob a clear WTF look and got an apologetic shrug in reply.
“Good morning, Nichelle,” Shelby purred, folding her arms over her ample chest and grinning up at me. “You look as fresh as ever.”
I didn’t even have the energy to glare. Shelby was our copy chief, but made no bones about the fact that she wanted to be our crime reporter. And she’d tried everything from sleeping with the managing editor to ratting me out to the criminal underworld to get it, too.
I leaned toward her and coughed. She wrinkled her nose and shrank back into the orange velour of Bob’s Virginia Tech chic armchair.
“You should consider things like the freedom to take a sick day when you’re trying to steal someone’s beat,” I said.
“I don’t get sick,” she snapped. “Seems like you should take more vitamins.”
I turned to Bob. “What the hell is she doing in here, and can you make her leave?”
“Now, ladies,” he said. “Nichelle, Shelby’s filling in for Les for the next week.”
“She’s what? A whole week?” I tried to groan, but it sounded more like a snort. “Why? What happened to Les?”
Our managing editor had never been one of my favorite people. He was a brown-nosing weasel who wanted Bob’s job as badly as Shelby wanted mine, but given the choice between my rival and her boyfriend, I’d take Les twice over.
“He’s recovering from surgery,” Shelby chirped. “Andrews asked me himself if I’d step in.”
Right. Rick Andrews was the Telegraph’s publisher, and didn’t care about much of anything but the paper’s bottom line and image. Les was generally so far up Andrews’s backside the big boss didn’t have time to notice any of the rest of us. I had a hard time believing he knew Shelby existed.
“How is it that we work in a newsroom and I hadn’t heard Les was having surgery?” I asked. “Is he going to be okay?”
“It
’s a minor procedure,” Shelby said, fiddling with the file folder in her lap.
“A minor procedure he needs a week to recover from?” I perched on a plastic office chair. “I’m practically dying, and here I sit.”
“Are y’all talking about Les’s hair plugs again?” Eunice Blakely, our features editor, asked as she ambled into the room and lowered herself slowly into the orange velour armchair opposite Shelby’s. Eunice’s war correspondent days had ended when a helicopter crash in Iraq earned her a half-dozen screws in her right hip. In the years since, she’d made our features section a consistent award-winner, and made herself our resident mistress of Southern cooking and wry observation.
I sucked in my cheeks to keep from smiling.
“I think it will look good when it’s healed,” Shelby argued.
“But isn’t the point for people to notice he looks different? Why hide? Also—why are you here?” I asked Shelby. “Les doesn’t usually come to the news meetings.”
“I want to know what I need to be on top of today,” Shelby said with a grin. “Just trying to learn as much as I can from this opportunity.”
Bob rolled his eyes, but she didn’t notice, and I coughed again to cover a laugh. He knew as well as I did Shelby was there because she wouldn’t miss an excuse to crash the meeting.
The rest of the section editors filed in and Bob flash-fired through the rundown, not turning to me until the end.
“We have an exclusive on a sad story today,” he said, his gaze flicking to Spencer Jacobs, our sports editor. “We’re going live with it on the web as I speak, because the police report will be in the local paper in Mathews County this morning.”
He paused and sat back in the chair, eyes on me. Whispers flitted through the rest of the room.
“What’s Nichelle got?” Eunice finally asked Spence. “And what’s it got to do with you?”
“Tony Okerson’s teenage son is dead,” I said quietly when Bob nodded an okay.
Small Town Spin Page 3