by Casey Dunn
One man is standing alone by the burning barrel. He is wearing my coat.
Where is my father’s walking stick?
I haul to my feet, steadying myself on the dumpster.
“I just want my walking stick,” I say.
He glances at me and pokes at the fire with a piece of rebar, conjuring sparks. I don’t see my father’s walking stick, but he has it. I know he does.
“You keep on wanting, then,” he says.
“Garnet sent me,” I say, and it comes out like a plea. The man pauses his stirring.
“I threw that stick in the dumpster,” he says after a few seconds. “It’s got bad juju on it. I think you best leave it behind. You leave it in the trash, then you can stay, and you won’t have any more trouble. If you take it out, you best get on out of my alley and not ever come back,” he says.
I lean into the dumpster, retrieve my father’s stick, wondering at the vibration I feel when I touch the wood, if that’s the juju he’s talking about. I glance at the man, who watches me from under a hood of lowered eyelids, hands still and clasped at his front like he’s standing over a casket, listening to a preacher talk to God about someone who’s neither in the ground nor in heaven. The hum from my father’s stick grows stronger, tunneling from my palm, up my arm, and into my chest. I want shelter. I want security. But this feeling, this electricity, is akin to a heartbeat, to breathing, and I cannot imagine waking up tomorrow without it within reach.
I pulse my grip, turn around, and limp away.
MARTIN Chapter 31 | 7:45 AM, December 2, 2006 | Tarson, Georgia
MARTIN WAS STOOPED OVER HIS notepad, studying the details of Ama’s external injuries despite the explicit instructions Captain had given him to cease all work on the case, when the main door to the station swung open. A heavy-set, middle-aged woman blew in like a storm come ashore, her graying hair pulled back, face flushed, features severe with intent. Sunlight glared in after her, and Martin was nearly afraid to look at the clock, although he could tell by smelling himself that he’d been in the same clothes for at least twenty-four hours.
“Who’s in charge here?” she blustered to no one in particular.
“In charge of what, ma’am?” Martin asked, swiping at the wrinkles on his shirt as he pushed back from his desk.
“The case! Ama Chaplin’s case!” She glared harder.
Martin stole a glimpse of the captain’s office to verify that he hadn’t yet returned from his meeting at the Georgia Bureau of Investigation, at which he was planning to hand them the damn reins to Ama’s case. Save Martin and this woman, this section of the station was empty.
He stood. “I’m Detective Martin Locklear. How can I help you?”
“Why haven’t charges been filed yet? Why isn’t anyone telling me anything?”
“What is your relationship with Ama Chaplin?” Martin asked. He drew his pad of paper closer to him with a finger.
“I’m her assistant.”
“Lindsey Harold?” Martin recalled. Her name had appeared on the call log multiple times. They’d tried to question her formally over the phone twice, but she had been so adamant to do the questioning herself that they’d gotten absolutely nowhere.
“That’s correct.” Lindsey exhaled through her slender nose, nostrils flaring, and crossed her arms at her front. “If anyone at your station had done their job the first time I called, she might never have been taken by that man. I tried to give you information before all this started and no one would listen.”
“The first time you called, you asked us to run a plate on a van legally parked in a parking lot. The second time you called it was after 5:30 PM Whatever happened to Ama had very likely already begun. This isn’t on you.”
Her expression turned to stone. “It’s on you.”
“It’s on the man who did this.” Martin leveled his gaze at her, sizing her up in a matter of seconds: highly anxious, usually right, underestimated, and overlooked. He’d worked this personality type more times than he could count.
He started again. “I’ve really needed your help, actually.”
“Clearly.”
“Tell me about your role as Ama’s assistant. What do you do for her?”
“I make and take phone calls. I do research. I grab her lunch or coffee.”
“She called you when she felt unsafe, Lindsey. I think you’re more to her than a gopher.”
Lindsey blinked, and she shifted foot to foot. “We spend a lot of time together. It’s part of the job.”
He gestured to the chair next to him, inviting her to sit. She perched on the front of the chair, her back rigid, both feet flat on the floor.
“Right now, I need the help of someone who knows Ama well. Some pieces of this case are not adding up. I need to understand more of who Ama is and who might want to hurt her. This looks very personal, and we can’t find any evidence that she knows the man from the parking lot. Whoever did this to your friend knew her before today.”
“Ama doesn’t really have friends.”
“None?” Martin leaned back, watching her closely.
“None who would do this, and none who would talk to you.”
“You’re a smart woman who works for a criminal defense attorney. I’m sure you have a head full of statistics about how many victims know their attacker and how seldom it’s a random event,” he pressed.
“I’m telling you, it’s the wrong tree.”
Martin nodded, making a note to dig deeper into Ama’s personal life. Lindsey would probably be more cooperative if he had specific details. She might be good at stonewalling, but she didn’t strike him as a liar. “What about enemies?” he asked.
“She doesn’t have a lot of enemies, either. Not like that. Prosecutors don’t like her because she’s good at tearing apart their cases, but they respect her, too. She’s not dirty. She plays by the rules. Most of the time. As much as any of them do.”
“Sure.” Martin nodded.
“Sometimes victims’ families will send her nasty letters. I think her car was spray-painted once, but that was a couple years ago. There hasn’t been anything recent. And she just lost a huge case. No angry families there.”
“What kind of case?”
“Vehicular homicide. It’s been all over the news.”
“I’m new in town. And I don’t have cable.”
“Pro athlete was involved in an auto crash. There was a fatality in the other car. Six-month-old infant. He’s looking at fifteen years in prison. He wasn’t even driving.”
Her gaze briefly sought the window. Martin would’ve bet the bank the athlete was absolutely in the driver’s seat.
“You don’t think her client would come after her?” he asked. “Or maybe a teammate? A fan?”
“She didn’t tell anyone she was coming up here. We got the verdict, she grabbed her gym bag out of her office closet, and she split. She didn’t even tell me where she was until after she got there. No one knew. I even called… around. She hadn’t told anyone.”
“Do you know why she became a defense attorney? It’s a cold line of work,” Martin asked, shifting tactics. He starred the earlier note he’d made about Ama’s alleged lack of friends. He wished he could subpoena Lindsey’s phone records, but he had no cause.
“It’s a necessary line of work,” Lindsey countered.
“Your day was undone by someone being held responsible for the death of an infant.”
“That’s not fair.”
Martin shrugged.
“Innocent people are wrongfully convicted more than anyone wants to believe. Ama knows that better than anyone,” Lindsey replied.
“Because of her job?” Martin pressed.
“You wouldn’t believe some of the things she’s seen.”
Lindsey’s throat and ears turned pink, and Martin wondered at the details she was clearly keeping from him, at the way they damn near set her face on fire just by holding on to them. Why was everything regarding Ama Chaplin’s life beyon
d the courtroom so categorically off-limits? Lindsey shifted, preparing to stand.
Martin fished in his drawer and extracted his card. “Call me if you think of anything. Do you know of any family I might be able to contact?”
“No family. She was an only child, and her parents are deceased.”
“Aunts, uncles…?” Martin stayed seated. Lindsey seemed more relaxed with height on her side.
After a pause, she answered, “None that I know of. Ama keeps her private life private, and she certainly doesn’t bring it to work.”
As she tucked his card into her purse, his direct line rang. He held up a finger, motioning for Lindsey to wait, but she was already backing away. She gave him one last look, her lips pressed together in a line, before spinning on her heel and heading for the door.
“Detective Locklear,” he said into the phone. He covered the receiver with his hand, preparing to call out to Lindsey.
“This is Cathy Richards. I’m a nurse at Dalton Medical, Ama Chaplin’s nurse. She woke up,” she said, her pitch high with excitement, and Martin forgot all about Lindsey Harold and her blushing face. “Just for a few seconds. She’s back out now. But she woke up.”
Martin nearly leaped up from his chair, but he couldn’t very well bolt down to the hospital. This kind of update should have gone straight to the GBI.
“Did she say anything?” he asked quietly.
“Maybe. But I don’t know if it’s going to help you any.”
“Why? What did she say?” Martin pressed the speaker harder against his ear.
“It sounded like she was saying ‘Hazel.’ She said it a couple times. Then she was back out.”
Martin covered his mouth with his hand, his mind racing with what that tiny word could mean to the case, to Eddie. Until he was sure of what Ama knew, he couldn’t risk anyone else finding out.
“Do me a favor,” he finally said. “Do not tell anyone else what you just told me.”
MARTIN Chapter 32 | 8:00 AM, December 2, 2006 | Tarson, Georgia
MARTIN BOLTED FROM HIS DESK for the interview room where Eddie was still waiting. He sat down across from Eddie, the other man’s daughter’s name circling his head, marking time with his pulse in two beats. Ha-zel Ha-zel. He wanted to blurt it out, to take Eddie by his big, stooped shoulders and shake him, shout that a break in his daughter’s case was on the horizon and watch for the change on the surface of his eyes. Dependent upon what he saw in that moment, he would be sure—irrefutably sure—about Eddie Stevens.
“Ama Chaplin woke up,” he finally said, staring directly at Eddie. Eddie broke into a grin before covering his mouth with both hands. As Martin watched, Eddie’s entire upper half folded onto the table, damn near melted, and he wept into the laminate, tears and mucus painting four shiny lines on his face.
“What did she say?” Eddie asked between gulps of air, righting himself.
“You get one chance to change your story. One.” Martin held up a finger. “Then I’ll tell you what she said.”
“It happened like I told you it happened,” Eddie said, and his brows came down, casting shadows over his eyes. “I don’t got anything to hide from you. Every word I’ve said in here has been the God’s honest truth.”
Martin pushed up from his chair, frustration squalling in his chest.
“What did Ama say?” Eddie asked, and confusion lit upon his features.
If Martin stayed in here any longer, he knew he would tell Eddie about how half his daughter’s name was written in blood on his jacket, that the same name had sailed out of the mouth of the woman he shot the moment she regained consciousness. Martin moved for the door.
“Detective!” Eddie shouted at his back, but Martin didn’t turn around. He swept down the hall and rounded the corner, nearly colliding with the captain. Captain’s eyes glistened with drink, and his face was cleanly shaved, probably both effects of his meeting with the GBI.
“Ama woke up,” Martin blurted out. “She said ‘Hazel,’ sir. She woke up for five seconds and said ‘Hazel.’ We can’t give Ama’s case to the GBI. Ama knew about Hazel. She even wrote it on Eddie’s jacket. Ama knew—I’m not wrong about that. I’m not done with this case.” Martin was halfway between pleading and barking at his superior officer. “Get the case back.”
Martin stared at the captain, marveling at his relaxed composure—his hands in his pockets, his chin nodding gently—and felt insane in comparison.
“I didn’t give the case away,” Captain said. “Not yet. You have twenty-four hours to prove to me that you should remain the lead on this case. After that, it goes up the chain. I’m delaying this for Eddie, not for you. So don’t be wrong again.” He paused to glare at Martin, then added, “Are you lying about Ama saying ‘Hazel’?”
“No, sir.”
Martin’s mind was reeling, the sudden weight of the case passed back into his hands so quickly throwing him off-kilter. He felt unprepared, as if he hadn’t closed his hands in time to catch it, and now it was like a stone dropped on a pane of glass. “Nurse called while you were gone,” Martin said. “She said Ama was only lucid for a few seconds. She’s back out now.”
“Make sure that information does not leave the hospital,” Captain cautioned. “Not until we know what it means. And do not under any circumstance say the name ‘Hazel’ to Eddie until you are surer about what happened to that girl than anything you’ve ever been sure about in your life.”
“What about that list Eddie had of people gone missing from this area? It probably goes back a decade or more. You said it yourself—people vanish in Tarson. What if Hazel isn’t the linchpin? What if she’s the tip of the iceberg?” Martin asked.
“Don’t say shit like that in here.” Captain rubbed his face, and weariness returned to his weather-beaten features.
“Still, it might be worth a look.”
“You can’t even find out what happened to one woman when we got the man admitting he shot her sitting down the hall. You want to try to link every person who’s gone missing in those woods in the last ten years?”
“It could be a forest-for-the-trees situation here, Captain.”
“I said don’t say shit like that.”
“I just need to broaden the lens.”
“Jesus. Your twenty-four hours started the second I told you that you had it. You waste it however you want. But just remember, Eddie’s fate is in your hands.”
“It’s his work I want to look at. But I need your help. I don’t know this town or these people like you do. I need you to give me the CliffsNotes on these cases, especially where a body was never found. Please, Captain. For Eddie.”
Captain looked down the hall to the room where Eddie was detained. He pressed his lips together, then glanced back at Martin.
“Convince Eddie to stay of his own free will. That way we can help delay formal charges and keep his face out of the public eye for a little longer. Set him up in the spare office.”
“There’s a spare office?” Martin asked, swinging his gaze over his shoulder.
Captain pointed past Martin at the door no one ever opened. “The detective we had a while back was set up in there. Liked to keep all his boxes with him instead of in storage. Crowded the whole damn main room, so we stuck him and all his stuff in there. In hindsight I think that was his goal all along.”
“You told me that was the janitor’s closet,” Martin responded.
“Have you ever seen a janitor around here? And you call yourself a detective.” Sarcasm turned the captain’s voice nearly playful. Then he shook his head. “There’s a desk and a couch in there, probably still covered in boxes. Guy was a hoarder. Get it cleaned out for me and move all the boxes into storage. Eddie will at least have somewhere to sleep. There’s a mini fridge you can stock with water and food for him, and it has its own little bathroom with the world’s smallest shower. There’s no window or door to the outside, and the interior door locks. Better than a cell, but it should still get the point across that
he’s not off the hook for this yet. We’re going to keep his phone for now, too. See if anyone calls. Once you get all that squared away, bring Eddie’s research and the evidence from Ama’s shooting, and meet me in room two.”
Martin stared back at him, speechless and altogether irritated. His blood throbbed with stress and fatigue, and he tasted the bitter trail of swallowing a pill dry. He’d wanted this case back—begged for it.
“Oh, and, Detective,” Captain continued as he began walking away, “if you want your name on that office door, you’ve got to earn it.”
Martin watched him disappear into the filing room, but all he could think about was the mental image of that stone sailing through a sheet of paper-thin glass, and at his feet were broken shards scattered in all directions.
AMA Chapter 33 | 11:45 AM, December 2, 2006 | Dalton, Georgia
EVERYTHING HURT. HER HAIR HURT. Her toenails. Ama twisted from her left to her right. She sandwiched her head between two flimsy pillows and stared at the mist condensing in beads on the outside of the windowpane. A cart clattered by her closed door, and she made a mental note to suggest that ICU rooms be made soundproof. Unless those carts could bring her a few shots and a decent chaser. Then she would welcome their arrival on the hour, every hour.
She picked up the button for her morphine drip and put it down again. She needed to remember what had happened. She’d been shot—it was hard to argue with a bullet hole. She knew victims oftentimes didn’t remember much after the initial blow of a violent attack, a phenomenon called barrel focus, where the survivor can’t remember anything visual past the end of the gun. It was easy to discredit witnesses with shaky descriptions to start. By the time Ama was done with them, they weren’t usually sure if they’d been attacked by her client or their own mother.
This side of it—the not-knowing, the darkness, the void in her brain—was utter hell. It was as spongy and thick as the swelling on her sprained ankle, too crowded yet undefined, and when she prodded the space for reaction, it hurt just as bad as a hard jab to the injured joint.