The Flats

by Kate Birdsall

  I’m sorry to whoever finds this.

  Please forgive me. I cannot go on knowing.

  I can’t stand living with Kevin’s death.

  Never should have gotten so angry.

  Never meant to hurt him.

  I don’t know what else to say.

  In the end, it didn’t matter if I lived or died.

  Detective Boyle, I appreciate you reaching out to me.

  “Get in the habit of seeing in the dark.”

  Allie

  The handwriting doesn’t look like the stalker’s, or whatever we’re calling him. I forward the attachment to Fishner and Goran.

  The note is bizarre. It’s nothing like any suicide note I’ve ever read. And the “seeing in the dark” line reminds me of those creepy haiku. I’m certain that whoever’s stalking me also killed Allie and tried to make it look like suicide. I pour myself my bourbon ration for the day.

  Looking for a distraction, I turn on the TV. As soon as I plop down on the couch, Ivan jumps into my lap. I doze off at some point to the sound of his purring.

  I wake up at the sound of a loud commercial, advertising some kind of special pillow. I glance at the clock: 2:14. Before I turn off the lights, I make sure the front door is bolted. In the dark, I look outside and spot the Heights unmarked car in the parking lot next to the Passat. My gun goes on the nightstand.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  The next morning, Fishner sends us after Craig Phillips. Goran and I lead Roberts and Domislaw to Cuyahoga Falls. The nosy-but-helpful neighbor is on his porch when the four of us pull up in front of the Phillips’ house. I catch his eye, and he nods before going inside.

  “Roberts, Domislaw, one of you take the side door and one take the back door.”

  They nod, and I wait ninety seconds for them to get in place before I pound on the door with the heel of my hand. Goran stands beside me.

  Marnie Phillips opens the door. “Shit, you again? What now?”

  “Is your husband at home?” Goran asks.

  “No, he said he had to run some errands.”

  “When is he going to be home?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “We have a few more questions. Can we come in?” I ask.

  She rolls her eyes. “Do I really have a choice?” She holds the door open.

  I lead her into the living room. I’m not playing good cop today, not when we have Craig right in our crosshairs. “Have a seat, Marnie.”

  She takes a seat on the couch, so I perch on the coffee table in front of her. I’m going to go at her as if I think she’s guilty. If she gives her husband up, this will wrap up nice and tight.

  “Marnie, I need you to give us permission to take a look around. It’ll look much better for you if you cooperate today. Yesterday was bullshit, and we don’t have time for more bullshit right now.”

  Goran clears his throat from his position in the doorway to the kitchen. I ignore him and stay focused on Marnie.

  “What the hell is going on?” she asks. “Didn’t I answer your questions already?”

  “You tell me what’s going on, Marnie. Now, can we take a look around, or should I call the prosecutor and get a warrant? I’ll say it again: it’s better for you if we don’t need that warrant.” We can’t get a warrant, because we’d need Cuyahoga Falls’ cooperation, and they’re not real well known for cooperating. But she wouldn’t know that.

  She drops her head. Her longish brown hair hangs in front of her eyes. In some ways, she looks like the stereotypical female con.

  I don’t want her to think too much. “Look at me,” I say.

  When she does, I nod. She was the little girl in the bloody pajamas that I tried to help in that police zone car all those years ago.

  I lean forward and put my elbows on my knees. My face is less than two feet from hers. She leans back, but there’s nowhere to go.

  It’s time to find out if she knows that her husband is stalking me. “The business cards. The weird note in the mail. The text messages. What do you know about those?”

  She shakes her head. “I honestly have no idea what you’re talking about.” Her hands tremble when she pushes her hair out of her face. “I promise you. What business cards?”

  “Is your husband a writer? Tell me what he likes to write about.”

  She chews on her bottom lip until it starts to bleed. “What are you talking about? Craig is a mechanic, not a writer.” She starts to cry.

  “Listen, Marnie, I’m not stupid. And neither are you. So it doesn’t make much sense to me that you surround yourself with idiots who couldn’t put two sentences together, much less quote some dead philosopher all over the place. And that, in my mind, means that you are fucking with me, which I don’t like very much. That philosophy book on your shelf, when was the last time you looked at it?”

  “What philosophy book?”

  “The Republic. It’s next to Designing Effective Assessment.”

  “Uh, it’s from my college philosophy class. I like to keep my books,” she says.

  “When was the last time you looked at it?”

  She screws up her eyebrows. “Probably when I was in college?”

  “I can take that book into evidence now and arrest you.” I pull a search consent form out of my inside pocket and lay it and my pen in front of her. “Or you can sign this form right now. You choose.”

  She stares at the form for several seconds then covers her face with her hands. “Holy fuck. Fine.” She picks up the pen and signs the form. “Look around. You won’t find anything.”

  “Green light,” I tell Goran as I slide the form back into my pocket. “Get Roberts and Domislaw.”

  He nods and moves out of the doorway.

  “Where is Craig?” I ask again.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Does he hang out in Cleveland a lot?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe?”

  “Does he ever tell you where he’s going?”

  “Not really, no.”

  Goran reappears in the doorway. “What’s behind the dead bolted door?”

  “The basement,” she replies in a whisper.

  “Why is there a dead bolt on your basement door?”

  “I don’t know.”

  The frustration is making my neck hot. “Where are the keys? Or should we kick the door in?” Goran asks.

  “He keeps the key with him,” she mutters.

  Goran turns away and says something to Roberts and Domislaw in the kitchen.

  “It opens in, so I’ll kick it,” Roberts says loud enough for us to hear.

  Goran comes back and stands in the doorway again.

  “Are they really going to kick the door in?” Marnie asks. “Craig won’t be happy.”

  “What happens when Craig is unhappy?” I ask.

  “He acts like a fucking asshole,” she mumbles.

  “Does he hurt you?”

  “Not usually.”

  Three loud cracks come from the kitchen then a slamming noise. “Got it,” Roberts calls.

  “Why is your basement door dead bolted?” I ask. “Did Craig have the kid down there for a while before he killed him in Sean’s garage?”

  She turns white. “Detective, I swear to everything. God, Allah, Satan, Zeus, whatever. Everything.” She swallows hard. “I think I’m going to throw up.” She starts to stand, but I push her back down.

  “Breathe,” I tell her. “Goran, will you get her some water, please?”

  He leaves for a minute then comes back with a glass of water. I take it and hand it to Marnie.

  “Drink it,” I tell her.

  As she’s sipping the water and trying to hold it together, someone stomps up the basement stairs. I assume it’s Roberts and not Domislaw, based on how quickly the footsteps mo
ve.

  “Boyle, Goran, you need to see what’s down there,” Roberts says from the doorway to the kitchen. “Now.”

  “Get in here to sit with her, then,” I reply, not looking away from Marnie’s terrified eyes.

  “What’s down there?” she asks.

  Roberts comes over and stands next to me. “Go,” he tells me.

  I push myself off the coffee table. “Keep breathing, Marnie,” I say on my way into the kitchen.

  I jog down the steep basement stairs then pause to let my eyes adjust to the dim light. It’s a pretty clean area. Some boxes labeled “Xmas decorations” sit on a wooden pallet in the far left corner. On the wall to the right are an old couch, a coffee table, and a deflated air mattress. Across from that are a dartboard and a mini refrigerator. I walk over and take a peek inside the fridge: a few cans of Coors Light, a dried-up slice of pizza on a paper plate, and a cellophane-wrapped chunk of what looks like summer sausage. To the left, behind the washer and dryer, is a door that looks as though it could lead outside, if not for that board screwed across it. I remember seeing a bulkhead outside. A makeshift wall separates me from where Domislaw and Goran are standing. I go around it to see what has their attention.

  Behind the barrier, the furnace and hot water heater frame the door to an old fruit cellar. Domislaw and Goran stand in the doorway, illuminated from behind by a lightbulb hanging from the ceiling by a cord.

  “Not exactly up to code, is it?” I chuckle.

  Neither man laughs as they move out of the way.

  “Liz, you should see this,” Goran says.

  As I step forward, I notice the splintered wood on the doorframe. They must have broken it to gain access.

  In the middle of the room, an empty fifth of cheap vodka and an ashtray filled with butts sit on the floor next to a wooden stool, the only furniture in the space. The gray cinder-block wall to the left is plastered with images of me. The pictures progress in order, in four rows, beginning with my academy picture in the upper left and ending in the bottom right with a photograph of me kneeling next to Anthony the night we found Kevin Whittle. Some of them are available online, and I recognize several that were cut out of the print version of the Plain Dealer. But a couple, including one of me outside Guido’s the day I had lunch with Christopher, are candid shots that I’ve never seen.

  The opposite wall is the same style but with photographs of Teresa Whittle that roughly correspond to the timeline depicted on my wall. Kevin is in a few of them. The last eight photos in the series, set off in their own row, are of Kevin with Allie Cox.

  “Holy shit. Did you photograph this?” I ask.

  Goran nods and waves the camera at me. I look from wall to wall, left to right, trying to match the pictures. Above the top row on my side is a photograph of me at about eight, reaching up to hold my dad’s hand. On Teresa’s side is a picture of a very young Teresa with another young woman holding a baby. In the middle of the bottom row on my side is a photograph of me with Christopher outside my mom’s apartment building. On Teresa’s side is a photograph of her with Kevin at the park.

  “What the fuck is this?” I point at the overflowing ashtray. “Bag those cigarette butts. DNA.” I back out of the room, shaking my head. “This is nuts.” Goran puts a hand on my shoulder, but I shake him off. “I’m fine. Let’s keep looking around. Get photos of all of this.”

  I check behind the furnace, and I find a pillow and a green sheet. “Bag this,” I tell Dom. “Photograph it first.” I turn to Goran. “Green sheet. This is it.”

  He nods.

  “Holy shit, this is it,” I repeat.

  Behind the water heater is a curtained doorway. “What kind of little shop of horrors is this?” I whisper. I pull back the cloth to reveal a badly installed makeshift bathroom. I search the small area, and behind the toilet, I find something wrapped in a trash bag.

  “Dom, in here,” I call. “Photograph this,” I say, gesturing at the bag.

  He takes several shots from different angles, then I gently pull it out from behind the toilet. I open the trash bag and remove a large pair of branch cutters.

  “Murder weapon. Holy shit. Photos.” I set the branch cutters on the toilet lid so Domislaw can get some more pictures.

  Something was under the bag. I bend down to get a closer look. A kid’s glove. “Here, too, Dom,” I say, pointing.

  “There’s a lot of physical evidence here,” Goran says.

  “Good job, Captain Obvious,” I snap, but then I feel bad. “I’m sorry. That wall of weirdness freaks me out.”

  He nods. “Yeah, it’s pretty freaky.”

  “We need to get Crime Scene here right away. Will you call? Ask Jo to come personally. She’s the best.”

  I move back into the larger room so I can breathe. This is it. We’ve got him. I pull out my phone and call Fishner. “Marnie Phillips. Craig Phillips. We got consent to search. There’s evidence. Dead bolted basement. Possible murder weapon, a kid’s glove, and a weird shrine-like thing with Teresa Whittle and me. It’s nuts.”

  “You’re talking too fast, Boyle. Slow down. Start over.”

  I force myself to slow down and tell her again about finding the murder weapon and the creepy stalking walls.

  “Well, we obviously need to run forensics on the branch cutters, but I’ll call Teresa now. Good work, Boyle.” She tells me to bring Marnie in to the station so we can interview her and, maybe, book her as an accessory.

  “I’m going back upstairs,” I call to the guys. “Bag everything. Every fucking thing. We’ve got him.”

  I jog back upstairs and go into the living room, where Marnie is sitting on the couch, tears rolling down her face. “Marnie? Why are you crying?”

  She hunches forward and stares at the coffee table.

  I look at Roberts. He just shrugs.

  I go over and stand on the other side of the coffee table. “Tell me the deal with the basement.” I try to use my witness voice, but the adrenaline interferes.

  She doesn’t raise her head. “You’re talking about the locked room, right? I’m not allowed in there. I’m not really even allowed downstairs.”

  “You’re not allowed in your own basement? You live here. What do you mean?”

  She stops crying. “It’s Craig’s area. I don’t go in there.”

  “It’s Craig’s area? What does that mean?”

  She doesn’t respond.

  “You’ve never once been curious? You never sneak down there when he’s not home?”

  She shakes her head. “He keeps the key with him. He needs his space. I get it.”

  “Marnie, quit fucking with me.” I stand and lean forward with my hands on the coffee table. “I’m serious. This is getting really irritating.”

  “I swear to God, I’m not fucking with you! Why would I fuck with you? Why would I?” Her voice has a hysterical edge.

  “Maybe because of that night at the foster home,” I reply, sitting back down. “Look at me.”

  She raises her eyes to my face.

  I don’t know what will get through to her, but I need a reaction of some kind. “Do you keep in touch with Elizabeth and Jennifer and Sarah?”

  She shudders and looks back down at the table.

  I give her a second, but she remains silent. Someone pulls into the driveway. “Roberts, I’m guessing that’s Jo and her team. Can you please take them downstairs if it is?”

  He nods and leaves. I move over to sit in the recliner. I try to look relaxed as I lean back and cross my legs.

  “It sounds crazy,” Marnie whispers, “but I always knew I’d see you again.” Something in her eyes tells me that she’s going numb. “My life is shitty and pathetic.”

  I feel an expression on my face, one I’m unfamiliar with, before I make it blank cop-mug again. “Marnie, look. Just tell us about the base
ment, okay? Have you seen what’s down there?”

  She shakes her head. “I told you I’m not allowed in there. Craig calls it his ‘man cave.’ I mean, he dead bolts the fucking cellar and has another lock on that stupid room. God knows what he has in there. He’s such an asshole. He keeps saying he’s going to redo the basement, put in a better washer and dryer, make a TV room so we can move that giant thing out of here.” She gestures at the television. “Of course, he never does any of it. It’s all talk. He’s such a prick.”

  “So Craig kept you out of the basement.” Why the hell does she stay married to an asshole who’s all talk?

  She nods. “I swear to God that I did not do anything. Now or ever before.” She meets my eyes. “I’ve always had good memories of you. You were nice to me. You tried to protect me the night the cat died, way back when.”

  I force a smile. I kind of feel bad about being so cold right now, but I need to separate myself from the guilt I have about that night ten years ago. It’s a moot point. Besides, I’m a different Liz. She’s a different Marnie. “We’re going to take you up to Cleveland, Marnie, and have a longer conversation there. But tell me again, and I want the truth this time, was Craig with you in Columbus?”

  She shakes her head. “No, I went alone,” she whispers then starts to cry again.

  “And two nights ago. Did Craig come home?”

  “Yeah, but then he left again at, like, two thirty.”

  That window is more than enough time for Craig to have driven to Cleveland and killed Allie Cox. “You have two cars, right? Which one did you take to Columbus?”

  “I took the Camry to Columbus. Sean was borrowing the Focus while his truck was broken down.”

  “How long did Sean have the Focus?”

  She shrugs. “I don’t know. About ten days, maybe? He brought it back last Friday morning. Just dropped it off, you know.”

  “And last Thursday night? Were you really in all night?”

  “I was. Craig was out. He just said he had something he had to do.”

  So he could have killed Kevin Whittle. “Why did you lie before, when you said that he was with you?”