The Flats

by Kate Birdsall

  She sighs. “I don’t know.”

  “Do you know a man by the name of Ricky Harris?”

  She thinks for several seconds. “Craig has a friend named Ricky, but I don’t know his last name. He’s been here a few times. He knows Sean, too. He’s a bad influence. I think he manages one of those strip clubs up there. Craig hangs out there a lot. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you that before.” She shakes her head. “Look, I know that Craig isn’t a good guy, okay? But neither one of us killed anybody.”

  She looks as though she’s telling the truth, but maybe she just doesn’t know her husband very well. Believing something and having it be true are different things.

  “They always hang out in the basement,” she says. “Smoking pot, drinking, acting like assholes.”

  “Who are ‘they’?”

  “Sean and Craig. And Sarah’s been around more the past few weeks, since she got evicted. She crashed down there for a couple weeks. Her boyfriend’s been around, too. Nice guy. Not like the dirtbags she usually dates.”

  “Who’s Sarah? The Sarah from the foster home?” Someone sleeping in the basement explains the air mattress.

  She nods. “Sean’s and my foster sister. Sean and I are biological siblings. Sarah was the third one in the house. We grew up with her.”

  The third kid. The older girl. The one who came down the hallway that night with those big, calm eyes.

  “It’s a kind of bond,” she says. “We went through all that shit together. Sean and I had each other, but she had no one. No father, her mom in jail, no other family except for the aunt who put Sarah’s mom away then turned her back on Sarah, let her go into that fucked-up system. We’ve all suffered. The three of us—hell, all four of us—have been through things you wouldn’t imagine.”

  Goran steps into the doorway. “Guess who just came home. We’ve got him outside.”

  “Is Jo Micalec here?”

  He nods and then disappears.

  I get up and walk over to Marnie. “Marnie Phillips, I’m arresting you on the suspicion of homicide.” I Mirandize her, even though every instinct in me says she had nothing to do with this. I take her arm and pull her to her feet then handcuff her.

  I call for Roberts. When he comes in from the kitchen, I tell him to stay with Marnie. I move quickly through the house and out the front door, where Dom has Craig cuffed in the driveway.

  “Fuck you,” Craig says when I approach. “Who the fuck are you? What is this about?”

  “C’mon, Craig. You know exactly what this is about,” I say. I turn to Domislaw. “Read him his rights and impound the car.”

  “This is bullshit!” Craig yells. “Fuck you, you fucking bitch!”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  When we get back to the station, Craig is already ensconced in the interview room.

  Fishner strides over, looking proud of us but trying to downplay it because we don’t know enough yet. “Goran, you take the first shot at Craig. I don’t want him distracted by Boyle.” She hands me a file folder. “Domislaw’s photos. You weren’t kidding when you said that was nuts.” I take the folder and tuck it under my arm.

  Fishner and I go to the observation room. She turns up the volume on the speakers as we take our seats. Craig is sitting with his elbows on the table and his head in his hands. He has engine grease under his fingernails and wears a dirty Carhartt jacket and stained pants. His work boots are huge. They must be a size thirteen or more. I wonder if any of those dark stains are Kevin Whittle’s blood. Allie Cox’s blood. He looks up when Goran enters the room.

  Goran flips a chair around and sits on it backward. “What do you have to say for yourself?”

  Craig’s leg jiggles under the table. He throws his greasy hair off his forehead. “Look, if this is about the stolen property, I’ll tell you everything. Just promise me I won’t do any time.”

  “We don’t give two shits about stolen property,” Goran says. “How ’bout that kid you killed? Why don’t you take me through what happened?”

  Craig blinks hard a couple of times. “Wait a minute. I’m under arrest for murder?”

  “Capital murder. And we like you for another murder, too. And stalking.”

  “I want a lawyer. This is bullshit. I—”

  I’m through the door before Fishner can stop me. I slide into the interview room and close the door behind me. “Tell me about that room in your basement.”

  “I didn’t mean to call you a bitch,” he says, hanging his head. “I’m sorry.”

  Contrition. That’s what I like to see. “The locked room, Craig.”

  “What room?”

  Goran pounds his fist on the table, making our suspect jump a little. “The fucking room, with the stupid lock, that you wallpapered with pictures of Detective Boyle and those other people. The room where you kept that kid. Start there.”

  Craig shakes his head. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I haven’t even been in there in months. I was working on the bathroom.”

  “Oh, yeah?” Goran says. “Fixing the toilet, huh?”

  He nods. “Yeah, it wouldn’t work. I just got a new kit for it, and—”

  “Stop lying, asshole,” Goran growls. “You’re going away for a real, real long time. You might as well just tell us everything right now.”

  I take a step closer to the table and slap the file folder down. “Yeah, you’re gonna end up with some shitty public defender, and then what? You weren’t planning on that when you kidnapped a five-year-old from his grandparents’ house, were you?”

  “Wait a minute,” Craig says, holding up his hands. “Listen. I really, truly did not kill anyone. You think I killed a kid? Jesus.”

  Goran and I just stare at him.

  “Fuck!” He expels a harsh breath and leans forward. “Fuck,” he repeats in a softer voice.

  “Why did you kill Allie Cox?” I ask. “And why plant all those business cards? Were you trying to get me to come after you?”

  “Shit, what?” He puts on an incredulous expression. “Look, I didn’t do anything like that. I swear.”

  “Why are we here then, Craig?” I’m smooth, confident. “Seems to me that we’re here because of something. Let’s start with Allie Cox. How do you know her?”

  “I don’t know her,” he says.

  “Did you kill Kevin Whittle?” I ask.

  “Who the fuck is that?”

  Innocent people often do one of several things. They either behave like Allie Cox did, disbelieving that we’re asking whatever question we just posed, or they get angry, like Graham Whittle. Or they freak out, like Marnie. They fall all over themselves trying to prove that they didn’t do whatever it is we’re asking about. Craig isn’t doing any of these things.

  “How about Sean Miller? Was he involved?” I ask.

  “Fuck if I know what Sean does.”

  “How long have you known him?”

  “A while.”

  “How long is that?”

  “Since Marnie and I got together. Six, seven years, maybe a little more.”

  “When they were kids?”

  He squints at me. “No. I met her when she was in high school.”

  “So you didn’t know them when you were sixteen, seventeen?”

  He shakes his head, confusion tugging at his brow. “No, I lived on the West Side then. Marnie and I met at a party when she was in high school, after I moved down to the Falls. I just said that.”

  “Ever go to Sean’s?” I ask. “You have keys to his house, right?”

  “Yeah, I’ve been there. For some parties. Once to feed his dog.”

  “You have money problems?” I ask.

  “Everyone needs money.”

  “How much money do you need, Craig?”

  He tries to stare me down and fails. “Anything woul
d work,” he mumbles.

  “Here’s what I think. You hatched a little plan. You decided to abduct the boy when you thought his grandparents had money. You knew about Graham Whittle, you heard the speculation about how he stole a bunch of money, and you believed it. You thought you were on to something when you found out about the grandson: perfect kidnapping victim. You knew where he’d be. Maybe you got it from Allie. But something went wrong before you could get the money, so you killed him. Allie knew something, and you were afraid she’d tell us. So you killed her, too. Why don’t you tell me what she knew, how you met, that kind of thing? We can make this a hell of a lot easier for you if you tell the truth now.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?”

  I open the folder and take my time flipping through the photographs. I pull out the one of the branch cutters in Craig’s basement and slide it his way. “Explain that, then.” I move that one to the side to reveal the picture of the weird stalker room. “Or how about that?”

  He looks stunned. “I have no idea what any of that is. Shit, is that my basement? That’s my basement. Oh, shit.”

  “Listen, asshole,” Goran says. “We figured it out. Just wait till we get prints off all that creepy shit in your basement, including the murder weapon.”

  “But he wanted us to figure it out, Goran,” I say. “Either that, or he’s one dumb shit.”

  “No,” Craig squeaks. He clears his throat. “I swear, I swear, I swear. I didn’t do any of that.”

  “Why kill Allie?” I ask in a softer voice. “What did she know? It just makes no sense to me. Help me make sense of it.”

  He frowns. “Wait a minute. Do you mean Sarah’s friend Allie? The blonde?”

  I keep my expression blank. Sarah’s friend Allie.

  “I only met her once,” he says. “I swear to God I didn’t kill anyone.”

  “Sarah,” I say. “Marnie and Sean’s foster sister. The one who stayed in your basement. What’s her last name?”

  “Taylor.” He looks confused. “Sarah Taylor. Allie’s her friend. They both live up here. They work together.”

  My heart beats faster. “Where do they work together, Craig?”

  “At Winky’s. In the Flats.” Something happens in his face, like a light coming on behind his eyes. He points at the photo of his basement. “She must have done this. Crazy little bitch. Her or that new boyfriend of hers. I haven’t even been in that room in weeks. She got thrown out of her apartment last month—spent all her money on those stupid tattoos—and I gave her the key when she needed a place to crash.”

  I start to lean forward but catch myself. “Where is she now?”

  He shrugs. “At work? She hasn’t been around this past week. She’s been staying with her boyfriend.”

  “His name?”

  “Chris,” Craig says, wild-eyed now. “You think he killed a kid?”

  “Chris what?”

  “I don’t know! I don’t even know the guy. Big blond fucker, puppy-dog eyes. He knows Sean, I think. Runs some deliveries his way. You think he did this?”

  I’m in a nightmare. Hoping against hope, I pull out my phone and scroll through my photos. “Is this him?” I ask, thrusting the screen in front of his face.

  Craig squints at the picture of Christopher and my mom. “That’s him. That’s the guy. Now get me a lawyer. I mean it this time.”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  At my desk, I pull out my phone. My hands shake as I scroll to Christopher’s number. After a few rings, my call goes to voicemail. I hang up and dial again. Voicemail. Christopher’s the needy one. He always answers.

  That night at the foster home plays in my head like an old home movie, flickering in and out of focus, before the frame melts on the screen. Something hits me, and I call over to Domislaw. “Teresa Whittle,” I say. “What was her maiden name?”

  Dom runs the search. “Taylor. Teresa Taylor.”

  My stomach turns. “Siblings?”

  “One sister.” He taps on his keyboard. “Karen Taylor. She has a record. She did time. Had one kid, a daughter, Sarah. Never married.”

  Teresa Whittle is Sarah’s aunt, the aunt who turned her mother in to CFS, the aunt from the creepy poems. It all snaps together, and I hate, on so many levels, that it makes sense. It’s Sarah Taylor. Christopher’s girlfriend, Sarah. It’s her.

  My partner comes back to his desk. “Goran, my brother’s not answering.”

  He pulls his coat off the back of his chair. “Let’s go. I’ll drive.”

  I don’t bother arguing. But when we get to the car, I get in the driver’s seat. Goran eyes me for a second then climbs into the passenger side.

  My brother’s apartment is fifteen minutes away. Is Sarah there? Is she there with him now? We can’t afford to spook her. If she knows we’re closing in, she could kill him or take him hostage.

  When we get to Christopher’s apartment building, I slam the gearshift into park and wrench the keys from the ignition. I’m at the front steps before Goran is even out of the car. My senses are sharpened to a fine point. Everything looks normal enough on the outside, but Christopher’s Cutlass isn’t here. I start to get a sinking feeling in my gut. I yank open the door and run up the stairs. On the second floor, loud music—Slayer, to be precise—blasts out into the hallway.

  “He never listens to metal,” I whisper to Goran as we approach my brother’s apartment. The door is ajar. I put my hand on my Glock.

  Goran knocks on the doorframe. “Chris?” he calls.

  “Fuck. Go, go, go,” I say in a harsh whisper.

  He unholsters his gun and pushes the door the rest of the way open. He steps through the doorway.

  “Christopher!” I yell, pulling my gun and following my partner.

  No reply.

  “Christopher!” I shout. My voice sounds tight and strained.

  An end table is overturned. On the floor beside it is a lamp, and an old photograph of my brother and my sister and me that’s been torn in half. Christopher’s shattered phone lies a foot away.

  Breathe. Breathe. Breathe.

  I yank the stereo cord out of the wall just as “Criminally Insane” starts to play. I cross the living room in three strides and lean through the broken window to scan the alley behind his building.

  Goran checks the bathroom and the kitchen. “Boyle, he’s not here.” He gets on the radio and asks for a patrol unit to go behind the building, near the fire escape.

  I bite the inside of my cheek until the pain makes my brain work again. I glance at the broken glass on the floor. Blood. No, no, no.

  “Tom, look at this,” I say, squatting to get a closer look. “Where the hell did he go?” My hands start to shake again, so I ball them into fists. No, please. Not Christopher. Damn it, no. Anything but this.

  We look around but don’t find anything to give me a clue as to where my brother is or what’s happened to him. Goran keeps asking me questions that I can’t answer, things about my brother’s girlfriend that I feel I should know but don’t.

  I pull on a pair of latex gloves and go into the kitchen, where I look through all of the drawers. Nothing. Then I go into his bedroom and look around, but there’s nothing there, either. Finally, I go over to yank the cushions off the ratty old couch. Stuffed down into the left side is a black notebook filled with tight, tiny writing, illustrations of me, drawings of my apartment building and car, and weird poems and stories. The latest entry is about that dinner I had with Josh and Julia Becker, complete with sketches of them and a description of the ways in which I might have entertained myself afterward. The whole thing is written in first person, and it’s so thoroughly creepy that I bark out a tight laugh in spite of myself.

  “What is that?” Goran asks, craning his neck to get a better look.

  “Call Fishner. Tell her—fuck. We have to find her.
We have to find her,” I say. I start to leave, but he stops me with a big hand on my shoulder.

  He pulls out his phone and taps the screen. He holds my gaze and sends me some sort of telepathic message about calming down, it’ll be fine, that kind of thing. His eyes look sympathetic. When he talks to Fishner, his voice is calm and cool.

  I frantically flip through the notebook and notice that the handwriting changes about halfway through. That’s where Sarah starts writing in what I guess is her own voice, all about being beaten by her biological mother for being left-handed, and how her aunt Teresa turned her mother in and then refused to take custody of Sarah. As an adult, she tracked down the aunt and watched the whole family, recording their movements in a creepily vivid level of detail. When Elaine Whittle advertised for a nanny, Sarah pushed her friend Allie into applying for the job. Everything, the whole plan, is spelled out here in the woman’s own handwriting.

  Holy fucking hell. I can feel my heart beating in my throat and a thin line of nausea snaking up from my stomach.

  Killing him wasn’t part of the plan, though. I read the details of what happened the day of Kevin’s kidnapping. Sarah had been watching him so closely, watching Teresa, and jumped at the moment when Graham Whittle left Kevin unattended outside. So the kidnapping was a crime of opportunity. She’d planned to mess with Teresa via Allie and Kevin, but then she caught a lucky break. She told him Allie was in the car and they were going to go to the zoo. She drugged him and kept him in Marnie’s basement for several days, plying him with the vodka and sedatives.

  Thursday, the day she killed him, she still didn’t know what to do with the kidnapped kid and knew she couldn’t keep him at Marnie’s alone, so she decided to bring a still-drugged Kevin to Cleveland and talk to Sean. But when she got to his house, he wasn’t home. She’d started thinking that they could go for ransom, that she could make a little bit of money on messing with her estranged aunt. She was afraid to try to sneak him back into Marnie’s house, so she decided to stash him in Sean’s garage. While she was trying to tie him up, he woke up, bit her, and ran. Out of Rohypnol—she needed to get more from Sean—she acted in desperation. She grabbed a shovel from the wall of the garage and swung it at him as she chased him. She was trying to knock him down, but one blow landed on the side of his head. He dropped to the ground. She thought she’d killed him, and she was furious: mad at the kid for putting her in that situation and angry with his mother for ruining her life then turning her into a murderer.