Broken

by Karin Slaughter

  “Come in out of the rain,” Will offered, thinking the man was the first nonwhite face he’d seen since he’d arrived in Grant County. He didn’t want to make assumptions, but he would’ve bet half his paycheck that the African Americans in town didn’t make a habit of approaching investigators outside the police station.

  The man groaned as he climbed into the bucket seat. Will saw that he walked with a cane. His leg was stiff, and bent awkwardly at the knee. Rain dripped from his heavy coat. A slight mist clung to his salt-and-pepper beard. He wasn’t as old as Will had first thought—maybe early sixties. When he spoke, his voice was like sandpaper scratching through gravel.

  “Lionel Harris.”

  “Will Trent.”

  Lionel took off his glove and they shook hands. “My father was named Will. Short for William.”

  “Me too,” Will told him, though his birth certificate said no such thing.

  Lionel pointed up the street. “Daddy worked at the diner for forty-three years. Old Pete closed it down back in oh-one.” He rubbed his hand along the leather dashboard. “What year is this?”

  Will assumed he meant the car. “Seventy-nine.”

  “You do all the work yourself?”

  “Is it that obvious?”

  “Nah,” he said, though he’d found the kink in the leather under the handle of the glove box. “You did a good job, son. Real good job.”

  “I take it you’re interested in cars?”

  “My wife would tell you I’m too interested for my own good.” He glanced pointedly at Will’s wedding ring. “You known Sara long?”

  “Not too long.”

  “She took care of my grandson. He had asthma real bad. She’d rush over in the middle of the night to help him. Sometimes she’d still be in her pajamas.”

  Will tried not to think of Sara in her pajamas, though he imagined from Lionel’s story that they were probably not the ones his mind had conjured.

  “Sara’s from good people.” He ran his finger along the trim on the door, which, thankfully, Will had done a better job covering. Lionel seemed to agree. “You learned from your mistakes. Got a good fold on this corner here.”

  “It took me half the day.”

  “Worth every minute,” he approved.

  Will felt foolish even as he asked, “Your son isn’t Carl Phillips, is he?”

  Lionel gave a deep, satisfied laugh. “’Cause he’s black and I’m black—”

  “No,” Will interrupted, then, “Well, yes.” He felt uncomfortable even as he explained, “There doesn’t seem to be much of a minority population around here.”

  “I guess coming from Atlanta, you’ve had a bit of a culture shock.”

  He was right. In Atlanta, Will’s white skin made him a minority. Grant County stood as a stark contrast. “I’m sorry.”

  “That’s all right. You aren’t the first person to do that. Carl goes to my church, but I don’t know him other than that.”

  Will tried to steer the conversation away from his own stupidity. “How do you know I’m from Atlanta?”

  “License plate says Fulton County.”

  Will smiled patiently.

  “All right, you got me,” Lionel relented. “You’re here to look into that stuff with Tommy?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “He was a good kid.”

  “You knew him?”

  “I saw him in town a lot. He’s the kind of kid got thirty different jobs—mowing lawns, walking dogs, hauling trash, helping people move house. Just about everybody in town knew him.”

  “How do people feel about him stabbing Brad Stephens?”

  “About how you’d expect. Confused. Angry. Torn between thinking there was some mistake and thinking …” His voice trailed off. “He was a bit tetched in the head.”

  “He’d never been violent before?”

  “No, but you never know. Maybe something set him off, turned on the crazy.”

  In Will’s experience, people were either prone to violence or not. He didn’t think Tommy Braham was an exception. “Do you think that’s what happened—he just snapped?”

  “I don’t know what to think about nothin’ anymore, and that’s the God’s honest truth.” He gave a weary sigh. “Lord, I feel old today.”

  “The weather gets into your bones,” Will agreed. He’d broken his hand many years ago, and every time it got cold like this, his fingers ached. “Have you lived here all your life?”

  Lionel smiled again, showing his teeth. “When I was a boy, people called where we lived Colored Town.” He turned to Will. “Can you believe that? Colored Town, and now I live on a street with a bunch of professors.” He gave a deep laugh. “A lot’s changed in fifty years.”

  “Has the police force?”

  Lionel stared openly at Will, as if he was trying to decide how much to say. Finally, he seemed to make up his mind. “Ben Carver was chief when I left town. I wasn’t the only young black man who thought it was a good idea to leave while the gettin’ was good. Joined the army and got this for my trouble.” He knocked on his leg. There was a hollow sound, and Will realized the man wore a prosthetic. “Laos. Nineteen and sixty-four.” Lionel paused for a minute as if to reflect on the loss. “There was two kinds of living for people back then, just like there was two kinds of law under Chief Carver: one for black and one for white.”

  “I heard Carver retired.”

  Lionel nodded approvingly. “Tolliver.”

  “Was he a good cop?”

  “I never met the man, but I can tell you this: A long while back, my father was working at the diner when a lady professor from the college got killed. Everybody saw a black face and made their assumptions. Chief Tolliver spent the night at Daddy’s house just to make sure he woke up the next morning.”

  “It was that bad?”

  “Chief Tolliver was that good.” Lionel added, “Allison was a good girl, too.”

  Will got the feeling that they had finally reached the point of Lionel’s impromptu visit. “You knew her?”

  “I own the diner now. You believe that?” He shook his head as if he still could not believe it himself. “I came back a few years ago and took it off Pete’s hands.”

  “Is business good?”

  “It was slow at first, but most days now we’re full up. My wife works the books. Sometimes my sister pitches in but it’s better if she doesn’t.”

  “When was the last time you saw Allison?”

  “Saturday night. We’re closed on Sundays. I guess except for Tommy, I was one of the last people to see her alive.”

  “How was she?”

  “Same as usual. Tired. Glad to be getting off work.”

  “What sort of person was she?”

  His throat worked, and he took a few moments to collect himself before he could continue. “I never hire kids from the college. They don’t know how to talk to people. They just know how to type into their computers or their phones. No work ethic and nothing’s ever their fault no matter how red-handed you catch ’em. Except for Allison. She was different.”

  “How so?”

  “She knew how to work for a living.” He pointed to the open gates at the end of Main Street. “Not a kid in that school knows how to do an honest day’s work. This economy is their wake-up call. They’re gonna have to learn the hard way that a job is something you earn, not something you’re given.”

  Will asked, “Did you know much about Allison’s family?”

  “Her mama was dead. She had an aunt she didn’t talk about much.”

  “Boyfriend?”

  “She had one, but he never bothered her at work.”

  “Do you know his name?”

  “She never mentioned him except in passing, like I’d ask what she was going to do over the weekend and she’d say she was going to study with her boyfriend.”

  “He never called her or dropped by? Not even once?”

  “Not even once,” he confirmed. “She was mindful that I was payi
ng for her time, you see. I never saw her on her cell phone. She never had her friends come in and take up her time. It was work for her, and she knew that she had to take care of business.”

  “Did she make a good living?”

  “Hell no.” He laughed at what must have been a surprised look on Will’s face. “I don’t pay much and my customers are cheap—mostly old men and cops, sometimes students from the school who think it’s funny to run out on the bill. Or, try to run out. Pretty stupid thinking you’re gonna stiff the check in a room full of cops.”

  “Did she carry a purse or book bag with her?”

  “She had this pink book bag with a tassel on the zipper. Left it in her car when she was at work. Except her wallet. She wasn’t one’a them primpin’ girls, can’t stay away from a mirror.”

  “Was there anyone suspicious hanging around her? Customers who were too attentive?”

  “I would’ve taken care of that myself. Not that I’d need to. That girl was street-smart. She knew how to take care of herself.”

  “Did she carry a weapon? Maybe pepper spray or a pocket knife?”

  “Not that I ever saw.” He held up his hands. “Now, don’t get the impression she was hard. She was a real sweet girl, one’a them who just wanted to go along to get along. She didn’t take to confrontation, but she stood up for herself when it mattered.”

  “Had her attitude changed lately?”

  “She seemed a little more stressed than usual. She asked me a couple of times could she study when we were slow. Don’t get me wrong—I’m an easy man to work for so long as you do your job. I let her crack open her books when we weren’t busy. I made sure she had a hot meal before she went home.”

  “Do you know what kind of car she drove?”

  “Old Dodge Daytona with Alabama plates. You remember those? Based on the Chrysler G platform. Front-wheel drive, kind of low to the ground.”

  “Four door?”

  “Hatchback. The pistons were blown. She kept the trunk tied down with a bungee cord. I think it’s a ’92, ’93.” He tapped his head. “Mind ain’t as good as it used to be.”

  “What color?”

  “Red, you could say. Mostly it’s primer and rust. Spits out smoke from the tailpipe every time she cranks it.”

  “Where did she park?”

  “Behind the diner. I checked this morning. It’s not there.”

  “Did she ever walk home from work?”

  “Sometimes when the weather was good, but it ain’t been good in a long while, and she wasn’t making her way home.” He pointed behind them. “The lake’s back there. Behind the station. Behind the diner.” He pointed across the street. “When she walked home, she always went that way, out the front door.”

  “Do you know Gordon Braham?”

  “I believe he works for the power company. He also dates the woman who works at the five and dime across from the diner. They come in for lunch every couple’a three days.”

  “You seem to know a lot about people.”

  “This is a small town, Mr. Trent. Everybody knows a lot about everybody else. That’s why we live here. Cheaper than cable TV.”

  “Who do you think killed Allison?”

  Lionel didn’t seem surprised by the question, but he gave the expected answer. “Police say it was Tommy Braham.”

  “What do you say?”

  He looked at his watch. “I say I’d better go fire up the grill before the breakfast crowd comes in.” He put his hand on the door, but Will stopped him.

  “Mr. Harris, if you think somebody—”

  “I don’t know what to think,” he admitted. “If Tommy didn’t do it, then why’d he stab Brad? And why’d he kill himself?”

  “You don’t think he did it.” Will wasn’t asking a question.

  Lionel gave another weary sigh. “I guess I’m a bit like old Chief Carver. There’s good people and there’s bad people. Allison was good. Tommy was good. Good people can do bad things, but not that bad.”

  He started to leave again.

  “Can I ask you—” Will waited for him to turn back around. “Why did you come to talk to me?”

  “Because I knew Frank wouldn’t be knocking on my door. Not that I’ve been able to tell you much, but I wanted to say something on the girl’s behalf. She ain’t got nobody speaking up for her right now. It’s all about Tommy and why’d he do it, not about Allison and what a good girl she was.”

  “Why do you think Chief Wallace wouldn’t want to talk to you?”

  “Meet the new boss, same as the old boss.”

  Will knew he didn’t mean Jeffrey Tolliver. “Ben Carver?”

  “Frank and Ben—they were cut from the same cloth. White cloth, if you catch my drift.”

  “I think I do.”

  Lionel still had his hand on the door handle. “When I got back to town after Daddy died, I saw a lot of people had changed. On the outside, I’m talking—not on the inside. You gotta go through a special kind of hell or a special kind of love to change who you are inside. Outside’s a whole different story.” He rubbed his beard, probably thinking about the gray in it. “Now, Miss Sara, she got prettier. Her daddy Mr. Eddie got more hair sprouting out of his eyebrows. My sister got older and fatter, which ain’t never a good combination for a woman.”

  “And Frank?”

  “He got careful,” Lionel said. “I may not be living in Colored Town anymore, but I still remember what it feels like to have that man’s foot on my neck.” He pulled the handle on the door. “You get you a heat gun and work it just the tiniest little bit around that leather on your glove box and you’ll be able to get that kink out.” He picked up his leg so he could get out of the car. “Just a tiny bit, though. Too much heat, and you’ll burn a hole right through.” He stared his meaning into Will. “Not too much heat, son.”

  “I appreciate your advice.”

  Lionel struggled to get out of the Porsche, finally gripping the roof and pulling himself up. He steadied himself on the cane and held out his hand, giving Will a gymnast’s finish and a “tah-dah,” before gently closing the door.

  Will watched Lionel lean heavily on the cane as he made his way up the street. He stopped in front of the hardware store to talk to a man who was sweeping debris from the sidewalk. The rain had died down, and they seemed to be taking their time. Will imagined they were talking about Allison Spooner and Tommy Braham. In a place as small as Grant County, there wouldn’t be anything else to occupy people’s minds.

  An old Cadillac pulled into the parking lot. Even from a distance, the gospel music hummed in Will’s ears. Marla Simms parked her car as far from Will’s as she could. She checked her makeup in the mirror, arranged her glasses—did all of the things that made it obvious she was ignoring him—before getting out of the car.

  He walked across the lot to meet her, putting as much cheer into his voice as he could manage. “Good morning, Mrs. Simms.”

  She tossed him a wary look. “No one’s here yet.”

  “I see that.” He held up his briefcase. “I thought I’d go ahead and get set up. If you wouldn’t mind bringing me the evidence from the lake and anything collected from Tommy Braham’s person?”

  Marla didn’t bother to acknowledge him as she threw back the bolt on the door. She turned on the lights and walked into the lobby. Again, she leaned over the gate and buzzed herself through. Will caught the door before it latched closed.

  “Cold in here,” Will said. “Something wrong with the furnace?”

  “The furnace is fine,” she said defensively.

  “Is it new?”

  “Do I look like I work for the furnace company?”

  “Mrs. Simms, I’d be lying if I didn’t say that you look like you know everything that goes on in this station, if not the entire town.”

  She made a grumbling noise as she took the carafe from the coffeemaker.

  “Did you know Tommy Braham?”

  “Yes.”

  “What was he lik
e?”

  “Slow.”

  “What about Allison Spooner?”

  “Not slow.”

  Will smiled. “I should thank you, Mrs. Simms, for those incident reports you sent to my partner last night. It shows an interesting pattern with Tommy. He’d had some trouble with his temper lately. Is that what you wanted me to know?”

  She gave him a look over her glasses, but her mouth stayed closed as she walked to the back of the room. Will watched her push open the heavy steel door. She’d left him alone in the dark.

  He went to the fax machine and checked under the table, giving Marla Simms the benefit of the doubt. There were no loose pages underneath, no 911 transcript that had fallen through the cracks. He opened the copier and saw the glass staring back at him. Something sticky was in the center. Will used his thumbnail to pry off the substance, which would transfer to every copy made on the machine. He held it up to the light. Glue, maybe? Gum?

  He flicked it into the trashcan. None of the copies Sara had made for him yesterday showed a mark. Maybe someone else had used the machine after her and unwittingly transferred the gum onto the glass.

  The office on the side of the squad room was empty, just as he’d thought. Will tried the knob. The door was unlocked. He went in and opened the blinds, giving him a nice view of the desks where the detectives sat. There were nail holes in the walls. In the slim ray of light coming through the outside window, he could see the shadows where photographs had once been. The desk was empty but for a telephone. All the drawers were cleaned out. The chair squeaked when he sat down.

  If he was the betting type, Will would have put ten bucks on this being Jeffrey Tolliver’s old office.

  He opened his briefcase and set out his files. Finally, the overhead lights flickered on. Will saw Marla through the glass in the wall. She stared at him, mouth open. With her tight bun and dirty glasses, she looked like one of those beady old ladies from a Gary Larson comic strip. Will plastered a smile on his face, tossed her a wave. Marla gripped the handle of the carafe so hard he could almost feel her desire to smash the glass into his face.

  Will reached into his pocket and found his digital recorder. Every cop in the world kept a spiral notebook in which to record details of their investigations. Will did not have that luxury, but he’d learned to compensate.