by Hy Conrad
“Mr. and Mrs. Crawley?” Unlike Dr. Cummings, Callie was glad that she happened to be here for this. Whatever she could do. “We weren’t expecting you until tomorrow.”
“Thank God.” The woman smiled. “I told you someone would be here. I’m so glad.”
“The airline found room for us,” the man said. He had paid off the driver and was taking the lead up the stairs. “After Helen explained.”
“I cried until they bumped some poor people off the flight.” Her eyes were still glistening. They probably would be for some time.
They were an attractive couple, middle class, thoroughly ordinary looking, hardly the type, Callie assessed, who would rate, or request, any type of front-of-the-line treatment. “Are you with the police?” asked Mr. Crawley.
“I’m a reporter.” It wasn’t a stretch. Working or not, that was how Callie defined herself. “Callie McFee.”
Helen Crawley allowed herself another smile. “A reporter. Good. She won’t be just another dead black girl. I won’t let that happen to her. You won’t let that happen, will you, Miss McFee? That’s why you’re here, isn’t it?”
“Of course. And the police won’t sweep this under the rug. Just so you know.” It surprised Callie to hear herself echoing her brother’s words.
“She was the brightest, the best…” Briana’s mother smiled. “I know every mother says that. Briana was a scholarship student. Already picking out a law school. I want you to tell people that. Make her real, not a statistic.”
“Has this been on the TV?” the husband asked.
“I don’t think so,” Callie said.
“I’m asking because we haven’t told her brother. Or anyone else.”
“Before we tell them, we need to make sure it’s her.” Helen Crawley wiped her eyes. “Maybe it’s not, you know? The police make mistakes.”
Callie didn’t know how to respond; to conspire in some small, false hope or to help make it all too real, all too soon? “Maybe.”
The door behind them opened and they turned to see Jocelyn Cummings and her two assistants, dressed in street clothes, heading home after a long day. The medical examiner had a set of keys in her hand. With barely a glance, she assessed the lost, vulnerable looking couple standing on her doorstep. “Please come back tomorrow,” she said gently enough. “Any time after nine.”
“No.” Helen Crawley’s left hand stayed grasped in her husband’s. Her right hand gravitated to her chest, as if to hold her heart in place. “You don’t understand. We can’t wait. Our daughter’s in there.”
“I know who you are,” the doctor said, taking a step forward but still avoiding eye contact. “I’m very sorry for your loss. But we officially closed two hours ago. I know it’s no consolation – actually the opposite of a consolation – but the body has been positively identified. Her driver’s license, fingerprints from her records. And her roommate came in this morning. They all say Briana Crawley. I know you want to see her. You want to say your good-byes, to see her face. It’s perfectly normal. More than normal.” She sighed. “No one listens to me, but I advise against a morgue as a place to say good-bye. In a day or so, when we release your daughter to a funeral home, that would be a good time…”
“We gotta see her,” Briana’s father insisted. “I know it’s going to be the absolute worst. But that’s our little girl. We can’t leave, not without seeing her. You know?”
“Dr. Cummings?” Callie stepped forward. “Please. It will just take a few minutes. The Crawleys are old friends of my father’s. I’m sure he would appreciate the favor.”
“Oh.” The doctor finally made eye contact with the couple from Phoenix, who had the good sense not to add or contradict. “I didn’t know.”
“Dad and State and I are all trying to help.”
“You should have explained that before.” Reluctantly, the medical examiner dismissed her staff then turned to re-open the door.
A white lie told in a good cause, thought Callie. It was one of her father’s favorite sayings.
CHAPTER 3
The long-ago memory, more like a series of half-connected memories, would come to her like a dream in the foggy twilight. And because it was a memory, it was always the same.
It was night and she would be sprawled in the back of the purring Cadillac, lolling sideways against the smoky leather. She would feel the car make the familiar turn onto the gravel drive then under the leafy canopy of live oaks, their gnarled branches arching over them as they approached the house. She would remember looking forward to this moment – ever since the family had left the movie theater or restaurant or some county fair where their father had put in an appearance, the middle-aged politician showing off his young wife and his perfectly handsome family.
In the youngest memories, she would be asleep through the best part, barely waking up as her mother drew back the gingham covers of her bed and her father placed her in the middle and both of them tucked her in and kissed her good night. In later memories, she would wake up still in the car, too tired to respond to their gentle nudges, and feel the warm strength of his arms lifting her, without so much as a grunt of effort, carrying her through the door from the garage, into the house and up to bed. A cocoon of reassurance.
From then on, young Callie would keep awake, no matter how long the drive home, pretending to be asleep, anticipating the turn onto the gravel and the opening of the car door, then reveling in the intimacy, barely more than a minute or two, but so very important. She had no idea how long the ritual continued. At some point, as she grew, the nudges in the car became more demanding, harder to ignore. “Callie. We’re home, honey. Wake up.” She felt the effort and heard the grunts. Then the ritual ended. And when State started making fun of her for being a little zonk-out zombie, that’s when she stopped trying.
Even as a child, she knew it had to end. But that didn’t keep her from considering it a betrayal. In her heart, she felt that part of their unconditional parental care had vanished, through no fault of hers, and each time, late at night, when she was forced to walk through the garage door instead of being carried, she would be reminded of the betrayal.
Swatting away the last of the memory, Callie sat up and was rewarded with a throbbing headache. She switched off the Marpac sound machine on the coffee table, which served now as a bedside table. The pullout sofa in her brother’s study was just as comfy as advertised, with a deluxe foam mattress, a cushioned topper and 1000 thread-count sheets. Not that this had done anything to improve her dismal sleep pattern.
After checking the clock and the pill bottles lined up beside it, Callie did the morning calculations. Three glasses of white wine to take the edge off. Then a full dose of Ambien (10 milligrams) around midnight, plus Xanax (0.5 milligrams), even though she didn’t think she really needed it. She did. Another tab of Xanax around 1:30 finally did the trick, knocking her out until she checked the clock at 5:38, after which came the drug-induced, half-awake memories. An average night, no worse and no better than usual. Before she could forget, Callie hid the pill bottles in the space behind the top middle drawer in State’s roll-top desk.
From the floor below came the sounds of Yolanda and the twins. On her first morning here, just a few days after her interview, she had tried to help with the family’s morning routine. She had only succeeded in antagonizing State’s hard-edged wife and somehow making the twins more hyper. Now Callie just listened as they negotiated their way through breakfast then battled their way into jackets and out the door, heading over to the most in-demand private school in Old West Austin.
State was at the kitchen counter, in one of his unassuming, brown detective suits, ready for the day’s work, when she walked in. Without asking, he took a mug down from a hook by the window and poured her a cup. Non-fat milk, no sugar. “You sleep okay?”
“Perfect. You’re making it almost too comfortable.”
“Stay as long as you like.”
“Tell Yolanda I’m checking out a few places af
ter work. I promise.”
“Are you trying to make me inhospitable?” State bowed at the waist then handed her the steaming cup. “You’re my sister. You’ve been here like three days.”
“Sorry. I don’t want to overstay.”
“You’re not overstaying. I barely use the study. And the boys are finally getting to know their aunt. Auntie Callie.” He chuckled at the name. “It’s all good.” State eyed his sister’s oversized T-shirt and dirty jeans, her not-quite-ready-for-work outfit. “What are you and the Free Press working on? You making yourself indispensable?”
Callie sipped the brown liquid. State always made it too weak. “I’m overseeing a four-part series on charter schools. Not the most exciting. Then we’re doing a preview of the new legislative session – which is not technically Metro. But it’s a good way to get to know the staff. What about you?”
“Me? Not much.”
“Not much? You work homicide. What about the Westlake murder? The student.” She tried to make it sound light and casual, simple curiosity, even though her encounter with the Crawleys had made it something more.
“We had a person of interest right off, but he developed an alibi.”
“Developed an alibi?”
“He has an alibi. I can’t really talk about him, Callie.”
“Excuse me. I’m feigning an interest in your work.”
State smiled but kept it at a minimum. “There’ll be more suspects, don’t worry. Turns out our Ms. Briana Crawley was a working girl.”
“The U.T. student? Are you serious? A sex worker?” For the Crawleys’ sake, she hoped it wasn’t true.
“Is that the preferred term? Yep, we found out from her friends. Apparently, it’s a thing with college kids. It’s called ‘sugaring’. They refer to themselves as sugar babies, hooking up with sugar daddies who pay off their student loans or their rent or their credit cards. There are websites and apps to make it easy and more mainstream. Some take to calling it the Sugar Bowl. Makes it sound fun and innocent, huh?”
“Okay. But that’s not the same as prostitution.” Callie took another sip and thought back to her own college days. “I mean, a boy buys you a nice dinner and a few glasses of wine and… Okay, you don’t feel obligated to sleep with him. But it does affect your attitude and, to some small degree, your decision. I mean, I’ve been on a date or two…”
“You’ve never done it for money, Callie. I know you.”
“Not for money. I haven’t even done it for a good story, although I’ve been tempted.”
“Right, right,” said State, but he was shaking his head. “They call it transactional sex, to try to justify it. All relationships are transactional, they say. Each party has something the other one wants. Even in marriage, they say. Good sex, security, affection, a family. All a transaction. Except in the case of sugaring, it’s always money, and the guy’s a lot older and his wife doesn’t know. Don’t fool yourself. It’s prostitution.”
His phone dinged. He checked the text then wiped his mouth. “That’s Emily. I gotta go.”
“Oh. Tell her congratulations for me.”
“I already did,” State said, but his sister knew better.
CHAPTER 4
When Callie got into the office, she was surprised to find Briana’s parents waiting in her cubicle, crowded into the few feet by her desk. For a second, she didn’t recognize them. Their first blush of grief had faded, replaced by a kind of sad determination. The husband’s name was Frank. He explained and apologized at the same time, saying how they’d known she was a reporter and had tried to track her down, first with the TV stations, then with the Austin American-Statesman and finally – perhaps disappointingly, Callie thought – with the Austin Free Press. Callie spent this time moving her piles of clutter off the one visitor’s chair and onto the already cluttered floor. Neither one took the chair. “I didn’t realize you were still in town.”
“We didn’t know who else to turn to.” Helen almost made it sound like Callie’s fault. “The police have been nice enough, but it’s an ongoing investigation and they can’t give us any information. They say.”
“We know someone was arrested the night she died,” Frank added. “The officer who called us said as much. Caught trying to bury…” He paused, took a deep breath then pressed on. “…bury our daughter’s body in a field. Now they say there’s no arrest. No arrest. Not even a suspect.”
“Someone was burying the body?” Callie asked. This was a detail her brother had failed to mention. How could he not have mentioned this? “You’re sure?”
“That’s what they said on the first call,” Frank assured her. “Someone taken into custody. And now there’s no arrest, like it never happened.”
“Well, if there was an arrest, that’s easy to check. But being in custody and being arrested are two different things. The police can bring someone in as a person of interest or a material witness, but then not charge them with a crime.”
“He was trying to bury her.” Helen put a hand on Frank’s elbow and he lowered his voice. “He was trying to bury her, for God’s sake.”
“I understand,” Callie said. “But there could have been other details. This morning I spoke to the homicide detective on the case. Someone I trust. He said yes, there’d been a person of interest but he’s not currently a suspect.”
“So, you’re investigating Briana’s death,” said Helen, her voice brightening. “Thank you, Ms. McFee. Thank you.”
“I am, yes.” She didn’t mention that her entire investigation had occurred this morning, over weak coffee in her brother’s kitchen while she was barely awake.
“I had a feeling you would,” said Frank. “You were there in the room when we saw her. You know her, in a way. She’s real to you.”
A good way of putting it, Callie thought. Yes, Briana was real to her.
“What else did your detective tell you?” asked Helen.
Callie thought of State’s other piece of new information. She doubted the Crawleys knew about her daughter’s sideline. At some point, someone would have to tell them, but not here, not now, not her. “Nothing new, I’m afraid.”
Frank was still shaking his head. “How can you not arrest someone who’s burying a body?”
“I don’t know,” Callie said. “I’ll look into it.”
“We went to see the other news people,” Frank said. “They knew about her murder. They reported it. But it’s just another dead black girl. I don’t think they’re doing a damn thing.”
Part of Callie was surprised. It was a story any reporter would jump at – an unsolved rape and murder; a person of interest burying the body; a suspicious “no comment” from the police. But part of Callie wasn’t surprised. If her father was involved, then a lack of journalistic interest was par for the course. Buddy McFee knew all the strings to pull in this town, even with the media.
“Frank thinks we should hire a detective,” Helen said hesitantly. “But we don’t have a lot of money. And I’m not sure what a private detective could do.”
“That’s an option,” agreed Callie. “But the Austin P.D. has more resources than any private firm. And they’re working hard, even if they aren’t sharing the results.” She wasn’t sure if she believed this, but she trusted her brother and felt a certain responsibility for her father, whatever he might be up to. If there was anything to uncover, she preferred not to have a private detective involved. “Why don’t you give me a few days? I have some connections in law enforcement. I’ll find out what the deal is.”
The Crawleys agreed to postpone their decision, Frank more reluctantly than Helen, who wasn’t eager to create any hard feelings with the police. They exchanged contact information. Then just as they were about to leave, Helen put her purse on the desk, found a slim leather wallet and pulled something out of a plastic sleeve. “For you,” she said and handed Callie a wallet-sized portrait of a smiling young woman with a delicate, oval face, a younger, thinner, more hopeful version of Helen, dre
ssed in the maroon gown of a high school graduation. “Keep it, please. I have dozens of them.”
“Thank you.” She gave the image a moment of reverence that it seemed to deserve. “She was beautiful.” Briana’s parents stiffened, and Callie imagined it would always be painful for them to hear their daughter spoken of in the past tense.
She walked them out, waited with them for their Uber then came back in. She toyed with the idea of going straight to Oliver and pitching a series, the overlooked murder of a black student and a mysterious, unnamed suspect. It was bound to impress her idealistic, granola-fed boss. Returning to her cubicle, she took a roll of scotch tape from her drawer and taped Briana’s photo to the bottom right corner of her laptop. It would be a little cumbersome there, irritating her right wrist as she typed, but that would be a good reminder. Then she started combing through the databases: the APD call logs, the arrest reports, the photo booking base, anything that the state of Texas required to be public information but that most civilians wouldn’t have a clue how to access.
With almost no effort, she found the report from highway patrol. There was no audio available, which was a shame, since you could tell a lot from the exact words and the tone of voice and the ambient sound. The officer’s transcript gave his ID number and location then reported “a suspected 187”, a homicide, but no arrest was listed. Had someone made the arrest disappear? She checked the THP’s database, also publicly accessible, and found the trooper’s name.
Next came the cross-referencing, with Callie comparing all the APD reports for the rest of the night and the next morning. There was one homicide suspect booked that whole night, a male involved in a domestic dispute turned deadly, in the Johnston Terrace area. She did find multiple tags for the name Briana Crawley – the logging of the case into the police system, the dispatch of the medical examiner’s van, the request for an expedited autopsy – but nothing more helpful, not even a record of someone brought in for questioning, at least not in the public access.
