It wasn’t until later that I realized Ryan never said the real murderers should be caught—he asked if I wanted them to pay for it.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CAMPBELL RIVER
AUGUST 1996
After Ryan and I showed up at the police station, blood on the truck, an officer put us in a room. Frank McKinney and Constable Doug Hicks came in. I’d cried when I saw McKinney, choking out between sobs that “something horrible happened to Nicole.” His face was stunned and serious while I tried to tell him our story, stumbling and incoherent at times. Ryan had to step in and finish my sentences. When they said they needed to talk to us alone, I grabbed Ryan’s arm, saying, “No, I need him here with me,” but they said it would help them sort things out faster. Someone brought me a blanket and a warm cup of coffee. McKinney gave my shoulder a squeeze and said, “I know you’re upset, but try to walk us through the night, Toni. Take it one step at a time. You drove out to the lake?”
I told them again what had happened, what we found when we got back to the truck, begging, “Please, you have to go, help her. We can’t leave her there.” I still couldn’t fathom that she was dead, that she was far beyond any help.
The other officer, Hicks, said, “We’ve sent someone out there, but we might need your help locating her. Do you think you could go back to the lake with us, Toni?” I didn’t like the way he said my name, the familiarity, like we were friends. He didn’t know me. I turned to McKinney, spoke only to him.
“I’ll go if you need me to, but…” The idea of going back there was terrifying, yet I couldn’t stand thinking about her still there alone. I said, “What about my parents? Who’s going to tell them?” The thoughts going through my mind were overwhelming. My teeth wouldn’t stop chattering, my body shaking. My mom. My dad. I wanted them there with me, but I was scared of how much pain they were going to feel when they found out what had happened.
“We’ll have someone talk to them soon,” Hicks said. “We just need to confirm some things first.” They asked questions like “Did you see anyone else at the lake?” “How long did you leave her alone?” “How much had you been drinking?” “How much drugs had you taken?” “Have you had blackouts before?”
I didn’t know why any of it mattered. I just wanted them to help Nicole. They stopped the interview and left for a while. When they came back they said that they needed us to go up there with them, they couldn’t find Nicole. They got Ryan, who was also pale and shaking, his eyes bloodshot like he’d been crying. We drove up to the lake in the back of McKinney’s car, huddled together, not talking, just gripping hands. The lines on the road blurred. I went in and out of shock, sometimes almost numb, then all of a sudden gasping with sobs. Once, I met McKinney’s gaze in the rearview mirror. I remembered then how Nicole was his daughter’s friend, how he’d have seen her often at his house. I wondered if he was glad his daughter was safe at home, not dead at the lake.
When we got near the lake I saw other vehicles, a coroner, and more cop cars. I couldn’t speak anymore, my body shuddering with violent shivers, and Ryan had to point out where we’d been parked. One of the car’s headlights shone for a moment on the water, and I saw Nicole’s body, still on the shore.
I started screaming, again and again.
After that all I remember is Ryan trying to calm me down, Hicks saying, “Get them out of here.” The rest is still hazy, scraps of voices and lights flashing and uniforms. McKinney stayed at the scene and another officer drove us back to the station, where we were separated and questioned again. By then someone had told my parents and they’d been brought to the morgue to identify her body. Ryan gave the police consent to search his truck, which was then seized. Ryan’s parents showed up and took him home. He gave me a hug before they left, looking worried as he whispered in my ear, “Be careful what you say.” Then he was gone. I was kept in a room with a female officer who kept asking me questions about my job and school, but I couldn’t focus on anything she was saying. I just wanted to go home, wanted my parents.
A couple of hours later, the female officer drove me home. Another female officer was sitting in the living room with my parents. She stood when we entered. Frank McKinney was there too, sitting beside my mom on the couch. My dad rushed over, grabbed me in his arms, and held me tight. I broke down sobbing and felt his body shaking against mine. Over his shoulder I could see my mom on the couch, her face white. There were makeup streaks down her cheeks, the skin red and splotchy, and agony in her eyes.
“Mom…” I wanted to run to her, want to throw myself in her arms.
She screamed at me, her mouth wide and anguished, “Why did you take her out there? Why?” Then she started sobbing, her hands over her face.
“Mom, I’m sorry.…” I took a step toward her, but McKinney motioned for me to stop and put his arm around her back.
Mom took her hands away from her face, looked at him helplessly. “Frank, why? Why would someone do this to my baby?”
“I don’t know, Pam. I really don’t.” His voice was thick. “But we’re going to do whatever we can to find them. Someone will pay for this.” Now his voice sounded rough and angry, his expression almost violent. I was assured, felt safer. Yes, they’re going to find who did this.
I didn’t know yet what Ryan had realized, that they were already considering us as suspects, already watching our reactions, our words. We were the ones who were going to pay.
* * *
In the week after Nicole’s murder, Dad spent most of his days and evenings out in the garage or sitting in the living room, his face unshaven, dark shadows under eyes that stared at nothing even if the TV was on, the hiss of another beer opening the only sign that he was awake. He also spent a lot of time staring out the windows, first at the camera trucks and reporters, once even going outside and yelling at everyone to “get the hell off my lawn,” and then, when they faded off, just out at the dark night, like he was waiting for Nicole to come home. Mom wandered around dazed and pale, her hair a mess, looking at me like she didn’t know who I was or how I got in her house. I’d hear her talking on the phone with friends, crying and whispering, “I don’t know why they took her out there that night. I don’t understand what happened.”
I knew what she was really saying: It’s Toni’s fault that Nicole’s dead.
She was right. It was my fault. If I hadn’t brought Nicole out with us, she’d still be alive. I replayed that night over and over again. Trying to make sense of it, but there was no sense to anything anymore. My sister was dead.
I’d go into her bedroom sometimes when my parents were sleeping—the doctor had given my mom pills and she went to bed early. Dad usually stumbled to bed around one or two in the morning, or I’d find him on the couch. I heard him crying down there one night, and it had killed me, listening to him sob like a little boy.
I had my own rituals. I’d lie on Nicole’s bed, holding her pillow, which still smelled of her lemony clean scent. Then I’d take her clothes out, even the dirty stuff still in the hamper, and press my face into them, smelling her skin, her body scent, teen girl. I could hear her laughing in my head, excited about going out or talking with a friend on the phone, then I’d see her face, scared when we left her alone in the truck. And I’d see what she looked like later, when we found her, and the breath would stop in my throat.
I had nightmares constantly. I’d wake abruptly, my heart pounding in the dark. Once, I’d heard crying in her room and for a terrifying moment thought it was Nicole’s ghost, then heard my father’s deep voice and realized it was my mom weeping and my dad trying to comfort her. I cried alone in my bed and thought about Ryan. We hadn’t been able to see each other much since that night but we tried to talk on the phone every day. He’d ask how I was, and I’d start to cry while he tried to comfort me. I could hear it in his voice too, the fear, and the same confusion I felt, the guilt.
My mom came into my room sometimes, asking me again to go through everything that had happen
ed that night. I’d tell her how Nicole came to my room, how she apologized, how she asked to come out with me and Ryan. Mom would stop me at different places, asking me to repeat something, wanting every detail. “What was she wearing? How did she stand when she said that?” When I told her Nicole had said something was going on that she couldn’t tell me about, Mom fixated on it, trying to get me to think of anything I’d missed. I would always hesitate when I got to the part at the lake, hating the look on my mom’s face when I told her how we left Nicole alone, and I’d cry when I got to the part where we’d made out in the bushes and slept while she was being killed. By the time I told her, sobbing, how we’d seen Nicole’s body in the headlights, she’d usually be rocking back and forth and moaning. Once, I reached out and rested my hand on her shoulder, but she stood up and left the room. I didn’t try to touch her again.
We had a memorial service for Nicole. Most of our school came, and we had to rent a big hall. Friends and teachers all talked about what a wonderful girl she had been. Some of her friends had made slide shows with photos of her. Shauna and her girls were there but they didn’t speak. I saw them, all dressed in black, as we passed by to sit at the front of the room with the rest of my family. Shauna’s and Rachel’s faces were cold as they stared at me, Kim’s was streaked with tears, and Cathy just looked out of it. Afterward my mom and dad walked around thanking people for coming, but Mom sounded like a robot, her responses mechanical and stilted. Close friends and family were invited to come with us when we put Nicole’s ashes in the river near our place, then back to our house for food and drinks. The girls came to the river, standing together in a huddle, then drove off in Shauna’s car. At the house, my mom reached for wineglass after wineglass. When my dad tried to take one away from her, she glared at him and jerked it back, sloshing some out. That night, after I’d helped clean up with some of the other women, I passed by their room and saw my dad trying, tenderly, to button up her pajamas, her head hanging down like a broken doll’s. I turned away.
I stayed at home those days, not even sneaking out once to see Ryan, afraid to do anything to upset my parents. I cleaned the house, cooked our meals, finally being the daughter my mother had always wanted. I kept telling myself the police were going to find Nicole’s killer soon, but it had already been two weeks since she’d been murdered, and on the phone one night, Ryan, his voice scared, said, “They’re going to arrest us, Toni.”
“Why would you say something like that?” Fear flooded my body. Was he right? Did they think we did it? My dad had been on the phone with them every day and they said they were following up on leads, but they never told us if they had any suspects. Was that because we were their only ones?
“Because it’s the truth.” His voice was urgent. “With my record—and us getting in trouble together before—it doesn’t look good. We were the last people to be with her, Toni. There’s no one else they can blame.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about.” I hung up on him for the first time ever. Then sat in the dark, my heart thudding.
* * *
The police arrived the next afternoon, on a Friday. There were two of them, older men in uniforms, one tall with gray hair, the other shorter with salt-and-pepper hair and a big mustache, both with serious faces when my father opened the door. I’d been doing the dishes in the kitchen when I saw the patrol car pull up. I set down the towel, moving toward my dad. Had they found the murderer?
The gray-haired officer said, “I’m Constable Brown. We’re here to see your daughter.”
“What’s going on?” I said.
The shorter officer introduced himself as Constable Ruttan. “We’re here to advise you, Toni Murphy, that you are under arrest for the murder of your sister, Nicole Murphy. Please turn around and put your hands behind your back.”
I was stunned, unable to speak or move.
Dad reached for my arm, pulling me behind me. “Do you have a warrant for this? Where are you taking her?”
“Sir, please move away.” The gray-haired officer stepped closer, his face stern.
Dad didn’t budge, his voice rising. “We want to talk to our lawyer.”
The officer rested his hand on my dad’s shoulder, trying to guide him to the side, using his body to separate him from me. “Sir, I know this is upsetting, but we need you to stay calm.” Dad was grabbing for me, trying to hang on.
The other officer was behind me. Cold metal cuffs snapped around my wrists. I pleaded with the officer. “This is a mistake. I didn’t do anything.”
Dad yelled, “Get your hands off my daughter!”
The other officer was blocking him, forcibly holding him in place. “Sir, if you don’t calm down we’re going to have to arrest you as well.” My dad’s face was flushed, his face furious. But he let go, held his hands up.
The officer turned to me. “I need you to listen to me. It is my duty to inform you that you have the right to retain and instruct counsel in private, without delay. You may call any lawyer you want. There is a twenty-four-hour telephone service available which provides a legal aid duty lawyer who can give you legal advice in private. This advice is given without charge and the lawyer can explain the legal aid plan to you. If you wish to contact a legal aid duty lawyer, I can provide you with a telephone number. Do you understand?”
My mom was rushing toward us, almost running down the stairs.
“What’s going on?”
“They’re arresting Toni,” Dad said, as I started to cry. “They think she killed Nicole.”
She stopped in front of us, her eyes huge as she turned to the officers. “Why are you doing this to my family? I want to talk to Frank McKinney.”
“Ma’am, please remain calm,” the officer said, then repeated to me, “Do you understand what I have told you?”
“Yes, but you have the wrong person. I didn’t—”
He said, “Do you want to call a lawyer?”
I looked at my father. “Dad—”
“We’ll call someone right away. Just listen to the officers, Toni, and do what they say. Don’t say anything to anybody until you speak to our lawyer.” I’d never heard him sound so scared. My heart was pounding.
The officer said, “I want you to know, Toni Murphy, that you are not obligated to say anything, but anything you do say may be given in evidence. Do you understand?”
I stammered, “Yes, I guess…” Then they were leading me out to the patrol car. Neighbors were watching from their houses. A car slowed down as it drove past. I recognized a girl from my school in the backseat. She was staring, her mouth open.
Outside near the car, the gray-haired officer said, “Do you have any sharps or weapons on you?”
“What? No.”
He said matter-of-factly, “We’re just going to search you.” They patted me down. Behind me, I could hear my mom crying. I couldn’t think, didn’t understand what was happening. Where was Ryan? Were they arresting him too?
“It will be okay,” my dad shouted as the officer put me in the back of the cruiser, his hands on top of my head, guiding me in. The door slammed shut. Dad ran over, touched his hands to the window, his face covered in tears. I was crying too, hard gasping breaths, screaming, “Dad!”
The officer said, “Sir, I need you to move away from the vehicle.” Dad stepped back. My mom ran out to stand by his side, grabbing at his arm, her face scared. As the officers drove away, I could see Dad mouthing, It will be okay.
But it wasn’t okay. At the station they removed my handcuffs and took my photo, asked for my name and birth date and medical history, then took my fingerprints. I tried to follow everything they were saying, but I was frantic with fear. I kept trying to ask them why they arrested me but no one would explain anything. A female guard took me to a search room where I was only allowed to keep my underwear and pants and shirt. I was told that the rest—jewelry, shoes, my bra—would be put in a locker. Then I was taken to a jail cell, bare except for a stainless steel sink and to
ilet and bed. They gave me a pad and blankets for the bed. After a couple of hours they brought me to a room where I met with my lawyer. He had a big belly and bushy eyebrows, looked like a dark-haired Santa. I could see a bit of ketchup on his tie. He told me his name, Angus Reed, and I recognized him as a well-known criminal attorney in town.
“I don’t want you to tell me anything yet,” he said. “The rooms are wired. Don’t talk to any cell mates, don’t say anything to anyone. Okay?”
I nodded, my heart hammering in my ears, his serious voice scaring me even more, making it clear the severity of the situation that I was in.
“My job is to help you from now on,” he said. “I don’t care what you’ve done or what you’ve said. Be polite to the police but don’t tell them anything, don’t describe anything, don’t point to anything. They’re going to try to talk to you again, they will lie, and they’ll do whatever they can to trip you up. I want you to keep saying, ‘On the advice of my lawyer I wish to remain silent,’ okay?”
I nodded again. “Ryan—”
“He’s probably been arrested too. It’s Friday, so they’re going to keep you in here until Monday, when you can be brought before the provincial judge. They want to wear you down. Again, don’t speak to them about anything. Don’t ask about Ryan, don’t say anything about him. You understand?”
“Yes.” But I didn’t understand why I was there or what was going to happen. I just wanted to go home.
* * *
They moved me that night to a different jail cell, where I could hear drunks screaming and yelling in other cells. I was cold and scared. I couldn’t sleep and sat huddled on the bed, the thin blanket wrapped around me. My mind was spinning, thinking about everything the police had said. It didn’t seem possible that I’d been arrested, that we might go to prison for murder. I got up a couple of times to use the toilet, first trying to clean the seat off with the rough toilet paper. Then I got back on my bed, staring at the walls and the ceiling, worrying about Ryan, wondering how far away his cell was in the station. I told myself the real murderer would be found and we’d be cleared. Everything was going to be okay. Still, I couldn’t stop thinking about all those stories you’d hear about people being falsely convicted and imprisoned for years. I prayed that it wouldn’t happen to us.
That Night Page 18
