by Laura Snider
“Come on, Katie,” George groaned. “I’m starving. There’s nothing to see here.”
Katie grabbed the half-empty package of Doritos and tossed it in his lap. “Then eat these. A starving person would consider it a delicacy. Besides, don’t you want to see what that is in the street?”
“Fine. But you owe me.” George ate another stale Dorito. He chewed, wrinkled his nose, then ate another.
A few minutes later, a vehicle pulled up and parked in the parking lot beside the apartment complex. Officer Jackie got out of his police cruiser and crossed Sixth Street. A middle-aged man with dark hair and caramel-colored skin got out of the vehicle and walked around the building toward the front door. He picked up his pace when he saw Officer Jackie. Officer Jackie walked faster too, intercepting the man as he neared the front door.
Katie furrowed her brow. “What is he doing? That guy didn’t do anything wrong.”
George shrugged. Officer Jackie followed the guy all the way inside the building. He was inside for close to five minutes, before reemerging with a fistful of cash. Katie was too far away to determine the denominations, but few things were the same green as American money.
“Now that,” George said, “is not normal.”
“No, my friend, it is not.” An I told you so grin spread across Katie’s face.
Officer Jackie hopped back into his cruiser and took off. George waited a few minutes before pulling out of the Kum and Go parking lot and stopping where the cruiser had just been. Katie jumped out before George’s truck had come to a complete stop. She dashed over to the item in the street, pulling her flashlight out for better lighting.
“Is that what I think it is?” George asked. He had already parked and come up beside her, gazing over her shoulder.
“It sure is.”
It was a switchblade knife. The blade was tucked into its black-and-silver handle, but when opened, it had to be at least six inches long.
“That’s a dangerous weapon.”
Katie nodded. “A deadly weapon.”
George pulled some gloves and an evidence bag out of the back of his truck. All Brine officers kept work items in their personal vehicles. With such a small police force, they never knew when they would be called to a crime scene. It was best to be prepared.
“Let’s get this puppy bagged, tagged, and sent off for testing,” George said.
If it was used in the murders, Katie was sure that it had been wiped clean. But that was the thing with switchblades. There were all kinds of tiny crevices in the hinge. Places where trace amounts of blood could easily remain.
26
Ashley
December 14th – 10:00 a.m.
Ashley clicked “file now,” then leaned back, smiling. Jacob had given Ashley his login information for electronic filing. That was how she was able to draft and file the motion for discovery and motion for bond review and file them in Jacob’s name.
She was still an attorney, at least until the ethics board came after her. Which was inevitable. Despite what the public believed, lawyers could not get away with murder and keep practicing law. But that was a problem best left for another day. Freedom before livelihood; without the former, there was no chance at the latter.
Now that she had filed the early motions, she turned toward the reports that Katie had left in the side pocket of her computer bag. She lifted the first one, dated December 10th, but she was interrupted before she could start reading.
“I’ve got some mail for you,” Tom said.
Tom always said something to announce himself before stepping into her hallway. The hallway wasn’t hers, but it felt as though it belonged to her since she was still the only female inmate. He waited for a verbal response, permission to enter her realm.
“Is that so?” Ashley called down the hallway. Permission granted.
Tom began whistling and turned the corner. He held a large stack of letters. All had smooth lines cut into the top. “Sorry, but we had to read them first. I can’t bend every rule,” he said with an exaggerated wink.
Ashley sighed. “Who are they from?”
“Most of them are anonymous. But the postmarks are from town here, so I’d guess people in the community.”
Ashley put her hand through the bars, open with her palm facing up.
Tom shook his head.
She knew what he was doing. “You don’t want me to see them, do you?”
“It’s not that. I mean…” He paused. A small furrow appeared between his brows. “Actually, it is. I don’t think you should read them.”
“Because the letters say I’m an evil bitch?”
Tom shifted his weight. “Something like that. How did you know?”
“That’s regular mail for me.” Ashley beckoned for him to give her the letters. “Hand them over.”
Tom placed the stack of letters in her hand. But he remained standing there, studying her face carefully.
“What, Tom?”
“Doesn’t it bother you? You’re in here.” He motioned around him. “In the worst possible situation, and they still attack you. Why don’t they leave you alone? Haven’t they gotten what they wanted?”
Ashley did a rueful little laugh. “No. They won’t be happy until I’m burned at the stake.”
“That’s not funny.”
“I didn’t say it was.” They were both silent for a moment. “You know, I’ve been in this jail thousands of times visiting clients. I always thought of myself as empathetic, but I didn’t understand. Not really. I tried to, but I just couldn’t. Now that I am here, I know. I realize that there’s a hopelessness in here. A darkness that seeps through these bars and into my soul.”
“Then why read the letters?” Tom asked, his tone imploring. “Do you really need to add salt to the wound?”
Ashley shook her head. “I’m not reading the letters because I need to know their opinions of me. I’m reading them because I suspect, or at least hope, that someone will claim responsibility.”
Tom cocked his head, confused.
“Someone out there killed two people and framed me. You know it wasn’t me. You were with me the night Petrovsky died.”
Tom broke eye contact and looked down at his feet. Ashley paused, biting her lip. That night had been wonderful, but she had rejected him the next morning. It was not a favorite memory for either of them.
“You know with one hundred percent certainty that I didn’t kill that man. And I doubt the person that did it is going to disappear into the night. No, that person is going to taunt me. They think they’ve won.”
Her thoughts drifted back to the letter without a postmark. The one left on her front doorstep. The list. (1) Von Reich, (2) You, (3) Petrovsky. She wondered if her incarceration was severe enough to cross her name off or if the killer had something far more sinister in mind. She supposed that was one of the few benefits of incarceration. She could not get out, but nobody could get in either. Not with Tom around.
“I get that,” Tom said.
He leaned against the wall and slowly sank to the floor so they were at eye level. He caught her gaze and held it. A surge of desire spread through Ashley’s chest, but she stifled it. He would not want her. Not anymore.
“Why don’t you want me to tell anyone that I was with you that night when Petrovsky died?”
Ashley shook her head. Her long, mousy brown hair fell into her face. Tom’s gaze did not wander. He watched her tuck her hair behind her ears with calm intensity. She did not understand him. Why was he scrutinizing her?
“I don’t want you to tell anyone because it wouldn’t make any difference. I’m here for two murders. You might be my alibi for one, but you weren’t with me when Von Reich died. Explaining my whereabouts during one murder does not help me with the other. Murder is murder. One death is enough to keep me in here.” She gestured toward the cold, bare walls of her cell.
“But doesn’t it show that Elizabeth has screwed the cases up?”
“I don’t
know,” Ashley said, shaking her head slowly. Suddenly her chest felt as though it was filling with lead. She was exhausted. Tired of fighting day in and day out. She needed a break from everyone. “Honestly, I’d rather sit in here and surprise them with it at trial. Besides, it wouldn’t be good for you.”
“How?”
“A jailer cannot oversee an inmate he slept with. I’m certain Elizabeth will see that as a problem. She’ll think you’ll help me escape or something ridiculous like that. They’ll suspend you, and my life will get even more unmanageable.”
Tom smiled slightly. “Slept by. Not with.”
The reminder of that night bit into her soul. Would she have treated him so harshly if she had known what would come next? No. She would not have. So why had she done it? Some things were muddier while incarcerated, but others sharpened, growing clearer with each passing hour. She knew now that she cared about Tom. How deeply, she was not yet sure, but that answer would come with time.
“If you get suspended, I won’t have you here for support. And, seriously, I don’t know if I can do this without you. I know I shouldn’t say that. But I need you. Please, please, don’t abandon me.”
“I won’t,” Tom promised.
They gazed at each other through the bars. There had always been a distance between them. A barrier that Ashley had kept firmly in place. She could feel it starting to crumble at the edges.
“I think…” Tom said, his voice trailing off.
“What? What do you think?”
Was Tom going to say something monumental? Would he bare his soul to her? Part of her wanted him to, so she could fully explain her complicated emotions, but another, far larger part knew she could not handle it. Her emotions were all over the place. Up, then down, sideways and upside down.
Tom was silent for a beat. His expression shifted from wistful to one of humor. “I think you have Stockholm syndrome.”
Ashley smiled, but she could not deny the sharp pang of disappointment.
Tom rose to his feet. “I better get back to work. I’ll check on you again later.”
Ashley nodded. “See you soon, my captor.”
27
Katie
December 14th – 11:00 a.m.
Katie rapped her knuckles against the front door. Knock. Knock. Knock. She and George were outside Erica Elsberry’s house. Finally, it was time for an extensive interview. Erica lived in a one-story midcentury-style home. The house was reasonably kept up, but the evergreen foliage surrounding it was in desperate need of a trim.
Nobody answered. Katie knocked again. “Hello? Erica. Are you home?”
The neighbors’ homes were a stone’s throw away. Katie turned and did a quick scan of their yards and houses. The yard out front of the house across the street was littered with Christmas decorations, three-foot-high reindeer, snowmen, and Santas covering every square foot. But no people.
“Try one more time,” George said. “If she doesn’t answer, we’ll go back to the station and regroup.”
Katie did not want to regroup. She wanted to talk to Erica. Katie looked down at her feet. A mat sat in front of the door, but instead of saying “Welcome,” it said, “I don’t want any.” It was not a good sign. Katie knocked one more time. Third time is a charm, she thought halfheartedly. A few moments later she heard the shift of the deadbolt, and the door swung open.
“What do you want?” Erica said. She had opened the door just enough to see Katie, but George was still out of view.
Despite the hour, Erica looked as though she had just woken up. She wore a soft, fluffy pink robe, white slippers with blue clouds on them, and pink curlers in her hair.
“To talk to you,” Katie said, shifting her weight from one foot to the other.
Erica fished around in her pocket, producing a pack of Marlboro Lights and a lighter. “What for?”
“I want to talk about something you reported to one of our rookie officers, John Jackie.” And your relationship with a certain BIC lighter, she thought but did not say.
Erica lit the cigarette and took a deep drag. “I don’t know him,” Erica said, blowing the smoke back in Katie’s face.
Katie coughed and waved the smoke away. “Yes, well, that’s not what he says, and I’d like to get some clarification on the matter.”
“You screwed up my son’s case,” Erica said. “It’s your fault that bastard Petrovsky went free. Not that it ended up well for him, but I still don’t want to talk to you. Not now, not ever.”
Erica moved to close the door, but George’s arm shot out, catching the doorknob.
“Erica,” he said as he flashed his most charming smile. “Do you mind speaking with me?”
“Officer Thomanson,” Erica said, patting her curlers. “I didn’t realize you were here, too. Please, come on in.”
Katie groaned inwardly. Seriously? Did it always have to be that easy for George?
George’s gaze shifted to Katie. “Do you mind if this other officer comes along with me? You know,” he leaned forward conspiratorially, “to take notes.”
Erica giggled. Actually giggled. Katie was embarrassed for her.
“Oh, that shouldn’t be a problem.” Erica opened the door wide enough for both officers to slip past her. She took one last drag of her cigarette and dropped it into the snow on the front stoop before following them inside.
The front entry spilled right into the living room area of the home. The space was small and crammed with furniture. The couch and matching loveseat were a faded floral pattern. The couch sat squeezed into the space along the back wall, facing out toward a large picture window, and the loveseat was pressed along the far wall.
“Have a seat, detective,” Erica said, patting George on the shoulder. She completely ignored Katie.
“It’s just officer, actually.”
“Oh, my,” Erica said, placing a hand over her mouth. “You should be a detective. You’re so smart.”
George smiled and sat at the far end of the couch. Katie hung back in the doorway where she could easily hear, but she was outside of Erica’s direct line of sight. If George could get Erica talking, Katie was not going to screw that up.
“So, Erica,” George began, “the reason for our, my, visit has to do with a phone call you made to the police station.”
Erica furrowed her brow. “I’m not sure what you mean.”
“Did you call the police station on December twelfth?”
Erica shook her head. “Not that I recall.”
“It would have been around one o’clock in the morning.”
“No. Absolutely not. I was sleeping at that time.”
Katie stepped into the room, stopping a few feet away from Erica. “Are you certain?”
“Yes, I’m certain,” Erica said with a snort. “Far more certain than you were when you screwed up that search warrant.”
The words stung. Katie wanted justice for James Elsberry. But Erica was right. She had screwed up, and she deserved the criticism.
“Where is James?” Katie wondered. She had not seen the boy once.
“At school.”
That was right. He would be in second grade now.
Katie nodded and slowly walked around the room, looking at the pictures framed upon the wall. Most of them were of James by himself at various ages, but a couple included Erica. There were no men in any of them.
“What’s your relationship with Christopher Mason?”
Katie wanted to catch Erica off guard by tossing a seemingly random question into the mix. But there was nothing random about it. According to Brooke Mason, Erica had been meeting Christopher at Mikey’s Tavern for over a week. Depending on the outcome of the forensics on that knife Christopher dropped, Erica’s involvement with Christopher could draw the line between co-conspirator and innocent bystander.
“What does Christopher have to do with anything?” Erica grumbled.
“Maybe nothing,” Katie said with a shrug.
“I went to high schoo
l with him and his wife. That’s all.”
Katie quirked a brow. “You don’t spend time with him anymore?”
“No.”
Lie.
“You aren’t having an affair with him?”
“Absolutely not.”
Possible lie.
“All right.” Katie put her hands up in a gesture of surrender. “How about the jail. Do you ever visit anyone in jail?”
Erica crossed her arms. “Why would I do that?”
“I don’t know. Have you?”
“No.”
Lie.
“You’ve never visited Victor Petrovsky in jail?”
“No!”
Bald-faced lie.
A grin spread across Katie’s face. It was Cheshire-like. A cat smiling to the canary. “Let’s talk about Officer John Jackie.”
“Okay.”
“How do you know him?”
Erica lit another cigarette. “I don’t know him. I’ve never met him before in my life.”
“Have you talked to him on the phone?”
“No.” Erica looked from George to Katie, then back to George. “What is this? An interrogation?”
George patted Erica’s hand reassuringly. “It’s just a few more questions. I promise that we will be done soon and out of your beautiful hair.”
Erica patted her curlers and nodded.
“Let’s go back to the phone call to the police station on December twelfth,” George said. He kept his tone even, inviting. “You didn’t make that call?”
“No. I was sleeping. I already told you.”
“So, you wouldn’t have spoken with John Jackie?”
“Not unless I have a habit of calling people in my sleep.”
“Is that a no?” Katie said.
“It’s a no,” Erica said.
