Everything You Want Me to Be

by Mindy Mejia

  “Facial mutilation is often employed to take a victim’s identity away, which—to some killers—is more important than the victim’s life. It’s an act to demonstrate the killer’s power over the victim, that they have obliterated any threat that person posed to them. Last year I reviewed a case where a beauty queen killed a rival and poured acid on her face. The victim’s main source of power over the killer, her flawless face, was taken from her. Spite is a strong motivator, but the second possibility is even more so: fear.”

  “Fear of what? Getting caught?”

  “Not at this stage. You see the fear of getting caught later, when the killer took the victim’s purse and threw it in the lake. No, this is a primal fear, often documented as an immediate first emotion following a murder. It can take the form of facial cuts, covering, or even disposal of the entire body. The killer tries to erase the victim’s identity in order to erase the crime itself. It’s essentially a remorse action.”

  “He killed her and then felt bad about it?”

  “I believe so. The sex and stabbing are both indicators of strong swings in emotion. It’s possible that the killer’s emotions swung back to regret and fear just as quickly. You’re looking for a younger, excitable man, someone who may have difficulty fitting in or has a history of volatile relationships, either with the victim or otherwise.”

  Jake and I looked at each other, and he tapped his finger on a name on the murder file. I nodded.

  Whether or not Standler told us anything new, he’d sound mighty good up on a witness stand. I thanked him and made sure he’d be available to testify when the time came, then Jake and I headed over to the school for funeral duty.

  The school maintenance guys and the funeral home staff had already set the place up last night, but the flower deliveries poured in all morning. After I finished the outside security checks, I escorted a couple florists inside the gym and took stock of the place.

  The stage from last weekend was gone, broken down and stored away, and they’d pulled out the bleachers like a school assembly and filled most of the floor with chairs. All the floor seats faced a pulpit, mountains of flowers, and dozens of pictures and yearbooks set up at the front of the gym. I walked along the back wall, where students had stretched a paper banner and covered it with memories of Hattie.

  She was always smiling.

  She helped me with my English paper. A bunch of times.

  We got the last season of Sex and the City from my sister. Hattie slept over and we watched it all night and rated the dresses. She thought they were way cuter than I did.

  Sharing banana splits at DQ. NO STRAWBERRY SAUCE, PLEASE! Lol

  She was such a good listener. (I saw that one over and over again.) She listened to all my problems and tried to help.

  Hattie really listened to you.

  There was a city skyline along the bottom of the paper with a girl stick figure waving from one of the windows.

  I didn’t notice until I got to the end that someone had hung up Hattie’s dress from the play, Lady Macbeth’s dress washed clean of the blood bath, white and pristine. It hovered against the wall like a ghost. She’d been wearing it less than a week ago in this same room. I’d been working that night, catching up on the paperwork that never ended when budget cuts knocked you back to just a skeleton crew, but I should’ve let it wait. I should’ve come to see her.

  The hearse arrived and with it, Bud, Mona, and Greg. They followed the casket into a room off the gym where the family would stay until the service. Greg nodded at me as they passed, looking jet-lagged and rough around the edges. Neither Bud nor Mona glanced up.

  Then they came, the whole town in twos and threes, no one walking alone. Winifred Erickson patted my arm as she shuffled in. The Nguyens openly cried and held on to each other. Hushed, angry voices filled the halls and the gym. Brian Haeffner came up, dressed in the string tie and mother-of-pearl clasp that he wore everywhere during election season.

  “Del, what’s happening? Your press releases don’t say shit.”

  “It’s an ongoing investigation.”

  “People are hurting here. They need to know what happened to Hattie.”

  I could feel ears perking up all around us, red-rimmed eyes measuring our faces, waiting.

  “We don’t need anyone to get spooked right now.” I kept my voice down.

  His voiced dropped too as he glanced around us. “Del, this is the kind of case you got to wrap up quick or people will remember at the polls. It was already a slim margin last time on account of your age.”

  “I haven’t keeled over yet.”

  “You might as well if this thing drags out too long.” He caught my look and jumped to defend himself. “I’m telling you that as a friend. This is a career breaker.”

  The last thing I wanted to talk about right now was my career. I gave a curt nod and walked away from my friend, the suit cuffs chafing every time I moved my arms.

  I hadn’t worn this suit since I bought it for my mom’s funeral a few years ago. She’d been active in the church her whole life and everyone showed up to send her off to the pearly gates—including Bud and Mona, standing right by my side. The mood had been solemn, yet satisfied, too, like people knew she’d lived the best life any of us had a right to expect. We told funny stories about her and all sat down to eat and watch my sister’s grandkids play tag around the flowers. Then that was that. Death was the end of a cycle that farm folks saw every day. They joked and ribbed each other about most everything else, but when it came to hardship or loss, they endured, without making a big fuss about it. I’d been to more funerals than I cared to count, and eaten so many ham and butter sandwiches I could practically taste the flour-dusted bun when a hearse drove down Main Street, but Hattie’s funeral was something else entirely.

  Grief and rage rolled off this crowd so strong I could almost smell it. I walked up and down the aisles as people took their seats, feeling eyes on me from all sides. The suit didn’t fool anybody. They knew what was on my mind as much as I knew what was on theirs—murder.

  I worked my way to the far side of the gym, scanning the crowd for my suspects. Gerald Jones from Rochester caught my eye and nodded. Although the volume in the room was building, I could still hear the two mothers who walked in front of me.

  “Took him out of school and brought him down to the station.”

  “I heard he was directing the school play that Hattie was in.”

  “He was. I was here on Friday night, saw Hattie just a few hours before it happened. I got chills, watching her. And now the papers are talking about a curse.”

  “Have you heard what happened at the rehearsal?”

  “No, what—?”

  The women spotted me and they both hushed and found some seats.

  Farther into the room I located Tommy. He sat in the middle of the first row of bleachers that groaned under the weight of the football team. None of them were saying much; they stared at the front of the gym, their unused muscles just waiting to tense. Tommy wore a suit that was too small for him and looked like he wouldn’t have heard the halftime horn if you blew it in his ear. His folks sat directly behind him, both of them watching me. I kept walking.

  I found Peter Lund high in the farthest section of bleachers. A lot of teachers and school staff sat in the same area, but they’d left a space between him and the rest of them. The closest person to Lund was Carl Jacobs, although the two didn’t act like great buddies. Carl folded and unfolded his program while Lund stared into the center of the crowd and seemed oblivious to that deliberate distance between him and the others. He wore a suit, too, and maybe his was snazzier than Tommy’s, but he looked just as out of place in it, with bloodshot eyes and at least a day’s worth of beard. I didn’t see Mary Beth anywhere.

  Fear, Standler had said. Fear and remorse drew that blade down Hattie’s face, leaving her nothing left to show the world. Which one of them had the rage to kill her and then the gall to feel bad about it in the next bre
ath?

  I made my way back out of the gym and alerted the crew, letting them know I’d located both suspects. Then, taking a deep breath and smoothing a hand down my stiff suit, I slipped into the nearby classroom next to the gym, where Hattie lay among her family.

  Her casket filled the front of the classroom, with lilies covering its closed lid and masking the horror inside. The preacher stood in front of it with his hands on Bud’s and Mona’s shoulders. Eyes closed and face up, he prayed.

  “Heavenly Father, we know this was not your plan for Hattie. Our sorrow and anger are overwhelming. They choke us. We need your strength, Lord. We need you to help us understand how this could happen. Even though we know she is with You, we cannot contain our bewilderment, our need for justice. Help us get through this day, Lord. Help us put Hattie to rest, even as the sin of retribution burns inside of us.”

  He kept on like that as another noise rose in the room—a soft sobbing from all corners. The men tried to hold it in, but the women broke down one by one, their faces in Kleenex, mascara dripping down their cheeks. The only one without his head down was Greg. He wasn’t crying like the rest. He stared directly at me and I recognized a soldier poised for battle. He was his father’s son, ready to take revenge on his sister’s killer, like the preacher’s prayer made flesh.

  After the Amens I nodded to the funeral director to let him know it was time. I held the door while the pallbearers, Greg at the front, took their stations and carried Hattie out. Bud and Mona were the first to follow, and this time Bud saw me and stopped, holding up the whole procession.

  “Del?” he asked, and I knew what he was asking. His face was wet. Mona tightened her grip on his hand.

  “I’m so sorry, Bud.”

  I put a hand on his shoulder, but he didn’t acknowledge it. He breathed out slow, like he was fighting to control something in him that wanted loose and then kept walking, letting my hand fall into the air.

  As the rest of the family exited, Jake appeared. He waited until the last of them were well into the gym before giving his report.

  “News vans are in a holding pattern. They tried asking me a few questions, all general sniffing around, nothing about either of our boys. Shel’s keeping an eye on them while they film their updates for the evening news.”

  Piano music drifted down the hallway, followed by a thousand voices echoing off the rafters. I glanced at my program: “Hymn of Promise.”

  “Good.” I cleared my throat. “Everybody knows their jobs after the service. I’m going to go inside and keep to the back. I’ll—”

  My phone buzzed. I pulled it out and saw a Twin Cities area code. Jake and I both tensed before I punched the button.

  “Goodman.”

  “Sheriff Goodman, this is Amanda at the Minneapolis crime lab. I have the results of your DNA tests for case number 094627.”

  Like I had a hundred case numbers pending DNA results. My pulse leapt as I waited.

  “The specimen was an exact match to the second DNA sample, donor name Peter Lund. I’m emailing the full report to you right now.”

  Son of a bitch. The married teacher.

  “Appreciate it.” I hung up before she said anything else and turned to Jake. “It’s Lund.”

  His eyes steeled over and a muscle jumped in his cheek. “We don’t take him now, do we?”

  “And risk a damn lynch mob? Not in front of this crowd or those news trucks camped outside.” I checked my gun in the shoulder holster. “I’ll show you where he is. After the service you shadow him. Follow him to his car and then take him in. I’ll be along after I lead the procession back from the cemetery. Too noticeable if I try to leave before then.”

  I gave him Lund’s position as we entered the gym, sidling up to the end of the bleachers. Tommy was still in the front row, but with everyone standing for the hymn, I couldn’t see to the far side of the room. Even though Jake was taller than me, I could tell he wasn’t having any luck either. The singing seemed to take an age, in verse after verse they delivered Hattie up to the Lord, their voices a sharp, grieving thunder that paralyzed us. Finally the song ended and the crowd sat down. I craned my neck and located Carl Jacobs, sitting alone in a sea of people.

  Lund was gone.

  Adrenaline shot through me, feeding my old bones with that familiar surge. The tension rolling off Jake told me he was in the same place. Everything became silent, deliberate. The preacher’s voice fell away.

  “Make sure,” I muttered and we checked and rechecked the crowd, but there was no trace of him. We left the service and I sent a text to the crew.

  Lund MIA. Exits and perimeter. ID and report only. Do not detain in public area.

  Shel replied.

  No one out the front door in the last ten minutes. I’ve got front and east exits in visual.

  We swept the front hallway, restrooms, and staff offices, and then moved toward the classrooms. I motioned Jake to take the upstairs and I stayed on the main level, looking in every room. Lund’s classroom, where the principal had escorted me two days ago, was the last door on the right. As I got closer I could hear something—a loud, ragged breath. I unholstered my gun and crept along the wall, then ducked inside the room to see Lund standing at the window with his back to me. I couldn’t see his hands.

  “Stay right where you are.”

  The only sign he heard me was a tremor that ran through his whole body. Chicken shit.

  “Peter Lund, you’re under arrest for obstruction of justice in the case of the murder of Henrietta Sue Hoffman.” I stepped cautiously forward, keeping the gun trained on his back. “Hands where I can see them.”

  Slowly he raised his arms and turned around. His skin was sallow and sick. He looked like he hadn’t slept since Friday night.

  “She wouldn’t let me end it. She kept pushing and pushing.” The next words were hardly more than a mumble, but they tore into the room like a gunshot.

  “She’d still be alive if she would’ve just let me go.”

  PETER / Thursday, April 17, 2008

  THE SHERIFF wouldn’t stop pointing the gun at me. He ordered me to face the wall and put my hands behind my back, just as the younger officer came in and put me in handcuffs. I’d never been in handcuffs before. They were cold.

  “Aren’t you supposed to read me my rights?”

  “I’m figuring the best way to get you back to the station without getting your head blown off by any of those fine folks out there.”

  I hadn’t thought of that. For two days I’d imagined all the possible scenarios after the DNA test came back. They could have come for me at school or at home. I knew they wouldn’t let me drive in on my own, despite the obvious fact that I hadn’t skipped town or disappeared from my life. I went to school yesterday, went through the motions of teaching as the entire staff and half the students watched me like I was the worst kind of predator. I sat across from Mary at the dinner table last night while Elsa, oblivious, rambled on about family names and all the possible horrors we might inflict upon our unborn child. Marcy. Etheline. Albus. I stared at the plate and listened for gravel crunching in the driveway, waiting for the swing of headlights through the living room windows. I could even see Sheriff Goodman pulling me aside after the funeral and shoving me in the back of his squad car while news cameras ate up the moment in greedy clicks, but it hadn’t occurred to me that I might be shot by one of Hattie’s mourners. I don’t know why not. It made perfect sense. Winifred Erickson had killed her husband after she got tired of him and never served a day in prison. Of course they’d shoot me.

  They decided to take me out the exit behind the cafeteria next to the dumpsters. A high fence gated off the area, trapping the stench of sour milk and mold. The deputy left to pull his cruiser around, leaving me alone with the sheriff. Even with the handcuffs, the smells, and the fury leaking out of the old man’s eyes, it was still better than sitting in that gymnasium staring at the box that held Hattie’s dead body. The details had spread like wildfire
through the school on Monday morning: the stab through her heart, the slashes destroying her face, her body half-submerged in the lake. It was impossible to sit quietly in that room with her body, imagining her terror and her pain. I’d stumbled out of the gym before I broke down completely.

  “I didn’t kill her.” As the words came out, I wondered why I hadn’t said them before.

  He looked at me like I was the thing rotting in the dumpster. Then he read me my rights.

  The deputy pulled up and they put me in the back of the squad car.

  “Book him and let him sweat.” The sheriff slammed the door. “I’ll be along as soon as we get the procession back from the cemetery.”

  The deputy nodded and pulled out of the alley slowly, like he’d been checking security around the building. Three media vans were parked on the street with cameramen and reporters milling in front of them.

  As we pulled out of the parking lot, the reporters spotted me and suddenly cameras flashed and bodies swarmed closer to the car. I sat woodenly, indifferent to what any of this would mean for my life.

  “Hmm, I guess the secret’s out. Smile pretty.” He eased out into the street.

  “I didn’t kill Hattie.”

  “Good one. Next you’re going to tell me you don’t fuck your underage students, either.”

  She wasn’t underage—I bit back the impulse before I could say it. He laughed low and mean at my silence as we cruised the few blocks down Main Street.

  “Not going to bother denying that one, are you? Now shut up and don’t give me any excuses.”

  At the station he hauled me through fingerprinting and photos and shoved me in the first of three empty cells in the back room. Then everything was quiet.

  There were actually bars on the cells. It seemed so clichéd. I paced and, without even trying, the list of names started forming—William Sydney Porter, Ken Kesey, Paul Verlaine, every Russian writer ever—and the discussion questions rose to frame them. How did time spent in prison inform their work? Compare and contrast the societal pressures against Oscar Wilde versus Solzhenitsyn. I could even see the handout I would type up and distribute to the students along the front row, igniting that flush of anticipation in Hattie’s complexion. She would read every excerpt by the next class and then she’d insist—