“I already have. I’m taking a break at home right now.”
“Why is that, Phil?”
“My grades have slipped and I need to focus on my classes. Frat life is getting old.”
“I hear you. Pretty wild sometimes, huh?”
“Yes. And this whole thing has really gotten to me,” he said, becoming animated and waving his hands to emphasize his statement. “That’s not what frat life is supposed to be about.”
“What’s frat life supposed to be about?”
“It’s like a brotherhood, you know. Making lifelong friends. Doing good in the community. At least that’s how my dad described it.”
What a nice kid, she thought. “How’s it at home after living in a frat?”
“Quiet. I can think.” Phil thought of his mother. “My mom’s a police dispatcher.”
“Where?”
“Here in Santa Lucia. Her name’s Penny Hobart.”
“You’re Penny’s son? Please say hello to her for me.” Yee stood up and gave Phil her card. “Call me if you recall something or hear anything that might help us find Lindsay.”
“Let’s get right to it, Jake, so you can get out of here,” said Detective Yaeger. “Did you go to the frat party, the Friday night Lindsay Moore was raped?”
“Yeah.” His knee started bouncing under the table.
Yaeger removed Lindsay’s photo from a folder and placed it on the oak dining room table facing him. “Do you recognize this girl from the party?”
“No.” At least not from the party.
Yaeger watched him closely. Had there been a hesitation? “You are absolutely sure you didn’t see her at the party?”
“Yes, I’m sure.” That was true. Jake had never actually seen her face.
She pulled out the photos of Mallory and Jenny. “How about these girls?”
“No. The place was packed that night.” Jake tried a smile, but it felt stiff and unnatural on his face. “People were coming and going.” He shook his head. “I really wish I could be more help.”
“You’re doing fine, Jake. I appreciate you trying and I know Lindsay’s mother will, too. This has been incredibly hard on her and I just wish we could get a break.” Yaeger gave Jake her card. “Who knows? Maybe you’ll think of something that will save Lindsay’s life.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
DEAD GIRLS DON’T BLOG
THURSDAY • APRIL 18
Posted by Katy McKenna
I placed another ad offering my services (LOL—that sounds a little sketchy) on Craigslist, then spent the rest of the morning attacking my third bedroom storage unit, which basically means I moved some boxes to the garage and stacked them along the walls. I figured if they sit out there for six months, in addition to the months they’ve already languished in the bedroom, and I still don’t feel the need to search for anything, then it can all be tossed. It’s a good theory, but we’ll see if I actually do it.
My stomach announced lunchtime, so I halted the box relocation project to warm up some leftover spinach lasagna “a la Momma.”
After popping a plateful in the microwave, I noticed my cell phone on the counter showed I had a voicemail from Samantha: “I’m at work, and you will never guess who just checked in. Christy Hobart. Except her last name is now Sutherland. I wouldn’t have realized it was her after all these years, but her mother’s here and she saw the petition and went ballistic to say the least. Talk to you later.”
The microwave timer dinged and I removed my lunch and sat at the kitchen table overlooking the yard to ponder this new development. Again, doubts crept in as I considered all the people affected by Hobart’s crimes and how I might be making their burdens heavier. Then I remembered the otherworldly presence I’d felt beside me at the school’s flagpole. I had to quit second-guessing myself. It was too late now anyway.
I finished lunch, put the dishes in the sink, and went to the bathroom to wash up. I cautiously removed the surgical tape from my mutilated nose and pulled off the Neosporin-goopy gauze. The tip was still red, but it wasn’t throbbing and I wasn’t foaming at the mouth from rabies yet, so I put a bandage over it and returned to my self-imposed manual labor. I kept my cell with me, in case Sam called with an update.
An hour later, I was perched on a carton of old college textbooks, looking at my baby book and marveling at how adorable I was, when she called again. “Did you get my message?”
“Yes. What’s going on? Is Christy having a baby?” Stupid question—she’s in the maternity ward.
“She’s in labor, and it looks like it’s going to be a long one. But that’s not what I’m calling about.”
“You said her mother saw the petition.”
“And she is mad.” Sam lowered her voice, which meant she was calling from the nurse’s station. “Like raving mad. In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if she is mad!”
“You’re losing me here. I get that she’s mad—”
“I do too, but this is way over the top. She’s threatening to sue the hospital.”
“That’s probably just a reaction,” I said. “Everyone says stuff like that. I feel terrible this happened to her. She’s had enough pain in her life. She should be joyful about her grandchild being born, but instead she gets slammed with my stupid petition and all those horrible memories.”
“I put the petitions away and brought her a cup of tea. I don’t know what else I can do. At least she’s not screaming louder than her daughter now. The poor father-to-be looks like he wants to bolt. Hold on.”
I heard Sam talking to someone and then she came back on. “Gotta go.”
I set the phone on a box and thought about Christy. Her baby’s uncle was a rapist and a murderer. Someday she would have to explain that to her child. How would she find the words?
I tried to get back to work, but my motivation had flown out the window, so I decided to pack it in for the day and take Daisy to the dog park.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
DEAD GIRLS DON’T BLOG
1996
Thursday, May 16
Phil was on his bed, propped against the padded headboard, playing Tetris on his old Gameboy when his cell rang. It was Jake. “When’re you coming back here?”
“Why?”
“Erik’s drinking a lot.”
“He always drinks a lot. What else is new?”
“This is different.” Phil heard the frustration and anger in Jake’s voice. “It’s like he’s drinking to pass out as fast as he can, and I’m scared to leave him alone. I’m afraid he’s going to run off at the mouth and get us all arrested.”
“All right, I’ll be back tonight,” said Phil, and ended the call. He’d hoped never to lay eyes on either of his roommates again but knew that leaving Jake to deal with Erik was selfish.
He was gathering his things into his backpack when a car parked in the driveway. He peeked through his drapes and saw his mother and Christy coming up the front walk. Phil met her at the door and told her he was returning to the frat house.
“Why, honey? I know you’re still not feeling good, so why not stay here?” She ruffled his hair. “It’s been so nice having you home.”
“Yeah, it’s been nice for me, too, but it’s wearing me out riding my bike to school from here, and it’s going to be a while before my car is ready, so I need to go back.”
“I suppose you’re right.”
“I’ve already got my stuff together, so I’ll go get it and hit the road.”
Penny was waiting at the front door holding his sweatshirt when he returned. “You better put this on, it’s chilly out there. Say, did I tell you I’m down to three cigs a day now? This time I’m really going to make it.”
He hugged his mother. “Really proud of you.”
“You sure you can manage?” she asked, still hanging onto him. “Your backpack is awfully heavy. I could give you a ride, you know.”
Christy stepped in to rescue him. “Mom. That’s so awesome about the cigarettes.”
She peeled Penny away from Phil and threw her arms around her in a tight embrace. “I’m proud of you, too.”
Phil mouthed “thank you” to his sister and Penny laughed at them both, saying, “All right, you two. I know when I’m being worked.”
Erik’s snores echoed down the hallway as Phil grudgingly climbed the stairs to the second floor of the frat house. This was the last place he wanted to be. When he opened the door to his room, the reek of vomit hit him full-face, sparking his gag reflex. He pulled his t-shirt up to his nose before entering the room.
Jake was sitting at his desk, bare feet propped on a corner of the desk, working on a paper for his organic agriculture class while blowing out his eardrums listening to Coolio on his Sony Walkman. Phil tapped him on the shoulder, nearly sending him through the roof.
Jake slammed his feet on the floor and ripped off his headphones. “God! Give me a warning. I could’ve pissed my pants.”
“Sorry.” Phil gestured in Erik’s direction. “Sorry about that, too.” Erik’s mouth hung open and his long, rasping snores nearly drowned out Phil’s voice.
“He drinks, he pukes, he passes out, and I clean up the mess.” Jake withdrew a handful of chips from an open bag on his desk and shoved them into his mouth. He brandished the bag at Phil. “Want some?”
Phil waved the chips away. The smell of taco chips mixed with stench in the room made him cringe. “No, thanks. How can you eat in here? The smell is turning my stomach.” He shimmied out of his backpack, letting it drop onto his bed.
Jake opened a desk drawer and tossed a jar of Vicks VapoRub to Phil. “Put a little under your nose and it’ll kill the smell. The cops on TV always do it when they find a dead body. It’s not the greatest smell in the world and it kinda screws up your taste buds, but it beats breathing up his fumes.”
“Nothing could stink worse than him.” Lindsay’s corpse came to mind and he willed the vision away. Phil opened the jar, rubbed a dab of ointment under his nose, and inhaled the strong aroma. “Whoa! Not better. Now my sinuses are wide open and it smells like mentholated vomit and piss in here. Thanks a lot.” He set the jar on Jake’s desk.
“I was thinking tomorrow morning,” Jake said, “when he’s coherent, you could talk to him. He won’t listen to me. I think he’s drinking to blot out what he’s done, but if we can’t keep him sober, it’s only a matter of time before he shoots off his mouth and blows everything.”
“So you want to do, like, an intervention?” asked Phil. He sat on the floor and leaned against his bed frame.
“Shit, no. An intervention means you care about someone, and I couldn’t care less about him,” he paused. “But we need to do something.”
Phil considered that, and a chilling realization hit him. “You know, it’s not going to be just until school’s out. If he drinks like this when he goes home—”
“And you know he will,” said Jake. “The guy’s a friggin’ alcoholic.”
“You know, he could be sitting at a bar, five, ten years from now and start blabbing about it. We could be married with families, good careers, and suddenly everything goes up in smoke because of that bastard’s big mouth.”
Jake opened a desk drawer, crammed the bag of chips in and slammed it. “I hadn’t thought past getting out of here. I mean, there’s no way I’ll ever get over this. Lindsay will haunt me forever, but you’re right. This’ll never end. We’ll never truly be free, no matter how far away we are.”
Erik rolled over to his back and belched toxic fumes of alcohol and stomach acid. Cracked, dried spittle lined his chapped, scabby lips. He turned his head towards them, opened one sticky eye and blearily slurred, “Fuck you.” He reached under his pillow and pulled out a half-empty fifth of vodka and drained it while Phil and Jake watched in silent fascination.
“Last night I discovered half a case stashed under his bed,” said Jake. “I got rid of it, but I guess I missed that one. This is why I needed you to come back. I won’t be able to stop him from getting more liquor without your help.”
Erik cradled the empty bottle to his chest and passed out. A moment later vomit gurgled up in his mouth, choking him as the bile pooled and drained back down his throat.
Jake rushed to him and turned him on his side. The sour puke poured out of his mouth and soaked the sheet.
Phil was overcome with loathing. A spoiled, arrogant, heartless drunk had ruined his life and now controlled his future. “God, we are so screwed.” He stared at Erik, trying to think what to do with this loser.
“I’ve got an idea.” Phil bent over Erik and tugged his wallet from a rear pocket and removed a credit card. “We’ve got to get him out of here. We’ll get a hotel room and take turns babysitting him until he dries out.” He brandished the credit card. “We’ll use his card because his parents will never notice the charges like mine would.”
“Or mine,” Jake said, feeling a tingle of hope. “How long do we keep him in a hotel room?”
“Until we can make him understand what’s at stake. That he has to stay sober. Forever. We’ll get him to check into rehab, join AA, threaten to tell his parents, whatever it takes.”
Phil snatched his backpack from his bed and placed it by the door. “I’ll pack some clothes for Erik, while you get your stuff. Then you bring your car to the front of the house. I don’t want to carry him any further than we have to.”
“At least no one here will think anything of it. They’re used to him.”
Phil pulled the top drawer of Erik’s dresser open and grabbed boxers and t-shirts. As he jammed them into a duffel bag, Jake suddenly yelped, “Shit, shit, shit!”
Phil spun around and saw the cause of Jake’s outburst. Erik’s body shook violently and his head was bent at an odd angle, slamming the wall behind his bed. His eyes rolled up and his bladder released as his limbs continued to thrash uncontrolled.
“What’s wrong with him?” Jake hovered over Erik, afraid to touch him.
“He’s having a seizure.” Phil pushed in front of Jake and tried to hold Erik’s body still. “Help me pull him down and get his head away from the wall before he knocks himself out.”
Jake made no move to help.
“Please. He could bite his tongue off if we don’t help him!”
“No, no way,” Jake backed away and stood with his arms folded across his chest, his face set in stony resolution. “And too bad if he bites his tongue off; at least then he can’t talk.”
Phil straightened up from Erik, gaping at Jake. “Are you kidding?” He turned back to Erik. “Shit! He’s puking again! I need to get him on his side or he’ll choke.” He grasped Erik’s jerking shoulders and tried to pull his head away from the wall. A flailing arm knocked him sideways and he lost his footing, tripping over a skateboard on the floor, and hitting his temple hard against Erik’s desk. For several moments Phil lay stunned on the floor, unable to move. When he recovered, Jake was hovering over Erik, grunting with exertion as he pinned the boy’s writhing shoulders to the mattress. Erik sputtered as beige, chunky vomit gurgled and pooled in his mouth.
“What’re you doing? He’s choking! ” Phil scrambled to his feet and struggled to push Jake away from Erik, but the muscular wrestler was stronger and blocked Phil’s attempts. “Please, Jake. Please stop.” He clenched his fists. “Oh God, this is so wrong.”
As Erik’s tremors weakened, Jake released his hand on Erik’s right shoulder and pinched the boy’s nostrils shut. Erik’s glassy eyes opened wide as he fought to inhale oxygen, but instead sucked the sour vomit deep into his throat, blocking his esophagus.
Phil tried again to force Jake aside, but Jake angled his solid body over Erik, giving him no opening, and held fast. “Jake! You don’t know what you’re doing.”
“I know exactly what I’m doing. He murdered Lindsay, destroyed our lives, threatened our families. Enough is enough.”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
DEAD GIRLS DON’T BLOG
1996
; Friday, May 17
Angela was seated on a well-worn brown leather couch in Police Chief Paul Arnold’s office. Her case notes were spread over the oak coffee table.
“We need answers fast,” he said. “Unsolved Mysteries has contacted us and wants to do a segment on Lindsay.”
Angela was surprised. “The TV show? I thought they only went after cold cases.”
“So did I, but evidently they’ve been getting a lot of calls from our local citizens who’ve lost faith in us.”
“I don’t know what to tell you, Chief. We’ve followed up on every lead and we’re nowhere.”
“The last thing we need right now is a camera crew getting in the way of our investigation,” said Chief Arnold.
Angela nodded in agreement. “And I don’t want to be wasting my time babysitting those people.”
“I’ll do my best to stall them, but if the local press gets wind of this, it could blow up in our faces. Could look like I’m impeding justice.”
“So we’re damned if we do and damned if we don’t.”
“Pretty much. The girl was drugged and raped at a party and then later abducted. Come on. How in the hell can there be no witnesses?” Chief Arnold had asked this question umpteen times over the last two weeks.
“Oh, trust me there were witnesses, at least at the party, but they were too drunk or too stoned to realize what they saw. But no one seeing her abducted at the school did surprise me, so a few days ago I went to the school at the same time Lindsay disappeared and, yes, I can see how it could have happened. I saw one kid getting into a car at the other end of the lot but no one else.”
Murder Blog Mysteries Boxed Collection Page 19
