Thunder Falls

by Michael Lilly

  I tell Todd and Creed such.

  “What? Let me see,” they both say. It’s not that they don’t trust or believe me, I sense. Just that they’re incredulous at the degree of high-form fuckery presented here.

  Todd holds the two statements side by side and says, “Damn. The only differences are in the handwriting and the names at the top. And even the handwriting is similar.” He passes the pages to Creed, who nonverbally agrees.

  “Wait, look,” I say, “This one wasn’t recanted. Whatever Iris was too afraid to confess seems to have sat just fine with Donna.”

  “Well, you know the drill, then,” says Todd.

  I nod.

  At Creed’s questioning gaze, I say, “When someone recants a testimony that puts someone in an innocent light—such as this one—you interview the shit out of that person. Because not only do they know what happened, but at least a small part of them wants to tell the truth, to make things right. Plus, after all these years, she has had plenty of time to get over the holdups she was having back then. In my opinion, if we find Iris, we learn the truth.”

  Todd nods knowingly and Creed pulls his phone out. “Let’s see if we can’t find this Iris Alcazar, then,” he says.

  “Do you have some kind of massive database at the ready in there, Mr. Bond?” I say.

  “Close,” Creed replies, “Google.”

  Todd and I watch in anticipation as Creed’s face goes from concentration to exasperation, then from that to shock, finally ending in disappointment.

  He looks up from his phone and says, “Iris is dead. She died just a couple of months after leaving the treatment center, after it closed.”

  “Oh shit,” we both say.

  “How did she die?” asks Todd. “She must have been pretty young. Eighteen at the oldest.”

  “Right. She was only sixteen,” says Creed, evidently reading form an article as he speaks.

  He taps and scrolls for perhaps another minute before speaking again.

  “I guess she was one of the last girls to discharge from Ghost Falls before it shut down and forced everyone there to go home or back to whatever care they were in beforehand.”

  “Did she finish her treatment or get discharged for some other reason?”

  “It says she completed her program. Her parents were excited to have her home; they threw her a welcome home party and everything. A few weeks later, she turned up dead in the back of a stolen pickup. They had to thaw the body before the autopsy could be done. Jesus.

  “The autopsy revealed that she had been strangled, and based on witness accounts, she had been perfectly happy and in good spirits—no more or less than usual—the days leading to her death. Suicide wasn’t ruled out at first, but the bruising around her neck and wrists were indicative of an attacker. But the assailant left no prints and no DNA. No witnesses, no leads. By the time they found her, the trail was colder than the corpse.”

  “Ginger, Iris, and Donna. That’s three roommates. How many did she have?” asks Todd.

  “There were eight beds to a unit,” I say.

  “So let’s see, seven total, excluding Willa, obviously. Four to go, then. I wonder if every one of them wrote a statement.”

  “Probably,” I say. “Or at least they asked them to.”

  “Right. Oh, and the other testimonies mentioned an Ellen and a Josalyn, too.” Clearly, Todd’s mind is busy at work creating the scene. I wonder if, in his mind, the stage is built from what he remembers from his own days in treatment.

  “Okay,” I say, “So we have Willa, Ginger, Iris, Donna, Josalyn, and Ellen. That leaves two, if all of the beds were full.”

  “Well, let’s keep reading, then.”

  The next paper is a statement from Josalyn. Her account matches those of Iris and Donna, but that’s not to say that it supports it. Rather, it only provides a handful of details, leaving room for the others’ statements to be either true or false.

  The paper underneath Josalyn’s statement is one from Rhonda Beus, and to my surprise, is well written.

  “’I’m not sure exactly what happened. I was sitting on the couch, reading. I heard Willa telling staff that she was going to her room to get something. After that, Ginger got up and said the same thing. I didn’t think much of it. Sure, Ginger hated Willa, but she wasn’t usually one to start things, if she could avoid it. What was weird was how long they were in there. I couldn’t help but think, oh god, are they secretly dating? Of course, we’re not allowed to date, so it’s always secret from staff, but then there are the secret secret relationships, which we even keep from our friends. So that was weird. But then the scream happened and I thought Ginger finally pissed Willa off enough that she hit her.

  “‘But it seemed really weird. Some of the girls in the common area with me kept looking at each other, like they were planning something for Ginger to distract staff from—I’ve seen it before—but they didn’t do anything. I thought maybe they chickened out.

  “‘Anyway, then staff came and removed Ginger. The other staff wouldn’t let us leave the common area. Ellen had a flashback and Josalyn helped talk her through it. To me, it seemed like any other staff assistance call, except for how Iris and Donna were acting. They seemed like they knew more than the rest of us did.’ This one also makes it sound like Ginger practically followed Willa into their bedroom.”

  Todd and Creed nod in pensive agreement.

  “Plus,” adds Todd, “she herself got suspicious of how long they were in there. So again, we have to wonder why no one else thought anything about them having been in there for so long. That definitely wouldn’t have been the case at the facility I went to.”

  I shrug and pull another sheet from the stack, which is becoming something of an indulgence.

  “Up next on the roster, we have Ellen Norman. Ah, this one’s boring. She couldn’t remember anything other than having a flashback. Understandable. A note at the bottom says that her therapist doesn’t want her being pressed for information. And that’s all.

  “And lucky number eight is Gina Tawney,” I say. I turn the paper outward so that both Todd and Creed can see the entire body of text: “’No comment.’”

  “God damn it, Gina, you ruin everything,” says Todd. In jest, of course, but I do detect a small amount of frustration in it.

  “Just you wait, m’dear,” I say. I gesture to the still intimidating stack of paperwork waiting to be perused.

  “So what’s next? That was seven statements. Well, six. Five and a half.”

  “Therapists’ notes,” I say. Todd perks up considerably at the idea of reading in intimate detail about the complex neurological and cognitive issues of teens past. I try to judge him for it, but I can’t deny that I have a similar sentiment.

  “Now, these are exclusively about Willa,” I say. “If we want the others, we’ll have to make a return trip.” I mean for this to dismiss the idea, but the statement backfires.

  “I’m in,” says Todd.

  “Me, too,” says Creed, “I’ve been stuck on the outside of that place for too long.”

  “That reminds me,” I say, “where’d you find that key?”

  “Ah, yeah. I looked up Willa’s mother.”

  “And what, she just gave it to you?”

  “Nah. I stole it.”

  “You stole a woman’s key, which she used to remember her dead daughter?”

  “Well you can make anything bad wording it like that,” Creed says, becoming visibly defensive. His guard drops when he sees that Todd and I are laughing, both with our eyebrows raised and shaking our heads.

  “Well, then,” I say, pulling a thick packet toward me, “time for some incredibly unethical readings.”

  “Arguably one of the best kinds of reading,” says Todd, as though he’s discussing wine.

  Fourteen

  There’s a fair amount to sort through, as Willa had been a student at Ghost Falls for nearly a year before her death. I thumb through the bulk of it, really only keeping my
eye out for anything that might be more than a page long, but nothing catches my eye before I reach October. I figure if something were to have been going on, it would mostly have taken place within the month leading up to it, and depending on Willa’s ability to conceal it, I assume that much of her behavior and demeanor in these sessions will reflect that something was going on. I make a mental note, however, to be wary of falling victim to confirmation bias; seeing things that aren’t there can be as damning as missing things that are.

  “October fifth, 1987. Patient is of a much happier demeanor than usual, but either can’t identify why or won’t disclose why. Patient continues to participate in verbal altercations with peers, particularly patient GG.”

  “October seventh, 1987. Patient’s good mood has finally been broken, but just like when it started, she either can’t or won’t tell me the cause. Both cases are unusual, as Patient has never had issues with being open before. Must speak with staff later and find out if they know anything.”

  “October twelfth, 1987. Patient back to her euphoric demeanor, seems distracted, absent. Apparently had a great shift, but isn’t quite present enough to tell me about it, which again, is unusual for her.”

  “October fourteenth, 1987. Patient is moody again. She blames her mood on being on her menstrual cycle, and refuses to acknowledge any other contributing factors.”

  “October sixteenth, 1987. Patient got into an argument with her peer, GG today. Spent the majority of the session actively and directly speaking badly about GG. Felt a little better afterward.”

  “October nineteenth, 1987. Patient continues to struggle with peer relations, and even lashed out at peer EN, who she last said was her only real friend here.”

  “October twenty-first, 1987. Patient verbally aggressive toward GG today. The fight almost became physical but staff put her in seclusion before it escalated that far. Patient was banging on walls and cursing about GG the whole time. She was perfectly happy when I spoke with her, though.”

  “October twenty-third, 1987. Patient is apparently getting along with peers again—even GG. No one knows what’s gotten into her, but she’s well behaved and respectful again.”

  “October twenty-sixth, 1987. Patient is calm, contented. She had a good morning and made a goal to have a family one day.”

  “October twenty-eighth, 1987. Patient continues to be positive, about staff, peers, and it seems even herself. Patient even recalled a pleasant interaction with GG.”

  “October thirtieth, 1987. Patient is on cloud nine. Even though her family call was stressful and her visit had to be postponed, Patient remains unbelievably positive. Is she perhaps in the middle of a manic episode?”

  “And that’s all she wrote,” says Todd, who has evidently been paying attention to the dates of the entries.

  “Interesting roller coaster of a month,” I say. My mind lingers on the entry about Willa wanting a family. To be a mother. To raise children. As though reading this, Creed says, “You don’t think she was pregnant, do you?”

  “No, she mentioned being on her period, remember?”

  “Oh, right. That’s an interesting goal, then. Strange timing, too, don’t you think?”

  “Yeah, but find me a piece of this whole thing that isn’t strange,” I say.

  Todd shoots me his fair point look.

  “I think you’d be hard put to find any month of any student that wasn’t a roller coaster, though. So many people and emotions pressed so tightly together. It’s quite a volatile environment,” says Todd.

  He wasn’t at this facility, sure, but he was at a treatment center. He doesn’t much talk about it, and I don’t try to get him to. Just like some wounds heal with rods or screws in them, I’m content to let that one heal however it's doing on its own, without being ripped open.

  “So, what can we take away from the therapists’ notes?” asks Creed.

  “Well, the goal part gets me thinking,” I say. “What’s normally going on in the life of someone thinking about families and having children? A relationship. Or at least either the delusion of one or an intense desire for one. Maybe this is our indicator that she had some kind of infatuation, whether or not it was reciprocated.”

  “It could have been anyone, though,” says Todd. “Peers, teachers, therapists, other staff—hell, even medical or culinary staff. Do we have any evidence that it was Eboncore?”

  “Nothing solid,” Creed says, “just a bunch of incoherent witnesses. And really, none of them actually saw anything happen. Just a whole heaping pile of speculation and judgment about his character.”

  The air takes on a slight chill, more characteristic of the coming autumn than of the current late summer. The elevation does that. Todd moves in closer to me.

  “So on what grounds was the accusation even made?” I ask. “I know it was thirty years ago, but it’s not the Salem Witch Trials. You couldn’t just get someone burned at the stake without something pretty substantial, right?”

  “Well, that’s the thing. Eboncore didn’t have a defense attorney. Some people thought that this was his way of conceding to the punishment he had incoming, but others thought that it was because he truly believed he would be let off without one. Obviously, this school of thought is the one that thinks he’s probably innocent.”

  “Is that a popular position?” asks Todd.

  “No, but still more so than you might think,” says Creed. “There have been petitions and campaigns for a more competently conducted trial, but the judge has remained firm.”

  “So, the accusation was made, a bunch of people sat at the stand talking about what a gigantic piece of shit he was, and then they whisked him off to prison?” I ask.

  “Yeah, sounds like it,” says Creed.

  “Damn. Our job would’ve been so much easier back then,” says Todd. I nod. Creed laughs.

  “Okay, so there’s no evidence to support the allegation—”

  “That we know of,” says Todd.

  “Right.”

  “So, maybe we can find something out today either for or against,” I say. Both of them seem attracted to the idea. Personally, I don’t much care what we do as long as I get to be with Todd. We could go pick peanuts out of turds together and I’d be happy.

  “But let’s go through the rest of this before we go out,” says Todd.

  Creed and I agree.

  We seem to have hit the most pressing information first, however. The majority of that which remains, it seems, is irrelevant, boring information like class schedules, grades, and other academic stuff.

  Another thick stack is a chronological history of Willa’s incidents—interesting, to be sure, but not so much relevant, aside from the last month of her life, during which the only major recorded incident was the night she killed herself. Or whatever happened. This statement is written by the staff, however, so we read it with hopes that it will provide more clarity on the matter.

  However, it is, if anything, less helpful than any of the others:

  “Patient told staff that she needed to get something from her room for her costume. Staff told her that it was fine. Another patient asked the same thing and staff told her it was okay. The peer screamed and staff went to the room to investigate. Staff found Patient hanging from the ceiling with a length of bedsheet. She had removed the vent cover and tied the sheet around a pipe in the ceiling. Staff took the patient’s peer out of the room while another staff stayed in the common area. Staff called for assistance, and when additional staff arrived, they took the peer to the time out room.”

  “I guess if I were trying to keep my ass out of jail, I would omit all of the relevant time frames, too,” says Todd.

  “Yeah,” I say, “there’s no way he just ‘forgot’ to write that down. He knew he should have been paying attention, and he knew that the way he worded it was misleading.”

  “Is there maybe one from the other staff?” asks Creed with more hopeful optimism than either Todd or I can muster.

  In
response, I pick up the next sheet of paper, which is indeed a statement from Kelly, but after a quick skim, I tell them that it yields even less than the first. Creed’s optimism deflates at this, which, I feel, marks an excellent time to bring up the note from the lockbox. I started into the topic when I asked him about the key, but the subject changed. I’m surprised he hasn’t pursued that more doggedly.

  “Well, we do have one piece of evidence,” I say. I pause dramatically for Creed’s anticipation to mount. When his eyebrows are just shy of his hairline, I tell him, “The lockbox. Inside, there was a note. Written to ‘Dubz,’ from ‘TE.’

  “So, to Willa, from Thad?” Creed says.

  “So far as I can figure, yes,” I say. “It’s a love note, too.”

  “Well shit,” he says. “That is pretty decent evidence. I wonder how it never turned up? The lockbox, I mean.”

  “Well, it seems like a lot of the investigation was focused on the wrong places, largely investing in documents and witnesses and stuff. They were so happily reveling in the wealth of information available that they forgot to investigate it like a normal fucking case,” I say.

  “I guess that makes sense,” Creed says, “but wouldn’t someone have found it down the line? A peer or staff or the next person to use that bed?”

  “It was tucked away pretty well, actually. And admission numbers did plummet pretty hard after she died. Maybe she was just the last one to use that bed. I doubt they could have convinced anyone to sleep in it after that night, anyway.”

  Creed nods along; my line of logic seems to pass his scrutiny.

  Creed’s phone rings, an earful of Crazy Train bursting into the hollow void of the cottage. He flashes us an apologetic look as he fishes it out of his pocket. He looks at the screen and his expression goes from confusion to enthusiasm before he picks up.

  “Hello?”

  I hear a female voice on the other end. I half expect it to be my mother (because apparently Creed is best friends with her), but the voice has none of the elegant grace my mother’s has.

  “Yes,” says Creed. “No. I’m not representing anyone. I just want to talk. If you’re open to it. Okay. Thank you. I’ll see you then.”