“Anyway, to summarize, I followed you to Ghost Fork and got bored, so I asked the guys about anything active in this area. As it turns out, Deliverance was quite active in this area during the time this whole case was happening. In fact, the volunteers at the time had a very direct role in the case, calling for the extensive investigations and interviews. The local detectives were ready to call it pretty early on, passing it off as a cut and dry suicide. Eboncore’s involvement wasn’t brought into play until quite a bit of pressure finally cracked them.
“Of course, the legal case was closed, but in our own system, it was left open. Eventually, though, it got left behind, as the members who worked on it went instead to look into a series of missing young women along the Canadian border to the northwest. And there it sat until now.”
“So, all of those articles and newspaper clippings,” I begin.
“Yes, those came directly from our headquarters. Naturally, they’re entirely public as far as the contents, but if you go and pull the records yourself, you raise red flags. Not to mention that it’s already trimmed and organized this way.”
“Wow. I didn’t realize how big this all is. So, uh, who all knows about me?” I don’t specify further; my intent is clear.
Creed hesitates before answering. “Well, a fair few,” he says. “But you can trust them! They are the kind of people who fight for the same things as you…if a little differently in execution. I know it’s not wise to trust so blindly, especially with information so heavy, but believe me, you’re like a hero to them. To us.”
I sigh. “I guess I don’t have much of a choice but to believe you,” I say. It’s true: Whether or not I can concede to trusting them is irrelevant. Any way I look at it, I’m at their mercy. If they feel like it, they can expose me and turn me over to any number of people queueing up to spill my blood. I’m their bitch.
“In time, perhaps, we’ll win you over,” says Creed.
“I suppose we’ll see.”
By this point, we’ve put the crunchy gravel behind us, and now call forth a cacophony of the familiar fshh-fshh noise as we wade through the sea of long, wet grass in approaching the old cottage.
“So, into what treacherous territories does our newfound information lead us?” asks Todd as we sit on the floor of the conspiracy room (as he calls it) and unload our new documents on the ground in front of us. The scene is faintly reminiscent of children getting ready to barter their Halloween candy. Creed drums his fingers on the wooden floor, then interlaces his fingers, then goes back to drumming, finally coming to an abrupt halt when he notices that he’s drawn both Todd’s and my attention.
“Would you like to do the honors?” I say only half-ironically. I extend the thick stack of once-white paper in his direction and he snatches it from my hand with an urgent fervor I haven’t seen in anyone for months. Maybe his thirst for action and resolution are mounting in much the same way mine did but manifesting more…intensely.
With our flashlights illuminating the pages from the back, Creed’s eyes flit about busily and with a nimbleness equal to that of his overall grace. His brow does a dance of furrowing and relaxing over and over, interrupted occasionally by his left eyebrow jumping up without the companionship of its right counterpart.
“Huh,” he says, after a few minutes and two dense-looking pages. He sets them down in front of himself and I see that he was reading from the therapists’ notes. Creed then pulls a tiny notebook out of his back pocket.
“Look,” he says, “every time there was an incident with Willa, there was also an incident with Ginger.” He hands the small notebook to me, and points to a column on the left side of the notebook indicating a series of dates with corresponding notes. These are near-verbatim recounts of the notes from Willa’s main file. Indeed, the lists of dates are nearly identical, save for a couple of smaller notes in between the more hefty ones.
“They don’t seem all that related, though,” says Creed.
At a glance, he’s right. Willa self-harmed on a day when Ginger cussed out a teacher. Ginger had a meltdown on the same day Willa did, but Willa’s was during breakfast and Ginger’s was just before bedtime.
“They look unrelated, sure, but they rarely are,” says Todd. “Everything that happens in those places is contained, but it happens around other volatile people. The first incident of the day sets off a chain reaction of different behaviors. Sometimes they wouldn’t seem all that intertwined, but a lot of the time, you could predict how the rest of the day would go on your unit based on just the first hour. Not to mention, the two not only lived in the same unit, but they shared a room. It would surprise me if their emotions weren’t tied at least a little bit.”
“So, Willa has a freak-out in the morning, and then Ginger rides on the anxiety and tension from it until she’s ready to have one of her own?” asks Creed.
“Basically, yeah.”
“Okay, but in these two instances, the catalyst took place outside of the unit. I can see them being fairly connected on the unit and with the things that happened there, but how could that extend to their lives in the school? Didn’t Ginger hate Willa?”
“Well yeah, exactly. In that hatred, that energy is focused on the other person, whether they like to admit it or not. So when the person they hate does anything at all, but particularly if they have certain behaviors or act out, it pisses both of them off. I’d be willing to bet that on those days that they had spaced-out behaviors, there was a lot of passive-aggressive back-and-forth between them throughout the day. Sometimes it’s just a cycle of getting back at each other, sometimes it’s a pissing contest of attention-seeking behavior. At times, they probably even got along, or at least appeared to. But the default, the way they woke up each morning, was in a sort of charged animosity toward each other.”
“So these could, and probably do, indicate some sort of pattern, a correlation,” I say.
It seems a bit iffy to me, but Todd nods with an authoritative confidence that gets me convinced. He knows the dynamics of a treatment facility far better than I do, after all.
“So where does that leave us?” Creed asks.
“I’ve been more and more on the Ginger-did-it wagon,” I say.
“That she did it?” asks Creed.
“Well, yeah. Think about it. All they really have is Ginger’s word to go on, which is perfect for her. She was her roommate, so she had the most access to her. There were a handful of matching testimonies that seemed to lend her credence, but one of them redacted her statement and refused to commit to a new one. Two of them were word-for-word identical, which screams rehearsed. Plus, the staff-submitted documentation of the incident was spotty at best. I don’t know whether they counted that as evidence when this case was hot, but they sure as hell shouldn’t have.”
“Okay, so we have means and opportunity, but what was the motive? I know the two didn’t get along, but this doesn’t seem like a product of the heat of the moment.” Todd’s cop mind is taking charge now.
“I’m not quite sure on that one. But there is a little more involvement in the aftermath than I’m comfortable with.”
“Even for a roommate?” asks Creed.
“Especially for a roommate.”
“I don’t follow.”
“When there’s foul play, people typically like to do one of two things: Get involved or get away. They want to cross to the greener grass.”
“So wouldn’t that mean that she would have wanted to distance herself, since she was in the thick of things?” asks Creed.
“Normally, yes,” Todd confirms
“So, doesn’t the fact that she wanted to get involved show that she was already a bit removed from it, rather than a killer?”
“That’s the thing, though. She was in it, whether or not she did it. She was her roommate, so she was in it by default. So any other person would give out a few details, usually confirming what has already been discovered, then fade into the background to grieve and process things.”
“What does it mean when they try to get involved like she has been?” asks Creed.
“Usually that they’re trying to hide something. Often it’s not necessarily part of the crime being investigated; one time I had a guy argue with me about showing me his apartment after his roommate offed himself. Of course, that put him at the top of our list of suspects, but as it turned out, he was just trying to keep us from his stacks and stacks of hentai.”
Todd and Creed roar with laughter and let it peter out at a nice, slow pace.
“So, we like Ginger for it, then?” says Creed.
“I do,” I say.
“I do, too,” says Todd.
“Well, who am I to disagree with two detectives?” Creed says in resignation.
“So, let’s figure out how this interview is going to go. If that’s actually what happened, maybe we could get her to confess. Record it or something.”
“Well, you’re in the right ballpark, but she would need to be cautioned in order for it to be considered admissible evidence, at which point she would get suspicious and the ruse would be up,” I say.
“Right, but we could at least submit it as new evidence to reopen the case, and maybe get a warrant to search her stuff or at least bring her in for formal questioning,” says Todd.
“Hmm, I do like that,” I say. “So how do we go about making it happen? We’ll also have to have enough evidence set aside to make sure this can even get anywhere if the case is reopened.”
“We could do with some conversation acrobatics, I think,” says Todd.
“Yeah. I think I’ll just have to familiarize myself with the details—both what she has given and what we’ve discovered—as intimately as possible. Then, if and when she slips up, I’ll be poised to catch her on it and send her reeling.”
“Seems solid. Plus, after all these years, I doubt she remembers everything she was supposed to have said and done regarding the case,” I say.
“I don’t know about that,” says Todd, look up from a thick binder. “Ginger was not only one of their highest-functioning students, but they were going to have her tested, once they could find an expert. But they weren’t able to find one in time.”
“What were they going to test her for?”
“A couple of things. Antisocial personality disorder, for one. And savant syndrome.”
“So she’s a really smart introvert?” says Creed.
“Antisocial doesn’t mean introverted. That’s more along the lines of asocial. Someone who’s antisocial is what most people would call a psychopath or a sociopath. Someone who has an interest in creating chaos in society.”
“Oh. So she’s really smart and really dangerous?”
“Yes, basically.”
“…Oh.”
“Yeah. So maybe going into her home alone isn’t the greatest idea,” I say.
“So, what do we do? Do you think she’d meet with me in public?”
“Maybe, but if she’s as smart as that file suggests, she’s most likely already on the defensive. She has to suspect that we know something, or else why would we be interested in some decades-old suicide and her involvement therein?”
“We could play it off like he’s working a project—a report or something—on treatment facilities like that,” says Todd.
“Hmm. Yeah. I think even then, though, she’ll be hard to crack. Perhaps even more so, with the prospect of her words being published.”
“What are you thinking?” asks Todd.
“We should try your way at first. The less intense it has to get, the better. But assuming that doesn’t work, let’s go on the offensive a bit harder. We can take the emotional route. ‘Oh, how great your pain must be, I’m so sorry you have to carry that around all the time.’ Tell her all about this massive, gnawing problem she didn’t know she had, then offer her a solution. Give her a way she can stop hiding.”
“But if she’s antisocial, she may indeed be sociopathic,” says Todd,” in which case we’ll have no real chance at getting at her emotionally.”
“Correct. But if that is the case, she’ll be subject to another weakness we can exploit: a profound certainty that she’s untouchable. All we would have to do then would be to convince her, or get her to convince herself, that she’s in the clear.”
Todd thinks on it for a moment, then says, “I like it. Creed?”
It’s escaped my full attention until now, but Creed has become increasingly unsettled—fidgety, even.
“That sounds like a bit much,” he says. His eyes flit between me, Todd, and the floor, hardly pausing for more than a second.
Todd and I look at each other; he and I have always taken for granted our mutual experience as detectives. We walk into situations like this expecting to be one of two parts to a dream team. I’ve suspected that this might be an issue we’d need to tackle at some point, but I was hoping he’d be able to come through on this one. But I suppose interviews are best left, in their delicacy, to those with experience.
“Can one of you do it?” says Creed. He looks to be more pleading than asking.
“Remy can’t,” says Todd. “He could do it, I’m sure, but that would mean more visibility, more exposure. Especially if she’s as smart as we’re preparing for.”
At this point, both Creed and I rest our eyes on Todd.
“Well, I guess I do sound enough like you. Enough to pass as you in person, at least,” he says. He puts on his thinking face, a serious-looking but otherwise neutral phased-out glance at nothing in particular.
“I think I can do it.”
“Perfect,” says Creed. His efforts to conceal his relief aren’t quite enough; he exhales sharply through a nervous smile, and leans back on his hands.
Eighteen
Esther
Esther Thorn washes her hands and dries them on a small, teal towel beside the sink. The sun has long since set, and the window above the sink shows not its normal charming view of a sage-studded foothill, but instead her own half-reflection, haggard and worn.
Esther glances at the pile of ingredients on the counter and mentally shrinks away from them; the energy she summoned to purchase them ran out while she wasn’t looking, and now the prospect of turning the collection of parts into a meal is overwhelming.
Esther’s depression has been held temporarily at bay by the prospective reunion with Jeremy (No, it’s Remy now, I have to remember that), but now, after her attempts to connect with him in a manner other than geographical have been stifled, suppressed, postponed, and evaded for so long; the unstoppable energy with which she first sought him has drained away, devoured by the void she had worked so hard to replace.
But alas, such is a negative space hungry for the entirety of the spectrum of positive emotions, and specifically whichever of them may visit at night.
Or in the morning.
Or during the day.
Esther’s shopping trip took place around three this afternoon, after waking up at nine in the morning and saturating in apathy for two hours before taking a shower (her first in three days), then sitting in the awkward timelessness of executive dysfunction until the town’s tolling bell finally roused her into action.
The trip took on a surreal quality, like she was watching some stranger pilot her body through the store, just observing through countless panes of glass. Before she knew it, the stranger had steered her back out toward the cashiers, paid, and taken her home.
And now it’s coming up on nine o’ clock, and Esther neither knows nor cares where the evening went.
She shoves everything into the refrigerator and orders a pizza online instead. She used to cry on nights like this, but these days, even the emotions necessary for crying are inaccessible. She can remember those sentiments, but now it just feels like her brain doesn’t have the fuel left to fill the order.
Esther blinks and her slice of pizza is down to its crust, and she’s lost her appetite more than she’s become full or satisfied.
She checks he
r phone. For a time, she held onto a persistent hope that Remy would reach out to her. That hope suffered a brutal death some time ago, but she still checks her phone with a near desperate regularity. She chalks it up to habit at this point, but a small part of her she tries not to acknowledge scrambles at that old hope’s ashes. For a while, he responded with religious attention. Until he found out who it was. Anonymity helped foster something of a dialogue between them, but it was forced and artificial, and she knew it. She knew that the anonymity was the life support of their relationship, and removing the mask doomed it to a floundering end.
An optimistic thought sometimes bangs on the door of the dungeon where her positivity has been locked, proposing that he’s just busy, and that he’ll get in touch when he has the time, but this thought is never permitted access to the upper levels.
She knew that putting Todd on his trail—however subtly—would eventually bring an end to her communication with Remy, but she also knew that it was right. Not just right, but the least she could do, only the beginning to her paying the emotional debt she had accrued in his name.
She had abandoned him at a critical time of his childhood. She doubted that she could ever make up to him the tides of hopelessness she must have inflicted upon him, but if she could send him any sort of happiness or reprieve from his own torment, she was obligated to do so, was she not? She knew that, but it was still hard to execute that decision knowing the inevitable side effects.
But no matter how she tries to look at it, she owes him that much.
She sets her pizza down and makes to stand up, when her phone vibrates at an incoming text message. The fullness of the following silence makes her think that perhaps she only imagined it, that her desperation has finally taken the plunge into delusion, but alas, the little LED light begins pulsing its friendly, enticing green: New message!
Thunder Falls Page 17
