Dead Woman Crossing

by J. R. Adler

  Kimberley walked over to him cautiously. She wasn’t sure what kind of reaction she’d get out of him. Would he be the ornery dick bag from earlier today or would he be the kind, respectful man she had come to know? She glanced over at Ryan who gave her a scowl mixed with a leer as if his dick and brain were crossing wires and didn’t know how to respond to her.

  “Sam,” Kimberley said, taking a seat beside him.

  He looked over at her and nodded.

  “Thought you said only the town troublemakers drink here,” she teased, trying to open him up, put him in a better mood.

  “You spend enough time being a cop, you get more comfortable being around the troublemakers than the normal people,” he said, taking a drink of his whiskey. He didn’t react to the taste of it, so she assumed he had had a couple already.

  “I can’t argue with that.”

  “To what do I owe the pleasure today?” Ryan asked.

  “Cut the shit, Ryan. She’ll have what I’m having and without any of your grimy come-ons or flirty wanna-be hard-ass bullshit,” Sam cut in.

  Ryan nodded, taken aback, and immediately poured a neat scotch, placing it in front of Kimberley without a word.

  “Thanks,” Kimberley said to Sam as she picked up the glass and took a sip.

  “Yep,” was all he managed to say.

  “How is he even working?” Kimberley glared at Ryan.

  “Innocent until proven guilty.”

  They sat there in silence for several minutes, drinking their whiskey, fiddling with their glasses, and occasionally glancing over at one another. Kimberley couldn’t tell if Sam wanted her there or not. But on some level, she thought he needed her there right now, next to him, quiet, just her presence. He hadn’t asked her to leave. He hadn’t been rude.

  “How’s Jessica been?” Sam asked, looking over at Kimberley.

  She hadn’t seen it before, but there was a sadness in his eyes—glossy, red around the rims, strained.

  “She’s been real good. Spending a lot of time with my mom, and they seem to be bonding.”

  Kimberley took another sip of her whiskey. They hadn’t really talked much about their personal lives, aside from their first introduction, which was rather surface level. But this was probably good for their working relationship, to at least know some things about the other person’s life when not in uniform.

  “I know you moved here, just the two of you, what’s the story with Jessica’s father? If you don’t mind saying, of course.”

  Any other time, Kimberley might have thought the question was too personal, but she knew Sam was going somewhere. There was something he wanted to talk about, something he wanted to tell her, and he was just going about it in a roundabout way.

  “Yeah, well, we broke up. And he didn’t have an interest in being in Jessica’s life.”

  Sam clenched his fist and then brought the glass of whiskey up to his mouth with his other hand, downing the whole thing in one gulp. He set the empty glass down with such force, it made a loud thud, gaining Ryan’s attention from the other side of the bar. Without Sam asking, Ryan made his way over and refilled his drink, not saying a word.

  “He’s an asshole,” Sam said, gritting his teeth.

  Kimberley nodded. “Yes, he is. He didn’t even want to me to have her. Pushed for an abortion all the way up until I was twenty-four weeks along. It’s not legal to have one after that, so he stopped pushing, but I always felt like he was secretly wishing I’d fall down a flight of stairs or miscarry.” Kimberley washed the sour taste that had formed in her mouth with a sip of whiskey.

  “I’m sorry. That’s fucking awful.”

  “After she was born, he did a one-eighty. I thought he had changed. He was super attentive. But a few weeks in, I found Jessica lying on the living-room floor in the middle of the night. He just left her there. Decided it was too much and didn’t have the fucking common courtesy to put her back in her crib or wake me up.” Kimberley took a gulp of her whiskey, thankful for the burn it provided.

  “What I wouldn’t give to be able to be in my kid’s life,” Sam said under his breath, loud enough for Kimberley to hear it, but it took her a few seconds to register exactly what he said. He took another sip of his whiskey and lowered his head, slightly shaking it. His shoulders dropped.

  “What do you mean?” Kimberley asked carefully.

  “Nothing. I don’t know what I’m saying,” he said, sipping his whiskey, staring straight ahead at the shelves filled with bottles of liquor.

  Kimberley didn’t press. She let Sam sit beside her, working through whatever it was he was working through. Something had happened. Maybe not today, but it had. It had changed his whole mood, made him abrasive and rude when she had known him to be kind and welcoming, a little rough around the edges, but overall a good person who meant no harm to others.

  He took another sip of his drink, and Kimberley hoped the alcohol would give him the courage to get whatever was on his chest off of it. She pushed her empty glass forward. Ryan immediately refilled it, holding back the smartass comment, which surprised her. But perhaps he knew about whatever it was Sam was going through, and he knew now wasn’t the time to push any buttons.

  “Sorry about my behavior today,” Sam finally said.

  “No need to apologize. We all have bad days.” Kimberley picked up her freshly filled drink and took a sip.

  “It’s not an excuse, but…” He paused, taking another drink of his whiskey, his words hanging in the air. “It’s the two-year anniversary of my wife and son’s death.”

  Kimberley gasped, her eyes widening.

  “I’m so sorry, Sam,” Kimberley started, but Sam cut in, putting his hand up.

  “I didn’t tell you in order to gain your sympathies.”

  “Why did you tell me then?”

  Sam looked over at her. His eyes scanned her face, then locked with hers. “I don’t know. I just… wanted you to know.”

  Kimberley nodded, unsure of what to say. Why did he want her to know this? Did he just want someone to confide in? Someone to understand him?

  “How’d it happen?” Kimberley gave him a sympathetic look, although she didn’t mean to. She knew that wasn’t what he wanted, but she couldn’t help herself.

  “Don’t look at me like that,” he said, shaking his head and taking another sip of his whiskey.

  “Like what?” She feigned ignorance.

  “Like you feel sorry for me. Like I’m some wounded animal on the side of the road,” he said.

  “I don’t feel sorry for you.”

  “Don’t lie. It’s written all over your face.” He bumped his shoulder against hers.

  Kimberley tried to make her face look mad, furrowing her brow, pursing her lips, but her eyes gave it away. They were big pools of sympathy.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, lowering her head, looking down at the brown whiskey in her glass.

  “Car accident. A drunk driver hit them. Someone from this very town. So, when you said that I couldn’t wrap my head around one of my own committing murder, that was wrong. My head is too wrapped around it.” He looked around the bar at the patrons and then back at his glass of whiskey. “I think anyone is capable of anything,” he added.

  The last line hit Kimberley with a pang of guilt. This whole time she thought Sam had blinkers on when it came to his town, tunnel vision staring right out of Dead Woman Crossing, but it seemed he was doing that to protect his own conflicting feelings, his own biases.

  “I know you don’t want to hear it. But I’m sorry for what happened to your wife and son.” Kimberley placed her hand on Sam’s.

  He looked over at her and said, “Thanks, Detective King,” with a nod.

  She let her hand stay on his for a moment before pulling it away. Sam drained the rest of his whiskey and threw down a twenty-dollar bill.

  “I should get going,” he said, standing up from his stool.

  “Let me drive you home,” Kimberley offered, pushing her half
-empty drink toward the edge of the bar and dropping a ten-dollar bill down.

  Sam rubbed his head. “Actually, maybe that’d be a good idea.” He gave a small grin.

  Kimberley nodded and walked out of the bar with Sam stumbling behind.

  “You good?” she asked, turning back.

  “Yeah, parking lot is a little uneven.”

  “I’m thinking you’re a little uneven.” Kimberley smirked. She stopped, letting Sam catch up, then put her arm around him, fitting into the crux of his shoulder, holding him up and stabling out his walk.

  “How many did you have?” she asked.

  “A few… too many.”

  Parked in front of his small ranch house, Kimberley got out of the vehicle and helped Sam inside. The lawn was well maintained, grass cut, hedges trimmed. She expected that out of Walker. He seemed like the type of guy that would take pride in his landscaping.

  The front door opened to the living room, which was typically furnished like every other one; coffee table, television, couch, loveseat, recliner. But it differed in its décor, which was sparse. She could see rings of dust where things used to be. Outlines on the wall where things used to hang. It looked as though he had been slowly getting rid of items around the house, working through his grief, trying to let go of the past.

  At the front door, Sam struggled to get his boots off. Kimberley took it upon herself to walk further into the house. A single framed photo hung on the far wall. As she got closer, she realized it was a family picture. His wife was blond and beautiful. His son had to have only been three years old. Then, there was Sam. She had never seen him look like that, a griefless face—pure and utter joy and elation. He was a little more worn now, but loss would do that to a person. Kimberley realized the photo had to have been taken shortly before his family passed.

  “This is my humble abode,” Sam said, standing upright now that his shoes were finally off.

  Kimberley turned to look at him so he wouldn’t notice that she had seen the photo. “Let’s get you to bed.”

  Sam flicked on the hallway light, then walked to the end of the hall, flicking on his bedroom light. He stumbled to the side of his queen-sized bed and began unbuttoning his shirt.

  “I’ll get you a glass of water and some Tylenol,” Kimberley said, averting her eyes as he started to undress.

  She walked back down the hallway passing a bathroom, a guest room and another room with its door closed. In the kitchen, she rummaged through the cabinets until she found a glass and Tylenol. She filled the glass with water from the sink and walked back toward the bedroom where she found Sam standing with his shirt off. She swallowed hard as her eyes ran over his toned and sculpted body. She hadn’t expected him to look like that underneath his sheriff uniform, and she also hadn’t expected the way it would make her physically react. Cheeks reddened. Heart rate quickened. Eyes widened.

  “Here you are.” Kimberley cleared her throat, holding out the glass of water and three Tylenols.

  Sam looked at her with a drunken smile, taking the glass and medicine.

  “I guess now we’re even,” he said with a grin.

  He tossed the pills in his mouth and drank nearly the whole glass.

  “Even?” Kimberley raised an eyebrow.

  “Walking in on one another changing.” He tried to wink, but instead he drunkenly closed both his eyes.

  “Not quite. You knew I was coming back in here,” she teased.

  Setting the glass on the bedside table, he pulled the covers up and slid into bed. She took his phone from his utility belt that was sitting on the floor and plugged it into the cord next to his alarm clock.

  “Need a ride in the morning?” she asked.

  Sam’s eyes appeared heavy as they closed for longer than a blink and then reopened. He rubbed his hands over his face.

  “No, Barb will come get me. She lives a couple blocks from The Trophy Room, and she’s got a spare key to my truck. Barb takes care of me from time to time,” he said with a grin.

  “So, this isn’t your first drunken escapade?”

  Sam propped himself on his forearms and looked at Kimberley. His face became serious.

  “Thanks for getting me home. You’re a good person, Detective King, regardless if you came from New York or not,” he said with a smile.

  Kimberley laughed, playfully pushing him so he was no longer propped up.

  “Need anything else?”

  “Just for you to know I’m sorry for today and tonight.” He let his eyes close.

  “Don’t worry about it, Sam.” She backed away from the bed toward the door and turned off the lights.

  Before she could close the door, Sam whispered, “Night, Kimberley.”

  She smiled.

  27

  Kimberley closed the door of her Ford and turned her shoulders side to side, cracking her back. The bed at Nicole and David’s wasn’t ideal. She could feel popped springs at night, and it creaked and squeaked when she moved around. She walked into the sheriff’s station and was expecting to see Barbara at the front desk, but instead Deputy Burns was seated in her spot. He was tall and lanky like a teenage boy that hit a growth spurt and never filled out.

  “Morning, Chief Deputy King,” he said with a nod.

  “Burns. Is Barb not in today?”

  “She is. She’s in the conference room. By the way, I got confirmation of the phone number on Hannah’s phone. The one she had been calling and receiving calls from a few times a week for at least the past year. It’s unregistered.”

  “So, a burner phone?”

  “Exactly.”

  Kimberley took a deep breath. This case was one big dead end.

  “That’s useless then. Can’t track it. Can’t see who it’s belongs to.”

  “Sorry, I don’t have better news,’ Burns said.

  “Not your fault. Good work, Deputy,” Kimberly said, leaving the front area and entering through the set of doors.

  As she walked through the office area, Bearfield and Hill greeted her. They were all now working on the Hannah Brown case in some capacity; reviewing interviews, crime scene photos, fielding calls from locals who had “tips” or wanted to know what was happening with the case, if they were in danger.

  “How’s it going?” Kimberley asked.

  Hill leaned back in his chair, rubbing his hand over his clean-shaven face. “I’ve got nothing.”

  Bearfield took a sip of his coffee. “I had a couple of calls refuting the rumors that Hannah Brown was a prostitute, other than that same as Hill: nada.” He reached back behind his head, looping his ponytail holder one more time around his hair to tighten it.

  Kimberley nodded. “Alright. Hill, why don’t you go out and do some patrolling then? Keep an eye on anyone acting suspiciously. Bear, stay on the case. Review everything.”

  “Anyone in particular you want me to keep an eye on?” Hill tilted his head as he rose from his chair.

  She thought for a moment. “Everyone. Until we find the person responsible, they’re all suspects in my book.”

  Hill nodded, collecting his things and quickly heading toward the set of doors that led to the front.

  Bearfield finished his coffee. “Don’t worry. We’re going to find this guy,” he said to Kimberley and immediately went back to flipping through the crime scene photos.

  She nodded. “I know we are,” she said, her voice just above a whisper.

  Kimberley walked to the conference room. She hoped with Sam’s ghost tour hunch behind him, they’d be able to really dig into this case. As soon as she thought of Sam, she remembered the night before. Sweat beads formed at her hairline. Would he remember last night? Would he regret confiding in her? Had their working relationship changed? She wiped her forehead, trying to wipe away her thoughts. But all this did was lead her to thinking about his family, his wife, his son. How did he survive every day with that type of loss and grief? She took a deep breath just in front of the conference room, and when she felt composed
enough, she entered.

  Barbara was the only one in the room. When she saw Kimberley, a smile spread across her face. A mug of coffee and a Danish sat in front of Kimberley’s seat.

  “I assume this was you, Barb,” Kimberley said, picking up the Danish and taking a bite out of it before sitting down.

  “Guilty as charged.”

  “Where’s Sam?”

  “He’s running a little late. Not feeling too hot today.”

  “I assumed he wouldn’t be.” Kimberley pulled out her laptop from her messenger bag.

  “I found something peculiar.” Barbara slid one of the ghost tour notebooks across the table.

  A single name was highlighted in yellow marker. The date on the top of the page was five weeks before Hannah’s murder. Kimberley read the name over and over, but nothing was clicking. Why did this one stand out? Why was it peculiar?

  Henry Colton.

  Henry Colton.

  Henry Colton.

  She knew that name, but why? And where did she know it from? Finally, she looked up at Barbara for the answers. Her face was lit up, pleased with herself, the same look she had when she completed her morning crossword puzzles or when she finished a knitting project.

  “I ran through all the names this morning like I said I would, just wanted to double-check some things. I’m quite good at puzzles, you know.” She raised an eyebrow.

  Kimberley could see she was dragging this story out, relishing in it, but she allowed it. She could see it made Barbara happy to feel like she was a part of the team, like she was contributing more than baked goods and coffee, like she was making a difference. What Barbara didn’t realize was she made the most difference, regardless.

  “Well, I knew we were looking for past crimes and it was all run-of-the-mill stuff, so I started thinking about it in different ways. I decided to see where these people are from, and that name, Henry Colton, is the only person from Dead Woman Crossing. Every other person is an out-of-towner.”