8 Scream for Me

by Karen Rose

  Talia kept holding Gretchen’s hand. “Had you been with anyone before?”

  Gretchen shook her head. “No. Some of the boys tried, but I’d always said no.”

  Daniel bit back the fury that exploded within him. And said nothing.

  “After that . . . I never dated. I was so afraid. I didn’t know who . . .” She closed her eyes. “Or why. If I could have avoided it. I knew I should have been more careful.”

  The rage was hot and so hard to control. But control it, he did. “Miss French,” he asked when he could trust his voice, “do you remember where you were coming from, going to, was anyone with you?”

  She opened her eyes, a modicum of composure restored. “I was driving home from my job. I washed dishes at the Western Sizzlin’ back then. I was trying to earn money for college. I was by myself. It was late, maybe ten-thirty. I remember being tired, but I was studying all the time and working and helping out on the farm . . . I was always tired. I remember thinking I’d stop and get out. Get some air, before I fell asleep at the wheel.”

  Talia smiled reassurance. “You are doing great,” she said. “Can you remember drinking anything before you left your job or stopping on the way?”

  “I worked in the kitchen. We were allowed to drink as much Coke as we wanted. And I washed dishes, so I wasn’t going to mess a glass every time I got thirsty. I just used the same one.”

  “So someone could have put something in your drink,” Talia said quietly.

  Gretchen bit the inside of her cheek. “I guess so. That was pretty stupid of me.”

  “You had the expectation of being safe at your job,” Daniel said, and the look of gratitude she flashed him made him want to scream. She’d been violated, but she was grateful to be told she wasn’t stupid.

  “Agent Vartanian’s right. You did nothing wrong or stupid. When you woke up, what do you remember?”

  “I had a headache and I was sick. And sore. I knew . . . I was bleeding.” She swallowed hard and her lips trembled. “I had these new white pants. I’d saved my money to buy them. They were ruined.” She looked down. “I was ruined.”

  “You woke up in your car,” Talia prompted softly, and Gretchen nodded. “Your pants were ruined, so you had your clothes on. All of your clothes?”

  Gretchen nodded again, dully. “The pictures you have. Am I . . . ?” Tears filled her eyes and Daniel’s eyes stung. “Oh God.”

  “Nobody will see the pictures,” Daniel said. “No newspapers will get them.”

  She blinked sending tears down her cheeks. “Thank you,” she whispered. “And there was the bottle.”

  “What bottle?” Talia asked, slipping a tissue into Gretchen’s hand.

  “A bottle of whiskey. Empty. There was whiskey on my clothes and in my hair. And I knew if I went to the sheriff it would look like I’d been drinking. That I’d asked for it.”

  Talia’s jaw tightened. “You didn’t.”

  “I know. If it happened today, I’d call the police so fast . . . But that was then and I was sixteen and scared.” She lifted her chin, making Daniel think of Alex in so many ways. “You’re saying this happened to more than just me?”

  Daniel nodded. “We can’t tell you how many. But it was more than just you.”

  Her lips turned up, so sadly. “And if you catch them you can’t do anything, right?”

  “Why?” Talia asked.

  “It’s been thirteen years. Hasn’t the statute of limitations long since run out?”

  Daniel shook his head. “The clock doesn’t start until we file charges.”

  Gretchen’s eyes hardened. “So if you catch them, you can prosecute?”

  “To the fullest extent of the law,” Talia said fiercely. “You have our word.”

  “Then put me on your list of witnesses. I want my day in court.”

  Talia’s smile was sharp. “And we’ll do our damndest to give it to you.”

  “Miss French,” Daniel said. “You mentioned some of the boys trying things and you saying no. Do you remember who you refused?”

  “I didn’t have that many boyfriends. My mother made me wait until I was sixteen to date and that had only been a few months before. The boy I remember was Rhett Porter. I thought maybe he’d done it, but . . .”

  Finally. But it was a connection one day too late. “But what?” he asked gently.

  “But he ran with a mean crowd. I was afraid if I said anything . . .”

  “You thought they’d hurt you?” Daniel asked.

  “No.” She laughed bitterly. “He would have told everyone I asked for it and people would have believed him. So I kept my mouth shut and was grateful I wasn’t pregnant.”

  “One more question,” Daniel said. “When was this?”

  “May. The year before Alicia Tremaine was killed.”

  Daniel and Talia stood up. “Thank you for your time, Miss French,” Talia said. “And your candor. I know this was difficult.”

  “At least now I know I didn’t imagine it. And maybe whoever did it will be caught.” She frowned. “Are you going to talk to Rhett Porter?”

  Daniel cleared his throat. “Probably not.”

  Talia’s eyes grew huge with question.

  Gretchen drew herself rigid. “I see.”

  “No, Miss French,” Daniel said, “I don’t think you do. Rhett Porter’s car ran off the road last night. He’s believed to be dead.”

  “Oh. I guess I do see. You’ve got yourself one hell of a mess, Agent Vartanian.”

  Daniel nearly laughed at the understatement. “Yes, ma’am. I do at that.”

  “You might have told me about Porter,” Talia said when they got to his car.

  “I’m sorry. I thought I’d told you everything.”

  “Well, as Gretchen French said, you have one hell of a mess. I suppose leaving out one thing is to be expected.”

  They buckled up and Daniel started the car, then met her eyes. “You were good in there. I hate interviewing the rape victims. I never know what to say, but you did.”

  “You do a lot of homicides. That can’t be easy either.”

  Daniel winced as he pulled into traffic. “I wouldn’t say I do a lot of homicides.”

  She grimaced. “Sorry. Bad choice of words.”

  “Recently, especially.”

  “Daniel, do you think your brother killed Alicia Tremaine thirteen years ago?”

  “I’ve done nothing but wonder about that. But they arrested someone else, some drugged-out drifter. They found Alicia’s ring in his pocket and her blood on his clothing and the tire iron he was brandishing when they caught up with him.”

  “So what are you thinking, then? Did this rape happen at the same time she was murdered or another time?”

  Daniel tapped the steering wheel in an even rhythm as he pondered. “I don’t know.” But now, something else was bothering him. Something he should have considered before, but hadn’t. Something he’d pushed aside, until the pain and fear in Gretchen French’s eyes dragged it front and center.

  “Daniel? Think out loud, please. And stop tapping. That’s making me crazy.”

  Daniel sighed. “Alicia Tremaine has a twin sister. Alex.” He focused on the road to keep the fear from crowding his mind. “Alex has these bad dreams and panic attacks. They’ve gotten worse since she came back to Dutton a few days ago.”

  “Oh.” Talia twisted so that she faced him. “You’re wondering which sister got raped.”

  “Alex denies anything happened to her.”

  “Not unusual. You have anything more than this picture? Any forensics?”

  “No. Like I told you, Dutton’s sheriff and his staff have been less than forthcoming.”

  “Which makes you wonder about the arrest of this drugged-out drifter.”

  He nodded. “Yes.”

  “Sounds like you need to pay a visit to the state pen, Daniel.”

  “I know. I need to separate out the facts on Alicia’s murder from her rape.”

 
Talia bit her lip thoughtfully. “I once had a case with identical twins, where one was a rape victim who later died from injuries sustained in the assault. We had her hair in the perp’s apartment, but the asshole’s defense attorney kept throwing out that we couldn’t prove which twin the hair had belonged to. Created one hell of a reasonable doubt.”

  “Because DNA on identical twins is identical.”

  “In this case genetics was not our friend. It looked really bad for the state until the DA put the surviving twin on the stand. It was like the accused had seen a damn ghost. He went white as a sheet and started shaking so hard his shackles sounded like Jacob Marley haunting Scrooge. It made an impact on the jury and they found him guilty.”

  “Alex has been all over Dutton getting double-takes. Hell, I did a double-take when I first saw her. That’s not going to help me figure out who’s involved.”

  “No,” she said patiently, “but it could startle the guy who’s sitting in a cell for killing her sister into saying some interesting things. Just a thought.”

  It was a damn good thought. Daniel pulled into a side road to turn around. “I have the suspicion that every woman we talk to is going to have a story like Gretchen’s.”

  “I’d say you’re probably right. You want to let me take over the interviews? You can get your Alex and take her up to visit the drugged-out drifter, whatever his name is.”

  “Gary Fulmore. You don’t mind finishing the interviews yourself?”

  “Daniel, this is what I do. I’ll get another agent to go with me for backup. You need to focus your efforts on what’s important to this case. At this point, unless any of these women remembers a name or a face, you’re not going to get anything new.”

  “But they’re all still important,” he protested.

  “Of course they are. And each of these women needs to be told she’s not alone, just like Gretchen. But I can do that, just as well as you can.”

  “Probably better.” He glanced at her. “My Alex?”

  Talia smiled. “It’s written all over your face, honey.”

  He felt a trickle of warmth break through the bleakness in his mind. “Good.”

  Atlanta, Wednesday, January 31, 12:45 p.m.

  Alex leaned against a light post while Agent Hatton talked to Daniel on the phone. They’d only been looking for Bailey’s father for two hours and already Alex was weary, in body, but mostly soul. So many faces with so much pain and too little hope. So much noise in her mind. She’d given up trying to still it, instead keeping Craig’s face at the front of her mind. She tried to imagine him thirteen years older with a soft beard like Hatton’s.

  So far no one had seen Craig Crighton, or would admit to it anyway. But they had blocks to cover still. If her knees didn’t give out first. She was still stiff from her fall the day before and standing still wasn’t helping matters.

  Finally Hatton hung up and said, “Let’s go.”

  She pushed herself away from the light pole. “Where to?”

  “My car. Vartanian’s picking you up. You’re going to visit Macon State.”

  She frowned. “College?”

  “Um, no. Macon State Penitentiary. You’re going to visit Gary Fulmore.”

  “Why?” But as soon as the word flew from her mouth she shook her head. “Stupid question. Of course we’d have to see him sooner or later. But why this afternoon?”

  “You’ll have to ask Daniel. Don’t worry. I’ll keep looking and I’ll call you if I find him.”

  She winced as her knees creaked. “But first I want to stop by Sister Anne’s shelter. I have a package to drop off.” Hatton took her arm, steadying her. “You’re probably glad to get rid of me. I’m just slowing you down.”

  “I wasn’t planning on racing through the streets, Miss Fallon. You’re doing fine.”

  “You know, you could call me Alex.”

  “I don’t know. Miss Fallon was economical. I’d have to remember two names.”

  He was teasing her and she smiled. “Do you have a first name, Agent Hatton?”

  “I do.”

  She looked up at him. “Are you going to tell me what it is?”

  He sighed. “George.”

  “George? That’s a perfectly fine name. Why the sigh?”

  He rolled his eyes tolerantly. “My middle name is Patton.”

  Her lips twitched. “George Patton Hatton. Interesting.”

  “Just don’t tell anybody.”

  “I won’t breathe a word,” she promised, feeling a little lighter in spirit—until they reached Sister Anne’s shelter, and her spirit sagged. Sister Anne was critical. The ICU nurses at Atlanta’s County General had given Alex the prognosis, and it was not good.

  Another one of the nuns met them at the door with a smile. “Can I help you?”

  “My name is Alex Fallon. I was here two nights ago, talking to Sister Anne about my stepsister, Bailey Crighton.”

  The nun’s smile disappeared. “Anne said you were coming back last night.”

  “We couldn’t come last night. We took Hope to a doctor. Did Sister Anne say anything yesterday, anything to let you know who might have done this to her?”

  The nun hesitated, then shook her head. “She wasn’t here yesterday. She went out looking for Bailey’s daddy. Because you told her you were coming back last night.”

  Alex’s heart sank. “Did she find him?”

  “I don’t know. I expected her back this morning and she probably would have told me then. But she didn’t come in.” The nun’s lips trembled and she firmed them.

  “I was just at the hospital,” Alex said. “I’m sorry.”

  The nun nodded brusquely. “Thank you. Now, if that’s all, I have supper to get on.”

  “Wait.” Alex held the door open. “Will you see Sarah Jenkins tonight?”

  “Why?” the nun asked suspiciously.

  Alex held out the sack filled with the samples of prescription-strength antibacterial cream the nurses at the Atlanta ER had given her. “Her little girl has impetigo and this will fix it. There are also a few other supplies in there.”

  The nun’s face softened. “Thank you.” She started to close the door again.

  “Wait. I have one more question. Do you know this song?” She hummed the six bars Hope had been fixated upon the day before.

  The nun frowned. “No, but I don’t get out much lately. Hold on. I’ll be back.” She shut the door and Alex and Hatton waited for a long time.

  Hatton checked his watch. “We need to go. Vartanian will be here soon.”

  “Just another minute. Please.” A minute came and went and Alex sighed. “I guess she’s not coming back. Let’s go.” They were almost out to the street when the door opened and the nun stuck her head out, a scowl on her face.

  “I said I’d be back.”

  “We waited. We thought you weren’t coming,” Alex said.

  “I’m eighty-six years old,” the nun snapped. “Turtles move faster’n me. Here. Talk to this one.” She opened the door wider, revealing another nun who was only slightly younger and who looked very worried. “Tell them, Mary Catherine.”

  Mary Catherine glanced up the street, then whispered. “Check Woodruff Park.”

  Alex looked up at Hatton. “What’s that?”

  “It’s one of the areas where musicians gather,” he said. “Anybody we should talk to in particular, Sister?”

  Mary Catherine pursed her lips and the first old nun gave her a nudge. “Tell her.”

  “You’ve heard the song before?” Alex asked, and Mary Catherine nodded.

  “Bailey was humming it on the last Sunday she was here, while she was making the pancakes. She looked so sad. The song sounded sad. When I asked her what the song was, she got this scared look and said it was just a song she’d heard on the radio. But Hope said no, that it wasn’t the radio and didn’t her mama remember it was her Pa-paw and he was playing the song on his flute.”

  Alex stiffened. Hope’s magic wand.
r />   “What did Bailey do then?” Hatton asked, and she knew he thought the same thing.

  “She got real flustered and sent Hope off to help set the tables, saying Hope thought every man with a beard was her Pa-paw. She said it just some poor drunk on the street corner playin’ a flute, that was all.”

  Alex frowned. “But Sister Anne said she didn’t think Bailey had found her father.”

  The first nun nudged Mary Catherine again. “Go ahead.”

  Mary Catherine sighed. “Anne wasn’t in the kitchen at the time. I told her about it Monday night after you left. That’s when she decided to go lookin’ for him yesterday.”

  Alex’s shoulders sagged. “She should have called me. I would have gone looking for him myself. Why did she go alone?”

  The first nun sniffed. “Anne’s been ministering on these streets for years. She ain’t afraid to walk around herself.” Then she sighed. “I guess she shoulda been. At any rate, she didn’t want to get your hopes up. She said she’d check it out, then tell you when you came back last night. But you didn’t come back and neither did she.” The old nun shook herself back to brusque. “Thanks for the medicine. I’ll make sure it goes to good use.” She shut the door in Alex’s face.

  Alex looked up and down the street. “Which way to Woodruff Park?”

  But Hatton took her arm. “You don’t have time to look. I’ll find the flute player, and even if he’s not Crighton, I’ll bring him in. Now come on. You have a date.”

  Atlanta, Wednesday, January 31, 3:30 p.m.

  Daniel had parked his car in the prison lot, but he still sat behind the wheel. He’d told her about the interview with Gretchen French, about the assault and the empty whiskey bottle. He’d told her his plan to startle Fulmore with her face, that neither Fulmore nor his lawyer knew she was coming. All that conversation had eaten up about twenty minutes. The rest of the drive, he’d been withdrawn, deep in thought. She’d let him brood, hoping he’d eventually say something, but he’d said nothing at all.

  Finally she broke the silence. “I thought we were going inside the prison.”