Blood on My Hands

by Todd Strasser

  Not that it mattered. By Monday, Katherine was dead.

  Chapter 43

  Friday 11:51 A.M.

  I’M ALLOWED TO take a shower and change into the clean clothes Mom brought. Then I’m sent back to my cell to wait and think about what Mom and Gail want me to do. Even though I know I should consider what Mom said, it’s practically impossible. How can I agree to say it was self-defense?

  I hardly touch lunch. Who could possibly eat at a time like this? Later a matron comes to my cell. I assume she’s going to transport me back to the town center for another round of questions, but instead, she says, “You have a visitor.”

  My heart leaps, and my spirits skyrocket. It’s Slade! He must have just heard from Mom and come right over! I’ve missed him so much. The memories of that kiss in the lounge and of his saying he’d always love me are the only bright spots in my life.

  I practically skip out of the cell and down the hall.

  Will I be allowed to kiss him?

  Hug him?

  But the person waiting for me at the round table in the visitors’ room is Chief Jenkins. “Have a seat, Callie.”

  I slump into a chair, not bothering to hide my disappointment.

  “You were expecting someone else?”

  I shrug, struggling to hold back the tears that unexpectedly threaten to burst forth.

  “Slade Lamont?”

  I look up, surprised, and feel the moisture gathering in my eyes. My emotions are so raw and torn that I can’t muster the strength to hide them anymore. Tears roll down my cheeks. Chief Jenkins nods, as if I’ve just answered his question. “So, I guess you’re wondering why I’m here.”

  I don’t bother to answer or even nod. Obviously he wouldn’t be here if he wasn’t going to tell me. He takes off his hat and places it on the table. The hat leaves a reddish ridge across his forehead. “I came here to tell you a story about your father, Callie. Something I suspect you don’t know.”

  I have absolutely no idea what he’s going to say.

  “A long time ago he and I were friends,” Chief Jenkins says. “Pretty close, actually. You didn’t know that, did you?”

  I shake my head. Dad never said a word about it. I wonder if it’s true or just some new trick they’re playing to get me to admit to other things that aren’t true.

  “I’m not surprised,” Chief Jenkins goes on. “We had a pretty bad falling-out. And after that, we never really spoke to each other again.”

  He pauses as if waiting for me to ask what happened. But I don’t. He’s come here to tell me a story. Be my guest. “We were both on the Soundview High tennis team.”

  I stare at him uncertainly. Tennis? I remember Mom saying something about Dad’s being on the team. I meant to ask him why he quit, but I never did.

  “We were tremendous rivals in high school,” the police chief continues. “At least, he thought we were. I played first singles on the team, and all he wanted to do was beat me and play first singles himself.”

  I’m still not sure whether to believe any of this. But if I do, then obviously I have to believe that my father couldn’t beat Chief Jenkins. Otherwise, what would be the point of his telling me this?

  The police chief goes on: “For some reason I was born with athletic talent coming out of my ears. Great reflexes. Amazing hand-eye coordination. The funny thing was, I couldn’t have cared less. I played on my high-school teams—tennis, baseball, basketball—but I knew I wouldn’t play in college. I had other things in mind. Your father couldn’t have been more different. What he lacked in raw talent he tried to make up for with determination, practice, training, and studying. He would practice and practice, study strategy, read all the books, and then challenge me. But I would always beat him. Well, that’s not really true. Most of the time he would beat himself. Psych himself out. Truth is, he was what we used to call a head case.”

  Well, at least that part rings true. So now I’m becoming curious. “What happened?”

  Chief Jenkins runs his thick fingers back over his thin hair as if checking to make sure those few black strands are still there. “I called a let.”

  “Sorry?” I’m not sure I know what he means.

  “When you serve and the ball nicks the net but still goes in the service box, it’s called a let. You get to do the serve over. Anyway, your dad challenged me to a match. And as usual he acted as if it wasn’t just some dumb tennis game but was practically a matter of life and death. As if his entire future depended on it. So we got into a fight over a ball I thought was a let. And your dad just … went … nuts.”

  I nod. It’s so easy to imagine Dad doing that.

  “Finally, he called me a cheater and walked off the court, quit the team, and never talked to me again. And, as far as I know, he never played tennis again, either.”

  I’m struck by how sincerely sad and filled with regret Chief Jenkins appears to be. As if, while he didn’t care that much about tennis, he really cared about my dad. But I still don’t understand why he’s telling me this.

  He goes on: “After high school, I went into the army for two years and then to the police academy. Even though he wouldn’t talk to me, I kept tabs on your dad, so I know he went to FCC. And then, later, when we’d both gotten married and I’d moved back here, I’d hear stories about him and the troubles he had with your brother. Especially since Sebastian had had a few run-ins with us, as well. I’d see your dad from time to time, but he’d never do more than nod. He was a very angry guy. Always at war with someone or something.”

  Chief Jenkins levels his eyes on me and I recognize it as a caring gaze. His eyes are sad, as if he’s seen too many things he wishes he hadn’t seen. He places his left hand on the table. He’s wearing a wedding ring. “So, you’re surely wondering why I’m telling you all this,” he finally says. “I guess … it goes back to when your dad and I were friends. Just that he’d always wanted so badly the things I’d been given without even asking. I guess … I always felt bad for him. It seemed like he caught a lot of unlucky breaks.”

  He pauses again. From some other part of the facility come distant shouts followed by laughter. Not what you’d expect in a detention center. Meanwhile, I’m still waiting, wondering why he’s told me all this and where the story’s going. But I sense I won’t have to wonder for much longer. He places his right arm on the table, leans toward me, and lowers his voice. “I hear you’re refusing to go along with the self-defense argument.”

  He gazes steadily at me, waiting for my reply. I fold my hands in my lap and look straight into his eyes, as if to say if that’s why he’s here, he’s wasting his time, but what comes out of my mouth is “Why would I agree to claim self-defense when I’m innocent?”

  Chief Jenkins looks down at his hat, lying on the table, and turns it slightly with his finger. “Callie, suppose I told you … we think the knife … came from Katherine’s house?” His eyes rise again to meet mine.

  What? I rock back in the chair as if he’s pushed me. It makes no sense. Why would Katherine bring the knife to the kegger? “How could that be?”

  “To be honest, we’re not sure. But let’s forget that for a moment. Would just knowing the knife came from her house make you more comfortable about pleading self-defense?”

  I feel like he’s practically rolling out a red carpet for me. If Katherine brought the knife, it might imply that she wanted to kill me. So then claiming self-defense would make perfect sense. I’d go free. No one could blame me for defending myself. I’d be with Slade again.

  Only it would still mean admitting I killed Katherine.

  “I have to tell you, Callie, I don’t understand why you won’t agree to it,” Chief Jenkins says. “There were no witnesses. If you say it was self-defense, there’s no one who can really argue. It adds the crucial element of doubt. It’s almost impossible to imagine a jury convicting you in that situation. On the other hand, if you insist on your innocence, you know you’re making it much more difficult for the jury. Th
ey know someone killed Katherine Remington-Day, and a lot of the evidence points to you. In that situation, I can’t predict what they’ll decide, and neither can anyone else. But the possibility of being convicted of second-degree murder, and serving a long prison term, is much much greater.”

  Yes, I’ve heard this before. So why is he telling me again? Is it a trick? Is he trying to get me to plead self-defense because it will take away the possibility that Dakota will be accused? That could be it, right? But something tells me it isn’t. I may be only seventeen and not old enough to be a great judge of character, but I feel that I am looking into the eyes of a man who is telling the truth.

  “Maybe you’re not responding because your lawyer told you not to talk to anyone and the Miranda warning states that anything you do say may be used against you,” Chief Jenkins continues. “But I want you to understand something, Callie. My duty as an officer of the law is to seek justice. I’ve taken an oath to fulfill that duty to the best of my abilities. But I also have a commitment to the people of this community to do what I believe is best for all involved. It’s not to decide whether you are innocent or guilty. That’s up to a judge and jury. But I’ve known your family for a long time, and personally, I think you’ve faced more than enough hardships. Maybe you could think of it this way—I’ve come here today not as the chief of police but as a friend who doesn’t understand why you’d want to risk another tragedy when there’s such an obvious way around it.”

  I know I’m not supposed to say anything, but I can’t help it. I stare him right in those watery hazel eyes and ask, “Have you ever been accused of something you didn’t do?”

  He blinks as if this isn’t what he expected me to say. “Yes.”

  “Then you know how it feels.”

  He gazes at me for a long time with an expression that at first seems astonished and then turns thoughtful. “You had nothing to do with Katherine Remington-Day’s murder?”

  “Nothing whatsoever.”

  “There was no plan? You weren’t in it with someone else? You never discussed it with anyone?”

  “Discussed what? I have no idea what you’re even talking about. It’s like there’s something else going on here that no one will tell me about. What is it?”

  “Did Mia Flom ever tell you she was going to get Katherine?”

  Was that why she came out of the police station with her father and that woman lawyer?

  “She might have said something like that,” I answer. “But … it never sounded like—”

  “Did she ever mention physical threats?”

  “I … I don’t remember.”

  The police chief drums his fingers against the table. “Did you go to Jerry Fairman’s house a few nights ago?”

  I’m so eager to prove my innocence that I almost say I did, but then I catch myself. I don’t know what Jerry has to do with any of this, but he did me a big favor. He did my brother a much, much bigger favor. Whatever he had to do with the trap at the train station, I have to believe he was forced into it. I don’t want to get him into trouble. I stare down at the table mutely.

  Chief Jenkins studies me a moment longer and then nods as if he’s made up his mind about something. “I’ve been in this profession a long time, Callie. I like to think that I’ve gotten pretty good at separating the liars from those who are telling the truth.” Then he picks up his hat, places his hands on the table, and heaves himself up. “That’s all I have to say.”

  Chapter 44

  Friday 10:34 P.M.

  ANOTHER NIGHT IN juvie to think about what people said and what they might have meant. A plan? In it with someone else? What was Chief Jenkins talking about? What could Jerry have to do with this? And how could the knife have come from Katherine’s house?

  For the hundredth time I go over it in my head, replaying everything that’s happened. No, that’s not quite true. There’s one memory I always avoid unless someone, like Gail or Chief Jenkins, makes me think about it—that horrible scene of finding Katherine dead.

  But tonight I force myself to go back over it. Her body on the ground. The others coming. Their dark silhouettes. Dakota saying, “You killed her!” The flash of the camera … the blur of faces.

  But wait. The faces aren’t really a blur. They’re kids I know. Kids from school …

  … except the tall one with blond hair—

  And suddenly I know why Griffen Clemment looked familiar. He was there that night, in that crowd.

  Griffen, who said he hadn’t spoken to Katherine or Dakota since the previous spring.

  Did he play a role in Katherine’s death?

  I go over it in my head again and again, but I can’t make sense of it.

  And I fall asleep knowing that there’s still so much I don’t know.

  But something is different when I wake in the morning. I don’t know why or how, but during the night, I’ve made peace with the idea of pleading self-defense. Maybe because I’ve realized how much I don’t know. But what I do know is that Mom and Chief Jenkins want me to do it.

  And what if Slade also wanted me to do it? Would I? For him?

  Yes, I think maybe in that case I would.

  Later a matron appears outside my cell. I’m once again filled with hope that Slade has come to see me. But she says, “Take everything you want, because you’re not coming back.”

  What? I stare at her, confused.

  “You’re out,” she says. “Free to go.”

  I don’t understand, but I’m not about to argue. The matron escorts me down the hall and through the reinforced doors. Gail is sitting in the waiting room, wearing a gray raincoat. She rises and smiles and, seeing the confusion on my face, explains: “The seventy-two hours is up. They haven’t decided to press charges, so you can go.”

  “Ser … iously?” I’m so filled with surprise and disbelief that I can hardly get the word out of my mouth.

  “Well, sort of,” Gail says as we start to walk toward the exit. “As a condition of your release, I had to make two promises. But I don’t think you’ll be bothered by either of them.”

  It’s raining. As we walk to the parking lot, she opens an umbrella. “You have to wear an ankle monitor. So they know where you are in case they want to talk to you again.”

  “Or arrest me?”

  “I suppose it can’t be ruled out.”

  “What’s the other promise?”

  “Under no circumstances are you to leave the county.”

  “What difference does it make if I’m wearing an ankle monitor? Won’t they know where I am anyway?”

  Gail bugs her eyes at me. “Why are you giving me grief? You’re out, okay? Free! All you have to do is wear the stupid thing and not leave the county. When’s the last time you left the county, anyway?”

  She’s right. For the first time in what feels like forever, I have a smile on my face.

  We stop at the police station and they place the monitor just above my right ankle. It’s a black box, slightly smaller than a pack of cigarettes, on a black strap. The officer who puts it on warns me that even though I could cut it off with scissors, as soon as I did, I’d break the circuit and send an alarm to the tracking unit.

  Then Gail drops me off at my house. Stepping through the front door feels strange, as if I’ve been gone for months, not days. It’s dim and cool inside. Mom’s become fanatical about keeping the lights off and the heat down while she tries to get by on Dad’s disability payments.

  “Mom?” I call from the front hall.

  “Callie?” Coming from the kitchen, her voice is filled with surprise. A moment later she appears in the hallway in her old red plaid robe and envelops me in her arms. “Thank God!”

  She’s so happy that I’m home that she hardly seems to hear when I explain what’s happened and why they let me go. All she cares about is that I’m free. As soon as I can get away from her, I go to a phone and call Slade, but I get his voice mail. He’s probably at the town center, finishing the job. I’d te
xt him from Mom’s phone, but she doesn’t have texting set up. I could wait for him to call me back, but I’m too excited, too brimming with yearning to see him. I beg Mom to let me borrow the car. Just to go into town. Please? She finally says yes and I drive to the town center.

  Slade’s pickup isn’t in the parking lot, but maybe he parked somewhere else or rode with his dad that morning. I go through the back door of the center and follow the sounds of hammers and saws up to the second floor. In the hallway a painter lugging a large white bucket stops and stares at me like he’s seeing a ghost.

  “Do you know where the Lamonts are?” I ask.

  He points down the hall and I go in that direction, looking through doorways into empty rooms until I come to one and see Mr. Lamont’s back. With quick, deft movements, he’s using a trowel of mud to fill the seams and screw holes along a new wall. I watch for a moment, then say, “Hi.”

  Mr. Lamont stops and turns. A day or two’s worth of gray stubble coats his jaw, and his broad stomach hangs over his belt. This is a man who always has a smile on his face for me. But there’s no smile today. “Hello, Callie.”

  “Is Slade here?”

  He doesn’t answer. His eyes slide away and his face grows sadder. Something’s wrong and I feel myself fill with dread even before he answers: “He’s gone.”

  “Gone?” I repeat. I can tell by the way he says it that he doesn’t mean gone to the store. He means gone. My mind screens the possibilities. “Not deployed? He said he’d been—”

  Mr. Lamont shakes his head. “Just gone. Cleaned out his bank account and left a note saying good-bye and not to bother looking for him.”

  This makes no sense. Where would he go? I feel my heart begin to disintegrate. “That’s all it said?” I ask, thinking, Nothing about me?

  “It said to tell you he was sorry.”

  “About what?”

  “I don’t know, Callie. I wish I did, but I don’t.”