by A B Whelan
I watch him in disgust as he lowers himself onto a chair opposite me, the edge of the table wedged into the rolls of his stomach.
He places his folded hands on the table and looks me in the eyes through his smudged glasses, panting from exertion.
“What can I do for you, babyface?” he says in a harsh and wheezing voice.
I picture his liver-stained sausage fingers running up the thighs of my mother, his beard brushing against her breasts, and his breath fanning her neck. My teeth clench so hard it hurts.
“Angus Sullivan. The model citizen here at Smith’s,” I sneer through pursed lips.
“Call me Gus.”
“Yeah, sure, whatever I can do to please you, Angus,” I say, emphasizing his name.
His bushy white eyebrows lower and knit over his puffy red nose. He’s irritated. Good.
I look for any resemblance between the two of us. I’m astonished to see that this monster has my eyes. Or rather, I have his. I feel my pulse quicken under the thin skin of my wrists. I put my hand on it to hide it.
Sullivan leans back in his chair and perches his hands on his belly. “You’re Aimee’s girl, aren’t you?”
I’m unsure what shocks me more: that he knows who I am or that he didn’t recognize me earlier.
“Where’s Blake?” I get to the point. This isn’t a social visit. I won’t ask him why he did what he did to my mother. Nothing he could say would justify the brutal act he committed against Emma Alexis.
Sullivan lowers his chin. The wheezing sound he emits intensifies. “How should I know? If you haven’t noticed, I’m a little confined in here. The real world is so far out of my reach, it doesn’t even exist.” He imitates a flock of birds with his fingers. His demonstration is rather childish.
“You must know something about him. You were both incarcerated here at the same time.” I look at him for any signs of surprise at my statement, but he calmly looks on, telling me that he knew about Blake.
“Well, it seems he couldn’t help but follow in his father’s footsteps. Yeah, I met him. I taught him a thing or two.”
“A thing or two about what?”
“How to survive in this nasty world.”
I scoff. “The world is nasty because of people like you.”
Sullivan smacks his lips. “Oh, yeah. Haven’t you heard? Criminals aren't born, they groomed by life’s other losers. Who do you think made me what I am?”
I smash my fist on the table, inadvertently attracting the guard’s attention. “Millions of children grow up in abusive households, yet most of them don’t turn out to be rapists and murderers. They chose to be good, to be better than what they saw at home. That’s a lame and pathetic excuse your kind use to clear your conscience.”
“You believe what you want to believe, babyface. It’s easy for you to judge coming from a childhood full of unicorns and rainbows.”
“Stop calling me babyface. I’m an FBI agent, not another vulnerable girl for you to manipulate.”
“But you are my baby girl after all, aren’t you? You found out the truth at last. That’s why you’re here, isn’t it?”
My fingers roll into fists. I try to disperse my urge to repeatedly bash his self-assured face into the metal table.
“Does Blake know the truth? Did you tell him?”
“Of course, I told him! He’s my son. He had the right to know.”
I grasp my forehead and shake my head in disbelief. “Did you tell him about me?”
“Oh yeah! He was pissed off for a bit after learning you’ve lived a life of luxury while he was surviving on bread and water.”
I swallow hard. “I didn’t know … I would have helped him.”
“Did the voices start talking to you in your head?”
“What voices?”
He leans close to me, and I can see every blemish and blackhead on his disgusting face. “The voice of regret. The voice of helplessness. The voice of failure.”
I pierce him with my eyes. I won’t let him play mind games with me. “You did this to us, you sick bastard. To Blake. You are to blame.”
A hearty laugh erupts from him. “Whatever, babyface! All I did was have a little fun. The rest? Well, you can blame my brother and that sweet young nurse you call mommy.”
I need air. I need to get away from this demon.
I jump out of my chair and rush to the door. “I’m done with this inmate!” I tell the guard.
I race out of the room, down the corridor, and out of the building. I lean over, holding myself up with one hand against the wall, trying to breathe. My head is dizzy, and I feel beside myself. If Blake knew about the Collins and me, why did he never contact us?
Once I manage to slow down my heart rate and compose myself, I call home. “Blake knows, Mom,” I say, battling with my emotions. “Angus told him everything eight years ago.”
29
I take a few minutes to emotionally recover from my first meeting with my biological father, the one I’ll never call “Dad,” before walking back to my car for a smoke. But after a short and intensive search under the car seats and in the glove box, I come up empty-handed. A sense of disappointment settles over me, and I bite into the skin on the inside of my mouth to punish myself for my forgetfulness.
I read Anaya’s earlier texts to divert my attention from impulsively driving to the nearest gas station for a pack of cigarettes. That would be a new low, even for me.
I submitted the palm print you gave me. I’ll call you when I hear back from the lab.
Old news. Delete.
Lyric called Brown. We watched the club’s security footage. She identified two dozen guys who hung with Meredith. PDs on it. Nothing yet.
Sounds promising. Save.
Lab found saliva on Meredith’s jacket. Enough DNA to analyze. Victory dance!
I should be happy about the new developments, but a hint of worry is slowly creeping into my gut. Even if we identify the man who spat on Meredith’s jacket months ago at the bar, it doesn’t mean he’s the Piggyback Serial Killer and/or the serial rapist-turned-murderer the San Marcos sheriff is pursuing.
I put my phone away, wipe away the perspiration and dust from my face, and reapply mascara to make myself presentable. As Doug would’ve told me to do.
Doug …
For the first time since leaving San Marcos, I allow myself to think of him. Our whole relationship situation feels surreal. I don’t think I’ve fully digested what’s happened between us—what I have unveiled. And I don’t think I ever will. Yet my image of him is shattered. My faith in our future is vaporized. But Doug’s been a part of my life for so long and the thought of him no longer being around is daunting. I’m not looking forward to returning home to an empty house or to watch Doug pack up. There’s nothing more depressing than watching someone you’ve loved carry his belongings out the front door and out of your life.
Going down this emotional lane makes me feel miserable. I can’t afford to cry right now or feel sorry for myself. Mysteries are waiting to be solved.
I ruffle my hair and tuck my blouse back into my pants. I’m ready to return to the visitor center to meet Paul Gooden, Blake’s former cellmate, for round two, when I spot a guard smoking by the side of the building. He looks to be my father’s age—Collins, not Sullivan—but his bulging round belly, awkwardly combed sideways hair, and petite mustache may be adding years to his age.
I confidently walk up to him, introduce myself, and bum a cigarette off from him. He offers me an American Spirit with a sly smile.
The guard takes a deep drag from his cigarette. “No rest for the wicked, huh?”
“Unfortunately, criminals don’t take weekends off.” I inhale deeply from my cigarette and hold the smoke in my lungs until my head becomes dizzy, then exhale.
“I saw Gooden being brought up for you. He should be ready. If you don’t mind me asking, why do you want to talk to that sleazebag? He’s a good-for-nothing son of a bitch. Why is the FBI interested i
n him?”
“He was a roommate of the inmate I’m investigating.” I put my cigarette out into the designated ashtray and offer the guard my hand to shake goodbye. As I lean in, I see his name on the tag pinned to his shirt. “Watson? I saw your name on a copy of a shift schedule from eight years ago. Do you remember a prisoner named Blake Sullivan?”
The guard’s eyes shrink with suspicion. “Sullivan?”
“A twenty-four-year-old male inmate. Eight years ago, he finished eight months for breaking a woman’s jaw? He was in Housing Unit 14?” I pull up Blake’s mugshot on my phone and show it to the guard.
He plays with his mustache. Then, as if a lightbulb went off in his head, his eyes widen. “Oh, yeah! Blake Sullivan. I remember him. He’s one of the few who hasn’t returned. Most do.”
“Yeah, he completely fell off the grid after being released from here.”
The guard snaps his fingers at me. “You know what, I saw him leave. I remember asking him if he needed me to call a taxi or someone to pick him up. He walked to the bus station over there and left without a word.” He points toward a narrow road shooting out of the complex.
I can’t believe my luck. “Did Sullivan leave any contact information you know about? Or say where he was going?”
The guard’s brows knit in deep concentration. “No, I don’t think so. I remember finding it strange that he took the bus because there was a gal who wrote him letters all the time. I can’t recall her name, but I remember Sullivan telling me about her. She responded to an ad—I think—Sullivan put in the classified section of a Christian newspaper. Or it may have been a chat room where they met. Anyways, he showed me a photo. She was a pretty young thing.”
“Do you remember her name?”
Watson purses his lips, then clicks his tongue. “Nope. Sorry. It’s been a while.”
As quick as my erupting optimism arrives, it evaporates. Without a name or face, it would be downright impossible to find Blakes’s pen pal.
I pull out my notebook and the Morongo Casino pen from my bag. “Could you describe the woman to me as best as you can? Hair color. Eye color. Any distinct features?”
Watson chuckles at my notepad. “Old school, I love it. Most cops record stuff on their smartphones nowadays.”
I lift the pen in my hand and smile. “I’m not a fan of electronics. Too many little connecting parts to break. Back in college, a virus wiped out six months of work on my computer. Now when I conduct an investigation, I stick with this trusty notebook. Plus, victims don’t want to hear about technical problems affecting the chances of a perp being caught and punished. It happens more than you’d think.”
Watson watches me silently; his gaze reflecting warmth. We’ve connected. I smile at him.
He points a crooked finger at my paper, indicating for me to start writing. “The chick was young, or at least in the picture I saw of the girl—twenty perhaps. Her hair was purple or pink, I don’t remember exactly, but I remember warning Blake about her. She looked like trouble. She wasn’t your typical Christian girl.”
“Do you remember anything else about her? Name? Height? Where she lived?”
At my bombardment of questions, all I get from the guard is a series of grimaces and headshakes. “Her face was pretty. Lots of makeup though.”
“Any moles? Tattoos?”
He shrugs his shoulders, offering me another cigarette. I politely refuse. “Come on, missus, it was almost ten years ago.”
I flip the cover closed on my notebook, understanding this interview is finished.
“You’ve been a big help. Thank you, Officer. I’d better get inside. Gooden must be getting restless waiting for me.”
“Let him wait. He has nothing but time.” Watson is persistently holding out the pack of American Spirits.
I stay and have another smoke with my new favorite person on earth. He complains about the union and all the new regulations hampering the guards but giving more freedom to the prisoners. I don’t comment. I represent the Bureau and refrain from sharing my personal opinion.
When our cigarettes burn down, I thank Watson for his help and pat him on the shoulder before heading to the main door.
“Jenna!” I hear him yell after me. I turn. “Her name was Jenna. Never got her last name but I’m pretty certain she was called Jenna.”
Armed with a sense of victory bestowed upon me by this vital new information, I enter the visitor’s room to meet Paul Gooden. Bursting with newfound confidence, I expect myself to dominate our conversation. At the sound of the opening door, the prisoner lifts his head and starts rubbing his bald cranium with both hands, smiling teasingly.
“Agent Collins, it’s good to see you again.”
I pass the officer guarding the wall and stand by the table where Gooden is seated. “Let’s skip the pleasantries and proceed to the meat and potatoes of why I’m here.”
Gooden leans back in his chair; his face crestfallen. “Come on, Agent Collins. I’m locked up with a bunch of dudes in here. You won’t deny me a little chitchat now, will ya?”
My need to pursue the new piece of information I’ve acquired is making me restless, and this silly teasing game between us is irritating me even more than the last time we met.
“Look, Paul, maybe wasting the time of an FBI special agent is exciting for you, or maybe you’re looking for a story to share with your fellow inmates, but I already have the information I need. So unless you spit out what you know about Blake Sullivan, I’m out of here.” I smack my hands down on the backrest of the empty chair in front of me, refusing to sit down.
“So … what’s her name?” Gooden teases.
“Not like it’s any of your business, but to prove to you I’m not bluffing, it’s Jenna. Her name is Jenna.”
I grin and wink at the handsome inmate, then turn to start heading for the door.
“You know where she lives?” Gooden shouts after me.
Shit! I’m the baited fish again.
I take a deep breath and turn to face the guard. I pull out a twenty-dollar bill from my pocket and hand it to him. Would you mind sending someone down to the commissary to bring Mr. Gooden …” I look at the inmate to finish the order for me.
“Two cheeseburgers, a large Coke—Coca-Cola, not that Pepsi shit—two cinnamon rolls, and a bag of gummy worms.”
Annoyance registers on the guard's face, but I nod at him solemnly. He takes the money and leaves the room.
I return to the table and sit down facing Gooden. As he smiles, the teardrop tattoo under his eye stretches into a bell shape.
“Jenna Davis was her name. She lived with her husband in Lake Elsinore but spent most of her time at her parents' farm in Moreno Valley. I guess her husband worked a lot and she didn’t like to be alone.”
I don’t show my informant how fired up I am about this new lead and manage to remain calm, even though I’m about to jump out of my skin. This is the first usable information I’ve been given about my brother since I started searching for him.
I casually flick open the cover of my notepad. “Do you have an address for this Jenna?”
“You really want me to do all the work, Vicky? Then why do the taxpayers pay you?”
“Don’t push your luck, Paul.” I can be personal too.
As we wait for the food, Gooden complains about the prison food and his accommodation, masterfully holding back the information he expects to be paid for first. I listen to him impatiently.
The door creaks open behind me, and a young guard enters the room with a tray bearing my order at last. I take the tray from him and set it on the table. Gooden reaches for a burger.
I put my arm across the food. “Nope. Not yet. You said Jenna had a husband?”
Gooden gives me a dark look and folds his arms, but the mouthwatering scent of the cheeseburger is too strong to resist. He takes a deep breath, then assumes a friendly posture. “Blakes insisted that his girl was done with that fool. Blake was her way out of his marriage.”
/>
“A convicted felon was her way out of her marriage? How bad could her husband be?”
The inmate shrugs.
“Have you heard from Blake since he was released?”
He shakes his head, eyeing the array of delicacies.
“Do you have an address or not?”
“I don’t, alright? Try checking the logs from the visitor’s desk. It’ll have visitor names, addresses, and whatnot.”
I ease the dish toward Gooden, thanking him for his help. As he’s stuffing his face with the first burger, he blabbers that he’ll be released in nineteen months, in case I want to meet up. I touch his hand appreciatively and steal a few gummy worms from the bag, holding his stare. It’s better to part on good terms. I may need him again.
When I’m at the door, Gooden calls out to me. “Would you do me a favor, Vicky? Tell the lovely Mr. Zielinski that I did what he asked. I was a good boy, so he owes me a biscuit.”
I give him a thumbs up and leave the room.
30
Doug’s Instagram feed shows no signs of his distress. On the second day of the realtor convention, he’s giving speeches and meeting people, commemorating every moment with pictures and short videos as if last night never happened. It’s business as usual for Doug. His new way of recording himself, talking while driving, makes him look borderline arrogant and reckless. The motivation behind it eludes me. Are we supposed to believe that he doesn’t have a minute to spare in his busy life to sit down and talk into a camera? Yet, his videos receive thousands of views. People hang on his words of wisdom like grapes on a vine.
The comments are pouring in for his posed action shots.
You are an inspiration, Doug! Keep it up!
Love your attitude! XXOO
Sexy! A heart and fire emojis.
You look amazing! #rockstar
I close the app and pay the cashier at the gas station for the case of White Claw Hard Seltzer and pack of Marlboro Lights I’m planning to attack this evening. But first, I need to meet Barbara Sullivan in Beaumont. I’m not thrilled to see the woman who allowed those horrible things to happen to my brother when he was young, but she is a lead I must pursue.
