The Girl in the Woods

by Chris Culver

  “Okay,” I said. “I’m here to talk to you about Laura Rojas.”

  He gave me a blank stare. Then he shrugged.

  “Don’t know her.”

  “You sure about that?” asked Blatch.

  Trevino focused on the young detective and leaned forward.

  “I ain’t ever heard the bitch’s name.”

  Blatch didn’t respond, but I leaned back. “Okay. Let’s take a step back. What do you do for a living, Mr. Trevino?”

  He looked at me. “Whatever I gotta do.”

  “Does that include selling drugs?” I asked.

  He jangled his chains and looked at Blatch. “Ding, ding, ding. Get the lady a prize. That’s why you folks arrested me, isn’t it? You say I’m slinging dope or something.”

  “We found four ounces of marijuana in your apartment,” said Blatch. “That’s good evidence.”

  He smirked. “Four ounces? That’s nothing.”

  I sat back, surprised. He was right. Possession of more than an ounce and a quarter was a felony, but if we sent everybody with that much weed to prison, our college campuses would go empty, and our prison population would swell tenfold. Not only that, he had supposedly sold Laura a pound of product. If he moved that much dope, I doubted he’d only have a quarter pound in his apartment.

  “Who do you get your product from?” I asked.

  “That ain’t none of your business,” he said, looking at me.

  “My badge says it is my business,” I said, “but we’ll get back to that. Can you tell me about the gun you hid under your mattress?”

  He sat straighter and shook his head. “Ah, hell no. I didn’t hide no gun under no mattress.”

  “Are you sure?” asked Blatch. “Because we found one there. Three officers witnessed the search.”

  “They’re liars,” he said. “I’ve got kids. I don’t keep guns around the house.”

  “But you keep drugs around the house,” said Blatch.

  “It’s weed, man. God made it grow in the ground,” he said, shrugging. “That means it’s okay, right?”

  I doubted that reasoning would hold up in court, but I nodded as if it made sense.

  “If it wasn’t your gun, how’d it get under your mattress?” I asked.

  He nodded to Blatch. “Mr. Suit-and-Tie put it there.”

  Blatch chuckled. “Sorry, buddy, but no. It’s your gun. And it’s Detective Suit-and-Tie.”

  “You find my fingerprints on it?” he asked.

  “Someone wiped it clean,” said Blatch. “They also wiped the magazine and every round inside. If you had thrown it away after killing Laura Rojas, we wouldn’t have been able to tie it to you. Why did you keep it? You want a souvenir?”

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa,” he said, holding his hands up, palms toward us. “I ain’t even heard of Laura Rojas.”

  “And yet we found her murder weapon under your mattress,” said Blatch, “and we found a bag of marijuana in her closet with your fingerprints on it. How do you explain that?”

  “I didn’t kill nobody, and that’s the truth,” he said, pounding his index finger on the table. “I ain’t even heard of this chick.”

  I picked up my phone and flipped through pictures until I found one of Laura’s face. I turned it around and showed it to him.

  “You didn’t kill this girl?” I asked. His eyes shifted to the picture.

  “Nah. Never seen her.”

  “Look again,” I said. “And consider your answer well. We’ve got enough evidence to put you away for her murder. Are you sure you’ve never met her?”

  He looked at me and spoke so that every word became its own sentence.

  “I. Don’t. Know. Her.”

  “If you don’t know her, let’s clear this whole thing up right away,” I said. “It’s Tuesday today. She died on Saturday night. We found her Sunday afternoon. Where were you?”

  “Saturday?” he asked, his eyebrows raised. I nodded. “I was in fucking Jeff City with my baby’s momma.”

  Blatch leaned forward.

  “Can anybody verify that?” he asked.

  Trevino held up his fingers and counted them off as he spoke.

  “My baby momma, my kids, my baby momma’s momma, her dad, her grandma, the minister at her church, and everybody in church. We went to a church picnic.”

  “Even if you were there earlier, that doesn’t mean you were in Jefferson City when Laura died,” said Blatch.

  “What time did she die?”

  “Late,” I said.

  “I spent the night in jail. Got drunk and pissed on a fire hydrant. Cop took exception.”

  Neither Blatch nor I said anything for a moment. Then Blatch took a notepad from his pocket and tossed it to Trevino before standing up.

  “Detective Court and I will step outside for a minute. Do me a favor and write down the names of everybody who saw you in Jefferson City on Sunday.”

  “I’ll need a pencil,” he said. I tossed him a pen from my purse and left the room with Detective Blatch. He shut the door and gave me a tight smile.

  “How certain is your coroner of Laura Rojas’s time of death?”

  “Not very,” I said. “Laura’s body went through an ordeal when she died.”

  “Do you have evidence that could tie him to the scene?”

  I sighed and rubbed my eyes. “Maybe if we’re lucky. We got hit by a tornado right after finding her body. My team did what they could, but the storm wrecked the scene and destroyed the coroner’s van. We’re lucky nobody died.”

  He raised his eyebrows. “Jeez.”

  “Yeah. It was a mess. Once we saw the tornado coming, we evacuated the scene but had to leave most of the evidence behind. We picked up a handful of beer bottles, I think. They might have prints on them, but I doubt they’ll match.”

  Blatch looked at the door. “You believe our intrepid drug dealer in there?”

  “I don’t know what I believe right now. You think it’s strange that you’d pick up a drug dealer who sold over a pound of marijuana to Laura but who only had four ounces in his apartment?”

  “Maybe he made a big deal and sold most of his supply,” said Blatch, shrugging.

  “That’s possible,” I said, nodding more to myself than to him. “Did you find any canisters like the ones we found in Laura’s house in Trevino’s place?”

  Blatch hesitated and shook his head.

  “No,” he said. “He kept his weed in Ziploc bags.”

  “Laura kept her drugs in sealed canisters and mylar bags. Those would keep her weed safe and potent for a long time. Her dealer kept them in Ziploc bags that would allow the cannabinoids to break down within months.”

  Blatch looked to the closed door. “Maybe he gets the drugs, keeps them for a while, and moves them on before they can break down.”

  “It’s possible, but I’m not feeling this. He whipped out his alibi right away, and it’s not just his girlfriend. It’s his girlfriend’s family, it’s her minister at church, it’s the church congregation. If he’s lying, it won’t be hard to find out.”

  “Don’t tell me you believe his story,” said Blatch, crossing his arms. “We didn’t hide a gun on him.”

  “He’s lying,” I said, my voice soft, “but that doesn’t mean he’s a killer. He deals drugs, but I don’t think he killed Laura.”

  “Who did?”

  I hesitated and then shook my head. “I wish I had a clue.”

  20

  Since Trevino wasn’t my killer, I left the station after the interview. It had been a week since I last saw my parents, so I figured I might as well visit them while I was in town. I sent my mom a text message and drove to Kirkwood, their upper-middle-class suburb west of the city.

  When I was a little girl, I lived out of a car with my biological mother. After Erin overdosed on heroin, the county’s Department of Children’s Services took me in and put me in foster care. I bounced around for years, but I never had a permanent place to live until I met Julia
and Doug Green. They gave a broken young woman a home and a family without asking for anything in return. I could never thank them enough.

  Dad must have seen me coming because he opened the door before I knocked.

  “Hey, old man,” I said, smiling. “I was in the neighborhood, so I thought I’d stop by.”

  “Your mom told me you were coming,” he said, taking a step back. “Come on in, sweetheart.”

  As I stepped inside, Dad hesitated and then put a hand on my shoulder. I reached my arms around his back and squeezed tight. He did the same.

  When Doug and Julia took me in, I was a young woman whose previous foster father had raped her. Even the thought of anyone touching me had made me ill. It had taken years, but I liked hugs from other women now. Dad was still one of the very few men allowed to touch me. He made me feel safe.

  “It’s good to see you,” I whispered.

  “You, too, sweetheart,” he said, stepping back. “Your mom’s in the kitchen, but I’ve been tinkering in the garage. I’m building a Shaker end table. I’ve been watching woodworking videos on YouTube.”

  I looked to his hands. “You haven’t cut off your thumbs yet, so it looks like you’re doing okay.”

  “I don’t know what I’d do without the support of my children.”

  I squeezed his arm. “Speaking of kids, where’s my little brother?”

  “At work. He’s a lifeguard at the Ladue Country Club’s pool. I’m pretty sure he’s just there to pick up girls.”

  “So I’ve heard,” I said, nodding. “How do you like knowing you’ll be a grandpa soon?”

  Dad flashed me a coy smile.

  “You telling me something?”

  “About me? No,” I said, smiling. “Based on what Audrey tells me, though, Dylan should have at least half a dozen kids on the way.”

  He patted me on the shoulder and nodded down the hallway toward the kitchen.

  “You’re hilarious,” he said. “Now go see your mom. I’ll be in soon.”

  As Dad went to finish his project in the garage, I walked into the kitchen and hugged my mom. My mom had retired from the St. Louis County Police Department four weeks ago. She was in her late fifties, so she hadn’t planned to retire for several years, but sometimes life gets in the way. Mom had been an excellent cop, but she and her former partner had lost their ways over the years. Retirement was for the best.

  I stayed at my parents’ house for an hour and had sandwiches and a few laughs. For that hour, I didn’t have to think about murder, or rape, or abductions. I could just be me. I had a home, and it was wonderful.

  Even wonderful visits home had to end, though.

  After lunch, I hugged my parents one last time and got back in my car for the drive to St. Augustine. The moment I sat down in my truck, the weight of my case pressed down on me.

  Laura Rojas had died on Saturday night, and last night, someone murdered Jennifer McKenzie. Aldon McKenzie, Jennifer’s husband, was the key to all this. We needed to find him. I drove to St. Augustine, parked in the lot outside the station, and walked to the front desk, where Tricia greeted me with a subdued smile.

  “Has Detective Delgado found Aldon McKenzie yet?” I asked.

  Tricia shook her head. “If George has found him, he hasn’t brought him by my desk. You need to go to Harry’s office, though. He’s meeting with Shaun Deveraux and Councilman Rogers to talk about you.”

  A mild headache spread from the front of my skull to the back.

  “I’m assuming they’re not talking about giving me a medal for outstanding police work.”

  “Fair assumption,” said Trisha. “Councilman Rogers looked ticked.”

  I sighed. “All right. Thanks, Trisha.”

  She smiled and wished me luck, so I climbed the stairs to the sheriff’s office. Harry worked out of one of the bigger rooms in the building, but that didn’t make it nice. Water stains dotted the ceiling, while wind and rain passed through his aging but enormous front window as if the glass didn’t exist. His desk, conference table, and chairs all came from secondhand stores in town. In the summer, the room smelled okay, but in the winter, it smelled like wet dog. As much as I would have enjoyed having a private office, I didn’t envy Harry one bit.

  When I opened his door, three pairs of eyes turned. Harry sat behind his desk, while Councilman Rogers and Shaun Deveraux, the St. Augustine county prosecutor, sat in wooden chairs in front. Nobody looked happy to see me, but at least Harry stood up.

  “Joe, I was hoping to talk to you,” he said. He looked to his guests. “If you don’t mind, let’s move this to the conference table where we can all sit.”

  Rogers and Deveraux agreed, so Harry and I sat down opposite from them at Harry’s small conference table. For a few moments, nobody said anything. Then Councilman Rogers leaned forward and smiled a fake grin at me.

  “I’m glad you stopped by, Detective. I hear you drove to St. Louis this morning.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “I interviewed a murder suspect at the Fourth Precinct’s headquarters.”

  “We’ll get to your interview in a moment,” said Rogers, folding his hands together at the table. “Before we do, though, I’d like to ask you a question: What vehicle did you drive to St. Louis?”

  I hesitated. “My truck. Why?”

  Rogers sighed. “The county provides a wide range of vehicles for our law enforcement officers. The vehicles we provide are fine, modern cars that get excellent gas mileage. I’m guessing that your old truck gets, what, ten miles to the gallon?”

  “Better than that,” I said, eyeing him. “Why?”

  “It’s just that gas is expensive, young lady, and your truck isn’t the most economical of vehicles. We’d prefer if you took one of our cruisers. It’d save us all some money. I understand you were driving your truck the day of the tornado, too.”

  I hesitated again. “Yeah.”

  “I bet you want the county to pay for your broken window, too.”

  I glanced at Harry out of the corner of my eye and then to Councilman Rogers.

  “Since I was on official police business, yes,” I said. “The department doesn’t have enough vehicles for everyone who needs one, so I drove my truck because it was available. I made the best out of a lousy situation. If the County Council gave us the budget they promised us every year, we wouldn’t have half the problems we do.”

  Rogers held up his hands and nodded.

  “Mr. Deveraux and I didn’t come here to talk about the council. We’re not even here to talk about your questionable expenses. We came to talk about Laura Rojas.”

  “Sounds good,” I said. “As this is an active investigation, Councilman Rogers should step out, though.”

  Rogers lowered his chin. “Watch yourself, Detective. Don’t forget that I pay your salary.”

  I matched his posture and lowered my voice. “You’re on the board that allocates my department’s budget. From that budget, I get a salary. That’s quite a big step from paying me.”

  Rogers opened his mouth to retort, but Harry cleared his throat. “If the councilman would like to stay, he’s welcome. This is an active case, though. I trust that everyone will be discreet about the things they hear.”

  “Of course,” said Rogers, smiling at Harry. “You have my word, Sheriff Grainger.”

  Harry opened his mouth to speak, but Deveraux cut him off before he got a word out.

  “I got a phone call from a colleague in the St. Louis County Prosecutor’s Office this afternoon. Why is Duke Trevino sitting in a holding cell in St. Louis instead of here?”

  “Because he had illegal drugs in St. Louis County,” I said.

  “But he killed a woman here. He had the murder weapon in his possession, and detectives found his fingerprints in the victim’s home,” said Deveraux. “I understand you lost evidence that might have tied him to your crime scene during the tornado, but you’ve got enough for an arrest.”

  “I might agree if he didn’t have an alibi,” I
said. “Not only that, we don’t know where Laura died. Someone could have shot her in Chicago for all we know.”

  Deveraux shook his head.

  “We’ve got the body, the gun, and his prints. That’s enough to charge him. Pick him up, let him sit in a cell for a few days, and then we’ll see whether we can get him to talk about a plea deal.”

  “I won’t arrest somebody for a crime he didn’t commit,” I said. “At the very least, we need to wait until Detective Blatch checks Trevino’s alibi.”

  Councilman Rogers spoke before Deveraux responded.

  “I understand your trepidation, Detective,” he said, nodding. “It speaks well of you that you want to withhold judgment until you have all the facts, but you’ve got to understand something: St. Augustine is a tourist town. We can’t let a murder go unsolved.”

  “I’m not letting a murder—”

  “Let me finish,” said Rogers, interrupting me before I could tell him off. “I understand you’re not comfortable making an arrest, but you’re not the only detective in town. I’ve already spoken to George Delgado. He’s ready to move on this.”

  “George is a good detective,” said Deveraux. “He’s good on the witness stand, too. If he’s comfortable making an arrest, I am, too.”

  “I don’t care if George is comfortable,” I said, shaking my head. “This is my case, and it’s premature to make a move against Trevino. Not only that, he’s sitting in a jail cell right now on felony possession charges. He’s not going anywhere. If we arrest him now, we’re all going to look stupid when it blows up in our faces.”

  Rogers sighed and then closed his eyes.

  “This story is all over the news, Detective,” he said. “The St. Louis Post-Dispatch had it above the fold on the second page this morning. People don’t want to visit a town where naked ladies turn up dead in the woods. We’ve got to do something now before our businesses get hurt.”

  I narrowed my eyes at him. “You think they’d rather visit a town where the village idiot might arrest them on shitty evidence and half-cocked theories?”

  “George Delgado is far from the village idiot, and he doesn’t think the evidence is shitty,” said Rogers. He looked at Harry. “You need to weigh in here and control your officer, Harry.”