Tethered

by Amy MacKinnon

  “Sorry to make you come in so early.” Mike pulls open a door leading to a stairwell, taking us up one flight. He walks first, so I can’t see his expression, but I can hear it. “You probably didn’t sleep much, huh?”

  I pause just a moment, less, my hand clinging to the railing. “I’m fine.”

  He reaches the landing and again holds the door, allowing me to pass. This time he looks at me, but his eyes are sheathed now by that familiar reptilian shield. “You didn’t have trouble sleeping?”

  “No.” I wait for him to direct me, but still he stands in the doorway, watching me. “I went straight to bed after you left,” I say.

  He lets the door slam behind us and walks ahead. I follow, plucking at a loose button on my coat, noticing his stiff back, and I can see the bulge along his right hip whenever his suit coat brushes against his gun. I know what he wants me to say, but it’s too much to part with. Yes, I had to bring the daisies Trecie pulled free to Precious Doe; I can’t have dead things in my house—not there, no. I didn’t see him at first, overcome by what I found propped against Doe’s marker: a Mass card Linus had printed for Precious Doe’s service, the prayer of Saint Anthony, the saint of lost things, on one side, and on the other, an image of a child’s hands pressed together in prayer. The card’s edges were frayed, the upper right corner bent as if it had been kept someplace where it was thumbed regularly. Last night, it was Mike’s turn to hide among the shadows. It’s better to pretend I didn’t hear him call out as I hurried away. Grief is not meant to be shared.

  I’ve never been to Mike’s office, though I’ve had reason to be at the station from time to time. Occasionally a Brockton cop will ticket the hearse when I’m picking up a body. Narrow side streets and winter parking bans cannot justify a body languishing in a loved one’s home. The police chief assured Linus years ago that he could simply ignore the tickets; “Just bring them in,” he said. Neither Linus nor I has ever abused that courtesy.

  Mike opens another door and we turn a corner into a large room with several rows of desks facing three enclosed offices. Nearly all of the desks are filled. Men with suit jackets draped over the backs of their chairs focus their attention on the computer screens before them or into a phone. I recognize a few from pickups of unattended deaths. There’s only one woman whom I’ve never met. She’s petite with natural blond hair and a stylish beige pantsuit. She appears to be in her early thirties but could easily pass for younger. As we walk past, she smiles as she speaks on the phone, a large framed photograph of two young girls with the same blond waves and toothy smile before her. I suppose this woman was both homecoming queen and class president in high school.

  This room has the same air of dinginess as the foyer, only more so. The ceiling is yellowed drop panels, soiled from years of cigarette smoke and water damage. There are several missing altogether, exposing free wires and once-white pipes encased within brown film. It’s easy to imagine the colony of mice that must make the walls and rafters their home. Bulletin boards encircle the room, all overflowing with notices and mug shots. I scan the one nearest me, an Interpol warning of a gun disguised as a cell phone.

  Mike walks over to one of the desks and lifts the phone’s handset. He presses a button and says something unintelligible to the person on the other end. He nearly looks at me, one hand worrying along his waistband, and then turns his back. I assume this is his desk, though there are no obvious mementos laying claim to it. I position myself to see if I missed photos of his wife but discover only crumpled napkins and a chipped blue coffee mug, half filled, with a swirl of cream thickening in the center. Then I spot it behind a dead ivy. It’s in a wooden frame, a color photo of the two of them taken at a beach, their faces tanned and pressed close together. They look like a couple.

  Since he hasn’t offered me a seat, I continue scanning the room. Behind me is an interrogation suite. Through one door is a narrow room with a window and adjacent to it is a larger room with a mirror and a long table. On one side of the table, the side opposite the two-way mirror, is a single straight-backed chair, and across from it are two more. I’m surprised to see the room looks just the way they do in movies. I suppose I expected more subtlety.

  “Can I get you a cup of coffee before we start?” Mike asks, flipping through a stack of papers on his desk while gesturing to a near-empty pot.

  “No, thank you.”

  “Here they come.” Mike lifts his head and looks past me, straightening.

  Two men walk into the room, both wearing suits. They have the familiar grittiness and confident gait of cops. When they approach, Mike greets each with a handshake, and together they form a circle with their backs to me, leaving me to stand mere inches and yet miles away. After several minutes of familiar chitchat, Mike turns.

  “Clara, this is Will Peña—he’s with the Plymouth County district attorney’s office—and this is Detective Frank Ball with the Whitman police. They’re assigned to Trecie’s case.”

  I nod. I learned long ago people weren’t eager to shake my hand. It’s no different today; the two men remain motionless. Will Peña is shorter than Mike, thick and hard with a clipped, no-nonsense haircut. Frank Ball is tall and wiry, the kind of thin that displays a bobbing Adam’s apple. Both have the same cagey eyes.

  I expect to sit in one of the interrogation rooms, but instead Mike pulls chairs from adjacent empty desks and sets them around his own. He removes the lid from a cardboard box; I assume it’s the same one he brought to my cottage that day. He takes out the still from the video and the copy of the head shot. There’s another box beside this one, the words Precious Doe scribbled in black marker on the sides and top. I wonder if it’s Mike’s handwriting.

  “Clara,” says Peña from the DA’s office, “Mike has relayed all of your conversations, but why don’t you tell us everything you know in your own words.”

  “Where should I start?”

  “From the first day you met the girl,” says the Whitman detective, Ball. As I start to speak, the woman detective hangs up the phone and crosses the room to us. She sits on Mike’s desk, her legs dangling over the side. It seems a familiar pose to her, a comfortable slouch. I wonder if this is something she does whenever she and Mike work a case or simply talk over a cup of coffee. I notice she’s wearing elegant suede heels, and it strikes me she doesn’t leave this room often. They’re not the type of shoes I’d expect a police officer to wear while giving chase. She has an ease about her, a sense of effortless authority among these men. I glance at Mike, but he seems not to have noticed the woman lounging on his desk.

  At different points I’m interrupted by one of the men asking me to elaborate on a particular point, though each time I’m unable to. While I try to recall the exact version I told Mike, I’m careful not to focus too much on the way their hands race to copy my words across their yellow legal pads. I notice that neither Mike nor the woman is taking notes. I can’t decide which is more unnerving. When I finish, the men turn to the woman, who finally speaks.

  “Clara, I’m Lieutenant Kate McCarthy. I’m head of the sex crimes unit here.” She leans toward me and I find myself pushing back against my chair. “Did Trecie ever mention school, where she goes, what grade she’s in?”

  “As I said, she told me she didn’t go to school. She appears to be about eight, but I can’t be sure. I don’t know a lot of children—”

  Detective Peña interrupts: “Should we still take Clara around the area schools to look for the kid at recess?”

  Kate shakes her head and turns her attention back to me. Smiling, she says, “Can you describe what she looks like?”

  “She’s in the video. Mike showed me one of them.”

  Kate looks from Mike to me. “I know”—that smile again—“but in your own words.”

  I don’t understand where Kate is going, but I’m overcome by that familiar sense of otherness: them and me. “She has long dark hair, wavy. She’s quite thin, small for her age. She acts older than she looks. Her
eyes are brown, I think. It’s hard to say. I don’t know. Her skin’s a bit sallow.”

  “Sounds a lot like you,” says Kate, peering into me, and it’s as if all sound is sucked free of this room. And then, “That hair sample Mike found at your house, it looked like it was yanked out. Ever notice any bald spots on Trecie’s head?”

  They know enough about her life, they have the videos. I can’t betray her, reveal any more of her shame. Her secret’s safe with me. “No.”

  “What about her eyelashes?”

  Before I can answer, Detective Peña interrupts. “What are you getting at?”

  Kate continues to watch me as she answers. “The psych said there’s some kind of anxiety disorder where girls who’ve been abused pull out their hair or eyelashes.”

  “Trichotillomania.” I hadn’t meant to speak.

  Kate’s next words come slowly. I dare not look toward Mike. “Yeah, that’s right. Twirling their hair hypnotizes them or something, and then they just yank. They don’t even know they’re doing it. Some eventually go bald, others try to hide it under a hat.” She cocks her head, looks me over. “Or a ponytail. How is it you heard of it, Clara?”

  “I’ve seen it from time to time. I see a lot in my line of work.” I sense them all regarding me.

  Kate finally breaks the silence. “When she came around, was it always the same time of day?”

  “Once in the afternoon and twice at nightfall,” I say, mindful that I must hold fast to the seat of my chair.

  “When she was there, do you recall hearing any car doors slam, seeing any strange cars in the parking lot? A bike maybe?”

  “No.” I look to Mike, but he’s weaving a pen between his fingers, his focus steady on his mug of congealed coffee. “Last night, the only cars in the lot were the hearses. Linus and Alma were out with the Buick. I didn’t notice a bike, but we didn’t go around to the front at all.”

  “Hey, Frank,” Kate says, turning to the Whitman detective, “how many apartment buildings are within walking distance of the funeral home?”

  “Depends on what you mean by walking distance,” says Frank. “Maybe six within a mile up and down Washington Street, more like eight if she cuts through the cemetery. But what little kid is gonna walk alone through a cemetery, especially at night?”

  Kate raises an eyebrow and uncrosses her legs. “The kind of kid who hangs out in a funeral home.”

  “I think we should do stakeouts where Precious Doe’s body was found and at her grave,” says Mike, his eyes boring into mine. I will my face not to burn. “See if anyone is acting suspicious around there.”

  Mike remains silent while they discuss the danger to Trecie if they were to canvass local apartment buildings and convenience stores with her picture. I only half listen as Kate makes the case against it, citing the same reasons Mike gave last night. Instead, I turn away so Mike is no longer in my line of vision. When I do, I spot Ryan across the way dropping a file onto one of the empty desks.

  He sees me staring and waves. Before I can pretend not to have noticed, he’s walking toward us, smiling broadly.

  “Hey, what’s going on?” Ryan’s voice is too loud for this room, for this conversation.

  Mike only nods, but Kate turns to greet him. “Hey, Ryan.”

  He walks over to the coffee machine, just feet away from us, and grabs a foam cup. “Did you haul Clara in here because of all her parking tickets?” He shakes powdered cream into his cup, his savaged cuticles a raw contrast to the neat blue canister. Then his tone becomes serious, almost kind. “Is this about that little girl?”

  “Looks like that case Mike called you to last night is related to Precious Doe,” says Kate, getting to her feet.

  Ryan rips open four packets of sugar at once, making low tsking sounds as he taps them into his cup. He takes a used plastic spoon from the coffee cart to stir, the sockets of his jaw bulging. “No shit. How’d you figure that out?”

  “Our anonymous caller,” Mike says, breaking his silence. “Reverend Greene called me last night while I was at Linus’s place.”

  “Can we put a tap on his phone?” asks Peña. “I’m sure the DA himself would put it before a judge.”

  Mike shakes his head. “I asked Reverend Greene and he said no. I don’t want to wait a year for a court order, so I already put in a request to subpoena all of his incoming and outgoing calls since Precious Doe’s death. We should have that in a couple of weeks. Maybe sooner.”

  Peña cocks his head. “How do we know our Reverend Greene didn’t make up this anonymous caller? Could be he’s trying to cover up the crime himself. Has anyone done a background check?”

  “Sure, Reverend Greene’s a stand-up guy,” says Ball, holding on to his lapels as he shakes his head. “He’s worked with my guys at the Whitman PD for years on community outreach, especially at-risk kids, so we’re required to do a CORI background check every year. Hell, I been in this business long enough to never be shocked, but if he has anything nefarious to do with this case, I’d be surprised.”

  “But the details our anonymous caller is providing are details only the killer would know,” says Mike. “So why won’t Reverend Greene let us put a bug on his phone?”

  “It’s always the ones you least expect,” says Ryan, nodding his head knowingly. He’s rolling back and forth on his heels, his left hand snapping and then unsnapping the belt that loops through his holstered gun. I’d forgotten he was standing there. He seems somehow out of place, a uniform among the suits.

  “Trecie had a sister, right?” Kate’s looking to me, and I’m reminded that I’m a part of this conversation too.

  “Yes.”

  “She said her name was Adalia? Did she say if she was younger, older?”

  “Younger, I think,” I say.

  Kate turns back to the men. “All right, I’ll call the state, child protection, see if they have any cases in the area with two sisters, names Trecie and Adalia.

  “Peña, can you check the state police crime-lab files? Tell them we’ll be dropping off that hair sample just in case. See what physical similarities, if any, there are between Precious Doe and Trecie. If our perp has a certain type he goes after, see if there are any matches with our local level-three offenders. Now might be a good time to touch base again with the FBI agent assigned to Doe’s case. He might be able to hook us up with a profiler.

  “Frank, you know Reverend Greene, but my gut tells me he’s hiding something. It’s time to take a closer look at him. You know how to do that without letting on.”

  Kate pauses to take a breath. She squares her shoulders and looks at Mike. “And Mike, you stick to Clara like glue—she’s our only contact with Trecie. Sleep at the funeral home if you have to, or her house. I don’t care. We can’t let what happened to Doe happen to Trecie.”

  I can feel my cheeks burn even as ice flows through me. Mike’s face flushes as well and still there’s more: an overwhelming air of dread about him.

  “Look, people,” Kate says, placing her hands on her hips, her jacket pulled back. Though I shouldn’t be surprised, I start when I see a gun there. “I don’t care what laws we have to bend, break, or flip upside down, I want to find this little girl and the man responsible for these tapes.” She places a hand on the box as she speaks. “Whatever it takes.”

  As everyone starts to stand, I will strength into my legs. I wobble, clutching the back of my chair for encouragement, but no one appears to notice. Steady now, I reach in my pocket for my keys, eager to leave this room, but Ryan pulls us back.

  “Lieutenant? I want in.”

  Kate pauses and then smiles at Ryan the way I imagine she would to indulge her young children. “Why don’t you distribute Trecie’s photo to all the patrols in Brockton and Whitman?”

  “No,” says Ryan. He crumples his cup, sloshing coffee down his thigh as he does, then whips it into the nearest trash can. “Some rat bastard is hurting little girls and I want to help catch the son of a bitch.” He turns to Mik
e, his tone changing as he speaks; it’s high and pleading. I can’t help but look away. “Come on, Mikey, I been gone a long time. I want to get back in the swing of things. Let me in.”

  Mike runs a hand through his hair. He looks as worn as he did last night, after he left me. Worse. “Yeah, sure. Another set of eyes and ears won’t hurt. You can help stake out the funeral home.”

  Ryan nods, settling back into himself. The nearness of these people begins to press against me. I find myself fading into the wall, hiding there. I could melt into the paint and filth and nicotine that have accumulated over the years. Together we could be a mishmash of gray, of nothingness. At night, when shadows fill this room, I could watch the mice scurry at will, scrambling for crumbs and other bits of waste along the floor. I would be privy to the secrets that pass across these desks, among these people. I could observe Mike, his every sigh, each blink, the way he gestures while talking on the phone. And when he passed my spot, here inside the wall, I could reach out an invisible hand, allow my fingertips to brush his sleeve, and he wouldn’t notice, safe, knowing he would never again have to suffer the indignity of my touch.

  Instead, Ryan sees me, looks at me, and rests a tattered, gnawed hand on my shoulder. “Looks like you and me are going to be spending a lot of time together.”

  I don’t respond. My words would only extend an already awkward moment. I want only for Ryan’s hand to be gone from my body. And for Mike to realize not all lies are born of deceit.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  It’s been two weeks since I sat at Mike’s desk. Four days since he decided Trecie wasn’t coming back and that his time at the funeral home was done. The first five, he wandered around the mourning rooms, avoiding eye contact and conversation. He never ventured downstairs where I laid out the dead. The next four days and well into each night, he stayed in his car. Every hour or so, I’d hear him turn the ignition. I’d listen while the engine ran, precisely fifteen minutes each time, and then the silence would return. I expect the cold was getting to him.