by Denise Gwen
“Come to the table, Kathryn,” Mom said.
Kathryn walked to the dining table, her gaze fixed on the screen.
“Oh, for Pete’s sake,” Mom said. “Is it that important?”
“Yes, Mom, I’m afraid it is.”
“All right, then. Let’s eat on the sofa.”
“Thanks, Mom.” She hurried to the dining table, took the lid off the tureen and ladled herself some soup, grabbed a spoon off her placemat and walked back over to the sofa and sat down. Mom walked back into the kitchen.
The commercial ended. “Good evening, this is Channel Five News, I’m Hilary Flores, and this is tonight’s top story.”
A live feed appeared on the screen. A scrum of reporters stood on the front steps of the Rowan County Courthouse as the cameramen angled for a good shot. The reporters pointed their microphones up to the tall, lanky man who stood at the podium. His iron gray hair shone in the sunlight; he looked out at the crowd, then down at his notes.
“Ah, good evening,” Stick McGlone said, and pushed his bifocals up the bridge of his nose. “I left the grand jury room a few moments ago, and I’m pleased to report that they’ve returned an indictment against former Rowan County Sheriff Randy Randalls.”
“Sheriff Randalls?” Mom asked. She set her bowl of soup onto the coffee table and sat down beside Kathryn.
“I’m afraid so, Mom.”
“What on earth?”
“I’ve been working with a select, secret taskforce over the past several months. We’ve conducted an independent investigation into the death of Sherri Randalls, who was the wife of former Rowan County Sheriff Randy Randalls. The Rowan County Coroner previously ruled Mrs. Randalls’s death as a suicide. Many people in the community expressed suspicion, and the Rowan County Prosecuting Attorney contacted me to ask if I would assist in performing an independent investigation.”
“Stick, what did—” a reporter asked, but Stick pressed on.
“A previously unknown witness stepped forward with evidence that finally made it possible for us to make progress in this case.”
“Who was the witness?” Mom asked, her gaze fixed on the screen.
“A little girl that I interviewed,” Kathryn said unhappily.
“A little girl?” Mom turned to look at Kathryn with surprise. “Then why didn’t you—”
“Break the case?”
“Yes, honey?”
Waves of humiliation washed over her, and she sank down into the plush sofa.
“Kathryn?”
“Mom, it’s a long story.”
“Okay, honey.” Mom patted her left arm. “It’s okay.”
“No, it really isn’t, but what can I do?”
“I’m going to show you some photographs that the witness gave us,” Stick said, “and which we presented to the grand jury. Now, before I show you these photos, I’m going to warn you that these images are disturbing, and you may want to have any small children leave the room, or turn off the television completely, because, as I said, these images are graphic. Here’s the first photo.”
A woman faced the camera. She did not smile. She stared into the lens, letting the viewer see her misery. Gruesome, purple bruises lined her neck, scratches raked her sunken cheeks, and a haunted, condemned look filled the woman’s eyes.
Kathryn had already seen the photo, months earlier, and yet it was so awful, so visceral, she inhaled sharply at the sight of it.
“Oh, my dear Lord,” Mom whispered.
“These photos were taken of Miranda Randalls one day before she died,” Stick said.
“Sheriff Randalls beat his wife?” Mom asked in horror.
“Yes, he did.”
“As of this moment,” Stick McGlone continued, “Sheriff Randy Randalls, who resigned as Sheriff, is locked up in the Rowan County Jail, awaiting arraignment on pending felony domestic violence charges.”
“Domestic violence?” Kathryn said aloud. “Not murder?”
A second image flashed across the screen, one of Randy Randalls, taken at his booking. He gazed into the camera, his eyes flat and emotionless.
“Oh, you freaking asshole,” Kathryn muttered.
“Honey, I had no idea,” Mom said.
“I tried, Mom, I really tried,” Kathryn said helplessly, “but nobody listened to me, or took me seriously, and I just—”
“It’s okay,” Mom said soothingly. “It’s okay, honey. You did your best.”
“I failed.”
“But you tried.”
“I should’ve tried harder. Mom, I really tried to push this investigation through, but between Rob Billings putting me down at every turn and undermining me, and the Coroner—”
“It’s all right,” Mom assured her. “Sometimes, people just don’t want to listen.”
“Especially,” Kathryn said bitterly, “when it’s a woman doing the talking.”
“What’s going on here?” Ten-year-old Ginny, Kathryn’s niece, walked downstairs and came up to stand beside the sofa.
“Well hey, there Ginny,” Kathryn said. “I didn’t know you were here.”
“Sweetheart,” Mom said. “You shouldn’t be watching this.”
“It’s okay, Aunt Patty,” Ginny said.
“No, it isn’t,” Mom said firmly, and grabbed the remote. The screen went black.
“Hey,” Ginny said. “Was that Sheriff Randalls?”
“Yes, Ginny,” Kathryn said. “The law’s finally caught up to him.”
“What happened to him?” Ginny asked.
“A special prosecutor got appointed to investigate,” Kathryn said, “and he’s indicted Sheriff Randalls on one count of felony domestic violence.”
“But not murder?” Ginny asked.
Kathryn gazed at her little niece with curiosity.
There’s something in her voice.
“Mom,” Kathryn said, “would you please turn the TV back on?”
“I don’t want my little niece getting upset,” Mom said.
“She’s upset already,” Kathryn said. “But I think she needs to see this.”
“I’ll put it on mute,” Mom said. She held out the remote, turned the television back on, and muted the sound. As Mom did this, Kathryn turned to Ginny. “I wanted Sheriff Randalls to get charged with the murder of his wife,” she said, “but there was never enough evidence to prove he did it.”
“Oh,” Ginny said.
“So,” Kathryn continued, “it looks like the prosecutor decided to go with what he could prove, so he’s got a felony domestic violence charge.”
As Ginny stood there, a worried frown creasing her brow, Kathryn and Mom exchanged glances, and Kathryn leaned forward to study her niece. The girl appeared to be wrestling with some inner conflict.
“Sweetheart,” Mom said. “What’s wrong?”
Instead of answering, Ginny said, “So, are you telling me, this bad man is behind bars and can’t hurt me?”
“Yes, honey,” Kathryn said.
“But isn’t domestic violence less bad than killing someone?” Ginny asked, her voice growing strained.
Kathryn gazed at her niece with rising concern. “That’s true, honey, but it’s better than nothing. If he gets convicted of felony domestic violence, the Judge can sentence him to a maximum of eighteen months in prison.”
But this did not appear to satisfy the little girl. “Why didn’t the bad man get charged with murder?” she asked, naked terror filling her eyes.
“Because,” Kathryn said, “they don’t have enough evidence to charge him with murder, but they do have enough evidence to charge him with domestic violence.”
“What good is that?” Ginny wailed.
“Sweetheart,” Mom said. “What’s going on?”
Mom patted the sofa seat beside her, indicating for Ginny to sit down, but the girl remained rooted to the spot.
“Ginny,” Kathryn said, “sometimes people who do bad things don’t get caught. And the prosecutor tried as hard as he could to nail
him with something, but while he’s sitting in jail, maybe they can build up a case for the murder charge.”
“But what if they never catch him for the murder?” Ginny asked.
“Ginny,” Kathryn said slowly, “honey, what’s going on?”
“Come over here, sweetheart,” Mom said. “Please come over here and sit down with me.”
At her great aunt’s urging, Ginny walked around the sofa and sat down between Patty and Kathryn. She looked up hopefully into Kathryn’s eyes.
“Aunt Kathy, does this mean the charges against you will get dropped?”
“Not too likely,” Kathryn said with a bemused smile, “but it can’t hurt.”
“What would make the charges go away?” Ginny asked.
“If I found those two missing evidence boxes.”
Ginny pointed at the television screen. The image of Randy’s booking photo, taken down at the Rowan County Jail, appeared on the screen again. “Will that bad man stay in jail for a long, long time?”
“Sweetheart,” Mom said, comforting her great-niece, “why do you keep calling him the bad man?”
Ginny sat there, perched on the sofa cushion, a look of agony on her face.
“Honey?” Mom said gently. “You can tell us anything, you know.”
Ginny looked at Kathryn. “For sure?”
“For sure,” Kathryn said uneasily.
Ginny licked her dry lips, a sure sign, Kathryn knew, the child was nervous and scared.
“Honey,” Kathryn said. “Tell us, please.”
“That bad man,” Ginny said, pointing at Sheriff Randalls’s mug shot, “killed his wife.”
Kathryn studied the little girl. She sat there, coiled and tense.
“Well, honey,” she said, “a lot of people believe that Sheriff Randalls may have killed his wife, but a lot of other people believe she committed suicide.”
“No, Aunt Kathy,” Ginny said. “He killed her, and I told that girl—” she pointed again at the television screen, as gruesome images of Mrs. Randalls’s battered face, taken from different angles, were shown “—that she needed to show her photos.”
“Wait a minute,” Kathryn said. “What girl?”
“On the day when Brittany Delacourt came back to school for the last time to get her things and empty out her locker,” Ginny said, “I walked up to her and told her that I saw her step-father kill her mother, and she told me I’d better keep that news to myself, because nobody cared, and if he found out, he’d kill me too.”
Ginny’s words, shocking, took a moment to fully absorb, and Kathryn stared at her in wonder.
“That’s enough,” Mom said, grabbing the remote, pointing it at the screen, and flicking the television off. “This little girl’s had a nightmare or something—”
“No, I didn’t, Aunt Patty,” Ginny protested. “I saw the bad man do it.”
“Do what, honey?” Kathryn asked.
“That’s what I keep telling you,” Ginny said. “I saw him kill her. I saw the bad man kill his wife.”
4
Monday, April 22, 6:58 a.m.
As Kathryn walked in through the front door of the Rowan County Sheriff’s Office for the first time since her firing, she sighed with relief when she saw Margie Winters perk up at the sight of her. Margie worked behind the bullet-proof window, and a little of Kathryn’s tension dissipated in the face of Margie’s sweet-smiling face. She could always count on Margie being happy to see her.
“Hey, there,” Margie,” Kathryn said. “Look at me, I’m back.”
“What’re you doing, way over there,” Margie said, reaching for the buzzer and activating the release to allow Kathryn to enter the secure area of the Sheriff’s Office. “Get on back here, girlfriend.”
“But I’m not a Deputy Sheriff anymore,” Kathryn said, even as she reached for the door handle.
“Oh, I’m sure you’ll be back on the payroll soon,” Margie said, as Kathryn walked inside and stopped at her desk. “Come here,” she said, standing up, “and let me get a good look at you.”
“You’re acting like you haven’t seen me in years, when it’s only been a month or so,” Kathryn said, stepping forward to embrace her friend and co-worker. Kathryn buried her head in Margie’s shoulder and tears filled her eyes as the scent of Margie’s favorite cologne—White Diamonds, an exceedingly expensive and sultry perfume, a signature fragrance by Elizabeth Taylor, and one that Kathryn never would’ve thought Margie, a down-to-earth type, would’ve liked—assailed her nostrils with its tangy fragrance.
They pulled out of the embrace a little, and Kathryn gazed down into the tear-filled eyes of her friend.
“Wow,” Margie said. “Who’d have thunk, huh?”
“I know, right?” Kathryn brushed the tears from her eyes.
“So, when are you coming back to work?” Margie asked.
“Well,” Kathryn said. “I guess that’s going to depend on a lot of things.”
“You talk to Richard, yet?” Margie asked.
“That’s why I’m here today, to see him,” she said.
“What’s going on with your case?” Margie asked.
“Set for a pretrial next week.”
“You’d think, especially with Randy resigning as Sheriff, that case would’ve gone away by now.”
“Yes,” Kathryn said, stealing a quick glance over her shoulder to make sure nobody else was listening. “You’d think, wouldn’t you? But my charge of obstruction of justice really has nothing to do with—to do with Randy.”
Margie rolled her eyes. “Um, excuse me, young lady, but that’s got everything to do with Randy, and he’s resigned his position because of it.”
“He resigned over a lot of things, Margie, and not just because of the evidence boxes. The evidence boxes were all about me.”
“Um, excuse me,” Margie said, “but you and I both know perfectly well who made those god-damned boxes disappear.”
“Margie,” Kathryn said, “be careful what you say.”
“Oh, phooey. I’m gonna retire soon, and besides all that, the new administration here . . .” her voice trailed off and she looked pensive. “Let’s just put it this way, kid. Everything’s changed around here, and for the better, but I’m still planning on retiring.”
“Well, I’ve gotta admit, it’s good to hear things are doing better around here, but I’m sure going to miss you.”
Richard McCallister, the interim sheriff, poked his head into the community room. “Oh, there you are, Kathryn.”
“Yes, hi, Sheriff,” Kathryn said. “How are you?”
“I’m fine, Kathy. You ready for your interview?”
“I sure am,” Kathryn said, and she hoped her voice didn’t betray her.
“Knock’em dead, kid,” Margie said, and winked.
She felt suddenly apprehensive and unsure as she flashed Margie one last, quick smile, then walked across the control room—a place she used to know as well as her own home—and followed Richard McCallister down the hallway to ask for her old job back.
The past couldn’t be forgotten, but perhaps, just maybe, could it be forgiven?
Eight hours later.
“I brought you a cup of coffee.”
Kathryn looked up and saw Margie Winters, her good friend and co-worker at the Rowan County Sheriff’s Office, inhaled the scent of fresh coffee, and grinned as Margie set a cup of coffee down beside her on the desk blotter. “Thanks, Margie. You’re so sweet to bring me some coffee.”
“No worries, kid,” Margie said. “It’s good to have you back. How’d your first week go?”
“Pretty good,” Kathryn said, then added, fervently, “It’s good to be back.”
She reached for the cup, took a sip of the piping hot coffee, and closed her eyes. “Nobody makes coffee like my good friend Margie.”
“Don’t you know it, kid.” Margie glanced over her shoulder, a pensive look on her face.
“What’s wrong?” Kathryn asked.
“I j
ust wonder what to make of it all,” Margie said.
Kathryn nodded.
She’d gotten her old job back again—yet again, perhaps, for the last time—and she’d just finished putting her things back into the desk the interim sheriff had assigned her. Her old office now belonged to someone new, and she didn’t know when, if ever, she’d get it back, but she pushed these negative thoughts aside as the delightfully acrid odor of the freshly brewed coffee tickled her nostrils.
“Isn’t it my job to bring you a cup of coffee?” Kathryn asked.
“So, I’m a little bit rusty.”
“I sure missed your coffee . . . while I was gone.”
“It’s really good to have you back, kid.”
“I’m glad to be back.” She fell silent a moment. “I sure hope this is the last time.”
“I think it will be,” Margie said.
“What makes you so sure?”
“Nothing,” Margie said, and they laughed.
“I do wonder, though,” Kathryn said.
“About what?”
“About whether we’ll ever find Rob Billings?”
“I don’t know,” Margie said.
“It’s so sad, you know? A married man, with a wife and two little ones.”
“Since when did you care about him?” Margie demanded. “He went out of his way to be mean to you.”
“I know, but still. It’s hard on his family.”
“Well, that’s true.”
“I wonder if he’ll ever be found,” Kathryn said.
Margie glanced around her cautiously. “We’re all starting to assume he’s dead.”
“That’s so sad,” Kathryn said.
“Yes, this is bad. It’s bad, kiddo.” She hesitated, then blurted out, “It’s so bad that, well . . . I know you wanted to run for Sheriff—”
“I’d never get elected,” Kathryn said. “The select committee chose Jerry over all the others. He’s their best shot at winning this November.”
“It’s not just the election,” Margie said. “All this controversy, all the skullduggery and cover-ups, it’s gonna taint anyone who touches it.”
