A Long Way Down

by Randall Silvis

  DeMarco, she knew, was of the sympathetic type. When younger, he had also needed the discipline of the profession. But even that wasn’t enough, after his son’s death, to keep him from climbing into the bottle every night. She liked to think that her love was instrumental in keeping him out of the bottle.

  She had never really studied her own influences and motivations as closely as she had DeMarco’s. But that surprising and nearly overwhelming empathy for Amber threw it all into bright light. Amber, she realized, was Penny, just as Penny had been Jayme.

  Penny Unger. Even her last name was homely. They had been in eighth grade together, sat side by side in social studies. Penny was as short, dark, and chubby as Jayme was tall, fair, and stick-thin. Neither had a boyfriend. Neither got asked to the school dances. Neither ever won a lead role in a school play.

  In eighth grade, the play was Inherit the Wind. Both Jayme and Penny tried out for the role of Rachel Brown, but of course it went to a prettier girl. Jayme did get a nonspeaking role in scene 1, which, in their middle-school version, opened with a classroom of twelve students. When Penny failed to find her name on the call list, she erupted in convulsive sobs and hurried away to hide in the restroom. All day long Jayme had ached with sympathy and an incessant throb of the injustice of the situation. Both she and Penny were top students. Both had pleasant, clear voices. Both had already memorized all of Rachel Brown’s lines. But Penny was overweight, and Jayme towered over Billy George, who, as everyone expected, was given the role of Rachel’s fiancé, Bertram Cates.

  Near the end of the day, in study hall, Jayme asked Mrs. Fazio if she could give her role to Penny. “I’m too fidgety,” Jayme explained. “She’s better at sitting still and being quiet.” And when, six weeks later, on opening night, Jayme saw Penny sitting straight and happy and inconspicuous on the stage, all of her regret disappeared.

  In a peculiar, elliptical way, that was why Jayme had gone into law enforcement. Because life isn’t fair. Because the meek do not inherit the earth—not unless the non-meek lend them a hand. You wouldn’t get any applause for that, seldom any thanks at all. But what a beautiful way to get revenge.

  Thirty-Five

  Commissioner Lewis’s complexion struck DeMarco as no less gray than the front of the Boardman Street building that housed his office. The man, at five six and maybe a hundred and forty pounds, seemed swallowed up by his office and the wide windows at his back. But DeMarco knew the look: it was grief that had swallowed him—the awful weight of grief that kept him in his seat as DeMarco came forward to shake his hand, and that made every movement slow and ponderous. Even his speech seemed laborious.

  “I’m so sorry for your loss, sir,” DeMarco said when he took the man’s hand.

  Lewis nodded, then slipped his hand free and gestured toward the matching leather chairs facing his desk. As DeMarco took a seat, Lewis told him, “Call me Buddy, please. Everybody does.”

  “All right,” DeMarco said.

  “Sheriff Brinker tells me you’re a Youngstown boy. When did we lose you to Pennsylvania?”

  “When I came out of the army. Twenty-two years old. Both parents were gone, so…”

  “And now we have you back again.”

  “For a while anyway,” DeMarco said.

  On the far corner of the desk was a framed photograph of Lewis with his family: Lewis and his Vietnamese wife seated on straight-backed chairs, holding hands over the armrests, while Samantha stood behind her father’s right shoulder, and her twin brother, Griffin, stood behind his mother’s left shoulder. All four individuals were dressed in black slacks and white shirts.

  DeMarco nodded toward the photo. “How old were your children in that picture?”

  “Fourteen,” Lewis said. “That was taken only eight months before Linny died. Not long after we found out about the cancer.”

  “I’m sure that was very hard on all of you.”

  “On everyone but her,” Lewis said. “She was so serene about it. Her name, Linh, L-I-N-H, it means spiritual woman. And she certainly was that.”

  “How did the two of you meet?”

  “I did some traveling when I was young,” Lewis said. “And I just fell in love with the country. The people. I’m tall over there.” He looked away from the photo finally and smiled at DeMarco.

  DeMarco returned the smile. Waited for a moment. Then said, “I know that you and Griffin have already met with Detectives Fascetti and Olcott, sir, and I’ve read transcripts of those interviews. But my partner and I are moving in a slightly different direction with our investigation.”

  “How so?” Lewis asked.

  DeMarco considered how much to say. He certainly did not want to use the words dismemberment or decapitation. “We’re just throwing a wider net, is all. And we’re hoping that maybe you’ve thought of something new since you spoke with the detectives. Someone new Samantha might have met. Some new place she might have started going. A new club or hangout, anything like that?”

  “Both she and Grif have always been homebodies,” Lewis said. “Except for their classes and activities, they didn’t socialize much. Especially since their mother passed.”

  “Neither had part-time jobs?”

  “No. I discouraged that. Maybe it was wrong of me, I don’t know. But we kept to ourselves, for the most part. I always made sure that they had everything they needed right there at home.”

  DeMarco noticed Lewis’s use of past tense. “Does all that still hold true for Griffin?”

  “I, uh…I guess. Yes.”

  “You’re not sure?”

  “It’s hard for me back there now. Just being there. Most nights I sleep right here.”

  “Your son is okay with that?”

  “He’s like me. We pull into ourselves when we’re hurt. I mean, I check on him, you know? I call, leave a voice message, and he replies, usually by text. It’s still a painful, painful time for us.”

  “I’m sure it is,” DeMarco said. Again he waited, as if a few moments of time could soften the intrusion of his questions. “So Griffin still lives at home?”

  “Of course,” Lewis said.

  “Do you have any live-in help?”

  “The gardener and the maid each come once a week.”

  “And as far as you know, how is your son spending his time? Did he take any classes this summer?”

  Lewis shook his head no. “I know he drives around a lot. He likes to take Sammy’s car. I know he lies on her bed sometimes and listens to her music. I can’t imagine what it must be like to lose half of yourself. I mean I can in a way. I’ve lost more than half of myself. But there’s a special bond between twins, you know? Even fraternal twins. They were always so close. And he’s a sensitive boy. I wish to God I could help him somehow, but I’m so mired down myself. So deep in my own damn misery…” Lewis lowered his head, put his hands over his eyes. His body tightened as he fought to suppress the sobs.

  DeMarco knew he wasn’t going to learn anything here. The man’s grief blanketed his every thought. His kind of grief, DeMarco knew, was like a thick blanket of black snow; it smothered everything except the pain.

  Soon Lewis looked up again and wiped the tears from his eyes. “I’m sorry,” he said. “It just overwhelms me sometimes.”

  “Don’t apologize,” DeMarco told him. “I apologize for being here. I know what an intrusion it must seem.”

  Lewis waved a hand through the air, shook his head no. Sniffed, then cleared his throat. “Is there anything else I can help you with?”

  “I hate to even ask, but it would be very helpful if my partner or I could have a look around your daughter’s room.”

  Lewis winced. “The detectives already did that.”

  “I understand. We’d like to take another look.”

  “How would that be helpful?”

  “It would give us a better se
nse of exactly who she was. And with luck, we might learn something that will point us in the right direction.”

  “What kind of something?”

  “Sir, I can’t say exactly. Information about her plans for that night. Maybe some new connection that nobody knows about yet.”

  “You’re suggesting that this wasn’t a random thing. That she was killed by somebody she knew?”

  “I don’t mean to suggest anything, sir, other than possibilities. As it stands, the entire department is up against a brick wall. Sometimes what seems the least significant fact can turn everything around.”

  Lewis seemed to shrink even further into his seat. He leaned toward the edge of the desk. “Do you want to do it now?”

  “Is that possible?”

  “I can call Grif and see if he’s there. He could let you in.”

  “I would appreciate that.”

  “I’ve never allowed her room to be touched. Not even by our housekeeper.”

  “I promise you that nothing will be disturbed.”

  Lewis was looking at the surface of his desk now, unable to lift his gaze. He nodded. Said, “Do you have a number where I can contact you?”

  DeMarco stood. Took a business card from his pocket. Laid it near the center of the desk.

  Lewis put a fingertip to the card and slid it toward himself. Sat motionless for a few moments. Then cocked his head and lifted his gaze to DeMarco. “I appreciate your efforts,” he said.

  DeMarco knew there was nothing he could say to ease the man’s burden. Time would not ease it, nor would arresting his daughter’s murderer. Eventually he might learn to shift the burden from shoulder to shoulder, but he would carry it forever.

  Thirty-Six

  The text came before DeMarco reached his car. Grif will meet you there at 12:30, followed by the address. Immediately DeMarco phoned Jayme. After her hello, he said, “What are you doing right now?”

  “Sitting in the car looking at the clouds. Plus taking a few notes. Kaitlin was a no-show.”

  “You live such a glamorous life,” he said. “No info on Mahood?”

  “Whereabouts unknown. But get this. She knew Samantha Lewis. It appears that both of them were Gillespie’s students.”

  “That’s the most interesting thing I’ve heard all week.”

  “Thanks a lot, cowboy.”

  “Of a non-amorous nature.”

  “Good save,” she said. “So what’s up with you?”

  “Can you meet me in Canfield by…” He glanced at the time. “High noon?”

  “Name the place.”

  “Thano’s Restaurant on Tippecanoe Road. We’ll leave your car there and proceed to the Lewis residence together. I’ll have an iced mocha latte waiting with your name on it.”

  “And I get souvlaki after?”

  “Anything your heart desires.”

  “You silver-tongued devil,” she said.

  Thirty-Seven

  The five-bedroom, six-thousand-square-foot house on Paddington Rowe elicited a small gasp of envy from Jayme. “I think I’m going to run for county commissioner,” she said.

  “Old money,” DeMarco told her. “Grant Lewis I was a ruthless coal baron. Which might be why his grandson likes to be called Buddy. And why there’s no Grant Lewis IV.”

  “I’d let you call me Buddy for a house like that.”

  The white-brick building sat on just over two immaculately manicured acres, with low hedges in the front and miniature fruit trees in the rear. One-story wings with gable roofs on both sides of a massive two-story, flat-roofed box, with a three-story chimney at the end of each wing, gave the place a fortresslike air that was further enhanced by the lattice windows.

  DeMarco parked on the circular drive just shy of the front door. As they walked to the door, Jayme whispered, “How much do you think this house would sell for?”

  “On Paddington Rowe? Half a million or so. In southern California, ten mil easy.”

  “I’ll try not to slobber on anything,” she said.

  The doorbell echoed through the house like the midday chimes of Big Ben. Half a minute later the heavy door swung open to Griffin Lewis’s scowl of annoyance.

  Barefoot in baggy tan chinos and a gray-and-orange Under Armour tee, the long sleeves pushed up to his elbows, Samantha’s twin brother stood at a muscular five five, his thick black hair casually mussed, clipped short on the sides and much longer on top. His mother’s Vietnamese heritage was readily apparent in his dark skin tone and, behind the black-framed glasses, the full, slightly almond-shaped eyes, but the crook of disdain on his mouth was his very own, neither the warm smile DeMarco had seen in photos of his sister and mother nor the sorrowful frown of his American father.

  “I need to see your IDs,” Griffin said in greeting.

  Jayme and DeMarco showed him their credentials. “So you’re not really cops,” he said.

  DeMarco told him, “We’re working with the county police. But your father already told you that, right?”

  “You realize I have no obligation to let you inside.”

  DeMarco smiled. “The only reason you wouldn’t is if you aren’t interested in finding out who murdered your sister.”

  The young man’s expression did not change. DeMarco suspected that Griffin was high, though he could detect no lingering scent of cannabis, and the lenses in his glasses lent a small magnification to his eyes. After ten seconds, the young man turned away and crossed the foyer toward the staircase. He walked with a loose, arm-swinging stride, which struck DeMarco as a fairly good pantomime of nonchalance. The soles of his feet made soft squeaks on the marble tile, but otherwise the house seemed eerily silent, even hollow, despite the array of fine furnishings visible on all sides. The walls and most of the furniture were white—not eggshell white or vanilla white, but as white and starched as a pleated tuxedo shirt.

  “If you could point my partner to your sister’s room,” DeMarco said, “maybe you and I could have a brief talk here in the living room.”

  “I thought you just needed to see Sammie’s room.”

  “And talk to you,” DeMarco said.

  “I already talked to the police. Didn’t they write up a report you could read?”

  “Up these stairs?” Jayme asked.

  “We read the report,” DeMarco said.

  “I’ll just go up and find it myself,” Jayme said. “It shouldn’t be hard to locate.”

  “Wait a minute,” Griffin said, and threw an arm in front of her.

  “Do not touch me,” Jayme told him.

  “I need to go up there with you.”

  DeMarco said, “You need to let us do our work. Let’s you and me sit down and have a little talk.”

  “My father wants me to make sure you don’t disturb anything in her room.”

  “We’re adults,” Jayme said with a smile. She pulled a pair of thin white cotton gloves from her back pocket and slipped them on. Then started up the stairs.

  Griffin moved to follow her. “I should be up there with you.”

  “Why?” DeMarco asked. “Is there something you don’t want us to see?”

  “That’s my sister’s fucking room!”

  DeMarco stepped in front of him. “Griffin, listen,” he said. “You do care. That’s nice to see. And I understand. But give us a little credit here. We respect what that room means to you and your father. Nothing will be disturbed. So come on, let’s have a seat. We’ll be out of here in fifteen minutes.”

  Griffin stood in place, watching Jayme go up the stairs. She paused in front of the first door on her left, and reached for the knob.

  “Two doors down on your right,” Griffin told her. “The door’s open.”

  She released the knob, but not before giving it a twist and finding the door locked. Then she continued down the hall and enter
ed Samantha’s room.

  DeMarco took a seat in the white wing chair directly facing the staircase and with a view to the upper floor. “Relax,” he said, and motioned to the snow-white sofa directly across from him.

  Reluctantly, Griffin sat in the corner of the sofa. Only by turning at the waist could he watch the second floor. He ran a hand over the back of his neck, over his cheek, then over his neck again.

  DeMarco took out his notebook and pen. “Eyes over here,” DeMarco told him, and waggled a finger at his own face. “I need your attention now, Griffin. The sooner you answer my questions, the sooner we’re gone.”

  The boy seemed to have lost his nonchalance. The twist of disdain on his mouth was beginning to resemble a snarl.

  “First of all,” DeMarco told him, “try to chill, okay? I know you feel like this is a violation of some kind—”

  “You’re damn right it is. We don’t want her room touched. Ever. The same with my mother’s room. You have no idea what that means to us.”

  “I’ve lost people too,” DeMarco told him. “Mother. Father. Son. Friends. So yes, I do understand.”

  The boy said nothing. He took another look at the second-floor hallway. Then brought his eyes back to DeMarco for a moment, long enough for DeMarco to see the glimmer of tears. Then Griffin turned his gaze to the windows to his right.

  “What we’re looking for,” DeMarco said, speaking more softly now, “is anything new that might have occurred to you since you spoke with the detectives.”

  “Like what?” Griffin asked.

  “Any of your sister’s acquaintances you didn’t mention before? Anybody who might have wished her harm?”

  “Everybody loved her.”

  “From the looks of her Facebook page, she didn’t have many friends.”