A Long Way Down

by Randall Silvis

  She said, “What about grades for sex? Can he prove that every one of them really deserved their A?”

  Brinker shrugged. “That’s something for the university to work out.”

  Fascetti said, “Somebody could leak this to the newspapers. Let the public do the lynching.”

  “Nobody is leaking anything,” said Brinker. “I’m going to lay it all on the DA’s desk. After that, it’s up to her.”

  To Jayme, Olcott said, “I’m betting the girl caves. She’s admitted to possession. Charge her. Charge them all. Somebody will open up sooner or later.”

  “She’s nineteen,” Brinker said. “Never been in any kind of trouble. Kids experiment. Every one of you did, and I did too. It’s called growing up. The one I’m concerned about is Connor McBride. We need to catch him in the act. If he’s selling drugs on campus…that’s going to tick me off.”

  DeMarco said, “Jayme and I need to stick with the murder investigation.”

  “Which has come to a screeching halt,” Fascetti said.

  “Unlike your thirty-year investigation,” Jayme said.

  Fascetti sat up straighter and leaned into the table. “Tell me how any of this ties into Brenner and Hufford or the girl. Any of it.”

  “Drugs and sex,” DeMarco answered. “You’ve never seen that combination lead to murder?”

  “All right, all right,” said Brinker. “For now we’re just going to wait and see what the DA has to say. Trust me; if she can make anything stick, she’ll go for it. Meantime, everybody continue to work your own angles. And for God’s sake, bring me something solid.”

  Seventy

  They had been reading in bed for nearly a half hour when Jayme spoke. “Want to hear something weird?” she asked.

  DeMarco lowered the composition book. “How weird?”

  “So I was sort of reflecting a couple of minutes ago, just thinking about Becca and her friends, Lathea and her partners. And it made me feel so, I don’t know, out of the loop all of a sudden. I mean…did you know that everybody is having rampant polyamorous sex these days?”

  “In Portland, Oregon, maybe. Kind of a surprise around here.”

  “Exactly,” she said. “So I was trying to figure out how I felt about it all. Not just morally but, I don’t know, in terms of how it affects society. On one hand, if there was even more of it going on, maybe people wouldn’t be killing each other all the time. On the other hand, maybe it sometimes causes people to kill each other.”

  DeMarco thought for a moment. “I don’t think the problem is sex per se, but human nature. As long as we’re wired to be selfish and petty and jealous and greedy, sex and a thousand other things will lead to violence.”

  She nodded, but said nothing more, only chewed on the corner of her lip.

  He asked, “That’s the something weird you wanted to tell me?”

  “The weird thing,” she said, and smiled, “is that when I went back to reading, still with those questions in my head, I flipped the page and read this. It almost seems as if Thomas were responding directly to my questions.”

  “Read it to me.”

  “It’s fairly long. He starts out with a quote from Walt Whitman: ‘After you have exhausted what there is in business, politics, conviviality, love, and so on—have found that none of these finally satisfy, or permanently wear—what remains?’ And then he answers that question by talking about his work—writing and teaching—and about his children, and being in nature, and making love. Those are the things, he said, that nurture and sustain him on a deeper level.”

  DeMarco said, “I’m not seeing how that applies to your questions.”

  “This paragraph,” she told him, and read:

  Had Whitman raised a child or two, I bet he would have agreed that that activity, along with writing and nature and sex with a beloved partner, all share the same remarkable characteristic: each can be a deeply spiritual activity. Each connects me to something vast and mysterious that exists both outside and inside myself. It may be a bit too New Agey to say that all these activities put me in touch with God, but it is no exaggeration to say that they do make me feel, however obliquely, the presence of something majestic and infinite—something that never fails to reawaken my appreciation for this mortal, ever-waning state of being, and to crave every moment of it within my reach.

  She said, “I could swear he was answering me directly.”

  “That happens with me sometimes too.”

  “It’s spooky!”

  “Although maybe,” DeMarco said, “we hear what we want to hear. Or need to hear. Or both.”

  “Well, what I hear him saying is that anything that makes us feel part of something majestic and infinite is good. And the way I see it, that’s Lathea’s relationship with her partners. But the one with those kids and Gillespie? There’s no godliness in that.”

  “Sounds like a reasonable interpretation.”

  “What makes you feel connected to something majestic and infinite?”

  “You,” he answered.

  “I wasn’t fishing for a compliment.”

  “I’m not giving you one. You make me feel that way. About 87 percent of the time.”

  She chuckled. “And you make me feel that way. About 62 percent of the time. What else?”

  “Doing good work. Remembering my boy. Being in the woods. And reading what my friend has written.”

  “I feel like he’s becoming my friend too.”

  “I’m glad you feel that way. What else?”

  “Working with you. Helping people. Family.”

  “We’re lucky,” he told her. And took her hand. “I’m sorry I said that thing about being lonely with you.”

  “That was a week ago.”

  “Most of the time when I’m with you, I’m not lonely at all.”

  “It’s okay,” she told him. “You get lost inside your head sometimes and don’t want to come out.”

  “I’m getting better, though. Right?”

  She smiled. Laid her head on his shoulder. “There’s been a gradual improvement,” she said, and felt a terrible sadness deep in her chest. Was he really getting better? And would it be soon enough?

  Seventy-One

  Morning brought a return to the sense of urgency DeMarco had been missing. He was in the shower, soaping his chest, then went still for a few seconds. Then he rushed through the rest of the shower, and was still dripping when he reached for the cell phone and called Sheriff Brinker.

  The call went to voicemail. After the beep, he said, “Now that we know about those kids using drugs at Gillespie’s place, and have a reasonable suspicion that Connor is a dealer, what say we get a fistful of warrants and do a full-court press? Somebody is paying for those drugs, and my money is on Gillespie. We search Connor’s place, Griffin’s, Kaitlin’s, Becca’s, and Gillespie’s house and office too. Let’s just go whole hog. I think if we find that missing notebook of Samantha’s, there’s a good chance we might learn something important about who killed her. Somebody took that notebook, Ben. Who had access to it? Grieving brother? Grieving father? Maybe the grief isn’t all that real. Or maybe it is but it’s also mixed up with remorse and guilt? I mean the second option, now that I hear it, it kind of muddies the water in regard to Hufford and Brenner, but I, uh, I don’t know… Ah hell, Ben. At the very least we might learn who Connor is working for or buying from. Let’s just get the freaking warrants, okay?”

  He hung up without saying goodbye, a little embarrassed by his excitement and that he was dripping all over the bathroom rug.

  Seventy-Two

  Four hours later, three teams went out from the justice center to serve the warrants. Jayme, accompanied by two deputies from the sheriff’s office, searched the Lewis house in Canfield. DeMarco and his team shook Connor McBride’s mother out of bed once again. Olcott took a team to Gillespie
’s residence, where the professor was found alone in his kitchen, eating eggs Benedict, and then to Kaitlin’s apartment in town. Becca had not yet moved into her dorm room for the next semester, so was given a pass for the time being.

  Shortly after 1:00 p.m., the team leaders reconvened in a justice center conference room to share the results of their search.

  From Victoria’s bedroom in the McBride apartment, they seized a heroin smoking kit, including a glass pipe containing trace amounts of powder, Victoria’s little black book of her regular customers, less than an ounce of cannabis, and a baggie containing an assortment of uppers and downers, Viagra, mango-flavored edible lubricant, and a tube of penile thickening gel.

  In Connor’s bedroom, they found nothing of consequence. DeMarco stated to Sheriff Brinker, “Obviously, the kid was expecting us. Cleanest college student’s room I’ve ever seen. The place reeked of lemon-scented Pledge. My guess is, our little visit to his place of employment got him worried. We need to find his car. We’re pretty sure it’s a late-model Dodge Charger. Thing is, his mother denies any knowledge of the vehicle, or where he might be. So maybe he borrowed the Charger from somebody for the memorial. But from who? We need to find that out. There can’t be all that many orange Dodge Chargers in the city.”

  No signs of drugs or drug paraphernalia were found in Griffin’s bedroom in the Lewis home, nothing to tie Griffin to Hufford or Brenner, nothing out of the ordinary for a twentysomething spoiled rich kid.

  In Samantha’s bedroom, her comparative religion notebook was found in its proper place on the bookshelf. Jayme said, “Griffin claims no knowledge that the notebook was ever missing from his sister’s room. He appeared genuinely surprised that it was missing, and was now back in its proper place. When asked if he knew the contents of the notebook, he speculated that it would include all notes pertinent to the coursework. A cursory examination of the contents substantiates this. But he also claims ignorance of the fact that numerous pages appear to be missing from the back of the notebook. It’s one of those Mead one-subject spiral notebooks, so it’s not readily apparent from just looking at it that there are pages missing. In comparison with her other notebooks, however, it becomes more obvious. I checked online, and that style of notebook contains seventy pages. There are fifty-six in Samantha’s.”

  Nothing appeared to have been removed from the basement of Gillespie’s residence, but numerous photos were shot. Olcott told his colleagues, “This guy lives alone in a big house, with three extra bedrooms. So why would he need a finished basement with four couches and a nice Persian-type carpet in it? Plus several little lamps and lamp tables. And maybe half a dozen open jars of those fragrance beads used for air fresheners. The beads kind of disappear over time, and these jars were still full. Looked new to me. He said the place gets to smelling musky from time to time, so he has to keep replacing the jars. There’s also a wet bar, and a good supply of red and white wines. Other than that, it looks like a museum showroom—one of those rooms that gets roped off so nobody can actually enter it. Those four plush couches—he called them divans—each one was pushed up against a wall. But indentations in the carpet suggest that the couches were previously arranged in a square facing each other. When I asked him about this, he said he pulls them closer together for study groups when classes are in session. The other thing I noticed was a tiny piece of black poster paper stuck to one of the basement window frames. Upon closer examination, I could feel a sticky residue around all three of the room’s little windows. To me that suggests the windows might have previously been covered up with black poster paper.”

  Sheriff Brinker listened patiently to all this, without commentary or question. Then he said, ticking off each point by unfurling a finger from his left fist and tapping it with his right index finger, “I’ll have somebody from the drug task force bring in Victoria McBride. She’ll either cooperate and enter rehab, or go to jail. Meantime, Sergeant, we’ll track down Connor and that Dodge Charger. I’ll keep you apprised.

  “As for the Lewises…I’ve already fielded one hysterical call from the commissioner. I’m going to assure him, for now, that everything’s cool. Meantime, Jayme, if you could take a long, hard look at that notebook…

  “In regard to Gillespie…I’ll pass this all along to the DA, but I know what she’s going to say. Until we have verifiable evidence of criminal activity…”

  Jayme said, “The man was building his own cult.”

  “So did Jesus,” Brinker said. “Brigham Young. L. Ron Hubbard. Jim Jones. The thing is, if people go along with it willingly…” He shrugged and held out both hands, palms up. “You get Becca or Kaitlin or Griffin to agree to testify that Gillespie forced them to have sex, or supplied them with drugs or alcohol, and we’ll arrest him. Until then…”

  She said, “You are at least going to contact the university, I hope.”

  “They deserve a heads-up. And who knows, maybe we’ll get lucky and there will already be several complaints on Gillespie’s record. I can’t imagine that if he’s been doing this for a while, nobody has ever reported him for it.”

  “He’s careful,” DeMarco said. “Takes his time screening them. Gets them at their youngest legal age. Plays on their daddy issues, their need for approval, their distrust of authority. Probably has them recruiting each other, year after year.”

  Jayme said, “We need to see if we can track down any, what do we call them—alumni? Previous members of his cult. Like, how many people can four couches hold?”

  Brinker nodded. “It’s worth a shot. Thing is, we can’t go around arresting people or even harassing them for having sex. Let’s not try to rewire human nature to suit our own agenda.”

  Jayme stood. Leaned forward with both hands flat on the table. “If Gillespie skates,” she said, “I am not going to be happy.”

  DeMarco stood beside her, and offered the group a smile. “And trust me, gentlemen. You do not want to be in the vicinity when my partner is unhappy.”

  Seventy-Three

  Jayme remained silent and furious as they left the justice center. She and DeMarco stood on the sidewalk outside the door, looking toward but not moving to his vehicle parked at the curb. The sun was bright in their eyes and hot on their faces, glaring off every surface of metal and glass. The traffic rumble seemed thunderous and came from all directions. The air stank of exhaust fumes and hot concrete and stung their nostrils with every breath.

  She turned to look at him, her mouth hard, and saw the grim set of his jaw, the stiffness of his posture. She said, “Maybe we should walk a little bit before getting in the car.”

  He nodded. “Let’s try to stick to the shade.”

  There wasn’t much shade to be had, no matter which way they turned. After ten minutes they found themselves breathless and sweat-slicked, looking across the street to the parking lot fronting a small strip mall. A Planet Fitness. A Chinese buffet. A kombucha bar. A pawn shop with a large sign in the window that read We Buy Gold!

  “I need something cold,” he said. “What exactly is kombucha?”

  “Sweet tea. But it’s fermented.”

  “As long as its liquid and cold.”

  They waited for the light to change, then crossed the street. They were halfway into the parking lot when a vehicle came speeding into the lot and squealed to a stop in a handicap slot. DeMarco turned in time to watch the driver hang a disable driver placard from his rearview mirror, pop open the door, and stride toward the Planet Fitness building. He was taller than DeMarco and half again as broad, all of it muscle. “Hey!” DeMarco called, and started toward the man.

  “Babe!” Jayme said, but he ignored her.

  “Is it in your head?” DeMarco asked as he closed on the man.

  The guy turned. He was dressed in tight black workout shorts and a red tank top, every inch of exposed skin, from ankles to jaw, bulging with tanned muscle. “Is what in my head?” he as
ked.

  DeMarco came to a stop barely two feet from him. “Your handicap. It’s obviously not physical, so I’m guessing it must be in your head.”

  “Chill out, man. What’s it to you where I park?”

  “I don’t know, I just have this thing about selfish, inconsiderate assholes. I’ve never learned to like them much.”

  The guy leaned forward, grinning. “Maybe it’s about time you did.”

  DeMarco reached for his cell phone. “Naw, I think I’d rather take a photo of your license plate and text it to Sheriff Brinker over in the justice center.” He walked away, smiling, toward the rear of the car.

  “All right, all right,” the guy said. “Talk about assholes.” He hurried to the driver’s door, yanked it open and jumped inside. DeMarco moved to the left to allow the vehicle to back out of the spot. He waited until it was parked ten feet away, then strode back to Jayme.

  She said, “Are you starting to come apart on me?”

  “Let’s get that kombucha.”

  She took hold of his arm, made him stop and look at her. “He was half your age and almost twice your size.”

  “Not even close to twice my size.”

  “Stop it,” she said.

  “Tell me what I did wrong. He’s not handicapped. He shouldn’t park there.”

  “You can’t fix the whole world, Ryan. What if he had just hauled off and punched you?”

  He looked into her eyes. Saw her fear. And blinked.

  “Please don’t have a meltdown on me,” she said.

  He blinked again. Breathed in the hot air. Let it out through his mouth. Then told her, “He was bigger up close than I thought.”

  She nodded. Laid a hand against his chest. “Your heart’s racing.” She could see in his eyes that he was feeling embarrassed now and regretted what he had done. She had never known him to be an impulsive man.

  “Let’s get that cold drink,” she said.