The Girl in the Woods

by Patricia MacDonald

  ‘Can I help you?’ he asked.

  Blair looked at the paper in her hand. ‘I’m here to see Detective Henry Dreyer,’ she said.

  The desk sergeant nodded. ‘Do you have an appointment with the Chief?’ he asked pointedly.

  The Chief, Blair thought! He had moved up in the ranks but he was clearly still here. After fifteen years, she was afraid that Detective Dreyer might have retired, or moved on.

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘But I’d appreciate a few minutes of his time.’

  The desk sergeant started to enter the extension and then hesitated. ‘Your name?’

  ‘My name is Blair Butler.’

  ‘And this is about …?’

  ‘This is about … an old case. The murder of Molly Sinclair.’

  The desk sergeant nodded, and repeated that information into the phone. Then he looked back at Blair.

  ‘Chief Dreyer will be right with you,’ he said. ‘Have a seat.’

  There was a line of chairs between the Plexiglass window and a bank of flags. Blair was too anxious to sit. She began to pace. A man came in and approached the desk. Blair rocked on the balls of her sneakered feet. In a few minutes, a door opened and a silver-haired man in a dress uniform adorned with stars and bars came out and looked around the waiting area.

  ‘Ms Butler?’ he said.

  Blair went up to him, introduced herself and shook Chief Dreyer’s hand.

  ‘Thank you for seeing me,’ she said.

  ‘Right this way,’ he said.

  He led her in through a warren of desks to his roomy office and closed the door. He indicated a seat for Blair and sat down behind his desk. The phone was ringing and he picked up the receiver, indicating to Blair that it would only be a minute. She looked around while she waited. The walls of his office boasted many framed photos of the Chief receiving awards and shaking hands with local dignitaries. But there was also a large bulletin board that had row after row of Missing Persons posters, some of which were yellow with age. Many of them were young and female, and Blair felt an overwhelming sadness as she looked at them. Some looked world-weary and some had young, fresh faces, their photos now faded with time. All of their disappearances remained unsolved, unavenged.

  ‘So,’ he said hanging up the phone, ‘I’m intrigued. The desk sergeant said you were here about the Molly Sinclair case.’

  ‘That’s right,’ said Blair. ‘Molly was my best friend. She was visiting me at my house that night, before she started to walk home. I was questioned by a number of officers at the time. You may have been one of them.’

  ‘Oh, you’re Ellis Dietz’s niece.’

  ‘I am,’ said Blair.

  ‘I remember you,’ he said. ‘So what brings you here today?’

  ‘I may have some new information about the case.’

  ‘Really? That case has been closed for quite a while,’ he said.

  ‘Nonetheless,’ said Blair. She told him, briefly, about what Celeste had confessed on her deathbed. ‘So, it seems that my sister could have given Mr Muhammed an alibi, but she didn’t. She failed to do that. According to my sister, he has spent fifteen years in jail for a crime he didn’t commit.’

  The Chief’s expression did not give away his feelings. He remained calm and detached.

  ‘You say your sister was near death when she told you this. I’m not a medical man, but I think she may have been suffering some kind of … hallucinations from her condition when she told you that. Mr Muhammed was convicted of Molly’s murder, based on a preponderance of evidence.’

  Blair tried to mirror his calm demeanor. ‘Look, I understand this is coming out of left field. But my sister was very adamant that she wanted me to try and do something about this … injustice.’

  ‘Let me get this straight.’ Henry Dreyer grimaced and shook his head. ‘Her crisis of conscience only arose after fifteen years?’

  ‘I know it seems strange. But my sister and I lived with my uncle, who is – not to put too fine a point on it – a bit of a racist. She didn’t say anything about being with Yusef Muhammed for fear my uncle would toss us out on the street.’

  ‘Well, I could understand that. But it’s been fifteen years. She had plenty of opportunity since.’

  ‘That’s true,’ said Blair. ‘But my uncle never changed and Celeste never really … got on her feet. She and her son were still living with my uncle until she died.’

  Dreyer shrugged. ‘Well, that’s unfortunate. It seems to me that most people would speak up if they knew something that important.’

  ‘Look, I’m not defending her choices,’ said Blair. ‘I agree with you. She should have spoken up. Long ago. But she was not a … very strong person in some ways. Just before she died though, she decided to tell me her secret. She trusted me to do something about it.’

  ‘This isn’t really evidence, Ms Butler. It’s just hearsay.’

  ‘It was her dying declaration,’ Blair insisted, glad she knew the accurate term, even though it did not apply in this case.

  ‘That’s an awfully broad interpretation,’ he said.

  ‘Don’t you even want to look into it?’ Blair asked. ‘You may have sent an innocent man to prison for life.’

  The Chief leaned forward to speak emphatically. ‘I’m sorry, Miss Butler, but I don’t believe that. Yusef Muhammed is not an innocent man. I remember this case very well. That little girl. Her poor parents. We who worked on this case had children of our own. We were determined to get it right. As it happened, we had an eyewitness. And we found Molly’s cell phone wedged between the seats in Muhammed’s car. We did not make a mistake. We got the right man. I’m sorry, but, some scrap of hearsay evidence after fifteen years …? That wouldn’t even make it to court. It just wouldn’t. This case is closed.’

  Blair’s heart was beating hard in her chest. It was just as the attorney, Brooks Whitman, had predicted. The police were not going to want to hear about anything that contradicted their findings.

  ‘This is exactly what the lawyer said would happen,’ said Blair, angry now and incredulous.

  ‘Which lawyer said that?’ Dreyer demanded.

  ‘Never mind,’ said Blair.

  ‘Ms Butler, I have spent my whole career on this police force. And I admit that I have certain cases that still haunt me, but this is not one of them. I’m sure what your sister told you is upsetting to you, but what you heard may well have been the ravings of a cancer and drug-riddled mind. In any event, it’s not relevant to this case or how it turned out. Now, I need to get back to work. Can you see yourself out?’ he asked.

  ‘If Yusef Muhammed did not kill Molly Sinclair, then someone else did,’ Blair insisted. ‘Don’t you even want to know if there’s a murderer out there who got away with it?’

  ‘If there is, that murderer hasn’t exactly been on a crime spree all these years.’

  ‘Isn’t one murder enough? Whoever killed Molly needs to be punished for it. The man you have in prison for the crime could be innocent.’

  ‘Any murder is one murder too many and Yusef Muhammed is not innocent,’ said Chief Dreyer. ‘Good day, Miss Butler.’

  NINE

  Henry Dreyer was convinced that he was right and he was not interested in revisiting this case. And yet, Blair was certain that what Celeste had told her was the truth. She reviewed what the chief had said as she walked across the parking lot to her car. Just as she was opening the car door, she sensed someone coming up behind her. She glared over her shoulder, as if daring them to approach.

  ‘Well, what do you know,’ said Rebecca Moore equably. ‘We meet again.’

  Blair was feeling surly after her meeting in the police station.

  ‘Surprise,’ she said.

  ‘Sorry,’ said Rebecca, holding up her hands in an exaggerated gesture of surrender. ‘What’s got you in such a mood?’

  ‘Nothing. Never mind. What brings you here?’ Blair asked to make up for her rudeness.

  Rebecca sighed. ‘The police blotter. I hav
e to see if there’s any interesting crime going on here in Small Town, USA, that I can use for the paper. Unfortunately for me, if it weren’t for traffic violations and drug abuse, we’d have no criminals at all around here. I think of my visit here as a pointless weekly penance …’

  Blair nodded and slipped into the car. ‘Well, good luck with that.’

  She watched the reporter as she started to walk away. The crimes in this small town probably did seem awfully pedestrian compared to those in a big city like Los Angeles. Then, suddenly, she had an idea. Maybe there was another way to approach her own problem. A way that might interest Rebecca Moore. She scrambled back out of her car and called out across the parking lot.

  ‘Hey, Rebecca …’

  She stopped and turned around, frowning at her. ‘I’m at a disadvantage here. You know me, but I don’t know you. What’s your name?’

  ‘Blair Butler,’ she said.

  Rebecca frowned. ‘Butler?’

  ‘You might have known my sister, Celeste. She was a few years ahead of me in school.’

  Rebecca shrugged. ‘Nope. Don’t remember her.’

  ‘Well, would you … do you have a few minutes to talk? I have something that I think might interest you.’

  Rebecca immediately turned wary. ‘Look, I don’t know what you’re after. But I don’t want to read your short story, or speak to your ladies group about TV news in the big time. I’m just here to work,’ she said.

  ‘What I’m after?’ Blair said, offended. She realized that Rebecca had not absorbed one word Blair had told her about herself. ‘As I already told you, I don’t even live here. I live in Philly. And I don’t have a ladies group. Here or there. And even if I did, I’m sure no one would be interested in TV news in the so-called big time anyway. What I’m after is for someone in the news media to give a damn about a miscarriage of justice.’

  Rebecca did not reply, but she did not walk away either.

  Blair hesitated for a moment, trying to think how best to express it. ‘I have new information about an old case. A murder. And the police don’t want to know about it.’

  Rebecca frowned and hesitated. Then she began to walk back in the direction of Blair’s car.

  ‘I’m listening,’ she said.

  Blair suggested that they talk over a cup of coffee. There was a diner, which had seen better days, on the corner.

  ‘Let’s go there,’ she said. They took a booth near the back of the place.

  Before the waitress could even ask, Rebecca said, ‘Two coffees’. Then she turned to Blair. ‘So. Spill. What is this murder story you are talking about?’

  Blair took a deep breath. ‘You may actually remember when this happened. Fifteen years ago, Molly Sinclair was murdered and her body was left in the woods. She was twelve.’

  Rebecca frowned and thought for a moment, then she nodded. ‘Oh, sure,’ she said. ‘That was big news around here. Her parents own the …’

  ‘The Apres Ski,’ said Blair. ‘They were the first people I talked to about this new information. They did not want to hear it.’

  ‘Her parents weren’t interested? That seems a little … odd.’

  ‘Well, the information I have could exonerate the man who went to prison for Molly’s murder.’

  Rebecca peered at her as if trying to recall an old song she hadn’t heard in years. ‘Some black guy killed that girl, didn’t he? He’s been in jail for years.’

  ‘Only he didn’t kill her,’ said Blair.

  Rebecca inhaled deeply and shifted around in her seat. Blair saw a veiled look come over her eyes, as if she was suddenly wondering if she was having coffee with a crackpot. ‘Ok,’ she said slowly. ‘And you know this … how?’

  Blair filled her in. Rebecca’s body language continually gave the impression of impatience, so Blair boiled it down into a concise summary. She concluded with Celeste’s deathbed confession.

  Rebecca looked at her narrowly. ‘So Celeste was your sister?’ she said.

  ‘I told you that,’ said Blair.

  ‘Right,’ she said. ‘She and I went to high school together. So you told the police about her confession?’

  Blair nodded. ‘They weren’t interested.’

  ‘Well, they wouldn’t want anything turning up that proves they cocked up that investigation. That’s characteristic of most police departments, in my experience.’

  ‘No, they don’t,’ said Blair. She watched Rebecca curiously. It was almost as if she could see the wheels turning in her head. ‘But it occurred to me that it might interest you to look into it, as a journalist.’

  Rebecca frowned. ‘You don’t have much to go on,’ she observed.

  ‘Isn’t that where you journalists come in?’ said Blair. ‘To dig up the truth?’

  ‘Well, this newspaper operates on a shoestring. It has no budget for an in-depth investigation,’ she mused aloud. ‘There are expenses. It’s time consuming.’

  ‘I might be able to help with that,’ said Blair. ‘As I said, I have a successful company. I promised this to my sister. I intend to see it through.’

  ‘It can take time,’ she protested.

  ‘I make my own schedule,’ said Blair.

  Rebecca looked at her with raised eyebrows. ‘How nice for you.’

  ‘Will you look into it?’ Blair asked.

  Rebecca hesitated and then she nodded. ‘Yeah. I’ll take a whack at it.’

  Blair felt undeniably better after she left Rebecca Moore. That reporter was experienced and knowledgeable and had worked in a big city. If anyone knew how to dig into this story, it was Rebecca. It must have been fate, she thought, that they had crossed paths this morning. Still, she was curious as to how Rebecca ended up back here when her star had formerly been on the rise. She thought she would go in the house and google her when she got home.

  But as she got out of the car at Uncle Ellis’s house, she was greeted by her uncle waiting impatiently for her by his truck.

  ‘Where have you been?’ Ellis demanded.

  ‘Errands? Why?’ said Blair.

  ‘Hurry up and get in the truck. Did you forget about it? The dinner at Darlene’s?’

  Blair glanced at her watch. ‘No, I didn’t forget about it, but isn’t it a little early for dinner? The sun isn’t even down yet.’

  ‘That’s what time she asked us for,’ said Ellis. ‘Malcolm’s already in the truck.’

  ‘Ok,’ said Blair, stifling a sigh. ‘I’ll follow you in the car.’

  Ellis took off out of the driveway, throwing up gravel with his squealing tires. He barely stopped to look before turning off out the dirt road and his rattletrap truck bumped over the mountain roads much faster than it should have been going. She almost had the feeling he was trying to lose her, but her Nissan had no trouble keeping up. Besides, why would he try to lose her? He was probably just worried about making Darlene unhappy by being late. The idea was so foreign to Blair that she could hardly absorb it. Ellis, worried about this woman’s feelings? Blair shook her head at the wonder of it.

  They took one of several roads that cut through the forest and, when they emerged from the forest, Ellis turned right without bothering to signal. Her uncle seemed to be disinclined to give her any warning when a turn was coming. The truck traveled up the mountain, wheeled around a few curves past the reservoir and turned right into a long driveway, which meandered through pastures to an old shingle-style house built into a hill. The house was surrounded by trees, untended fields and, across an overgrown field, a barn. Blair thought this must be one of the last farms left in town. Ellis stopped the truck and got out and Malcolm followed suit. The boy looked less than thrilled to be dragged to this dinner. That makes two of us, Blair thought.

  Darlene ushered them in. There were no preliminaries like a house tour or a cocktail hour. Joseph Reese, still dressed in his Greyhound uniform, offered them each a beer, which Ellis declined and Blair took gratefully. Darlene directed them to the scarred dining table and Blair offered to h
elp her serve. Darlene beckoned to her to come into the kitchen, while Ellis sat at the table with Joe and Malcolm, and the men talked spasmodically about the weather and local politics.

  The kitchen was woefully out of date, as it was at Ellis’s house, but Darlene had filled it with the appealing smell of pound cake and a pot roast cooking.

  ‘This smells delicious,’ Blair said sincerely.

  ‘I hope you all will like it,’ Darlene said.

  ‘Can I help?’ Blair asked.

  ‘I’ll fill these plates and you bring ‘em in,’ said Darlene.

  ‘Ok,’ said Blair. She watched Darlene bustling around the kitchen. Was Ellis, she wondered, thinking of making this kindly, competent woman his wife? It was hard to imagine. Blair took the plates in and set them around the table. Then she sat down next to Malcolm.

  Malcolm picked up his fork and looked hungrily at his plate. Blair followed suit. Joe cleared his throat noisily and folded his hands. Darlene bowed her head. Ellis conspicuously followed her example. Blair waited as Joe intoned a blessing over the food.

  ‘All right,’ said Darlene. ‘Let’s eat.’ Everyone eagerly began to tuck into their meal and murmurs of appreciation went around the table. Darlene asked Malcolm what he had done that day and Malcolm’s reply was monosyllabic. But he clearly didn’t want to offend.

  ‘This is really good,’ he said.

  Darlene thanked him, and turned to Blair. ‘I was going to the grocery store and I saw you coming out of the police station, Blair,’ Darlene said pleasantly. ‘Don’t tell me you got a parking ticket?’

  Blair looked up, startled. ‘No.’

  Ellis glowered at her. ‘Well what then?’ Blair heard the curiosity beneath the irritation.

  ‘Oh, it doesn’t matter,’ said Darlene, trying to avoid an argument between them. ‘None of our business.’

  Blair poked at her food with her fork. She didn’t want to spoil the dinner, but all eyes seemed to be on her. Maybe this was as good a time as any, she thought. Uncle Ellis won’t dare to go ballistic in front of Darlene and her brother. Blair felt instinctively that Darlene would find it perfectly reasonable. And it was only a matter of days before Rebecca Moore put it into the paper and everyone would know. She took a deep breath.