by J W Becton
God, I hoped she would pick up that card and call the number.
The drive to my mother’s house took longer than usual because I spent a good deal of time making sure reporters weren’t tailing me. Of course, if they really wanted to find me, they would. If they found my address, they would find my family as well.
And that thought disconcerted me.
What if they attempted to interview my mother and sister? I’d warned my father, but what if the media showed up and asked Mom and Tricia the same sort of awful questions they’d already asked me? I couldn’t imagine how they would deal with it.
After all, I wasn’t dealing well either. I was still shaking when I pulled up to my mother’s house and went inside.
“Oh, my God, Sissy,” Tricia cried the minute I’d locked the door behind me. “What is going on? The news said you stole evidence and then framed that Slidell guy! But that’s impossible. I don’t understand….”
An odd mixture of relief and unease hit me. Apparently, the cameras hadn’t been live on air when I’d spoken with Marnie and Kaitlyn. But it was only a matter of time.
I sank into the blue floral sofa and gathered my thoughts, but before I could form words, I heard my mother say, “No, she didn’t frame anybody.”
My head flew up and I spun in the direction of her voice. There she stood in the doorway between the kitchen and living room, looking poised and calm. I blinked at her.
“This is what you meant earlier, isn’t it?” She walked farther into the living room, wiping her hands on the towel she held, and sat down beside me. “The other day at the restaurant, you said that you had done whatever it took to help Tricia, and now you were paying for it.”
I nodded mutely.
“What exactly does that mean?” she asked, gently putting an arm around me. “What’s the truth?”
Even though I wasn’t supposed to say a word, I told the whole sad story again, including my meeting with the judge. I even spilled my guts about Marnie and Kaitlyn and the reporters on my front lawn.
“Oh, my God,” Tricia repeated, this time her voice no louder than a whisper. She began pacing the room in quick, agitated steps. “I didn’t know…I didn’t know you did that. Why did you do that?”
I only shrugged, so choked up that I was unsure if my voice would work.
“And that girl…Kaitlyn? You think he’s raping her?”
I nodded. “I don’t have any real proof, but….”
“Oh, my God,” Tricia said a third time. “I always imagined I was the only one. But he might be hurting someone else. More than one girl….”
Tricia’s voice trailed off into silence as we all absorbed her words. We stayed in that tableau, staring at each other, no one sure what to do or say.
“I guess I kinda put a damper on lunch, huh?” I said finally. “I don’t think I can eat, but don’t let me ruin your meal.”
“No,” my mother insisted. “We’re your family. You’re supposed to ruin our meals.”
Without thinking, I laughed. After a slight hesitation, my mother did too, adding, “That’s not what I meant.”
“I know,” I whispered.
“I haven’t always understood you, Julia,” she whispered back, pulling me closer. “I didn’t get it, and maybe I still don’t. But I can see what’s right in front of me. You sacrificed a lot to do what you believed in. For your sister. And we never saw it, did we?”
Tears threatened to spill, and a nod was all I could manage.
“Is there something we can do to help?” my sister asked softly.
I glanced up at her.
“I—I—you don’t have to do anything,” I said. “Besides, it’s too late.”
“It can’t be too late,” Tricia said. “You said he’s hurting that other girl, Kaitlyn. I don’t want that to happen to anyone else, not if I can do something to stop it. I could testify—”
I shook my head and then explained about how DNA was the only thing that could prevent the charges against Slidell from being dropped.
“But if I wanted to try something…? I could call Tripp or that attorney who called earlier. They’d be able to tell me what I could do.”
I still didn’t know what to say, and I figured it was probably better if I didn’t do too much guiding. I was in enough trouble as it was, and besides, I didn’t know where to guide her. I needed someone to guide me.
“Henry Martling? You could try, but Tricia, I don’t think there’s much you can do. I’ve already screwed it up pretty bad.” My voice broke. “I’m so sorry.”
“What about Kaitlyn?” my mother asked. She reached out to Tricia and pulled her onto the sofa beside us. “What can we do for her and her mother?”
I blinked back more tears. This moment felt totally surreal, especially after the encounter with my father earlier that day, and I kept waiting to wake up and discover I was dreaming.
“I don’t know,” I said. “Kaitlyn has to be willing to speak out, and I don’t know if she is. Her mother obviously doesn’t believe Slidell is capable of hurting anybody. Plus, I don’t want to force her. I’m done making that mistake.”
“But she might have the card you gave her,” Tricia said. “Maybe she’s braver than I am…was. Maybe she’ll come forward.”
“I hope so,” I said.
And that was all I should have done. Sit back and hope for the best.
But of course I didn’t.
I called Tripp a few hours later and told him about my chat with Marnie and Kaitlyn. I explained how Tricia seemed to be coming around, and I didn’t even whine about how I’d probably robbed her of the chance to get justice now that she actually wanted it.
“I tried to slip Kaitlyn the contact info for Sheila in victim’s assistance,” I said. “Will you tell Sheila to look out for her call, make it a priority? Maybe ask her to pay them a visit….”
“Jules,” Tripp said, sounding tired. “I know what you’re thinking—”
“That I want to stop a rapist from hurting another teenage girl?” I asked brusquely. “Because I’m sick of criminals abducting little kids, murdering young women, raping them. If the judge throws out Slidell’s case, I can’t bear to send a rapist home to his victim, Tripp. It cannot happen!”
Tripp sighed, and I could actually hear his internal conflict. “I’ve looked into them, Jules. Marnie Jacobs swears by Slidell’s innocence, and Kaitlyn refused to talk to child services. I doubt they’re going to admit anything he may or may not have done to them. Abuse victims tend to circle the wagons when someone else goes after their abuser.”
My time on the MPD acquainted me well with that phenomenon. Nearly every domestic abuse call had ended with the victim defending his or her abuser when we tried to make an arrest.
Nearly every damn one of the abusers got off.
I refused to sit back and let it happen with Slidell, but I certainly couldn’t do anything directly. Tripp was my best bet.
“We don’t even know that he’s still an active sexual abuser,” Tripp added.
“No, we don’t know that he’s still active, but we also don’t know that he isn’t.”
“You can’t ask me to prove a negative.”
“I’m not asking you to attempt the impossible. But Kaitlyn hasn’t said anything. She hasn’t denied anything. I want her to say that Slidell hasn’t done anything to her. I want to hear those words. I want her to have a voice. A chance to speak out.”
“God, Jules,” Tripp said, sighing again. “You don’t know what you’re asking.”
“I know I’ve put you in a difficult position,” I admitted. “If I’ve made it so that Slidell goes free to go after that girl…to hurt her…I can’t live with myself.”
Then, I swallowed my pride.
I begged.
“Please do what you can for Kaitlyn. Please don’t let her abuser come back to hurt her, Tripp.”
“I’ll do what I can, but I certainly can’t make any promises.”
That would h
ave to be good enough.
Twenty-seven
Going to the DOI on Monday morning was a stupid idea. Ted had suspended me and warned me to keep my distance. Not to mention the fact that the entire press corps of Mercer wanted to catch me on film doing something nefarious so they could broadcast it on the evening news.
But I went anyway.
I had to go. With so much of my future out of my hands, I had the urge to grab hold of the aspects of my life I could still control. And one of those was work.
At least until I got fired.
With Vincent out there searching for the source of the leak about my evidence tampering, somebody had to address the situation with Randy Blissett. Now that he was aware of our investigation, I couldn’t guarantee my safety or that of Mrs. Twilley and Sydney until I sorted him out. Plus, after my odd encounter with Blissett over the weekend, I felt even more compelled to figure out what was going on with him. Something wasn’t quite right, but I couldn’t figure out what.
As a bonus, I could defy Ted for being such a jerk.
I arrived at the DOI half expecting to find the locks changed and a pink slip taped to the front door. Instead, I found something much worse. The horde of reporters had anticipated my arrival, and their vans clogged the small parking lot. I surveyed the vehicles, looking for the oddball black van, and found it absent. No Marty Hunter.
After Hunter’s latest story based on his “interview” with me in my front yard the previous day and an accompanying photo of Marnie Jacobs shouting at me, I’d had enough of him. Still, cameras pointed at me as I drove in and parked, and my fingers tightened on the steering wheel. Fleetingly, I considered turning around and going straight back home, but it was too late. The press had already spotted me, and I knew that running would just incite their predatory instincts.
The last thing I wanted was to see myself on the news fleeing from every reporter in town.
So I checked my face in the mirror, wished I was better at applying what little makeup I owned, and then faced the horde.
Only this time, I did as Martling advised. The reporters peppered me with questions, and I remained painfully polite even as I strong-armed my way toward the office.
I’d almost shut the DOI door in their lenses when one of them called, “We understood you had been suspended from the DOI, Special Agent Jackson. What are you doing here?”
I paused, doorknob in hand, and faced them.
“I’m picking up some personal effects,” I said, stepping quickly inside and shutting the door.
At my entrance, Matilda, the office administrator, stood up from behind her desk and gaped at me.
“Special Agent Jackson,” she said in a careful whisper. “We weren’t expecting to see you today.”
“I just came in to get some of my things, check messages,” I said, heading for my office. “I won’t be long.”
Matilda rounded the desk and hurried after me. I heard her bracelets clank together as she grasped my arm and pulled me to a stop.
“I don’t know what’s going on with you,” she said, “but I know Ted doesn’t want you here.”
“I’m still an employee. And besides, Ted’s not here,” I wheedled. “I just—”
“Just because Ted’s out doesn’t mean I can let you go back there.”
I sighed and freed my arm. I hadn’t wanted to get into altercation after altercation, but with the press and now Matilda, it looked like chaos would be the order of the day.
I’d hoped she would do her normal routine, grilling me about what was going on. She liked to keep up with news, but if she was actively barring me from entering my own office, then maybe I had even less time at the DOI than I’d imagined. After Ted returned from Atlanta, I’d probably be out of a job.
“Look, don’t make this a thing,” Matilda pleaded. “I don’t want to get fired. Plus, there’s no reason for you to be here. Vincent said he would be at the surveillance site this morning. I haven’t gotten around to shutting you out of the system….”
I nodded gratefully, understanding what she was telling me and cursing myself for not thinking of it before jostling my way in here. At least for the moment, I still had remote access to my phone messages and work email. I shouldn’t have tried to prove whatever stupid point I’d thought I was making with Ted.
I decided to join Vincent wherever he was, because he probably was not at the Heights.
“I, um, told the press I was here for some personal items,” I said. “It’ll look odd if I leave empty handed.”
Pity entered Matilda’s expression, and she patted my arm.
“I still can’t let you back there. Not without Ted’s okay.” She paused and walked to her desk.
“Here,” she said, picking up a plain brown box and handing it to me.
“What’s this?” I asked, turning the non-descript box over in my hands.
“Nothing,” she said, shrugging. “Air. At least it’s something to make your visit appear legit. Plus, I bet those reporters out there will fall all over themselves wondering what’s in there.”
I laughed despite myself. Matilda was right.
I dodged the press, this time in the opposite direction, and they were on that package like a pack of dogs on a raw steak.
“What’s in the box?”
“You came back for that after being suspended? What can you tell us about its contents?”
“Is that more stolen evidence?”
I slid back into the Explorer and tossed the box toward the backseat. Henry Martling III probably wouldn’t appreciate the fact that I’d just stirred the hornet’s nest, but I couldn’t muster any regret.
All those reporters were dying to know what was so important that I’d go back to the DOI after my suspension, and the only thing I carried out with me was an empty box.
That had to mean something, but hell if I knew what it was.
I pulled out of the DOI parking lot and drove a pattern through Mercer in the hopes of either losing the press corps or boring them silly.
I couldn’t have that bunch tailing me all day, not when I planned to violate my suspension by continuing my investigation into Randy Blissett. I traveled all the streets and cross streets and was about to begin my second pass when the news vans began to drop off one by one.
When the last van finally disappeared, I sighed with relief and hit a gas station and a drive-through coffee shack. I checked voicemail while I waited for coffee, and I was glad I did.
After listening to the message, I called Vincent and quickly filled him in on what I’d just heard.
“Can you meet me at Southeastern Insurance?” I asked. “I’m already en route.”
“Can’t,” Vincent said. “Tracking down the source of the news leak is taking longer than I expected. I spent Sunday afternoon at the local TV stations, but I think I’ve finally located the writer of the original story. Marty Hunter.”
I blinked. “He’s the asshole reporter who ambushed me at home and brought Marnie and Kaitlyn Jacobs with him.”
“I saw the story,” Vincent said, his tone full of disdain. “The little weasel probably won’t talk, but I have a few other ideas. I will find out who tipped off the press. Something still isn’t sitting right with me.”
“The rest of the press was at the DOI building this morning, but Hunter wasn’t with them,” I said. “Any idea where he might be?”
“It’s probably best if I don’t say,” Vincent replied.
My eyebrows raised, and I really wanted to ask what he was up to, but I kept my mouth shut.
“You know I’m suspended, right?”
“Affirmative,” Vincent said.
“But I’m going to talk to Workman anyway.”
“I’d expect nothing less,” he said conversationally.
I couldn’t help being glad that he accepted my determination to finish this case, even when I didn’t understand it fully myself.
“Thank you,” I said, “for whatever it is you’re doing.”
“Any time,” Vincent said in a firm tone.
God, I really hoped my life wouldn’t continue offering him opportunities to prove that.
Alone, I headed to Southeastern’s fraud department to meet with dear old Terry. When I entered his office, I took a tentative sniff, checking for the lingering odor of the raw onion sandwich Workman had been eating during our previous visit.
Thankfully, I smelled nothing but pine-scented cleaning fluid. The custodial staff must have had to drench the whole office in it to remove the stench of Terrance Workman.
“Hello, Special Agent Jackson,” Workman purred. “Please tell me you’re here because you just couldn’t wait to see me again.”
At his repellent greeting, I nearly took a step backward, but instead, I sat in one of the guest chairs he hadn’t bothered to offer to me. I cleared my throat and let my impatience seep into my next words.
“I’m only here because you called me. You claim to have information on Randy Blissett.”
“Sure, sure,” he said, sounding unruffled, “but you stopped by in person when you could have just called back. Perhaps there’s something else on your mind. Our future date, perhaps?”
I rolled my eyes. Was this his idea of charm? Because if it were, then he needed to rethink his strategy.
Leaning forward in my chair, I gave Workman a hard stare.
“I haven’t got time for whatever games you like to play. I just want the information about Blissett.”
“Uh-huh,” he grunted. “It figures that you’re in a rush. I saw all those stories about you. Nice police academy photo, by the way. You were even cuter when you were younger.”
I glared at him.
“Fine.” He winked at me. “I’ll tell you.”
I waited, and he eventually got down to business.
“An agent of ours alerted me that Blissett had called her office to make a homeowner’s policy claim.”
“He called? He didn’t come in?” I clarified.
“That’s right. He says his house got flooded over the weekend.”
“I can verify that,” I said, but Workman didn’t seem to care.
