Shocking True Story

by Gregg Olsen

  "Later, we'll have a discussion, girls, on why pole-dancing in a wet T-shirt is demeaning to women," I said.

  Both rolled their eyes before turning full attention to the manic cut-with-a-shredder video flashing on the screen.

  While the microwave resuscitated macaroni and cheese, the horn affixed to my front door sounded. The previous owner despised doorbells and instead installed a bicycle horn to announce the arrival of friends and family. It was a dumb idea, but in the years we lived in Port Gamble, Washington, I had grown used to the dumb and different. Especially when we bought House 19, the oldest and creakiest of the original nineteenth-century row houses built for mill management. The mill had died, however, and sometimes I was convinced our house wasn't far behind, with all its leaks, drafts, groans, and creaks. None of which I could afford to fix.

  Before answering the horn, I went to the freezer and grabbed three Mr. Freeze pops, tossed two at my girls, and hid the other behind my back.

  "Any other blues, Dad?" Taylor asked, lifting her head off the floor and away from the television for the first time since I had given in to MTV.

  "No," I lied, as I shoved the blue frozen bar into my back pocket. "Only orange."

  I hated orange. I also hated the idea that blue was called raspberry. I had never seen a blue raspberry in my entire life. Red, yes. Even gold once on an episode of the Food Network's Barefoot Contessa. Never blue. Blue raspberry, I was sure, was the malicious invention of a misguided chemist at the FDA.

  Maybe there was a culinary true crime book somewhere in that?

  I looked at my calendar for next day. Coffee with Jeanne Morgan was on tap.

  Good old Jeanne.

  ♦

  Forty miles away a woman logged on to the Prime Crime chat room, as she did nearly every day at that precise time. Chat rooms were becoming old school in the Facebook-is-the-center-of-the-universe era, but this one had a dedicated following and was still going strong. She sipped her diet Coke through a plastic straw and picked at some edamame, her favorite snack, in a white porcelain bowl. She scanned the roster to see who was online, and before she could finish reviewing the list, a window popped open on the screen of her Dell laptop.

  Crimeguy: Hi.

  KEVFAN: Hi yourself.

  Crimeguy: Tomorrow's the big day, right?

  KEVFAN: Yes! Kevin and I are having coffee. I've sent him an e-mail telling him I have big news. That news is YOU, you know.

  Crimeguy: No. Please don't tell him.

  KEVFAN: Why not?

  Crimeguy: I'm not ready. Please.

  KEVFAN: I think he'd want to know. He's very caring.

  Crimeguy: I know. But, please. I have more thinking to do.

  KEVFAN: If U R sure.

  Crimeguy: Yes. U R so nice. He is so lucky to have you supporting him.

  KEVFAN: He's told me he can't live without me.

  Crimeguy: Cool. Good to know.

  Chapter Two

  Monday, July 8

  Jeanne Morgan was my Number One fan, a designation that she arrived at with the assumption that there was actually some kind of ranking among my readership. I accepted it as a compliment and immediately embraced her as the archetypical true crime reader. Jeanne was in her sixties, had undergone a hip replacement, and wore her brassy, blonde-dyed hair in an updo that made her more Down and Out Librarian than Homecoming Queen.

  Which, she had told me on at least a dozen occasions she actually had been some four decades ago.

  Valerie thought Jeanne came from the Misery region of devoted reader territory, but I didn't mind. I liked her from the first moment she showed up at one of my “events,” telling me all that I needed to know.

  “I read your books.”

  Love it.

  “You look younger in person.”

  Love it more.

  She clinched the deal during an especially excruciating mall bookstore signing by telling me that her best friend Tobi-Shay had been murdered by a stranger. The case was still unsolved.

  “I know you could do justice to the story, Mr. Ryan. You understand the pain and suffering of victims like no other true crime writer working today.”

  I wanted to tell her true pain came from the indignity of a mall signing, but I held my tongue.

  “Maybe someday I will be able to tell your story.” I stopped to correct my caring self. “I mean, Tobi-Shay's story. Do you mind getting me a latte?”

  She didn't.

  After that, there wasn't an event that Jeanne didn't attend. Latte in hand. Nodding at whatever I said. She created a Goodreads page for me, a Facebook group, and made sure that Oprah Winfrey's Next Chapter got an email whenever I had a new release.

  “You never know,” she said. “She might want something different.”

  I smiled at her. “Long shot, Jeanne. None of my books have an incest-survivor angle or push personal empowerment.”

  She smiled and titled her head. “You empower me.”

  If Valerie had been there her creep-meter would have clanked, but not mine. I liked Jeanne. I dedicated my last book to her:

  For Jeanne Morgan, My Number One fan...

  I write the wrongs because of readers like you.

  Every few months, we'd have coffee. She'd tell me how great I was and I'd tell her how much I appreciated her support. We met ostensibly so she could show me what she was working on with her website promotions. But in reality, I just figured Jeanne was lonely. I'd looked at her websites every now and then, wondering how many “friends” I'd have if she hadn't been working the internet like a Liberian heir in search of a dim-bulb American with a bank account.

  Jeanne was on the calendar for the next day for one of our get-togethers.

  She e-mailed the night before: I've got something BIG to tell you.

  AS SHE ALMOST ALWAYS DID, Jeanne Morgan posted a bulletin on Facebook: Today I'm meeting with our favorite author. Will let you know more later. Anyone who read the Jeanne's Kevin's Krime Blog knew that meant coffee at a Starbucks off Highway 16 in Gig Harbor, a town west of Tacoma, separated from the big city by the distinctive green-hued arching span of the Tacoma Narrows Bridge. Regular readers of Jeanne's blog knew that before schlepping over to Starbucks, Jeanne always bought a small houseplant for Valerie because “author's wives are people, too, and they deserve our support.”

  Valerie appreciated the gesture, of course. But frequently lamented the obvious.

  “Jeanne thinks that I'm married to you as some kind of social work, Kevin. Like you need some—”

  “Empowerment?” I asked.

  Valerie shook her head. “More like a muse to inspire you to absorb the rhythm of blood spatter on a davenport or the lyrical way a knife slices a spinal cord.”

  I grinned. “I love it when you talk that way. You really get me.”

  Valerie made a face and threw her hands up into the air. “Yes, dear. This is art. Go to your real muse now.”

  That afternoon, I dropped off some shirts at the dry cleaner's, returned a few library books, and made my way to the Starbucks. I was late. I hate to be late for any “event” or meeting. It is so much easier to drink in the full dose of disappointment when one arrives early and can sit there for every agonizing minute. While the barista steamed and swirled, I searched the throng of hipsters and suburbanites for Jeanne, but she wasn't stuffed into one of the big brown velvet chairs that she usually commanded like a throne. She wasn't anywhere to be seen. A call to her cell phone when to voice mail.

  The minutes ticked by. Then a half hour.

  Jeanne, where are you? You're my Number One fan. I want to talk about Tobi-Shay. Really, really, I do!

  I drove back home. No houseplant. No nothing.

  ♦

  “How was Jeanne-O?” Val asked, using her irritating shorthand for Jeanne-the-Number-One, but it sounded like a brand of turkey. Val was propped up in bed reading a magazine, glasses halfway down the bridge of her nose. The magazine was some variety of home and garden porn with mat
ching this and that, raffia here and there, lettuce in twenty colors. Our house and yard would never look anything like the images that coated the glossy stock.

  “More like Jeanne No Show,” I said.

  Val flipped to the next page, an article about turning a wheelbarrow into an herb garden, and smiled at me. “You must be slipping. Maybe she's moved on to a vampire novelist?”

  I dropped the rest of my clothes and slid next to her in bed. “Actually, I'm kind of worried. I thought she might have called or e-mailed, but nothing. I hope she's OK.”

  “Anyone who's stuck with you as long as Jeanne-O and I have is pretty tough, I'd say.”

  I nodded. She was right about that. Both were still waiting for that ship to come in.Just when would it?

  Chapter Three

  Tuesday, July 9

  SHE STOOD IN THE DOORWAY. She looked to be fourteen. Her unkempt brunette hair was cut short and she wore little makeup, but her budding breasts indicated she was either a girl, or a boy in need of some kind of hormone therapy. Her wide-set eyes were dark brown, the size and shape of peach pits; her teeth were even and very white. She carried a DVD and a clear plastic purse. Inside the purse I could make out the following: two dollar bills, a Smashbox lip gloss (sheer raspberry), a wad of Kleenex, a set of car keys on a Lord of the Rings key chain, a pencil, and a tampon.

  "Mr. Ryan?" she asked. "You don't know me. My name's Jett Carter. My mom has read all of your books. I'm starting one now. They're real good."

  "How many has your mom read?" I inquired. I always asked, like some savvy telemarketer pre-qualifying a prospect. I always felt compelled to make sure it was me they had read and not another writer with the same last name, another writer far more successful than I.

  "Four or five, I think," she answered without hesitation.

  Good, I thought. I had published seven books and if she had said ten or some really outlandish number I knew she would have been knocking on the wrong door.

  "What can I do for you?" I asked, a little guardedly.

  "Mr. Ryan," she said, "my sister and my mother are in big trouble and they didn't do anything to deserve it."

  I didn't invite her in. Valerie told me under no circumstances should I ever have someone in the house who had read any of my books or had the idea for a new one. "Could be a kook," she advised numerous times.

  I told the girl that my carpets were just cleaned and she couldn't come inside. I walked out onto the step.

  "Needs to dry. Some kind of chemical. Like dry cleaning," I said.

  She nodded before she continued. "Well, like I was telling you, my sister and mother did not do what they're saying. And we think the only way justice is going to come out of this mess is if someone will write a book about it."

  I studied her for a second. I asked if she had contacted other authors, perhaps the woman who is considered the Danielle Steel of true crime?

  "Yeah, she was too busy with a miniseries or something. I talked with one of her assistants."

  Assistants? My sole assistant was my dog, an utterly lazy dachshund that, when she felt like it, answered to Hedda. Hedda's winter job was to keep my feet warm while I typed on a Mac so old it was often mistaken for an early microwave oven. Her summer task was to eat whatever my girls dropped from their plates so that I didn't have to race the vacuum around five minutes before Val drove her "horizon gray" Honda Civic DX up the driveway.

  "Passed on it, huh?" I asked, referring to the to the other author's lack of interest in the case.

  "Yeah, I guess so."

  I asked her to tell me more about the alleged crimes of her sister, Janet Lee Kerr and her mother Connie Carter.

  The petite girl with the peach-pit eyes and sweet smile hedged. "You really ought to talk with them. They're at Riverstone. Watch this tape. It's from the Rita show."

  Riverstone was the women's prison not far from my home. I considered it a convenience in the way some might consider a donut shop close to the office as handy. I had been to the prison many, many times. One woman I saw over the course of a six-month period had been convicted of molesting children in her day care. Lulu's Day Care was the name of her business. She was an attractive woman who had won me over with her charm. I decided that I couldn't write a book about Lulu's case because I had the feeling that she had been railroaded.

  True crime books were seldom about the innocent.

  I made sure I had Jett Louise Carter's telephone number and address, and promised if I was interested in the story, I'd call her for further information; otherwise I'd make arrangements to return her talk-show DVD.

  "You won't be sorry for getting involved in this," she said over her shoulder as walked to the driveway. "There's a real story here. Real injustice and stuff."

  I smiled at her enthusiasm and waved as she drove off. As I made a mental note to ask her how she found our house, I felt something wet and cold against the back of my thigh. I had probably made a great impression: A Mr. Freeze that I had transferred to my back pocket melted and burst.

  I patted my soggy blue butt with a paper towel and sat down at my computer, Googled my name, a ritual as entrenched as a morning latte (nonfat, one packet of Equal) and found the usual crap—people selling my books on eBay or Amazon for a penny (plus shipping) and 10,000 other references that didn't add up to much.

  But this one was new. My name was mentioned in a true crime fan forum called House of Evil.

  "I know where Kevin Ryan lives. I've even seen him in his yard. He'll get his. They all do. Hope he doesn't lurk here! LOL!"

  It appeared I was as welcome in the House of Evil as Casey Anthony at aHoney Boo Boo taping.

  I skipped the other stuff I usually searched for ad nauseum. At that moment, I didn't care one whit how many times my name popped up in China. The idea that someone hated me, knew where I lived was too much.

  I couldn't wait to tell my family the news: I finally had a stalker!

  ♦

  My joy was short-lived. The article on the screen of my laptop made my heart drop to my knees.

  “Val! Come here!”

  “What is it, Kev? Are the girls OK?”

  I looked up from my computer as my wife hurried into the room. “Honey, they found a body in a wooded lot behind the Gig Harbor Safeway.”

  Valerie looked puzzled. “That's too bad. Does it say who it is?”

  I started to read:

  The body of a woman in her late fifties to early sixties was discovered behind the Safeway food store at 4831 Point Fosdick Dr. NW. by children picking blackberries....

  Val leaned closer to the screen. “It can't be Jeanne.”

  “I know it is,” I said.

  ...Store workers recovered identification that tied the woman to a van found in the parking lot overnight...

  “You can't know for sure,” Val said.

  I clicked on the “enlarge photo” icon on the sole image that accompanied the article. It was a picture of a silver van.

  A familiar one at that.

  “It's Jeanne's all right,” I said, touching my index finger to the spot on the screen that held all the little pixels that made up the back bumper of the van.

  I PRAY FOR WHIRLED PEAS, read a bumper sticker.

  Val compressed her brow. “I don't get it.”

  “Jeanne's a vegetarian. It's her van all right. I'd know it anywhere.”

  “I'm sorry. I wonder what happened to her?”

  “Me, too,” I said.

  “You don't think she was murdered?”

  I looked into Val's eyes. “I almost always think that of every death, so maybe. But really, the evidence always tells the truth.”

  Val put her hand on my shoulder. “I hope it isn't her, Kevin.”

  “I'll make some calls.”

  ♦

  The Ellison County Police were reasonably helpful. Cops usually are. They relayed the basics of their investigation and what they thought had happened. The dead body was found in a thicket of blackberries. She
had no ID, no purse.

  “She was picking berries when she passed out,” he said. “She keeled over with Tupperware in hand. End of story.”

  “Meaning no investigation,” I said.

  The cop let out a sigh. “Look, I know you're a crime writer type and you'd like to embellish what happened to Ms. Morgan with a little drama, but there's nothing there. Tragedy. Case closed. Sorry about your friend, but if you want to do something for her go to the morgue and do the ID. She'll be cleaned up and ready around noon tomorrow.”

  I couldn't let it go.

  “But what about her missing purse?”

  “Someone probably took it after she dropped dead. Creeps like that everywhere, you ought to know considering the kind of books you write.”

  “OK, but why did you think the victim is Jeanne if there's no ID?”

  “A barista at the Starbucks ID'd her van. She's a regular there. Trust me, nothing sinister here. Just another sad story.”

  I thanked the officer and hung up.

  Tragedy. Nothing more. I felt sorry for Jeanne. I'm sure that given her true crime reading habits, she'd have wanted much, much more.

  I Mapquested the morgue and set the printout on my desk. I'd watch Jett Carter's DVD first thing in the morning, then head down to see My Number One fan on a slab.

  Full day I had planned.

  ♦

  Before I went upstairs to crawl in bed with Val, I did a little Net surfing. I fought hard to make sure that I didn't get sucked into the search engine where one click becomes one thousand. Just enough to feed my sorry obsession and maybe to forget a little about Jeanne on ice at the morgue.

  TODAY'S LIST

  Google: Nothing new about me. Not even on the low rent turf of the internet — the blogosphere where everybody with a laptop and a pot of coffee is the next Drudge or Perez.