No Saints in Kansas

by Amy Brashear

  “Girls?” Mrs. Newsome calls from her office. “Everything okay?”

  Mary Claire shakes her head and bolts. I’m too numb, too tired to feel anything.

  My fingers on the keys, I type, “Nancy Clutter {deceased}.”

  Since I knew I would be staying late at school, I told Dad I’d pick him up outside the courthouse. Bad idea. The moment I get out of the car, I nearly slam into Mr. Capote. He’s wearing that big cowboy hat again and a scarf that hangs down to his knees. With him is someone I’ve never seen before, a tall, gaunt man, younger than he is. He wears an overcoat and is carrying a briefcase.

  “Carly, Carly, Carly,” Mr. Capote says.

  “You remember my name?”

  He grins. “Don’t get used to it.” He waves at his friend.

  “We’re on the way to see the wizard.”

  I don’t bother to ask what he means. I couldn’t care less.

  “Can I take your picture?” the tall man asks, setting his briefcase on the ground.

  “Why?” I ask.

  “Life,” Mr. Capote says.

  His friend looks up and smiles at my confused expression. “He means the magazine.”

  “Of course the magazine,” Mr. Capote grumbles. “Honestly, this girl.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Oh, yes, you must,” the man says.

  He opens his briefcase. There are at least five different cameras aligned in a row. He pulls one out and wipes the lens with a rag.

  “What kind of camera is that?” I ask, suddenly fascinated.

  “A Rolleiflex TLR,” he says.

  Truman whispers something to him, and he whispers something back.

  “She’s the daughter of Perry Smith’s court-appointed attorney,” Mr. Capote says, so kindly that it makes me want to vomit.

  “Really,” the man says with a sparkle in his eye. “This could be good.”

  He’s taken pictures of all your friends,” Mr. Capote says impishly.

  I glare at him. “My friends?”

  “Yes, your friends.” He smiles. “The girls that found them and your best friend, what’s her name—”

  “Ex-best friend.”

  Mr. Capote laughs. “Children can be so fickle. She’ll be crushed.”

  She will? I wonder.

  “And of course the boyfriend,” the man adds, zooming in on my face.

  “You took Bobby’s picture?” I ask.

  “Yes. And I would very much like to take yours,” he says, extending his hand for me to take. “My name is Richard, but you can call me Dick.”

  I hesitate. “Not Dick like the killer,” he says, as if reading my mind. “Different last names. Mine’s Avedon. Don’t confuse me with a suspected murderer of a quadruple homicide.” He messes with my hair. “Your hair reminds me so much of Audrey’s.”

  “Audrey?” I ask.

  “Audrey Hepburn,” he says.

  I smile like an idiot.

  “He’s taken everyone’s photograph, from celebrities to socialites,” Mr. Capote muses.

  “Have you taken a photo of my aunt?” I ask.

  “Who’s your aunt?” Mr. Avedon asks.

  “Trudy Huntington,” I say.

  “Her.” He laughs. “My apologies.”

  I’m confused.

  “He just wants you to stand right here,” Mr. Capote says, taking my shoulders and forcing me to stand still.

  “Like this?”

  “Don’t smile,” Mr. Avedon orders. “It’s not natural.”

  I drop the smile.

  “That’s better,” he says, snapping away. “I want you to be natural, as if it was an everyday occurrence. Perfect, that’s absolutely perfect. Good girl. Soon this will be over.”

  “Promise?” I say.

  He looks over the camera and smiles. “Yes. Soon all of this will be over.”

  There’s a bench across the street from the courthouse. My dad is running late, but I don’t mind the time alone. The bells from one of the nearby churches ring loud at the top of the hour. It’s five o’clock. Odd how nowadays I can’t hear a church bell without thinking of Nancy’s funeral. I wonder if that association will ever go away.

  I shiver under my coat.

  I wish Nancy were sitting beside me. I would talk to her. I would tell the truth.

  Nancy, I can’t believe you’re not here anymore. I know we weren’t best friends—or close friends—but I like to think you saw me as a friend.

  Tears fall from my eyes, then roll down my cheeks. I sniff and wipe them away.

  No one talks to me anymore. Mary Claire won’t even say hi in the hallway at school. You would be happy to know that I dumped Seth because he was being a jerk. You were right. When you did give me advice, I should have listened.

  I stretch my legs and recline on the bench. The sun is starting to set. There’s now a chill in the air.

  It’s weird that you aren’t in school. It’s weird that I’m not going over to your house to tutor you in math. You don’t need math anymore—sorry, I shouldn’t have said that. Honestly, I’m not doing so good in school. I think I might need a tutor. How ironic is that. It’s not the same anymore. You should be here.

  I stare up at the sky. It’s starting to get dark. The bench is bathed in cold, pale lamplight.

  It’s easy to talk to you now. Easier than talking to you in real life. I wish you saw me as a friend and not just the outsider. I don’t know what to do. I can’t go back to school. I can’t go to the trial. My dad doesn’t want to represent Perry Smith. He has to. It’s his job. But it’s not fair. I wish he had said no. Everyone looks at me as if I think Perry Smith is innocent, and I don’t think he is. Neither is Dick Hickock.

  They murdered you, your parents, and your brother. They killed something in all of us. Holcomb has changed. People look at each other as if everyone did something wrong, or maybe it’s just me—it probably is just me.

  I miss you. Holcomb was a better place when you were here.

  An elderly man sits next to me.

  “My son is doomed,” the man says, looking down at his feet.

  I listen to him speak but I don’t respond.

  “There’s no use in having a trial at all—they should just hang him now.” He turns to me, grabs my hand, and says, “But Perry is the one who should hang—not Dick.”

  Looking at the man’s wrinkled face and his pained eyes, I see that he’s at the end of something. He’s been beaten. His striped blue double-breasted coat is too big, sagging over a clashing plaid shirt. I can tell it is not his usual attire. He doesn’t want to be here; he’s been dragged here.

  “I’m Dick’s father,” he says, heaving a sigh. “Who are you?” he asks.

  Shaking his hand, I say, “Carly Fleming. My dad is—”

  “Your dad’s representing Perry,” he says, removing his hand from my grip.

  I nod.

  “You know this is just a bunch of hoopla,” he goes on. “Those boys didn’t go to that house to kill. Dick isn’t the kind of boy who would do a thing like that. I’ve known him for twenty-eight years. You know what? Dick didn’t even know when Perry killed the man. My son wasn’t even in the basement at the time. Dick told me exactly what happened. They were in the basement. My son was holding the shotgun, his shotgun, but Perry grabbed it out of his hands and killed that father and his boy. He went upstairs, killed Mrs. Clutter and then the girl. It ain’t what they are saying here or what the newspapers been saying, but that’s the way it was. He didn’t have anything to do with it—it was all Perry.”

  I don’t know what to say. Fortunately, I don’t have to say anything. He stands and wanders away, as abruptly as he appeared.

  When I turn back to the courthouse, Dad is approaching.

  “Ready?” he asks me.
>
  I nod. I am ready, I realize. But not the way he thinks I am.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-three

  No one knows I’m here. No one would even guess I am me.

  I’m wearing a pair of sunglasses and a black wig my mom had in her closet from a past Halloween costume. I sneak my way up the stairs and into the sheriff’s residence of the Finney County Jail. It’s where the undersheriff and his wife live.

  A police officer sits outside the door, but he’s too engrossed in Life magazine to notice me.

  The cell that houses Perry is in the Meiers’ apartment.

  Mrs. Meier’s a nice woman, sort of forgetful, but always smiling and never had anything but a kind word to say about a person.

  It’s a small cell, a shoe box really, next to the kitchen. Bars extend to a back wall. It has a window, a small one, but it lets in a good amount of sunshine on this day, and it overlooks the square. It looks like the cell where I was held. Back when I trespassed and threatened Mr. Stoecklein with a loaded gun.

  “Perry?” I whisper, sitting in the chair beside the cage. It’s still warm.

  I wonder who was here. Not my father; he’s at home. Perry Smith, Nancy’s murderer, is right here. Right in front of me. Is he asleep? He lies still on his bunk in jeans, a blue button-down shirt, and white socks.

  “Perry,” I whisper again.

  He turns his head and stares at me through the bars. “No more visitors,” he says.

  “Please,” I say.

  “Who the hell are you?” he asks.

  I think for a moment and say, “Elizabeth Taylor.”

  He sits up straight. “I ain’t in the mood for jokes. Where’s Mrs. Meier?”

  “Shh,” I urge. “Okay, my name is Carly, Carly Fleming. I’m your attorney’s daughter.”

  His nose wrinkles. “I can’t talk to you,” he says with a scowl.

  “Please. I just have a few questions, that’s all.”

  He lies back down. “I ain’t answering any of your questions.”

  “I just have to know . . . I just have to know . . .”

  “Know what?” he asks. He crosses his arms over his chest. The tiger tattoo on his biceps looks as if it’s going to come to life and roar.

  “Why?”

  “Why what?” He groans suddenly, wincing.

  “What is it? Are you in pain?”

  He laughs shortly. “Is that the question?”

  “No, but—”

  “I was honorably discharged from the army,” he interrupts. He says it so proudly, as if I should be impressed with his service to our country. “I went to work for a friend in Washington. I painted cars. I bought a motorbike. It was raining and I lost control. I spent six months in a hospital. But I won’t show you my disfigured legs. I’m a gentleman.”

  I stare at him, not knowing if I should believe a word, wondering if he’s playing me.

  He gives a sly smile.

  “Why did you do it?” I ask.

  “Do what?” he asks.

  I want to reach through the bars and slap him across the face, but I don’t.

  “I can’t talk about that night,” he grumbles. “If you’re really my attorney’s daughter, you’d know that. You with that little queer who wants to write a book?”

  I shake my head.

  “Because it’s none of his goddamn business,” he says. He sits straight again, using the bars to prop himself up. A religious pamphlet falls from the mattress to the floor.

  “Are you religious?” I ask, looking at the cover. Jesus Saves.

  He shrugs, lights a cigarette. As he takes a drag, he winces again.

  “Do you need some aspirin or something?”

  He shakes his head and exhales. “Some pain is good.”

  “Just like a shotgun to the head, right? Isn’t that what you did? And a knife to the throat, right?”

  “Funny, you’re trying to trick me into talking.” He abruptly stubs out the cigarette under his stocking feet. “Elizabeth Taylor, I bet I’m making your life miserable, aren’t I?”

  “Did you talk to Nancy like you’re talking to me before you shot her?” I ask.

  He turns away. “Dick didn’t touch her, if that’s where you’re going,” he says, looking at the wall. “I made sure of that.”

  “So you killed her because Dick wanted to touch her?”

  “Are you calling me a liar? Because I ain’t no liar.”

  “Why didn’t you just leave?” I ask.

  “No witnesses. Dick—Dick said we had—”

  “Do you always do everything that Dick tells you to?”

  He grabs a hold of the bars, gripping them so tightly that his knuckles turn white.

  “Are you in love with Dick?” I ask him.

  “I ain’t no queer.” He slams his hand on the bar and raises his voice to a shout. “I ain’t no queer!”

  “Is that worse than being a cold-blooded murderer?” I say, my voice a shaky rasp. “You killed them for forty dollars. Ten dollars a life—”

  “Smith?” the guard barks, hurrying toward us. “What the hell is going on here?” His eyes narrow at me. “What are you doing here? You shouldn’t be here. Go!”

  “You heard the man,” Perry says, grinning. “Visiting hours are over.”

  Afraid to speak, I pull my purse over my shoulder and put my sunglasses over my eyes. I hurry away as quickly as I can. I’ll never know the truth. I see that now. Nobody ever will. The truth died with the Clutters.

  “Who are you? What’s your name, girl?” the guard calls after me.

  Perry Smith cackles. I hear him clear down the stairs. “Oh, don’t you know? It’s Elizabeth Taylor, all the way from Hollywood, California, to visit.”

  CHAPTER FIFTY-four

  The trial is almost over. I wish school were almost over, too. I wish spring break started tomorrow. I stand in the stairwell, looking out the window at the snow on the ground. The sun is shining, at least.

  Dad has a big day. Today he rests his case; then it goes to the jury. I heard him practicing his closing remarks in the bathroom all night. It sounded like a church sermon. And the Bible verses don’t exactly help change that. The prosecution is using the Bible, too. Exodus 20:13, Thou shalt not kill. And Exodus 21:12, He that smiteth a man, so that he die, shall be surely put to death. And Genesis 9:6, Who so sheddeth man’s blood, by man shall his blood be shed: for in the image of God made he man. Meanwhile Dad’s pleading for mercy.

  I try to think of something that will cheer me up.

  Mom says she’s coming home this week. She says Aunt Trudy’s doing better. She asked how things were going. I purposefully left out everything about school and everything with Asher. I sort of make it seem like things have gotten better, even though that’s not really the case. I want her home. I miss her, martinis and all.

  There’s a tap on my shoulder.

  “Can we talk?” Mary Claire asks.

  I start to walk away.

  “Please, Carly, can we talk?” she asks again. “I’m sorry.”

  I stop on the bottom step and turn. “Are you really?” I ask.

  “Yes,” she says. She pulls a crumpled piece of paper from her pocket and holds it out to me. “I should have shown this to you earlier. I tried after school the other day, but . . .”

  “What is it?” I ask.

  “A note that Nancy wrote. Please read it,” she says. I take it from her trembling fingers.

  Dear Mary Claire,

  You’re right. I should be nicer to Carly. She has kept my secret about tutoring me and not told my parents about my grades. Keeping a secret is a huge asset in being a friend to me. I’ve thought about your suggestion. I’ll ask if she wants to borrow my 4-H red dress. Will this make you happy and get off my back? I’ll try to make the effort. That’s all I c
an promise. Okay? Good.

  Your friend,

  Nancy

  I look up. The universe seems to spin and then stop, freezing the two of us in this moment. I was wrong. This place isn’t all lies. And it turns out that the truth didn’t die with Nancy. Not all of it. Maybe not even the most important parts of it.

  “You were sticking up for me?” I ask Mary Claire. The words stick in my throat.

  “Of course,” she says, sweeping me into a hug. “That’s what friends do.”

  CHAPTER FIFTY-five

  I can smell the cafeteria’s sloppy joes all the way up the stairs. Our English teacher, Mr. Hendricks, stands at the front of the class, reading from George Orwell’s Animal Farm.

  “So, class, what do you think? Are rats their comrades?” He looks around the room, waiting for someone to raise his or her hand before he has to call on a poor soul.

  My stomach growls. Seth turns and stares. Mary Claire hands me a piece of gum.

  “Carly?”

  Apparently I’m the poor soul. It figures.

  “In the book they voted that the rats were their comrades; do you think so?” Mr. Hendricks asks.

  “Honestly, Mr. Hendricks, right now I’d eat a rat,” I reply.

  Everyone laughs.

  Before he can reprimand me, the door flies open. It’s Mrs. Newsome. She’s breathless.

  “Mrs. Newsome, can I help you?” Mr. Hendricks asks, taken aback.

  “The verdict—it’s in. I thought you should know,” she says, looking at me. “Do you want to . . . ?” She doesn’t finish the question.

  I can feel everyone’s eyes now, too.

  Mary Claire taps my arm. “You know you want to go,” she says.

  She’s right. I stand. My knees feel wobbly.

  “Call me later, okay?” she whispers. She holds out a pinkie.

  I give it a quick squeeze with my own pinkie before I hurry out of the room.

  As I rush in, the guard tells me that it took the jury one hour and thirty-nine minutes to deliberate. I sit in the last row in the crowded courtroom. As I crane my neck, searching for my father, someone grabs my shoulder.