Have You Seen Me?

by Kate White

  “Where’s Marion?” I ask as Roger comes up behind me.

  “She ended up having to drive to Princeton to meet a friend whose husband just announced he wants a divorce. But she sends her apologies.”

  I can’t help but wonder if she’s manufactured a reason to be absent.

  “No problem.” I sweep my gaze across the pale blue living room with the red patterned sofa and armchairs, impressive antique wooden side tables, and gold-framed landscape paintings. “I love your place and everything you’ve done to it, but do you ever miss Boston—you know, the hustle and bustle?”

  “At times I do miss the action a little, but I’m glad I’m closer to Dad. And Boston reminds me too much of those tough years with Kaitlin.”

  Perhaps my situation isn’t so unique from the one my brother found himself in back then: a marriage struggling because of issues related to the idea of becoming parents.

  “By the way, did I tell you Kaitlin and her new husband adopted a child?”

  “No, but I saw that on Facebook,” I tell him. I don’t add that she and I correspond by email sometimes. Though it wouldn’t bother him that we’re in touch, I’m sure he senses I’m not a fan of Marion’s and I don’t want to add any fuel to the fire.

  “Well, I’m happy for her. It’s what she longed for.”

  “Do you still have that longing sometimes, Rog?”

  “A twinge now and then, yes. And I have to admit, I was lonely that first year in this house. But Marion and I have a pretty full life. . . . You ready for lunch?”

  As we step into the kitchen, I see that Roger has laid out a veritable picnic on the long wooden table: fresh bread, cheeses, olives, salami, hummus, a glazed bowl piled with clementines.

  “Oh my god,” I exclaim. “I thought you said light lunch.”

  “Marion was going to make us a salad—you know what a health nut she is. But when she ended up having to head to Princeton, I decided to go a little wild.”

  Though I don’t have much appetite, I manage to eat a few olives, half a clementine, and a couple of wedges of cheese on bread. I bring Roger up to speed about hiring Mulroney, and the blood test results, before turning the conversation to our father.

  “Do you sense he suspects that anything’s going on with me?” I ask.

  “Not from what I can tell. With his heart situation, he doesn’t seem as sharp as he used to be—though I’m hoping that will change when his strength is back in full force.”

  “I’m relieved that he hasn’t noticed anything, because it’d be so stressful for him, and he might even try to come back early. . . . I wanted to ask you something else: How do you think he would feel if he knew about me lying to everyone years ago?”

  “He’d understand, of course.”

  “And do you, Roger?” I can’t forget how subdued he sounded when I broke the news to him on Sunday.

  “Of course. It caught me by surprise when you told me, but there’s nothing for you to apologize about. You were only a kid.”

  I look off into the middle distance.

  “I hope you’re not ruminating too much about this, Ally,” he says.

  “It’s hard not to. But I’ll feel better once this interview is in the rearview mirror.”

  I notice that a slice of bread smeared with goat cheese is lying untouched on his plate. Maybe he’s more concerned than he’s letting on.

  “Do you think I should have brought a lawyer?” I ask. “I was afraid it might imply I had reason to worry.”

  “The same thing crossed my mind. But I came to the conclusion you did. Let’s see how they respond today and then we can reevaluate if necessary.”

  “They? Do you think there’ll be other people besides Nowak there?”

  “Oh god, did I forgot to tell you? Yes, one more person. A detective from the Hunterdon County prosecutor’s office.”

  He did forget to tell me. I’d been steeling myself for a one-on-one meeting.

  “Whoa, I wish I’d known.”

  “I’m really sorry, Button, it slipped my mind. But it’s nothing to be alarmed about. I believe it’s the detective who’s been looking into the case again.”

  He rises, hoisting a platter with each hand. “Coffee?”

  “Better not. Here, let me help.”

  “Let’s leave most of this here. I’ll just stick the cheese and meat in the fridge.”

  Five minutes later, we’re on our way to the police station in Millerstown. During the short drive, I suck on yet another cinnamon Altoid and take so many deep breaths, Roger must think I’m hyperventilating.

  My hometown is a small, fairly charming place along the banks of the Delaware River, founded in the mid-1880s. Thanks to preservation efforts, the town center is pretty much unspoiled by chain stores and fast-food stands and instead boasts shops selling antiques, scented candles, and tchotchkes. Roger makes the turn off River Street and pulls up in front of the police station, an old four-story brick building. Though I often come back to visit my father, I can’t recall the last time I was in this particular location.

  After Roger parks against the curb, I step out of the car. The woods where I found Jaycee are about two miles away, along the outskirts of town, and yet I feel their psychic drag even from here.

  We enter into a large foyer to find a young woman sitting at a gray metal desk, circa 1950s. She’s pretty, with long brown hair styled in waves.

  “Can I help you?” she asks, swiveling away from her computer screen. She manages to be polite without being friendly. Perhaps an acquired skill for the job.

  Roger speaks before I can, announcing that I have an interview scheduled with the chief. The woman nods, rises, and asks me to wait. But she returns quickly and leads me through a warren of tiny offices, obviously reconfigured from the original space. It’s a sea of bulging cabinets, climbing manila folders, and bulletin boards plastered with brochures and announcements. Finally, I’m ushered into a windowless faux-wood-paneled room containing nothing more than a table and chairs. A man and woman are sitting there. He’s in uniform; she’s in a beige blouse and dark-brown wool blazer.

  “So you’re Ally Linden,” the man says, rising and pumping my hand a few times. He introduces himself as Chief Nowak, and I realize I’ve glimpsed him in town in the past. He’s probably in his fifties, clean-shaven, a big guy with massive forearms shooting from his short-sleeved shirt. “We appreciate you coming in today.”

  “Well, thank you for making time so quickly,” I tell him.

  Nowak, I decide, seems kind, sympathetic actually. And so does Detective Jane Corbet once she’s introduced. She rises, too, shakes my hand, and offers a smile. She’s probably in her late forties, with short, dark hair and brown, penny-shaped eyes. Her only makeup seems to be coral lipstick, half of which now appears to be on the rim of her coffee mug.

  I relax a little. Neither one of them looks ready to bite.

  “Please, Ms. Linden, have a seat,” the chief tells me.

  I settle across from them at the gray metal table. Corbet, I notice, has a folder to the right of her notebook. It’s fresh-looking and fairly slim, obviously not the file from years ago, which would surely be thick and dog-eared.

  “We look forward to hearing what you have to say,” Corbet says. “Do you need any water before we start?”

  “No, I’m fine, thanks.”

  “Why don’t you go ahead, then. And please, take your time.”

  I start. I describe, haltingly at moments, my trip home alone through the woods that Wednesday, with me eventually stumbling over a pile of leaves, realizing there was something buried under it, and then investigating. I explain how I tried to convince myself at first that I’d seen an old, discarded doll, how I agonized over whether to tell my parents or keep my discovery a secret so I wouldn’t end up in trouble; and how finally, on Friday, I confessed and my parents called the police.

  I glance at both people when speaking, but it’s clear to me from the sure-footed way Corbet takes notes
and manages to hold my gaze that she’s the key player here.

  As I finish, it occurs to me that I’ve barely taken a breath for the past ten minutes. I exhale quietly, waiting. Corbet lays down the pen she’s been using and looks at me intently.

  “That must have been such a traumatic time for you, Ally,” she says. “I’m sorry you had to go through all that.”

  I almost tear up. She’s not passing any judgment, not looking at me as if I’m a naughty little liar.

  “I appreciate that, Detective Corbet. I’m the one who’s really sorry, though. I wish I’d told everyone the full story back then.”

  Her elbows are resting on the table and she flips over a hand. “Ally, you were only a kid. I’ve worked many cases involving young people, including sexual abuse cases, and children almost always hold back certain details, at least in the beginning. Some things are just too hard to say.”

  “Thank you for telling me that,” I say. It’s a relief to hear that another child might have done the same as me.

  “And kids worry, too, about how adults will respond,” she says. “It sounds like you were scared your parents would punish you for going home via the woods.”

  I instinctively jerk forward, like I’m trying to catch something that’s about to spill.

  “No, they wouldn’t have punished me,” I correct her. “My father’s a very kind person, and so was my mom. But they’d told me not to go into the woods without an adult, and I didn’t want to disappoint them. And once I decided to admit I’d dawdled at school and taken the shortcut, I was afraid to make things worse for myself by saying I’d waited two days to report what I found.”

  “Okay,” she says, scribbling down a few words. “I hear you.” She uses her thumb to flick back through a few pages. “This has been very helpful, but let me review a couple of details. I want to be sure I have the sequence of events down pat.”

  “Of course.”

  She scans the page, without her gaze seeming to light on anything, and finally glances up. “The day you actually found the body was on . . . ?”

  “Wednesday.”

  “And you’re pretty sure of that? Not, let’s say, Tuesday?”

  “I’m sure.” On Tuesdays my mother and I always had what she called our “tea date” after school, and she would have picked me up.

  “And you took the shortcut so you wouldn’t be late?”

  “Right.”

  “At about what time did you find the body?”

  “Around three thirty, I guess, or maybe a few minutes before.”

  She drops her gaze slowly to her notes and then looks up again, her eyes leveled at me.

  “What held you up at school that day, do you remember?”

  “I don’t remember very clearly, but I have this vague sense of watching some older kids on the soccer field. I didn’t realize how long I’d stayed.”

  “Had you ever taken that shortcut before?”

  “Only with my mom, and only a couple of times.”

  “You discovered the body along the shortcut?”

  “Uh, not exactly. It was a little farther away. I guess I’d wandered off the path by mistake and I was trying to make my way back. That’s how I ended up trampling through the pile of leaves.”

  “And the day you reported what you’d found was . . . ?”

  Why isn’t that in her notes? Was she not writing everything down? I’m suddenly remembering fragments of my sessions with the police years ago, when they repeated the same questions again and again.

  “Friday. I told my parents before dinner and the police came to the house a short while later.”

  She flips back another page, squinting as she scans it.

  “Is there any chance you actually found the body the day before and don’t recall correctly?”

  I shake my head. “Definitely not. I remember two nights of lying in bed and worrying and then finally getting up my nerve to talk to my mom and dad.”

  She nods and taps the open page of her notebook. “Great. I think I have the timeline down. Just a few more questions.”

  “Sure,” I say, relieved she’s almost done. “Any way I can help.”

  “Do you recall if the body was fully covered with leaves before you stumbled on it?”

  “I think so. I only knew something was there when I hit the body with my foot. And then I kicked more leaves off so I could see what was underneath.”

  “And did you recognize her?”

  Her question, which I hadn’t anticipated, makes my heart skip.

  “No. Like I said, at first I thought it was a doll, and even after that, I didn’t realize it was her.”

  “You knew Jaycee, though?”

  The police must have asked me the same thing years ago, but I don’t have any recollection of it.

  “I didn’t actually know her, but I’d seen her in the yard of her house. She lived a couple of houses down from a friend of mine.”

  I remembered feeling so sorry for her as she played with a stick in the dirt, dressed in ratty clothes. She seemed to be totally ignored by her family. And one day I’d seen her mother plop her down so hard she cried.

  Corbet leans forward, arms on the table. Her face is pinched in concern.

  “What happened to Jaycee, do you think? Why do you suppose she was killed?”

  This question startles me even more than the last one. How does she expect me to have an answer?

  “I have no idea. When I was a little older, I heard that the mother and her boyfriend had been suspects at some point.”

  “Do you think someone might have simply lost their temper and hurt her without really meaning to?”

  My heart’s racing now, like it wants to burst out of my chest. Where is she going with this?

  “God, I don’t know—but to me it doesn’t make any difference. It was a horrible, evil thing to do, no matter what.”

  Against my will, my eyes well with tears. and I have to brush them away.

  “I’m sorry,” Corbet says. “It must be upsetting to relive this. We’re almost done now. I know it was a long time ago, but is there anything else you recall that may be relevant? Did you notice anyone in the woods that day?”

  “No one,” I say, trying to regain my composure. “I remember looking behind me. And then I ran. I was scared.”

  “What about the spot where the body was? A piece of evidence that could have blown away by the time the crime scene unit arrived two days later?”

  “Nothing comes to mind, unfortunately.” Please, I think. I’m dying to be released from this windowless room. “I only remember leaves. And then seeing her. She was so pale. And her leg . . .”

  A memory wiggles through, not visual but tactile: the rigidity of her flesh as my foot made contact. “I’m just remembering this now,” I say. “Her leg. It felt hard when I touched it with my shoe. Stiff.”

  And when I leaned down and felt it with the tips of my fingers. But I don’t add that.

  I sense Corbet go on high alert, and she and Nowak shoot each other a look. It takes me a second to realize the meaning of what’s spilled from my mouth

  The body was hard to the touch. I know next to nothing about forensics, but I’m aware of what rigor mortis is. The stiffening of the muscles that occurs for a short time after death, then dissipates.

  All this time I’ve been holding a clue about Jaycee’s murder, maybe a critical one. And I’ve kept it to myself.

  19

  Is it significant?” I ask, hating how weak my voice sounds. Of course it’s significant. But I need Corbet to tell me how much.

  “Hard like what?” she asks, ignoring my question.

  “Uh, like something frozen maybe.”

  “Are you sure you’re remembering correctly after all this time?”

  “Yes, I’m positive.”

  “Do you recall if you told the police this years ago?”

  “No, not in those words. I’m pretty sure I related the same thing I said to you earlier—th
at at first I thought I’d come across a doll. But I probably didn’t explain that was partly because her leg was so hard. . . . Is this something that could really matter?”

  “We’ll have to present this to the coroner and factor it in with other details from the case.” Her face is a blank now, giving nothing away. “But I’m glad you shared this with us, Ms. Linden. Was there anything else you recall?”

  “No, nothing,” I tell her. I’m so mentally drained right now it’s hard to imagine summoning another thought even if I had one.

  She turns to Nowak. “Chief, do you have any additional questions?”

  “No, I think we’ve covered everything. I want to thank Ms. Linden for coming in. It’s much appreciated.”

  Corbet concurs, capping her pen and wearing her sympathetic face again.

  Nowak shows me out, and when I reach the foyer, I’m dismayed to see that the only one there is the secretary, murmuring into the office phone. With a hand over the mouthpiece, she informs me that Roger has stepped outside. I find him leaning against the building, chin in hand.

  “Hey, sorry, I needed some— What’s the matter?” He’s clearly reading the distress in my eyes. “Didn’t it go well?”

  “I fucked up big-time,” I say.

  “In the interview?”

  “No, years ago—by not admitting when I found the body.”

  “Hold on,” he says, glancing around, “let’s jump in the car first.”

  As soon as we’re seated, I tell him about Jaycee’s leg, how her body must have been in rigor mortis when I stumbled upon it.

  “Okay, I’m not quite following,” Roger says. “I know the term rigor mortis, but not how it actually works.”

  “When you die, your body stiffens after a certain period of time, and then eventually—at least as I understand it—the stiffness goes away.” I stuff my hand into my purse and produce my phone. “Why don’t you drive—I need to get out of here—and I’ll google it.”