by Leah Stewart
Russell Freeland sits hunched over, his elbows resting on his knees, his clasped hands dangling between his legs, a reverse prayer. “We had issues,” he says.
“Racial?” I prompt, and he flashes his eyes up at me. “No.” It’s a reproach. “I mean, yes, that was true for our parents. We had other issues.”
He falls silent.
I take a guess. “She wasn’t faithful?”
He smiles without humor. “Does everyone know about it?”
“It was something Angela said, about her wanting to touch the whole world.”
“I guess you could put it that way,” he says dryly. He drops his gaze to his hands. “Have you ever been around someone who was so . . . charismatic . . . I was just so happy when she was around, I tried not to think about what she did when she wasn’t.” He takes a few shaky breaths. I watch a tear run down the length of his nose and hang there. He knocks it off. “I don’t know how to make you understand.” He looks up at me and holds out his hand to me. I take it. “I remember the first time I met her. She looks you in the eye like she knows you.” He drops my hand.
I notice this is the first time he’s used the present tense. “How did you know she was unfaithful?”
“She told me.” I must look surprised, because he says, “Oh, she never lied. It was more like, this is me. Take it or leave it.”
“Must be nice to have that kind of confidence.” I didn’t mean to say that out loud, but, when he answers, I know he must have thought about it too.
He says, “Some girls take it as a matter of course that every guy they meet will fall in love with them.”
I’m trying to decide if that edge in his voice is bitterness. I say, “And that gives them power.”
“Yes.” He lets out a long breath. “I let her get away with . . .” He swallows the word. Murder.
I let Russell talk, about how he and Allison broke up in college over her infidelities, about how they met again last Christmas, when he came home on break from law school in Knoxville. These are the words he keeps using: charisma, talent, electric, magnetic. But he can’t make me feel what it was like to be with her, any more than I can make him feel what it was like to see her dead, no matter how well I might describe her broken body in the dirt.
“Did your parents know about you?” I ask him.
“They knew we had seen each other before, you know, in college. But this time we decided to lay low until we were sure, because, why cause trouble. The mother . . . They ran these ads in the newspaper for the children’s hospital? She was cradling this black child in her arms, looking all tender. But you think she wanted me in her white house? And my father . . . to him it’s like abandoning everything he fights for.”
I lean in close. “Is that why you didn’t come forward before?”
“That, and . . .” He takes a breath. “I loved her.”
He doesn’t go on. I know what he means. To come forward will not be to assume his proper place as the grieving boyfriend. It will mean recriminations from his parents, most likely denials from Allison’s mother, questions from the police. For a while this will be the lens through which everyone sees Russell Freeland, his image shimmery and distorted on the other side of his love for her, her terrible death.
He tells me she was beautiful, which she wasn’t.
He tells me again that she was not a liar, which perhaps she wasn’t. There’s a difference between lying and not telling the truth.
He tells me she was a little bit wild, which she was, and I feel the moment has arrived.
“So you know about the drug use?” I study his face. He frowns.
“You mean like weed?”
I shake my head. “I mean the heroin.”
His face is a picture of disbelief. “What are you talking about?”
I let a long beat pass. “Look, Russell, Peter told me about the morphine.”
“Morphine?” he says. “Peter? I don’t understand.”
“The autopsy showed morphine in her bloodstream. Peter told me.”
He jumps to his feet. Coming in and out of shadow, he paces behind his chair. “First of all, that kid is fucked up. I wouldn’t believe a word he says. I don’t know what his motivation could possibly be for telling you that, even if it were true, but I don’t believe it.”
“I got confirmation,” I say quietly as he snaps, “What? What?” over the words. “I got confirmation,” I say again calmly. “Morphine. Heroin.”
He sinks back into his chair. “Maybe the guys who did this . . .” He swallows. “Maybe they gave it to her.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know,” he shouts. He jumps to his feet again. “Jesus, why did they do any of it?” He presses his fingers hard into his eyes. “Peter.” He shakes his head. “Why would he tell you that?”
“I don’t know. He needs someone to talk to.”
Russell laughs bitterly. “And he picked a reporter?”
Yes, I think. And so did you.
“Let me tell you something about Peter. The way he felt about his sister, it wasn’t normal.”
I frown. “What do you mean?”
“You know what I mean. He looked at her sometimes, and it wasn’t like a brother. It was like a man.”
This lodges like a rock in my throat. “You said she had that effect on men.”
“He was her brother!” he bursts out. He sets to pacing again.
“Did he know about you?”
“I don’t know. She could keep a secret when she wanted to, but they were close. She used to say he was like a part of herself. But for her, it was just sisterly. I don’t know if she knew . . . the way he was about her. She never felt like her parents were really there for him, so she thought she had to be. She protected him. When he was little, she did his homework.”
“When he got older . . .,” I prompt.
“I don’t know. She introduced him to her friends. She loaned him her car.” The mention of the car is a reminder; he stops talking, staring at the wall.
“Russell . . . those hours between when Allison left work, and when . . .” I stop and word it carefully. “When the neighbors say she got home. Do you know where she was?”
He shakes his head. “She was supposed to meet me for dinner. She never showed up. I called. She didn’t answer.”
“Did you leave a message?”
“Yeah, I . . .” He stares at me. “That means they know about me, doesn’t it.”
“What did you say?”
“Something like, I’m at the restaurant. Where the hell are you?” He grips the back of his chair. “I was pissed. I think I said, ‘Who are you with?’ ” Swallowing, he closes his eyes. “Oh God. I said, ‘Who the fuck are you with?’ ”
“You called from the restaurant. Did you say your name?”
“I don’t think so. So they don’t know who it is . . .”
“But they know you exist.” I go over to him and lay my hand gently on his arm. “I think it’s time you talked to the police.”
“I know,” he says. “I’m not looking forward to it.”
“They’re trying to figure out where she was those missing hours. It could be important.”
“All I can tell them is she wasn’t with me. So where was she?” We stare at each other. “You know where I’d start, if I were the one asking? I’d start with Peter.”
I look away. He sounds jealous of Peter. I’m starting with the morphine in her bloodstream. I’m starting with the heroin nestled behind her bed.
“All right.” He sighs. “You know these guys, the cops, right? Will you come with me?”
I hesitate. I have no idea whether my presence will help or harm him. I think, It’s the story. Follow the story. “Sure,” I say. “I’d be happy to.” I think of what Morris said the first day, that they’d be looking for the boyfriend. Here he is, making this story so easy for me, a present in my lap.
One thing I know, for Russell Freeland, it only gets harder from here.
&nbs
p; While Russell is with the cops, I make phone calls. First the newsroom to prepare them. Then the family. The mother leaves me in silence a few moments after I tell her. “All right,” she says finally. “Here’s what I want you to say. Are you ready to take it down?”
“Ready.” I tuck the phone under my chin and prop my notebook on the metal box.
She speaks slowly, letting me get every word. “While we have no reason to consider this young man a suspect, we have confidence that the police . . .” She pauses. “What do you think? Something general like, police are doing everything they can? Or something focused on him. Police will . . . no. How about, we’re sure he’ll help the police in any way he can.”
“Do you consider him a suspect?”
She sighs. “Don’t write this down, Olivia, but I’ll tell you. It makes me suspicious that he waited so long to say something. But if I accuse him, I might sound racist.”
“Yes.”
“And there’s really no reason, other than his silence, to think he could have done it.”
“Yes.”
“So let’s go with the general statement for now, don’t you think?”
I nod into the phone, taking it all down.
“And could you add something about how we’re sorry they felt they had to keep this relationship a secret?”
“Yes, ma’am,” I say. “I’ll put that in.”
“Thanks, dear,” she says.
After I hang up, I read over my notes. Tailor-made quotes, coming right up. There’s a quality to that woman that I admire, even as I begin to despise her.
I’m sitting on the bench outside homicide, idly paging through my notebook, my eyelids heavy with exhaustion. The story is written, except for a comment from the police, which I’m unlikely to get at this hour. They cleared space for me on the front page by cutting one of Evan’s Satanist stories.
Sergeant Morris comes out and crooks his finger at me. I follow him a little ways down the hall, and he puts his arm around my shoulders. We keep walking toward the exit. “Thanks for bringing him in,” he says. “You can go home now.”
“I’m waiting for a comment from you guys.”
“It’s too late for that,” he says. “Tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow it’ll be all over the TV.” I plant my feet, and he turns to face me.
“You don’t have to say it,” he says. “We owe you one. So we’ll talk to you first.”
“Promise?”
He laughs. “Promise.”
“How long are you keeping him?”
He shrugs. “We’re not charging him or anything. Just talking.”
“Is he a suspect?”
He sighs, rolling his eyes up to the ceiling as he recites, “We’re following all possible leads.”
“Off the record. Is Russell a suspect?”
“Olivia . . .”
“Is he a suspect?”
He looks at me hard. I open my mouth. Nothing comes out. “What do you think?” he says. Then he turns and begins his slow progression back down the hall. “He’s no murderer!” I want to shout after him. I don’t. I picture Russell Freeland waiting by the phone, heart in his throat, asking himself where she was, who it was this time. Everyone keeps telling me any woman could be a victim. What does it take to make a murderer of any man?
13
Last night when I got home, Hannah was asleep on the couch in front of the television. The light on the answering machine was blinking and when I played it I heard David, Carl, and Peter one by one asking me to call them back. Carl mentioned he’d seen me on television, his voice warm with admiration. I didn’t call any of them. I covered Hannah with a blanket and put the tape of Allison Avery in the VCR. With the sound turned down low I watched it over and over, pausing at various points to examine her expressions, as though each smile, each frown, were a possible answer to all the questions I wanted to ask.
When Hannah stirred and said my name I turned the tape off and we both went to bed. I don’t know what Hannah dreamed about. All night I kept waking up in the dark hot room with no idea where I was, my heart racing, my body as heavy against my damp sheet as if I’d been drugged.
This morning I drank two cups of coffee and stood in the shower for twenty minutes. Despite my three trips to the newsroom coffeepot my head still buzzes with exhaustion. I’ve called Peter and David. I’m meeting Peter Friday night. I’m seeing David Saturday. I’m putting off returning the call from Carl.
The police, of course, aren’t holding Russell, and all Lieutenant Nash will give me is that he isn’t, at this time, considered a suspect. I write that down: at this time. I couldn’t find Morris. Russell isn’t at work, and when I call the Freeland house I get his father. “Already,” he tells me. “Already we’re getting the calls.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“Stick to your own kind. And that’s the mildest of it.”
“I’m sorry,” I say. “Is Russell there?”
“My son has spoken to you enough already, Miss Dale. He has nothing further to impart.”
“But he came to me in the first place,” I say. “Are you sure he doesn’t . . .”
“He has nothing more to say,” the Reverend Freeland says. “Not even to you. I realize that this is your story, but Russell, Miss Dale, is my son.”
I write those words in my notebook. Your story. My son. I’d like to hurl the notebook across the room, watch it slap against the wall, all the heads in the newsroom turning to look in my direction with the same motion, the same curious eyes. Russell Freeland is starting to look like a dead end. I need something more. I am starved for information.
I keep thinking about all those tapes in the dead girl’s apartment, stacked precariously on the table and the floor. I need to see more of them.
Angela is not at work when I call, so I try her apartment, hoping that she’s home. She answers on the fourth ring. I ask her how she is, and murmur sympathetically when she says in a small voice that she guesses she’s okay. Then I tell her that I hate to bother her, but I think I lost an earring at Allison’s apartment. There is a silence when I’m through speaking. Then Angela says, “I don’t think I can go back there today.”
“That’s fine,” I say. “That’s . . .” Perfect. “Can I just come and get the key from you? I’ll bring it back. I’m sorry to bother you about this, but my mother gave me the earrings, so . . .”
“No, that’s fine,” she says. “Come on over.”
Angela comes to the door in a terry cloth bathrobe. She’s been in the shower recently, and her hair clings damply to her head. Her eyes are swollen, the skin beneath her nose chapped and red. She invites me in. When the door is shut I open my arms and she lays her head on my shoulder and lets out a long, shuddering breath. Over her shoulder I look around the living room. A pizza box is on the floor, dirty dishes stacked beside it. Papers and envelopes spill from the couch to the floor, and open photo albums lay on top of each other on the coffee table. Newspapers are strewn everywhere. The one on the couch is turned to the page with my story about the car. I can’t quite read my byline from here, but I can recognize the shape of my name.
I pat her warm, damp back and she takes a deep breath. “I’m sorry I lied to you about Russell. I had promised her, and a promise is a promise.”
“I understand.”
She steps away and studies my face. “Do they think he did it?”
“Do you?”
She shakes her head decisively. “He loved her.”
Yes, and isn’t that his motive? I say, “I know. He’s not a suspect.”
“Good.” She looks vaguely around the room. “I found some letters,” she says, waving a crumpled tissue in the direction of the couch. “From when she went away to camp.” I think she’s telling me this to explain her emotional state. I wonder how many days she’s spent like this. Her apartment, so neat when I first saw it, is starting to resemble mine in messiness. It’s starting to resemble Allison’s.
Angela drifts
over to the couch and picks up one of the letters. “ ‘There’s a really cool girl in my cabin named Susie,’ ” she reads. “ ‘She says she’s already French-kissed three boys. She says it just takes practice.’ ” She laughs and folds the letter in half, then sinks down onto the couch. “She wrote, ‘P.S. She’s not as cool as you.’ I guess she thought I’d be jealous.”
If I could I would gather those letters up, take them home and pore over them at my desk. I’d like to put them in chronological order, use them to chart Allison’s childhood, add them to the map I’m making of her life. This led to this led to this and that is why. Angela folds the letter again and presses it to her chest. I can’t think of a way to take it from her.
“I saw your story about the car,” she says. “Does it mean they’re getting closer to finding them?”
“It helps,” I say. “When they find them, the evidence in the car will help get a conviction.”
“The cops think they still have her underwear,” she says, her voice flat. “As a souvenir.”
“They might have her wallet, too,” I say. “If we’re lucky it will get them caught.”
Angela turns her face to me. “You’re doing everything you can, aren’t you?” she says. Her eyes well up.
I nod. A lump rises in my throat. I take a tissue from the coffee table and hand it to her. I ask her, as gently as I can, if I can have the key.
Alone in Allison’s apartment, I move from room to room, turning on lights. Someone has been here and cleaned up. The furniture has been dusted, clothes and dishes put away, even the shoes in the foyer lined up in neat rows. I picture her mother here, kneeling on the floor putting pairs together. Silver boots. Pink sneakers. Red high-heeled sandals. It seems wrong that these things go on existing without her, as though all evidence of her life should have disappeared when she did. Now everything she owned is neat and organized, and the apartment feels like a museum, a historic home. I should be standing behind a red velvet rope, looking at a pair of glasses on the desk, slippers beside the bed, all those careful, eerie touches meant to suggest the person who lives here has only just stepped out of the room.
