Stranger in the Room

by Amanda Kyle Williams

  “I don’t know,” I admitted, frustrated. “Or why on earth this would be connected to Miki.” I had lectured Rauser in the past about the dangers of working on a gut feeling rather than simply analyzing the physical evidence. But I had a hunch big-time, and it wasn’t letting go of me. “Who’s working on your victimology?”

  Getting to know the victim is essential in understanding the offender and motive. And it’s the most difficult part of an investigation. You can no longer label them merely as “victim” once you learn the details of their lives. You’re no longer psychologically protected when they become real, when you look right at their pain or terror. But it’s just as indispensable as physical evidence in establishing a correct pool or class of suspect and determining who had access to the victim’s life, when, and why.

  “Bevins and Angotti are doing vic on both cases.”

  “Look how red this balloon is, Rauser. And clean. No dirt. It’s not faded. It’s new to this environment. And think about the body fluids on both victims. And the rope. Jesus.” My mind was racing. “The rope that was holding Kelly’s head back. The thinner one, the twine. It’s about right for the gauge used to strangle Troy Delgado.”

  Rauser scratched the back of his head and scowled down at me.

  “Oh come on,” I told him. “This is why you brought me, right? What’s the harm in having your fiber guys compare them? And the fluids at the lab. Either the evidence will support the theory or not.”

  His phone rang. He answered and listened. “Where?” A pause. “I’m on my way.” He clicked his phone off hard, like he wanted to punish it. “The volunteer driver’s missing Honda turned up. It’s in the garage at the station.”

  “At the police station?”

  “You believe that shit? Blood on the passenger’s seat. Probably shot the old guy as soon as he forced him into the vehicle. They dug out a nine-millimeter slug. Showy bastard put it right under our nose.”

  14

  White Trash met me at the door squinty-eyed and stretching, plowed into my ankles, herded me toward the kitchen. I dutifully pulled the Reddi-Wip can from the fridge. She sat up on her hindquarters like a kangaroo. I harrumphed, remembering my mother saying Miki had been teaching her tricks. Riight. As if this animal were trainable. Absurd. The only reason she even consents to using her litterbox is that she prefers it.

  “You want some whipped cream?” I used my high voice, the one reserved for animals and babies. White Trash rolled over. “Sonofabitch. I do have a trick cat.” I couldn’t believe my eyes. She then sat like a trained dog and gazed up at me. I doled out a generous tablespoon on a saucer.

  I leaned against the counter and watched her. The last couple of days had settled in my shoulders and neck. A shot of something strong would have been nice. I squirted some Reddi-Wip into my mouth, tried not to think about Troy Delgado facedown in dirt and trash. I thought about him anyway. And his mother watching us from that window. Her house must seem so quiet now. I thought about the man in the lobby with thick soles, about Donald Kelly’s body dangling in Miki’s doorway, about the Delgados’ mail and trash being inspected, the dog treats, drills and toggle anchors, surveillance, location selection, timing, gloves, lures, tools, scene staging, and weapons carried to scenes. So many more commonalities. An old man. A young boy. And my cousin. What was the connection? Was there a connection? I thought the physical evidence would confirm what I felt in my gut. I rubbed my eyes. I needed to let go and trust Rauser and his investigators to follow up. I needed to get back to Creeklaw County and figure out what was going on at Northeast Georgia Crematorium. I needed to collect my big fat check from Larry Quinn so I didn’t have to worry this month.

  I reached back into the fridge, and that’s when I noticed the bottle of Jameson sitting on my counter. I looked at it for a few seconds, then cupped my hand around it, just to feel it alone here in my kitchen, the smoothness of the bottle, the shape. It was all part of the ritual of addiction. It’s not just about the product inside. When I want it, my whole body wants it. My eyes and nose and mouth and fingertips.

  I unscrewed the top, brought the bottle to my nose, closed my eyes, inhaled it slowly. It had been so long. And still so familiar. My entire body was alive to the warm, woody scent.

  Just one. What’s the big deal?

  I took a glass from the cabinet, set it next to the bottle, then poured two fingers and swirled it around, watched it coat the glass, cling to the sides like liquid gold. I could feel it in my throat and in my chest, all the way to my stomach.

  I didn’t lift it to my lips. I didn’t pour it out either.

  I wandered into my living room, where I have a workstation overlooking Peachtree Street, the only piece of furniture I’ve added to my rambling, nearly empty loft in the last year. I buy a piece here and there when something looks right and there’s money in my pocket. The two don’t always happen at the same time. It’s sleek and white, kidney-shaped, with a pull-out tray for my laptop, a modern extravagance I couldn’t resist.

  I sat down, pulled a pen from a cup on top of the desk. All I could think about was that glass sitting on my counter, that aroma still fresh. Damn Miki. She had to be the one who left it there. And me, what the hell was I doing? I wasn’t drinking it, but I wasn’t saying no either. I was dangerously close and I knew it. I’d left that glass on my counter, beckoning, inviting. I told myself I was postponing that drink. I wasn’t. I was giving my drunk’s brain time to make it okay. Because if you want it bad enough, you can find a way to justify it.

  I remembered Miki’s drunken behavior at the bar and her shitty defensive attitude, all her excuses about why it was okay to stay fucked up all the time. As long as you get your award nominations. I felt my temper spark. I walked back into the kitchen, emptied the glass in the sink, then tipped the bottle into the drain and watched it empty out. I turned on the faucet and ran water until I couldn’t smell it anymore. When do the cravings stop? I needed a plan for these moments. I needed to go back to AA and make nice with my sponsor. I remembered when I could pick up the phone and call him—the voice of reason. He’d been sober for twelve years.

  White Trash followed me back into the living room. I glanced at the Fox Theatre across the street, another beautifully odd and elaborate piece of construction on the National Register of Historic Places. A limo was parked at the entrance, blocking one lane on Peachtree Street, flashers blinking. I glanced at the marquee. Janet Jackson. I strained to get a look. Come on, it might have really been Janet Jackson out there in the limo, smoke-and-mirrors Jackson, every bit as mesmerizing as her brother had been. I waited to see if a limo door would open. It did. And there she was in bleached-out, ripped-up blue jeans and a white shirt with the tail tied up—abs breaking out everywhere. Someone on the street must have yelled, because she smiled and waved. Even ten floors up, the cheekbones and white teeth nearly toppled me off my chair. Rauser would have lost it. He adored her. Almost as much as he loved Jodie Foster, which was too much. It was a little creepy. I think he was secretly convinced he’d meet Jodie one day and she’d realize that she had been living a lie. I’d opened his laptop one afternoon at his house to look for something online and been confronted with wallpaper of Jodie Foster in a wife beater, hands running through wet hair, intense blue eyes, biceps sculpted, and so porcelain perfect I immediately had to wrestle down a million juvenile tendencies just to keep from spewing insecurities all over him. It was one of those moments when you realize that no matter how good the man, how devoted, how madly in love he is with you, he has an interior life full of sexual fantasies about women you will never physically measure up to, and he will never, ever understand why it bothers you.

  I pulled out my legal pad and titled a line Physical/Behavioral Evidence, then skipped a line, titled the next one MO, Signature, Location, Time of Day, Victims. I remembered Rauser grouching about what could link the victims, about the seventy-seven years between them. Bevins and Angotti were doing a victimology, getting to know the v
ictims’ preferences, lifestyle, sexual habits, professional life, family unit; the person they are with friends, with family, at work; piecing together all the contradictions that make up a human being. But what could connect a sheltered thirteen-year-old and a supervised elderly man who lived in an assisted-living facility?

  I started filling in what blanks I could—ritual display of corpse, surveillance, shoe print, blood in Honda, shell casing in Honda, wall anchors, dog treats, unknown fluid. I stared at the legal pad, then wrote balloon. Wrapping paper. A calling card? This is the way I organize my thoughts—make lists, think, ask questions. Getting to the right questions was the trick. Donald Kelly, Troy Delgado, and Miki Ashton. Were they connected? I believed it more as each moment ticked by. But how? Something about them had caught his eye. Three victims, one living. What was it? A place they’d all visited? A restaurant? A grocery store? Something they all had an affiliation with, perhaps. Could it be something the Delgado parents were involved in, rather than the child? A political group? A club? The man in Miki’s window had the opportunity—perhaps many opportunities—to kill her. But she was alive. Another big question mark.

  I glanced back at the Fox. The limo was gone. I am privy to a lot of the comings and goings of performers across the street. Celebrity buses and limos unload their big shots hours before showtime and I see them striding in importantly while personal assistants and security personnel hurry them toward the dressing-room tower, all five floors of it. Tractor-trailers unload equipment in the alley, then flood the cafés and coffee shops and hotels along the street with stagehands and groupies who entertain everyone with their superstar stories. And from these windows I’ve witnessed beggars being picked up by cops in the early mornings when Atlanta needs to put on its makeup for a Super Bowl or the Olympics or some big conference. Lord knows where these people are dropped off. Not one cop I know will admit to the practice, including the one who shares my bed several nights a week, even though I have seen it with my own eyes. Cops are like that. It’s a loyalty that surpasses other allegiances.

  My phone rang. Neil’s name came up on caller ID. “When are you coming back?”

  “I’m leaving in the next hour. I’ve been with Rauser at crime scenes all day.”

  “Oh joy,” Neil said. “That always works out so well.”

  Neil and I had agreed to take on a consulting job last year with APD, and it ended up flipping our world on its head. “Lot of weird stuff happening here,” I told him.

  “Yeah, well, lot of weird stuff happening here too. There’s something funky going on with these ashes.”

  “Please tell me you didn’t mess with that sample.”

  “Here’s what happened,” Neil began to explain. I braced myself. When Neil starts out that way, it almost never ends well. “I went into Big Knob earlier. Man, this place is a trip.”

  “Uh-huh.” I checked White Trash’s food and water bowls, then adjusted the air conditioner. White Trash likes it warm. “How much marijuana was involved?”

  “Okay, so I got pretty high after breakfast, but hey, there’s fucking nothing to do.”

  “So we still have the sample from Huckaby’s urn, right? I was molested by a rottweiler for those ashes.”

  “Oh yeah. We have a sample, all right. But it doesn’t look much like it did.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” I said good-bye to my cat, locked up, and headed for the elevators.

  “Well, see, I saw this store that has all kinds of hobby shit. Model airplanes, stuff like that. So I got this idea and, well, I might have decided to add water to the ashes and pour them in an ice tray.”

  “You have got to be kidding.” Finding out Neil got stoned and acted on some harebrained notion was not nearly as shocking as discovering I had a trick cat, but it was supremely annoying. Another craving for a drink slapped me hard a couple of times. It was also my week to see Dr. Shetty, I remembered. For the last four years, we’ve had a Thursday appointment twice a month. I don’t know how she remains professional while listening to the same whiny crap over and over. This is a classic example of why I’d never even once considered having a private practice of my own. I’m so me, me, me when I’m in her office. I’d be screaming at patients, Shut the fuck up. But there seems to be no statute of limitations on my crazy or on her patience. To be honest, I use her for many things, a sounding board, a way to stay sober and avoid the AA meetings I’ve neglected and the sponsor that held me together early in my sobriety. Dr. Shetty does not require an intimate connection. Our intimacy is achieved through the psychodynamic therapy process, which doesn’t make me feel like I’m choking. She does not look at me with soft eyes or try to hold my hand like they do at AA. The program saved my life. But sometimes the very last thing I want is for someone to be sweet to me. How can you hold together in the face of that? Dr. Shetty maintains a professional distance. As far as I can tell, she has absolutely no feelings whatsoever. It works for us both.

  “At what point did it make sense to you to pour water on Huckaby’s ashes?” I asked Neil.

  “It’s not like it was evidence the cops could use anyway,” he said sheepishly.

  “What’s your point?” I pushed through lobby doors and walked to the garage. Miki’s Spitfire was parked where she’d left it. My car was parked next to it. I got in.

  “They have this stuff at the hobby store in little paper packages like flour, but it’s called decorative cement or something like that. So I bought some. Then I got a mini-ice tray and brought it all back to the hotel. And guess what? First of all, the craft cement-mix stuff looked just like the stuff in Huckaby’s urn when it’s dry.”

  “Really.” I waved at the attendant and pulled out onto Peachtree Street with the top down.

  “I’m telling you, Keye, side by side you could not tell them apart. That’s why I decided to add water. The lab isn’t responding to email or phone calls. I thought it was time to get this party started.”

  “And?” I was beginning to appreciate Neil’s peculiar genius.

  “It set up. I’ve got two hard-as-a-rock cement ice cubes sitting here. One made with Huckaby’s ashes. You can’t tell them apart.”

  I let that sink in. “Why on earth would he fill an urn with cement mix?” I wondered aloud. “Unless you don’t have cremains. I’ll be there in two hours. I think we should have a look at Northeast Georgia Crematorium before the sun goes down.”

  15

  The Kirkpatrick family had been part of Big Knob’s history since Creeklaw County was mapped out and named back in 1823. The Internet was loaded with their history, because Joe Ray Kirkpatrick’s great-grandfather was the first black man to own a business in Georgia. Somehow the Kirkpatrick family had managed to prosper even during the years with the most violent racial unrest. The Kirkpatricks had found their own Switzerland in Creeklaw County, where hooded men and torches had once terrorized the non-white population. In 1937, Northeast Georgia Crematorium opened for business. It was the oldest in Georgia, a kind of wholesaler that served the tristate area. The client base: morticians and funeral homes. No walk-ins, please.

  “You see these road names?” Neil wanted to know. He had a mapping program on-screen, and he was rolling two miniature cubes he’d made with cement around in his hand like marbles. “Loretta Ann Kirkpatrick Lane, Bobby James Kirkpatrick Drive, Kirkpatrick Road. What’s next? I Own the Fucking Road Road?” He snickered his sneaky, wet little George W. Bush laugh. “Jesus, why don’t they just pee on everything? Turn right here on Crematory Road.”

  “A lot of roads in rural areas are named after residents,” I explained. “Mail carriers in the early days needed—”

  “Keye,” Neil interrupted. “Whatev, okay? Keep your eyes on the road. I don’t want to have an accident out here in the sticks and wake up to banjos playing.”

  Gravel popped under my tires and red dust rose up behind the car like a jet trail. Half a mile down, we took our first far-off look at Northeast Georgia Crematorium and the prop
erty behind it, where the owners lived.

  I pulled over and reached across Neil for the binoculars in my glove box. The crematory was brick, reddish brown, one level, L-shaped, with rows of narrow tinted windows in the front. Looked like a million cheap office buildings I’d seen in small towns—uninviting, meant for work, not for visitors. A gravel road split off the front parking lot and curled around the building.

  No cars at the crematory. No lights, no sign of life at all. Not surprising on a Sunday. I wondered what happened if one was unlucky enough to need a crematorium on a weekend.

  The house rose up beyond rolling fields, flanked by woods, then mountains. There was a small lake, a few acres at most. Behind the house, I saw a red barn with white X-shaped braces on wide double doors. Equipment storage. The fields were mowed. Sixteen acres, Quinn had told me. They would need a tractor. I moved the binoculars around slowly, surveyed the property. No horses or cattle or dogs. Good news. The last time I’d met a field of cattle, they’d turned on me. More recently, the encounter with Tank, Huckaby’s rottweiler, had cured me of crotch-level dogs. I saw a couple of cats stretched out near the house. A partially enclosed chicken coop built with raw wood and wire was next to the barn. The framed-out wire door was open. A few chickens pecked around in the dirt. I saw a small room built onto the coop, also raw unpainted wood. The door was closed. Food storage, I assumed. A padlock hung off a steel hasp. “Who padlocks chicken feed?” I wondered aloud.

  Brenda Wade had been right about the way the property was laid out. The story about the crematory employee mixing the cement mix with the chicken feed made even less sense to me now. Northeast Georgia Crematorium sat on the frontage road at the end of the lane, a substantial distance from the house and barn and chicken coops. How would an employee manage this without being seen from the house? The land had leveled out here—a holler, as the locals call it, a nestled-in valley. My binoculars showed me bits of flaking paint around the window frames on a dated but stately eighteenth-century Georgian farmhouse with a slanted roof and stone chimneys running up each end, all the rage in the pre–Civil War South. French and Roman architecture wowed us a bit later, and the influence remained through Reconstruction. Then huge plantation homes with giant pillars and sprawling porches—Tara on steroids—began to dot the landscape. We are a mishmash of styles, a full-on architectural identity crisis. The South had reinvented itself many times since the Civil War turned previous incarnations to ash.