Truth and Consequences

by V. J. Chambers

  Iain glared at him. “Best that someone like you deserves.”

  Bennett’s eyes widened. “I don’t think I’m going to say anything else at all. Not if he’s here.”

  Iain shrugged. “Fine. Let’s get out of here.”

  Bennett leaned forward. “Just you and me, Elke. You stay, and send him out, and I’ll tell you everything.”

  “No,” said Iain, even as he saw Elke hesitating. He caught her eye and shook his head.

  Elke squared her shoulders and addressed Bennett. “I don’t see why you can’t tell me everything now.”

  “Because I don’t feel comfortable around him.” Bennett shot an annoyed glance at Iain. “I only want to be alone with you, Elke.”

  Elke got up from the table. “It’s obvious you have nothing for us.”

  “I do,” said Bennett. “Oh, I do. Don’t leave.”

  “We’re leaving,” said Elke.

  “I’ll tell you more if you tell me something,” said Bennett. “Is your skin as smooth as those girls’ skin was, Elke? Are you silky and soft under that suit?”

  Iain’s nostrils flared. He took Elke by the arm. “We’re leaving now.”

  “Tell me what color your bra is,” said Bennett.

  Elke flinched in spite of herself.

  Iain propelled her toward to the door and out of the interview room. They weren’t going to sit around and listen to any more of that.

  * * *

  Frankie was doing some digging into Noel Hughes, just as she’d promised Elke. Sure, she and Iain were off talking to that serial killer, who might likely have done it, but that didn’t mean they could slack off on their other suspects.

  First, she’d poured over old yearbooks, which were happily handed over by Gloria Fisher, who still believed that Noel was the murderer. Frankie didn’t find much. Noel was in the yearbook a fair amount, as was Allison. There were several pictures of them together. In one, they were in their cheerleading uniforms, arms around each other, grinning like Cheshire cats. In another, they were with one of the cheerleading coaches, a man who looked to be in his early twenties. In another, they were both in regular street clothes. Allison was miming kissing Noel on the cheek while Noel grinned for the camera.

  There wasn’t anything to find in the yearbook. If Noel had anything against Allison, it hadn’t been apparent.

  Frankie looked Noel up on Facebook, but Noel had set her profile to private.

  Gloria Fisher to the rescue again. She had the passwords to Curtis’s account, and he was still friends with Noel. Frankie was surprised by that. She figured that once you were convicted of murder, everyone would purge you from their friends’ lists. But Curtis, locked up in jail, was never on Facebook anymore, so maybe everyone had forgotten about him.

  Anyway, as handy as it was to have access to Noel’s account, it didn’t seem to be very helpful.

  It was a pain getting all the way back to the posts from five years ago. Facebook eventually let her get there, but it took a lot of scrolling and waiting. Why there wasn’t just some link somewhere with posts organized by year, Frankie didn’t know. Anyway, once she got there, all she could find were gazillions of posts about how sad it was to have lost Allison. Lots of tribute poems to her, pictures of flower arrangements, that sort of thing.

  She got back before that, looking for any sign of friction between the two of them.

  But they seemed to be happily interacting on Facebook, tagging each other in memes and surveys.

  Nothing to see there.

  She scrolled back up through Noel’s posts.

  And then stopped.

  Huh. That was interesting. There was a picture of Noel with the cheerleading coach from before. Only this wasn’t from high school. This was from two years ago. He had his arm around her, and they were both grinning at the camera.

  Frankie clicked on the picture and realized it was part of an album. She clicked through picture after picture of the two of them together. Under one, a comment read, Congrats, you two! Under another picture, it said, When are you setting the date?

  Setting the date? What?

  Frankie clicked out of those photos and scrolled some more. Yup, there was a status update. I’m engaged! it read.

  Engaged to the cheerleading coach? What was this school, some place where grown men hooked up with teenage girls all the freaking time?

  Well, whatever was going on, it was pretty clear that the cheerleading coach needed to be a suspect as well. Maybe Mr. Sanders hadn’t been sleeping with girls, but the coach looked pretty guilty. She wondered if she could find contact information on him from his Facebook page.

  She clicked his name and landed on his profile.

  The first post on his profile read, I still miss you every day, little brother.

  The second post on his profile read, I went to Dave’s Billiards today and thought of you, man. Still hard to believe you’re gone.

  Wait, what?

  Frankie opened up another tab and googled the coach’s name. First result to come up was an obituary. The cheerleading coach was dead. He’d died in a skiing accident a year ago.

  Well, being dead didn’t mean he hadn’t killed Allison, did it?

  Guy seemed like a jerk.

  Frankie clicked back to his Facebook profile and made a face at his profile picture, where he was grinning from ear to ear.

  * * *

  “Look, I’m not saying he wasn’t completely inappropriate,” Elke said from the driver’s seat. She was driving back from the prison after meeting with Bennett.

  Iain sat in the passenger’s seat. “He was horrible.”

  “Yeah, I mean, he was creepy.” She shuddered. “But, you know, maybe you pulled me out of there too fast.”

  Iain glared at the window, not looking at her.

  “I mean it,” she said. “I could have lied to him about what color my bra was. Maybe he would have actually given us some useful information.”

  “He didn’t have any useful information,” said Iain. “He was toying with us.”

  “We can’t know that.”

  “He has to understand that he can’t talk to you like that,” said Iain.

  “Well… I mean, what do you expect? He’s a creepy serial killer. He sees women as objects. Why would he talk to me any other way?”

  Iain turned to her sharply. “You’re not an object.”

  “I know that. You know that. So, if he says stuff, then I just don’t let it get to me.”

  Iain didn’t say anything.

  She stared ahead at the road. “You don’t agree with me?”

  “You can do that? Not let it get to you?”

  “Sure.” She had to admit it wouldn’t be easy. Something about Bennett’s voice was sort of… slimy, and she did feel a little gross, as though she might like a very hot shower.

  “Well, I don’t know if I can.”

  She turned to him. “You?”

  “Watch the road,” he muttered.

  She turned her head back forward. “What does it matter to you? He didn’t say anything to you except that he didn’t like you. Was that really bothering you? The fact that a serial killer doesn’t want to be your pen pal?”

  “No, I’m saying that I don’t like listening to him talk to you like that.”

  “Why not?”

  “I don’t know.” He sounded annoyed. “It just makes me want to…” He let out a frustrated breath. “I could punch him, that’s all. I thought if I stayed in there much longer, I might.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Oh, geez, Hudson. Of all people, I didn’t think you’d be the knight-in-shining-armor type.”

  “No?”

  She shot him a glance. Well, on second thought, he did have that history with Harley and her abusive husband, didn’t he? She was quiet, as another thought occurred to her. Harley’s husband, that Dale guy, had he bothered Iain the same way? Had he bothered him so much that Iain had reacted, except not with his fist, with a shotgun? She felt cold all o
ver.

  Iain sighed. “Sorry. I guess… I don’t know, maybe you’re right. Maybe I screwed everything up.”

  “Screwed what up?”

  “The interview with Bennett.”

  Oh, right. They were talking about that now. She shook herself.

  “Overall, I think it’s good, though. If we do go back, he knows now that if he goes too far over the line, you’re not going to stand for it. And above all, I think he wants to get under our skin. Hell, he could probably sense how angry he was making me. That probably gave him a little thrill, probably egged him on. If we go back, I’ll keep myself in control better.”

  “You think we should go back?”

  “No.” It was an immediate answer, forceful.

  “Really?”

  “I’m almost positive he’s lying. He didn’t kill Allison, and he’s just trying to get us in there so he can play head games with us. He’s bored. We’re entertainment.”

  “Well, your friend at the morgue did say that the cuts to the face were different, right?”

  “Right,” said Iain.

  “But he also said he couldn’t be sure they weren’t done by the same person.”

  Iain sighed again.

  She didn’t say anything.

  It was quiet. They drove in silence for several moments. Elke watched the telephone poles go past the car. They were small in the distance, then grew bigger and bigger, then disappeared.

  She moved her hands on the steering wheel. “Maybe Hart could come with me instead.”

  “No.” Even more forceful.

  “Because I’ll need you, the big man, to protect me?”

  “Jesus.” He slapped a hand down on the armrest.

  “What?” said Elke.

  “It’s not like that.”

  “Isn’t it?”

  “No, I know you can take care of yourself. I would never dare to say that you… need me, or a man, or… Damn it.” He rubbed his face. “Hell, Lawrence, half the time, I’m scared of you, so that’s ridiculous.”

  She turned to him sharply. “Scared of me?”

  “Watch the road.”

  She turned her gaze back, swearing under her breath.

  “Maybe I should drive.”

  She glared forward. “I can drive, thank you very much.”

  “You seem a little distracted.”

  “I’m fine,” she snapped.

  It was quiet again.

  She cleared her throat. “I scare you?”

  “You can be intense,” he mumbled. “I’m not good with, you know, emotions.”

  She rolled her eyes. But then she felt a little guilty. Her voice softened. “I don’t mean to scare you, Hudson.”

  He sighed. “It’s fine, really. It’s me. I’m the one who’s… different. Defective.”

  “You’re not defective.”

  “A little bit, I am.”

  “No,” she said. “You shouldn’t say things like that about yourself.”

  “Right,” he muttered. “I’m always forgetting that regular people don’t tell the truth about themselves. Regular people spin pretty little lies about themselves for some reason I can’t even fathom.”

  She licked her lips. “Hudson—”

  “Look, I’m sorry about it all. If we go back, I won’t screw everything up. Bring me with you, not Hart. Okay?”

  “Okay,” she said quietly.

  “But for what it’s worth, I don’t think we should go back.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  “So,” said Frankie, “how’d it go?” She was in the hallway of the office, and Elke and Iain were coming back from meeting with Mark Thomas Bennett.

  “Not well,” said Elke. “He said he wouldn’t tell us anything unless I told him what color my bra was.”

  Frankie made a horrified face. “That’s… that’s…” She shook herself. Then she lowered her voice. “Did you tell him?”

  “Of course not,” said Iain from behind her.

  “Hudson dragged me out of there,” said Elke. “He was scandalized.”

  “Well, good for Hudson,” said Frankie, nodding at him. “Clearly the right thing to do.”

  “Except we’re no further along with Bennett than we were,” said Elke.

  “I don’t think we need to concentrate on Bennett,” said Iain darkly.

  “But what if he did it?” said Elke.

  “He didn’t,” said Iain.

  “So,” said Elke, “who did?”

  “I might have something on that,” said Frankie.

  Elke raised her eyebrows. “You find something on Noel Hughes?”

  “Not exactly,” said Frankie. “Not Noel, but her dead fiancé, who used to be Allison’s cheerleading coach.”

  “Well,” said Elke. “That’s a twist.”

  “I’ve got more to look into with that,” said Frankie. “I’ll get back to you when I know something.”

  “I’m still looking into Sanders,” said Iain.

  “Oh, yeah, what happened with that last girl you talked to?” said Elke. “Did she clam up too?”

  “No, she talked a lot, but she apparently wasn’t one of the girls that Sanders was molesting,” said Iain. “So, she only knew rumors.”

  “You know,” said Frankie, “maybe it’s not a great idea for you to be the one interviewing these women who’ve been victims of sexual abuse.”

  “Me?” Iain pointed to his chest. “What is this? Accuse-Hudson-of-being-a-sexist-pig day?”

  “No,” said Frankie, looking confused.

  Elke turned to him. “I never said you were sexist.”

  Frankie tried a smile. “Look, all I mean is that, you know, these women might respond better to someone who is, you know, um…”

  “Female?” said Iain.

  “Warm,” said Frankie. “Approachable.”

  Iain sighed.

  Elke tapped her chin. “She has a point.”

  “The Sanders thing is mine,” said Iain. “I’m the one who’s been working late on that. I’ve done a lot of work on it already. You can’t just take it away.”

  “I’m not taking it away,” said Elke. She turned to Frankie. “Hart, after you interview the women, make sure to give a detailed report to Hudson about it, okay?”

  “Wait, I’m interviewing them now?” said Frankie.

  “Well, you’re the warm, approachable one,” said Elke. “I’m, you know, intense and scary.”

  Iain heaved another huge sigh. “That is not what I meant, and you know it.”

  Frankie furrowed her brow. “What is going on with you two?”

  “Nothing,” said Elke.

  “Nothing,” said Iain.

  They both headed back the hallway to their offices, leaving Frankie alone. She leaned against the glass wall. Okay, so she was looking into Noel and she was interviewing all the girls that Sanders had molested. That was fine. She could handle all of that. Sure. No problem.

  * * *

  It was the weekend, but Amos was staying in.

  His friend Tom had called him to come out to the Rainbow, but Amos wasn’t going because the last time he’d gone out, Tom had gotten drunk and made a pass at him. Amos wasn’t the least bit attracted to Tom, never had been. That was why they were friends and nothing more. So, he’d politely declined.

  The next morning, Tom had said he’d been drunk and it didn’t mean anything, and they’d laughed it off and both promised each other to pretend as if it had never happened.

  But ever since then, Amos had been thinking about Tom. How Tom was always calling him up and asking him to do stuff—to go out for drinks or to crash some art opening for wine and cheese or to go shopping for shoes. He was thinking about how Tom was always saying things about Amos’s appearance, calling him “gorgeous” or “sweet cheeks” or “pretty boy.” He was thinking about how once, when they’d first met, Tom had asked him to go out to this fancy restaurant with him, and when Amos had said, “It’s not like a date or anything, right?” Tom had said,
“Oh, no, it’s a group thing.” But when Amos had shown up, all the other members of the group had mysteriously dropped out at the last minute.

  Amos knew that sometimes, when a person was drunk, that person said things that were actually true. It wasn’t as if being drunk pulled completely random thoughts and inclinations out of thin air.

  He was pretty sure that Tom liked him.

  And Amos felt awful about it.

  Because he didn’t like Tom like that, but he liked him as a friend. Tom was a great friend, maybe his best friend, and now he was realizing that nothing was the way he thought it had been between them. All this time, Tom had been pining over him and never letting on. And now, Amos knew, and now everything was ruined. Amos wanted to call Tom and be there for him, tell him that the rat bastard who didn’t like him back was sick in the head and ought to be thrown in a mental institution. Except he was that same rat bastard. So he couldn’t.

  It wasn’t as if there was anything really wrong with Tom. He was nice, and he was a pretty attractive guy, and Amos got along with him great. They liked all the same things, and they already knew each other’s secrets. It seemed like a match made in heaven.

  Hell, if it were one of those awful romantic comedy movies, they’d end up together, because that was what always happened in those movies.

  Amos couldn’t explain why he wasn’t into Tom. It wasn’t something he could rationalize. It was just that there was no… spark when he looked at Tom. He didn’t feel that thing that he felt when he had a crush on another guy. Tom was his friend, end of story. Nothing was going to change that.

  Anyway, after realizing all of this, Amos couldn’t go hang out around Tom at the Rainbow. It was all too weird and tragic and hard.

  But after Amos worked through all the shows he’d saved on his DVR, it was only 9:00 on a Friday night, and Amos was bored. He tried to see if there was anything on actual live TV, but there wasn’t, because they didn’t put anything on on Friday nights, because everyone went out on Fridays.

  Maybe he could call someone.

  He whipped out his phone and began to scroll through his contacts.

  Oh, hell, there was that asshole Carlos Reyes. He should delete that jerk’s number.

  Amos’s finger hovered over Carlos’s name.