“What did he do?”
“He saved her.”
“How?”
“He picked up a baseball bat in the field and swung it into the guy’s back. Then he pulled the guy off Laura and beat the crap out of him. Laura ran the opposite way, into the woods, toward the north beach. You know, where they found her body.”
“What did the black guy do?”
“He followed her.”
“With the bat?”
Finn shook his head. “No. The bat was still lying in the field.”
“You’re sure about that?”
“I’m sure. I saw the black guy throw it away.”
“Then what?”
“Then nothing. I don’t remember any more.”
“Did you go home?”
“I told you, I don’t remember,” Finn snapped.
“This is important,” Tish said. “You have to think.”
Finn’s face twitched. “Don’t you think I want to remember? After that, it’s all black. I don’t know what happened. I don’t remember anything at all.”
20
Stride watched the face of the county attorney, Pat Burns, as Tish recounted Finn’s story. Her brown eyes were intense and focused behind her half-glasses, but he couldn’t see belief, disbelief, surprise, or worry. When Tish was done, Pat reclined in her swivel chair behind her desk and slid the end of her glasses between her teeth. She considered Tish without saying a word.
“You’re a writer, Ms. Verdure,” Pat said. “What’s your interpretation of what Finn told you?”
Tish glanced at Stride, who was seated beside her in front of Pat’s desk. “I think this changes everything,” she said.
“How so?”
“Well, isn’t it obvious? The whole theory behind Dada committing the crime was that his fingerprints were on the bat. Now we know why. It wasn’t that he attacked Laura, it was that he rescued her by fighting off Peter Stanhope. Peter was trying to rape her. They weren’t dating. There was no secret meeting planned. He assaulted her, and then this black man Dada broke it up.”
“According to Finn, Dada was the one who followed Laura toward the beach where her body was found,” Pat pointed out.
“Yes, but without the bat. That’s important.”
Pat nodded. “Isn’t it odd that he would remember a detail like that so clearly?”
“He remembered it, that’s the main thing.”
“So he says.”
“Are you saying he’s lying?”
“I have no idea, but why didn’t he come forward back then? Why wait thirty years to tell this amazing story?”
“He told me that he blacked out the entire night. For months, he didn’t remember a thing. He didn’t even remember being there. It’s only come back to him in flashbacks. Recovered memories.”
“Recovered memories aren’t very reliable. Juries don’t like them.”
“Except his story fits the facts.”
“Yes, you’re right. It does.” Pat looked at Stride. “What do you think, Lieutenant?”
“I’d say that Finn was telling the truth, up to a point,” Stride said. “His story about what happened in the softball field with Laura and Dada makes sense. His motive for coming forward now is another question. I also don’t know whether he’s telling us everything he remembers.”
“Why do you think Finn chose to come forward now?” Pat asked Tish. “Did he say anything about that?”
“I think he felt guilty for keeping it secret for so long.” Tish hesitated. “Also, I don’t believe he’s well.”
“You think he’s ill? Is it serious?”
“He told me his liver was failing. He has a long history of drug and alcohol abuse.”
“The perfect witness,” Pat said, with a thin smile. She added, “If you don’t mind my asking, Ms. Verdure, what exactly do you hope to accomplish by writing this book?”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, is your motive to make a lot of money? Is it to get publicity and headlines?”
“I want justice for Laura,” Tish said. “That’s all.”
“In other words, it’s important to you that your book somehow ‘solves’ this case.”
Tish nodded. “Mark Fuhrman wrote a book about the Martha Moxley murder in Connecticut, and now someone’s finally in jail for the crime.”
“I have to tell you, Ms. Verdure, if that’s your goal, you’re setting yourself up for a big fall. I’m sure Lieutenant Stride has explained the challenges of conducting a prosecution on a case where we have so many missing witnesses and so much missing evidence.”
“Yes, he has,” Tish replied, “but I’m bringing you material you’ve never had before. New evidence. New eyewitnesses. I want to know what you’re planning to do about it.”
Pat folded her hands together. “What do you want me to do about it?”
“I want you to seek a motion compelling Peter Stanhope to provide a DNA sample that the police can match against the evidence on the stalker letter and at the crime scene.”
“No,” Pat said.
“No? That’s it?”
“That’s it.”
Tish pushed the chair back and stood up. “I can’t believe this. We have a witness who proves that Stanhope was lying about what happened that night. If we can match his DNA, we can prove that he was stalking Laura. That’s not enough?”
Pat shook her head. “No, it’s not. For one thing, Finn never mentioned Peter’s name. He admits he couldn’t identify the boy who was with Laura.”
“But Peter already placed himself with Laura in the softball field with his own statement. He never denied he was there. He blamed Dada for the assault, but Finn’s statement proves that’s not what happened.”
“Not necessarily. Finn says it was dark. He could easily have misinterpreted what was happening between Laura and the boy in the field. He could have misconstrued Dada’s actions, too.”
“You want to bury this because Peter is one of your political allies, right? I know how the game is played.”
“You don’t know a thing, Ms. Verdure,” Pat snapped. “I’m not going to seek a motion based on fragments of recollection from a notorious drug addict who has remained silent about this case for decades. It would be an abuse of my authority, and no judge would even consider it. In addition, I’m not going to seek a motion because it would not further a prosecution in this case. Even if I could prove that Peter Stanhope was stalking Laura, I wouldn’t have nearly enough evidence to sustain a murder charge. Until I am convinced we have something to prosecute, I’m not going to go out on a limb. Is that clear?”
“What kind of catch-22 is that?” Tish asked. “You can’t get evidence unless you’re ready to prosecute, and you’ll never be ready to prosecute without evidence. In other words, you’re going to do nothing.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“It sure sounds like it.” Tish added, “You know, I haven’t talked to the national press yet, but maybe it’s time I did.”
“If you bring in the national news media, you lose control of the story,” Pat replied. “That’s not going to help your book. Media pressure often has the opposite effect of what you intend.”
“I’ll take that risk,” Tish said.
“Ms. Verdure, you’ve given us a new angle to investigate in this murder, and we will investigate it. Just not the way you may want us to.”
“What do you mean?” Tish asked.
Pat gestured to Stride. “Lieutenant, do you want to explain?”
“We’re going to take a close look at Finn’s story,” Stride told Tish.
“That’s good. That’s what I want.”
“But this isn’t just about Peter Stanhope,” he added.
“What do you mean?” Tish asked.
“I mean that Finn put himself at the scene of the murder with his statement,” Stride explained. “We had no idea he was there until now. He admitted to you that he was following Laura that night. So yes, I want t
o know what Finn thinks he saw. But the reality is, he just made himself a suspect, too.”
21
Stride took a left exit off the interstate and headed for the steep span of the Blatnik Bridge. The narrow crossing over Superior Bay was also known as the High Bridge, a nickname held over from the days when the second bridge between the cities of Duluth and Superior was the lowly Arrowhead Bridge. Ever since the Bong Bridge had opened in 1985, and the Arrowhead Bridge was torn down, the two bridges had provided identical clearance for ships, about 120 feet from the roadway to the cold waters of the harbor. But for locals, the Blatnik Bridge would always be the High Bridge.
Police on both sides of the bay hated the bridge. Fog, ice, and snow caused numerous accidents. Wind blew cars and trucks across the lanes. Jurisdiction was always a headache, because the state line cut right through the center of the bridge. Then there were the citizens who used the High Bridge like the Golden Gate, as a favorite spot for suicides. The Blatnik offered no pedestrian walkway, only a gravel-strewn shoulder and a three-foot concrete barrier. Leave your car at the height of the span, get out, and take a three-second journey to neverland.
Stride had seen the bridge from both sides, helping untangle wrecks on the highway in the fog and sailing under the bridge in Coast Guard boats as they trolled for bodies. To him, the bridge meant death.
He drove fast in the left lane, crossing under the blue steel arch of the bridge and descending into the decay of northern Superior. He made his way off the highway onto Tower Avenue, driving past shuttered storefronts, where the main street was a ghost town. The two cities were known as the Twin Ports, but Superior was the poor sister, its population declining, its economy staggered by industrial decline. No one made money here. No one built houses. Everyone looked for work and staved off the wolf at the door.
Stride drove south, past the city’s small retail strip into the low, empty land. He turned onto a dirt road that led across a series of railroad tracks. The home that Rikke and Finn Mathisen shared was on a two-acre lot at the end of the developed land, where the road ended in waste and fields. The grass on the square lot was long. Oak trees yawned over the three-story Victorian house. Blue paint chipped away from the siding.
He parked his Expedition across the street and got out. He was immediately adjacent to an unguarded railroad crossing, where nothing but a white X marked the tracks. Tilting poles of telephone wires paralleled the railway. Stride could see a train rumbling between houses a quarter mile away. Its whistle blasted through the quiet in several staccato bursts. When it stopped, he noticed the calmer noise of wind chimes tinging from the Mathisen porch.
It was nearly eight o’clock on Thursday evening. On sunny summer nights, there would be more than an hour of light left, but the clouds overhead were thick and gray, making the dusk look like night. A steady breeze blew dust off the dirt roads. Hot, humid air came with it. Stride walked up the sidewalk, where green grass pushed between the squares of pavement. He noticed a driveway leading to a detached garage behind the house and saw a 1980s-era tan Impala parked in the weeds.
The wooden steps to the porch sagged under his feet. He went up to the front door and peered inside, seeing lights downstairs. When he rapped his knuckles on the door frame, he saw a tall, stocky woman emerge from the kitchen with an apron tied around her waist. She answered the door, and Stride saw an older version of the woman who had taught him math during his junior year in high school.
“Can I help you?” she asked, drying her hands on the flowers of the apron. Under the apron, she wore a collared white knit shirt and shorts. The windows were closed, and the air from the house was stale and warm.
“Ms. Mathisen?”
“Yes.”
“My name is Lieutenant Jonathan Stride. I’m with the Duluth police. You wouldn’t remember me, but you were my math teacher for a year back in high school. That was longer ago than either of us would like to admit, I think.”
Rikke didn’t smile. “Police?”
“Yes, I was hoping to talk to Finn.”
“He’s not here.”
“Do you know when he’ll be back?”
“No.”
“Well, do you mind if I come in? I’d like to ask you a few questions, too.”
Rikke didn’t rush to invite him inside. “You said you’re with the Duluth police? Shouldn’t you have someone from Superior with you? This isn’t Minnesota, you know.”
“I know, but that’s not actually necessary,” Stride told her. “This won’t take long.”
Rikke shrugged and opened the door. Inside, the old house was decorated with worn throw rugs woven in diamond patterns and half a dozen clay pots of drooping philodendron plants. He noticed two skinny cats wandering across the wooden floors. A fine layer of cat hair had settled over the living room furniture, and he caught a whiff of ammonia. He sat down in an uncomfortable Shaker chair. Rikke untied her apron and sat on the sofa opposite him. She picked at the fraying fabric and pulled white foam from the arm of the sofa. An orange tabby walked across her lap.
“What do you want?” she asked.
He tried to picture the twenty-something teacher inside her. Back then, she had been tall and fit, with wavy, flowing blond hair and Nordic good looks. She had intense blue eyes and large circular glasses propped on her high cheekbones. Full, ripe breasts swelled underneath her white sweaters and defied gravity. Her fleshy, strong thighs bulged out of her jeans. She had a severe way about her in the classroom, like a dominatrix. They joked about it in the locker room. “Teacher, I’ve been bad.”
Thirty years had taken a toll on Rikke. She was heavier, with cellulite dimpling her legs. Her blond hair was short and came out of a bottle. Her face was rounded and jowly. She no longer wore glasses, but her eyes were as fierce as he remembered, like two globes of azure ice. He noticed that one breast sagged like a melting snowman across her chest, and where the other breast should have been, the fabric of her shirt puckered over empty space. A pink ribbon was pinned to the pocket.
“You taught algebra, didn’t you? Or was it geometry?”
“Geometry.”
“But not anymore?”
“Not in a very long time.”
“I have it right, don’t I? Finn lives here with you?”
“Yes, he does.”
“He’s your brother?”
“That’s right.”
“It’s unusual to find a brother and sister who have stayed together so long,” Stride said.
“Finn’s had a hard life,” Rikke replied. “He’s seven years younger than I am, and he’s always needed someone to look after him.”
“Why is that?”
“Why do you care? Do you suspect Finn of having done something wrong?”
“Not at all.”
“Then why are you here?”
“Finn provided some information that’s pertinent to one of our investigations,” Stride told her. “Candidly, I’m trying to assess his credibility as a witness.”
“What investigation?”
Stride didn’t reply.
Irritated, Rikke pushed the cat off her lap and pulled at her shirt. “What do you want to know?”
“Tell me about his background. You said he had a hard life.”
“Finn and I grew up in North Dakota,” Rikke replied. “Our father was killed in a car accident when Finn was ten. Our mother died five years later. I had just graduated with my teaching license at the time. I took Finn, and we moved here. I got a job. I bought this house with the money we got from selling the farm. I was hoping to give us a fresh start, but for Finn, the wounds went too deep. He spent years on drugs. He’s still drinking himself to death. Sometimes I think I should have kicked him out and let him stand on his own two feet, but I was the only family he had. I wasn’t going to turn my back on him.”
“That can’t have been easy.”
“I didn’t say it was.”
“Do you remember a girl named Laura Starr?” Stride asked.
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The muscles in Rikke’s face tightened. Her cheeks bloomed with pink circles. “Yes, of course.”
“A journalist named Tish Verdure is writing a book about Laura Starr’s murder,” Stride said.
“So I hear. I read the papers.”
“Finn told Tish he was in the park the night Laura was killed.”
Rikke shook her head. “Finn said that? No, that’s not right.”
“You think Finn is lying?”
“He may be making up a story to impress this woman, but more likely, his mind is pulling together bits and pieces of things he’s read about the murder over the years. Finn’s mental state is highly unreliable, Lieutenant. Drugs and drink have fried his brain since he was a boy. He doesn’t have a solid grasp on what’s real and what’s not, certainly not after so much time has passed. I assure you, he wasn’t there.”
“It was a long time ago,” Stride said. “How can you be so sure?”
“You think I ever let Finn drive back then?” Rikke asked. “He never had a car. The only way he got anywhere was if I drove him. That night, we were both at home watching the fireworks.”
Stride leaned forward with his hands on his knees. “Did Finn know Laura?”
“Yes, we both did.”
“I understand Finn was in love with her.”
“Finn? Puppy dog love maybe. Nothing more. Laura was one of my favorite students-a sweet girl, very pretty, very quiet. She wanted to be a counselor for teenagers in dysfunctional families. She was passionate about it. I encouraged her to spend time with Finn, because I thought it would help them both. To her credit, she really devoted herself to Finn. I think she made a difference with him, and I’m sure he was grateful to her. To him, that was probably love.”
“What else can you tell me about Laura?”
“You should probably talk to Tish about her,” Rikke said. “The two of them were best friends for a while.”
“For a while?”
Rikke cocked her head. “Yes, they certainly weren’t friends at the end.”
“Oh?”
“God, no. They broke up very badly. Laura came to me in tears.”
In the Dark aka The Watcher Page 16
