Mortal Fall

by Christine Carbo

  She shook her head in nearly imperceptible oscillations. “I don’t know, just wrong. I guess he thought all that tough discipline stuff was the way to help these kids—a lot of them were really nasty and mean, and us so young—you know, practically needing therapy ourselves, and here we were with all this power bestowed upon us. He, well, I don’t know, he was too harsh.”

  “How so?” I asked softly, but a squirrel in a plum tree began protesting, chip-chipping fiercely at a cat that had jumped up on the white wooden fence between her yard and the neighbor’s.

  “What’s that?” she asked, my voice having been drowned out by the squirrel’s objections.

  “How was he too harsh?”

  “He just . . . he did some cruel things.” She frowned and looked down and picked a stray piece of lint off her pant leg. The twinkle of amusement and reflection from her earlier story had faded, a shadow moving over her eyes like dark clouds across the sun.

  “Like making them carry buckets of water for hours and putting them in solitary confinement?” I asked, maybe a little too pointedly.

  “Yeah.” She clasped her hands together. “That kind of stuff, but again . . .” She looked at me. “Why does this ugly history have to be brought up? Does it really have anything to do with today?”

  “It could,” I said. “It very well could. If Mark was treating people that poorly, there might have been someone out for revenge.”

  “After all these years? That would be crazy.”

  I shrugged. “Again, Mrs. Hanson, I’m just being thorough. Sometimes in my business, you have to follow every path. Do you remember something in particular that Mark did that would make someone carry a grudge?”

  “There were a lot of incidents. That poor girl, Miranda, hanging herself.” Diane closed her eyes, and when she opened them, I nodded that I knew about the Miranda incident. “That was after I had gone. Thank God I wasn’t there to witness that. And”—she continued, her voice lowering as if to share a secret—“before that, there was another boy, a big, strong guy, but Mark couldn’t stand him—probably because he acted tough and he was competition to Mark on some level because, like I said, I think Mark was really immature and insecure himself. He disguised it well and acted all in control, but he could be really inappropriate, really mean and cunning. Mark made life especially hard for that kid. Adam, I think.”

  I could feel my entire body go rigid. I suddenly had an urge to leave, to not let her go on. I felt exposed even though I knew she had no clue that Adam was my brother. Probably even if she remembered his full name, she still wouldn’t connect the dots. Harris was a common name. “Made life hard for him how?”

  “He used to put him in that solitary confinement you were mentioning—in that awful shed—for hours. And one night, he got two of the other counselors to go with him: a guy named Elan and another named Ron. I only know this because one of them, Elan, felt so guilty about it, that he told me a few weeks later. That’s when I broke it off with Mark. I couldn’t date a guy like that. Someone who could do that.”

  “Do what?” I said coolly.

  “Just, you know, such weird, mean things.”

  I sat patiently, not saying a word until she offered more. A soft breeze rustled the leaves of a willow tree near her back fence and I could have sworn it was trying to tell me something, murmuring some warning to me in the soft sway of its long, drooping whips.

  She blew out a loud, frustrated stream of air. “Elan said because Mark was the leader, they felt they had to go along with what he said and yada yada.” She rolled her eyes. “All that crap—the power of suggestion and that high-testosterone mentality, I guess.”

  “What exactly did Elan say they had done?”

  “Are you going to use this information for anything particular? I mean, I’ve already talked to attorneys years back when that whole Miranda thing was going on, but they settled, so thankfully, I didn’t need to go sit on the witness stand. I really don’t want to dredge up—”

  “No.” I held up my hand to stop her. “There’s nothing to dredge up here. Again, I’m just trying to figure out what happened to Mark, and sometimes a person’s history can tell us a lot about the paths he ends up down later in life. That’s all,” I said calmly and reassuringly, trying my best to look professional and convince her that the things she might tell me didn’t count, as if I was only working a case gone cold and not the real, blood-pumping police investigation I was actually on. And, behind all that, as excited as I was to be working the case, a part of my conscience niggled that perhaps the things she told me didn’t matter in the scheme of my actual inquiries. So what if Mark Phillips wasn’t the most stellar young man around in his younger years? And so what if he worked at the same place my brother attended years ago? Did it really have any bearing on his life now, before the fall? Was I wasting my time? Was I here talking to this pretty woman who’d written an innocent poem years ago to the victim, only because Adam went to Glacier Academy? You owe me.

  But I knew that when things were messy and confusing, the only path forward was to search for more information to bring context, and from context comes direction. Plus I had dealt with a contemptible victim in my last case with Victor Lance, an animal-torturing meth addict, reconciling how just because a guy might have a lot of enemies and maybe wasn’t even worth the dollars investigating, we still needed to do it. I sat up tall, feeling the wrought-iron curlicue flower designs on the back of the chair dig into my spine as I waited for her to go on.

  “Apparently Mark got them to take the poor guy out of his bunk in the middle of the night, tied his hands up, and I guess they just got caught up in the frenzy of it all. Thought it would teach him a lesson.” She looked across the lawn at the squirrel jumping higher and I watched her eyes absently trace its movements as it hopped from a lower branch to a higher one near the top of the tree, chip-chipping and squawking.

  I could feel my mouth go dry and I when I swallowed, it felt hard and sharp. “What happened?” I asked again.

  “They pretty much sexually assaulted him.” She looked toward the fish pond, the sound of its aeration bubbly, playful and calming, incongruent with the things we were discussing. The squirrel suddenly quieted; the tabby had jumped back into his own yard. The bushes along the fence cast blunt shadows that mocked summer’s fleeting nature. I felt an achiness—maybe just from the booze the night before, but it settled somewhere deep in my bones—to the marrow. You owe me.

  “He and the other two made him go out into the woods near the creek. They shoved him to the ground, held him there, even choked him, and the worst was that they, well, Elan said they pulled his pants down and . . .” She raked her fingers through her hair and shook her head as if she could shake the image away. “It’s horrible to imagine, but they had all put some kind of heat rub, like IcyHot on their gloved fists and well, they . . .” She bit her lower lip, clamping down on it, so I could see the pink flesh go white.

  I waited a moment before I said: “And you said this boy’s name was . . . ?”

  “Adam,” she said, then checked her watch for the time. She would need to leave for work. “I’m pretty sure it was Adam. I don’t remember the last name. He was an angry boy, but he didn’t deserve that. No one does, especially when they’re in a treatment center that is supposed to be safe.”

  I stared down at my notebook for a second. My notes blurred before me like chicken scratch. I looked back at her and she looked at me innocently, a strand of dark hair falling along her pale cheekbone. “And did you report it?”

  “Well . . . ” She sighed and looked away guiltily, pushing the loose strand behind her ear, as if she could delicately tuck away the memories in the same way. “It was complicated. Things at that place got twisted around. Things that seemed obviously deviant and amoral suddenly came across as necessary acts of discipline because everybody played off everybody. The kids were manipulative as hell and the counselors, wrong as we might have been, felt like all was fair game to rein i
n the manipulation and the lies and the bad behavior.

  “There was this mentality that we had to break them down to make progress. Break them down before building them back up. And before Elan told me anything, I had to swear to him that I wouldn’t tell anyone. All I could do was break up with Mark and soon after that, quit. I know it sounds weird, but at the time, that felt like I was doing enough. And back then, you know, there just wasn’t the same awareness about that kind of thing. Bullying wasn’t even a thing yet—a campaign—in schools. I wasn’t savvy, and come on, you remember what it was like to be that young,” she pleaded. “Kids could be so cruel without considering the outcome. Without considering the consequences.”

  She looked at me, wide-eyed, for a moment, waiting for my response—for my acknowledgment that, yeah, kids were capable of truly nutty behavior—then nervously glanced at her watch again. I knew I wasn’t going to be able to keep her going much longer regardless of her having to go to work. The conversation was starting to make her uncomfortable when she considered how alternate paths could have been taken. We all have them—things we could have done differently. Nathan flashed in my mind—a cockeyed smile, the smattering of freckles on his face, and his long, straight hair falling across his eyes.

  “But,” she continued when I didn’t answer, “I hear a lot came out anyway when the Miranda incident happened, so ultimately, I believe most things got disclosed. It was smart on Global Schools’ part to settle. There’s no way they were going to win in court.”

  “Okay,” I said. “Just one more thing.” I took the poem out of the plastic bag and turned it over so she could see Mark’s drawing of a woman standing over him, practically choking him. “Any idea what this drawing might mean?”

  She studied the picture, her brow creased, then lifted her head, a disgusted look on her face and pointed to the picture. “See.” She flicked her fingers at it as if it were a fly, her anger clearly rising. “He’s twisted. I don’t know. I really don’t know other than what he thought, that I was controlling, suffocating. Classic, you know. When I tried to tell him that some of the things he was doing were wrong, his response was to tell me that I was the one with the problem—you know, I’m the controlling one.”

  Her use of the present tense betrayed that he had deeply scarred her somehow and that her resentment would always spark whenever she thought through the short-lived relationship she had with Phillips in an environment where all professional lines were blurred. I thought of the park and how it was even possible that some abuses of power may have occurred in intricate, strange ways if there was an ounce of truth to what the veterinarian, Tom Pritchard, had said about Rick Phrimmer halting the wolverine studies based on his wife’s old and long-lasting crush on Wolfie. “He never tried to contact you after it ended?”

  “He called every now and again, but I never called back. Eventually, he quit. I’ve run into him now and again over the years: the grocery store, one time at a music festival downtown, that kind of thing. I usually just stayed pleasant and distant. He was nice too and just acted like we’d never had a thing, ever. He did say something about my marriage about a year after my wedding when I ran into him. Asked me if I was happy and I said I was, but he had that condescending smirk on his face as if he knew better, as if he knew I really wasn’t happy. But,” she said, chuckling, “I am. He was wrong. I am happily married—and to a nice guy to boot.”

  The pitch of her voice suddenly escalated to an almost too-perky octave, as if she was trying to convince herself of something. The squirrel piped up again, picking up where she left off. I thanked her and left, its high-pitched squawks tortuously ringing in my ears.

  • • •

  I went out to my car, got in, and set my head down on the steering wheel until my heartbeat slowed down. I took a long breath in and let it out slowly, counting to five as I did so—something my aunt Terry, my dad’s sister, taught me to do when I was young and got nervous before acting in a school play. Adam’s time at Glacier Academy was much worse than I’d ever imagined.

  By the time I got to headquarters, I was surprised to see Joe at work on the Fourth. He was tidying up his office and said he had been waiting for me. He’d heard through the grapevine that I’d had to ask for a ride home and wanted me to take a seat across from him at his desk. The sun slashed through his office window, beating into the old, scraped leather chair and exposing all its imperfections.

  I sat down and felt sweat gathering underneath my shirt within seconds. My mouth tasted acidic from the alcohol the night before and too much coffee all morning. What Diane had told me was still sifting through me, slow and thick like molasses, but toxic and dangerous as poison.

  “I just wanted to check in on how things were going,” Joe said. He still looked tired. I was trying hard not to show my annoyance at Ken, who must have told someone about my call.

  “They’re going fine,” I said and proceeded to give him a rundown of the investigation, playing down Glacier Academy and playing up the South Fork trappers, especially Martin Dorian, who, I told him, was still sitting in jail waiting to be transported to Missoula. I had planned on spending the rest of the day tracking down more information on him, and I wanted to speak to him again before he left, to see if anything else could be shaken out of him as the time ticked by. I also wanted to catch Cathy Sedgewick again to find out if she knew anything at all about the South Fork trapping situation.

  Joe studied me without saying anything, his head tilted to the side and his fingers steepled on his desk before him. “But do you have anything at all to suggest that these two incidents are related?”

  “No,” I admitted. I didn’t. “But, Chief, I really feel that they are.” I wanted to tell him that I had a strong notion that Phillips was pushed and that Wolfie was simply collateral damage after the perpetrator learned that there was a wildlife camera in the area, but I knew it was just a long shot of a theory and I had zero evidence to back it up.

  “I’ve got Ford on me. You know that, right?”

  “What’s new?”

  “He wants a press release by tomorrow verifying that these two incidents are unfortunate, but unrelated accidents. Same ol’ story—no foul play within Glacier, as if the place has walls, like an ivory tower he’s been called to protect.” He sighed. “Cathy Sedgewick has also come to me. Wants to know why this is taking so long and why her husband’s death isn’t getting figured out.”

  “I expected that,” I said calmly. “She’s come to me as well. I know she’s frustrated, and we spoke this morning. I plan to visit with her again today.”

  “Ford thinks she would be calmed down by declaring this an accident. She gets her insurance money. Life goes on.”

  “She wouldn’t be happy with that. She’s the first to tell you that Wolfie wouldn’t just fall by accident.”

  “She’s been reconsidering. Trust me.” Joe looked at his hands, his lids shading his eyes.

  “Reconsidering? She was completely adamant that he hadn’t done that.”

  “When you have a lot of time and grief on your hands, your mind goes through all possibilities. Who are we to say that Wolfie didn’t stumble?” Joe looked up, his eyes hooded by grief.

  “Chief,” I said solemnly, changing the tone of the conversation. “How’s it going for you?” I couldn’t tell if he was in the mood to talk or not, but I didn’t want to discuss Ford. It would bring no good for my investigation. Besides raising tourist numbers, Ford’s goal was to minimize drama, unless it was the good kind that brought Sunday special-interest stories.

  Joe looked at his hands again. Headquarters was quiet with many workers off for the holiday in spite of the increased tourists over the weekend, but I could hear the buzz of a lawn mower in the distance through the half-open window. The tang of fresh-cut grass seeped in, and I caught a butterfly sail by the corner of the window. “Everyone in my family’s a wreck.”

  “Understandable,” I offered and figured that was why he was in the office
and not at home. Another family in crisis, I thought.

  “The trial starts tomorrow. Systead will be coming in to testify. He’ll be kind; he’ll be truthful.”

  “Yeah, he will.” I nodded, feeling horrible for Joe and guiltier by the second that I was adding to his stress, making him question my judgment. It was the last thing I wanted.

  “So I’ll be out for the week, and I need to know, Monty, I need to know that you’ve got this.”

  “I’ve got it, sir. No worries.” I ignored the little voice in my head that said that if I didn’t break this case, didn’t prove I could handle the investigation, my chances of staying in a lead investigative role for Park Police were slim or none.

  “I’m worried about you. Look at you.” He lifted his chin to my face. “You get a black eye the first week on the job.”

  “Well, not entirely on the job, sir.” It was a half lie anyway. I wasn’t in uniform that night. “It was a freak occurrence—Dorian coming at me like that. There was a band playing, I was there, and so was he. It was a stupid deal, something I can’t fathom ever happening again.”

  “And needing a ride?” He lifted one brow.

  “Just something stupid. Personal matter with Lara.” I knew Joe was well aware of our separation. “She had a family reunion that I should have never been swayed to attend. It had nothing to do with this case. I just didn’t want to drive when I had a few too many.”

  Joe inspected me for a moment, then shifted his eyes and I could see he wasn’t going to push it. “Basically,” he continued,“if we can’t call them accidents, but find nothing to connect the two incidents soon, we’ll have to bring in either the FBI or Series 1811 from the department.”

  He was referring to the Department of the Interior and the four guys they have that are Series 1811, more highly trained and experienced than me in investigative services. Systead was one of them, but he wouldn’t be assigned Glacier Park again, not after the way he handled the Bear Bait case. He solved it all right, but not without a lot of drama. He had struggled with Glacier Park, practically thought it was his enemy. Me—anything but. Again, Glacier Park was my haven. It made me feel clean and whole, wiped away my past, and made my twisted home life seem distant and smeared away like thin, wispy clouds stretching into blue oblivion behind the mountains. I’d hide out here forever as long as I could work investigations, whether they were accidents, missing hikers, or murders.