Just Try to Stop Me

by Gregg Olsen

  “No. I don’t think so. After the rush-to-the-church wedding—which we paid for because her family wouldn’t have a thing to do with her—she miscarried the so-called baby. Said it happened at home. Didn’t even see a doctor. Who does that? Elise was crushed by the loss of her grandbaby. It reopened all the old wounds from losing our two before Joe. I think Brenda played on that. Worked my wife real hard.”

  Brad offered to make a sandwich for Kendall. She declined, saying it was too much trouble, but she’d be glad to buy him lunch if there was a place nearby.

  “Hello Deli is pretty good,” he said. “And if we’re lucky, Chelsea will be working.”

  Kendall didn’t need a last name to know who Chelsea was.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  The hospital had a lovely view of the river. Elise, Brad, and new father Joe whispered among themselves while Brenda slumbered. A nurse came in and told them that the baby was fine. They’d be able to see her in the preemie care room down the hall in a few minutes.

  “Has Mom woken up yet?” the nurse asked.

  “Nope. Out like a light,” Joe said.

  “All right. Let her rest. I’ll be back to check on her in a few. Why don’t you go down and see your precious newborn?”

  Joe and Brad went. Elise stayed behind to keep Brenda company.

  Right after the Nevins men disappeared down the corridor, Brenda’s eyes fluttered. She looked over at Elise, who was sitting next to her in a rocker.

  “Good morning, Momma,” Elise said.

  Brenda wriggled a little and pushed the button to adjust her bed.

  “Childbirth is not,” she said. “Let me repeat, NOT anything that any woman should ever want to do. It’s absolutely horrific. Ugh. So gross. And painful too.”

  “Kara is beautiful,” Elise said. “So tiny, but so beautiful.”

  “I hope so,” Brenda said. “I don’t want an ugly baby. No one does. They say all they want is a healthy baby, but that’s just what people say when they end up with an ugly little creature.” She looked around. “Where’s Joe?”

  “He and Brad are down seeing your daughter. Are you feeling up to seeing her too? I can get the nurse to help us.”

  “No. But I would like to see the nurse,” she said, pressing the call button.

  A beat later, the nurse returned.

  “I’ll bet you want to see your baby, honey.”

  “No, I actually don’t. I want someone to get my bag. I brought cocoa butter for my stomach. I don’t want stretch marks.”

  When Elise and Brad drove home from the hospital, there was a kind of uneasiness in the air. The baby was beautiful and she was going to be fine—probably released in a couple of days.

  “There’s something wrong with her,” Elise said.

  “She’s little, honey. She’ll grow.”

  Elise shook her head. “Not Kara. I’m talking about Brenda. There’s something really wrong with that girl. All she cared about was her stretch marks and making sure she’d have a perfect beach body when she got out of the hospital. She didn’t care one bit about her baby. I’m not exaggerating. You saw it too.”

  “Yeah, Elise, I did,” Brad said.

  “She didn’t even want to hold Kara. It was almost like I had to force the baby into her arms.”

  “She might be scared about being a new mom. It’s a big change.”

  “Don’t defend her. You and I both know something is up with her. She’s cold like. She doesn’t want to share the attention with her own baby. It’s like Kara is competition for her or something.”

  “Not everyone is a great mom out of the box. Not everyone is like you, Elise.”

  She smiled at her husband’s compliment. “Thanks for that, but I’m worried.”

  “Don’t be worried. Brenda will adjust. All will be well.”

  * * *

  Brad Nevins rested his hands on the table. He stayed silent for a long time. Kendall could see that he was reliving something painful, something so dark that he needed to process. He was a kind, thoughtful man.

  “You know what?” he asked.

  “What’s that, Mr. Nevins?”

  “Kara didn’t have a chance. Not from the day she was born. Her mother could stand before a mirror holding that baby and only see herself. It’s like Kara was never going to be anything other then a means to an end, and we didn’t see it. We really blew it.”

  “You couldn’t have known,” Kendall said, knowing the futility of such words.

  “Elise knew. She told me, and I didn’t listen. I should have. I really should have. I had seen Brenda pull all kinds of crap from nearly the first day I met her and somehow, like a cat having kittens, I thought that having a baby would refocus her. You know, get her off the Brenda Train and have her see that the world wasn’t all about her, all the time.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Birdy Waterman loathed the idea of looking over another medical examiner’s report to ferret out some mistake in the autopsy. While protocol for all such examinations was clear and incontrovertible, examiners brought variables of their own to each forensic examination they’d conduct. Some were better record keepers. Some were more adept at seeing what was right in front of them. Some allowed the distractions of their busy, overworked days to get the better of them.

  Birdy sat at her pristine new desk and fanned out the pages printed from the brand-new scanner/printer. There was no doubt what had happened to Joe and Kara Nevins. Kara had been suffocated before the fire and Joe had been drugged with a lethal combination of pills and booze. He’d been alive when the blast occurred. None of that was in dispute. Neither was the reason for the father’s and baby’s deaths.

  Birdy looked up and surveyed her new office. It felt empty. Devoid of any personal touches. Bright white walls and gleaming ribbons of stainless-steel counters outside her interior window. Almost soulless.

  Like Brenda Nevins, she thought. Empty just like her.

  She dialed Kendall’s number.

  “Your day going any better than mine?” she asked.

  “Depends on how bad your day is, Birdy.”

  “About a six,” she said.

  “Not good,” Kendall said. “How come?”

  “I don’t know, Kendall. I was looking through the autopsy reports on Joe and Kara Nevins. I can’t for the life of me see anything that will help us understand Brenda any better.”

  “Nothing?”

  “No,” Birdy said. “How about you?”

  “Beyond the fact that she was a conniver who used sex to get what she wanted, no.”

  “Sounds like my sister,” Birdy said.

  Kendall laughed. “You don’t mean that.”

  Birdy hesitated, pretending to weigh what Kendall had said. “No. Not really. I guess I didn’t mean that.”

  “How are things with her?” Kendall asked. “With your mom?”

  “Not good. Not good with either one of them. I’m going to have to go up there again any day now. It won’t be long.”

  “I’m sorry, Birdy,” Kendall said. “I know it doesn’t help to have someone tell you that they know what you’re going through, but I do. I really do.”

  “I know. Thank you. I’ll get through it. Everyone does,” Birdy said, before she changed the subject to something less painful. “Have you caught up with Brenda’s mother yet?”

  “I’ve driven by a half dozen times. No sign of her. I’m going to make one more attempt, then I’m heading home.”

  “That sounds good.”

  “Hey, Birdy,” Kendall said, before ending the call, “how do you like your new office?”

  “Hate it,” Birdy said. “Really don’t like it. At all.”

  “But it’s state of the art. You’ve always told me that the county had the crappiest lab equipment that you’ve ever seen.”

  “I did, and it does,” Birdy said with an audible sigh. “I just feel out of sorts here. It’ll pass. I know it will.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Brenda
Nevins appeared on the screen. She’d adjusted her hair and makeup, possibly because there’d been some unkind remarks about her appearance in the comments section of her last YouTube posting. It was also possible that she’d flitted about the Internet and seen examples of other video blogs—especially those with young women suggesting makeup tips—and thought she could up her game.

  “Hi all,” she started. “Me again! So much has been happening that I wanted to come back on here and talk about some of the things that people have been saying about me. I want to set the record straight because I know how words hurt. I want to talk about my baby, Kara. Some people are saying mean things about what happened. I just want everyone to know that while I can take responsibility for what I’ve done in life, I will not have that one hanging on me. Do you know what it’s like going to prison and being known as a baby killer? You probably don’t. I do. It was awful. It was particularly awful because that’s not me. I mean, not intentionally me. What happened with Kara was an accident. It really was. I loved that kidlet. I really did. I didn’t know she was going to be home. I thought she was at day care,” she said as she glanced at her computer screen and lost her train of thought. She’d obviously learned to talk directly to the pinprick of light that was the camera on her laptop, but couldn’t help but look at herself.

  She stopped recording. When she started up again, her mascara had been reapplied.

  “Day care,” she said. “That’s where I expected my husband to take her. I thought if she were there, she’d be safe. Really I did. I know some people don’t quite get that. I’ve seen the comments online and they are extremely evil. Nasty. I really blame Joe. If he’d done what he was supposed to do, Kara and I would be safe. People would have understood that I’d done what I had to do to save myself and my child.”

  She stopped and pointed to her eyes. “I don’t know if you can see this because no one is helping me shoot this video, but I have a tear coming down right now. People say I don’t have feelings, but they are haters and don’t want to understand. They want to judge. That bitch Kendall Stark and her pal Birdy Waterman are at the top of the list of judgers. None of what happened to Janie would have happened if they didn’t pounce on me for things I didn’t do. I was pushed. I needed out. I needed to tell the world that I was innocent and that people should just back the hell off.”

  She produced a tissue and mopped her eyes. She’d thought of everything.

  “Kara was everything to me,” Brenda said. “They had it all wrong at the trial. They didn’t put on any of the witnesses that could have helped me. My lawyer was a moron. I fell for his idiotic strategy. I fell for him. God, help me. I was stupid and desperate enough to let another man manipulate me. I’ve been used and abused, but no more. Never, ever again. I’m not going to be the girl who just sits back and pretends to be enjoying whatever some moron is doing to me. Not anymore. From now on, I’m the doer. I’m the one with the control. I’m the one controlling the shots. Baby killer? Don’t push me. Don’t even try. You’ll regret the day you ever hurt me because my hate for the world is the armor that protects me. I’m bulletproof. You’ll see.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Birdy watched from the sofa where she was reading the front page of the Port Orchard Independent. It was the usual—someone complaining that not enough was being done to repair a downtown restaurant that had burned and remained an eyesore, a listing of some potential names for the mayor’s spot, and a human-interest story about a llama rancher from Olalla. Elan was down the hall in front of the mirror fiddling with his hair.

  “She must be special,” she called out, looking up from the paper.

  The teenager cocked his head and grinned.

  “What do you mean?” he asked.

  Birdy smiled back. “Elan, you’ve been spending more and more time getting ready to go out the door.”

  He stepped out into the hallway, all white teeth and dark wavy hair. Elan wore a light blue T-shirt with some kind of a graphic design, though it was too abstract for Birdy if she’d been asked to describe it later. Which she hoped she never would. Around his neck was a silver chain that he always wore, but it sparkled more and Birdy wondered if he’d actually polished it. He had on dark dyed jeans. On his feet were black boots that made him look even taller than his 5-10 frame. With his mane of dark hair and his dark eyes, he was undeniably a good-looking kid.

  Although, when she thought of it, Birdy could see that the boy had ebbed into a young man in the months since he came to live with her. They were a family, though their connection was fragile at first. The awkwardness of their relationship had dissipated following the disclosure that she was his sister, not his aunt as he’d always believed.

  She’d always be Aunt Birdy, however, which made her very, very happy.

  “Yes, so yeah, I’m kind of seeing someone,” he said. “It isn’t a big deal. You’ve met her already.”

  Birdy folded the thin, little newspaper and set it on the coffee table as Elan stuffed his hands deep into his pockets and slumped into the chair across from her.

  “I have?” she asked, a little surprised. “News to me. Where? When?”

  Elan scraped his fingers through his hair again.

  He must really like her, she thought.

  “That time when you dropped off my lunch, which by the way still ranks as one of the most embarrassing moments ever visited upon a nephew/brother. Like ever.”

  Every now and then Elan would tease her like that. He’d called her Aunt/Sister Birdy a time or two, though mostly Aunt Birdy, thankfully so, the preferred name he offered when speaking to others about her. She didn’t mind. It had been a lot for Birdy, her sister, and Elan to deal with. The woman at the center of the long deception, Birdy’s mother, Natalie, had remained inflexible about rectifying that discrepancy on the family tree.

  He was her grandson and that was that.

  “I thought we agreed to get over that lunch thing,” she said, smiling.

  Elan fiddled with his phone. “Yeah. Sorry. But really, it isn’t just me. Most kids would rather starve than have their mom or aunt or sister come to school with a Tupperware lunch container.”

  The Tupperware was a total mistake. No doubt about that. Nothing said dork like Tupperware.

  “You’re avoiding the question,” she said. “Who’s the girl?”

  “Amber Turner,” he said, looking right into Birdy’s eyes for a flash of recognition.

  “I’m sorry? Who?”

  Elan sighed. “Aunt Birdy, Amber’s the girl that’s one level above me, popularity-wise, but we’ve really been having a good time hanging out. She’s the one that you thought had the cool hair.”

  A flash of recognition came to her.

  “The one with the long, red hair?”

  He smiled. “Yes, that one!”

  “She seemed nice. Pretty too.”

  Elan made a disgusted face. It was exaggerated and meant to poke at something Birdy had told him one time when they walked down to the café at Whiskey Gulch and talked about life, girls, life and girls.

  “As my aunt told me, pretty doesn’t matter,” he said. “Smart does. She’s smart too.”

  Just then Birdy knew she could not love that boy any more if he’d been her own son. He teased her. He listened to her. That meant everything to Birdy.

  “She’s picking me up tonight,” he said. “Going to hang out at the bowling alley. She’s not only smart and pretty, Amber has a car, too.”

  “That makes her a total catch,” Birdy said.

  Elan grinned. “That’s just what I thought.”

  “Bring her in to say hello,” Birdy said.

  Elan shoved his phone into his pocket. “We’re not serious, Aunt Birdy. We’re just hanging out.”

  “Sure, but you took more time on your hair just now than I do before speaking at a forensics convention.”

  Twenty minutes later, Birdy was in the kitchen fiddling with the ancient electric oven that had long threatened to give
up the ghost and finally had. She surveyed the element to see if she could make do with it for another week. It had been hit or miss on its thermostat settings so much so that she’d relegated all of her cooking to the microwave. And that work-around had brought more than one disaster at mealtime. The broccoli casserole was a complete failure, though Elan insisted that no matter how she cooked it—microwave or conventional oven—it would have been an epic fail.

  “No one likes broccoli,” he told her. “At least no one I know does.”

  “I do,” she’d answered back. “Do I count?”

  “Yeah, I guess.”

  She heard Amber’s car pull up, and Elan called out good-bye.

  “Don’t be late,” Birdy said. “If you are you’ll have to eat broccoli casserole every night for a week.”

  “That’s cruel and unusual punishment, and you know it,” Elan said as the front door slammed shut.

  Birdy considered bowling cruel and unusual punishment, but it was better than hanging around the mall or even worse, on some remote Kitsap beach doing what teenagers do.

  Alone and thinking of bowling, the forensic pathologist’s thoughts rolled back to a decades-old murder that occurred at the Hi-Joy Bowling Alley at the base of Mile Hill in Port Orchard. It was one of the cold cases she’d added to a file box she called the Bone Box—cases that others had deemed unsolvable. She didn’t feel that way. She was certain that a cold case was only a cold case until someone turned up the heat. She kept the Bone Box in her home office.

  The victim in the Hi-Joy murder case was a thirty-one-year-old janitor named Jimmy Smith. It was a brutal crime—occurring long ago. Before Birdy was even born. Yet it resonated with her when she first took her job with Kitsap County. It had been the kind of messy case that brings the victim into the autopsy suite piece by piece. Literally. Jimmy had been killed with a hatchet.

  Birdy studied those old crime-scene photos, the imagery of the brutality rendered in gorgeous black and white. She saw the force with which the assailant had struck the victim. She could see he’d been right-handed. That he was taller than the victim. That whoever had killed Jimmy had done so in a rage.