The Girls On Poppy Drive: A Detective London McKenna Novel

by Alex Gates

  “St. Agnes Academy,” I said. “Jeremy attended their elementary program.”

  “What are you looking for there?”

  “Answers. Anything. Simms checked the parents out, but I feel like there’s something they’re not telling us.”

  “Like what?”

  I wasn’t sure. Tim’s aggression and Heather’s submission wasn’t unusual for families where arguments were settled with fists and peace declared with a bottle opener and cold beer. The family kept secrets—most did. But I had to know what truth fit into this puzzle. And something told me we didn’t have all the pieces.

  Fortunately, the school was willing to meet with us.

  Sister Constance Simon welcomed us into the Academy. Were all the nuns the same? She reminded me of every nightmarish nun I’d ever encountered in primary school. She had a stern countenance, rigid posture, and was never outside arm’s reach of a ruler.

  At some age, all nuns became a little black bag of wrinkles and judgment. Sister Constance hit that age and kept running. Now she was one production of the elementary school’s nativity story away from Hail Marying her way to a convent in Boca for a well-deserved retirement.

  When I was younger—before Vienna and I were asked to leave our Catholic school—I only ever saw the inside of the chapel and principal’s office. The teacher’s lounge was as forbidden as fruit from the tree. But Sister Constance led us to the private room, even offering a cup of coffee for such a heavy discussion. I accepted a Styrofoam cup to warm up. Ben declined, tapping his Mountain Dew.

  “Like some of my students.” She was an expert in passive-aggressive chiding. “You’ll rot your teeth out.”

  “That’s the best I can hope for at this point of my life.” Ben grinned. She didn’t.

  The nun folded her hands over the table. “You wanted to talk about that boy.”

  “Jeremy Gibson,” I said. “Do you remember him?”

  Sister Constance was obviously the sort of lady who could and would remember everything, including the fact that I had just insinuated that her memory was failing in her advanced age.

  “Of course.” She puffed, her robes swishing. “Gentle soul. A sweet child. Such a shame.”

  “What do you think happened to him?”

  “A subdural hematoma.”

  Ben and I glanced at each other. Sister Constance patiently waited.

  “Or…” She said. “Would you prefer if I say God’s will?”

  Cheeky. I liked her. “What was the school told?”

  She didn’t use a plastic stirrer for her coffee. The metal clanked off the mug. “He was playing baseball with his father and suffered a concussion. Of course, at that time, no one thought anything of it. Boys were always getting bumps and bruises. But the injury was more severe than they believed. He passed at the hospital that night.” She crossed herself. “Here at the school, we offered grief counseling and prayer. Plus, we added a unit to educate children and parents on the symptoms of brain injuries. Our own administration reevaluated the age at which we would start competitive, contact sports.”

  At least something positive came from it. “It was a shame. From all accounts, Jeremy was a little gentleman.”

  “Oh, he was a nice boy. Polite. Did all of his work—even homework. Studied his Bible.” Sister Constance saw right through me. “But he was different from his classmates.”

  “Different…good?” Ben asked.

  She pursed her lips. “Different…sad.”

  How many times had we heard that before? Ben and I both tensed. It never got easier.

  Sister Constance continued with a sigh. “It always felt like there was more in his head than he’d ever say. Strange for a boy his age. Most repeat everything they hear and add to it. He was far more…contemplative. Sullen.”

  It needed to be asked. “Any reason why?”

  “Nothing that anyone knew,” she said. “Now…remember, this has been years and years. With the benefit of retrospection, I might put too much emphasis on certain things…but he was a sensitive soul. As was his sister. Unthinkable what’s happened to the Gibson family.”

  “We met with them recently, Heather and Tim.”

  “I haven’t spoken with them in years.” The realization seemed to pain her. “I should visit with Father McCullough.”

  “Do you remember if they were involved with Jeremy’s schooling?”

  “Yes, constantly.” She pointed out the window to the baseball diamond squeezed between the buildings and chapel. “Tim would work with him every day after school. Football, baseball, all sports. Jeremy never had a moment’s rest, but Tim thought the world of him. Would have done anything for him to excel in athletics. He simply loved that boy.”

  “And Kaitlyn?”

  It was the first time Sister Constance had to pick her words. “He cared for his daughter.”

  Interesting. “Just…cared?”

  She unfolded and refolded her hands. “It’s only natural. Tim had more in common with his son than his daughter.”

  I frowned. “Like what?”

  “A penis.” Ben showed no remorse for acting uncouth so near a nun.

  I apologized for him. “Protestant.”

  “I see.” Sister Constance forgave it. “But he’s correct. I had the impression that Tim valued…more masculine endeavors. Sports. Hunting. Camping. His little girl was encouraged to take a more traditional role.”

  “Like?”

  “Well, she wasn’t permitted to join the girls’ soccer team. She wore dresses, exclusively, despite the dress code allowing our ladies to wear slacks. She was raised to be seen and not heard—though I don’t remember such conventions placed on Jeremy. I supposed it mirrored the home. Tim acted as head of household in every day matters—monetarily, traditionally, biblically.”

  “Did either of the kids ever act out?”

  Another hesitation, this time combined with a small prayer. “I don’t know. I shouldn’t say.”

  Ben took the bait. “We’re just having a conversation. I won’t tell the big guy if you don’t.”

  “It’s just…” She cleared her throat. “Times have changed, even in the last ten years, especially regarding discipline and child rearing. The church encourages fathers to have a closeness, gentleness, and firmness with their children. And Tim did have a firm hand.”

  “He hit the kids?” Ben asked.

  “He punished his children. Effectively.” She paused. “Perhaps too effectively.”

  I hated being right when it came to a situation like this. “Sister, did you suspect Tim of child abuse?”

  “Tim? No.” Her voice lowered, that old rasp of age and reluctance. “Tim was raising Jeremy to be a wholesome, dependable, traditional man. No weakness. No crying. No sharing of any of his feelings…even if he desperately needed to talk to someone. Anyone.”

  “About what?” My pulse jumped. “Did something happen to Jeremy?”

  She closed her eyes, the prayer protecting none of us from the truth. “Jeremy would never speak of it, but I believe someone hurt him in the past.”

  A new fear clutched at me, clawing my throat, my chest. “Did the family know?”

  “All families have secrets, Detective.”

  “And the Gibson’s secret?”

  Her words hollowed in sin.

  “I believe Jeremy Gibson was being sexually abused.”

  15

  What do you think when you look at me?

  Do you see a killer?

  -Him

  I couldn’t save a child who was already dead, but I could use his memory to rescue his sister.

  No parent deserved the pain of burying one child and losing the second. But if the Gibsons knew anything—no matter how shameful or secret—that could help me with the investigation, I’d stop at nothing to learn the truth and return Kaitlyn home.

  If that home was safe.

  At this point, I wasn’t sure.

  Heather answered the door with a nervous shrug, t
ucking the end of her sleeves into her fists. The material didn’t hide the creeping bruise around her wrist as well as it hid the rest of her. The turtleneck might have once hugged her curves, but Heather had become thinner than her wardrobe suggested. The shirt didn’t fit, but that didn’t matter. It covered the discoloration that probably stained her neck green and yellow.

  At least he hadn’t hit her face, but he probably knew that would be the line—the limit when she’d finally walk. If Heather wasn’t careful, she’d miss the opportunity.

  While Heather worked part-time as a nurse, Tim did construction, operating his own company. He was still young. The job strengthened his back and weathered his chiseled jaw in a hyper-masculine way. He wasn’t a bad looking man, but he was short. A couple inches too short. I doubted that he liked his wife looking him in the eye. Unfortunately, that made it hard for me. He stood taller than I did, and that’d give me less respect.

  In construction, the winter was often lean, but Tim found work on a commercial gig working as a laborer on a new hospital site. It must not have brought in a lot of money. Tensions were high, and the clipped coupons on the kitchen counter didn’t seem to offset the nearby yellow envelope from the water company.

  Heather brewed a pot of coffee despite no one accepting a cup. Tim scowled, choosing to sit at the kitchen’s marble island. The home was beautiful—large, bright, and completely empty. Far too big a space for a family of two, but who would admit it?

  She tapped her nails against the counter and watched the trickling stream of coffee fill the pot. The sputtering muffled her words.

  “Do you think she’s still alive?”

  Tim swore, slamming a beefy hand onto the marble. “Jesus Christ, Heather.”

  “I’m just—”

  “I told you! Again and again.” His voice rose, but Ben’s glare prevented any yelling. “You don’t talk about her like that.”

  Heather closed her eyes. “I can’t help it.”

  “Then don’t think it.”

  “What am I supposed to do?” She spun, tearing the carton of Half & Half. The creamer spilled, and she pitched the container into the sink with a cry. “What are we even doing here? Detective McKenna? Detective Chase? I don’t know what we’re doing. Is my baby alive?”

  Tim stood. It silenced his wife, shrinking her into the white counters and cabinets.

  “How can you say that?” His whisper turned into a threat. “How can you even fucking say that?”

  “I can’t handle it anymore! I can’t take it. It’s been four years.” Heather’s face reddened, her eyes welling with tears. “Just tell me. Honestly. You’re here now. You must have a reason to talk to us. So, tell me. What do you actually think?”

  How could I answer that question when I’d asked it myself every minute of every day since taking the case?

  “I have no evidence to suggest that she’s dead,” I said.

  That wasn’t enough. Heather wound a dish towel in her hands but ignored the spilled cream on the floor. “Do you have any reason to believe she’d be alive?”

  Damn it. Ben had checked out, refusing to hypothesize on the subject. Was he a coward…or was he smart?

  Hope was a precious commodity, but reality traded with blood.

  I respected her enough to answer honestly. “I don’t know.”

  She understood. “Because he took Sophia.”

  “Yes.”

  “Kaitlyn was his replacement for Alyssa. And now Sophia…”

  Her words broke. Her husband scowled, so she served the coffee instead of weeping.

  “We don’t know that.” Tim was quick to accuse. He eyed us, but the menace wouldn’t work. “We don’t know a goddamned thing. And neither do the police. David was right. This is a waste of time.”

  “We’re working on a few new angles,” I said. “That’s why we’re here.”

  “That’s bullshit.”

  Heather dropped the tray of coffee onto the table. The mugs and spoons rattled, but it quieted Tim. The silence would only last for as long as we trespassed in their kitchen.

  “Let them help, Tim,” she whispered. “Please.”

  His every muscle tensed. “Help with what? They couldn’t even keep the one pervert alive who thought he knew Kaitlyn. What the hell happened, Detective? You captured the asshole who was obsessed with my daughter, and he dies the instant he steps foot in your office?”

  Ben stepped up, but it only irritated Tim. “Detective McKenna has been targeted by the kidnapper. He’s released her name, her address, her phone number to people very loyal to him online. This means we’re getting closer, but it also means he’s watching. He’s learning everything we discuss and observing everything we do. And we need to figure out how he’s doing it.” His stare quieted Tim. “And that’s why we need some answers.”

  “You had your chance for answers,” Tim said. “You had your chance, and you let some psycho blow his brains out in your own station!”

  “And we want to know why,” I said. “We just have a couple questions.”

  “Anything.” Heather gripped her coffee mug for warmth, staring into the steam. “I don’t care. Ask anything. I just…I just want my baby to come home.”

  At least I had her permission. And Ben’s. He nodded, giving me his support.

  I’d need it.

  “I actually wasn’t here to discuss Kaitlyn.” I carefully memorized Tim and Heather’s faces, waiting for a flicker of panic, shock, or sorrow. “I want to talk about Jeremy.”

  Just his name brought tears to Heather’s eyes. But Tim exhaled, the mere mention of his son crumbling him from the counter. All that strength, all the posturing, and he nearly fell to his knees.

  And he knew it.

  His temper flared, and a ragged grunt clipped his words in warning. “Don’t you bring my son into this. Hasn’t he suffered enough?”

  More than anyone might have realized.

  Heather’s hands trembled. “What does Jeremy have to do with this? He’s been…it’s been years since he passed.”

  “It must be difficult to talk about,” I said.

  “Save your sympathy,” Tim snapped. “He’s got nothing to do with Kaitlyn. He died a year before Alyssa was even taken.”

  This wouldn’t be easy. “I understand that, but the file was lacking information.” I pleaded to the mother instead. “We want to know what caused his accident.”

  “Well…” Heather swallowed. “We’re not sure. He wasn’t acting hurt. We had no idea or we would have taken him straight to the hospital.”

  “He hit his head sliding into second base.” Tim’s voice rasped. He cleared it away. “That’s it. Guess he got a concussion or something. Said he had a headache, but it wasn’t worth worrying about.”

  “Because you told him to play through the pain,” Heather whispered. Even she looked surprised she spoke the suspicion.

  The counter stool scraped the floor as Tim pushed it aside. “What the hell did you say to me?”

  Ben was quick to his feet, but Heather didn’t need help. She stared only into her coffee.

  “Be a man,” she said. “That’s what you told him. Over and over. Be a man. Don’t cry. Walk it off. Don’t whine. Don’t be a pussy.”

  “That’s called raising a son.”

  “That’s you raising a boy who was terrified to admit when he was hurt! If you had told him even once that it’d be okay to have a headache—”

  “He was fine when he came home.” Tim swore. “Fine! Now you’re gonna call me a bad father?”

  “I never said you were a bad father.”

  “I loved my son!” His voice broke. The tears were real. So was the anger. “What the hell does this have to do with Kaitlyn?”

  Ben took initiative. “Do you remember how Jeremy was acting before the accident? In the weeks leading up to his death?”

  Heather shook her head. “He was…no different. I suppose. Just acting like a little boy.”

  “How were his grad
es?” I asked.

  Tim snorted. “You think you can find evidence of Kaitlyn’s kidnapping in his report cards?”

  I ignored him. “Did you notice anything change in his grades?”

  Heather nodded. “Of course I noticed. He was all As and Bs in first grade. The teachers were pleased with his reading and math. But second grade…he had more trouble. Wasn’t paying attention in classes and he would forget his homework and books. We had that parent-teacher conference, Tim. Remember?”

  Tim grunted. “I wasn’t good at math either.”

  “What about his friends?” I asked. “Was he still getting along with the other kids?”

  “He used to be friends with Alyssa, actually. Grew up together. Of course, boys and girls grow apart at that age.” Heather bit her lip as her breathing wavered. “You’re right though. He sort of…”

  “Withdrew?” A clinical word, but it fit.

  Heather only nodded.

  Tim refused to hear it. “Are you satisfied yet? Want to know what he used to eat for lunch? Last time he took a shit before he died? Need a copy of his funeral arrangements? For Christ’s sake, he’s dead. What more could you want?”

  I wasn’t sure how hard I could push Tim, but I had to try. “I talked with one of Jeremy’s former teachers. She was concerned that Jeremy was being abused.”

  Heather’s gasp nearly choked her. “Abused? By who?”

  Tim groaned. “Goddamned school system. You spank a kid when he’s out of line, and suddenly you’re goddamned Charles Manson—”

  “Sexually abused.”

  My words cut through the house, silencing both Heather and Tim.

  Her tears flowed first—a helpless, agonized cry of sorrow. She fell forward, nearly out of her chair. Ben caught her before she struck the floor.

  “Not Jeremy too…” Her sobs broke. “Not him too…”

  Tim went rigid. Still.

  Insulted.

  “Get the hell out of my house,” he hissed. “Right goddamned now.”

  I wouldn’t move. “Had Jeremy ever approached you—”

  “Get out of my house!”

  “Did you notice anything that seemed unusual in his behavior—a new fear of a certain place or person—”