A Good Killing

by Allison Leotta

  Over the next few years, he bought that big summer house on Lake Huron, a Cadillac Escalade, a Ford Bronco, and a Jag. Wendy got to use the Corvette more and more.

  I started cutting classes and spending more time with the smokers by the south wall. My grades slipped, then fell. By the end of my sophomore year, I was close to failing out.

  Coach Fowler changed my life forever. I had been on track to go to college—maybe not on scholarship like you, Annie, but to some other life outside of Holly Grove. But after he raped me, I lost all momentum. I never made it out of here. You thought I was content to stay with our friends and family, having a job I didn’t take home with me every night, like yours. You assumed I wanted a simpler life than you. But that wasn’t it. I just gave up on everything for a while.

  The only thing that kept me from officially dropping out of school was seeing Kathy. Life without a high school degree was miserable. She was always losing her job or pleading with the landlord to give them more time to make rent. Three-year-old Hayley was the one bright spot in her life.

  One day, Hayley decided she wanted a goldfish. Kathy said the last thing she needed was another mouth to feed, but Hayley begged so adorably, we eventually headed to Meijer. We picked out a fish bowl, purple marbles, and a fish with a big orange tail that made Hayley say, “Ooh!”

  At the registers, I got in line behind a woman who was pushing her own baby. Unlike Hayley, this baby was an infant, buckled into a car seat attached to the cart.

  The mother turned to coo at her baby, and I saw her profile. It was Wendy. I recognized the car seat as the one she was scanning when we saw her here, six months before. I peered over Wendy’s shoulder and I saw her tiny pink baby, which was making those cute squeaky monkey sounds infants make. In my mind, I saw the Coach’s other “baby,” his blue Corvette. I saw the yellow pill the nurse gave me to prevent a baby from growing inside me. And I started to cry.

  I lowered my head so no one could see my face. My tears splashed onto the gray linoleum floor. I tried to keep quiet, but I guess I didn’t.

  I felt a hand on my shoulder. At first, I thought it was Kathy, till I heard the voice. “Hey, hey, it’s okay,” Wendy said.

  Wendy Fowler was the last person in the world I expected to offer comfort. I looked up to see if she was mocking me. She was wearing mirrored sunglasses, in which I saw a double reflection of my own crumpled face. The corner of her mouth went back a millimeter, into something between a smile and a grimace. She pushed the glasses up to the top of her head. She had a nasty black eye: deep purple fading to greenish yellow at the edges.

  “Don’t cry,” Wendy said, handing me a tissue from her purse. “You got the better deal, in the end.”

  I stared at her, needing a moment to comprehend the meaning packed into that sentence. Kathy got it faster than I did. She looked from Wendy’s brand-new baby to her brand-new black eye. And Kathy, who lived in a trailer, said to Wendy, who lived in a pink château: “You poor thing.”

  38

  Desiree Williams’s office in the Holly Grove County DA’s office was eerily similar to Anna’s in the U.S. Attorney’s Office in D.C. Scuffed white walls, putty-colored filing cabinets, government-blue carpet. Anna wondered if a single carpet manufacturer supplied all the prosecutors’ offices around America. Sitting in the guest chair, she again had the disconcerting sense of living on the other side of the looking glass.

  “How can you go forward with the case against my sister when you know this?” Anna asked, tapping the police reports involving Coach Fowler. “This man was a serial pedophile. He should’ve been locked up years ago.”

  “First of all, these are unsupported allegations,” Desiree said. “They were sealed for a reason. You never should’ve seen them. Second, whether or not they’re true, your sister can’t just go and kill the man.”

  “He was a monster.”

  “He was a person. His death leaves a grieving widow and a fatherless little girl.”

  “There were dozens of people who could have wanted him dead.”

  “Maybe. But there was only one person who slept with him the night he died, fought with him, and had his bloody clothes in her house.”

  “A jury will cheer for whoever killed him.” Anna could hardly believe these words were coming from her mouth.

  “No, it won’t, because a jury will never hear about unsubstantiated allegations offered to dirty up the victim. Those cases are sealed, and the judge ordered them to stay sealed. Just because someone dropped them on your doorstep doesn’t mean you can introduce them in court.”

  This was true.

  “Why was this man never prosecuted?” Anna leaned forward, looking into the prosecutor’s eyes. “I know these are hard cases. But six cases over fifteen years. Decline after decline after decline. What the hell was going on here?”

  “Don’t raise your voice at me.” Desiree leaned forward at exactly the same angle. “How can you sit there and tell me I should have brought a statutory rape case with a recanting, uncooperative victim and no physical evidence—that means no evidence of any kind—but now I should drop a murder case with strong evidence because you find the victim unsavory? It’s a crime to kill someone, whether they’re a bad person or not.”

  “Why was there no evidence in the rape cases? Were sex kits done? If you had his semen and their birth certificates, you’d have a case.”

  Desiree looked down. “Sex kits were performed in some of the cases. They weren’t processed.”

  “Weren’t processed?” Anna stared at her. “You mean, they didn’t test the swabs for whether there was semen? Or run a DNA profile? Why not?”

  “Look, it’s an ongoing problem. In Detroit alone, there are over ten thousand untested rape kits going back twenty-five years. Their prosecutor’s office is as overworked and underpaid as we are. They’re trying to go through the backlog, but nobody’s got the spare $15 million it will take to do it. Detroit is talking about selling off the paintings at the Detroit Institute of Arts to pay its creditors. We have our share of untested kits in Holly Grove. Don’t look at me like that.”

  “This is insane,” Anna said.

  “If you’re upset, write an editorial in the Free Press. I applaud your concern. But it doesn’t have a thing to do with your sister’s case.”

  “Of course it does. Every one of his rape victims, their fathers, their brothers, are potential killers, who you didn’t investigate.” Anna handed Desiree a letter. “I’m requesting that you test the rape kits from those six sealed cases and turn over the results. I’m also requesting any information you have regarding these girls—­especially their current whereabouts. I want to talk to them.”

  “Absolutely not. You aren’t supposed to have these reports in the first place. These cases were sealed by court order. That’s just as much to protect the complainant as the alleged wrongdoer. If you want anything more, ask the court.” Desiree put the letter down and looked at Anna. “I don’t want to tell you how to do your job, but the trial of your sister will focus on one simple question: Did she kill him or not? The coach’s background is not relevant to that. The testing of old rape kits is not relevant to that.”

  “I understand your perspective,” Anna said. “I hope you’ll understand mine.”

  After their meeting, Anna walked to the steps of the courthouse next door. Three local news vans were parked at the curb. Earlier, she had e-mailed the stations, saying she was holding a press conference. She had even more to announce than she’d anticipated. She greeted the journalists and waited as they set up their cameras and microphones.

  “Thank you for coming today,” Anna said. “Some information about Coach Fowler has come to my attention. Over the past fifteen years, six underage girls reported to the police that he molested them. I’m asking anyone who made a report, or their family, to come forward and talk to me. I’m also asking anyone who was
victimized by Owen Fowler, but who didn’t make a report, to come forward now. Sexual assault is the most underreported crime in America. For every police report that exists, there are probably several girls who were assaulted but didn’t tell anyone.

  “I’m also calling on the Holly Grove Police Department and DA’s office to perform DNA testing on the girls’ rape kits. Apparently, these rape kits have been sitting, untested, for many years, along with thousands of other rape kits in Detroit and Holly Grove. These kits are like gold, as an evidentiary matter. But not if they’re sitting in a warehouse, untested and rotting.”

  “Why are you bringing this up now?” a reporter asked. “Owen Fowler is dead. Even if this is true, he can’t hurt anyone else.”

  “This is a failure of the whole system, which is hurting the entire town. Coach Fowler used his position to victimize girls whose families trusted him. The failure to follow up on crucial evidence in this case enabled him. If this isn’t fixed, it can happen again.”

  “You didn’t call us here because you’re a rape-crisis advocate,” a reporter said. “You’re defending your sister in a murder case. What does this have to do with the case?”

  “Sex crimes thrive from secrecy. Talking about it is the first step in healing. The mothers and fathers of Holly Grove deserve to know.” Anna looked at the cameras. “Ask your children. Talk to them about this. The truth is the first step to justice.”

  The reporters lobbed a few more questions—about her trial strategy and how Jody was doing—but Anna shook her head, thanked them, and walked from the steps.

  Anna couldn’t tell what the results of her news conference would be. Maybe nobody would listen or care. Maybe people wouldn’t believe that the coach was a predator. But the only way to save her sister—and this town—was to get the truth out. Whatever bumps followed, she’d just have to ride out.

  The first bump came sooner than she’d expected.

  39

  That night, the local TV stations played the clip of Anna’s press conference. She and Jody sat on the couch and watched. A frowning reporter spoke to the camera. “The town of Holly Grove was rocked by scandal today, as the attorney for a woman charged with killing Coach Owen Fowler claims that he was a serial rapist. Is this a dark secret the championship football team has been hiding for two decades? Or a defendant’s Hail Mary attempt to dirty up her murder victim’s name before trial?”

  Jody’s landline rang. Anna picked it up. “Hello?”

  “Burn in hell, you lying slut.”

  Click.

  “Who was that?” Jody asked.

  “Wrong number.”

  The house phone rang again. Anna looked at it, hesitated, then answered. “Hello?”

  “I will kill you and your family and shit on your corpses.”

  She hung up and looked at Jody.

  “I think you’re going to need to get an unlisted number.”

  The phone rang again. Anna picked up, hung up, then left it off the hook.

  She poured Jody a glass of milk and sat next to her on the couch.

  “We’re pissing a lot of people off,” Jody said. “Some of them might be jurors.”

  “Anyone who would make threatening phone calls is not someone we wanted on the jury in the first place.”

  Jody nodded and sipped the milk. “Okay . . . but we’re not gonna know who they are when we pick the jury, are we?”

  A minute later, Anna’s cell phone rang. “Oh, for Pete’s sake.” Anna went to turn it off but saw it was Cooper. She answered.

  “Ballsy move,” he said.

  “Ballsy or stupid.” Anna described the angry calls. “Jody’s leaning toward stupid, I think.”

  Jody smiled at her.

  “You want me to come stay over at Jody’s house tonight?” Cooper asked.

  Anna relayed the question to Jody, who shook her head.

  “No thanks,” Anna told Cooper. “We’ll be fine.”

  Another call buzzed. She looked at the incoming number. It was Jack. She quickly said good-bye to Cooper and clicked over.

  “Hi, Jack.”

  “Anna! Is everything okay?”

  “Yeah, we’re fine. How’d you hear? I thought it was just on the local news here.”

  “I have a Google alert out on you. I’m not stalking you, I’m just—worried about you.”

  She liked the idea that he was looking after her from afar.

  “There’s a lot of support for the football team here,” Anna said. “It’s the one thing everyone is proud of, especially with all the auto factories closing. People don’t want to believe that their local hero could be so evil. They’ve seen so many other shining things turn to rust.”

  “Have you had any threats yet?”

  “How did you know?”

  “It’s the way these things tend to go.”

  “Yeah, we’ve had a few phone calls. But Holly Grove folks are good people; they’ll vent, but they won’t hurt anyone.”

  “You’re too trusting. Does Jody have an alarm system in her house?”

  “No.”

  “I’m calling ADT and getting a guy to come out tomorrow.”

  “You don’t need to do that,” she said, although the idea made her happy. Twenty minutes after they hung up, she got an e-mail from him, forwarding an appointment with ADT for 4:00 P.M. the next day.

  That night, lying in the dark, she wished they had a security system already. Every creak of the house sounded like footsteps of the bogeyman.

  When she woke up the next morning, though, everything seemed fine. She went downstairs, groggily started the coffee, and logged on to the Holly Grove Observer website. The headline read: “Allegations of Sex Abuse Shake Community.” The article made ample use of disclaiming words like alleged, claimed, and if true, laying out the facts but distancing the newspaper, making clear that it was just reporting the story, not believing it. The comments section was full of vitriol and misspellings.

  This is disgracefull. That girl killed this man, and is now draging his name thru the mud. Shame on her and her sister.

  I don’t know what’s worse, murdering this man, or defaming him now that he’s dead and can’t defend himself.

  Curtis sisters, you’re the ones who diserve to be killed

  Coach Fowler was the best thing in Holly Grove. I hope this lying bitch rots in jail and gets gangraped every day.

  Anna flagged the last two as “inappropriate” and hoped a moderator would take them down soon. She heard Jody emerging from her bedroom, and quickly clicked away from the comments. She would try to shield her sister from as much of this as she could. She heard Jody opening the front door to get the newspaper. A moment later came a scream.

  “Anna!”

  She ran to the front porch. Jody was standing in the yard in her pajamas, looking back at the front of the house. Anna came out and stood next to her. The words SLUT, WHORE, BITCH, MURDERER, and LIAR were spray-painted in black on the house’s white siding. YOU WILL BURN IN HELL was in red over the door. The letters dripped downward, like they were oozing blood.

  “I don’t think the homeowners’ association is going to approve this,” Jody said.

  “Oh God, Jo. I’m sorry.”

  Anna took pictures with her phone. Then they tried to scrub it off. They learned that spray paint does not come off with Fantastik, 409, steel wool, or bleach. Anna threw her own soiled clothes into the hamper and borrowed a pair of Jody’s jeans and a T-shirt.

  They went to Home Depot, where a grandmotherly salesperson recommended covering the graffiti with primer and paint. But, the salesperson said, aluminum siding didn’t take well to being painted. The prettier but pricier option was replacing the siding. Anna and Jody went a few aisles over to look at samples. Jody ran her hands over different shades of beige siding. “I needed a home makeover an
yhow.” All things considered, she was calm.

  Until she got a phone call from her neighbor. Anna could only hear Jody’s side of the conversation.

  “Hi, Tammy. Yeah, I’m at Home Depot. I’m fine. Anna’s here, she’s fine too. What’s up? Oh my God. Oh shit. I’ll be right there.”

  She grabbed Anna, and they ran out of the store, leaving their cart without buying anything.

  40

  Jody raced the Yukon home. They saw the column of smoke from a mile away: thick and black, snaking up against the pale autumn sky. Anna smelled it as Jody swerved the car into her subdivision. When they got to her street, fire trucks were parked at the curb, neighbors stood outside pointing, and firefighters sprayed hoses at the burning building. The flames crackled and danced as they consumed Jody’s house.

  “No!” Jody jumped out of the car and ran toward her house. “No! No!”

  A firefighter grabbed her and held her back. She fought herself free and kept running. Another firefighter held out his arms and blocked her way. It took three men to restrain her. Finally, she collapsed on the lawn, sobbing. Anna crouched next to her and held her tight. The heat of the fire radiated from the house; the front of her body was hot, while her back was cold. A reporter ran over and held his microphone in front of Jody. She didn’t seem to notice. She looked at Anna, tears streaking her face.

  “It’s everything I have,” Jody wailed. “Everything. All my pictures of Mom, every card you wrote me, every corsage from every school dance I ever dried under a dictionary. My sonogram pictures. Everything I’ve worked for or ever cared about in my entire life.”

  Anna held her tight. “I know,” Anna said. “But it’s just things. It’s only things. They didn’t get you. They didn’t get your memories of Mom. They didn’t get your baby.”

  The flames roared, the house moaned, and the roof crashed down in a shower of sparks. A wave of heat flashed on her face, and Anna held up an arm to protect them both. The firefighters shouted and pushed everyone back, as the flames grew higher. Anna ended up standing with Jody on Tammy’s lawn. Tammy held her baby on her hip and tried to comfort Jody too. The reporters crowded around them, asking questions, but Anna shook her head and asked them to please give her sister some space. The cameras moved a few steps back but kept rolling. Jody cried until her voice cracked, and then she cried until it was gone, and then she cried without making any noise.