Trace of Evil

by Alice Blanchard

  There was nothing posted on India’s Instagram or Facebook pages yesterday, which was odd, because she posted something almost every day—plates of food, shoes in her closet, selfies. Next Natalie scrolled through Ellie’s social media pages, feeling rather sick about it. How many times had she advised her niece to use caution? Twitter, Instagram, Snapchat, Facebook. The internet was forever.

  Natalie didn’t find anything of significance on any of the girls’ accounts and put away her phone. Hathaway’s class was winding down. The girls in the front row were still mesmerized—India with her jet-black hair and strangely adult gaze, more mature than the others; Sadie with her pixie lisp and multiply pierced ears; lithe, aristocratic Berkley, whose single flaw was her slightly droopy eyelids behind designer glasses. These weren’t the school misfits or cast-offs, nerdy losers or artsy types. They were the brightest, smartest, and cleverest of the bunch. Churchgoers and members of the Honor Society. Straight-A students. Natalie had always been amazed by them. She adored them—although some of their personality traits could use a little improvement. For instance, India could be manipulative; Berkley could be surprisingly cold; Sadie wasn’t as intellectually curious as she needed to be; and Ellie could be honest to the point of rudeness, like her father, Burke.

  Natalie had a flash of Ellie as a toddler in the wintertime, walking stiffly in her quilted jumpsuit, like an astronaut taking her first steps on Mars. God, they grew up fast.

  The bell rang.

  The students grabbed their backpacks and shot up from their seats.

  “Just remember,” Hathaway said above the ruckus, “switch off your phones and open your minds. I want summaries of chapters nine and ten on my desk by noon tomorrow.” He closed the book of poetry and smiled at the stream of students flowing out the door, and Natalie had to step back to avoid getting bowled over.

  A handful of girls lingered after class, including Ellie and her friends. Natalie listened in on the conversation. They were devastated by Ms. Buckner’s death, grief-stricken and seeking comfort. Lots of flushed faces and choked voices. At one point, they all spoke at once, then laughed awkwardly and tried again.

  Hathaway responded warmly and earnestly, like a favorite uncle. He was good at this. He quoted Edna St. Vincent Millay and Toni Morrison. They ended in a group hug—with one another, not with Mr. Hathaway. He was careful not to touch them.

  Finally, the girls filed out the door.

  Natalie tapped India on the arm. “Can I speak with you a second?”

  The sixteen-year-old seemed startled. “Aunt Natalie? What’s wrong?”

  “Let’s go back into the classroom, I’m sure Mr. Hathaway won’t mind.”

  “Um … okay.”

  “Go on, I’ll be right in,” Natalie told her.

  Puzzled, India said good-bye to her friends while Natalie turned to Ellie and asked, “How are you feeling?”

  “Not great,” her niece confessed with taut jaw muscles. “Mom’s an emotional wreck, and I just lost my bracelet.” She showed Natalie her pale wrist. “The one you gave me last year. It’s my favorite.”

  “I’m so sorry, Ellie,” Natalie said with disappointment. The scarab-link bracelet was a museum reproduction made of turquoise, pewter, and brass. Ellie had always been fascinated by mummies and archeology, and she’d read that scarabs were an ancient Egyptian symbol for immortality. When Natalie saw the bracelet, she just knew Ellie would love it. “Did you retrace your steps?”

  “Yeah, I’ve looked everywhere.” Ellie rubbed her wrist. “I love that bracelet.”

  “What about the lost-and-found box?”

  Her eyes lit up. “I’ll go check it out. Thanks, Aunt Natalie. See you after school.”

  “Two thirty.”

  “Bye.” Ellie took off after her friends.

  Natalie joined India inside the vacant classroom. “Sorry to barge in on you like this,” she told Hathaway. “I’m Detective Lockhart. I don’t believe we’ve met. I need to borrow your classroom for a few minutes. Is that okay?”

  He glanced at his watch. “Sure. My next class starts in fifteen minutes, though.”

  “Just enough time.”

  Hathaway at a distance was easy on the eyes. But upon closer inspection, he seemed worn-out this morning—gaunt cheeks, a pallid complexion, a few missed spots shaving. “You’re Grace’s sister, right?” he said.

  “Natalie.” They shook hands.

  “I’ve heard a lot about you.”

  “All good, I hope.” She smiled.

  “Are you kidding me? Grace won’t stop bragging about you in the faculty lounge. Anyway, I’ll go fetch a cup of coffee,” he told them, and left the room.

  India touched her damp forehead. “I really can’t be late for class.”

  “That’s okay, I’ll make it quick,” Natalie said, closing the door. “Have a seat.”

  Despite the fact that Natalie had known India forever, she didn’t really know her. Sixteen-year-old India Cochran was a bit of a mystery. She looked like a model for Teen Vogue in her fitted black skirt with the metal zippers down both sides, her retro boots, her slim black T-shirt, and tailored velvet jacket. India’s face was narrow and catlike, with sly, curious eyes. Whereas Ellie wore her heart on her sleeve and gave you her opinion on everything from world peace to ketchup, India was more circumspect, as if she were afraid to reveal her true self. Natalie had observed the four of them for years, and she occasionally caught India bossing the other girls around when she thought nobody was looking.

  Now India tugged on her skirt and swung her leg with barely veiled impatience.

  “Did you see Riley Skinner after school yesterday?” Natalie asked.

  “Riley? No. I was over at Berkley’s house,” she said, blinking a little. “Why?”

  “Just you and Berkley?”

  “No, we were all there. Me, Sadie, Ellie, and Berk.”

  Natalie grew vaguely troubled. She recalled Grace saying yesterday that Ellie had “a thing” after school, and realized this was what she meant.

  “And you’re sure you didn’t see Riley after school?” Natalie pressed.

  “No, Aunt Natalie.”

  “I’m speaking to you as a police detective now. You don’t have to answer my questions, India, but I’m trying to find out what happened to Ms. Buckner. Does Riley drop by your house often?”

  “God, no. He doesn’t drop by. He’s, like, my stalker,” India explained.

  “Your stalker?”

  She nodded. “Yeah. He’ll drive past my house a dozen times a day. Or else he’ll hang around the hallways after class … waiting to catch a glimpse of me, I guess.”

  “Okay. Well, someone told me Riley was planning on visiting you after school yesterday,” Natalie said. “Was that misinformation?”

  India twisted her long black ponytail around her slender fingers and smoothed a few wisps of hair off her damp neck. “Who told you that?”

  “I can’t reveal the information, sorry.”

  “Because it’s not true. No way. I mean, maybe he drove past my house, but I wasn’t there,” she said with a shrug. “I was at Berkley’s, like I said.”

  “You said he’s your stalker? Have you contacted the police?”

  “No.” She shifted uneasily.

  “Why not, India? Does your mother know Riley’s stalking you?”

  “It’s not like that, Aunt Natalie. It’s … complicated.”

  “Complicated how?”

  “We used to be friends,” she admitted, glancing at her nails. “But he wanted to take it to the next level, and I didn’t.”

  “Oh. So when you say ‘friends,’ how close were you?” Natalie asked.

  “Just friends.” There was a sheen of sweat on India’s face.

  “Maybe he drove over to Berkley’s house then?”

  “He didn’t even know I was there,” India said, visibly upset. “Unless someone told him. In which case, I suppose he could’ve driven past Berk’s house, but he didn’t
stop by to say hello or anything.”

  “Then it’s possible Riley may have driven past Berkley’s house, stalking you, as you say … but you never actually saw him or spoke to him?”

  “That’s right.” She adjusted the black leather bracelet around her wrist, sliding it down, and Natalie noticed a small tattoo on the inner part of her wrist. A small red rose surrounded by twisted barbed wire.

  India quickly tucked the leather bracelet back in place and heaved a sigh.

  Natalie leaned forward. “India, has Riley ever threatened you?”

  “No. That’s stupid. Was it Kermit who said that?” She tipped her head furiously. “Did he tell you Riley was coming to see me? Because, seriously … that guy is such a loser.”

  “You said Riley was stalking you … do you ever feel unsafe?”

  “Well, yeah. I mean, he’d rap about us sometimes.”

  “Rap about you?”

  “In his songs.” Her eyes glazed over. “He made it sound like I’d betrayed him, but that’s the furthest thing from the truth. We were never a ‘thing,’ except in his head.”

  “Did you ever feel threatened by the lyrics in his songs?”

  She shrugged it off. “Just because he raps about us doesn’t make it true.”

  “Do you think Riley was stalking Ms. Buckner, too?”

  She crossed her arms tightly. “Why would he?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Well, I mean … maybe. Riley is totally self-sabotaging.” Tears sprang to her eyes. “I’m sorry, Aunt Natalie, but I’m under extreme stress right now. I don’t exactly feel safe.”

  “Why not?”

  She tapped her foot nervously. “Because you keep asking me all these questions, and I don’t know what you’re getting at.”

  “Oh.” Natalie drew back. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to confuse you. I’ve been asking people questions all morning. You’re just one of those people.”

  India sighed hard. “Well, look, we all loved Ms. Buckner, are you kidding me? She was totally cool. If you ever needed extra credit or wanted to throw a bake sale or something, she’d be there for you. She was helping us raise money for the girls’ athletic scholarship, and she hosted the prom committee at her house, where she served us tea and cookies. It was really nice.”

  The bell rang.

  India sat forward, palms open. “I can’t be late for class, Auntie N.”

  It was the first time India had called her that in many moons, and it tugged at Natalie’s heartstrings, but at the same time, it felt slightly manipulative.

  Natalie handed the girl her business card. “Tell your teacher I detained you, okay? If she needs anything else, have her call me.”

  “Okay, I will. Thanks. Bye.” India scooped up her book bag and hurried away.

  Natalie’s phone buzzed, and she checked the number. It was Luke.

  “Any luck?” he asked.

  “Owen Kottler forgot to delete his Instagram posts showing that he and Kermit Hughes were with Riley last night at Haymarket Field.”

  “Good. Let’s see if we can get the boys’ parents to bring them in for a formal interview. In the meantime, the autopsy’s in fifteen minutes.”

  “Meet you at the morgue,” she said and hung up.

  12

  The autopsy took place in the county health building, a few blocks east of the police station. The morgue was dank and chilly, full of dripping pipes and mechanical sounds. Coroner Barry Fishbeck was a fellow of the American Academy of Forensic Sciences, a man possessed of country humor and shrewdness. In his midsixties, he was stooped and dignified-looking with a silver goatee and a bulbous nose.

  Daisy’s clothes had been bagged and sent to the state lab for testing. Her body lay on a chrome table in the autopsy suite, and it shocked Natalie all over again to see her lying there dead. Daisy was slender and pale, with a dusting of freckles over her elfin nose, and she looked younger than her thirty-six years. There was a slight baby bump above her pubic bone, as well as evidence of meticulous grooming—manicure, pedicure, leg wax, bikini wax. Natalie recognized the faded, red and black starfish tattoo above her left breast—Grace had an identical tattoo. They’d gotten them when they were seventeen and stupid, and showed Natalie the results, giggling and drunkenly insisting, “Don’t tell Deborah! Don’t tell the Momster!” Natalie never did.

  She’d learned to suppress her emotions during an autopsy, but this one was tough. Daisy Forester used to live down the street from them—a galloping girl with curly red hair and Kewpie doll eyes who liked to sing “Baby, I Love Your Way” on karaoke nights. Grace and Daisy were best friends forever. In the eighth grade, they’d worn identical overalls and black pullover sweaters. In the ninth grade, they joined the girls’ swim team and developed deep tans, strong arm muscles, and cheerleader smiles. In the tenth grade, they dabbled in the occult—looking for their future husbands in a crystal ball and casting spiteful curses on their frenemies. In the eleventh grade, they got identical tattoos—the brittle star had a talent for regrowing its limbs. It was a powerful symbol of hope. It meant that happiness could regenerate over time. In the twelfth grade, they went a little wild, smoking pot and sleeping with boys. They were so close at times, some of the girls at school called them conjoined twins.

  Barry Fishbeck made a show of removing his jacket and putting on his white coroner’s coat, his surgical mask, and latex gloves, like an athlete preparing for the big game. Natalie could barely breathe. She hated the autopsy room’s foul chemical smells. Here the cadavers were studied, X-rayed, and cut open, before being stacked in a forty-degree cold room, where you could see their waxy feet through the clear plastic body bags.

  Daisy’s head was turned sideways, and part of her scalp had been shaved so that the wound behind her right ear was exposed. Natalie couldn’t stop staring at it. It held a peculiar fascination. The geography of the human body never ceased to amaze her. The cast-iron skillet had impacted the right parietal bone, approximately five inches from the top of the skull, resulting in a deep laceration with ragged, swollen edges. Were it not for this grotesque head wound, Daisy would be teaching her fourth-period humanities class right about now. Natalie struggled to comprehend how she could be walking around in her own skin, while this person she’d known her entire life was gone.

  Now Barry clipped a digital recorder to his belt, slipped on his headset, and chose from an assortment of tools. “Victim’s name is Daisy Forester Buckner,” he began, while Luke took out a roll of Peppermint LifeSavers, popped one in his mouth, and offered one to Natalie.

  “Thanks.” Only human blood had that sharp, coppery odor that invaded your psyche and lingered for days. Everything Natalie had touched last night—body fluids, blood spatter, unknown substances—all those scent molecules had clung to her skin and clothes. Despite this morning’s shower, despite the extra laundry detergent she’d poured into the washer, the smell of last night’s crime scene would die a slow, hesitant death. As a homicide detective, you risked carrying a whiff of decay around with you wherever you went. To counter this effect, the guys in the unit wore cologne, and sometimes the office smelled like an air-freshened graveyard.

  “Okay, now for the coronal mastoid incision.” Barry picked up a scalpel and made an incision across the top of the head. He peeled back the scalp and exposed the cranium, which was fractured like an egg.

  Natalie’s stomach seized, and her nostrils flared with revulsion at the raw smells. Human beings weren’t meant to be cut open and exposed for all the world to see. The dead were supposed to be honored, laid out in their absolute finest, and mourned by candlelight. The Victorians had it right.

  A memory pulsed before her. Natalie and her friends used to hold their breath whenever the school bus drove past the graveyard. You had to hold your breath until there were no more headstones left to see, and when Natalie couldn’t hold her breath any longer, she would pretend. She was pretending now.

  She reached for the roll of LifeSavers on
the counter, popped another mint in her mouth, and crunched down hard. Daisy’s skin was flawless, except for the starfish tattoo above her left breast and … wait. What were those marks on her wrist?

  Natalie carefully lifted Daisy’s left arm and examined the faded old scars on her inner wrist—three small irregular scars, each about an inch in length, parallel and close together. They looked like three baby earthworms.

  “Hesitation marks from a failed suicide attempt,” Barry explained. “Although there’s no mention of it in the medical records.”

  “Really? Her family doctor kept it a secret?” Natalie said, surprised.

  “Or else Daisy kept it secret. Those wounds are superficial. They could’ve healed on their own. This wasn’t a serious attempt, but it was enough to leave scars.”

  “I never noticed before,” she admitted, gently placing Daisy’s arm back on the chrome table. It explained some of Daisy’s fashion choices. She favored wrist cuffs—lace, wrap, leather—or long sleeves year-round. “How long ago did this happen?”

  “Well, from the looks of it … raised and faded keloidal scarring means the scar tissue continued to grow larger over time, until the overgrowth eventually became larger than the original wound. Probably late teens, early twenties, but I’m guessing.”

  Natalie vaguely recalled some drama when Daisy was eighteen—there were rumors about a bad breakup, something to do with a boy, but she couldn’t remember the details. Brandon had come into the picture around the same time. It was sort of an abrupt transition from Grace to Brandon, as if they’d handed Daisy off like a baton.

  Now the harsh overhead lights exposed the radial cracks in Daisy’s cranium. The fractures reminded Natalie of a hawk’s talons, gripping the glistening white skull, with dark blood folded into the most severe cracks. On the counter, a few feet away from the chrome table, was the murder weapon—the medium-size cast-iron skillet, bagged and tagged, lying on a fresh clean towel. Preliminary results were in. The skillet contained traces of type A-positive blood. Daisy’s blood was A-positive. Further DNA testing was being done at the state lab, but it would take a couple of weeks to get the results back. Still, the preliminary findings were significant. Even though type A-positive was fairly common, it was clear to everyone in the room that the skillet was the murder weapon.