by Rachel Caine
It looks like a town that long ago surrendered. I doubt if more than a thousand people call it home. The only real virtue to it is that it’s close to the large, lush national park, so I suppose the transient visitors keep the place on life support, if not alive.
The main street contains the same you see in every southern small town . . . a junk accumulation masquerading as antiques; a kitschy tourist store with lots of Confederate flags and bumper stickers designed to offend; a café that proclaims BEST PIES IN TENNESSEE and is probably lying. Pickup trucks and old SUVs with bumpers wired on, and nothing that’s been washed in a year. Judging by the weather-beaten look of everything I can see, there’s a paint shortage. Keeping up appearances requires some kind of aspiration.
The police station is just one street off the geographic center of town: a storefront operation that reminds me of old westerns, complete with a hand-painted star on a big plate-glass window. Not exactly the hardened, terrorist-resistant bunker of modern urban centers.
After my shower this morning, I took Kez’s advice: I wrote phone numbers on my inner forearms in black permanent marker. It seems like a little too much paranoia, but better too much than too little. When I walk into this place, I’m essentially stepping into a dark room without a flashlight. I don’t know who to trust. I don’t even know if there’s going to be a floor underneath me, metaphorically speaking. Best to be prepared for a fall.
Sam parks right in front, and says, “I’m your one phone call if you end up needing one. Right?”
“And my bondsman,” I say, and try for a smile. I don’t feel too good about this suddenly. “Okay. Everybody, get back to work on Operation Wolfhunter. I’ll call when I’m ready to leave the station. Deal?”
“Deal,” Sam says, and kisses me. He brushes hair back from my face. “Be safe, Gwen.”
“Be safe,” I tell him in turn, and then I lean over the seat and kiss my kids before sliding out into the thick, humid air of morning. The smell of the trees is powerful, overcoming any kind of car exhaust; there aren’t that many cars on the road. It’s a good smell at first, but then when I become accustomed to it, there’s a dark undertone of dead things rotting under leaves. Of a stagnant river, ripe with mosquitoes. I’m not imagining it.
This town smells like death.
I try not to breathe deeply, and manage to smile and wave at Sam and the kids as he backs the SUV up into the street. I watch them until they’re up over a hill, heading back toward the motel. There are a few people on the street, and I realize I’m drawing stares. Or glares. It’s hard to tell the difference, but they’re definitely noticing me.
I push open the door to the police department and head inside. The reception area’s small, barely the size of my living room. There are some old wooden chairs up against the wall, and a bench that started life as a church pew. There’s also a wooden counter, and a woman sitting on the other side of it typing away on a computer that’s just barely aware of the internet age. She’s fiftyish, white, with no-nonsense graying hair, perfect makeup, and cat-eye glasses. “Help you?” she asks without stopping her typing.
“I’m here as a witness,” I tell her. “For the Marlene Crockett case.”
The key-clicking stops. She spins her chair to face me, studies me with care, and then rolls forward to reach a phone. “What’s your name, sugar?”
I resist the urge to tell her not to give me endearments when we just met. “Gwen Proctor.”
She recognizes the name. I see the slow blink, the sudden shift in expression. Like a castle gate coming down. “Have a seat,” she says. “I’ll let the detective know.”
I claim one of the wooden chairs, which look marginally more comfortably than the bench. She murmurs things I can’t catch into the phone, hangs up, and gives me an entirely insincere smile. “Just one minute,” she says, and goes back to her computer. If she’s got email on that thing, she’ll no doubt be spreading word of my arrival everywhere.
I’m glad I have the numbers of lawyers on my arms. I have no idea what might happen in here; they probably won’t charge me with a crime. But I’ve learned the hard way that being innocent doesn’t mean handcuffs don’t go on.
It’s something less than a minute, all in all, until a solid old wooden door in the back wall opens, and a man comes out who has to actually stoop to pass underneath the top of the frame. I stare, which I imagine isn’t an unusual thing, because he’s got to be approaching NBA heights . . . six foot seven, nine, maybe even more. Thin, too, with long legs; he must have his suits custom-tailored, because this one fits him well. It’s light gray, a concession to the heavy heat.
“Ms. Proctor? I’m Detective Fairweather, Tennessee Bureau of Investigation.” He holds out a hand as I get up, and I feel miniaturized when we shake. He’s careful and professional about it. His skin’s the kind of pink that doesn’t take to the summers around here, and his hair’s Nordic blond, cut military short. “How are you, ma’am? I hope that drive wasn’t too difficult.”
I have to give him points for using Ms. instead of Mrs. or Miss; I usually have to correct people at least once. His accent is definitely southern, but not so much Tennessee. Virginia? Hard to say.
He holds the door open for me and gestures me inside. I don’t immediately obey. “So you’re not actually with the Wolfhunter police?” I ask him.
“We’re working together on this,” he says. “I’m the lead investigator. After you, ma’am.”
He’s painfully polite. I suppose that should comfort me, but instead it makes me warier. But I don’t have much choice; he’s not going to let me walk out of here without a conversation. I go past him and into a narrow, dim hallway. It’s as scuffed and beaten up as I would have expected. He leads me into a room off to one side and shuts the door behind me.
Typical interrogation room. I settle on the side that I know he wants me to take, the one that captures me best on video. Might as well be cooperative when it’s easy.
Detective Fairweather takes the chair on the opposite side of the small table and settles on it like he’s afraid it might break. “Ma’am, you don’t mind if I record our conversation, do you? It’s for my records.” He puts his cell phone down. It’s entirely unnecessary, unless the camera isn’t working properly . . . or he’s afraid Wolfhunter PD might not be entirely reliable. I nod in reply, and he presses the red button on the screen. “Okay, so just for the record, ma’am, please state your name.”
“I’m Gwen Proctor.”
“Originally Gina Royal? Wife of Melvin Royal?” Cheap shot, Detective.
“That’s my former married name, yes.”
“And just for context, ma’am, where is it you live?”
“On Stillhouse Lake, near Norton.”
“In Tennessee.”
“Yes.”
“And do you live there by yourself?”
“No,” I say. “I have two children, Lanny and Connor. And Sam Cade also lives there.”
“Sam Cade.” He leans forward now, resting his long forearms on the table and lacing his fingers together. “And lives there how, exactly?”
“I’m not sure I understand the question.” I do, perfectly. But I want him to ask straight out.
“Is he renting a room from you, or . . .”
“We share a bedroom,” I tell him. I suppose a more normal thing to say would have been We’re lovers or We’re partners, but even now, I hate to push it that far. Dumb, I suppose.
It doesn’t matter how carefully I parse my words, because the detective gets exactly where I’m going. “Well, that’s a little unusual, isn’t it? Considering your ex-husband brutally murdered his sister?”
I let that sit for a long few seconds. My silence has thorns. When I do answer, my tone’s gone sharp and, against my will, defensive. “How exactly is any of this relevant to what I heard on the phone?”
Fairweather holds up his hands in either surrender or apology. “Apologies. Just background questions.” No. That was a deliberate ploy
to throw me off-balance, and we both know it. “Okay, let’s go ahead and move on. I need to ask you some questions about Marlene and Vee Crockett.”
“Don’t know them,” I say. Absolutely true. I force myself to relax. Body language speaks as loudly as words, especially on camera.
Cameras.
I glance involuntarily up toward the one set in the corner. It’s disguised, but not very well, with a paint job to match the bland walls. There’s no lit-up indicator to show whether or not it’s recording, but I can still feel its blank, impersonal stare.
I blink back images of nightmares and try to focus directly on Fairweather again. He’s asked me a question I missed. “Sorry?”
“You did speak to Mrs. Crockett, we know that. That call she made to you went on a bit. Wasn’t just a wrong number.”
“I didn’t say she didn’t call me. I said I don’t know her.”
His straw-colored eyebrows round up. “You usually have conversations with some stranger as you don’t even know?”
Despite the antique rural phrasing, I recognize the shark gliding under the surface of that question. “Sometimes,” I say. I keep it placid. “When they’re in trouble.”
“And what kind of help can you offer them, exactly?”
“Advice.” I’m tempted to leave it there and make him chase the rabbit, but I don’t. “Look, you know who I am and who my ex was. People—mostly women—sometimes reach out in dealing with difficult situations.”
“Such as?”
“One woman had a husband who was about to be arrested as a child molester. She didn’t know how to deal with it, or the fallout. Another woman wanted to do what I did: change her name to protect her kids from harassment. Sometimes I can help them. Mostly I can’t. Occasionally I get ones that just need to talk it out.”
“And Mrs. Crockett?”
“She wasn’t specific about what her problem was. She clearly felt like there was trouble, though I didn’t get the impression she thought it was danger to her. She wanted me to come up to Wolfhunter. She said she’d discuss it here.” I take in a breath, let it out. “To be honest, I thought maybe she suspected someone around her of some crime. That’s normally the case.”
“Did you? Meet with her?”
I see the spark fly through him, like a pilot light flaring up. How much of a career boost would it be for him to somehow pin a woman’s murder on the ex of Melvin Royal?
“No, I did not,” I say. Still calm. “I’m happy for you to look at my cell phone records, which should show you exactly where I’ve been since then, and I’ll give you a detailed timeline in writing. I’ve never been to Wolfhunter before we got here late last night.”
If he’s disappointed, he doesn’t show it. His helpful expression never shifts. “If you could write that all down for me, that would be real helpful,” he says. He opens a drawer on his side of the table and comes up with a lined yellow pad and a felt-tip pen. “I’ll need to ask Mr. Cade for his timeline from when Marlene first called until you got that second call too.”
“Of course. He’ll be happy to do that, and give you access to his cell records as well.” I wouldn’t normally make that kind of promise on Sam’s behalf, but obviously this detective’s not stupid; he’s going to get court orders and pull them whether we like it or not. Acceding will give us the edge on credibility.
“So what exactly did Mrs. Crockett say when she called you?” he asks me, and shifts a little forward. An invitation to share confidences, just between the two of us. He’s got a good command of body language, I’ll give him that.
“Not much. She called after we got back from Knoxville, after dinner.”
“Knoxville,” he repeats. “And why’d you go to Knoxville again?”
“I had an appearance on the Howie Hamlin Show. It’s filmed there.” My tone goes sharp again. He gives me a little nod.
“Yes, ma’am, I do remember that now.” He must have Googled me already, that would be standard procedure before taking an interview. “And what exactly did she say when she called?”
I think back. My memory’s not perfect, but it’s reasonably good, and I think I recount it well enough for him. He listens without comment. When I pause, he says, “And why didn’t you come to Wolfhunter when she asked you to?”
“Because I’m not stupid,” I say. “I don’t go running off to meet in secret with people I don’t know. Not unless I do it on my own terms. It might have been a trap.”
“A trap?” He sits back now. “Set by who, exactly?”
I start ticking off the list. “Fans of my ex. Absalom members who slipped the net. Random internet stalkers, of which I have dozens. Not to mention the families of my ex-husband’s victims, some of whom still believe I’m complicit. Oh, and all these crazy people stirred up by that mess on the Howie Hamlin train wreck, because now I’ve got Miranda Tidewell’s documentary crew stalking me. So . . . plenty of suspects.”
“Sounds like your life is difficult, ma’am.”
“Not nearly as difficult as the people who lost their loved ones so horribly,” I say. “Damn sure not as difficult as the lives of my children, who’ve had to endure more than I can imagine. I’m not wallowing in self-pity or paranoia. I’m just realistic about the number of people who want to see me humiliated or hurt. Maybe dead. But I’m not the one dead, am I? Can we get back to Marlene?”
He lets me shift the ground. “Okay. So after that initial call, you had no further contact with her, is that right?”
“That’s right.”
“Until the call came from her phone.”
“Yes.” I remember the sick sensation of realizing just how badly things had gone on the other end of that phone.
“I’d like you to describe that call in detail, ma’am. Be as specific as possible.”
So I do. I tell him what Vee Crockett said, as best I can recall it; I describe the unsettling way she said it. The panic of the shotgun blast, and thinking that she’d been killed as well.
“Ah,” he says. “Well, that was the postman on the front porch, delivering a package. Good thing he was bent over putting it down when she let loose with that shot.”
“He wasn’t hurt?”
“Ran for his life,” Fairweather tells me. “Punched a hole the size of his head through the door just above him. He was damn lucky.”
I agree. Vee had meant to kill whoever was on the other side of that door. “That doesn’t necessarily mean she killed her mother, though.”
“I haven’t said anything about that,” Fairweather says. “And I’m not here to tell you what I think. Go on. What happened after that?”
“I told her to put the shotgun down, switch the phone to speaker, and hold up both hands after she opened the front door.”
“Why not tell her to hang up? Or hang up yourself?”
“Because I felt like she shouldn’t be alone,” I tell him. “She’s fifteen. She’d been through a trauma.”
“You just described how little that bothered her.”
“You know that sometimes people react to trauma in odd ways. She called me. I felt I needed to see it through as far as I could. I was afraid . . .” I pause, thinking about whether or not to say it. “I was afraid she’d make a mistake and somebody would overreact.”
“Or she’d provoke them into it? Suicide by cop?”
“I can’t say. I just felt she wasn’t thinking clearly. She needed help.”
He changes tack. “Folks around Wolfhunter said that Marlene had a sour relationship with that girl,” he says. “She was into drinking and taking some pills. Trouble at school. She tell you anything about that?”
“No,” I tell him. “No specifics, like I told you. I can’t help you with that. But honestly—that describes a lot of kids, right?”
“Yours?”
Well, that’s a precise little stab. “No.” Not the drinking and pills part, at least. “Let’s stick to the subject, please.”
He veers back into timelines, and I
tell him point by point up to the minute the phone dropped from Vera’s hand, and then add what I’ve done since. Some of it, inevitably, will be unverifiable, but when paired up with cell records, I think I’ll be okay.
He asks me then to write it all down. I do. I know the ploy: Ask the questions aloud, then match the written timeline and identify discrepancies. Then double-check everything.
“Detective,” I ask, “how is she?”
“Marlene? She’s dead.”
“Vera.”
“Hospital checked her out. She’s just fine. Just not cooperative.”
“Have you charged her?”
“I’d be an idiot not to,” he says. “Nothing she said to you on the phone says she didn’t do it; even then, the physical evidence shows her with fingerprints on the weapon, blood all over her, and gunshot residue.”
“The gunshot residue comes from the shot I heard.”
“Maybe. Maybe that was her second target. Two shells, and the gun was empty when we collected it.”
Even I am not convinced of the kid’s innocence, but this bothers me. “Does she even have a lawyer?”
“Ma’am, I caution you not to get too involved in this. We may never know why her mother called you; maybe it was because of the very thing that happened, and the person she was afraid of was her own daughter.”
“That wasn’t my question.”
“The court appointed someone,” he says. “Hector Sparks. He’s local.”
He’ll be one of the two numbers on my arms, most likely. “Can I see her?”
He leans back, as if he wants to get as far away from that question as possible. “Why would you want to do that, Ms. Proctor? You don’t know this girl. You didn’t even know her mother.”
“She’s my daughter’s age,” I say. “And . . . and she might talk to me. She did on the phone.”
He thinks it over, and I believe he’s tempted, but then he shakes his head. “Can’t allow someone without legal standing to visit until she’s been held over for trial.”
