by Julia Shupe
When she opened the door, I struggled to keep my expression passive. Despite what I’d read or been told in briefings, and despite the many pictures I’d seen, I had to admit: I was shocked. The years hadn’t been kind to Meghan. Her attack had happened when she was only fifteen, but the woman in front of me looked older than fifty-five. Her face was deeply lined, and pale. Her eyes, like a feral cat’s, darted from face to face.
“Badges please,” she said without smiling.
Jacob was the first to comply. “Federal Agent, Jacob Forrest, ma’am. We spoke on the phone. Are you Meghan Newton?”
Like any of us had to ask.
Nodding briefly, her eyes flashed to Gil, narrowing on the badge he was holding in his hand. Her gaze was intense. She was absorbing every detail. I could see calculations clicking rapidly behind her eyes. When she panned to me, I instinctively stood taller.
She inspected our ID’s and opened the door wider. She had sized us up in a matter of seconds, a skill she’d been forced to learn at a young age. She was wearing a bulky sweatshirt and yoga pants that grazed the floor, and her feet were sneakered in white—both feet, though her prosthesis wasn’t visible.
Jacob took the first step toward establishing rapport. “We won’t take much of your time today, Meghan. We just need to ask you a few questions.”
“He did it again,” she said quickly, and I flinched, her crisp tone challenging any of us to disagree. She thrust out a bony hip. “I knew it. What’s left to ask? Can’t say I’m surprised. The killer kills again. Big shock. The psychotic sociopath wasn’t rehabilitated in prison.” She threw her hands in the air. “You act like this is some biblical revelation, but any cheap psychic could have made that prediction in less than thirty seconds. I’m sorry to say, but this one’s on you. If you gave him a proper sentence thirty years ago, you’d have saved a life in the process. You fucked up. Can’t cry about it now.”
“Can’t say I argue with that,” Gil said. “And if what happened to you had happened ten years later, Tubbs would be sitting in prison right now, eating cream-of-roach soup as some gang leader’s girlfriend. Stupid people write stupid laws. What can we say? We’ve got no defense. All we can do is try harder. That’s why we’re here. That’s what we’re trying to do.” He cocked his head and clasped his hands behind his back. He was good with people. I needed to take notes. “I’m sorry about this, Meghan. I’m sorry we’re bringing this to your doorstep again, for the hundred-thousandth time in your life. But we have to. We’ve got no choice. If you’ll allow it, we’ll just need a few minutes of your time.”
She ushered us through the door with a huff, and when it slammed shut behind me, I noticed the row of deadbolts, chains, and locks. This woman was living a tortured life. She’d never be free or sane again. Not while Tubbs still lived. It depressed me.
Motioning us toward a living room couch—an ugly old thing with a dated plaid pattern—she took a seat in an oversized chair. She offered no water. No food. No courtesy. I wouldn’t hold my breath for a dinner invitation. But could I blame her? We—as in cops everywhere, all over the country—had repeatedly let her down. She didn’t like us, or trust us. After all, we—as in we-the-system—had failed her, time and time again. I couldn’t find fault with her logic.
I tried to examine the small sitting room we’d entered without being overtly obvious. The house had a musty smell, like she’d cleaned the countertops with an old sour rag. It was a typical apartment, a transitory place, a place where people lived until something better came along. I couldn’t help but wonder how long Meghan had been waiting.
A low grow emerged from a room down the apartment’s only dark hallway.
“Neo,” she said softly, “Quiet, boy.” She turned to face us. She was suddenly all business. “My pit-bull,” she offered, ramrod straight at the edge of her seat. “He’s a good boy. I’m lucky to have him. A few years back, I had him trained as an attack dog. He makes me feel more secure than anything else.” Sweeping an arm toward the door, she added, “I have the locks, and the chains, and the fancy alarm system, but sometimes I think Neo’s better.”
“I’m sure you’re right,” Jacob said, his gaze roaming the room.
“It’s not much,” she said quietly, reading his thoughts. “But I won’t be here much longer.”
“Oh no?” Gil asked. “Where to next?”
“I’m not sure yet. Does it matter? I guess I like to stay on the move.” She shrugged. “It’s the only thing that keeps me sane.”
I was suddenly uncomfortable. What kind of life had Meghan Newton been living? What kind of life had fate served her?
“I’m sorry,” Meghan said, settling into the cushions. She was slowly becoming more comfortable with us. “I don’t mean to be rude. I’m just edgy. I’m not accustomed to having people visit my home. So,” she added, “Here we are. Once again. Decades have passed, but it seems like yesterday. I don’t think I’ll ever be free of this thing. As far as I run, it always seems to catch me. I don’t think it’ll ever let me go. Do you understand what that’s been like for me? His release from prison, I mean. I’m always looking over my shoulder. I see his face in every shadow, in every room. I hear his voice in every whisper. I smell his sour sweat on my clothes. Sometimes, at night, I can feel his breath on the back of my neck.”
I leaned forward, hands cupping my knees. “I’m sorry, Meghan. None of us can imagine what that’s been like for you.”
Her throat worked like it was difficult to swallow. “I barely go out anymore. And I don’t mean out, as in socializing with friends. I mean out, as in outside this door. I haven’t socialized with anyone in years. And even if I wanted to, I wouldn’t have a friend to call.” She shook her head. “I haven’t seen the sun in a very long time. I haven’t run to the post office, or to the 7-eleven, or even to get fucking ice cream. For the past two years, I’ve been trapped inside this apartment. And I’m not agoraphobic. It’s not like that. I’m just happier inside these walls. I have groceries delivered to my door every week. Amazon Prime takes care of everything else.
“Lately, though, I’ve been getting antsy. And ever since you called, I’ve been trying to figure out what to do next.” She folded her hands, almost primly. “Over the last two decades, do you know how many times I’ve picked up and moved?”
“I can’t begin to imagine,” Jacob answered.
“Sixteen,” she answered. “Sixteen times. Can you imagine moving sixteen times? I’ve uprooted my life sixteen different times, all in an effort to feel safe. I’ve lived in twelve different states, on two coasts.” She dropped her gaze to her hands, her voice softer. “Thing is, though, it doesn’t matter where I move, how many times, or how far I try to go. I can’t outrun it. I’ll never be the same person, and I’ll never forget what happened to me. This thing will haunt me till the day that I die. Carlton Tubbs is out there somewhere. And do you know what the worst part about that is?”
The question was rhetorical. We all let it hang.
“If you knew where he was, you wouldn’t be here. If you could speak to him, you wouldn’t be wasting your time talking to me. You’d have pulled him in and arrested him. You’d be holding him ‘til you got answers. So all you’re really doing right now is confirming my worst nightmares. He’s out there. Somewhere. Doing it again. And if Carlton Tubbs is somewhere out there, then I’m only safe in here.”
“I get it,” I said softly. “We all do. I promise you that.”
“No,” she vehemently disagreed. “You don’t. You can’t. But thanks for trying. Anyway,” She waived a hand dismissively through the air. “Enough about that. You didn’t come here to join the pity party wagon. You’re obviously here to ask me questions about Tubbs. What I can’t figure out is why. I’ve told this story so many damn times I could probably do it in my sleep.”
“I know,” said Jacob, ignoring Gil’s pointed look. “This process can be tedious, if not cruel. Every time one of us comes knocking on your door, you’re forc
ed to relive your worst nightmare. It’s not fair to you, and I’m sorry for doing it.”
She sighed, and when next she spoke, she sounded weaker. “No, it’s not fair. But such is life—or so I’ve learned. As long as Carlton Tubbs is out there, I’ll always have a connection to him, so if I have to tell this story fifty thousand more times, I’ll put on my big-girl underpants and do it.”
In the dim light, her face looked drawn. Like the rest of her apartment, she was draped in shadows. All of the curtains in the apartment were closed, and the fabric was thick and lined with canvas, the ends held together by large safety pins. Very little light could get through. Small slices of sun were penetrating the gaps, but that was all Meghan Newton would allow. She was doing her best to keep the rest of the world out.
Returning my attention to her, I took in every detail the shadows would allow. She was sickly thin and unnaturally pale. Forty-five years had been a juggernaut. It had marched across her face, leaving a map of frown-lines and crow’s feet in its path. She was twitchy and nervous, her hands balled into fists. She was clearly on edge, and why shouldn’t she be? After she’d been attacked, practically every newscaster in the country had stalked her, every talk show host, every Oprah Winfrey wannabe, even Ms. Winfrey herself, if I remember it correctly. But when that whirlwind finally came to an end, what had been left in its wake? Meghan had found herself alone—that’s what: sad, frightened, and very much alone. She’d become an empty shell, a bottomless pit, and all she could do was try to make a new life.
In truth, she was failing at it miserably.
“I appreciate your willingness to help,” Jacob said.
She lifted her head and met his gaze. “So where should I begin? What do you want to hear about first?”
“What I want,” Jacob replied, “Is to hear you talk about ancillary things: sounds, smells, and sensations, things you’d forgotten that surfaced many years later. Strange things happen to people after traumatic events. One can block out the specifics for years. It’s the body’s way of protecting itself, and frankly, it’s quite an effective coping mechanism. The problem is, it isn’t full proof. Memories are fallible. Conscious thought is unreliable. Facts refuse to stay buried forever. They often come out at odd times, in odd places, and are triggered by something unrelated or unexpected. They materialize in strange forms: dreams, flashes, or deja vu. Has anything like that happened to you? Have any surprising details come to the surface? Things you wished you’d said back then, but couldn’t because your mind was blocking them out?”
She nodded, her eyes tracking up toward the ceiling. “I’m not sure I’ve experienced anything like that. I gave the police every detail I could—everything I could remember, at least.” With a sigh, she kicked off her sneakers, tucked her left foot beneath her and let her right prosthesis dangle. “Let me see,” she continued, more comfortable. “That Saturday morning began like any other. Back then I was an excellent runner: five, six miles a day, eight on Saturdays. I ran track in high school, and placed second in the women’s 5-K, nationally. Back then my routine rarely varied.
“It was a Saturday morning, about 6:45, and I’d wanted to try a new trail. I’d ridden my bike to Miner’s Ravine, to one of the trails bordering the Roseville area. I liked that area because of the challenging terrain. Parts of the pathway are asphalt—easy—while other parts wind through wooded areas.” Her eyes lost focus as she reached for the memories. “I didn’t pay attention to other people that day. It was early. There weren’t many people around. I rarely paid attention to people at all. It just wasn’t something I did. People don’t worry about being attacked, and like them, I thought it couldn’t happen to me.” Her hands went white as she clenched them. “That was what was so crazy. I was attacked six miles from my home.” She gave a wry smile. “During the attack, I kept thinking about the irony of that. The entire time he was doing what he did, that same ridiculous thought kept running through my mind. I remember thinking that if I screamed loud enough, my mother might hear and come running. She didn’t. She never heard me screaming. And no one came running.”
“Because he prevented you from screaming,” Gil reminded her.
“Yes. Mostly. With one of my own socks.” She pursed her lips. “To be honest, I think it was that sock that kept me sane. He shoved it so deep down my throat I had to focus on breathing. I had to concentrate to keep from choking. And when he did that…thing…that he did to my foot, I focused on that sock even harder. I was afraid I’d vomit, and then choke on my own sick. It was so damn hard not to vomit.” She swallowed. “I can remember it all so vividly—even now. The pain was so intense. I remember it to this day. But as bad as it was, I focused on that stupid sock. I knew if I got sick, I’d suffocate and die.”
I cleared my throat, which had suddenly gone dry. “So you remember small details, the pain, trying to breath.”
“I remember every little damn thing,” she replied. “I remember the blood, how it smelled, how warm it was. I remember his blade. I remember the hatchet.”
“Was he interested in your hair?” Jacob asked, and I flinched. Her hair? Oh. Right. This perp was fixated on hair, as well. At least he wasn’t mailing it in boxes to the families. He was cutting it off the heads of women to make them feel ugly—like that was any better.
“No,” Meghan answered. “Nothing like that. What do you mean by hair?”
“I was just asking,” Jacob answered, moving past it quickly. “It’s nothing. Go on. You were saying you remember the pain specifically, and the morning itself. What else do you recall?”
“I remember the day—yes—and also the pain. And I can tell you this: he wasn’t interested in my hair. The only thing he cared about was my feet. I remember him whispering about my feet.”
“Whispering?” Jacob cocked his head. “What do you mean by whispering?”
“At times he was whispering, and at other times, arguing.”
“He was angry with you,” Gil tried to clarify. “That certainly makes sense. Carlton Tubbs is angry with women. He was left at an orphanage at a very young age, but he was still old enough to remember the reasons why. He always blamed his mother. He resented her for it—”
“Oh…no,” she interrupted, shaking her head. “That’s not what I meant. He wasn’t arguing with me.”
Chills raced up my arms. I gripped the edge of my chair to give my hands something to do.
“He wasn’t talking to me,” Meghan repeated. “He was talking to himself, or to someone else, like he was having an argument with someone. He kept looking into the woods, off the trail.”
“‘Off the trail’?” Jacob was frowning. “What do you mean?”
She shifted uncomfortably. “Before pulling me into the woods, he was looking in that general direction. And whispering. I didn’t know why at the time. Everything happened so fast. And I didn’t really think about it after the fact. I guess I just thought he was crazy or something. But he seemed to be whispering to someone specific, like he was having a fight with someone. I kept twisting to look, but when I did, no one was there.”
“Could someone have been there?” I pressed. This was definitely new information. “Could someone have been hiding in the brush, off the trail? Can you remember the plants? The trees? The shrubs? How thick they were? How tall? Can you remember seeing unusual shadows?”
For a moment, she paused, her brows knitting together. “I suppose someone could have been there,” she said, before finding her resolve and shaking her head. “But, no; I really don’t think so. In fact, I’m almost positive. It was Tubbs. Only Tubbs. I refuse to shift responsibility. Tubbs was insane—No. Is insane. He’s solely to blame for what happened to me. It was just the two of us in the woods that day. There was no one else around, no one there to save me, no one to hear my screams and cries. Carlton Tubbs was arguing with a ghost.”
Chapter 15
Jacob pulled a pad of paper from his pocket. “Can you tell me what they were they arguing about?”
<
br /> She pursed her lips, like she’d bitten something sour. “He was talking about my feet, and telling himself that it wasn’t stupid, but I’m not sure what he meant by ‘stupid’. It was like he was ashamed to be interested in my feet. But he was. They were all he was interested in.”
“Not true,” I pointed out. “They weren’t the only thing.” I would tread this water very carefully. “He physically attacked you—sexually, I mean. Wasn’t that his primary focus?”
Meghan nodded. “Maybe. At first. The feet came later. But for all these years…I mean…now that I’ve had time to reflect on things, I’m not so sure anymore. For years, I thought he injured my foot to prevent me from running away.”
“And now?” Jacob prodded. “You think it was something else?”
“I think the feet-thing was part of the attack.” For a moment, she stopped and chewed her lip. “He kept saying ‘go away’ to someone, and ‘leave me alone’. ‘I’ll do what I want.’ Things like that.” She shuddered. “It was creepy. He’s a complete nut.”
“Did he say anything specific?” Gil asked. “Did he call out to someone by name?”
“No. Nothing. He was talking to himself.”
“Why didn’t you mention this at the trial?” Jacob asked.
Her pale cheeks turned slightly pink. “I did—thought not directly. In court, he insisted he acted alone. And he did act alone, Agent Forrest. I didn’t contradict him, because he did act alone. Carlton Tubbs ruined my life, and I made damn sure he owned up to what he did. I wouldn’t let him pin it on Casper the ghost, and I wouldn’t let him get off on some stupid insanity plea.”
And there it was, in a nutshell, I thought. The missing information, suppressed to prevent a lighter sentence. Sometimes—even in a court of law—the truth can be buried. On purpose.
“That wouldn’t have worked anyway.” I pointed out. “Tubbs had a fairly decent public defender. The guy wasn’t stupid. He knew what he was doing. Insane people don’t travel with bags of tools in the trunks of their cars. Insane people don’t plan. They can’t. They’re simply not capable of it. They’re instinctive creatures, driven by desires and emotions. Insanity wouldn’t have worked in that case.”
