Redemption Lake

by Susan Clayton-Goldner

  At the bottom of the entry, Matt had entered one more line.

  I miss you Justin and I’m sorry. It’s all my fault.

  Loren dropped the journal onto Matt’s bed. His twelve-year-old son had obviously researched drowning. He’d wanted to understand and feel everything Justin had felt. Loren knew Matt blamed himself, but had no idea the depth of that little boy’s guilt. No wonder he’d shut down.

  What had carrying that kind of weight for six years done to him?

  The sun hid behind the mountains and the light in the room seemed to thicken and gather around him like smoke. He replaced Matt’s journal behind his row of books, then hurried into the family room where he sat in the dark, worried sick about his son.

  Chapter Eighteen

  In the Catalina Sheriff’s Department interrogation room, while Detective Radhauser peeled off his Levi’s jacket and adjusted the thermostat, Matt stood in front of a rectangular green-legged table and tried to stop his knees from shaking. He was determined to stay calm, to answer questions as if he were completely innocent and wanted only to help—as if he knew nothing about the events leading up to Crystal’s death.

  The room smelled like burnt coffee, banana peels and cigarettes, with a trace of pine deodorizer. Two metal chairs with worn tweed seat cushions were placed across from each other. A single box of tissues sat on the tabletop.

  Just like on television, one of the walls looked like a mirror. Matt moved closer. A reflection stared back, his own features so foreign he reached out and touched the glass to make sure it was real.

  “There won’t be anyone watching us,” Radhauser said.

  Under the fluorescent glare, a green plastic trashcan—the type used in kitchens—overflowed with empty soda cans, old newspapers and the tattered remains of food wrappers, tissues, and coffee cups. As he took a seat at the table, Matt wondered how long it had been since anyone emptied it. He wanted to take it out into the hallway so he wouldn’t have to smell the rotting banana peels. He wanted to wipe the top of the table with a sponge. Then he thought about the mistake he’d made in cleaning Crystal’s house. The crucial mistake that had raised both Radhauser’s and Travis’s suspicions.

  Anxiety built inside Matt—his lies stacking up like a toddler’s tower of blocks. He sat on his hands for a moment to see if he could stop them from shaking.

  When Radhauser offered a Coke and a bag of potato chips, Matt welcomed the salt and the stomach-settling soda.

  Radhauser dug in his pocket for change and stepped into the hallway. The change clinked as it dropped. “Piece of crap machine.” He kicked it hard. The can fell out with a thud. Radhauser stepped back into the room and set the chips and Coke in front of Matt.

  Radhauser set up a tape recorder, just like the ones physicians at UMC used to dictate patient notes. It was small enough to fit inside a shirt pocket.

  Matt ate a couple of chips and drank from the Coke can. When his hands started to shake, he sat on them again.

  Without any warning, the memory of Crystal on the sofa came back to him. The way she’d unbuttoned his shirt and ran her fingers down his chest and into the waistband of his tuxedo pants. The smell of her wildflower perfume and the warm softness of her hands, the taut skin stretching across her shoulder blades. Her smooth, slightly rounded belly. The weight of her breasts in his hands. A ripple of desire passed through him.

  He wanted to slap himself. Would there be a day when he could say, “the night Crystal died” without an explosion of guilt consuming him?

  Finally, the detective set down his clipboard with its attached yellow-lined tablet and pulled out the other chair. He took his black notebook from his pocket, then draped his jacket over the chair back and sat directly across the table from Matt. Radhauser paged through the notebook for a moment, then flipped on the tape recorder.

  He dictated the time and date and the fact he interviewed Matt Garrison, the first layperson after the victim’s son to arrive at the scene of Crystal Reynolds’ death. When Radhauser finished, he set the recorder on the table between them and asked Matt to state his name, address, and age for the record.

  Matt did.

  Radhauser looked Matt directly in the eyes. “I want you to be straight with me. I realize you were probably in shock last night, but some things you said didn’t check out.”

  Matt’s head buzzed and his vision blurred around the edges, like smoke. “What things?”

  “This is the way it works. I ask the questions.” Radhauser watched him intently. “You answer with the truth.”

  “Am I in trouble?” Matt could barely hear his own voice over the pounding in his head and ears.

  “Should you be?”

  “I don’t know.” Matt looked at the tabletop. “It’s confusing.” He shook his head and a strand of hair slid over his forehead. He brushed it away.

  “It feels intimidating. These rooms are designed that way. But you’ve got nothing to worry about. Just tell the truth. And let me sort things out.”

  There was something in Radhauser’s voice that made Matt look up. The detective’s eyes were blue. Not the usual blue color—deeper, like the startling sapphire of a lake he’d visited with his parents in Oregon. Crater Lake. “So, you acted like a jerk at your mother’s wedding and left right after the ceremony.”

  “I don’t deny that.”

  “Where did you go?”

  “I wanted to see my best friend.”

  Radhauser stared evenly at Matt. “Didn’t you know your best friend was at the Marana spring dance?”

  Matt told him the truth—he had known, but been so upset he’d forgotten.

  “I’ve had about enough of your lying bullshit.”

  “I’m telling the truth.”

  “You wouldn’t know the truth if it kicked you in the ass.”

  “You have to believe me.”

  “I don’t have to believe anything.”

  “I do know the truth,” Matt said. “I do.”

  “Then tell it.”

  “It’s not that simple.”

  “Bullshit,” Radhauser said. “The truth is always simple. What time did you leave your mother’s wedding?”

  “I don’t know the exact time, but right after the ceremony, so it was probably around 7:30.” He told Radhauser what had happened at the wedding and how he’d sat in the Hacienda del Sol’s parking lot for a few minutes, trying to compose himself. He then drove to Danni’s house and was there for a while before he headed over to see Travis.

  “What happened when you got there?”

  “Halfway to his house, I remembered about the dance.”

  Radhauser made notes again. Notes Matt knew he’d review later, reconstructing Matt’s version of the night piece by piece, like a house of cards.

  “What time did you leave Ms. Warren’s?”

  Matt stiffened. “Was Danni’s mother there when you talked with her?”

  “I’m asking the questions, remember?”

  Matt told him about finding Danni with another guy, how they’d argued for a minute or two, and how he’d ripped the heart pendant from her neck.

  “Good,” Radhauser said, as if Matt had just confirmed something the detective already knew. “So, you were angry when you left Ms. Warren’s house. What time was that?”

  Matt thought about Danni, the way her eyes had darkened before she closed the door. “I was hurt. I thought she loved… It was maybe around 8pm.”

  Radhauser paged back in his notebook as if to see if the time matched what Danni had told him. “Did you tell me you’d changed into the black T-shirt before going to Ms. Warren’s house so you wouldn’t look like a dork?”

  Matt took another drink of Coke, slumped down a little in the chair. Radhauser had talked to Danni. He already knew the truth. “I had a nosebleed,” Matt said, deciding to stick with the same story he’d told his mom. “After I left Danni’s house. It happens sometimes when I’m upset. It dripped onto the shirt and that’s the reason I changed it.�
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  “What did you do with the shirt?”

  “I left it in my car. And then my mom asked me to give it to her. So she could take it back to that rental place in the mall.”

  Radhauser cocked his head. His index finger absently tapped his cheekbone. “I don’t get it. That’s a perfectly legitimate reason for changing your shirt. Why perjure yourself by telling me you spilled something on it?”

  Matt set the Coke can down, rapping it too hard against the tabletop. The sound echoed in the small room. People went to jail for perjury. “I was scared. I thought if I told you there was blood on my shirt you’d think I had something to do with Crystal’s death.”

  “Did you?”

  Matt’s face burned. The pockets behind his eyes burned, too. He couldn’t cry. Not now. He straightened his back. “I swear to you. I would never hurt Crystal.” He thought about the way Crystal’s eyes sparkled with tears when she’d heard about Travis’s baseball scholarship. Matt swallowed several times, but couldn’t get any moisture into his mouth. He felt claustrophobic in the tiny, windowless room.

  “Did you drive directly from Ms. Warren’s house to Catalina?”

  “I already told you I remembered the dance. So, I turned off on Golder Ranch Road. I drove out that way for a while and parked so I could think.”

  “Where exactly did you park?”

  Matt settled his gaze on Radhauser for a moment, then drew it away. “It’s a dirt road. But somewhere near Casa Tucson—that drug and alcohol treatment center. I saw their lights. My mom made stained-glass windows for their chapel a couple years ago. I helped her deliver them. It’s really beautiful out there. And quiet. A good place to think.”

  “Did anyone see you?”

  “I doubt it.”

  “I know it was dark, but did any cars pass you on the road? Any walkers?”

  “Not that I remember.”

  “How long were you there?”

  “Until about 11:00 or 11:30, then I headed out to Marana to wait for Travis.”

  The detective leaned back. “You parked on a dirt road and thought for three hours?”

  “Yes, sir, I’m a poet and that’s what I do sometimes.” The sweat dripped into Matt’s eyes. He blinked it away, wiped his forehead with his arm.

  “What were you thinking about?”

  “My life. Mostly what a jerk I’d been at the wedding.” He closed his eyes briefly, still trying to fathom everything that had happened.

  Radhauser handed him a tissue. “It’s warm in here. Why don’t you take off your blazer?”

  Matt wiped his face, then stood and struggled out of his father’s jacket and draped it over the back of his chair. He smelled his own sweat. Under his arms, the oxford shirt was stained and wet.

  Radhauser pulled a pack of cigarettes from his shirt pocket, put one in his mouth, but didn’t light it. “Tell me how you felt about Crystal Reynolds.” The cigarette flapped up and down when he talked, like a finger waving.

  “She was my best friend’s mother. I’ve known her since I was six.” He told Radhauser about the way Crystal had taught them to dance in sixth grade. “And I loved her. Not in any weird way. More like the way you love your own mom.” His voice broke when he realized that wasn’t true anymore. Last Friday night, he hadn’t loved Crystal like a mom. He’d loved her sexually—the way a man loves a woman.

  “I take it you were pretty upset about your parents’ divorce.”

  “Yeah. But that was two years ago.”

  “Ms. Warren said you were furious with your father last week. After you learned the real reason for the breakup.”

  “She shouldn’t have told you that.”

  “Do you ever take your anger out on other people?”

  “No,” Matt said, thinking about the way he’d treated his sister last night. “What are you getting at?”

  Radhauser raised his eyebrows.

  “My father lied to me for two years,” Matt said. “Of course I was angry.”

  “Parents have private lives, too. Things they don’t discuss with their kids.”

  “I’m not a kid anymore.”

  For a long moment, Radhauser said nothing. “Your father is kind of a big shot, isn’t he?” he finally asked.

  “I guess.”

  “I read that article in the paper. I’ll bet he’d do almost anything to keep an affair quiet.”

  “Why are you asking me about my father?”

  “Everyone is a suspect until we piece it all together and figure out what really happened.” He studied Matt’s face.

  Matt shriveled inside.

  “What was your father’s relationship with Ms. Reynolds?”

  Matt shook his head, hard. “I didn’t know he had one.” What did the detective want from him? He’d been as surprised as anyone to learn his dad had driven Crystal home. But it didn’t mean anything. One time his dad had driven Crystal and Travis to and from an all-star baseball game in Casa Grande when her car was in the shop.

  “Why would he give her a thousand dollars?”

  He could see the map in Radhauser’s head, and felt himself being dragged along one of the back roads to the place where it all ended with Matt’s father. “Because she needed help.”

  There was a faint smile on Radhauser’s face. “I think that’s enough for today, Matt. I want to thank you for your cooperation and your candid answers.”

  Matt stood, grabbed the blazer and reached into the pocket for his keys.

  “Stick close to home and school for the next week. After we’ve canvassed the neighborhood and the autopsy findings come in, I may need to ask you a few more questions.”

  “It’s finals week. Seniors have a pretty light schedule. If I’m not at school, I’ll either be at home, my mom’s house or with Travis,” he said, then stood and left the room. He felt pretty good—felt as if Radhauser had believed what he’d said.

  A few steps down the hallway, Matt remembered something, turned around and went back. He wanted to ask the detective when Travis could pick up the rest of his things. He wanted to make sure he was with Travis when he went back inside that house. “Detective Radhauser,” he said, “I wonder—” Matt stopped, unable to finish his sentence.

  Radhauser had a rubber glove on his right hand as he tucked Matt’s Coke can into an evidence bag.

  Matt forgot his question. He’d read a newspaper article about the first man convicted of a rape in Virginia based on DNA evidence. He pivoted, hurried from the room and down the hallway. His palms slapped against the heavy wooden door to the men’s room and pushed it open. He lunged toward the stall, stumbled inside, then closed and latched the metal door behind him. He leaned back against it and shut his eyes, wanting nothing more than to hide from himself. Ten minutes ago, he’d felt confident he’d slide through this interview, answer the questions in the same way he’d done last night. But something changed.

  It was clear Detective Radhauser didn’t believe Crystal committed suicide. Radhauser had collected Matt’s DNA. He was in big trouble—a suspect in her murder. What if the police discovered he and Crystal had sex just hours before she died? Matt hung his head. Even if he didn’t kill her, he deserved punishment. He was Judas. He’d betrayed his best friend, and when Travis found out, nothing would ever be the same again.

  Chapter Nineteen

  On Monday morning, Matt woke up with his neck and forehead covered in sweat. He’d been dreaming about sex with Crystal. After they’d finished, she pulled a pistol from under the pillow and held it to his head. It turned into a snake that slithered across the bed, up the wall, and out through the open window.

  It was only a dream, he told himself. But it didn’t stop the pounding in his chest. He wiped his face on the bottom of his T-shirt and listened for a sound that would tell him Travis was awake, but heard nothing.

  On the end table, between the two twin beds, the red numbers on the alarm clock read 4:30am. The bedroom smelled like new paint and sweaty gym socks.

 
As Matt’s eyes adjusted to the darkness, he saw Travis lying on his back on top of the comforter, hands behind his head, eyes open.

  “You okay?” Matt whispered.

  “Yeah. Fine,” Travis whispered back. “And I’m going to school today, man. If I miss practice, I can’t play in Friday’s game. Baseball is the only thing—”

  “Coach would make an exception. Mom can call and explain. We could stay in bed all day or play video games. Nab some of Nate’s beer and hang out by the pool.”

  “I need to play baseball,” Travis said.

  “Maybe you could just show up for practice.”

  “If I want to ace the English lit final, I gotta hear Singleton’s review.”

  “We can call the office, ask someone to tape it.”

  “Are you listening, dude? I’m going to school.”

  Matt pulled the comforter up to his neck, the washed cotton soft against his skin. It smelled like laundry soap and the pool towels his mother used to dry in the sunshine. “We should try to sleep.”

  “My brain doesn’t have an off switch anymore. And you’ve been pretty noisy. Tossing around and yelling out.”

  For a moment, Matt couldn’t say anything—his throat scratchy and hot. He threw the comforter off again. “I had a nightmare.”

  “You called out my mom’s name. And then you said, ‘please’ like you wanted something.” Travis sat up and swung his legs over the edge of the bed. He flipped on the table lamp and stared at Matt.

  Matt froze. “I can’t remember. Probably a Twinkie. You know how dreams are.” He rubbed his eyes and yawned, giving himself a few extra seconds to think before he sat up and propped his back against the headboard. “It was confusing.”

  Travis tapped his bare foot against the floor.