by Claire Booth
Hailee Fitch was seventeen and a member of the BVHS honor society. The listing of members had been in the Daily What’s-It last month. Her parents were easy to find. There was only one Fitch in the white pages. They lived near the Strip.
Hank wrote all of his findings out carefully, using a fresh sheet in his notebook for each teen. He flipped to a new page as a Highway Patrol trooper went trotting by with a measuring wheel. The man disappeared down the same way Larry had gone earlier. From the look on his face when he returned, he’d had the same luck as the paramedic did.
Hank turned again to the blank page and wrote out the name Johnny Gall. Age seventeen. The one farthest away, on the right-hand side of the back seat.
Hank couldn’t picture him. Skinny, but that was it. He surfed around on his phone and couldn’t come up with an address, or any information from local websites. He’d have to pull up the driver’s license once he had access to a department laptop. That would put him on the right track so he could notify the parents.
The notebook page blurred. The hand holding the pen started to shake. He slowly put everything on the ground and tried to take a deep breath. He couldn’t. His chest felt like a trash compactor, slowly crushing his heart and lungs into a tiny useless cube.
The area around the wreck suddenly got very quiet. He looked over. The entire roof was gone and what remained of the doors had been removed. They were starting to pull the teens out of the car. He dropped his head into his hands and stared at the dirt of Dindleton’s driveway. He needed to go over there. He needed to be able to tell their families that he was there. That they hadn’t been alone.
He stood and walked over, stopping just outside the bright halo of light around the car. DeRosia looked up from her clipboard and started to say something, but stopped at the look on his face.
To extract Isaiah, they needed to cut away the driver’s seat he was sitting behind. It had pinned his lower body. They laid him on a gurney, and Larry closed his bright blue eyes. Two paramedics pulled out Johnny, who was unrecognizable and so limp he had to have multiple broken bones.
The petite one, Kayla, barely filled half the body bag. Larry didn’t need any help lifting her onto a gurney. Next, they lifted out what was left of Hailee, but Hank stepped forward and stopped them before they could close the bag. He took hold of the zipper and pulled it up himself.
FIVE
Sheila shoved Hank. Hard. Four feet away, DeRosia had Jenkins by the arm and was stepping in front of him to use her body weight to force him back.
DeRosia should be using her fist to shut the jerk’s mouth. Hank started to say something but it died in his throat as Sheila’s palm hovered in front of his face.
‘Don’t.’
He met her gaze and nodded. She lowered her hand, and they both turned their attention to the Highway Patrol sergeants. Who, even a very angry Hank had to admit, were quite entertaining at the moment. DeRosia had succeeded in moving her colleague back several feet but wasn’t yet able to stop his torrent of verbal invective. He kept yelling at Hank over her shoulder as she pushed him farther away.
The beginning of the argument had been inconspicuous enough that no one had noticed. But now, all work at the scene came to a stop and everyone openly stared at them as they stood off to the side.
The deep diesel rumble of an arriving flatbed tow truck finally broke Jenkins’s focus on Hank. He spun around and stomped back over to the wreckage. DeRosia’s shoulders slumped – whether with fatigue, resignation, or embarrassment, Hank didn’t know. She slowly straightened and turned toward them.
‘Sorry about that,’ DeRosia said, as she closed the distance between them. ‘He, ah … he doesn’t like people walking away from him.’
Sheila had a smug, I-can-control-my-guy-better-than-you-can look on her face. She tried to disguise it with a sympathetic nod. Hank started to speak, but found her hand in front of his face again. She obviously didn’t trust that his temper had cooled.
‘That’s ridiculous,’ Sheila said. ‘He is the county sheriff. He is not that man’s subordinate. He doesn’t have to take orders, and he doesn’t have to wait to be dismissed.’
DeRosia sighed and pushed a strand of hair back into her bun. ‘That is correct. But he does need to play by the Major Crash rules. And that means he doesn’t do the death notifications. We do.’
Hank, now more annoyed that they kept referring to him as if he wasn’t there than he was with Jenkins’s blow-up, said, ‘That’s not going to happen. These are my constituents, and this is my responsibility.’
DeRosia sized him up and sighed again. ‘All right. We’ll go together. Let me get my paperwork.’
Hank nodded and walked away, looking at the list of addresses in his notebook. He’d gotten them from the drivers’ licenses Sheila had taken from the teens’ wallets. He wasn’t far when he heard the women’s conversation continue.
‘I don’t get it,’ DeRosia said in a low voice to Sheila. ‘Usually, local authorities are more than happy to let us do the dirty work.’
‘Well,’ Sheila said with a sigh, ‘he isn’t usual. That’s for damn sure.’
Sheila talked Hank into letting DeRosia drive in her marked Highway Patrol truck. His deputy’s reasoning didn’t occur to him until halfway to the first house. Sheila wanted the teens’ families to associate the bad news with DeRosia’s agency, not the sheriff’s department. Sheila should have been the politician, not him.
But it wouldn’t work. It was his fault, regardless of what car they took. He made the judgment call to let them go. If he’d kept following them, they’d all be alive right now. He looked out the window at the speeding scenery and the streaks of dawn in the sky. He desperately wanted to lean his forehead on the cool glass and let it numb his brain. He snuck a glance at DeRosia, who sat stick straight behind the wheel as she carefully watched the road. He bit back a sigh and made due with nonchalantly placing his hand against the window and letting the cold seep into his fingers and the throbbing cuts on his hand.
They’d chosen Isaiah Barton as their first stop. His parents were the only ones to have reported their child missing. They’d called Branson PD at two a.m. to say he hadn’t come home. Branson PD had offered to do the notification, but Hank refused. Now he cursed himself for it as they pulled up to the neat split-level on the east side of Highway 65, off Bee Creek Road.
‘Nice flowers,’ DeRosia said as they walked up the path to the porch. ‘What are they? Rhododendrons?’
Hank just kept walking.
‘Fine,’ she sighed. ‘Can’t say I didn’t try.’ They reached the porch steps and she grabbed his arm. ‘Just remember, this isn’t about you. This is about them.’
Hank finally met her eyes, which were doing an unnerving job of sizing him up.
‘You’re right. And I get it.’ He tugged at his shirt and got his uniform straight, then tried to do the same with his head. He was a professional and this was his job. He could – and had – done this before. He could do it now. He nodded at DeRosia. They both turned toward the house and stepped back, startled. A woman in a pink sweatsuit stood in a doorway that had been closed seconds before.
‘I saw you coming up the walk.’ Her gaze flicked to the Highway Patrol truck parked on the street and her chin trembled, so slightly Hank almost didn’t catch it. ‘You’d best come in.’
They obeyed, standing awkwardly in the small tiled foyer.
‘Mrs Barton?’ Hank asked quietly.
She gave the kind of ‘yes’ that wished it were a ‘no.’
‘We need to talk to you and Mr Barton,’ he said before DeRosia could say anything. ‘Could we sit down?’
She waved toward the kitchen with a hand that seemed to weigh a thousand pounds.
‘He’s still praying. In Isaiah’s bedroom. I’ll go get him.’ She retreated the whole way down the hall, not turning her back on them until she disappeared into a room on the right about halfway down.
Hank stepped into the kitchen. The sun
rise was just starting to filter through the lace curtains drawn over the large window. He crossed over to the small round dining table in the middle of the room and pulled out the chairs.
DeRosia hadn’t moved from the hallway. He motioned her over and had her sit in the farthest seat. Having only one of them standing would be less intimidating.
Mrs Barton entered her kitchen followed by her husband, who was wearing jeans, but still had on what looked like a pajama shirt. They both wordlessly sat in the chairs Hank had readied. Only after they had settled themselves did Hank sink into the one remaining seat.
He introduced himself and Sergeant DeRosia. Mr Barton started praying again. His wife put her hand on his, and he fell quiet.
‘Tell us, Sheriff,’ she said.
So he did. He left out the condition of the car and his futile attempt to save the occupants. He also left out the traffic stop. For now.
Mrs Barton’s grip on her husband’s hand fell away, and she tried to stem the tears streaming down her face. Mr Barton hadn’t looked up from the tablecloth.
‘What about Gabe?’ Mrs Barton asked when she regained her voice.
‘Gabe Schattgen? Is that who Isaiah was with last night?’ Hank said. ‘Anyone else with them?’
‘No. Just them,’ Mrs Barton said. ‘They went to a movie at the IMAX, and then Isaiah was supposed to drop Gabe off and come back home. When he didn’t, we figured they might have gone for a soda or something. But he should have been home by midnight at the latest.’
Isaiah had been dead by then. Hank forced his mind back to the current conversation.
‘Isaiah had just gotten his driver’s license?’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Gabe was the only one we allowed Isaiah to have in the car.’
Interesting. Hank changed course.
‘So you called the police,’ he said. ‘Did you also talk to Gabe’s parents?’
She shook her head. ‘We tried. They didn’t pick up their phone. They might not have heard it. It’s downstairs …’ She started sobbing and Mr Barton finally moved, pulling his wife into his arms. He turned toward Hank.
‘You didn’t answer. What about Gabe? Is he …’
‘Yes, sir. He was also killed in the accident.’
‘Oh, my Lord. Oh, Della. I’ve got to call her.’ Mrs Barton struggled to get her feet under her. The long-corded wall phone hung across the room.
Nina DeRosia reached out her hand and placed it over Mrs Barton’s before she could fully rise.
‘Ma’am, I’m sorry. I need to ask you not to do that just yet. We need to notify them first. We can let you know once we do. I’m sure they’ll want to speak to you, too.’
Mrs Barton stared at DeRosia. It seemed she’d only heard the part about being unable to call.
‘Honey, that makes sense,’ Mr Barton said. ‘It’s OK. We’ll wait. We need to call Jeremiah first anyway. He …’
He couldn’t continue. He buried his face in his wife’s hair. Hank looked away.
Several minutes later, they let themselves out and walked to DeRosia’s pickup truck in silence. As DeRosia pulled away, Hank gave her the Schattgen address.
‘They’re definitely next,’ she said. ‘I’m not sure how long Mrs Barton can hold out before she calls over there.’
‘We’ve got a little bit of time,’ Hank said. ‘They’ve got to call their other son. He’s listed in the public records search as three years older than Isaiah. I wonder where he is now.’
‘Kansas State would be my bet,’ DeRosia said. Hank looked surprised, and she smiled. ‘There was a photo up in the hallway. A kid of about twenty in full Wildcat gear.’
Hank nodded appreciatively. As DeRosia steered the car toward Fall Creek Road and the neighborhood where the Schattgen family lived, he again put his hand against the window. The glass wasn’t as cold, but he didn’t need it to be. He was, paradoxically, starting to feel better. This he knew. This was familiar territory.
Ten minutes later, they stopped in front of a neat brick house on a large lot. A rumpled man of about forty-five answered the door. Hank was in the middle of introducing themselves when they heard a woman yell inside the house and then come running.
‘Stan. Edith is on the machine. She says she doesn’t know where Isaiah is. He didn’t come home. What’s going—’
She came into view at the same moment she saw the two officers on her doorstep.
‘Oh, God.’
Hank started the introductions again but couldn’t make himself heard over Della Schattgen’s questions, which were getting louder and faster. Finally, DeRosia stepped forward and held up her hand at the exact moment Stan did the same thing. Both Hank and Della Schattgen shut up – Hank gladly and Della under protest.
‘We need to come in, please, Mr and Mrs Schattgen,’ DeRosia said as she started to do just that. ‘We want to answer your questions, but we really do need to talk to you inside.’
Worry began to cut into Mr Schattgen’s face as DeRosia’s advance made him step back from the door. Della was already on her way into the living room. She rounded on them the minute they were in the room.
‘What is going on?’
‘Ma’am, were your son, Gabe, and Isaiah Barton together last night?’
‘Yes. They went to the movies, and then Gabe spent the night over at Isaiah’s,’ she said. ‘What. Is. Going. On.’
Next to him, DeRosia’s posture changed. Hank made sure his didn’t as he carefully avoided looking at her.
‘Why don’t we all have a seat,’ he said.
Mr Schattgen stayed standing. ‘They didn’t make it back to the Bartons’ house? Where are they?’
Hank looked around the comfortable room and chose an easy chair by the fireplace and across from the sofa. That left a hard-backed chair for DeRosia, who quickly followed his lead and sat down. That left the Schattgens little choice. Della immediately settled herself on the couch, and Stan followed, with a glare at Hank for the etiquette breach. Hank swallowed the lump in his throat and leaned forward, softening his stance. Then he began to talk.
Even sitting down, Mrs Schattgen’s knees seemed to buckle. She swayed alarmingly and her hands started to shake. Her husband didn’t move. He sat stick straight with his hands on his knees. He didn’t take his eyes off Hank.
‘When? Where? How?’
Stan Schattgen barked each question and glared furiously at Hank until satisfied with the answers. Until the last one.
‘We don’t know yet how it happened,’ Hank said.
Schattgen looked like he wanted to lunge at Hank, who was beginning to understand why Gabe was so nauseously terrified during the traffic stop. He would’ve been, too, if he had to come home to this guy.
‘The Missouri Highway Patrol’s Major Crash Investigation Unit is investigating the accident,’ Hank said, pointing at DeRosia. ‘Sergeant DeRosia has years of experience.’
DeRosia turned to them and explained that such investigations took time.
‘It appears to be a single car accident. We don’t yet know the cause. It’s part of what we are looking into.’
Mr Schattgen scowled. ‘It was Isaiah’s car. It had to be. We never should have let him get in that bolt bucket.’ He looked at his wife. ‘You talked me into it.’
Hank started to speak, but DeRosia got there first.
‘Sir, the car involved in the accident was not registered to the Bartons. It was a different vehicle entirely.’
They both stared at her.
‘He was in somebody else’s car?’ Mr Schattgen finally said.
‘It appears so,’ the sergeant said.
Mrs Schattgen, still looking at DeRosia, spoke for the first time since they’d all sat down.
‘Wait a minute. Why are you both here? Why do there need to be two of you?’
‘There were a significant number of fata …’ DeRosia stopped herself and started over. ‘Six people died. The Major Crash Unit investigates anything with that many … victims.’
DeRosia tried to get a word in.
‘We’ll be able to give you additional details later today,’ she said, ‘but right now, we can’t say anything more.’
‘I bet it was that blond kid,’ Mr Schattgen growled. ‘What’s his name? Matt something?’ He turned to his wife. ‘Or that girl. The Fitch kid. She’s trouble.’
That was at least a solid link in whatever chain bound all these kids together.
‘Oh, no,’ Mrs Schattgen said. ‘I … I’ll need to call her mother.’ She started to wring her hands. ‘But I don’t have her number. I don’t know her, really. How can I—’
Both Hank and DeRosia leaned forward in alarm.
‘Ma’am, we have to ask you not to call anyone yet. We haven’t yet gone through the process of confirming and notifying all of the next of kin.’
‘What do you mean?’ Mr Schattgen was yelling again. ‘You can’t just come in here and forbid us from calling people. If you won’t give us any information, we’ll find out ourselves.’
He went on, with DeRosia trying to break in and explain. Hank had a feeling that no matter how much sense they made, the Schattgens would be on the phone the minute he and DeRosia left the house. He made a show of checking his phone and acting like he had a call, mouthing an apology as he stepped outside.
He quickly dialed Sheila and told her where he was.
‘Look, you’re going to have to do the notification for Hailee Fitch. Fast. I’m afraid Gabe Schattgen’s parents will call before we can get to her family. They seem ready to start calling the whole county.’
He read off the next of kin information and address. As he hung up, he could hear Sheila already jogging to her car. He took a deep breath and went back inside.
From the glint in her eye, DeRosia knew exactly what he’d been doing. She gave him a bland smile and continued her strained discussion with Mr and Mrs Schattgen. Everyone talked in circles until DeRosia pretended to cave in and allow them to call the Bartons.
