by Claire Booth
‘Hi, Hank.’
She listened for a moment before realizing her jaw had dropped. She hung up and turned to a puzzled Dale.
‘We’ve got to get to the hospital.’
Hank now understood why Maggie took an enormous Thermos of coffee to work every day. The hospital coffee tasted like dirty dishwater run through a sheet of newspaper. Still, he clutched the cup like a lifeline.
The Blenkinships were in with their unconscious daughter. Hank hadn’t talked to them yet. The Branson patrolman who’d responded to the initial call was on the phone, so Hank hadn’t talked to him, either. He wandered around the waiting room, sick at the thought that this girl might be another casualty of his horrible bad judgment. He was staring at a dejected-looking watercolor on the wall when he felt the air in the room change.
‘Hi, Sheila,’ he said, then turned around.
She and Raker stood there, looking confused and excited at the same time.
‘What the hell? This kid is connected to everything?’ she said.
‘Well, I don’t know about your homicide,’ Hank waved his coffee cup toward Raker, ‘but definitely to the car crash. She –’ the cup swung around toward the ICU hallway – ‘is the girl that Kayla Anderson told her parents she was going to have a sleepover with. And now she shows up almost dead near the Roark Creek Trail.’
‘Wait – so Kayla said she was spending the night at the Blenkinship girl’s house?’ Sheila said. ‘Because Hailee Fitch’s mother told me that Hailee said she was spending the night at Kayla Anderson’s house. Now Kayla was supposed to be somewhere else?’
‘And Gabe Schattgen told his parents that he was spending the night at Isaiah Barton’s house,’ Hank said. ‘Which was news to the Bartons.’
‘What’s not news is teenagers lying to their parents.’
They both looked at Raker. He settled his bulky frame into a chair and rubbed at a spot of syrup on his shirt.
‘Come on,’ he said, ‘they wanted to go out on a Saturday night without having a curfew. There’s probably no kid in America who hasn’t done the same thing. This one just turned tragic.’
Sheila tried to say something – probably mollifying, from the look on her face – but Hank was faster.
‘I would agree with that,’ he said, ‘if one of those kids didn’t have a different ID that was used to rent an apartment, which now has a murder victim in it. And if one of their curfew excuses wasn’t suddenly critically injured.’
‘We don’t even know what’s up with that yet,’ Raker pointed out.
‘Yeah, so where is your officer—’
Sheila stepped between them and held up a weary hand.
‘He just got off the phone. So both of you stop speculating about links, or lack thereof, and listen to what the man has to say.’
The man, Officer D. Holt, didn’t say much. A trail jogger had called in an injured person. Holt arrived at the same time as the ambulance to find the runner sitting with the girl. She was unconscious, and had been when the man spotted her on the side of the road. It was 8:30 a.m. It appeared that she had fallen down an incline that was almost a cliff in spots. The hill down to the trail was steep in spots, and the marks on some of the rocks indicated she hit there first and then rolled down onto the shoulder of the paved trail. They didn’t know how long she’d been there. She’d landed in a bit of a ditch that made her difficult to see.
She did not have ID. He’d spent the whole morning trying to track down her identity. He’d been at the station paging through the PD’s collection of local high school yearbooks when dispatch got a call from Doug Blenkinship reporting that his daughter was missing.
‘I found her sophomore photo in last year’s BVHS book,’ Holt said. ‘Same kid. So I drove out there and notified them. I haven’t interviewed them. They were talking to the surgeon, then they went in to see her. Plus, they’re pretty broken up.’
He looked toward Raker, who nodded an approval. He handed over his notes and left to resume patrol.
‘So she fell,’ Raker said.
‘So she landed,’ Hank countered. ‘What happened at the top is still unknown.’
Sheila cleared her throat and nodded toward the hallway, where a middle-aged couple was shuffling toward the nurses’ station. There was a murmured conversation and some pointing in the direction of the restrooms, and then the Blenkinships headed toward them. It had to be them – despair weighed down their every step.
They reached the waiting room, and Raker gently identified himself. He guided them to a pair of the uncomfortably cushioned seats and introduced Hank and Sheila.
‘They’re working with me on all this,’ Raker said. ‘We’re trying to figure out what happened, so we need to ask you some questions. But can we get you anything first? Coffee? Water?’
Mr Blenkinship shook his head. Mrs Blenkinship needed water. She looked up at Sheila. Hank felt her stiffen, just the slightest bit. He smiled at Mrs Blenkinship and told her he’d be right back with it. It took a minute to find a vending machine and what felt like another five to get it to take his dollar. By the time he got back to the waiting room, everyone had pulled chairs into a circle near the watercolor. He took the one remaining seat.
‘… left the house about six last night,’ Doug Blenkinship was saying. ‘She was just walking over to the Andersons’ house. It’s not far – she does it all the time.’
‘And you didn’t hear anything from the Andersons until this morning?’ Raker asked.
Lisa Blenkinship shuddered. ‘She just kept crying that Kayla was dead, and Lauren wasn’t in the car.’
Hank leaned forward. ‘And did Mrs Anderson tell you that they thought the girls were spending the night at your house?’
They nodded.
‘That was all we could get out of her,’ Doug Blenkinship said. ‘We still don’t know what’s going on. Kayla was in a car accident? Was it near where Lauren was found? Was it—’
Raker deferred to Hank with a look. Hank relaxed his posture and rested his elbows on his knees.
‘Kayla was killed in a car accident out near Airport Road north of the city,’ he said, looking Mrs Blenkinship right in the eyes. ‘That’s why Chief Deputy Turley and I are investigating. She was with five other teenagers. All of them died in the crash.’
At the word ‘five,’ both Blenkinships gasped.
‘Oh, God. Who?’ Doug Blenkinship said.
Hank listed off the names. The Blenkinships knew of Alex Danzig – Lauren also was in the high school band – and recognized Isaiah and Gabe’s names. They frowned at Hailee Fitch.
‘She was in the car? Lauren and Kayla do not hang out with her,’ Mrs Blenkinship said.
‘We’ve heard that,’ Sheila said soothingly. ‘Would you be able to tell me why?’
‘She’s a Fitch,’ Mr Blenkinship said. ‘Her family is all sorts of trouble. The girls just kept their distance, that’s all.’
That was news to Hank, but Sheila seemed to take it in her stride.
‘And did Lauren ever mention a boy named Johnny Gall?’ she asked.
They thought for a moment and then Mrs Blenkinship shook her head. ‘I don’t think so.’
Of course not, Hank thought. Finding someone who knew something about that damn kid was apparently too much to ask. If Johnny Gall was even a kid at all. He still wasn’t satisfied that the Kentucky birth certificate was legitimate, and he couldn’t call the state Office of Vital Statistics to check until business hours tomorrow.
He pulled his attention back to Raker as the BPD detective reentered the conversation. The Blenkinships listened to him with clasped hands.
‘She hasn’t been depressed,’ Lauren’s mother said of her daughter. ‘She’s her normal self. She’s in the middle of marching band season, so she’s very busy, but she loves it.’
‘She is … a little stressed,’ Mr Blenkinship said. ‘Junior year starts to get intense with schoolwork, and she’s thinking about which colleges to apply to.’
<
br /> ‘Has she talked about that at all?’ Raker was treading carefully. ‘Schoolwork, any other pressures?’
Mrs Blenkinship shook her head. Mr Blenkinship did not. Raker turned toward him.
‘She … she’s been really … she’s always been inclined to be anxious. Lately, she seems like she is even more than usual. I’ve been … a little worried.’
‘What?’ Lisa Blenkinship turned on her husband. ‘Are you kidding? She was fine. She was busy as a little bee, going everywhere, talking to herself, making her lists, trying to fit in practicing her flute, and … oh, God. Was she overwhelmed?’ She put her hand up to her mouth and stared at the trio of police. ‘How did I not see it?’
SIXTEEN
The concrete stair was cold. And hard. And the only place he had to sit as he waited for Mrs Vandeed, the ‘old bat’ in 207. He couldn’t leave and come back later because He. Had. No. Car.
The Chief had taken his Bronco more than three hours ago and was now incommunicado. In that time period, Sam had interviewed every single resident of the Bellflower Apartments who was home. And sat around. A lot. He finally decided he was desperate enough to ask for a ride.
‘Hi, Mom. Can you come pick me up?’ God, he hated this.
‘Did your car break down, honey?’
Thank goodness no one else could hear this conversation. ‘No, it’s fine. Somebody borrowed it, though, and I’m kinda stuck here, so …’
There was a slight pause. ‘I wish I could, sweetheart, but I’m up in Springfield right now. Your father and I did some shopping, and we’re about to see a movie. Then I’m going to get the scratch in my car door buffed out. That snooty woman in my office complex parked too close to me and gave me a big gouge in the paint. Can you believe that?’
Sam stifled a groan.
‘I’m really sorry, sweetie,’ she said. ‘Maybe your nice boss could pick you up?’
He decided not to mention that it was the nice boss who had taken his Ford in the first place. He thanked her, hung up, and tried to think of another person to call.
‘That’s no place for a decent person to sit. What are you up to?’
He bounced to his feet. After all that, the lady had snuck up on him. If he hadn’t been sitting right in her way, he’d have missed her. He swore at himself and put on his best friendly young-man face.
She wasn’t buying it. She squinted through big, round glasses and clutched her purse to her chest. It looked a little like his dad’s bowling bag, come to think of it. She tried to get around him, but stopped when he showed his badge.
‘Where’d you get that, sonny? You shouldn’t be showing off toys you get in cereal boxes. Impersonating a cop is a crime.’
Oh, man. Brenna Cassidy in 113 was right. He forced a smile.
‘Ma’am, I’m a Branson County sheriff’s deputy. I’m investigating an incident in an apartment here in the complex, and I need to ask you some questions.’
She harrumphed and tried to move past him again. He stepped in front of her and ditched the smile.
‘Ma’am. There was a murder here last night. I’m going to ask you some questions.’
Her mouth bent into the same shape as her glasses. She blinked rapidly. Sam crossed his arms and tried to look as official as possible, even though he was in jeans and a sweatshirt. He spoke quickly, before she could insult him again.
She pursed her lips and her chins wobbled some before she decided she’d give her name. Bitty Jean Vandeed. She’d lived here since four months after the complex opened. That hadn’t been soon enough to get a ground-floor apartment, though. She’d gotten stuck at the top of those horrible stairs. It was practically a crime to do that to a person of her mature years. But she had made the best of it, as she always did, praise the Lord.
Sam would praise the Lord if He gave him enough patience to get through this interview.
‘I need to ask about your neighbors, the ones along the walkway near you.’
‘All no-accounts. 209 doesn’t even work. 211 never says hello. And 213 – well, rude as the day is long. Always peeling out of the parking lot at all hours. Coming and going too much with friends. Shifty looking.’
‘About that,’ Sam said, ‘What did he look like, exactly?’
‘Light brown hair. Needed it cut. Too skinny. Probably on drugs.’
‘How old do you think he was?’
She shrugged. ‘Twenty, maybe? Wait – is he the fella that got murdered?’ She strangled her purse handles. ‘I knew it was drugs.’
Sam spent five minutes assuring her that the skinny guy was not the murder victim, then another five determining that she had no basis for the drug claim other than Johnny Gall’s thin appearance and the fact that he liked to come and go more than she thought appropriate.
‘I do want to ask you about that – the peeling out in the parking lot,’ Sam said. ‘How often did that happen?’
She took a step forward that put her way too close to Sam. He fought the urge to back away and looked down at her with what he hoped was a dignified expression.
‘Off and on, all the time,’ she said after a moment’s thought. ‘It was the same black car every time.’
After a series of increasingly excruciating questions, Sam worked out that Mrs Vandeed would hear it pull in and rush to the window, which was how she knew it was the same car every time. It was some kind of sports car, and its back bumper was all scraped up and dented on the left side. Sam was elated – that narrowed things down considerably.
She was positive it was the same driver every time, except that she wasn’t because she never really got a good look at him. And actually, she was just assuming it was a ‘him’ because that kind of irresponsible driving was just what a teenage boy would do. ‘He’ did have dark hair, long in a hippie kind of way. The man in 213 would go running downstairs and they would roar off. It was always at night. Or in the evening. Never during the day.
The skinny druggie would come and go at other times, too, but she wasn’t sure what his transportation was on those occasions. She pursed her lips again. Now that she thought about it, he did leave pretty regular every weekday morning. Just about the time high school started, Sam said to himself.
There was one thing left before he could step away from this unpleasant woman. He braced himself and pulled out the John Doe photo.
‘Have you ever seen this man before?’
Mrs Vandeed looked carefully and shook her head. And then Sam watched the thought process on her face as she realized the mileage she could get out of acting traumatized. She swooned and unclenched one hand from her purse long enough to fan herself.
‘A dead man. I never. Oh, how horrible. I’ll never sleep tonight. I feel faint.’
Sam sighed and offered his arm. He helped her up the stairs and into her apartment, put on the tea kettle, made sure the cat had water, and left with a splitting headache.
‘We need a damn flowchart,’ Sheila said. She was pacing along the length of the BPD conference room they’d adjourned to after leaving the Blenkinships at the hospital. The room did not have a white board. Hank wondered how long it would take before she just started writing on the walls.
‘There is likely no connection between Lauren Blenkinship and the homicide, or Lauren and the car crash,’ Raker said, trying to squelch Sheila’s desire to diagram things. ‘MSHP is handling the crash, and we need to get back to the murder. I’ll send someone to the high school tomorrow to find out more about Lauren and her state of mind, but right now, I’ve got a homicide that needs solving.’
Hank started to respond when his phone buzzed.
Done at apts. Need a ride. Where’s my car?
Damn. He completely forgot he’d left Sam stranded, Hank realized as he looked at his phone for the first time in hours. This was not the first text from the kid he still thought of as the Pup – big-footed, sometimes clumsy, and until a few months ago, eager to please. He started to respond as he stood up, but stopped as another message came in.
>
Never mind. Lady MSHP here. Will give me ride. Where’s my car?
He sighed. They needed to know what Sam had found out in his canvass of the apartments.
Have her bring you to BPD. ASAP.
He turned back to the conversation, which had devolved into an argument about how the dead John Doe could be linked to the crash.
‘I don’t know that it is connected,’ Raker said, a little loudly. ‘He could very well be connected to this Johnny Gall person, but that doesn’t mean he’s connected to the crash. That was an accident. There’s nothing nefarious about the wreck. It’s just a bunch of kids lying to their parents so they can stay out past curfew.’
‘But then what were they going to do?’ Sheila countered. ‘Stay out all night long and not go to sleep?’
‘Maybe they all expected to end up back at Apartment 213.’
They both swung around toward Hank, who had settled back into a cushy city-funded swivel chair. ‘They knew they couldn’t stay on the roads all night. They’d get pulled over for violating the intermediate license law against driving from one to five a.m.’
Raker grudgingly nodded. Sheila, with no white board marker to hold, fidgeted and kept pacing.
‘So the only real option they had was to end up somewhere with no parental presence at all. At 213,’ Hank said. ‘Where someone had just bled out on the floor.’
Sheila stopped halfway down the room. Raker let out a slow breath and then nodded. ‘Fair enough. I’ll buy the possibility that the kids could be linked somehow to the apartment murder – but I’m not going off on some damn goose chase that the actual crash was part of it without there being a lot more damn evidence.’ He shot a pointed look at Hank. ‘I’ve got two other major investigations going, too, and I’m not going to get sidetracked on this one by bullshit theories.’
Hank stared back. He disagreed completely, but here he sat in Raker’s conference room, in Raker’s city, with an acquaintanceship that was approaching maybe five hours. He had no currency with this guy. Any pull he might get would come through Sheila, and she was over there keeping her mouth shut. He leaned back in his chair and inclined his head the slightest bit.
