“So?” The Honorable Helen Cheever was a ginger-haired woman in her mid-fifties with direct, bright eyes, dressed in shorts and a T-shirt, some gardening dirt smeared on the sleeve. “I’m here at the village courthouse on a Saturday. I’ve read the police report.” The judge’s eyes flitted between Mike and Overton. “Remind me which one of you is case manager on this?”
“I am,” Overton said. “Mike is lead investigator.”
“Okay, then. Mike?”
Mike pulled in a breath, let it out slow. “Pritchard shows up from out of town the night after his sister was murdered, says she had it coming.”
“But now he maintains his innocence.”
“We need physical evidence.”
The judge’s eyes flitted to Overton. “Lena?”
Overton held Cheever’s gaze. “We can’t leave anything to chance. This guy, if he did this, he needs to go away. Forever. So it has to be solid.”
“So?” Cheever said. “Your crime scene people are processing the scene; you’ll get your DNA. This Pritchard – he’s already in the database?”
Overton shook her head, “No.”
“Well, then this is a penal law misdemeanor for Pritchard, he’ll get the buccal smear when he processes into county, and then, depending on when you get through with the blood and tissue samples from the vehicle, you check for a match. I heard it was a pretty gruesome scene…”
Mike was lost in thought a moment, images of Harriet Fogarty’s mutilated body haunting him. “It was, and it’s going to take a while to process. And we’re waiting for the house on River Street. So, in the meantime I want to talk to this Marlene Blackburn, see if he’s telling the truth, or just playing games – he’s that type. But, she’s on the res.”
“Sounds like coordination with Tribal Police,” Cheever said.
“I’d like to ride out there right now,” Mike said, “but then everyone’s stepping on everybody else’s toes, yeah, so… I’ll let them take point. At any rate, if Pritchard did stay with her, we’ll submit a search warrant for her place. Call in the feds if we have to.”
After a gap in the conversation, Cheever folded her hands, said, “You know, I like the both of you. Lena, we work together all the time. Mike, it’s nice to finally meet you; I’ve heard a lot about you. And I’m glad to see the two of you working together for the first time, circumstances notwithstanding. But you’re not telling me anything I don’t know, and I get the sense… What are you holding out on?”
She looked between them, and Overton glanced at Mike, lips pursed, cueing him to answer.
“Corina Lavoie,” Mike said.
Cheever leaned back in her chair, ran a hand over her lips, then leaned forward again. “Lavoie? Lavoie from about a year ago? She went missing in Watertown…”
“Ten months ago,” Mike said. “She was also a caseworker. We’d like to check into it a little bit more.”
The judge sighed and looked out the window showing a slice of downtown, the bar and parking lot where Pritchard sounded the alarm on himself not far from view. “But you’re not putting Pritchard into that scenario?”
“We first need to determine where he’s been for the past year. But that might be getting ahead of ourselves. And there’s still the problem of Bobbi Noelle.”
“What problem?” Cheever asked.
“We can’t be sure this wasn’t supposed to be her,” Mike admitted. “If Pritchard is the doer, then it’s highly unlikely. I’d say no chance. But if we can’t find someone with motive to go after Harriet specifically, we’re looking at a possible case of mistaken identity. Or maybe someone just looking to hurt caseworkers, for any number of reasons.”
“Tell me about Lavoie,” Cheever said.
“Corina Lavoie. African-American woman, aged fifty-five. She went to the movies by herself on a Friday,” Mike said. “Lived with her sister; the sister was away visiting friends. When Lavoie didn’t show up at work on Monday, they called her, left messages. That Tuesday, someone from the clinic where she worked sent a cop around. State police found her car still in the movie parking lot at the mall, no sign of her. Vehicle was impounded, swept clean, nothing there to go on. She just disappeared. A detective named Corrow took the case.”
“Okay,” Cheever said. “They’re both caseworkers. But Lavoie went missing. Harriet Fogarty was definitely not missing.”
Mike didn’t have an answer, and Cheever seemed to grow beleaguered by the brainstorming. “Look, you two do what you have to do. The arraignment is Monday morning, so that only gives you another day. If you get something, bring it to DA Cobleskill, add the murder charge. Otherwise, there’s risk of jail, so I will advise Pritchard of his right to counsel at the arraignment. He asks for a public defender, fine, we send him off to county with an application. He doesn’t, I’ll enter the not guilty plea as per usual… and he’s off to county jail. So, either way.”
“Where do you think you’ll set bail?” Mike asked.
Cheever looked a little pensive, and Mike knew they were entering some questionable territory. Still, cops and judges made deals like this every day. There was nothing illegal about it, maybe just shades of gray. “Even if this Dmitri Petrov isn’t pressing charges,” Cheever said, “we have the disorderly conduct since it was happening in a public space. And then Pritchard kicks the car door, striking Officer Daniels. So you’ll get your supporting deposition from Daniels, from witnesses who were at the Bark Eater, and how it looks is this guy – Pritchard – he’s got a record, was drunk, causing a disturbance, threatening violence, then assaults an officer… What if the door hit the officer and his gun went off? There are bystanders around, etcetera. My reasonable judgment will be that this guy needs ten and twenty for the offenses.”
It was a relief. Cheever was in their corner, and Pritchard would be under wraps.
“You get something solid,” the judge said, “you’ll know where to find him.”
“Unless he can come up with the bail,” Overton added.
“This guy doesn’t look like he can come up with that,” Mike said. “He’s rootless, has no assets, and it sounds like he was cut out of whatever his parents left to their other children.”
“Well then that’s how we have to play it,” Overton said. “Cobleskill is not going to issue a complaint based on Pritchard saying his sister ‘had it coming.’”
“What’s he likely to get for the dis-con and the Assault 3?” Mike asked Cheever.
“If he didn’t have a record he’d be apt to get time served, maybe a small fine. But he does. So it’s up to thirty days in jail for the dis-con, plus a heftier fine. The assault is a Class A misdemeanor, so could be up to a year. But I don’t know yet, I’m not in my robes. Like I said, it’s Saturday.”
Her tone signaled that it was time to leave.
Nine
Work felt deserted. About half the staff had elected to stay home, at least until after the memorial service. Those who’d ventured in to work were like Lennox, with pressing matters, or Bobbi, who just didn’t know what else to do with herself on a Monday morning. Or where she was safer – here or at home.
Bobbi stared at her computer screen. The stupid thing was demanding she do another restart. How many times in one month did it need to update? Maybe it had something to do with the police, though – supposedly they were pulling everyone’s schedules and had to get through security in order to make that happen.
The office felt small. All anyone could think about, or talk about, was Harriet. When Lennox knocked on her open door, she jumped.
“Hey, come on in.”
He offered a wan smile and moved to the chair by the window in his slow, gangly way. He sat down, took the band out of his hair and pushed it all back, reaffixing his dreadlocks. Then he looked out the window, striking a forlorn pose. “This is so weird.”
“I know.”
“I feel like I’m in a dream.”
“Yeah.”
“I keep passing her office. Her door’s
closed. I gotta… like, keep myself from opening it up. Like maybe she’s there, sitting at her desk.”
“Chained to the phone.”
“Man, she spent a lot of time on that phone.”
“Or working on the ECR.”
“Ah, God,” Lennox said. “I thought that software update was going to be the end of her. Poor woman. Sometimes I think we spend more time organizing and categorizing than anything else. And we’re still behind.”
“Yeah.” Bobbi smiled at Lennox then looked down at her hands. Her knuckles were bruised from her Shorin-Ryu session over the weekend. And after class she’d worked the punching bag in the gym pretty hard. Anything to keep her mind occupied, her body in motion.
She’d almost considered using some cover-up on her hands. If she had to go out on a call, looking like she’d just beaten the shit out of someone probably wasn’t for the best.
“You heard anything about the case?” Lennox asked. His eyes were watchful; looming unspoken and unresolved was the issue of her possible role in the scheme of things.
“One of the investigators,” she started, “Mike Nelson… He called me on Saturday. Asked me about her brothers. You knew Rita had brothers?”
Lennox nodded. He’d been there for years. Over a decade. Maybe as long as Harriet, but Bobbi had never asked. “Steve and Joe.”
Bobbi felt another jolt. She hadn’t known their names, but she’d been looking at the news each morning, and now she pulled out her phone. She was shaking a little and told herself to calm down.
Lennox looked concerned. “What about… Everything okay?”
“Some guy was arrested in town for fighting or something.” She found the article and scanned it. “His name is Steve Pritchard.”
“That’s Harriet’s maiden name,” Lennox confirmed.
The feeling was familiar – a mixture of relief and shame. If Harriet’s brother was behind this, it had nothing to do with her. She handed Lennox her phone and thought about her own brothers as he read, remembered watching reality cop shows with one of them – Brad. In the shows, the killers were often close with the victim – husbands, boyfriends. Sororicide wasn’t as common, but it happened.
Lennox read: “Village police charged Steven R. Pritchard, of Boulder, Colorado, with disorderly conduct, a violation, and assault in the third degree, around 1:54 a.m. Saturday.” He glanced at her and said, “This is Saturday’s paper. Maybe there’s something new. May I?”
“Go ahead.”
Lennox didn’t own a smartphone, but he was adroit with hers. “Okay – yup, here it is. Arraignments are Monday mornings so this must’ve just gone up: ‘Pritchard was arraigned in Village Court and sent to Pierce County Jail on $10,000 cash or $20,000 bond.’”
He handed her back the phone and she skimmed it. “It doesn’t say anything in here about Harriet,” she said.
“They probably don’t know yet,” Lennox said.
Bobbi felt chilled. The AC was on and the office was like a refrigerator, for one thing. She opened the window. Today was rainy and overcast, but still hot, and the warmer air came swirling in.
“I bet they’ll find out,” she said, returning to her desk. She looked at the report again. “That’s a high bail, isn’t it?”
He shook his head. “I don’t know.”
“I think so. I think, like, unless it’s like disrupting a funeral or inciting a riot or something, disorderly conduct isn’t even a misdemeanor. Assault in the third degree – that is though...” She set the phone aside. “I bet they suspect him. I bet the cops went to the judge and told them they suspected him, figured they’d keep him in jail while they searched for physical evidence…”
Jessica appeared in the doorway. Lennox straightened up in his chair, like a child caught passing notes in class. Jessica paid him no mind and her eyes drilled into Bobbi. “The police are coming down to talk to you. I’ve asked to stay in the room.”
Bobbi was hopeful; maybe they were coming to tell her she was in the clear.
Jessica looked at the computer on Bobbi’s desk. “Frozen again?”
“Yeah. Just seized up.”
“Well, police are just talking to Trevor right now. As soon as they’re finished with him, he’s going to come around and see what the problem is. These friggin computers… I think they…” She trailed off, dropped her arms, and ducked a look into the hallway. Then she turned back to Bobbi and said, “Here they come.”
A moment later, Investigator Nelson stepped into the doorway.
“Good morning. Sorry to just barge in like this.”
Lennox wasted no time getting to his feet and excusing himself. He shot Bobbi a parting look, winked, and then he was gone.
* * *
“Can I come in?” Mike spoke like Jessica wasn’t there.
“Yes,” Bobbi said. “Have a seat.” Her nerves were rattling like a diesel engine.
He came into the room, smelling faintly of cologne, and sort of drifted into the chair where Lennox had been sitting, like he’d been in the room 100 times. Jessica was the one who seemed out of place. She closed the door and looked around, as if expecting someone to produce another chair out of thin air. Bobbi rarely saw people in her office, and when she did, not more than one at a time. Folding chairs in a hall closet would do the trick.
“You want me to…?” Bobbi started.
Jessica waved an impatient hand in the air. “Investigator Nelson has questions about your case, Roberta, the one that Harriet was taking care of on Thursday night.”
Mike had a file with him and slid out a packet of papers. “This is for you. As a records owner of your various cases, along with Mrs. Rankin, you can be released from confidentiality. At the moment this only applies to your discussions with me. A judge is overseeing this and will continue to oversee anything that may be introduced as evidence in the case.”
Bobbi took the papers he handed her and slowly sat back down. So much for being let off the hook.
“We’ll generate an affidavit from this,” Mike went on, “and you’ll sign it, and we’ll do that as we go. That’ll be how we handle the disclosures for now. Does all of this sound okay to you?”
Bobbi leafed through the papers, losing the concern for herself, instead thinking about the cases she’d been handling since she’d started working for DSS. Every person she dealt with in her line of work expected anonymity. What happened in this room, or out on a call, was confidential. It was true that cops were already privy to much – in many cases they were the ones who called Bobbi’s people. But in other instances there were no police, just caseworkers and supervisors and civilians looking to make things right for a child, or children.
“So you already know about Grayson Fuller,” she said. “His parents not having family in the area – and Gavin, the father, is in county jail…”
“Right,” Mike said. His eyes were kind, but insistent. “I need to know about your other cases.”
“How does that… Am I compelled here? By the court?” She lifted the papers from her lap. “I appreciate this, but… do I have some time to digest this?”
“I’m sorry I didn’t have much time to prepare you. I don’t need to tell you we’re trying to move quickly on this. To answer your question, this is not a writ. This is voluntary. We could compel you as time goes on, but we don’t want to.”
Bobbi glanced at Jessica, who looked like she was doing everything in her power to keep her mouth closed. For the first time, Bobbi felt a kinship with her supervisor. Jessica could be prickly, but she believed in confidentiality and was a strong advocate for her workers, and her own clients. She looked ready to explode all over the cop.
“Mike…” Bobbi began.
He raised his eyebrows, smiling faintly.
“… this puts me in a tough spot,” she finished.
“I know it does, and again, I’m sorry.” Instead of a suit, he was wearing jeans, a black V-neck T-shirt and a black sport coat. He was a cop, it seemed, who actually carried a
little style. She didn’t know if that made him more trustworthy or not, or if it mattered. Probably not.
“I want to help,” she said. “Of course I do… I want to do everything I can. Is there another way, though? These people expect me to keep their lives private.”
“Exactly,” Jessica said in a burst. She needed to vent, or she was going to erupt.
Mike eased back in the chair, subtly nodding. He looked out the window a moment, like Lennox had. The yellow excavator was there, a small but impressive machine used to landscape the edges of the new parking lot. Then their eyes connected again. “Here’s what we can do,” Mike said. “Take that paperwork home, give yourself a chance to digest it, as you say. Go through your cases. Think about anyone who… who may have been particularly upset when they had their child taken, like the Fullers. Or even someone who just didn’t like getting a complaint against them, an investigation, whether it wound up indicated or not.”
“These are my cases…” The fear was back, crawling beneath her skin. “Is this because…?”
“They’re your cases, but Harriet was your supervisor and oversaw them. In some ways she’s more responsible for outcomes than you are, is that fair to say? Sometimes she makes a judgment call?” He glanced at Jessica, whose skin looked tight, and said, “Supervisors have to make some hard decisions, from what I can imagine. Maybe some life-changing decisions for certain people.” His gaze slid back to Bobbi. “We’re looking, too, at all the cases local police and state police have worked with your organization, any releases of information. We’re all just hoping something stands out. I’m not just asking you – I’m asking other caseworkers, too, so please don’t feel singled out.”
He rose to his feet and Bobbi suddenly felt guilty, like she’d been uncooperative. But she couldn’t help it. “What about her brother?”
Mike didn’t respond, just looked at her with the same gentleness in his eyes.
“You asked me over the weekend about her brothers.” Bobbi pointed to her phone on her desk. “And in today’s paper it shows in the police and fire calls that Steve Pritchard was arrested.”
Next to Die: A gripping serial-killer thriller full of twists Page 8
