Fear No Truth

by LynDee Walker

  “I appreciate all the help I can get this week.” Archie pointed at me. “Speaking of help, I called the sheriff up in Ardmore this afternoon about our friend Jake. He got good and busted, caught in the act in a no-tell motel with his star runner. Real headache for them, and quite the scandal in town—back then, our guy was the boys’ track coach.”

  “Did his alibi from the bar return your call?”

  Archie shook his head. “But I’m thinking if he’s into teenage boys, perhaps he didn’t have anything to do with Jessa’s death in light of this video. And that blows our theory that he was sleeping with Tenley.”

  I offered a slow nod, a tickle in the back of my brain.

  I let my eyes go unfocused, trying to let whatever was bothering me float up. Into teenage boys.

  Nicky didn’t have a note.

  I shot to my feet, turning to Graham. “You said all the gifts in Tenley’s bag had notes.”

  “Except Nick Richardson’s. His envelope was empty.” Graham snapped his fingers. “We never got around to finding him today.”

  “But Simpson’s note said he was sleeping with a student,” I said. “What if the student was Nicky? What if Simpson took Nicky’s note and left his because you can’t put that together without both letters?”

  “And taking his own would make him more suspect.” Archie nodded. “It’s certainly not the worst theory we have.”

  Thoughtful silence stretched until Archie slammed a hand onto the table, nearly sending me out of my skin. He didn’t lose his cool. Ever.

  “Arch?” I ventured after three beats of silence.

  He shook his head, his shoulders drooping behind a long sigh. “The problem isn’t a shortage of plausible theories, it’s that we can’t discern the right ones. How can we have two cases so similar, brushing up against each other a dozen different ways, and not be able to find where and how they intersect? Did the girls know each other? Did they date the same sicko on the sly? Did they both go to the same gas station every Friday morning?” Archie stood.

  I stayed quiet. Nobody could say. Yet. Those were the kinds of connections that looked easy once the bad guy was caught but were nearly impossible to see while we tracked him.

  Archie picked up the photo of Jessa entering the bar the night she went missing. “The track coach looked like an easy bridge. He was there in the last place anyone saw Jessa alive. He was too involved with Tenley and her family. The scenes were different, but the story made sense. I was even arrogant enough to think we had the bastard before we left here last night. Today, he doesn’t look so good. But okay, because we’ve got this porn site jackass, and not only does he have video of what looks like Jessa’s last moments, he has some sort of goddamned stalker dossier on Tenley. It’s perfect. Except for the part where he’s dead.” He hurled an empty Dr Pepper can at the far wall. “What the fuck is going on here?”

  Wow. Things were getting dicey when I had to be the voice of reason for Archie.

  “There are too many possibilities,” I said. “And too many uncertainties. Jim said Tenley might have been assaulted, but he couldn’t swear to it. Given the video and the news clippings, I’m going to assume she was until we have proof otherwise. I think that’s what we have to do—start ruling out the least likely possibilities and narrow our field.”

  Graham clapped his hands. “Yes. We are smarter than this asshole, y’all. So if we can’t get to the end of whichever road we don’t know to follow, let’s work backward.”

  “Exactly. Jim took DNA swabs from Tenley this morning,” I said. “Now, you said there was no match for what they managed to get from Jessa in CODIS, Arch—but did they check LDIS?” There are rules about which DNA profiles can be uploaded to the national databases, but local systems are becoming catchalls in the age of rapid profiling. “I’m betting our friend Ray has a file from a recent arrest.” I snapped my fingers. Of course. “And if we can get Graham’s friend to compare samples from Jessa’s remains to samples from Tenley’s—that would tell us if there’s really a link here.”

  I glanced at Graham, who reached for Archie’s laptop and poked a few keys. “Wooley, Raymond Herbert, age thirty-nine. Fifteen-loci profile from an arrest last year.” He pulled his phone from his pocket. “She didn’t answer me yet.” The wrinkle in his forehead said that bothered him. “I’ll try again.”

  I ignored Graham’s irritation, smiling at Archie. “See? We’re getting somewhere already.”

  Archie resumed his seat, lacing his fingers behind his head. “Cyber is going through Ray’s computers with a microscope. We got one guy taking apart the DuGray video bit by bit, trying to see if they can catch a face on camera, another trying to hit a vocal match.”

  “Excellent.” I dropped into a chair on the side of the table nearest the door. “That’s another thing that was weird at Ray’s place, though: He had a massive entertainment setup, but I didn’t see a single computer. Not even a laptop. Why would a guy who runs a website not own a computer?”

  “Afraid of being traced?” Graham asked, putting his phone on the table.

  “Forgive me for being more concerned about the dead women than the porn king,” Archie began, and I raised one hand.

  “I didn’t say I was concerned about him. But while we’re eliminating geese from our chase, is this one too easy to catch? The video of Jessa, the clips of Tenley, the dead porn peddler—if you look at it right, it almost seems designed to make us pat ourselves on the back and go have a nice weekend.” I glanced at Graham. “This vile little man with connections to both girls is the perfect bow. Who’s going to care that he’s dead?”

  “And people can still bring their money to town.” Graham nodded. “It’s does seem a little convenient all the way around.”

  “So what are we missing?” Archie asked.

  I turned back to the whiteboard, my list from last night still there. “Jessa didn’t run track. She wasn’t from Austin.” She picked up the marker again. “But I agree, they’re too close to not be tangled up somehow. So what do they have in common?”

  “Simpson?” Archie offered.

  “Maybe, but why? And were they his type?” I tapped the marker against the board.

  “Did you say Jessa was in the same bar he was the night she disappeared?” Graham asked. “What if he did go home with someone—like, maybe Nick Richardson? What if she saw it?”

  Archie hauled the fattest folder from his box, pulling out the surveillance stills. “But how would Simpson know that? And why would he care?”

  I grabbed a couple of the photos and scanned for Nicky’s face or unruly hair. “Coach Richardson already knows his son is gay. So a student from the university knowing wouldn’t be a big deal.”

  “Plus, I bet Darren Richardson had no idea who Jessa was until she went missing. She was just going into her sophomore year.”

  “Why was she on campus in July?” Graham asked, looking up from the missing person’s report.

  “Soccer camp. She was on a partial athletic scholarship,” Archie said.

  “Tenley was a star athlete, too,” Graham said.

  I scribbled that next to another bullet.

  “But Jessa was burned, and Tenley wasn’t,” Archie said. “Why?”

  “Evidence?” I paused, the slash on Tenley’s hip snaking through my thoughts. “Or . . . something darker.” I popped the marker cap in and out of place. “Sacrifice. Ceremony. Respect . . .”

  I reached for Archie’s DuGray file. Flipping pages, I found the picture I wanted: a full-length shot of the remains. Poking my nose a millimeter from the paper, I squinted. Huffed. “You have a magnifier?” I asked Archie.

  He disappeared from my peripheral, and a glass materialized a few seconds later. I took it, running it first around the outline ringing Jessa’s body, then wider, across the surrounding grass until I reached the edges of the frame.

  “You have any idea what she thinks she sees?” Archie’s voice sounded far away, even though he was inches from my elb
ow.

  “This is a leap too big for me to follow yet.” Tension and curiosity tinged Graham’s reply. “Give her a minute. She likes to talk.”

  Hush, boys. I’m thinking.

  I moved the glass back to Jessa.

  Arms folded over her ribs. Skull facing the sunrise.

  Like she’d lain down to take a nap and fallen into hell.

  I sat straight up, dropping the photo and the magnifier to the table and turning a triumphant grin on Archie and then Graham. “He knows them.”

  Archie moved his reading glasses down the wide bridge of his nose. “Um. What?”

  I stood, pacing as I talked. “Follow me here.”

  “Can’t. We’ll get dizzy.” Graham leaned his chair back. “Why haven’t you learned to think and sit still at the same time?”

  I waved a hand at him, focused on Archie. “Were there any unusual marks on Jessa’s remains?”

  He picked at the edge of the manila folder, shaking his head. “It was difficult to discern anything. The autopsy showed she was dead before the fire started, but the burns obscured tie marks of any kind on her wrists or ankles.”

  “What about tissue damage?” I spun and retraced my steps again. “Lacerations, specifically?”

  “You think someone tortured her?”

  I shook my head. “Jessa was burned after she was killed. Tenley was cut after she was killed. But they were both laid out with care. Placed, not dumped. We’re looking for someone strong enough to move deadweight and agile enough to avoid leaving usable footprints. Someone who thought enough of them to care how they were found. Someone. They. Knew.” I hit the last three words hard.

  Graham cleared his throat. “I hate to argue, but all evidence suggests that Tenley Andre was found where she fell. The blood on the ground and the damage to the back of her skull are consistent with one another.”

  Archie’s eyes went from me to the photos of Jessa. “And I’d stake my badge Jessa had a stroke. The screams on that video . . .” A shudder rippled through his torso. “Nineteen years old, and whatever they did to her terrified her to death. But Jim hasn’t examined Tenley’s brain yet, right?”

  I shook my head. “It’s too soon.” Brain tissue has to cure in formalin for hours, or the coroner risks losing possible evidence to a mushy mess. I resumed my seat, foot bouncing as I pulled Archie’s laptop back across the table. “I’m telling you. I haven’t had a feeling this strong since I laid eyes on Tenley. He knows them, guys. There’s our narrowed field: I bet the answer was hiding right in plain sight this whole time.”

  Archie’s forehead wrinkled. “Hiding where?”

  “Everything teenagers do is on the internet.” I opened two browser windows and pulled up both girls’ Instagram feeds. “We need to find the people they had in common.”

  Strong.

  Agile.

  Smart.

  Like, say, Zayne Davenport?

  I clicked Tenley’s followers list.

  “If nobody objects, I’ll take a look at these files and see if there’s anything lurking in them that might jump-start my train of thought,” Graham said.

  Archie nodded. “Be my guest. I’m going down to check in with cyber on those servers. See if Mr. Wooley can shed any more light on this.”

  I scrolled, stopping on a familiar face in Jessa’s followers list.

  Shit.

  Agile.

  Strong.

  Troubled.

  But . . . the video. The tearing Jim found during Tenley’s autopsy. Nicky Richardson loved Tenley. Nicky Richardson was gay. He couldn’t seriously have anything to do with this.

  Could he?

  31

  I spent an hour poring over followers and friends lists. Seven guys were common online acquaintances of Jessa and Tenley.

  Including, as it turned out, one young Mr. Zayne Davenport.

  List in hand, I clicked over to the IAFIS system search to run a criminal background check on each.

  A long breath escaped my chest when the No results found came up on Nicholas Richardson. Good. I liked that kid.

  And he had the only clean record in the bunch.

  Three of the boys had moving violations, two had at-fault accidents—and Zayne had an assault charge.

  “Fuck. Tell me I didn’t miss this,” I whispered.

  I clicked back to the FBI page and found a date. County courts system. Case located. Judgment: three hundred hours of community service. For a high school kid? What the hell did he do?

  I clicked the plus sign next to the case number.

  Sealed. Damn.

  Graham looked up from his file when I jumped out of the chair again. “What now?”

  “I got one guy who knew both girls, and he’s got a sealed juvenile court remand that carried three hundred hours of community service, charge listed as assault.”

  He leaned back in his chair, stretching his arms over his head. “That sounds promising. But we can’t get a judge to grant us access to the records until morning at least. It’s after dark already.”

  I walked to the end of the table. Turned and retraced my steps. Damn, damn. I hadn’t liked that kid on sight. Why hadn’t I checked his background yesterday?

  Because the plate check showed he wasn’t near the dam Tuesday morning, and what kind of seventeen-year-old rich kid has a criminal record?

  More than I’d have thought, in this part of town. I spun back again.

  “They’re going to make you buy new carpet if you keep that up,” Graham said.

  I ignored him, biting off the end of my right pinkie nail. I wanted a cigarette. But that would necessitate pausing. We didn’t have time to pause.

  I stomped one foot, spat the nail into my hand, and dropped it into the wastebasket behind me. “I missed it.”

  “What?”

  “This kid. Zayne. He was at a party with Tenley Monday night. Her friend Nicky said he walked out on the porch to find this guy pawing her.”

  “Zayne Davenport? That’s the boy you were talking about yesterday?”

  Every hair on the back of my neck stood up. Didn’t I tell him that last night?

  I must not have.

  “Why? Do you know him?”

  Graham didn’t reply, just spun the laptop around and pecked at the keys with two fingers.

  “What’re you doing?” I asked.

  “Checking LDIS for a DNA record on your kid.”

  “Who takes routine samples from juveniles?”

  “I do when they’re accused of sexual assault.”

  “Son of a bitch. I knew it!” I slammed one hand onto the tabletop.

  I resumed pacing as Graham went on.

  “There’s a good chance your guy is left-handed: this lab report shows a higher concentration of accelerant on Jessa’s right side, and didn’t you say Tenley was cut on her right hip?”

  I nodded, not pausing.

  Graham folded his lips between his teeth, then pulled them apart with a pop. “The Davenport kid is a southpaw. That’s why Marshall is so hard to defend against on the football field.”

  My eyes fell shut, Zayne’s privileged-little-prick smirk waiting on the backs of both lids. He was right the hell in front of me, and I’d watched him walk away.

  I kept moving. “The car wasn’t out there, though. I ran his plate and the last camera pickup was near his home before two on Tuesday morning.” So I’d blown him off as a narcissistic brat and focused on Simpson.

  Wrong move.

  What else did I know about Zayne?

  “The animals,” I muttered, my foot hanging in midair as the gardener’s words filtered back to me: “High pH in the soil.” I pressed one fist to my lips. Jesus, what if Jessa spent last fall in Bethany Davenport’s rose garden? The hikers found her remains in February, which was just about when the landscapers would’ve come to turn the beds for the new season. My foot hit the floor with a thump and I charged for the far end of the room. Spun back. Stomped again.

  “He was li
terally in front of my nose, sweaty BO and all,” I fumed. “He could’ve gone home and gotten another car. I’m sure they have half a dozen. Hell, he lives across the street—he could’ve followed her. Dammit!”

  “I’d hardly say right in front of you,” Graham drawled, rolling his eyes up to watch me. “And this still offers nothing on how that porn site dude ended up in a tub full of rats.”

  I waved one hand. “He was afraid Wooley would talk. Maybe he didn’t want anyone telling where that video of Jessa came from?” My eyes squeezed shut. “I talked to that kid twenty-four hours and one dead guy ago. Why did I let it go?”

  “Stop it, Faith. It’s not your fault Ray Wooley is dead.” Graham resumed pecking at the keyboard.

  “Prove it,” I muttered.

  “Got him.” He flipped the screen back around.

  I leaned on the edge of the table with two hands, scanning the police report. “And they sent him straight back to school.” I shook my head. “What is going on with our system, Graham? We get these assholes away from decent people so daddy can chat up a judge on the golf course and he can send them right back out?”

  Graham’s chest puffed out with a slow, deep breath. “Oh, it’s not just dad. The mother actually sat in front of me and said, ‘My son doesn’t have to rape girls to get laid. Look at him.’”

  “And of course she wouldn’t hear that rape is about power, not sex.”

  “Nope. Said she had a Stickley dining set in her workshop that needed her full attention and she was in no mood to entertain my slandering her boy.” Graham shook his head. “Girl was a nobody by Westlake Hills standards. Goes to Marshall because she lives in an apartment complex on the eastern attendance boundary. She was at school working on a calculus project, went to the bus stop at the corner about dark. Zayne pulls up in his Camaro, offers her a ride home . . .” He raised his eyebrows and let me finish the sentence in my own head.