by Elle Gray
“Oh, Sarah,” he sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “She always has to have things done her way. And her way is always the hard way. It’s never good enough unless she is personally in charge of things.”
“I know the type,” I admit.
“What did she put you up to? She wanted you to completely throw out the police investigation and come up with a new theory?”
“She just asked me to give it another look. And honestly, in this case, I believe she’s right. I’ve looked at the scene and concluded that it isn’t as cut and dry as the police have made it out to be.”
He looks at me incredulously. “What are you saying?”
“That I think your mother was murdered and that the robbery was staged to make the police think exactly what they concluded,” I reply.
“Staged?”
I nod. “I believe your mother knew her killer, Mr. MacMillan.”
Eric’s face clouds over, and he nods as if considering, but then goes back to the door and signals the woman behind the window. When it buzzes again, he opens it up and holds it for me.
“Can we talk about this in my office?” he asks.
“Of course.”
As I step through the door, a group of middle school-aged children run past us. They’re all wearing Halloween costumes and masks, screaming and giggling together. I’d almost forgotten it was closing in on Halloween.
“No running, kids,” Eric calls after them.
They slow but don’t stop running entirely. We continue on, winding our way along the hallways, passing what looks like classrooms, some set up with the chairs all in a circle like some sort of group counseling room or something.
The walls are mostly done in a pale yellow. I seem to recall reading somewhere that pale yellow is soothing to people, and that’s why you so often see it in dentists' offices, doctors' offices, or any place where people might get stressed out. Both sides of the hallway are covered in framed motivational posters, with children's drawings of witches, ghosts, goblins, and black cats taped up on display over them.
“God, I hate Halloween,” I mutter.
Eric turns and looks at me over his shoulder. “How can you hate Halloween? Everybody loves Halloween.”
“Not everybody.”
It’s an odd thing to despise, but I’ve never enjoyed Halloween. I know that makes me unusual since Eric is right; most people love the holiday. It’s just never been for me. As far as I’m concerned, the sooner it comes and goes, the better.
Of course, one of the reasons I don’t care for it is that it also happens to be my birthday. But I don’t tell him that.
“This way, Mr. Arrington.”
I follow him down a long hallway that ends at a door. He opens it up and steps aside, ushering me through. Once I’m in and seated, he takes the chair across the desk from me. Eric’s office is the polar opposite of his sister’s. Everything looks like it’s in disorder, and no surface in the entire room seems to have been spared from the creeping stacks of files and paperwork, most of them looking like they’re ready to topple over.
The furniture in his office is cheap, off-brand stuff that’s nicked and scarred from years of being battered. Though I doubt these were purchased brand new, to begin with. And unlike his sister’s office, Eric’s is filled with an abundance of personal touches. There are framed pictures of his entire family, making it seem as though they did actually have better days together at one point in time. There are cards, letters, and other keepsakes from some of the reclamation projects who’ve passed through the doors here and are now doing better than they were.
A glass candy dish in the shape of a jack o’ lantern sits on his desk. Just another reminder of my least favorite holiday of the year. He sees me eyeballing his candy dish and laughs.
“I’d offer you a piece, but you’d have to say ‘trick or treat’ first,’” he cracks.
“Pass, thanks.”
“I don’t understand people who don’t like Halloween. It’s a great holiday,” he shrugs. “You can be anybody you want to be for a day.”
“That’s probably what I don’t like about it. I’m a fan of being who you are, the good, bad, and indifferent.”
He shrugs. “Not all of us have the good fortune of enjoying being who we are, Mr. Arrington. Some of us find that it’s nice to be able to step out of our own skins. If only for a day.”
It’s a pretty telling and sad statement about himself, and I have to wonder if he realizes it. Or perhaps, being this open and honest is part of his program to stay clean. I don’t know. All I do know is that’s not an admission I would personally make so freely. But then, I guess when you’ve had all of your faults, flaws, and transgressions put on public display and magnified like Eric has, maybe you think you have nothing to hide. It actually makes me feel a measure of sympathy, maybe even pity, for him.
“Anyway, what can I do for you, Mr. Arrington?”
“Well, I wanted to talk to you about your mother.”
“So you said. About what specifically?”
“I understand you weren’t particularly close with her.”
“I’m hardly unique in that regard,” he says. “There are literally millions of people out there who aren’t close to their families.”
“True, but how many of them have a mother who winds up murdered?”
His seat creaks beneath him as he sits back, his expression pinched and bordering on angry as he glares daggers at me. From everything I’ve read about him to this point, I know he’s got a temper he can’t control very well. I just want to see how easy it is to provoke him.
“Am I a suspect here, Mr. Arrington?” he asks. “Should I have a lawyer present?”
“You can bring in anybody you want. Also, I’m not a cop. I’m just here asking a few questions. I mean, you do want your mother’s killer brought to justice, I assume?”
He shrugs, and I can feel his anger beginning to dissipate. Either the anger management and counseling techniques he offers people in this program really work wonders, or the mention of his mother’s death brings him peace for some reason. And honestly, I think it’s a toss-up.
“Honestly, it doesn’t matter much to me one way or the other if he’s brought to justice or not. I haven’t been part of the family for quite some time,” he says.
I sit back in my seat. “So no reconciliation after you cleaned up your act, huh? I’m sure that stung.”
“After I got cleaned up, my father gave me the money to start this foundation, and a little to get me started. He was clear that he was done with me after that though. It was his last gift to me,” he says. “He said I caused too much damage to ever be truly forgiven or redeemed.”
“That seems pretty callous.”
“Tell me about it. But hey, I’ve got my foundation, and I’m doing good works. That’s all that matters in the end, right?”
“What about your mother?” I press.
“She was here that day… the day she died,” he sighs. “Came by with a reporter from some charity news rag. I got upset because she was interrupting some counseling sessions to grab some sound bites for her latest glowing bio piece.”
“She did that a lot?”
He shrugs. “She’d bring me lunch every now and then. Spend some time with the kids. But usually only when she had a reporter with her so they could document her generosity. That was just her way. Always loved to do good works, if only for the attention and adoration it brought. Not for the sake of doing good works for their own reward, or because it’s the right thing to do.”
“Must have burned you pretty good to find out she’d been feeding Lance a constant flow of money then, huh?” I prod.
“Yeah well, Lance always did need the most help of any of us. Mom always babied him. I begged both of them to come here and let me help put him through the program, but she enabled him. Said it wasn’t right to treat family like a client. And Lance didn’t care, ‘cause he could still get his out on the street.”
“I can’t force anyone to stay here, Mr. Arrington. This isn’t a prison or a rehab center. All I can do is offer help to people ready to accept that help. And Mom convinced Lance he didn’t need my help.”
So, the difference in how his brother is treated by his mother is a sore spot with him. Not that I can necessarily blame him for that. I imagine knowing you weren’t your mother’s favorite after all, would be a bitter pill to swallow. And I’d further imagine knowing you came in third behind Sarah, the perfect child, and Lance the junkie, would make that pill even more bitter. Especially when you’ve done everything in your power to redeem yourself.
It just further highlights the dysfunctional dynamic of this family. It’s showing me that the image they put forth to the world, one of family unity and strength, is little more than smoke and mirrors. It just goes to show, you never really know what goes on behind the scenes.
“May I ask what makes you think the scene was staged and that it wasn’t what the police concluded?” Eric asks.
“There wasn’t much taken. There were lots of easily transportable valuables left sitting in plain sight,” I tell him. “There was no indication of forced entry anywhere in the house. And I used to be a cop, so I’ve seen plenty of break-ins. This one just felt… off. It felt performative, rather than an actual robbery.”
I scrutinize him closely as he listens to me, watching his facial tics, and try to decide whether he’s genuinely surprised or is, perhaps, silently chastising himself for his mistakes. He’s difficult to read though. About the only thing I can see in his face for certain is that he’s angry. More than that though, I can see his mother’s death is hitting him far harder than he’s letting on, and he’s clinging tight to that pain.
What I can’t see, though, is whether there is any guilt mixed in with it all. His anger seems to be so all-consuming that it’s washing out every other emotion he might otherwise be showing. Other than his anger, he’s doing a decent job of masking his emotions.
“If you’re expecting me to break down and cry, I’m afraid you’re going to be disappointed, Mr. Arrington. For all practical purposes, she stopped being my mother a long time ago, and while I think it’s sad, it doesn’t impact my life in any significant way,” he says, his voice hard and bitter.
“I wasn’t expecting anything one way or the other,” I reply. “I’m simply trying to get a clearer picture of your mother and of what happened so I can find her killer, Eric.”
“Yeah well, good luck with that.”
On the one hand, a lot of what I’m seeing from his is understandable. His anger is probably justifiable. I even get his ambivalence about his mother’s death, given everything that happened between them. Unfortunately, he isn’t showing me anything that makes me think I should move him to the side of the suspect list that I’ve moved Falucci, Turner, and Marshall to.
In my mind, Eric MacMillan is still very much a viable suspect. He certainly has the motive. He knows his childhood home, he has the means, and assuming he knew his dad was out of town, he had the opportunity. It would line up with her knowing who her killer was, too. But did he have the desire to see his mother dead? That’s the one question I can’t answer with any sort of certainty at the moment.
“Let me ask you because I need to… did you do it? Did you kill your mother?” I ask.
He scowls and gives me a look that could curdle milk. “No, I didn’t kill her.”
“Can you account for your whereabouts the night she was killed?”
“Chances are, I was here. I’m always here.”
I frown as I look at him. “You don’t know for sure where you were the night your mother was killed?”
“No, Mr. Arrington. I’m not in the habit of documenting my every movement,” he snaps irritably.
“I’d think on an event as significant as your mother— ”
“I thought I made it clear that this isn’t exactly a significant event in my life. As far as I’m concerned, I’m an orphan. And have been for a while now. So, if there’s nothing else?”
“Actually, just a couple more questions,” I say. “Tell me about Lance.”
“Haven’t spoken to him in months, I think. Actually no, it might be years. So what’s there to know?”
“I heard there was some tension, that your father found out she was still giving him money. That must have pissed him off,” I say.
He shrugs. “Probably. Lance always had a hair-trigger. Sensitive kid,” Eric explains. “When we were kids, he would get into these states and just blow things out of proportion and completely meltdown. Getting into fights and stuff.”
“Do you think it’s possible he’s involved?”
“I don’t know. He’s always had anger issues. But I don’t think he would go that far.”
“And why’s that?” I press.
“It doesn’t make sense to me. He was closer to Mom than any of us. She was the one person who could really get through to him,” he replies. “But if I had to name a suspect, I don’t know who else I could even say. As I said, he’s got a wicked temper. And before you ask, the last time I heard from him, he was living in some crack den in Portland and was threatening to kill me if I didn’t give him money. Like I have it to give.”
On the one hand, it’s an interesting fact about Lance I didn’t know before. Assuming what Eric is telling me is true. Sarah mentioned his temper to me, but she never said anything about him being violent. And I would expect a killer to deflect attention away from himself and put it squarely on somebody else’s shoulders.
As I look at Eric and replay his words in my head, I get that he’s got some unresolved anger issues he’s going to need to work out. But what I don’t get is a sense that he’s actually a killer. It isn’t enough to take him off my suspect list, and I will be scrutinizing him further. But my gut tells me it’s not him. And my gut rarely steers me wrong.
“I really need to cut this off, Mr. Arrington. I have duties to see to around here,” he says, getting to his feet.
“Of course. I appreciate your time,” I say.
Eric walks me back to the door that leads out to the lobby and says his goodbyes. He’s curt, and I can tell he’s not unhappy to see me go, but I don’t take offense to it. In his place, I’d probably feel the same way and be just as surly.
As I walk back to my car, it hits me that the name of his foundation isn’t for the kids who pass through here. It’s for him.
He may try to act casual and deny it, but I can see that he’s still chasing the approval of his parents. He’s still trying to work his way back into their good graces. He’s still trying to earn redemption for himself.
Thirteen
MacMillan Residence; Oak Harbor, Whidbey Island
“Thank you for taking the time to see me, Mr. MacMillan. I know exactly how difficult this time is for you,” I say.
He nods. “Thank you.”
We’re sitting on the back deck of his home on Oak Harbor, staring out at the waters of Puget Sound. It’s a rare clear day in Seattle. The sky is a clear azure, there isn’t a cloud in the sky to be seen, and though the sunshine rains down on us, it’s still a cool afternoon. I take a sip of the bourbon he’d given me and sit in silence for a moment.
The trees on the island all around us are red and golden, and the trees are in the process of shedding most of their leaves. I may hate Halloween, but I do love the way the season changing makes everything so vivid and gorgeous.
I cut a glance over at Marshall and see that he’s regained some of his color since the last time I saw him. He isn’t looking quite as pale and drawn as he did before. He still bears the marks of his grief, undoubtedly. There are dark circles beneath his eyes, and he looks exhausted, as if he hasn’t been sleeping. He’s also got that rosy glow about his cheeks and nose that tell me he’s been drinking. A lot. But at least he’s not looking quite as sunken in on himself today.
�
��How are you holding up today, Mr. MacMillan?”
He shrugs. “About as well as you’d expect, I guess.”
I nod, understanding completely. Been there, done that. The first days, maybe weeks after the death of somebody you love, are the roughest. You go through all the different stages: denial, anger, bargaining, and depression. Honestly though, I don’t know if one ever truly gets to a genuine sense of acceptance. You just learn to deal with the pain, which becomes a constant shadow in your life.
“How have you dealt with it? Losing somebody you loved,” he asks.
I look at him, surprised he knows about Veronica. A soft but wry chuckle passes his lips as he looks at the expression of surprise on my face.
“I do know how to use Google,” he says. “I wanted to know who my daughter had digging around in our lives.”
It’s not surprising that Marshall would want to know who I am, given that I am sifting through the detritus of his family’s lives at one of their worst times. The only surprise in it is that he seems fully engaged, after seeming like one of the walking dead, not all that long ago.
“Obviously, I didn’t know your wife, but everything I read makes her sound like a good woman,” he says.
“She was. One of the best people I’ve ever known.”
“And how’d you get over losing her?”
I can hear the desperation in his voice. He’s desperate to learn how to handle his own pain and deal with his own grief. I hate to be the one to tell him that there are no easy answers. Hell, there may be no answers at all.
I shake my head. “I don’t know that you ever get over losing somebody you love, Mr. MacMillan. Or if there is a way, I haven’t found it yet.”
“So how do you function? How do you go on?”
“I just get up every day and put one foot in front of the other,” I tell him honestly. “I just do what needs to be done. I do what I think would make her proud.”
He pauses for a moment, the ice cubes in his tumbler clinking against the glass as he takes a long swallow. He looks lost thought for a moment as if considering my words. The frown on his face tells me he doesn’t like what I’m saying. I don’t know what else to tell him, though. All I can do is be honest with him.
