Before She Was Found

by Heather Gudenkauf

  “We’ve got some more evidence that we need to sort through and in the meantime Jordyn needs to come with me,” Officer Wilson says, reaching into her pocket and pulling out her phone.

  “You’re calling for backup?” Thomas asks, stepping forward. “Seriously?”

  “Relax, Mr. Petit. I’m not going to call for backup unless you do something stupid. I want to show you something.” She taps her phone and turns the screen so Thomas can view it.

  “Jesus Christ,” Thomas murmurs as he rubs a hand across his face. “Jesus Christ, Jordyn.”

  “What?” Jordyn asks in a soft voice and Officer Wilson tilts the phone so Jordyn can see.

  It’s a photo of the three girls standing in front of what appears to be a boxcar scribbled with graffiti. It’s dark out and the three girls are smiling, mugging for the selfie that Violet Crow is taking. But it’s what is in Jordyn’s hands that chills Thomas to the bone. Jordyn, wearing the light blue fleece jacket that had the blood on the sleeve, is standing behind her two friends. In one hand is the strap of Jordyn’s book bag and in her other, poised above Cora’s head, is a knife. She has a mischievous grin on her face.

  “Someone grabbed the shot from Snapchat,” Officer Wilson says, putting the phone back in her pocket. “Now you can see why we need to bring Jordyn to the station.”

  “Jordyn?” Thomas’s voice cracks. “You said you left before you got to the train yard.”

  “No,” Jordyn says, shaking her head. “I didn’t. I didn’t do it, I promise. Cora pushed me first. I just pushed her back. I swear I didn’t stab her.”

  “I believe you,” Thomas says but there’s no conviction behind his voice. “Don’t worry, we’ll get it all straightened out.”

  Another police car pulls up and a male officer steps from the vehicle but keeps his distance. “Jordyn Petit,” Officer Wilson says, “you are being arrested for the attempted murder of Cora Elizabeth Landry.”

  Thomas’s chest constricts with fear. “What are you doing?” he asks.

  “You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used in a court of law,” Wilson continues.

  “Hey,” Thomas says, trying to step in between Jordyn and the officer but Wilson stops him with an icy look.

  “Grandpa?” Jordyn cries out as Officer Wilson guides her by the elbow toward the police car. “Grandpa, I don’t want to go.”

  “You have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be provided for you. Do you understand the rights I have just read to you?”

  “No!” Jordyn whimpers. “Grandpa, don’t let her take me. Please.”

  “Mr. Petit,” Officer Wilson warns.

  “Jordyn, you go with Officer Wilson and I’ll meet you there.” Thomas tries to keep his voice steady. “But do not answer any questions, do you hear me? I’m going to call a lawyer and they will take care of everything.” He turns to Officer Wilson. “Where are you taking her?”

  “To the police station here. Just down the road.”

  “I don’t want to go,” Jordyn says, her voice filled with panic. She clutches onto her grandfather. “Please, Grandpa, don’t make me go.” She’s crying now, drawing curious looks from those driving by.

  “I’ll be right there, Jordy, I promise,” Thomas says, trying to keep the sureness from leeching from his own voice. “I’ll get you out of there right away. I promise.”

  Thomas leans in to kiss Jordyn’s forehead. “Don’t say a word. Remember, you weren’t there,” Thomas whispers into her ear. “You weren’t there.”

  But the picture tells another story. Jordyn was clearly at the train yard with her friends and was holding the knife that was used on Cora. What had happened between the time this picture was taken and the attack?

  “Grandpa, please,” Jordyn cries as Thomas tries to untangle her from his arms.

  “Head up, Jordyn,” Thomas says firmly. “We’ll get this all straightened out.”

  “Deputy Porter and Deputy Blake from the Johnson County Sheriff’s Office will conduct the search, Mr. Petit.”

  “What are you looking for?” Thomas thinks of the book bag stuffed up inside of the fireplace and his heart skips a beat.

  “The clothes she was wearing the other night, her shoes, her book bag,” Officer Wilson says. “And the home computer and Jordyn’s cell phone if she has one. It would be very helpful if you could tell us where we can find those items.”

  “No,” Thomas says. “We’re done helping. Jordyn answered all your questions—we’ve been cooperative.” He looks on as two officers approach the house.

  “Is the door locked?” one of them asks.

  Thomas watches helplessly as Officer Wilson guides Jordyn to the police car. He waits until the car has pulled away from the curb and disappears down the road, then hands his keys to the deputy. He steps aside in resignation as they unlock the door, go inside and shut the door firmly, leaving Thomas behind.

  Thomas stands awkwardly on the sidewalk for a moment and then turns and walks toward the bar. Once inside, he gives Kevin a look that tells him not to ask any questions. He goes behind the bar, pours himself a shot of whiskey, carries it to the cramped office in the back.

  First he calls the lawyer that he and Tess used to update their wills. The attorney says that she doesn’t practice criminal law. She recommends Robert Peale, an attorney with years of working with juveniles accused of crimes. She will ask Robert to meet them at the police station within the hour.

  Thomas sits down at the cluttered desk where he does the paperwork, downs the shot of whiskey and tries to decide how he’s going to get that book bag from the chimney before the police find it.

  Chances are they won’t think to look in the fireplace, but if they do, Thomas will just have to admit that he was the one who hid it up there. Regardless, it won’t look good for Jordyn. And what will the officers do when they can’t find Jordyn’s clothing from the other night?

  Thomas wonders if they will arrest him, too. They’ll all be locked up before this is all over. Maybe he should have gone with them and given them clothing that looks similar to what Jordyn wore the other night. All her jeans look the same and there were no photos, as far as he knew, of the shoes she wore to the overnight.

  Would they ask Jordyn which ones she was wearing? Probably. He should have had a talk with her, should have told Jordyn exactly what to say. Emboldened by the whiskey, Thomas gets to his feet and retraces his steps through the bar, absentmindedly returning greetings from the regular customers.

  Once outside he sees the police vehicles still parked out front and takes this as a sign that they haven’t found the book bag yet. Thomas tries the doorknob but finds that it won’t turn. The door must have locked behind the officers when they went inside. He pats his pockets before remembering that he gave his keys to the officers.

  Thomas glances covertly around to see if anyone is watching, finds no one and runs his fingers beneath the metal mailbox affixed to the front of the house. Using duct tape, he had secured an extra house key beneath the mailbox in case of an emergency. But there’s nothing there now. He dips his head and twists his neck to get a better look.

  Nothing but a sticky residue left behind by the tape. Thomas doesn’t think that Tess would have moved the key. She never misplaced her set, always putting them in the exact same place. That left Jordyn. She kept her key on a lanyard in her book bag but rarely had to use it because Thomas or Tess was almost always home.

  Thomas had carefully gone through Jordyn’s book bag and didn’t remember seeing the key there. Had Jordyn taken the lanyard with her on her overnight at Cora’s? Yes, he had reminded Jordyn to take it with her because he had planned to run into Grayling on Monday morning and wasn’t sure if he’d be home when Jordyn returned from Cora’s house. Had Jordyn used the extra key to let herself in the house early Monday morning?
And if so, what happened to her own key?

  Thomas knocks on the front door, embarrassed that one of the officers has to let him inside his own home. “I just did laundry. I can get you those clothes,” Thomas says as if this was the plan all along. He tells himself to show no hesitation.

  As if inconvenienced, he stomps up the steps trying to ignore the throbbing pain in his knees as the officers trail close behind. He goes into Jordyn’s room to find the dresser drawers are open and her clothing is strewn around in untidy piles.

  “In here,” Thomas says, opening the closet. He scans the hangers. “I think these are the ones that she wore the other night.” Thomas removes a hanger from the closet and holds it out to the officers.

  “Mr. Petit,” Officer Porter says, “please just point us in the right direction and we’ll take care of it.” He holds up his gloved hands to remind Thomas that his granddaughter’s clothing has become evidence.

  “Oh, right,” Thomas says, appropriately contrite. “She wore that T-shirt hanging right there.” He points to a long-sleeved white T-shirt that looks like half a dozen others that Jordyn wears. Deputy Porter pulls it off the hanger and tucks it into a plastic bag. “Now—” Thomas turns toward the half-open drawers with Jordyn’s socks and underwear trailing out of them like entrails “—I have no idea which of those Jordyn wore. I think you’re going to have to take them all.”

  Deputy Porter slides his eyes to the sheriff’s deputy who was assigned to assist with the collection. “What about the jacket?” the deputy asks.

  “Jacket?” Thomas asks.

  “Yes,” Officer Porter says with exaggerated patience. “The jacket she was wearing in the photo. It was light blue...”

  “I haven’t seen it,” Thomas says. “Maybe she left it in her book bag.”

  “And where might that be?” Thomas senses that Officer Porter is losing patience.

  “Jordyn said she dropped it the other night, on her way home from Cora’s house. She was really upset when she realized she didn’t have it. Her social studies book was inside.”

  “How does someone lose a book bag?” the deputy asks as two large sweat stains appear beneath his arms. The room that once smelled like his granddaughter now is stuffy and smells of body odor and gun oil. Thomas feels his chest constrict and he longs to open a window. “Wouldn’t she realize she wasn’t carrying it?” the deputy gripes.

  “I don’t know,” Thomas says. “Maybe she set it down to tie her shoe and forgot to pick it up.”

  “Speaking of shoes,” Deputy Porter says. “Where are the shoes Jordyn was wearing Sunday night?”

  “On her feet,” Thomas says shortly. “She only has that one pair of tennis shoes.”

  Deputy Porter looks into the closet and sighs. “We better take them all, just in case.”

  “In case what?” Thomas snipes, forgetting for a moment that it isn’t wise to antagonize the people who just arrested his granddaughter.

  “In case there is blood or other evidence on the bottom of them,” the deputy shoots back as he begins to gather each pair of Jordyn’s shoes and place them in evidence bags.

  “So you’re telling us Jordyn’s book bag and fleece jacket are not in this house?” the deputy challenges.

  “No, they are not,” Thomas says, matching his tone. “I wish they were because they would tell you everything you need to know. Jordyn had nothing to do with what happened to Cora Landry.”

  “I’m afraid there’s evidence to say otherwise, Mr. Petit,” the deputy says. “Any other computers in the house besides this one?” He points to the laptop on Jordyn’s desk.

  Thomas shakes his head no. He usually just uses the one over in the office at the bar. Jordyn uses it once in a while, too. But he’s not going to tell the deputy that.

  Thomas drifts from the room, not able to stand watching the deputies dismantle his granddaughter’s room piece by piece. Maybe there was more truth to what Kendall Landry said than Jordyn was owning up to. If he was being honest with himself, he would admit that he had his doubts. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have bothered washing the blood out of the jacket and went to all the trouble to hide the book bag so carefully. Why else would he have gone to such lengths to protect his granddaughter?

  Case #92-10945

  Excerpt from the journal of Cora E. Landry

  Jan. 15, 2018

  I’ve been eating lunch in Mr. Dover’s classroom ever since school started after break. He usually just works on his computer but once in a while he’ll pull out his lunch and eat with me. We talk about random stuff like homework assignments and what books we’ve been reading. It’s been nice having somewhere to go instead of the lunchroom but I still really miss Violet. Jordyn, not as much, but I even miss her a little.

  Mr. Dover says I should try and talk to them again but I don’t know. I don’t think having friends should be this much work. I mean, I know it takes work to be a good friend but it shouldn’t hurt this much.

  I told Mr. Dover that being friends with Jordyn and Violet was just too much work and I came this close to telling him about Joseph and how easy it was to talk to someone over the computer. But of course I didn’t say anything because if I did that Mr. Dover would probably call my parents, or worse, call the police.

  Before I left his room today, Mr. Dover told me not to give up on friendship, that it’s worth it to invest in other people. He also said that if I wanted someone to talk to, he’d always be there for me. He told me to keep my chin up. I’m trying, I said.

  Then he grabbed a sticky note, started writing something on it. “I usually don’t do this,” he said, handing the piece of paper to me. It was a phone number. “Call me if you need to talk. Any time,” he said. “And how about not saying anything to anybody about this. The administration frowns—” and Mr. Dover made a silly sad face when he said this “—on teachers sharing their personal phone numbers.”

  Then he gave me a hug and told me to get to class.

  Dr. Madeline Gideon

  September 14, 2018

  At the time I thought it would be helpful to Cora and Violet that I was able to talk to each of them about their experiences in the train yard. I thought it would help shed some light on the events of the night. At first I wondered about the wisdom of this and even ran it by one of my colleagues. He assured me as long as I didn’t share any of what Violet or Cora disclosed to the other, it would be fine.

  When I arrived for my next session with Cora it was to find her sitting up in the reclining chair in her room. She was still attached to an IV; a fleece tie blanket was draped over her legs. “You’re up,” I said in surprise. “How does it feel?” I asked, pulling up a chair so that we were sitting knee to knee.

  “It’s okay,” Cora said halfheartedly. “The stitches on my stomach feel weird sitting like this, but the nurse said it was good for me. They made me go for a walk earlier.”

  “How’d that go?” I asked.

  “Tiring,” Cora said, smoothing the edges of the bandage that covered her eye. “And people keep looking at me funny. My face looks so bad.”

  “Usually the first few days after surgeries like this are the worst,” I explained. “Once the swelling goes down and the bruising fades it will be better.”

  “That’s what the other doctor told me, too,” Cora said. She shivered. “It’s cold in here.”

  I stood and went to the cupboard where I knew the extra blankets were stored and pulled one down.

  “The police came by again yesterday,” Cora said as I tucked the blanket around her shoulders. A vaguely sweet, foul odor emanated from Cora. “I think the policeman was mad at me.”

  “Why do you say that?” I asked, thinking about what John Dover said about Cora being hypersensitive about what people say to her and taking things the wrong way.

  “Because I can’t remember anything. He kept asking me wh
at I saw and who I saw and what happened and I couldn’t tell him,” Cora said with annoyance.

  “I’m sure he wasn’t mad at you,” I said. “Maybe just frustrated because he can’t find the person who did this awful thing.”

  “No, he was definitely mad,” Cora insisted. “I could tell. He was practically yelling at me and then I started crying and my mom made him leave.” I could see that Cora was getting worked up again but she kept talking. “Violet’s been saying that Joseph Wither was the one who attacked me.”

  Violet had told me the same thing and I wanted to continue the conversation with Cora that we had the other day, about ghosts and conversations with Joseph Wither, but didn’t want to force the topic. I was happy Cora brought it up.

  “Why do you think Violet is saying this?” I asked.

  Cora shrugged and winced in pain at the sudden movement. “I guess because she thinks that Joseph Wither is real,” she said.

  I knew I had to be careful as to how I responded here. I needed to be noncommittal, nonjudgmental, so as to not interject any personal perspectives. “You mentioned the other day when you gave me the picture of Skittles that Joseph Wither was contacting you online...” I let the sentence hang, hoping that Cora would fill in the blanks. She didn’t.

  “Why do you think Violet thinks he’s real?” I asked instead.

  Cora sat in silence for a long time, her forehead creased as if trying to work out something in her mind. “What do you think?” I asked. “Do you believe that Joseph Wither is real?”

  When she finally met my eye, she hesitated before speaking. “What if I believe two crazy things?”

  “I would say that people believe all kinds of things and that doesn’t necessarily mean they’re crazy. Sometimes people just need to talk through what they are thinking and then things make better sense. Do you want to share your two things with me?”

  “What if I believe in Joseph Wither and what if I believe that Violet and Jordyn were the ones who hurt me?”