by Matt Coleman
When she hit the bottom, she threw a shoulder into the door. It flung open and laid an older policeman flat. He groaned up at her as she leapt over him and continued running. Police were everywhere, shielding their faces from cold water and flashing lights. Cary kept trying doors until one gave. She fell into a classroom and raked water from her eyes. Through the sounds of the alarm, shouts resonated and scuttling dress shoes slapped wet linoleum. No backdoors this time. The room was empty, save a few mismatched stools discarded into the empty classroom. This was the end of her escape attempt. Her legs ached. Adrenaline was beginning to wane, leaving her sapped and nauseated.
Cary stood in the middle of the room and cried. Behind her, the door clicked open softly. She turned and held up her hands in surrender. Officer Doyle closed the door behind her. Her ballcap was dripping wet. Cary waved both hands, one holding her shoes, the other her purse. “I’m done. I give up. It’s over.”
Officer Doyle reached to her back and came out with a handgun. Cary wrinkled her face in confusion. Doyle raised the gun, leveling it at Cary. Cary wrapped her arms in front of her face and cried out, “What are you doing?”
Officer Doyle half-whispered, “Duck.”
Cary didn’t hesitate. She fell to her knees and covered her head. She heard three shots ring out above her. Officer Doyle planted all three in the corner of the giant window behind Cary. Doyle shoved the gun back in her waistband and swiped up a stool with one hand. She paused to look down at Cary. “Be ready to run.”
Doyle threw the stool into the window, widening the shattering break started by the bullet holes. She scooped up another stool and kept at the window until almost all the glass fell to the ground. Cary stared back at her in wonder. Doyle waved a hand at her. “Come on! They heard the shots. We’ve got to go!”
Cary reached out and took Doyle’s hand, letting the officer lift her to her feet and help her through the broken window. Doyle followed her out and they stood in the grass trying to feel out their surroundings. Doyle looked back at the building. “We’re on the north side of the building. I’m parked south. There’s no way we’ll make it to my car.”
Cary looked west and spotted Haley and Grayson parked about a block up the road she was facing. “I have a ride. Come on.” She led Officer Doyle in a dead run toward the waiting teenagers, parked and blaring some rap song to which they were singing along and dancing.
Doyle gawked at where they were headed. “Please say you’re shitting me.”
Cary looked back over her shoulder. “Don’t be so quick to judge. They’ll give you a makeover, if you want.”
Chapter 22
Detective Bright Hudson stood outside the high school staff restroom and chewed the lip of her coffee cup. She had been inside—saw the carnage. School officials turned on all the hallway lights per her request. Carlos Moya gathered the two rattled witnesses into a small office for questioning. The scene was a bit chaotic. It took four men to pull Ken Webster away from the scene. And the place bubbled with veteran cops. Every swinging dick in the building felt like they could stroll right in and solve the case at will.
Not that they had much case to solve. Multiple people had seen Karen Webster walking to the restroom with a younger female in a black dress. The two witnesses had walked in on a younger female in a black dress alone with Karen Webster in the restroom. Karen Webster lay stabbed, the knife rested next to her, the younger female fled the scene covered in blood.
Bright was waiting on two things. She had assigned several uniformed officers to clear her crime scene—an unenviable task, having to ask a party full of high-ranking officers to clear out. And she had sent a young patrol officer named Lindsey back to the station to print a picture for her. She needed the DMV photo of the owner of the car by Graffiti Creek—Cary Trubody.
About ten seconds before Bright lost all patience, the hallways cleared. Quiet settled in around her. She set her coffee cup on a water fountain and moved into the bathroom.
The body sprawled out in the center of the room, surrounded by blood. Bright kept to the outside edge, taking careful steps on clean tiles. Karen Webster lay slumped onto her side with her face pressed to the floor. A single gaping wound shone visible behind her right ear. The medical examiner might uncover other wounds, but this one would do it. From the looks of the blood pattern, one slash caught the carotid artery.
Blood had sprayed forward. Bright moved around to the front of the scene. A shadow broke the pattern. A clean silhouette. Like a snow angel. Someone stood in front of Karen Webster while someone else stabbed her from behind. Carlos Moya appeared at the door of the restroom. Bright glanced up at him. “Three people,” she said casually.
Carlos glanced around. “Three people?”
Bright nodded. “There were three people. Look at the blood splatter.”
Carlos nodded. “I noticed. But the witnesses only saw the girl.”
“Is my picture here?”
Carlos pulled a printout from behind his back. “I haven’t shown them yet.”
Bright stepped toward him and flapped her fingers, calling for it. She took it as she brushed by him on her way toward the office where the witnesses were detained. It was a small office around the corner—a counselor’s office or some sort of parent center. The two ladies sat huddled on a couch. They had both been crying. One looked over fifty, the other could be either side of forty. They both gave off a Junior League vibe—blonde and fake, reeling from spending years relying on looks only to find it fleeting. Now they scrambled for something else to define themselves with, but only came up with wine and shoes and charity raffles. Bright resented these women. She wished different, but her resentment didn’t care.
They both startled when Bright barged in, Carlos at her heels. “Tell me what you witnessed. Every detail.”
The older of the two looked around Bright at Carlos, the crowd-pleaser—so easy going and gentle. “We already told—”
Bright leaned into her gaze. “Don’t look at him. Look at me. I want to hear it again.”
They both looked at each other and stammered. Bright rolled her eyes and pulled a chair up to sit in front of them, hold a hand if need be. “I apologize, ladies. It’s very stressful, I know. Let’s start with your names. Introductions. I’m Bright. Detective Bright Hudson.”
The fortyish-year-old sat up. “I’m Billie Mitchell. My husband is over vice.”
Bright nodded. “John. I know him well. Good man.”
The other cleared her throat. “Dorothy Peavy. My—my husband and I are donors to the program here at the high school.”
Bright patted her knee. “Which is wonderful. We all thank you.” They all shared polite nods before Bright broke the facade. “Now, if you could walk me through the murder you witnessed, that would be great.”
Dorothy tittered, flustered, but Billie closed her eyes and nodded. “We walked together to the restroom, because the hallway was so dark. I don’t know how much we can tell you. We turned the corner and…” She trailed off into a half cry.
Bright turned her head away and rolled her eyes. “And what, Mrs. Mitchell?”
Billie swallowed. “There was so much blood. The woman, with the knife.”
“She was holding the knife?” Bright squinted.
Billie nodded, but Dorothy spoke up. “No. She had dropped it on the ground, I think.”
Bright leaned toward Dorothy. “You think?”
Billie shook her head. “I thought she was holding it.”
Bright looked back and forth between them. “Can the two of you do me a favor? Show me with your hands. How big was the knife?”
The two women held their hands out. Billie showed the length of a machete, while Dorothy held her hands about six inches apart. Bright nodded, shooting a look back to Carlos. “Thank you, ladies.” She pulled out the picture, holding it more to Dorothy than to Billie. “Did you see this woman?”
Billie muttered something about it happening so fast and there being so much bloo
d, but Dorothy nodded vigorously. “Yes. Yes, I believe so. More made up, but I think it might be her.”
Bright nodded out a Thank you and placed the photo on a table. “Did the woman say anything to either of you? Threaten you at all? Anything?”
Both women shook their heads.
Bright frowned. “What did she do?”
Billie started a couple of different sentences, but Dorothy interrupted. “Nothing. She looked scared.”
Bright cocked her head. “Scared?”
Dorothy nodded sadly. “Yes. She was sitting there holding poor Mrs. Webster. Karen and I go way back.”
Bright held a hand up. “Wait. Holding her?”
Dorothy nodded, thinking back. “Yes. The young woman sat on the floor with Karen sort of crumpled into her lap. The woman held Karen’s head, like she was talking to her.”
Bright nodded again, staring off into a spot on the floor. “Thank you, ladies. If you don’t mind, we may ask you to repeat some of this one more time. I’m going to send someone in to record it all.”
They both protested, but Bright snatched up her printout and started away, pulling Carlos with her. They went back to the restroom. Bright handed Carlos the printout of Cary Trubody’s driver’s license and stepped carefully into the ladies’ room. She looked around, up, down, everywhere. Her eyes stopped on a smear of blood on the door frame. It was high up, maybe six feet. She stood facing the body. Turning, almost in a run, Bright placed a hand within inches of the door frame, bracing herself to bolt out the door. Her hand hovered level with the smear of blood. She motioned for Carlos to enter the room as she, herself, backed away.
Carlos walked in, unsure of what he was acting out. He held his hands out and shook his head.
Bright pointed at a spot looming over the body, with his back to the door. She placed herself at the far end of the restroom, watching. “There. Right there. Looking down at her. How tall does the DMV say Cary Trubody is?”
Carlos studied the printout. “It says she’s five-three.”
Bright nodded. “How tall are you, Carlos?”
Carlos hung his head and licked his lips. “Are you giving me shit, Bright?”
Bright shook her head without cracking a smile. “No. Promise.”
Carlos grimaced. “I’m about five-five.”
Bright cocked her head at him.
“I said about.”
Bright grinned. “Fair enough. I want you to turn, like you’re running out of here. And put your hand up like you’re about to grab the door frame to brace yourself as you run out.”
Carlos did as instructed. When he held his hand out, Bright yelled for him to freeze. His hand froze a good six inches lower than the blood smear. Bright nodded. “In these heels, I’m six foot.” She pointed at the smear. “My hand was perfectly even with the bloody handprint.”
Carlos looked up. “Third person?”
Bright nodded. “Third person.”
Carlos looked back at the printout. “But tell me this. Why, if you’re Cary Trubody, do you come to the one place with more cops than anywhere in town? I mean, you just killed your friend or girlfriend or whatever, right?”
Bright raised her eyebrows. “Or maybe you witnessed it. Maybe you need help.”
Carlos nodded. “I get that. I do. I’m not convicting her. But if you’re going to take the time to get all dolled up and come to this thing? Why not call 911?”
Bright shook her head. “Did any other witnesses notice Cary Trubody at the party?”
Carlos took out a spiral notepad. “I talked to one guy. One of the ones who watched her walk off with Mrs. Webster to the bathroom. He said Cary waited to talk to Chief Webster. But started talking to Mrs. Webster because the Chief was preoccupied with other guests.”
Bright squinted. “So 911 wouldn’t give you the chief, huh? You need to go all the way to the top. Why?”
Carlos laughed. “She’s nuts.”
Bright shrugged. “Maybe. Why would you?”
Carlos scrunched his face up and shot her an incredulous look. “Why would I what?”
“Need to talk to the Chief.”
Carlos shook his head. “I wouldn’t. No way.” He shrugged. “I mean, unless I needed to rat on your ass.”
Chapter 23
Cary and Officer Doyle fell into the backseat on either side of the car. Haley spun around in a squeal. “What’s going on? Who is she? You’re all bloody!”
Cary held both hands up, shaking her head, “It’s not my blood.”
Haley scrunched her face up. “That doesn’t make it better!”
Doyle stole a look out of the back window and shouted, “Just drive!”
Grayson cocked her head. “We don’t even know you.”
Doyle whirled around, gun drawn. “Drive.”
Haley screamed and punched the gas hard enough to send everyone lurching back.
Cary placed a hand on Doyle’s arm. “I don’t think you need—” She motioned to the gun with her head until they both looked at it.
Doyle put it away and mumbled an apology.
Cary worked to catch her breath, but managed, “Why did you help me? Officer Doyle, isn’t it?”
Grayson wheeled around. “Hold the fuck on. She’s a cop?”
Doyle looked back and forth between Grayson and Cary. “Yes, I’m a cop. But not like them. They were going to kill you. That’s why I helped you.”
Cary shook her head. “I didn’t kill Karen Webster.”
Doyle hung her head and nodded into her chest. “I know.”
Grayson leaned forward, almost grinning. “Who’s Karen Webster?”
Cary cut her eyes at her. “The police chief’s wife.”
Grayson nodded. “Wow. Your meeting didn’t go like you drew it up, huh?”
Doyle sighed. “They’ll all be looking for you now. The whole city.”
Grayson laid her head down on the back of her seat. “You know how when people psych themselves up to do something. And in their head they’re all like, What’s the worst that could happen? Yeah. Whatever you thought in your head. This is so much worse.”
Haley looked back, near tears. “Where am I going? I don’t mean to pressure. But I don’t do well driving aimlessly around town.”
Grayson chuckled. “Very true. She’ll drive us to the police station.”
Cary frowned. “But you were there. Last night. You identified me. How do you know who I am?”
Doyle looked out every window of the car in rapid succession. “That’s not important. We need to go someplace safe.”
Haley whimpered, “I think she was joking, but all I can think right now is police station. For real. Like when someone says don’t think about a pink elephant and all you can do is—”
Doyle leaned up to the front seat. “Does one of you have a credit card?”
Both of the girls laughed. Grayson said, “Yes, sweetie. We have a credit card.”
Doyle slumped back. “Drive us to a hotel. Any hotel. Rent us a room in one of your names and we can clean Cary up.” She looked over to Cary. “Can anyone connect you to the two of them?”
Cary shook her head. “I don’t even know their last names.” She shrugged. “Of course, I’m not sure how you know me, so maybe I’m connected to more people than I thought.”
In less than a minute, Haley had found a hotel and pulled in. She dropped Grayson at the front and circled around. Grayson came flouncing out with a key card and jumped back in the car. “I asked for a first-floor room around back. She probably thinks I’m a hooker.”
Haley pulled around to the back and parked as close to the door as possible. She looked back at Cary with a grimace. “We can go buy you some clothes.”
Cary patted her old jeans, T-shirt, and green canvas jacket. “This’ll be fine. Thanks for everything, girls.”
Doyle looked to Cary. “How long have you been with them?”
Cary shrugged. “Four hours maybe.”
Doyle turned to the girls. “I
f anyone asks, you drove her to a bus station. Nothing more. You thought she was leaving town.”
They both nodded, as Cary and Doyle eased out and ran for the door before anyone could see them. The room was the first one inside the door. They managed to slip inside before being spotted by anyone. Doyle put the “Do Not Disturb” sign up and flipped on the bathroom light. “Clean yourself up.”
Cary threw her things down on a bed and stood resolute. “No. I want some answers first. What the hell is going on?”
Doyle rolled her head around. “There will be time for answers later. We need to clean the blood off you and keep moving.”
Cary shook her head. “No. We will make time now. We will make time right the fuck now!” Cary grew increasingly hysterical, pointing at some invisible line in the carpet. “Now! Right now! I need you to tell me why this is happening!”
Doyle stepped up and took Cary by both arms, at the elbows. “Okay. Okay, Cary. You’re right. Let’s sit down and talk.”
Cary was shaking, crying. She let Doyle take her by the hands and guide her to the bed. They sat in silence for a moment, letting Cary breathe and calm down. When she had caught her breath, she laughed. “I remember when I was about seven or eight, my parents took me to Disneyland. It was the first time I can remember staying in a hotel. The second morning, after spending a whole day there, I got up way before they did. I was so excited to go back. I sat on the end of their bed and ate two bags of cotton candy for breakfast. When we started for the car, I puked all over myself in the parking lot. We had to come back to the room and clean me up. I was crying hysterically. Sobbing and hyperventilating. I was so scared we weren’t going because I was sick.”
Doyle smiled. “Did you get to go?”
