Jackal, page 19
“You got that plate in the dark?”
“Yeah, as she was speeding away.” I laugh.
Doug doesn’t find it funny. “Not many people can do that. Chase down a car, catch the plate number, and remember it?”
“I’m observant, always have been.” I move us off this topic. “Speaking of, thirty-two years moving under the radar? This is at least two people. Two generations.”
“Keeping a secret like this is a one-man job. If our man started young and stayed in shape. Got smarter.” Doug thinks. “Also, consistency. The same man who did this, did this and this.” He points to locations on the map. “You’d be shocked by the amount of damage one man can do over a lifetime.” Doug continues to make his stacks. Transcripts. Crime scene photos. Articles.
My phone chimes.
It’s Chris. How are you? Any news?
I quickly turn it off and look back at Doug, only to find him staring at my phone. I can tell he wants to ask, and I can imagine the reason why. He’s just taken materials from the department at my request. He’s putting his job on the line. I owe it to him to prove he can trust me.
“High school friend. We reconnected at the wedding. He’s checking in on me,” I say.
“He?” Doug is genuinely curious. There it is again, everyone’s obsession with marrying me off.
“Don’t worry, Chris Hartmann has enough interest in this town. He isn’t after me.”
I look back at the map and see the path Chris led me down, where his father’s house must be. I find the red X indicating where Keisha’s body was found. Looking at where the tarp is, there is a triangle between Keisha, Chris, and that tarp. I don’t like them in this proximity to one another.
“Nick said you all were looking in the lab. Any DNA?” I ask.
“Nothing yet.”
Finally, I offer what I have. “If something comes up, can you run these? They belong to either Mr. Parker or Nick. Or Garrett. But they weren’t in his usual spot beside the house, or the same brand I’ve seen him with twice now. I’m pretty sure these belong to one of the Parker men.” I show him the plastic bag. “Cigarette butts. From outside Mel’s house.”
Doug stops in his tracks. “I can’t test those. Do you know how illegal—”
“No one needs to know how you got them.”
He looks at the loose cigarettes. With a heavy sigh, he gets up and digs through one of the drawers and comes back with a plastic bag. He double-seals the butts inside.
“We’ll see,” he says. He still takes them.
I worry for him. “Be careful. Look at each of these cases. Fumble after fumble.” I gesture to all the papers on the table. “It’s on purpose. It has to be.”
Doug is done stacking. Articles. Autopsy reports. Transcripts. I read them all.
“So many mothers went to the police,” I mumble.
“They didn’t listen,” Doug says. He continues to mark up the map. I move to the stack of photos. I grab the stack closest to me.
“Wait! That’s—”
It’s too late. It’s a crime scene photograph of Brittany Miller. For all the descriptions of the girls, I’ve never seen what is done to them with my own eyes. She’s lying on the forest floor. Open. Like a riddle, her arms positioned at her sides, palms up. Her legs are open. Her body is pulled open. I feel like I should look away, but as much as the image is horrific, it’s arresting. Everything looks too red. Her rib cage yawns in perfect symmetry. Though blood congeals in her chest, her heart is missing. This is not how I imagined it. She’s not ripped open, she’s been meticulously destroyed. Her face is intact. No gnawed-out eyes or gnashed-up cheeks. No animal activity. There never was. I shuffle till I find another photo. Alice Walker. Tanisha’s girl. Her undamaged face and limbs let me know she’s a child. The rest of her is like the deer. A bloody mess. I can barely tell what is supposed to be there and what is missing. I turn the picture over, but it’s in my mind before I can push it away.
“I need some air.” I race up the stairs. I need to figure this out before it’s too late. Before Caroline gets swept under the rug like all the others.
In the kitchen, I find Kirsten. She’s sneaking more wine. Both of us caught, we try to explain our presence away.
“It’s so hot out—” she mumbles.
“I just needed some air!” I shout.
She nods.
I notice the glaze in her eyes. She glides across the floor and grabs another glass. She pours another one for herself and one for me.
“Wanna head to the patio?” she says as she walks past me, anticipating my answer. I follow her.
The same MO, different executions. I disagree with Doug. I am looking for a pair of killers. But one girl every summer, what killer behaves like that? I’m not an expert, but I am a woman in my thirties. I’ve consumed enough true crime to know that killers operate in sprees and have cool-off periods. For someone, let alone two people, to be so calculated and controlled feels strange. If one keeps the other in check, if there is an agreement between the two, or a belief. Faith? With the solstice, something about this feels like equal parts worship and rage.
Outside, a muggy afternoon greets us. Kirsten hands me my glass and holds hers out for a toast.
“To what?” I ask.
“To whatever you and my husband are working on down there.”
I toast.
I sip my wine slowly, not wanting to be rude, but not wanting to be as drunk as Kirsten. There’s something about being out of the basement that’s energizing.
“Doug on your nerves yet?”
“No. I think I’m getting used to him.”
Kirsten, her voice a whisper, echoes in my ears. “He loves his work. That means he works too hard. I think that’s because he grew up with nothing.”
I realize I don’t know much about Doug’s upbringing.
“Really?” I probe, trying to get more out of her.
“Oh yeah.” She sounds happy to oblige. “His family—well, his father drank everything away. Had a good job at the mill until it shut down. Lost his pension when the company went bankrupt. They lost their house and the land they lived on. Doug promised never to let that happen to him. Built everything he has—we have. He’s self-made. Couldn’t afford medical school, so he figured out another way. Put in the work. Got extra training and experience.” She beams with pride. “I just wish I could make this house a home for him.”
Ewan. I don’t think Doug told her that I know.
“I’m sorry. About your son,” I offer.
Kirsten smiles. It is filled with the deep sadness of grief.
“Losing a child is…” Her gaze disappears into her glass for a second. I move to embrace her, but I see a dark thought cross her face. It’s not sadness. It’s rage. I can’t tell who or what upset her. Before I can say anything else, the thought passes. This mixture of anger and sadness, the shifting emotions remind me of what grief can do to a person, no matter the circumstance or time.
“My husband has a job he takes pride in. He wasn’t handed anything. He’s struggled just as much as”—Kirsten searches for the right comparison—“well, as anyone else.” She hides the shameful notion in her wineglass as she drinks again. When she comes up, she laughs. “Everyone’s suffered. What does it matter if one person suffers more than another? We’re all in pain.” Kirsten rubs her eyes and smiles at me with all her teeth. “It’s enough to drive you mad.”
SEVENTEEN
“She might not see us,” Latoya says. I know Tanisha, Kylie, and Denise have all warned me against talking to Farrah. But after I showed up at the door of the church and refused to leave, Latoya caved.
Kirsten’s talk of madness reminded me that all madness has a root. If I can’t get to the truth of what I saw in the woods, maybe I can find it in Farrah.
“You listening to me?” Latoya’s voice breaks my thoughts. It’s getting dark. Night will be here in minutes.
“We have to try.” I climb the steps of the house in front of us. Halfway between downtown and uptown, the narrow home is perched on the edge of the mountain. The wood is warped in areas and worn, but has been painted over with care. We’re far enough up for this place to have avoided the flood. I wonder how old it is as the last step sags slightly with my weight. I hop up to the porch. Latoya deftly avoids the weak step and joins me at the door.
She raises her hand to the knocker. “If she gets upset? We leave. If she’s just talking in circles? We leave. If she doesn’t like you? We—”
“Leave. I understand. Anything goes wrong, we leave.”
Knock. Knock.
After a long moment, we hear shuffling. “Comin’!” The footsteps approach the door. There’s a swipe of the peephole.
“Toya? That you?”
“Yes, Miss Gerri. We’re here to visit Farrah.”
“We?”
Latoya gives me a look, and I dip my head toward her, centering myself in the view.
I wave. “Thank you for having us on such short notice.”
The lock shifts and the door creaks open. A slight, elderly Black woman greets us in a deep green velvet housecoat and slippers. The coat is long-sleeved and heavy. I can’t believe she’s cold in this heat. She waves us inside.
The house has to be from before the flood. The sculpted wood of the staircase, the dark smooth floors, and the chandelier give away the age of the place. Miss Gerri catches me looking up.
“My grandfather hung that chandelier himself”—she nods in memory—“salvaged it from the flood…”
“This house survived the flood?”
“Oh no. Built right after it. Been in my family ever since. We were one of the only—”
“Gerri?” Latoya redirects the conversation. “How’s Farrah feeling?”
“You’uns lucky. She has her energy today.” Gerri shuffles to a door at the end of the hall. She knocks. “Farrah, your company here. You ready to see ’em?”
A soft voice answers. “They friendly?”
Gerri looks back at us. “It’s Toya, you know how she can be.” Gerri smiles. “And her friend looks nice. She was polite at the door.”
After a moment, Farrah replies, “All right.”
Gerri pulls the door open and Latoya and I enter.
Though Farrah’s room is in a home, it feels like a facility. A bed, a free-standing armoire, and a nightstand, that’s it. The armoire is open. So is the nightstand. There’s no place for her to hide things. I never asked how exactly she went mad, but now I suspect she was a danger to herself. I press against my scar. It’s hard and numb today.
The room is brightly lit. An overhead light, floor lamp, and table lamp remove all shadows. However, the curtains are shut. A large metal fan oscillates in the corner, moving the stale air around. The room doesn’t smell, more that it feels warm and lived in.
Farrah sits on her bed. Her hair is in two French braids, her housedress, a pale yellow with a light pink bow. Her arms rest at her sides, her palms facing up. Her legs are parted, pulling her dress tight at her knees.
“Sit right, girl,” Latoya mutters as she taps Farrah’s knees back together. Arms open, legs apart. From the picture I saw at Doug’s, that’s how Brittany was found. Seeing her daughter like that would be enough to break any mother. Looking at her, I realize the story of Farrah is more exciting than the reality. Nothing in the woods made her go “mad.” The indifference of the world did that.
Though the curtains are closed, Farrah’s gaze is out the window. She’s older than me, but she feels like a child in this room. Nothing about her appearance is her doing. She has been lovingly cared for.
“Farrah?” Latoya speaks in the softest tone I’ve ever heard from her. “How you feeling today?”
“Momma watchin’ TV too loud.”
“I believe it.” Latoya sits next to Farrah. “Farrah, my friend here…” Latoya gives me one last glance to check in, to remind me. “She’s here to listen to you.”
“No one listens ’cept you and Kylie.”
“I know, but Elizabeth here wants to.” Latoya beckons me over to them. I wade through the grief around Farrah.
Latoya puts Farrah’s hand in mine. “Be quick,” she whispers to me.
I nod. “Hi, Farrah.” I take a breath. “I want you to tell me about—”
“Brittany?” She turns away from the window and looks right at me.
I flinch. “Yeah.”
“Brittany is a star. That’s why they took her. We can’t shine too bright. None of us can. I’m going to take her to classes out in Pittsburgh next summer, get her better training—” Speaking about her daughter brings this light to her eyes. The woman who was in a fugue only moments before is gone. This woman is sharp and alert. I’d follow her anywhere she wants to lead me. Right now I need to guide her down a specific path.
“When you went to go looking for Brittany, what did you see?” I ask.
Farrah hesitates, but her light doesn’t dim. “She didn’t come home after her rehearsal. I had a shift—I had to work—I thought she was with…I wouldn’t leave her alone—”
“It’s okay. What happened?”
“We had a fight over…” Farrah disappears behind her eyes. “I don’t even remember. It was so stupid.”
“When you went looking in the woods?” I offer.
“I told them what I saw and they wouldn’t do anything.”
“What did you see?” I grip her hand, pulling her mind back to me.
“You already know.” She smiles. “Your eyes are bright. Like mine.”
“What do you mean?”
“To find what’s in the dark, you have to let it in.” Farrah leans in, her eyes searching mine. I feel myself start to tilt back.
“Let her, Liz,” Latoya whispers.
I stay and Farrah comes forward until her forehead rests against mine. Eyes still open, she searches mine as close as she can. Hers are like two glossy orbs at the edge of my vision.
“Don’t look at the shadow.” Her breath slows and so does mine. Soon we breathe together. In and out. “People don’t look, ’cause looking makes him real.” In and out. In and out. “But he grows in silence. In fear.” In. I catch a glimpse of something in her eyes. Out. Bent in a fish-eye, the lamps in her room make the night sky in her pupils. Light and shadow. Something moves in the gloss of her iris. Like a dark spot, swimming toward the surface. I’m pulled toward her. I feel one of the many cords wrap around my ankle. I topple the lamp over.
Snap!
It blows, sending a bright flash across the room before plunging the corner into darkness. The side of my eye feels wrong. Cold. Like an eyelash has curled up under my lid. I launch myself away from her. Careful not to hurt my eye, I go to the only reflective surface, the window, to get whatever it is out of my eye. I open the curtains. Night provides a mirror. I look. I can barely see my reflection. Through blurry vision. I don’t see anything in my sclera. I felt it. I know I felt it. Cool and invasive. There is something in my eye.
Farrah is set off. “Get away from me!” She claws for her covers and wraps herself in them. I close the curtain. She curls up on the bed. Latoya rushes over to her, trying to comfort her. Meanwhile, I’m still backing away. I feel my back press against the wall. “I lost her. I need to go. I need to go find Brittany!” Latoya tries to hold her, but Farrah wriggles away. She makes her way to the door.
Gerri opens it. “What’s all this?”
“I need to find Brittany. She’s still out in the woods. He’s keeping her. He keeps all of them!” Farrah is frantic and driven. I worry she’s going to knock Gerri over. But, with the skill of a mother, Gerri reaches up to cradle her daughter’s face.
“Calm down, honey. Come on. You need your rest.” Smoothly, she leads Farrah back. She curls up and rests her head in her mother’s lap, like a child waking from a nightmare. Somewhere between dreaming and reality is where Farrah’s stuck.
* * *
★ ★ ★
Latoya and I both sit on the porch of Farrah’s family home. We breathe in the night air. All that Farrah said reverberates around in my head. The madness Kylie spoke of, this is it. Searching without finding anything.
Your eyes are bright. Like mine.
Latoya speaks first. “That help?”
“Farrah is—”
“Traumatized, but not as crazy as people think.” Latoya’s dark skin glows in the coming moonlight. “My parents weren’t ever happy with what the schools taught me. Made me learn about history at home and in the classroom.” Something shifts in her. I see the woman who runs the church. “In high school, we had to read speeches by W.E.B. Du Bois, Booker T. Washington—I was scanning something by Marcus Garvey when I saw Johnstown mentioned in the same sentence as Tulsa and Saint Louis. Couldn’t believe my eyes.”
“Why?”
“You need to learn your history, child.” She sighs. “We all do.”
“I know who Garvey is but—”
“Listen,” she says. “I don’t like talking about politics. But I will say this. All that happened last year, people are walking around shocked, like they didn’t know people like that live in this country. Unprecedented times?” Latoya takes a breath, then she tells me about a missing piece of my history. “My great-grandfather was here the summer this place banished us. It was ’cause of some drunk men, too many single men here to work in the factories. And we were taking their jobs and living on their land. All that same stuff. Everyone in this country says they don’t see color, they see hard work, until they start to lose food from their table. If you were one of the good ones you could stay. ‘Good’ in this case meant time. If you could prove your lineage back seven years, you were one of the good ones. A short time, but the point was made. These bad Black folks? These new Black folks? They had to go.”
“Did people leave?”
