Gone to Ground (12 page)

Back home I put the food away, then set to work. Out came the plastic gloves from under the sink. I washed my hands with them on. Dried off the gloves with a paper towel.

From my dresser drawer I pulled the package containing the two swabs. I took one from the bag, rolled the other one back up and returned it to the drawer. The second swab would be backup in case something happened to the first.

At the kitchen table I addressed an envelope to Chief Cotter at the police station. Next I pulled a piece of yellow paper from the middle of the pad. Using a black pen I wrote in block letters:

THIS SWAB HAS BLOOD ON IT I FOUND AFTER ERIKA HOLLINGER'S MURDER. I THINK IT'S HERS. PLEASE TEST IT
FAST
. IF IT MATCHES HER DNA I KNOW WHO KILLED HER. WHEN YOU HAVE RESULTS, PUT A RED PIECE OF CONSTRUCTION PAPER IN THE STATION WINDOW IF IT'S NOT A MATCH, AND A GREEN PIECE IF IT IS.

I sat back and viewed the note, careful that no part of my arm touched the paper. Was that good enough? I wanted to pour out my fear, say hurry, hurry, I'm dying here! Would they even pay attention? What if they thought this was from some weirdo and ignored it?

Please, God. I know I haven't talked to You much lately, but . . .

With a tissue I wiped off the stick part of the swab, even though I'd never touched it without gloves. Then wrapped it up in another tissue and put it in the center of the paper. After folding the note twice I slid it in an envelope. At the sink I wet the finger of my plastic glove, ran it across the gummy surface of the envelope flap, and sealed it up. I fetched a stamp from a kitchen drawer, dampening it also with a wet-gloved finger, and pressed it on the envelope.

I stood, plastic fist pressed to my mouth, eyeing the package. The envelope showed a small bump from the wrapped swab.

Had I missed anything?

Mentally I went over every step I'd taken. When I was satisfied, I slipped the envelope into my purse along with a fresh paper towel, folded. Only then did I take off the gloves.

No way could I mail this in Amaryllis.

Once again I drove to Bay Springs. I parked outside their post office and used the paper towel to pick up the envelope by its corner. My heart skipped and splashed like a rock over water. For a long time I stared at the outside mailbox, unable to move. My throat grew thick, and my hands started to shake. Once I did this, there was no taking it back. If I'd forgotten anything, if somehow they traced it to me and Mike found out . . .

Stop thinking, Tully.

I glanced around. Saw no one nearby. Holding the envelope close to my stomach, I struggled out of the car and stepped to the mailbox. Its last pickup was posted at 5:00. I'd just make it.

The metal door opened with a squeak. I dropped the envelope inside, making sure to hold on to the paper towel. Banged the door shut.

Done.

My knees turned wobbly. No second thoughts now. No matter what happened, there was no turning back.

Quick as I could, I got in the car and drove away.

Going down Highway 528 I turned on the radio with trembling hands. I needed to find a song to hum along with. Something to keep my mind from churning. I pushed channel after channel, harder each time, until my finger got sore, and I couldn't hold the tears back any longer. I was still crying when I pulled into our driveway.

When I walked through the door the phone was ringing.

Mike. He was probably calling to check on me during a break. Make sure I wasn't out running around.

I hurried to the kitchen and snatched up the phone. "Hello?" I couldn't keep from panting.

"Tully, you hear what happened?" It was Mercy.

My insides stilled. In a flash I pictured a postman in Bay Springs pulling my envelope from the mailbox, the Amaryllis police magically aware of where it had come from—

"The police took Stevie Ruckland down to the station." Mercy's voice sounded tight, excited. "They think they have him this time, Tully. He's the Closet Killer."

I paced in the small lobby of the Amaryllis Police
Station, cell phone to my ear. Inside the interrogation room Chief Cotter and John were ganged up on Stevie. I'd shouted to my brother to refuse to come down to the station, but Chief Cotter had him too scared to listen. Even as they hustled him out to a squad car, I ran alongside. "You can keep quiet, Stevie! You can demand a lawyer!"

He just walked along like a lamb led to slaughter.

I'd jumped in my car to follow them to the station.

Now that the chief and John had Stevie alone in a room, who knew what he'd say. Despite my demands, they wouldn't let me stay with him. "He's a grown man, Deena." John jabbed the air with his forefinger. "I'm tellin you
one more time
to back off, or I'm puttin you in cuffs too."

I had one last look at my brother, slumped and forlorn at the room's small rectangular wood table, before John closed the door in my face.

Come on, Trent, pick up!
Where was his nose for news when I needed it? Half the town had to know about Stevie by now.

The line clicked in my ear. "Hi, Deena."

"Trent! They've brought Stevie to the station for questioning."

"What?"

"They're talkin to him right now, and who knows what on earth he's sayin."

"Why'd they come after him in the first place?"

I hesitated. "Somebody said they saw him runnin home Tuesday night after work all agitated. And the police think they found somethin at his house."

"What'd they find?"

Twelve-thirty, the witness had said. They were off by a good half hour. Twelve-thirty gave Stevie all the more time to kill Erika. But how could I tell the cops I'd seen him at midnight?

"You got to do somethin, Trent. They practically barged into his house without a warrant. You know Stevie couldn't figure how to tell em no."

I reached the front of the station and pivoted, pacin away from the door. What was goin
on
in that room? I wanted to rush inside and punch out the police. Punch out my brother.
Why
hadn't he listened to me?

Stevie
had
killed Erika, hadn't he. And the others. He really was a murderer, and I didn't know what to
do
.

"Deena. What did they find?"

It came back to me then—the words Chief Cotter had thrown at Stevie the last time he was a suspect. "You
mad
, Steven?" the chief had pressed. "You carryin a boilin rage around inside you?" That was the chief's theory. The Closet Killer carried hidden rage—and murder was the way he let it out.

I slid to a halt and leaned against the wall. My brain would hardly think straight. Stevie
did
carry hidden rage. And how could I keep the bloody uniform secret now? Chief Cotter would splash the news all over town. "A dirty uniform. They claim it's got blood on it. And Stevie won't say what it is." I wasn't about to give away anything the police didn't know.

"Give me five minutes, and I'll be right there."

"Where are you?"

"At my sister's house, workin on today's story. See you in a minute."

I hung up and closed my eyes. My chin fell to my chest. This was a nightmare. If that uniform had Erika's blood on it, Stevie was doomed. So was I. They'd find out he'd come to my house. That I knew about it and covered it up.

The world started to swim. I staggered to a chair and sank into it. Somehow I managed to call the salon and tell Patsy to cancel my appointments for the afternoon.

"I heard they took Stevie in." Her tone sounded guarded, as if this time she just might believe he was guilty.

Was that how Amaryllis would respond?
Somebody
needed to pay for these murders—might as well as be Steven Ruckland?

"It's a mistake.
Again
. They'll clear it up."

"Yeah, I'm sure—"

I punched off the line. Set down the phone and dropped my head in my hands. A voice drifted from the interrogation room. Couldn't tell whose.

The station's door opened. I straightened up to see Officer Chris Dedmon walk in, his black face sheened with sweat. Chris was in his late thirties, a father of four, and a deacon at the Baptist church. I'd gone to school with his younger sister, Rowanda. "Deena." He nodded my direction. "You all right?"

I shook my head.

"I hear they got your brother in there."

"News travels fast."

"Well." He indicated the radio clipped to his uniform. "I have my connections."

"He didn't do this, Chris." I
had
to keep sayin that. For my own sanity.

"People aren't always what we think."

I shot him a look to kill. "That's it, then? Guilty until proven innocent?"

He rubbed the side of his short-cropped head. "Didn't say that at all. I just said people aren't always what we think."

Of course he was right. How many times had I seen a story on the news about a man no one would have expected bein some serial killer? A family man, a husband and father. That BTK killer in Wichita had even been active in his church, like Chris Dedmon. "Right. That would make
you
the perfect candidate."

He shook his head and sighed. For the first time I noticed the bags around his eyes. And his face looked worn. Come to think of it, John had looked awful tired too. If the Amaryllis police force was lackin in sleep, it could only be due to the pressure of findin the Closet Killer. And that pressure made it all the more likely they'd pin the murders on the easiest suspect.

The station phone rang. Chris answered it. Dully I listened to his end of the conversation. Apparently the caller had heard rumors about arrest and wanted confirmation. "Sorry, ma'am, I can't talk about that right now. Rest assured as soon as we have news to tell the town, we will."

Hope glimmered in his voice.

My stomach turned over.

As Chris hung up, Ted Arnoldson came in the door. Terrific. In my eyes Ted rated not much higher than my ex. The man was full of himself, walkin with a swagger and puttin on airs. Judgin by his off-duty designer clothes and the sports car he drove, Ted had to be up to his eyeballs in debt. Police officers don't make that much money. But Ted always had to appear better than everybody else. Why in the world did I ever have a crush on that man?

Ted gave me a curt nod. "Deena."

I stalked out of the station to wait for Trent outside.

After two excruciatin minutes he pulled up to the curb across the street. He ran over, wavin to somebody up the road. I turned to see Theodore Stets outside the drugstore, peerin at me. "They take Stevie in?" Theodore called.

Forget half the town. All of Amaryllis knew by now. I looked away, my throat locked tight.

Trent took my elbow and pulled me close to the police station, out of the sun. "Tell me what you know."

I regarded him, suddenly half-sorry I'd called. Was this Trent, the man in love with me, askin? Or Trent the reporter?

"I told you what I know."

Trent gave me a keen look. Fine, let him wonder.

He shook his head. "He'll need an attorney."

"He hasn't got any money for one, you know that. And neither do I."

"Then he'll be assigned a public defender. But sounds like a lot of damage is already done. The attorney will have to work backwards. I mean, you have to wonder—is Stevie even capable of understanding his Miranda rights? If a lawyer could get everything he says in there thrown out—that would be major."

Wait, this was all too fast. Trent was talkin how to mount a defense, and I was still hopin I could just take Stevie home.

"Maybe my brother won't say anything. You know how he is when he's cornered—he just shuts down. The more scared he is, the more he refuses to talk."

Or he'd lie. And if the police caught him tellin lies . . .

The door to the station opened. I jerked my head up to see Chief Cotter step out, holdin Stevie by the arm. John was close behind. My brother's wrists were cuffed, and his face looked like a steel mask.

"Where you goin? What'r you doin?" I jumped around Trent to stand in their path.

"Deena, move aside." Chief Cotter's crisp tone warned he was out of patience.

"But—"

The chief pulled to a halt and shot me a look like a laser beam. "We've arrested your brother for the murder of Erika Hollinger. He's on his way to the county jail." He pushed me aside and escorted Stevie to his police car. John opened the back door, Chief Cotter pressed Stevie's head down, and they forced him in.

As they drove away I stood rooted to a sidewalk that dipped and rolled, and threatened to swallow me whole.

http://www.pulitzer.org/works/2010-Feature-Writing

2010 Pulitzer Prize

Feature Writing

The Jackson Bugle

Gone to Ground

What happens to a small, quiet Southern town when evil invades in the form of a serial killer?

By: Trent Williams

October 29, 2010

(Excerpt)

Adam Cotter came to Amaryllis as chief of police a decade ago, upon retiring from the Mississippi Bureau of Investigation after 25 years. The MBI is a branch of the state's Highway Patrol and a not unusual gateway through which small-town Mississippi can acquire experienced chiefs of police. Amaryllis was thrilled to welcome Adam Cotter, who hailed from the area. Before Cotter's arrival, his son, John, was already an established officer on the town's five-man force, and thereby protected via the escape clause in the state's nepotism law. Adam Cotter could not have hired his own son, but since that son preceded his arrival to the force, they can now work together hand-in-hand. Or fist-in-fist, as some in the town claim. The three other officers, Orin Wade, Ted Arnoldson, and Chris Dedmon, together total 29 years of serving as Amaryllis's finest. Wade and Dedmon are African-American, the two-to-three ratio a little under the town's demographics, which run almost an even fifty-fifty between whites and blacks.