Lie in Wait (13 page)

 

Chapter 26

N
ORTH PULLED H
IS
cruiser into the parking lot of the Canaan Police Station. He felt too overheated and damp. He'd come straight out of a hot shower at home when Test had called and had thrown on warm winter clothes before his body had cooled or he'd even toweled off properly. Then, he'd sweated. He hoped he didn't stink. He had forgotten deodorant.

He didn't see Test's foreign heap, so decided to go for a stroll around the block and enjoy his nightly cigarette. It was a lousy habit that Loretta forbade him since cancer had invaded her mother, but he had a lot on his mind and the cigarette helped calm him.

Even after being back from Boston for years, the nights here still felt ominously quiet.

He had realized he needed to get out of Boston the day fifteen-­year old Luke Johnson had stabbed his father twenty-­seven times to keep his father from killing his mother.

The number of stab wounds had brought images of savagery to the public's minds, and the press had asked what was wrong with a child that he would stab his father
so many times
? Twenty-­seven times? It was too much. Even in defense of a mother. Stabbing once or twice was enough to stop someone after all, wasn't it? Yes, the public and press had decided.

Any cop or criminologist knew the answer was
no
. A person being stabbed did not die easily, neatly, or quietly. True, there was something wrong with the boy: a childhood of broken bones. Emergency-­room visits that included internal hemorrhaging at ages five, seven, and nine.

Two stab wounds did not stop the likes of a father who had stood six feet three inches and weighed 278 pounds. Whose wife stood five feet flat, and whose son came up to his father's chest and weighed one third what the old man did. It took effort and will to stab to death a person with so much physical dominance. But the boy had done it; he'd done what was needed to protect his mother, knowing if he had not killed his father once he started stabbing him, his father would surely kill him and his mother. Of that, there was no doubt.

Young Luke, the state wanting to set an example, had received life in prison.

With that injustice, North had returned to Vermont.

It wasn't just that case that drove him back home, he thought now. As a youth he'd mocked Vermont and its small-­town ideals, wanting more; so he'd relished his first several years in the city, and never returned home. After a while though, the grind got to him, and he'd started to flee on Fridays, heading north on 93, all four lanes packed tight as cordwood with vehicles in a weekly migration of SUVs that would rival a migration of wildebeest on a National Geographic special. It slowly dawned on him that living in a place he wanted to escape was not living. It was merely surviving.

So, he'd come back.

And now this.

The ­people of his town, his state, at war with each other. The murder of a girl.

He was not on his A game with this case, not as he needed to be.

If the murder was a warning to Jon Merryfield and Jon did not back down, North believed it would it lead to more murders. But if Jon did back down and leave the case, another attorney would take it up. It was a career maker. And why shouldn't an attorney take it? Even if North personally disagreed with gay marriage, he could stand aside enough to understand the greater societal picture in a way others could not.

The cigarette held no appeal, so he snubbed it out on the heel of his boot and dropped it in his coat pocket, exhaustion washing over him.

His sleeplessness came too from worry over his failing mother-­in-­law. When Loretta's mother did finally succumb it would deliver the sharpest pain; but there would be relief, too, that the suffering was over. Guilt would accompany Loretta's relief. He was prepared. Hoped he was. Loretta was so strained she'd sobbed when he'd brought her the bouquet of asters, and it was her infirm mother who had taken Loretta into her frail arms to offer her daughter comfort.

Loretta's mother was a good woman. Loretta was a good woman. It was his greatest fortune to have good women in his life.

North turned and walked back to the station, hoping Test would be there. He planned to speak to her about what had happened at King's place, too. Get it out of the way. She'd been dodging him, and enough was enough.

 

Chapter 27

T
EST POINTED TO
the printed-­out e-­mails she'd organized on the table. North caught her eye lingering on his waist; he'd missed a belt loop. A grease stain smeared his shirt pocket, and his face was unshaven. He never left the house without shaving; it made him feel conspicuous, vulnerable.

“We'll need our ­people to do a deep dive on the library computer,” he said and slumped in a chair. He was sweating, and stank of sweat.

“We have about fifty e-­mails sent to tothevictor,” Test said. “I've arranged them in chronological order, so you can get a feel of the ongoing exchange. Read them and see what you conclude, and I'll fill you in on what I found at the town hall.”

She was thorough, he'd give her that. He took his time reading each e-­mail, taking notes. Then he read each e-­mail again and wrote more notes.

His mind was working now, clearing out the clutter of the personal life and regaining focus.

“Whoever this is,” he said, “he was sleeping with her. And he had the power. Most of it, anyway. Wanted their relationship hidden. Because he's of age and she was fifteen.”

“Right,” Test said. “The only lead I could glean was Jessica mentioning in the one e-­mail about V and Family Matters.”

“What did you find?”

Her look was inscrutable. An admirable trait in a detective. He'd not want to be interrogated by her.

“Besides a pack of lunatics from each end of the political spectrum?”

North looked at her quizzically.

“A ‘town hall' meeting about the gay marriage legislation,” Test said.

“Lovely, those. What did you find?”

“I cross-­referenced all the names with any initial for V. I found one. Victor Jenkins—­”

“Shit. To the Victor,” North said.

“Jenkins was at the previous three Family Matters meetings. But he wasn't at the one held last night, when Jessica was killed.”

North walked a slow circle as he pondered. Victor Jenkins. Jenkins and his wife were the vocal, strident evangelical type, strong proponents of the Defense of Marriage Act. North understood their position. Agreed with it. To a point. Though publically, North kept his personal views unknown.

He'd seen Victor and his wife in church, spoke with Victor on occasion in the rectory after mass, over weak coffee and cakey, store-­bought donuts. While Jenkins was devout and more than a touch too literal in his biblical interpretations for North, he seemed a good man. It was hard to imagine him killing Jessica. Impossible, really. But, it had once been impossible to imagine a fifteen-­year-­old boy stabbing his father twenty-­seven times, too.

Victor. His name had come up with Gregory and Scott earlier in the day. Had it really been the same day? It felt like weeks ago.

“I just don't see it,” North said, finally.

“
Victor
?” Test said. “
To the Victor
? What's not to see?”

“I see the connection between the name and the e-­mail. I just can't imagine Victor doing such a thing.”

“Sir. Your imagination doesn't figure into the equation. Victor Jenkins is a radical.”

“That's an opinion.”

“Held by most.”

“Some.”

“He runs with Jed King. He testified at the state legislature last year about—­”

“Political activism does not make a murderer.”

“Is there a history between you two?” she said, eyes sharp. “What am I missing?”

No
, North decided,
I definitely would not want to be interrogated by Sonja Test.

“Victor Jenkins works at the same school Jessica attended,” Test argued. “That put him in proximity to her.”

“I understand all that, what I don't understand is—­”

“We need to check this lead,” Test said.

“We will. The problem is—­”

She fidgeted, tense, ready to put forth more evidence. Prepared to counter.

“Even if I could imagine Jenkins killing the victim,” North said, “which I can't—­”

“You keep calling her the victim. Why don't you call her by her name?” Test said. Her tone was increasingly combative; a quality that undermined clear judgment, in North's experience.

“You know why,” North said. Avoiding names that might create an emotional connection to a victim or a perp, and cloud judgment in a case, was a tactic cops used to remain objective.

“This isn't Boston,” Test said. “We don't have an onslaught of murders every other day. We don't have dozens of open homicide files to guard against emotional overload.”

“No, it's not Boston,” North said. “It's my home.”

This seemed to hit a nerve with Test, as she refrained from a retort.

“I think,” North said, “the victim being essentially a neighbor to us both, there may be more reason than ever to maintain that distance. Don't you?”

“No,” Test argued. “I'll to call her Jessica. Because that's who she was. She was
made
a
victim and I don't care to give the person who did that the power to take her name away.”

In all his years, North had heard dozens of pleas for calling a victim by her name. None convincing. Except this one.

He'd forgotten what they'd been talking about and was trying to pluck the thread of conversation from his mind.

“Why don't you think Victor Jenkins is our guy?” Test asked, as if recognizing his memory lapse.

“I don't put anything past anyone,” North said. “Given the right motive or emotional context. And, as you said, whether or not I can imagine a suspect being capable of or not, is moot. For the most part. But what I can't see is a young girl like Jessica being taken with Victor Jenkins. That's my snag. Those e-­mails are love letters. To Victor Jenkins? No. No way. The man is in his fifties. It makes no sense. That's what gives me most pause.”

“Unless,” Test said, “he had something over her.”

North considered this angle. “No. If he had something on her—­and what could he possibly have over a fifteen-­year-­old girl?—­and took advantage of that, that's possible. But again, the e-­mails express adoration. She certainly isn't going to adore a man like that.”

“Right,” Test admitted, clearly resenting having to do so. “So how
does
he fit? Because, he
does
fit. Somehow. He has to fit.”

“Let's go ask him.”

“It's eleven o'clock.”

“It's best to take possible suspects off guard. Besides, you got somewhere to be?”

Home
, she thought.

“No,” she said.

 

Chapter 28

O
N THE DRIVE
over, following North's car, Test sent a text to Claude:

Dartmouth Days Redux. All-­nighter. But I think we got our guy.

Claude and the kids were long asleep now. Or so Test hoped.

From outside the raised ranch situated in a 1970s-­era cul de sac, Test could see the glow of a TV flickering on the wall. Thin clouds cloaked the full moon, but enough natural moonlight remained for Test to see several Take Back Vermont signs stuck in the lawn. Pinecones lay scattered across the driveway, their massive trees crowding the house. Test kept stepping on the pinecones as she and North approached the home and went up the concrete steps.

North punched the doorbell.

The sounds of a football game, then a sports announcer's voice bled through the door.

North pressed the doorbell again, keeping his thumb on it.

The porch light winked on above them.

The door opened slowly.

Victor Jenkins stood before them in khakis and a T-­shirt and bare feet, digging a pinkie into his ear. He was in pretty good shape for a man his age. Test was surprised. He had a slight paunch, but overall his build would put a lot of younger men in their beer-­swilling thirties to shame. He was not wiry or ropy, nor bulked up. He had, simply, an athletic build: the kind you thought of when you thought of a classic male physique. Wide shoulders, narrower waist. Good arms. His face, though, carried every bit of his age, and then some. Soft, pouched around the eyes, more than a little jowly. It seemed out of sync with his frame.

From behind him, in the shadow of the back hall, a woman peered at them. She was short and her face was made-­up heavily, though she wore a bathrobe. She tightened the belt around the robe.

The voice of the sports announcer putting words to highlights drifted from upstairs. Jenkins blinked at Test and North, as if not sure he was really seeing them.

An uneasy look passed on his face. “Yes?” he said.

“Mr. Jenkins, I'm Detective North with the state police and this is Detective Test from the Canaan Police department.”

The woman, Jenkins's wife, Test assumed, put a hand to her lips.

“What is it?” Jenkins said. His voice was phlegmy, as if he'd just woken up. Perhaps he'd fallen asleep watching Sports Center.

“We'd like to speak with you,” North said.

“Now?” Jenkins said, befuddled. He glanced back at the woman, who now had both of her hands cupping her lower face with dread.

“What's this all about?” Jenkins said.

“We'd like to speak to you, if we might come inside. It's cold out.”

North stared at Jenkins, his posture square and assured.

“Let them in,” the woman said as she stepped toward them, into the light spilling from the porch. She laid a bony hand on her husband's shoulder. Resting it there as if blessing him.

Jenkins seemed to consider his options. Then, realizing he didn't have any options, offered a strained smile and permitted North and Test entrance, closing the door behind them.

He did not lead them into another room, instead he flipped a light switch at his side and a harsh light illuminated the foyer where they stood. It was a small space, and though there was the pleasant scent of pine from the boughs wrapped around the stair rail, the space felt awkward for the four of them to stand there together. But Jenkins made no move to permit them farther into the house, upstairs.

“So?” Jenkins said.

“It's about last night,” North said.

A nervous light flitted through Jenkins's eyes.

The wife clutched her hand on her husband's shoulder. It looked like an uncomfortable position to hold, as she was a short woman and Jenkins stood six feet two inches or better and she had to reach her arm up to full extension to do so.

“What about last night?” Jenkins said.

“Where were you?” North said.

“I was at the Family Matters meeting, with my wife.” He flicked his eyes to indicate Mrs. Jenkins. What is this about?” His voice was clearing, taking on a more forceful tone.

“You weren't at last night's meeting,” Test said.

“What are you—­” Jenkins began.

“You weren't, sir,” North said.

“He most certainly was,” the wife chirped.

“Not according to the roster,” Test said. “You were at several other meetings, according to the logs. But, not last night.”

“I was. ­People saw me. Dozens of ­people. I must have forgotten to sign the roster,” Jenkins said with calm confidence. It would be easy enough to check out, Test thought. If ­people saw him. His wife's word had no value. Spouses lied for one another all the time, for endless reasons. Not the least of them fear. But this wife didn't seem afraid. At least not of her husband. But her face did seem to have the look of fear of another sort blooming in it. One caused by confusion, of the sort when outside facts don't meet one's internal reality.

“You never forgot to sign in the other times,” Test said.

“What is this?” Jenkins said. “I demand to know.” He brushed his wife's hand from his shoulder with the annoyance of one ridding a fly.

“You are in no position to make demands,” North said.

Test thought she heard a noise, coming from the top of the stairs. She peered up but saw nothing. It had sounded like a door creaking open. Or perhaps it was just the baseboard radiators turning on, or some other common house noise. Still, she kept one eye on the head of the stairs.

Jenkins crossed his arms over his chest.

“We will tell you what it's about. If you tell us the truth about your whereabouts last night,” North continued.

The wife stuffed both hands in her robe pockets. She looked as though she were trying to chew off her bottom lip.

“You've been checking into who attends these meetings?” she said.

“I told you, that's what they do,” Jenkins said, evidently to his wife, though he made no gesture to otherwise address her presence, as if taking for granted she would always be there, behind him. “That's what they do. It's a police state against good ­people like us. The families who stand for values are watched and monitored and harassed, while the deviants are—­”

“We were looking into the Family Matter roster because certain information has come to light concerning last night's murder of Jessica Cumber,” North said.

Test felt a flush of satisfaction at hearing North use Jessica's name.

“Please leave,” Jenkins said.

North ignored him.

“Since you were not at the Family Matters meeting last night, do you have another alibi?” Test said.

“I was there. I didn't sign the roster.”

“Were you there the whole time?” Test said. “What time did you leave?”

“You need to leave,” Jenkins said, his voice rising.

“Let's all just, please, calm down,” the wife said, touching Jenkins's shoulder tentatively.

“I want them out,” Jenkins said, more loudly, nearly shouting now.

“Please,” the wife pleaded. “You'll wake Vic.”

Test felt her jaw drop. Her mind tripping over itself.

“Who?” she said at the same time North said it.

Test shifted her eyes to look up the stairs.

“Vic. Our son,” the wife said.

Test looked at North. He wore same look Test must have worn, one of confusion, but also of a certainty that the confusion was about to be cleared away by a revelation.

“Your son's name is Brad,” North said.

Test heard a noise from upstairs. No denying it this time. The click of a door handle perhaps. A footstep on floorboards. North glanced up the stairs.

“To everyone else he's Brad,” the wife said.

Now Jenkins wore the same look as North; but for other reasons, Test assumed.

“We, his father and I, call Brad Vic, at home,” the wife was explaining. “He hates it. So we refrain in public out of respect. But it's his given name. Victor. Brad is his middle name, his father—­”

“Enough,” Jenkins barked.

“Where is he? Your son?” North said, visibly coiling, alert to every sound, as was Test.

“Sleeping,” the wife said.

“Wake him,” North said.

“No,” Jenkins said. “We won't. He's needs to rest to have a good game this weekend. We request you leave our home now. Or we will—­”

“Is he in trouble?” the wife said. “Is my boy in trouble?”

“No, he's not,” Jenkins declared, and squeezed his wife's hand. “Let me deal with this.”

A loud banging sound came from upstairs.

Like a fist pounding on a wall.

“Sounds like he's awake now,” Test said.

There was a sound of smashing glass.

North pushed past Jenkins and bounded up the stairs.

“You can't do this!” Jenkins shouted, but he made no move. Instead he drew his wife to him and held her; she looked faint.

Test ran outside to the front of the house and heard a clattering above her. A boy dangled from a window—­a good fifteen-­foot drop to the roof of an adjacent shed.

“Hey!” Test shouted. The kid looked back over his shoulder and lost his grip, falling hard to the steep shed roof and tumbling in a free fall. About to launch over the edge, he grabbed a satellite dish. It slowed him, but his momentum was too great and he plummeted off the roof into a heap, his right forearm taking the brunt as it folded and cracked beneath him. “My arm!” he shrieked, looking up at Test. “You broke my fucking arm, you fucking bitch!”

He leapt up in an athletic move that took Test off guard. He was set to run.

“
Vic!
” a voice cried. His mother's voice. At the sound of it, the boy paused, and Test was on him. She knocked him down and shoved her knee into his lower back and yanked his arms back, cuffed him. His mother shouted as she ran to him in her bare feet. “Stop that! What are you doing!” she screamed, drumming her fists on Test's back. “My boy's done nothing wrong!”

Test spun, knocking the woman back as she drove her knee harder into Brad's back. Brad grunted and the woman tripped backward. “Hit me again,” Test said, glowering, “and I'll cuff you too.”

“I didn't do it!” Brad shouted.

North rushed out of the house, Jenkins in lockstep, face puffed up with insolence. “Get off my boy,” Jenkins roared. “Get off him.”

“Not another step,” North barked. He grabbed Jenkins by the arm. Jenkins was the bigger of the two. But that did not seem to account for much against the glare North gave him. “Don't make this worse,” North said. “Your boy needs you in charge of your God-­given reason.”

Jenkins nodded and relaxed.

“What are they doing?” Jenkins's wife said.

Test yanked the boy up by his cuffs.

“My fucking arm,” Brad said. “I swear, if you fucking broke it . . .”

“Stop that language this instant,” his mother scolded.

Brad gave her a look that seemed to wither and age her in an instant.

“You didn't have to do that to him,” the mother said to Test, her voice feeble but nose flaring.

“Yes. I did,” Test said. She led Brad to North's cruiser.

“We're going to follow you,” the mother said. “Don't you say a word to them!” she shouted after Brad.

“Mrs. Jenkins,” Test said as she shut the door to the cruiser. “You need to stay here, to answer questions.”

“I'm going with my son.”

“I'm afraid that's not a choice,” North said. “Until you answer the detective's questions.”

“I'll follow,” Jenkins said. “Are you arresting him?”

“Not yet,” North said.