Follow Me Down Page 7

  As I started across the open field toward the woods, I noticed the massive makeshift memorial that had been set up under the picnic shelter. Dozens of teddy bears, notes with “Miss you” in marker, roses still in their grocery store plastic wrap, and unlit candles that likely made the park ranger very nervous, gathered between and on top of all the picnic benches like a deserted Valentine’s Day party. Shielded too from the rain. People here were thrifty, and there’d eventually be an awkward discussion of what to do with all of this stuff, because it’d be a “real shame” to just throw it out.

  A purple foil balloon with a half-peeled dollar-store price tag was tied above Joanna Wilkes’s obituary. Someone had taken the time to laminate and tape it to one of the shelter’s pillars.

  Joanna Wilkes will be deeply and eternally missed by her parents, Kathy and Ian Wilkes; big brother, Ben; and younger sister, Madison. In her short life, Joanna, known affectionately as Jo, had already accomplished so much. An honors student at Westfield High School, Jo was a gifted dancer and brought light and joy to everyone who watched her. She loved being a role model to her fourteen-year-old sister and adored watching her brother’s football games. She was excited to see the world and was planning to move to New York City to pursue a career as a dancer after graduation.

  “You leaving something for Jo?”

  I looked up. Two teenage boys and one pug-faced girl were sitting at one of the picnic benches outside the shelter, passing a joint between them. A Colt 45 malt beer in a sunken brown paper bag sat like a centerpiece in the middle of the table. The girl sounded and looked drunk—sad and drunk. She wore tight cut-off jeans and a severe V-neck T-shirt with the tatty lace of her pink bra peeking out. I could see her ten years from now with three kids, looking back to when she could hold the attention of two boys.

  She called again, “You got something for Jo?”

  I nodded.

  “Hey,” one of the boys in a low baseball cap and crisp white tank top whispered as I approached the table, “want some?” He held the joint up. The girl swatted at his arm, hissed that I could be a cop. He laughed, that obnoxious squeal of potheads.

  “No thanks, and I’m not a cop.” He easily accepted this.

  “I left her that white bear,” the girl continued, “the one with the checkered apron and floppy chef hat, because she was on student council and always organizing bake sales, so now I’m just trying to get myself fucked up enough to go in there and take it back.” She held her hand out for the joint.

  “Why do you want to take it back?” I asked.

  “Oh, you haven’t heard the latest? Josh Kolton has gone to the police and everything.”

  I waited, started to grind my teeth. Please be something feasible, a violent convict fresh out of prison who recently strolled into town or a long-whispered-about church pastor or creepy Chappy. Anyone to take the heat off of Lucas.

  The girl sat up. “He was here the night Jo went missing. He’s saying he saw her walking into the woods with the lunch lady. No one really believes him, but I had to go and give her a chef bear.”

  “Fuck up.” White Tank Top grinned into the girl’s face. She turned away.

  “You mean Mrs. Davies?” I made a face. She was the lunch lady when I went to Westfield. She always gave me extra dollops of gravy on my french fries and a side of mayo to dip them in, without charge because I “didn’t cause trouble and cleaned up my table.” At the time I thought she was sweet. Now it was clear she’d been trying to kill me. The girl looked confused. Right. Mrs. Davies was ancient then; she had to have retired by now.

  “No, Miss Babiak,” the other boy piped up, “and she’s way too fat to have hiked all that way. Josh Kolton is an idiot. He’s just trying to get noticed.”

  “Like you’re not?” Tank Top smirked. “Anyway, I believe Josh. I really do,” he continued, solemn, then started laughing. “Where d’you think the lunch lady gets all the meat?”

  “Ew, gross.” The girl slapped his arm.

  A lunch lady for a suspect with a mystery-meat motive was not helpful. “Did you know Joanna well?”

  I was asking all of them, but the girl answered.

  “I wasn’t good friends with her, but I knew her since, like, grade two. She was a snob, not to speak ill of the dead or whatever.”

  “You just think that ’cause she wouldn’t let you cheat off her in math.” Tank Top poked her in the side. This kid was annoying.

  “Whatever,” the girl mumbled.

  The other boy, speaking between gulps of the papered beer, said, “She was pretty cool. I did a history project with her.”

  “Yeah and you wanted to bang her the whole time. Bet you still tried to when you found her.” Tank Top thrust once.

  “Shut the fuck up.” Beer Boy lunged across the table and punched Tank Top midtoke in the chest, hard enough that he started choking and dropped the joint.

  “Fuck you, Liam! You almost pissed on her body.” Tank Top stood, eyes all watery, and walked off. The girl followed.

  I sat down. “You found her body?”

  Liam nodded, tucked his greasy chin-length hair behind his ears, picked up the joint, and inhaled deeply, then flicked it into the grass. “Yeah, I can’t get it out of my head. Seniors were let out early to join the search parties. A lot of people were just, like, happy to get out of school, but I really looked, y’know?” His bloodshot eyes flickered over me; he stroked the corner of a very wispy mustache with his thumb.

  I pushed him to tell me more. It didn’t take much. It was obvious Liam liked telling it since he’d parked himself here looking for new people to tell it to. Never once did he ask me who I was.

  “That morning it was already really hot, and after a couple of hours, the guy I was with said he was getting heatstroke and had to take a break. Total pussy. So I kept going, and I ended up by the river. And yeah, I was gonna take a piss. I drank, like, four bottles of water at this point.”

  I nodded, tried to look impressed.

  “I was close to the river, just behind the tree. I unzipped, and when I looked down, there was something next to the tree, tangled up in the leaves. It took, like, a second, y’know, for it to really sink in. I think my first thought was that it was, like, a dead animal or something. I kicked at it, saw it was no animal. I dug up a handful of leaves, and hanging from my hand was all this hair.” He made a clawlike gesture, showing me which hand he used. “It was sick. I was totally freaking out at this point, but knew I had to keep going. The hair trailed down toward the river. You could only see it when you were looking for it—it was all mixed in the long grass and leaves and shit. And actually the whole place did smell like shit. That should’ve been my first clue but then I saw the body. She was weighed down by rocks and branches.” He pulled out another beer from his school bagpack. Scratched at the back of his neck. “Her face.” He let out an airy burp, shook his head. “Her face was so bloated. Her mouth was open. There was more hair, so much hair scattered all around the banks. I’ve been dreaming about it, the hair. I wake up thinking it’s all over me, in my mouth, tickling my nose.” He shuddered as if on cue.

  This was a horrifying, sickening scene. My stomach dropped out. I jabbed my thumb against the jagged car key to stop the wooziness from gurgling up. No one should be left in the woods, alone and shorn and dead. Somehow I managed to say words like “couldn’t imagine” and “terrible,” my voice coming from a distance, bypassing the dread welling in my throat.

  Liam swished some beer around in his mouth. “I found her and you know what I got in return from the cops? Shit for disturbing the crime scene. Can you believe that? Dickheads. Thought I’d get a reward or something. It’s too bad, man. Joanna was that girl, you know, who talked to everyone. She wasn’t into cliques or anything. She was above that shit, but no one ever bugged her about it either. Everyone knew she was planning to donate her hair to Wigs for Kids with cancer. Who knew Mr. Haas was such a sick fuck? You think he cut off her hair as some kind of trophy?” H
e sucked back the can of beer so fast it started to crumple.

  Through gritted teeth, I murmured, “I don’t know.” I couldn’t listen to this anymore. I couldn’t. My brother was not a sick fuck. He didn’t take trophies. I moved out of myself. Did the numbing thing the Wayoata me had always been so good at when confronted with ugly emotions. Looked toward the trail that would lead to where Joanna was killed. “Can you tell me exactly where you found her?”

  “Ah, you’re one of those, huh?” He eyed me. It was the first time he’d looked directly at me. “You’re all into the gruesome shit, aren’t you? Some dude actually drove here from Aberdeen, like it’s a tourist attraction now. Freak. Take that trail”—he pointed with his beer can—“and you’ll know it when you see it.” He shook his head, another long draw on the beer can, his eyes still on me, a look that was intensifying into a leer. “You’re pretty. You sure you don’t want some? It’s original green Kush.” He said this with so much enthusiasm, like I’d be swayed by this particular strain, took another joint out of his shirt pocket and waved it back and forth.

  “I have to go.” I wanted to see the crime scene, the place my brother supposedly killed his student, before it got too dark. More kids were spilling in to hang around the picnic benches, carrying six-packs and blankets. The park had probably never been so popular. A group of boys bellowed, grabbing their groins, “Dicks in the Park,” over and over, the same chant from when I was in high school, while girls shrieked with laughter.

  The next couple of hours would probably be about power drinking and daring one another to go deeper into the woods. Come nine o’clock, I was betting, they’d all have to be chased out of the park.

  * * *

  It was a thirty-minute hike down a narrow pathway with tree roots snaking out of the ground. I tried to imagine Lucas walking this trail as a killer. Joanna would be in front of him because it was a single-file type of trail and it was the gentlemanly thing to do. She’d think they were just going on some aimless lover’s stroll, blissfully clueless that he planned to bash her skull and choke her to death. And here my mind ran through a list of motives; he sensed her pulling away and if he couldn’t have her, she deserved to die/she was extorting him to stay in the relationship by promising to tell everyone if he left her and he could lose his job/because maybe there was a baby growing inside of her that he didn’t want/because he just wanted the thrill of watching her die? Joanna would glance playfully back at him, a tight bud of a spring flower tucked behind her ear. Her lovely red hair catching the light and Lucas would give her one of his big grins in return, while pressing his finger into the tip of a pair of scissors hidden in his pocket. The grin dropping from his face the moment she turned around, or maybe not. Maybe he wore a violent little grin the entire time. But I couldn’t believe it. Even if he was having sex with Joanna and she threatened to tell or for any other reason, why the hair? Why would Lucas want to cut off her hair? So someone who had cancer wouldn’t get it? That was a certain brand of spitefulness that just didn’t exist in Lucas. More proof it wasn’t him. I realized quickly this was a pretty fucked-up argument to defend Lucas with: couldn’t be him—he wouldn’t take a cancer patient’s chance to have a wig.

  Police tape fluttered loose from trees, just off the trail. I went down a narrow, seldom-used path. Mosquitos swarmed; I slapped at my neck. It was more heavily wooded here than other parts. The light was tricky, almost dark but with twinkling pockets of sunlight weaving in through branches that looked like they were never still. A good place to kill someone in relative privacy. I could glimpse the river though the brush, glinting like a serrated knife. So this was where she died. This was where my brother supposedly bludgeoned and choked the life out of a teenage girl, then dumped her in the river. Something lurched inside of me. My heart felt unsteady, and my skin jittered. I worried for a second that I’d faint and be discovered there. The other twisted Haas twin found dozing at the kill site. How damning would that be?

  I made my way down the grassy riverbank. The forward momentum would have made it easy and quick to drag a body into the water. The river was deeper, more wild in the spring after the melt, but by May it was safe enough to wade into. By summer you could swim. The killer wouldn’t have had to worry about a current sweeping her away. He could have taken his time anchoring her down with sticks and rocks, making her body blend into the riverbed.

  I bent down, ran my hand over the stony shore as if scouring for some clue the cops had missed. What exactly, I had no idea. A driver’s license with a picture and the address of the real killer would be ideal. But there was nothing, of course. Other than some fresh cigarette butts and beer can tabs, the area had been picked clean.

  Back in the parking lot, my phone was flashing. My voice mail was full. One message was from my sinusitis-afflicted manager named Brad, who sniffed his way through a reminder that I needed to bring in a doctor’s note if I planned to be away for more than three days. And if, heavenforbid, I needed more than four days, I better fill out a short-term disability form.

  The second message was from Pruden. “Hello, Miss Haas, I’m calling to let you know that there will be a press conference at nine A.M. tomorrow morning at the station. It would be really helpful if you could be there and appeal directly to Lucas to come in and talk with us. See you tomorrow.”

  Another from my old guidance counselor, Mr. Lowe, although he introduced himself as Lucas’s co-worker. He’d packed up some of Lucas’s school things. If I was interested, I could pick them up after three thirty. Nothing important, just posters and books. (I imagined the throat-clearing awkwardness surrounding that final bullet point at the staff meeting: So who wants to contact the sister?) Before Mr. Lowe ended the call, he blurted, “Sorry.” Sorry for picking the short straw, sorry for calling, sorry for packing his things, sorry that my brother was a suspected fugitive on the run, he didn’t say.

  The rest were from reporters wanting a comment. One was from the Chicago Tribune. I could picture the newspaper spread around the lunch room at work, splotches of mayo dripped over Lucas’s face as my co-workers speculated if he was related to their truant pharmacist. I’d never told anyone I was from North Dakota, because the minute I did, I suddenly had an accent full of accentuated vowels and had to endure a spate of “you betchas” and “doncha knows.”

  I deleted them all.

  * * *

  I called Garrett back instead of Pruden, because I knew from experience that once Pruden made up his mind, he didn’t change it. The good cop had to at least pretend he was on my side as he wheedled me for information. It didn’t even ring. “Hello?”

  “It’s Mia Haas. Before I make a public plea that my brother turn himself in, I need to know more. What exactly do you even have on Lucas other than gossip, because we both know how quickly rumor becomes gospel in this town.”

  “I understand that. Let’s talk. Can you meet?” He gave me the choice of a coffee place or an Italian restaurant, both close to the station. He was basically saying, Hey, let’s keep this informal, get friendly, get you relaxed and then, when you slip up and reveal the true nature of that thirty-two second call, we can dart across the street where I can force you into giving an official statement.

  I chose the restaurant because I needed a drink.

  We met at Perry’s, where the bread bowl never goes empty and the entrees are mammoth. Its trademark dish was pasta shells stuffed with taco chips. It was 8:40 p.m., twenty minutes before closing, and the place was completely empty. Back in the city, our arrival so close to closing would have annoyed the hell out of most waiting staff, but this waitress gave us a nice big North Dakotan smile. The air smelled of garlic and candle smoke. She led us to a table and relit our stubby candle on the checkered tablecloth. When I tried to tell her it wasn’t necessary, her eyes popped, as if noooo, the candle was part of the dining ritual and we could not continue without it. I worried an accordion player was going to leap out at us any minute.

  I ordered a gin and
tonic, hoping alcohol would numb my building headache. I didn’t really want to rummage through my bag for something better in front of Garrett. Not that I would. The Valium had been a one-time thing. I needed to keep my wits about me.

  “You have to order something, or you can’t get a drink. Sorry.” Her bottom lip puckered out, as if she felt really bad about this rule.

  “What are you going to have?” Garrett looked at me over the menu. “You should eat. Have you been eating?”

  “No thanks. Nothing for me.”

  Garrett ordered a glass of the vinegary-smelling house wine and calamari (who orders calamari in landlocked ND?). “We can share,” he said. He was wearing a fitted red plaid button-down and jeans. If he’d been lankier, he’d have looked like a hipster, but he was so broad-shouldered and barrel-chested he looked like a veritable lumberjack. My last boyfriend had had a three-thousand-dollar cappuccino maker and couldn’t have put together an IKEA table, whereas you got the feeling if you were lost in the wilderness with Garrett, he’d know how to take care of you. He certainly hadn’t looked like this in middle school.

  I felt suddenly self-conscious as to what I looked like and glimpsed a fun-house version of myself in the napkin dispenser. Immediately feeling foolish and disloyal to my brother. Two minutes ago, Garrett had pulled my chair out for me like this was a high school date, and I was falling for it like some idiot.

  “I went there, to where Joanna Wilkes’s body was found. I talked to someone who said a kid named Josh Kolton saw her go into the woods with the lunch lady from Westfield High. Has this even been looked into, or are you just focused on Lucas?”

  “That Kolton kid is usually so stoned he wouldn’t know what he was looking at on a good day. He’s just starved for attention; you know how teenagers are. Anyway, we checked that out, and the lunch lady, Maria Babiak, was at her second job as an elementary school janitor. She punched in at four fifteen P.M., punched out at one A.M., which more than covers the time Joanna went missing.” My shoulders sagged. “Mia, I know how difficult this must be for you. Lucas was the last guy I would have thought would be in a situation like this. All we’re trying to do is get answers, figure out why a sixteen-year-old girl, with a very bright future ahead of her, is dead.”