“Detective Boudreau, how much did Thalia Keith weigh at the time of her death?”
“I do not recall.”
“Thalia Keith weighed 110 pounds.”
“Okay.”
“That’s quite thin for her height. She was significantly underweight.”
“In my experience, human bodies are cumbersome.”
“So you’d need to be incredibly physically fit to lift a 110-pound girl.”
“Yes.”
“Can you give me an example of someone who’s fit enough to do that?”
“An example?”
“What type of person could lift a body of that size?”
“An athlete. Someone large. Not your average fifteen-year-old boy.”
“Would you say an eighteen-year-old Olympic skiing prospect could lift 110 pounds?”
“Perhaps.”
“Would you imagine a thirty-year-old English teacher who also coaches football could lift 110 pounds?”
“That would depend on the person.”
“Would you say my co-counsel here could lift a 110-pound woman?” I assumed she was referring to Hector.
“I have no idea.”
“I weigh 160 pounds, significantly more than Thalia Keith. She and I are the same height, five foot six. Shall we get him up here and see if he can lift me?”
“I’d like to see that,” he said. The state objected and the judge sustained it, but he sounded amused.
Amy said, “Hector, I’m afraid we’ll have to test your strength another time. Detective Boudreau, you’re saying that independently of this pointer from Dr. Calahan, you decided a student or faculty member was unlikely able to lift Thalia Keith?”
“It would be hard. When I investigated this case, I remember thinking, I couldn’t lift that myself.”
“So you allowed your own lack of fitness to guide your decision-making.”
There was an objection, and Alder stopped the video and dissolved in laughter.
He said, “Okay, so then, they break for recess and after the judge leaves everyone’s trying it out, everyone’s lifting other people up. There’s no way the judge doesn’t try that out on someone, too.”
I said, “That was one fantastic kitten video.”
“Right?”
From what I’d heard of Omar’s defense at his first trial—we’d obtained the audio for the podcast—the Boston lawyer sounded like someone doing an uninspired table read for a dull legal procedural. Amy was a huge improvement.
He said, “And I don’t know what got into your boyfriend, but after that video the Denny Bloch thing is finally getting traction.” Instead of answering, I swallowed. Alder and Britt weren’t as fixated on your guilt as I was—Alder had become more focused on Ari Hutson emerging from the woods to kill again—but we all agreed that any suspect besides Omar was a help. “Have you seen this?”
He showed me a new Facebook page called “Dennis Bloch Thalia Keith ‘Unsolved’ Murder Reward.” There was one administrator post: Denny Bloch, where are you? Interested parties are willing to pay for a polygraph for both you and your wife Suzanne Hamby Bloch. The world wants to know, what are you hiding Denny Bloch? Relatedly, we are offering a $10,000 reward for any information regarding Dennis Blochs involvement in the death of Thalia Keith. Is your wife Suzanne Bloch hiding information as well? Come Clean Dennis Bloch. DM us with any information regarding the involvement of D Bloch in the 1995 murder of Thalia Keith.
There were already a thousand followers.
“That’s wild.”
“Things are moving!” Alder said. “Things are shaking.”
I said, “I don’t want you to get your hopes up.”
Alder stood, brushed off his jeans. He said, “I’m a Black man in America. My hopes aren’t up.”
19
I figured the safest place to exercise was the fitness center, which had been empty every time I passed its glass door. If I went to the pool, I might run into the Serenhos again; walking or running in town, I might come across any number of witnesses and be “seen” with them in some problematic way.
It was a tiny room, one wall all mirrors. Two elliptical machines, a stationary bike, some free weights. Overhead, a TV blasted CNN—bombs in Kyiv, bombs in Kharkiv, loud men with loud opinions about it all. It took a few attempts of smashing the remote buttons to turn it off. I was ten minutes into my elliptical workout, and ten minutes into my show about a Parisian talent agency, when Beth Docherty came in.
Or rather: She entered, saw me, wheeled around, left. Seconds later she was back, storming to the other elliptical, just feet from mine, slamming her water bottle into the cup holder. She went at the machine like if she pumped the handles fast enough, she could lift off in rage-powered flight. She tried to turn the TV back on, but the remote wouldn’t work for her. Beth was muscly and thin, the kind of fit only sustainable in your midforties with near-constant exercise. She was tan, too. In March.
I had every reason not to talk to her, and that was my plan, but then she appeared to say something, so I removed my earbuds.
“I’m sorry?”
“I wasn’t talking to you,” she said. “I was swearing.”
“Oh. Okay.”
“You can go back to ignoring me.”
I said, “I wasn’t trying to be rude. We’re just not supposed to talk. I haven’t testified yet.”
She laughed bitterly. “That’s so convenient. You shoot your mouth off in public when it suits you, but if there’s an actual human affected by your actions, you’re suddenly some big rule follower.”
“I’m sorry if you feel my actions have affected you,” I said, hearing my phrasing, recognizing it as the syntax of bad people. But I didn’t care. I was not sorry about inconveniencing Beth Docherty. “You don’t even have to be here still, do you? They’re not gonna recall you. Can’t you just go home?”
“My husband is picking me up in an hour. I should’ve just fucking walked home. I hate this. I hate seeing these people. I hate reliving the worst years of my life.”
It took me a second to register that she hadn’t said the worst moments of her life, but the worst years. Plural.
I said, “You’re—no longer a Granby fan?”
She snorted. “Every moment of that place was a nightmare.” She jabbed a button on the machine and it beeped, displayed her brief workout results as she dismounted.
I thought she was going to leave, but instead she unfurled a purple yoga mat from beside the weights and sat, legs crossed, hands on knees, staring into the mirror. She breathed with great, loud control. I could see her reflection without turning my head much, and I watched her like I’d watch an encroaching wildfire. I didn’t put my earbuds back in, kept the show paused on a small dog emerging from a bag.
Beth said, “I was worried they’d ask me about Mr. Bloch.” Her voice was smaller. And something seemed to be wrong. It merited my stopping the machine, getting off. I stood beside her, sweating, hands on hips, made eye contact with her in the mirror.
“Would that have been a problem?”
Her face was a dying star. She said, “I don’t want to deal with any of this. I testified in ’97, I had to leave college to come up here, I never wanted any of it.” Unexpectedly, inappropriately, I wanted to hug her. She seemed so small on the floor, an already tiny person making herself still as a pebble. She closed her eyes. I sat beside her as quietly as I could, folded my own legs, looked straight ahead in the mirror, as if we were attending the same yoga class, awaiting instruction. “They wanted to know about my flask, and why would I even remember? And then they’re asking the same things as last time. If they want me to be a broken record, can’t they just read what I said before? My memory hasn’t gotten any better. And Jesus, they’re trying to make it look like I personally framed him. The police happened to talk to me first, but we were all saying the same thing. Somehow I’m the problem. And listen, we were right. There was DNA. Maybe I’d feel different if what we said was the only evidence, but it wasn’t.”