I could see the Florida State University brochure that came in the mail my sophomore year of high school, the fat ancient oaks and the leggy palms, up and down like waves on a heart monitor.
“What happened to all that stuff?” I asked, thinking if we could produce a Florida State brochure, then we’d have our smoking gun.
“It all went to Seattle,” Sammy said.
“You’re sure of that,” Tina said, a tremor of hope in her voice.
“Positive. When he got caught that first time, he refused to talk unless it was to one of the Seattle PDs. Guy who’d been working those missing girl cases for years. I remember Sheriff Wright was real pissed to have to bring them in. And then when he escaped, they came back, and they left with boxes.”
I swore I could hear Tina’s heart pounding with recognition at the mention of the missing girls in Seattle.
Sammy signaled for the check. “That’s all I know. What did he do down in Florida?”
“He broke into my sorority house,” I said. “He murdered two girls, and he severely beat and disfigured two others. Then he went down the street and attacked one more. I heard a noise, and I went to investigate. I saw him, clearly, before he fled.”
Sammy grunted his sympathy. “That shouldn’t have happened.” His hands drummed out an anxious rhythm on top of the Formica table, and he looked out over the parking lot once more. Then he lifted his butt and dug around in his back pocket, retrieving his wallet. He licked a finger and counted three ones, enough for the pie and a tip. Fanning them out on the table, he said to Tina, “Prefer to do this in the car.”
Tina seemed confused. “Do what?”
“The money,” Sammy reminded her. “You said you had some.”
* * *
When we picked Carl up from The Stew Pot, he was sparking with as much excitement as we were. We compared notes and found that we had heard more or less the same story about Frank Tucker. But Carl hadn’t known about Seattle PD coming here and taking evidence back with them to Washington. That part we gave him.
Carl was pinching his lips contemplatively as we approached the signs for the airport. “Should I go to Seattle?” he wondered.
Tina looked at him in the rearview mirror. “Now?”
“Why not? I’m already halfway there.”
Tina and I glanced at each other. It was true.
“It just feels like this story is so much bigger than I first realized. I mean, he’s up to ten, twelve victims? Spanning multiple states? And if it started in Seattle, and Seattle has evidence of a cover-up happening in Colorado, maybe they’d cooperate with me. Maybe they’d want everyone to know it was Colorado that screwed things up, not them.”
“I can give you the names of the detectives you’ll want to try and talk to,” Tina said. “Don’t mention that you know me.” She laughed the way you do when something is distinctly unfunny.
I raised my hand. “So does this mean I should move ahead with pressing charges against Roger?”
“Yes,” Tina and Carl said at the same time.
That weekend, that moment, is something I’ve thought about every day for the last forty-three years. It was my responsibility to protect the girls, The House, Denise’s and Robbie’s reputations and their memories. I went with my instincts, and my instincts were wrong. That rattled me. Still rattles me.
PAMELA
Tallahassee, 2021
Day 15,826
The twentysomething security guard glances away from a game of Candy Crush long enough to see me place my bag on the belt, then goes right back to the game. I set the metal detector off, and he sulks at this second interruption. He peels his eyes away from the screen and jerks his chin at my feet. “Haveta take those off.”
I try not to think about how many things this underpaid and uninterested guard doesn’t catch as I remove my boots and shuffle through on the sides of my feet. I’m cleared.
I am met in the waiting room by an attendant who asks me to sign a waiver before getting on the bus. I sign without reading any of it. Once I hit the stage in life where biopsies and scans and anesthesia became a once-or-twice-a-year occurrence, I learned to spare myself the fine print. There are risks involved with everything, and needing to know all of them is a surefire way to drive yourself nuts. What I came here to do may as well be an emergency surgery, a tumor that has to be removed immediately if I want to live with myself.
It’s a short, bumpy bus ride to the recreational yard, where there is an herb and vegetable garden walled with wire. He’s gotten into gardening over the years, and this is how he spends his outdoor hours. No shovels or pointed tools, I am assured by the attendant who had me sign the waiver. Obviously, he adds with a chummy laugh, and I want to tell him it’s not actually obvious. You would be amazed how easy this country makes it to hurt someone if that is your goal.