Authors: Karin Slaughter
"Yeah," Jeffrey mumbled, not wanting to have a protracted conversation about the quality of police recruits.
"I'll leave you to it," Keith said. "Ten minutes, okay?"
"Okay," Jeffrey answered, waiting for the door to close.
The file was coded and dated with some obscure notations that only a city employee could figure out. Jeffrey rubbed his hand down the front of the folder, as if he could absorb the information without actually having to see it. When that did not work, he took a deep breath and opened the folder.
Pictures of Sara after the rape greeted him. Close-ups of her hands and feet, the stab wound in her side, and her battered female parts spilled out onto the desk in full color. He actually gasped at the sight of them. His chest felt tight and a stabbing pain ran down his arm. Jeffrey thought for just a second that he was having a heart attack, but a few deep breaths helped clear his mind. He realized that his eyes had been closed, and he opened them, not looking at the pictures of Sara as he turned them facedown.
Jeffrey loosened his tie, trying to push the images from his mind. He thumbed through the other photographs, finding a picture of Saras car. It was a silver BMW 320 with black bumpers and a blue stripe down the sides. Carved into the door, probably with a key, was the word CUNT just as Sara had said in her trial testimony. Pictures showed a before and after of the door, with and without the silver duct tape. Jeffrey got a flash of Sara kneeling in front of the door, taping over the damage, probably thinking in her mind that she would get her uncle Al to repair the damage when she was back in Grant next.
Jeffrey checked his watch, noting five minutes had passed. He found Keith in one of the security cameras, his hands tucked into his pockets as he shot the shit with the guards at the door.
Thumbing through the back of the file, he found the arrest report on Jack Allen Wright. Wright had been arrested twice before on suspicion but never charged. In the first incident, a young woman about the age Sara had been when she was attacked had dropped the charges and moved out of town. In the other case, the young woman had taken her own life. Jeffrey rubbed his eyes, thinking about Julia Matthews.
A knock came at the door, then Keith said, "I gotta call time, Jeffrey."
"Yeah," Jeffrey said, closing the file. He didn't want to hold it in his hands anymore. He held it out to Keith without looking at the other man.
"This help you any?"
Jeffrey gave a nod, straightening his tie. "Some," he said. "Were you able to find out where this guy is?"
"Just down the street," Keith answered. "Working at the Bank Building."
"That's what, ten minutes from the university? Another five from Grady?"
"You got it."
"What's he do?"
"He's a janitor, like he was at Grady," Keith said. He had obviously looked at the file before giving it to Jeffrey. "All those college girls, and he's ten minutes from them."
"Do the campus police know?"
"They do now," Keith provided, giving Jeffrey a knowing look. "Not that he's much of a threat anymore."
"What does that mean?" Jeffrey asked.
"Part of his parole," Keith said, indicating the file. "You didn't get to that? He's taking Depo."
Jeffrey felt an uneasiness spread over him like warm water. Depo-provera was the latest trend in treating sexual offenders. Normally used in women as part of a hormone replacement therapy, a high enough dosage could curb a man's sexual appetite. When the drug was used on sexual predators, it was referred to as chemical castration. Jeffrey knew the drug only worked as long as the perpetrator took it. It was more like a tranquilizer than a cure.
Jeffrey indicated the folder. He could not say Sara's name in this room. "He raped someone else after this?"
"He raped two someone elses after this," Keith answered. "There was this Linton girl. He stabbed her, right? Attempted murder, six years. Got early parole for good behavior, went on the Depo, went off the Depo, went out and raped three more women. They caught him on one, other girl wouldn't testify, put him back in jail for three years, now he's out on parole with the Depo administered under close supervision."
"He's raped six girls and he's only served ten years?"
"They only nailed him on three, and except for her"-he indicated Sara's file-"the other IDs were pretty shaky. He wore a mask. You know how it gets with those girls on the stand. They get all nervous and before you know it opposing counsel has them wondering if they were even raped in the first place, let alone who did it."
Jeffrey held his tongue, but Keith seemed to read his mind.
"Hey," Keith said, "I'd been working those cases, the bastard would've been sent to the chair. Know what I mean?"
"Yeah," Jeffrey said, thinking this boasting wasn't getting them anywhere. "Is he ready for his third strike?" he asked. Georgia, like many states, had enacted a "third strike" law some time ago, meaning that a convict's third felony offense, no matter how innocuous, would send him or her back to jail, conceivably for the rest of his or her life.
"Sounds like it," Keith answered.
"Who's his PO?"
"Already took care of that one," Keith said. "Wright's on a bracelet. PO says he's clean going back the last two years. Also says he'd pretty much cut off his head before going back to jail."
Jeffrey nodded at this. Jack Wright was forced to wear a monitoring bracelet as a condition of his parole. If he left his designated roaming area or missed his curfew, an alarm would go off at the monitoring station. In the City of Atlanta, most parole officers were stationed at police precincts around town so they could snatch up violators on a moment's notice. It was a good system, and despite the fact that Atlanta was such a large city, not many parolees slipped through the cracks.
"Also," Keith said, "I walked on down to the Bank Building." He shrugged apologetically, recognizing he had overstepped the line. This was Jeffreys case, but Keith was probably bored out of his mind from checking purses for handguns all day.
"No," Jeffrey said. "That's fine. What'd you get?"
"Got a peek at his time cards. He was punched in every morning at seven, then out to lunch at noon, back at noon-thirty, then out at five."
"Somebody could've punched it for him."
Keith shrugged. "Supervisor didn't eyeball him, but she says there would've been complaints from the offices if he hadn't been on the job. Evidently, those professional types like to have their cans taken care of bright and early."
Jeffrey pointed to the white mailing envelope Keith held in his hand. "What's that?"
"Registration," Keith said, handing him the envelope. "He drives a blue Chevy Nova."
Jeffrey slit the envelope open with his thumb. Inside was a photocopy of Jack Allen Wrights vehicle registration. An address was under his name. "Current?" Jeffrey asked.
"Yeah," Keith answered. "Only, you understand you didn't get it from me."
Jeffrey knew what he meant. Atlanta's chief of police ran her department by its short hairs. Jeffrey knew her reputation and admired her work, but he also knew that if she thought some hick cop from Grant County was stepping on her toes, the next thing Jeffrey would feel would be a three-inch stiletto parked firmly on the back of his neck.
"You get what you need from Wright," Keith said, "then call in APD." He handed Jeffrey a business card with Atlanta's rising phoenix in the center of it. Jeffrey turned it over, seeing a name and number scribbled on the back.
Keith said, "This is his PO. She's a good gal, but she'll want something solid to explain why you just happen to be in Wright's face."
"You know her?"
"Know of her," Keith said. "Real ball breaker, so watch yourself. You call her in to snatch up her boy and she thinks you're looking at her funny, she'll make sure you never see him again."
Jeffrey said, "I'll try to be a gentleman."
Keith offered, "Ashton is just off the interstate. Let me give you directions."
Chapter Twenty-one
NICK Shelton's voice boomed across the telephone line. "Hey, lady."
"Hey, Nick," Sara returned, closing a chart on her desk. She had been at the clinic since eight that morning and seen patients right up until four o'clock. Sara felt as if she had been running in quicksand all day. There was a slight ache in her head and her stomach was queasy from drinking a little too much the night before, not to mention her uneasiness over the emotional drama that had unfolded. As the day wore on, Sara began to feel more drained. At lunch, Molly had commented that Sara looked as if she should be the patient today instead of the doctor.
"I showed Mark those seeds," Nick said. "He says they're belladonna all right, only it's the berries, not the seeds."
"I guess that's good to know," Sara managed. "He's certain?"
"One hundred percent," Nick returned. "He says its kind of funny they ate the berries. Remember, those are the least poisonous. Maybe your guy down there gives them the berries to keep them a little jazzed, then doesn't give them the final dose until he turns 'em loose."
"That makes sense," Sara said, not even wanting to think about it. She did not want to be a doctor today. She did not want to be a coroner. She wanted to be in bed with some tea and mindless television. As a matter of fact, that was exactly what she; was going to do as soon as she finished updating the last chart from today. Thankfully, Nelly had booked tomorrow for Sara's day off. She would take the weekend to decompress. Monday, Sara would be back to her old self.
Sara asked, "Anything on the semen sample?"
"We're having some problems with that, considering where you found it. I think we'll be able to get something out of it, though."
"That's good news, I guess."
Nick said, "You gonna tell Jeffrey about the berries, or should I call him?"
Sara felt her stomach drop at the mention of Jeffrey's name.
"Sara?" Nick asked.
"Yeah," Sara answered. "I'll talk to him about it as soon as I get off work."
Sara hung up the phone after the appropriate good-byes, then sat in her office, rubbing the small of her back. She reviewed the next chart at a glance, updating a change in medication as well as a follow-up visit for lab results. By the time she had finished with the last chart, it was five-thirty.
Sara crammed a couple of files into her briefcase, knowing she would have some time over the weekend where guilt would set in and she would want to do some work. Dictation was something she could do at home with a small tape recorder. There was a transcription place in Macon that would type up the notes for her and have them back in a couple of days.
She buttoned her jacket as she crossed the street, heading downtown. She took the sidewalk opposite the pharmacy, not wanting to run into Jeb. Sara kept her head down, passing the hardware store and the dress shop, not wanting to invite conversation. That she stopped in front of the police station was something of a surprise. Her mind was working without her knowing, and with each step she got more and more angry with Jeffrey for not calling. She had arguably left her soul laid out on his bathroom sink, and he had not even had the decency to call her.
Sara walked into the station house, managing a smile for Maria. "Is Jeffrey in?"
Maria frowned. "I don't think so," she said. "He checked out about noon or so. You might ask Frank."
"He's in the back?" Sara indicated the door with her briefcase.
"I think," Maria answered, returning to the task before her.
Sara glanced down as she passed the older woman. Maria was working on a crossword puzzle.
The back room was empty, the ten or so desks normally occupied by the senior detective vacant for the time being. Sara assumed they were out working down Jeffrey's list or grabbing dinner. She kept her head up, strolling into Jeffrey's office. Of course he wasn't there.
Sara stood in the small office, resting her briefcase on his desk. She had been in this room so many times she couldn't begin to count them. Always, she had felt safe here. Even after the divorce, Sara had felt that in this one area, Jeffrey was trustworthy. As a policeman, he had always done the right thing. He had done everything in his power to make sure the people he served were protected.
When Sara first moved back to Grant twelve years ago, no amount of reassurances from her father and her family could convince her that she was safe. Sara had known that as soon as she walked into the pawnshop, news would spread that she had purchased a weapon. What's more, she knew that in order to register a gun, she would have to go to the police station. Ben Walker, the chief of police before Jeffrey, played poker with Eddie Linton every Friday night. There had been no way for Sara to buy it without alerting everyone who knew her.
Around that time, a gang banger had come into the Augusta hospital with his arm nearly torn off by a bullet. Sara had worked on the kid and saved his arm. He was only fourteen, and when his mother came in, she had started beating him on his head with her purse. Sara had left the room, but a few moments later, the mother had found her. The woman had given Sara her son's weapon and asked Sara to take care of it. If Sara had been a Christian woman, she would have called the event a miracle.
The gun, Sara knew, was now in Jeffrey's desk drawer. She checked over her shoulder before sliding it open, taking out the bag with the Ruger in it. She tucked it in her briefcase and was out the door within a few minutes.
Sara kept her head up as she walked toward the college. Her boat was docked in front of the boathouse, and she tossed her briefcase in with one hand while untying the line with another. Her parents had given her the boat as a housewarming present, and it was an old but sturdy vessel.
The engine was strong, and Sara had skied behind it many times, her father at the wheel, holding back on the throttle for fear of jerking her arms off.
After checking that she was not being watched, Sara slipped the gun out of her briefcase and locked it in the watertight glove box in front of the passengers seat, plastic bag and all. She stepped her leg outside the boat, using her foot to push away from the dock. The engine sputtered when she turned the key. Technically, she should have had the motor checked before using the boat again after not using it all winter, but she did not really have a choice, since the techs would not be finished with her car until Monday. Asking her father for a lift would have invited too much conversation, and Jeffrey was not an option.
After emitting a cloud of nasty-looking blue smoke, the engine caught, and Sara pulled away from the dock, allowing a small smile. She had felt like a criminal leaving with the gun in her briefcase, but she was feeling safer. Whatever Jeffrey thought when he saw the gun was gone was not really Sara's concern.
By the time she reached the center of the lake, the boat was skipping across the water. Cold wind cut through her face, and she put her glasses on to protect her eyes. Though the sun was beating down, the water was cool from the recent rains that had fallen on Grant County. It looked ready to storm again tonight, but probably well after the sun went down.
Sara zipped her jacket closed to fight the cold. Still, by the time she could see the back of her house, her nose was running and her cheeks felt as if she had put her face into a bucket of cold ice water. Cutting a hard left, she steered away from a group of rocks under the water. There had been a sign marking the spot at one time, but it had rotted away years ago. With the recent rains, the lake was high, but Sara did not want to risk it.
She had docked into the boathouse and was using the electric winch to pull the boat out of the water when her mother appeared from the back of the house.
"Shit," Sara mumbled, pressing the red button to stop the winch.
"I called the clinic," Cathy said. "Nelly said you were taking tomorrow off."
"That's right," Sara answered, pulling the chains to lower the door behind the boat.
"Your sister told me about your argument last night."
Sara jerked the chain tight, sending a clattering through the metal structure. "If you're here to threaten me, the damage has been done."
"Meaning?"
Sara walked past her mother, stepping off the dock. "Meaning he knows," she said, tucking her hands into her hips, waiting for her mother to follow.
"What did he say?"
"I can't talk about it," Sara answered, turning toward the house. Her mother followed her up the lawn but was thankfully silent.
Sara unlocked the back door, leaving it open for her mother as she went into the kitchen. She realized too late that the house was a mess.
Cathy said, "Really, Sara, you can make time to clean."
"I've been very busy at work."
"That's not an excuse," Cathy lectured. "Just say to yourself, 'I'm going to do one load of laundry every other day. I'm going to make sure I put things back where I found them.' Pretty soon you're organized."
Sara ignored the familiar advice as she walked into the living room. She pressed the scroll on the caller ID unit, but no calls had been logged.
"Power went off," her mother said, pressing the buttons on the stove to set the time. "These storms are playing havoc with the cable. Your father almost had a heart attack last night when he turned on
Jeopardy
! and got nothing but fuzz."
Sara felt some relief from this. Maybe Jeffrey had called. Stranger things had happened. She walked over to the sink, filling the teakettle with water. "Do you want some tea?"
Cathy shook her head.
"Me, either," Sara mumbled, leaving the kettle in the sink. She walked to the back of the house, taking off her shirt, then her skirt as she walked into the bedroom. Cathy followed her, keeping a trained mother's eye on her daughter.
"Are you fighting with Jeffrey again?"
Sara slipped a T-shirt over her head. "I'm always fighting with Jeffrey, Mother. It's what we do."
"When you're not busy squirming in your seat over him in church."
Sara bit her lip, feeling her cheeks turn red.
Cathy asked, "What happened this time?"
"God, Mama, I really don't want to talk about it."
"Then tell me about this thing with Jeb McGuire."
"There's no 'thing.' Really." Sara slipped on a pair of sweatpants.
Cathy sat on the bed, smoothing the sheet out with the flat of her hand. "That's good. He's not really your type."
Sara laughed. "What's my type?"
"Someone who can stand up to you."
"Maybe I like Jeb," Sara countered, aware there was a petulant tone to her voice. "Maybe I like the fact that he's predictable and nice and calm. God knows he's waited long enough to go out with me. Maybe I should start seeing him."
Cathy said, "You're not as angry with Jeffrey as you think."
"Oh, really?"
"You're just hurt, and that's making you feel angry. You so seldom open yourself up to other people," Cathy continued. Sara noticed that her mothers voice was soothing yet firm, as if she were coaxing a dangerous animal out of its hole. "I remember when you were little. You were always so careful about who you let be your friend."
Sara sat on the bed so she could put on her socks. She said, "I had lots of friends."
"Oh, you were popular, but you only let a few people in." She stroked Sara's hair back behind her ear. "And after what happened in Atlanta-"
Sara put her hand over her eyes. Tears came, and she mumbled, "Mama, I really can't talk about that right now. Okay? Please, not now."
"All right," Cathy relented, putting her arm around Sara's shoulder. She pulled Sara's head to her chest. "Shh," Cathy hushed, stroking Sara's hair. "It's okay."
"I just…" Sara shook her head, unable to continue. She had forgotten how good it felt to be comforted by her mother. The last few days she had been so intent upon pushing Jeffrey away that she had managed to distance herself from her family as well.
Cathy pressed her lips to the crown of Sara's head, saying, "There was an indiscretion between your father and me."
Sara was so surprised that she stopped crying. "Daddy cheated on you?"
"Of course not." Cathy frowned. A few seconds passed before she provided, "It was the other way around."
Sara felt like an echo. "You cheated on Daddy?"
"It was never consummated, but in my heart I felt that it was."
"What does that mean?" Sara shook her head, thinking this sounded like one of Jeffrey's excuses: flimsy. "No, never mind." She wiped her eyes with the back of her hands, thinking she did not really want to hear this. Her parents' marriage was the pedestal upon which Sara had placed all her ideas about relationships and love.
Cathy seemed intent on telling her story. "I told your father that I wanted to leave him for another man."
Sara felt silly with her mouth hanging open, but there wasn't much she could do about it. She finally managed, "Who?"
"Just a man. He was stable, had a job over at one of the plants. Very calm. Very serious. Very different from your father."
"What happened?"
"I told your father that I wanted to leave him."
"And?"
"He cried and I cried. We were separated for about six months. In the end we decided to stay together."
"Who was the other man?"
"It doesn't matter now."
"Is he still in town?"
Cathy shook her head. "Doesn't matter. He's not in my life anymore, and I'm with your father."
Sara concentrated on her breathing for a while. She finally managed to ask, "When did this happen?"
"Before you and Tessie were born."
Sara swallowed past the lump in her throat. "What happened?"
"What's that?"
Sara slipped a sock on. It was like pulling teeth getting the story from her mother. She prompted, "To change your mind? What made you want to stay with Daddy?"
"Oh, about a million things," Cathy answered, a sly smile at her lips. "I think I just got a little distracted by this other man and I didn't realize how important your father was to me." She sighed heavily. "I remember waking up one morning in my old room at Mama's and all I could think was that Eddie should've been there with me. I wanted him so badly." Cathy frowned at Sara's reaction to this. "Don't go getting your color up, there are other ways to want someone."