The Victim (32 page)

A diagram showed the curvature of the highway. There were two lanes of traffic, one in each direction. X’s on the diagram indicated the point of impact and the spot along the guardrail where the cars came to rest.

Anton scrolled down to the page in the report that denoted the physical descriptions of the victims. Anton had always skimmed over this section. To think of Kelsie’s hair color or the fact that Evan had brown eyes conjured up images in his mind of the kids he had killed. If only a defense mechanism, he tried to think of them as formless beings or just names on a report.

He remembered Kelsie’s hair, blonde like honey. How it shined in the rising sunlight like gold thread. How he could tell that she was young just by looking at it. Long, straight tresses running down past her shoulders, hanging over the side of her face as her head rested on the steering wheel.

Kelsie was five-four, a hundred and ten pounds. A petite girl with that blonde hair and green eyes. She would have been beautiful.

Evan had brown hair with matching brown eyes. He was five-eight, a hundred and seventy pounds.

He was just three years younger than Anton was at the time of the crash.

Both were Arizona natives. Kelsie was from Yuma. Evan was from Chandler, a suburb southeast of Phoenix.

Their stories were like those of so many Anton had known back in school. He wondered if he had ever been in the same place as them. Did they have friends in common? Had he seen them before in passing? Equally horrifying and morbidly fascinating that the three of them—the killer and the victims—could have had some innocuous routine contact at one point.

He looked at the box titled
scars/distinguishing marks/unusual physical features.
Given the condition of the bodies when they were found, Anton assumed that the investigators spoke to family and friends to ascertain this information. According to the report, the victims were ID’d through dental records.

Kelsie had a small scar above her lip. No doubt a lasting reminder of a childhood fall. Anton ran his finger along the smooth white line just beneath his chin where he had split it open on the curb when he fell off his bike when he was seven. She had two piercings in each ear and one in her nose. Anton shuddered to think that while her flesh and tissue burned away, those piercings would have remained as charred pieces of metal.

She had three tattoos, all of which would have been indistinguishable on her burnt corpse. She had a butterfly design on her left shoulder blade, a sunflower on her ankle, and five letters inked underneath her wrist.

B.A.E.B.A.

Daniella’s tattoo.

Throat narrowed, he struggled for breath. It was all so real. Not that he had his doubts, but any—fleeting as they may be—were immediately put to rest. The connection between Daniella and Kelsie. Those five letters must have stood for something sacred. A secret between sisters.

Evan’s distinguishing marks were listed as a scar on his knee, possibly the result of surgery. The other a tattoo.

B.A.E.B.A., embedded in the skin underneath his wrist.

Anton could understand two sisters sharing a tattoo, but two sisters and another guy?

Why would Daniella have the same tattoo as her sister and her sister’s boyfriend?

An inside joke?

The only next of kin information for Evan Rangel was an uncle in Washington. No mother or father were listed on the report. For Kelsie, it was her mother. Janet McEvoy. Anton remembered seeing her on the news—that was it. He had never met her or spoken to her.

The contact information showed an address in Yuma. Recalling the news footage he was pretty certain it was a mobile home park. Her skin like cowhide, toughened by the relentless Arizona sun. That stringy gray hair. Her eyes in a permanent squint.

She had given one interview that he was aware of. Anton had seen his share of grieving mothers in the news, but Janet’s reaction was far from grief. It was eerily calm, as if somewhere along the way, she had braced herself for the inevitable loss of her daughter. The rough life of a poor single mother was etched into her face.

Her home phone number was listed, 520 area code. He wondered if it was still good.

He jotted down the number on a Post-It and took the elevator down to the lobby.

The bank of pay phones was by the restrooms on the opposite end of the ground floor. It was midday, foot traffic was rustling about, expensive shoes were clacking on the marble floor—the lawyers and bankers whose firms occupied a considerable percentage of the building. They were quick and deliberate in their strides, heads bowed as if deep in prayer, eyes fixed on their smart phones. Paying attention to no one.

Good.

Paranoia made the hairs on his arm stand. Little blue domes dotted the ceiling. The building was big on security. He wondered whether he should go down the street to somewhere more nondescript but he figured here was as good as any place. If the call were to be traced, it would come back to the building’s main number. He pretended he was fixing his hair, using the gesture as a method to cover his his face.

He took a few breaths, garnering up some courage.

He dropped a few quarters into the pay phone and dialed the number. He angled his body toward the corner, face toward the wall, his index finger in his ear.

The line rang twice before a gruff female voice answered, “Huh-lo?”

The word carried a slight tinge of rural Arizona. The accent passed down from the generations of Okies and Arkies who traveled to the southwest during the Dust Bowl. City life and the influx of midwesterners had diluted it some, but it was still present anywhere outside of Phoenix.

“
Hello,” he said, resting his forehead against the wall.

“
Can I help you?”

“
Is this Janet McEvoy?”

“
It is,” she said firmly, as if expecting a telemarketer.

“
I’m afraid this call is about eleven years overdue.”

She sighed, keenly sensing what this was about.

“
Can you at least give me your name?”

Anton felt the pressure of tears building behind his eyes. He sniffled and pinched the bridge of his nose.

“
I’m afraid I can’t.”

“
So be it. I take it you’re one of those college kids?

“
Yes, ma’am.”

She lingered for a moment, her wheezing breath crackling through the line. A heavy smoker’s breath.

“
Why now?”

“
Not sure. Not sure why I even decided to call you now. Didn’t think I’d ever do this.”

“
Are…?” Her words grew thick. “Are you the one who…?”

Silence.

“
Sweet Jesus.” She sobbed briefly before regaining composure. “That foolish girl. Good God Almighty, that foolish girl. What she was doing out on that highway with that boy at that time of day I’ll never know. She always was a reckless one. Fell into a duck pond when she was just a year old.” She laughed, more for the irony than for the humor. “Saw a duck and she just took off, waddling away before I could catch her. Just…ran right in. No caution whatsoever. I had to jump in. I told myself right then and there: Janet, you got yourself a tiger by the tail. Never was an easy child.”

“
In any event, ma’am, I’m sorry for your loss. I’m sorry that I didn’t call sooner. If I could do something to take it back, believe me I would. But I realize my words are useless. The damage has been done. I’m just…so sorry. For everything. The hurt that I’ve caused you and to Kelsie’s sister and—”

“
What?”

“
Sorry, must have a bad connection. I was just saying that I’m sorry, to you, to Daniella, to—”

“
Daniella? What…what is this about? Who is this?”

Her tone caught Anton off guard.

“
I’m just trying to apologize.”

“
Look! I’ve been through enough hell, son! I don’t know who you are or if this is some type of sick joke, but you need to lose this number and leave me alone!”

“
Ma’am, I meant no disrespect. I just wanted to apologize to you and to her sister and—”

“
Son, what in the hell are you talking about? Kelsie doesn’t have a sister.”

PART THREE

Life is a highway.

Tom Cochrane

CHAPTER 34

Tymeisha Huggins was in no mood for bullshit. Unfortunately, as a corrections officer, it was a part of her job. She looked at the clock on her wall. The hands seemed frozen in time.

The day dragged on and the long stories never ceased. Every one of the inmates she supervised in unit K-24 at the Turner Guilford Knight Correctional Center seemed to have a complaint.

They were all the same, like carbon copies of each other: young, black, and dreadlocked. Most were being held without bond. A lot of armed robbery. Some murder. Plenty of probation violations. The youngest ones—those who had been direct filed after the juvenile system had had enough of them—were fifteen, sixteen. The old timers were in their early twenties. Tatted up arms, chests, necks. Even their faces were tattooed, like masks of unemployability.

The ink on their skin usually commemorated some gang affiliation or honored the memory of a dead homeboy. Sometimes it was a girlfriend or baby momma’s name.

They moved without urgency, following orders with languid disdain, and full of that lazy ghetto swagger she’d seen all too often in these kids.

It was just after two and it seemed like the day would never end.

Shift change.

Normally Tymeisha would be catching the bus back to her house in Miami Gardens; however, financial aid was only kicking in so much tuition money and Florida A&M wasn’t getting any cheaper. Maybe if Charles had made good on his child support payments over the years, she’d have something in savings and wouldn’t have to work these damn double shifts.

Tymeisha ambled to her desk with great effort. Seven years in the sedentary confines of government employment, her butt and hips had grown so wide she had to turn sideways just to get in and out of the reception area. The lieutenant was sympathetic. He always took her off the mainline and stuck her on desk duty for her second shift. A welcome change. She fell into her swivel chair and stared out into the lobby behind two inches of bulletproof glass. A dozen or so baby mommas, friends, and family members waited for visitation. The ones with infants tried to soothe them the best they could. A chubby Hispanic woman with painted-on eyebrows and giant hoop earrings pulled an enormous breast out of her halter-top and started feeding her baby. Another woman, whose two children were maybe three or four, played on her iPhone while her kids ran wild circles around the room.

The vent above her head blew a stream of ice-cold air. She pulled her green windbreaker tightly around her broad shoulders. Maybe those complaints had some merit after all.

A young woman approached the glass. Shoulder-length dark hair, beautiful skin. She was petite and impeccably dressed—a rarity in this place. Huge Louis Vuitton purse. An attorney, maybe?

Tymeshia sized her up. “Can I help you?”

“
Yes,” the woman said, speaking into the holes drilled into the glass. “I’m a private investigator. Here to see a client.”

Tymeshia’s long red fingernails clicked on the keyboard. “Your client’s name?”

“
Quincy Arrington.”

Tymeshia stared at the screen of the clunky desktop. “Arrington, he’s in K-15. You got a letter of introduction on file?”

She shook her head confidently. “Yeah. The attorney of record, Anton Mackey, should have filed it.”

Tymeshia clicked away. “Yup. Right here.” She eyeballed the woman. “You’re
Armando
Guerrero?”

The woman laughed. “Must have been a typo. It’s
Amanda
Guerrero. But everyone calls me Mandy.”