Tunnel Vision (8 page)

SIXTEEN

When Betty and June tromped inside the house, they grinned—Ophelia was back on a rap kick—and then headed upstairs to Betty’s room. Once the door was shut behind them, they sat on the floor at the foot of Betty’s bed, laptops laid out before them, and June pointed at her screen. “I found an archive with the last ten or so MRR articles written by Duke. I haven’t read more than the first few sentences, but check this out.”

Betty leaned in to see June’s screen, and June began to read aloud from it. “‘Another day, another lack of a dollar here in prison. Money can’t buy happiness, but I would love to know why it’s legal for the state to pay us only 74 cents a day. In all fairness, a skilled worker here can make almost five times that, and take home the lump sum of $3.87 a day, but that still isn’t exactly minimum wage. Rehabilitation is supposed to come from within, but how can you rehab a man’s spirit when all you do is remind him of how broken he is? I’d understand if prison was solely about punishment. Then they wouldn’t have to pay us at all. But when there are men here for months or years, working 12-hour days punching out license plates for less than three quarters a day, and then they’re expected somehow to reenter society? Something is broken.’”

“Wait,” June said, scrolling down. “It goes on like that for pages. This is one seriously pissed-off dude.”

“He’s got a point,” said Betty, “but I’d be shocked if there was anyone really listening to him up until this campaign to free him started. Now, who knows? There could be thousands of prisoners and civilians reading this sort of thing, and you know what they’re all thinking: ‘How could someone this smart commit a crime that was so senseless?’ Hell, I’m thinking it and I hardly know anything about this stupid case.”

“So he can talk and write OK,” said June. “That’s not that big a deal to me. He’s complaining about rehab, but it seems like it worked fine on him.” June rolled her eyes. “To me, he comes off like a total dick. Maybe he did it or maybe he didn’t, but if he acted like that in court it’s no wonder things didn’t go his way.”

June had turned tomato red while she was speaking, and Betty was desperate to see the subject changed. “All right then,” she said. “So, nothing else interesting in here?”

“Nah,” answered June. “I just read the same stuff you did. It makes me really angry. Yesterday I was pissed off that I was out of the loop, but now I’m just pissed off that she’s dead. She was like us, and she would have been our friend, I just know it. Instead, some asshole killed her, and even if it was the guy convicted, no one knows why. It’s not fair.”

“No one said it was fair,” Betty said quietly. “It’s like the least fair thing ever. But what also isn’t fair is if Duke is innocent.”

June just shook her head and looked away.

Betty slid her laptop to the side and grabbed a notebook and pen from her bag. “Let’s start with what we know.” She tapped the tip of the pen on the lined, spiral-bound page. “Duke was convicted of doing it, so he’s suspect number one, no matter who his friends are. Who else do we have?”

“The article on the Free Duke page said there were two roommates,” offered June, and Betty nodded and wrote down “roommates” under the line that said “Duke.”

“But it also said there were a lot of homeless people coming through, too,” said June. “I know that isn’t much help, but it’s still something.”

“No, that’s good,” said Betty. “I had another thought, too. Do you suppose there would be any way to find some of her customers from back then? I mean, they might not all have been awful, but the kind of person who would pay to have sex with someone who was that damaged . . . I don’t think these were good people.” Betty scratched “homeless roommates” into the third line on the page, and then added “customers” underneath it. “How old was she when she died?” Betty asked, and June took her computer and did a quick search.

“She was twenty-three,” said June. “That’s really young. Even younger than I thought.”

“I was guessing around that age,” said Betty quietly. “Any non-Duke theories?”

“It feels like sort of a stretch, but it could have been a teacher,” answered June. “I don’t mean, like, a teacher that sought her out. But maybe one that knew her from school, saw what she was doing and just couldn’t get over it. So he pulled over and got her in the car, and then it just went bad. I suppose that could go for any of her customers. I was just trying to think of people we could connect her with.”

“What other men would she have been in recent contact with?” Betty asked, and the question gave the girls pause.

“Probably my dad,” said June solemnly. “I’m serious, Betty. I don’t know if my folks were around her at all then, but if they were, my dad probably would have been apt to take a pass at his wife’s little sister. That doesn’t mean I think he did it or anything, and for all we know Mandy never saw either of them, but for right now he should probably go on the list.”

“I don’t know,” said Betty. “I think I’d feel awful putting your dad on the list.”

“Think like a cop and remember what Mr. Evans said about college grading,” said June. “Put him on there, and hopefully we can cross his name out soon. It’s not like it’s uncommon for the victim to know who killed her. Why should this one be any different?”

“You are cold,” said Betty, and the joke broke the tension, sending the girls into peals of laughter. “All right, all right,” said Betty. “I think, first things first, we need to find out who these roommates are. It’s safe to assume the cops haven’t followed their lives since then, not with Duke’s conviction, but I bet their names are listed somewhere.”

“Yeah, like the police station,” said June dejectedly, and then as if she had been reminded of some impossible secret, began beaming. “Wait, your mom’s practically a cop, right? Maybe she can get us a couple names. If she did, all we’d have to do is look online into where those guys are, and then we could try and see what they’ve been up to for the past twenty years or so.”

“I don’t know,” said Betty. “I think my mom would say no. And anyway, despite the fact that these guys were near the scene of the crime, they’re also the people the cops would have looked at the hardest. Even if we could find them, I don’t think we’d really be able to find out much information that isn’t already out there. I mean, if one of these guys looked good for the crime or had like a history of being a rapist, the cops would have looked a lot harder at him than at Duke.”

“For sure,” said June, “but the cops wouldn’t have thought to find out anything he did
after
she was killed. If one of the roommates did it, maybe Mandy was just the first, and everything they’ve done afterward they either haven’t gotten caught for or it wasn’t as bad as killing someone.”

Betty stared at her. “God, you’re right. That totally makes sense. Like, why would the cops go after them when they already had a conviction, a trial, and a guilty verdict? Why go through all that again if in their eyes they had the right guy all along?”

“Damn straight.”

“All right, I’ll ask,” said Betty, though the truth was she didn’t know what Andrea might say. She wasn’t totally sure she even wanted to ask the question. Telling Andrea she needed to talk to the cops would mean the project was a little more serious than she’d sold it to the moms, which would either impress her mothers or make them wonder why in the hell their daughter was so obsessed with a crime that most people considered solved.

June must’ve caught the uneasiness in her voice. “You don’t have to ask your mom,” she said. “But Betty, this is my aunt we’re talking about. Even though I didn’t know she was alive until yesterday, I still want to help her. It’s too late to save her life, but maybe we can make sure that whoever really did hurt her gets in trouble.” She paused and then said, “Or maybe just stays in trouble.”

“Hey, I’m sold,” said Betty, raising her palms to June as if warding her off. “Now let’s get back to work. There’s still a ton of ground to cover before we even need to be worrying about talking to a cop. I can’t imagine much that would be more embarrassing than having my mom set up time for us to talk to a detective or something and us realizing that we don’t know even the most basic stuff about this case. That’s going to mean finding stuff written by people who want Duke to stay locked up too, not just the stuff written by people who want him free because a few cool bands say that he should be.”

SEVENTEEN

The rest of the study session was largely uneventful. June found a very informative site that covered the case with a less biased view, but even on that more news-oriented site it was clear that not everything had gone smoothly in the case of Duke Barnes. Maybe the deck wasn’t stacked as much as the other site suggested, but there was enough odd stuff going on that it was hard to imagine everything on www.freedukebarnes.com was a falsehood.

The names of the roommates remained a mystery. Reading through other true crime stories to get a clearer picture of whether or not that was standard practice, Betty was left with the impression that none of the sites were telling the whole story and that talking to Andrea about her contacts at the police station wouldn’t be all that bad an idea.

At dinnertime Betty said bye to June, then sat at the table where Andrea and Ophelia were waiting for her, their plates topped with a medley of grilled vegetables atop a white risotto. Betty stuck her fork in the rice and smelled it, smiling as the distinctive scent of parmesan cheese came wafting off of the arborio. “This smells ridiculous, and it looks even better,” said Betty, and Ophelia smiled with pride at the compliment.

“I’m glad you agree,” said Andrea with a grin, “but since we’ve been suffering and waiting almost two minutes to eat while your friend left, shall we get to it?”

“Absolutely.” She hadn’t thought about food for even a second while June was over, but now she felt like she could eat multiple plates of just about anything. She dug in with gusto, and after a few bites she said, “Research is going well. It’s sort of a messed-up case.”

“I remember reading about it,” said Ophelia.

Andrea nodded. “Me too. I remember friends on the force talking about it as well.”

“How old was she when was killed?” Ophelia asked.

“She was twenty-three,” said Betty around a mouthful of food. “She’d be thirty-seven now if she hadn’t been killed.”

Ophelia shook her head. “So young.”

Andrea nodded. “No one deserves a death like that, but her age makes it all the more tragic.”

Both moms looked at her then, and Betty knew they were thinking about all the danger the world might hold for her. All she could do was smile back at them. They looked at each other then, one of their superconnected gazes, and then the three of them worked on their dinners.

Seeing her mothers like this made her long for someone she could care about like that, but none of the boys she’d ever met had come close to making her feel the way her mothers did about each other. Which then brought her mind around to poor Jake and the hammer she needed to drop on him.
He’ll be OK, and we’ll both be better for it, at least in the long run.

Not for the first time, it was like her moms had a clear view into her brain. “Have you dumped that horny idiot yet?” Andrea asked, venom in her voice, a smile on her face. “Or are you playing us a little bit?”

“No, I haven’t dumped him yet,” she said, “but I’m not playing you guys, either. I just want to find the right time to do it. I know you guys think Jake is just some jock that’s trying to take advantage of me, but I think it’s actually going to mess him up a little bit after I tell him.”

“I think Jake will be fine,” said Ophelia, “but I wouldn’t blame him if he did spend some time pining after you.”

“So, I had a question,” said Betty to Andrea, desperate to change the subject, even if this new topic could be fraught with its own perils. “I understand if what I’m asking simply isn’t possible, or if you’d rather not get involved, but I was wondering if maybe you could set it up so I could interview someone at the police station?”

“You mean for your project?” Andrea asked.

“Yeah, exactly. June and I were hoping maybe you could use your contacts down there to get me an interview with someone who was on the force at the time. A detective would be ideal, but really anyone who was working back then who’d be able to give me some insight.”

Andrea eyed her for a moment, working over a mouthful of risotto. “Assuming I can get you an interview like that,” she said at last, “what do you mean to ask?”

“I don’t know, exactly. Most likely just some questions about Duke and Mandy’s roommates at the time of her death, and why they were ruled out in the crime. I’ll probably come up with some other stuff, too, but if you’re worried about me being insulting by asking about some of the bad stuff that people say the cops did, you don’t need to worry. I want a good interview, not one where the person I’m talking to is irritated.”

Andrea nodded at that. “No promises,” she said, “but I’ll make a call after dinner. Depending on scheduling, we might not hear anything for a day or two. Can it wait?”

“Yes, absolutely,” said Betty, who stood and then rushed around the table to throw her arms around Andrea.

“I just said I’d make a call,” said Andrea. “Don’t get too excited.”

Betty kissed her mother on the side of her head and then released her.

“If anyone’s interested,” Ophelia said, “I have some exciting stuff going on, too.”

“Of course we are,” said Betty, as she leaned over to kiss her other mother on the cheek. Ophelia smiled at Betty as she retook her seat, and then began to describe to them some breakthrough she’d had that afternoon with the new painting in the basement.

EIGHTEEN

I see Claire before she sees me, and I cover the distance between us quickly, giving her a short wave when she finally turns and notices me. I could have mugged her if I wanted to, but as interesting as her wallet might be, I’m a lot more interested in getting some information. I don’t know how happy Claire is going to be that I looked into her ex instead of just checking up on June, but she needs to know everything at this point, and I want to see the look on her face when I mention Jack.

“You said you needed to talk?” Claire asks, but the words come out shaky, almost like she knows what I’m about to say, but doesn’t want to hear it.

“I did,” I say, and then pop a matchstick in my mouth. “I went by Jack’s house the other day. Is there anything I should know about him?”

“Oh my God! Why would you go there? He’s going to be furious if he finds out that—”

“There’s nothing to find out,” I say, and it’s true. Jack isn’t going to find out that I broke in, and even if he did, there’s nothing for him to discover that would lead back to Claire.

“Jack has a temper.” Her words come out measured and emotionless. “If he caught you there, he’d hurt you, maybe even worse.”

Worrying about what didn’t happen is a waste of time, so I press on. “How often does June spend time with him?”

“Every few weeks, but there’s nothing I can do about that,” says Claire. “He pays his child support, and so he has visitation rights.”

“Not if you think he might hurt your daughter.”

“I don’t think that,” says Claire, but the words don’t assure me she’s telling the truth. I wonder if she believes them. “Jack never had a temper like that, not with her. June’s only usual gripe is that he ignores her when she’s over there. No, he’d never get violent with his daughter.”

I nod, not sure of what else to say. It still sounds to me like she’s trying to convince herself of something, like there’s some suspicion she doesn’t want to say aloud for fear that might make it true. “Could Jack have hurt Mandy?”

“No,” she says, the expression on her face screwed up and unfamiliar. “No, never.”

I nod, but my head’s racing.

I should believe Claire, but I don’t. There’s a wounded person inside of her, someone who wants to do what’s right, but either doesn’t know how or is too scared. “I just want June to be safe,” she says again, like it’s her mantra, or something she’s chanting against demons while she shakes a rattle over a fire. I know there are no deeper revelations to be had today.

“All right,” I say, letting a smile crease my face. “June’s safety is what I want as well, so if you think of anything that could help me with that, be sure to let me know.”

Claire returns my smile halfheartedly and then nods, but it’s meaningless. She might tell me more dirty little secrets later, but at the moment, she’s convinced that if she stays mum, the truth will stay buried forever.

The bike ride home from the park gives me a few moments to reflect on things, and I have to admit, after talking to Claire my interest in the Reasoner case has been piqued all over again. The more I look at the evidence, the
real evidence,
the more I wonder how in the world the prosecutor was ever able to get a conviction. Don’t get me wrong, Duke could be as guilty as Gacy, but that doesn’t mean the conviction was clean. Of course, that’s the real reason for all of the public interest. Duke and Mandy were already a good story, but add in a weak conviction? Gold.

Besides, the real meat of the job is to watch June, and if last night was typical, that should be a piece of cake. June is rarely alone, and she tends to stick to her house and school. If there’s a boyfriend in the picture then he remains to be seen, and even though I only have one day to base her routine on, June isn’t sneaking out at night. Claire wants her daughter safe, and so do I, but right now it seems like the best way to do that is going to be casually watching her and making sure her daily life stays on the straight and narrow.

Where I stand now, though, all of that’s on the back burner. I need cash, and if this job with June is going to be as short-lived as I’m expecting, some drastic measures are going to be necessary. For years I had a connection to sell the pot I grow through a friend that went to a nearby high school, but that changed a little over a year ago. Now he keeps permanent residence in a hole in the ground, and I’ve been scrounging ever since. Don’t get me wrong, it could be a lot worse. I could be the one in the hole, but it definitely hasn’t made life any easier.

Growing dope is easy, and dealing dope is easy. But finding someone you can trust to sell a quantity to—that’s hard. And that’s the only way it makes sense to do business, because it’s much safer to sell a lot once for a low profit than it is to be the guy trying to make deals on every last scrap. It was hard enough to make an arrangement for that once, and it will be just as hard to do it again. Right now I’m in sort of a stasis on the matter. I try not to think about it, and the dope I grow just keeps piling up. The only good thing to come of it is that when I do finally make a big sale, it’s going to pay off large, and there’s nothing wrong with that.

I was supposed to go work out at Rhino’s today, but the only person I made that deal with was myself and right now I’m not in the mood. I know it’s lazy, and I know I need to keep in shape, but it’s getting harder and harder to make myself walk in there. I trust Rhino like a father, and my friend Jeff is there all the time, too, but still I avoid the place. I think I’m just scared that they’ll be able to see through me into the awful things I’ve done. Even scarier is the idea that I might finish a sparring session by spilling all of it, all of the mess. Life isn’t meant to be easy, but when I look in the mirror I know what I’ll see: hollow eyes wondering how we ever got to this point. The boy there is beyond wounded, and there’s a trail of blood behind him a mile long. I’m glad I’m lucky enough to live like I do, but sometimes, I wonder what I would trade for the life of a normal teenager.

Instead of the gym, I just keep circling Riverside. Being here alone lets me breathe in the sights and sounds, and it reminds me of what it’s like to be a hero instead of a demon. I’ve been both, but being a hero sure makes waking up more pleasurable, especially when you wake up alone. Some mornings, good memories and cereal are all you have to help you get by.

I’m half-tempted to just find June and talk to her, let her know she’s digging in a hornet’s nest and that her mom wants her out of it, but knowing kids, that might just make things worse. Of course, it wouldn’t be purely altruistic. I like the idea of talking to June, or her friend Betty. I feel like I know both of them, in that creepy Internet voyeur sort of way. They have pictures and all of their likes posted all over their profiles, so I feel familiar with them already. I know that’s a load of crap, and that all I’d do is freak them out if I did tell them I knew what was going on.

Doesn’t matter, though. I’m not going to contact them. This job is going to fade away like they have been lately, and then I’m going to need to get back to moving some dope.