“I know.” But Jack Ass is more like it.
December 10th
Third Interview
“Okay, so you don’t like that line of questioning. I get it, but don’t you want to let the world know you’re innocent?”
I sit on my stool in the prison communication area, hoping beyond hope that I can break through the icy facade of the woman holding the receiver to her ear, but I know it’s pointless.
The eyes behind the booth’s thick glass reveal nothing, and I think of her as she once was: beautiful, smart, a woman who would make men’s heads turn. A woman who instilled envy in other women, who wished their husbands wouldn’t look in her direction.
She is still slightly imperious, despite the drab prison garb and the fact that her graying hair hasn’t seen a touch-up or professional cut in months.
“I can help you. You know that. Your story needs to be told.”
The face beyond the glass doesn’t so much as flinch. No twitch in the corner of the mouth. No movement in the cold, cold eyes. Could anyone be so outwardly callous and still be innocent?
“Why not tell the world exactly what happened that night, not the same old story you’ve been repeating since you were incarcerated?” I ask, wanting so desperately to know the truth. “Are you trying to protect yourself? Your reputation?” I lean closer. “Well, it’s too late for that. Now only the truth, and I mean the whole truth, not some whitewashed, lawyer-sanctioned story, will help you.”
She won’t respond. It’s almost as if she’s a statue as she sits on her stool, locked up for what could be the rest of her life. It’s incomprehensible to me, but there has to be a way to get through to her, so I try a new tack.
“If you don’t explain what happened, the world will go on thinking that you’re a cold-blooded killer, that you have no heart, none whatsoever. Is that what you want? Is that what your final epitaph will be?”
Is there just the tiniest dilation of her pupils, a hint that some of what I’m saying is piercing her icy, unbending exterior? Can I reach her?
With an effort, I keep my own voice even, since I don’t want her to have the slightest inkling of how much this bothers me, that I too am involved personally, that my own guilt is immense. Could I have seen this coming? Prevented it?
Two stools down, a middle-aged man coughs and next to me, partitioned off, a woman softly weeps, her voice tremulous as she whispers into her phone to the woman seated so close to her, but separated by glass.
I can’t think of them now, I have to concentrate, to find a way to get to the truth. “What about Amity? Tell me again. Why was she a threat?”
Is there just the slightest tightening of those lips, a speck of cruelty in the set of her chin, the tiniest spark of evil within her eyes?
“Is that why Amity died? Because she was young and beautiful and somehow in your way?” I throw the questions out there, thinking about my innocent friend and how she died, how she became the central point in Blondell O’Henry’s sordid tale, but, of course, once again I get no response. The once-beautiful face beyond the glass is for the most part impassive, as if nothing matters, the people who died, the innocent victims, were all just pawns in a master killer’s cruel game.
“Come on,” I whisper, and she hears the desperation in my voice, sees my frustration, and that must please her because she smiles. I can imagine that same cold, hard grin crossing her face as she pulled the trigger . . .
CHAPTER 13
“Well, that was a bust,” Morrisette said, collapsing theatrically into the side chair near Reed’s desk. “So Niall O’Henry found God, the one that tells him it’s okay to play with rattlers and copperheads, then finally recants. Great. Just effin’ great.” She ran a hand through her already spiked hair and twisted her lips in an expression of disgust. “I see why he was confused, but why all the change now? He recently loaded up the whole damn family and moved back to Daddy’s farm. What’s that all about?”
“Maybe he just couldn’t afford his house.”
“He left his job to go back to farming. I’m checking to see if that was voluntary, or if he was let go.”
“Could be the old man needed him.”
She snorted. “Calvin and June O’Henry, they’re like a Tim Burton version of The Brady Bunch. Yours, mine, and ours, and add in the creep factor. Calvin sues Blondell for the wrongful death of Amity and her unborn child.” She shook her head in disbelief. “What he thought he could get out of Blondell is anyone’s guess, though he did manage to sell his side of the story to one of the tabloids.”
“We have a copy of that?” Reed asked.
“Might be in the archives. Anyway, I think he made some money off it, and he kinda basked in the quasi-fame of it all. Even did a round of talk shows. Paraded his kids on one of our local shows. Milked it for all it was worth until no one was interested anymore.” She spit her gum into the trash. “A scumbag of the lowest order. Played the victim himself. It was all such crap. And now, hallelujah, we get to talk to him again.” Her cell phone rang and she checked the screen. “Not important,” she said. “Bart. Since he doesn’t have the kids, I’m not taking it.” She clicked off and slid
the cell into her pocket.
Reed returned his attention to his computer monitor. On the screen were photographs of the original crime scene in the cabin.
“Our job is to build a case against Blondell, or rebuild it, this time without Niall’s testimony,” he said.