Opportunitywas also fairly easy—almost every kid in the Longbill Beach High School senior class was downtown that night for the prom. As were the teachers who served as chaperones and the parents who wouldn’t stay away. Considering the average age of the prom-goers, Andrea assumed they all had access to some form of private transportation. Emily’s body didn’t drive itself to the Dumpster on the outskirts of town.
That left motive, and there was no bigger motive than keeping a secret. The likeliest reason for Emily’s attack was that the father of her child had wanted to remain anonymous. From all accounts, Emily had honored his wishes. The question had come up repeatedly in the witness statements and no one had known the answer.
There were no baby daddies in 1982. If you knocked up a girl, you either married her or you joined the army. If Clay wasn’t the father, then Nardo or Eric Blakely were the next-best suspects. Several of the witness statements from prom-goers showed a decided jealousy toward the group. They were often described as arrogant and exclusionary and, in one telling, incestuous. Ricky had married Nardo. It made sense that one of the guys would be interested in Emily. It made slightly less sense that Emily would protect him.
Unless she was afraid to name him because she knew he would kill her.
To someone who hadn’t just spent over four months training as a federal law enforcement officer, the easy solution would be DNA. Unfortunately, an over-the-counter option comparing Judith’s DNA to Andrea’s was not going to deliver an aha moment. Half-siblings were difficult to conclusively match without both of their mother’s DNA, and obviously Emily’s DNA was not on file. Sites like Ancestry.com were useful for tracking down familial DNA, but, again, you had to be in the system for a potential match to be made and all a match could show was a tentative genetic relationship.
Then there was CODIS, the Combined DNA Index System, a database of convicted offenders maintained by the FBI. As far as Andrea could tell, Nardo and Eric Blakely had never been charged, let alone convicted of a crime. As a violent offender, Clayton Morrow’s DNA profile was already stored in the system. Even if Andrea managed to snag a buccal swab from Judith, there was no legal way for her to upload Judith’s profile for comparison. You needed consent and warrants and no one, not even Jasper, was going to be able to swing it without Clayton Morrow finding out.
And if Clay found out, he would do something to stop it.
The trill of a phone broke Andrea out of her thoughts.
Bible glanced at the giant touchscreen on the dash, which read BOSS. He tapped the answer button. “You got Bible and Oliver on speaker, Boss.”
“Noted.” Surprisingly, the husky voice belonged to a woman. “Deputy Oliver, welcome to the service. I’m sorry I wasn’t there to greet you personally, but as you know your assignment to my division was accelerated beyond the normal process.”
Andrea realized that she didn’t even know which division her boss was talking about. “Yes, ma’am. I understand.”
“I’m sure you’ve read my email by now. Let me know if you have any questions.”
“Yes—” Andrea felt her throat get sticky. She hadn’t looked at her work phone since she’d waxed poetic on the trees of Oregon to her mother. “Yes, ma’am. Thank you. I will.”
Bible watched Andrea try to open her work phone. She was used to her iPhone’s facial recognition. The sliding number lock on the Android took some getting used to. When she finally got the damn thing to open, she saw sixty-two unread emails filled her inbox. A quick scroll down the subject lines told her she was attached to the Judicial Security Division, or JSD, which should have felt less surprising considering she was literally en route to provide security to a judge.
Bible said, “Thanks for checking in on us, Boss. We got night shift starting at six sharp. Gonna get there a little early to show Oliver the lay of the land.”
“Excellent,” the woman said. “Oliver, congratulations on the engagement. I’ve always thought Mike was good people. Never believed the rumors.”
Andrea’s teeth clenched as she scrolled through her emails. She was going to fucking kill Mike.
“Gotta jump,” the chief said. “Oliver, my door is always open.”
Andrea had finally located the boss’s welcome message, which was a godsend because now she knew how to address Deputy Chief Cecelia Compton. “Thank you, Chief.”
Bible grinned his approval. “I’ll check in with you later, Boss. I’m expecting a call from my wife before I go on duty.”
“Understood.” There was a sharp click as the call ended.
Bible pressed the disconnect on his end. “Marshal rule number thirty-two: always check your emails before you ignore them.”
“Good rule,” Andrea mumbled, skimming the multiple missives from fellow deputies welcoming her to the service. Even Mike had chimed in with his usual bullshittery, writing a toneless work email that could’ve been devised by the head of HR.
Another phone rang.
“That’s Cussy, my wife.” Bible held his personal phone to his ear, his head slightly turned away in lieu of privacy, saying, “How was your day, beautiful lady?”
Andrea tuned out his disconcertingly soft tone as she kept scrolling through her emails. Every single Marshal in the immediate area had apparently reached out. Was she expected to answer all of these anodyne welcomes? Would they compare notes on her responses or could she just copy and paste?
Bible gave a suggestive chuckle. “Darling, you know I always agree with you.”
Andrea turned her head toward the window again, figuring she could amplify his tiny bit of privacy. Bible had slowed for a stop sign. They had to be close to the Vaughn estate. She looked up at the street names, recognizing them from another witness statement.
At approximately 4:50 p.m. on April 17, 1982, I, Melody Louise Brickel, was talking to my mother in my bedroom about which dress I was going to wear to the prom. It was an argument, actually, but we made up later. Anyway, I walked to my window, which faces the intersection of Richter Street and Ginger Trail. There I saw Mr. Wexler’s brown and beige car straddling the yellow line. He was dressed in a black suit but not wearing the jacket. His door was open but he was standing in the street. So was Emily Vaughn. She was wearing the bright teal satin dress I later saw her in downtown. I couldn’t tell whether or not she had on shoes, but her clutch matched the dress. It appeared to me that she was arguing with Mr. Wexler. He was very angry. I should mention that my window was open because it’s hot in my room because it’s in the attic. Anyway, I saw Mr. Wexler grab Emily and push her against his car. She screamed, which I heard through the open window. Then he screamed back—not the exact words—something like “What are you saying? There’s nothing to say!” At that point, I called my mother over to the window, but by the time she got there, Mr. Wexler was speeding off. That was when my mother reminded me that I was not allowed to talk to Emily Vaughn or any of her friends that she used to hang out with. Not because Emily was pregnant but because she felt like I shouldn’t get mixed up with them because it was a bad situation and she didn’t want me to get hurt because she knew it bothered me.
I saw Emily later that night outside the gym, which is in my previous statement, but after that I never saw her alive again. I didn’t tell you guys this before because I didn’t think it mattered. I really do not know who the father of Emily’s baby is. I knew her a long time, since we were in kindergarten, but we weren’t close like that. Actually, Emily wasn’t close like that to anybody I know of except for maybe her grandmother who isn’t well. Even with her group of friends before she was pregnant, it was like she knew them but they never really knew her. Not really. I swear the contents of this amended statement are true under penalty of law.