Defensive Wounds (30 page)

F
RIDAY

Theresa stared out her car window, wondering what in the hell she thought she was doing.

Rachael hadn't believed her, of course. Maybe if Theresa had led into the topic without such an explosive beginning, she'd have had a better chance of convincing the girl. But once Rachael saw her as unbalanced, nothing Theresa said after that could adjust her opinion.

“You've known him for ten minutes, Mom. I've been working with him every day for over a month now. He's nice, he's helpful—he's so stable. I never see him get upset about anything no matter how many directions he's jerked in. He's so kind to Ray—that dweeby guy, you remember. Ray told me himself that they've been friends since grade school and that William has always looked out for him, even got him the job.”

“I'm not saying he's a raging ogre every minute of the day, Rachael. Ted Bundy was a very reliable employee, too.”

“William is not Ted Bundy!”

“Honey. He was found next to the body with her blood all over him. In his own
home
. They were seen leaving the school dance together. I know you don't want to hear this, but how much more evidence could you possibly need?”

“Then why is he not in jail? Your own justice system agrees with me, but that's irrelevant to you. In your opinion I have the judgment of a ten-year-old!” Rachael said, and from there the conversation deteriorated into the familiar treatise on Theresa's refusal to see that Rachael had grown up, which forced Theresa to point out that if Rachael couldn't accept documented facts, then she
hadn't
really grown up. After that, things got really rocky.

Rachael even refused to say where they'd been, which in her daughter's conversational shorthand meant that they hadn't been anywhere, instead parked in a dimly lit spot getting much closer than Theresa cared to think about. No wonder Rachael wasn't in a mood to be sensible. Theresa hadn't been too sensible earlier in the evening with a man
she
barely knew.

Theresa even suggested a trip to the medical examiner's office to see the crime-scene photographs of the murdered Jenna Simone. Rachael—reasonably—failed to see how that would help, since she didn't dispute that the teen had been murdered, only that William had done it. Rachael eventually agreed to turn down any future private outings until this question could be resolved to Theresa's satisfaction, provided that didn't take longer than a week—yes, her daughter was smart enough to include a completion date. Maybe she
should
consider law school.

Rachael also agreed not to mention the murder to William, not because it might send him into a homicidal rage but to protect him from gossip at work.

But Rachael flatly refused to quit her job, and they both stalked off to bed, to fume and wonder and do anything but sleep. Theresa was comforted by the thought that at least Rachael wasn't scheduled to work today but William was, so her daughter should be safe at home for the next twelve hours or so.

What a strange, strange situation. Rachael working side by side with a rapist and murderer, and Theresa couldn't do a thing about it. She had made an offer (though impossible for her to fulfill) to make up Rachael's salary for the rest of the summer, but Rachael refused. Jobs were scarce in today's economy, she liked this one, and she couldn't quit every time a co-worker had a stain on his record.

Theresa couldn't call the cops, who'd taken their best shot at the kid already. She
could
tell the hotel, but firing him would risk a lawsuit, since he hadn't been convicted of anything—and Rachael would never trust her again. She couldn't locate the Rosedales, and Rachael wouldn't admit knowing their first names or location. The boy didn't have a parole officer or any legal restrictions on his movements. Which meant that unless she wanted to lock her daughter in her room until college started up again—an idea that had its merits—Theresa was powerless.

It must be true what they said about desperate times and commensurate measures, because instead of being at work, Theresa now sat in her car at the curb in front of the house where Jenna Simone had lived.

She'd already taken a look at the crime scene, a handsome two-story Colonial on a corner lot with a neatly manicured lawn and a Little Tikes play set in the backyard, the American dream softened by the early-morning mist. Theresa wondered if real-estate agents had disclosed the history of their living room to the young parents who now lived here. Maybe the price had been too good to pass up, or maybe they didn't believe in ghosts. Either way she wasn't going to get out and ask them.

From there she drove about two miles to Jenna Simone's address, passing the high school. The homes on this street weren't as large or as new, but just as tidily maintained and just as uninformative to stare at. The crime hadn't occurred here, and the bland façade wouldn't give any clue even if it had.

Jenna and William had been classmates, but that was all the reports and the newspaper articles would say. Were they friends? Had they dated? Jenna had apparently given William a ride home of her own free will. There'd been no signs of struggle inside the vehicle, parked courteously in the turnaround of William's driveway. The neighbors had not seen or heard anything amiss. Had Jenna entered William's home voluntarily? Why? Because she wanted to be there? Or simply because she thought she had nothing to fear?

While Theresa stared at Jenna's former home as if it might be able to tell her, the door opened and an older woman exited. Thin, wearing clean sweatpants and a jersey cardigan buttoned all the way to her neck, she shuffled down the driveway in bedroom slippers, heading for the paper box on a post at the curb. Something about her seemed familiar.

She caught sight of Theresa, and her pace slowed. She ducked her head to get a better look at the car's occupant and apparently decided that the forensic scientist appeared harmless enough. She continued to the curb, ignored the newspaper, and came up to the open passenger-side window.

Theresa decided that driving away would seem even creepier, so she smiled. “Hi. Sorry to be parked at your curb.”

She had no idea what to say after that but needn't have worried.

“Are you a reporter?” the woman asked.

“What? No.”

“Because you've missed the anniversary by a few weeks.”

“Anni—”

“Of my daughter's murder.”

“I'm not a reporter,” Theresa said, “but would you mind talking to me for a few minutes about your daughter's death? I have no right to ask, and I don't want to upset you—”

“The only thing that upsets me is people
not
asking about Jenna's murder. I
want
them to ask me, ask the cops, ask the courts, all day and all night. Why don't you come inside? I have coffee brewing.”

“I would really appreciate that,” Theresa said, with no idea how to explain
why
she would appreciate hearing about a mother's worst nightmare from another mother, why she wanted to take a sunny morning on which this woman had been about to enjoy a peaceful breakfast with her paper and instead make her relive what no human being should have to withstand.

Maybe because she was desperate. Maybe because she didn't know what else to do. She locked her car and followed the woman through the strengthening daylight, right up to the neat little door in the neat little house.

The neat little door had barely closed behind them when the woman asked, “So who are you? My name's Coral, by the way. The kitchen's straight ahead. Have a seat.”

Theresa couldn't give her credentials, imagining news articles about the M.E. office staff harassing the families of murder victims. She bought time by commenting on the coziness of the room. Yellow patterned wallpaper and white curtains and fixtures, ceramic tile, a baseball trophy on the windowsill over the sink. Next to it sat a prescription pill bottle. Theresa decided to rinse her hands at the faucet later, get a peek at the label.

Mrs. Simone reasonably persisted. “But who are you, if you're not a reporter?”

“I believe that my daughter has made the acquaintance of the boy accused of killing your daughter. I'm here because I just don't know what to do. I can't call the cops, and I can't lock my daughter in her room. I need to convince her that this boy is dangerous, but I don't know how.”

That brought Mrs. Simone up short, and Theresa felt inexplicably guilty at the outpouring of sympathy that followed. “You poor dear! How terrible! How did she meet him? Where is he?” She clapped a mug of steaming liquid onto the table in front of Theresa, spilling some of it, and wiry fingers clasped Theresa's arm. “Where is he?” she demanded again, in a puff of Folgers-scented breath.

“I don't know where he lives. She met him at work.”

“Where does she work?”

“I … probably shouldn't say.”

Her host did not take that well, and her eyes narrowed. Then she slumped into the chair across from Theresa and said, “I've been looking all over for him.”

Theresa didn't want to ask any of these questions, but she was here and Mrs. Simone wanted to talk. “Why?”

“Why?
He murdered my
child
. He raped and murdered my Jenna, and he's walking around free and the authorities are protecting
his
privacy like he's some kind of victim! Of course I try to … monitor him. Someone's got to. For the sake of girls like your daughter.”

“When was the last time you saw him?”

“The day they let him go. The day that group of brain-dead morons trooped back into that box they were kept in and said ‘Not guilty.' ” Despite this woman's vehement words, Theresa decided that she was not crazy, drug-addled, or even unbalanced. She was merely a sensible but grieving mother. It made Theresa feel guiltier still, as if she were there under false pretenses even though she wasn't—the danger to Rachael felt very real indeed.

“Did Jenna know this William from school?”

“Yes. Her friends said so at the trial, but I don't remember her mentioning him to me. She could have. She probably talked about a hundred different kids just during those two years of high school.”

“I know what you mean—teenage girls. What did her friends say about him?”

“That he was in Jenna's chemistry class, but they didn't know of any relationship beyond that. ‘They knew each other to say hi' was how they put it. They were friendly, but he had never asked her out or vice versa.”

Theresa sipped at the hot, bitter liquid. She helped herself to sugar from a shaker on the table; she wanted cream, but it seemed callous to ask her hostess for both her most painful memories
and
access to her dairy products. “Were these friends at the dance, too?”

The woman nodded, her hands wrapped around the warm coffee mug. If other people lived in the house, they either had not stirred yet or had already left for the day. Not so much as a creak sounded upstairs. “Yes, but they were off chasing boys, of course. One saw Jenna leave with him but didn't speak to her.”

“Were they surprised that Jenna left the party with him?”

“Not really. Everyone figured it the same way: William was drunk, and Jenna gave him a ride home.”

“Leaving his car at the school. Where did this alcohol come from, at a school party?”

“Alcohol shows up at every school party, according to the kids. Not even a murder trial could make them 'fess up to who brought it. He probably brought it himself, since no one else got that drunk and his parents have a well-stocked liquor cabinet. There was testimony about that at the trial, too.”

But had he been drunk? Or drugged, as Marie had said? “So Jenna probably intended to drop him off, then come back and get her friends. Was that like her, to leave a dance to give a ride to someone she didn't know that well?”

Coral Simone pressed a tissue to her nose, to stifle not a tear but a small sneeze, and nodded. “Jenna was very softhearted—to everyone but her mother, like most teenage girls.”

“Tell me about it.”

“She never wanted to see anyone get in trouble. Once, when she was about ten, one of her brothers—Teddy, my middle one—left his bike behind my husband's car, who crumpled it leaving for work that morning. We had to harp on Teddy constantly about responsibility—he was just that kind of a kid. He's twenty-two now and still loses his cell phone every other week. So Jenna said she had borrowed it and left it in the driveway. Didn't fool her father or me for a second, since she could hardly reach the pedals, but she tried.”

Theresa hoped she would never have to tell Rachael's childhood stories this way—as if the pain ran so deep that the words were squeezed up from below. “Where are your boys now?” She had no reason to ask, other than to get the woman's mind away from Jenna for a second.

“My oldest is working with his father in Chicago, and the other has one more year at Caltech.”

It occurred to Theresa that Coral Simone might only have a few years on her but looked a good two decades older. Her flesh seemed to stretch over the bone with nothing in between, as if grief had eaten up everything that was soft in her body. Was this what losing a child did to you? “So your husband—”