Helpless (3 page)

His choice to invest the extra hours required to run a championship-caliber girls’ soccer program was made with the hope that he’d one day get the chance to coach his daughter, convinced the experience would strengthen their tenuous bond. When Jill shunned soccer for field hockey her freshman year, the standout middle school soccer star had sent him a very clear message:
I won’t play for the Wildcats if my father is the coach.
When Jill had shown up unexpectedly for soccer tryouts the summer before her sophomore year, Tom had turned his head so that other girls wouldn’t see him tear up.

Tom couldn’t explain his daughter’s sudden change of heart. Perhaps she had become curious enough about him to try out for the team against her mother’s well-verbalized wishes. Whatever Jill’s reasoning, coaching his daughter proved to be a healing step forward, but not the leap Tom hoped it would be. Jill was now heading into her junior year, but to Tom’s continued disappointment, their relationship still remained mostly stuck in the past.

Battles.

With the Wildcats’ first game of the new season only two weeks away, time to prepare was in short supply. There were seventeen ponytails on the field, each chatting constantly with the ball in play. Tom listened to them talk. They sounded ready to win.

“Organize! Get to where the ball is going!”

“Crash the net!”

Tom blew his whistle and signaled the start of the day’s last drill. The summer sun stood high in the sky as the captains worked quickly to get the players into position.

A few girls had turned their attention elsewhere, stopping to watch a police car as it turned onto the road beside the practice field. Tom looked too. The cruiser’s lights were flashing, but the siren was silent. A pit formed in Tom’s stomach.

Even after all these years, police cars still gave Tom a sinking feeling.

They know what I did,
he’d think.

They’re coming for me.

The secret is out.

Chapter 3

T
he black-and-white cruiser jumped the curb and pulled to an abrupt stop. To keep the narrow road clear, two of the cruiser’s wheels were parked up on the sidewalk. Strobe lights and the late-day sun let Tom see only shadow. He could not make out the face of the single police officer seated inside the vehicle. Tom knew the police weren’t here for what he feared most. They would have sent a lot more police cars. But his relief was fleeting.

Weighing at least 250 pounds and standing an imposing six feet six, Sergeant Brendan Murphy, dressed in a sports jacket and tie, made a graceless exit from his cruiser. Tom tried to keep his encounters with Murphy to a minimum. Back in the day, Tom’s numerous accomplishments had earned him many admirers and one very vocal detractor: the standout high school linebacker, Brendan Murphy. Murphy the Mountain, who thought all soccer players were pussies. The Beast of the East, who couldn’t stand that Tom’s sports accomplishments eclipsed his own. The only kid who knew in grammar school that he’d grow up to be a cop on the Shilo PD, just like his old man.

The girls stopped moving simultaneously and watched as Murphy approached the practice field. Murphy’s gait often mimicked that of a horseless cowboy, but today he didn’t have his usual swagger. Tom and Murphy crossed paths only occasionally—town meetings or student assemblies. Murphy had never looked so burdened.

“Captains, get the drill going!” Tom instructed. He glanced at assistant coach Vern Kalinowski, the middle-aged father of Flo and Irena, twins who were also the team’s best defenders. Vern whistled using two fingers, a skill Tom lacked (to his own continued frustration), and got the girls moving again.

“Tom, we need to talk,” Murphy said, without extending his hand.

“What’s going on?” Tom asked. A tightness built in his chest. He read faces the way psychics purportedly could read minds.

Murphy lowered his mirrored shades until they rested on the bridge of his nose, and looked around until certain that he and Tom were out of earshot.

“There’s no easy way to say this,” he began, “so I’m just going to come out and say it.”

Tom swallowed hard as he nodded. His stomach was in knots.

“Kelly’s dead,” Murphy said. “And we have reason to believe that her death wasn’t entirely accidental.”

The blue sky above Tom’s head began to spin in quickening cycles. He felt his knees go slack, and his stomach sank. Tom looked behind him at Jill as she made a finely executed slide tackle. The pain he knew she’d soon be experiencing almost kept him from breathing.

Murphy took Tom by the arm and walked him over to the police cruiser.

“When? How?” Tom heard his own words as though they came from a great distance away. He kept himself upright by resting both his hands on the hood of Murphy’s cruiser and battled back a jet of bile.

“A jogger found her in the ravine behind her house,” Murphy said. “At first it looked like she fell and hit her head on a rock. But we found signs of struggle back in the house, and the ME noticed a bruise on her face that he believes was the result of blunt force trauma by a fist, not a rock. We think she may have walked in on a robbery.”

“My ... God ... Jill.”

“Tom, I’ve got a crisis counselor on her way over here right now,” Murphy said. “We called Cathleen Wells, too. It’s our understanding that Jill is best friends with Cathleen’s daughter, Lindsey.”

“Yes. Yes, that’s right. Good,” Tom said, his voice nothing but a distant echo in his ears.

“Is there anybody else you want me to call? Family? Neighbors? Clergy?”

Tom shook his head. “No. Not right now.”

“I’m going to need someone to go the medical examiner’s office to make the official identification of the body. Do you think Jill will want to go?”

Tom shook his head again. “No. No, I can’t imagine she’ll be able to handle that right now. But I’ll ask her. Regardless, I’ll go after I get Jill settled.”

“You sure you want to break the news to Jill yourself? We can help there, too, if you need.”

Tom’s body had gone numb. He turned again and watched as Jill made a rocket of a shot on goal. His thoughts kept spinning like the ball she had kicked, but they were all focused on her.

My poor baby girl ... I’m so sorry.... This is going to be so hard on you... . This is so unfair ... .

Tom bit at his bottom lip. He said, “No, I’ll tell her. She should hear it from her father.”

“Okay. And, Tom ...” Murphy’s words brought Tom back into focus. “I’m going to want to speak with you down at the station,” he said.

“What about?” Tom asked. He hoped his expression didn’t betray his sudden concern. Had they found something inside Kelly’s house? he wondered.
Something that would incriminate me?

He studied Murphy and thought he picked up on something. Perhaps it was the way Murphy had shifted his eyes. Murphy’s unease heightened Tom’s concern.

“I need to start compiling some background information,” Murphy said. “We’re going to try and re-create as much of Kelly’s past few days as possible. Nothing to be concerned about.”

He doesn’t know,
Tom decided.
No, he’d be acting differently toward me if he suspected.

But that didn’t completely assuage Tom’s worry. As a Navy SEAL, Tom had studied kinesics—the interpretation of body language, facial expressions and gestures. The skill was often used in the theater to ferret out friend from foe. With his folded arms, furrowed brow, and tightly pressed lips, Murphy conveyed that this was more than just a formality without his having to say it.

“You want to speak with me about Kelly’s murder?” Tom asked.

“Her death hasn’t been ruled a homicide—yet. It’s really nothing. Routine type questions,” Murphy said. “But just so you’re not blindsided, I am going to want to know where you’ve been for the last twenty-four hours.”

Tom did a double take. “Are you saying you want my alibi?” he asked, with evident irritation.

“I’m just saying that we need to talk.”

Tom turned away.

He began his slow walk back to the practice field. Jill saw him coming and must have sensed that something was wrong, because her arms fell limply to her sides. Tom’s slow walk broke into a trot, then into a run. When he got to her, Tom put his arm around Jill and led her away from her teammates. He could feel her tiny body begin to shake.

“Jill, honey,” Tom said, fighting to temper the panic swelling inside him. “I’m afraid I’ve just been given some very horrible news. Baby, I need you to brace yourself.”

“What’s wrong?” Jill asked, her dark, doelike eyes wide and fear filled. “What’s going on?”

Tom broke from his daughter’s gaze, readying himself. He caught a glimpse of Murphy eyeing him in the distance. Tom couldn’t see Murphy’s face clearly enough to read his expression, but the relaxed way Murphy sat on his police car, hands resting behind him on the hood, wasn’t befitting a man hunting a killer.

He looked more like a guy who’d already found his prime suspect.

Chapter 4

T
om sat in the center of a neatly ordered row of black plastic chairs tucked inside the lobby of Shilo’s single-story police station. He gazed absently through the Plexiglas window on the opposite wall at the dispatcher fielding a call. His body and mind both felt numb. He was here only to get this meeting over with, so that he could return his full attention to where it belonged—to Jill and her needs. The road she had to travel was going to be a difficult one, but Tom intended to be by her side every step of the way.

A loud buzzer sounded to Tom’s right, drawing his attention. He saw Brendan Murphy, dressed in a jacket and tie, emerge from behind a large metal door.

“Thanks for coming down,” Murphy said, his tone congenial enough. “Our interview room is this way.”

Tom followed Murphy down a well-lit corridor with blue painted walls. Murphy passed one door marked
BOOKING ROOM,
and came to a stop in front of another closed door, this one labeled
MEETING ROOM
in stenciled black lettering. Murphy opened that door and went in.

Inside, Tom found a heavily scuffed table with a tape recorder and microphone. The table basically divided the closet-sized room in half. The concrete walls were bare, except for one that had a two-way glass window about the size of a fifty-gallon fish tank.

Tom took a seat on the red plastic chair facing the door. He was already thinking about leaving. Murphy sat opposite Tom and rested his interlocked fingers on the table. Tom disliked the coldness in Murphy’s eyes.

“So,” Murphy said as he pressed RECORD on the tape machine, “I’m sure you’ve heard of your Miranda rights.”

“I have,” said Tom.

“Well, I’m going to read those to you now,” Murphy said. “It’s the law, and this way we can keep the interview on file.”

Tom looked stunned, but he had known this was coming. “You make it sound like you’re arresting me.”

Murphy laughed. “No. Just need to get the formality out of the way. But if you do become a suspect at a point in time, I can use this as evidence.”

“That’s very reassuring,” Tom said.

“So, you know you have the right to remain silent and that anything you say can be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to have an attorney present now and during any future questioning.”

Tom made sure Murphy could see his displeasure. “Sure. I give up the right.”

“Good. Good. Thanks. Sorry about that. I know it’s awkward.”

“Yeah. It sort of is.”

“So, tell me, how’s Jill?”

The mere mention of Jill made Tom ache. He had pleaded with her to come and stay with him in Westbrook, but Jill insisted that wouldn’t be an option.

“I need to be with people who really know me and understand me,” she had said to him through her tears.

“She’s doing as well as can be expected,” Tom said to Murphy. “Right now she’s staying with Cathleen Wells and Lindsey. They’ve put her up in the guest room. A doctor from the clinic came by to check on her, and he gave Jill a sedative to help her sleep. She was sleeping when I left there to come here.”

“Were you able to make it over to the medical examiner’s office to make the official identification?” Murphy asked.

“Yeah. That’s all taken care of,” Tom said, though his voice didn’t reveal how much the experience had shaken him. He’d seen his fair share of dead bodies as a SEAL, but nothing could have prepared him for seeing the mother of his daughter lying lifeless on a steel table. His high school sweetheart dead, a thin green sheet hiding her nakedness.

Tom had seen the two wounds to her head: the one to her right temple, where police believed she had hit a rock, and the other, more suspicious one on the left side, where something else had struck her. Kelly’s once lustrous blond hair was matted down and dark. Her lips were a disturbing shade of blue. The skin didn’t look like it fit her bones anymore.

Death never looked pretty.

Murphy opened the file in front of him. “Well then,” he began, “why don’t we start with the last time you saw Kelly?”

Tom didn’t have to think hard to answer that one. He almost never saw Kelly. She never came to any of Jill’s practices or games and made it quite clear to his daughter that she stayed away intentionally to avoid seeing Tom.

“Two weeks ago,” Tom said. “At Johnny Rockets.”

“The place on one-forty?”

“Yeah. That’s the place.”

“What were you doing there?”

“Having my twice-a-month dinner with Jill. Kelly would drive her there, drop her off, and then come back forty minutes later to pick her up.”

“Does Jill ever go to your place in Westbrook?” Murphy didn’t bother referring to any notes. Troubling, thought Tom, that he was so well versed about his life.

“She hasn’t been over to my house in about a year. There was some tension around that.”

“Tension?”

“Jill didn’t want to spend every other weekend with me, which was my court-ordered visitation right.”

“You two don’t get along?”