Missing Pieces (13 page)

“Hal, why don't you come on back to my office. I promise I won't keep you long. You, either, Dean. I know you have a lot of arrangements to make.”

From behind the front counter Margaret spoke up. “Mrs. Quinlan, you'll have to leave your purse here.”

“I can hold it for you, Sarah,” Celia offered. “We'll wait here for you.”

“You don't have to do that,” Sarah said. “Just tell me where you're going to be and I'll meet you there.”

“We'll probably get something to eat at the Penny Café and then head to the church. We have to settle some funeral arrangements. If you're here longer than we are, I'll give your purse to Margaret to keep behind the counter and we'll text you where we're going.”

“Thanks.” Sarah handed Celia her purse and followed the deputy down the long hallway, her mind racing in a million different directions. What could Amy possibly have to say to her, and could she really be a murderer? She thought of the ring of bruises on Celia's arm and knew that there were probably more. She thought of Margaret and her promise to get copies of the files from the murder of Jack's mother. It was all too much.
Focus
, she ordered herself. One thing at a time.

The deputy led her down a short flight of stairs and down another corridor with walls painted an institutional green. Sarah wasn't sure what she expected to see in a county jail, but figured that there would be jail cells and a phone where she could talk to Amy through a thick-paned window. She saw none of these.

“You can sit right here. I'll go get Amy and you two can talk,” the deputy said, pushing open the door of a small conference room that held a scarred wooden table and two mismatching chairs. Sarah chose the seat facing the door.

There was no two-way mirror that someone on the other side could use to eavesdrop on a conversation, no security camera mounted to the wall recording her every move. So Amy hadn't been arrested or officially charged with any crime. Yet. If she had been, there was no way that Sarah would be allowed to talk to Amy in such a casual, unsecured setting. Why would Amy still be here, then? She would be free to leave. It would seem, then, to Sarah, that Amy was cooperating fully with the sheriff, answering any questions that he had about Julia's death. Would a guilty person do this? Sarah wondered. A guilty person trying to appear innocent might.

A few minutes later the deputy appeared in the doorway with Amy at her side. “I'll be just outside if you need anything,” the deputy said, and then shut the door behind her, leaving Sarah and Amy alone. For a brief moment, Sarah wished she had chosen the seat nearest the door in case she needed a quick escape. Amy was, after all, the number-one suspect in a murder. And if the report she got a glimpse of was correct, a particularly ruthless one.

The woman standing in front of her, however, looked incapable of committing such a horrific crime. Thankfully, someone had allowed her to change into unsoiled clothes and wash the vomit from her hair. But still she looked brittle, as if she might shatter at any moment. Her skin was pallid, her lips a bloodless white. Her eyes had a haunted, hunted look.

“Amy, are you all right?” Sarah asked in alarm. “Sit down. Have you gotten any sleep? Anything to eat?”

“I'm not hungry,” Amy said hoarsely, and slowly lowered herself into the chair as if her bones ached. “Listen, Sarah.” She got right down to business. “I need your help.”

“My help?” Sarah narrowed her eyes in confusion. “I'm not sure how I...”

“They're going to arrest me for killing Aunt Julia. I know they are.” Amy swallowed with effort and her eyes swam with tears. “But I didn't do it. I swear to God, I didn't.” Amy's hands trembled and her fingers kept going to her pockets as if searching for something. A cigarette, Sarah figured.

“Do you have a lawyer? Is there someone I can call for you?”

Amy propped her elbows on the tabletop and lowered her face into her hands. “No, I don't have a lawyer. I haven't been charged. Yet. And there's no way I can afford one.”

“I'm sure that Hal or Dean will help pay...” Sarah trailed off. Why would Hal or Dean pay for an attorney for Amy if they thought she had killed Julia? “Jack and I can help you,” she said before she could stop herself. What if Jack thought Amy was the one who hurt Julia? Would Jack really want to pay for a lawyer to defend the person who had killed the woman who was like a mother to him?

Amy lifted her head. “Dean and Hal won't help me,” she said matter-of-factly. “And Dean won't let Celia help me, either. I don't want your money, even if Jack would be willing. He's got his own ghosts to deal with. But I do need your help.” Her brown eyes were pleading and filled with what Sarah realized was fear. “I didn't do this to Julia. I loved her. I think I may have loved her even more than my own mother. Julia's been like a mother to me three times longer than my own mom.” The tears that had been gathering in Amy's eyes finally spilled.

“What do you mean, Jack has his own ghosts?” Sarah asked, but Amy just shook her head and brushed away the moisture from her cheeks.

“The deputy will be coming back in soon. The sheriff will have a warrant for my arrest, I just know it. I don't have much time. I didn't do this. I didn't kill Julia. That box with that
thing
in it...” A shiver of revulsion fluttered across her face. “That wasn't mine. I've never seen it before.” Amy moved toward Sarah and lowered her voice to a breathy whisper. “I swear I didn't do it, but I know who did.”

Sarah leaned toward Amy so that their noses were nearly touching. “Who?” Sarah asked, transfixed by the fear etched on Amy's face.

“Dean brought a bunch of stuff over the other day. Just after Julia fell. Said they were things that once belonged to my mom. He stuck them in the corner with all the other boxes. He did it. I don't know why, but Dean killed his mother and is trying to make it look like I did it.”

“Amy...” Sarah began doubtfully.

“Sarah, no one else will believe me.” She grabbed Sarah's hands, her thin, bony fingers digging into her skin. “He did it. I know he did. He's got a temper. He's the only one who could have hit her and knocked her down the stairs like that and then blame me for it.” There was a knock at the conference room door, but Amy kept her eyes locked on Sarah's. “You believe me, right? You'll help me?”

Sarah didn't. She tried to extract her hands from Amy's grip. “I think we need to get you a lawyer. But whatever you do, Amy, don't say anything more to the sheriff or to anyone else. The best way you can help yourself is to just stay quiet. I'll talk to Jack, and we'll get you a lawyer.”

There was another knock on the door. “About finished up in there?” came the deputy's voice.

“Jack won't hang around to help me. He can't wait to get the hell out of here. He's got his own secrets chasing him.”

“What does that mean?” Sarah asked as the door opened and the deputy peeked her face around the jamb.

“Hate to interrupt you, but the sheriff would like to talk some more with you, Amy.”

Amy released Sarah's hands, leaving behind half-moon indentations on Sarah's skin, her face falling in resignation. “Here we go,” she murmured.

“We'll get you a lawyer,” Sarah promised as she stood. “We'll do whatever we can to help you.” Impulsively, she bent down and hugged Amy; her thin shoulders sharp and unyielding let her know that she didn't believe her.

Sarah followed the deputy from the room. Gilmore, file folder in hand, came down the hallway. Sarah thought she knew what was in that folder—the report from the medical examiner describing the poison. Amy didn't mention anything about poison. But why would she? Amy didn't know that the sheriff was aware of the possibility that Julia had been poisoned.

The sheriff nodded to Sarah as he brushed past her without a word, a look of grim determination on his face. Amy was right. The sheriff was going to arrest her for Julia's murder. Sarah quickened her pace, eager to get back upstairs to find Jack, to tell him what Amy had told her about her suspicions about Dean, about her impending arrest, her need for an attorney. By the time she had climbed the steps and made the journey down the long hallway, she was out of breath and sweating. The lobby was empty except for Margaret and a weary-looking middle-aged woman leaning against the counter.

“Just let me find the form,” Margaret told the woman. She went over to a battered file cabinet and with difficulty bent down on one knee to reach the bottom drawer. “We don't get a whole lot of missing-persons reports. Usually the person is found before the first forty-eight hours, but once or twice a year...” She yanked on the drawer three times before it opened with a metallic screech.

“Last summer, we had a six-year-old get lost in a cornfield.” Margaret glanced up at Sarah. “I'll be right with you, Mrs. Quinlan,” she said, her tone impersonal, almost dismissive. She returned her attention to the woman. “It happens more than you think and not just to kids, but elderly folks, too. Usually we find them in just a few hours no worse for wear, but this kiddo...” She shook her head at the memory as she fingered through the files. “He was autistic. Afraid of the searchers shouting his name. That boy spent three days in that cornfield. It was near ninety degrees during the daytime and there were thunderstorms at night. Ah, here we go.” Margaret held up the form in triumph.

With effort she pushed herself up from the floor and trundled back to where the woman stood at the counter and laid the form in front of her along with a clipboard and a pen.

“Was the boy okay?” the woman asked, wanting to hear the rest of the story.

“Oh, sure. He ate the corn right from the stalk and drank water from the puddles left behind by the storm. He was just fine—scared his parents half to death, though. You can go ahead and sit over there and fill out the form. Try not to worry. They all show up sooner or later, especially the teenagers.”

The woman sniffled and wandered over to the bank of chairs.

“Now, Mrs. Quinlan,” Margaret said. “Your husband wanted me to let you know that he and the others were going to get something to eat and then head on over to the church to work on funeral arrangements.”

Margaret reached beneath the counter and pulled out Sarah's purse. “Celia gave me your purse before she left, and Jack left the car keys for you and asked you to call him when you were finished talking with Amy.”

Sarah was still taken aback by Margaret's standoffish bearing when she spoke again. “I put that recipe you asked for in your purse.”

“The recipe?” Sarah asked in confusion.

The young deputy who had escorted Sarah down to see Amy stepped into the lobby. “Is Margaret giving you her recipe for lemon squares? They are the best in town, but don't tell my mom I told you that.”

“You're too kind, Tess. Sarah wanted a recipe to make for Julia Quinlan's funeral dinner and I was happy to share. Now if you'll excuse me,” Margaret said, nodding to the both of them. “I'll just check on how this lady's doing with that missing-persons report.”

“Thank you,” Sarah said to Margaret's retreating form, still baffled by her odd behavior. She lifted her purse from the countertop, taken aback by its heft. She peeked inside to find a thick envelope. She looked to Margaret, who gave her a sharp shake of her head, then returned her attention to the woman and her form.

“I hope you like the recipe, Mrs. Quinlan,” Margaret said as Sarah pushed her way out the glass doors. “Let me know what you think.”

10

THE ENVELOPE, TUCKED
safely in her purse, weighed heavily on her shoulder and her mind. She couldn't wait to open it and see what was inside, but wasn't sure where she should go to read about the undoing of her husband's family.

She immediately dismissed Hal's house as an option. As far as she knew, they were still conducting a search of the home. The Penny Café or Dean and Celia's house were also out—there was too much of a chance of someone walking in on her while she read.

In the end she decided to drive out into the country and find some lonely out-of-the-way road. She drove outside Penny Gate about ten miles and turned onto a gravel road that appeared to lead to nowhere. No homes, no barns, no other cars, just miles and miles of cornfields. Sarah pulled off to the side of the road in a spot that allowed her to see if any traffic approached both from the front or the rear.

She reached into her purse and retrieved the large envelope. It was bottom heavy and she fingered the contours, trying to figure out what was inside. She pulled out a file folder and opened it to find a thick stack of typed transcripts and set it on the seat next to her. She reached back in and her fingers landed on what was indeed a metallic box. She pulled it out, and found an old Sony Walkman cassette player and earphones. She peeked into the envelope and saw three cassette tapes resting in their protective cases. Sarah tipped the envelope and the tapes tumbled out onto her lap, along with an unopened pack of batteries, courtesy of Margaret, Sarah was sure. Each audiotape was numbered and labeled in small, neat handwriting:
May 30, 1985, Lydia Tierney
. Sarah found the cassette tape number one, picked up the Walkman, pressed the eject button and slid the tape inside.

Sarah slid the earphones over her ears, pushed the play button and nothing happened. She removed the corroded batteries from the Walkman, replaced them with a fresh set and was immediately plunged back in time to the year her husband was fifteen and the day he found his mother's bludgeoned body. The audio was scratchy and slightly muffled. Sarah turned the small wheel on the side of the player, increasing the volume.

Gilmore:
This is Deputy Sheriff Verne Gilmore. Seven thirty-five p.m. on May 30, 1985. Interviewing Jonathan Paul Tierney, known as Jack, fifteen years of age. Jack?

Jack Tierney:
(Inaudible.)

Gilmore:
Speak a little more loudly, son. Right into the recorder here.

Jack Tierney:
Sorry.

Sarah gasped at the sound of her husband's voice at fifteen. A little higher pitched, but it was Jack. Her Jack.

Gilmore:
That's okay. I'm going to ask you a few questions about the events of today. We can stop at any time. Just let me know if you need a break, okay?

Jack:
Okay.

Gilmore asked Jack a series of simple questions. His address, his age, birthday, the names of his parents and his sister. Jack, his voice initially tight with nervousness, relaxed with Gilmore's gentle, casual probing. He was even able to get Jack to laugh a little, remembering the time when Gilmore, Jack and his father went fishing together and all three ended up falling into the pond.

The questions turned more serious, though Gilmore's tone remained friendly.

Gilmore:
Jack, tell me about this morning.

Jack:
I got up, helped my dad, ate breakfast, got on the bus like usual.

Gilmore:
What time was that?

Jack:
What time I got on the bus?

Gilmore:
Yes, and the time you got up. First, what time did you get up this morning?

Jack:
Six thirty.

Gilmore:
Then what did you do?

Jack:
I helped my dad for a little bit. Fed the dogs.

Gilmore:
What did you and your dad talk about?

Jack:
Nothing really. Said good morning. He told me to feed the dogs.

Gilmore:
What else?

Jack:
Nothing. We didn't talk. He went out into the fields.

Gilmore:
What time was that?

Jack:
I don't know. Seven or seven fifteen?

Gilmore:
Which was it, seven or seven fifteen?

Jack:
I don't know. I'm not sure. Probably seven. I was in a hurry. I still had to shower and eat. I thought I was going to miss the bus.

Gilmore:
What time did you get on the bus?

Jack:
Seven thirty.

Gilmore:
Seven thirty?

Jack:
Seven twenty-five. Seven twenty-five. The bus always comes then.

Gilmore kept hammering Jack on the timeline. What time Jack arrived at school, what time he left, what time he arrived at home. He then spent several minutes asking Jack about his mother's actions that morning. What they talked about, if his mother seemed worried or acted out of the ordinary. Sarah choked back tears when Gilmore asked Jack about the interaction he had with his mother just before he and Amy went outside to catch the bus.

Jack:
She said
(Inaudible).

Gilmore:
What was that?

Jack (crying):
She said, “I love you, Jack, I love you, Amy. Be good.”

Gilmore:
Let's take a break.
(Inaudible.)
It's okay, Jack. It's going to be okay.

Sarah's intense focus on the tape was suddenly disrupted by the low hisses of a pair of turkey vultures fighting over an animal carcass on the road ahead. Three more soared above, flying in slow, wobbly circles.

Part of her wanted to shove the recorder and tapes back into the envelope and return them to Margaret. It seemed wrong, almost unholy, to be intruding on this very private moment in Jack's life. But there was no turning back now. She had to hear the rest. She took a deep breath, settled back and slid the headphones over her ears.

Gilmore:
You said you got home from school at three o'clock?

Jack:
Yes, around three.

Gilmore:
Amy wasn't on the bus?

Jack:
No, she had 4-H, I think.

Gilmore:
But the bus stops at your house at three?

Jack:
Not at my house. Near our house. Down the lane. On the highway. The bus picks up a bunch of kids there in the morning and drops us off after school. We walk the rest of the way home.

Gilmore:
What kids?

Jack:
Like Brad Dahl and Terry Oswald.

Gilmore:
That all? Anyone else?

Jack:
Amy and Mattie Yoder. Maybe more.

Gilmore:
Let me know if I got this down right, Jack. Brad Dahl, Terry Oswald, Amy and Mattie?

Jack:
Yeah, but not Amy. She's at 4-H.
(Inaudible, sound of crying.)
Does Amy know? Where's my dad?

Gilmore:
You said there might have been more?

Jack:
Younger kids. I don't know all their names.

Gilmore:
The bus dropped you all off at three. At the bottom of your lane?

Jack:
Yes.

Gilmore:
I want you to think really hard before you answer my next question.

Jack:
Okay.

Gilmore:
What time did you get home today?

Sarah's stomach clenched and she leaned over so that her nose was nearly touching her knees. She could feel it coming. Jack was going to describe what he found when he came home that terrible day.

Gilmore:
What time?

Jack:
(Inaudible.)
Two. I got home at two.

Again, Jack's voice broke and she heard the sound of sniffling.

Gilmore:
You called the police at 3:05, Jack. You got home at two. What were you doing between 2:00 and 3:05? No lying here, Jack. How did you get home?

Jack:
My cousin. I cut school. Dean picked me up. He brought me home in his dad's truck.

Gilmore:
Then what?

Jack:
I went inside.

Gilmore:
By yourself?

Jack:
Yes. Dean left. I went inside. I ate a piece of cake, drank some milk.

Gilmore:
Then what, Jack. I don't want you to leave one thing out.

Jack:
I had to pee, so I was going to go upstairs to the bathroom, but Grey was sitting by the cellar door.

Gilmore:
Grey is your dog?

Jack:
Yes. My mom always makes him go outside when no one is home, so I thought that was kinda weird. I tried to get him to go outside, but he wouldn't get up. He just sat there by the door, shaking and whimpering.

There was a long pause, just the soft whirring of the tape threading through the recorder.
Gilmore was no longer pushing for Jack to answer; he was just waiting to see what Jack would say next. Sarah pressed the back of her hand to her mouth, mentally shouting at Jack to go back, to not open the basement door, but she knew he would. In a matter of seconds, fifteen-year-old Jack would speak the words he hadn't been able to in the thirty years since.

Jack:
I opened the door. Grey ran down the steps. It was too dark to see, so I turned on the light. I called for her. I called, “Mom.” But she didn't answer.

Here Jack's voice became strangled, difficult to understand.

Jack:
I went down the steps.
(Inaudible.)

Gilmore:
I know this is hard, Jack, but it's important that you tell me exactly what you saw.

Jack:
She was lying on the ground. On her back.
(Sound of crying.)
I kept saying, “Mom, Mom.” But she didn't answer.
(Inaudible.)
I walked closer to her. A towel was over her eyes. There was blood and her head looked funny. I knew then. She was dead.
(Sound of crying.)

Gilmore:
Almost done now, Jack. Almost done. That was at what time?

Jack (shouting):
I don't know. I don't know!
My mom was fucking dead. I didn't look at the clock! You...
(Inaudible, sound of crying.)

Gilmore:
Dean let you off at your house at two. You ate a snack. How long did it take?

Jack:
I don't know, five minutes, ten, maybe.

Gilmore:
You go downstairs at 2:10 and find your mother. Sound right?

Jack:
Yes.

Gilmore:
Jack, look at me. Look at me.

Any fatherly tone that Gilmore had conveyed earlier had dissipated.

Gilmore:
You didn't call the sheriff's department for another fifty-five minutes. What were you doing?

Jack:
I don't know.

Gilmore:
Jack.

Jack (shouting):
I don't know!

Gilmore:
Did you try to revive your mother?

Jack:
No.

Gilmore:
Did you touch her?

Jack:
No!

Gilmore:
There was a bloody handprint on the cellar door. Was it yours? Did you touch her?

Jack:
I don't remember.

Gilmore:
What are we going to find when we fingerprint you, Jack? Will your prints match the prints on the door?

Jack: (Inaudible.)

Gilmore:
I can't hear you, Jack.

Jack (shouting):
I don't know! I don't know!
(Sound of crying.)

Gilmore:
What were you doing from 2:10 until you called the sheriff at 3:05?

Jack:
I threw up. I threw up.
(Inaudible.)
Okay? She was dead! I threw up and I locked myself in the bathroom.
(Sound of crying.)

Gilmore: (Inaudible.)
Okay, Jack. We're done for now. Shhh. It's okay. We're done. We're done.
(Sound of crying.)

After a moment Sarah wiped her eyes and ejected the cassette from the player and tucked it in the file folder. Her eyes fell on the transcript that accompanied the tape and to a note scrawled in pen across the bottom of the first page.
Reinterview Jack Tierney. Inconsistencies in story. Reports of frequent arguments with mother. Number-one suspect.