The Body in the Woods (12 page)

In the office, two girls were sitting on the bench informally known as the “bench of doom” because it was where you waited to talk to the vice principal. Josie Karl had eyes outlined in black eyeliner a half inch thick. She looked exotic, like some cross between a lemur and a girl. And Becca Berry was wearing a skirt so short she really shouldn't be sitting down in it.

Not that Nick was complaining.

“I'm Nick Walker,” he told the office lady, Mrs. Weissig. With over a thousand students, the only people whose names she really knew were kids like Josie and Becca. Kids who spent a lot of time on the bench of doom.

She pressed her lips together, and he forgot all about Becca's skirt. “Nick, a Detective Harriman just called. He wants you to come down to police headquarters.” Her face was stern.

His heart seized.
Oh, crap
. When would he learn to think before he spoke? Was he going to get kicked out of SAR? Would this screw up his joining when he turned eighteen?

Her next words interrupted his internal monologue. “The detective said they have a suspect they want you to look at.” She nodded meaningfully.

He realized that she was impressed. Mrs. Weissig, who had seen everything. Twice.

It was like a gift. Nick raised his voice. “So you're saying the Portland Police want me to come down and identify a murder suspect.”

She nodded, her double chins wobbling. “That's what they said. Except for the murder part.”

Her correction didn't matter. Because Josie and Becca were already whispering.

Nick Walker. Key witness in a murder investigation.

CHAPTER 22

THURSDAY

IN A DARKENED ROOM

Ruby found a parking spot only two blocks from the Portland Police Bureau's Central Precinct. Her heart was beating fast. If they wanted her to look at suspects, then it must be one of the people they had met on the trail.

Her parents still didn't know she had taken part in the evidence search. This morning she had set the alarm for early and smuggled the newspaper to her room where she had hidden it. Last night, Ruby had played the Good Student, a role she had found her parents particularly liked. She had claimed to be studying at the library and had even come home with a stack of books she had checked out before class.

As she walked toward the police station, Ruby ran through what she knew about lineups. There were two kinds: photo and live. And there were two ways to conduct each kind: simultaneous and sequential. Sequential was the most accurate. In a simultaneous lineup, human error could creep in. A witness viewing a group of potential suspects might pick the one who looked most like the person who had done it. But “most like” was not the same as “the one.” The Innocence Project had freed hundreds of wrongfully convicted prisoners, and most of them had been sent to prison by witnesses who had misidentified an innocent person as the bad guy.

On TV, it was always a live lineup, probably because that was more interesting visually. Ruby felt a little shivery as she imagined herself in a darkened room, peering through one-way glass, watching a group of men shamble in and then turn and face her.

“Got any money?” a guy asked, startling her. He was only a few feet away, dressed in a dark hoodie and jeans. His cheeks were hollow, and his backpack was covered with layers of patches. Even though he was clearly a street person, Ruby thought he was her age, at most a year or two older.

“No,” she said. “Sorry.” And bit her lip so she wouldn't add that he smelled. Her mom was always reminding her not to make any personal observations that might be perceived as negative. The only exception was if the person could remedy the situation immediately. But the reek hovering over this guy like a cloud seemed sort of permanent.

Central Precinct's lobby was a circular soaring space, empty except for a directory set in green granite. The floor was made of alternating squares of pink and white marble laid on the diagonal. Uniformed cops walked quickly past Ruby, their steps echoing. On either side of the room, stairs curved upward in perfect symmetry, flanked by shining silver handrails. They looked like they belonged in some movie from the thirties, the kind Ruby's grandma liked to watch. As if two matching sets of chorus girls dressed in feathers and spangles would soon come high-stepping down either side. But the stairs were empty.

Posted on the wall was a notice that visitors had to check in at the front desk. She finally found it in a narrow, low-ceilinged hallway tucked behind the lobby. On the other side of a thick sheet of Plexiglas sat three clerks. Ruby leaned close to one of the round silver grilles. Next to her, a Hispanic man pressed a torn scrap of paper against the glass and muttered, “I need to talk to this guy.”

“I have an appointment to see Detective Harriman.” Her breathing was coming faster. Was the man next to her an informant? A wanted man?

After checking a list, the woman took a pen from behind her ear. Ruby was momentarily distracted, thinking about an old episode of
30 Rock
she had watched the night before. In one shot, Kenneth had had a pen behind his ear. But when the camera showed him from the front, the pen hadn't been there.

The clerk slid the pen and a red and white badge under the Plexiglas. It read
VISITOR
with a line underneath for a name. Ruby printed her name and then stuck the badge to the front of her jacket. She pushed back the pen, but didn't know what to do with the backing she had peeled off the tag. The clerk's blank expression offered no clue. Would it be rude to give it back? Finally she folded it up and put it in her coat pocket. The microphone buzzed and snapped when the clerk pressed a button and spoke to her in a monotone. “Go to the end of the hall and wait by the elevator doors.” Ruby did as she was told.

The doors slid open, and Detective Harriman stepped out, holding a file folder. He shook her hand, his face unsmiling. His hand was warm and dry, and she hoped her own didn't provide too much of a contrast.

“I have some photos I'd like you to look at,” he said as he pressed the button for the elevator so that it opened again. “To see if you recognize any of the people as being in Forest Park on Tuesday.”

No live lineup. Ruby felt a pinch of disappointment. Oh, well. It was enough to just be here. “Is there a particular person you're looking for?” she asked. “We saw several.”

“Just tell me if you recognize anyone in the photos.” He sighed. “That's all you need to do.”

After they stepped off the elevator, he walked her past fabric-walled cubicles that buzzed with ringing phones and dozens of conversations. They went into an interview room. There wasn't much to see—blank walls, a square table, and two chairs that didn't match. One was on wheels and one not. She guessed he would take the one on wheels, and he did. The wheels meant that he could change the space between himself and a suspect in a second, rolling up close to coax a confession in a near whisper.

Ruby could feel her pulse in her ears. How many people had confessed in this room? What dark deeds had been revealed? She looked around. “Where's the one-way mirror?”

Detective Harriman sighed again. “Those are all gone, except for on TV shows. These days it's just a video feed that can be watched on a monitor.” He laid the file folder between them. “Now, see if you recognize any of these people as someone you saw on the trail on Tuesday. I'm going to show them to you one at a time. They aren't in any order. With each one, I want you to tell me if you recognize the person. And it's possible that none of the photos I'm about to show you belongs to anyone you saw. You need to be sure. It's just as important to protect the innocent as it is to find the guilty.”

He opened the file folder. Inside was a stack of photos facedown. He turned over the first. A white man, about thirty, with a round face. “Do you recognize this man?”

Ruby had never seen him before. She shook her head and then said no, in case this was being recorded.

The detective turned the photo back over and picked up the next one. Superficially this man bore some resemblance to the first guy—white, around thirty, a full face.

So that was the type of person they were looking for. Ruby ran through the people they had met while they were looking for Bobby. The guy running with his dogs had been a little older and thinner. The bird-watcher was much older and had white hair and a beard. The homeless guy had darker skin and dreads. The guy on the mountain bike had been younger and had a little goatee. Of course, it was easy enough to change the appearance of your hair or for a man to shave, but your age and the shape of your face would be harder to alter. Still, Ruby thought they must suspect the man with the duffel bag.

He showed her two more photos, neither of which she recognized. Even though she was half expecting it, Ruby still sucked in her breath when Detective Harriman turned over the fifth photo.

He froze, looking at her.

“It's him. I saw him on the trail. The guy with the blue duffel bag. He told us he hadn't seen anybody.”

“You're sure it was him?”

“Of course I am. I remember those little eyes and the way the bridge of his nose looked fat, like it had been broken once.”

Detective Harriman grunted. “I still have to show you the rest. We just have to be sure.”

“You can, but there's no point. I'm certain.”

“It's just part of the procedure, Ruby.” He turned over one photo and then another.

She said no twice and then he was finished. “How about the other people we saw?” she asked. “Have you contacted them, too?”

“We talked to the bird-watcher and the mountain biker. But so far we haven't been able to locate either the guy running with his dogs or the homeless man.”

“What about the ones you did talk to? Did they see anyone?”

He let out a huff. “Ruby. I can't really talk about that.”

Was she going to be the sole witness who could put the guy with the duffel bag on the scene? Surely he was having the others view the photo lineup. But what would they say? “Are you having Nick and Alexis come in, too?”

Detective Harriman said, “Right now I'm interested in what you saw, Ruby. Not them.”

“It's just that I've read people are much better at picking out faces of people who are within their own race. Only all the people we saw that day were white except the homeless guy. And I think Nick is half African American. That might affect his perception.”

“Ruby, I appreciate that you are a crime buff.” There was a dissonance between his words and the expression on his face. “But let me remind you that this is my investigation.”

“Okay, okay.” She nodded rapidly. “What about this guy's shoes?”

“Shoes?”

“What did the soles of his shoes look like?”

“We didn't recover any clear prints made by anyone other than people in SAR and the first responders. That's why we printed you guys that night. For exclusionary purposes.”

“If I saw that footprint again, the one that was next to the body, I could tell you if it was the same one.”

“I don't think that will be necessary, Ruby.” Detective Harriman leaned back, lacing his fingers across his belly. “You may have already given us everything we need.”

CHAPTER 23

FRIDAY

IF THEY KNEW THE TRUTH

Late afternoon, and he was bored. People treated him as if he didn't matter. As if they didn't even see him. Their ignorance grated. If they knew the truth of who he was, of what he had become, the stupid smirks would be wiped from their faces. Their mouths would fall open. And then they would tremble in fear.

At moments like these, when everyone tried to make him feel powerless, he returned again and again to the memory of his first time, playing it out in slow motion. He let the moments slip through his mind like pearls on a string, each one precious and distinct.

He had met her downtown. She told him she was hungry, and the hollows in her cheeks underlined the truth of that. At a nearby McDonald's, he bought her a hamburger, fries, and some kind of abomination called a McFlurry, but suggested they go elsewhere to eat.

They went to the park. It was a perfect Indian summer afternoon, the turning leaves, shades of yellow and red, silhouetted against the bright blue sky.

The food was gone in just a few bites. She sucked the salt and ketchup from her fingers, but her fingernails were still rimmed with dirt. Her eyes were shadowed. She told him stories, some true, some maybe not so true. Her life, it seemed, was a mess. She had run away from her family in San Diego, spent time with a cousin in Vancouver, and then found it necessary to move on to Portland.

In turn, he shared a little about himself. About his interests. Tried to explain them to her.

But while she listened to him—or pretended to listen—her face, which had been so animated when she spoke about herself, about her problems, grew slack and expressionless. And then when he had tried to interest her further, she had been careless. Had nearly broken something that was precious to him.

He had only meant to reprimand her, but things had escalated and she had gotten upset. Then he had only sought to stop her shrieking. But she had fought him, forced his hand.

He remembered how her eyes had widened. How her hands had clawed at her slender throat. How her mouth had opened and closed, the cords standing out in her neck. And how she had finally, finally stilled. Then he had laid her down and regarded his handiwork.

She had given him a gift, without even meaning to. A wonderful surprise.

Her death had showed him the gift of life. A gift which was within his power to give.

Or to take away.

CHAPTER 24

SATURDAY

STILL GONE

Alexis started up on one elbow, her pulse racing. She had left the lamp on in the living room, and now she stared at the empty rectangle of light framed by her doorway. Had she heard the lock turning in the door?