Blood on My Hands Page 15

  “Christ, only in the movies,” mutters the man giving orders, who I think must be Chief Jenkins.

  “Ready to stake your job on that?” asks the other man.

  “Wilson, go find a janitor or someone who knows where the ducts are and check them.”

  “Ten-four, sir.”

  A door opens and closes. Is the police chief still here? Is he alone in the lounge or did he leave, too? I strain to hear what’s going on. Then there’s a burst of walkie-talkie static. “Chief?”

  “Whatcha got, Howard?”

  “Nothing, sir.”

  “You checked under the cars, too?”

  “Affirmative, sir.”

  “Okay. Remain where you are and keep your eyes open. She can’t have just disappeared.”

  “Ten-four.”

  The lounge goes quiet, but I can hear breathing. I’m pretty sure Police Chief Jenkins is still here, but there could be someone else, as well. I wait. How long is he going to stay in the lounge? Why doesn’t he leave? I hear a faint hiss and a thump, as if a window was just closed. “She’s got to be somewhere in this building,” he says.

  “Or she could be hiding in that crowd,” the other man answers in a way that makes me think he’s an equal or a confidant. He didn’t feel the need to add “sir” or “chief.”

  “It’s only a hundred people,” Chief Jenkins replies.

  “Someone could be helping her.”

  It’s quiet for a moment. Then the police chief mumbles, “Christ, what a mess.”

  “Did you ask her about the medical review board?” the other man asks.

  “She won’t talk about it,” Chief Jenkins answers.

  “What about the other girl and the Clemment kid?”

  I lie perfectly still, afraid to move, trying desperately to hear an answer. The “Clemment kid” has to be Griffen. What could he possibly have to do with this? But just as the police chief begins to answer, his words are drowned out by applause coming from outside. The next thing I clearly hear is the other man saying, “The congresswoman’s leaving?”

  “That was quick.” Chief Jenkins must be standing beside the window, looking down at the crowd.

  “And still no sign of her,” the other man says gravely and without the astonishment I’d expect to accompany that statement. “What do you make of it, Sam?”

  “Damned if I know.”

  “Know what worries me?” the other man says. “That we may never know.”

  Know what? I wonder. What are they talking about? Are they worried they may never know who did it? Why did the other man bring up the medical review board? Was Mia the “other girl” they were talking about? And what is Griffen Clemment’s role in this? I wish Chief Jenkins would answer, but there’s only more silence until the other man says, “I better get moving.” I hear something faint that might be a soft pat on the shoulder. “I’m sorry, Sam.”

  The opinion piece in the Soundview High School Bugle was supposed to have had both Mia’s and my names on it. That was what she said would happen. But there it was with only my name on it, causing a big stir. Even I was surprised when I reread it. Somehow it looked and sounded different on my computer than it did in black-and-white print on the opinion page. At school some kids came up and congratulated me, but it seemed they were impressed more by my bravery than by what I’d had to say. Others glanced in my direction, frowned, and shook their heads, as if I’d voluntarily climbed into the lion’s cage.

  As soon as first period was over, I looked for Mia in the hall and the girls’ room but couldn’t find her. I did the same thing after second period. By the end of third, I was almost certain she was avoiding me, so I sent a text: Have 2 talk 2 U.

  The reply came almost instantly: Home sick.

  So not only had Mia left my name alone on the piece we’d cowritten; she’d left me alone in school to face the reaction. I couldn’t help wondering just how sick she was.

  Chapter 38

  Wednesday 2:55 P.M.

  HIDING IN THE cabinet under the sink was uncomfortable, but being crammed into the pool table is way worse. I’m afraid any movement I make will result in a noise, and there’s no place to move anyway. It’s hard staying in one endless position with various parts of my body pressing against the wood until they throb painfully, then seem to go numb, then awaken and throb again. Quietly, I make whatever tiny adjustments I can, trying to take the pressure off the points that hurt the most.

  Meanwhile, it feels like hours have passed, but I know that’s just what I imagine, and it probably hasn’t been nearly that long. What keeps me going and helps me endure this confinement is a sort of astonished hope. So far, my plan has worked! I’m not sure I really believed that it would. But I got to Congresswoman Jenkins and didn’t get caught. And I have to believe that no matter how much she loves her daughter, no matter how much she doesn’t want to believe a thing I’ve said, I’ve sowed a seed of doubt. Somewhere in her mind, she’s got to be wondering. At the very least, when she goes into her kitchen tonight, won’t she have to check her knives?

  But now that feels like the easy part, compared to what I have to do next. The plan I’ve set for myself requires me to stay in the pool table until after everyone’s gone, when I’ll emerge and sneak out of the town center. But it’s hard to wait in this painful position, especially when I’m not tired and can’t count on a nap to help me pass the hours. But it’s like everything else I’ve done. I’ll just have to force myself to make it to the end.

  And the time does pass. I can tell by the subtle, barely noticeable changes in the light coming through the pockets of the table. Especially when it begins to fade and then, finally, go dark.

  Yet I still don’t move. Instead, I listen—for the sounds of doors closing, of voices bidding each other good night, of car engines starting.

  And then, after another eon, I feel like it’s time. I’ve been in here so long that my body is beyond stiff. My joints are frozen. But it worked! A whole police force couldn’t find me!

  I’m so eager to get out that I push a little too hard on the end of the pool table and it swings open. Thunk! It bumps against the wall. Instantly, I freeze and listen for someone somewhere in the building to ask, “What was that?” But there’s no sound. It’s been a long day and the ceremony is over and I’m sure they’ve all gone.

  Carefully, I inch my way out of the pool table until the tips of my fingers touch the floor, and I ease myself the rest of the way out like a butterfly crawling out of its chrysalis. The next thing I know, I’m crouching low, finding it hard to believe how good it feels to be out of that tiny cramped hiding place. The first thing I notice is that the room is not quite dark. I’ve misjudged. But at least the light is gray and I can see that it’s twilight outside. That’s not bad. All I have to do now is wait quietly here in the lounge until it’s dark, and then go.

  For a long moment I stay crouched, my feet and fingertips on the cool concrete floor, and take deep breaths to steady myself before moving again.

  Finally I feel like I’m ready to stand. I lean back on my haunches and slowly rise.

  And find myself staring at a man sitting on one of the plastic-covered couches.

  “I couldn’t do it,” Mia said that night when I called to ask why she’d taken her name off the article in the Bugle. “I just didn’t want it to look like it was some kind of personal vendetta.”

  “So now it looks like it was my personal vendetta,” I said bitterly. “Thanks a lot.”

  “No, everyone knows what happened in the cafeteria. Even if my name wasn’t on that article, they know how I feel about her.”

  There was some truth to that. “What is with her, anyway? I mean, why is she so nice most of the time and then she gets so evil?”

  “Know what my mother says?” Mia asked. “I mean, she’s really smart about things like this, and she thinks Katherine has a massive inferiority complex. Not because she was adopted, but because she thinks she’s supposed to be a Remington.”r />
  “But the Remingtons don’t do things like that, do they?”

  “That’s exactly what I said. But it’s not about what the Remingtons do or don’t do. It’s what Katherine thinks she has to do in order to feel like one. It’s not about what’s real, Callie. It’s about what’s in her head.”

  “It’s so weird.”

  “Yeah, but you know what?” Mia said. “It doesn’t excuse the way she’s treated me. I’ve totally had it with her. And if it’s any consolation, I’m not finished with her. Not by a long shot.”

  Chapter 39

  Wednesday 5:38 P.M.

  “VERY IMPRESSIVE, CALLIE,” the man says calmly.

  I feel myself go cold and tight. I recognize his face from the TV in the convenience store. It’s Chief Jenkins. I glance at the door.

  “No, no,” he says, following my eyes. “It’s over now. No more running and hiding. No more disguises.” He pushes himself up from the couch and reaches into his pocket. I hear the clink of metal handcuffs. “Turn around and put your hands behind you. Don’t resist. You’re already in enough trouble.”

  I do what he says and feel the cuffs go around my wrists. Chief Jenkins recites the Miranda warning, that anything I say may be used against me. Strangely and unexpectedly, I feel relief. I don’t have to hide anymore. I don’t have to be constantly looking over my shoulder or have knots in my stomach about getting caught.

  With a hand on my arm, he walks me downstairs and into the police department. The officers all stare silently. They know who I am. We go into an office with an American flag standing in the corner, bookshelves filled with ring binders, and a desk with a computer and some family pictures. In one is a young man with some tennis rackets. His son? I wonder.

  Chief Jenkins tells me to turn around. I feel him remove the handcuffs. “Have a seat.” He gestures to a chair while he sits down on the other side of the desk and pushes a phone toward me. “Call your mom.”

  I get Mom on the phone and have to wait while she breaks down and sobs and tells me how worried she’s been. She wants to know where I’ve been and what’s going on, but mindful of the Miranda warning, I just keep reassuring her that I’m okay and she doesn’t have to worry. When she asks me when I’m coming home, all I can say is that I don’t know.

  The call ends with her urging me to cooperate with the police and do whatever they tell me. After all she’s been through with my brother, I take the advice seriously. There’s a knock on the door and a thin, balding man with a salt-and-pepper moustache sticks his head in. Before he speaks, he looks at me for longer than necessary, as if I’m something he’s never seen before. Then he turns to the police chief: “PD’s here.”

  I recognize the voice. He was the one speaking to Chief Jenkins in the lounge this morning.

  The police chief turns to me. “We’re going to question you, Callie. You’re entitled to legal representation, and I’ve taken the liberty of requesting a public defender. Chief Detective Bloom will take you down to the lab.”

  I follow the chief detective down a hall, thinking, Oh no, not another public defender. We go into a police lab no larger than a closet. Inside, a policewoman asks me to open my mouth, and then rubs the inside of my cheek with several different-colored swabs. She also takes my fingerprints.

  Next I’m taken to a bare room with a table, some chairs, a large mirror against one wall, and a video camera on a tripod. A woman in a black suit jacket and skirt is sitting in one of the chairs, speaking on a cell phone. She’s small, maybe a few inches taller than me, and has mahogany skin and neat shoulder-length brown hair.

  “That’s correct, Mrs. Carson,” she says into the phone while giving me the straight index finger “just a moment” sign. “Yes, of course. I’ll call you as soon as I can.”

  She snaps the phone shut. Bloom leaves us, and the woman introduces herself as Gail and tells me she’s a public defender. “So I guess you know I was just speaking to your mom.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “She gave me permission to represent you. I’ve just been called on to this case, so all I know is what I’ve read in the news and seen on TV. What I’m going to do today is listen to each question they ask and let you know whether or not I think it’s okay for you to answer. If I tell you it’s okay, it’s important that you answer honestly and directly. But only answer the question, Callie. Don’t provide any additional information unless they specifically ask for it. And remember, they’re not just asking these questions for information. Depending on how you answer them, they’ll be trying to assess whether or not you’re telling them the truth. So try not to do the things that make people look guilty.”

  “But I’m not guilty,” I protest.

  Gail nods perfunctorily, as if this isn’t the first time someone’s said that to her. “Good. So maintain eye contact. Be aware that they’ll probably repeat certain questions at different times in the interview to see if there are inconsistencies in your story.”

  Her attitude reminds me of that of Sebastian’s public defender. They don’t even think about trying to prove you’re innocent. All they want to do is make a plea bargain and move on to the next case until they’ve gotten enough experience to get hired by a private law firm and start making real money.

  “Ready?” Gail asks, and without waiting for my answer, she goes to the door and opens it. A moment later Chief Jenkins and Chief Detective Bloom enter. Bloom goes to the video camera, turns it on, and makes sure it’s aimed at me. Then he and Chief Jenkins sit down.

  “Tell us everything you remember from the night Katherine Remington-Day was murdered,” Bloom says.

  I turn to Gail, who nods; then I tell them what I remember. The two men take notes. When I’m finished, Chief Jenkins says, “You’re certain it was Dakota Jenkins who told you to look for Katherine?”

  “Yes.”

  “And she specifically told you to look around the dugout?”

  “Yes.”

  Bloom asks, “Was there anyone else with her when she told you where to look?”

  “I don’t think so. I think she was alone. Why?”

  “We need corroboration,” Chief Jenkins replies. “Someone else to testify that what you’re saying is true.”

  “But why would I lie?” I ask.

  “Callie,” Gail says, interrupting. “It’s best to let them ask the questions. All you have to do is answer and tell the truth.”

  “No one’s accusing you of lying, Callie,” says Chief Jenkins. “This is just the way the law works. Testimony needs to be corroborated.”

  Bloom continues the thread: “When you went toward the dugout, did you see anyone else around there?”

  I try my best to remember, then shake my head. “No.”

  “Did you hear anything that might have made you think someone else was there?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  Bloom and Jenkins glance at each other. The questions go on and on. What did I do when I saw Katherine’s body? Why did I pick up the knife? Why did I run away? Is it true that Katherine and I were supposed to go into peer mediation? Why did I write that article for the school newspaper? Just as Gail predicted, sometimes the questions are reworded and then asked again.

  “If you didn’t do it, why did you run away?” Bloom asks for what must be the third time.

  “I told you, I was scared. Someone took a picture of me with that knife in my hand. After what happened with my brother, I just assumed they’d think I did it.”

  “Okay,” says Chief Jenkins. “Even if that’s true, why continue to hide? Once you’d had a chance to calm down and think about it, why not turn yourself in then?”

  I look at Gail, who nods, indicating I should answer. “Because by then I thought I knew who really did kill Katherine. And I believed the only way I could prove I didn’t do it was by proving she did. But I wouldn’t be able to do that if I turned myself in.”

  The room goes quiet. Jenkins and Bloom look at each other with grave expressions. Neit
her speaks. Meanwhile, Gail frowns and asks, “Who do you think killed her?”

  I stare at Chief Jenkins, right into his pale hazel eyes, and say, “Your niece, Dakota.”

  Gail blinks with astonishment and sits back in her chair. She also looks questioningly at Chief Jenkins. “No, I’m happy to say that’s not true,” he says.

  “How do you know?” I ask. “I bet you haven’t even considered that possibility.”

  “Whoa!” Gail says, interrupting again, and places her hand on my arm. She gives me a concerned, quizzical look, as if it’s suddenly occurred to her that I may have a few loose screws. She turns to Chief Jenkins. “Sir, I think at this point I need to familiarize myself a little more with this case. Can we continue the questioning tomorrow?”

  The two men share another glance. Bloom nods. Chief Jenkins turns to Gail. “Only if you’re okay with us keeping her in custody.”

  “You heard they caught her?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “I feel awful. I keep thinking that maybe if I hadn’t asked her to help me …”

  “But she didn’t let on to you, right?”

  “I know. That’s what makes it so hard to believe.”

  “Just don’t blame yourself, okay? You didn’t know.”

  Chapter 40

  Thursday 9:35 A.M.

  ONCE AGAIN IN handcuffs, I am driven to a juvenile detention facility and taken through a metal detector and several heavily reinforced doors before being placed in a cell by myself away from the rest of the inmates. Meals are brought on a tray by a silent matron, who waits and watches while I eat, and then takes the tray away.

  My mother arrives with dark bags under her eyes and her hair hanging limp and unbrushed. She looks even more exhausted and worn out than usual.

  In the visiting room, the matron watching us doesn’t stop me from reaching over and taking my mother’s hand, which feels cold and bony. She’s weepy and bewildered and doesn’t understand why the police won’t let me go. All I can do is reassure her. “It’s going to be okay, Mom. I promise. Everything’s going to work out. If they really thought I did it, they would have arrested me, right? They’re just holding on to me to make sure I tell them everything I know.”