Lies Still Told, page 14
After a while, they’d switch them up. He’d told her the whole thing could go on for hours. It sounded like a mild form of torture to her, and she was grateful that she’d met Gabe long after he’d moved out of his parents’ home. Now, she simply just tolerated the piles of newspaper that would gather and appreciated the compromise that Gabe had made. They would not get a newspaper delivered every day, only on Sundays. However, multiple papers would arrive that day. The Sunday Baywood Bulletin was double the weekday version, but still very manageable at twenty or so pages. The Sunday editions of the Madison Wisconsin State Journal and the Minneapolis Star Tribune were more substantial. The Sunday New York Times just added to the pile.
An additional part of the compromise was that every Saturday, Gabe would gather up the previous week’s editions and deposit them in the recycle bin so that the ritual had a fresh start. When Rena lifted the garbage lid on Sunday morning and saw the newspaper on top, she reached for it, thinking that Gabe had mistakenly put it in the blue bin versus the green bin.
She might have tossed it in the recycling without missing a beat if she’d not caught a glimpse of her own face. On page one of the Baywood edition that had been delivered just that morning. The photo had been taken years ago, the same one that was on the ID badge that she used to swipe into police headquarters.
It was not her best photo. The headline was even worse. Parents of Local Teen Don’t Accept Cop’s Explanation.
What the fuck?
There were no chairs in the garage, so she sat down on the cold, hard, concrete floor and read the article, getting more and more agitated. It was six paragraphs, written by James Adeva, who covered the crime beat. He’d also authored the first article in the newspaper about the incident, under the headline Cop Kills Teen. In the first instance, he’d done a decent job of reporting just the facts. The who, what, where, when. This one was very different. He’d interviewed Kyler Wiberry’s parents, who were, of course, reeling over their son’s death.
She had not talked to these people. She had offered no explanation. A cop wasn’t supposed to do that. And she certainly wouldn’t do it while she was suspended pending an investigation.
Adeva had asked for the Wiberrys’ reaction to what the mayor’s chief of staff had said when asked about the incident during an impromptu press conference yesterday at the Sanitation Department after engineers had to be summoned to hastily fix a leak that had sprung up in a newly constructed waste station.
The chief of staff had been there to talk about shit and instead had dished out shit about her. “Detective Rena Morgan is our youngest and newest detective on the Baywood police force,” the chief of staff was quoted as saying. “She was off duty at the time, running personal errands and judged that firing her weapon was an appropriate response given the circumstances.”
Both statements were factual. Taken separately, they weren’t all that big of a deal. Together, they made her look as if she was an inexperienced cop who’d pulled her weapon because she’d resented having her shopping trip interrupted.
Adeva’s focus in the six paragraphs was the torment of parents losing their oldest child. Of their concern for their younger children, who didn’t understand why their brother would never come home. They lamented about what a good kid he’d been, how good a son, how wonderful a brother.
The article didn’t acknowledge the fact that he’d pistol-whipped an employee, fired the first shot and was preparing to fire again.
She carried the newspaper into the house. Put it on the table. Was sitting there when Gabe got out of his recliner to refill his coffee cup. He stopped short when he saw her with it.
“You don’t have to protect me from this,” she said.
He crumpled it up. “It doesn’t belong in this house. We know what you did, Rena, and why you did it. The people outside of this house who know you and care about you are going to know that it was a legitimate and appropriate response from a highly trained police officer.”
“Maybe James Adeva could interview you.”
“I think James Adeva better not show his face to me right now,” Gabe said. He wrapped his arms around her. “I wish I could do something for you. All I can suggest is to stay focused on the fact that this, too, shall pass. It’ll soon be a new year. Fresh.”
Fresh but not necessarily better. She kept that thought to herself. “I heard from A.L. He and Tess are going to the mayor’s New Year’s Eve fundraiser.”
“Are we still going?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” she admitted. “I can’t even see that far ahead.” She paused. “I hate that that kid is dead. I hate it with every bone in my body. And my heart is breaking for those parents.”
“Of course it is,” he said, rocking her back and forth. “I imagine that deep down they’re reeling over the actions their son took.”
She wasn’t sure. That could be said about so many things. She wasn’t sure that she wasn’t going to see his young face the next time she picked up her gun. Wasn’t sure that she…
She didn’t even want to think the words. Let alone say them.
Maybe this was it. The Big One. Not because of anything that the higher-ups or the administrative Review Board would decide. It would rest on her shoulders.
The headline would be short, cryptic. Cop Loses Her Nerve.
A.L. found Marty Meadows with his head under the hood of a van that had seen better days. “Mr. Meadows?” he said.
The man straightened and turned. He wore blue work pants and a matching blue shirt. He moved easily, but his face was lined, making him look older than the mid-forties that he probably was. “Yeah,” he said, sounding distracted, as if he was still thinking about what was under the hood.
“Detective McKittridge, Baywood Police Department,” he said, holding up his badge.
“I paid my damn child support,” Marty said.
“That’s good, but I’m not here about that,” A.L. said. The woman at the front had simply waved a hand in Marty’s direction when he’d asked to see him. Perhaps he got regular visits from the cops. “I want to talk to you about Veronica Host.”
“Roni,” he said. Then laughed. “She hates it when I call her that.”
“Are the two of you friends?” A.L. asked.
“We’re friendly. Most of the people who drink at Ride ’Em Rough are. That’s why I go there.”
“I’m specifically interested in any conversation you might have had with Veronica Host this past Wednesday night?”
The man hesitated. “Do you know Roni?” he asked.
“A little,” A.L. admitted.
“Then you probably know that she’s moody as hell. ‘Runs hot and cold’ is how my dad used to put it. Sometimes she can be fun and friendly, and other times, she’s… Well, I suppose if I’m being honest, I’d say she’s a bitch.”
“Which side of Veronica did you see Wednesday night?”
“More on the bitchy side. Not anything she said specifically, but she was really quiet and made it clear that she didn’t want to have any conversation. Maybe she’d had a bad day at work. I remember that she got there a little bit later than usual. I remarked on that, and she said that she’d been visiting a ghost.”
“Kind of an odd thing to say,” A.L. said.
“Yeah. I asked her if it was Casper. You know, the friendly ghost?”
“And what did she say?”
“I don’t think she answered me. That’s when I knew it was going to be one of those nights that I was better off giving Roni a wide berth. My ex-wife was a little bit like her, and I learned that lesson too late.”
A.L. problem with his own ex-wife was that he’d likely given her too wide of a berth. When she’d been mad about something, they had rarely mixed it up. Instead, he’d pretended he didn’t see it. Small things, big things. Had thought, at the time, it wasn’t a bad way to keep the peace. But in retrospect, all he’d done was turn a blind eye to an ever-growing abyss that had ultimately convinced Jacqui to look elsewhere.
“Anything else you can tell me about Veronica?” A.L. asked.
The man smiled. “I think she looks really good in a tight sweater.”
That wasn’t quite what he was looking for. “She ever talk about her father?” A.L. asked.
The man thought for a minute. “I don’t recall anything. I think if I had to guess, I’d say he’s dead.”
“He is,” A.L. said.
“Hard to lose a parent. I’m lucky. I still have both my mother and father.”
A.L. still missed his mom. “You are lucky,” he said. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Meadows.”
From the garage, he drove straight to Veronica’s house. He rang the doorbell and waited, his breath creating a plume of white smoke every time he breathed. He wondered whether she smoked inside her house, or would she stand outside in the bitter cold for a few puffs?
Finally, the door opened. She was wearing sweats and a long sweater, and her hair was pulled back in a ponytail. She looked more like the kid he remembered from the neighborhood. But she wasn’t smiling.
“A.L.,” she said.
“May I come in?” he asked.
She motioned him forward. “Christmas shopping in Wausau?”
He shook his head. “I’m continuing my investigation into your father’s murder. Do you have a few minutes for some additional questions?”
“Again, dear old Dad would be so happy right now. ‘A.L. had to really bust his tail.’ Like, he got the last laugh. And you know how Dad loved a joke. Loved to tell ’em. The raunchier, the better.”
She didn’t sound so much bitter as resigned. She stepped back and motioned him in.
He took a seat in a chair in the living room. She took the couch and pulled a throw blanket over her legs. He doubted she was going to be so relaxed once he told her that they’d tracked her cell phone to Baywood the night her father was killed.
“I’d like to go through the events of Wednesday night with you,” he said. He pulled out his notebook and leafed through some pages. “You said that you arrived at Ride ’Em Rough at nine.”
“Around nine.”
“Plus or minus how many minutes?” he asked.
“I don’t know. Maybe ten,” she said.
“So, just so that I’ve got this straight, you arrived at the bar sometime between 8:50 p.m. and 9:10 p.m.?”
She nodded.
“That’s a yes?” he said.
“Yes.”
“And where were you before you arrived at the bar?”
“Here,” she said.
He nodded. “And how long were you home before you decided to go to the bar?”
She shrugged. “I don’t know. I guess a couple hours.”
He nodded. Looked her in the eye. “You want to try that answer again, Veronica?”
She said nothing.
He waited.
“I did not kill my father,” she said.
He said nothing.
She looked up at the ceiling, as if the answer might be written there. Finally, she looked back at A.L. “I was in Baywood before I went to the bar.”
“What were you doing in Baywood?” he asked. They both knew that she’d lied to him. There was no need to make a big deal of it. Yet.
“I had some crazy idea that maybe I would talk to my father again. That maybe we could have a conversation that didn’t end up with me feeling like shit.”
“And did that happen?”
“No. Because I never talked to him that night.”
“You drove all the way to Baywood with the express intent of talking to your father, but yet you didn’t. Why not?”
“I went to his house. I was parked outside. Mentally psyching myself up to knock on his door. And then I see him leave the house. I followed him.”
“Where did he go?”
“To an apartment in The Commons. He made two trips into one of the buildings, his arms filled with boxes. Like he was fucking Santa Claus or something.”
“Then what?”
“I followed him to a bar on Eighth Street.”
The Wild End Tavern was on Eighth. “Remember the name?”
“No. I think it used to be Sullivan’s when we were growing up. Corner of Eighth and Weston.”
That was it. “What happened then?”
“He went inside. I got out, looked in the window and could see him sitting at the bar, chatting it up with the woman tending bar.”
“Did you know her?”
“Not really.”
“That’s an interesting answer, Veronica,” he said. “You either do or do not know a person.”
“I have never met her. But I was pretty sure who she was. My mother told me about a woman in Baywood. This conversation was years ago, shortly after their divorce and before my mother and I became estranged. Anyway, after my dad left the bar, I went inside and asked one of the servers what the bartender’s name was. It was who I thought it was. Tawny Lane.”
“What did your mother tell you about Tawny Lane?”
“That she was the daughter of a man that my father had been friends with. The man is in prison. My dad… Well, let’s just say he apparently looked out for Tawny Lane.”
“Why?”
“My mother said that she didn’t know. I guess we can assume it’s because of his friendship with Tawny Lane’s father.”
“You didn’t talk to Tawny Lane at the bar?”
“Nope. No interest in doing that.”
“Was your mother friends with Tawny Lane?”
“I have no idea. I sort of doubt it. When she told me about her, she was pissed. Thought it was ridiculous that my dad and this woman had a relationship. I think at one time she thought it might be sexual, but I think she was fairly satisfied that it wasn’t. That, or she simply didn’t care if he was fucking someone else. It wasn’t as if it would be the first time.”
She knew that her father had been unfaithful. At least once. Was that the reason that she thought her mother was a fool? How did she feel about her father’s infidelity? He’d circle back on that before they finished this conversation. But now, he wanted to get into the meat of it. “Let’s get back to your visit to Baywood. You specifically drive there to have a conversation with your father, and you follow him to the bar. Then what happens?”
“I came back to Wausau. Stopped home to change my clothes, and then I drove to Ride ’Em Rough. Where I enjoyed a few drinks. And you know the rest.”
“Why did you change your clothes?” he asked.
She rolled her eyes. “Because I had on jeans and a flannel shirt and that’s not what I wear when I go to the bar.”
“Can I see what you were wearing on Wednesday night?” he asked.
“You want to look at my dirty laundry?”
“Yes.”
“Jesus, A.L. This is getting ridiculous. I’ll get it.”
“I’ll come with you,” he said.
He followed her down the hallway, into her bedroom, and over to the far corner, where there was a laundry basket. She pointed at it. “About halfway down. The green and blue flannel and the dark jeans.”
A.L. fished gloves out of his coat pocket and put them on. Then he lifted the clothes that were on top. He recognized the sweater that she’d been wearing at the bar on Thursday when he and Rena had first come to Wausau. Underneath it was the sweater that she’d worn to the bar on Wednesday night. Directly below that was the flannel shirt and jeans. The clothes were in the order he would have anticipated.
He pulled out the shirt and jeans and examined them. There were no visible stains, blood or otherwise. But there could be gun residue. “I’d like your permission to take these with me,” he said. “I’m going to get an evidence bag from my truck. I’d like you to walk with me.”
“It’s pretty fucking cold out, A.L.”
“I’ll wait for you to get a coat.” He didn’t want there to be any question that she’d tampered with the clothing once he’d identified it.
It took less than five minutes for him to bag and tag the clothing. She had said nothing since her comment about the weather. They were back in the living room.
“I’m curious about why you go all that way to have a conversation, and you leave before having it,” he said.
“Because I realized as I sat in my car outside that bar that I would rather give up my dream of owning my own salon than ever have to beg my father for anything. I guess I realized that sometimes there is too big a price to pay to get something you think you want.”
It was time to cut to the chase. “Why didn’t you tell my partner and me about your trip to Baywood that night when we first came to Wausau?”
“I don’t know. I guess because I thought knowing that I was in Baywood would muddy the waters. Your arrival caught me off guard, and I got nervous.”
Could be true. She hadn’t seemed all that nervous at the time, but then again, some folks were really good at hiding their true emotions. Truth be told, some might say that about him.
“Is there anything else that you haven’t been truthful about or that you might have omitted during my first visit?”
She shook her head.
“Have you spoken to your brother?”
“He called. I let it go to voice mail. He wants me to meet him at the house, to look at things.”
The business of tidying up after death. “Are you going to do that?”
“I don’t know. I haven’t decided. It’s probably not fair to him that he has to go through everything. Maybe I’ll just call and tell him to light a match.” She smiled. “Fuck, A.L. I hope my dad’s house doesn’t burn down now.”
“I hope not, either.” He resisted the urge to smile. There was that slash of humor that he’d always seen in Veronica when she was a kid. He really didn’t want her to have killed her dad. But he needed to keep an open mind. Platt deserved that.
