Quilt City: Proving a Negative, page 14
Frank Yett and his family weren’t so lucky.
At 11 a.m., I called an editorial meeting. This time, we sat in the conference room, so we had easy access to the coffee and donuts set in the middle of the large, oblong table.
“First and foremost, has anyone heard from Mickey?” None of them had.
“He was supposed to conduct an interview yesterday at 5, and his roommate hasn’t heard from him since late Sunday night. I’m trying not to panic.”
“On, no,” Sheila said.
“Not good,” Dan and Ty said.
“That’s awful,” Teresa said, “but he’ll show up.”
“Eventually, yes,” I said, “but in what condition? Brandon thinks Mickey could’ve been picked up for DUI, left his phone in his impounded car, and doesn’t know anyone’s phone number.”
“Or he isn’t being granted access to a phone,” Dan said. “That’s actually probable because he’d be carrying his Pulse ID.”
I said, “At noon, if we haven’t heard from him, Garrett Hunt, a private eye, will start to look. In the meantime, what do we have?”
I poured myself more coffee but only eyed a jelly donut.
“No progress on who stole the hard drive with the crash footage,” Dan said. “Almost certainly an insider, but which one is the question.”
“I started looking through the videos the public sent,” Sheila said, “and it’s much worse than trying to find a needle in a haystack. We know there’s a needle in there somewhere, but we don’t know what we’re looking for, or if it’s even there, so how do we know if we see it? It’s nuts.”
“I agree,” I said. “I spent hours last night watching, without results. I checked a minute ago, and we’re up to one hundred thirty-six videos. Most of them are short, but a few are more than twenty-five minutes long. The frustrating part is that I could watch them all and not see something that one of y’all would see right off.”
“Are you saying what I think you’re saying?” Teresa said.
“Kind of,” I said. “I don’t want you to give short shrift to your stories, but if you find a few minutes here and there, watch a few videos and keep track of which ones you’ve watched. I haven’t seen any footage yet of The Windsor. No one would’ve had a reason to record the entrance or backdoor of a downtown hotel that wasn’t scheduled to be part of the action until Saturday night, and only the cast and crew would likely have known that, as well as PPD and employees of The Windsor, of course.”
“I’m pulling together a tribute to Patsy Kim,” Teresa said. “She was impressive. Valedictorian of her Catholic high school, president of her class, then made honor roll at Vandy every semester but one. MBA from Cornell. Youngest VP in the bank’s history. As I said, impressive, but if you ask me, she didn’t appear to have much of a social life. Married young, divorced soon after. Adopted a son, but I don’t know anything about him but his name: Jeremy. I could be jumping to conclusions, so I definitely won’t say as much in the article, but with Patsy, it seems like she achieved as a way to avoid relationships—not a joiner. No clubs, social groups, or church affiliation that I’ve found. But I’m not a shrink, and she could’ve been a fine mother, and I sure didn’t make the honor roll at Vandy.” We laughed. “I did get Best Smile in middle school, though.” More laughter.
“I look forward to reading the story,” I said. “What are you working on, Ty?”
“Well, after that person-on-the-street piece, and now that we’re approaching a hundred and fifty videos being sent, I’m thinking about doing something about the public’s cooperation, how they helped solve the crimes, how fast they reacted to your request, how many were helpful.”
“There’s almost something there,” I said, “but it comes close to making us the story. I don’t want your article to be self-aggrandizing. In different circumstances, I’d be all for you doing a ‘how-the-sausage-is-made’ article about how journalists gather information, develop sources, synthesize facts, then turn out stories. But I don’t think this is the right time for that, especially because nothing’s been solved yet, and the videos can prove pointless.
“However, I’ll make you this deal: If you want to watch every video while noting anything that strikes you as relevant to help solve the crimes and to write our stories, I’ll pay you time and a half. If anyone else wants in, you get the same deal. If I can hunker down for half a day, I’ll put this issue to bed, then watch more videos. If the website’s a little thin because y’all are helping to solve murders and the robbery of half a million dollars, I can live with a diminished product for a couple days. Keep track of your hours, and don’t hold back any relevant footage until you’ve viewed it all. Timeliness matters here, so please speak up. It’s time for me to hire Garrett to find Mickey. Good luck, and thanks for your hard work.”
I listened to eight voicemails, five of which were left by angry people spewing vitriol at me. The insults directed at me brought to mind a college professor who used the expression “an opprobrious epithet or sobriquet” frequently. He was a buffoon, but a buffoon who’d earned a Ph.D.
“I love you, and you can handle whatever’s thrown at you,” Brandon’s voicemail said. “I apologize for last night. I should’ve said you could be doing the right thing by asking for help. What the public doesn’t realize is that clearance rates are much lower than TV shows indicate. They’re bad and getting worse. A lot of crimes are solved because we received a tip, most of them anonymous. We get thousands of garbage tips, and that’s what I was reacting to because every detective hates pursuing leads that go nowhere. Our hours are already long. But, truth be told, without tips we would solve very few crimes. They’re a necessary evil. In other words, I apologize again, and I hope you find footage that helps us all make progress.”
Nadine’s voicemail said, “The girls were a hit at school yesterday. No question they had the best stories to tell. They can’t stop talking about how exciting it all was and how much fun they had. And I’m not exaggerating when I say they’ve asked at least four times when they can see you again. That’s a roundabout way of saying thank you, Hadley, for your generosity and hospitality, and for being who you are. I’m proud to call you my sister, and I love you. No need to return my call, unless you want or need to chat. I’m always available. Love you.”
The last call was from Nick Stoddard, my nemesis, the man I’d defeated in the mayoral race, the immoral sleazebucket who’d lost many lawsuits but had never spent a night in prison despite having committed a multitude of crimes. He said, “Ha, ha, Missy. You still glad you won? Job ain’t as easy as it seemed, is it? If you’re wondering why I called, I wanted to say you looked tired on TV. Guess chasing your own tail’ll do that to you. Bye, now.”
Did he have an agenda other than to prove he’s as petty, vindictive, arrogant, and mean-spirited as we all knew him to be? Was he simply trying to demean me because I’d shown him up in various ways, not the least of which was winning the election in a landslide? Was there a hidden meaning in his message? Or was he just a jerk?
I was too busy finalizing the pages so we could go to press that night to worry about Nicky-boy’s motives. I was four pages from finishing when I decided to bundle up so I could take a couple laps around the block because I’d been sitting for hours. I pulled on my parka, hat, and gloves, left the building, then walked counterclockwise around our building, past the former vacuum store being converted into a Chinese restaurant, and around the boarded-up brick structure that used to be an insurance office. I didn’t notice the graffiti on my first lap, but when I passed the former insurance office the second time, I glanced to my left and saw, scrawled in blue paint: not just a victim.
Was this a declaration of self-empowerment? Did the scrawler refuse to be defined by whatever tragedy had befallen him or her? Did the scrawl mean, “I am more than my trauma”?
That’s how I chose to read it, perhaps because I defined myself that way. Our wounds, scars, and losses help to shape us, but we can choose to define ourselves by our successes, by our friendships, by our careers, and by our loves. I completed my lap while wondering if I would have been as receptive as I was to Brandon if I hadn’t lost Matt. Meaning, had Matt’s murder not forced me to reassess our relationship—it’s flaws, my blind spots—would I have considered Brandon to be too different from Matt for me to date?
Life is filled with what appear to be a series of unrelated events, but our reactions to earlier occurrences determine which experiences we have thereafter.
As I closed Pulse’s backdoor, I wondered whether the graffiti was scrawled on the side of a boarded-up building where no security cameras existed for a reason. Was the tagger simply trying to evade detection? If so, why bother? The Pulse building had security cameras on it, but it might as well have been an art exhibit that rotated the art weekly, for what little good those cameras did.
“Yes, officer, I did capture the vandal on camera. He wore sneakers, jeans, and a black hoodie.”
“Don’t worry, ma’am, we’ll have him in custody by supper.”
Although the scrawl was probably random, it made me look differently at the facts pinballing around my head. What if Frank Yett, Wilson Lippert, Patsy Kim, Andrew Bates, and Chuck Anno weren’t all “just” murder victims, meaning not “only” victims? What if one or more of them participated in the crimes? This thought disturbed me because they had all recently been killed. Was I really casting aspersions on people who hadn’t yet been put to rest? Didn’t that come awfully close to victim-blaming?
Only if I blamed the wrong victims.
Many bank robberies, armored-car heists, and art thefts involve insiders who help to plan the crimes, leave a specific door unlocked, disable an alarm, or steer investigators in the wrong direction. So, I had to entertain the possibility that the theft of half a million dollars involved someone on the inside.
But the inside of what?
The bank would be the logical place to start.
I completed the last four pages, then sent the files to the Paducah Chronicle’s press, which I rented.
I felt so tired and stressed that I thought for a nanosecond about asking Ashley if I could be her plus-one for her Ryman concert during her Nashville stay. I needed a break, perhaps a getaway. I wanted to lie on a beach for three days, or to take a long, hot bath, or to lose myself in a quilt pattern until my anxiety subsided.
Instead, I found the phone number of Jeremy Lee, Patsy’s son. I called him, introduced myself, and offered my condolences.
“Thank you,” he said. “I was wondering when someone was gonna call.”
EIGHTEEN
BELOW THE LINE
“Why did you expect a call?” I asked.
“I mean, the money was stolen, and she worked for the bank. Seems logical the cops would consider her a suspect. They left a message for me to call them, but I don’t think that’s on me. I have a funeral to plan and don’t know how to do that while studying for an econ test.”
“I’m sorry. Planning a parent’s funeral shouldn’t happen at your age.”
“Life’s hard enough for college students. It’s non-stop pressure, and then this happens. I’m thinking of dropping out.”
“Which school do you attend?”
“Vandy, same as my mom. But she was a world-beater. I’m just doing okay.”
“We all do what we can. You’re grieving, so I shouldn’t have called. I apologize.”
“You’re fine. Been crying for days. Once you have to ID your mom’s body, there’s not a lot worse that can happen. I can’t bring myself to go through her possessions the coroner gave me. I’ll get there. So, ask what you have to ask. The worst I can do is hang up on you.”
“I’m rarely at a loss for words, but I can’t think of a polite or diplomatic way to ask you—”
“If my mom was involved?”
“Yes.”
“There is no polite way to ask, but that’s why I thought the cops would call back. I don’t know how the process works, but I’d guess they’re getting a search warrant for our house. I’m not saying I think she had something to do with the robbery. I don’t. She was a good person and a great mother, but I never asked her about finances. Tuition here’s a fortune, and she falls into that zone where she makes too much for me to get financial assistance but not enough to pay tuition comfortably. I take it back: I guess I did hear her say, ‘What was I thinking buying this house?’ She was talking to herself, so I didn’t want to interrupt. It’s too much house for us—brick, rambling, and a money pit. Lots of stonework in the large yard and far too much lawn for my taste and the environment. But it’s the house she wanted, so it’s the one she bought. I was ten at the time. I was home visiting when I heard her question why she’d purchased the house.
“I’m a junior, and I haven’t lived in Paducah since I left. I only saw her a few times a year—holidays, birthdays. I work during breaks. I wasn’t really in position to say how her finances were. But now that I hear myself say that, she loved puzzles, locked-room mysteries, escape rooms—anything that made her think on a pure level, even in the abstract.”
“Are you saying she might have planned the robbery to see if she could get away with it?”
“I didn’t say it, but I sure implied it, didn’t I?” He laughed. “Look, I’m bleary from lack of sleep. The shock, grief, travel, and anger have kicked my butt, so it wasn’t the true me who suggested that.”
“I understand. I think your mother is a victim. Because critical footage has gone missing of the stunt that precipitated this, I think that if there’s an insider, he or she is part of the production—a member of the SkyHawk Pictures cast or crew.”
“Makes sense.”
“But, because you think there’s a chance that law enforcement will soon have a warrant to search your mom’s home, do you think you can do me a favor? Well, both of us, I suppose.”
“Depends, but most likely.”
“I assume her phone was among the possessions the coroner gave you.”
“Yes.”
“Do you think you could go through her call log to see if any calls jump out? I know you’re grieving, and your test is coming up, but if you can spend a few minutes if you find the time …”
“I can only cry for so long, ma’am. Sorry, I forgot your name.”
“Hadley Carroll. If you can do that—and likely rule her out—you’ll save law enforcement the trouble serving a warrant or wrestling with her provider.”
“Not a problem. I’ve got your number. I’ll put your name in so I don’t forget. If I find something that doesn’t look right, I’ll call you. If not, I wish you the best.”
“Thank you, Jeremy. You seem like a solid young man. Call me if you need anything. I understand grief, or at least I’ve felt my share.”
“I hear you, and I’m sorry for that. But don’t take this the wrong way when I say I hope I don’t talk to you again. I’d prefer my mom to be who I thought she was.”
“Of course. Good luck and thank you.”
I walked three laps around the newsroom, then called Jenny in rehab. She said she was doing okay, “except for the whole sobriety thing. Just kidding, but it’s hard, really, really hard.”
“It must be very difficult,” I said, “but you can do it. I have confidence in you. Millions of others have gotten sober, and you’re much stronger than you give yourself credit for being. You had to be to survive Mom and everything she put us through. When you get out, we’ll spend time with our funny, creative nieces. They’re a hoot.”
“Can’t wait, Hadley Gladly. I guess I’m getting better, but I feel guilty about the cost of this place.”
“Please only concern yourself with your recovery.”
“Okay, and Evan.”
“Wait, Evan? Your ex?”
“No, a new one. In here. Weird, huh?”
“You’re kidding me. Jenny …” I couldn’t find any words, let alone the right ones.
“No, he has almost two weeks more sobriety than I do.”
“Jenny-bean, I beg you. Please concentrate on your health, not your loneliness.”
“Or my libido. Yeah, yeah. That’s what everyone keeps saying in group, but …”
“They’re right. Listen, I have to go. I should be onsite for the print run. But I love you and miss you. I’m happy you’re making progress, and I’m proud of you. Very proud.”
“Counting the days. Love you.”
Two hours later in the Paducah Chronicle building, while I oversaw the end of the press run, Ashley called. I pulled out an earplug and heard her say, “Two cops are raiding us with guns out.”
I heard a man shout, “Drop the phone NOW!” then a thud. The line went dead a short time later. Within a minute, my phone rang. I knew the call came from the security company that had installed the cameras on the Pulse building. The competing newspapers were housed only two blocks from each other, and if the press hadn’t been rumbling, I would’ve heard the alarm in the Pulse building going off.
The cops were raiding my house and my newspaper. I braced for the nightmare to come—a jail cell, lawyers, a courtroom, lawsuits, and many more sleepless nights.
I texted Brandon: Getting arrested. Don’t know why.
When the din from the press went silent so the press workers could switch from one paper roll to the next, I called Dakota and said, “You’re still my lawyer, right?”
“Of course. The dollar you gave me is in my wallet.”
“You’ll have to bail me out when PPD realizes where I am. They’re raiding Pulse and my house, probably confiscating everything.”
“Oh, Hadley. I’m on it.”
“Thank you. I’m going to call Brandon and have him swing by the house to get Ashley out of there, if they haven’t arrested her. If I can’t reach him, I’ll text you so you can go there first. I’ll be fine. I hear great things about jail.”
She snickered. “Hang in there. I’ll swing by the house to see what they’re doing, then by Pulse. If they got a warrant for this nonsense, the judge has to be a friend—and was likely drunk. There’s no way Suzanne endorsed this. Not by a long shot. She’d have approached you like the sane person she is.”
