The Deepest of Secrets, page 3
“No, I haven’t got drunk and told anyone. Haven’t pillow-talked and told anyone. I drink to forget what happened, not share it. The only people I’ve talked to about it are you and Casey, and only after Casey figured it out.”
“Okay,” I say, uncapping my pen. “Eric and I know. Mick had a copy of the journal with Will’s page still in it. That’s how I found it.”
“Because Isabel found the journal after Mick’s death,” Dalton says. “If there’s any chance he knew it was Will, she might too.”
“She’ll be at the top of my interview list, which I’m sure she expects. I can’t see her telling anyone. That leaves Mathias.”
“Mathias?” Anders’s head jerks up. “I sure as hell never told him.”
“He has hinted that he knows both our secrets,” I say. “As for where he got them, I’d presume the council told him.”
“Shit,” Anders mutters. “Here I thought the leak was obviously that journal.”
I shake my head. “We destroyed both Mick’s copy and Eric’s.”
Dalton nods. “Yeah, finding out Mick got hold of it made me realize I shouldn’t be keeping notes.”
I lift my notebook. “Nothing in here either. Once we’ve figured out someone’s story, we destroy the evidence. No amount of safekeeping works in Rockton, where hiding something only tells people it’s important.”
“I’d underestimated that,” Dalton says.
“Mick was a cop. He was concerned. But, yes, it’s likely that the leak came from his notes. Or someone else got to your journal before you removed Will’s pages.” I lift a hand. “I know you kept it secure. Mick only got it because he had access to the station.”
“I wasn’t going to argue. I screwed up, and if that’s what caused this, then I’m sure as hell not going to duck the blame.”
I tap my pen. “Will was the last person left from your journal, right? As I recall, everyone else in it is gone.”
“Yeah, no one’s around from those days except Will.”
“Lucky me,” Anders mutters.
“While it’ll be cold comfort to you,” I say, “at least we don’t need to worry about other targets.” I snap my book shut. “Okay, that’s how we’ll handle the investigation. Now the question is how we’ll handle the revelation.”
“That’s up to Will,” Dalton says. “He should take some time.”
“No need,” Anders says. “I already know what I want to do.”
THREE
It’s morning. The announcement is scheduled for 8 A.M., which is the optimal time for a town meeting of any urgency. Most people won’t be at work yet, but they’re already up and can’t complain we held it too early, hoping for a small turnout. Not that I’ve ever done that …
I would gladly have tackled this with another 6 A.M. “free coffee and pastries” meeting. I suggested it last night but wasn’t surprised when Anders vetoed the idea. He’s not letting anyone accuse us of trying to bury this in a two-inch column on page six. It’s headline news, and we must treat it that way.
We posted notices last night. This morning, the militia do the rounds, employing the town crier method—they walk up to a building and shout the announcement, and whoever didn’t catch it can ask a neighbor.
I don’t join those rounds—I’d be stopped constantly for questions. Instead, I’m outside the bakery when Devon and Brian come by to open up. When I’d first landed in Rockton, they were relative newcomers themselves. They’d arrived a month apart and moved in together shortly after that. They’re still together—a rarity in Rockton relationships—and are due to head back south next month. Both have applied for extensions, and both still expect to get it. They won’t. No one does these days.
I haven’t told them that. I’m still arguing their case. Still hopeful that the council will reverse course, while knowing I’m reaching the point where hope is sliding into delusion.
When I see the guys walking into work, I brace for the inevitable question about their extension. Instead, Devon says, “Early town meeting?”
“Eight A.M.” I hold up a sign that says the bakery is closed until nine, but free coffee and pastries will be available at the meeting. “Yes?”
Devon smiles. “Stick it up, and we’ll switch to catering mode.”
“Lot of signs going up these days,” Brian says.
I must tense, because he grimaces. “Sorry. That sounded snarkier than I intended. We heard about the one last night.”
“I will refrain from asking whether it’s true,” Devon says as we walk through the bakery rear door. “Though I’m glad to be closed until post-meeting, so I don’t spend the next two hours telling everyone I don’t know any more than they do.”
Devon has a reputation as the best source of information in town. Some would call it gossip, but he draws a line between innocent chitchat and malicious rumor. It’s fine to say Jane was seen moving her stuff into John’s place. It’s not fine to say Jane is allegedly messing around with Jill while living with John.
“Will’s going to speak at the meeting,” I say. “My concern is who posted that sign.”
Brian pulls carafes from the shelf as Devon starts up the industrial coffee machine. The bakery has some of the few solar panels in town. Solar power may seem the obvious way to go, especially during long summer days, but the reflective surfaces interfere with the structural camouflage that hides us from passing planes. Minimal panels only, mostly for large-scale cooking operations like this one. They’ll start the coffee with the electric brewer and then switch to fire-heated water when demand subsides after the morning rush.
It’s only after they’ve gotten the stove and coffee maker started that Devon says, “I haven’t heard anything about who posted it yet, but I’m sure I will. I’ll pass it all on. I wouldn’t want anyone knowing why I’m here, either. It’s not that sort of thing, but it’s still no one’s business.”
Brian grunts his agreement as he sets out ingredients for baking. He’s the real baker, and I suspect that was his down-south job. Devon is the prep guy and barista. He sets about tending to the coffee and grabbing things for Brian as we talk.
I lean against the counter. “Something tells me ‘none of their business’ won’t apply in Will’s case. But we’ll work it out. I just want to talk to whoever did this, in case they know other stories.”
A little fear works in my favor here. I’m not going after the person who hurt my friend; I’m protecting the privacy of all.
I continue, “Do people ever ask for that kind of news? Whether you know what brought people to Rockton?”
Devon’s nose scrunches. “Yeah. Oh, they always have an excuse. They just started seeing someone or they switched jobs or moved into a new apartment, and is there anything they should know about their new girlfriend, coworker, neighbor? I shut that down fast. I remind them that no one’s here because they did anything dangerous so…” He pauses and glances my way. “Well, that’s what I did tell them. Not so sure that’s the truth anymore.”
He says it in a level tone. No accusation. I still feel the accusation, because it’s legitimate. People came here to escape something, often violence, and now they need to worry that others have come here to escape the consequences of committing violence?
I don’t answer. He doesn’t seem to expect one, just checks the progress of the coffee.
Then he continues, “You’re also going to ask whether I’ve heard any of those stories—what brought people here. Sometimes, yes. There are people who don’t hide their reason. There are people who drop enough hints that they might as well scream ‘I embezzled company funds.’ There are people who get drunk and confess that they double-crossed their drug dealer. Line the locals up, and I could make an educated guess at stories for a quarter of them.”
“None of those ever suggested violence?”
He pauses. Then he sighs. “Not many, but some, and no, I didn’t automatically dismiss my suspicions while wearing my Pollyanna rose-tinted glasses and chanting ‘no one here has done anything bad.’ I know we have rotten apples, whether they snuck in or bought their way in. I also know Will isn’t one of those rotten apples. If he did this, well…” Devon shrugs. “I won’t pretend I’m not salivating for the full story, but I’ll reserve judgment until I get it.”
“Have you ever heard anyone talk about why Will’s here?”
“Never. You guys are different.”
I frown. “Different how?”
Devon shrugs. “You’ve come to do a job. Like people who go to work on the oil rigs for two years and take home a pot of cash for it. We figure that applies to all the professionals—you, your sister, Will, Isabel, all the essential-services workers. Even Mathias. Everyone grumbles about why he gets a chalet when he’s only the butcher.” Devon snorts. “Only the butcher. Right. Guy’s obviously a shrink watching the rest of us for signs of isolation-induced mental breakdowns. So, no, people don’t ask what Will’s here for. They figure he’s just doing a job.”
I nod, and he can interpret that however he likes. Then we chat a little more before I steal a thermos of coffee and head off to find Dalton.
* * *
Down south, I was one of those annoying people who showed up for a 2:00 P.M. meeting at 1:55 and expected it to start by two. I have no patience with those who think “two o’clock meeting” actually means you start hauling your ass out of your desk chair at two and maybe take a bathroom break on the way to the meeting. It’s a matter of training people. If they know it never starts on time, they have no incentive for arriving on time.
Today, I’m climbing that podium a couple of minutes early, as if we can somehow zoom through before the late arrivals make it.
You snooze, you lose.
Except the only thing they’ll lose is the chance to hear the story firsthand. The version they get will be the warped one, several iterations down the telephone line. I don’t want that. So while I’m up there early, I wait until exactly eight before I begin.
If there’s one advantage to the town shutting down, it’s that fewer incoming residents means less time spent explaining protocol for new arrivals. No one has arrived since the last two meetings, so I can launch straight in without mentioning the coffee and pastries or asking people to hold questions or reminding them that they won’t be counted as late for their shifts.
I go straight into the story of what happened last night. Someone posted a sign right here on the movie screen, and this is that sign.
Hold up the paper. Read the paper. Make damn sure no one can later claim they couldn’t see it themselves.
When I’m done, I turn the podium over to Anders.
He doesn’t waste a moment on preamble. “You all want to know whether I did what it says on that sign. Whether I shot my commanding officer. The short answer is yes.”
He waits for the inevitable exclamation to subside. It does, quickly, because everyone knows this isn’t the end of the story, and they don’t want to miss a word.
“I would be happier ending my confession there,” he says. “Yes, I did it. Now let’s deal with that. But if I do, Casey will get back up here and fill in the rest. Eric will remind me that it is my duty, as law enforcement, to take your concerns seriously and therefore provide the entire story. Since I’d rather not have them defend me…”
He takes a deep breath. “Here’s the story. These aren’t excuses. There are none. The gist of what that sign says is true. I killed my CO. As for the mental breakdown part, yes, I was having trouble coping with the stress. I was on medication. It was causing side effects that concerned me.”
He catches my eye. “Casey will want me to point out that I mentioned those concerns to my doctor. I should have stopped taking the medication but…”
He shrugs. “As Eric always says, I’m a good soldier. I do as I’m told, and I trust those in charge. I took the medication despite my concerns. One night I dreamed I shot my commanding officer. As you can guess, it wasn’t a dream. I sleepwalked in and shot him in what the doctors called a fugue state.”
Someone grumbles, and someone else snorts. Dalton and I both turn sharply, visually identifying the offenders and mentally noting names. Anders only glances their way and shrugs.
“Yep, that sounds like an excuse,” he says. “Which is why I’m uncomfortable giving it.”
“Mental illness is never an excuse,” Isabel calls from her porch. “It’s an explanation, and anyone who cares for a mini-lecture on what Will is describing can join me at the Roc an hour before opening. I’ll even throw in a free drink.” She pauses. “One free drink.”
A chuckle ripples through the crowd as people relax.
“The point,” Anders says, “is that I did kill a commanding officer, and I had no motivation for doing so. This wasn’t a movie, where I heroically shot a tyrant. I temporarily lost my mind.”
“Lost your mind because of medication,” Isabel says. “Which has not been a concern since that time.”
I catch her eye and shake my head. I know she’s trying to help, but Anders has asked us to stand down. Everyone knows we’re Anders’s friends, and having any of us defend him doesn’t help. We need to trust residents to work this out for themselves.
“That’s the sum of it,” Anders says. “Now I’m sure you have questions…”
“Let me get this straight,” Conrad says, moving forward. “You were a soldier who murdered his CO and fled to Rockton? Escaped justice?”
“He never said that,” someone else says. “It happened in his past. He killed his CO accidentally—”
“Accidentally? He walked in and shot him.”
“He wasn’t in his right mind.”
“Is he now? What if he snaps again?” Conrad looks up at Dalton. “I demand Deputy Anders be removed from his position and shipped out immediately.”
Dalton surges forward, but I grab his arm.
“We will consider all possibilities,” I say. “We’d like residents to take a bit of time to digest this and—”
“Then you’ll form a committee to devise a poll, another committee to conduct the poll, a third to interpret the results, and maybe a task force or two thrown in there, too, so by the time you declare Anders unfit for duty, we’ll all be gone and no one will be left to give a shit?”
“No,” I say slowly. “We’re asking for a couple of days to investigate—”
“Investigate what? Find the whistleblower and ship them out before we can ask more?”
“Let Casey talk,” Devon says. “She’s trying to answer your questions and you keep interrupting.”
“You got a problem with that?” Conrad turns on Devon. “Sticking up for your friends? Or hoping this all blows over before your real past comes out?”
“My real past would put you to sleep.”
“That’s not what I heard. Got caught with your hand in the cookie jar, I hear. And by cookie jar, I mean ‘the pants of a twelve-year-old boy.’”
“What the hell?” Devon says. “That is—”
“Homophobia,” says a French-accented voice as Mathias strolls forward. “Pure and simple homophobia. Pedophilia is a common accusation leveled against gay men by the wretchedly ignorant.”
“Who the hell asked you, old man?” Conrad says. “We can guess what you’re here for. You’re a little too handy with that butcher’s knife.”
“Many years of practice carving up my victims,” Mathias says. “Most of which were never found. If you cut the pieces small enough—”
“That’s enough,” I say. “Don’t get him going, please.”
“How about you?” It’s Jolene this time, piping up from the back. “What did you do, Casey? Shot some kid, right? Pretended you thought his cell phone was a gun?”
“Casey and Will were brought to Rockton for their policing skills,” Isabel says.
“Which includes shooting innocent tourists,” Jolene says. “Two months ago, you both shot that woman from the woods.”
“You mean the bitch who tried to murder a resident?” Jen walks from the crowd. “You want to accuse Casey and Isabel and Eric of being Will’s friend? Well, I’m no one’s friend, and I still call bullshit on you and Conrad. Deputy Anders confessed. He didn’t have to. It’s not like anyone can look it up on the internet. He confessed, and I accept his explanation.”
“Why? What’d you do?”
“Fuck you.” She looks between Conrad and Jolene and then up at me. “Can we lock these two idiots in a cell and let the adults finish this conversation?”
“No,” a voice says quietly from the back. It’s Gloria, a shy woman who has never caused any trouble. “I have concerns, too. I’d like to hear everyone’s opinion. I don’t think this is the time for silencing voices.”
A few others agree, and when anyone voices support for Anders, Conrad or Jolene turns on them with “And what did you do?,” leaving only Anders’s allies daring to take his side.
“This isn’t working,” I murmur to Dalton.
“Shut it down,” he says.
And we do.
* * *
We’ve retreated to the Roc. At first, it was the police force plus Phil and Isabel, but others have trickled in. April. Petra. Kenny. Sebastian, slipping in cautiously, as if we might kick him out. Even Mathias joins us, though he pretends he’s just keeping an eye on Sebastian.
“So that wasn’t what I expected,” Anders says. “I didn’t think anyone was going to congratulate me for telling the truth, but I did hope it’d win me a few brownie points.”
“Then you do not understand human nature,” Mathias says as he sips his coffee. “You are a popular man in town. You are respected. You are liked. You have many gifts that others lack, and they will smile at you and be friendly while they must, but once you show weakness?”
“Like when a celebrity stumbles and people gleefully pile on,” I say.
“It doesn’t help that he’s a Black man,” Sebastian says.
Everyone turns to look at him.
“What?” Sebastian says. “Am I wrong?”
“You are not,” Mathias says. “Even those who would insist race is not a factor will consider it subconsciously. It appears to reinforce bias. William is a Black man, therefore he is violent. He is a Black man, therefore he should not hold a position of authority.”
“Okay,” I say, uncapping my pen. “Eric and I know. Mick had a copy of the journal with Will’s page still in it. That’s how I found it.”
“Because Isabel found the journal after Mick’s death,” Dalton says. “If there’s any chance he knew it was Will, she might too.”
“She’ll be at the top of my interview list, which I’m sure she expects. I can’t see her telling anyone. That leaves Mathias.”
“Mathias?” Anders’s head jerks up. “I sure as hell never told him.”
“He has hinted that he knows both our secrets,” I say. “As for where he got them, I’d presume the council told him.”
“Shit,” Anders mutters. “Here I thought the leak was obviously that journal.”
I shake my head. “We destroyed both Mick’s copy and Eric’s.”
Dalton nods. “Yeah, finding out Mick got hold of it made me realize I shouldn’t be keeping notes.”
I lift my notebook. “Nothing in here either. Once we’ve figured out someone’s story, we destroy the evidence. No amount of safekeeping works in Rockton, where hiding something only tells people it’s important.”
“I’d underestimated that,” Dalton says.
“Mick was a cop. He was concerned. But, yes, it’s likely that the leak came from his notes. Or someone else got to your journal before you removed Will’s pages.” I lift a hand. “I know you kept it secure. Mick only got it because he had access to the station.”
“I wasn’t going to argue. I screwed up, and if that’s what caused this, then I’m sure as hell not going to duck the blame.”
I tap my pen. “Will was the last person left from your journal, right? As I recall, everyone else in it is gone.”
“Yeah, no one’s around from those days except Will.”
“Lucky me,” Anders mutters.
“While it’ll be cold comfort to you,” I say, “at least we don’t need to worry about other targets.” I snap my book shut. “Okay, that’s how we’ll handle the investigation. Now the question is how we’ll handle the revelation.”
“That’s up to Will,” Dalton says. “He should take some time.”
“No need,” Anders says. “I already know what I want to do.”
THREE
It’s morning. The announcement is scheduled for 8 A.M., which is the optimal time for a town meeting of any urgency. Most people won’t be at work yet, but they’re already up and can’t complain we held it too early, hoping for a small turnout. Not that I’ve ever done that …
I would gladly have tackled this with another 6 A.M. “free coffee and pastries” meeting. I suggested it last night but wasn’t surprised when Anders vetoed the idea. He’s not letting anyone accuse us of trying to bury this in a two-inch column on page six. It’s headline news, and we must treat it that way.
We posted notices last night. This morning, the militia do the rounds, employing the town crier method—they walk up to a building and shout the announcement, and whoever didn’t catch it can ask a neighbor.
I don’t join those rounds—I’d be stopped constantly for questions. Instead, I’m outside the bakery when Devon and Brian come by to open up. When I’d first landed in Rockton, they were relative newcomers themselves. They’d arrived a month apart and moved in together shortly after that. They’re still together—a rarity in Rockton relationships—and are due to head back south next month. Both have applied for extensions, and both still expect to get it. They won’t. No one does these days.
I haven’t told them that. I’m still arguing their case. Still hopeful that the council will reverse course, while knowing I’m reaching the point where hope is sliding into delusion.
When I see the guys walking into work, I brace for the inevitable question about their extension. Instead, Devon says, “Early town meeting?”
“Eight A.M.” I hold up a sign that says the bakery is closed until nine, but free coffee and pastries will be available at the meeting. “Yes?”
Devon smiles. “Stick it up, and we’ll switch to catering mode.”
“Lot of signs going up these days,” Brian says.
I must tense, because he grimaces. “Sorry. That sounded snarkier than I intended. We heard about the one last night.”
“I will refrain from asking whether it’s true,” Devon says as we walk through the bakery rear door. “Though I’m glad to be closed until post-meeting, so I don’t spend the next two hours telling everyone I don’t know any more than they do.”
Devon has a reputation as the best source of information in town. Some would call it gossip, but he draws a line between innocent chitchat and malicious rumor. It’s fine to say Jane was seen moving her stuff into John’s place. It’s not fine to say Jane is allegedly messing around with Jill while living with John.
“Will’s going to speak at the meeting,” I say. “My concern is who posted that sign.”
Brian pulls carafes from the shelf as Devon starts up the industrial coffee machine. The bakery has some of the few solar panels in town. Solar power may seem the obvious way to go, especially during long summer days, but the reflective surfaces interfere with the structural camouflage that hides us from passing planes. Minimal panels only, mostly for large-scale cooking operations like this one. They’ll start the coffee with the electric brewer and then switch to fire-heated water when demand subsides after the morning rush.
It’s only after they’ve gotten the stove and coffee maker started that Devon says, “I haven’t heard anything about who posted it yet, but I’m sure I will. I’ll pass it all on. I wouldn’t want anyone knowing why I’m here, either. It’s not that sort of thing, but it’s still no one’s business.”
Brian grunts his agreement as he sets out ingredients for baking. He’s the real baker, and I suspect that was his down-south job. Devon is the prep guy and barista. He sets about tending to the coffee and grabbing things for Brian as we talk.
I lean against the counter. “Something tells me ‘none of their business’ won’t apply in Will’s case. But we’ll work it out. I just want to talk to whoever did this, in case they know other stories.”
A little fear works in my favor here. I’m not going after the person who hurt my friend; I’m protecting the privacy of all.
I continue, “Do people ever ask for that kind of news? Whether you know what brought people to Rockton?”
Devon’s nose scrunches. “Yeah. Oh, they always have an excuse. They just started seeing someone or they switched jobs or moved into a new apartment, and is there anything they should know about their new girlfriend, coworker, neighbor? I shut that down fast. I remind them that no one’s here because they did anything dangerous so…” He pauses and glances my way. “Well, that’s what I did tell them. Not so sure that’s the truth anymore.”
He says it in a level tone. No accusation. I still feel the accusation, because it’s legitimate. People came here to escape something, often violence, and now they need to worry that others have come here to escape the consequences of committing violence?
I don’t answer. He doesn’t seem to expect one, just checks the progress of the coffee.
Then he continues, “You’re also going to ask whether I’ve heard any of those stories—what brought people here. Sometimes, yes. There are people who don’t hide their reason. There are people who drop enough hints that they might as well scream ‘I embezzled company funds.’ There are people who get drunk and confess that they double-crossed their drug dealer. Line the locals up, and I could make an educated guess at stories for a quarter of them.”
“None of those ever suggested violence?”
He pauses. Then he sighs. “Not many, but some, and no, I didn’t automatically dismiss my suspicions while wearing my Pollyanna rose-tinted glasses and chanting ‘no one here has done anything bad.’ I know we have rotten apples, whether they snuck in or bought their way in. I also know Will isn’t one of those rotten apples. If he did this, well…” Devon shrugs. “I won’t pretend I’m not salivating for the full story, but I’ll reserve judgment until I get it.”
“Have you ever heard anyone talk about why Will’s here?”
“Never. You guys are different.”
I frown. “Different how?”
Devon shrugs. “You’ve come to do a job. Like people who go to work on the oil rigs for two years and take home a pot of cash for it. We figure that applies to all the professionals—you, your sister, Will, Isabel, all the essential-services workers. Even Mathias. Everyone grumbles about why he gets a chalet when he’s only the butcher.” Devon snorts. “Only the butcher. Right. Guy’s obviously a shrink watching the rest of us for signs of isolation-induced mental breakdowns. So, no, people don’t ask what Will’s here for. They figure he’s just doing a job.”
I nod, and he can interpret that however he likes. Then we chat a little more before I steal a thermos of coffee and head off to find Dalton.
* * *
Down south, I was one of those annoying people who showed up for a 2:00 P.M. meeting at 1:55 and expected it to start by two. I have no patience with those who think “two o’clock meeting” actually means you start hauling your ass out of your desk chair at two and maybe take a bathroom break on the way to the meeting. It’s a matter of training people. If they know it never starts on time, they have no incentive for arriving on time.
Today, I’m climbing that podium a couple of minutes early, as if we can somehow zoom through before the late arrivals make it.
You snooze, you lose.
Except the only thing they’ll lose is the chance to hear the story firsthand. The version they get will be the warped one, several iterations down the telephone line. I don’t want that. So while I’m up there early, I wait until exactly eight before I begin.
If there’s one advantage to the town shutting down, it’s that fewer incoming residents means less time spent explaining protocol for new arrivals. No one has arrived since the last two meetings, so I can launch straight in without mentioning the coffee and pastries or asking people to hold questions or reminding them that they won’t be counted as late for their shifts.
I go straight into the story of what happened last night. Someone posted a sign right here on the movie screen, and this is that sign.
Hold up the paper. Read the paper. Make damn sure no one can later claim they couldn’t see it themselves.
When I’m done, I turn the podium over to Anders.
He doesn’t waste a moment on preamble. “You all want to know whether I did what it says on that sign. Whether I shot my commanding officer. The short answer is yes.”
He waits for the inevitable exclamation to subside. It does, quickly, because everyone knows this isn’t the end of the story, and they don’t want to miss a word.
“I would be happier ending my confession there,” he says. “Yes, I did it. Now let’s deal with that. But if I do, Casey will get back up here and fill in the rest. Eric will remind me that it is my duty, as law enforcement, to take your concerns seriously and therefore provide the entire story. Since I’d rather not have them defend me…”
He takes a deep breath. “Here’s the story. These aren’t excuses. There are none. The gist of what that sign says is true. I killed my CO. As for the mental breakdown part, yes, I was having trouble coping with the stress. I was on medication. It was causing side effects that concerned me.”
He catches my eye. “Casey will want me to point out that I mentioned those concerns to my doctor. I should have stopped taking the medication but…”
He shrugs. “As Eric always says, I’m a good soldier. I do as I’m told, and I trust those in charge. I took the medication despite my concerns. One night I dreamed I shot my commanding officer. As you can guess, it wasn’t a dream. I sleepwalked in and shot him in what the doctors called a fugue state.”
Someone grumbles, and someone else snorts. Dalton and I both turn sharply, visually identifying the offenders and mentally noting names. Anders only glances their way and shrugs.
“Yep, that sounds like an excuse,” he says. “Which is why I’m uncomfortable giving it.”
“Mental illness is never an excuse,” Isabel calls from her porch. “It’s an explanation, and anyone who cares for a mini-lecture on what Will is describing can join me at the Roc an hour before opening. I’ll even throw in a free drink.” She pauses. “One free drink.”
A chuckle ripples through the crowd as people relax.
“The point,” Anders says, “is that I did kill a commanding officer, and I had no motivation for doing so. This wasn’t a movie, where I heroically shot a tyrant. I temporarily lost my mind.”
“Lost your mind because of medication,” Isabel says. “Which has not been a concern since that time.”
I catch her eye and shake my head. I know she’s trying to help, but Anders has asked us to stand down. Everyone knows we’re Anders’s friends, and having any of us defend him doesn’t help. We need to trust residents to work this out for themselves.
“That’s the sum of it,” Anders says. “Now I’m sure you have questions…”
“Let me get this straight,” Conrad says, moving forward. “You were a soldier who murdered his CO and fled to Rockton? Escaped justice?”
“He never said that,” someone else says. “It happened in his past. He killed his CO accidentally—”
“Accidentally? He walked in and shot him.”
“He wasn’t in his right mind.”
“Is he now? What if he snaps again?” Conrad looks up at Dalton. “I demand Deputy Anders be removed from his position and shipped out immediately.”
Dalton surges forward, but I grab his arm.
“We will consider all possibilities,” I say. “We’d like residents to take a bit of time to digest this and—”
“Then you’ll form a committee to devise a poll, another committee to conduct the poll, a third to interpret the results, and maybe a task force or two thrown in there, too, so by the time you declare Anders unfit for duty, we’ll all be gone and no one will be left to give a shit?”
“No,” I say slowly. “We’re asking for a couple of days to investigate—”
“Investigate what? Find the whistleblower and ship them out before we can ask more?”
“Let Casey talk,” Devon says. “She’s trying to answer your questions and you keep interrupting.”
“You got a problem with that?” Conrad turns on Devon. “Sticking up for your friends? Or hoping this all blows over before your real past comes out?”
“My real past would put you to sleep.”
“That’s not what I heard. Got caught with your hand in the cookie jar, I hear. And by cookie jar, I mean ‘the pants of a twelve-year-old boy.’”
“What the hell?” Devon says. “That is—”
“Homophobia,” says a French-accented voice as Mathias strolls forward. “Pure and simple homophobia. Pedophilia is a common accusation leveled against gay men by the wretchedly ignorant.”
“Who the hell asked you, old man?” Conrad says. “We can guess what you’re here for. You’re a little too handy with that butcher’s knife.”
“Many years of practice carving up my victims,” Mathias says. “Most of which were never found. If you cut the pieces small enough—”
“That’s enough,” I say. “Don’t get him going, please.”
“How about you?” It’s Jolene this time, piping up from the back. “What did you do, Casey? Shot some kid, right? Pretended you thought his cell phone was a gun?”
“Casey and Will were brought to Rockton for their policing skills,” Isabel says.
“Which includes shooting innocent tourists,” Jolene says. “Two months ago, you both shot that woman from the woods.”
“You mean the bitch who tried to murder a resident?” Jen walks from the crowd. “You want to accuse Casey and Isabel and Eric of being Will’s friend? Well, I’m no one’s friend, and I still call bullshit on you and Conrad. Deputy Anders confessed. He didn’t have to. It’s not like anyone can look it up on the internet. He confessed, and I accept his explanation.”
“Why? What’d you do?”
“Fuck you.” She looks between Conrad and Jolene and then up at me. “Can we lock these two idiots in a cell and let the adults finish this conversation?”
“No,” a voice says quietly from the back. It’s Gloria, a shy woman who has never caused any trouble. “I have concerns, too. I’d like to hear everyone’s opinion. I don’t think this is the time for silencing voices.”
A few others agree, and when anyone voices support for Anders, Conrad or Jolene turns on them with “And what did you do?,” leaving only Anders’s allies daring to take his side.
“This isn’t working,” I murmur to Dalton.
“Shut it down,” he says.
And we do.
* * *
We’ve retreated to the Roc. At first, it was the police force plus Phil and Isabel, but others have trickled in. April. Petra. Kenny. Sebastian, slipping in cautiously, as if we might kick him out. Even Mathias joins us, though he pretends he’s just keeping an eye on Sebastian.
“So that wasn’t what I expected,” Anders says. “I didn’t think anyone was going to congratulate me for telling the truth, but I did hope it’d win me a few brownie points.”
“Then you do not understand human nature,” Mathias says as he sips his coffee. “You are a popular man in town. You are respected. You are liked. You have many gifts that others lack, and they will smile at you and be friendly while they must, but once you show weakness?”
“Like when a celebrity stumbles and people gleefully pile on,” I say.
“It doesn’t help that he’s a Black man,” Sebastian says.
Everyone turns to look at him.
“What?” Sebastian says. “Am I wrong?”
“You are not,” Mathias says. “Even those who would insist race is not a factor will consider it subconsciously. It appears to reinforce bias. William is a Black man, therefore he is violent. He is a Black man, therefore he should not hold a position of authority.”
