Chapter 17 #2
“Anything. Everything,” Desmond admitted before clearing his throat.
It was as if he were attempting to reset his demeanor.
“When Rachel was in high school, she was in a bad car accident. The glass cut the right side of her face to the point where not even plastic surgery could erase the scarring. As I said, she was insecure with her appearance. If you feel the need to speak directly to her, go ahead.”
“Did Heather ever give you an indication that anything was wrong? In her personal life? Professional?”
“No.” Desmond’s expression had now turned to one of impatience. She might as well have asked why water was wet or why icing was made with sugar. “Heather came in here almost every morning, just like almost everyone else in town. I didn’t notice her acting strange or upset. Now, if that’s all you—”
“What about Figg Whitlow?”
Theo’s question caught Desmond off guard. A frown creased his brow, the confusion in his expression now tinged with suspicion.
“Figg and Heather?” Desmond repeated, sounding genuinely perplexed. "I don’t understand what you’re asking me.”
“Did Heather have a relationship with Figg Whitlow?”
“We all went to school together,” Desmond responded, his uncertainty over the inquiry still evident.
“Figg’s mom taught at the high school, so he couldn’t get away with too much back then.
I remember that on his sixteenth birthday, his uncle bought him a tattoo gun.
He started tattooing the other students during lunch period for five dollars, much to his mother’s disappointment.
But Figg and Heather? She’s not his type. ”
“So everyone keeps saying.” Theo hadn’t bothered to move his chair back in place, so he was able to cross his ankle over his knee without any issue. “What’s your opinion of him?”
Desmond's shoulders squared a little, and the way he narrowed his eyes signaled that he understood the underlying question.
“If you're suggesting Figg killed Heather, you're wrong,” Desmond stated firmly, his earlier confusion replaced by conviction.
“You shouldn't judge a book by its cover.
As I said, I've known Figg since we were kids.
He might look intimidating with all those tattoos, and yeah, he's had his share of trouble, but he's a good person. Not someone who could hurt another.”
“We aren't asking about Figg because he likes tattoos or a certain type of woman,” Sylvie clarified, her tone matter-of-fact rather than accusatory.
“We’ve recently learned that Figg and Heather may have had an argument in the weeks before her death.
We're trying to ascertain the nature of that disagreement.”
“I don’t know anything about any argument.”
“Thank you for your honesty, Desmond.” Sylvie glanced around the bakery before meeting his gaze. “I know this is probably your busiest time, so we won’t keep you any longer.”
Her response seemed to surprise him. The tension that had been building in his posture throughout their conversation faltered, as if he'd been bracing for an attack that never came.
“That’s it? You don't have any other questions?”
“Not at the moment,” Sylvie replied, reaching behind her chair and into her purse. She pulled out her business card. “If, by chance, you recall anything from back then that could help our investigation, please give me a call.”
Desmond took the card and stared at it, as if he were suddenly at a loss for what to do next.
He half-rose from his chair, then settled back down, his movements awkward and uncertain.
Neither Sylvie nor Theo uttered a word, giving him time to make up his own mind if he’d like to add anything to his previous responses.
He slowly leaned forward, his upper body angling into their shared space. His voice dropped to a near whisper, forcing Sylvie and Theo to incline their upper bodies closer to hear him.
“I think maybe you should look into Zeke Sorsdal.”
The mention of Brett Sorsdal's younger brother caught Sylvie by surprise.
“I don't want to talk out of turn about someone who is disabled,” Desmond continued, his words coming faster now, as if he feared he might lose his nerve if he slowed down.
“But I saw Zeke get verbally and physically aggressive with Heather in the church parking lot the weekend before she was killed.
Brett had to practically force his younger brother into the truck.
I offered to call someone—her father or maybe even the sheriff—but she said it wasn't necessary.
That there was a miscommunication, and Zeke didn't understand what he was doing.”
“Did you mention this to the authorities at the time?”
“No,” Desmond admitted, shame flickering across his features. “I was...distracted. Rachel had just left town. And then Heather was killed. The police focused on strangers passing through, and by the time the FBI came rolling through town, it just didn’t cross my mind.”
Desmond seemed to reconsider his admission.
“Listen, Heather was probably right. Zeke is slow, and he thinks like a child. He wouldn’t have the mental acuity to get away with murder, anyway.
” Desmond slipped Sylvie’s business card into his apron as he stood, stepping away from the table so that he could tuck his chair underneath.
“I shouldn’t have said anything. Forget I mentioned it. ”
Desmond had to understand that the information couldn't be unshared, but Sylvie and Theo merely nodded at his request. Desmond was right about one thing—Zeke didn’t have the mental acuity to kill four women and not leave a trace of evidence behind.
If nothing else, though, it established another connection to Heather that warranted further investigation.