Timothy #2
voice low and matter of fact. People take it all kinds of ways. I try not to read too much into that initial response.
“I’m sorry to inform you that your brother, Paul Hayes, was found dead this morning at Black River Park.”
Some people wail, collapse. Some freeze. Some are stunned, go glassy. The first word they usually utter is “no.” Confusion.
Refusal. Denial.
Regina stumbled forward a step, steadied herself on a stool before I reached her, but stayed silent, eyes darting, hand to
her throat. We stood like that a moment, awkwardly close as I waited to see if she would fall to the ground, trying to catch
her, before she backed away, wrapped her arms tight around her middle.
“I’m so sorry,” I said. “Is there anyone else at home? Can I call someone for support?”
She shook her head. “Was it a—what? A hiking accident?”
I flash on the look of horror frozen on Hayes’s face, his fingers stiffened, clawing at his throat.
“Doesn’t look like that, no. Hikers found his body when they ventured off the trail just after 6:00 a.m. His body had been
buried.”
A frown, a flare of the nostrils, then tears trailing helplessly down her gaunt cheeks.
“Murder?”
“It’s too soon to offer anything definitive. But initial evidence points to foul play, yes.”
She reached for a pack of cigarettes, lit one with a Zippo she produced from her robe, took a deep drag. How have people not
gotten the memo on this? The scent of tobacco met my nostrils immediately.
She stared off, thinking hard. “If someone killed him, I can tell you who it was right now.”
“Oh?”
“Ana Blacksmith, his bitch ex.”
She blew out an angry puff. I’d go back to smoking in a heartbeat if I hadn’t seen the way COPD wasted my father, hadn’t had
to watch him die. After his funeral I went cold turkey. Still, the smell makes me twitchy.
“What makes you say that?” I asked.
“He broke up with her. She’s been stalking him. She was enraged, following him, harassing him at work, in social media. She
was threatening his new girlfriend, too. That woman Ana Blacksmith. She’s batshit crazy.”
Regina started to cry harder then, stubbed out her cigarette. I walked her back to her house. We talked a while about Paul,
where he worked, his last few days, this alleged trip to Aruba with the new girlfriend.
“I haven’t met her,” Regina said, pulling a blanket from the couch.
The living room was cozy, eclectic—crowded with art pieces, books piled high on every surface, a stone Buddha sat impervious on the hearth of a big stone fireplace.
“He didn’t even tell me about her. I just saw some pictures on Instagram.
I thought he went away with her. I was a little pissed about it. He owes me money, like quite a bit.”
“Oh?”
“I gave him a loan to start his new business.”
She was still crying, not sobbing but tears falling steadily.
“The girlfriend. Do you have a name?”
She shook her head. “Maybe Amy or Mandy or something like that? I can’t remember. He never introduced me to the women in his
life, rarely talked about them.”
As we talked, there was a key in the front door. A big, bearded man walked in, taking up lots of space, baggy flannel shirt,
chunky work boots.
“What’s up?” he asked, looking back and forth between us, reading the room. “Everything okay?”
That’s when she really lost it, dumped her head in her hands and started to wail. The man moved over to her quickly, took
her in his arms.
“Paul’s dead,” she managed, voice muffled in his chest. “My brother.”
He looked over at me with a deep frown; I held up my shield and he nodded. I may have seen him before at the local pub. It’s
a fairly small town; you maybe don’t know everyone by name, but there’s a familiarity of visiting the same restaurants, grocery
stores, gas stations. There’s something girlish about his eyes. They’re big and heavily lashed, a contrast to his robust maleness.
“Oh, shit,” he said, eyebrows knitting. “What happened?”
“She killed him.” It’s just a wail, the very sound of helpless misery.
He shot me a questioning glance.
“Initial evidence points to foul play,” I answered. “But it’s too early to make definitive judgments and we don’t have any
suspects at this time.”
“Okay,” he said, voice a comforting baritone. “Okay. I got you. I’m here.”
Something about its gravely timbre had me thinking about my dad and I felt a familiar stab of loss. Once you’ve lost someone,
any grief connects you to your own.
Ross Avidon, sculptor, welder, I’d learned before I left them to the unhappy days and nights stretching before them. They
both agreed to come in for further questioning the next morning. Ross saw me out, gentle, softspoken, said he would do whatever
he could to help. Seemed like a nice enough guy.
Still, of all the people I talked to today, he was the only one big and strong enough to haul a dead body up this hill.
Now, up from my crouch and approaching the scene, I’m slightly nauseated, that side stitch amping up. Am I really this out
of shape? I try to remember the last time I went for a run. I can’t. The sun is an unblinking white eye in the sky, staring
down on the winter day, more crows overhead. The body has been bagged, is being lifted onto the stretcher.
I scan the crowd that’s gathered behind the crime scene tape. There’s a hum, whispers between people who stopped to see what’s
happening. I hear the notes of awe, disbelief, fear. In the back I note the slim figure of a woman dressed all in black, a
black wool cap on her head, coat zipped up to her chin, a pair of large sunglasses obscuring her face. She’s alone, watching.
Earbuds in. She must sense me watching, turns her head my way. Then she pivots and starts to run, just a jog up the path,
maybe just continuing with her workout. But I follow, move around the crowd and head in her direction.
She rounds a bend, and I pick up my pace.
But by the time I turn on the path, she’s gone. I stand, breathless again, watching as the trees rustle in the breeze, listen
for her footfalls but hear nothing.
I don’t have my radio, so I call dispatch on my cell, ask Judy to tell the detail at the trailheads to stop a slim woman all in black and big glasses if she tries to exit. To call me if they see her.
When I return to the scene, Beck stands by, hands in his pockets, head bowed. A moment of silence for the dead.
There’s a beauty to it. Even in its horror, in its ugliness. There’s something elegant to the end of suffering, to the silence
that falls. A single black crow on the branch above me caws his agreement.
After the crew leaves and the crowd of lookers disperses, I remain, scanning the trees around me, the ground. Is there something
to see that I’m not seeing?
My phone rings. Dispatch.
“Bandeau.”
“No one matching your description has been seen leaving from any exit since you called. They’ll pass the information to the
next detail.”
I’m not holding out much hope. If she’s local, if she has something to hide and doesn’t want to get caught, she’ll exit through
the woods. I imagine her slight and fast, weaving through the trees. Who was she?
I wait another moment, approach the grave again, make a slow circle. An odd tingle, the sense of being watched. I glance around
at the trees.
But I’m alone.