Minka
MINKA
I walk into the detectives’ station, just a few blocks from my building, and step onto the escalator that cuts though the middle of the multi-story structure, spearing into the sky and taking up almost as much real estate as the hospital not so far away.
Police bustle around me. Some heading down, and others, up. Some wear uniforms, and others get to be more comfortable on the job, in jeans and shirts. Some choose to wear a tie, others, a full suit.
Personalities and self-importance shine from each cop. And those who have a perp in cuffs telegraph to everyone nearby who they are by how they treat their suspect. Some are treated with respect. Others, shoved and bullied. Cussed at. Or completely ignored when being asked a question.
I keep to myself and move to the side when others wish to walk faster than me. Then, when I step off the escalator in the homicide division, I look left, then right, and consider which direction I should go.
Ultimately, I suppose I probably should have called Archer and asked to stop by.
In reality, I know his answer would have been no . So I choose right and stop with a kind smile when I find a familiar face. “Officer Clay? Hi.”
“Chief Medical Examiner Mayet.” He turns from his colleague, mid-sentence, and gulps, so his Adam’s apple bobs in his throat. He looks past me, then around. Like he’s expecting Archer to jump out and attack. “How are you, Chief? Do you need something?”
“I was hoping you could tell me where Detectives Malone and Fletcher were. I have information that may help with their current case. But Detective Malone hasn’t been contactable by phone for the last hour.”
“He’s in an interview.” Clay glances at his friend and tips his chin. “I’ll catch up with you later.” Then back to me. “I can lead the way, Chief.”
“Thank you.” I fall into step beside the man, though god knows, he was certainly a boy not that long ago. He’s young. Early twenties, at a stretch. He’s not nearly as young as Cato, but if I didn’t know better, I could place them side by side and almost assume they were the same age.
That’s what life experience does to a boy, I suppose.
“Are you up to date on the Detectives’ current case, Officer Clay?”
“The haunted house?” He holds a door for me and follows behind once I pass through. “Only the pertinent. It’s not my case, and they haven’t requested assistance until today. So I’ve only caught the bridge notes.”
“What assistance did they require today?”
He looks at me again. Curious. Suspicious . But I am the chief medical examiner, which means, in the most technical sense, I have a right to know. Add in that I’m Archer’s wife, and Clay is too afraid to deny me information. “I picked Ms. Redmon up from her home and brought her in to be interviewed.”
“Ms. Redmon is Kallie? The best friend?”
“Yes, Chief. Additionally, I was sent out after that to bring Mrs. Wallace in. The detectives had follow-up questions. That’s Mr. Wallace.” He lowers his voice and nods toward a man sitting on a bench seat. Stricken and exhausted, his entire body slumps and his clothes simply hang. While right beside him, I study the youngest Wallace girl. Heather. Her wild hair and penetrating eyes as they swing from one point of interest to another. He’s broken, and she’s inquisitive. He’s devastated, and she… well, she’s a little too interested in the goings on of a homicide bullpen. “Mr. Wallace has been here almost exclusively since his daughter’s murder,” Clay continues. “He refuses to leave, even when threatened with a citation for loitering.”
“Is he getting into trouble for defying orders?”
“Nah.” He opens another door and lets me through. “A few of my colleagues have attempted to goose him along, purely for his own good. A bed, a shower, fresh clothes. All the things a person needs to feel half human. But most of the force are parents, Chief. No one is gonna ticket him for being here.”
“Are Archer and Fletch aware they’re here?”
“Yes, Chief. They’re monitoring them and sending coffee and food every few hours. Just enough to sustain the pair. We’d rather they went home, but if Wallace insists…”
“Not much you can do about it.” We emerge into a long hallway of doors on each side. “Have you heard what’s happening with Mrs. Wallace?”
“No, Chief. I’m not privy to that information. Her middle daughter has come along too, since the woman seems entirely incapable of holding herself together.”
“Does Mr. Wallace know his wife and middle daughter are here?”
“Not as far as I’m aware. Detective Malone had me bring them up via the loading dock.”
Interesting .
“So the detectives are speaking to Kallie Redmon right now? Or Mrs. Wallace?”
“Both. Separately.” He stops outside a door and grabs the handle, then swinging it wide, he gestures me ahead so the first thing I hear is Archer’s voice. Commanding. Intense. And not halting simply because I’ve arrived.
That’s when I realize I’ve been led into a listening room. Not the same room he’s in.
“You bought a Buck hunting knife on September twenty-ninth, Mrs. Wallace.” He sets a printout, suspiciously like the reports I emailed him just a couple of hours ago, down on the table between him and an almost comatose Patricia Wallace. Then he presses his fists down on either side of the paper, leaning onto the table and attempting to look into the woman’s swollen eyes. “I cannot look past the coincidence, no matter how much you want me to.”
“She didn’t kill my sister, Detective Malone!”
“The knife was bought just two weeks before Naomi was killed inside a haunted house. One week after finding out she was expecting her first child. We have the receipts right here, Mrs. Wallace. At two-fourteen p.m. one hunting knife was purchased with your credit card. We’ve subpoenaed the CCTV footage from the store. We’re just hours from proving with video evidence that you were inside that establishment on September twenty-ninth, at two-fourteen p.m. Why’d you buy it?”
“I didn’t.” She fists her tissues and dabs at her face. Though it’s a lost cause. Tears continue to flow, and her face is already puffy. Splotchy. “I would never hurt my baby! I swear, I would never.”
“Were you saving her from a ruined future?” Fletch shuffles in the corner of the room, drawing my eyes to the blind spot and commanding both Wallaces’ focus. “She was young and had a promising life on the other side of college. You’ve been in the worst house on a pretentious street for twenty years. Busting your backside and providing for your three daughters. There was a light at the end of the tunnel, and that light was Naomi’s academic gifts. She earned that scholarship, and dammit, she’d get that degree and live a better life than you did.”
“Your accusation doesn’t even make sense!” Growling, Sandy pushes to her feet and mirrors Archer’s posture, her fists pressed to the table, and her knuckles white from the pressure. “She wanted Naomi to live and thrive so much, she had her killed? That’s dumb!”
“She was desperate. Desperate people snap. Patricia,” he settles his voice and pulls out a chair to sit across from the broken woman. “You were there. You bought the knife. Explain it to me so I can help you.”
“I didn’t hurt my baby.” She sniffles and wipes her nose with spent tissues. “I would never, ever hurt any of my children.”
“Maybe you were mad that she got pregnant? Enraged, she would throw away what could have been, only to repeat the cycle you’ve known since you conceived her?”
“I didn’t hurt my child!”
“Maybe someone stole her card,” Sandy volunteers. “You haven’t got the camera footage yet, right? So you can’t be completely sure it was my mom who bought the knife.”
“Was the card stolen?” Fletch holds Patricia’s stare. His expression, disappointed. Resigned. “Did you report it stolen, Mrs. Wallace?”
“No, I?—”
“So the card wasn’t used by anyone else,” Archer pounces. “But it was used to purchase the exact hunting knife that just so happened to be the weapon that killed Naomi.”
“Kallie Redmon is in the next room,” Clay murmurs, hooking a thumb in the direction he means and dragging my attention from the back of Archer’s strong shoulders. “They’ve talked to her once already. But they switched to Mrs. Wallace the second I had her in house. Sounds like they’ve solved their case.”
“But she’s denying it.” I leave the officer behind and move silently toward the glass wall. My feet don’t make a sound against the tile, and though I place my palm on the cold glass, that, too, is done in silence.
Yet Archer still turns from his interview, emerald eyes burning into mine until I swear he knows I’m here, and he’s pissed about it.
“They can’t hear us, can they, Officer?”
Clay clears his throat and wanders closer to stand on my right. “No, Doctor. There’s a button over there,” he points. “You have to press that to initiate contact with the next room.”
“And they can’t see us?”
He shakes his head. “No, Doctor.”
On the other side of the glass, Archer’s eyes narrow into slits and his jaw clicks with the kind of annoyance I’ve grown accustomed to. But he turns back to his suspect and continues his interview.
“No lawyers?” I question quietly. “She’s being accused of murder, but she didn’t want representation?”
“Waived her rights,” he shrugs. “The detectives offered, but they claimed innocence and an inability to afford one. Which is a far cry from the other room.”
Piqued, I drag my focus from Archer and study Clay instead. “Kallie Redmon’s room?”
“Mr. and Mrs. Morgan insisted Kallie speak to no one without a lawyer present. They sent Ms. Hanes.”
“Ms. Hanes is Mason’s lawyer?”
“Yes, Chief.” He digs his hands into his pockets—not at all uniform appropriate—and settles back on his heels. “From the moment Kallie and I arrived at the station, the lawyer was here and waiting. The detectives have talked to her already, but Ms. Hanes is a bulldog, and she’s shut down every avenue of questioning.”
“Do the detectives think Kallie is responsible for Naomi’s murder?”
“I’m not sure. Kinda sounds like Mrs. Wallace is our perp. Maybe Kallie is innocent, and Ms. Hanes is just doing her job.”
“It’s interesting to me that Mason’s family has taken enough interest in the vic’s best friend that they would fund representation.” I bring my hand up and roll my bottom lip between my fingers. “Why? She wasn’t his girlfriend. She’s nothing to them.”
“I’d like to suspend this interview,” Archer announces for the record. “At three-forty-nine p.m., October fifteen. Mrs. Wallace, I can’t let you leave just yet, but I will remind you that you’re entitled to a lawyer. And if you can’t afford one, I can get someone sent in to help you. Meanwhile,” he taps the glass, so I jump when the action startles me, “Officer Clay can get you both something to drink. Maybe a snack, if you’re hungry.”
“That’s me.” Clay dips his chin in farewell and trudges toward the door. “I’ll be around after, Doctor Mayet. It was a pleasure to see you.”
“Yeah. Thanks. You too.” I watch the next room through glass, its thickness indiscernible to me, and wait for the detectives to switch out with Officer Clay.
I pay particular attention to the part where Clay leans in close and snitches on me to Archer.
Proven, of course, the moment Archer’s eyes swing to the glass and burn me through the pane. Then I roll my eyes and turn to the door, waiting and prepared as the duo charge through their door, walk the few feet of hallway, and then burst through to where I’m standing.
“What are you doing here?” Archer looks me up and down, his gaze hungry and yet, concerned. He stays four feet back, his hands fisted by his sides. But only until Fletch follows him in and closes the door.
The second we’re shut in with privacy, he closes the gap between us, placing his hand on the side of my neck and his thumb in the gap between my collarbones: the suprasternal notch. Not that he’d ever know those words . He wraps his fingers all the way around to touch my cervical spine. Then he pulls me in, rough and handsy, until our chests clash. “You’re pissing me off a lot today, babe.”
Smiling, I fold my arms around his body and rest my hands on his back. “Not my intention. You’re overly sensitive today?”
“Just dealing with a few things all at once. Starting with my best friend’s life exploding, and ending with the knowledge Copeland’s brush with the mafia is getting a little less… historical .”
“I’m still here,” Fletch murmurs, pulling out a chair lining the back wall and dropping with a thud. “Talking about me is rude. Typically, gossip should be had when I’m not in the room. Ya know, for my dignity’s sake.”
“The fact Tim followed you and Aubs to the bay today says a lot.” Archer pulls back, only to cup my jaw and study my eyes. “This city’s about to explode. And I have no fucking clue where to stash you until it all blows over.”
“Don’t stash me. And don’t stress so much.” I step onto my toes and press a kiss to his lips. “Talk to me about Kallie.”
Instantly, he looks toward the glass, while on the other side, Mrs. Wallace continues to sob and Clay sets Styrofoam cups of water on the table. Then he drags his attention back to me. “You mean Patricia?”
“No. I heard that bit already. I’m more interested in Kallie Redmon. You mentioned tension between her and Naomi. Now Mason’s family is footing the bill for legal rep, even though everyone is pretty confident Kallie isn’t our perp.”
“Kallie and Brent have broken up.” Fletch drapes himself across his chair, legs wide, arms dangling. Completely limp and done . “We pulled Kallie in to talk to us today. Within ten minutes of her getting into Clay’s car, cops were called because Mason and Brent were throwing hands in the street outside the Morgan house.”
“Turns out Kallie has a thing for Mason,” Archer continues. “Has for a while. And she fits the Morgan family prerequisites. Now that Naomi is out of the picture, I guess she’s making her move.”
“Jesus.” My heart gives a heavy, painful splat. “Naomi’s body isn’t even cold yet. I thought everyone said Mason and Naomi were solid?”
“They were! Mason isn’t reciprocal,” Fletch inserts. “But that doesn’t mean Brent hasn’t gone ballistic over it all. She pulls the pin on their relationship and spills her reasons why, so then he turns up at his best friend’s house to duke it out. The guys throw a few jabs. Cops arrive and break it up. No one was arrested, since neither is pressing charges.”
“But I guess now that the poor, pregnant, and financially unviable Naomi Wallace is no longer an issue, Mr. and Mrs. Morgan are endorsing the pairing they want for their son. And since we’re in the middle of a murder investigation, they’re paying for legal representation to keep their brood mare out of prison. An investment, I suppose, for the future.”
“Despicable behavior,” I snarl. “Their grandchild is dead, and they’re shopping for a bride for their son?”
“Doesn’t make them guilty of a crime, Delicious. But it makes them assholes all the same. Naomi and Mason were never gonna have a happy ending unless Mason put space between them and his family. Essentially, writing them off and going limited to non-contact. But now that issue is resolved. Seems Morgan had the forethought to step in early and protect his future assets.”
“Is it possible Kallie stole Wallace’s credit card, bought the knife, swapped it for the prop, and returned the card?” I ask. “Maybe Patricia isn’t who you’re looking for.”
“I think we’re looking for someone who did exactly that. But it wasn’t Kallie.” Grunting, Fletch sits up in his chair and slumps forward. “Or at least, that’s what I think. We’re looking for a young female. Young , being the stickler here that exonerates both moms: Mrs. Wallace isn’t responsible for this, despite her card being the one that purchased the weapon.”
“And though pinning this on Mrs. Morgan would feel good for my bitter, dark soul,” Archer continues, “there’s no way she could pass as a teen. Doesn’t matter how much she spends on Botox, she’s too old to pretend otherwise. ”
“So we have a bogey?” I question. “Not Kallie. Not a mom, despite the motive laid right there at our feet. But someone who had access to Patricia’s credit card?”
“Yep. Someone known to the Wallaces on an intimate level. Someone who could swipe Patricia’s card, head out to buy the weapon, and then put the card back. But someone whose impulse control has not yet fully developed. A mature, thinking adult would know buying a very specific weapon, using a credit card, in a building wrapped in security cameras, isn’t the best way to commit a crime.”
“You’re saying your killer is young. Underdeveloped, mentally.”
“Uh huh.” Archer releases me, but only to step to the door the very moment a knock echoes from the other side. Pulling it open a few inches, he listens for a beat as Officer Clay murmurs. Nodding. Responding with a ‘ yes ’ or ‘ no ’ when appropriate.
Finally, he accepts a yellow envelope the size of a sheet of paper, and tucking it under his arm, he closes the door and turns back to face us. “Judge Mistleforth is still sitting in court. We don’t have a signature for the CCTV footage yet.”
“What the fuck?” Re-energized, Fletch shoves up from his chair. “Is he screwing with our case because it’s fun, or is he completely useless?”
“The answer isn’t no. It’s just… not yet . The docket is full and cases are stacking up.”
“No shit! We’re trying to add another to the pile. But we’re working too fucking fast for them? What are we supposed to do, Arch? Our killer is inside this building. Right now.”
“Wait.” I swing my gaze to the one-way glass and study the Wallace duo on the other side. “Who is your killer? Specifically .”
“They can walk out any moment they like,” Fletch adds. “They killed Naomi and her baby. Too fucking cowardly to hold the knife themselves. The least they can do is look into our eyes and face the consequences of their actions.”
“Judge is busy. There’s nothing we can do about it for now.” Archer peels his envelope open and peeks inside, narrowing his eyes as he scans the contents. He flicks from sheet to sheet, then pulls a single, lined page out and sets it flat against the yellow. “It wouldn’t be an anonymous tip if I signed my name at the end of this letter,” he reads. “ So I won’t. I’m an equal opportunity snitch, and though this one is a minor and female, this particular crime is irredeemable in my eyes. You owe me a Snickers. I’ll collect someday. Go get your girl.”
“Sophia?” I move to Archer’s side, resting my shoulder against his arm, and re-read the handwritten note to ensure I heard what I think I heard. “She said she was too busy to get the files for us.”
“She pulled stills from the hunting store CCTV.” He slides the images out of the envelope and places them on the table for us all to see. A young woman drowning in a black Copeland Condors hoodie and sunglasses. She wears tight jeans and white sneakers. Carrying a book bag on her back, her name sewn into the fabric like this is all some kind of joke.
She knew then what she’d planned. She’d known it was wrong. She attempted to hide her identity, and yet, didn’t think ahead to shuck her bag off. Or, ya know, buy a weapon with cash.
“But why?” I look across again at another knock on the door. Then as Fletch tugs it wide and a man I’ve yet to meet, though his face rings somewhat familiar, steps through with an iPad. He looks at Archer with a grin, then to Fletch. But his smile falters when his eyes come my way and stop on the line of grainy images lined up.
“Aw man, you already found her.” He flips the iPad cover open and presents a digital sketch that almost completely matches those from the hunting store. “I just got done with Professor Jene. Seems I wasted my time.”
“Not wasted.” Archer takes the device and studies the girl whose eyes stare back, soulless. Her youth, thrown away. The future she could have had, tossed in the trash. “We need every piece of evidence we can find to hand over to the prosecutors. Jene confirms this is the girl who has been skulking around the college?”
“Yeah. He said she’d been by at least a dozen times in the last month or so. She looks young, Malone.” He exhales a long, sad sigh. “Really fucking young. What could she have possibly intended to come of all this?”
“Jealousy makes people do dumb things.” He collects the printed images from the table, sliding them into a stack, and accepts a printed copy of the sketch when the artist offers. “Underdeveloped brains make for impulsive decisions. Sometimes, desperate people will do anything to have what someone else has. Come on,” he talks to Fletch as he slides everything back into the envelope Sophia sent. He’s in full work mode, closing in on a case with a single-minded focus. But I know he speaks to me, too. “We’ve gotta tie this up and make an arrest. Premeditation makes this a thousand times worse.”
“She’s not gonna be tried in juvenile court.” Fletch opens the door for us to pass through.
“But, wait.” I stop everyone before we leave. Then I point toward Mrs. Wallace and her outspoken daughter. The one who helps her mother through her grief. The mouthpiece who speaks up when the other can’t. “I don’t understand why . What did Naomi have that our killer wanted?”
“A way out, probably. And a grudge against the kid in the Ghost-face mask.” Archer gently wraps his hand around my arm and leads me to the door. “Your oldest sister has it made. Rich boyfriend. Full ride scholarship. She’s gonna have a career and a bank account that never touches the red. Better yet, she’ll marry for love, and not obligation. Mason will go pro in the NBA. He adores the hell out of his girlfriend. And now they’re having a baby, too. All of it, to a fifteen-year-old brain, looks perfect. Because she’s not yet old enough to understand the effort that went into the grades that qualified for the scholarship. She’s not old enough to comprehend just how hard Naomi would have to work to raise a baby while maintaining those grades. She wasn’t grown enough to understand the slog, only the rewards.”
“And being raised right next door to the Morgans,” Fletch inserts, “obsessively watching what they had, witnessing the story-book romance, not only between Naomi and Mason, but what appeared to be a happily ever after between Brent and Kallie, too. While your house is falling apart and your dad is never home, because he’s picking up extra shifts to pay the bills.”
“It could be argued that she was jealous and wanted what her sister had,” Archer finishes. “Or simply, the pregnancy might’ve been the straw that broke a desperate camel’s back.”
“I’m gonna go get Gordon Wallace and his youngest daughter,” Fletch decides, moving into the hall and starting back the way I already walked today. “We have to finish this.”
“She was at the haunted house that same night,” Archer murmurs. “She paid her entry fee and headed through, just like others before her. I have that on the security footage, too. I figure that’s when she swapped the prop for the real thing and walked away. The fact that this whole thing could have gone wrong, or the victim could have been someone else, wouldn’t have registered to a fifteen-year-old. She couldn’t think that far ahead.”
“She could get an expert witness to testify to her underdeveloped brain.” I stop on the other side of the hall and fold my arms, glancing to the right and lowering my voice as Fletch comes back with the remaining Wallaces. “Anyone with half-decent knowledge of biological development could testify to her inability to think through her actions.”
“And maybe that’s what they’ll do.” Archer silences as the trio come closer, watching when a haunted Gordon Wallace passes, the tips of his fingers pressed to his daughter’s back to lead her.
While she walks in dead silence. Stony faced.
A killer in cold blood and with sociopathic tendencies.
“A similar expert witness could testify that she shows no remorse,” he adds once they’re far enough away not to hear. “And Naomi’s murder was savagely pre-meditated. Heather snuck the card from her mother’s purse, skipped half a day at school to go to a hunting supply store, not the closest store to her home or school. She hid the weapon inside her house for more than two weeks. Then hid it again inside the haunted house, creating a trap where not only her sister and niece would be murdered, but also setting up someone else to do the crime, thus ruining his life too. Whatever her reasons, she committed to them, knowing more than a single life would end.”
“What a mess.” I draw a deep breath and watch as the trio step into the same interview room as Sandy and Patricia. I’m not sure about the legalities of a group chat . But I suppose Heather needs a parent to be present when the police talk to her. The finer details, after that, will be between Archer, Fletch, and whatever judge and jury that’ll eventually convict a killer to prison time. “You’re cutting Kallie loose soon?”
“I thought it was her.” He leans against the wall, looking down into my eyes and dragging his bottom lip between his teeth. “Especially when I caught wind she and Brent had broken up. I was so sure she wanted her poor best friend out of the picture so she could swoop in and have the guy.”
“I suppose you pieced the motive together well enough. It’s not like any of us expected this one to be on the fifteen-year-old still in tenth grade. She was going to be an aunty, Archer. Instead, she chose to end two lives and ruin a third.”
“Yeah, well…” He firms his lips when Mrs. Wallace’s howling pain echoes into the hall. “Mason asked if he could stop by the George Stanley later to visit with Naomi.” He pushes off the wall as Fletch re-opens the interview room door.
They’re ready.
“He wants to see his girls before she’s released to her family and he’s potentially blocked out.” He peers across and meets my eyes, holding my stare and softening when the enormity of what was lost slices through my soul. “He feels like the Wallaces blame him for what happened. No matter that I’ll prove it was Heather; he’s worried once this case is tied up, he’s gonna be locked out and refused access. ”
“I’ll clear my schedule and have her prepared for his visit. Tell him to contact me or Aubree. We’ll be ready for him.”
“Thanks.” He nods toward the room we came from and flashes a small smile. “You can watch, if you want. But don’t judge me for being mean to a kid. Sometimes, it’s what has to happen. Even if I don’t like it.”
“She made her choices,” I concede. “Now you need a confession. Go do your job, Detective.”