Twelve #2
“You shouldn’t have tripped Stokes at the bar. You should’ve called me. You’re always trying to handle things on your own when you should just ask for help.”
“Oh, that’s rich, Oscar. I should’ve just called you? You never got any charges to stick to Stokes, no matter what he did.”
“I was a Marine when prom happened,” Oscar reminded me. “And when I became sheriff, I did what I could to reopen the case, but the judge—”
“What about his other victims?”
Oscar sighed and scrubbed his face.
“After me, Stokes groped at least five other girls in high school,” I added, which to me just underscored the problem with letting bad guys get away with it the first time.
“And then he went on to grope countless others in college, and then the intern last year, and probably many more, because he’s a classic serial offender. ”
“I know.” Oscar pinched the bridge of his nose.
“But for your information, I helped get that judge friend of his removed from the bench. I contacted the FBI, and we’ve been investigating the judge and many others who helped him get away with it.
We were about to charge him with assault for the intern and countless other charges around bribing officials. I was going to arrest him next week.”
This took me by complete surprise. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because the investigation is confidential, you know that. And the federal prosecutor I’m working with wasn’t sure yet whether she was going to ask you to testify. To talk about your experience at prom.”
“Oh.” The thought was terrifying but also thrilling. Sitting in the witness stand telling the whole world what a horrible person Stokes really was? Say less.
Oscar looked at me. “I never forgot about your case, El. Sometimes, justice takes a long time.”
“Or never,” I muttered.
“Eventually, everyone gets what’s coming to them.”
“You’re right. Stokes did get what was coming to him.”
“El! Seriously. You’re being recorded,” Oscar said, gaze flicking to the camera in the corner.
I didn’t care. I wasn’t going to pretend to mourn a man who spent his life using his entitlement to hurt other people.
“And that wasn’t real justice, anyway,” Oscar continued, “because now the intern and her family won’t get to face him in court.
They won’t get to read their statements to his face or ask a judge for the maximum penalty.
He got to live his life without ever seeing any of the consequences of his actions.
You know what that’s like—not to get your day in court. ”
I crossed my arms. I hated it when Oscar made sense.
“That’s why we have laws,” he pressed. “That’s what the rule of law means. So that people face the consequences of their actions. And they don’t get the easy way out.”
“He’s dead, though. Doesn’t seem like the easy way out.”
“He died with his good name intact, and not in prison, so I think it is,” Oscar said, leaning back in his seat.
“On the bright side,” I added, “he won’t be hurting any other women now.”
“You can’t say things like that!” Oscar hissed, straightening. “Seriously, El. Stop talking. Just stop.”
I glared at Oscar. “Look,” I said, leaning forward and putting my elbows against the table.
“The Canceled Killer—or his copycat—is here, and Allen Gordon is missing. He’s the next victim, and it might already be too late.
So, if you want to stop wasting your time looking at me, you might be able to find the actual killer. ”
Oscar glared at me.
“Allen Gordon owns about a dozen cars, three boats, and a plane,” he said. “He could be anywhere, and he probably is just lying low until the listeria scandal blows over.”
A hard knock came at the interrogation door, and it swung open. Deputy Hector Martinez poked his head in. More bars from Wes’s off-key version of “Can’t Touch This” floated in.
“Ted Anderson is here,” he said.
Ted Anderson—Tammy’s husband—and the only defense attorney in town. I wasn’t thrilled about the fact that Tammy would spread the juicy details at her knitting club meeting this week.
“Who called him?” Oscar growled. “Wes?”
“Nope. Wes said he wants to sleep it off here tonight.” Hector shrugged. “So I don’t know who called him. He asked them if we planned on charging Ella or—”
“Dammit,” growled Oscar. “Okay, Hector. They’ve lawyered up. Go ahead and get Ju—Percy Julian ready for release. I’ll do the same with Ella.”
Hector narrowed his eyes. “Fine,” he said after a beat. Hector closed the door, and we both listened for the sound of retreating footsteps.
“I didn’t call him,” I told Oscar.
“I know,” Oscar whispered, voice low. “I did. Now you two get the hell out of here. Stay home. Stay out of trouble. Don’t talk to anyone about this, and just let me do my job.”
“For cripes’ sake, can’t swing a cat without hitting some excitement tonight, yeah, no,” said Ted Anderson as he stood talking to Jude and me in the dim parking lot outside the sheriff’s station, which was lit by several old-fashioned streetlamps.
Ted was wearing his usual uniform of a red puffer vest, plaid flannel shirt, and ever-present fisherman’s hat that he’d had embroidered with “35” in blue thread because in addition to being the town’s only defense attorney, he also held the record for the biggest brown trout caught in Lake Sanguis at thirty-five inches long, a record that’s lasted for more than a decade.
“You sure know how to get into trouble, doncha, Thin Ice?”
I groaned. “Yeah. Something like that.”
“It’s been a day,” Jude agreed. The low lights of the parking lot framed his face in just such a way. He seemed a little discombobulated, and it was a good look on the normally put-together scientist. He took off his black glasses and cleaned them delicately with the edge of his sweater.
An autumn evening chill settled in the air, and I shivered, goose bumps rising up on my arms.
The sheriff’s department shared a parking lot with city hall, so we could see the flashing lights in front of the main entrance.
Hector worked at rolling out police tape in front of the double doors.
They were sealing off the whole building, probably until the state could get their crime scene inspectors down here.
Lake Sanguis didn’t have its own crime scene evidence team.
“You two have a ride, or you wanna come with?” Ted asked, nodding toward his vintage red pickup parked right next to Jude’s Volvo.
“I can give Ella a ride if she needs one,” Jude offered, with a side glance to me.
I nodded vigorously. I didn’t want to be trapped in the truck with Ted Anderson. He liked to talk about his search for the perfect fishing lure. I’d take discussion about cheese fermentation any day of the week.
“You kiddos stay outta trouble, and do not make official comments about this—to the police, online, anywhere. Tammy will probably wanna make you a hot dish, so maybe she’ll bring it by later this week, and then we can talk about what to do next, if anything.”
I doubted Tammy would want to make me one of her famous casseroles, which she usually saved for deaths in the family and serious illnesses. But if she did, I’d still take it. Tammy might be the worst, but even I had to grudgingly admit she was the queen of cheesy potatoes.
“Thank you, Ted,” Jude said as Ted clambered into the cab of his truck.
“No, yeah.” Ted threw up a hand.
Jude and I watched Ted rev up his truck as he backed out of his spot. He turned the truck a little too fast, and we scurried out of the way.
“Ope, sorry!” Ted called through his half-open window. “Watch your toes!” Ted pulled away from us.
“Do you want to get out of here as much as I do?” Jude asked, standing near the Volvo. Hector eyed us from across the parking lot. He didn’t smile.
Jude hit his key fob and unlocked the Volvo, and I hurried around to the passenger side and hopped in. I waited as Jude went through his usual ten-point-safety check as he did every time he got behind the wheel. I fastened my seat belt.
Jude slowly inched back out of his spot at the speed of a hundred-year-old tortoise.
“I’d love to get home sometime tonight, you know.”
“There’s nothing wrong with being careful,” Jude protested.
“God, you and Oscar,” I groaned.
“Oscar give you a lecture on law and order?”
“When doesn’t Oscar lecture me?” I pointed out.
“It’s because he cares. He feels responsible.” Jude glanced both ways three times before he inched out of the parking lot. “Because of that day on the ice.”
“Well, everyone should just get over that, because I’m fine,” I snapped. “Also, it wasn’t my fault.”
Jude snuck a glance at me. Then we slipped into a noticeable silence. The line of felt fall banners hanging from the antique streetlamps with messages like “Happy Autumn!” and “Pumpkin Spice Is Nice!” in cursive letters inched by.
“I’m glad you didn’t drown,” he said, voice low. He cleared his throat. “And we all want to keep you fine and not murdered.”
“I don’t want to be murdered, either, and for the record, I’m against vigilante justice. I was the one who talked about it on the podcast!”
“I know. You pointed out so well how the Canceled Killer created more problems than he solved. While Chicagoans ran around with Canceled Killer tees and high-fiving each other about how terrible people got what they deserved, the reality was quite different. I mean, that woman and the lemonade stand?”
Right. Heather Johnston, the woman who called the police on the kid selling lemonade and turned over the stand.
She’d been taking care of her dying mother, but after the Canceled Killer murdered her, Johnston’s mother was left to fend for herself with her terminal cancer.
She spent her last painful days in the apartment alone.