Chapter 21
Chapter
Twenty-One
The online data involving sex crimes for the state of Michigan is years out of date—nine years on one site.
Nine years. My sister was eight years old when the available information was compiled.
Being as Echo mentioned the outsiders; I also checked the data for Indiana; after all, the state border is only thirty minutes south.
Indiana is much closer than, say, the UP.
Indiana’s sex crime register is more recent; however, the information is limited.
There are also newer crime trackers available for each city and neighborhood.
Those are beneficial in mapping registered offenders.
However, I specifically want to know about accusations, hospital reports, and police reports involving sexual assault with inanimate objects. That isn’t as easy to pinpoint.
My hand moves across the notebook as I continue taking notes. New notations and an attempt to recreate what I thought I wrote yesterday. It’s as though I wrote with invisible ink. My notebook was where I left it, but my more recent scribble was missing.
I concentrate on what I find.
The information that isn’t available to Joe Citizen is available to those in law enforcement.
While I’m most certain that Sheriff Manes won’t be interested in helping me, I think about setting my sights on Deputy Ford.
I played basketball with Annabelle’s sister for three years, and being back in my hometown, I’m willing to cash in on any connection.
After Sheriff Manes left my parents’ home, the neighbor, Sally Hopkins—she’s lived next door as long as I can remember—knocked on the door. She spent a few minutes consoling Mom. It seemed to me as though she was also fishing for information. We stuck to our story.
Julie is stable and we’ll know more in the future.
When she asked about Marty Thompson, Mom said that she is a dear friend of Julie’s and we’re praying for her safe return.
Sally left us with a large casserole of noodles, spaghetti sauce, and vegetables, as well as a salad and garlic bread.
I don’t know if I would have stayed to eat with my family if the incident between Sheriff Manes and Dad hadn’t happened.
But it did happen, and for a moment in time, Jerry Thorne was the father I had as a child, the one who supported me.
I admit, at least to myself, that I stayed for more than the food. I shamefully wanted to bask in that selfish place—where my dad was my dad—for a little longer.
After dinner, Mom and Dad headed back to the hospital to be at Julie’s side for the night shift, and I headed back to Stark Lake. As I parked my car, I noticed Keith’s truck was missing. I had more than a few thoughts about him throughout the day.
A nagging one centered on the hypothesis that the perpetrator may be from out of town—check. May be someone connected to Craig—check. May have a reaction to Craig’s death that would spur the need for power and control—possible check.
As Echo reminded me, sexual assault isn’t about sex but about power.
Sexual predators differ from sexual offenders in that the offenders have been convicted of the crime. The term predator implies multiple offenses. That’s the part I’m trying to learn. Have there been other victims of similar assaults in the area or elsewhere?
Should I do a search for the Upper Peninsula?
As Liv and I discussed whether Julie’s assault was random or if she was the intended victim, a bit of information I learned long ago through my work with the studio replayed in my thoughts. Statistically speaking, an exceedingly small number of perpetrators randomly commit sexual assault.
More often than not, the perpetrator and victim know one another.
That could mean that Julie wasn’t assaulted by an outsider; this person knew Julie and Marty. It would also explain why the girls willingly went with him or at least left without making a fuss.
I scribble again on my notepad.
Someone saw something.
I want to circle the sentence and make stars around it.
Echo is right. Blue Gil is too small.
Before I left my parents’ home, I asked Ollie and Liv about Julie’s other friends. There were seven girls all together at the park on Saturday afternoon. Seven. One is now dead and one is in the hospital assaulted.
Who are the other five?
Together with Ollie and Liv, we come up with the girls’ names.
It wasn’t hard. We went into Julie’s room and on her dresser were multiple framed pictures of her and her friends.
Her last year’s yearbook was in her bookcase.
If old-school hadn’t worked, her Instagram and TikTok were overflowing with pictures.
Colleen is the one with too much eyeliner. Liz is the one with very light blond hair. I recall both of them from the park. The other three hadn’t stood out to me on Saturday afternoon, but they were recurring faces in Julie’s pictures. Their names are Jessie, Tamara, and Penny.
As I was about to leave, I snuck back into Julie’s room and borrowed one of her pictures.
With it now sitting in front of me, I stare at the grouping. This photograph is a selfie taken on a beach. I can’t pinpoint the location, but the lake is familiar. It isn’t local. The seven girls are all together at Lake Michigan.
Light-colored sand, blue water that goes on forever, and a crystal-clear sky. Lake Michigan beaches have been a teenage destination for years. I recall many road trips to Warren Dunes, now a national park that hosts one million visitors annually and is only an hour’s drive west of Blue Gil.
The parties I attended there when I was younger were all about food and fun.
Lake Michigan is beautiful and scenic. It isn’t a place where one wants to swim.
The water is freezing—not literally. In midsummer the water temperature rarely exceeds sixty degrees Fahrenheit.
The temperature near the shores may reach mid-sixties, but the average is mid-fifties.
It’s cold.
In the picture, the girls are all smiling, wearing bathing suits, and their hair is blowing in the breeze. I wonder if the picture was taken last summer or the year before. It’s difficult to judge their ages with little makeup in such a casual setting.
Sitting in the cottage with a glass of red wine, I work to create a list with each girl’s name, vowing to learn more about each one.
Marty.
Colleen.
Liz.
Jessie.
Tamara.
Penny.
I log onto Instagram and start following trails.
Who do they date? What are their plans for after high school? Do they have a job, full- or part-time? Are they involved in extracurricular school activities? What time did they leave the party on Saturday night? Did they leave alone or with someone?
There were multiple boys playing football on Saturday afternoon too. I know one is Austin Kolldike, Julie’s ex, and one of the young men to find Coach Gilbert.
I scribble a note.
Austin Kolldike.
Who knew where Craig was found?
Was the exact location kept secret?
I place a few stars by Austin’s name. He knew the location, and according to Becky, so did his teammate Paxton Buyer. Was Paxton at the party?
It doesn’t feel right, an association between Austin and what was done to Julie and Marty. Liv basically said that Austin and Julie were sexually active for a time. Why then would he assault her with garden tools?
Unless he was upset about the breakup?
More questions come to mind. I continue to write one after another.
A knock on the back door pulls me from where I’ve been centered in my thoughts.
Looking around, I realize that the sun has set.
The lights above the breakfast bar provide a bubble of illumination as shadows lurk in the corners of the cottage and darkness beyond the windows.
Above the stove, the clock reads after nine at night.
The knock comes again.
My pulse speeds as I stare toward the back door.
With the curtain closed and the light off by the door, I can only make out the silhouette of a person.
Standing, I search the counter for something, anything, for protection.
The first thing I see is the wine opener.
It’s the solid kind with a small knife and more importantly, a long curly corkscrew.
Making a fist, I position the corkscrew between my fingers and slowly walk toward the back door.
With a deep breath, I pull back the curtain and flip the switch near the door, bringing light to the back stoop.