Chapter Three
Emmy held her phone to her ear as Gregg drove her cruiser to the baseball park. Dr. Layla Paulson was the medical director of the Evelyn Gilchrist Trauma Center in Albany. She was personally overseeing Mandy’s care. The girl had immediately been taken into surgery. The prognosis sounded grim.
“The bullet’s pathway was shallow through the left side of her head. Controlling the bleeding is our main concern. She’s still losing more than we can replace.”
Emmy remembered Jude’s comment about the sieve. “I know it’s hard to guess the odds—”
“It is,” Layla said. “But Mandy’s young, which matters a hell of a lot in trauma cases. It’s the one factor in her favor. I promise you we will do everything we can to keep her with us.”
“Okay. Thanks for the update.”
Gregg glanced at Emmy as she ended the call, but he didn’t ask questions, which was why he was driving her and not another deputy.
She had instructed him to turn on the lights but not the siren.
Cars darted out of the way at the last minute.
A few pulled over to the side of the road.
Gregg was a skilled driver, but Emmy still itched to be behind the wheel.
She silently ran through all the tasks she’d assigned back at the scene.
She’d told Brett to pull back the search of the woods and flood the neighborhood with deputies.
She wanted them to go door-to-door conducting interviews.
The closest license plate scanners were being scoured for unusual vehicles.
They also needed to identify witnesses who’d seen anything unusual in the vicinity or been on the street around the time that the gun was fired.
They had to locate Ginny Saddler’s son who drove with his music turned up too loud.
Check any doorbell camera footage for suspicious activity.
Find out whether anyone knew the name of Mandy’s birth father.
Sherry Robertson was going to look for Mandy’s birth certificate and Allison’s will while the forensic team processed the house. Allison’s parents had died several years back. She’d been an only child. If her daughter survived surgery, a legal guardian would need to make decisions about her care.
Then, there was the task that only Emmy could perform: figure out a way to interrogate Reggie Wilder about his where-abouts at the time of the murder.
She felt her stomach clench. Nobody refused to talk to the cops like a cop refused to talk to the cops.
There were all sorts of hoops Emmy would have to jump through just to schedule a formal interview.
Reggie would definitely bring a lawyer. On top of Miranda rights, Garrity rights came into play because Reggie had gone through an employment review for engaging in a sexual relationship with Allison during a time in which he was her superior officer.
Government workers could be compelled to answer questions under threat of disciplinary action, but Garrity rights ensured that anything they said as part of a formal hearing couldn’t be used against them in a criminal proceeding.
Which made Emmy hope like hell that Reggie wasn’t involved in Allison’s murder.
Her phone vibrated in her hand. Another text.
Then a second one. Then a third. Taybee had been peppering her screen with rows of question marks for the last twenty minutes.
Emmy had somehow managed to push Myrna’s funeral to the back of her mind.
She didn’t need it coming front and center right now.
Her father had always told her that the best thing to do when you felt like your life was falling apart was to put your head down and do your job.
She swiped away the texts and pulled up Bill Garrison’s Facebook page. Two of her more seasoned deputies had been sent out to comb the streets in search of Allison’s husband, but her twenty-three-year-old son had found him online in under a minute.
Emmy scrolled through the page. Bill had posted hundreds of photos featuring him, Allison and Mandy fishing and hiking and doing things that gave the appearance of happiness, because if there was one thing the Garrisons were known for, it was pretending that they were all one giant, happy family instead of miserable assholes who cheated on their spouses, let their children run around like hyenas, and weren’t beneath using their fists when money didn’t get them what they wanted.
Garrison Supply had been around for nearly a century, which still put them several generations after the first Cliftons.
The family business had started out as a lumber yard, then branched into building supplies, and eventually opened a high-end appliance division where Bill and his younger brother spent their days taking orders for $5,000 coffee makers and $20,000 refrigerators from rich people all over the country.
Two more brothers ran the building supply side, while Bill’s widowed mother juggled the accounting in between attending mass, serving on the town council, and trying to get books banned from the library.
Bill’s Facebook profile picture was a drawing of a tiger tossing a baseball into the air.
That’s how Cole had located him. Garrison Supply sponsored the North Falls Tigers, a junior league ball team on the travel circuit.
Bill served as head coach. One of his nephews played third base.
They were facing off against the Ocmulgee Panthers this afternoon.
As alibis went, it was a pretty good cover.
The game was scheduled to start at two o’clock, which was roughly forty-five minutes after Allison Vickery had been murdered and Mandy had been shot in the head.
Brett was right about one thing: a man with Bill’s resources didn’t run. He stuck around and fought it out.
Emmy tucked her phone into her shirt pocket as Gregg pulled onto a patch of grass in front of the ballpark.
The lot was filled with SUVs and minivans with bumper stickers supporting either team.
Emmy shielded her eyes as she got out of the cruiser.
Rolling hills surrounded three diamonds and half a dozen tennis courts.
Sunlight was bouncing off the surface of the lake.
The adjacent park was where North Falls’ annual Fourth of July fireworks display took place.
She saw the new sign beside the soccer field—
GERALD CLIFTON MEMORIAL PARK.
Emmy felt her throat go tight as she looked away. This whole town was a graveyard.
She identified Bill Garrison’s white Chevy Silverado by the license plate number.
Emmy pressed her hand to the hood. The metal was hot.
She walked around the vehicle, looking for blood or anything that might give probable cause for a warrant.
A set of golf clubs lay in the bed of the truck.
A tackle box. A lone kayak paddle. The windows were rolled up.
She cupped her hands to the glass to see inside.
Empty McDonald’s bag in the passenger seat.
Plastic water bottle in the cup holder. An iPhone was hooked up to the charger.
The screen glowed. She squinted her eyes at the notification that popped up, a text from someone named Kirk—
Where r u dude cops r all over ur hood
Emmy started toward the baseball field. She could hear clapping and yelling as the game kicked off.
In an ideal world, she would’ve brought more deputies with her for backup, but she couldn’t risk Reggie getting wind of Bill’s location.
He’d already assaulted a fellow officer.
There was no telling what he’d do to Bill.
Not even Gregg had known where they were going until they’d gotten into the cruiser.
The Clayville Police Department had multiple use-of-force violations on their books, and their SWAT team had been subjected to numerous lawsuits.
Emmy could easily envision a scenario where Reggie took matters into his own hands, either out of revenge for Allison or to frame Bill for murder.
In either case, he was a man who was used to justifying casualties.
She told Gregg, “Post up beside the bleachers in case Bill runs. Keep it cool. We don’t want a panic. He’s a person of interest, not a suspect.”
“Got it, chief.”
She weaved between cars, her feet sliding in Sherry’s HOKAs.
Emmy had already set out a plan: halt the game and approach Bill for a conversation.
Take him somewhere off the field and away from the kids.
Deliver the news. Gauge his reaction. Drive him to the station for a longer talk so she could turn up the heat.
If Bill was not responsible for the murder of his wife and the shooting of his stepdaughter, he deserved respect. If he was responsible, she didn’t want to spook him so much that he lawyered up.
Or pulled out the murder weapon and shot her in the face.
The smell of hot dogs and nachos swirled from the concession stand.
The bleachers were full because there wasn’t much else to do in North Falls on a scorching Saturday afternoon.
Emmy recognized most of the faces. Their eyes were trained on the players.
She checked the scoreboard, which had the words GARRISON SUPPLY running along the top in loopy cursive.
No hits, no runs, no errors. Bottom of the first. Two balls.
No strikes. Twelve seconds on the clock.
The game had started eight minutes late.
She spotted Bill Garrison in the Tigers’ dugout.
White shirt with the Garrison logo on the breast pocket, cargo shorts, sneakers, Tigers baseball hat.
No sunglasses. No visible wounds or blood.
No gun in sight but his shirt was untucked and his shorts had a ridiculous number of pockets, and there was a zipped gym bag a few feet away with the Garrison logo.
Emmy nodded for Gregg to move in closer.