Ridley Pearson - In Harm's Way

“Do you want a glass of water or a Coke or anything?”

“I’m okay, thank you.”

“You understand why you’re here?”

She nodded. “To talk.”

“That’s right. Do you have any questions?”

“I don’t get it. Why me? What’d I do?”

“Why do you think you’re here?”

“That guy getting killed and all.”

“You’re referring to Martel Gale.”

“I guess.”

Walt opened a file folder and slid a photograph in front of her. He’d had two choices: an NFL photo, or the crime scene-half the guy’s face eaten off. It wasn’t out of the question that in certain interviews he would have chosen the crime scene photo, but not here. Not her.

“Have you ever seen this man before?”

She nodded.

“It’s important you answer aloud,” Walt said.

“Yes,” she said.

“Please describe the circumstances of the last time you saw him.”

“The only time I saw him, you mean.”

“The only time, then.”

“You were there,” she said. “It was the night of the Advocates dinner.”

Walt caught his breath but maintained his composure.

“I’d seen… She’d showed me… Never mind. I knew who he was, that’s all.”

Walt hesitated, facing a fork in the road. He knew who she was referring to. Some cases go cold. He felt obliged to pursue the identity of “she,” but understood not to. He was painfully aware of the camera aimed at the back of his head.

“You knew who he was,” he said, making it a statement.

“The football guy.”

“You follow pro football, do you?”

“Not exactly.”

“But you recognized a linebacker who’s been out of the league for several years. Can you explain that?”

“I knew who he was. I don’t remember how.” As her eyes lowered to the desk, and her shoulders caved forward, he thought even a first-year graduate student could identify the lie from her body language.

“Seeing him… Was that when you stopped for a second in your talk, your address, your speech? You’re right: I was there, and I remember your… interrupting yourself.”

“Might have been.”

“Seeing this man caused that kind of reaction? Why is that?” Why couldn’t he bring himself to just ask her the identity of the woman she’d referred to? Why did he insist on dancing around the edges?

“Roy Coats,” she said, naming the man who had brutally assaulted her a few years before. Walt winced at the mention of the man, his memory still holding on to the grainy webcam images of the violent sexual abuse this young woman had endured. His brain lacked the delete button he sometimes wished it had. “I don’t get exactly why. I don’t expect you to get it. But when that guy opened the doors back there and looked inside, it wasn’t him I saw, it was Roy Coats. That happens to me pretty much all the time. In Atkinson’s, out on the street. Can be anywhere. I just see him. He’s looking at me that way he looked at me. Like he knew what he was going to do to me, and me having no clue. Like that. Like people look when they know a secret you don’t. And it makes me physically sick. Like I’m going to puke. I want to scream. I want to scratch his eyes out. Castrate him. Kill him.” She looked up from what had looked like a trance.

Walt felt a jolt. Neither of them had wanted her to say that word.

“Not that I ever would,” she added quickly. “I didn’t mean it that way. Look: that was the only time I ever saw the guy. I’m telling the truth. That one time in the Limelight Room. I hadn’t seen him again until just now when you put his picture down here.” She reached out and touched the photograph. “That came out all wrong.”

Yes, it did, Walt thought. “Roy Coats,” Walt clarified. “You wanted to kill Roy Coats.”

“Exactly. But he’s dead. Look, I know that. Okay? I know he’s dead. But what your mind knows and the rest of you feels are two different things. And that particular time, I saw Roy Coats and all that stuff came back.”

“And that’s the only time you saw Martel Gale?”

“Yes.”

Walt pulled the photo back and returned it to the folder. The job turned sordid too often. At times like this he wondered: why him? Why law enforcement? Why expose yourself to this stuff? “Where do you live?”

“I’m staying, house-sitting at the moment, up at the Engletons’ place.”

“The residence of Leslie and Michael Engleton.”

“Yes.”

“In the main house or the guest cottage?”

“Fiona lives in the guest cottage. I’m house-sitting the main house.”

“Fiona Kenshaw. Our crime scene photographer.”

“Yes.”

“For how long have you been residing at the Engleton residence?”

“They’re on this trip. You know, for like the whole summer. I’ve been there… I don’t know… two months? Another month or so to go.”

“You and I have seen each other there,” Walt said.

“Yes.”

“You came after me with a baseball bat in your hand.”

“Yeah. Sorry about that. There’s that guy in the woods around there. That guy you’re looking for. It was dark. I didn’t know it was you. You looking in the window and all. I thought you were a peeping Tom or something.”

Walt felt himself flush, an uncontrollable reaction.

“Tell me about the baseball bat.”

“I don’t know. It’s Michael’s, I guess. He has a bunch of them in the sports thing out in the garage. Fiona and I… we both put one by the door. You know. In case that guy came around.”

In fact, Walt did not know, had not heard. He didn’t recall seeing a bat by the door to Fiona’s cottage. Had there been one? Had it been moved? Had it been left in the rental car? Dangerous territory. He steered slightly away.

“What purpose did the bat serve?”

“You know? When you’re scared. Like that.”

“To strike an intruder.”

“Not that I ever have, or would. But, yeah, I guess. Closest I ever got was hitting you. And I didn’t do that. I can’t even kill spiders. I have to ask Fiona to do that. Call her over to the house. Nothing seems to bother her.”

Why did it have to keep coming back to Fiona?

“If a man like Martel Gale came onto the property unannounced and you saw him in the dark. A big guy. Huge guy. If he turned on you. If he scared you, any reaction on your part could be considered self-defense. Do you understand that?”

“I get what you’re saying, but that’s not what happened.”

“The thing about a voluntary interview… well, for one thing we’re recording all this on video, as you know. For another, none of us can take back what we say. It’s incredibly important that you tell the truth the first time. The very first time. That you stick to the truth, no matter how hard it may be to speak of it. The law… it isn’t black and white the way you might think. That’s not the way it actually works. We think of it that way: right and wrong. In practice, it works a lot differently. A guy comes onto your property uninvited, comes on there at a time there’s some guy vandalizing neighborhood properties, maybe late at night when it’s hard to see clearly. He surprises you and you defend yourself”-she was shaking her head violently side to side-“especially a person, any person, with a past that makes overreaction understandable. It’s all viewed differently. Each case is viewed differently.”

“That didn’t happen.”

“I’m just saying, you want to stick to the truth.”

“I am. I didn’t do that. It’s not like that. I saw him once at the Limelight Room. That was it. Only then.”

And a few minutes later, Fiona left the room without notice, Walt thought. He’d followed outside and had quizzed the kids working the valet parking. They’d all but identified the visitor as Martel Gale.