Max Collins - Girl Most Likely

As they ate, her father asked, “Have you got in touch with Astrid’s parents yet?”

She shook her head, using a butter knife to spread the cream cheese on the bagel. “No. I don’t have their number in Florida. Maybe the forensics team will find it on her phone. I’m hoping someone in this crowd has it right now.”

His tone went fatherly. “You don’t want them to hear it from the internet or anything.”

She sighed. “They may already have.”

She’d had to make such calls — in person — to the parents or wives or husbands or children of accident fatalities. Nothing in her job had ever seemed tougher. Now she faced something even worse — telling the parents of a talented, lovely, successful young woman with an incredibly bright future ahead of her that all of that had been snuffed out, like a candle on an altar.

“And,” her dad said, “you still have the media to deal with.”

“Jerry’s date may not be here,” she said, glancing toward the table where her ex had just joined two couples, “but he is. He can give his scoop to the Dubuque paper.”

“Yup,” Booker said, spearing a sausage for what looked to be one bite. “ Galena Gazette is a weekly. That don’t cut it.”

A waitress in black bow tie, white shirt, and tuxedo pants stopped by to see if the constabulary wanted a mimosa or one of the other breakfast cocktails. All of them wanted something. None of them ordered anything.

Her father was poking at his small plate of food. He asked Krista, “How many of your people can you pull in here?”

“We only have two shifts of a single patrol car today,” she said. “That leaves everybody else.”

“Let’s get them out here,” he said. “The sooner we can thin this crowd to our best suspects, better off we are. We need two pairs of eyes on those security tapes, and everybody else asking questions.”

She was glancing at the dozen tables in the big room. Nobody seemed to be eating now but the cops, who were almost done, even Booker. Waiters were out there busing. It was time.

His plate empty of everything but syrup traces, Booker seemed about to get up but she put an arm on his sleeve.

“No seconds for you, young man,” she told him.

He made a face but it turned into a smile. “Yes, Chief Larson. I will struggle by on a single serving.”

“Stay here, you two,” she said to her pop and her sergeant.

Krista rose and positioned herself at the front of the room, with the buffet at her back, the opposite end from where the Cover Band had played. She looked across at the many faces where confusion and irritation were mounting.

“I think you all know me,” she said, in a loud, businesslike, but not unfriendly voice. “It was a pleasure last evening to spend some quality time with old friends. I’m sure you all agree.”

Forced and/or uneasy smiles met her.

“But it is my unpleasant, and official, duty to inform you that last night our classmate Astrid Lund was murdered.”

The murmuring came back in, mixed with high tones of alarm.

She raised a palm, as if directing traffic. “The crime was a brutal one, and the situation — for us and for you — is obviously serious.”

From about halfway down the room, Jessy Webster — sitting with husband Josh and the Wunders, Frank and Brittany — called out, “Krista, does this have anything to do with Sue Logan?”

She could have done without the prompt, but she said calmly, “It may well have. As many of you know, late last summer, in Clearwater, Florida, our classmate Susan Logan was also a homicide victim. Some elements of Sue’s death mirror Astrid’s.”

Hands went up, here and there, as if this were a big classroom. And, in a way, wasn’t it? She ignored them.

“The only other thing I am at liberty to tell you about Astrid’s death,” she said, “is that very preliminary findings indicate the crime occurred around midnight.”

Whispering, muttering. Some tears and sobs from the women.

Krista’s hand again came up. “Because of the reunion that brought us all together,” she said, in that same loud but calm tone, “I must ask you to cooperate as my officers and I talk to you this afternoon, doing our best to determine who among you might add something of value to our investigation. If you have photos on your phone from last night that include Astrid, we’ll want to see them. Any posting about the reunion you need to share with us.”

A male toward the back yelled, “How long are we going to be here?”

“We will move as quickly as we can,” Krista assured them. “You are required to answer a few brief questions, provide identification, contact information, and so on. We will ask you to cooperate further by way of a more thorough interview. If you refuse, you will be free to go... but we will wonder why.”

Silence blanketed the big room.

“Wonder why,” she continued, “you wouldn’t want to help us determine who murdered your classmate.”

The murmur threatened to become a clamor.

She spoke over it: “Though you may decide only to provide minimal cooperation, remember — I have a limited number of officers and this is a large group, and many here will cooperate in full. We will likely be here, some of us at least, well into the evening. And, possibly, into tomorrow.”

She let them chew that over. It got loud. Nobody was happy. That included Krista, but she seemed to be the only one keeping it to herself.

As the din decreased to an undertone, she said, “In that event, those of you from out of town may have to stay the night...”

Some other male blurted an expletive, loud enough to get some spontaneous nervous laughter.

“... but in that event, your generous host, our classmate David Landry, is going to comp you on your rooms.”

The hum of conversation that followed seemed almost positive.

“For those of you who do cooperate fully, we request that you stay until we say go. This is a murder investigation. We would like the opportunity to clear you.”

Suddenly the faces wore surprise, some even seeming stunned, as everyone here realized what they were.

Suspects.

“For example,” Krista said, “we will be checking security footage that may demonstrate that your car was in the lot all night.”

Whispering between significant others made it sound like the entire hall was shushing her.

Again she spoke over it: “What I pledge to you as your friend, classmate, and chief of police is that we will move this as quickly and efficiently as we can.”

“What about meals?” another male cried out.

The women, she noted, seemed more accepting of the inevitable.

“Your lodging is being taken care of,” she reminded them. “Paying for any meals and beverages, in particular alcoholic ones, seems a nice way to say thank you to your already generous host.”

David’s voice came from her right — she hadn’t seen him step in. He said, almost yelling, “You will dine as the lodge’s guests this evening! We’re preparing a limited but complimentary menu.”

Sudden applause and even a few whistles and “Yay, Dave!” came up.

Krista said, giving the group a small smile, “Better not bring up tomorrow.”

That got both laughs and moans, the latter louder.

“Again, we mean to get you out of here quickly, back into your homes and your lives. You can help us in the meantime by writing down your license plate numbers — to help us check security footage for your cars. That will help us rule you out.”

Or identify you, she thought.

“Also,” Krista said, “if anyone has contact information for the Lunds in Florida, I need that ASAP. And please, please, stay off social media. I don’t want Astrid’s parents hearing this news the wrong way.”