Look Closer

“Seems like that’s his MO,” Tarkington adds. “He waited for the right opportunity to screw over that wrestler who was bullying him, too.”

“But the thing with his father feels different,” Andy Tate chimes in. “With the wrestler, man, he really stuck it to him. He used his bullying against him. He manipulated this bully into hurting himself and then having to admit to his bullying. His father—it wasn’t manipulative.”

“Well, he couldn’t manipulate things the same way with his father,” says Tarkington. “His dad was too far away. They were totally estranged. He’d have to spend too much time down in St. Louis putting together some plan, learning all about his father’s new life down there, and he’d have to explain why he was spending so much time in St. Louis. No, with his dad, it was different. The best he could do there was give himself a solid alibi and pull it off himself.”

“Or maybe that one was so personal, he wanted to do it himself,” says Jane.

“Yeah, sure, that could be, too.” Gully wags a finger at them. “But the more we interviewed him and the more Grace Park P.D. helped us learn about that wrestler—our take? He’s a manipulator first and foremost. Brenda’s right. He didn’t have the resources to orchestrate some scheme down in St. Louis, or else he would have.”

Jane sits back and nods, looks at Andy for any other questions.

“Listen, guys,” says Gully. “If you like him for Lauren’s murder, and you probably should, you better be ready for him to have a solid alibi, and you better be ready to push the envelope. He plays a long game, like you said. He plans out everything. He won’t leave a trace of his own fingerprints.”

Tarkington nods and smiles. “He’ll orchestrate the whole thing,” she says, “so that someone else is doing his dirty work without even realizing it.”

HALLOWEEN

77 Simon

Ten minutes to seven. Ten minutes before trick-or-treating ends and, save for a few streetlights kept far away from the homes, Grace Village will go dark. I bide my time as best I can, passing two older kids with shopping bags from Target, hardly even going through the motions of dressing up, wearing baseball jerseys and a cap and some dark paint under their eyes, hoping to mop up the remaining candy from homeowners who want to get rid of their excess.

“President Obama! All right!” one of the kids says to me, high-fiving me, probably finding it odd that I’m wearing gloves when I don’t have a coat, only this blue suit and red tie to go with my Barack mask.

I slow my pace, approaching Thomas Street, only a half block away from Lauren’s home. A group of three kids, once again older, are heading toward me, northbound, but they turn the corner and move west along Thomas.

Music plays through a window, Halloween kids’ music, first “Monster Mash” and then something by Will Smith I haven’t heard before, a riff on A Nightmare on Elm Street.

I almost jump when I see him, heading east on Thomas toward Lathrow.

The Grim Reaper, dark and ominous and, best of all, anonymous, shrouded by that hood.

Hello, Christian.

—

Friday, August 15, 2003. The morning after I caught you, Lauren.

The morning after I caught you and my father screwing each other’s brains out in my father’s corner office.

I stood in the doorway of the paralegals’ office at our law firm, which you shared with three other people. My chest burned. My limbs shook. My stomach felt empty, hollowed out.

You were alone in the office, seated, flipping through documents. You startled when you saw me. For a moment there, you looked embarrassed, regretful.

“How . . . how . . . ?” I said, my voice shaking, my throat clogged with emotion.

But then you raised your chin, composed. “We’re two consenting adults, Simon.”

“But what about . . . what about . . .”