A Good Killing (12 page)

“Owen Fowler gave me many things. But the greatest gift he ever gave me was Isabel. You can win all the football games in the world. There’s nothing like a beautiful, smart little girl to change your world. I thank God for her every day, that I have the privilege of being her mother.” She looked down at her daughter. “Isabel, honey, I know this is a tough time for you. But we’re going to make it. We have each other. And look around you. All these people are here for your father. They’re also here for you. You have a lot of people supporting you.”

The little girl wiped a tear away with the back of her sleeve. Wendy opened her mouth to say more but choked up. She excused herself, left the podium, and sat next to her girl. Isabel cried into her mother’s chest. Wendy held her and rocked her. Anna had to pull out her own Kleenex. She saw several other people doing the same thing.

Whatever faults Wendy had, it was clear that she loved her daughter. And her elegance and fortitude were unexpected. Clearly, Wendy had grown up quite a bit since high school. As the crowd was herded back into the house, Anna mused: Maybe she had been wrong about Wendy. Maybe there were some redeeming qualities in the former Homecoming queen after all.

When the service was over, they walked back to Cooper’s motorcycle. “Did you find out anything?” Anna asked quietly.

He looked around and saw that they were alone. He leaned over and whispered in her ear. “My friend is a receptionist at a family law firm. Today, he had a few too many trips to the open bar and told some tales. He said that Wendy visited the firm about a month ago and consulted with one of the lawyers. She wanted a divorce.”

18

I
t was close to one
A.M.
when the coach’s 1967 Corvette came growling up the Hugheses’ dirt driveway, kicking up a cloud of dust. The coach sprang out and strode over to the front porch, where I was sitting on the steps. He was wearing jeans and a blue pullover, and his blond hair had the rumpled look of someone who’d been called out of bed. He held out a hand, which I took, and helped me to my feet. I tried to stand steady, because I didn’t want him to know how much I’d been drinking. I was not successful. I stumbled, and he had to grab my elbow to steady me.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

It was the second time that night someone asked me that, but this time it made my heartbeat quicken.

“Yeah, I’m okay,” I said. “Maybe just a little tipsy. Sorry.”

“Your hands are freezing.” He pressed them between his, which were warm and big. “Where’s Devin?”

I pointed toward the side yard. He let go of my hands and strode in that direction. I followed. As we turned the corner, another blast echoed out into the night.

“Devin Hughes!” Coach roared. “You are in a world of hurt!”

I stopped walking and stepped into the shadow of an elm tree. It was a chickenshit move. I didn’t want the boys to know I’d snitched on them. I tucked my hands under my armpits, leaned against the trunk, and watched from the darkness.

The boys looked like dogs who’d been caught eating slippers. They hung their heads and stared at their coach with sad, guilty eyes. Coach marched over to Devin and snatched the gun out of his hand.

“Are you crazy, Hughes? Do you want to kill someone?”

“No.”

“No, what?” Coach popped open the shotgun and ejected a shell.

“No, sir.”

“Aren’t you supposed to be staying at Ben’s house while your parents are in Milwaukee?”

The coach knew everything about his players.

“Yes, sir.”

“Here’s what’s happening now. You’re going to march into that house and tell everyone the party’s over. Clear it out. I’ll give you the dignity of doing it yourself, which is more than you deserve. If I have to do it, it will not be pretty.”

“I understand. Sir.”

“We’re going to have a long talk about this on Monday, Hughes.”

“Yes, sir.” Devin hung his head lower.

Coach pointed at the house. “Go! Now.”

The three boys fairly ran into the house. It struck me that they were boys—but Coach was a man. He wasn’t just older. He had this presence, an aura of leadership and authority, that made kids do what he said. I wondered if he was born with it, or if he’d earned it through years of coaching.

“Idiots,” he muttered as he walked back to the car. He waved me out of the shadow of the elm. “Come on, Jody.”

I trotted next to him, weaving a bit. I was still very drunk. “I’m . . . um . . . I’m not sure everyone in there is sober enough to drive home.”

“I’m not a taxi service. They found their way here, they can find their way home again.” Coach glanced at me. “But I’ll give you a ride.”

He opened the Corvette’s trunk, tossed the shotgun in, and slammed it shut. Then he went around and opened the passenger door for me. No Holly Grove boy would have done that. I felt like I was in a fairy tale, or a soap opera. I’d often seen Coach driving his famous car and dreamed of being inside it. Now I got to slide in. The car smelled of polished leather and men’s cologne. The dash was rich, shiny wood, curving around the instrument panels so sensually it looked like a woman’s body. Coach slid in the other side.

The seat was a long bench seat, covered in supple black leather.
I learned some years later that Corvettes normally come with two bucket seats, separated by a console. The coach had his car specially fitted with this single, long seat. I only understood how horrible that was afterward.

“This is a beautiful car,” I said.

“Thanks. It’s my baby.”

He turned on the ignition, and the tires purred against the gravel of the driveway. I thought of his other baby, the real one, growing inside his wife.

“How’s Wendy?” I asked.

“She’s sleeping.”

“Yeah, it is pretty late.”

“She sleeps a lot these days.” He turned onto Route 9. We were the only car on the road.

“I hear that being pregnant can do that.”

He nodded and turned on the radio to an oldies station. John Cougar Mellencamp sang about how it hurts so good.

“Wendy woke up when my phone rang,” Coach said, looking straight ahead at the road. “I told her it was an emergency. I didn’t tell her it was you.”

“Why not?”

“She can feel it.”

“What?” My breath came fast and shallow.

“The attraction between us.”

I nodded and swallowed. We passed farms, stands of trees, and small houses. I stared at the road’s dotted yellow lines, hoping their steady passage could sober me up. They didn’t.

He turned onto a dirt road. It’s funny what we wish for, isn’t it? For months, I wanted to be alone with Owen Fowler. I knew this wasn’t the way home, but I didn’t say anything. Because I desperately wanted to find out: What was at the end of that road? Now, of course, I know the answer. It was a monster.

19

A
fter they got home from the memorial service, Cooper built a fire in his backyard pit. He, Anna, and Jody sat in the plastic chairs around it, drinking beer as the sun went down. The chickens scratched around the grass by their feet, and the goldfish floated to the surface of their pond. Cooper threw some food in and the fish devoured it with big round gulps. Sparky sat at the edge of the water and watched them, his head tilted quizzically. The chirping of insects was loud and steady, and the warm air was scented with earth. If she didn’t look at the shattered warehouse or the sunset reflecting off the curved glass of the Renaissance Center, Anna could imagine she was sitting in the countryside.

“How was the service?” Jody asked.

“A flock of butterflies flew right through the speeches,” Cooper said.

“Ha,” Jody said. “I bet Wendy bought them and had them released at just the right moment. She’s always been a drama queen. I’m sure she was enjoying her role as Grieving Widow.”

“She did play it well,” Anna said. “Although I’m sure she’d also be good at Aggrieved Divorcée.”

“How do you mean?” Jody asked.

Cooper described what he’d learned at the memorial service. Anna added, “I checked the court system, and
Fowler versus Fowler
hadn’t been filed. Yet. But it makes sense. A neighbor said they seemed to be living in separate houses.”

“Wow,” Jody said. She took a sip of beer. “You are good, Annie. Bust into town and find out everyone’s deepest secrets in less than seventy-two hours. Impressive. But . . . so what?”

“So it’s a motive,” Anna said, with satisfaction. “From the person most likely to kill the coach to begin with.”

“How do you figure?”

“When someone’s murdered, unless the person is a drug dealer, it’s usually by a lover or spouse. And with a separation, there’s even more motive. Wendy and Coach Fowler were about to get into the messiest thing two people can get into. Custody battles, splitting the assets, dragging each other’s reputations through the mud. Considerable assets, considerable motive to kill. If they got divorced, Wendy would get half of everything—if she was lucky—minus lawyer’s fees. Now, she has everything. Murder is a lot cheaper than divorce.”

Anna was thrilled to suspect someone besides her sister. The ongoing stomachache she’d had since coming to Michigan had abated at the news that Wendy was contemplating divorce immediately before her husband was killed.

Jody said, “Do the police know about this?”

“If they did, they’d be searching
her
house.” Anna looked at her sister. “Did you know they were separating? Was he leaving her for you?”

“I’m not sure,” Jody murmured, looking into the fire. “I had certain hopes and dreams about the situation. I was stupid.”

Jody went inside and returned a moment later with three more beers. She gave one to each of them. They sat in silence, watching the fire dance and pop. Sparky rested his head on Cooper’s knee.

“Today was hard,” he said, petting the dog. “All the tears and grief. How do you do it for a living, Anna? Every day, seeing people go through the hardest time of their life? Immersing yourself in the most terrible things people do to each other?”

“It can be tough.” She stretched her legs out toward the fire, enjoying the warmth on her feet. “But I really believe being a prosecutor is the most rewarding job I could have. There’s nothing like putting a predator in jail. Knowing that my efforts every day are to keep my community safe. What about you, Coop? You weren’t exactly seeing lollipops and roses in Afghanistan.”

“No, though there were quite a few poppy fields. Which are beautiful, really. These huge pink flowers, going for acres. You know what they’re for, right?”

“Heroin,” Jody said.

“Yep. We burned those fields. Had to be careful, because if you inhale that smoke, you can get sick.” He looked into the fire. “I hated that part. I grew up on a farm. Can’t imagine how much I’d despise anyone who came by and burned our fields.”

“Your family grows wheat and corn,” Anna said. “Your fields are legal.”

“Still. We made a lot of enemies.” He poked the fire with a stick, sending sparks dancing up. “Eventually, the army changed the policy, after the farmers turned to the Taliban for protection. Then we were in charge of protecting the poppy fields.”

“The world is complicated.” Jody said. “Sometimes right and wrong aren’t so clear.”

“And sometimes people just change their minds,” Cooper said. “Like Michelle.”

Anna remembered Michelle Zamarin, a pretty brown-haired soccer star. She and Cooper had dated in high school.

“Whatever happened with her?” Anna asked.

“We got engaged before I went on my tour. When the IED went off, I thought I was dying, and all I wanted was to get a message to her. I kept telling the guys who put me on the helicopter: ‘Tell Michelle I love her.’

“A medic told me I could tell her myself, and he was right. Eventually, they got me to Germany, where I had a couple operations. And then I spent a year at Walter Reed hospital, getting rehab, learning how to walk with this.” He knocked on his metal prosthesis. “You and I missed each other in D.C. by a couple of years. But Michelle came to visit. Brought me a basket of bagels. Spent a couple days holding my hand. And then told me she was very sorry, but she’d fallen in love with an accountant.”

“Oh.” Anna was pained on his behalf. “Speaking of terrible things people do to each other.
”

“Nah. She didn’t want to hurt me. And it wasn’t because of the leg—I don’t think. I’d been away for a long time, and she’d just moved on. Still, I can’t help but hate bagels now. And accountants.”

Anna felt fierce anger at the woman who’d hurt Cooper when he was already wounded. “I think that’s pretty rotten.”

“You know what’s rotten?” Jody said. Her words bled together at the edges, like a kid’s watercolor painting. Anna wondered how many beers she’d had. “You know a terrible thing one person can do to another? What they did to Hayley Mack.”

“What happened to Hayley?” Anna asked.

Jody looked at her. She shook her head. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

But she pulled out her phone. Something about a campfire made everyone want to talk. Jody scrolled to a picture, then handed it over. Anna looked at the screen.

It was a picture of thirteen-year-old Hayley, asleep on a couch. Or, more accurately, passed out on a couch. The girl’s eyes were closed; her mouth hung open with a thin line of saliva hanging from it. Her shiny black hair spilled down the couch like a waterfall. Her shirt had been pulled up, revealing a taut patch of her stomach between her rib cage and her jeans. Someone had written all over her belly with thick black marker.
I’M A SLUT. FUCK ME. I LIKE IT HOT AND WET.
On Hayley’s cheek was a crude drawing of a penis, with liquid erupting from it toward her mouth. The boy with the blond mohawk stood by the couch, laughing. Anna inhaled sharply.

“They posted this online,” Jody said. “It’s been deleted, but I saved it in the iCloud before they took it down. In case the police ever wanted it. Which they didn’t.”

Jody swiped to another picture. Now Hayley was on a bed. The mohawked kid held a teddy bear’s crotch to her mouth, simulating oral sex.