Endangered (10 page)

MOM'S HOME FROM WORK, CHOPPING VEGETABLES
for dinner when she notices me in the doorway, the MacBook under my arm.

“Are you hungry? It will be some time before I get this roast in the—” Whatever she sees on my face makes her drop her knife, its honed edge embeds itself in a halved onion like a trick she meant to do. “What's wrong, Lauren?”

I open my laptop and sit it next to the meal that will never get cooked or eaten. And I tell her everything.

Halfway through the story Dad comes home. Mom makes me start over and it's no easier to get through the second time. When I'm done there are questions. Mom mostly, flipping between English and German. Dad doesn't say anything. He keeps clicking and scrolling through
Gray Scales
with his mouth turned down. Every so often he shudders, like my site's a mirage he can shake off. Mom's questions get louder and
more
German, that is, when she manages to squeeze words between sobs.

Dad says, “The girl and that teacher,
you
exposed it?”

That question's coming from the sergeant, not my father. He's processing things quickly, strategically, the same way I do. He knows the threat assessment is bad without further enlightenment. I say, “Yes, sir.”

“Now that girl is dead and you think this Admirer person is involved?”

“Yes, sir.”

He stands and I'm eye level with the polo horse on his shirt, pink stitching on navy cotton. He stares at my forehead, I can feel the burn. Seeking cooler climates, my eyes drop farther, tracing the pleat in his pants before stopping at his square-toed shoes.

He turns toward the butcher's block on the counter. “Get your things. That computer, the camera, all of it.”

My heart stops, pictures of him smashing my precious equipment with Mom's meat mallet go up on the IMAX in my brain. He reaches past the blunt kitchen utensil and grabs his car keys from the pegboard by the door.

“Where—?” I start.

“The police station,” he says, cutting me off. “They need to hear your story.”

The statement—the calmness of it—rocks me on my heels like he'd shoved me. I had to tell my parents what I'd been sent, what I'd seen. A piece of me knew the authorities would need to be involved, but I imagined two nice men coming by the house tomorrow or the day after to take a statement. The way Dad's acting is like my trip downtown is one way.

Mom's mouth opens, snaps shut. She has more to say, only not in front
of me. They both eye me hard; the combined force of their stares pushes me from the room, but not too far. I crouch on the stairs to hear.

“We shouldn't tell anybody,” Mom says. “Let her stay out of all this.”

“Stay out of it,” Dad says louder than I'm sure he intended, I would've heard him from my room. “If she's telling the truth, she caused it.”

“Not someone's death. Just photographs.”

“We hope. But I can't sit on this. We have to report it.”

“Why?! She knows what she did was wrong and stupid. Keep the police out of it.”

“I can't!” Glasses rattle and I know she's backed into the counter, knocking some bowl or cup askew. Daddy hasn't raised his voice like that in forever. When he speaks again, it's softer, the note of regret in his tone is almost lost.

“I work for a
government contractor
. Think about my security clearances.”

His security clearances. The various statuses granted to government workers that allow them access to classified and top-secret information in order to do their jobs. Good-paying, difficult-to-acquire jobs. He talks about the clearances a lot with his friends and coworkers. How hard they are to get, and how easy they are to lose. He can't mean . . .

“Anything goes on in my home must be reported to the authorities and my company's security officer.
Immediately
,” he says.

What I'm thinking—what I'm fearing—my mom says: “
You
can get in trouble for this?”

He doesn't answer, and that is answer enough.

I climb the stairs and prepare to be taken in.

At the police station we wait patiently on a bench like we've been told to do. There are magazines on the table next to me and a water cooler in the corner. An air bubble
GLUG
s inside the clear plastic water bottle, scaring a yelp from my mother. Neither me nor Daddy makes a sound.

It's not the chaos of police station lobbies in the movies, where hookers are handcuffed to chairs and some rowdy drunk is getting dragged in and processed. We're the only ones here; distant typing and air rattling through overhead ventilation is the soundtrack. This could be a doctor's office if not for the scratched and scarred bulletproof glass separating the desk officer from us.

A buzzer sounds and a door adjacent to the security window opens. The man who appears is my height, balding, with pink splotchy skin that could almost be polka dot. He's neat in slacks and a dress shirt. There's a badge and gun on his belt—both seem too large for him, like an eight-year-old's toys in the possession of a toddler—and a legal pad under his arm. He's disinterested. His eyes sail over us, trying to determine what it is he's drawn the short straw on. Checking the pad, he says, “Mr. and Mrs. Daniels?”

Dad slips his hand under my arm and tows me to my feet as he rises. He nudges me and I follow our escort into the depths of the station. Will I be spending the night—a lot of nights—here?

“I'm Detective Vincent,” he says without looking back. “I'm told you have some information on a homicide.”

“My daughter believes she does,” Dad answers for me, “but we're not sure.”

Detective Vincent pauses, looks us over again. He does not vocalize the “that sounds weird” expression that crosses his face. We come to a door labeled Interview Room #1 and he motions us in. There are chairs for us
all, but it's cramped and hot. I expect one of those mirrors to be set in the wall, the kind where the glass on the other side is see-through, but the walls are solid. There is a camera set high in the corner, the tiny light next to the lens glowing red.

Detective Vincent sits across from us. “This is related to the Portside High girl we found last night, correct?”

“Yes,” I say, “Keachin Myer. I—I might have some details.”

“I'll be honest with you folks—it's unusual that people come to the station to talk about this sort of thing. Never seen it happen in my time. I'll be happy to take whatever info you have, but your statement will be recorded.”

The camera draws my attention again. Would a jury see this sometime in the future?

“You okay, young lady?” the detective asks.

Choking back bile, I nod.

Detective Vincent leans toward me, puts both elbows on the table. “Look, folks, you came to us. At this point, I don't know anything beyond your names. If there's something you're worried about telling me, talk to a lawyer. Hell, the criminals get that option, the good law-abiding citizens should, too.”

My heart jumps at the idea of having more time to be good old anonymous Gray. And, hey, getting some expert legal advice, I'm with that. I look to my parents and say with my eyes,
Yes, lawyer, please
.

Mom nods, agreeing.

Dad's a different story.

“We don't have anything to hide. Go on, Lauren. Tell the detective what you told us.” A direct order.

Mom's jaw tightens, her eyes cut sharply toward my father. Yet she does not say a word.

Why would she? It's my turn to talk.

For the third time tonight, I tell the secret I've kept for as many years, stopping at the appropriate points to show off the accompanying photos. When I show Detective Vincent fiery
Dante
, he sucks in a whistling breath.

At the finale—my Admirer's final messages and the picture of a bloodied, dead Keachin—he stares at the photo a long moment before saying—to Daddy, not me—“Do I have permission to take this machine out of this room?”

I resent Detective Vincent not asking me since it is my machine and my photos. Beyond that, the stiff formality of the question makes me more uncomfortable, something I hadn't thought possible.

Daddy nods, and Detective Vincent is gone with my laptop under his arm. When the door seals, I face my parents. “Guys—”

“Shut it, Lauren,” Mom says. Coming from her it stings like a slap.

I start to speak again, to—I don't know—defend myself, but Daddy grabs my hand and squeezes. Not hard, but enough to draw my eyes to his, which immediately cut to the camera I'd forgotten about. Someone is watching everything we say and do. Probably waiting for the moment when I show them something ugly and condemning.

The dark poetry of my circumstance is not lost on me.

IT IS A HALF HOUR BEFORE
Detective Vincent returns, and he isn't alone. A shorter, broader man accompanies him, and I wonder if the Portside PD is made up entirely of men who look like fire hydrants. The new cop has two shades of walrus whiskers—gray and grayer—sprouting wildly from his lips and ears. My open MacBook's in his hands now, and he plunks it on the table hard enough to make me wince.

He doesn't waste time introducing himself, only blurts, “How did you get this photo?”

“The guy I told Detective Vincent about, he emailed it to me after he confessed to—”

“You say email?” Walrus looks to Vincent. “You get that address?”

“I pulled it off her machine. Already sent it over to the tech guys.”

Walrus redirects his attention to me. “Do you know the identity of the person who sent you this photo?”

He spins my laptop toward me so dead Keachin is staring me down. I flinch away like she's about to criticize my unkempt hair, bloodshot eyes,
and rumpled outfit from beyond the grave. “I— Yes, I mean, maybe.”

A notepad and pencil appear in Walrus's hand. It probably came from his pocket, but things are happening so fast it feels like magic. “Go on.”

Glancing to my parents, I see they're leaning toward me, eyebrows arched and curious. Until now, I've not mentioned my suspicions about who my Admirer is. Despite all that's happened, I'm still hesitant to say his name.

But we've gone this far. “Marcos Dahmer. We go to school together. He's the yearbook editor.”

Walrus scribbles the name, tears off the sheet, and hands it to Vincent. “Has he provided you with any more police property?”

“Any more—?” I'm stunned silent.
Police property?

“You better speak up because I can't express how much trouble you will be in if we connect you with evidence tampering.”

“Tampering? I'm trying to help.”

“What is this about?” Mom asks.

Walrus points to the corner of Dead Keachin's photo. There's a number there. I noticed it before, but didn't examine it closely and mistook it for a time stamp.

“That's a case file number for this crime scene photo.”

That sinks in. Feels like I'm turning that one over in my head for an hour.

I say, “
Your
photographer took these.”

Detective Vincent explains to my parents, like I'm not in the room: “We've had leaks over the years. Photos and case details reaching news outlets before we're ready to provide them. I'm not sure why one of these dollar-chasing jerks has chosen to involve your daughter, but we will be looking into this.”

The officers glare at each other, then to my parents, and I know we're
done here. Relief is what I should feel, but this dismissal doesn't sit well with me.

Vincent says, “We appreciate you coming in. I've already made copies of the relevant files on your daughter's computer. I'm sure we'll need to follow up”—he checks his notes—“and I have your contact information here.”

Dad says, “What kind of trouble is Lauren in?”

“We're not sure yet. You came to us and we will be submitting copies of her photos of the Myer girl to the district attorney to determine what value they have in upcoming proceedings. The DA will decide what's required of you folks going forward. In the meantime, I suggest you have Lauren take down that website she runs. What she's done is clearly an invasion of privacy—”

Internally, I buck at that. Vincent is not getting the big picture. Before everything with Keachin, my site
helped
kids. This situation is a mistake. The anomaly.
I'm not that different from you
, I think but don't say.

It goes on like that, them talking about how I need more discipline and supervision, staying on this tangent about leaked photos, ignoring what I'm really saying. The room is hot, I'm nauseous, and I can't understand why they're overlooking what I've told them.

So, I snap. “I'm not talking about some WikiLeaks asshole stealing crap from a Flickr page. I'm talking about a killer! He
murdered
this girl!”

There's a charge in the air and I resist eye contact with anyone who doesn't have a badge. My parents are shooting silent threats at me, like I'm five and throwing a toy-store tantrum. I won't be ordered to sit down and be quiet. I want to be able to sleep at night.

Something that may be more wish than reality going forward.

Vincent breaks the silence. “We have a suspect in the Myer girl's killing.”

“You already caught him?” As soon as the words cross my lips I know we aren't talking about the same “him.” Not Marcos.

Vincent nods. “Yes, caught him at his apartment. The car was parked out front.” A thundercloud crosses his face, his next words angry, personal. When he speaks, I instinctively know this man has a daughter somewhere. “As if he hadn't violated that girl enough already.”

He's talking about Coach Bottin. They think
he
killed Keachin. But . . . no. NO.

“What about everything I've shown you?” I'm looking to my parents now, begging them for backup. “My Admirer is a real person.”

“I know,” Vincent says, “but not a real killer. Trust me on this, darling. That yearbook kid is screwing with you.”

“How can you know that?” I'm gripping the table so hard, I might leave behind a handprint.

“Because I just looked at photos of a bunch of people with reason to mess with your head.” He motions to my MacBook. Really, he's motioning at the elephant in the room. The Gray one.

“Get rid of that site, kid,” Vincent says. “If you're lucky, it won't come back to bite you.”

With that he stands, meeting over. They have their man. Case closed. No need to make anyone work harder.

Me and my family are escorted from the station. Our demeanors no different from if we'd left a restaurant after a late dinner. The illusion disintegrates during the ride home.

“Lauren, tell me what the hell you were thinking putting that website together,” Daddy says.

I mumble.

“Speak up.”

“Justice,” I say.

Uncomfortable seconds pass before Daddy says, “Are you insane?”

Remains to be seen.

Dad takes my phone, my camera, my lenses, and my Mac. Not before forcing me to delete the public folders, templates, and photos that make up
Gray Scales
. Because he knows computers from his job, he also makes me empty the little wire basket trash can in the corner of my display (where I'd planned to retrieve the files from later), permanently sending my beloved website into the Great Digital Beyond. Bashing my toes with a hammer would be less painful.

It's close to midnight before the warden finishes tossing my cell. No contraband makes it through inspection.

“School and home,” he says. The sharp edge that's been present in his voice all night is worn, but not quite dull. “Nothing else. Not for a very long time.”

When I don't respond immediately, he steps into my personal space and I have to fight the urge to back away. “Did you hear me?”

“Yes,” I say, swallowing hard, “sir.”

I almost expect an “at ease” before he leaves. It doesn't happen. Would've been insincere anyway. Nothing's going to be “at ease” from now on.

I can't sleep, and I hear noises through my wall, different from what I'm accustomed to from my parents' bedroom. No low and slow music, no squeaky mattress in a moment of lapsed restraint. Their voices are above
normal speaking volume, argument voices. All because of me.

Murder. Cops. Mom and Dad sounding like an abusive couple in a Lifetime movie.

I manage to cry myself to sleep, clinging desperately to the thought that things can't get worse than this.

I'm wrong, of course.