Just tell them.
Take the outrage and the anger and the impotence that Dalton feels. Multiply it by two hundred. An entire town, furious that the council has done this, furious that we have “allowed” it.
If we tell them his crimes, any civil rights we’ve accorded Oliver Brady will be held against us. Mob mentality will rise. Against him. Against us.
I love my town, but I do not trust them in this. So I remain silent.
5
I’m in the station. It’s a small building, with one main room and a door leading to the cell area. I’ve got that door open.
Brady is pretending to sleep. When I turn my back, moving about the station, I know he peers out to assess. I’m here alone, and again, he doesn’t know what to make of that. But he is pleased. He gives that away in the curve of his lips. He’s growing confident that this will be easier than he dared hope, that the alpha dog foolishly leaves the weakest in the pack alone with him time and again.
Kenny comes in while I’m settling behind the desk.
“No, Eric is not here,” I say as he looks about.
He glances at Brady, slouched on the floor, knees up, eyes closed. Kenny lowers his voice and moves closer to me. “I know you can look after yourself, Casey, but maybe . . . You know.”
I arch my brows.
“Look, I don’t want to know what this guy did. If you say he’s violent, that’s enough for me. But whatever it is, I’m sure it involves women. Maybe leaving you here isn’t . . .”
“Because I’m a woman?”
“No, just . . .” He makes this awkward motion, waving at me, top to bottom.
He’s trying to come up with a respectful way to say that I’m attractive. When I arrived, Kenny was one of those guys who wouldn’t see a problem with telling a coworker that a pair of jeans really showed off her “assets.” He wasn’t a jerk—he honestly didn’t realize that was inappropriate. But as soon as someone points it out, he trips over himself to correct the behavior. Sometimes to rather comic effect.
“He’s not that kind of killer,” I say.
Kenny frowns, like he can’t imagine any other kind. I could also tell him that those predators don’t always target women they find attractive. At some point, though, that starts to sound like lecturing. So I just say, “He’s an equal-opportunity killer, so watch yourself.”
“Sure, sure. But then, maybe no one should be alone with him.”
“Mmm, I’m not worried.” Through the open doorway, I see Brady’s lips twitch. “I am sorry it screwed up your departure, though. I know you were looking forward to getting out today.”
Kenny shrugs and sits on the edge of the desk, positioning himself between me and Brady. “It’s not like I have plans. I’m going to bum around, visit a few places before I decide where to settle. Which reminds me. . . . I know Eric got Storm because you like Newfoundland dogs. How about Newfoundland itself? You been there?”
I shake my head.
“You know much about it?” he asks.
“I had a detective partner who came from there. He said he spent his life waiting to leave . . . and now can’t wait to retire and move back. City life wasn’t what he expected, and he missed the open spaces, small towns, slower pace, friendlier people.”
“That’s what I’m looking for I think. A place like here but . . .”
“With Wi-Fi? Microwave ovens? Real indoor plumbing?”
He chuckles. “All the twenty-first-century amenities, which are the only things I missed from down south. I might even build my own house. Never imagined that before I came here. I barely knew how to hold a hammer.”
“Join the team.”
“Yeah, but at least you had the muscles to lift one. I want to keep doing carpentry. Become that local guy people call if they need a new bed or cupboards.”
He settles on the desk, gaze going distant. “Maybe I’ll meet someone, have a kid or two. Never did that. I always figured I would—it just seemed natural, you know. Then it didn’t happen. I’ll try harder this time. Put myself out there. Find someone who might not mind settling down with a guy like me.”
Jen walks into the station, saying, “You want my advice, Kenny? Skip Tinder and go straight to mail-order brides.”
“Personal experience, huh?” he says. “Or is that the real reason you stay in Rockton? There are so many guys, even you can get sex. You can get them to pay for it, too. Not much but . . .”
She scowls at him.
I shake my head. “You walked into that, Jen.”
She walks around the desk, where she can put her back to Kenny, and then shoots her thumb toward the cell. “I want to talk about him.”
“Casey doesn’t need—” Kenny begins.
“It’s fine,” I say. “We should refill the wood, though. We’re going to need to run the fireplace all night.”
Kenny hesitates, as if considering whether he can pretend not to get the hint. Then he says he’ll grab some logs and be back soon.
Once he’s gone, Jen looks around. “Where’s the fur beast?”
“With Eric.”
“So you’re here doing paperwork alone while lover boy walks the pooch . . . and we have an allegedly dangerous killer in town?”
“When is the last time you saw us walking the dog during work hours?” I say.
Her jaw sets, like that of a petulant child countered with the indignity of a reasonable response.
“Eric is working,” I say. “Storm is with him because she’s a work dog.”
“Then shouldn’t she be here, guarding you?”
“Nah, if this guy escapes, I’ll throw you into the line of fire.”
Her snort awards me a point for the comeback. I’m trying to work with Jen, no matter how many people tell me it’s a waste of time. I must be that idiot who keeps trying to pet the stray cat, knowing I’m just going to end up with bloody scratches. One could see this as a sign of deep compassion and the belief in inherent human goodness. It’s not. As Dalton says, I’m just stubborn. Jen is an obstacle I will overcome. Which is not to say I’m winning the battle. We have reached an uneasy truce, though. I champion her continued role in the town militia, and she doesn’t address me as “Hey, bitch.” At least not in public.
Jen walks to the cell. She’s spent her share of time in there, more than anyone else in Rockton. I first saw her at the Roc, Isabel having come by the station for help breaking up a bar brawl. There’d been no brawl. Just Jen, looking like a middle-aged schoolteacher enjoying a glass of wine with her significant other. Then Isabel tried to kick her out—for freelancing on brothel property—and that’s when the brawl began.
I later learned that Jen really had been a schoolteacher. She still looks it to me—late thirties, average appearance, nicely groomed. When she walks to that cell, Brady cracks open one eye. He can’t help it. He heard her talk—insulting Kenny, snarking at me—and he’s looked, expecting to see a rough and bitter woman. Instead, she looks like the schoolteacher she’d once been, and his eye opens a little wider, just to be sure.
“How many?” she says.
I don’t need to ask what she means.
“Five,” I say.
“And you buy that?”
“I’m sure there’s more. There always are.”
“That’s not—”
“You mean do I think he really did it. I don’t give a shit. That’s not my job, and after what we’ve been through, I’m not taking the chance.”
“So the council—which I know you don’t trust—tells you this preppy-assed brat has murdered five people, and you’re just going to believe them?”
Brady’s eyelids flicker, and I’m tempted to grab her by the arm and haul her onto the back porch. But it’s too late, so I say, “And I’ll repeat—I don’t give a shit. If he was a citizen of this town, I’d care. He’s not. And if I did decide he was innocent, you’d be first in line howling that I was putting your life in danger.”
She looks at Brady again. “This just doesn’t seem right.”