My lawyer checked her watch, promised me she’d be back at the same time tomorrow. I could have paid for my own lawyer, or had my parents send one, but I chose to have one appointed for me, and right now, I felt good about that decision.
After she left I laid back on my cot in my dark green jumpsuit. My lunch—a hamburger with a side of mixed vegetables—was delivered by a grim-faced policewoman in uniform. I wasn’t particularly hungry but ate a little of the burger, and drank the plastic cup of apple juice that had come with the meal. I refilled the cup with tepid water from the tap in my cell and drank several glasses, then lay back down on my cot. My parents, whom I’d finally called this morning, collect, from a wall-installed pay phone down the hall, were coming soon, and I was savoring the little bit of quiet before they arrived. The previous day, as I remained still and quiet at the Old Hill Burying Ground, while first one ambulance, then several, then a flotilla of cop cars arrived, I thought about what I’d say when I was questioned later. I considered telling the truth, the whole truth, about the two bodies in the well, and what happened with Eric Washburn in London, and my involvement with Ted and Miranda Severson and Brad Daggett. I imagined what that would feel like—to confess it all—and pictured the cold, fascinated eyes on me as I told the stories, and then I imagined that this fascination would hover around me for the rest of my life. All those years in prison. David Kintner’s infamous daughter. I would become a specimen, a curiosity. People would clamor to write books. I would lose all of my anonymity forever.
So I thought of a different story, a much simpler one. I would tell everyone that I had become terrified of Detective Henry Kimball, who had been following me for over a week. I would tell them I had spotted him several times—that part was true—and that I had begun to fear for my life. If they asked me why I didn’t call the police, I would tell them that he was the police. I’d tell them that I’d taken to traveling with my stun gun and my small knife, and that on the day in question, I’d driven out to my favorite cemetery in Concord. When I’d spotted him there, I’d panicked, attacked him with the knife. I knew it was the wrong thing to do, but I wasn’t thinking straight. It was a moment of insanity, brought on by stress.
And that was the story I’d told, first to the arresting officer who questioned me at the Concord Police Station where I was booked for attempted murder, then later that same evening to Detective Roberta James, the woman who had saved Detective Kimball’s life. I tried to glean from the interview whether Kimball and Detective James had both been following me in concert, or whether the female detective had just stumbled upon the scene. I had been so positive that Kimball was following me on his own, and not in a professional capacity. It was clear that he’d become obsessed with me, and it was only a matter of time before he started looking into every facet of my life. I’d already given him Eric Washburn’s name, and no doubt he’d checked records and discovered that we were together when he died. I had started to panic a little, and the thought occurred to me that if he really was following me on his own, then I could simply lure him to an isolated spot, and take care of the problem. I thought of the cemetery I’d been to with Ted Severson. I’d never seen anyone else there, and yet it was fairly open. If Detective Kimball followed me to Concord he could see me in the cemetery from the town below. I’d stare for a long time at one grave, and hope that he would visit it himself. Then I’d simply wait for him.
It worked perfectly, until Detective James showed up.
I felt confident in my story. I would probably wind up temporarily in jail, or in a psychiatric institution, but I doubted very much that I would be put away for any considerable length of time. My biggest concern was just how much digging they would do into Miranda’s death and Brad’s disappearance. I had no alibi for that night, but why would I? It was late on a Tuesday night, and I lived alone. Even if they questioned my mother, I thought it was a very slim chance that she would mention my needing a ride to southern Maine. I thought it was a very slim chance that she’d even remember it.
While thinking of my mother, I heard the unoiled hinge of the door at the end of the hall creak open, and recognized my mother’s hectoring voice. I heard the word bail and the word ridiculous. Both my parents were brought to my barred door by the same officer who had brought me my lunch. My mother looked outraged, my father looked old and frightened. “Oh, darling,” my mother said.
Three days later, the day before my bail review, I was brought to an interrogation room after my breakfast of microwaved eggs and potatoes. I’d been to the room before, a windowless box, its walls painted a harsh industrial white.
Detective James entered, announcing her presence and the current time to the camera mounted in the room’s high corner.
“How are you, Ms. Kintner?” she asked, after taking a seat.