Margot clicked first on the document of notes, which turned out to be little more than the basics of who Elliott Wallace was, or, at least, who he’d been three years ago. At the time of Polly’s murder, Wallace had been forty-eight. Originally from Indianapolis, he’d been living in Dayton, working as a security guard for a gated community. His parents were dead and his only remaining family was an older sister living in Indianapolis, with whom Wallace rarely spoke.
Beneath this basic fact sheet, Margot had included a photo of Wallace she’d found on the internet. In it, he had dirty blond hair, parted and combed on the side, a sharp jaw, and smiling brown eyes. But his most prominent feature was his ears. Disproportionately large, they stuck out from his head at an angle, making him look a little like an elephant. Despite them, he was, by all standards, attractive, and the image gave her a jolt of recognition. She remembered sitting across from him in his living room. He’d been tall and slender, with long fingers he interlaced over his lap and long legs he crossed at the knee. He’d seemed completely at ease during their interview and unfailingly polite.
As she gazed at him now, heat crawled up her chest and neck. She felt, deep inside her, that this was the man who’d killed all those girls, that she was staring at the face of a murderer.
She clicked out of the file, selected the recording, and hit play. Within moments, the sound of her own voice filled the room.
“So how long have you lived in Dayton?” Margot heard herself ask.
“Oh, let’s see,” a second voice said. Elliott Wallace had a smooth, almost musical, cadence. He clicked his tongue thoughtfully. “Not long. A year maybe. Actually, I suppose it’d be closer to two at this point. Moved here from Indianapolis.”
“And are you married? Any children?”
“Neither, sadly. I would’ve liked to get married, I think, but the right woman never came along. I date occasionally, but it becomes more challenging the older you get. You get sort of stuck in your own ways, I suppose.” He chuckled. “At least I have.”
Margot closed her eyes to focus on Wallace’s words. She remembered thinking at the time how collected he was, how poised. Here she’d been questioning him in relation to the homicide of a little girl, and yet he’d managed to stay calm and cooperative. But now, Margot heard a performative lilt to his words she hadn’t recognized sitting across from him. Was she being biased because of everything she knew now or had she been blind then?
“And you were questioned recently by the police,” her voice continued on the recording. “About the murder of Polly Limon.”
“That’s right.” Wallace’s voice turned suddenly solemn.
“Why did they think you were involved?”
“Oh.” Wallace heaved a sigh. “Because in the past, I’ve visited the stables where the girl practiced and competed. Honestly, I don’t blame the mother who gave the detectives my name. I realize I’m a single, adult man, and in this day and age, it’s a sad reality that the optics of that…aren’t good. Unfortunately, I didn’t consider that when I went. If I could turn back time, I wouldn’t have gone at all, not now that I know I made this woman feel uncomfortable. But the truth is I’m a fan of the sport. And of horses in general. I often visit the stables when no one’s there at all.”
“And when you were at the stables,” Margot heard herself say, “did you ever talk to Polly Limon?”
“I didn’t even know who she was until I saw her name on the news. Her face looked vaguely familiar, but I’m not sure I would’ve placed where I knew it from if they hadn’t mentioned her equestrian stuff.” Wallace sighed. “It’s terrible what happened to her. As I’ve said, I don’t have children, but I imagine there’s nothing worse than losing one of your own.”
“Can you tell me what you were doing on the night of Tuesday, May third?” she asked. Though present-day Margot didn’t remember the significance of the date, she assumed it was the night before Polly’s body had been found.
“I can. Typically, I wouldn’t remember my whereabouts so readily, but, as the police just asked me the same thing, it’s top of mind.” There was the slightest chill in his voice as he said this, a subtle but clear signal of his indignation at being asked. “I worked till about six that evening, then I went home and fixed myself some dinner. Just a simple pasta recipe, nothing special. Afterward, I went to Barnes & Noble, where I bought a copy of The Heart of Darkness—I’m working through the classics. And then I came home, where I was for the rest of the evening.”
“So, you don’t have an alibi for that night?”
“Well, one of the booksellers can vouch that I was at the store. I’m sure she remembers me because I couldn’t find The Heart of Darkness, and as she walked me over to the section, we struck up a friendly argument about the virtues of reading the classics. She was, I remember, more of a fan of fantasy novels.” There was a slight pause, and Margot envisioned him giving her a smile. “As this bookseller no doubt told the police, I was at the store for quite a while reading. Till eight-thirty, perhaps. Maybe later. I can’t remember. Then I came home, read a bit more, and went to bed. So other than the bookseller, I do not have an alibi.” His voice turned just slightly bitter as he added, “Which is a shame. I would very much like not to be embroiled in a homicide investigation.”
Leaning back against the futon now, eyes closed, Margot shook her head. Even his alibi seemed calculated to her. It was flimsy enough to make it seem offhand, solid enough to ensure he was telling the truth, and still left the rest of his night wide open.
“What about January Jacobs? Did you know her?”
Margot’s eyes flung open. She hadn’t remembered asking him that. She remembered she’d told Adrienne about her theory connecting the two cases, but she hadn’t recalled actually broaching the question to Wallace. Sitting there now, she felt almost giddy with gratefulness to her younger self.
“January Jacobs?” Wallace repeated, sounding genuinely surprised.
“That’s right.”
“Well, I mean, I know of her of course. Doesn’t everybody?”
“Did you ever meet her?”
Wallace scoffed. “Uh…no.” But despite the indignation in his tone, he also sounded flustered. “I’m sorry, but what are you getting at here?”
“Have you ever been to Wakarusa?” Margot asked.
“Waka…” His voice faded. “I don’t know. Maybe. I’m not sure.”
“You’re not sure if you’ve been to Wakarusa, Indiana?”
“I’m forty-eight years old. I’ve traveled a lot in my life, so it’s possible that I have. But to be perfectly honest, no, I’m not sure. Now, unfortunately, I have to get going. I have an appointment I have to get to in half an hour.” He took a breath, and when he spoke next, he sounded calmer, more collected. “Thanks for taking the time to report on this crime, Margot, and best of luck with your article. I hope this bastard gets caught. And soon. Anyone who could kill an innocent little girl like that, in my opinion, should be hung from the neck.”
There was some rustling, then a muffled murmur of voices as the microphone was moved. Then the recording clicked off.
Margot sat, her back against the futon, a chill running up her spine. Wallace’s answers about Polly had been polished to the point they sounded rehearsed. He’d admitted to visiting the stables where she practiced and he’d had a flimsy alibi for the night of her death. And when Margot had questioned him about January, he’d suddenly gotten rattled and ended the interview, but not before admitting that he’d traveled a lot in his life. He may not have remembered everywhere he’d been, but she had at least a few ideas: Wakarusa, Dayton, and Nappanee, the hometowns of January Jacobs, Polly Limon, and Natalie Clark.