The Girl from the Well

This little town is not known for its displays of violence, and so the murder takes them by surprise.

It starts with the man who trudges into the block of apartments that litter the side of one street with gray. The man pauses by door 6A and pounds on the frame like he expects the wood to fall away from the force of his fists alone.

“Hey, Mosses!” he roars. “Mosses, open the fuckin’ door and give me my money, you sonofabitch!”

If there is anyone alive inside, they do not answer. The knocking grows furious, violent.

“That’s it, you fuckin’ bastard! I want you the hell out of my place! I don’t fucking care if you gotta sleep in the gutters tonight!” He yanks out a set of keys and fits one into the lock. He twists the doorknob and all but kicks the door open.

The rumors spread: first like tiny ripples, then growing until they overlap into wider spirals of gossip.

The first thing that people are told is that “there is a dead man in the Holly Oaks apartments.”

The second thing they will be told is that “his face is bloated, like he was held underwater for a very long time.” And yet there is not a drop of water on or around him, nothing to suggest foul play other than the appearance he presents. That is why the apartment manager, whose name is Shamrock, throws up all over the stair banister in his fruitless bid to escape the room and his first sight of the body, spattering an unfortunate couple standing below.

The police come next. They park their sirens in front of the building and mark off the area with yellow tape. “You can’t go in there,” one policewoman says to passersby and curious onlookers, as the other officers cordon off the scene. “This is a crime scene.” They turn down interviews by reporters. “We cannot divulge anything more specific until after a full investigation has taken place.”

Some of the reporters showed up before the police arrived. “This is Cynthia Silvia from WTV Channel 6,” one reporter tells the camera and the world watching through the lens. I count them—the police, the growing number of people. I drift past the camera and peer into the frame, though no one notices. “Very little information has been released so far, though the police believe this to be a homicide by a person or persons unknown. We’ll update you as soon as we know more…”

“A thirty-five-year-old man was found dead in his apartment this morning. Sources tell us he may have been dead for days, though the police have yet to release any information corroborating this…”

“This marks the first homicide case in Applegate in almost ten years. Not much is known about the victim, thirty-five-year-old Blake Mosses. He was a loner, according to his neighbors, and lived in Holly Oaks for only six months before his body was found…”

“This is Cooper Wilkes of ANTV Channel 5 News, reporting live from Holly Oaks…”

“This is Tracy Palmeri, Channel 2 News. Back to you, Jeff.”

It would surprise these reporters to know that few stories begin with death. Often, they start with grief.

This story starts hundreds of miles away, where a small town in South Carolina gathers to pray for a young girl who has been missing for four months and who will never return home, although they do not realize it. Posters of her decorate every inch of tree and wall, and her sweet, gap-toothed smile enchants those who care enough to take a cursory glance. Her parents, a listless bearded man and a weeping woman, clasp hands as they implore the public to help in the search, knowing that in time their daughter will slip through their fingers and disappear into the archives of unexplained cases and old news.

The reports are different here from at Holly Oaks.