I could’ve told them that from my own superficial digging. And probably 90 percent of the people at CrimeCon, too.
“Askens was involved in a recruiting scandal with the head coach,” Alderson adds.
“I read that,” I say.
“The third guy, though,” Alderson continues, “that’s where things fall apart, or at least we lose traction. For all we know, he could be in his house, his cat nibbling on his ears.
“We did find one guy related to the third go-round,” he continues. “He contacted us, like you—reported to his local police in Spokane. In our opinion, he resembled the drawing the most out of any of the folks who came forward. But nothing happened to him, so we can’t say for sure if it was him. He had a scare, out in the woods. He thought he saw a gun and someone behind a tree stalking him. But it’s hard to say for sure it was the killer that frightened him. But he’s also from the Northwest. Doesn’t work in education, though. Works for Carssen as a drug rep. His sales territory includes parts of western Montana and Idaho.”
Now we’re getting somewhere. Here’s something no CrimeCon attendee knows. “This guy,” I say. “If it was him, he’s still in a position of influence. Able to convince doctors to use his products, who then can convince their patients to use his company’s products. What was his confession?”
“Exactly that. At first, he admitted to being a glorified drug peddler after the sketch first came online. But after, he had that scare and felt like he was being stalked right at the end of the six days. Basically, he got more desperate, so he put a more thorough confession out there, spilling all the details of what he felt he did wrong and also giving hisreasons, or rationale, for why he went astray. Said he was sorry and that since those days, he’s resigned and gotten a job selling appliances.”
“And the stalking stopped?”
“Yes. So, if it was him, the more complete confession did the trick.”
My pulse picks up. I look to the window, avoiding Alderson’s dark eyes and Greene’s apropos hazel-green eyes boring into me. But again, a thorough confession on my part, motive and all, would involve Jess. To confess would produce what she needs to avoid—my suffering little sister being thrown smack-dab into the limelight. I clutch the edge of my chair with my right hand to stop myself from furiously picking at my thumb with my own forefinger, even with the Band-Aid on. Nausea builds in my gut. “Was the coach dealing?” I switch gears back to the victims, wondering if this is related to drug peddling. “Was the counselor?”
“We’re looking into all of that.”
“Has the former drug rep given you his phone and computer records?”
“Like you, he refuses.” They tell me that they’re having him make lists of anyone and everyone he’s confided in about any possible thing he feels guilty about and anyone who he’s angered.
“I’d give you access to my data if my job didn’t involve confidentiality.”
“So we forge ahead,” Alderson says. “And right now, we need to know more about your history.”
I look out my window again. A squirrel chirps frantically, like he’s defending a stash of nuts. I want to mimic him—to get busy doinganythingbut sitting here talking about my past with these two.
“That’s a bad habit,” Greene says.
“What?” I say.
Greene points her pen at my hand.
I look down at my thumb, where the Band-Aid is stretched and folded under. Apparently, gripping the chair to keep me from self-mutilation failed. The Band-Aid has slid to the tip and now exposes the raw skin it’s supposed to shield from my other nails, despite how short I’ve clipped them.
“Yeah, I know.” I rip the ravaged bandage off, get up, and throw it away in the can under the sink. I remember Sophie scolding me the same way, and I feel spooked, as if she’s speaking to me from our dorm room years ago.
The same old tired guilt that goes with the memory, still hot and sharp as a blade, pierces me.
“You okay?” Greene asks, watching me as I sit back down.
I nod, do a slow blink, and tell them all about it, how eleven years ago, when Jess was a high school sophomore and I headed off to the University of Montana in Missoula, two hours south of Kalispell, I met Sophie.
I give them broad strokes, how she was my roommate, how great she was, but for me, it all comes screaming back in vivid detail, like it was yesterday.
Sophie was from Nebraska. She had a heart-shaped face, blue eyes, and a bubbly personality with little crinkles at the outer edges of her eyes. She loved to laugh, and I felt I’d won the roommate lottery.
When I told her I was born in Montana, she pumped her fist in glee. “Yes! AMontanan. Iwanteda local. You can show me how to live in the mountains.”
I was all in. I felt powerful. Reinvented. She made me think of my dad and the times we’d spent in the woods.
We hit it right off, and I didn’t miss Jess so much when I was with her.
We used to go on walks by the river, where the late September days pulsed with life as students played soccer and Ultimate Frisbee and residents walked their dogs along city paths. One late afternoon, we’d been casually watching four guys toss a Frisbee around. Watching butnot watchingwhen it sailed our way. I caught the orange disc as one of the guys barreled toward us.
