Stella went on, her shadow slowly creeping across the floor with the setting sun. “My mother had just turned the page when a loud sound came from downstairs, a bang of some sort, quickly followed by the sound of splintered wood. The sound of three armed men kicking in our front door and entering the house. Mother frowned and tried to hide her worry as she stood and placed the copy ofCharlotte’s Webon the seat of her chair. She kissed me on the forehead and left my room.”
I took a step toward her. I heard the two people in white follow with a step of their own. “Was it a robbery?”
“The police report called it a ‘home invasion.’ I remember hearing my father shout, then another bang. This one was different, though, not like the breaking of the door. This was more of apop, followed quickly by another. My father’s voice went silent, abruptly cut off. This was followed by a loud scream from my mother. I recall the urge to cry came over me but being too frightened to do so. Instead, I pulled the sheets of my bed up over my face. My father once told me sheets were magic and could protect me from all the creatures that lived in the dark, particularly the ones who made a home in my closet. Somehow, I felt those sheets could also protect me from whatever was happening downstairs. My mother screamed again. This was followed by running—not only my mother, but the men. Their shoes made this unfamiliar clacking noise on the hardwood floor of our house. As a child, I used to lie in bed and listen to the footfalls downstairs. I could easily pick out my father’s steps from my mother’s and separate both from those of a stranger. In this case, there were clearly three strangers, all of them chasing my mother.”
When Stella paused again, I said nothing. When she continued, I let her do so uninterrupted. “She made it to the stairs. The landing at the base of the stairs squeaked. I knew she was coming for me. I waited expectantly. Instead, there was a loud thump and my mother screamed again. One of the men said something to her, but I couldn’t make out the words. At that point, I crawled deep under my covers and curled myself into a tight little ball. Oddly, I remember sucking my thumb, a habit I broke more than a year earlier. There was a comfort in it, a familiarity. The sound helped me block out what came next.”
I wanted to go to her, cross the hallway and go to her and tell her that she didn’t have to tell me more, but I couldn’t move. My legs were frozen in place. When I tried to speak, my voice deserted me.
“One of the men raped her, possibly two of them. Right there on the steps. I like to think she fought them, but I don’t believe she did. I think she felt that by giving in, by giving them what they wanted, she could stop them there on those steps, keep them from finding me upstairs. Things got quiet as this went on, things got so unbelievably quiet. I think that’s why the gunshot seemed so loud when it finally came. The house fell into utter silence. Then the gunshot rang out and shook the very foundation. My mother was quiet after that.”
This time, I did take a step toward her on wobbly legs, but as I closed the distance to half, she said, “Don’t. Please stay there. Let me finish. I need…to finish.”
She drew in a deep breath, held it, then let it back out. “After the gunshot, I heard all three men as they climbed the steps to the second floor. They made a tremendous amount of noise—overturning the mattress, pulling out drawers, and dumping the contents. They left no surface untouched, unexamined. I have no idea what they took, if they took anything at all. Years later, when I would finally read the police report, the authorities were unable to find anything of value missing. Our television, stereo, my mother’s jewelry—some of it quite valuable—had all been left relatively close to wherever it had been discovered. Whatever they searched for eludes me even today, but at some point they must have found it in the master bedroom, for they abandoned their search there and made quick work of the guest room. I don’t believe they searched the bathroom at all.
“I heard them enter my room. I heard the first of the three men as he stood at my doorway’s threshold, the breath wheezing in and out of him as if he had some kind of cold. They encircled my bed. I don’t know which one snatched up my blanket and tossed it aside. I just remember my world going from total darkness to this blinding light. I remember being suddenly cold—the pocket of warm air around me gone in an instant. I kept my eyes pressed tight, unwilling to look. One of the men said, ‘I don’t know about this. I can’t hurt no kid.’ Then another said, ‘I ain’t turning down this paycheck. No way. How do we get her in the bag? They said we can’t touch her.’ Then the third replied, ‘They said we can’t touchher.Put your gloves on, you idiot. Grab her with the pajamas.’ When I felt someone grab my leg, I opened my eyes. I remember looking at all three of them. I remember taking my thumb from my mouth and seeing their faces looking down at me, these three strangers, these intruders, come to take me from my bed.” She paused for a second. “I reached out to them, wrapped my little fingers around theirs. I think I hoped they would carry me to my mother.”
Her voice broke, a crack on that last word. I thought she might cry. She didn’t. When she finally spoke again, it was only after the draw of another deep breath.
“Come, Jack. Let us walk in the garden,” Stella said.
Jack this time, not Pip.
I followed after her.
5
Detective Joy Fogel climbed the three concrete steps of the two-story brick house off Greenlee Road and knocked on the door. There was a doorbell, but two wires stuck out from under the plastic plate, and it looked like it probably hadn’t functioned since Reagan held the presidency. The small front yard hadn’t been mowed in weeks—dandelions and other assorted weeds thrived among the long blades of grass. As she waited, a large bumble bee hopped from one bloom to the next.
She was about to knock again, when the wooden door opened. A man in his mid to late seventies stood behind the glass of the storm door separating them. He wore a yellowed tank top over faded jeans. What remained of his gray hair was trimmed short, a military cut.
“Yeah?”
Fogel shifted the manila folder from her right hand to her left and smiled. “Are you Detective Stack?”
“Former Detective Terrance Stack, just Terry now. What can I do for you?”
“I’m Detective Joy Fogel. I’d like to talk to you for a few minutes, if you can spare the time.”
His eyes dropped to the folder. “Faustino send you?”
Faustino hadn’t sent her. In fact, he had no idea she was even here. She didn’t want to lie, though. She suspected this guy would see right through a lie and this conversation would end up being very short. “He briefed me this morning. I’d like to talk to you about ’78.”
Stack glanced back over his shoulder, then returned his gaze to her. His eyes were tired, bloodshot. He smelled of stale beer.
“Can I come in?”
“I don’t know if that’s a good idea.”
“Just a few minutes. I promise.”
“If Faustino briefed you, then you already know everything. There’s nothing I can add.”
“You investigated the crime scene. You were first to arrive after the uniforms secured the house. A written report can only convey so much. I need to know what you left out of the report,” Fogel said.
“Everything is in there. I didn’t leave anything out.”
Fogel said nothing. She repositioned the folder, her eyes on him.
