“Go ahead,” she says.
“Very early this morning,” says the woman, “a man came back through the house after being out most of the night. And he looked like he’d been fighting. His face looked—terrible. He was bleeding.”
Judy writes down phrases.
“Now he’s gone,” says the young woman. “When the counselor and the other policeman came looking for him, I was the one who opened the door. They asked me to get him, but I couldn’t find him. I went all over the house.” She raises her eyebrows, puts her hands forward, palms up, in a gesture that Judy interprets as—Do you see what I mean?
“Do you know his name?”
“John Paul McLellan,” says the woman. “There are two of them. I mean the younger one. The son. I found his father and sister instead,” says the woman. “They told me he’d left early. His father went to talk to the counselor instead.”
Judy nods. This lines up with what Denny told her.
“Do you know how the counselor knew them? The McLellans?”
“No.”
“Any idea how the son’s face got like that?”
“No. No one’s talking about it. I think that’s strange. Don’t you?” The woman leans in closer. “His father is said to be a close friend of the family. I think he works for the bank.”
Judy looks at her, trying to determine how trustworthy she seems.
“Did Barbara’s parents see his face like that? Mr. and Mrs. Van Laar?”
“No,” says the woman. “They were asleep already.”
She hesitates for a second, and then says: “I believe that you’d have this information by now if they did.”
Judy writes this down.
“Well, thank you,” she says. “Is there anything else to add?”
“He seemed drunk. When he came through the house, he smelled like liquor. But all these people drink too much,” says the woman, waving a hand in the air, indicating every guest in the house.
“Also,” she says, “he drives a blue Trans Am.”
Judy looks up, startled by the specificity of the observation. She had not pegged this woman for someone who would notice cars.
“Why do you know that?” she asks.
The woman looks at her levelly. “I’ve been inside it,” she says.
Judy flushes. Then looks down, scribbling.
“And your name is?” she says.
“I’d prefer not to give it,” says the woman. “If that’s all right.” She looks down. Looks up again at Judy.
“I don’t know these people well,” she says. “A friend of mine told me to come. Some girl I met in New York City while I was auditioning for a play. I thought it sounded fun. The land here is beautiful, but the people are—terrible. I can’t wait to go back to Los Angeles.”
Judy nods.
“Or Rome,” says the woman. “Maybe I should just go back to Rome. I had steady work there. Here, not so much.”
And then, as if catching herself, she smiles at Judy, and Judy—against her will—blushes.
“What’s your name, darling?”
“Judyta,” says Judy. Not Investigator Luptack. Not Judy. Not Joo-DEE-tah, as most Americans say when forced to pronounce her given name. Instead she pronounces it just as her mother does—Yoo-DIT-ah—and the Italian woman sighs, as if hearing a poem, and tells her it’s beautiful.
Louise
1950s | 1961 | Winter 1973 | June 1975 | July 1975 | August 1975: Day One
There’s a state police satellite station in Wells, New York, and this is where Louise is driven by Denny Hayes, who on the way regales her with the story of his life, describes the two children he’s had with a woman he loves. He tells her their hobbies, describes the minor trouble they’ve caused as of late—nothing serious.
He waits, perhaps expecting a response. An acknowledgment, at least. Louise gives none, and at last he goes quiet.
• • •
The Wells station is tiny and austere, a concrete building whose only ornament is a pay phone on the wall.
There’s one trooper sitting at one desk. Otherwise, the building seems completely unoccupied.
“Got a nickel?” Denny asks her. When she shakes her head, he fumbles in his own pocket and produces one for her, then gestures to the phone.
“Go ahead,” he says, and then he retreats to a different corner, respectfully lowers his head, pretending that doing so will prevent him from overhearing everything she says.
