At Ray Brook, they process him quickly and put him in a holding cell. He’s given one phone call. Judy has no doubt who’ll be on the other end.
Sure enough: from his mouth comes a quavering “Dad?”
And then the hand goes up, over the brow, hiding what Judy knows will be self-pitying tears.
Nothing he says is surprising: he got in trouble, he needs help. He needs his father to come to him.
Hayes enters the room. Says, “Judy, go home.”
It’s eight o’clock now. She won’t reach Schenectady until after ten.
Louise
1950s | 1961 | Winter 1973 | June 1975 | July 1975 | August 1975: Day One
It’s nearly midnight. Louise has been in a holding cell for ten hours. She’s been given water, but nothing to eat.
She feels light-headed, ill. She wishes for outside air.
She eyes a cup of now-cold coffee—which she normally doesn’t drink—and takes a sip.
Finally there is a brusque knock at the door. Someone opens it without waiting for a response.
It’s a man, fifty, wearing thick glasses and a sweater vest over his brown tie. He looks like an English professor, thinks Louise. He’s carrying a Coke in his hand. The only sign that he works in law enforcement comes in the form of a badge. He sits down opposite Louise, crosses one leg over the other.
She braces herself. She will simply tell him the truth, she’s decided: she was out overnight last night. But so was Annabel. The drugs in the bag are Annabel’s, not hers.
The man does not introduce himself, but takes a sip of his Coke and begins.
Something about his aspect and outfit makes her expect kindness from him, but his tone is stern.
“What’s your relation to John Paul McLellan?” he says. He looks directly at her. He has no notepad in which to record her answers.
The question throws her off: this wasn’t what she was expecting to discuss.
“I’m his fiancée,” says Louise, automatically. “We’re engaged. We’ve been together four years.”
“Huh,” says the man.
She waits, guarded, for more. Willing herself into silence.
“That’s not what he said about you,” the man says.
Louise moves a little in her chair. Don’t ask, she tells herself; Louise, don’t ask. But she can’t help herself.
“What do you mean?”
The man excavates a speck of dirt from beneath a thumbnail. He sniffs, and his thick-rimmed glasses slide slightly down his nose.
“He said you two used to sleep together,” the man says. “You know, a while ago. It’s over now, he says, but you’re still hung up on him.”
“That’s horseshit,” says Louise, without thinking.
“Where’s your ring?”
Louise flushes. This has always been a point of contention between her and John Paul. He says he wants to get her a nice one, something beautiful—and that he can’t until he has a real job.
“I’m not wearing it today,” says Louise. “I don’t wear it at camp. It’s too nice.”
“Look, I don’t know what’s true,” says the man. “That’s just what he said. Just telling you.”
Louise looks at him sideways. “What’s your name,” she says.
The investigator blinks.
“You know mine,” she says. “What’s yours?”
“Lowry.”
“I’m not supposed to be talking to you, Lowry,” she says.
“Who gave you that advice?”
Silent, Louise reminds herself. Say nothing.
For a minute, the two of them sit without speaking. The man leans back in his chair, hands behind his head. Comfortable. He looks up and out the one high window in the room.
The professorial attire, thinks Louise, is a ruse. A trick designed to disarm suspects. This man is like every other cop she’s ever met.
