“…we now commit this body to the ground; earth to earth; ashes to ashes; dust to dust, in the sure and certain hope of the resurrection to eternal life through our Lord Jesus Christ, who will change our lowly bodies so that they will be like his glorious body…” The minister spoke these words like an incantation, beneath a green awning, where the guests huddled and Katie’s flower-piled coffin lay poised, suspended above the open grave, ready to be lowered. Then it was over and they left, plodding, black-clad, through the neatly manicured grass of the cemetery to their cars under the raining skies.
A mostly spent Atlantic storm stalled over the Keys bringing rain for the next week. Each day, Cara made the drenching trip from the bungalow to work and back again, like the raven from the Ark going to and fro, finding no place to rest and no dry land. At the Parrot, conversations, regardless of how innocently started, ended up in the same place, with something Katie said while sitting on this barstool or that, the time Katie got stuck in the ladies room or something that Katie drank, after drinking something else, that made her sick. But talk of this sort was dropped as soon it came up for the way Katie died made such happy memorializing unthinkable. Those who were so inclined ended up in tears and those who weren’t either stared ahead blankly, pretending to be drunk or made clumsy conversation for cover.
The bungalow was worse. Her father spent most of the time drinking in front of his laptop, producing nothing. Paula came by a few times and attempted to get him out but he wouldn’t go. They ended up sitting around making stumbling small talk and after a while she stopped coming by. Being with Miles was easier. She could talk to him without worrying about him mentioning Katie. He avoided the conversation even more carefully than she did. In fact, he didn’t seem to want to talk about her even in the rare moments when she did. In the evenings, Miles and Shannon sat together in the Parrot while, from behind the bar, Cara served them drinks until their grief was bearable.
And so it went until one night, after yet another session of directionless, anesthetized conversation, Miles spoke up.
“It sucks that it happened, but I guess if you think about it, it might have been inevitable. Katie was just the kind of trusting person who would walk through a dark alley in a bad area of town, see someone, then instead of running in the other direction, go over and talk to them…”
Cara and Shannon sat quiet for a moment until the shock passed.
“I certainly hope that’s the beer talking, but let me get this straight. You’re basically saying that Katie had it coming.” Shannon said, turning sharply toward him. “Please tell me that’s not what you’re saying…”
Miles’ face flushed. “No… I mean, you have to admit, she always went into things so unquestioningly… like a little kid…”
“Sometimes people do things when they’ve had a little too much to drink, that’s true. Things that they might not do when they're sober, but Katie walked down that alley a hundred times at all hours of the day or night, and nothing ever happened! Nothing! Not a damn thing! And that area of town isn’t exactly the 'hood either. It’s no worse than where I’ve lived for a year now. And no one’s even so much as looked at me cross-eyed.”
“I didn’t mean anything by it…”
“Well why say it if you didn’t mean anything by it? If you don’t having anything to say, don’t say anything… Don’t say anything, just keep your mouth shut!”
“Okay, drop it then. Let’s just sit here...”
“That’s what we wanted," continued Shannon. "But you brought it up and now it’s out there, so let’s talk about it! What makes you feel so qualified to say such shit? Your rich-ass upbringing? She was the sweetest person I ever knew. So sweet it made me sick sometimes. And now she’s gone. Someone crushed her skull, left her dead... and she’s gone.”
“I guess we’ll have to be more careful when we’re up there.” he said, trying to pacify her.
“Yeah, be more careful. I suppose next time you’ll be walking us to our cars?”
“Yeah, I suppose I will be.”
“Well, why didn’t you? None of this would've happened if you'd done that the other night.” she said contemptuously.
“I guess I was too drunk. Like everyone else.”
Cara standing silently by, held her breath as memories of that night poured back into her. The image of Miles sitting at the other end of the bar, watching, eased its way back into her conscious mind for the first time since that night. “He wasn’t even drinking that night.” She thought to herself.
“You know, it would go better for you and everyone else if you gave up pretending to be a human being and go back to being the pretty house-plant that Cara wants.”
Miles’ expression darkened, his eyes deadened, his teeth clenched and with an predatory leer, he looked at Shannon and hissed, “So that's the way you want it, huh?” You have no idea what you're doing, you fucking bitch!” In a instant, Shannon’s anger collapsed into tears and gathering her things, she looked at Cara with wet eyes and hurried out.
Miles walked her home that night. She knew he was doing it as a concession to the things Shannon said, but to her it seemed that they walked along, more wary of each other than of any threat. He droned on, making benign conversation, attempting to restore the status quo. Like a pilot burbling on over the intercom while trying to regain control his aircraft as the passengers wretched into airsickness bags. She didn’t know how to account for it; he was walking her home to keep her safe, but somehow she felt that she wouldn’t feel anymore threatened if she were walking alone on the exact spot where Katie was killed. She’d never put too much thought into Miles or what he might be thinking or doing. In general, she’d always kept the advantage in life by concentrating on her next move, not anyone else’s. Was he the houseplant or was she? At hand when the mood struck him or, at the very least, on the periphery. The tension increased within her with each step.
By the next morning, the rain moved out and a blanket of heat returned. After some much needed rest, Cara was able to shove these thoughts to the back of her mind. She hung around the bungalow, cleaning up and lounging in front of the TV. Her father sat, brooding, in his usual spot on the jetty. Her phone rang. She didn’t recognize the number.
“Hello?”
“Hi. I'm Special Agent Mark Hall of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. I’m looking into the death of Kathleen Corcoran. I understand you two were close friends and I wonder if you could come up to Layton Police Headquarters to spend some time talking about her with me. I’m sorry if this upsets you, but it’s really important. Could you come in today?”
“I’ve got work today. I’ll have to see… but I’m sure I can.”
“Good. Can you make it up here by noon?”
“Yeah, I think I can.”
“Good. Thanks. I’ll see you then.”
She hung up and stood still for a while to take it all in. She made some calls and got someone to take her shift, then sat around fidgeting for the hour or so before it was time to leave. At around 11:30, she told her father she was leaving, went outside, hopped into her jeep and headed toward Route One for the trip north to Layton.
Arriving at the precinct, she walked in, gave her name and who she was there to see. The officer on duty called for an escort and she was taken back through an office space abuzz with police officers yelling to other police officers, rushing in and out with nervous citizens, standing in groups, holding animated discussions or sitting in cubicles clicking away at reports. From there she was led into a hall lined with interrogation rooms. Above each room, an illuminated sign indicated whether the room was occupied or not. A broad-shouldered Clark Kent of a man, looking to be in his mid-thirties, wearing a crisp white shirt, tie and shoulder holster, came out of one of the rooms at the end of the hall and walked toward her, smiling.
“I’m Mark Hall,” he said. “You must be Cara. Thanks for coming up on such short notice. I would have been more accommodating to your schedule, but I’ve got to be back up in Tallahassee for the rest of the week, so I was glad we could meet today. If you don’t mind, could you come with me?”
He led her down the hallway and into the room he had just exited. Just beyond this room, across an aisle, there was small area of empty cubicles. The interrogation room had absolutely nothing in it other than three chairs and a table. They went in.
“Sorry about the interview room. It tends to make people uncomfortable… but that’s sorta the point. Do you feel like you’re on American Justice?" he smiled. "All that‘s missing is a light bulb dangling from the ceiling.”
“Actually, I do. “ she said, laughing back nervously, by reflex. “What’s this about? I talked to the police after Katie’s death… a few times by phone. But that was it.”
“Do you remember me?” he asked, leaving her question unanswered. “You talked to me at John Stevens the night Katie died. If you don’t, I’ll understand. I never seem to leave much of an impression,” he laughed.
“There’s a lot I don’t remember about that night. It’s one of the few times, I’ve been completely drunk.” she replied, beginning to contemplate what it meant that an FBI agent had been there that night, even before Katie had been killed. “Although, bits and pieces of that night have been coming back to me over that last few days.”
“Yeah, that happens and, to tell you the truth, I’m glad to hear it. The police down here haven’t been able come up with much. So I’ve been helping out a little. To start out with… Katie’s - that’s what she went by, right? - well, her death, her killing,” choosing his words carefully, “just doesn’t make much sense, in its most obvious context. I mean, there's not much evidence of a motive. Her watch and rings were missing, we know that, and her bag was spilled, but her wallet had over $400 and it wasn't touched. There was no sign of sexual assault, nothing. If I see something like this, I usually think it’s an execution and a clumsy attempt to cover it up by taking a few items of value.”
“Who the hell would want to execute Katie?” she stammered, confused.
“I don’t know. I wanted to ask you that. Do you know if she had any enemies, anyone harassing… bothering her. Any debts? Anything at all that raised a red flag in your mind.”
“No. Katie was friends with everyone. And she’s got money, from the settlement of her father’s estate, seven, eight years ago, money’s never been a problem. Frankly, she’s loaded.”
His phone, sitting on the table in front of him, rang. He picked it up, looked at the incoming number and said, “I really do apologize, but I have to take this. Excuse me for just a minute.” He got up and walked out of the room, leaving the door open.
She sat and stared blankly ahead at the white walls as her mind whirled about trying to get its bearings. Outside the room, he had stepped into a cubicle on the other side of the aisle and as he talked, he paced in and out of the cubicle. When he was outside of the cubicle she could hear parts of his conversation.
“I’ve got her here now… No… Yes, the Colombian officer’s name is Pinzon… I talked to him this morning… the village is Guasimalito… Yes, identical to the reports out of Thailand and Ghana… they took five there… only two were recovered… the same wounds… harvested… Yes, he’s another one… the guy in Amsterdam… sick as a freakin' dog last month… on the list… nothing else would save him… sounds like his wife… funeral… turns up fine… yeah, rich as shit… we saw his house… “
She heard nothing more as he walked several yards down the hallway. Then she heard his footsteps as he returned and resumed pacing.”
“Mariposa… and the son… No, no evidence that he’s involved in shipments down here and I have no idea how they are managing the refrigeration… I gotta go… I’ll get back to you.”
He stepped back into the room and as he did, he looked at her for just a instant and his eyes told her something. She had a peculiar suspicion that he had intended for her to overhear his conversation. She looked back at him inquiringly, but he re-assumed the professional bearing he had before he left the room. He continued questioning her, very blandly, asking her questions that he didn’t seem to particularly want answered. Then suddenly he was finished.
“Thanks for coming up here today, Cara. Can I call you that?"
"Sure," she replied.
"Good. Do you mind if I contact you again if I have any more questions?"
"That's fine."
"Good. If you don’t mind, I’ll walk you out to your car.”
Together they walked out of the front door and across the ludicrously hot parking lot to her jeep. She got in, put the keys in the ignition then looked up. He stood at a distance, looking uneasy as if contemplating his next move, then walked to driver’s window and looked intently at her.”
“How much do you know about Miguel Mariposa? You're seeing his son, Miles, aren't you?
She nodded indecisively, unable to manage an audible response.
"... and you know that your father is an associate, or former associate, of Mr. Mariposa, right?”
He stopped suddenly, carefully, as if calculating a risk. “I’m sorry, don’t answer that. You have my number. Be extremely careful.” Another pause. “And call me… anytime… if you need anything… anything at all…”
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