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“You get off on this,” I told him, firing back. “Unnerving people, scaring them. Keeping them off-balance so they talk too much. You think you’re so powerful, but this room gives you most of that power. If you weren’t a detective, we’d be even, which drives you crazy. Because you like to intimidate women. You find that especially fun.”
“Unnerving people is how I solve cases, Mrs.Carter. On most people, it works.”
He meant that it didn’t work on me, but I didn’t care for the compliment. I pointed to the photo on the table, to Shannon Haller’s face. “That’s your unidentified murder victim from 1976. Her name is Shannon Haller. Maybe you believe that her ghost haunts Atticus Line, killing other hitchhikers, or maybe you don’t. But as we told you, we already gave this information to Officer Syed. He said he can check the dental records from the postmortem. If you can match the dental records—or her blood—then you have evidence. And the identity of your unknown victim is solved.”
His jaw tightened. He didn’t have to tell me that none of it would happen quickly, not in a case this old. Whether the results came in a month or a year, it would still be proof one way or another.
And in the meantime, John Haller’s missing person’s report matched the description and time frame of the murder of the unknown girl. It was a lead he hadn’t had before, and Quentin was a detective. He would follow it.
“Are you going to arrest us?” Eddie’s voice broke into our standoff. “I’ve never confessed to a crime before. I don’t know how this works.”
Quentin’s look was calculating as he turned to Eddie, and then he seemed to make a decision. He shook his head.
“I don’t have time for this.” He picked up the photos from the table and put them into his breast pocket. Eddie flinched, and I knew he wanted to protest, because aside from the picture of Shannon and Eddie—which we hadn’t given up—those were the only photos he had of his mother. But we had the negatives, and we could print them again.
“What do you mean, you don’t have time?” I said.
“Old legends. Ghost stories. Unprovable theories.” Quentin pushed his chair back. “I don’t deal in those things. I deal in facts and evidence, and that’s all.”
“You’re not going to investigate?” I asked.
“Investigate what? There’s nothing here. What I’m going to do, Mrs.Carter, is go back to my other cases—cases that need my attention—and pretend this meeting never happened.”
Eddie and I exchanged a look. He didn’t have to believe us about the Lost Girl, but we had confessed to a crime. Didn’t he care?
“What do you want us to do?” Eddie asked.
“That’s easy, Mr.Carter. I want both of you to pack your bags, go back to Ann Arbor, and never come here again.”
“A few days ago, you told us not to leave town,” I snapped.
“I changed my mind. This is over. We have someone in custody for the murder of Rhonda Jean Breckwith, and both of you are cleared as suspects. Go home.”
What if John Haller reported the break-in? I was about to ask it, but I didn’t. Maybe John Haller wouldn’t report the break-in if it meant questions about what was stolen. He had secrets to cover up.
Quentin stood, and Eddie pushed his chair back and stood, too, tense with anger. “My mother was murdered. Her killer is still out there, free.”
“That is your theory, Mr.Carter,” Quentin said. “It’s a theory with no proof, and I’ve heard plenty of those—including the theory that I committed all the murders myself. Maybe you’d like me to investigate that one next?”
“So that’s it?” I stood, too, and the three of us faced one another over the table. “You just pretend that none of this ever happened?”
“Because none of it did happen. Nothing that you can prove.” Quentin looked from me to Eddie. “The two of you were drawn into a difficult and stressful situation the night you picked up Rhonda Jean. It made your imaginations overreact. Mr.Carter, you’ve wondered about your birth parents all your life, have you not? You’d grasp at anything that seemed to answer your questions and let wild theories fill in the blanks, especially considering your precarious mental state. It’s unfortunate, but it’s what happened. I’m not going to investigate this supposed break-in, and in return, you’re free to go.”
He didn’t wait for us to argue again. He turned and left the room.
—
Detective Beam was standing in front of the Coldlake Falls police station, smoking a cigarette and waiting for us. He took in our surprised faces and asked, “What did he say to you?”
Eddie and I exchanged a look. “We’re leaving town,” I said, skipping over the confession we’d given that Quentin had discounted. “He told us to go.”
“Oh, did he give his permission?” Beam gave a bitter laugh and tapped his cigarette ash to the sidewalk. “How generous of him.”
I took in his expression, his tired, bloodshot eyes. “Why do you work with him if you hate him so much?” I asked.
Beam exhaled smoke and dropped his cigarette to grind it out. “I don’t have much choice, do I? He closes cases, and that’s all that matters. No one cares that he’s a soulless bastard. Besides, it’s nothing to me anymore. I’m taking retirement next month. Some other detective can deal with the great, almighty Quentin.” He trained his gaze on Eddie. “I heard how he talked to you at Rose’s, tried to make you feel like you’re crazy. He doesn’t know what the hell he’s talking about. He doesn’t know.” He nodded at my husband. “I did two tours in Vietnam, son. I know what crazy is, and you aren’t it.”
Eddie held Beam’s gaze. “My discharge papers disagree,” he said quietly.
