“I believe one of them is,” Tennison says. “Would you want to speak with him?”
Before I can shout yes, Walt says calmly, “If possible. We understand you have a prison to run here, and we’ve already taken up a great deal of your time.”
“I do have a meeting,” Tennison says, “so I’ll have the two of you wait in my conference room. I’ll see that Officer Winslow joins you as soon as he can.”
Walt and I wait in the conference room, both of us looking rattled. We know better than to discuss our concerns until we’re outside these prison walls. You never know when you’re being recorded, particularly since we’re not attorneys or doctors.
Seventeen endless minutes later, a tall, thin man in his mid-forties enters the room. “Ricky Winslow,” he announces.
He stands at attention, awaiting our questions. My money’s on him being former military. Maybe a marine.
“Have a seat,” I suggest, grateful my voice is steady once more.
Winslow pulls out the chair at the end of the table and settles into it.
Walt kicks off the questions. “Warden Tennison tells us you overheard what sounded like an argument between former inmate Carl Fanning and Dr. Lewis Newhouse back in February.”
“That’s correct, sir,” Winslow confirms. “We heard shouting in the interview room. Fanning’s voice was particularly loud. He was calling for us. He wanted to return to his cell.”
Walt appears to consider his answer for a moment. “Do you recall anything else he or Newhouse said? Think carefully,” Walt urges. “This could be very important.”
A frown furrows Winslow’s brow as if he is doing exactly as Walt asked and concentrating hard to remember any little detail. “The doctor appeared visibly upset. I remember that in particular. He toldFanning he’d better remember his warning or there would be severe consequences.”
I swallow with effort and throw out the next question. “Did Fanning say anything in response to my—to Dr. Newhouse or to you as you escorted him back to his cell?”
Winslow shakes his head, then frowns. “Wait. He kept muttering something like: We all got bones buried somewhere. Didn’t make any sense at the time.” He shrugs. “To tell you the truth, I think the man was crazy. I mean, crazier than we already knew. We all thought he got off way too light for what he did, if you know what I mean.”
When I say nothing more, Walt presses, “That’s all Fanning said?”
Winslow nods. “‘We all got bones buried somewhere.’ That’s it.”
The image of a shovel sliding into dirt slams into my brain with such force that I flinch.
The rest of the exchange between Walt and the guard is nothing more than a jumbled hum of syllables.
This can’t be—none of it. My father would never have been involved with a man like Fanning, and he sure as hell didn’t have any bones buried anywhere.
Nothing about any of this makes sense.
There has to be some mistake.
Poor Walt. He spent the drive from Riverbend to the next address on our list trying to reassure me that I had nothing to worry about despite what we learned from the warden and the guard. I’m a really lousy partner right now. I feel terrible that he has to deal with all these personal issues of mine on top of this perplexing case. This is not me. This is not my life. And yet, it is.
I feel like I’m coming apart from the inside out.
With every ounce of courage I possess, I focus on moving forward to the next step in the investigation. I can’t look at these personal issues—myfather’s involvement with Fanning, and David, and the baby—for even a second longer.
Andrea Donnelly is the next name on the list of Fanning’s victims. She was eleven when he picked her up from the movie theater. An ER nurse now, Andrea is petite and pale, but her voice is steady and there is strength in her eyes as she explains what happened to her nineteen years ago.
“My friends Sunny and Ellen were making fun of me because I’d told them about my secret crush on a boy in our class.” She shakes her head. “It was silly.” A sad smile tugs at her lips. “They didn’t mean any harm, but at that age, you take everything to heart. I’d gotten my period earlier than them, and I guess they were jealous. God only knows why, but it was a big deal at the time.”
When she hesitates, I nod my understanding. “Girls can be cruel at that age.”
She exhales a big breath. “I have two of my own now, and I remind them every day that adolescence is the hardest time they’ll face in their lives.”
“You were angry with your friends, so you went outside,” Walt prompts.
Andrea nods. “It was so foolish. I should’ve stayed inside.” She closes her eyes for a long moment. “But I didn’t. He spotted me on the sidewalk half a block from the theater. I was headed home. He offered me a ride. I said no, of course. But then I saw those mean boys from the high school. I was far more afraid of them than of a stranger who was old enough to be my father. And I was pretty sure I’d seen him at the theater dropping off a girl I thought was his daughter, which turned out to be a mistake. Carl Fanning never had a daughter.” She shakes her head. “I don’t know. I was stupid. Stupid and naive.”
