Too late to worry about that now. It’s done.
Walt parks a few yards from the front of Melanie Hardeman’s home. It’s a modest brick on Second Street in Cleveland Park. The neighborhood is up and coming. Lots of hipsters moving in, jazzing things up. Melanie is my age, thirty. Single. No kids.
I scan the street as we wander up the walk to the front door. An Amazon package sits on the small porch. Since there’s no garage and no driveway, street parking only, I’m thinking Melanie uses the front door. With the package untouched, it’s possible she isn’t home. Her car certainly isn’t anywhere near the house. She’s not at work, so maybe she’s visiting a friend or shopping.
Walt knocks on the door.
No television or other sounds beyond the closed door. Blinds are shut tight, so there’s no looking in through the windows.
“Looks like we’ll have to give the lady a call.”
There’s a good chance once she learns what we want that she’ll blow us off. Even putting aside Patricia Shelby’s statements, all too oftenvictims don’t want to talk about what happened. It’s too painful, too humiliating. I can understand how they feel. At this point reliving the nightmare won’t change anything about what happened to them. But it’s our job to convince them that the details of their nightmare might prevent the same thing from happening to someone else.
In the end, what we really need is whatever we can get on this let’s-get-Fanning plan the victims were involved in.
Walt reaches for his phone at the same time a silver Corolla pulls to the curb in front of the house. I elbow him and nod toward the street. A woman—tall, brunette, dressed in leggings and a long tee—emerges from the car. Shopping bags in her arms, she is around the hood and headed up the walk before she looks up and spots us.
I smile.
Walt says, “Good morning, Ms. Hardeman. I’m Detective—”
The bags hit the ground and Melanie runs.
“Well, shit,” Walt grumbles.
I take off, dodging the apples and oranges rolling across the sidewalk.
Walt is right behind me.
“Ms. Hardeman,” I shout, “we only have a few questions for you. You are not in any kind of trouble.”
She keeps running.
We didn’t find a criminal record. What’s up with this reaction to a visit from the cops? So maybe Patricia Shelby has already called the others and warned them that she spilled at least part of the beans.
My heart is pounding as I grow closer and closer to her. The woman clearly runs regularly. I have been ignoring my workout routine lately, and it shows.
Just as I draw within reach of her, she apparently runs out of steam and slows to a stop.
We both bend over and struggle to catch our breath.
“You’re not in trouble,” I repeat between gasps for air.
Walt trudges up to where we are huddled. “No offense, ma’am,” he complains breathlessly, “what the hell was that about?”
“I did it, okay?”
Walt and I exchange a look, then stare at her. Is the woman admitting that she kidnapped Carl Fanning? Or only that she took whatever step she was supposed to take?
“What did you do, Ms. Hardeman?” I ask.
She flops down on her butt on the ground, puts her knees up, and wraps her arms around them. “I followed him around. Harassed him. I’m not ashamed of what I did.”
Not exactly a confession to murder.
“At any time did you touch him?” Walt asks, his voice still breathy.
“I didn’t lay a hand on that son of a bitch. I just heckled him. I made sure that the customers at every store he went into knew what he was. I followed him through each department, shouting to all who would listen until he left the store empty-handed. I hoped he would starve to death.”
