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Knowing that resisting the urge only means wasting time, I close out the digital record we have of Elizabeth Burr’s case and type in my own last name.
Elle’s physical folder, along with the deteriorating collected evidence, are in a warehouse a couple of miles away. The case is closed, solved. At least that’s what everyone around here believes. When I think of her murder, I immediately picture Jasper Niers, the man arrested, the man who was charged, the man who took his own life after confessing to both Caroline’s and Elle’s murders.
There’s a formula for how I always go through this digital file. I always choose the newspaper articles that were scanned, staring at Jasper’s mug shot from the news article written about his suicide, first. I always work my way backward through the case’s timeline because by the time I’m done, Elle is safe, untouched, alive, and capable of living out the rest of her life.
I see his eyes in my sleep. I’ve never been able to date a man with a beard because of the hair that grew on his face. Dark blond hair and dark eyes have always been a turn off to me, and I know it’s because of him.
I refuse to think of Sawyer’s nearly jet-black hair and surprisingly vibrant blue eyes, and how he checked off so many damn boxes for me that night at the gym, more about who he wasn’t than who he actually was. I know the bias isn’t fair to many people I come into contact with, but I’m not willing to test those aversions any time soon.
I take a deep breath, the mouse cursor hovering over the small X in the top right-hand corner of the document, but when I click it, I don’t click the report of Niers’ arrest next like usual. I breathe a little life into that part of me that has always felt like there was a reason for the unanswered questions, most importantly some of the things Niers said in his confession interview.
I don’t suspect a conspiracy theory. I don’t even question how quickly the department closed out this case after Niers killed himself mere days after the detective working it did the same. I don’t think the angle was wrong, I just think there were things in play that were dismissed because the department was hurting, not only from the outcry of the community because of the crimes but also because they lost one of their own because of it.
Many citizens feel as if all crime can be prevented, and when it isn’t, they need to point the finger at someone. They aim their anger at the person who did it but are also quick to point at the institution that’s in place that never should’ve allowed it to happen. They want their freedoms. They want to be able to choose, but when someone chooses violence, breaks the law, or any act of free will that encroaches on someone else, the police are supposed to be capable of reading minds and preventing it.
While on patrol, I don’t know how many times I heard “if you would’ve” as if I had the power to keep someone from driving into town drunk. We’re expected to handle victims with kindness and compassion, but also have herculean strength when battling criminals, unless those criminals are a relative or friend and then we’re just brutes abusing power.
The line between all of it is so fucking thin, it’s damn near invisible.
I take a deep breath, the images of my sister’s smiling face filling my computer screen. The picture my parents chose for her missing person’s folder is the one most people around town would probably pull up in their memories, but only because they didn’t have access to the ones hanging on the walls at home. I can remember at eleven, walking around town with my dad, my little heart filled with hope that we’d find her as he taped and stapled flyers he printed out on his home computer to every pole and sign in town. I remember crying on the drive to the grocery store, seeing one still hanging on a light pole weeks after a search party found her discarded body in a field as if she was a wadded up fast-food bag thrown out the window on the drive out of town.
It took a long time after gaining access to these files for me to click on the crime scene photos. I wanted to keep the image of my sister’s high school graduation picture in my head rather than what she looked like lying in that field, but eventually I caved. I need the punishment, somehow having convinced myself that I was partially responsible for not being capable of saving her from this fate.
As I click through the photos, the sinister voice of Niers fills my head, having memorized every sneer, every taunt he made to Detective Roth as he confessed to the two murders. He tried to provoke Roth by pointing a finger at the detective, blaming him because he had all the evidence he needed.
