Shaun and I have been trying for a baby for a long, long time. Thousands of dollars and dozens of procedures later, when we finally found out we were pregnant, Shaun started calling her Peanut because the only thing I could eat for the first nine weeks without throwing up was peanut butter sandwiches. The name stuck.
This baby is what we want more than anything in the world but I’d be lying if I didn’t admit that I’m a little bit scared. I’m used to toting around a sidearm, not an infant.
The elevator door opens to a dark-paneled hallway lined with ten-by-sixteen framed photos of all the men who served as police chief of Grotto over the years. I pass by eleven photos before I reach the portrait of my father. Henry William Kennedy, 1995-2019, the plaque reads.
While the other chiefs stare out from behind the glass with serious expressions, my dad smiles, showing his straight, white teeth. He was so proud when he was named chief of police. We were all proud, except maybe my older brother, Colin. God knows what Colin thought of it. As a teenager he was pretty self-absorbed, but I guess I was too, especially after my best friend died. I went off the rails for a while but here I am now: Grotto PD detective, following in my dad’s footsteps. I think he’s proud of me too. At least when he remembers.
Last time I brought my dad back here to visit, we walked down this long corridor and paused at his photo. For a minute I thought he might make a joke, say something like, Hey, who’s that good-looking guy? But he didn’t say anything. Finding the right words is hard for him now. Occasionally, his frustration bubbles over and he yells and sometimes even throws things, which is hard to watch. My father has always been a very gentle man.
The next portrait in line is our current police chief, Les Digby. No smile on his tough-guy mug. He was hired a month ago, taking over for Dexter Stroope who acted as the interim chief after my dad retired. Les is about ten years older than I am, recently widowed with two teenage sons. He previously worked for the Ransom Sheriff’s Office and I’m trying to decide if I like him. Jury’s still out.
I use my key card to gain access to a small vestibule lined with shoebox-sized lockers and then push through a door that leads to a large room with exposed brick walls inset with a row of six-foot-tall windows. In one corner of the room is the chief’s office and on the opposite side are two old jail cells with the swinging iron bar doors removed and converted into office space. I call the jail cell on the left home.
Francis and two other patrol officers are getting ready to head out for the day and pause to tell me good-morning. Francis avoids making eye contact with me. Good. He knows he already overstepped a line with me this morning and will stay out of my way the rest of the day. I cross the worn industrial gray carpeting, past the coffee machine which beckons me. I’d kill for a cup of coffee but the caffeine isn’t good for the baby. I drop my purse atop my old metal desk and grab a legal pad and pen.
The door to Chief Digby’s office is slightly ajar. I take a deep breath. I probably should have had this conversation with the chief much earlier, but the thought of sitting behind a desk for eight hours a day makes me want to scream. Besides, I’ve been doing just fine; it wasn’t until a few weeks ago that my stomach began to inflate at an alarming rate and started slowing me down.
My husband, after watching me struggle to fasten my gun belt to my waist, finally spoke up. Maggie, he asked, are you really comfortable having a gun so close to the baby?
I was. But I saw Shaun’s point. I kept telling him that I’d talk to the chief but hadn’t. This morning, I got the text from Digby telling me he wanted to see me in his office first thing. I guess this is as good a time as any to have the conversation.
I tap lightly on the door and I hear muffled voices coming from inside.
“Good morning, Maggie,” Chief Digby says as he opens the door. Digby is built like an NFL linebacker and his large frame blocks my view of the interior of his office so I can’t see who else is in the room. “How are you doing?” he asks, trying not to stare at my stomach.
“Just fine, Chief. What’s up?” I ask. Digby steps aside and sitting in a chair next to the chief’s desk is my fellow detective, Dexter Stroope.
“Take a seat,” he says gravely, closing the door behind us. I lower myself into the remaining empty chair and look to Dex. He shrugs. He doesn’t know why we were summoned either.
“I’ll get right to it,” the chief says. “A piece of new evidence in the Eve Knox case may have just been discovered.” His words are a punch to my gut. I haven’t heard my best friend’s name said out loud in a long time. I try to keep my face neutral and wait for Digby to continue.
“A woman brought her teenage son into the station late last night,” he says. “The kid and his friend were screwing around in Ransom Caves the other day and found this.” He pulls a large plastic evidence bag from a cardboard box. Inside is a boot. Filthy and caked with dry mud, but still I recognize it immediately. Maroon and covered with graffiti-style flowers, the leather Doc Martens were among Eve’s prized possessions.
“Jesus,” I whisper.
“Yeah, Jesus,” Chief Digby says. “Kid dropped his cell phone between some rocks and came out with this. Matches the one in the crime scene photos.” Digby holds out a photograph and I recoil as I see a close-up of my best friend’s feet, one bloodied and shoeless and the other clad in a Doc Marten that matches the one in the evidence bag. I feel the banana muffin I had for breakfast roil up in my stomach but force it back.
“Why’d the kid bring an old shoe home?” Dex asks. I can’t tear my eyes away from the picture.
“The mom went to school with Eve Knox, told her son horror stories about the caves trying to keep him from messing around in there. That obviously didn’t work. He brought the boot home and was showing it off to some friends and the mom overheard. When she found out where it came from, she marched the kid right over here and wasn’t going to leave until she talked to me.”
“It’s Eve’s boot,” I say numbly, remembering the day she bought them while we were on a shopping trip to Des Moines. It was the only thing Eve ever paid full price for. She loved those boots. “I’m positive. She wore those things all the time. Who was the woman who brought them in?”
The chief looks down at his notes. “A Karen Specht and that’s what she said too.” He gently places the boot back into the cardboard box.
I nod. “Karen was in our class.” A cold sweat breaks out on my forehead. I’m glad I’m sitting down.
“I worked in the sheriff’s office early during the joint investigation with Grotto PD,” Chief Digby says. “The case should have been solved twenty-five years ago but maybe we can do it now.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Dex says quietly, but from his tone I know he’s pissed. “We all worked that case hard, especially Chief Kennedy.” Dex glances my way. Dex Stroope is in his midsixties, big-bellied with a face that always looks like it could use a good nap. Dex would be well over six feet tall if not for his slumped shoulders. The weight of all the crap I’ve seen over the years, he jokes.