She paused for a breath, but Bree remained silent. She didn’t want to interrupt the girl’s story now that it was rolling.
“I saw a figure in the trees. I thought it was Harper, and I followed. It wasn’t her. It was a man. Then Harper was there too. He pulled out a gun and shot her.” Alyssa swallowed and her face went sickly gray. She scratched her arm harder, her dirty fingernails digging into the skin, leaving pink trails. If she pushed any harder, she would draw blood, but she didn’t seem to notice the pain.
Bree nudged the Coke toward her, hoping to get the girl to stop hurting herself. “Did you get a good look at the man?”
Alyssa took a sip of her soda. “I was about thirty feet away from him, but it was dark.” Her eyeballs shifted away. “We already talked about this.”
“I was hoping you might have remembered more,” Bree said. “How old was he?”
“I already told you it was dark,” Alyssa whined, frustration heavy in her voice. She set down the soda can and went back to raking her nails along the inside of her forearm. Did she need a mental health eval?
Bree eyed the parallel scars again. Her stomach twisted. Suicide attempt? “Would you recognize him if you saw him again?”
Alyssa brushed her hair away from her face. Her eyes looked haunted, and she refused to make eye contact. “I don’t think so.”
There’s a lie.
“Is there anything else you remember about him? A limp? The way he stood? Could you see the color of his skin?”
“He was white.” Alyssa’s face creased as she concentrated. “The hand with the gun wasn’t wearing a glove, and the moon shined on it. I saw a mark on his hand. It was big and shaped weird.”
“Weird?”
“I don’t know. Just weird.”
“OK.” Bree made a note. “Like a birthmark or tattoo?”
Alyssa nodded. “Something like that.”
“Right hand or left?”
Alyssa closed her eyes. “His right.”
“What about Harper’s things? Did she have them with her when she was shot?”
“She carried all her stuff in a backpack, like me.” Alyssa tilted her head as she thought about the question. “It wasn’t in the cabin, so she must have taken it.” Her brows lowered. “But she wasn’t wearing it when he shot her, so I don’t know where it went.”
Bree noted missing backpack. “Can you describe Harper’s backpack?”
“It’s gray.”
“Do you know the brand?”
“Osprey,” Alyssa said.
“What happened after the man shot Harper?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t see.” Her breaths came faster, and her face flushed bright red. “I panicked and ran into the cabin and called 911. Then I grabbed the ax and hid in the closet.”
“Did he see you?” Bree asked.
“He looked right at me.” Alyssa shuddered.
“Did he follow you?”
“I don’t know. I think so. I didn’t look back.”
Why didn’t he pursue and kill her? Why leave a witness? Maybe he didn’t see where she ran.
Alyssa ripped at the skin inside her wrist.
Bree reached over and stilled her motions with her own hand. “You’ve hurt yourself before?”
The girl looked up. Humiliation, then fear, then resignation crossed over her face.
Bree pointed to the scars on the inside of her wrist.
Alyssa yanked her sleeve down over the scars. Her gaze dropped to the table. “When my dad was sick, I started cutting.”
“That must have been awful for you.”
Alyssa exhaled a shaky breath. “I didn’t know what to do.”
“There wasn’t anything you could do.”
“Yeah.” Alyssa’s eyes welled up, but she blinked away the tears. “That was the problem.”
“I lost both of my parents when I was young.” With Bree’s past, it was easy to imagine being overwhelmed by helplessness and vulnerability and also not having the emotional maturity to cope with trauma.
Alyssa met Bree’s gaze for one breath before glancing away. “The pain . . .” She tapped her chest. “When my dad died, I thought I was going to die too, like my heart was just going to stop. It hurt so much.”
Empathy and grief swelled behind Bree’s breastbone, the pressure increasing until it felt as if she couldn’t breathe.
“It does.” Bree had had siblings who’d experienced the same trauma. Alyssa had been all alone.
“How old were you?” Alyssa asked.
“Eight.” Even at thirty-five, the memory filled Bree with a hollow pain. She placed her fist over her heart. “It still hurts.”
For a moment, she was self-conscious of the camera running. Her chief deputy, other investigators, maybe the prosecutor and/or defense attorneys might eventually watch this interview, but Bree hadn’t said anything that wasn’t public. The whole world knew about her parents’ murder-suicide.
And that Bree and her siblings had been there when it happened.
One quick shiver passed through, an involuntary reaction to the memory.
Sometimes developing a connection with a witness or suspect took sacrifice. Bree had no issues with inventing a backstory to attain that connection, but this time it wasn’t necessary. The truth would work, though this interview would leave her raw.
Alyssa tugged up her shirtsleeve. Tiny pink scars crisscrossed the soft, pale flesh on the underside of her forearm. “Most of the cuts were really shallow.” She pointed to the two longer ones near the veins. “Except these two.” She swallowed. “I made these the day he died. I didn’t want to leave him at the hospital, but they made me go. I didn’t want to be at home alone either.” She traced a scar over her vein. “They bled a lot. I wanted to die that day too.”
“Did you go to the ER?” Bree asked in a gentle voice.
“No, I wrapped my arm, and the bleeding stopped eventually. The cuts weren’t deep enough to kill me.” Alyssa’s voice sounded regretful. “I couldn’t even do that right.”
The girl had gotten no help after her father died, and she’d at least considered suicide. Was Rogers right about this too? Did Alyssa make up the whole story in a plea for attention? Was the discovery of the body at the boat ramp a totally unrelated coincidence?
But how could she explain the boot prints, tire tracks, and shell casings?
No assumptions.
The evidence would lead her investigation.
“When can I get my 4Runner?” Alyssa asked. “And my other stuff. I really need my phone. I have to call work. I have to go to work.”
Alyssa’s vehicle had been towed to the municipal garage.
“You can use the phone here. I’ll get Marge to get you an outside line. You can have all of your stuff back as soon as the forensic techs have processed it,” Bree said. “When are you scheduled to work next?”
“Wednesday, from noon to eight.”
“OK. You should have your 4Runner back in a couple of days.” Bree didn’t mention that Alyssa didn’t have a driver’s license. She’d said that Harper stole her wallet. But it would be impossible to obtain a replacement license without proof of identity and residency. Since Alyssa was homeless, she would not be issued a new license. But this was not the time to bring that up, not when Bree needed her cooperation.