of a sweater. Necklace. A Wedgwood cameo.”
It could not say: “I have seen her in that sweater on the way to school, on the way to St. John’s, in the line at the Farmer Jack, in the line at the Community Shores. I have seen that sweet thinning baby blue sweater with the butterfly, or was it a flower, on the collar. I have seen that robin’s egg sweater as Beth Krause walked with her father, Lt. Colonel Charles Krause, a war hero, by the shore of the lake. I have seen her clutch that Wedgwood locket, a self-conscious shrug, at school, at choir, at Hope.”
It was these thoughts, all of these thoughts, that tumbled, rattling through the head like pickaxes, of Samuel Christopher Barnett, Detective Barnett, not yet five years on the force. A decent man. A kind man. Tried to be kind anyway.
Oh, believe me, there were a million other things his pulse was urging him to do other than write down little words in little boxes, checks and more checks, here and there, on forms and more forms. A traffic ticket for a corpse.
There were a million terrorizing, shocking, blindsiding impulses but no . . . there he was, pen in paper, Detective Samuel Barnett. Brown mouse hair. Skinny no matter what. Old-timey Keystone Cop face. No one looked like that anymore. And he would’ve done them, every million of them, had he not had to, what is it, “keep a brave face,” “stand tall,” for the cameras.
And there were cameras. You betcha. For a band the length of a football stadium, up and down the sliver of that Michigan lakeshore stretch, there were little white boxes with tires on them, barely visible in the snow. Camouflaged. And out of each of these boxes came one, usually a lady, in a smart, snappy getup, with a black penis stick in her hand you were supposed to talk into. A microphone. Careful what you say. Easy now.
That little stick and those batting eyes can get a lot out of you but you better be careful. Brace yourself as the first one comes barreling forward, and then another and another. An army of smart-dressed swine.
Brace yourself. Easy there, Sammy.
“Detective, is the victim a local? Is the victim female or male? What age? Do you consider foul play? Is there a suspect? Do you have a motive? Is the—”
An army of swine. A murder of crows.
Peck peck peck.
What did they want from him? Hadn’t they had enough? They had a blood-red slab of girl-meat in the snow. Wasn’t that enough? Brisk. Brisk. Be brisk. Don’t let them know.
“The body is yet to be identified. No further questions.”
But then, in the back, a yelp. “Here’s the snow plower! Here’s the guy who found her! I got him! I got him!”
And then, the parade goes thataway and Detective Barnett stands still in the snow, abandoned. Put your feet in the snow, look up to the sky. Ask the trees to wonder why.
Shauna Boggs played a game on Beth Krause once that wasn’t a game at all. Shauna knew the game, though, she’d learned it well. She’d had it played on her.
It was an after-school sort of game that started with playing dress-up. When Shauna first learned to play this game she was in the seventh grade and didn’t mind looking in the mirror and playing dress-up in Mommy’s clothing ’cause Daddy said it was okay. Encouraged her even.
“Here,” he would say. “Try this.”
And she would try this, and she would giggle and say, “Oh, no, not me” or “Oh, maybe . . . someday.” If it was something fancy. Something fancy from Mommy, before she left. Before she died? No . . . she didn’t die, Shauna. She left. She left because of you.
Her mom, before she left, had a menagerie of looks, from sophisticated to prim to downright slutty Too many clothes for that little closet. Too many clothes for that little house. Guess that’s why she left.
Her mom, Shauna’s mom, was from Niagara Falls. The good part. The part up above the falls with long stretches of houses and even longer stretches of lawn. Why she’d ever married Troy Boggs was beyond anyone, including her, which is why, one day, looking around at the pale lead house, which could’ve used a coat of paint, and almost could’ve been the home sweet home she thought she’d been looking for, she simply made a calculation. It was a math problem. What times what makes me stay? Versus . . . what times what makes me go? What is my opportunity cost? Of course, there’s the girl. Well, I can’t take her with me now, can I? Then I really wouldn’t have a chance.
(What kind of fella’s gonna grab up a pretty lady and a kid? I’ll tell you what kind. A loser. That’s what kind.)
No, Shauna’s mother had no intention of landing herself a loser. Another one, anyway. Once was enough. Although. Troy had been cute, sexy in a sinister sort of way. She liked the way he fucked her at least. That was one thing he could do. About the only one.
A math problem. Yes, there were some unknowns. Some variables. But still . . . that’s what variables were for, wasn’t it? The unknown. It was inevitable, really. The minute she’d walked down the aisle, she knew it. Not having her family there. And that tuxedo!
No, Troy Boggs was not the end of the line for her. She’d made a mistake. That’s all. Wrong answer. Nothing that couldn’t be fixed. And she did fix it. She did. How easy. Easy as putting one delicate foot in front of the other and making her way, tippy-toe tippy-toe, out the door and nevermore.
“Here,” Troy Boggs said to his daughter. “Try this.”
And this was a dress Shauna Boggs dare not try on. Are you kidding?
“No,” she said, pleading. “I can’t.”
Seeing in her eyes that scared little girl he wanted to protect punch kill fuck, he grabbed her closer, tucked into his arm. “It’s okay, honey. Daddy’s here. Daddy wants you to.”
And so there she goes, little Shauna, out the door and some crumpling and crinkling until, finally, there she emerges from the closet, what a sweet little thing, what a delicate little thing, what a warm, white thing to sink your teeth into.
There she is, little Miss Shauna Boggs, the plump little brunette Michigan beauty standing there, fumbling, not proud or pretty, fumbling silly pig . . . in her mother’s oh-so-sophisticated wispy white wedding dress.
She’d left it behind. That bitch. She’d left it behind just as she’d left Shauna behind and she’d left Troy behind. Trash. Trash Boggs. That’s a better name for you.
But he’ll show the bitch, that la-di-da bitch from Niagara fucking Falls, he’ll show her ’cause Troy Boggs gets the last laugh here ’cause Troy Trash Boggs gets the last laugh now by lifting up his daughter’s skirt, your daughter’s skirt, in your oh-so-pretty wispy white dress.
Detective Samuel Barnett had had enough of these goddamn interviews. Every two seconds it seemed that black stick was in front of him, asking him questions, that glass circle with cameraman attached, asking now more questions, questions about his questions. Interviews about his interviews.
Already he’d had the family, the church, the classmates, the Green Mill Inn
