Dangerous Girls
Page 24
“Yet you believe it was a genuine break-in?” My lawyer continues. “But Judge Dekker has told this court nothing was stolen, aside from the victim’s necklace.”
“That’s right,” Carlsson answers. “But that doesn’t mean the attacker didn’t intend to rob the house. He could have been disturbed by Miss Warren, and fled after killing her.”
“Like I said, there were others before the murder, and it would fit with the pattern, and this Juan guy.”
“So let me ask you, Officer Carlsson, having examined all the evidence—the same evidence that Detective Dekker was party to—what do you think really happened that night?”
Carlsson looks at us. “It’s simple. The guy breaks in, finds Elise there, and then attacks her—out of panic, or anger. The ripped clothing indicated it was a sexual attack. She turned him down before, so this guy Juan would have a motive to hurt her like that. It just makes sense—more sense than one of her friends suddenly turning on her, anyway.”
“Thank you, that will be all. No further questions.”
AFTER
They keep us in a holding pattern for a week, waiting on the island for some kind of news. Every day, one or more of us get called back in for questioning, this time with our parents and lawyers in tow. The news cameras and reporters are still laying siege to the hotel, so there’s nowhere else we can go; we just sit around the suite, watching TV, calling up room service and waiting for this all to be done.
AK barely speaks. Melanie cries all the time. Max spends most of the day curled up in his room with the blinds drawn, woozy on anti-anxiety meds.
We all just want to go home.
“What did they ask you this time?” Lamar lifts his head from his laptop as I enter the suite. Dad and Ellingham are off talking legal stuff with the other parents in the makeshift conference room; it’s just us kids in here.
I shrug, peeling off my cardigan. “The same. Just, what happened, where were we.”
I shoot a look to Tate, over by the TV. He gives me a questioning look, and I nod. We’re okay.
“I don’t get it.” Chelsea is curled in a ball on the sofa beside him. “Why do they keep going over the same stuff? Shouldn’t there be security footage, or witnesses?”
I don’t reply. Slowly I cross to the kitchen unit in the corner and run the cold faucet over my wrists, closing my eyes against everything but the feeling of the water, icy against my palms. The interrogation room is tiny, and they never set the cold air high enough. After two hours in there with Ellingham and Dekker, my clothes stick, damp and sweaty, to my skin.
“Whoever it was, they planned it.” AK’s voice comes, and I turn in surprise. He’s standing by the windows, staring out at the ocean with the same blank expression he’s been wearing since we found Elise. “The front door has cameras. They knew not to come in that way, or they’d have been on the tape.”
“So, what, they cased the place?” Lamar asks.
Chelsea scoots closer to him, hugging him close. “That means they would have been watching us. All week. Waiting.” She shivers.
“Maybe.” AK pauses. “Or maybe they knew all along.”
“What are you saying?” Tate speaks up for the first time.
AK turns to face us. “I don’t know. All I do know is I spent three hours in that police precinct yesterday, answering questions about you two. How long you’ve been together. What you do. How Elise fit in with you guys. That’s all he wanted to know.”
“Because he’s crazy,” I say quickly.
“Is he?” AK shoots back. “They’re the ones who know what they’re doing. They looked at the crime scene, and did an autopsy on the body, and all that stuff. Wouldn’t they be out looking for the murderer—if they thought he was out there?”
“What’s going on?” Melanie’s voice comes from the doorway. She’s wrapped in a hotel robe, her dark hair hanging limply on either side of her face. She looks back and forth between us. “Did they find something?”
“No, sweetie.” Chelsea shakes her head. “It’s nothing.”
“Nothing you guys want to think about,” AK mutters.
“How are you feeling?” I interrupt, asking Melanie. She shrugs, and trudges over to the couch, barely lifting her feet.
“School already started,” she says, sitting down across from the others. “When do you think they’ll let us go back?”
“Soon, I hope.” I give her an encouraging smile. “Even calculus is better than this.”
Melanie doesn’t meet my eyes. Instead she reaches for the remote, and clicks through to one of the cable news channels. The familiar sight of our hotel fills the screen, the glossy-haired reporter filming live out from the street below.
“Mel,” I say quickly. “Don’t. You know they told us not to watch.”
“I want to see,” she insists, turning the volume up.
“. . . and with police yet to make any arrests, pressure is mounting on investigating prosecutor Klaus Dekker.” The reporter is blond and wide-eyed, clutching her microphone. She looks like a coed, dressed up in a preppy blouse, as if she was off doing body shots before the studio called her up for duty.
“What’s the mood there on the island, Katie?” the man in the studio asks.
“I’ve been talking to locals, and other tourists, and everyone is still in a state of shock.” Katie manages a concerned frown. “Although this is a destination known for its nightlife, photos of the teens’ drinking and wild partying have given everyone pause for thought, making some question just what kind of behavior the victim and her friends were engaged in.”
“Yes, we’ve been seeing the photos from the students’ social networking profiles . . .”
“That’s right. And the latest photo, of the victim’s friends Anna Chevalier and Tate Dempsey, has further fueled speculation.” It flashes up onscreen. “Taken just hours after Elise’s death, it appears to show them laughing and joking on their hotel balcony, seemingly unconcerned by her brutal death—”
Tate snatches the remote from Melanie and shuts it off. “Enough. You heard our parents, it’s all just bullshit, for the ratings.”
“You would say that,” AK mutters again.
Tate whirls around. “Have you got a problem with me?” he demands.
“Tate.” I go to intercept him. “It’s been a long day, okay? We’re all just tired, and—”
“That’s right,” Carlsson answers. “But that doesn’t mean the attacker didn’t intend to rob the house. He could have been disturbed by Miss Warren, and fled after killing her.”
“Like I said, there were others before the murder, and it would fit with the pattern, and this Juan guy.”
“So let me ask you, Officer Carlsson, having examined all the evidence—the same evidence that Detective Dekker was party to—what do you think really happened that night?”
Carlsson looks at us. “It’s simple. The guy breaks in, finds Elise there, and then attacks her—out of panic, or anger. The ripped clothing indicated it was a sexual attack. She turned him down before, so this guy Juan would have a motive to hurt her like that. It just makes sense—more sense than one of her friends suddenly turning on her, anyway.”
“Thank you, that will be all. No further questions.”
AFTER
They keep us in a holding pattern for a week, waiting on the island for some kind of news. Every day, one or more of us get called back in for questioning, this time with our parents and lawyers in tow. The news cameras and reporters are still laying siege to the hotel, so there’s nowhere else we can go; we just sit around the suite, watching TV, calling up room service and waiting for this all to be done.
AK barely speaks. Melanie cries all the time. Max spends most of the day curled up in his room with the blinds drawn, woozy on anti-anxiety meds.
We all just want to go home.
“What did they ask you this time?” Lamar lifts his head from his laptop as I enter the suite. Dad and Ellingham are off talking legal stuff with the other parents in the makeshift conference room; it’s just us kids in here.
I shrug, peeling off my cardigan. “The same. Just, what happened, where were we.”
I shoot a look to Tate, over by the TV. He gives me a questioning look, and I nod. We’re okay.
“I don’t get it.” Chelsea is curled in a ball on the sofa beside him. “Why do they keep going over the same stuff? Shouldn’t there be security footage, or witnesses?”
I don’t reply. Slowly I cross to the kitchen unit in the corner and run the cold faucet over my wrists, closing my eyes against everything but the feeling of the water, icy against my palms. The interrogation room is tiny, and they never set the cold air high enough. After two hours in there with Ellingham and Dekker, my clothes stick, damp and sweaty, to my skin.
“Whoever it was, they planned it.” AK’s voice comes, and I turn in surprise. He’s standing by the windows, staring out at the ocean with the same blank expression he’s been wearing since we found Elise. “The front door has cameras. They knew not to come in that way, or they’d have been on the tape.”
“So, what, they cased the place?” Lamar asks.
Chelsea scoots closer to him, hugging him close. “That means they would have been watching us. All week. Waiting.” She shivers.
“Maybe.” AK pauses. “Or maybe they knew all along.”
“What are you saying?” Tate speaks up for the first time.
AK turns to face us. “I don’t know. All I do know is I spent three hours in that police precinct yesterday, answering questions about you two. How long you’ve been together. What you do. How Elise fit in with you guys. That’s all he wanted to know.”
“Because he’s crazy,” I say quickly.
“Is he?” AK shoots back. “They’re the ones who know what they’re doing. They looked at the crime scene, and did an autopsy on the body, and all that stuff. Wouldn’t they be out looking for the murderer—if they thought he was out there?”
“What’s going on?” Melanie’s voice comes from the doorway. She’s wrapped in a hotel robe, her dark hair hanging limply on either side of her face. She looks back and forth between us. “Did they find something?”
“No, sweetie.” Chelsea shakes her head. “It’s nothing.”
“Nothing you guys want to think about,” AK mutters.
“How are you feeling?” I interrupt, asking Melanie. She shrugs, and trudges over to the couch, barely lifting her feet.
“School already started,” she says, sitting down across from the others. “When do you think they’ll let us go back?”
“Soon, I hope.” I give her an encouraging smile. “Even calculus is better than this.”
Melanie doesn’t meet my eyes. Instead she reaches for the remote, and clicks through to one of the cable news channels. The familiar sight of our hotel fills the screen, the glossy-haired reporter filming live out from the street below.
“Mel,” I say quickly. “Don’t. You know they told us not to watch.”
“I want to see,” she insists, turning the volume up.
“. . . and with police yet to make any arrests, pressure is mounting on investigating prosecutor Klaus Dekker.” The reporter is blond and wide-eyed, clutching her microphone. She looks like a coed, dressed up in a preppy blouse, as if she was off doing body shots before the studio called her up for duty.
“What’s the mood there on the island, Katie?” the man in the studio asks.
“I’ve been talking to locals, and other tourists, and everyone is still in a state of shock.” Katie manages a concerned frown. “Although this is a destination known for its nightlife, photos of the teens’ drinking and wild partying have given everyone pause for thought, making some question just what kind of behavior the victim and her friends were engaged in.”
“Yes, we’ve been seeing the photos from the students’ social networking profiles . . .”
“That’s right. And the latest photo, of the victim’s friends Anna Chevalier and Tate Dempsey, has further fueled speculation.” It flashes up onscreen. “Taken just hours after Elise’s death, it appears to show them laughing and joking on their hotel balcony, seemingly unconcerned by her brutal death—”
Tate snatches the remote from Melanie and shuts it off. “Enough. You heard our parents, it’s all just bullshit, for the ratings.”
“You would say that,” AK mutters again.
Tate whirls around. “Have you got a problem with me?” he demands.
“Tate.” I go to intercept him. “It’s been a long day, okay? We’re all just tired, and—”
