Tunnel Vision Read online

I just have to focus on doing what she’s paying me to do, and doing it the best I can. She’s paying me to A) do what I can to keep June ignorant of everything to do with Mandy and Duke and the whole mess, and B) keep her safe.

  Part A is pretty much a lost cause. I’ve got a nagging suspicion the girl probably knows more than her mother suspects she does. At least according to Claire, June is out of the loop, but even if that’s so, it’s going to change eventually.

  I open another window on my computer, hop on over to Facebook, and get to work. I keep up on all of this social media nonsense, because in my work it can be good business. Want some advice? Keep your kids off of this crap. Not only will they tell any thief within a few hundred miles when the house is going to be empty, but they usually set themselves up for identity theft as well. Of course, that’s the tip of the iceberg. Much worse things can happen. Trust me.

  I find June on Facebook after just a few minutes of clicking. It’s always easier than it should be. I open a new window, log out of my work account, then start a new profile on Facebook. I populate it with a picture of a cute boy I find on an image search, then send out a few dozen friend requests. I’ve done this enough times that I usually get requests from myself in my inbox as all of these little webs come together. I always include my former profiles in this stuff. After all, my other identities are already friends with most of these kids, and it just makes things look that much more legit when they see how many mutual buddies we have.

  Friends pour in like they always do, and June responds to my friend request like the rest of the sheep. I give her profile the once-over, see nothing out of the ordinary, and then move on to her friends, the real ones. No one has time to go through the whole list, but it’s easy enough to see who the real buddies are, and that’s what I do. Two boys and one girl later, I get a hit. A big one.

  Her name is Betty Martinez, and excuse me for saying so, but she’s pretty cute, and I feel like I’ve met her somewhere before. I try not to think about that stuff—it’s easier that way—but I’m not going to hold everything in.

  Still, cute or not, Betty has some pretty damning June-related evidence on her page, and I’m already thinking I need to call Claire. Stuck down among all of the comments and other crap is a picture for a flyer to an upcoming punk rock concert. The lineup is pretty good, almost good enough to make me briefly consider going out of the house for it, but that’s not what’s really interesting. Lo and behold, the concert is a benefit for Duke Barnes.

  The Free Duke folks are back to work again, and judging by the string of comments under the flyer, this event will at least get Duke’s defense some money. Probably not all they need—nothing bleeds a wallet like a team of lawyers working on an appeal—but maybe enough to get some of the boots off their throats.

  I push back from the keyboard, giving the screen a frustrated look, but no dice: it’s still got the same crap that I don’t want to see on there. This is a loser’s game, and I need to accept that my easy paycheck has just about gone up in smoke. June either knows or will know soon, so there goes half my scope of work with Claire. Part A is dust.

  Which leaves me with Part B: keeping June safe from whoever might have the dead girl’s double in his crosshairs.

  There’s only one way to move ahead on this half, and that’s to look into the one man besides Duke Barnes I can think of who might have done it. It’s a long shot, but I need to cross it off the list if I’m going to take Claire’s cash in good conscience.

  And if he does end up looking bad, Claire and her family are going to have a lot more on their plate than she already thinks they do.

  ELEVEN

  “This better be good,” said June as they walked across the lawn to fourth period. “I’m serious. You sent me like five texts last night after I was asleep, and I woke up thinking something bad had happened.” June grinned. “Not to mention, you know how impatient I am.”

  “How far are you on your paper for Mr. Evans?”

  “Pretty far,” said June. “I mean, I still have to find some sources, but most of the actual writing is done. I sort of think the paper sucks, though. I mean, what was I thinking? The class divides and death ratios on the Titanic isn’t even that interesting a subject. It’s really kind of obvious. Like, of course there were more poor people that died. Most of their rooms were below the waterline on the boat, and there were way more of them than there were rich people.” She sighed. “I’ll probably give it another look tonight, scrape together sources, and then turn it in early. Maybe that’ll get me some points.”

  “I think we should ditch the papers that we have now and talk to Mr. Evans about setting up a project with special circumstances, maybe even letting us extend the deadline.”

  June stopped and stared at her. “You’re crazy. In a new way, but still crazy. I’ve put a ton of time into that paper, I’ve got math coming out of my ass, and don’t get me started on this Biology 2 bullshit.”

  “Look at this.” June crowded her as she took her phone from her purse and pulled up the preloaded Duke website. When Betty had looked at it in the morning, she’d set it up for exactly this moment, with the picture of Mandy Reasoner centered on the screen.

  “Is this some sort of weird joke, Betty?”

  “Look again.” The girls bent to the phone again. “That’s not you. It’s your aunt.”

  “I don’t have an aunt,” said June without looking at Betty. “You know that. This lady does look like me, though. It’s kind of creepy.”

  “June, you had an aunt,” said Betty. “This is her. Her name was Mandy Reasoner and she died when we were about a year old.”

  “That’s not funny anymore, Betty.” June glared at her. “Who is this really?”

  “I’m serious, June. This is your aunt. She was murdered by the guy on that punk show flyer. That’s why Ophelia got all weird and why your mom freaked out. This whole thing is a big secret for some reason, but the other crazy thing is that the guy who got arrested for this might not have done it. That’s why all those big bands are playing. That’s why Old Croix Road is playing. They think the guy who was convicted of killing your aunt is innocent.”

  “I need to sit for a second,” said June, who promptly sat down. “Are you serious, Betty? You promise you’re not fucking with me?”

  “Scout’s honor,” said Betty, holding up two pinched-together fingers. “It wouldn’t be a funny joke, and I’m not that mean. Just think about what I said about the project. I mean, I know this is a lot to take in, but who else has the chance to research something this crazy?”

  “All right,” said June as she stood and dusted herself off. “I feel sort of like I’m dreaming, but I think I’m in. I do want to know everything about this, but if my mom didn’t want me to know about her, she must think she has a pretty good reason. I don’t know how I’m going to keep my mouth shut around her, but I want in.” June frowned. “What exactly are we going to tell Mr. Evans? Even worse, what if he tells my mom what we’re up to?”

  “I’ll handle that,” said Betty. “You just follow my lead.” Betty and June snapped their heads at the faraway sound of a buzzer going off in the school, and then they took off running across the campus. Asking Mr. Evans for a change in subject as well as an extension was going to be tough enough without being late, too.

  Betty waited until the end of class to make her way to Mr. Evans’s desk, June doing what she had asked of her and following at her heels. Mr. Evans was discussing something with another student, a nice but nerdy boy named Robert Hellman, and when the two were done Mr. Evans smiled at them and said, “Ladies, how are we doing on this fine April afternoon?”

  “Pretty good,” said Betty. “We have some questions for you. June and I were wondering if we could change the topics for our research papers, and then work together on a new one. We’d need an extension, probably like three extra weeks, but I think we could actually do something cool, instead of just regurgitating ideas from books.”

  “Con
vince me,” said Mr. Evans. “You girls are smart. Show me what you want me to see. I just hope this isn’t a letdown.”

  “My aunt was murdered fifteen years ago,” blurted June. So much for following my lead, Betty thought. But Mr. Evans had gone from bored-looking teacher to very interested friend in a matter of seconds, so she let June roll. “It’s some family secret or something, I guess,” she continued. “I never knew about it until today. Betty found out last night, and she just told me on the way here.”

  “Her aunt’s name was Mandy Reasoner,” said Betty. “She looked just like June, and she liked punk rock like we do.”

  “I’ll need more than her iPod track list,” said Mr. Evans, “but I’m about halfway there, so keep going.”

  “She was murdered by her boyfriend,” said Betty, filling in some of the facts she hadn’t had time to share with June. “He’s locked up in Jackson right now, but there are a ton of people that don’t think he did it. There’s going to be a show in a month or so with a bunch of huge bands playing it—even Old Croix Road is playing, and they never play anymore. Anyway, the reason for the show is that they’re trying to get the guy who was convicted of killing her aunt a new trial. He confessed to the police, but it sounds like he changed his story later, and they broke the law when they were questioning him. There’s a bunch of other stuff, too.

  “We want to tell Mandy’s story—that’s June’s aunt—but we also want to look at as much evidence as we can to try and prove whether or not the guy who’s in prison really killed her. My mom works at the police station sometimes, and I think with a little work we might even be able to talk to some of the cops that were working back then.”

  “Consider me convinced,” said Mr. Evans. “This is very compelling stuff.” Mr. Evans shuffled papers on his desk and then raised his head. “I’m going to grade this the way I would a college paper, ladies. Do a good job, don’t add a bunch of padding, and keep me updated. If you’re going to really work for this thing, we don’t even need to set a due date, but I want to be in the loop.” He turned to June. “Are you sure you’re up for this, Ms. Derricks? There could be some ugly family history buried somewhere.”

  “I know,” said June. “I just want to know more about my aunt, and this seems like a good way.”

  Mr. Evans nodded and smiled. “All right, then. Keep me up to date, and get out of my sight. I won’t have you late to your next class on my account.”

  TWELVE

  Not everyone is easy to find, but I locate Jack Derricks after just a few minutes on the Internet. Jack isn’t a lock for the death of Mandy Reasoner—no one really seems to be except for the version of Duke Barnes that was convicted a dozen or so years ago—but there are a few interesting things that stick out about the man.

  For starters, he was familiar with the victim. Next on the list is something Claire barely mentioned, that she has an ex-husband. But it was the way she spoke about the case that made me wonder why. Claire might not have been able to see that June’s dad would look pretty good as a perp, but I sure can, and if Claire wants June safe, this angle needs to be looked into.

  I find Jack Derricks pretty quickly through social media, but I did have to think outside of my usual go-tos. Jack is on several dating sites, and after a few minutes of looking, I’ve got an address and some recent pictures. I’m feeling less confident about my detective skills in regard to his possible guilt—Jack looks like more of a Hair Club for Men candidate than a killer—but I’ve been wrong before, and there’s something about Jack Derricks that just gets my hackles up.

  I make Jack’s neighborhood in about fifteen minutes, then stow the bike and get to walking. I didn’t bring anything too fun on this trip, just a little digital camera, a lockpick kit, and a pair of discreet binoculars. One of the advantages about not going to school or being on the clock at the same time as everyone else is that when most folks are working, I can see what they think they’re hiding. Criminals make time to play when everyone else is busy. Jack should just count himself lucky that I have no intent on taking anything—assuming he’s actually gone—unless it could be used as evidence. I still have my doubts, of course, but the man had proximity to the victim, and history proves there are plenty of killers that don’t need anything else.

  The house looks normal from a distance. No surprise there, they almost always do, but looks can be very deceiving. I glass the house from down the block, making sure no one is around to wonder what I’m up to, and then I stow the spyglasses and wrap my bike chain around my wheels and a stop sign. I don’t use a lock—never have—but my reasoning is pretty sound. It’s a big-ass chain and looks like it’s locked, and if I need to get away, really need to leave in a hurry, I won’t have to spend time messing around with undoing the lock. Bikes can be replaced. Still, it pains me a bit to walk away from it. For the first time in years, I don’t have the money to replace it if it does get ganked.

  The lots are big here, the houses small—a sure sign of a real estate development that didn’t pan out quite as intended. Stopping in front of his house, I give a quick look to his windows and his neighbors’, don’t see anyone, and then snap a couple quick pictures.

  As far as his house is concerned, Jack Derricks lives a pretty normal life. It’s time to find out if the inside tells the same story.

  I walk to the door like I have every right to and ring the bell. I can hear it in the house, but what I don’t hear is a dog or footsteps, a very good sign. I stand there waiting and ring the bell again, though I know no one’s going to answer it. It’s dead in there. It’s hard not to turn around to make sure that my six is clear. Easy fix for that: I take a burner out, cut to the crappy camera, and shoot a few pictures over my shoulder. To anyone else it looks like I’m texting, but even my throwaway phone can give me a pretty clean view of what’s at my back.

  The pictures let me know that everything is good behind me, and out from the backpack comes the lockpick kit. I’ve been messing with this thing for a few years now, and the truth of it is, most locks are easy to pick. It makes sense when you think about it. Most people just buy one from a hardware store or use the bolt that came with the house or apartment. What that means for a guy like me is that if I can pick one, I can pretty much pick them all. Some have more tumblers and take a little longer, but if I have time, I will get in. Jack’s house proved to be no different. A few clicks and wiggles, and I was inside.

  There was a house I was in a few years back that was hiding a little girl in its belly. I came in through the back and it was like I was walking into hell, but there was the strangest thing out front: no mess at all. The criminals in that place knew they were hiding in plain sight and needed to keep up appearances.

  It only took a few seconds in Jack Derricks’s home to realize he wasn’t too worried about keeping the inside ready for a guest.

  The house wasn’t trashed, but it did look as though it had been paused midparty. There were beer cans and bottles piled on the coffee table, an ashtray overflowing with both cigarette butts and roaches, and a baggie holding a pretty familiar shade of green. I gave the room a quick once-over and decided even the most brazen psycho killer wouldn’t hide an old souvenir in a room that obviously saw so much entertaining. Despite what the television might make you think, criminals aren’t all stupid. In fact, some of them are incredibly intelligent.

  Moving out of the front living area, I pass through a small kitchenette and down a short hall. There are a pair of bedrooms at the rear of the house, one neat enough and probably rarely used—at least judging by the dust on the light fixtures—and one that looks like a bar and a Laundromat had a filth contest and everybody won the grand prize. The smell hits me as I walk into Jack’s room: an ugly reek of ass and black mold, with a few dried-up condoms on the nightstand to add to the ambience. I shudder, put my game face on, and get to work.

  Despite the mess on the floor, bed, and nightstand, the dresser is full of neatly folded clothing. Mr. Tidy. I rifle through each dr
awer, being sure to check the underside of each of them as I do, all while keeping an eye on the Timex on my wrist. So far I’ve been in the house less than five minutes, discovering nothing, and I’m starting to hope there’s not a crawl space or attic.

  I give up on the dresser after hitting the bottom drawer, and come away with the revelation that Jack and I have a bit in common. As it turns out, we both essentially wear uniforms. For me, that means punk shirts and hoodies, Converse All Stars, and jeans. Jack’s is a little different: flannel shirts and Carhartt outerwear, some camo for hunting, and then a bunch of white shirts, briefs, and socks. It’s all boring, nothing tucked under any of the drawers—no bloody knife, smoking revolver, or baggied trophy of victim-hair anywhere—and I’m starting to think this is more snipe hunt than investigation.

  There’s no blood-stained coat to be found as I shuffle carefully through the closet, no punk records or heroin needles in the nightstand, and no diary packed with confessions. A little dejected at not solving the decade-plus-old murder, I walk out of the bedroom and give a look out the back door to the rear yard.

  Jackpot.

  THIRTEEN

  The last two hours of class dragged on long enough that Betty was sure there was something wrong with the clocks. Finally it was 2:20 and the last bell of the day sounded, and Betty walked to her Beetle while she texted June.

  She’d already decided she had to convince the moms somehow to let her break the grounding so that she and June could work on the project together, and she knew her only chance of doing that was if they agreed to do the work at her house. Betty knew what they were going to lay down as a precondition, though the thought of having to look Jake in the face and break it off made her throw up in her mouth a little. It would probably be for the best just to get it over with.

  Betty made it to the car at the same time she was hitting “Send” on her phone. The message she sent to June told her about the plan and gave her a couple of different websites to check out for more information on Duke, Mandy, and the bizarre set of events surrounding the murder and the trial. “K” came through a few moments later, and Betty dropped the phone into a cup holder before throwing the car into reverse.