Chapter Thirty-seven
It was strange how quickly they started coming and leaving things on the steps leading up to the big Tudor that was Beta Zeta House at Dixon University. A bouquet of carnations with the cellophane from the Dixon Kroger on West Cannonball Street was the first item. It had probably been dropped off there within two hours of the discovery of Sheraton’s bloody body. From the settee in the front window, Jenna Kenyon and Midori Cassidy watched the other students come from across campus. They were carrying flowers, cards, candles—and even a beer bong.
“Sheraton would have liked that,” Midori said.
Jenna looked at the girl, unsure how to respond.
“I mean, she would have thought that was funny,” Midori quickly added. “You know?”
“I get it.”
A plainclothes detective entered the living room and smiled at the young women. Her name was Kellie Jasper. She wore round-framed glasses that were far too large for her face. Her hair was curly and clipped short—a symptom of a woman too busy to care, or one who’d just given up.
“I know this has been a horrendous morning,” she said from across the room.
The words brought Midori to tears again and Jenna patted her on the shoulder.
“Midori and Sheraton were very close.”
“I know. I’m so sorry, darlin’,” the detective said, taking a seat next to them so she’d no longer tower over the grieving girls. She turned to face Midori—a crumple of a human being, her long black hair limp and askew.
“We all have to work together, now. Sheraton is gone, but we will make sure that whoever did this to her is caught.”
Midori looked like she was going to cry again and Jenna squeezed her hand.
“I’m going to take you in my car to the justice center, and another officer will bring you back.”
“That’s fine. I understand procedure,” Jenna said, realizing that she sounded like some lame junior detective or a TV watcher who stayed glued to police procedurals.
“I understand that your mama’s in law enforcement.”
Jenna nodded. “She’s a sheriff back in Washington.”
Detective Jasper led them out the front door and down the steps.
“Yes, I remember reading about her, and, of course, reading about you.”
Midori, who’d stopped crying, looked over at Jenna. She was clearly puzzled.
“Long story,” she said, not wanting to go into it, but seeing that Midori could use a diversion. “OK. Basically, my mom and I were captured by a serial killer. He’s dead now.”
Inside her cruiser, the detective turned the ignition. “Not just any serial killer. Dylan Walker.”
“Yeah, him,” Jenna said, fastening her belt and wishing that she’d sat in the backseat instead of Midori.
“I’ve read about him,” Midori said.
The statement surprised Jenna. She hadn’t thought Midori
“I’ll tell you about it sometime,” Jenna said, knowing that she never would. She didn’t like to revisit those days any more than her mother did. They never talked about it. They were glad that the media ignored the five-year anniversary of the handsome serial killer’s death in that bunker on the Washington coast. They celebrated the fact that true-crime TV movies and books had fallen on hard times, and that none had been written or produced about the man and his crimes—and their role in his death.
“Yes, that was quite a story,” the detective said, clearly angling for more information.
But Jenna wasn’t going to bite. She’d said all she had to say. She turned away from Midori and faced the passenger window as the BZ house and the makeshift memorial faded from view. She played some images of those days of terror from five years ago in her mind, but she didn’t let any of those images seize her.
The offices of the Dixon Police Department were about on par with Cherrystone’s, where Jenna had spent most of her teenage years popping in to drop something off, get some money, or just say hello. She recognized the conference room where the officers gathered at the beginning of their shift to catch up on what was happening. The weekend cops—some reserves, she guessed—had left a greasy box of apple fritters.
She saw the bulletin board that was affixed with at least two hundred police and sheriffs’ patches from across the south. Back home, Sheriff Kiplinger had started one of those, too. She remembered how happy he was when she brought in a patch from an Oregon county that he hadn’t ever seen. She’d won it on eBay for three dollars plus shipping, and she’d never seen a happier man.
Detective Jasper sat Jenna and Midori on folding metal chairs in a room that overlooked the parking lot of a Cracker Barrel Old Country Store and Restaurant. She set out a pad and a pen. She offered them coffee or sodas, but neither Jenna nor Midori felt like drinking anything.
Midori just wanted to cry.
“All right,” the detective said, “I want to talk to you two, for a couple of reasons.” She fixed her gaze on Midori and pushed a box of tissues toward her. “Midori, you are her best friend. We need to know everything you can tell us about Sheraton. Who were her friends? She have any enemies? Any run-ins with anyone? That kind of thing. OK?”
Midori dried her eyes. “OK.”
“And you,” she said, now looking at Jenna, “you were with Midori and Sheraton last night at dinner.”
“Right. But I barely knew the girl. I’ll be as helpful as I can be, though.”
“Understood. Midori, tell me about Sheraton.”
“What do you want to know?”
“Boyfriend troubles?”
“She was dating Matt Harper, but it was going all right.”
“We know about Matt, and another detective is talking to him now. Any others? She was pretty. She probably broke a few hearts on campus.”
Midori pulled the zipper on her hot pink Juicy tracksuit top. “She was a big flirt, but it was all in fun. Everyone liked her. If anyone’s told you otherwise, they’re lying.”
“Everyone liked her but the killer.”
Of course, the detective was right about that.
They discussed dinner the night before, how Sheraton had wanted to go out and party at one of the fraternity houses when they got back. Jenna stayed behind in the BZ house and Midori said she was out only until about twelve-thirty.
“I just wasn’t into it. Sheraton was. She told me to go home and she’d be right behind me.”
“What was she doing?”
“We were at the Tri Gamma house. She was on a couch talking to some guys and some other girls. There was nothing special about it. She was just talking, having a good time.”
They talked for a little while longer. The detective took copious notes, though Jenna couldn’t see what she was writing down.
There really wasn’t that much to say. No one saw anything. This had to be some kind of random happening. There was no stalker. There was no person bent on revenge for some silly transgression. Whoever had slashed the life out of Sheraton Wilkes had done so out of a sickness for which she had only one word:
“So, Jenna,” the detective asked, as the two young women stood to leave, “is there any reason anyone would want to kill you? You were supposed to be sleeping in that room, correct?”
Jenna slung her purse over her shoulder and gathered her coat.
