Hitler mustache. “
Her gales of laughter on the heels of torrential tears had my head spinning. Talking to her reminded me of looking through the microscope in ninth grade biology. Everything-oak leaf scales, bacteria, blood platelets-looked like a blurry green eyelash to me. I had to fake it, just like I had to fake that she wasn’t screwy.
“Okay, I’ll do it, but only if you call your dad and let him know what’s up. Plus, the police are going to want to talk to you, so you’re only putting this off, not avoiding it altogether.”
“Thank you!” She lunged at me with a hug, and I could feel Hammy squirming between us. “I’ll call right now.” She went over to her purse and yanked out a sparkly pink cell phone.
“No messages,” I said.
She gave me the “shush” signal. “Daddy? It’s Kenya.” She paused, and then started crying again. “The police took her away. And it’s all my fault!”
The conversation devolved from there, but toward the end, he must have brought her back on track. She was wiping her eyes and sniffling but sounded okay. “I love you too, Daddy.” She hung up the phone. “He’s coming. He said he’ll be here before the morning to help with mom and to bring me home. I’m sorry I’m so difficult.”
“Your life can’t be easy.” It was the truth. My mother had been an enabler, but she was always there for me. I knew she loved me and was proud of me. Glokkmann had treated Kenya like a trophy when we first met, cutting her daughter down and raising herself in the same stroke. And Glokkmann’s treatment of Grace gave me good reason to believe that was just skimming the surface of Glokkmann’s dysfunction.
“I’m all right,” she said. “I’m just a big baby sometimes. That murder, and then the suicide attempt. And I’m sick of this town. I just want to go home.”
“I can sympathize.”
She shot me a grateful smile. “I’m fine. But you should probably go. You don’t look so good.”
I didn’t feel so good. My nose felt as red as a cherry, and I could feel a pressure on my lungs. This bug was hitting whatever body parts the previous one had overlooked. “OK. But here’s my phone number. Call me if you want me to come back after I talk to the police for your mom. I can stay with you until your dad gets here.” I sincerely hoped she didn’t call, but I wanted her to know she had options.
“Thanks, Mira. You’re a pal.”
If by “pal” she meant “village idiot,” then we were on the same page. I left with a head full of snot and for the second time in a week would have given any four of my toes to be going home to bed. Instead, I was heading to the Otter Tail County jail in Fergus Falls, a 20 minute drive with the wind at my back.
If you drive in on the east side, Fergus is a bucolic river city, an old village whose downtown has retained much of the charm of turn-of-the-century buildings. The county jail was blocks from this pretty downtown area, a 1987 block of brick appended to the historic, cream-colored limestone and brick courthouse. The only good thing I could say about the jail was that I wouldn’t have to run into Gary Wohnt here. I hoped. I was still confused by his electric resemblance to my twenty-three-foot fiberglass love bucket. How could I have not noticed that before? Maybe it was just the lack of sleep and my head cold. Probably Gary didn’t look anything like my sweetheart Wenonga. I’d click my heels three times, and the world would return to normal.
I was in luck. Thursday visiting hours were 6:30 to 9:00, which gave me a good fifteen minutes with Glokkmann. I was escorted down industrial hallways to a secured visiting room with rough-clothed couches and bolted-down tables. It reminded me of a high school teacher’s lounge. Inside, Glokkmann was seated at a table with a Bible and a handkerchief. I was surprised to see her in the same clothes she’d been arrested in. I assumed she’d be forced to wear a zip-up orange jumpsuit, but here was one more thing
“No interview,” she told me, her voice icy. Her hands were clasped tightly in front of her but they still visibly twitched. “I agreed to see you because of my daughter.”
“She called?”
“My husband did. He said you’d be on your way.”
“Then I’ll be brief. Kenya has agreed to tell the police that she was with you the night of the murder.”
“The police claim my hair was found tangled in the murdered man’s fingers.” Her composure was chilling.
“Ick. Did you give them a DNA sample?”
“Not yet.”
I’d learned in the past that what the police can accuse you of is completely different than what they can formally charge you with. “Did you kill Bob Webber?”
Her eyes sliced me, fried me, and ate me for supper. “No.”
The crapper was, I believed her. I was confident she was a stone cold bitch, but I didn’t think she’d murdered Webber. “Look. I know what time period Mr. Webber is believed to be murdered in, and I know you were sleeping during that period. I’m going to tell the police, and Kenya has agreed to substantiate the claim.”
I didn’t know what emotion I’d been expecting, maybe relief, a little gratitude. Instead, she said, “Fine.”
“Fine? I just drove from Battle Lake to help you out. And I have a fever.” I might have sounded a little whiny, but I couldn’t help it.
“It’s not my fault I’m in here.”
“It’s not mine either.”
She held up her nose. “Of course I knew Kenya was in the room with me all night. I was waiting for her to come around and support my story. She’s a willful child, but she loses interest in her tantrums fairly quickly.” She leaned in closely, her gaze intense. “I love my children. Every one of them. And I will go to the ends of the earth to protect them.”
I didn’t know what we were talking about, but it was important to her. “You’re protecting Kenya? From what?”
“From herself. How much do you know about attachment disorder?”
“Nothing.”
“It’s common in children adopted between the ages of one and three, at least if they were severely neglected before they were adopted. They have a hard time creating positive attachments and bounce between clingy behavior and distance. They’re also manipulative and defiant. Kenya is all these things, and it’s because she spent her first two years in an institutional orphanage, the only physical contact once-daily diaper changes and twice-daily feedings. It’s made her a difficult person, though she’s getting better with medication and therapy. Because of her disorder, she lied about my whereabouts the night of the murder.”
I was following, but slowly. “So why didn’t you tell the police?”
“Her father and I have spent our lives protecting her, trying to fill the holes in her heart. It’s time for her to see the consequences of her actions without our interference.”
I wondered if Glokkmann had ever second-guessed a decision she’d made. Some might call it confidence, but from where I was sitting, it was the worst kind of hubris. “So you’re letting yourself be put in jail?”
“A mother would understand.”
I didn’t know why her words stung. “Then you don’t need my help.”
“I appreciate your coming. This has been a breakthrough for Kenya, it sounds like. She’s telling the truth. But no, I don’t need you. I can clear myself. The case against me is flimsy, always was.”
I’d had exactly enough brain stretching for today. I stood. “Great. Good luck with that.”
A horrified expression crawled across her face. She must have assumed that since I’d driven this far that I’d see this pony over the finish line and tell the police what Kenya had said. No reason to waste too much gratitude on me, in that case. But as she realized her miscalculation she stood and gathered her possessions, as if she could leave just as freely as me. I stomped out, stopping on my way only long enough to tell the officer at the front counter what I knew about Glokkmann’s alibi, which left me with a clear conscience and absolutely no closer to knowing who had killed Bob Webber.
22
