Tim glared at the two kids playing pool, laughing on the inside. He recognized the girl as Calla McFadden, a girl he’d caught smoking pot behind the post office twice late last year. He wasn’t sure, but he thought the other was Randy Owchar. Randy looked more relaxed, but the sweat on his forehead despite the cool air proved he had something to hide. Tim gave them one extra huff of his nostrils just for the fun on it, then walked over to the bar.
When he leaned up against the countertop, he felt as though he’d been hit in the face with the smell of pine cleaner. As much of it as there was, there was still a slight scent of mold underlying it that came with the old building. Shaking off the sudden dizziness that the cleanser had given him, he forced a smile at the girl behind the counter.
Roxanne Carpenter was about thirty-six years old according to the file Tim had pulled on her, but she didn’t look a day over twenty-nine. Except her eyes. Long hours had run circles around her eyes that she had tried hard to conceal with just a little too much eyeliner. Other than that her face was clear. Her short, curly red hair had been combed out on either side to points by her ears, bobbing a little each time she moved. She was wearing a jean-jacket over her apron right now, and had probably just come in from a smoke. She looked up from counting out the skim in the cash register, but did not return the smile. Instead she turned her dark green eyes back to counting all of the five dollar bills, leaving only five of them in the register and adding the rest to a pile that she had made on the windowsill between the front and back of house. After a moment, an unseen person reached a hairy hand out and shoveled them forward, then closed the window. She checked the back counter to make sure all the money was accounted for, then sighed with displeasure as she finally turned her attention back to Tim. “What do you want?” she asked, her voice even and devoid of emotion. She spoke as though she didn’t really care about the answer to the question.
Tim smiled, grabbed a toothpick from the small canister on the bar and twiddling it between his fingers. He almost laughed, not knowing quite what to say. “Did you hear about Julie Peterson?”
Roxanne tried hard to keep her eyes as devoid of sentiment as her speech had been a moment ago, but couldn’t keep the slight twinkle of acknowledgment out. She reached down and tied off the top of a garbage bag beneath the cash register, her lips drawing up in a bow. “Only what the kids have been saying.”
“Then you know what’s happened to her?” he prodded, realizing that he was dancing around the issue but unsure of how to stop.
She nodded, not even so much as looking at him when she did, still finding things around the cash to busy herself with.
“Listen, this type of thing doesn’t happen around here very often-” he started, trying to help his words find their footing.
She rolled her eyes and cut him off before he had the chance. “No, it doesn’t get reported very often. There is a difference,” she corrected, pointing a glossy red fingernail at him.
“Fair enough,” he conceded, raising his palms in defeat. “Either way, the only other person I know of that’s filed an official sexual assault report in the last two years is--”
“Me,” she said, cutting him off again. She was smiling now, but it wasn’t a happy one. It was a smug smile as she proved her initial suspicions about Tim’s visit correct.
“Well, yes. I was wondering if you knew anything about this case. I know it’s a long shot, but could it be the same person?” He was trying his best to sound sympathetic and sound authoritative at the same time, to mixed results. At best it made his voice uneven, having to clear his throat often.
“Persons. Plural,” she corrected, even the fake smile fading slowly.
“Yes, there were two or three men working in conjuncture,” he nodded, admitting that Peterson had fallen victim to more than one man.
“Not what I meant,” she snapped, shaking her head. Her eyes were distant for a moment as she pictured Julie in that way, then forced the image from her brain. “I meant with me. Not at once, but a couple of times... a couple of different guys.”
“I’m... sorry,” he stuttered, wishing he had the file he had left back in the car. “I was only aware of the one time, back in May of last year.”
“No, they go back a while,” she informed him, snorting a little unamused laugh. “The first few times I called it in. Carl Dent or one of his rent-a-cop flunkies would come down and take my statement and a description. They’d take pictures of the scene and dust for prints and tell me where to send the doctor’s reports to... and then I’d wait. And wait. About four
