Spilled Blood

‘Anencephaly.’

Chris bowed his head. ‘Oh, no.’

‘That’s the only reason she chose the abortion, Chris. It’s not because she wanted to give up her child. She had to. Her baby was going to die.’

23

The churchyard in St. Croix was deserted.

It was late afternoon. The sun was low and feeble. Chris saw no one in the neighborhood streets or in the neat rows of the small Lutheran cemetery. He knocked on the door of the attached house where Glenn Magnus lived, but the minister didn’t answer. He assumed Magnus was with his son at the hospital. The door to the church itself was unlocked, for anyone who wanted to pray.

Chris went inside.

The silence was unnerving. He shoved his hands in his pockets and stood motionless in the foyer. On his right, above the winding steps to the steeple, he heard the whistle of wind sucked from the tower and the tinny vibration of the church bells. He checked the sanctuary, but the long wooden pews were empty. He was alone.

He took the steps down to the church basement. It smelled moldy, as if moisture had seeped behind the walls. Through an open door, he saw a large meeting room with a speckled linoleum floor. Folded utility tables and chairs were stacked against the wall. One table was open, and he saw a messy stack of children’s Bible books and boxes of crayons. The only natural light sneaked through small window squares at ground level. He clicked on the harsh fluorescents, illuminating the room. Winter was past, but no one had taken down the Christmas posters, made with multi-colored construction paper and stuck with yellowing tape.

He wandered around the perimeter of the room, studying the posters on the walls. He saw stick figures of the baby Jesus in a creche. Sheep that looked like cotton balls. Pointy boughs of holly like barbed wire. Three wise men with long white beards. One poster featured a slogan with each letter in a different color: Love Thy Neighbor. When he peered closer, he saw that someone had written underneath, in tiny script: EXCEPT BARRON.

Chris switched off the lights as he left the room. In the basement hallway, he called, ‘Anyone here?’ His voice sounded hollow. There was no response.

He saw a closed door. A large wooden cross was hung on a nail, and photographs were thumbtacked to the door. Johan was in all of them, mostly with his arms around young children. The boy’s handsome face had a broad smile. Some of the photos were taken at sports games, some at church retreats. Conspicuously, he didn’t see Olivia or Ashlynn in any of the pictures. Everyone kept their real lives under wraps here.

Chris knocked sharply and heard nothing. He glanced behind him at the empty hallway and turned the knob. The door was open. He went inside, leaving the door ajar. He switched on the overhead light.

Johan’s bedroom was unusually neat for a teenager. His bed was made with creased corners. His schoolbooks – Pre-Calculus, Human Biology, The Civil War, Economics, and Moby-Dick – were stacked neatly on a corner of his wooden desk. A green light glowed on his computer monitor, but the screen was black. The keyboard was tucked inside a drawer. He saw manila folders and school notes, taken in precise handwriting. His pens were organized in an ELCA mug with the points downward.

Above Johan’s bed, Chris saw a rectangular window fronting the street. He imagined Olivia crouching there, tapping on it at one in the morning. Johan, wake up, we need to talk.

He booted up Johan’s computer, clicked the Start button on the keyboard and ran a search of the documents on the hard drive, using the keyword Ashlynn. He hoped to find e-mail drafts or letters, but if there were written communications between the two of them, they’d been done through mobile texts or web-based e-mails. Instead, he found a graphical file with Ashlynn’s name. He opened it and saw an achingly beautiful picture of Ashlynn Steele, taken in winter with snow up to her calves. She wore a down vest; her blond hair was loose and wind-swept, her cheeks pink from cold. Her mouth was folded into a beaming, carefree smile.

From everything he had learned, Chris didn’t think Ashlynn had enjoyed many moments of that kind of happiness in her final months. He was pleased to see a glimmer of joy in her face and heartbroken to think of the tragedy that had consumed her. This case had become about more to him than saving Olivia. He wanted to know what had happened to destroy this girl’s peace and cut her life short.

Chris studied the rest of Johan’s room. He opened the teenager’s dresser drawers and found stacks of folded clothes. The closet door was shut, and he opened it and saw two laundry baskets on the floor, brimming with whites and darks. The shut-in space had an aroma of sweat. He squatted and removed the darks piece by piece, examining each one and depositing them on the closet floor. Near the bottom of the basket, he found a pair of stonewashed blue jeans. Mud soiled the knees, and dirt and brown grass clung to the cuffs.

He recognized a reddish-brown stain stretching down the pant leg, long and spidery. It was blood. He put the jeans aside and sifted quickly through the whites and found a baseball jersey with similar stains soaked into the sleeves.

More blood. Lots of it.

‘Hello, Chris.’

He spun around, startled, at the voice behind him. He’d been caught, and he had no excuses. Glenn Magnus stood in the doorway of Johan’s room. His face was expressionless.

Chris sank back against the frame of the closet door. ‘Glenn.’

‘You could have asked,’ the minister said.

‘You’re right.’

‘I suppose you figured I would have cleaned up first.’

‘You’re a father,’ Chris said. ‘I know how fathers think.’

‘That’s true.’

Chris held up the jersey. ‘He was there, Glenn.’

‘I know. He told me.’

‘Did he kill her?’

‘Johan isn’t capable of that kind of violence.’

‘Anyone can lose control,’ Chris said. ‘This is blood. Johan told me he didn’t touch anything at the scene, but that was a lie. He lied to the police about being there at all.’

The minister’s brow wrinkled in anger. ‘Johan lied to protect Olivia. It was foolish, but it was noble. As for the blood, what do you think he did when he saw the girl he was hopelessly in love with, lying dead in the park? He knelt at her side. He embraced her. He grieved for her.’

‘That’s possible.’

‘It’s what happened.’

‘I’m not saying you’re wrong, Glenn, but it doesn’t change what I have to do.’

‘I’m aware of that. Take the clothes. Talk to the police. If false accusations help Olivia, so be it.’

‘She’s innocent.’

‘So is Johan.’

The minister wandered into his son’s room and sat down on the twin bed. He ran his hand along the folded lines of the comforter. He was at sea. Chris wondered if he truly believed that Johan didn’t kill Ashlynn, or if he worried that his son had been overrun by passion and grief. Even men of faith couldn’t run from doubt for ever.

‘Johan is devastated about the assault on Olivia,’ Magnus went on. ‘He really cares for her, you know. I was strict with Johan when he told me he was planning to break up with her. I didn’t want him being unkind. I didn’t want him breaking her heart.’

‘It broke anyway,’ Chris said.

‘Even so, I don’t want you thinking Johan is cavalier with girls. He’s a handsome boy, and girls develop crushes pretty easily at this age, but I’ve drummed into his head that he needs to treat them with respect.’

‘He and Olivia were having sex,’ Chris said.

The minister frowned. ‘Yes, I know. I wasn’t happy about it. I think Johan and Olivia both thought they were in love for a while, but things obviously went too far.’

‘Were there other girls?’