Gathering Lies. Meg O'Brien

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СКАЧАТЬ fact that she hadn’t did not fill me with confidence. So I hung onto Lonnie Mae’s stockings, which was all that was left, now, since the fire. I had them tested secretly at a private lab in the East. Then I got a friendly DNA expert to read the results, confidentially and free of charge. There were six different kinds of DNA present, he reported, some in minuscule amounts, but more than enough to stand up in court. Five of those samples would be from the cops, I knew. The sixth would be Lonnie Mae’s.

      When my expert asked where he should send the report, I told him to hold on to it for now. All that was left was to wait for Ivy to prove herself by filing those charges. Then I’d come forward with the evidence—and not until then.

      Obstruction of justice be damned. I’d figure it out somehow.

      The important thing was, I now knew that at some point I could get the five cops convicted of rape—and with any luck, of arson and murder, as well. I’ll get them for you, Lonnie Mae, I promised. You may be gone, but I swear to God, they’ll never forget your name.

      It should have gone down that way. And would have gone down that way, if I’d just lain low with the evidence. But then I blew it.

      The next night after work, I met with a friend, J.P. Blakely, at her office. J.P. was a Private Investigator who had helped me on several cases. I told her everything about Lonnie Mae and the cops. After talking about it for an hour or more, and considering how to proceed, both J.P. and I needed a drink. We headed for McCoy’s, which was a cop hangout, and not a place we’d ordinarily frequent. It was the nearest watering hole, though, and we ran across the street from J.P.’s office in a blinding rain.

      The place was nearly empty, but while we were sitting at a table out of sight of the bar, four of the five cops who had raped Lonnie Mae piled in. I knew who they were by this time, because their photos had been emblazoned across the front page of that day’s Seattle Times. A complaint had been filed against them for rape, the caption read. The following story said the cops had issued a statement to the press denying all guilt and claiming that the prostitute in question had been out to get revenge for her arrest.

      I felt a small sense of satisfaction that I’d been the one to leak the story to the Times in the first place. At least it was out in the open now. One step forward—and maybe, I thought, it would get Ivy off her ass. The papers had dubbed the cops the “Seattle Five,” and the rest of the media had begun to follow suit. The scandal would take on a life of its own. It would not simply “blow over.”

      The four cops who had just come into McCoy’s didn’t see us, and we had an opportunity to eavesdrop. At first, they were relatively silent—gearing down from their day’s work, it seemed. Then, as the drinks flowed, they became louder and louder. There was much backslapping, and I heard Mike Murty, the suspected head honcho of the Five, brag that there probably wouldn’t even be a trial, now that the “black bitch whore” was dead.

      They continued in that vein, while J.P. and I stared at each other, growing more and more outraged. Though we didn’t hear it in so many words, there came a moment when we were both certain the Five had set that fire and murdered Lonnie Mae—not to mention the others who had died along with her.

      It was then that we rose as one and strode around the divider that separated us from the bar. The bartender saw us coming, and moved away as if sensing trouble. There were no other patrons in McCoy’s at that time, and maybe it should have occurred to me to be afraid. But I wasn’t accustomed to drinking much, and I’d had two glasses of wine.

      I grabbed Mike Murty by the arm and swung him around. “You son of a bitch!” I said. “You sick, worthless piece of crap!”

      He slid off the stool and hovered over me, all six feet of him. With his thumbs in his belt and his feet planted wide, he laughed. The other three stood, too, surrounding Murty and me.

      “Move along, little lady,” one of them said. It was Al Garben, a weasily guy with a mustache that didn’t quite hide a mean mouth.

      J.P. pushed her way between them and me. Though she was only five-four, she stood toe to toe with them, her blue eyes blazing. “She’s right. You always have been sick bastards.”

      Jake Suder laughed. “You got a problem with us, J.P.?” He stuck out a hand that was reddish and cracked, chucking J.P. under the chin. She knocked it away—but not before I remembered Lonnie Mae telling me about that hand, and the things it had done to her.

      “Enjoy your drinks,” I said angrily. “There won’t be any where you’re going.”

      Murty laughed again. “We’re not going anywhere, bitch. Unless, of course, you’re inviting us to your place?”

      They all laughed, stepping forward and closing in on us. “That’s right,” Al said. “Maybe we’ll just stop by one of these nights. You know—a routine check, to see if you’re all right.”

      Tad Sanders, the youngest one, grinned. “Maybe we’ll find that she’s more than all right. Maybe we’ll find that she’s real, real good.”

      He leaned so close, I could smell the beer on his breath and see the peach fuzz on his chin. Not much more than twenty-two, he already had the look in his eyes of a predator.

      J.P. put a palm against his chest, like a crossing guard. “Get back, asshole. All of you get back.”

      “You think you scare anybody?” Al Garben taunted. “Little yellow-haired thing like you?”

      “You’d better be scared,” I said, not even thinking as words tumbled from my wine-loosened tongue. “I have enough evidence to put every one of you away for good.”

      “You’ve got evidence, bitch?” Murty laughed. “Not by a long shot.”

      “Believe it,” I said. “Lonnie Mae gave me all I needed before she died. And you’re not getting away with it—not the rape, or her murder.”

      J.P. flashed me a warning. I saw it in her eyes, just before I saw the threat in Mike Murty’s. J.P. grabbed my arm and pulled me away.

      “Let’s get out of here,” she said. “C’mon, Sarah. You’ve had too much to drink. Let’s go.”

      “You’re right,” I agreed, slurring the words a bit. “I don’t know what the hell I’m talking about. Anyway, I need a shower, to wash the filth away.”

      We had to get our coats, and when we rounded the room divider again to go out the front door, I saw that the Five were having a serious conclave at the bar. They weren’t laughing anymore.

      I should have felt a small sense of victory. But even without J.P.’s warning, I knew I’d said far too much.

      Late that night, I tried to throw a net of protection around myself by calling Mike Murty at home. I told him I did, in fact, have evidence that he and the others had raped Lonnie Mae. I said the evidence was safe with someone unknown to him, and that if anything happened to me, it would go directly to someone in authority outside the Seattle PD. I told him that agency would nail them for the rape, Lonnie’s murder, and my death, as well. Then I closed with the argument that the Five’s best chance was to throw themselves on the mercy of the court—and that they’d better make sure I stayed alive to see them there.

      I thought this would stop them. At the very least, I hoped it might buy me some time.

      But СКАЧАТЬ