What You Don't Know(4)

“That’s not true,” Seever said. The top button on his shirt was undone, and Hoskins could see the gold crucifix nestled in the hollow of his throat. “Kids love clowns.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure about that.”

“Oh, everyone loves a clown,” Seever said, winking. “They’re everyone’s friend. You know, I think a clown could get away with murder.”

*

It takes four hours for the water to drain, and the moment the soft dirt floor is visible they send a technician down. He’s wearing a plastic suit with a mask, yellow gloves. He has a small shovel in his hand, the kind you might use to plant flowers in a garden.

But he’s not planting flowers. And he’s not looking for marijuana either.

He’s down there less than ten minutes when he calls up, frantically, and it’s Hoskins who drops down the hole this time. He pulls up the legs of his trousers and duck-waddles to the tech, who’s squatting in the farthest corner.

“It stinks over here,” the tech says. “Don’t toss your cookies. Not down here.”

And it does stink, bad. It makes Hoskins think of the time his ex-wife threw raw pork in the garbage, saying the meat had turned and they couldn’t eat it, and the bin had sat out in the summer sun for days, the meat slowly rotting in the heat, filling the neighborhood with a smell that turned stomachs and made dogs go apeshit.

“What is it?” Hoskins asks.

The tech points to the ground at his feet, a shallow divot where he’s pulled back the dirt. There’s a piece of fabric there. Flannel, blue and white. A T-shirt, probably. Most of it still tucked in the ground, out of sight. And beside the fabric, and partially wrapped inside it, is an arm. It’s rotted enough that Hoskins can see all the way down to the bone in places, but there’s still flesh there, the torn skin blackened and curled around the edges, like paper that’s been singed by fire.

“It’s here,” Hoskins shouts, moving back, away. The smell is so strong, too strong. He’s going to be sick. “We found it.”

He hears a scuffle above his head, feet thumping on the floorboards. There’s a shriek of pain, and then Loren is speaking. Hoskins can’t hear the words, but he recognizes the tone, the familiar sounds of his partner. And then, louder, bleeding over the sound of Loren’s voice, is Seever. He is crying.





SAMMIE

December 29, 2008

If there is one thing Sammie Peterson has learned over the years, it is this: Everyone thinks the pretty girl is a moron.

That’s what they think of her, she knows, she can feel those thoughts coming off the men as they work, as if there are cartoon bubbles floating over their heads, right there for her to read. They’ve invited her to stay in the crawl space while they dig, to get a better sense of the crime scene, to watch what’s going on so she can report it all more accurately in her articles, but she doesn’t like it down there. It’s too small, too close, even though they’ve ripped up most of the floorboards and moved out the washer and dryer, so the crawl space isn’t actually under the house anymore but a part of it, a place where the men can stand upright as they look at what Seever has left behind, their hands perched on their hips or folded across their chests. And they watch her when she does venture into the crawl space, she can feel their gazes on her ass and her breasts and her mouth, but hardly ever on her eyes. She’s heard them talking, even though they’ve been quiet about it, whispering to one another while they’re smoking outside or walking to their cars. They don’t like her, not only because she’s from the Post, and all cops hate a reporter snooping around, but also because of Hoskins. They’ve been careful in front of other people, acting like they hardly know each other, never touching, never talking, even when they could get away with it, but somehow everyone still knows.

“Have you told anyone?” she’d asked, not that long before. They were in his bed, the TV on but muted. She likes having the TV on while they have sex, likes to have the room filled with flickering light. “About us, I mean?”

“Why would I do that, princess?” he asked. “It’s none of anybody’s business.”

“It—it feels like people know.”

“Like who?”

“Like everyone.”

“It’s probably Loren,” Hoskins had said, and he’d been smiling, but there was nothing kind about that smile, nothing familiar. Hoskins was a good guy, and that smile didn’t belong to him. But then she blinked and it was gone. “That guy knows everything and can’t keep his mouth shut.”

“Might be.”

“It’s fine,” he said, reaching for the glass of water on his nightstand. She wished she could see his face. “You’re worrying over nothing.”

But she’s not all that worried, except when she thinks about her husband finding out about Hoskins. Not that she’s afraid of Dean, or that he’d do something bad, but she doesn’t want to hurt him, doesn’t want to see the look on his face if he finds out. It’s everyone else knowing that bothers her, because she knows what they’re all saying, she’s heard them say it.

Slut.

Whore.

The men think she’s fucking Hoskins so she can get into Seever’s house, so she can watch the investigation firsthand and write her articles for the Post and make them all look like fools, because that’s what the scum media does. The men all like Hoskins, they think he’s a hell of a good guy, but they’re not fools. They see exactly what’s going on. They’ve all seen the kind of tail Hoskins can typically pull, and Sammie’s pretty far out of his league. She’s a dime, a solid ten, and she could do much better. She’s only fucking him so she can get in here, they tell each other. She’s only sucking his dick for a story.