All Good People Here(64)

Unlike both January’s and Natalie’s cases, the search for Polly and the subsequent search for her killer hadn’t garnered much attention from the public. Right around the time she was reported missing, Margot remembered, there’d been a mass shooting at a middle school in Columbus, and the faces of those seven gunshot victims were the only thing on the news, local and national. It was why Margot had been able to get so close to the case in the first place, because all the other reporters had been seventy miles away.

During the weeks she’d spent covering the story, she hadn’t been able to get the similarities between Polly’s case and January’s out of her head. They’d been more or less the same age, they’d both been found in a ditch, they’d both sustained trauma to the head. Dayton wasn’t extremely close to Wakarusa, but it was under a four-hour drive away. Neither of their killers had ever been found.

Sitting on the floor of her uncle’s old office, Margot finally located the folder. She double-clicked it open and scrolled through a series of subfolders all the way to the very bottom, where she found the one labeled Elliott Wallace.

The contents of the folder were sparse—one document of notes and a recording of Margot’s interview with him. Although she was disappointed, she wasn’t surprised. The Elliott Wallace lead had been a quick dead end, both in the police’s investigation and in her own. The detectives had been alerted to Elliott Wallace as a possible person of interest by a local woman, a parent of another girl in Polly’s young equestrian program. According to the woman, he had a history of lurking around the stables during the children’s practice. The police had interviewed Wallace multiple times, but lacking any direct evidence linking him to the murder, they eventually let him go.

Margot clicked first on the document of notes, which turned out to be little more than the basics of who Elliott Wallace was, or, at least, who he’d been three years ago. At the time of Polly’s murder, Wallace had been forty-eight. Originally from Indianapolis, he’d been living in Dayton, working as a security guard for a gated community. His parents were dead and his only remaining family was an older sister living in Indianapolis, with whom Wallace rarely spoke.

Beneath this basic fact sheet, Margot had included a photo of Wallace she’d found on the internet. In it, he had dirty blond hair, parted and combed on the side, a sharp jaw, and smiling brown eyes. But his most prominent feature was his ears. Disproportionately large, they stuck out from his head at an angle, making him look a little like an elephant. Despite them, he was, by all standards, attractive, and the image gave her a jolt of recognition. She remembered sitting across from him in his living room. He’d been tall and slender, with long fingers he interlaced over his lap and long legs he crossed at the knee. He’d seemed completely at ease during their interview and unfailingly polite.

As she gazed at him now, heat crawled up her chest and neck. She felt, deep inside her, that this was the man who’d killed all those girls, that she was staring at the face of a murderer.

She clicked out of the file, selected the recording, and hit play. Within moments, the sound of her own voice filled the room.

“So how long have you lived in Dayton?” Margot heard herself ask.

“Oh, let’s see,” a second voice said. Elliott Wallace had a smooth, almost musical, cadence. He clicked his tongue thoughtfully. “Not long. A year maybe. Actually, I suppose it’d be closer to two at this point. Moved here from Indianapolis.”

“And are you married? Any children?”

“Neither, sadly. I would’ve liked to get married, I think, but the right woman never came along. I date occasionally, but it becomes more challenging the older you get. You get sort of stuck in your own ways, I suppose.” He chuckled. “At least I have.”

Margot closed her eyes to focus on Wallace’s words. She remembered thinking at the time how collected he was, how poised. Here she’d been questioning him in relation to the homicide of a little girl, and yet he’d managed to stay calm and cooperative. But now, Margot heard a performative lilt to his words she hadn’t recognized sitting across from him. Was she being biased because of everything she knew now or had she been blind then?

“And you were questioned recently by the police,” her voice continued on the recording. “About the murder of Polly Limon.”

“That’s right.” Wallace’s voice turned suddenly solemn.

“Why did they think you were involved?”

“Oh.” Wallace heaved a sigh. “Because in the past, I’ve visited the stables where the girl practiced and competed. Honestly, I don’t blame the mother who gave the detectives my name. I realize I’m a single, adult man, and in this day and age, it’s a sad reality that the optics of that…aren’t good. Unfortunately, I didn’t consider that when I went. If I could turn back time, I wouldn’t have gone at all, not now that I know I made this woman feel uncomfortable. But the truth is I’m a fan of the sport. And of horses in general. I often visit the stables when no one’s there at all.”

“And when you were at the stables,” Margot heard herself say, “did you ever talk to Polly Limon?”

“I didn’t even know who she was until I saw her name on the news. Her face looked vaguely familiar, but I’m not sure I would’ve placed where I knew it from if they hadn’t mentioned her equestrian stuff.” Wallace sighed. “It’s terrible what happened to her. As I’ve said, I don’t have children, but I imagine there’s nothing worse than losing one of your own.”