Girls Like Us(12)

Ann-Marie won’t recognize me now. I was just a child then. But I recognize her. Even after Sean Gilroy was sent up to Shawangunk Correctional Facility and everyone lost interest, she kept writing about him, about the case. She argued that Gilroy was slow and unable to understand the questions the police had asked of him. She wrote about how he was kept for hours without an attorney present, without food and water, and how he eventually produced a statement that was riddled with contradictions and inaccuracies. She said he left the interrogation room with a freshly broken finger. She argued that he confessed because he wanted to go home. Even though he admitted to her, in an interview years after his sentencing, that he had, in fact, murdered my mother, Sean Gilroy became a touchstone for Marshall. She kept coming back to him in subsequent articles, as a reminder, a warning, a sign that Suffolk County was rotting. If they would treat a poor, slow young white boy like this, she seemed to say, think about what they would do to the rest of us.

I’m surprised by how much she looks like her byline picture. Silver hair, cropped short, with bangs. Sharp, serious face with brows that seemed knit together in constant contemplation. She looks up, and for a moment, I think she sees me. Her chin lifts, her eyes narrow in recognition. But then she waves at a car coming down the road. My shoulders drop from around my ears.

“You okay?” Lee asks. He puts his hand gently on my back. I flinch at his touch, and he takes the hint. He steps away from me, giving me space.

“Yeah. Sorry. Thought I saw someone I knew.”

We take the long way around the barricades that have been set up at the entrance to the park. A camera flashes as we pass. I turn my face down, angling my body behind Lee’s. Past the barricade, an SCPD officer holds a clipboard. Quietly, Lee gives him both of our names. It occurs to me that I probably should’ve checked with Lightman before taking on an unofficial consulting position with the SCPD. He would have said no, which is, of course, the right answer. I don’t particularly want to advertise my whereabouts to Dmitry Novak and his cohort, nor do I feel like opening myself up to subpoenas from DAs and defense attorneys, if and when a suspect is taken into custody.

It’s too late to worry about that. The crime scene recorder has written down my name in his official-looking notepad. And Ann-Marie Marshall’s presence has sent me spiraling back into a dark part of my past. I won’t leave Suffolk County without talking to her, I decide. My uncertainty about what happened that night—and about the weight Dorsey gave to my testimony—has always eaten away at me. It’s a fire that has slowly but steadily consumed me for years. Now that I’m home, I feel its burn more than ever. This may well be my last trip to Suffolk County. Once I close my father’s estate, there will be no reason for me to return. I need to know more about Sean Gilroy, about what happened in those dark hours while I slept soundly in my tent in Sears Bellows County Park. Ann-Marie Marshall has talked to Gilroy more than anyone else. She’s looked into his eyes; she’s heard him tell his side of the story. If I talk to her, maybe I can finally put it behind me.

Lee and I walk across the sand and up into the dunes. It’s nothing short of miraculous that this land has remained undeveloped all these years. It’s beautiful. I hate thinking that about a crime scene, but it’s true. There’s water all around us. To the south, the ocean advances and retreats on the sand, the sound of the waves steady as a heartbeat. To the north, the bay sits dark and still, glimmering in the morning light.

Unlike most beaches in the Hamptons, this place is untouched. The dune grass grows high and unruly. In places, it comes up past my knees, nearly brushing my hips. Overhead, seagulls circle, dropping crabs onto the rocks to crack open the shells. One swoops off with a whole fish in its claws, victorious. I take a deep breath, filling my lungs with fresh salt air. If I’m going to be buried anywhere, I’d want it to be somewhere like here. Somewhere beautiful and wild.

The dunes hum with activity. Along the perimeter of the beach, Southampton Town Police are setting up more orange barricades, sure to attract attention. The coroner’s van is in the parking lot at the base of the dunes. A physician’s assistant chats with a tech beside it. A spark of light by the gravesite tells me the photographer is here. Officers are everywhere, sweeping the dune grass for evidence. They walk with the synchronized cadence of a chain gang. In the distance, a cadaver dog barks. For a moment, everyone freezes.

“Just a dead bird,” someone calls out, and the dunes spring back to life.

A red flag sticks in the sand at the side of the road. Lee gestures for me to follow him in that direction. The dune is steep, maybe fifteen or twenty feet high. Once we reach its crest, I have to pause to catch my breath. The terrain along the top of the dune is thick with sumac and bramble, a challenge to navigate. This is the kind of place my father would warn me against exploring as a kid. Ticks thrive in grass like this. There’s a wooden fence surrounding the area, presumably to keep people out. A stretch of ten feet or so has been knocked over. I walk over to it, crouch down. “SFPS” is stamped in small letters along the edge.

“Lee,” I call out, beckoning him. He doubles back and kneels down beside me. I point to the lettering. “South Fork Preservation Society. Looks like this is another one of their restoration sites.”

Lee shakes his head. “I’m telling you. Morales.”

We stand and keep moving until we come to a break in the bramble. A grave has been scratched out of the sand, like a giant plover’s nest. About six feet long and five feet wide. Stakes and crime scene tape form a rough-edged pentagon around it. At my feet are clumps of dune grass, torn up at the root.