Good Girl, Bad Girl(51)
“That’s all I did.”
“What?”
“I pulled down her jeans.”
The detectives exchange a glance, trying not to reveal their excitement.
Lenny clarifies. “So you’re saying you followed Jodie along the footpath?”
“No.”
“Where did you first see her?”
“By the pond.”
“What was she doing?”
“She was lying on the ground next to the pond. I thought she might be drunk.”
“Where were you?”
“On the footpath.”
“What did you do?”
“I wanted to make sure she was OK, you know.”
“Did you talk to her?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“She was coughing. I must have frightened her because she tried to run.”
“You chased her.”
“No. I mean, I was worried about her.”
“Who brought the condom?”
“What?”
“You used a condom.”
“No. I tried to help her.”
“By raping her?”
“By keeping her warm.”
“Your semen was found in her hair.”
Farley’s face crumples and locks in a long grimace.
“You have to speak, Craig . . . for the tape.”
He mumbles.
“Speak up.”
“I didn’t mean . . .”
“What didn’t you mean?”
“To touch her,” he says in a hoarse whisper. “I wanted to help her . . . I did . . . she was on the ground . . .”
“You pulled down her jeans?”
“I wish I could . . . I didn’t mean to . . .”
His voice breaks and he sobs, rocking in his chair, snot bubbling in his nostrils.
As I watch his capitulation, a shape begins to form in my mind. Not a shape—a weight. No, not a weight—a shadow that emerges from the murkiness of the detail. It’s as though Craig Farley has fallen into step beside me and I am seeing the world as he does, feeling the earth beneath his shoes—a lonely inept young man; the slow kid at school, the last one picked for teams, the butt of jokes, the one too stupid to realize he was being teased. Socially anxious, clumsy, tongue-tied, yet longing to be included.
Some boys like this grow more confident with age, or befriend other outsiders, or muddle through life as an afterthought. A few of them suffer depression, sliding into alcohol or drug abuse, hoping stimulants can conquer their low self-esteem. Occasionally, one will develop a pathological desire for perfectionism, losing weight, pumping iron, and growing to hate their former selves for being weak and pathetic. If the rejections and isolation continue, they may grow angry, blaming others for their failures. It’s not their fault if they don’t have a girlfriend or a good job or a nice car or are still living at home with their parents.
All of this I can see, yet I cannot see a killer. Jodie ran from someone but had no defense wounds. Most likely she was unconscious when Farley removed her jeans, yet she was conscious when she had intercourse. There were no signs of forced penetration.
The sequence of events is the key and I can’t make the facts fit the timeline. Unless. Unless . . . Even as the thought occurs to me, I want to dismiss the idea as being too far-fetched. I know what Lenny Parvel will say. She’ll laugh and refuse to listen. I have to at least try.
I punch out her number. She doesn’t answer. It goes to her messages.
Beep!
“We need to talk.”
27
* * *
CYRUS
* * *
Lenny Parvel is walking uphill, going nowhere. Strands of hair are plastered on her forehead and sweat drips from her nose, landing on the treadmill. Mirrors are everywhere, reflecting her back to me from several different angles, in a room that looks more like a dance studio than a gymnasium.
Dressed in silver boxing trunks and an oversized T-shirt, Lenny isn’t trying to fit in among the gym junkies in their Lycra leggings and brand-name tops. Maybe she doesn’t care about fitting in or what others see when they look at her. I wish I had that confidence. I’ve been stared at too often. Pointed out. Talked about.
“You’re not serious,” says Lenny, looking at me incredulously.
“I know everything points to Farley, but what if Jodie was already dead or dying? What if she was semiconscious when he stumbled across her body?”
Her face has turned to stone. “No, no, no.”
“Hear me out, please. Normally in a case like this, we’d see signs of control and dominance. The perpetrator becomes sexually aroused. He follows a woman, he abducts her, he instills fear. He rapes. He silences. That’s not the right order for this crime.”
Lenny presses the stop button and jumps off the ramp, striding away from me. I hurry to keep up.
“I know it sounds—”
“Far-fetched? Absurd?”
“Unusual.”
“Do you know the chances of a sexual predator happening to stumble across a dead or dying teenager?” she asks. “The chief constable will laugh me out of his office.”