Help for the Haunted(42)

“I study a lot. That’s all.”

Detective Rummel gave me a small smile, an event that felt increasingly rare. As he spread papers on the table between us, I picked up my journal and slipped it in my father’s tote. I never would have taken it out, but since they’d begun separating Rose and me on our visits, I needed something to distract my mind from the nervousness I felt whenever they spoke to her in the next room. “The complete affidavit was filed in court this morning,” Louise began. She paced behind the table, never sitting the way Rummel did. “The documents provide more detailed information than what we supplied you with on your previous visits here. I’m sure you remember everything we’ve gone over so far. Right, Sylvie?”


Patrick Dunn—that’s the snowbird’s name. What makes him one is that he and his wife live up north (Maine) all summer and down south (Carolinas) all winter. Normally, Mr. Dunn insists on fleeing for warmer weather immediately after Christmas, but last year they lingered in the cold temperatures because his wife’s sister broke her hip and needed them nearby. By the time she was better, and by the time they finally hit the road, it was February. Their Crown Victoria (“The Vic,” as Rummel keeps calling it) was jam-packed with Mrs. Dunn’s garment bags and shoeboxes, plus her three Pomeranians. Despite predictions of bad weather, Mr. Dunn refused to wait another day, since he had already waited long enough and he firmly believed that all weathermen exaggerate. On their drive south, they could have pulled off the highway anywhere for gas, but Mr. Dunn chose Baltimore. He chose the Texaco off the White Marsh exit. There in the men’s room, he washed his hands at the sink beside an odd-looking bald man with a wispy mustache. They chatted about the obvious topic: the storm, which turned out to be even worse than the weathermen predicted, before going their separate ways.

“I remember,” I told her. “But like you said, it’s Mr. Dunn’s word against mine. The cameras at the station weren’t working. Nobody else, not even the attendant at the register, remembers seeing Lynch.”

Neither responded. I stared down at those papers, a choppy sea of words between us.

“You also said that Dunn is an old man,” I went on, “and that chances are good the jury will believe my testimony over his.”

“You’re right, Sylvie,” Louise told me. “I did say those things.”

“Then what’s wrong?”

The detective took a breath, blew it out. “More information has come forward. And I’m afraid to say it’s not good for our case.”

Out in the hallway, my sister’s voice rose and fell, mixing with the shhhh in my ear. I couldn’t hear her words but knew she was talking to Dereck, who had started coming around a few days after I saw him in that field. “What information?” I asked, doing my best to shut her out.

“It seems Mr. Dunn is not the only one offering Lynch an alibi,” Louise told me.

Rummel slid the papers closer, but the words blurred before my eyes. When he saw me staring at them with no reaction, he asked if he should read it. I nodded, expecting Louise to give me her line about speaking my answers, but she kept quiet.

“This is directly from Mr. Dunn’s court interview, all of which is reflected in his affidavit, Sylvie. Here goes: ‘After I finished washing my hands and exited the restroom, I walked outside to my car, where my wife was waiting. When I opened the door, one of her dogs scrambled free and made a beeline toward the road. I can barely catch those dogs when there’s no snow on the ground, never mind when things are as slick as they were that night. Had I gone after that dog, I risked breaking my hip just like my wife’s sister. Had I let him run free, I risked breaking my wife’s heart, because she loves those animals even more than she loves me. Thankfully, I didn’t have to make a choice.’ ” He quit reading and looked up at me. “Give you one guess who saved the pooch from becoming roadkill.”

I knew—of course, I knew—but something kept me from saying it.

Louise went right on pacing. “You’re a smart girl, Sylvie. We don’t have to tell you the answer.”

“There’s more,” Rummel said. “Even though the attendant at the register doesn’t recall seeing Lynch, he does remember Mr. Dunn. So it’s no longer your word against one man’s. It’s become your word against a small web of people. Three, actually. Four, if you count Lynch.”

“But what about his fingerprints and footprints at the church? And the things you said about his motive and his confession that he was there that night?”

“All that’s still true. But our defendant now has what’s called a time stamp on his alibi. The Dunns may have paid with cash, like Lynch. But unlike him, who could never produce a receipt, the couple turned theirs over. It shows they purchased gas at 1:04 A.M. The same time neighbors near the church reported hearing gunshots.”

In a quiet voice, I asked why the Dunns waited so long to come forward. That had all been explained on previous visits, but I brought it up again as a way to stall, if only for a moment longer, since I sensed what was coming next. In the same gentle way he spoke to me that first night at the hospital, Detective Rummel described once more how neither of the Dunns thought about that evening for a long time afterward. Why would they? But that changed when Mrs. Dunn opened the paper a few weeks before and saw a photo of a man who looked familiar. She kept staring at that photo, finally showing it to her husband who immediately recalled the odd-looking man from the restroom, the same man who went on to save his wife’s dog in the snowstorm.