Lies We Bury(54)

The baker goes for flour. He’s gone for an hour.

We head into the hallway. A pair of bicycles is propped against the side wall, a child’s baseball hat dangling from one of the handlebars. Beside them is a crepe maker, something I recognize from an old Belgian movie I saw at an indie theater. Tape across the top of a plastic bin reads, WINTER COATS.

Peugeot pauses to speak with a slight man who reaches the sergeant’s shoulders. I get closer and realize they’re speaking French. Peugeot says something to interrupt the man, then waves me forward. He leads me through a door that’s been propped open, then continues downstairs. A moldy smell rushes my nostrils. Dull light emanates from the corner.

Police personnel crouch along the ground, where the concrete cedes to earth, shining flashlights into crevices, searching for something. Handheld lamps are placed along the perimeter of the dug-out enclosure, and a quick glance ahead shows that it leads to a longer path—to the network of underground passageways. A body lies on the ground with a tarp over it. Beside it are a can of kerosene and a burned match, each accompanied by a plastic number, likely placed by forensics, and something else: a blanket—the white kind with stripes that’s usually given to newborns at the hospital. Chet gave one to Bethel when Lily was born. I adopted the blanket for my own and slept with it from ages four to seven. I climbed out of Chet’s basement clutching on to it, and the image was memorialized in a photo snapped by someone at the hospital later. When someone searches my name online, that’s the first image that pops up.

I suck in a sharp breath, recognizing the scratchy material. I wore the blanket as a dress, played with it like a cape, ate with it, carried it across the two rooms and back again during exercise hour, and loved it so much that I was devastated when the seams of one of its hems came loose and a hole ripped through the middle. Although Rosemary tried to sew it back together, my blanket was never the same. I couldn’t look at it without recalling my own carelessness. I had ruined something I loved.

“Turns out,” Peugeot now says to another officer, “the bakery owner also owns the property next door. It’s his family home. The passage extends from below his kitchen and partially under his business.”

Straightening, I take in the layers of dust on each item stored in the basement, the old rug covering the cement floor, and the lack of intended entryway to the next cell, where the body was found. “Did the owner know about the passageway? Was it boarded up before?” I ask.

Both officers turn to me like I just sprouted horns. “Ms. Lou.” Peugeot glares at me. “Time to take your photos so you can leave.”

The photographer from The Oregonian pauses in the corner, where he snaps pictures of baking paper, then resumes clicking faster than before.

I nod.

Peugeot and the other officer continue discussing the victim. He was burned, hence the can of kerosene, but the medical examiner is still determining the cause of death. My camera is heavy as I withdraw it from its case and sling it around my neck. Although Sergeant Peugeot warned me not to take photos of the body, I sneak one of the blanket.

The two officers continue speaking at low volume. “He did know about the passageway. Detectives are questioning him in his home right now.”

“You think he’s involved somehow?” An extra bar above the second officer’s badge reads LIEUTENANT.

Peugeot shrugs. “The fact is we now have three bodies left in or near this underground set of passages. We need someone to confirm what else we should know about these tunnels. Lou. Jankowski.” He turns to me and the other photographer. “Let’s go.”

Back outside the bakery, several onlookers snap photos on their phones and record the storefront activity. A car honks at the crowd spilling onto the road. I pull my hair from my ponytail and try to hide behind it as Peugeot says something about the utmost confidentiality and respect being shown to law enforcement when I’m invited to a crime scene. He makes me show him the photos I took inside, as if eavesdropping on one conversation shot my credibility.

As he flips through the three dozen pictures, relief courses through me. I just cleared my memory card last night, and I make it a habit each time I download images to my computer. If someone saw the photos I took of the body in The Stakehouse’s cooler, it would be apocalyptic on all levels.

Peugeot lifts his eyes to mine. “All right. You’re free to go.” He hands back my camera, then heads indoors.

“Sergeant Peugeot?”

He pauses, already past the threshold. “Yeah?”

My tongue slides between my lips, hesitates.

“Spit it out, Lou. I’ve got things to do.” He turns sideways to allow another officer to pass.

“Right. I was just wondering—is Gia Silva still a person of interest in these murders?”

Peugeot’s eyes narrow. “Yes, she is. You can follow the updates on any local news website. Now, if you’ll excuse me—”

“She’s not it,” I blurt out. “She’s not your murderer or your ringleader. She’s too young, and she couldn’t have . . .” Words pointing out the low likelihood of her knowing as many facts about my family as the killer does die on my lips. But as Peugeot takes a step toward me, good sense replaces the momentary impulse—the desire to save someone else from the prejudgment I’ve struggled against. Sharing my rationale would only expose me before I’ve got anything to offer the world in my defense.