It's been less than twenty-four hours and I've spoken to two people who made 911 calls that night and all I've got is that he was white with dark hair and average height. Helpful. I want to be upset but it's been three years since that night. Was I really expecting them to actually give me a detailed recounting of what they saw? That seems nonsensical now that I actually think about it. Well, hindsight is twenty-twenty. I've got four more witnesses to speak to and I'm not sure I want to start this right now. I've got a date with Connor in a few hours and I still have to finish up one last article that has to be in Monday's edition.
I'm conflicted. I know I actually have to get on with my life. I can't let this take over completely but I also want to keep my momentum. I feel like I'm really doing something here. I haven't been this hopeful about a lead in this case in a long time. Well, that isn't exactly true. I don't really remember all the other leads I've been following. It seems that my memory problem extends to everything that has anything to do with the night my family was murdered including catching their killer. It's like every force in existence is conspiring to keep me from knowing the truth.
As if it isn't bad enough that Haider has been lying to me for god knows how long. I don't even know how to bring that up with him. Our usual Monday lunch date was so unbearable this week. And not just because I had to explain to him that Dastan and Connor weren't actually fighting over me. Apparently, Dastan hadn't thought it necessary to explain his behavior to his father. Haider said he'd barely seen him all weekend. That he'd disappeared Saturday night and had only showed up again on Sunday just to change clothes and head out. Emma mentioned he'd stopped by this week but other than that nobody knows what's going on with him. I can't say I have much information in that regard either. I know he was visibly upset after our argument.
The way he'd looked when we'd stumbled across him as we were leaving… I've never seen him so shaken. He'd looked ready to rip Connors head right off during their fight and then he'd just looked broken. That little girl inside me, the one that's always going to be a little in love with him, wanted to go to him, to fix it, make everything okay. But I'd had to remind myself that he doesn't want that. He doesn't want me. The sooner I accept that and move on the better off we'll all be.
The only way to move on is to start living the life I'd put on hold after everything that happened with my family. And the first step in doing that is getting help for my memory. Step two is not sabotaging whatever this is with Connor. God, he's such a good guy and I just know he's going to come to his senses soon and realize he can do so much better than a whacko like me. I should just make the best of this and see where it goes, enough hiding behind my memory issues as an excuse.
"Landry!" Mr. Williams shouts from the door of his office. "I want that article for Mondays issue on my desk in two hours." I glance at the time on the bottom corner of my screen, it's already ten-thirty, I have to be ready by six for my date with Connor. Which means if I finish off this article now, I can have all afternoon to do follow-up on this lead. Looks like the stars are aligning in my favor today.
It takes me forty minutes to get the article written and sent off to Mr. Williams, then I tell him I'm going to chase down some more info from a source and leave for the day. I find myself in my old neighborhood for the first time in years. It looks so different but it's like nothings changed at all. I can almost convince myself that I'm getting home from school and that I'll walk through my front door and find my mom at the kitchen counter chopping up vegetables that Tommy and I will refuse to eat or see my parents wedding picture on the mantle in the living room, or find Tommy's gym socks on the banister. But that won't happen ever again. I wonder how it's possible to change so much but for nothing to really change at all. It's like running for hours and not moving a single inch. That's how living this way feels.
Dylan Scott lives a block over from my childhood home, he was one of the first 911 calls made that night. By that logic, I assume this is where the suspect started. I'm trying to piece together a time line that irrefutably leads back to my house. Starting with what Dylan Scott saw.
Approaching the split level brick house with the number 207 on the blue mailbox, I pull air deep into my lungs and steel myself against whatever I could potentially find out. This might be the break I need or perhaps it's another dead end.
Whichever way this goes, I'll be one step closer to the answers I need. I knock. The impact of my knuckles on wood reverberates through my arm and into my body, all of me feels exposed. Raw. I want to turn around and go back, I want to break down this door and demand he give me something useful. I do neither. I stand there, my hand awkwardly raised to knock again and then the door opens.
"Hi," it comes out as a squeak. I clear my throat, "Hi, I'm Emma Miller." I say, my voice takes on a strange, unsure quality that I'm unused to. I hate using Emma's name to lie about things like this but she suggested it because people are less likely to cooperate when they know my last name. The man, Dylan Scott, is short- shorter than me and his hairline is receding. He looks nice enough, I'm sure at some point he was quite handsome but the years haven't been too good to him and he sports the wrinkles of a life well lived, laugh lines around his slightly drooping eyes. There are lines around his mouth that tell me he's generally in good spirits and his gut is an indication of his love for beers. I take it all in between the second it takes him to open his mouth and say; "Oh, yes you're the one who called about some article, yeah?"
So, I'd fibbed a little. I've found that people are more cooperative when they think you're just looking for a good angle for a story rather than trying to avenge your tragically murdered family. I think it's got something to do with the pity they feel for you in that moment. It's like they don't want to let you down by telling you they don't know anything but they also don't want to lie to you or give you false hope. Instead, they choose to stay out of it altogether. "Yes, I'm looking to write a follow up on a crime that happened a few years ago."
He nods sagely, "Yes, the Landry family?" It's unnecessary he already knows that's exactly what I'm here about. I give him a tight nod. "Well, come in." He steps aside and I pass him into the entryway. The house is quite, neat, cozy. It looks warm and inviting, the way a home should look. I follow him to the kitchen and he offers me the seat across from him.
I don't waste any time, pulling out my note book I ask, "So you reported seeing a strange man in the area around the time of the murders?"
He gets a sort of far away look, like he's remembering. I arbitrarily wonder what that must feel like; to want to access a memory and just be able to call it up. When I try I either get a splitting headache or end up halfway across the city wearing a strangers clothes. Okay, so that last one didn't happen but you get the idea. "Honestly, Miss, I don't remember much."
Well there goes that hope. "I just remember one of them had an unusual tattoo on his head." What am I supposed to do with that? Does he have any clue how many people in this city have tattoos on their- wait. What?
"One of the guys?" I ask, I fight to keep the rising panic from my voice, "Guys, plural? As in more than one?" What is he talking about? All the calls said there was one man. A dark haired white man of average height. Nobody with a head tattoo.
"Yes," he says it slowly like he thinks I might be particularly dense, linking his fingers on the tabletop he continues. "There were two men, one was wearing a hoodie and I think he might have been hurt cause there was blood on him. The other was tall and had a tattoo of an eagle on his head. I remember him cause he's the one I spoke to."
Right I'm supposed to be an investigative journalist who knows more than I actually do. "Okay, and what did you say to this man? Do you remember?" I affect my most professional voice and jot down a note to go over the other calls for mentions of another man. Maybe the suspect we've been looking for isn't the right guy after all.
"Oh, yeah I asked him if he was okay because his friend looked in real bad shape and he said they were fine and they continued walking down the street toward the corner. But I called 911 anyway cause I thought they might need help. I remember the back of the big guys head had a huge wing from that eagle tattoo." He offers jovially. He's obviously enjoying himself right now, probably because it's highly unlikely that many exciting things happen in Dylan Scott's life. "So, how come you're investigating the Landry case, I thought they closed it and it was robbery."
I grit my teeth against the frustration sloshing through my veins, "Yeah, we just want to write a comprehensive article about the incident." I say absent-mindedly. It's a good enough excuse, he won't ever see the fruit of his information in any article but he'll chock that up to lack of interest or just pure bad luck on my part. That's what I'm counting on.
"I heard the daughter's still alive, maybe you should ask her. She might have the kind of information you're looking for." Oh buddy, if only you knew how few answers she actually had.
"Yeah," I say instead. "So, can you remember any other details about this unique tattoo?" I ask. A little while later I leave the Scott residence with a very descriptive account of bald guys ink and a new thread to tug on and see what unravels and I did it with enough time to spare before my date. In fact I have time to hit up a few tattoo parlors in the city to check if any of them remember doing this specific tattoo and get ready to meet Connor after.