Outside, at the back of the house, Hackett and Larson went at Velmar Kelp, the taxi driver who’d delivered the flowers.
“Like I told you, I just delivered them,” Kelp repeated. “I stopped for coffee at Zeke’s Diner on the west side, at Central and Eighty-Second Avenue and this guy came up to me, all busted up about the missing girl and whatnot and gives me two hundred bucks to deliver them,” Kelp said. “What’s going on?”
“It looks like you’re involved in the kidnapping, Velmar.”
“What? You’re crazy.”
“A shit storm is about to come down on you so you’d better give us the truth now.”
“I just delivered the flowers for some guy on the street, I swear!”
“Did this guy have the address?”
“No. I got it from my dispatcher, from First Eagle bringing fares to the house here, you know, news people. And the Republic story today gives the street and whatnot.”
The FBI refused to let up.
Did Kelp get the guy’s name, a card, a phone number? What did he look like? Any scars? Tattoos? What about his clothing? The way he spoke? Show us the cash he gave you. Were there witnesses? Did he ask for a receipt? Was anyone else with him? Did he get into a vehicle?
Their questioning grew into an unyielding interrogation until they convinced Kelp to ride with them to Zeke’s Diner where he’d received the flowers. Supported by Phoenix detectives, FBI agents canvassed the area and searched for security cameras, all while pressing Kelp for more details.
They demanded he volunteer his fingerprints.
At Cora’s house, the FBI evidence team processed the vase and note for latent prints. It was when they undertook the gruesome task of examining the eyes that their interest deepened. Something ran counter to the assumption. Something was different. They needed to conduct more tests but one of the forensic experts said: “These are characteristic of Sus scrofa, recently isolated.”
It took a sedative and several hours to calm Cora.
By the time she woke, Hackett had returned and was with Gannon and a few other people in her room. Taking stock of their faces, Cora braced for the worst.
Tilly was dead.
“Cora,” Gannon started.
She stifled a guttural moan.
“It’s not what you think,” he said.
“The eyes are not human,” Hackett said.
She blinked in confusion.
“They were removed from a dead pig. They’re pigs’ eyes.”
“Pigs’ eyes?”
“They can’t belong to Tilly, or anyone else,” Hackett said.
Overcome with relief and fear, Cora buried her face in her hands.
“They just wanted to pressure you, send a message,” Hackett said.
“To prove they’re evil fucking bastards?”
“Cora,” Hackett said, “we still need to collect your fingerprints.”
She stared at him.
“My fingerprints? But you already have Tilly’s. Why do you need mine? How will my fingerprints bring Tilly back?”
“We have to process the prints of everyone who touched the vase, the card and other things,” Hackett said. “We talked about why we needed your prints at the outset when ERT started their work.”
She remembered but said nothing.
Hackett then indicated the fingerprint analyst next to him with a laptop.
“We’ve got an electronic scanner. No ink, no mess. It won’t take long.”
Cora hesitated and Gannon tried to help the situation.
“I gave mine. Cora, it’s routine.”
“To create elimination prints,” Hackett said. “To help isolate prints that should not be present.”
Cora still hesitated.
Hackett and Gannon exchanged glances.
“Is there some reason you’re reluctant?” Hackett asked. “We want you to volunteer your prints but we can get a warrant for them, if we have to.”
“No,” she said. “I’ll give them.”
“Good,” Hackett said.
The technician set things up on her kitchen table, positioning Cora in a chair. But when she placed her fingers on the glass platen, raw, exposed, her mind thundered with a memory and her fingers trembled. “I’m going to need you to relax,” the analyst said.
“Sorry, I’m still a bit jittery from everything.”
“I understand.”
“Maybe if I took a hot shower, it might help me relax.”
The tech nodded and she took her hand away from the scanner.
Cora was coming apart.
In the shower, she tried in vain to hide from everything, contending with her guilty heart. Needles of hot water stung her, like the sting of mistrust she felt whenever Jack looked at her.
Steam clouds rose around her and carried her back to the point when her life first began to darken. Cora was sixteen and her friend Shawna had convinced her to go to a party downtown.
“There’s going to be older college guys there.”
Cora had never done anything wild like that in her life.
“Time for you to bust out, girl,” Shawna told her.
At the party, the people were older. Way older. There was talk that some were ex-cons on parole. Cora was uneasy and begged Shawna to leave. But Shawna was having fun and kept passing Cora these fruit drinks the older guys kept making.
Cora started feeling woozy.
Someone took her into a bedroom, told her to lie down…don’t worry you’ll be fine…relax…the walls started spinning…the bed was flying and she felt someone undressing her…she couldn’t resist…couldn’t move…the first man stood over her, climbed on top of her…when he finished another man followed him then another as she faded into oblivion…
Cora didn’t know how she got home that night.
Did someone look in her wallet for her address and drive her?
When Cora woke and realized what had happened to her, she climbed into the shower and scrubbed herself raw. She wanted to peel off her skin.
She wanted to kill herself.
How could she have been so stupid?
Shawna never knew. She’d left the party earlier, thinking Cora had left without her. Cora never told anyone what had happened. Not Shawna, not her mother, not anyone.
She was too ashamed.
She wanted to apologize to her parents, wanted to make herself invisible. She wanted to die.
In the time that followed, Cora thought she could handle it, but she couldn’t. She’d turned to drugs. It was the only way she could survive. Her mother and father tried to get through to her, tried to help her.
“What’s wrong with you, Cora?” Her mother sensed something had happened. “You’ve changed. Tell me, what’s wrong?”
Cora was so ashamed she could never bring herself to talk about it and soon grew angry at her mother’s concern, her prodding. It led to one argument after another, until the last one before she left home at seventeen. With Rake.
A nineteen-year-old heroin addict who’d convinced her that her destiny was to live with him and his friends in a drug-induced splendor by the sea in California. She was so stupid. After Rake vanished, there were other addicts. For years she drifted in a drug-addled haze.
Then came that night, that horrible rainy night in California.
She’d struggled to blot it out of her mind, to never think of it, or all the events that came later that had cast her into a pit so dark she thought she would not survive. It was while she was lost in the darkness that she’d become pregnant with Tilly.
At that time Cora never realized that Tilly was her tiny point of light. She was too terrified. She didn’t know what to do. She couldn’t go home. Ever. She was ashamed. She was scared. She went to a clinic.
But she couldn’t go through with it.
She went to a church and prayed and soon it dawned on her that this was her miracle. This was her reason to start over. She’d been given a second chance with this baby.
This new life.
But it always came back to that awful night in San Francisco.
The incident was always there. Close to the surface, breaking into her thoughts like flashes of lightning.