Murder thy neighbor, p.9
Murder Thy Neighbor, page 9
Today, both sides match, with new paint, freshly cut lawns, not a brick or shingle out of place.
There are no boarded-up windows, no garbage out front.
No extension cord running out the door.
No rats.
“It looks the way Ann would have always wanted it,” Ted observes.
“The whole neighborhood does,” Marjorie says, wiping a tear from her eye. “She always said this community had the potential to be something special. It’s such a shame she couldn’t live to see it.”
“Do you think the people who live here now know what happened?” Ted asks.
“Of course,” Marjorie says. “Everyone knows—even if no one talks about it.”
As the two move on down the street, Ted says, “I don’t know how they sleep at night, living in those houses.”
Marjorie nods. She has nightmares every night about what happened. But where it happened doesn’t really matter.
“It could’ve happened anywhere,” Marjorie tells Ted. “All I know is, I’ll never sleep again.”
Murder IRL
James Patterson
with Max DiLallo
Prologue
January 31, 2012
As he pulls into the driveway of the white-clapboard house in Mountain City, Tennessee, Roy Stephens hears a sharp metallic squeal.
He winces. Not at the sound itself. At the scolding he knows he’s about to get from his wife, Linda, shaking her head in the passenger seat beside him.
“How long have I been sayin’ you need to replace those brake pads, Roy? A month now? Two? I guess someone’s been too busy.”
Roy sucks his bottom lip. Chooses his words carefully.
“Honey, I have been busy. And you know it. Picked up a couple extra jobs at the shop last week. Means extra pay. Thought you said you were happy about that.”
“What about the week before, when y’all went trout fishing? Or the week before that?”
Roy feels a flicker of anger welling up inside him. He loves his wife. Dearly. But lately, it seems they can’t go five minutes without sniping and snarling at each other.
That’s the reason they’re stopping by this secluded house in the first place.
It’s owned by a family friend, known affectionately around town as “Paw Bill,” who’s been letting Roy sleep on his couch these past few weeks while he and Linda work through their problems. Roy is grateful for the accommodations, but aside from him and Paw Bill, three other people—Paw Bill’s thirty-six-year-old son, Billy Payne Jr.; Billy’s fiancée, Billie Jean Hayworth; and the couple’s seven-month-old son, Tyler—are living under this roof as well, so the modest home can feel cramped.
Roy doesn’t know how long he’ll be crashing at Paw Bill’s, but he’s told the post office to forward his mail here until further notice. This morning, he’s coming by to pick it up.
“I’ll be back in five minutes,” Roy huffs to Linda, cutting the engine. “Unless I manage to screw that up, too.”
Roy ambles down the driveway, enjoying the cool January air and winter sun. As he gets closer to the single-story home, he realizes both Billy and Billie Jean’s cars are parked out front. Strange. Paw Bill leaves for work before dawn, and his son and future daughter-in-law normally head out an hour or two later. Roy can’t imagine what both of them are doing home at 10:00 a.m. on a Tuesday.
He walks around the side of the house to the backyard, glancing at the small Pentecostal church in the distance, separated from Paw Bill’s property by a grassy field. He gives the rear sliding-glass door a knock, then opens it. It’s unlocked, as usual. That’s common practice here in Mountain City—which isn’t a city at all, but a rural, tight-knit community of only around twenty-four hundred souls. Peaceful and picturesque, nestled in the rugged foothills of the Blue Ridge Mountains in the northeast corner of the state, it’s a place where crime and outsiders are both equally rare.
“Billy? Billie Jean? Y’all home?”
Roy shuts the door behind him and waits for a response. Hearing none, he shrugs, and picks up a stack of envelopes sitting on a nearby side table. As he flips through his various bills and credit card offers, he realizes that he still hasn’t heard a peep. Not a footstep. Not a rustle.
And something about that just doesn’t sit right.
Roy calls out again, louder. “Billy? Billie Jean? Paw Bill? Anybody?”
With a growing sense of concern, Roy sets down his mail and steps farther into the house. He creeps down the central hallway that leads from the kitchen to Paw Bill’s bedroom, then on to Billy and Billie Jean’s bedroom and Tyler’s nursery.
The door to Paw Bill’s room is slightly ajar. Slowly, Roy pushes it open.
He peers inside, sees nothing, and keeps moving.
Roy notices Billy and Billie Jean’s door is wide open.
He looks into the room.
And gasps in abject horror.
Billy is sprawled on the floor, stiff and still, naked except for his boxer shorts.
His left cheek has been obliterated by a bloody, gaping gunshot wound.
His Adam’s apple has been slit open by a deep crimson gash.
“Billy!” Roy screams as he rushes to the man’s side. He gives the body a vigorous shake. It feels heavy. Lifeless. Cold.
Thinking fast, Roy dashes back down the hallway and bursts through the sliding-glass door. He races around the house to his car, crying out, “Linda! Come quick!”
“Roy, what in the devil are you so—”
“It’s Billy! He’s been shot! Come on!”
Linda stammers, frozen in place by her husband’s shocking words. Roy doesn’t have time to wait. He flings open her car door and practically drags her into the house.
“Dear God!” Linda exclaims at the sight of Billy’s body.
“You still know CPR, right?”
“I…I mean, I used to! It’s been years since the last time I—”
“Just try! I’ll call 911, they’ll walk you through!”
Roy runs back to the kitchen and grabs the cordless phone. He dials, returns to the bedroom, and hands the receiver to his wife, who is kneeling beside Billy now, tilting back his bloody head, listening for his breathing, searching for his pulse.
“I need an ambulance, bad!” Linda whimpers into the phone.
Roy crouches down next to her to help—when he hears a squeal.
But this time, it isn’t worn brake pads.
It’s a baby.
Without a word, Roy rises and hurries down the rest of the hallway.
The crying is definitely coming from the nursery.
Roy doesn’t want to, but he makes himself look inside.
What he sees is worse than he could have imagined:
Twenty-three-year-old Billie Jean is lying motionless on the carpet, with a massive, oozing gunshot wound to the head.
Baby Tyler is curled up in his mother’s protective arms, wiggling and wailing, apparently startled awake by all the commotion. He’s splattered with Billie Jean’s blood—but incredibly, seems physically unhurt.
Roy cries out in agony at the horrific sight of the brutally murdered young mother still holding her living child.
It’s a savage crime. One that only a monster could commit.
Who could possibly have done this?
Part 1
Chapter 1
Three years earlier
Mr. Fluffy Tail, you silly rabbit. You know you don’t go next to Minnie. You go here. Between Piglet and Freddie the Frog!”
Jenelle Potter finishes arranging her small army of stuffed animals, then steps back to admire her work. Satisfied, she climbs into her bed alongside them.
Jenelle possesses the high-pitched voice and innocent manner of a child, but she wears the frumpy sweaters and narrow-framed reading glasses of a middle-aged librarian. She also stands a stocky six feet tall.
And she’s twenty-nine years old.
Jenelle places her laptop on her knees and fires it up. She double-clicks on her browser, which she’s set to automatically open Facebook and log in to her account. This shortcut only shaves off a few seconds, but for someone who checks social media literally dozens of times a day, those seconds can start to add up.
Jenelle spends the next hour mindlessly clicking and scrolling, skimming and “liking.” Photos, news articles, status updates, political debates. Graduation announcements, job announcements, wedding announcements, birth announcements. She hands out digital thumbs-ups like candy, and she is a master of the modern art of leaving quick, chipper comments. (“So cute!” “OMG, gorgeous!” “Mmm, delicious!”) It’s a big, busy world out there, and Jenelle thrives on staying in the loop.
Then she clicks on her own profile page.
It’s a much quieter space, with a whole lot less activity. Jenelle mostly shares inspirational quotes, random musings about her day, and pictures of cuddly puppies—stock photos she finds online, mostly of bulldogs, her favorite breed. She has a decently long list of “friends,” primarily people she knew in high school, a few she knows only via Facebook. But nothing she’s ever posted has received more than a handful of likes.
And honestly? That stings.
In an attempt to punch up her profile a bit, Jenelle clicks EDIT in her ABOUT ME section. But then she pauses. Summing up oneself in just a few sentences isn’t so easy. After thinking for a bit, she types, “I’m a very sweet, caring person. I love life and I love to make others laugh.”
Jenelle is about to write more when there’s a knock on her open bedroom door.
“Hi, honey. Whatcha doin’?”
Barbara Potter, Jenelle’s mother, hovers in the doorway. She’s a matronly fifty-nine, with curly, shoulder-length blond hair.
“Oh, hey, Mom. Nothin’ much. Just been catchin’ up with my friends.”
“Seems like you’re in front of that computer screen every minute of the day. Y’all must have a lot to talk about.”
Jenelle pouts and folds her arms.
“When your only friends are in the computer, that’s the only way to talk to them.”
Barbara steps into Jenelle’s room. She pushes aside some stuffed animals and lowers herself onto the edge of her daughter’s bed.
“My sweet girl. I know how hard this move has been on you. How tough it’s been for you to adjust. To fit in.”
Barbara is referring to the family’s relocation to Mountain City from Philadelphia.
Five years ago.
“I guess so,” Jenelle replies. “I’m glad we’re closer to Grandma and all. And this place sure is pretty. But the thing is, if you ain’t from here…people just kinda look at you funny.”
Barbara rests a gentle hand on Jenelle’s knee.
“There may be some truth to that. But if the only ‘you’ they ever get to see is the one on the internet, how can you say that for sure?”
“What’s my other choice? You know Daddy don’t let me go out.”
“Well, I can’t say I’m crazy about it, either. There’s a lot of bad people out there, honey. People who might not like you or accept you for who you are. Even people who might want to do you and this family harm.”
“But not all of ’em are bad,” Jenelle counters. “Right?”
Barbara sighs.
“Maybe your daddy and me…maybe we do worry too much sometimes. We just want to keep you safe is all. You’re the most precious thing we’ve got.”
Jenelle silently absorbs her mother’s words.
“Now go wash up. It’s almost supper.”
Barbara pats her daughter’s knee, leaves.
Jenelle returns to Facebook. Satisfied with her edits to her profile, she decides to quickly scour the web for a new puppy picture to share. After a bit of searching, she finds and posts a great photo of a cute brown-and-white bulldog being reluctantly dragged along by a short, tight leash.
It’s an image Jenelle can relate to.
Chapter 2
…which we are about to receive, from thy bounty, through Christ, Our Lord…”
Jenelle’s parents join her in saying “Amen.”
The three raise their bowed heads and tuck into their dinner.
“Pass me those spuds, would ya, Jen?” says Marvin “Buddy” Potter, Jenelle’s gruff, mustachioed father. Jenelle needs both hands to lift the heavy bowl of garlic mashed potatoes, but Buddy easily grabs it with only one of his massive paws.
“These pork chops are great, Mom. How’d you make ’em?”
“You’re sweet, honey. I used fresh thyme and rosemary, straight from your father’s garden. So thank you, Buddy, for having such a green thumb.”
Buddy grunts, dismissively. “Couldn’t kill those herbs if I tried. My rosebushes, on the other hand…and have you seen how pathetic my azaleas look this year?”
Jenelle gives her father’s arm an affectionate squeeze. She knows that, after God, his family, and his guns, the thing he loves most in his life is his garden.
Not that anyone would guess that by looking at him. Buddy is a decorated former Marine who served with distinction in Vietnam. He wears a camouflage baseball cap emblazoned with the branch’s Eagle, Globe, and Anchor emblem, and carries a combat knife and two holstered pistols, at all times—including at the dinner table. According to family legend, he even used to help the CIA run covert operations to rescue POWs, but that’s not a topic he likes to talk about.
“I think your flowers look beautiful, Daddy,” Jenelle says.
Buddy immediately softens. “Thank you, dear. That’s nice of you.”
The Potter family eats in silence for a few moments, until Barbara says, “So I saw something fun today in the town calendar on Topix. That’s a website, Buddy, where folks around here like to post local events and messages and—”
“I know what Topix is. Just ’cause I don’t use the internet don’t mean I don’t know what’s on it.”
“Well, anyway, there’s gonna be an all-day spring bluegrass festival this Saturday in Stout Park. Doesn’t that sound neat?”
“Not to me,” Buddy grumbles. “I don’t care for bluegrass.”
“I don’t much, either. But I was thinking…maybe Jenelle wanted to go. By herself.”
Jenelle lights up at the suggestion. Buddy furrows his brow.
“I think it could be a good way,” Barbara continues, “for her to get out and have a little fun. Maybe meet some other young people from around town.”
“That’s a great idea!” Jenelle says. “Can I go, Daddy? Can I?”
“Sure,” Buddy replies. “Why don’t you run and join the circus while you’re at it?”
“Now, Buddy…”
“No way. It’s outta the question. Just think about it, Barbara. Our daughter, surrounded by all those strange people? Drinking and smoking and doing drugs and getting into who-knows-what-else kinda trouble?”
“Daddy, come on. I won’t do any of that stuff, I swear. It’s just a concert right here in town. I’ll be home before dinnertime. Please?”
Buddy drops his fork onto his plate with a loud clank. He glares at his daughter as if he were sizing up a Viet Cong prison camp guard.
“What part of ‘no’ didn’t you understand? Now that’s the end of it.”
Jenelle doesn’t mention it again, and after helping her mother clear the dishes and do the washing up, she retreats upstairs to her bedroom.
She turns on her computer and opens her browser. Quickly checking Facebook, she sees her bulldog picture has garnered a whopping four “likes” and zero comments.
Frustrated and disappointed, Jenelle navigates to Topix, the website her mother mentioned, and skims the Mountain City community-events calendar. She finds the announcement for the bluegrass festival and clicks the link, which takes her to a website with photos from last year’s festival, showing exactly what she was hoping for—and precisely what her father was so afraid of: an all-ages group of concertgoers, picnicking on the grass, some of them sipping wine, listening to music, having a blast.
The images fill Jenelle with a combination of longing and rage, especially the ones that show men and women snuggling or holding hands.
She slams her laptop shut and buries her face in her mountain of stuffed animals.
Chapter 3
Main Street in Mountain City is little more than a bank, a library, a greasy spoon, a hardware store, a combination convenience store and gas station, plus an old family pharmacy that’s been serving the community since the Nixon administration.
This is the building that Jenelle enters.
All by herself.
She makes her way down the center aisle, past the mouthwash and shampoo, past the Band-Aids and laxatives, until she reaches the pharmacist counter in back.
A kindly, portly older man in a white lab coat and wire-rimmed glasses asks how he can help. She’s there to pick up some prescriptions, she tells him. A lot of them. Not only for herself—Jenelle takes multiple medications to control her type 1 diabetes, among other chronic conditions—but for both of her aging parents.
It takes the pharmacist a good few minutes to gather up all of the Potter family’s prescriptions and set the nearly dozen white paper bags along the counter. Jenelle pays for them, stuffs them into her knapsack, and heads out.
But she gets waylaid as she passes the cosmetics section.
Jenelle has never been much into makeup. Or fashion. Or manicures or skin treatments or hairstyling or any of that superficial stuff. It’s not because she doesn’t enjoy looking her best. Who doesn’t? It’s because, even when she puts in the effort, she’s never very pleased with the results.
Still, Jenelle idly inspects some of the items on display. She opens a pot of indigo eye shadow. Uncaps some lash-lengthening black mascara. Twists a tube of reddish-pink lipstick.
