Ollie Clark—Wednesday, June 26, 2019
It was amazing how much packing you could get done when you stayed in the apartment. When you left your phone on silent, face down, in another room so you didn’t have to see missed calls or messages of any sort. Including the ones from, say, the florist and the venue expressing their sorrow at the cancellation, because Ollie didn’t feel like explaining why things changed. The various businesses just knew the fancy winter wedding was no longer happening, and at least Ollie and Eli hadn’t sent out save the date cards yet.
Eli tried “You don’t actually have to—” but she cut him off.
“How many times have you told me you’d rather just go to the courthouse or Vegas?” she reminded him. “I don’t know what I’m going to do about the dress, but you can wear jeans.”
He shook his head. “Mom said I can’t wear jeans to my own wedding.”
She thew up her hands. “We’ll get married this summer. Pick a beach. You can wear shorts.”
Ollie didn’t always understand the things Eli chose as important in his life. The Britta pitcher, for example, or his insistence on a diamond engagement ring, and yet a preference for eloping over a formal ceremony. She wasn’t actually even sure if Esther knew it was off, although Jared did. Jared said he, personally, didn’t mind being downgraded from a tux to jeans, as long as Eli and Ollie ended up married by the end of the year.
Harper just texted to remind them that Brad was recognized by the state of Michigan as legally able to conduct marriage ceremonies, which just made the beach idea look even better. If Ollie had brought up her birth certificate for some reason, they could’ve gotten their marriage license already and be in the three-day waiting period.
Ollie Googled flights to Vegas and glared at the price.
Eli caught her expression and glanced at her phone. “Of course they’re gouging you. You looked for tomorrow. We’d need, like, August from TC.”
“So you’re thinking Vegas?”
He shrugged. “I’m down with Brad on the beach. Let Jared wear his jeans.”
She didn’t book any flights, but that didn’t mean absolutely zero planning. Ollie tried to ignore it, though, and focus on packing because that was in front of her right now and hey, Eli was off. If they got everything ready and could leave early …
“You own too much stuff,” she murmured to Eli, straightening up and twisting to try to crack her back.
“I thought part of the reason I’m moving down instead of you moving up is because you have more,” he countered, setting down the scissors and maneuvering around the various boxes and packing material to answer the knock at the door.
Ollie was all ready to shoot something back, but it wasn’t Jared. Or Harper. It was Cindy, and from this angle Ollie couldn’t tell if Eli was startled and handling it well or if he’d been warned. Eli wasn’t avoiding his phone.
Even though they were packing everything from the cabinets and drawers, Eli’s cheap little table was still there and that’s where Cindy set down a white bag and a cardboard container of to-go cups. “I know you were just at Fifth & Elm, but not many places do takeout.”
Ollie considered the presence of the food and then looked up at her stepmom. “How are you?”
“Glad we didn’t have anyone already sleeping in the guest room,” she grumbled, checking the drinks and passing them around. “He hasn’t walked it back. I’m, uh.” Cindy sighed and sat down when Eli nodded for her to take the other chair since he pulled the ottoman over from the living room side. “I’m surprised he hasn’t said anything before, if …”
“If he’s really believed it this whole time?” Eli finished wryly.
Ollie shook her head. “Kelly confessed. Everybody believed his confession. They were all pissed and awkward because they believed his confession. Absolutely nobody came forward and said no, actually, the simplest explanation is clearly someone else with the same method and the same kind of gun.”
Eli had his mouth open for a bite of his breakfast bagel, but it stopped short. “Huh.”
“Huh?”
“Just … was it in the paper or anything at all back then? Like, do you think the real killer was out there somewhere all smug because hey, his plan worked? They thought Kelly did it?”
Cindy held up her hands when Ollie looked at her. “Children’s librarian. I could ask Dirk if he’s willing to look back through the papers, but I wouldn’t know how to do that myself.”
“If it was someone trying to frame a serial killer who wasn’t even identified as a serial killer, then he must’ve had a weird reaction when I went on trial.”
Cindy’s eyebrows went up. “There’s a question. Who had a weird reaction?”
Ollie rolled her eyes. “Me. Esther. Jared.”
“Aunt Serena,” Eli added.
“Dad. There wasn’t anybody out front with ‘Free Eli Chapman’ signs or anything.”
“Birdy’s friends were weird,” Eli mused. “But … teenage girl in a tragedy beyond their comprehension weird. Not …”
Cindy sighed. “Not ‘stole a shotgun and killed two people’ weird.”
Ollie shrugged. “You realize the whole thing was such a mess because no explanation has ever made sense? The only person who benefited monetarily was me, from Birdy’s college fund. Mom and Dad were in debt, so he inherited her debt. The life insurance went back into the house and for the funerals.”
“He’s very proud of the work he’s done on that house,” Cindy pointed out, voice wry and on the quiet side, like maybe she hadn’t meant to say that out loud. Then she jumped because her cell phone rang. Ollie didn’t know anyone other than her stepmom who kept her cell phone on at top volume all the time.
She frowned at the screen, but her thumb swiped and she held it up to her ear all the same. “Hello?”
Ollie looked at Eli, but he shrugged, and they both frowned when Cindy twisted around to look at the clock. “You … what? Are …?” More silence, and then: “Well, no, I don’t think calling Arnie would help. He’s not going to know any lawyers up here.”
On the one hand, that seemed to confirm her suspicions that it was Dad, but … lawyers?
“No, we’ll—look, okay: come home and we’ll make some calls. Okay? We’ll figure this out. Promise. Uh-huh. Uh-huh. Love you too.” Cindy ended the call, shaking her head and blinking before she focused on Ollie. “That was your dad. The police just let him go.”
“What?”
“They brought him in for questioning. Just took him from work. They said …” She licked her lips, eyes drifting again as she tried to recall the exact words. “They said they wanted to give him the chance to speak up in light of new evidence.”
“New evidence?” Eli echoed. “From ten years ago?”
Ollie carefully folded the foil over the rest of her breakfast sandwich. “You go on home,” she told Cindy. “Eli, how confident do you feel about holding me back?”
“Uh.” He rubbed his chin. “From whom?”
“Len Wilcox.”
He blinked. “Not at all confident. I’d say you could tear his balls off, except I really don’t want you going anywhere near them. But I’ll come with you.”
“Len?” Cindy dropped her own breakfast sandwich back in the bag and picked it up, along with her drink, but clearly she wasn’t tracking.
Ollie shrugged as she got up and went into the bathroom to grab her hairbrush. “You know anyone else who’s been trying to uncover new information lately?”
“Ah.” Her stepmom nodded, but the clarity in her eyes didn’t last. “Even though your dad …?”
Ollie turned around and met her eyes. “Arresting the wrong person isn’t justice.”
“But your dad’s not arrested.”
“Yet,” Eli said pointedly. “That’s how they do it. You get a chance to try to save your skin. They’ve only got two days after they arrest you to charge you, so if you happen to give them a couple more things while they’ve got you in the room …”
Cindy’s lips moved before her mouth snapped shut and she blushed. Ollie figured she’d almost asked Eli how he knew. Instead, she cleared her throat and nodded at both of them, foregoing any parting words as she left.
Eli picked up Ollie’s purse and looked through it, letting the rape alarm stay but removing the stuff that wasn’t called mace even if that’s what it could be used for. “Eliminating temptation,” he informed her before holding it out. “Also, I’m pretty sure we can’t secretly record anything he says and have it stand up in court, but … I wouldn’t stop you from trying.”
“Assuming he’s even at the cabins.”
“I hope he is.” Eli grabbed his keys. “Because you stew when you’re mad, and it’s just going to be worse for him if you have to wait.”
From Len Wilcox’s private journal—November 30, 2018
I really want to talk to Eli Chapman. I totally understand if he won’t say a single word to me, but I’m dying to try. That would make a book all by itself.
I’ve got books on the brain. Sean Kelly’s going to be the biggest thing that’s ever happened to me. I suppose you could say he’s the biggest thing that’s ever happened to all the people I’m going to be interviewing for this project, too, but that’s different. I can’t make that comparison anywhere other than to myself, privately. Thoughts like that can’t make it to print.
Over the past decade, Sean Kelly has killed at least two dozen people with his shotgun. Buckshot every time. It doesn’t take much finesse. He rings a doorbell, shoots when someone opens, and then shoots anyone else who comes running. It’s never been more than two people at once, the lucky bastard, but there was that one kid he orphaned in Ohio. The boy was asleep in his crib, wearing those weird footie pajama things with the leg webbing that meant he couldn’t climb out of it, and he didn’t start screaming until after Kelly left. Lucky tot. If he’d toddled downstairs to see what all the noise was, Kelly could’ve used the shotgun like a baseball bat and taken the kid’s head off.
Happy thoughts, Len. The kid’s fine.
Well. Alive. Probably having nightmares and needing therapy, but alive.
But here’s the thing: out of all those murders, only one person ever went to trial for them. One. Eli James Chapman of South Range, Michigan.
Sure, there were arrests, but nobody else went to trial. Eli Chapman is it.
I’ve barely scratched the surface on this, but come on. He went to trial for the brutal shotgun murders of his girlfriend’s mom and sister. There are newspaper photos of his girlfriend and her dad in that courtroom during the trial. Transcripts of what each of them said about him while under oath.
Eli Chapman was nineteen years old when it happened. So was his girlfriend. The mom was forty and the sister was eighteen, but just barely. Your life shouldn’t end at forty, much less half that. And that’s what happened, isn’t it? Chapman didn’t do a darn thing, but he went to trial for it and that “not guilty” verdict didn’t do squat. He’s got a job, I guess, but it’s with someone who moved into the area. He couldn’t find a position with anyone local.
It’d be a comedy of errors except for the fact that it’s a tragedy, and there’s nothing unique about a tragedy of errors. It’s the basic genre description. Guy meets girl when they’re in elementary school. Guy starts dating girl as young teens. Girl goes off to college but stays in relationship with guy. And then guy goes to trial for murdering girl’s family.
Guy doesn’t get to marry girl. They don’t settle down in their hometown like her parents and raise some little guys and little girls of their own. Girl graduates from college and moves away, and guy finally finds a job being a behind-the-scenes programming geek who doesn’t have to deal with the public.
Guy should sue. Or at least get a Netflix series of his own.
After giving me an exclusive interview, of course.
Okay that wouldn’t actually be the smart decision. Books take a lot of time. Anything he exclusively told me would exclusively stay with me for … years. He needs to kick up a fuss long before then. Strike while the iron is hot and Kelly is still in the news.
But he should also let me interview him. Tell me what it’s like to live out that tragic story. And then, right before it goes to layout, maybe I can add in a little “Where are they now?” section, where guy and girl might finally be getting to pick up exactly where their lives left off.
That would make a satisfying epilogue. Kelly’s confessed, he’s been sentenced … and the only person who went to trial for one of Kelly’s crimes is starting an upswing. That book would fly off the shelves.
Bury the Dead 15 – coming April 15
Rebecca Frost 