Ollie Clark—Thursday, June 27, 2019
Deborah Binkman, Esquire, looked like Carrie Fisher except for the fact that she sat ramrod straight in the kitchen chair with both feet flat on the floor. She had one pair of glasses perched on her nose with the chain dangling, and another hung around her neck on the same kind of chain. Only the color of the cat’s eye frames set them apart.
Between her briefcase, laptop, and legal pads, she had half the kitchen table to herself. The other chair on that side was pulled out, and presumably Dad and Cindy sat together facing her as they’d talked it through, but those three chairs weren’t enough now that Ollie and Eli were here. Not that Dad wanted to sit down with them, anyway—it was his turn to lean back against a kitchen counter, although at least the glass bottle currently in his hand was Coke. The kind with real sugar.
“Ms. Clark.” Deborah smiled up at her and gestured for Ollie to take a seat, even though it meant having her back to Dad. It made her realize she thought of Dad as a wild animal, which came with its own layers of guilt. “Cindy said you talked to Mr. Wilcox after your father’s interview.”
So Len was Mr. Wilcox and Dad’s interrogation was an interview. “We both did, yeah.”
She smiled and nodded at Eli, too. “Mr. Chapman. What can the two of you tell me about that conversation?”
“That’s private family business,” Dad rumbled.
“Mr. Clark, this is all in the name of protecting you from an impending arrest.”
“It’s all in the name of gossip and airing dirty laundry, and they won’t arrest me because I didn’t do it.”
Ollie wasn’t sure which of them moved first, but her left hand clamped solidly on Eli’s right, because seriously? Was it possible that Dad didn’t realize what he’d just said? Denial was one thing, and never underestimate the special snowflake beliefs of the white American male, but come on.
“Mr. Clark, you don’t have to be here for this.”
“Talking about someone when they’re not in the same room is the textbook definition of gossip.”
“Len’s all smug because he thinks he uncovered evidence that Randy killed Wendy and Birdy because he discovered Birdy wasn’t his biological daughter,” Eli said quietly but firmly. “He saw Wendy and Birdy’s blood types and got Randy to say his, so he concluded the whole paternity thing. He also thinks Ollie’s either a liar or got her nights confused so she’s not a good alibi about him being in Covington.”
Dad muttered a lengthy curse under his breath but didn’t offer up anything louder.
Deborah frowned. “If the blood types were in the information available to the police at the time …”
“Did they have yours?” Ollie asked, twisting around to look at Dad.
If possible, his scowl clicked up a notch. “How the hell should I know?”
The lawyer tapped a finger against her chin. Her fingernails were manicured but not polished. “They might have had access to that information but, since the prosecution focused so quickly on Mr. Chapman, paternity questions had no role in their narrative.”
Eli shrugged at Ollie’s look. “You can ask Johanna if she knew, but the whole ‘this doesn’t make any sense’ thing means she couldn’t pull together any sort of story against anyone else, either. Just … no evidence against anyone.” He closed his mouth before he could add what Ollie read in his eyes: Including me.
Deborah nodded slowly as she scrolled through whatever she had up on her laptop screen. “Mr. Wilcox saw a blood type and jumped on it?”
“Oh, he thinks you lied about Birdy asking for the change, too.” Ollie twisted around again without thinking even though she knew what Dad looked like when he was grumpy. “He said it doesn’t make any sense because you never would’ve argued Eli’s side.” Then, turning back to the lawyer: “We talked about it that weekend. Dad and me. About how it was a really flimsy excuse and we’d get the real story Sunday or Monday, but … yeah, it was weird.”
“A cry for help kind of weird?”
Ollie pursed her lips. “I think she wanted Dad to know it was serious. She didn’t want to tell him what the real thing was, but she needed him to believe her enough to make the switch. We’d never done that before—those weekends were set in stone. It helped Mom to have that schedule, so we didn’t break it.”
“So your sister had to lie about Eli to break it?”
“She had to tell him something that would make him stop short and not just dismiss her.”
Behind her, Dad made another grumbling noise again, but she didn’t catch any words. Still, Ollie guessed he didn’t like how she’d just casually suggested he often dismissed Birdy. Even though they all did. Sometimes all that drama was just too much to take.
Deborah looked over the frames of her glasses at Dad. “Mr. Clark, I take it you would never have encouraged your daughter to accept a marriage proposal from Mr. Chapman?”
“Birdy and Jared? Sure. Ollie and Eli? Hah. Absolutely not. I get that she’s the best thing to happen in his miserable life, but some of that misery’s your own making, Eli, and you don’t get to drag my daughter down just because you think she’s some sort of life preserver. You can look at her with those puppy dog eyes all you want, and you got Wendy on your side, that’s for sure, but Ollie deserves better than you. Especially after all this. God, I don’t even know what you were thinking. All that just to get her piddling college account.”
Ollie turned around slowly, this time sliding in the chair instead of simply twisting. “Dad, if Eli did it … showed up that night with the shotgun?”
He waited, arms crossed firmly, one eyebrow raised in challenge.
“The guy who killed them shot through the screen door, right? When they were both backlit?”
“And? So it made it easier. He didn’t have to look at them while he killed them.”
“Eli didn’t know we’d switched. If it happened the way you said, he would’ve thought he was killing me.”
Dad opened his mouth to retort, clearly meaning to give some sort of snappy comeback, but it remained open and silent as he simply stared.
Excerpts from Len Wilcox’s notes, December 17, 2018
What a lunch. I’m grateful Dubrowski’s willing to share his contact info, but man, there’s something about this family. They’re all down here to talk to him, because I’m not enough of a draw—yet, at any rate—and it’s weird.
Okay, so this is the Clark family. Mom Wendy and daughter Catherine were killed in this dinky town north of nowhere in Michigan in June 2009. Classic Kelly: Catherine shot in the face at the door, mom through the chest in this little passageway between the kitchen and living room. (I’ve got diagrams of the house. Everything is little. I guess they don’t have a lot of trees up there.)
Going in, I figured the clincher would be the living daughter’s boyfriend. Same boyfriend now as back then, can you believe it? He went on trial for the murders, everyone thought they were over, but true love conquers all. Let’s get his side. He didn’t say much. He’s not really the strong, silent type—too geeky—but he didn’t give an inch. I’ll have to wear him down.
The older daughter, Olive, didn’t have much use for me, either. Can women be the strong, silent type? Silent, yes. Not so sure on “strong.” Brown hair, brown eyes, average figure … nothing stands out about her.
Try the stepmom next. Looks nothing like the real mom. Wendy was blonde with blue eyes, a total knockout. The sort of woman wrap dresses get made for. This new one, Cindy, is plumper than Olive. The cozy cuddly librarian, I guess, instead of the frosty old maid, but yow. Imagine being her. Who the fuck would want to marry into this little disaster of a family?
It’s the dad who made the bill worth it. I get silence from the kids, these stony, sullen faces, and new wifey just keeps looking admiringly at him as he talks—with his mouth full, and if that man’s seen a dentist lately, that guy’s license should be revoked—and he keeps pulling out all these photos.
Bingo. Every family has one. This man is desperate to tell you about the perfection that’s his dead wife and child, and he doesn’t freaking care if new wifey and other child are sitting right there. You know what’s even better? Dead kid was dating boyfriend’s cousin—talk about a time when you need the bulletin board and red yarn—and cousin’s the golden child. Even more golden than the dead kid. I’m surprised Dad didn’t bring him down here, too, so he could squeeze those broad shoulders into the booth along with the rest of them and flash me a grin with teeth that know the touch of whitening toothpaste.
This guy has so many tells. He’s so anxious to spill his guts and can’t read the room even of his nearest and dearest. You’ve got the kids who just want to get this over with and get Kelly convicted so she can stop being that girl whose mom and sister got murdered and he can stop being the one who murdered her mom and sister, and a wife who’s somehow decided to hitch her cart to his dying star for … I don’t even know what. There’s no chemistry there, so it can’t be sex. Maybe she was just sick of being an old maid.
The dad’ll get me enough for that part of the book, and maybe he can even get me interviews with some of the others. Friends and whatnot. If it’s the family asking, a lot more of them say yes. Then all I have to do is turn on the charm and make them think they’re the most interesting person in the conversation, and there we go. Pull out the juiciest lines, mix it all together, and that’s another chapter done.
I don’t know why I didn’t think of a serial killer book before. This thing’s going to write itself.
Bury the Dead 19 – coming April 19
Rebecca Frost 