Archive for the ‘Post 2.7’ Category

Thursday, March 22, 10:39 p.m.

“Less than an hour after my wife was kidnapped, Lucy told the police what our car looked like. It was bright orange. And she gave them the license plate,” Jack says.

“She knew the plate number when she was three years old?” I say.

“Yeah. We bought the car right after my wife gave birth. We got a vanity plate: LUCYCAR. Lucy loved telling people about it. The cops got a bead on it fast. I rode in the KIRO Radio van. They drove crazy fast. The entire ride, I was praying that the cops got there in time. I was actually on my knees in the back, wedged in between the audio guy and a box of tuner equipment, saying Hail Marys and Our Fathers.”

I want to say something. I feel I should. But my throat is cinched shut.

“I figured that there was…hope still out there. The cops would shoot him, just like in the movies. I’d run to her and she’d wrap her arms around my neck. She’d cry and I’d cry and we would go home to Lucy and just…clutch each other, safe, all three of us. I thought we were inseparable.”

I can’t say anything. I try, but I can’t.

“It was dark in the woods where we found her. The sun was setting through the trees, redder than I’ve ever seen. Three canine units were there. The dogs were going crazy. They could smell her blood on him. The King County Sheriff’s dog was the one that took him down. It was so chaotic. Reporters everywhere, cops shouting, dogs barking. My wife’s car was abandoned by the side of the road. We jumped out of the news van and ran into the woods and…”

Jack holds the photo of his wife’s dead body. He stares at it, unblinking, his eyes enormous.

“The woods smelled sour. It was frigidly cold. I ran and ran, tailing the dogs. I remember thinking, I have to find her. She has to be alive. I was having this internal dialogue, telling myself that she’d probably been raped, might have been cut up real bad, but that was okay. Just as long as she survived, I could fix it. Somehow. But she had to be alive. I was sprinting through the woods, then a bunch of reporters from the Seattle Times tackled me and threw me to the ground so I wouldn’t see her. The paramedics swarmed all over her. The cops covered them with their guns drawn. The TV crews filmed it. Harry Dekins took this photo. I remember it took five guys to hold me down. They told me later I was screaming the whole time.”

Jack suddenly grabs his wallet, opens it, and stuffs the crime scene photo and the other four pictures back into the secret pocket within the money fold. He unsteadily leans left and crams the wallet into his back pocket. He drains the last of his Scotch. His voice becomes brisk, though slurred.

“The paramedics tried it all—CPR, defibrillation, IVs. Too late. I don’t remember much after that until I overheard Harry talking to his assistant. He said if they’d gotten to her just ten minutes earlier, she might have lived. She bled out completely.”

Jack digs in his jacket pocket and pulls out his car keys. They jangle in his unsteady hand.

“My mother took Lucy for awhile. I filed my copy everyday. I didn’t sleep for eleven nights. I testified at his trial. He got life. I drank a lot. He got killed a year into his sentence by another prisoner. Stabbed to death in the shower. He bled out completely. Okay…I’m gonna go home now.”

 

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