I found myself giving her the “I won’t be able to tell you anything until I’ve examined her in a good light” response.
“For God’s sake, she’s my sister!” she cried. “I want to know what the animal did to her! Oh, God! Did she suffer? Please tell me she didn’t suffer . . .”
We let her cry, deep, heaving moans of naked anguish. Her pain carried her far beyond the realm where any mortal could reach her. We sat. Marino watched her with unwavering, unreadable eyes.
I hated myself at times like this, cold, clinical, the consummate professional unmoved by another person’s pain. What was I supposed to say? Of course she suffered! When she found him inside her room, when she began to realize what was going to happen, her terror, which would have been that much worse because of what she’d read in the papers about the other murdered women, chilling accounts written by her own sister. And her pain, her physical pain.
“Fine. Of course you’re not going to tell me,” Abby began in rapid jerky sentences. “I know how it is. You’re not going to tell me. She’s my sister. And you’re not going to tell me. You keep all your cards close to your vest. I know how it goes. And for what? How many does the bastard have to murder? Six? Ten? Fifty? Then maybe the cops figure it out?”
Marino continued to stare blandly at her. He said, “Don’t blame the police, Miss Turnbull. We’re on your side, trying to help—”
“Right!” She cut him off. “You and your help! Like a lot of help you were last week! Where the shit were you then?”
“Last week? What are you referring to, exactly?”
“I’m referring to the redneck who tailed me all the way home from the newspaper,” she exclaimed. “He was right on top of me, turning everywhere I did. I even stopped at a store to get rid of him. Then I come out twenty minutes later and there he is again. The same goddam car! Following me! I get home and immediately call the cops. And what do they do? Nothing. Some officer stops by two hours later to make sure everything’s all right. I give him a description, even the plate number. Did he ever follow up? Hell no, I never heard a word. For all I know, the pig in the car’s the one who did it! My sister’s dead. Murdered. Because some cop couldn’t be bothered!”
Marino was studying her, his eyes interested. “When exactly was this?”
She faltered. “Tuesday, I think. A week ago Tuesday. Late, maybe ten, ten-thirty at night. I worked late in the newsroom, finishing up a story . . .”
He looked confused. “Uh, correct me if I’m wrong, but I thought you was on the graveyard beat, six to two A.M., or something.”
“That Tuesday one of the other reporters was working my beat. I had to come in early, during the day, to finish up something the editors wanted for the next edition.”
“Yeah,” Marino said. “Okay, so this car. When did it start following you?”
“It’s hard to know. I didn’t really notice it until several minutes after I’d pulled out of the parking deck. He could have been waiting for me. Maybe he saw me at some point. I don’t know. But he was right on my rear bumper, his high beams on. I slowed down, hoping he’d go around me. He slowed down, too. I speeded up. Same thing. I couldn’t shake him. I decided to go to Farm Fresh. I didn’t want him following me home. He did anyway. He must have gone by and come back, waited for me in the parking lot or on a nearby street. Waited until I came back out and drove off.”
“You positive it was the same car?”
“A new Cougar, black. I’m absolutely sure. I got a contact at DMV to run the plate number since the cops couldn’t be bothered. It’s a rental car. I’ve got the address of the dealership, the car’s plate number written down if you’re interested.”
“Yeah, I’m interested,” Marino told her.
She dug inside her tote bag and found a folded piece of notepaper. Her hand trembled as she gave it to him.
He glanced at it and tucked it inside a pocket. “So what then? The car followed you. It followed you all the way home?”
“I had no choice. I couldn’t drive around all night. Couldn’t do a damn thing. He saw where I live. I came in and went straight to the phone. I guess he drove past, went on. When I looked out the window, I didn’t see him anywhere.”
“You ever seen the car before?”
“I don’t know. I’ve seen black Cougars before. But I can’t say that I’ve ever seen that exact car before.”
“You get a look at the driver?” “It was too dark and he was behind me. But there was definitely just one person inside the car. Him, the driver.”