“… substantial speculation about the murder of Laura Starr that occurred in Duluth in 1977,” Pat Burns said. “Recent reports in the media have suggested that we have a suspect in custody and that charges in that case are imminent. Unfortunately, these reports are not accurate. We have made no arrests to date, and we do not have sufficient evidence at this time to put before a grand jury. We will continue to investigate any leads that emerge in this terrible crime, but it isn’t appropriate to raise false hopes in a community that wants justice.”
“What the hell does that mean?” Clark asked.
Donna wiped her eyes. “They’re giving up. That’s how lawyers talk.”
Clark heard one of the reporters ask a question. “Is it true that a suspect in the crime attempted suicide following interrogation by Duluth police?”
A photo appeared in the upper right corner of the television screen, and Clark saw the face of the man in the photo array that Maggie had shown him. He saw the name. Finn Mathisen.
“I can’t comment on that,” Burns replied.
“… heard there might be a confession in the case,” another reporter said over the chorus of voices.
Burns shook her head. “We’ve conducted numerous interviews with witnesses, and we’re still evaluating them. At this point, the police do not have any statement in hand from anyone claiming responsibility for the murder.”
“Has Peter Stanhope been cleared of involvement in the murder?”
“I’m not going to discuss anyone’s guilt or innocence.”
“Do you think this case will ever be solved?”
“I very much hope so.”
Clark didn’t look at Pat Burns. He studied Maggie’s face behind her. What he saw there turned the hope in his heart to dust. When she looked at the camera, it was as if she were looking directly at him, admitting she had failed, apologizing.
Another voice. “… is reporting that the suspect is a Superior resident named Finn Mathisen, and that Mathisen is also a suspect in the recent string of peeping incidents involving teenage girls?”
Clark held his breath. Donna clung to his arm.
“We are gathering evidence with regard to the so-called peeping tom cases,”Burns said. “Mr. Mathisen is a person of interest in that investigation, but he has not been charged. That’s all I’ll say.”
“Is it true that one of the peeping incidents led to a girl’s death?”
“We are investigating whether the death by drowning of a mentally challenged girl in Fond du Lac is in any way related to a peeping incident involving the same girl. It’s too early to draw any conclusions.”
“Turn if off,” Clark told the bartender.
The bartender looked back at him with his arms crossed. “You sure, Clark?”
“Turn if off,” he repeated.
The man switched channels.
“Too early to draw any conclusions?” Clark asked.
Donna stroked his bare arm. “They have to say that. It doesn’t mean he won’t be charged. You can’t obsess about it, Clark. Let them do their jobs.”
“He’s going to get away with it.”
“You don’t know that.”
Clark closed his eyes. His drunken mind was like a dam, cracking and sprouting fissures under the relentless pressure of a swollen river. Each time one of the girls behind him squealed with laughter, he heard Mary’s laugh. It was as if she were still alive, holding out her hand and calling for him. When he tried to picture her face, however, he couldn’t see it. Another face intervened in his mind.
The sallow, leering face of Finn Mathisen.
“Clark?”
He heard Donna, but she was far away.
“Clark?” she asked again.
“I’m here,” he said hoarsely.
“I’m going to take you home,” she told him.
Clark nodded.
“Let me run to the ladies’ room, and then I’ll drive us back to the house. I’ll stay there, okay? I won’t leave you alone. I’ll stay with you tonight.”
“Okay.”
“I’ll be right back,” Donna said. She hesitated and added, “I need to tell you something, but not here. When it’s just the two of us, we can talk.”
She nudged past him, but he grabbed her arm. They were surrounded by people pushing and shoving against them, smelling of smoke and stale beer, screeching a jumble of words that made his head spin. He pulled her face close, so that he could inhale her lilac perfume. He saw yearning and despair in her eyes. The down on her neck felt soft and familiar under his fingers. Her chest rose and fell like a scared bird.
“Mary was lucky to have you,” he said.
Her face twisted with emotion. She put a hand on his face, and her skin was warm. He thought he would be able to feel that touch all night.
“I’ll be right back,” she said.
Clark nodded. He watched his ex-wife as she navigated the crowd and disappeared through the oak door into the restroom. This could have been a night like so many they had spent in their early years. He could imagine Donna as she had been at twenty-one years old, when their bodies were fit and their hormones racing. Before their dreams grew up, got old, and died.
He shoved a tip into the bartender’s jar and got off the bar stool, swaying as he tried to walk. No one paid any attention to him. He balanced himself against strange shoulders until his head cleared. Through the sea of drinkers, he saw the two tables of teenage girls, sipping Coke, laughing with mouths full of white teeth and braces, their innocent giggles like music. Some had dirt on their faces; others had their baseball caps turned backward. Under the table, they were all bare legs and white socks. Clark felt as if he had been stabbed in the heart.
He made his way to the bar door. The girls had piled their softball equipment in the corner there. He opened the door into the night, but before he left, he grabbed one of the wooden baseball bats by its knob handle and took it with him.
39
Tish sat with the manuscript of her book open on the laptop screen. Her fingers lingered over the keyboard, but no words came. She was at the point where she had to decide. Lie or tell the truth. She had postponed the decision on the belief that, by the time she reached this crossroads, it would be easy. But it wasn’t. She was nearly done, but she wasn’t sure now if she wanted to finish it at all.