I notice she’s clutching the book she took from the bookshelf in her hand, and now she brings it to her chest, holding it tightly to her heart like it somehow strengthens her. Sam gives a single nod and walks through the front door and out onto the porch. I follow him, making sure the door closes behind me before Jennings can get any shots of the inside of the house. I can’t do anything about Vincent standing at the window and peering out through the curtains, but I block as much of the door with my body as I can and hope both husband and wife stay inside.
“I thought I told you to stay out of this,” Sam frowns as he strides purposefully toward Jennings.
The bright-eyed reporter leans back against his black car and gives a cocky smile.
“And I thought I told you I have freedom of the press, Sheriff,” Jennings says. “This is an important story, don’t you agree?”
“Of course it’s an important story. That’s why you need to stay out of it. You could compromise our investigation, not to mention invading the privacy of his family on their own property.”
“I’m not on their property. I’ve stayed on the street. Anything I’m able to see is fair game to the public. I’m sure you know that,” Jennings tells him.
“You need to back off,” I say. “You might think being part of the press gives you some sort of invincible shield, but it doesn’t. Interfering with an investigation is just as illegal for you as it is for anyone else.”
He looks me up and down in the same type of slimy way he did when I first met him.
“FBI,” he says like it’s my name. “I’ve been looking into you. Your career has been pretty impressive.”
“I know,” I say flatly, refusing to give him any hint that he’s flattered me or that I care at all about his opinion.
“You need to pack up your camera and leave,” Sam says. “You have access to the press conferences just like everyone else, but you’re not going to harass people to concoct some sort of story.”
“I don’t need to concoct a story,” Jennings says. “A local reporter getting the clues that proved to be the turning point in a child murder case is all the story I need. That is until I get to reveal the murderer.”
“How did you know that?” Sam asks. “We didn’t release any details about the tip we received the public.”
Jennings smiles a little wider and licks his lips as he pushes away from the car.
“I have my ways, Sheriff. Look around you. There are people everywhere. They’re watching. It’s just a matter of knowing how to ask.”
“You are not to discuss Vincent, his family, or any information about the tip we received in any way. Do you understand me? If I catch a single hint that you’ve put his name out there or gone to press with something that could compromise the integrity of our investigation or cause them any problems, I will not hesitate to arrest you and petition the court to silence you.”
Sam glares him down, and finally, Jennings shakes his head and stuffs his equipment onto the passenger seat of his car before getting behind the wheel. His tires squeal as he pulls out of his parking spot and disappears further into the neighborhood.
Sam and I get into his car and start in the opposite direction. We are planning on spending the day interviewing the families of the missing children again. They’ve all talked about the children and the circumstances surrounding their disappearances exhaustively, but there’s always the chance they forgot something or didn’t mention a detail because it didn’t seem important at the time, but now know to say it. I also didn’t get a chance to be a part of the initial interviews, and I would like to hear what they have to say from their own mouths. A person’s voice and the way they hold themselves can speak even more than the words they’re actually saying.
My mother was that way. She could seem totally invested in a conversation and be as pleasant as she could be in the words she was saying, but the way she held her body expressed her true emotions. From the time I was very young, I learned to identify who I could trust by the way my mother held herself when she spoke to them.
A few minutes into the ride, I look over at Sam.
“What’s with Jennings? Because from everything I’m seeing, it’s more than just someone who is a little bit overzealous about getting a story. Especially between him and the Lam’s.”
“That’s probably true. Like I said, he’s originally from around here. Not that he acts like he remembers.”
“So, this is a he got too big for his britches situation,” I say.
Sam chuckles. “I think you’re the only person I know who would actually put it that way, but it’s accurate. He seems to enjoy throwing his success in Vincent’s face. There’s always been competition between them, and a lot of people think Vincent never really got over Jennings getting to cover bigger stories, getting notoriety, and making so much more money. Being able to tell such a dramatic story that will not only draw in huge audiences because it’s about children but also smears Vincent a little is like a dream to Jennings. He’ll do anything he has to do to make sure he’s the one to tell the story, but also the one who gets to decide how it’s told.”
“Can I ask you something else? Something maybe a little personal?” I ask.
“Sure,” he says.
“What about Valerie?”
“What about her?” Sam asks.
“Have you ever had anything to do with her? I mean on a personal level?”
He snaps an incredulous look in my direction, then turns back to the street and lets out a short, disbelieving laugh.
“Valerie and me? Absolutely not. Why would you think that?”
“She’s just so bristled, so on edge. It seems particularly directed to you,” I point out.
“That’s just Valerie. She’s been that way for as long as I’ve known her, which is essentially always. She’s always been really in her head if you know what I mean. Very serious.”
“That explains the book she picked out of the bookcase. I had to read that thing in college. It was like wading through quicksand while trying to hack my way through a jungle with a machete outfitted with a rubber safety edge,” I tell him. “I love to read, but that writing is dense. And dry. it’s tough to get through.”
“So kind of like brownies,” Sam shrugs. “Somebody out there loves them, but it’s pretty tough to get through when they are dense and dry.”
“That sounds like the teenage boy I used to know. Leave it to you to be able to distill any complicated issue down into the universal language of baked goods,” I say.
We share a slight smile. It’s just enough to soften the discomfort of what we’re going through, but not enough for the tension to disappear.
“Jennings, on the other hand…” his voice trails off, but I’m not about to let that go.
“What do you mean? Jennings and Valerie?”
“I don’t know for absolute certain. I didn’t walk in on them or anything, but there have been a few rumors that have gone around that the two of them were fraternizing with the enemy, so to speak,” he says. “But that was years ago.”
Sam turns back to the road in front of us, and my eyes lift to the rearview mirror to check behind us for Jennings. He seemed to hear the threat Sam issued, but I don’t know how much impact it actually made. I’m waiting for his car to appear behind us and for him to try to insert himself in our interviews. He doesn’t sit well with me. He’s too malleable, a chameleon who changes his attitude and the energy of his presence as easily as he changes who he’s looking at. I’ve dealt with his kind before, and they can make difficult investigations even harder.