Page 12 of Death in the Family
“Not making a point, I just wonder how well you know him—now, I mean. A lot of siblings grow apart as they get older.”
“That didn’t happen to us.”
“Fair enough. So, Flynn. Why don’t you tell me what happened last night?”
That muscle again. It slid beneath the surface of his skin like an eel in shallow water. It wasn’t just that I didn’t like the guy for hiding up here while the rest of his family was downstairs. Something about Flynn’s body language made me edgy. “If I knew,” he said coolly, “you wouldn’t be here.”
“Why don’t you walk me through yesterday and we’ll see what we can turn up?”
“My brother’s been gone for hours. There’s a goddamn hurricane outside. It’s fucking freezing, and Jasper’s jacket and shoes are sitting in the mudroom downstairs. You’re wasting time. She’sright downstairs.” To make his point Flynn slammed the sole of his shoe against the floor. It was an oil-tanned leather moccasin dyed navy, fine, and out of season. No wonder he’d opted to join the search party that stayed indoors.
I’d been with Flynn ten minutes and already the ridges of my ears were tingling. He hadn’t relinquished the pillow, but the vulnerability I witnessed when I entered the room had been replaced with an aggression so intense it radiated from his body in waves. In my academy days, when we were learning to use our firearms, we’d compete to see who was the quickest draw. We would standback-to-back, western-movie style, while an instructor manned the stopwatch, tapping his foot in wait. He was deadly serious about our reaction time on those drills—in the city, the fastest draw is the one who survives—but we had other motives for winning. Fastest draw was bragging rights, and bragging rights were currency in the academy. Plenty of times it was me who was flush.
It isn’t that Flynn’s hostility had me worried. I could be on my feet with my weapon trained on his chest in just over a second. What worried me was that this shifty witness would go to scratch his nose and I’d instinctively put a bullet in his big, hairy head. I was jumpier now than I used to be back in the academy. Before Bram.
Like my instructor during those drills, I tapped my foot, and waited. I figured Flynn for a hothead. He’d lash out, lean on his strength to get his way. But he didn’t. His shoulders began to relax.
“I was working yesterday,” he said at last. “I’m always working. I barely saw Jas at all.”
“Walk me through it anyway. The whole day. Give me every detail you remember.”
I crossed my legs and leaned back in the chair to make it clear I expected a long story. Flynn glared at me, sighed, then started to talk.
Interviewing a witness effectively hinges on a series of questions designed to draw out the who, what, where, when, and why of a crime. I let them do most of the talking and keep interruptions to a minimum. Some people call that free recall. It’s a good way to tap a person’s memory of the time frame in question, a kind of stream-of-consciousness exercise that helps me extract the details I need with as much accuracy as possible.
Cooperative witnesses do well with this, and I usually comeout with answers. But here’s the problem—I didn’t yet know if Flynn was a witness or a suspect in his brother’s disappearance. Everything he told me could be a truthful recollection of the events that might help us find Jasper.
On the other hand, the entire story I was about to hear—every word of it—could be an expertly crafted lie.
SIX
By the time Flynn Sinclair arrived at Tern Island on Friday, October 20, his brother was already there. As Norton pulled the skiff up to the flooded dock, Flynn spotted Jasper on the shore. Jasper’s arm was around a woman. She was Jasper’s height, but her nonverbal cues made her look small. Like a girl with something to hide, Flynn said.
It was Jasper’s idea to come to the island. He and Abella had been dating only a few months, but he was eager to introduce her to Camilla. Camilla, in turn, insisted the rest of the family come, too, and what would have been a quiet weekend morphed into a huge family affair.
Abella delivered a practiced smile as Flynn climbed out of the boat. There was a stranger in the boathouse dressed in camouflage, but since getting up in age, Norton sometimes brought on help forthe labor-intensive jobs around the island, so Flynn ignored it and offered to help dock the boat.
“I’m heading back to the mainland,” Norton said. “One last run to the market before the weather turns.”
As he revved the engine and raced off across the water, Flynn clapped his younger brother on the back.
“The elusive Abella, at last,” Flynn said as he shook the woman’s hand for the first time.
“Call me Abby,” she replied with a weak smile.
Jasper explained the English call her Abby, while the French use Bella. Flynn didn’t like that. Having two nicknames felt like deceit. Even before meeting her, Flynn wasn’t optimistic about his brother’s relationship. Jasper and Abella met at the PR firm where Jasper used to work. She was from Montreal and in the U.S. on a work visa, but she’d recently been fired. Without a company to back her, Abella couldn’t stay in the country much longer. Her whole life was up in the air, and Flynn mistrusted her instability.
“You’re late, by the way,” Jasper said with annoyance. “Your better half’s already here.”
“Some of us have to work.” Flynn forced a laugh. “Jasper parties for a living, you know that, Abby?”
“Abby knows exactly what fashion marketing entails,” Jasper said, “and that we’re operating in a saturated and competitive market. Not as easy as it sounds.”
“Parties for a living, like I said. It’s freezing out here,” said Flynn with a shiver. “Let’s go up, yeah?”
An avid indoor cyclist—he pushed a stationary bike to its limits daily while trainers shouted at him over live-streaming video—Flynn shouldn’t have had trouble with the steps, but as he ascended the pathway toward the house he felt winded. Jasper, on the otherhand, talked nonstop as he climbed, his stories punctuated by Abella’s laugh. She giggled in all the right places. The rhythm of their conversation was so smooth it appeared rehearsed. That, too, grated on Flynn. He couldn’t stop thinking about what awaited him at the house.
Tern Island was ready for company, meaning the house looked like an interior stylist came through to buff and fluff every object in sight. A long table was set on the enclosed porch, the mule-deer-antler chandelier that hung above it wiped clean of dust and rubbed to a resin-like shine. Later, Norton would light a couple dozen candles and the family would eat while the antlers threw warped shadows across the walls. It would be cool on the porch, and the forecast called for a storm, but Camilla wouldn’t have it any other way. Flynn’s grandmother believed dining on the porch was the best way for first-time guests to experience the beauty of the island.
