morning—whatever the hell time it was—these eyes were going to shut and stay shut, and Ryan James was going to the Land of Nod, damn it.
How can I be so dead tired and not fall asleep?
The telephone rang. Ryan couldn’t tell if it was a minute later or a day later. Maybe that sleeping pill had worked after all, and he had only dreamed about not being able to fall asleep. He grabbed the phone from the nightstand and checked the caller ID display for the time—8:10 A.M. —and the number. It was his in-laws. Rachel probably wanted to know why he wasn’t on the radio. He let it ring through to the answering machine. All hope of falling back to sleep was lost, but he didn’t feel like talking to anyone. He didn’t feel like getting out of bed. He didn’t feel like turning his head three inches to the right to avert the annoying ray of sunlight that was streaming through the window. He didn’t feel like anything.
He just couldn’t believe that Chelsea had been dead for over three years.
“No answer,” said Rachel Townsend.
Her husband shrugged it off. “Let’s just get this over with.”
“If we’re going to talk to the police, I’d like Ryan to be here.”
Paul Townsend went to his wife, looked her in the eye, and rested a reassuring hand on each of her shoulders—the near embrace that had come to define their marriage.
“It will be fine,” he said. “Come on.”
Paul led her into the living room. A clean-cut man dressed in a blue suit and white shirt rose as they entered. He’d been waiting patiently during the few minutes it took for Paul to pry his nervous wife out of the kitchen.
“Rachel, this is…” Paul stopped himself. “I’m sorry. Your name again?”
The man offered a courteous smile and a business card. “Benjamin. Lieutenant Keith Benjamin. Rhode Island Sheriff’s Department,” he said, pronouncing Roe-Dyelin the way all the department veterans did.
He shook Rachel’s hand as Paul checked his business card. He also reached for the badge he’d shown Paul earlier, but Paul waved it off, as if too much officiality might be upsetting to Rachel.
“This won’t take long at all,” said Benjamin. “It’s just routine follow-up to the tip the attorney general’s office received. I’m sure you saw the report on the news last night.”
“Actually, our son-in-law called to tell us about it before it aired.”
“Good. Basically, we’re just trying to do everything we can to determine if this tip is legit or not. If you don’t mind, I’d like to ask a few questions.”
“Well—” Rachel began to say.
“Sure,” said Paul.
The couple looked at each other and sat down on the couch. Benjamin seated himself in the adjacent armchair. A framed photograph of Chelsea rested on the cocktail table between them.
“I know we’ve never met,” said Benjamin, “but I’m one of the many folks at the department who’ve worked behind the scenes. I don’t need a lot of background, so I’ll keep this short and sweet.” He took a pen and notepad from his coat pocket. “Any idea who this tipster might be?”
“No,” said Paul.
Rachel shook her head.
“What do you think of the list of possibilities the attorney general’s office has come up with so far?”
“List?” said Paul.
“I don’t mean a formal written list,” said Benjamin. “Just some of the names the prosecutor’s office is considering.”
“If they have any names, they haven’t shared them with us,” said Paul. “Isn’t that right, Rachel?”
“I haven’t heard any names,” said Rachel.
“So no one from the AG’s office, the sheriff’s office—no one—has expressed any thoughts or theories as to this tipster’s identity?”
“No,” said Paul.
“Oh, I see.”
“Can you share them with us?” said Paul.
“I’m sort of reluctant to, without Ms. Carlisle’s approval. She may want to handle that personally.”
“Can you call her?”
Benjamin checked his watch. “It
How can I be so dead tired and not fall asleep?
The telephone rang. Ryan couldn’t tell if it was a minute later or a day later. Maybe that sleeping pill had worked after all, and he had only dreamed about not being able to fall asleep. He grabbed the phone from the nightstand and checked the caller ID display for the time—8:10 A.M. —and the number. It was his in-laws. Rachel probably wanted to know why he wasn’t on the radio. He let it ring through to the answering machine. All hope of falling back to sleep was lost, but he didn’t feel like talking to anyone. He didn’t feel like getting out of bed. He didn’t feel like turning his head three inches to the right to avert the annoying ray of sunlight that was streaming through the window. He didn’t feel like anything.
He just couldn’t believe that Chelsea had been dead for over three years.
“No answer,” said Rachel Townsend.
Her husband shrugged it off. “Let’s just get this over with.”
“If we’re going to talk to the police, I’d like Ryan to be here.”
Paul Townsend went to his wife, looked her in the eye, and rested a reassuring hand on each of her shoulders—the near embrace that had come to define their marriage.
“It will be fine,” he said. “Come on.”
Paul led her into the living room. A clean-cut man dressed in a blue suit and white shirt rose as they entered. He’d been waiting patiently during the few minutes it took for Paul to pry his nervous wife out of the kitchen.
“Rachel, this is…” Paul stopped himself. “I’m sorry. Your name again?”
The man offered a courteous smile and a business card. “Benjamin. Lieutenant Keith Benjamin. Rhode Island Sheriff’s Department,” he said, pronouncing Roe-Dyelin the way all the department veterans did.
He shook Rachel’s hand as Paul checked his business card. He also reached for the badge he’d shown Paul earlier, but Paul waved it off, as if too much officiality might be upsetting to Rachel.
“This won’t take long at all,” said Benjamin. “It’s just routine follow-up to the tip the attorney general’s office received. I’m sure you saw the report on the news last night.”
“Actually, our son-in-law called to tell us about it before it aired.”
“Good. Basically, we’re just trying to do everything we can to determine if this tip is legit or not. If you don’t mind, I’d like to ask a few questions.”
“Well—” Rachel began to say.
“Sure,” said Paul.
The couple looked at each other and sat down on the couch. Benjamin seated himself in the adjacent armchair. A framed photograph of Chelsea rested on the cocktail table between them.
“I know we’ve never met,” said Benjamin, “but I’m one of the many folks at the department who’ve worked behind the scenes. I don’t need a lot of background, so I’ll keep this short and sweet.” He took a pen and notepad from his coat pocket. “Any idea who this tipster might be?”
“No,” said Paul.
Rachel shook her head.
“What do you think of the list of possibilities the attorney general’s office has come up with so far?”
“List?” said Paul.
“I don’t mean a formal written list,” said Benjamin. “Just some of the names the prosecutor’s office is considering.”
“If they have any names, they haven’t shared them with us,” said Paul. “Isn’t that right, Rachel?”
“I haven’t heard any names,” said Rachel.
“So no one from the AG’s office, the sheriff’s office—no one—has expressed any thoughts or theories as to this tipster’s identity?”
“No,” said Paul.
“Oh, I see.”
“Can you share them with us?” said Paul.
“I’m sort of reluctant to, without Ms. Carlisle’s approval. She may want to handle that personally.”
“Can you call her?”
Benjamin checked his watch. “It
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