Look Closer

by David Ellis

I’m not privy to the inner workings of the St. Louis police, but I can only imagine that the people in charge have the same pressure to close cases as a tiny little hamlet like Grace Village. Whoever was in charge of the cold case got the new evidence of Lauren’s fingerprints on the bottle and eventually her DNA on the wineglass, too, along with the information that Lauren had briefly returned to the country during that time. The case was closed as solved. All the easier when the suspect is now dead, not subject to prosecution and unable to contest the determination in any way.

They were never going to pin St. Louis on me, as long as they couldn’t talk to my shrink, to whom I spilled my guts the next morning. (A moment of weakness I will never forget or repeat.) Comfort? I wouldn’t use that word. I wouldn’t even say I’m happy about what I did. Or unhappy. Virtually every moral code and penal code would condemn my actions. I analogize it to the law of war, instead. My father and Lauren declared war on my mother and me.

Soldiers aren’t prosecuted for killing other soldiers. They’re prosecuted only for killing innocents. Lauren and my father were the furthest things from innocents. I don’t require approval, nor do I accept disapproval, for what I’ve done. Did I know that the Grace Village P.D. would fingerprint Lauren and take a DNA sample? Sure, they always do that, if for no other reason than exclusion, differentiation from other prints and DNA found at the scene. Did I know that they’d enter this information into FBI databases? Of course—standard protocol.

I hoped so. I couldn’t be sure Lauren’s prints or DNA would be on that bottle or those champagne flutes. But a guy can hope. And did I time this entire thing so that St. Louis would be in a position to declare its investigation solved and closed only weeks before I had to stand here before this committee and answer questions? Well, let’s just say the timing worked out okay.

I assume there isn’t much of a need to be careful anymore. The day after Jane Burke visited me with the news about Lauren’s fingerprint on the champagne bottle, Grace Village P.D. announced a solve in the murder of Lauren Betancourt.

I watched the press conference, which featured Jane Burke standing behind the chief, looking as happy as someone with hemorrhoids.

I wonder how she’ll approach, arms out for an embrace or hands tucked in her pockets and keeping a distance. It’s no secret that we have very different feelings about our relationship, that I want far more than she does.

We’d go over the next day’s text-message exchange (“Be playful, you’re still in the honeymoon phase.” “Maybe be a little cranky tomorrow; everyone’s cranky sometimes, right?” “Tomorrow, you start showing signs of hesitation, second thoughts”). She’d read the journal I was writing and offer critiques and suggestions (“Mention I’m from West Virginia, but do it like a throwaway comment.” “You need to be freaking out a little—you’re falling in love with Lauren and you’re married to me!” “You have to show a little self-doubt, like this is too good to be true”).

All her talk about what would come afterward, for example, how much she looked forward to living in Wisconsin with her nieces, was her way of reminding me, in her subtle way, that nothing was going to change between us.

This, Vicky today, is Vicky happy. A glow to her face, a bounce in her walk. As beautiful as any woman I’ve ever seen. I put out my arms and she sails into them, holding me for a long time, moaning with pleasure. I close my eyes and drink it all in, the smell of her, the feel of her, the warmth of her, quite possibly the last time I will hold her like this.

“Better it stay anonymous. Just in case anyone’s still watching me and sees that I gave some random domestic-violence shelter in Wisconsin a bunch of cash.

She said no. It’s one of the reasons I love her so much.

The shelter, okay, but she wouldn’t take a dime personally. She’s in rebuilding mode, and she wants to rebuild on her own terms.

It gives me a lift, that she cares enough to remember, how much she wanted it for me, the ends to which she was willing to go to get it for me. “I did not,” I say. “Reid got it. I heard the vote was close.” “Ugh. I’m sorry.” She drills a finger lightly against my chest, juts her chin. “Should’ve used that information I got you, dummy.”

She thinks about that. “You did it your way. As you should.”

She loops her arm in mine, and we take the path down toward the parking lot, my chest full, my heart pounding, as I count the seconds.

“We’re not normal people, are we?” she says.

“Not really,” I say. “Is it normal to screw people out of money and ruin their lives?” “Some people would let that go. Even if they couldn’t forgive it, they’d forget it. Or just live with it.”

She knew my family’s situation. If she’d stolen some of the money, like a million bucks or something, and left the rest, everything would’ve been fine.

But no. Lauren had to sweep every nickel out of that account, take everything we had. The money we needed to care for my mother at home. She laid waste to us and never looked back.

So I don’t see why my response had to be n...

“My therapist from back in the day would have said that I was giving power to people who did bad things,” I say. “She’s not wrong about that. That, I regret. I regret that I gave them that power. I regret that I let Lauren and my father dominate my thoughts.”

“You rid the world of a bad person,” I say. “A bad person who would have done the same thing to other women.” “True,” she says. “But that’s not why I did it. That’s just a by-product.” “Well, jeez, Vick, I guess you’re just not a normal person, then.” It doesn’t come off as humorous as I’d intended it.