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Authors: Gillian Flynn
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to notice such things.
“Okay, Camille, what do you say you and I call a détente? At least for now. See how it goes. I assume I don’t need to lecture you about the Capisi boy.”
“I assume you realize there’s nothing to lecture about. Why have the police dismissed the account of the one eyewitness to the kidnapping of Natalie Keene?” I picked up my pen to show him we were on record.
“Who says we dismissed it?”
“James Capisi.”
“Ah, well, there’s a good source.” He laughed. “I’ll let you in on a little something here,
Miss
Preaker.” He was doing a fairly good Vickery imitation, right down to twisting an imaginary pinky ring. “We don’t let nine-year-old boys be particularly privy to an ongoing investigation one way or another. Including whether or not we believe his story.”
“Do you?”
“I can’t comment.”
“It seems that if you had a fairly detailed description of a murder suspect, you might want to let people around here know, so they can be on the lookout. But you haven’t, so I’d have to guess you’d dismissed his story.”
“Again, I can’t comment.”
“I understand Ann Nash was not sexually molested,” I continued. “Is that also the case with Natalie Keene?”
“
Ms.
Preaker. I just can’t comment right now.”
“Then why are you sitting here talking to me?”
“Well, first of all, I know you spent a lot of your time, probably work time, with our officer the other day, giving him your version of the discovery of Natalie’s body. I wanted to thank you.”
“My
version
?”
“Everyone has their own version of a memory,” he said. “For instance, you said Natalie’s eyes were open. The Broussards said they were closed.”
“I can’t comment.” I was feeling spiteful.
“I’m inclined to believe a woman who makes her living as a reporter over two elderly diner owners,” Willis said. “But I’d like to hear how positive you are.”
“Was Natalie sexually molested? Off the record.” I set down my pen.
He sat silent for a second, twirling his beer bottle.
“No.”
“I’m positive her eyes were open. But you were there.”
“I was,” he said.
“So you don’t need me for that. What’s the second thing?”
“What?”
“You said, ‘first of all …’”
“Oh, right. Well, the second reason I wanted to speak with you, to be frank—a quality it seems you’d appreciate—is that I’m desperate to talk to a nontownie.” The teeth flashed at me. “I mean, I know you’re from here. And I don’t know how you did it. I’ve been here off and on since last August and I’m going crazy. Not that Kansas City is a seething metropolis, but there’s a night life. A cultural … some culture. There’s people.”
“I’m sure you’re doing fine.”
“I’d better. I may be here for a while now.”
“Yes.” I pointed my notebook at him. “So what’s your theory, Mr. Willis?”
“That’s Detective Willis, actually.” He grinned again. I finished my drink in another swallow, began chewing on the stunted cocktail straw. “So, Camille, can I buy you a round?”
I jiggled my glass and nodded. “Bourbon straight up.”
“Nice.”
While he was at the bar, I took my ballpoint and wrote the word
dick
on my wrist in looping cursive. He came back with two Wild Turkeys.
“So.” He wiggled his eyebrows at me. “My proposal is that maybe we can just talk for a little bit. Like civilians? I’m really craving it. Bill Vickery isn’t exactly dying to get to know me.”
“That makes two of us.”
“Right. So, you’re from Wind Gap, and now you work for a paper in Chicago.
Tribune?”
“Daily Post.”
“Don’t know that one.”
“You wouldn’t.”
“That high on it, huh?”
“It’s fine. It’s just fine.” I wasn’t in the mood to be charming, not even sure I’d remember the drill. Adora is the schmoozer in the family—even the guy who sprays for termites once a year sends doting Christmas
“Okay, Camille, what do you say you and I call a détente? At least for now. See how it goes. I assume I don’t need to lecture you about the Capisi boy.”
“I assume you realize there’s nothing to lecture about. Why have the police dismissed the account of the one eyewitness to the kidnapping of Natalie Keene?” I picked up my pen to show him we were on record.
“Who says we dismissed it?”
“James Capisi.”
“Ah, well, there’s a good source.” He laughed. “I’ll let you in on a little something here,
Miss
Preaker.” He was doing a fairly good Vickery imitation, right down to twisting an imaginary pinky ring. “We don’t let nine-year-old boys be particularly privy to an ongoing investigation one way or another. Including whether or not we believe his story.”
“Do you?”
“I can’t comment.”
“It seems that if you had a fairly detailed description of a murder suspect, you might want to let people around here know, so they can be on the lookout. But you haven’t, so I’d have to guess you’d dismissed his story.”
“Again, I can’t comment.”
“I understand Ann Nash was not sexually molested,” I continued. “Is that also the case with Natalie Keene?”
“
Ms.
Preaker. I just can’t comment right now.”
“Then why are you sitting here talking to me?”
“Well, first of all, I know you spent a lot of your time, probably work time, with our officer the other day, giving him your version of the discovery of Natalie’s body. I wanted to thank you.”
“My
version
?”
“Everyone has their own version of a memory,” he said. “For instance, you said Natalie’s eyes were open. The Broussards said they were closed.”
“I can’t comment.” I was feeling spiteful.
“I’m inclined to believe a woman who makes her living as a reporter over two elderly diner owners,” Willis said. “But I’d like to hear how positive you are.”
“Was Natalie sexually molested? Off the record.” I set down my pen.
He sat silent for a second, twirling his beer bottle.
“No.”
“I’m positive her eyes were open. But you were there.”
“I was,” he said.
“So you don’t need me for that. What’s the second thing?”
“What?”
“You said, ‘first of all …’”
“Oh, right. Well, the second reason I wanted to speak with you, to be frank—a quality it seems you’d appreciate—is that I’m desperate to talk to a nontownie.” The teeth flashed at me. “I mean, I know you’re from here. And I don’t know how you did it. I’ve been here off and on since last August and I’m going crazy. Not that Kansas City is a seething metropolis, but there’s a night life. A cultural … some culture. There’s people.”
“I’m sure you’re doing fine.”
“I’d better. I may be here for a while now.”
“Yes.” I pointed my notebook at him. “So what’s your theory, Mr. Willis?”
“That’s Detective Willis, actually.” He grinned again. I finished my drink in another swallow, began chewing on the stunted cocktail straw. “So, Camille, can I buy you a round?”
I jiggled my glass and nodded. “Bourbon straight up.”
“Nice.”
While he was at the bar, I took my ballpoint and wrote the word
dick
on my wrist in looping cursive. He came back with two Wild Turkeys.
“So.” He wiggled his eyebrows at me. “My proposal is that maybe we can just talk for a little bit. Like civilians? I’m really craving it. Bill Vickery isn’t exactly dying to get to know me.”
“That makes two of us.”
“Right. So, you’re from Wind Gap, and now you work for a paper in Chicago.
Tribune?”
“Daily Post.”
“Don’t know that one.”
“You wouldn’t.”
“That high on it, huh?”
“It’s fine. It’s just fine.” I wasn’t in the mood to be charming, not even sure I’d remember the drill. Adora is the schmoozer in the family—even the guy who sprays for termites once a year sends doting Christmas
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