Killing Ways

45

Vincent Farraday’s home was a disintegrating cabin in the woods outside Denison, Texas. Within its walls, his body was doing the same thing — and within that, his mind. Ren and Joe sat across from him, waiting, waiting for sense. There was a half-empty bottle of whiskey and a smeared glass on a table beside him. He knocked back what was left in it.

Ren took the time to look around the room. There were photos of Wanda still on the sideboard, looking respectable and happy, and many photos of their twin girls, only up until they were about sixteen years old.

All three — skinny, blonde; the girls — identical.

‘It came from nowhere,’ said Vincent, suddenly. He poured himself another glass. ‘Wanda had turned her life around, found me, found God, had the girls, our beautiful twins. She was a different woman. Then I came home one day, and there she was, a needle in her arm. It went on like that for a little while — I tried to hide it from the girls, but I couldn’t. She turned into an absolute wreck, became so mean and nasty, I didn’t know who she was. Then, one day, I came home, she was gone... no warning...’

‘And you didn’t report her missing at that time,’ said Ren.

‘No, ma’am,’ said Vincent, ‘because it would have been a waste of police time. She could have been anywhere. I told our friends, my family that she was in rehab. I told the girls the same thing. Everyone had seen Wanda, they knew what was going on. At that stage, though, the girls hated her. It was so sad. Their whole lives, they thought the sun shone from their mama...’ He drifted off. ‘And so did I. I began drinking. We all have our painkillers, I guess.’ He shifted in his seat. ‘And then the police show up a few years ago. Some DA who was looking for glory decides to try and arrest me for murdering my wife, even though they hadn’t even got a body!

‘My life’s been hell these last few years,’ said Vincent. ‘Absolute hell.’ He drained his glass. ‘I was interviewed for hours and hours — over twenty times by Denison PD, then by the FBI in Sherman. Imagine constantly being hauled in to go through the same questions over and over. It’s enough to drive you insane. You know the truth, you know your wife just upped and left. You’re thinking — did she die, did she kill herself, did she drown by accident, was she hit by a car somewhere, is she lying in a ditch, did she walk into the path of a killer? It’s been a nightmare from the moment she stuck that needle in her vein. I’ve been a performer all my life, but then, people started looking at me to see if I was still performing, covering up a crime.’

Ren and Joe hovered, without a word, in Vincent Farraday’s anguish.

Vincent shook his head, poured himself another whiskey.

‘I’ve had kids egg my house, spray-paint “murderer” on my wall,’ said Vincent. ‘I’ve had people knock on my door under all kinds of pretenses — oh, they’re studying justice or law or forensic something-or-other. One of them was all the way from New York by the sound of him, looking for information about Duke Rawlins, about what kind of childhood he might have had, what kind of mother Wanda was to him. I told him I didn’t know that Wanda Rawlins. And I sure don’t want to hear another thing about that animal Rawlins.’ He paused. ‘You know Wanda had a tattoo of that boy’s face on her shoulder, must have gotten it in one of her guiltier, drunker moments, way before we met. She always wanted to get it taken off, but was afraid it would hurt.’ His gaze drifted away, then he returned to his story. ‘So, I answered what I could for the young man — he seemed well-intentioned, like he wanted to set a record set straight. He seemed to me to be invested in the truth, unlike most people.’

He paused. ‘And I know what you’re thinking — you could say to me “Don’t open your door”, but the truth is I think to myself “What if it’s Wanda coming home?”’

Love is the mystery to end all mysteries.

‘So, there you have it,’ said Vincent.

His eyes were filled with pain, with sadness, with resignation.

Yet no anger.

‘We know that your daughter, Robin, is living in London now,’ said Ren. ‘But we can’t seem to find Chloe...’

He looked up at her, vacant-eyed. He took another drink.

‘Do you have any idea where your daughter Chloe is now, Mr Farraday?’ said Joe.

He shook his head. ‘I don’t, I do not.’ He narrowed his eyes. ‘Have I met you before, Detective?’ His words were getting slurred.

Ren looked at Joe.

‘No, sir,’ said Joe.

‘Something about you is familiar...’ said Vincent.

Joe shook his head. ‘I can’t help you there.’

‘Have you seen Chloe in the past while, Mr Farraday?’ said Ren, guiding him back while he could still at least partially function.

He nodded. ‘She came around here looking for her guitar about twelve months back, arrived with the police, said I stole it, which I hadn’t.’

‘I couldn’t bear to look at it,’ said Vincent. ‘I’d put it in the attic. I told her she could go on up and get it, told her she could stay if she liked. What she replied to that wasn’t very nice at all.’

God love this man.

‘Is Chloe a singer?’ said Ren.

‘Yes,’ said Vincent. ‘A very good one.’

‘Does she write songs?’ said Ren.

‘Oh, yes,’ said Vincent. ‘She was writing songs from when she was eight years old.’

‘Do you or your family, or Wanda’s family, have any connections in Denver?’ said Joe.

‘Not that I know of,’ said Vincent. ‘Denver... Denver...’ He let out a breath. ‘Got an old roadie buddy there, guy by the name of Benny Jakes. Good guy, Benny.’

Ren texted Everett: Everything you got on Benny Jakes, roadie, based in Denver.

‘I want you to know Wanda loved those girls very, very much,’ said Vincent. ‘I can’t for the life of me see how it could have gone so wrong.’

They all descended into silence and before long, Vincent Farraday was snoring in his chair.

‘Do you mind if we take a look around?’ said Ren.

‘Don’t mind if we do,’ said Joe. He raised his eyebrows.

Ren and Joe weaved in and out of the rooms in the house. Vincent Farraday had clearly downsized. Two of the rooms were filled with packing boxes, packed by a removals company: LIVING ROOM, KITCHEN, CHLOE’S ROOM, ROBIN’S ROOM.

Ren went into the kitchen, opened the drawers, got a knife, came back in, sliced open some of the boxes.

One of them was filled with bubble-wrapped posters behind glass and framed in black. She opened the first few. They were advertising appearances by VINCENT FARRADAY: COUNTRY STAR! in different venues across Texas. There were three photo albums wrapped in brown paper. Ren opened one of them and flicked through photos of a very handsome Vincent Farraday on stage, with his fans, at radio interviews, at press appearances. He had a big friendly smile, radiated warmth and happiness. She went through all the albums: the last one was a personal one, the most recent, and featured a clean and shiny Wanda Rawlins, their marriage, and soon afterwards, Chloe and Robin. They were pretty girls. And now they were gone.

Ren opened another box. It was filled with girly notebooks.

Journals?

Ren picked one up and flicked through it. On the inside cover it said: This Belongs to Chloe Farraday.

She took all the notebooks that had Chloe Farraday’s name inside.

Ren met with Joe in the kitchen.

‘Could Duke Rawlins be looking for Wanda?’ said Ren. ‘Could he use Chloe Farraday for that? Like bait?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Joe. ‘I can’t get a handle on this.’

‘What we’ve got is this song that sounds like Chloe Farraday’s life,’ said Ren, ‘and links her to Jane Doe and Carrie Longman.’

Vincent stirred in the chair as Ren and Joe came back in and sat down.

Joe leaned into him, spoke gently. ‘Mr Farraday, have your daughters ever met Duke Rawlins?’

‘Hell, no,’ said Vincent. ‘They don’t even know he exists, they never knew Wanda’s maiden name, none of that.’

Wanda Rawlins had the type of slate anyone would want to wipe clean: junkie hooker mom of a serial killer son.