Page 22 of What She Saw

“Think anyone cares now? Most folks have bigger fish to fry. How many millions of people have died or gone missing in the last thirty-one years? The price of gas or groceries trumps this story.”

“I disagree. Stories like this tend to distract people from their everyday world.”

“You write to remind people that someone else has it worse off than them?”

“Something like that.”

“There’s not much I can do for you, Sloane. It’s been thirty-one years, and the chance of finding any traces of those bodies is slim to none.” His voice wrapped me in a patronizing, fluffy ball.

“Time can shake loose facts and confessions. New information can solve cold cases.”

“I don’t know who you’d talk to.”

“You’re my first. I was hoping you could tell me a little about that weekend. You were right there at ground zero.”

“I was there.”

“From what I read you were a big help to Sheriff Taggart.” There was no rule that said I had to tell the truth.

“I was. Sheriff Taggart and I worked as a team.”

“You weren’t looped into the festival planning?”

“No. The old sheriff did the bulk of it. It was a done deal when Taggart accepted the job. The planning committee was more worried about posters and concessions than security.”

“Can you tell me about the first few hours of the festival?”

“They were the easiest. Weather was warm and the skies clear. The bands and vendors were arriving, but it was orderly at that point.”

“But . . .”

“Taggart wanted to make a last-minute request to the state police for extra men. But Mayor Briggs was a cheap son of a bitch, and he would nickel-and-dime the event to the very end.”

“What about Woodward Security?”

“I made calls for hours about Woodward. They were a new outfit and had no track record. Their rates were the cheapest in the state. When I arrived, I didn’t see any of their guys.”

“When you testified at the trial, you said Tristan Fletcher was the first victim you saw at the festival.”

“She was issuing wristbands to staff and attendees.”

“What do you remember about her?”

“She wore cutoff jeans and a halter top. I didn’t recognize her, and it wasn’t till later that I realized she would be one of the missing.”

I’d seen pictures taken of Tristan that day. The cutoff jeans hugged her butt, and the halter top put her breasts on full display. “I’ve seen pictures of her. Terrific figure.”

He stilled, as if imagining that tight body swaying. “She was pretty.”

“Lots of good-looking girls at the festival.”

“Yeah.”

I’d seen hundreds of festival pictures. One captured Paxton in uniform along with a couple of young girls passing him. The girls were wearing shorts and ripped T-shirts that skimmed full breasts. In the image, a tall blonde was looking back at him and smiling. Paxton’s gaze was locked on her breasts—or, as he said in court, the long line of her neck.

“Who approved the tents?” At least a dozen campers had set up pup tents on the edge of the field. Most were patched and covered in dirt, as if they’d seen their share of camping trips.

“I’m not sure. Taggart and I didn’t.”