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She nods and I delve in, asking her to tell me the whole story again, from the beginning. I’m listening both for the details and for her consistency with what she told me from her hospital bed. I want her story to be consistent, but not necessarily exact. As much as people want to believe that traumatic things like this are so etched into memory that anyone talking about them will give the exact same details every time, this actually isn’t the case.
It’s much more likely for victims and witnesses to mix up the details, remember new things, forget some details, and tell things slightly differently each time they are questioned. Their story should have enough continuity that the core remains the same and they feel reliable. If it is too much the same, it can be a sign of being coached or having rehearsed their story. I still don’t want to believe Lisa might have had anything to do with this, but I have to keep all of the options open. Listening to how she tells me the story and what she has to offer during this interview could either help to further clear her name or cast suspicion on her.
She tells the story naturally, looking at the table in front of her rather than at me. I’m convinced she’s telling the truth. This was a shock to her. It wasn’t something she was expecting to happen or that she knows more about than she’s telling me. I believe I can trust her.
It isn’t an absolute evaluation. I’m good at what I do. I like to think I read people accurately a high percentage of the time. But there’s a reason there are so many unsolved murders and cases that take years or even decades to solve. People who are capable of lying well can create a narrative that feels so real it’s almost impossible to detect. I can be wrong. I have been wrong. I don’t think I am with her.
We’ve gone over everything she’s already told me and I’m about to dig deeper into what she knows about Mike when Garrison comes into the room withoutknocking.
“I’m doing an interview right now,” I tell him, trying to relay with my tone that we need privacy.
Lisa visibly stiffens the moment Garrison steps into the room. She doesn’t feel as at ease with him there. Maybe it’s because he’s wearing a suit that makes him look stern and intense, and maybe it’s because he’s a man. After what she went through, it wouldn’t be completely out of the realm of understanding for her to be more defensive and uncomfortable around men for a while. Possibly even for the rest of her life.
That’s not something she needs when she is already going through the stress and pressure of talking about this again. I need her to feel as safe and comfortable as possible so that she can open up and share with me anything that comesup.
“I understand. I’m sorry for interrupting, but I need to speak with you, AgentGriffin.”
He tilts his head toward the hallway outside the room and I look at Lisa and hermother.
“Could you excuse me for just a second? I’ll be rightback.”
I set the pad of paper with my notes on the cushion of the chair where I was sitting, flipping it over and setting the pen on top. Detective Garrison has already walked out of the room and I find him pacing a short distance up and down the hallway when I step out and shut the door.
“What’s going on?” Iask.
“Dispatch just got a 911 call from a gas station near Camp Hollow. A motorist found a girl lying on the side of the road. He said it looks like she crawled out of thewoods.”
I go back into the room with Lisa and her mother. “I’m so sorry to do this, but I’m going to have to cut this short. There’s been an emergency. Can I get in touch with you and continue this anothertime?”
They nod and I thank them as I rush out and follow Garrison jogging down the hall and out to his car. We hop in and are racing from the lot before I can even get my seatbelt in place.
The drive out to the camp is tense. Neither of us says anything. It’s like we don’t want to even try to put words to the moment, to the thoughts racing through our heads. It’s not a long drive, but it feels stretched out until the minutes are thin enough to snap at the brush of a finger. We finally arrive to the flash of ambulance lights and a barricade of uniformed officers who got here moments before us.
“What do we have?” Garrison barks as we duck under the police line and hurry over to where EMTs are tending to a person on the ground, lifting them carefully to put them on abackboard.
“White female. Looks to be about nineteen, maybe twenty years old. Some outward signs of injury,” an officer replies.
We push through the crowd and his feet stop short beneath him so it almost looks like he’s going to fall over. He stares down at the girl lying on the board, her eyes closed but her breath steady.
“It’s MirandaHughes.”
“Where isshe?”
A young man I recognize as the counselor named Holden bursts into the hallway and runs toward us, his eyes wild. Garrison stops in front of him and puts his hands on his chest to push him slightlyback.
“The doctors are with her right now. You’ll be able to see her when they’re finished,” hesays.
“I want to be with hernow. She shouldn’t have to be in there alone. Not after everything she’s been through,” he demands. “I’m her boyfriend. I should be in there comfortingher.”
“And you can be once the doctors say so,” Garrison tells him, his voice calm andsteady.
Holden lets out an exasperated sound and whirls around, his hands clenching at his sides. He looks like he’s trying to find something to smash or to kick just to let out some of the anxious energy filling him. I step up to him and put my hand on hisback.
“Come on. Let’s go get something cold to drink. It’ll give them a little time to finish up with Miranda,” I tellhim.
He nods and I steer him toward the elevator. We get inside and he leans his forehead against thewall.
“Do you know anything? How is she? Is she okay?” he asks.
