What Doesn't Kill Us--A McKenzie Novel by David Housewright (most read books txt) 📗

“Until someone else in the family decides to play DNA detective.”

“Cross that bridge when we get to it, I guess. Honestly, T, I wish I had never opened that box, Pandora’s box. I blame you.”

T snorted as she laughed.

“Yeah,” she said. “I thought it would be fun. Important, even, the idea of being able to trace our family tree. The DNA company tells you that you may learn unexpected things about yourself and your family and that you can’t unlearn them, except it’s all in the small print. They should have warnings like they do on packs of cigarettes—the surgeon general has determined that DNA research can screw up your life.”

“There’s no such thing as privacy anymore,” Deese said. “No such thing as keeping secrets. Everything is available to everyone who knows how to look. In twenty years, fifteen, hell, in ten years privacy won’t even be a word that we use anymore. It’ll become archaic, like dirigible and man-at-arms and political courage.”

“I wonder why Mom did what she did? Was she swept off her feet by some handsome gallant—how’s that for an archaic word? Was she angry at Dad? Was she drunk? Did someone take advantage of her? That’s a possibility, I guess. David, have you given much thought to your—I was going to say father. Birth father, I guess. Who he was, what he did; if he’s still alive?”

“I have. I’d like to know. I’m not sure if I’d do anything with the information once I have it, though. I haven’t decided if I want to reach out to him or his family. I asked a friend to look into it for me, a kind of freelance detective I play hockey with. I don’t know if he’s learned anything yet. Turns out someone shot him last night.”

“You’re kidding.”

“I don’t know if it had anything to do with me or not. There’s a cop at the St. Paul police station, someone else I play hockey with. I might’ve mentioned him. Bobby Dunston?”

T shook her head.

“He said he’d let me know once they have it all figured out. The thing with McKenzie, though; he’s always involved in something.”

They found Elliot Sohm at East Hall, which as the name suggested was located on the eastern side of the campus on the ground floor of the Language and Dining Center; its upper floors hosting the majority of the language courses offered at Carleton. They had arrived just in time. Burton Hall, with its more formal dining-room vibe, continued serving meals until eight P.M. However, East Hall, which looked and sounded like a cafeteria, stopped serving at seven P.M. and most of the students had already departed when Volkert and Shipman arrived.

Shipman recognized Elliot immediately, only not from the video. She recognized her from the image on Volkert’s computer screen. The young woman was seated at a square table facing a floor-to-ceiling window near the beverage station with a fellow student. The student was shoving books into a backpack. Elliot was playing with her cell phone. Volkert found a perch near the entrance where he could see but not hear the conversation. Shipman approached the table.

“Elliot,” she said.

The woman looked up from her phone, a startled expression on her young face.

No, absolutely not the woman captured on the security cameras at McKenzie’s condo, Shipman told herself.

“May I sit down?” she asked.

Shipman pulled out a chair and sat before either of the students could respond.

“I’d like to ask you a few questions if it’s not inconvenient,” she said.

The two women glanced at each other and back at Shipman.

“Who are you?” the fellow student asked.

Shipman studied her only for a moment. The long auburn hair worn in a ponytail gave her away.

“My name is Jean Shipman.” She reached into her pocket and produced the thin wallet that carried her badge and ID. “I’m a homicide detective with the St. Paul Police Department.”

Elliot gasped at the word “homicide” which was exactly why Shipman had used it. She slid the wallet across the table toward the young woman.

“I’m also a friend of McKenzie’s,” she said. “You both know McKenzie, don’t you?”

Elliot opened the wallet cautiously. Unlike Officer Cordova and the security guard, she seemed intensely interested in what she found inside. She stared at it for a moment and pushed the wallet over to her friend. Her friend studied the contents and closed the wallet.

“What do you want?” she asked.

“I’d like to speak to Elliot privately,” Shipman answered.

“No.” Elliot seized her friend’s hand and squeezed tight. “I don’t want her to leave.”

“I’m not going anywhere.” The friend glared at Shipman defiantly. “I’m staying.”

“That’s fine.” Shipman deliberately gave her voice a conspiratorial tone. “Elliot, where were you last night at…”

“Wait.” The friend had lowered her voice, too, and leaned in. After all, they were three women sharing secrets. “Wait a minute. Elliot doesn’t need to answer any questions without a lawyer present. She doesn’t have to answer any questions at all.”

“Don’t be so melodramatic, Emma,” Shipman said. “You are Emma King, aren’t you?”

The two friends glanced at each other some more.

“Emma and Ellie forever, am I right? Listen…” Shipman sought Elliot’s eyes and held on to them. “I could have had the Northfield Police Department drag you out of class, shove you into the back of a patrol car, and drive you to the St. Paul Police Department where I would have interviewed you beneath a single lightbulb inside a bare room about the size of a closet. Or after I arrived here, I could have had one of the campus security guards escort you across the campus to Hoppin House. I didn’t do that because I didn’t want to embarrass you in front of your classmates. I just want to ask a few questions and then I’ll be on my way.”

Shipman shifted her gaze to Emma.

“The fact that you’re talking about hiring lawyers before you even know what those questions are makes me wonder,” she said.

“We’re sorry.” Elliot averted her eyes like