Girl, 11 by Amy Clarke (grave mercy TXT) 📗

from, an expensive loose-leaf Darjeeling imported from India that uses a patented fermentation process. Something called Majestic Sterling.

Elle voice-over:

Quick listener note: A local tea expert I interviewed talked to me for over thirty minutes about Majestic Sterling, and I’m sure he’ll be disappointed to know that I didn’t use any of the audio. I’m sorry, but I just couldn’t do that to you, although I’m deeply grateful for his time. I think the most important information he relayed boils down to this (pardon the pun): this is not your run-of-the-mill Celestial Seasonings Darjeeling. Majestic Sterling sells for almost a dollar a gram.

Sykes:

I’m a coffee guy myself, and the science always went over my head, but if you talked to Dr. Forage, you have the best information available. She’s the foremost expert in Hennepin and did the latest round of testing herself. Hates being on any sort of media, but she knows her stuff.

Elle:

As I understand it, the identification of the substance as oolong tea led to the first major debate within the investigative team over what information should be released to the public, and what should be kept secret. Ultimately, you decided to let the public know, hoping it might push someone who was already suspicious of their neighbor or family member into coming forward, isn’t that right?

Sykes:

Yes, that’s right. That was the first moment I can point to in this case where I can say, “That was a mistake.” We should not have done that.

Elle voice-over:

Next time, on Justice Delayed . . .

4

Elle

January 9, 2020

At the kitchen door, Elle told Martín and Sash she’d come right back, and then she raced up to her studio.

She opened the email on her desktop. It contained only one line of text besides the subject—a phone number. She dialed it on her cell and held her breath. On the fourth ring, a man with a Mexican accent said, “Hello?”

“Yeah, hi, this is Elle Castillo from the Justice Delayed podcast.” She glanced at the name on his email. “Is this Leo Toca?”

For a moment, there was no response. She looked down at her phone to see if they got disconnected, but no—the call was still active. “You emailed me a few minutes ago?”

“I know who he is.”

It got hard for Elle to breathe. Is. Both in the email and now on the phone, the man had used the present tense. She tried to keep her voice steady. “How do you know?”

His words spilled out, urgency making them all jumble together. “I knew something was off about him, and then I started listening to your newest season a few days ago, and I realized there were connections with your case. He was in the areas the girls were killed. He has that fancy tea in his house they found on that one girl’s clothes. I’m sure of it. I have the evidence, but I knew no one would believe me. That’s why I called you—you’ve got to help before it’s too late for her.”

“Leo, please, slow down. Too late for who?”

Another few seconds of silence went by, and then: “When can you meet me?”

Elle’s voice was hoarse. “Now. Right now. Do you live in the Cities? Let’s meet at a Perkins or something.”

“No, I . . . Please, you need to come to me. My apartment’s in St. Paul. It’s not safe for me to leave my house.”

Her brain did a quick calculation, weighing the risk of meeting a strange man at his home against not getting what could be a critical lead.

“Why don’t you feel safe? Tell me what’s happening. This is serious; you had better not be fucking with me.” She bit her lower lip, regretting how aggressive the last sentence sounded. Dealing with fake tips was part of this job. So was dealing with nervous informants.

“In an hour. Meet me in an hour, and I’ll give you everything you need to know to catch him.” He rattled off an address on Hamline Avenue and hung up.

For a moment, Elle sat at her desk with the phone still clutched to her ear. Then she set it down and opened her internet browser.

There were a few social media accounts for guys named Leo Toca in the Twin Cities area, but only two who had loose enough privacy settings for her to get a look at their profiles. One was an abuelo with a brood of grandkids surrounding him in his profile picture—definitely not the guy on the phone. The other was thirty-five years old and worked two part-time jobs, one as a janitor at a local university, the other as a mechanic in a shop on Snelling. Moving on to Google, a news report from last year caught her eye: Leo’s name alongside his business partner’s, Duane Grove, from when they appeared in court accused of running a chop shop. They were acquitted; the only reason it made the news was because one of the cars they were accused of stripping for parts belonged to a local politician. Since that trial, it seemed like he had kept a low profile.

Someone knocked on her studio door. Elle stood up, flicked off the light to hide the crime scene photos on the wall, and opened the door.

Natalie stood in the hall, one braid threaded through her fingers. “Mom said to tell you it’s time for cake.” She tried to look past Elle into the dark room. “Are you working on your podcast?”

“Sort of, yes. Sorry, I know I shouldn’t on your birthday.” Elle put her hand on top of Natalie’s head, smoothing her perfect part. They started back down the hall.

“Doesn’t it make you sad, working on cases where people hurt kids?”

Elle winced. Natalie was aware of what Elle did, just like she knew the fascinatingly macabre information about Martín’s job. But just as she would never be allowed in the morgue, Elle did her best to keep the girl out of the podcast studio where all her crime scene photos and case notes were stuck