Page 56 of Gone Tonight
But I don’t believe it. I haven’t believed it for one single day of the past twenty-four years.
I walk to the kitchen cupboard and pull out the bottle of Russian vodka I bought last year. I pour a shot and drink it down in one swallow, the burn racing down my throat. My heartbeat finally slows.
I pick up the remote again and force myself to press play.
There’s more background on Coach Franklin’s life. He receives accolades from our former school principal and from his brother, who talks about what a great guitar player Coach was. An old video of Coach strumming the Eric Clapton song “Bad Love” plays.“Your love will keep me alive,”Coach sings.
The video fades into blackness and is replaced by one of James.
He is seated in a courtroom, wearing a suit and tie I didn’t know he possessed, beside a man who must be his lawyer.
“Daniel Franklin’s battered body was found by a night janitor who arrived at the school shortly after the attack. He was barely clinging to life and was taken to Mercy Hospital by ambulance. A short while later, an officer on routine patrol spotted a black Corvette idling in front of a closed restaurant. Upon approaching the driver, the officernoticed blood on his sleeve that was later identified as belonging to Daniel Franklin. James Bates was captured at 12:15 a.m.”
Fifteen minutes past our meeting time of midnight.
James was caught while waiting for me.
The video camera recording of the courtroom shows nineteen-year-old James standing up. The judge asks the jury if they have reached a verdict.
“We have, your honor.” The jury forewoman says, her voice sounding far away and tinny.
The camera zooms in on James’s face as the verdict is read. “We the jury find the defendant, James Andrew Bates, guilty on the charge of murder in the first degree.”
James doesn’t break down or say a word. He doesn’t move a muscle.
A jump cut to a photograph of me alone on the front steps of Oak Hill High, holding a copy ofRomeo and Juliet. I remember that day. I didn’t want to eat in the lunchroom, so I took my Diet Coke and peanut butter sandwich and went outside to read a few pages. One of the student photographers who worked for our school paper must have snapped the shot without me noticing.
A voice-over with Coach singing the lyrics from another line in Clapton’s song plays:“No more bad love…”
The host appears back on the screen. “Ava Morales’s blue Dodge Dart was discovered in the parking lot of a Denny’s restaurant the day after the attack. She has never been located.”
Brittany is back. “I know, deep in my heart, that James killed Ava.” Brittany’s eyes well up. “And I swear to you, he killed my cat, too. A neighbor saw his car on my street the night Smokey disappeared.”
She uses her fingertips to swipe beneath her eyes. “James is a psycho. Everyone knows he murdered his stepfather and Coach.”
The host interjects: “Bates was never charged or convicted of killing his stepfather.”
“Oh, comeon. That’s only because there wasn’t enough evidence and James claimed he was asleep in the house. And why wouldn’t Avacome home if she was alive? I’m telling you, James killed her and hid her body somewhere it could never be found.”
“That’s one theory. Another is that Ava was an accomplice.”
The former lead detective on the case replaces Brittany on camera. The printed words below him identify him as a retired homicide detective.
“Ava Morales had a motive. She was angry. She was cut from the Poms squad that very afternoon. Daniel Franklin had humiliated her. He emailed the other members of the team to deliver the news just hours before he was attacked.”
The host frowns. “It seems like a big leap to say a teenage girl would kill her coach over something like that.”
“I’m not saying she didn’t have help.”
“Could someone as young as Ava really go into hiding for this long?”
The retired detective shrugs. “Sure. People do it all the time. Back then, it was a lot easier to evade. We didn’t have facial recognition devices. Surveillance cameras were much rarer. Do you know how many people are missing in this country alone?”
“Hundreds?” the host guesses.
“Thousands.”
The host nods somberly. “If Ava Morales is out there somewhere, here is what she might look like today.”
