Say You're Sorry

Lance scanned the property. “I guess Mrs. Voss hasn’t had time to mow the lawn.”

Morgan gathered her tote. “If one of my neighbors had grass that high, Grandpa would be at their door asking if everything was all right. Then he’d have seen to the grass.”

“Either this isn’t that kind of neighborhood or Mrs. Voss isn’t that kind of neighbor.”

Two doors down from the Vosses’, a garage door opened and a man emerged to fetch his garbage can from the curb.

“Let’s find out.” Morgan got out of the car.

She and Lance walked toward the neighbor. The sky was overcast, and the lack of sunlight made the morning feel cool.

“Hello,” she called.

The neighbor was middle aged. He wore khaki pants and a blue polo shirt with the logo for an electronics store on the chest.

Morgan made the introductions. “Do you know the Vosses?”

“I’m Ned Burke,” the neighbor said. “I know them just enough not to want to get closer. They aren’t very friendly, and the husband is a hothead. I just moved in last March. Couldn’t open my windows. The whole neighborhood could hear them fighting. It’s been quieter since he moved out. I heard he completely lost his shit. Doesn’t surprise me.”

“Have you seen Dean since?” Morgan asked.

“Yes.” The neighbor nodded. “He came a couple of weeks ago to bang on her door. I went outside to ask him to keep it down, and he told me if I didn’t mind my own fucking business, he’d make me.”

Lance didn’t like the image of Voss he was forming in his head, a man with a violent temper who’d been trained to hurt people. “What happened?”

“I called the police.” The neighbor huffed. “They didn’t respond for fifteen minutes. He continued to harass his wife until he heard the sirens. Then he took off.”

“Have you talked to Mrs. Voss recently?” Morgan asked.

“No. I’m staying out of it.” The neighbor pulled a set of keys from his pocket. “I have to get to work.”

“Thanks for the help.” Lance handed the neighbor a business card. “If you see Dean around, would you give us a call?”

The man tucked it into his pocket. “Sure. Right after I call the cops. But if I were you, I wouldn’t be looking for Dean Voss. That man is nuts.”

The uniform was standing outside his car when they walked back toward Voss’s house.

“Can I see some ID?” the rookie asked.

Lance pulled his license from his wallet. “Don’t you remember us?”

“I still need your license number.” The rookie took Morgan’s ID as well. “Wait here.” He took their IDs back to his car. He returned a few minutes later and handed their documents back to them. “Thank you.”

Morgan and Lance went to the door. Lance pressed the doorbell. The window curtains to the left shifted. A few seconds later, the door opened as far as the chain would allow. A woman’s thin face appeared in the gap.

“Mrs. Voss?” Morgan asked.

The woman’s nod was uncertain and full of suspicion. “Who are you?”

Morgan introduced them. “Can we ask you a few questions about your husband? We had an encounter with him a few days ago.”

“You’re the people he shot at?” Mrs. Voss asked.

“Yes,” Morgan said.

The door closed, the chain scraped, and Mrs. Voss opened the door wide. “I suppose I owe you a few minutes.”

“Thank you.” Morgan stepped over the threshold.

The living room was dark, the curtains and blinds closed.

Mrs. Voss led them into a tiny but tidy kitchen. The vinyl floor was spotless and the countertops gleamed in the overhead light. A spray bottle of cabinet cleaner and a pile of rags sat on the floor. She sat at a round oak table and folded her hands in front of her, their skin red and irritated.

“I don’t know what to do, so I clean.” She rubbed at her knuckles. “I’ve been afraid to leave the house, even though the police are following me everywhere. Yesterday, I went to the store. I was so scared, I barely managed to get milk and bread before I had to leave.”

“There’s a police officer right out front.” Morgan slid into the seat next to her.

Mrs. Voss blew out a quick breath. “They don’t know Dean. If he wants to get me, one uniformed officer won’t be able to stop him.”

“You don’t have to convince us that he’s dangerous,” Morgan said. “He tried to kill us.”

Mrs. Voss shook her head. “If Dean wanted to kill you, you’d be dead.”

“How good of a marksman is Dean?” Lance leaned on the counter. He’d suspected Voss had intentionally missed them.

“Dean hits what he aims at. Every time.” Mrs. Voss rubbed her hands together.

“Has your husband always been violent?” Morgan asked.

Mrs. Voss plucked a tissue from the box and blotted her eyes. Her voice grew harsh. “No. This all started last winter, when that little bitch accused him of kissing another student.”

Morgan leaned her forearms on the table. “You don’t think Dean was guilty?”

“Dean has his issues, but he would never be inappropriate with a student.” Mrs. Voss met Morgan’s gaze, then Lance’s. She might be frightened of her husband, but she was equally sure he hadn’t made advances toward his student. “Under all his delusions, Dean is a good man. A moral man.”

“But you’re afraid of him now?”

“You don’t understand. The Dean that’s running around town in a state of paranoia isn’t really him.” Mrs. Voss leaned back, crumpled her tissue in her hand, and hugged her waist. “Dean came back from Iraq a changed man. Whatever happened over there destroyed him. But he went to therapy. He talked to other vets. He worked damned hard to pull himself together for the whole first year. When he felt steady enough, he applied for his teaching certificate. He’d gotten his master’s degree in history while he was in the service.”

More tears formed, and she dabbed at her eyes and nose. “He loved teaching. It gave him purpose. He loved the kids, and the kids seemed to love him back. I thought he’d made it. The nightmares had stopped. He was actually sleeping through the night. The longer he worked at the school, the more like his old self he became.”

She paused again. A small shudder shook her body, then a sigh. “Then that girl went to the principal and said she’d seen him kissing another girl. Dean denied the accusation, and so did Ally Somers, the girl he was accused of kissing. There was no proof. None. Except that one statement from Kimmie Blake. But his reputation was tarnished, and his career over. He quit. After that, depression hit him hard. He became volatile. He refused to go back into therapy. It was too much. He’d already remade himself once. He couldn’t do it again. He sank from depression into paranoia.”

Mrs. Voss went silent.

“Does your husband ever mention Tessa Palmer or Jamie Lewis?” Morgan asked.

“I don’t think so,” Mrs. Voss said. “Of course, I know Tessa’s name from the news.”

“Has your husband ever mentioned a man named Zachary Menendez?” Lance asked.

Mrs. Voss shook her head. “No. Why?”

“We thought they might have served together in the military,” Lance explained, disappointed. An established connection between Voss and Menendez would have simplified matters, but Mrs. Voss’s denial didn’t totally rule it out.