The Devil is in the Details

I was sixteen years old when they found the six bodies underneath our living room floor. I’m not one to share personal details – mostly because I have a tendency to run my mouth and say too much – but I think about that night often. Usually as I’m just crawling into bed, in that time between hazy wakefulness and deep rest. Which, if I’m being honest, I’ve never been the greatest sleeper anyway. I’m at my most productive at night. And as a result, I spend a lot of time staring up at the ceiling, contemplating if it will be the night I spill all the messy details to some reporter that’s trying to make it big. But then I think: the media has already had their fun with my family. And their exuberant reporting, rightly or wrongly, landed my good name in the history books by the time I turned seventeen. 

If I were to set the record straight, it would go a little something like this: I can’t forget that sound. It’s one of the most haunting things about that night, the thing I can’t quite shake. And it has followed me my entire life. 

Thud, thud, thud, thud. 

It was a hand at our front door, pounding incessantly. 

It sent shockwaves from the top of my head to the tips of my toes. I broke out in a cold sweat, realizing that the swirl of blue and red lights outside my window, paired with the pounding at the door, meant one thing: the police. 

My mother, who was notorious for sleeping through just about everything, raced into the hallway. And through the crack of my door, I could see her standing at the top of the stairs, hand to chest. She was wearing her favorite silky pink nightgown, the one that grazed the floor as she walked. She always looked like she was floating when she wore it. But in that moment, it dragged behind her in a fury. 

Thud, thud, thud, THUD.

My panic didn’t keep my curiosities at bay; I jumped down from my bed and padded toward the door. I peered out, waiting for what came next. 

My mother’s voice was the first to break through the weighted silence. What is it, what do you want, she said. Then came a series of sentences that melted together – talk of my father, where he was, my mother questioning if he got into an accident, then a firm voice asking who was home. My mother’s distress soared another octave. She demanded they call their commanding officer so she could talk to him or her directly. I had never seen her so angry before. 

I peered over the banister to find the two officers – standing on either side of my mother – in the entryway. You have no right, my mother yelled. One of the officers mumbled something to her. Then, she called out for me and my younger brother, Rob. 

I didn’t want to descend those stairs; when the police are involved, a bad ending always follows. And I wasn’t ready for my bad ending. 

“It’s alright,” he said, lifting his palm to us and gesturing to come down to the landing. With my brother under my arm, I took that first step down. 

And stepped right into hell. 

They ambushed my father when he came home – tackled him as soon as he came through the door. Poor guy didn’t even notice the two cop cars parked outside because he had spent the last few hours pounding down gin and tonics. 

While Robby was watching TV in the living room, I snuck around the corner, walked down the hallway and positioned myself outside the kitchen door. For some reason, the police thought the best place to question him was where we ate our food. 

“Tell me where the bodies are, Jimmy,” one of the officers said. 

“I don’t know,” my father replied. But his voice betrayed him – he couldn’t hide his shakiness.

A grumble of incoherent words, then, more clearly : “Do you even have a warrant to be here?” My mother. She had watched one too many Law & Order episodes over the years. “It’s a reasonable search, probable cause,” said the other officer, his voice much deeper. “Don’t need one when you pose an imminent threat to our community.” 

“You know me. You know my family,” my father said, his voice fumbling on the word “family.” 

“For god’s sake,” my mother yelled. “Don’t say another word, James, we need our lawyer here.” 

“Jimmy. We all know the kind of work you do. And considering the circumstances, I can’t look the other way just ‘cause we’re friends.” 

My father was a scientist – that’s what I told people who couldn’t wrap their head around the industry jargon. But to those who really knew him and his work at the University, he was an expert in forensic and human sciences. Criminal forensics, if we are being precise. He spent his days teaching people about chemical compounds, cleaning and evaluating dead bodies, and the proper techniques to preserve evidence. He was a brilliant man, and an extraordinary teacher. I would know; I’m his kid. And he taught me everything. 

But if anyone knew how to get rid of a body, it was him. 

In the last 12 months, seven university students had gone missing. Four of which were directly enrolled in his graduate forensic seminar. The same faces that flashed across the nightly news had been in our home. They spent time on our front porch. They tossed back a beer or wine while discussing local crime scenes. They ate at our dinner table. Studied in the hammock hanging between two willow trees in our backyard. He was even seen chumming it up with students at happy hours. If it wasn’t clear already: my father loved his students. Adored them, actually. To the point where he treated them like his own children. Even though they weren’t. 

“Did you really think people wouldn’t notice, Jimmy?” An officer asked.

Everyone noticed, I thought. How could you not? 

Tell us, they pleaded. It’s time, they said. Where are they? We have to bring them home. You don’t need to hold this secret anymore, Jimmy. 

I have to admit that even though it’s been 20 years since that night, their certainty in that moment still makes my blood boil. They had such confidence in their accusation and so little to show in the way of proof. Because let’s be honest, a close relationship with a student is a pretty loose thread when it comes to tying someone to murder. 

Unfortunately, my father was at his limit for keeping secrets. 

“They’re under the living room floor,” he said. 

At that moment, I fell forward, spilling onto the kitchen floor. I had forgotten just how weak that door was. And I would pay greatly for my curiosity. Because even as I was staring down at the black and white tiles – hoping I was invisible – I could feel the weight of his gaze on me. And when I looked up, our eyes locked. 

I couldn’t breath, couldn’t force my lungs to expand. This was it. This was that moment, the ending that I knew was coming. His eyes told me the only thing I needed to know. 

The details of that night have been bent and twisted by the media. So many stories, so little accuracy. Which is ironic considering the news is supposed to hold itself to the highest level of truth. But I suppose I should give them some grace. They’re only human, and humans get things wrong. 

But I digress. 

My father never spoke another word. Not at the police station. Not in the trial. And definitely not to me. My last moments with my father were spent in observation, while the police pulled my childhood home apart. While they dragged six bodies out from the depths of our foundation.

You know what’s funny? The guilt in his eyes turned to shock. And it got me thinking: did he not predict it would turn out this way? Is this not the ending he imagined – my mother leaving his side, our home being torn apart, his daughter’s presence as it all went down? Was he worried about the woman I would become if he was found guilty? 

I had so many questions. One very important one – but I wouldn’t get to ask it that night. It didn’t take long for a jury to convict him – only three weeks. The finger prints, clothing fibers, and driver’s licenses hiding in our basement were enough to put him in jail for life, without parole. 

And the papers complained it was too easy – that my father was the sloppiest, yet most intelligent killer our town had seen. It was as if he wanted to get caught. One journalist said he was, and I quote, “the only educated, well-versed scientist with a knack for murder and childish mistakes. He wouldn’t have been able to clean up spilled milk.” 

Let’s be clear, my father was no idiot. He was not childish or impulsive. He was kind, warm, and exacting. He was present for everything in my life, showing up to every parent teacher conference, soccer game, and choir concert. He showed great regard for my interests, encouraging me to try anything and everything, even if it was a bit odd. Like when I said I wanted a taxidermy kit and he bought me one the next day. He was a good father. Not a monster. The only thing he was guilty of was spending an increasing amount of time with his students. To a point where he started missing family dinners. And school events. Then birthdays. 

But tabloids don’t want to hear about the happy shit. They want the darkest parts of a family tragedy. They beg to hear about the warning signs, the late nights. How he protected the specifics of his work, holding the details of his day job like a precious piece of blown glass. They wanted to know about those nights my father caught me in his laboratory, poking around and playing with his chemicals and tools. Or the panic in his eyes when he saw me playing in his sacred space. A place I was never allowed to explore on my own.

Or they might have been more interested in how he hated when I spent too much time with his students. How I asked so many questions, got too close to young men that were twice my age. Certainly that detail would have popped in the tabloids. 

But I never gave an interview to the press. Actually, I never spoke to anyone about my childhood, or what was left of it after my mother slipped into a state of catatonic depression and my brother went to live with my uncle. Considering how fast people turned on my father and how much my life had imploded, I figured the best way to stay under the radar was to keep a tight lip. And once I turned 18, I moved to a completely different coast. Changed my name. Dyed my hair. Curated a new life. 

But a new identity doesn’t erase the truth. It can’t kill biology or erase the girl that was. Is. History can’t be escaped in cases like this. And my history called to me. Over and over again. Even after I got married, had two children, and started a new job as a physician's assistant, I still thought about my other life. Before I became this woman named Jennifer. After twenty years, I felt that tiny question nagging at me. 

One flight and a 35 minute Uber later, I was standing just outside the jail that held the man I once called a father. All of those years without exchanging a single word – I couldn’t be sure if he would even agree to see me. But then I remembered the man he was, how much he loved me and adored being a father. 

I willed myself to move and opened the door. I signed in at the visitors desk and waited. Waited for the guard to come out and say that he would see me. Hours passed without a word, which chipped away at my confidence. But just as I was about to stand up and walk out, the door opened and I was ushered in. 

The room was small – warm from poor air circulation. It smelt of sweat and metal, with a splash of bleach and windex. I’m sure my father hated the swirl of incompatible chemicals. I certainly couldn’t stand it, but I swallowed my pride and sat in the only metal chair that was available. A few moments later, on the other side of the plexi glass wall, he sauntered in. His

gaze was set on the floor, but I could make out the signs of aging on his face, no doubt from stress and time spent around mildewy walls. 

I leaned forward, picked up the phone. I waited for him to do the same. And when he did, he finally looked at me. 

So many years. So many memories between us. And one question. 

“So,” I started, “do you want to know where I hid the seventh body?”