Don't Slay the Dragon (The Chronicles of Elizabeth Marshall Book 1) (5 page)

Chapter Nine

Obviously, he’d saved this in case I argued her innocence.  It was a graphic photo of the murder scene.  I tried to concentrate on the surroundings first, giving myself a chance to adjust to the vivid picture.  I recognized the tiny kitchen/dining room in the crowded, single-wide trailer.  I remembered the ancient metal dining table and chairs, a throw-back to the 1960s.  There was hardly room for two people to eat in the small area.  When I would eat over they had to really re-arrange things for a guest at the table.

My eyes slowly moved across the picture to the body sprawled half on a metal chair, half on the tired yellow linoleum floor.  There was no mistaking Barbara’s face.  She had aged rapidly since I had seen her last.  The lines in her face etched deeper
, the facial skin looser.  Her head was tilted back, hazel eyes staring blankly upward in death.  Her long red-brown hair, graying at her forehead and temples, lay draped over the chair and floor, mixing with the blood pooled beneath her.  She had on a flowery, teal blouse and matching skirt, billowy and loose, spotted by dark red stains from the stab wounds.  I wasn’t going to take the time to count them, but reports had said there were thirteen.  Most seemed superficial to her upper arms or legs.  One was right over her chest, the fatal wound to her heart.  Was there any significance to the number thirteen?

Oddly, considering the violence of the scene, she had a somewhat peaceful look on her face.  It was the one thing I thought out of place.

I pushed the photo back across the table towards the lawyer and closed my eyes, pinching the bridge of my nose, wanting to erase the image that now seemed burned in my mind.

“What about the weapon, the knife?”  I asked.

“Found at the scene, on the floor next to the victim.  It was a steak knife, probably used at dinner.  They’d just eaten, chicken fried steak.  Elizabeth’s finger and handprints were a match.”

I tried not to squirm at the mention of the chicken fried steak and
the steak knife.  They brought back eerie echoes of a dinner I had shared with them one night in the past.  I tried to shake off the memories and concentrate on the current case.

“Which hand was used?”  I opened my eyes and searched his face.

Mark seemed a bit startled by the question.  His eyebrows rose and he answered me cautiously.

“Her right hand.  Why would you ask?”

How much should I tell him?  I had spent more time with Lisbeth and the “family” than even her doctors.  One thing I had learned, different members of the family had different physical characteristics, such as favoring their right or left hand.  To me, it made a difference.

“How much do you know about Elizabeth and her background?”  I asked, afraid that he had only been told the worst.

“To tell you the truth, little to nothing.”  He shrugged his shoulders as I sat there in shock.  How could you defend a suspect against such charges and know nothing about their background, especially one as potentially damaging as hers.

“What about the state hospital in Provo.  There are records from of the last time she was admitted there.  Didn’t you read those records?  Talk to the staff
, the doctors?”  I know I sounded defensive, but how much had fallen through the cracks on this case?   “It’s been nine or ten years but there still has to be some members of the staff that will remember her.”

He shook his head.
“I wouldn’t have even known she had a history of mental illness if I hadn’t interviewed her mother’s neighbors back at the trailer court.  They didn’t tell me much, just that she was ‘crazy’.  It was actually her high school records that mentioned she had spent some time in the state mental hospital her senior year.  I went down to the state hospital to find out what I could.  It was very frustrating.  There was an administration change at the hospital about seven years back.  Records were moved, converted from file folders to computers.  During the change the computers crashed, lost a number of medical records.  Elizabeth Marshall’s records were one of those lost.  They also did a complete staff change.  There were allegations of patient abuse and over-medication.  No one currently there was on staff during her first stay.”

My estimation of Mark improved a notch.  Perhaps he was
digging into this case deeper than I had first thought.

“I even tried searching out some of the former staff members, but the hospital cited confidentiality and wouldn’t release any of their names.
”  He ran a hand through his thinning hair in aggravation. “She hasn’t said a word about her past since she’s been in Provo.  They see her as a patient, a potential suspect, that went into some kind of catatonic state after the death of her mother.  There is no extended family except her biological father in New Mexico.  You probably already know he hasn’t had anything to do with her since she was a baby. The person that probably knew her best is dead now.  I thought I was at a complete dead end.  Until she mentioned you.”

He looked at me with pleading brown eyes, waiting for my reply.

“The case for her doesn’t look very good, does it?”  I asked.

He shook his head, dejected. “Very rarely have I seen more damning evidence.  It’s a guilty verdict if I ever saw one.” 

“I thought you were supposed to be the person defending her.”  I argued.

“That’s my point, Caitlyn.  How can I really put together a good defense for her if I don’t know all the facts?  If I don’t know her entire background?  I need a complete picture of her to know how best to protect her.”

His pleading was wearing down my resistance.  He really did seem to have Lisbeth’s best interests at heart.  Despite the politics, he did act as though he cared about her as a client if not a person.

“She said you could help me, Caitlyn.”  He pressed me again.  “What can you tell me?” 

I measured my next words carefully.
  Would they help her or condemn her?  A silent battle waged within my head.  I had always been protective of her, her past and her medical history.  Even my own family had only known bits and pieces of what had happened.  They would never understand just how complex the situation was with her. I’d told very few people the entire story about her, about who and what she really was.  It was so hard to trust another person with this.

“When Elizabeth was seventeen, during her senior year of high school, she had a mental breakdown.  Barbara had her admitted to the psych ward and evaluated.  They sent her down to Provo for further evaluation.  There she was diagnosed as being bi-polar and
with dissociative identity disorder.  Back then they called it multiple personality disorder.  At last count they had diagnosed twenty-seven different personalities.  I knew each one of them.”

Chapter Ten

That year of high school, when I was a sophomore and Lisbeth was a junior, was a memorable one for several reasons.  The worlds of fantasy and imagination were being left behind as stress and the reality of our coming adulthood loomed before us.  Decisions needed to be made.  What college did we want to go to?  Should we stay close to home or go to school across the country or even abroad?  We were both reliant on scholarships, so grades and national testing were a high priority.

Our friendship stayed intact but our time spent together was inconsistent. 
She was very busy pursuing her interest in martial arts.  Barbara took classes with her, probably more to keep involved in her daughter’s life than because she had a real personal interest.  It was hard for the mother to keep up and compete with a younger, more physically fit daughter.  AP and college prep classes also took up a great deal of her time.  Her goal of a scholarship into an Ivy League school was a strong focus in her life.

School was a
lso more challenging for me.   Adding to that the new attention from boys, dating and social events, and our schedules often conflicted.

That year I began noticing more differences in Lisbeth.  There were a few small changes I had noticed before, such as her tendency to change her name frequently on a whim or a mood.  At first, I thought it was just another colorful aspect of her personality. 
It was kind a fun game between us to see what name she wanted to be called from one day to the next. 

When she called herself Beth Ann i
t was usually when she was studying or talking about which major university had contacted her recently.  Sometimes, when she was frustrated with her mother and her controlling ways she would call herself Jade.  Jade could be stubborn and inflexible.  She carried around a great deal of anger towards her mother and absentee father. 

When she competed in the numerous martial arts tournaments she used the name Vesper.  I went to one of her competitions once.  It was strange.  Once she put on her
gi there was a noticeable change in her, even in her physical appearance.  She became so intense, so eerily focused.  If I hadn’t known better, I would have thought her voice deepened and her shoulders broadened.  She was almost undefeated in any category she competed in.  I think the intimidation factor played a major role in that.

             
If there was a certain boy that gave her attention, she suddenly became shy and awkward.  All the confidence I saw in her karate and her education disappeared.  Bethany was what she called herself then.  She was very insecure, mostly around the opposite sex.  It was almost like she went back to being a twelve-year-old all over again.

To me, she was always Lisbeth, the first name I knew her by.
Lisbeth, the talented artist, the gifted writer.  The bright, shining girl living more often in the glittering world of fantasy than in this drab reality.  Lisbeth who could always make me laugh, who would flash that mischievous grin and make you feel like you were a part of her inside world.

Her moods would swing rapidly too.  One moment we would be peacefully studying in the junior hallway and so
meone would walk by, say an off-hand remark about her hair, and she would fly off the handle and go on the attack.

One time, on a quiet early morning, I was at my locker, cleaning out assignments
that had already been graded.  Lisbeth would use my locker on occasion because it was close to a calculus class she had.  She came by to exchange one class’s books for another, moody and silent as she sometimes was.  I had moved aside for her as she rifled through her things.  Fully involved with looking for a missing assignment, she had her back to the hall, and didn’t see Mr. Randall, her calculus teacher, walk up behind her and wish her a good morning.

With light
ning speed, she crouched low and brought her elbow sharply back with the full force of her arm and shoulder behind it.  It connected with Mr. Randall’s soft stomach with such an impact that it took his breath away and brought him to his knees, leaving him gasping for air and speechless. 

Once Lisbeth turned around and saw what she had done, her face turned into a blotchy red and she broke down into a wave of apologies. 

Looking back, I think Mr. Randall was too embarrassed to tell anyone about it.  I knew Lisbeth spent the rest of the term sweating out whether her first period teacher was going to fail her in calculus after what happened.

That’s what it was like being around
Lisbeth. A calm, focused student one moment, a high-strung combatant the next with lethal moves and reflexes.   

There were other subtle changes I noticed too.  More than just her name would change with her moods.  When her moods were good, peaceful, calm, she wrote with her right hand.  The handwriting might vary, from a childish scrawl to a flowing cursive, but always with her right hand.  When she was
frustrated, stressed about school or a test, or angry at her mom, she wrote with her left hand.  It was a sharp, heavy slant, messy and sometimes unreadable.

I pointed it out to her once, the changes in her handwriting and which hand she used.  She just shrugged it off as being ambidextrous.  It was no big deal to her.  Something she had always done.

My other concern was about her memory.  There were times we would talk about something, such as reading a certain book.  We would have an enjoyable conversation about the plot and characters but if I brought it up a day or two later, she would swear that she’d never read the book.  We would make plans to get together for studying or to meet by the river on a bright spring day to draw pictures. She would never show up.  When I asked her later about it, she was adamant that we had never made plans. 

Sometimes I worried that it might be some early form of senility.  I even tried bringing it to her attention a few times, but she would just get angry and I would back off, more intimidated than I was willing to admit by
this new, more angry, more aggressive Lisbeth.

T
he next summer flew by rapidly.  She spent the warm months going to karate tournaments, learning her new love, kick-boxing, and attending conferences for Future Leaders of America.  I spent my time camping and vacationing with my family and enjoying the brief respite from schoolwork.

When the next school year started, the changes in Lisbeth were even more apparent.  Gone were all traces of my fantasy-loving friend.  She was totally immersed in college and martial arts.  She had scored in the top five percent nationally for the PSAT test and scouts from schools such as Harvard and Yale were looking over her school manuscripts.  To my surprise, she decided to set her sights for the U.S.
Naval Academy.  Their requirements for entrance and eligibility for scholarships were very strict.   I never would have thought that Lisbeth would consider the military.  My whimsical, flighty friend never seemed the regimented military type.

Wanting to go to the Academy only increased the stress on an already stressed-out teenager.  She never had time for any social interaction and rarely even had time to chat at school.  The lines of strain became more apparent on her face.  Her body hardened and became more muscular as her martial arts practice became a seven-day-a-week
regimen.  I was concerned it would all become too much for her, that she was nearing the breaking point. 

One day in early April I passed her in the hall after an assembly.  She rushed by at her usual hurried pace, so focused on getting to her next class I doubt she even saw me.  I changed direction and sprinted to catch up.

“Lisbeth!”  I called, but she acted as though she never heard me.  “Beth Ann!” Still nothing.  “Bethany!”  I felt like a complete fool, not knowing what name she would respond to.  Finally, I caught up to her as she turned to go into her AP English class.  “Lisbeth?”

Her face was narrow and intense.
She seemed entirely focused on getting to her class.  When I came to stand directly in front of her it was as though a dark cloud cleared her vision and the sun came out.  An easy smile curled her mouth and she relaxed as though she had all the time in the world.

“Hey, Caitlyn,” she grinned. 
“Haven’t seen you in a while.  How are things going?”

I stopped in my tracks at the abrupt change in her.  It always threw me off for a moment when she did an about face like this.

“I’m doing good, just trying to keep up with school.”  I shrugged.  “We haven’t talked for a while.  I was just wondering how you were doing.  Have you found out yet if you got accepted into the Academy?”

A little muscle ticked in the corner of her right eye.  I wouldn’t have noticed it if I hadn’t known her so well.  I could tell that she was fighting to keep from showing her frustration.

“Not yet,” she seemed to want to say more but changed the subject instead.  “Mom’s been bugging me to invite you over for dinner soon.  Can you come over this weekend?  Maybe Saturday?”

“Sure.” 
Mom?  She never called her mother “Mom”.  It was either “Barbara”, “That Woman” or if she was really angry at her “The Dragon”.

We made arrangements for dinner the following weekend.  I remember being really excited to use my new driver’s license and borrow my mom’s new SUV for the occasion.  I looked forward to a simple but nice meal and getting caught up with both Lisbeth and Barbara.  Little did I know that I would learn far more that night than I bargained
for.  Or that that night would strangely echo a night ten years into the future when Barbara would lose her life.