Womens Murder Club - 07 - 7th Heaven Read Free Page B

said, touching her chest with the flat of her palm. “And I knew about his heart, of course, but I hoped it would pass.” And then she broke down, put her arms on the table, her head in her arms, and sobbed as though she’d really cared. “He got worse,” Junie choked out. “He was saying, ‘Call my dad,’ but I couldn’t move. I didn’t know how to call his father. And if I had, what would I say? That I was a prostitute? His dad was Governor Campion. He would’ve put me in jail forever. “So I held Michael in my arms and sang to him,” Junie told us. “I hoped he’d start to feel better,” she said, lifting her tearstained face. “But he got worse.”
    Chapter 7

    THE MUSCLE TWITCHING in Conklin’s jaw was the only outward sign that he was as stunned by Junie’s confession as I was. “How long did it take for Michael to die?” he asked Junie Moon. “I don’t know. Maybe a couple of minutes. Maybe a little more. It was awful, awful,” Junie said, shaking her head at the memory. “About then, that’s when I called my boyfriend.” “You called your boyfriend?” I shouted. “Is he a doctor?” “No. But I needed him. And so Ricky came over, and Michael had passed away by then, so we put him into the bathtub. And then Ricky and I talked for a long time about what to do.” I wanted to scream, You moron! You might have saved him! Michael Campion might have lived. I wanted to shake her. Slap her bimbo face - so I got a grip on myself, sat back, and let Conklin keep the ball rolling. “So what did you do with his body, Junie? Where is Michael now?” “I don’t know.” “What do you mean, you don’t know?” I said, getting up from my chair, making a racket with it, taking a couple of laps around the table. Junie started speaking quickly, as if by talking fast she’d get to the end of her story and it would all be over. “After a few hours, Ricky decided to cut up his body with a knife. It was the most horrible thing I could ever imagine - and I grew up on a farm! I was throwing up and crying,” Junie said, looking as though she might do it now. I pulled out my chair again, put my butt in the seat, determined not to scare the little hooker even as she shocked me to the bone. “But once we started cutting, there was no way back,” Junie said, pleading to Conklin with her eyes. “I helped Ricky put Michael’s body into about eight garbage bags, and then we piled the bags into Ricky’s truck. It was like five in the morning. And no one was around.” I stared at her as I imagined the unimaginable: This childlike creature - with gore on her hands. The body of Michael Campion in bloody chunks. I heard Conklin say, “Go on, Junie. We’re with you. Get it all off your chest.” “We drove up the coast a few hours,” Junie said, now telling the story as if she were recalling a dream. “I fell asleep, and when I woke up, Ricky was saying, ‘This is the end of the line.’ We were parked in the back of a McDonald’s, and there were some Dumpsters back there. “That’s where we left the garbage bags.” “What town? Do you know?” I asked. “Not really.” “Think,” I snapped. “I’ll try.” Junie gave us her boyfriend’s name and address, and I wrote it all down. Rich passed her a pad of paper and asked her if she’d like to make her statement official. “Not really,” she said, seeming empty and exhausted. “So . . . will you drive me home now?” “Not really,” I repeated back at her. “Stand up and put your hands behind your back.” “You’re arresting me?” “Yes. We are.” Even on the tightest notch, the cuffs were loose around her wrists. “But - I told you the truth!” “And we appreciate it,” I said. “Thank you very much. You’re under arrest for tampering with evidence and interfering with a police investigation. That should hold you for now.” Junie was crying again, telling Conklin how sorry she was and that it wasn’t her fault. I was scanning