ALEXNDRA JANE DAWSON, A MEMOIR

I grew up in a small town, suffocating. My parents put me in every activity imaginable. To say Greg and Julie (or Jules as she liked to be called), were involved would be to diminish their role as parents. I was an only child born ten years too late, the little egg mixed with a bit of sperm that could. I imagine myself in those first moments of life crawling up my mother's dark hole – I think I can I think I can I think I can – and, of course, I did. Once there I made myself at home for nine long months, kicking her every chance I got. I made her life miserable, as she loved to say, smiling that oh-so-pleasant smile that only people named Jules can pull off. 

I had a rather extraordinary childhood, although this might surprise people. It would probably be easier if I told them I was born of the devil himself, as some would later say, my mother crying as they did. But to their eternal disappointment (and probable terror), I was not. I was born of Jules and Greg, but I called him Gregory; not father, not papa, not dad, nor daddy, just Gregory (give the man the respect he deserves, I say). But I digress. I'm not here to tell about him; I'm here to tell the why of me, what created me what makes me tick. Despite the fact that orange is not my color and concrete is a bit drab, I prefer blood flowing through my veins to the substance in that vial of death they’d prefer was flowing there. And so, to appease the masses and prolong my inevitable demise, I will write my story. I will pick open my scabs until the rawness bleeds through these pages. Then it will be my turn to ask the why of you: what makes you tick?

CHAPTER 1 CHAPTER ONE

I stare out the back patio as the sun goes down behind the plains. Brilliant reds and purples weave together against the mammatus clouds that streak the sky. The musky scent of manure drifts on the breeze bringing with it the bite of winter that is soon to come. A dog howls in the distance as if saying good-bye to the day as darkness finally falls.

I turn and swing open the backdoor that leads to the kitchen. This was my grandmother’s house, but there is precious little left of her between these walls. When it was willed to me, I renovated the entire interior, bottom to top, but for the basement and this patio where I spend almost every evening. Her mucking boots sit as they always did at its exit as if she could come back any moment and slip into them as she makes her way around this old farm, now absent the cows and horses that once grazed its fields.

Inside, the house is lit up. I grab a pre-made salad from the fridge, smother it in Dorothy Lynch dressing, and head into the family room. My book sits dog-eared on the armchair, a glass of red wine already propped on the table beside it. The fireplace is aglow. Wind swooshes down the chimney reigniting lazy flames and sending pops of ember flying up the chute. The smell of the crackling wood and the dried pine needles I use for kindling fill the house. I curl up in the chair, my salad resting on my lap. I gaze around the room, the perfection of it. It took me a full year to renovate and decorate to make this old house my home. Seven years later, I’m still in awe of it. Still content, a feeling I never remember having until moving here.

The phone rings and I realize I’ve left my iPhone in the kitchen. I can picture it vibrating against the polished granite of the countertop. I hesitate, begin to stand, and sit back down. If it’s important they’ll call back.

I take a bite of the salad and lift my book to begin my nightly reading. The phone rings again and I stand from my perch placing my salad next to the untouched wine. Granny Bee may have left me this old farmhouse and the money to renovate it, but not enough to make me independently wealthy. I work freelance as a technical writer, an editor on Scribendi, and during the rough months I talk dirty to bat shit crazy men who jerk off to my voice whilst lying next to their none-the-wiser wives. I never know when or from where my next ‘gig’ will come. If someone is calling twice it may be a job I’m not likely to pass up.

“May I speak with Alexandra Dawson?” the voice on the other end inquires. It’s a female voice, a slight southern accent tinting the edges of her words.

“This is Lexy,” I correct.

“Hi, so good to talk to you. I called earlier and thought I’d just try again.”

I don’t acknowledge her words. 

“Anyway,” the woman continues. “I’m Hope Allen.” She stops at that as if I know her. I don’t.

“From Small Town Mysteries, Solved?” the statement comes out as a question and still I do not respond.

“The show on Netflix,” she clarifies. 

This sparks something, sending my mind spinning as it tries to make a connection. A flash of memory and I know. I’d seen her show come up in the Trending Now section of my Netflix app. I had even hovered over the title to watch a preview. The show that solved small town cold cases. Unlike many of its counterparts it focused on one mystery per season delving into the past with flashback like scenes followed by documentary style commentary and interviews.

“I wanted to ask you some questions about Kimberly Mckenna, and Paula Wilson.”

A tingling sensation crawls up my back and I grab the counter for balance.

“Have I lost you?” she asks. 

“Bad connection,” I mutter.

“Should I call back?”

“No. I can hear you now.”

“As I was saying I’m calling about Kimberly McKenna and Paula Wilson.”

“Who?” The lie of omission slithers from pursed lips. 

“Is this Alexandra Dawson of Lexington Nebraska?”

“Lexy,” I correct again. 

There’s a long pause as if she’s choosing her words carefully.

“Did you know a Kimberly McKenna or a Paula Wilson?”

My mind skitters around the edges of a lie. I could say no. I could hang-up the phone and pretend I never answered. I glance toward the entrance to the room I’ve just left where my salad is now wilting.

“Um, yeah, I’m sorry you caught me off guard. Yes, I knew them both.”

“Paula used to babysit you?” 

“She lived down the street from us.” If I had tried to conjure Paula’s face before the call, I wouldn’t have been able to; now, I can picture every detail of her as if she were standing on the other side of my kitchen island asking me if I want Orville’s popcorn. She would say the Orville with a hard ‘R’ and I would laugh.

“And Kimberly McKenna was a good friend of yours as well, I understand.”

“Kimmy and I were best friends all through school.”

“I’m really sorry for your loss. It must have been hard to lose them both so close together.”

I don’t know the appropriate response and so I remain quiet on the other end as I rip off the top of my thumb nail and dig my teeth into the soft skin that surrounds it.

“The reason I’m calling is that I’d love to schedule a time to talk to you about them. I do a special on Netflix on unsolved cases and this season will be about your friends. I want to assure you that I’m not here to sensationalize the tragedy,”—her voice has picked up speed rushing through a spiel that sounds rehearsed—“but rather to solve a mystery that will provide closure to the friends and family of the victim…or in this case victims.”

“Closure?”

“Yes.”

“How does solving it provide closure? Kimmy and Paula are still gone.” 

“By bringing whoever has done this to justice.”

“They disappeared. Nobody even knows what happened to them.”

Hope Allen coughs on the other end of the phone. “Exactly my point. Without knowing, the family and friends spend their lives trying to figure it out, always wondering what happened. Sometimes the stories they’ve created for themselves are far worse than what really happened.”

“I doubt that,” I say and hear an intake of breath on the other end followed by silence. When I was younger Gregory would teach me the “appropriate” things to say and to do. He taught me how to watch people’s reactions, how to pull back, how to know when to stop talking and when to start. I’m better at it now that I’m older, having had years of practice. But in Hope’s silence I realize my mistake. I’ve spoken when I should be listening. “Never underestimate the power of your silence,” Gregory would say, and I could hear his voice as if he were still alive, as if he were standing right next to me, coaching me again.

“I just think that it seems cruel to bring it all up again.”

“I can assure you that is not my intent,” she says. Her voice has dropped now, slowed, no longer speeding through her rehearsal. “I want to give them the dignity they deserve by telling their story, the real story.”

I want to tell her that there is no dignity in their real story. 

“I think we may have gotten off on the wrong foot,” she says with a lilt in her voice that sharpens her accent. “I really was just calling to see if you’d be willing to talk to me about them, tell me who they really were, help me to paint a picture of them so that people can see the tragedy that this was: two young girls gone missing on the same night, evidence pointing to foul play, but their bodies were never discovered. And as I understand it,” she says dropping her voice again. “You were the last person to see each of them alive.”

No, Hope, I was the last person to see them dead. I would like to hear her reaction to that, but Gregory’s voice is still beside me, whispering the words he knows I need to hear.

I smile into the phone. “When do you want to meet?”

CHAPTER 2 EPISODE ONE

FADE IN: 

The welcome sign to Lexington, Nebraska appears on screen. The camera zooms out and races toward Paula Wilson’s house, stops to take in the picturesque view, and then speeds on toward Lion’s Football Stadium.

Hope Allen 
[Voice Over]

October 12, 2003. Paula Wilson has just returned home from her fourth year of college and heads out of the house with a wave good-bye to her parents, they will never see her again. Kimberly McKenna is a seventeen-year-old senior in high school cheering on the Lexington Lions toward a 21-17 win against their rival school the Ordol Scouts. She promises her cheer squad that she’ll be at the party Matt Larson is having at his house that night. She never arrives.

From the football stadium, the camera pans out to show an aerial view of the city during fall.

Fade to black

The series introduction displays.

The camera dissolves to Hope Allen sitting in a blue recliner with Kevin Shipright seated on a chair across from her. A crackling fireplace backdrops them. There is a table between the two chairs with two waters and the book, A Lion Among Us, with its spine facing the camera. 

Hope Allen: You’ve been with the Lexington police force since 2006, is that correct?

Kevin Shipright: Sure is. 

Hope Allen: You also grew up here?

Kevin Shipright: Yes. 

Hope Allen: And you know the victims. 

Kevin Shipright: [clears his throat] Yes. I grew up with Kimberly and Paula used to babysit me.

Hope Allen: You did more than grow up with Kimberly, right? You two were dating. 

Kevin Shipright: We dated in junior high and into high school. 

Hope Allen: So on the night she disappeared were the two of you dating then?

Kevin Shipright: Yes.

Hope Allen: But there were rumors that you two were breaking up. [Hope Allen smiles and leans into Kevin]

Kevin Shipright: I guess we’ll never know what would have happened. But we were young. We were in high school. We were both leaving for college soon and I guess we both just wanted some space.

Hope Allen: Did you want space or did she?

Kevin Shipright: We both did. [Kevin absently bounces a loose fist against his thigh]

Hope Allen: Can you tell me how that day started out, the day Kimberly went missing?

Kevin Shipright: It started like most days. It was a Friday [Kevin’s eyes close as if trying to remember]. She texted me that morning as she always did when she was on her way over to pick me up from school.

Camera fades to black.

White block lettering appears over a black screen.

The following dramatization is based on events pieced together through the investigation

Camera dissolves and zooms into a black 1998 Honda Civic where an actress playing the part of Kimberly McKenna is dressed in a blue and white cheerleading uniform. She sits with her head down flipping open her cell phone. Kevin Shipright’s letterman jacket can be seen in the backseat. 

Kimberly presses the numbers on her flip phone, “B there in 10.” She then backs out of her driveway.

Kevin picks up the phone and reads the text but doesn’t respond. He’s standing at the counter shoving the rest of his breakfast into his mouth. He has a game that evening and needs his calories. A honk outside and Kevin drops the last of his toast, hoists his backpack over his shoulder and walks out the door. 

In the car, Kevin reaches over to kiss Kimmy who turns her head. “Don’t.”

“You’re not wearing the jacket.”

“Why would I?” she asks.

“Jesus,” Kevin says. “Forget it.”

“Forget that you boffed my best friend?”

“Not this again. I already told you—”

“You mean you already lied. I talked to Tammy last night. She told me everything.”

“If you think you know so much, why did you even pick me?”

“I wanted to hear it from you,” she says. She keeps her eyes on the road glancing at Kevin periodically to see his reaction.

“So fucking tired of this,” Kevin mutters. 

“What?” Kimberly brakes hard bringing the car to stop. They’re seven blocks from the school and three from where she’s just picked him up.

“What is your fucking problem? I’ve gotta recruiter coming to the game tonight. I don’t need this shit right now.”

“Oh, do you have a game tonight?” Kimmy’s voice is filled with sarcasm. She rolls her eyes. “Seriously?” her voice rises in anger. “You’re sleeping with my best f’ing friend and I’m supposed to care about a recruiter?”

“That is such bullshit!” Kevin’s hands go up in innocence. “Baby,” his voice lowers and he leans in toward Kimmy, “I don’t even like Lexy. You know this.” He places his hand on her knee. She pulls away. “Hey, don’t be like that. Hand to God Kim. You know you’re my everything. I don’t—”

“Even like her,” Kimberly finished his sentence. “I love you,” her voice is deep, mimicking his own. “You’re my one and only baby. I don’t even think about other girls.”

Kevin shifts in his seat. “So you’re just going to believe everyone else instead of your boyfriend?”

“Yep! I mean you only fucked her at a party where e-v-e-r-y one was at. Lexy.”

“I didn’t—”

“Stop!” Kimmy screamed. “Stop lying!”

“I’m not fucking lying. I’m sick of this shit. You’re always accusing me. Maybe I should go fuck someone.”

“Get out!”

“What?” 

“Did I stutter?” Kimmy leans into Kevin and glares at him. “Get out of my car?” 

“I have a game today. I can’t be late.”

“Not my problem.”

“If I’m late I can’t play. You know that,” his voice is whining. “Look, we can talk about this at lunch. I promise. I won’t sit with the guys—”

“Get out of my car!” she screams. 

Kevin slams his fist into the dashboard, making Kimmy jump. 

“Gonna hit me now? Like father like son.”

Kevin raises his fist and brings it forward stopping inches from Kimmy’s face. Her eyes widen and she slinks into the door. She is crying now. Her body shaking in great spasms. Kevin is twice her size. He has never hit her. He has promised he never will. His father beats on his own mother for sport. Kevin has sworn he will never be like his dad.

“Get out,” she whispers.  

“Fuck you, Kim!” he says and slams the door kicking it hard as she pulls away. 

Paula and her younger sister Jeanelle are across the street. Paula is walking her younger sister to school. They both stopped to watch the interaction between Kimmy and Kevin. As Kimberly’s car drives away Kevin stares at Paula and her sister. “Like the fucking show?” 

Paula grabs her sister’s hand and begins walking faster. 

Later that night, Kevin is on the bench, dressed in jeans and a jersey. He glances around the stands not even paying attention to the game, his fist slamming into his thigh over and over.

“Dude, calm down.” Matt Larson, the quarterback of their team says. “It’s one game.”

“Yeah? You don’t have a fucking recruiter here. This could be my scholarship.”

“He’ll come again.” 

Kevin glares at Matt. “I swear I’m going to fucking kill that bitch,” he mutters and slams his fist back into his thigh.

Matt exchanges a look with Kyle who is seated on the other side of Kevin. They both shake their heads and go back to watching the game. Defense is killing it even without Kevin on the field.

Camera fades out.

Camera dissolves to Hope Allen and Kevin Shipright still sitting in the same position resuming the interview.

Hope Allen: So nothing out of the ordinary happened that day?

Kevin Shipright: Not that I remember. 

Hope Allen: You didn’t have a fight in the car that morning?

Kevin Shipright: [Kevin shrugs] Maybe. I mean we fought a lot. [Kevin chuckles] We were just kids and you know rumors and shit [Kevin looks at the camera man and then at Hope Allen]. Am I allowed to say that?

Hope Allen: It’s cable. Say whatever you want. 

Kevin Shipright: [Kevin clears his throat] This is really good. I mean really great. Someone finally figuring out what happened. [Kevin’s voice cracks] I still think about her, you know? I mean we were together forever.

Hope Allen: [Leans into Kevin and pats his knee] I’m sure this is hard. I just have a couple more questions.

Kevin Shipright: Sure. Anything. 

Hope Allen: She disappeared right after the football game, is that correct?

Kevin Shipright: Yeah. Yeah, it was a Friday night. It was raining that night. I remember. Almost like a sign something bad was going to happen.

Hope Allen: But you didn’t play that night, right?

Kevin Shipright: [Kevin raises his eyebrows] I was probably in trouble for something or injured. Happens [Kevin shrugs]. 

Hope Allen: You don’t remember why you didn’t play?

Kevin Shipright: [Takes a sip of water from the table at his side].

Hope Allen: But you know what night of the week it was?

Kevin Shipright: Night games were always on Fridays. So yeah I remember that. 

Hope Allen: You didn’t play that night because you were late for your first class and already on academic suspension. Isn’t that right?

Kevin Shipright: Could be. 

Hope Allen: And you were late because you had a fight with Kimberly McKenna in her car on the way to school that morning.

Kevin Shipright: [Shrugs] Maybe, like I said. I don’t really remember that specific night.

Hope Allen: You don’t remember that there was a recruiter there that never got to see you play?

Kevin Shipright: [Shakes his head]

Hope Allen: But you do remember that it rained.