Chapter 4: A Case Reopened

At least several hundred people in town witnessed the scene.

No one who was there ever forgot. Even the mayor admitted he couldn’t sleep for weeks. It was the kind of thing that gets etched onto the bones of a place.

The incident caused a huge stir, and with such a tragic death, the police had to investigate thoroughly and give the public an explanation.

Reporters from Boise and even Salt Lake City rolled in. The sheriff was on the phone constantly, trying to keep the peace.

Since I was at the scene the whole time, I naturally became part of the task force.

I was still a little green, but I took notes on everything, determined to get it right.

The first step was to determine whether it was suicide or homicide.

The brass wanted answers fast—nobody wanted to think that something so gruesome could happen by accident.

This step turned out to be simpler than we imagined.

Surprisingly, the clues lined up quickly. There were receipts, surveillance footage from the hardware store, and witness statements.

Through interviews, we learned that both the gasoline and the lighter had been purchased by the girl herself at a hardware store that afternoon.

We double-checked the register logs and even pulled the clerk in for questioning. He remembered her—said she looked pale but determined.

Other members of the circus said their acts were independent.

They didn’t mingle much. Some were Eastern European, others barely spoke English. Most just kept to themselves, loading and unloading gear between shows.

Before going on stage, everyone prepared their props and costumes in their own trailers.

Each trailer was marked with faded stencils and names in thick marker. Lila’s trailer was always locked, curtains drawn tight.

She was always alone before her performance.

We found her notebook, filled with sketches of trapezes and half-finished poems.

Someone on the task force wondered if, since circus acts sometimes use chemical props like flash powder, someone could have murdered her using a prop.

It was a long shot, but we chased it down. Checked every trunk and prop case, but nothing out of the ordinary turned up.

But this idea was quickly dismissed.

Too many eyes, too little opportunity. The risk of being seen was too high.

Because at the scene—including myself—there were hundreds of witnesses.

Anyone sneaking around up there would’ve been spotted in a heartbeat.

There was no way anyone could have ignited a performer suspended in midair without being seen.

Every angle was covered—families with cell phones, old-timers with camcorders, even the local news had a guy there.

It could only have been her own doing.

The evidence painted a grim, unflinching picture.

So was this just a suicide? Would the public accept that conclusion?

It’s one thing for a detective to be convinced, another for a grieving town. People wanted justice, not just explanations.

At that moment, while walking through the square, I ran into a man—and that changed everything.

That night, while taking a walk after dinner, I saw a man holding a camera, furtively taking pictures of the trailers where the circus performers were staying.

The air had that sharp, chilly bite you get in late October. Streetlights flickered, making the shadows long and jumpy. The man kept ducking behind parked trucks, snapping photos like he was afraid of being caught.

Because the case was still open, the troupe had to remain in town for a few more days.

Everyone was on edge. The circus folks kept to themselves, and the local kids lingered near the fairgrounds hoping for a glimpse of something forbidden.

I recognized him: Derek Lane, the grandson of Mrs. Lane, who often shines shoes outside the station.

Derek was a familiar face—always in and out of trouble, but never anything too serious before. Folks said he had a good heart but no direction.

In his twenties, with no steady job, always slicking back his hair and carrying a camera everywhere.

Some called him a wannabe artist; others just called him a drifter. He had a way of blending in and fading out again.

Normally, I wouldn’t have bothered with him, but that day I thought he might have caught something useful, so I called out:

"Hey, Derek, mind if I take a look at those shots? Might help with the case."

I tried to sound casual, but something in his posture set me on edge. He flinched, his fingers tightening on the camera strap.

Unexpectedly, he suddenly looked nervous and turned to run.

He nearly slipped on the wet leaves, but kept moving, glancing over his shoulder like a scared animal.

His reaction put me on alert. I grabbed him and took his camera:

He squirmed and cursed under his breath, but didn’t put up much of a fight. I could feel his heart pounding through his jacket.

"Look, we just want to check—come to the station with me, and I’ll take you home right after."

He scowled, but I could tell he was sizing up his options. Nobody wanted to tangle with the law, even in a small town.

He wasn’t as strong as I was, so I forced him into the car.

He stared out the window the whole ride, tapping his fingers against his knee, his camera cradled like a lifeline.

Back at the station, I had him wait with me at the door, then handed the camera to a colleague to develop the film.

The waiting was always the hardest part. I poured two cups of stale coffee and slid one across to him, but he just stared at the floor.

Half an hour later, two colleagues rushed out and pinned Derek Lane to the ground.

Everything happened so fast—shouts, the scrape of a chair, Derek’s yelp of surprise. My stomach dropped.

They said to me, "You’d better come in and have a look."

Their faces were pale as ghosts, and I knew right away something bad had surfaced.

After that, I once suspected there was a leak in the task force.

It gnawed at me for years—how could something so crucial get out unless someone on the inside wanted it to?

Until I was promoted and transferred away, that suspicion remained unresolved.

I’d ask about it in hushed voices with my closest colleagues, but no one ever owned up to anything.

Because the photos Derek Lane had taken were somehow leaked later on.

Copies started turning up at the high school, the diner, even tucked inside hymnals at church. It was as if the whole town was being haunted anew.

Because of this, people in town learned what the deceased circus girl—Lila Brooks—looked like.

Her face became legend—wide-set eyes, a kind of haunted innocence. The tragedy made her unforgettable.

After all, you couldn’t see her face clearly during the performance.

She’d been just a blur of white and motion onstage. The photos made her real and vulnerable.

So for the next twenty years, people would say the woman in white they encountered late at night was Lila Brooks.

Stories grew with each retelling—some swore she wept, others claimed she tried to speak but her mouth was full of fire.

"Are there really ghosts?"

That question echoed in my mind more than I’d like to admit. I was never a superstitious man, but something about that case kept me looking over my shoulder.