by Spencer Kope
“How bad?” he asks in a low voice, expecting the worst. He saw my reaction when I first walked into the cabin, saw me glance around and take it all in, heard my utterance. I think he knew then, at that moment.
“It’s like Murphy said,” I reply heavily. “Seven victims.”
“Dead?”
I just nod. That’s the funny thing about shine: when someone dies, it ceases to pulse and glow, as if all the energy that once powered it had fled.
There’s a long pause as Jimmy looks over my shoulder at the cabin, and then glances around at the small clearing and at the trees beyond.
“Then where are their bodies?” he finally asks.
* * *
Where are the bodies?
It’s a good question; a logical question, considering what we found in the house. As soon as the words are out of Jimmy’s mouth, I motion for him to follow with my index finger, and move away from the cabin at a ninety-degree angle. When I think we’re fifty or sixty feet from the front door, I start walking a slow circle around the structure. It’s a three-hundred-foot circumference, mostly through trees and rough terrain, but it’s necessary.
Murphy’s shine is condensed in and around the cabin, almost all of it within twenty or thirty feet of the building. By putting some distance between myself and the cabin, and then walking a circle around it, I’ll be able to determine if he ever walked off into the woods or made his way to a nearby clearing.
As I walk, the ugly truth begins to settle on me: I’m looking for a graveyard.
It’s the only place this can end.
The victims were here, in the cabin. Their shine is on the floor and in the barber chair, and if Murphy took the trouble to bring them here, why would he take them elsewhere for disposal? He wouldn’t. What would be the point? It’s unlikely he’d find a place more secluded … unless he hiked them farther into the mountains, and that’s just not practical.
That means we’re close.
Somewhere out here is a shine-imbued trail leading off to who knows where. At its end, I expect to find a place of bones.
* * *
Minutes into my track, I glance to the left and note that the back wall of the cabin is visible through the trees—meaning we’re halfway through our search. A dozen potential paths have already presented themselves, only to quickly peter out as we followed them to their truncated ends. After each of these false starts, we return to the circumference and continue on.
When the trail finally comes into view, I immediately know it’s the right one. I know this because it’s heavily traveled by Murphy, whose shine paves a wide swath through the trees. Back and forth his feet march, as if he were building a rock wall at the destination and carrying the stones in one at a time.
“This is it,” I say to Jimmy, my words all but a whisper.
The stream of color leads away from the cabin, heading south along an old game trail. I can tell by the lack of footprints that the victims never walked this way. That they came this way is a certainty, but they were never under their own power. Murphy had carried them in his arms or slung them over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry. Their shine marks the trees that he brushed past and the ground where he set them down when he needed to rest.
As we follow the trail, it’s not long before I’ve accounted for all seven unique shines, all seven victims. And, arriving at our destination, Jimmy and I stare in rising horror as the slow realization of what we’ve found settles upon us. After a moment, he drags a toe through the dead earth at his feet, revealing the truth of it.
“Are they here?” he asks quietly.
I simply nod, speechless.
“Good God,” he mutters.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
The days are short, and darkness comes early to the Pacific Northwest in winter. When the four Clallam County police utility vehicles, or PUVs, turn off the logging road and bump their way along the rutted path toward the cabin, it’s their headlights that herald their arrival.
The vehicles come to a stop just short of the cabin and all the doors open at once, giving the column the odd appearance of some sort of mechanical land beast with gills. Four deputies step from their respective driver’s seats, while the eleven-member Evidence Response Team from the FBI’s Seattle field office pours out and begins unloading equipment from the back.
They made good time from Seattle.
Jimmy placed the call just four hours ago, and the first two of that would have been spent pulling the team together and getting ready for deployment. The rest of the transit time was spent driving to Seattle-Tacoma International Airport, where they hopped onto Betsy—courtesy of the Special Tracking Unit—and flew to Port Angeles. From there it was easy: the impromptu Clallam County convoy picked them up, and they made short work of the drive to the cabin, even without the benefit of lights and sirens.
Emerging from the front passenger seat of the lead vehicle, Special Agent Darren Rossiter stretches his arms out and then twists at the waist, working the miles out of his body. Spotting Jimmy, he smiles broadly and begins to saunter over. Jimmy meets him halfway and they greet each other with a warm handshake and comfortable familiarity.
In addition to the seven lab technicians and forensic scientists on the team, there are four special agents, with Darren serving as the special agent in charge. In his mind this doesn’t mean much, and he often refers to himself as the chief cat herder.
Years ago, several of his good-humored teammates started calling him cowboy—on account of the herding reference—until someone decided that he looked more like a shepherd. It’s doubtful any of them had ever seen an actual shepherd, but the reference stuck and quickly became a nickname. These days it’s no longer Special Agent Darren Rossiter, it’s just Shepherd, or sometimes just Shep. Even his no-nonsense boss compromises and calls him Special Agent Shepherd, making sure to include his full title.
Turning my way, Shepherd says, “Nice to see you, Steps.” He takes my outstretched hand and claps me on the shoulder.
Jimmy introduces Jason and Nate, and then Detectives Tony Halsted and Mike Hopkins, who joined us earlier in the afternoon and brought along three Clallam County deputies who they borrowed from day shift. Two of the deputies are cross-trained as crime scene investigators. They’ll be needed in the hours ahead. Even if they hadn’t been invited, it would have been hard to keep them away.
Counting the eleven-member Evidence Response Team, and the four additional deputies who picked them up at the airport and drove them here, we now have twenty-two law enforcement professionals to work the two crime scenes. Their depth of knowledge may vary, but they’re all well versed in evidence preservation.
The plan is to have the four detectives, the two CSI-trained deputies, and the members of the Evidence Response Team split into two groups, one for the disposal site in the woods, and a larger element for the cabin, which deputies have already dubbed “Murphy’s Misery.”
I’ve always suspected that those in law enforcement are a bit more imaginative than the average person. After all, they see more, are challenged to believe more, and often have to put their imagination to work when trying to figure out a crime.
Imagination is like any other skill: the more you practice, the better you get. Still, much as I’d like to give credit to the first deputies on scene, Murphy’s Misery was not conceived during a moment of imaginative eureka. Rather, it was so named because the only book in the shack happens to be a copy of Stephen King’s Misery. The much-used paperback was found at the foot of the mattress in the bedroom to the left, next to one of the occupants.
A bookmark juts from here.
That a book about a guy confined to bed in a remote cabin in the woods should be found next to, well, next to the occupant of a bed in a remote cabin in the woods is … ironic. That both cabins are ruled over by raging psychotics is downright alarming. Whether Murphy is sending a message with the book, having a little fun, or completely oblivious to the parallels of the story and the rea
lity he created is anyone’s guess. I’m hoping he’s oblivious, because any other possibility is truly frightening.
There’s no book at the disposal area in the woods, so it’s simply called site two.
While the ERT, CSIs, and detectives work Murphy’s Misery and site two, the remaining deputies will be handed the thankless but necessary task of providing site security. This includes not just the two crime scenes, but also the command vehicle, which is parked on the logging road next to a large fifth-wheel trailer that Detective Halsted brought with him.
After hearing what we’d discovered, Tony correctly figured this was going to be an all-nighter—possibly even a multiday evidence recovery. He thought it would be nice to have a place where team members can rack out for a few hours, if needed. And while the command vehicle has a small bathroom and a mini-fridge, Halsted’s luxury fifth-wheel sleeps eight, has a full kitchenette, a living room, and a respectable bathroom with a massage shower—which hopefully won’t be needed.
All in all, it’s a pretty sweet setup.
The two CSI deputies will be split between the sites and answer directly to the Evidence Response Team. They can learn a great deal working with the best the FBI has to offer, and the skills they’ll learn and practice in the coming hours will pay dividends for years to come.
Big-city homicide detectives may work dozens upon dozens of murders a year, but in most of the United States the homicide rate is low, and a police department or sheriff’s office might see a single case every year or two. This is good for the general public but does little to hone the skills of investigators tasked with solving those crimes.
* * *
Lights from the command vehicle illuminate a wide area around the logging road, and the extension cords running off the outside outlets funnel power to four lights dispersed along the path between the road and the cabin.
Once their gear is unpacked, Jimmy leads the ERT to the small clearing at the front of Murphy’s Misery. The low hum of a generator grows louder as they draw near. The portable power unit is necessary because even the industrial extension cords from the command vehicle won’t reach this far. A red-and-black five-thousand-watt generator sits to the side of the cabin with enough extension cords sprouting from it to send a fire marshal into cardiac arrest.
Its twin, equally festooned, is at site two.
A circular array of lights is set back from the crime scene, illuminating it from seven different elevated positions. The practiced placement of the array diffuses the light so that it’s not blinding—unless you look right at one—yet it covers the area in an overlapping pattern that diminishes shadow and presents an almost pleasant work environment.
Additional lights have been set up inside Murphy’s Misery, covering the two small bedrooms, the living room, the pretend kitchen, and the macabre room now known as Sweeney Todd’s.
Another nickname coined by deputies—on account of the barber chair.
* * *
Introductions are made all around, no small task considering the number of investigators on scene. Despite the small crowd, Detective Sergeant Jason Sturman handles the meet and greet like a pro and seems to commit every name to memory with flawless precision.
Once again, my inability to remember names returns to haunt me. Of the eleven members on the Evidence Response Team, I manage to recall that one is named something Chatman, and another is something Jenkins. I manage this stupendous feat only because I’ve worked with Chatman and Jenkins in the past.
“Special Agent Jimmy Donovan is going to take a few minutes and provide a rundown on the case to this point,” Jason says when the introductions are complete. “If you have questions, please wait until he’s done, that way we can get through this quickly and get to work. I don’t have to tell you it’s going to be a long night.” Nodding to Jimmy, he says, “They’re all yours.”
If anyone had asked me what the “rundown” on the case was, my answer would have dripped with pessimism, perhaps even dismay. Jimmy says I can be overly dramatic, but that’s because my emotional range is broader than his.
With everyone gathered around, some crouching, some standing, and others sitting on equipment cases, Jimmy spends the next ten minutes bringing them up to speed, starting with the vehicle chase yesterday morning with state patrol, the pursuit of Murphy Cotton, the revelations about the Onion King, and, finally, our discovery of the macabre cabin and the grisly secrets it implies.
“Any questions?” Jimmy asks when he’s done.
There are.
Despite their eagerness to get started, nearly every team member has at least one question, and between Jimmy, Jason, Nate, and I, we answer each one in turn. As this process finally draws down, the mood seems to shift. The air suddenly feels electric, as if the stored static of an impending lightning strike had been captured and contained in the area around the cabin.
It’s about to get real.
Waving me out front and center, Jimmy says, “I’ve asked my partner, Steps, to explain what we found in the cabin and in the woods nearby.” He gives me a nod, and I feel the sudden heat of all those eyes upon me.
It would be an understatement to say that I don’t like being the center of attention, so the “hi” that escapes my mouth is exceeded in its brilliance only by the awkward half wave I give with my right hand.
“Uh, so—” I swallow hard and brace up, reminding myself that I’m the expert. Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn’t. “Detective Sergeant Sturman and Special Agent Donovan made initial entry through the front door,” I say, “which opens into the living room on the left and a kitchen area on the right. In the living room, they observed what they initially mistook for three unknown subjects. One was seated on a love seat, another was on an extremely old exercise bike, and the third was in a broken lounge chair with a blanket over her lap.”
One of the techs raises her hand and I immediately acknowledge her.
“You said you mistook them for unknown subjects,” she says, “so does that mean they were known?”
“No, it means they weren’t subjects at all … they were mannequins.” I let that settle in for a moment before continuing. “We found two more in the kitchen, and one in each bedroom, for a total of seven. They were all posed, as if we’d walked in on their daily routine. Since we had information from Murphy Cotton that there were seven victims—or patients, as he calls them—this discovery was, well, disturbing.”
An agreeable murmur courses through the group.
“The mannequins are dressed in clothing that I believe comes from the victims. Several of them wear coordinated outfits, and two of them are in workout gear with matching tops and bottoms. Obviously, without knowing who the victims are, we can’t compare this against missing person reports to find out what they were last wearing.”
Chatman starts to raise her hand, but then forgoes the gesture and says, “He could have picked the clothes up at a yard sale, or Goodwill, for that matter.” Her words are steeped in skepticism. “What makes you think they came from the victims? For that matter, how do you know there are victims? All you have is the statements of this Murphy Cotton, who, for all we know, is talking about the mannequins. Maybe he thinks they’re people.”
“Oh, trust me,” I say, “the victims are real.” The words come out cold and flat, and Chatman seems to recoil apprehensively as I speak them. That was not my intent. Forcing a deep breath, I say, “It’s an educated guess. We found … well, we found something else.” I shake my head, as if even I can’t believe what’s about to be revealed.
“Rather than explaining it to you, why don’t you all follow me inside and you can see for yourself? It’ll probably be a little crowded, but it can’t be helped.”
Their curiosity is palpable as they surge forward, and I have to pause and caution them about the sketchy pallet-porch. The last thing we need out here is a broken ankle.
As the first member of the ERT steps through the front door behind me, she gasps and nearly bac
ks out again before being jostled forward by those coming behind her. There are more gasps, murmurs, and exclamations, and in a few cases utter silence and bewilderment as the entire team makes its way inside.
“As you can see,” I continue, “the mannequins are wearing inch-thick masks cast in plaster.” I approach the mannequin sitting at the bar and use my pen to point out the hole on the right side of the mask. “Two holes have been drilled into each mask, one on each side. Through these, Murphy has tied two lengths of ribbon, which he used to secure the mask in place, almost like a cheap Halloween costume. We’re confident the mask material is plaster because of the color, and because we found an open bag in the next room.”
I hesitate, but the words finally come: “These are death masks.”
Murmurs and puzzled looks once more sweep through the team, and a young male tech who looks like he should be in high school says, “Are you sure? Just because he made impressions of their faces doesn’t mean they’re dead, right?”
Their shine is flat, I don’t say. There’s no energy left in their mortal residue, I want to explain to the young technician … but I don’t. Even if I just didn’t care anymore and decided to reveal the phenomenon of shine, these are mostly scientists standing before me. Not one of them would believe a word of it because it would challenge other elements of their lockstep dogma. These days, the truth of science seems to depend on either consensus or where the grant money comes from.
Galileo had it easy by comparison.
“I’m sorry, what was your name again?”
“George.”
I wave him forward fifteen paces and point to the barber chair in the corner of the house behind the kitchen. “Do you have a barber chair in your house, George?”
“No.”
“Me either, which is why I found it a bit odd that Murphy would drag this thing all the way out here to the middle of nowhere. It’s not like he was sitting in it and watching TV, right?” It’s a rhetorical question, so I forgo the pause. “Notice all the footprints around the chair?” I ask, pointing for emphasis. “It seems when you mix plaster it gets dust all over the place, and Murphy wasn’t much of a housekeeper. These prints around the chair are all his; when we came through here during our sweep, we were careful to limit our tracks to the edges.” Looking at George, I ask, “Notice anything about the prints?”