Cry For Help

by Wendy Dranfield

  Not for the first time, Mike gets an insight into how so many pedophiles get away with hurting kids. If anywhere should be hot on criminal record checks, it’s an amusement park. He doesn’t say this, though. He knows from experience it would go in one ear and out the other. “Where was Nikki when you last saw her?”

  “She was cleaning up for me. I offered her some extra cash to stay on another hour or two to sweep up all the trash and spent fireworks. Everyone else had let me down, so I gave her the keys and told her to lock up after herself.”

  Mike raises an eyebrow. “That was trusting.”

  “Nikki was a good girl. She wouldn’t steal from me no matter how much she needed the money.” He glances at her slumped, lifeless body, currently being photographed by the medical examiner. “This is so messed up. I had no idea she was thinking of hurting herself.”

  “Did she seem upset when you left her?”

  “No, not at all. But teenagers are good at hiding their feelings.”

  Mike thinks of his own daughter, who’s eleven. Would he be able to spot the signs? He’d like to think so, but he’s given bad news to too many parents to know that’s not always the case. Besides, she lives with his ex-wife, who has full custody. “Did you touch her body at all? To get a look at her face or check her pulse?”

  “No. There didn’t seem any point. I mean, it was obvious she was dead.”

  Mike nods, then looks up at the CCTV cameras and points with his pen. “I’ll need to pull your footage from that night.”

  Trevor shakes his head regretfully. “Sorry, man. They’re just for show. I can’t afford real cameras in a plot this big.” He lowers his voice. “Between you and me, I’m running this place at a loss.”

  Mike sighs. Luckily this is a suicide and not a murder. “Okay, thanks for your time. If we need a formal statement, I’ll be in touch.”

  Trevor takes one more look at Nikki and shakes his head again. “Can I let the staff know we’re closed for the foreseeable?”

  “Sure, but I don’t want to see anything about this crime scene online, and no one but Lena here, and my forensics guy, are allowed to take photos. You might want to relay that to the guy who found her. If you ever see him again.”

  He wonders why Ricky Gregor ran when it’s clear the girl killed herself. Sure, he could be worried about a shady past catching up with him, but he could also have been doing something to the girl that made her want to kill herself. He’ll know more once he’s spoken to her parents.

  As he watches Trevor walk away to the office, his cell phone rings again. He can’t tell who’s calling him from the number displayed, so he rejects the call. “Probably another goddam reporter,” he mutters.

  “What’s that?” asks Dr. Lena Scott, the local medical examiner. She’s only been in post a few months, since the last ME died on the job.

  “Nothing. Looks like an obvious suicide to me.” He nods to the dead girl. “What do you think?”

  She stands up. “It certainly looks like she bled out from the lacerations on her wrists, I’d guess between midnight and three a.m. I’ll need to perform an autopsy and run toxicology tests to see if she was under the influence of anything. Plus, I’ll do a pregnancy test to see if that’s a potential motive for suicide.”

  He nods. He doesn’t know Lena well yet; this is just the second time they’ve met. The first time was at Stephanie Garcia’s crime scene. All he knows is that she’s originally from New Hampshire, but he doesn’t know what brought her here. He can tell she’s one of the few people who didn’t overindulge last night, because she looks like she’s fresh out of a salon; her long brown hair is immaculately blow-dried and her clothes are ironed. It probably won’t be long before she lets her standards fall, just like the rest of the town.

  “If you can prioritize the autopsy, I’d be grateful.”

  “Sure. The toxicology results may take a while to come back, but I should have a preliminary report ready for you pretty quickly.” She looks at the girl as she removes her protective equipment. “Do you know who she is yet?”

  “Yeah. The park’s owner identified her as Nikki Jackson. Sixteen years old. She worked here for two summers in a row. I’ll be visiting her parents shortly to break the news.”

  Lena makes a note of her name and age. “She was far too young to take her own life.”

  “You’re assuming she did,” says a man with a British accent who has walked up behind them. “Perhaps it’s not as cut-and-dried as it looks, if you pardon the pun.”

  Mike turns to see Alex Parker. He’s Lost Creek PD’s crime-scene technician, and he’s an asshole. Mainly because he’s like a walking version of Google and has an answer for everything, but also because he contradicts whatever Mike says whenever he gets the chance. Everyone else thinks he’s great, which doesn’t help.

  “Hey, Alex,” says Lena.

  “Lena thinks it’s suicide,” says Mike. “And I’d say she’s the best qualified out of the three of us. Wouldn’t you?”

  Alex is unfazed. “Of course, but did she spot the partial bloody thumbprint on our victim’s forehead, near her hairline? More specifically, does she know it doesn’t appear to belong to the victim?”

  Lena immediately kneels down next to the girl’s body again and carefully moves some of the red hair away from her expressionless face. Mike can see the blood smeared there, but he can’t make out any prints.

  “I’ve taken extensive photographs,” says Alex. “Plus, I have her mobile—I mean cell phone—to check. It was in her jeans pocket. I’ve taken prints from the ride and I’ve bagged any potential trace evidence I could find: some hairs and fibers from her clothes to see if any of them are foreign. But as she died on a popular ride on the busiest night of the year, these items could be anyone’s and they might have nothing to do with her death. I’ll examine everything back at the station.”

  Mike frowns. “The thumbprint on her forehead… The park’s owner said he didn’t touch her. His maintenance guy found her when he opened up this morning, but I haven’t been able to speak to him yet.” He looks at his notes. “Maybe he tried to wake her and inadvertently touched her wrists first.” If it wasn’t Ricky, it means someone else was present when she died. “How do you know it’s not Nikki’s own print?”

  Lena gently lifts the girl’s hands. “There’s no blood on her thumbs.”

  “I’ve taken her prints,” says Alex. “So I’ll double-check anyway, just to rule it out.”

  Mike nods. He doesn’t want anyone jumping to conclusions about other people being present. The press would be all over it.

  “I’ve also bagged the contents of her staff locker,” Alex continues. “There wasn’t much inside: just her purse, containing ten dollars in cash and a few coupons and discount cards, along with her house key and a soft toy. It’s a unicorn from the shooting gallery.” He pauses. “Who has the knife she used?”

  Mike looks at Lena, who shakes her head, then back at Alex. “I thought you did?”

  “Nope. It wasn’t here when I arrived.”

  “Shit.” Mike wonders if Ricky took it with him for some reason—maybe it was worth something—or perhaps he accidentally kicked it out of reach. Either way, they need to find it, and fast.

  “I’m sure I don’t need to remind you that if it’s no longer here, it’s already contaminated,” says Alex.

  “No. You don’t.” Mike sighs. “I’ll get some uniforms to search the park.” He looks in the direction of the lake that sits to the right of the park. He really doesn’t want to have to send divers down there to look for a knife. It costs a fortune and attracts the kind of media attention he’d prefer to avoid for as long as possible. Because if the knife is down there, it means Nikki Jackson was murdered.

  Alex turns to Lena. “I have some more work to do on the scene before you take the young lady away.”

  “Understood,” she says. “Just let me know when you’re done.” As she walks away, she makes a phone call.

  �
��I know she’s both beautiful and intelligent,” says Alex. “But it’s rude to stare, Detective.”

  Mike reddens. “Just do your job.” He heads to his car. He can’t delay any longer. He has to bring Douglas up to speed, then visit Nikki Jackson’s parents and turn their world upside-down.

  7

  Just after lunchtime, Nate and Madison reach a small town on the outskirts of Lost Creek called Gold Rock. The old wooden buildings look mostly deserted.

  “What is this place?” Nate asks.

  Madison lifts her sunglasses and sighs. “This is your classic shithole. There’s practically nothing here. Nothing of interest, anyway. Just families who have been here generations, probably since the first gold rush. It’s dying a slow death, even though the locals try to preserve as much of it as possible. It basically consists of old mine shafts, a few scrap businesses and a handful of stores that remain from the Wild West era. Just drive straight through.”

  Nate’s never been to a gold rush town before, so he drives on slowly. He needn’t have bothered; there really is nothing here other than a handful of residential homes, a couple of ranches, and a tiny Main Street that consists of old wooden stores with no sidewalk out front. They come across a pair of large billboards by the side of the road. They look out of place in a town this small, but they’re advertising a “Hair of the Dog Festival” that’s apparently scheduled for this afternoon and evening. The billboard says the event is sponsored by the “esteemed McCoy family” and is a fundraiser to help restore the old saloon to its former glory.

  He keeps driving. “Wow. You weren’t kidding when you said it was sparse.” He glances at Madison, but she’s hiding behind her aviator sunglasses now and sitting low in her seat.

  “I always hated this place.” She looks like she’s trying to go unnoticed, which is easy, as they don’t pass a single person as they drive through. Nate half expects to see a cowboy riding into town any minute. The only life they spot is a dog sitting in the back of a Chevy pickup truck outside what looks like a hunting store. Brody barks softly when he notices it.

  They carry on to Lost Creek, about a half-hour east. When he finally spots the town sign, Nate slows to read it:

  Welcome to Lost Creek

  Where the lost are found

  Population: 4,566. Please drive safely!

  He thinks about that second line but is distracted by the scenery ahead. “Wow. That’s an impressive mountain,” he says, taking his eyes off the road to try to see the peak.

  “It’s called Grave Mountain, supposedly because it’s killed so many climbers,” says Madison. “Numerous people have gone missing up there, presumed dead. Kids talk about sightings of the climbers’ spirits wandering the mountain in search of the peak. Or in search of their bodies, depending on which story you listen to.”

  He smiles. He’s always enjoyed horror stories and urban legends. “So why does the town’s welcome sign say Where the lost are found?”

  She laughs. “I guess it’s ironic.”

  In comparison to Gold Rock, Lost Creek is captivating. Nestled in the shadow of several imposing mountains and majestic woods, Nate realizes just how isolated the town is from anywhere but nearby Gold Rock. He spots a railroad track running past the town and wonders if it’s still in use. As he drives through a forest of aspen trees, he finds himself wishing he had time to stop and take photos. Their white bark makes them look like ghosts, and he wonders what it’s like to walk amongst them in the dark. Having grown up in Kansas, he’s used to vast flatlands with extensive, never-ending views. Lost Creek couldn’t be more different.

  He reaches a rickety covered bridge and notices its name just as he drives onto the structure: The One-Way Bridge. Take extra care.

  He glances at Madison. “Is it called that for a reason?”

  She smiles. “With Lost Creek there’s only one way in, and one way out. By car, anyway.”

  He looks ahead. “Great.”

  They make it across the bridge and onwards, passing a large white water tower and a smattering of residential areas. When they eventually reach the town center, they’re greeted by a busy modern shopping area, though there are no strip malls to be seen. Instead there are plenty of small independent shops. They pass a couple of restaurants and coffee shops, a town hall, a diner, an undertaker’s, and he even spots a newspaper office.

  “It’s bigger than I expected.”

  Madison laughs. “Don’t speak too soon. This is basically it. Let’s pick up some supplies before we find somewhere to stay.”

  He finds a parking spot outside the laundromat and pulls a sweater from the back seat. Unfortunately it’s covered in Brody’s fur and smells badly of dog.

  “I’ll do the laundry if you get us some food,” he says to Madison.

  “Sure.” She’s looking out the window, craning her neck in all directions.

  He knows it must be unsettling for her to come back after all this time. Especially considering the last time she was here she was on trial for murder. “Here.” He passes her some cash. She left prison with no money and no family support. They came to an agreement where he would pay her expenses while she was working for him. Technically she’s not working for him right now as he’s here to investigate for her, but he lets that slide. He’s as ready to find out who framed her as she is.

  “What about Brody?” she asks as the dog stretches in the back seat, limbering up for action.

  He considers what to do. “I’ll take him with me.” He pulls together their laundry from the trunk while Brody urinates by the sidewalk and then sniffs around the storefronts. One man pats his head as he passes and then nods to Nate.

  Madison wanders off toward a coffee shop.

  “Brody, come.” Nate enters the laundromat and smiles at the only other patron: a cranky-looking middle-aged woman who’s reading a newspaper. It must be a late-morning edition, as the headline on the front cover screams: Fantasy World turns into a nightmare. Followed by: A killer on the prowl?

  The woman looks up at him.

  “Mind if my dog comes in?” he asks.

  She just nods her head and carries on reading.

  Brody isn’t one of those dogs who has to be petted by every person he meets, and he’s not easily distracted either. His police owner died in the line of duty and Nate feels like a poor replacement. After sniffing the entire store, Brody settles in the sunshine by the window, alert and ready for action.

  As Nate sits on the wooden bench, watching their clothes spinning in the washing machine, his thoughts turn to Stacey, the woman he wanted to marry. Before he met her, he was studying philosophy at the University of Texas at Austin. Growing up, his life had revolved around the church and he had been working toward eventually becoming ordained. But then he met Stacey—the niece of his mentor, Father Jack Connor—and the unexpected happened. He gradually fell in love with her, and by the time he was twenty he had made the decision to give up the priesthood to marry her. Just a few weeks later, she was brutally murdered and Nate was arrested.

  He knows now, twenty years later, that Father Connor was responsible for killing her, but the priest has vanished. Every now and again Nate receives a taunting email sent via a fake account, but he doesn’t know where he is. He knows he’ll find him eventually, though, and he’s ready for the long-awaited showdown. He needs to know why Father Connor killed his own niece, and why he framed Nate for it. He’s been feeling lately like the guy is closing in on him. The messages are becoming darker and more frequent, and Nate suspects Father Connor wants to kill him before he finds a way to expose him.

  His thoughts are interrupted when the other patron kicks one of the industrial dryers.

  “Crock of shit!” She turns to Nate. “Damn thing stole my cash. Can you lend me some change?”

  He knows he won’t see it again, but it’s not like he’s stretched for cash since receiving a handsome payout for his wrongful conviction.

  “Sure.” He stands up and drops some coins into
the machine’s slots. The woman is staring at him. He smiles and returns to his seat.

  “Hey. I know you,” she says.

  His smile falters. This isn’t the first time he’s been recognized in the two years since his release. There was so much media coverage about his conviction, followed by his sensational exoneration, that he’s surprised it doesn’t happen more often.

  “You’re that killer priest guy!”

  Brody looks around at the woman, anticipating trouble. The dog has shown Nate a surprising amount of loyalty in the short time they’ve been together. Glad that there’s no one else in here to listen to her call him by his media nickname, Nate nods.

  “I knew it!” she says, clearly pleased with herself. “I saw you on the news. What was death row like? I’ve got a cousin in San Quentin and it’s meant to be the worst death row in the country. Think yourself lucky you weren’t in there.” She laughs, but it’s a mean laugh from an ignorant woman.

  Nate doesn’t anger easily—he’s always been pretty good-natured apart from when suffering one of his depressive episodes—but her flippancy touches a nerve. Maybe it’s because he’s been on the road too long, with little privacy and the burden of helping Madison weighing heavily on him. He suddenly feels the familiar craving for a couple of lines of coke that overwhelms him in stressful situations.

  He smiles at her. “Yeah, I’m one lucky guy alright. Almost two decades on death row in Texas is a breeze.”

  Her smile falters. She’s not sure whether he’s making fun of her or not.

  To avoid any ambiguity, he adds, “My fiancée was murdered, my youth was wasted in prison, and I’ll have people like you recognizing me wherever I go for the rest of my life. But sure, I’m lucky.”

  He regrets it as soon as it’s out, but he can’t take it back. Brody must notice that his body language has changed, because he gets up and puts himself between Nate and the woman.