by S W Vaughn
Because it was me.
Donovan North was the Kid Glove Killer.
And I’d actually started to feel sorry for the sick bastard, after learning about ‘Mama Ellie.’ More than that, I felt connected to him. I’d walked in his shoes, met people who’d known him. The fury I’d experienced listening to the reverend describe what that woman had done was on Donovan’s behalf. I thought he’d changed. Overcome his childhood, just like I was trying to do now by taking his place and stopping the bad guys instead of joining them.
Now, I wished I could go back to that gas station and kill him myself.
I didn’t want to think about it, dwell on it, so I busied myself with carefully returning everything to its proper folder, straightening the papers, stacking the photos, tucking the chilling, un-logged evidence bags — the items that Donovan North had taken off these women’s bodies before he stripped them, tortured them, and murdered them — into their places. Returning all the folders to the box in the correct order, securing the lid squarely, placing the box back in its corner next to the TV stand. The whole thing would have to go now. I couldn’t keep damning evidence around that pointed to me as a serial killer.
He’d been about to get away with it. He was heading all the way to Vermont, in possession of the only evidence that could possibly convict him, leaving the NYPD scratching their heads while he relocated and … what was he planning to do here? Retire from serial killing? Use the Landstaff Junction PD the same way he did the New York cops, to maintain the perfect cover while he targeted and mutilated more victims?
But he never made it to his intended destination.
Donovan North was dead, and he’d left me with a problem far worse than the knowledge that I’d stolen the identity of a mafia-funded, serial-killing cop.
North hadn’t killed Lynn Reynolds, Chelsea Mathers, or Eleanor Schilz. He might have killed Diamond, a sick test run before he moved on to bigger and better murders in New York City, but he couldn’t have done the rest of them. He was already dead when it started.
So if he didn’t kill those girls … then who did?
Chapter Thirty-Six
Preston
Funerals are not for the dead. They’re for the living to say goodbye.
Preston wasn’t sure where she’d heard that, or even if they were the right words, but she felt them today at this sad, sparse graveside gathering in the back corner of the Junction-Kern Cemetery.
They were burying Diamond Schilz.
It was the morning after what might have been the biggest high and the worst low of her life, on the same day. Yesterday she’d caught a serial killer, and then lost him when his alibis checked out and no evidence had turned up in searches of his home and church. They had to let him go.
Anton Fehily was here now, standing alone at the back of the small crowd while another man of the cloth said a few words over the coffin that held the remains of his foster sister.
The coffin that Donovan North had bought for her.
There weren’t many people here. With the exception of Anton, every attendee was either a cop, or a stranger. Herself and Donovan, Kratt and the chief, August and three other officers — not Henderson, of course. He wouldn’t have cared enough to come. And then, the obligatory handful of old folks who attended every town funeral almost religiously, as if they were grim practice runs for their own impending end-of-life services.
Though they might have just been hoping for free coffee and refreshments.
The man performing the graveside service was the pastor of the Methodist church. The Presbyterian minister had been considered when they’d all discussed this yesterday, but Preston had objected on general principle and asked for her own former pastor, indirectly supporting her brother, if only in small ways. Like David, she’d never really forgiven Reverend Cunningham for the suggestion to ‘pray the gay away.’
It was almost surreal, being here. Burying the girl she’d seen killed so long ago, the girl she’d spent so much of her life trying to help in the only way that remained to help her: bringing her home, finding her killer, letting her rest in peace.
Halfway there now. She only hoped that it wouldn’t take another twenty years to achieve the second half of her mission.
Preston half-listened to the pastor reading from the book of Romans, but her attention kept straying to the weeping willow tree off to the right, the memorial bench beneath it. Her parents’ well-intentioned gift that had hurt in ways she hadn’t been able to explain when they presented it, and still couldn’t explain now.
She knew they’d been trying to help, but this … it just wasn’t what she needed.
Closure required answers, and she had none.
It would be a while yet before the minister finished. She drifted away from the droning service, headed for the willow tree. Wondering if this time she would feel what everyone expected her to feel by now — a sense of loss, mourning what was gone and would never return. As if there was any sort of finality in nothing.
She stepped through the gently waving curtain of branches, and there it was. Just a simple, backless stone bench, pretty and polished to a high gloss, resting in the dappled shadows of the tree spouting above it like a green waterfall. A brass plaque bolted to the front edge of the bench.
Paul Clarke
Beloved Husband and Friend
Gone but Not Forgotten
Gone. Vanished. Disappeared.
She felt … nothing.
That was the worst of it, somehow. She didn’t feel anything, she couldn’t. She’d felt plenty when it happened — when he never called home like he always did after he arrived at the hotel, when she found out he hadn’t even checked in, when she had to be interviewed by police, strangers, city cops who didn’t know her husband and didn’t care that he wasn’t where he should have been, that it wasn’t like him, and no, he would never have run away with another woman or up and left his life willingly, but there was no body, no clues, no sign of foul play.
Nothing.
Three years now, and nothing.
She heard footsteps rustling the grass behind her, so she didn’t jump when a voice said, “You all right, Detective?”
North. Did she really want to discuss this with him — the sad, strange stasis of her non-marriage to a man who no longer existed, who’d vanished from the face of the earth?
No, she didn’t. Not really. But then, maybe that was the thing holding her back from what everyone insisted was the best thing for her.
She never wanted to discuss Paul with anyone.
“I’m fine,” she said as she turned to face the other detective. He was looking past her, squinting to make out the plaque on the bench. “It’s just …”
He gave her a sympathetic look. “Your father?”
“No.” She was surprised he’d drawn that conclusion, but it was logical enough. She’d stopped wearing her wedding ring two years ago. The first small step toward acceptance, but really the only one she’d ever taken. “Actually, my husband.”
“Your …” He trailed off. “I’m so sorry.”
“He’s not dead. Well, maybe not,” she said, not sure why she was explaining when she could have, should have simply thanked him for the condolences and walked back to the funeral service. “He’s missing. Three years now. They never found … any trace of him.”
North grimaced and blew out a breath. “That must be even worse for you,” he said. “Not knowing what happened. You’d have to keep thinking he might come back.”
“Yes, exactly. And checking the morgues, in case …”
“A body turns up that might be him,” North finished when she didn’t. “Wow. I don’t know how you deal with it, but you are one strong woman, Detective Clarke.”
Unexpected warmth filled her, and she smiled. No one ever knew what to say when she told them that her husband was missing. “Thank you,” she said. “You’re very perceptive, Detective North.”
“That’s one way to put it.” He looked unc
omfortable for a second, but it passed. “Listen, they’re about to wrap up the service. I thought you might want to toss a flower down.”
“Oh! Yes, I do. Thank you.”
She trailed him back to the graveside, where the minister was just about to begin the Lord’s Prayer. Bowed heads, folded hands, murmured words that would never reach Diamond Schilz’s ears but might bring comfort to those who spoke them for her benefit.
As the prayer finished, she felt North tense beside her. She glanced at him, followed the line of his stare past the rows of graves in front of them to the trees that lined the borders of the cemetery, and the figure lurking in them.
Oren Beauford.
The old man seemed to notice them looking, and he quickly withdrew from sight.
“Maybe we should invite him over for the flowers,” a strained, exhausted voice that she barely recognized as Anton Fehily said. She hadn’t noticed the reverend approaching the group as they lined up to take the white carnations heaped on the minister’s podium.
“Mr. Beauford?” she said. “Why?”
The reverend blinked at her. “Oh, yes, I’d forgotten. He changed his name.” He stared across the cemetery at the trees, his expression bland. “That’s Douglas Schilz,” he said. “Diamond’s father.”
She gasped. At the same time, North grated, “He’s what?”
“Completely different man now, isn’t he?” Fehily said with vague disgust. “I should have realized you wouldn’t recognize him, Don — Detective North. You’ve been gone for so long. He’s lost … a hundred pounds? Two hundred, since Eleanor was arrested?” He shook his head sadly. “The only thing necessary for the triumph of evil is for good men to do nothing. Though I’m not sure he was ever a good man to begin with. However, I have let him …”
North’s expression said he was putting two and two together, and Preston thought she knew what he was thinking. “Let him what, Reverend?” she prompted when Fehily didn’t finish the sentence.
The reverend sighed. “I strive to be a good Christian. Hold forgiveness in my heart,” he said. “That means I have to believe that people can change, become better than they were. So, I let him advertise his handyman business to my congregation, even though he doesn’t attend services. He’s there just about every Sunday for the refreshment hour.”
Preston’s heart sped. “Reverend … do you know if Beauford has done any work for Lynn Reynolds or Chelsea Mathers?”
“Oh, sweet Lord,” Fehily whispered as his face blanched. “Yes, he has. For both of them.”
“We have to go,” North said bluntly, but then he looked toward the podium and softened. “In a minute, yeah?”
“Yes. In a minute,” Preston agreed.
They both tossed flowers onto Diamond’s coffin before they headed out to arrest her father.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Marco
Oren Beauford, formerly known as Douglas Schilz, didn’t put up much of a fight. We found his truck on the cemetery access road around the back curve, and himself leaning against the hood, arms folded, as if he’d been waiting for us to take him in.
He still looked like he wanted to kill me, but he didn’t actually try this time.
Back at the station. The interrogation room, again. Detective Clarke and me in the corridor at the window, looking in on Oren Beauford handcuffed to the table. A hostile suspect. Donovan North’s foster father.
He’d contributed to raising a serial killer.
What Fehily hinted at, the idea that this man had done nothing while his wife went about beating and sexually abusing children like it was her job, made him just as bad as her.
If he was the killer, if he’d taken Chelsea Mathers and Lynn Reynolds, shooting his monstrous ex-wife didn’t absolve him.
“What do you think?” Clarke said, her eyes on the stone-faced man behind the window. “He had opportunity, but I can’t imagine a motive. For the girls, anyway.”
“He could just be insane,” I said. “That’s motive.”
“Maybe,” she said with a shrug. “I doubt he’s been to New York, though.”
“That’s optional, remember?” Damn the real North straight to hell. I couldn’t tell her this was definitely a copycat, that the real Kid Glove Killer was dead. “He also tried to kill me, so … you know. He’s definitely murderous.”
She looked at me. “You really didn’t recognize him?”
“Not even a little.” How could I, when I’d never met him until he stood outside my window in the donut shop parking lot and glared me down like Hannibal Lecter trying to decide which body part he wanted to cook first?
He knew I was in town before the chief posted my cell phone number on the website. He could’ve sent those texts. Could’ve taken the Glock and used it to kill Eleanor. The man had spent years living side by side with pure evil, so it wouldn’t be at all surprising if some of it had rubbed off on him.
It didn’t matter why he’d done it. Only if he did.
“Do you think … could he have killed his own daughter?” Detective Clarke said.
I frowned. “No idea, but I wouldn’t put it past him.”
Clarke bit her lip. “You don’t have to participate in the interrogation,” she said. “Believe me, I’ll understand if you’d rather not.”
“Oh, I want to.” If nothing else, I wanted to know what he had against me — well, against Donovan. I couldn’t spend all my time looking over my shoulder, wondering if this man was lurking in the shadows and waiting for a chance to try again. To finish what he’d started on the road.
“All right. If you’re sure,” Clarke said. She’d brought the folder of photos that she used with Fehily. If I was a betting man, I’d lay odds that Beauford wouldn’t end up puking in a corner at the sight of them, whether or not he was the killer.
No doubt he’d seen worse.
“I’m sure,” I said, and gestured for her to lead the way.
Beauford watched us come into the room without comment, without change in his expression. We took seats across the table from him, and Clarke put the folder down. “Oren Beauford,” she said. “Born Douglas Schilz, is that correct?”
The old man nodded once and turned his dead glare directly on me. It stayed there.
“Mr. Schilz, are you aware that your wife was murdered two days ago?” Clarke said.
“She’s not my wife. I divorced that piece of trash,” he grunted. “What do you want me to say? Good riddance?”
My sentiments exactly.
“Mr. Schilz—”
“Quit callin’ me that!” he roared. “I got it changed legally. I know my rights.”
“Mr. Beauford,” Clarke corrected evenly. “Where were you the night before last, between the hours of eleven P.M. and two A.M.?”
He thrust his chin up. “Home.”
“By yourself?”
“Who the hell else would be there?” His upper lip pulled back from his teeth. “You ought to swing by sometime, boy,” he said to me. “Bet I got something for ya. Could be a baseball bat with your name on it.”
Detective Clarke bristled. “Mr. Beauford, are you threatening an officer of the law?”
I had to end whatever this was, or we’d never get anywhere with the interrogation.
“Hey. Douglas,” I said. “If you’ve got something to say to me, spit it out, because I have no idea what your problem is. Twenty years is a long damned time.”
The old man’s mouth quivered. “Don’t matter anymore,” he said. “She’s dead.”
“Yeah, and you killed her.”
“Not that miserable, dried-up bitch,” he said loudly. “My daughter! All this time, I thought … it don’t matter now.”
“It does matter,” I said. “Because if you don’t start explaining yourself, I’ll slap you with multiple counts of murder. Eleanor Schilz. Chelsea Mathers. Lynn Reynolds.” I leaned across the table. “Did you fix more than just their sinks, Douglas?”
His eyes narrowed. “Boy, you’re j
ust as crazy now as you were back then. I never touched those girls. Or that old hag.”
“Then what did you do?”
“Not a damned thing! For cryin’ out loud,” he spat, and then his features went slack. “Look, I know what you and Diamond was planning. She was gonna run off, make a place out in the city, and you figured to dodge the county folks and shuck off after her. I know you was …” He screwed his face up. “With my little girl. Under my roof!”
I didn’t say anything. I was too pissed off. Clearly, he hadn’t cared that much about his ‘little girl’ if he let his wife beat the shit out of her.
“I thought she’d gone,” he said hoarsely. “Then the cops came, took that bitch, sent the lot of you brats off God knows where, and I figured … I thought you knew where she was. My Diamond. You were keepin’ her from me, and then you came back without her!” His shoulders heaved. “Just found out yesterday that you was burying her. That she’s been dead, all this time. That’s why I came with you. Thought I’d turn myself in.” He shook his head. “It’s my fault she’s dead. All my fault. I should’ve killed that bitch long ago, and I’m only sorry I wasn’t the one who done it now.”
Clarke laid a hand on my forearm and jerked her head slightly toward the door.
I nodded.
“Sit tight, Mr. Beauford,” Clarke said as she stood. “I’m going to have an officer come in and take your statement.”
“Gave you my statement.” A tear leaked from the corner of his eye, trickling down through wrinkles and stubble. “It’s my fault. Got nothin’ more to say.”
I followed Clarke out of the room and back to the corridor, though there wasn’t much more to discuss — at least as far as Oren Beauford.
He wasn’t the killer.
He was just a miserable, cowardly bastard who’d thought his daughter was alive for the past twenty years, and blamed the man I was pretending to be for ‘stealing’ her.
I was almost certain now that Donovan had killed Diamond.