by S W Vaughn
Which left us with only three unsolved murders to go.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Preston
It was always quiet at home. Usually that comforted her, but tonight she found it unnerving. As if the silence were mocking her defeat.
Douglas Schilz-slash-Oren Beauford had been a long shot. She knew it when they’d brought him in. Even then it felt like grasping at straws, despite the fact that there’d been so many straws to hold onto. So many connections, none of them in the right places. But she’d tried anyway. Failed again.
What next? Should she start rounding up every person in Landstaff Junction who’d ever happened to speak with both girls and also knew anything about the Schilz house?
She’d run out of whispers in the canyon.
And it was only a matter of time before another girl turned up dead.
There had to be a way to find this bastard.
She kept an office in the house, in the second bedroom that had been mostly storage when Paul was here. Where the ‘someday child’ they always talked about having would be when he or she was born. Someday when Preston made detective. Someday when Paul got the manager promotion and didn’t have to travel so much.
Someday never came.
Now, the room that would never be a nursery or a child’s bedroom held a big antique desk with a home computer, a bookshelf filled with books that she meant to get around to reading as ‘someday’ as the child-that-wasn’t, a treadmill that had been folded against the wall so long that it would probably never unfold now, and file cabinets. Waiting for copies of all the paperwork from all the cases she would handle as a detective.
Who couldn’t even solve one case, let alone a career’s worth of them.
The prospect of going over every single document yet again, despite having all of them memorized, was not appealing in the slightest. But she didn’t have anything better in mind. So she hauled everything out, stacked the folders on the side of the desk, and sat down. Grabbed a notebook and a pen.
And thought: The definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over again, and expecting different results.
She was officially insane.
Angry and frustrated, she uncapped the pen and slashed dark, capital letters along the top of a blank notebook page: WHO DID THIS?
She stared at the words. Her mind stirred, synapses firing sluggishly at first. Who was the killer? She’d been looking for a name, a specific individual she could arrest and accuse and lock up in a deep, dark hole forever. Trying to narrow the search.
But what if she widened it?
Not just who the killer was, but what he was? What he might be, at least.
She ran through Detective North’s profile, refreshing the mental checklist. Male, thirty to fifty, intelligent and possibly arrogant, childhood trauma. Spent time in New York City, maybe. Maybe not. Friendly OR a ladies’ man. Knows the town.
Knows the victims.
Or, was able to gain access to the victims without raising alarms because of what he was.
Someone that people trusted. Like a minister or a handyman. A service technician. Doctor, lawyer — okay, not a lawyer — teacher, soldier. Pharmacist.
Police officer.
No one would ever suspect a police officer of being a serial killer.
Not even his fellow cops.
And they happened to have a police officer on the force who met every single one of his own profile points for the serial killer they were hunting.
It was the perfect cover.
Her blood ran cold, and she forced herself to stop and think. She hadn’t met Donovan North until after the call came in about Chelsea Mathers, but he’d already been in town by then. He’d arrived at the Whispering Pines at four in the morning, the night of the murder. He could have killed her and checked in after she was dead.
But there was Lynn Reynolds, too. Almost a month before he came to town. He’d certainly known about her murder, though — it was the reason he’d contacted the chief and offered his expert help. Could he have come here, killed Lynn Reynolds, and gone back to New York to set things in motion for his return?
He’d lived in Landstaff Junction for at least five years of his life.
And he’d been in the city all that time during the Kid Glove Killer murders.
She tapped her computer to life, went to Google Maps and searched driving directions from New York City to Landstaff Junction. Approximately six hours, one way. No more than seven, probably, depending on where in the city he’d come from. He could’ve made the drive, tortured and murdered a woman in her home, and then driven back all in one day.
And his motive?
How about five years of physical and sexual abuse at the hands of a blonde-haired, blue-eyed woman? Eleanor Schilz had gone gray in prison, but Preston had seen her arrest photos. She’d actually been beautiful once … on the outside, at least.
She should have followed her gut when she first met him. Been more careful. Watched him more closely. She knew there was something off about him.
She just never suspected he was this off.
And still, she couldn’t see it in him. Not the man she’d been working so closely with all this week.
But the flashing neon signs pointed to Donovan North. On paper, if not in person.
How the hell was she going to handle this?
She wasn’t sure how long she’d been sitting there, mentally reviewing the whole mess again in case she’d missed something, when her cell phone rang, startling her. She grabbed it and looked at the screen.
It was August.
Strange. He rarely called her outside work.
“Hello?” she answered.
“Hey, Preston.” August sounded reserved, uncertain. “Sorry to call so late, but I was thinking about the murders, and … oh, this is going to sound crazy. You know what, never mind. I’m sorry.”
“No, it’s okay,” she said. “Nothing is crazy if it helps us solve the case. What’s on your mind?”
He hesitated. “I thought … you know, because there’s no forced entry, the killer might be somebody people trust. Like a guy in a uniform? And I thought … maybe a cop.”
She couldn’t reply. Because maybe she wasn’t crazy, if August had come to the same conclusion.
“Stupid, right?” he was saying. “I shouldn’t have bothered you.”
“No! Not stupid,” she told him, struggling to keep her excitement down. “Did you have someone in mind?”
“Oh, my God. You think so too.”
“I think it’s possible,” she said.
“Yeah, exactly.” He paused. “You’re thinking Henderson, right?”
Holy shit. Clyde Henderson.
Why hadn’t she thought of him?
“I didn’t say anything before, because … well, I never even considered that it might be a cop,” August said without waiting for her confirmation. “But Henderson’s been acting weird at work lately. Twitchy. Hardly talks to anyone. And tonight when I was leaving, I went into the locker room and he was in there, and …” He cleared his throat. “He slammed his locker shut real fast, and told me he’d ‘fucking kill me’ if I went into his stuff. But I never said anything about his stuff.”
“God, that sounds bad,” Preston said.
“Exactly. So I thought … you’re a detective,” he said. “And if you looked in his locker, it would be okay. I think he has evidence in there, but it wouldn’t be admissible if I found it, because it’d be outside the chain of command.”
Preston found herself nodding along, but of course, he couldn’t see it. “You’re right,” she said, even as she sensed that August really wanted to be there when she opened the locker. And he deserved to be. This was his brainstorm, could have been his bust, but he’d given it to her in order to make sure justice was served. “Okay, I’ll head to the station right now. Do you want to meet me there?”
“Really?” he said, and then released a disappointed sigh. “Shoot, I don’t thi
nk I can. I blew a tire out in my driveway when I got home — hit the stupid curb too hard — and I don’t have a spare.”
“I can pick you up, if you want,” she said. “You’re on the way.”
“That would be awesome. You’re the best.”
She smiled. “No problem. See you soon.”
She hung up and headed out, grabbing her jacket and keys on the way. The overwhelming relief that it wasn’t Donovan left her light and confident as she strode to her car and climbed in. There was still a chance they wouldn’t find anything in Henderson’s locker, and maybe she’d have to reconsider North as a suspect if this didn’t pan out … but that was unlikely.
Henderson fit like a glove.
August’s place was about ten minutes from hers. As she drove, she thought back through the conversation with the senior officer and smiled to herself. He would’ve made a good detective, too. If he’d gotten the job instead of her, maybe she wouldn’t even have resented him. Much.
It might not seem that way to the outside observer, watching August’s down-home Barney Fife routine, but he was sharp as a tack. She’d known him for years, since the academy, and he had a way of reading people. Even the not-so-good ones. Gently moving them around to a better path, without them ever realizing he’d influenced them. Once, when she’d watched him talking to a witness who’d refused to cooperate, she remembered thinking that if he hadn’t been a good man, he’d be a dangerous one.
The perfect cover.
She shook her head to clear the errant thought and made the turn onto August’s street. His house was all the way at the end, the last residence before the road ran to fields that belonged to a handful of farmhouses further down the road, where it became a county route.
The porch light was on when she pulled into his driveway, and the garage was closed. He must’ve limped his car inside after the flat. She parked at the road end of the driveway and put the car in gear, but didn’t turn the engine off, thinking he’d have seen the headlights and would be out soon.
A few minutes later, she grabbed her phone and shot him a text.
Here. In the driveway. She added a smiley face and sent it.
A few more minutes. No reply.
More irritated than anything, she turned the car off, unbuckled and got out. Maybe he had to duck in the bathroom or something. She stood in there, debating whether she should try calling or just go up and ring the bell, when she heard rustling behind her.
Just as she started to turn, there was a click and a humming rattle, and the garage door started to go up.
She let out the breath she’d been holding. “Took you long enough,” she called into the opening garage. He must’ve come out through the kitchen door. She stepped back to her car, reached for the door handle, and stopped in mid-motion. Stared into the garage, at first only vaguely puzzled.
She could see all four of the tires on August’s car from here.
None of them were flat.
As her confusion started to slide into alarm, she heard a sound beneath the groan and shake of the still-rising garage door. A shoe scuffing on pavement. Just behind her. Before she could react, a massive CRACK! echoed through her skull, heralding a bolt of blinding pain.
The canyon roared at full volume, and carried her into blackness.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Marco
I had to figure out who the killer was, but all I could think about was who it wasn’t.
Not the meathead fiancé. Not Fehily. Not Beauford-Schilz.
Not me.
That only left a few thousand possibilities.
I resumed pacing the floor between the couch and the television in my hotel room, wracking my brain until I thought my head would split. The Schilz house was the key. It had to be someone who knew that woman, who knew about Donovan North’s connection to her. Otherwise, the killer wouldn’t have known to take her out and use her death as leverage against me. But who would ever associate with Eleanor Schilz, unless they had no choice?
Her neighbors.
That pharmacist guy, the skeevy one who’d make Clarke feel like she’d needed a shower after talking to him for five minutes. The probable wife-beater and child-beater, if any kids had the unfortunate luck of being born to him.
I needed his name. And I couldn’t remember it.
But someone at the station would.
I could drive down there, except I didn’t want to make a big deal out of this yet. Not unless I found something solid on the guy. I couldn’t explain that I suspected him because I knew the killer had made me, was taunting me, and had to be close to the Schilzes.
It was too late to call the chief’s cell. I didn’t want to find out how she felt about possibly being woken up.
So I’d call the station. It couldn’t be that hard to get someone on the phone there.
I powered up the laptop, Googled the number and dialed. The phone rang twice, and then a young male voice who thankfully wasn’t Vonda answered, “Landstaff Junction PD, how may I direct your call?”
“Hey, uh … this is Detective North,” I said. “I need to talk to someone. Anybody who’s working. Is the chief in? Or Kratt, maybe?”
“Lieutenant Krattiger is in his office,” the guy said. “I can connect you.”
“Perfect. Thanks.”
That was real smooth.
It took three rings for Kratt to pick up. “Yeah, this is the lieutenant.”
“Hey. It’s North,” I said. “Listen, I’m going over the Schilz case and I need to double-check a witness statement, but I can’t remember the guy’s name to look it up. That pharmacist?”
Kratt snorted. “Neil Glasberg,” he said immediately. “A real asshole, that guy.”
“You know him?” I said, more out of conversational habit than a desire for an answer. All I’d needed was the name.
“Unfortunately. Had to interact with him at the occasional community function,” Kratt said. “He’s August’s father, you know? Well, stepfather. His mother married the son of a bitch when August was little, but he never took the family name. Can’t say as I blame him. That man was so awful. Put the poor kid in the hospital a time or two, but of course, the wife would never press charges.”
Suddenly I was less interested in Neil Glasberg, and more interested in August Farnsworth.
“Yeah, but I guess that’s water under the bridge now,” Kratt went on. “August got out of there, and he turned out to be a good man. You wouldn’t know his stepfather was such an ass, the kid’s so damned friendly.”
Right. Such a nice, friendly guy.
Who’d spent his abusive childhood across the street from Eleanor Schilz — and the real Donovan North.
Whose book he worshipped like the Bible.
“Yeah. I guess you never know about people,” I said. “Thanks a lot, Kratt.”
“No problem. Don’t go burning the midnight oil too hard, now,” the lieutenant said. “Work comes early. See you in the morning.”
“I’ll be there.”
I hung up and immediately went back to the laptop, ready to look up Clarke’s number on the department website and call her. She wouldn’t like the idea that August was the killer at first, but I could explain it to her. How he fit the profile. The right age, the abusive childhood, the connection to the Schilzes.
If I had to, I’d make up some bullshit about seeing him as a child, murdering an animal or something. Whatever it took to make sure she looked into him and found out what I already knew.
I’d dialed half of her number when I stopped, and a sick feeling settled in my gut.
August had the gun. The bullet covered in Eleanor Schilz’s blood. If I accused him, he could turn everything around and say it was me. Clarke would have no choice but to believe him. And she’d want to believe that over the truth: that her friendly, helpful colleague was a cold-blooded murderer.
Killing him was the only option that didn’t end me. The only real way to stop him.
But damn it, I
’d wanted to do it the right way. The legal way. I wanted Clarke to solve her case and the killer to rot in prison where he belonged.
August had made sure that wouldn’t happen.
Intelligent. Arrogant.
Deadly.
My phone buzzed. It was still in my hand, and the vibration made me jump. I had a new text from August … as if he knew, somehow, that I’d figured it out and this was the perfect moment to taunt me.
I looked at the message.
I have something for you. 827 Potter Lane. Come alone.
Wild hope surged in me. If this sick bastard really wanted a face-to-face showdown, he was about to receive a personal demonstration of my other skill set. The one I’d developed long before I learned how to impersonate a police officer.
I’d happily kill him, and I’d sleep like a baby when it was done.
I grabbed my gear and rushed out, slowing as I moved through the lobby to greet Bethy so she wouldn’t make any suspicious reports to her sister. I wasn’t worried about making sure I had an alibi. This was something I’d had plenty of practice with.
No one would question me, because they’d never even find August’s body.
In the SUV, I programmed the address he’d texted me into the GPS and headed out. The directions took me through town, past the station, and generally southwest until the houses started to thin out and the landscape dissolved to forests and fields.
I was within a few yards of my destination when I saw something that made me slam on my brakes.
Detective Clarke’s car in the driveway.
Shit. Was he planning some kind of Scooby Doo villain reveal, inviting Clarke over so he could hand her the figuratively smoking gun while I watched, unable to do a damned thing about it? I could just about hear his folksy, gosh-I-feel-bad end of the conversation: I was going back over the Schilz crime scene when I found this gun hidden in the (fireplace floorboards back yard whatever he wanted to make up), along with the bloody bullet. It appears to be registered to Detective North. Sorry about this, Detective. I’m just doing my job.