by James Hunt
Grant glanced down, realizing that he was still wearing the vest, and then removed it before stepping out of the vehicle and heading into the precinct through the building’s rear entrance.
Once inside, Grant followed Mocks and Hofster into the conference room.
“Tell me you have something good,” Mocks said.
Lane smiled. “Oh, it’s good all right.” He shuffled through a stack of letters and then handed one of them to Mocks. “So, I went through and isolated all of the correspondence sent between Chet Denning and Dennis, searching for any particular code within their messages.”
“And?” Mocks asked.
Lane pointed to the top of the page which had the date circled. “I didn’t notice it before because the numbers didn’t stand out.” He grabbed a second sheet of paper and handed it to Mocks, which had another number circled. “It’s the same letter.”
Grant frowned, staring at the two pages. “But it has different dates.”
“Exactly,” Lane said, growing excited. “The date marked on the actual letter uses the European method of marking a calendar. Day, month, then year, instead of month, day, and year. It wouldn’t have been flagged because most of the dates look like they could still be the American version.”
Mocks sifted through the letters, finding what Lane was saying was correct. “Tell me you found other letters with the same type of dates.”
Lane lifted two stacks of papers off the desk. “And I’ve already pulled their files. One is an Arnold Waffer, who works as a janitor for an office building right next to the school that Susie Mullins attends, and the second was for a Barry Finster, who happens to be the garbage man for Mary Sullivan’s neighborhood.”
Mocks smacked her fists on the table in triumph. “I want units to their addresses immediately. They probably won’t be there, but we might find a hint about where they are.” Mocks walked over to Grant, who was back over by the big board, staring at the sketches that Dennis had drawn.
Grant pulled the picture of the house off the board and held it with both hands. “He draws the house that Ellen and I lived in, then has one of his cronies kidnap a woman that looks exactly like her.” He reached for the picture of the headstone but only pressed his fingers against it. “And then he draws a picture of a headstone and coordinates the abduction of a girl that would have been the same age as my unborn daughter.”
“Where are you going with this, Grant?” Mocks asked.
Grant stepped away from the board, the sketch of the house still in his hand as he paced around the conference room aimlessly, lost in concentrated thought. “He drew a gravestone.” He stopped, then turned toward Lane. “Give me the letters between Arnold and Dennis.”
Lane handed them over, and Grant rifled through them, searching for the last few letters that were exchanged.
“If the date is the key, then we need to figure out the message.” Grant studied one of the letters, Mocks nearby.
“Maybe it’s paragraph, sentence, then word?” Mocks asked.
Grant tried Mock’s methodology for the first couple of letters and scribbled down the words. Dirt. He then went to the next letter, using the same formula. Deep.
Lane lowered the phone from his ear. “Lieutenant, officers just arrived at Arnold’s house.”
“Put it on speaker,” Mocks said.
Lane followed the command, and the heavy breathing of the officer echoed through the conference room while Grant continued to jot down the hidden words using the date as the cipher.
“No sign of victim or suspect,” the officer said. “Doesn’t look like anyone has lived here in a while.”
Mocks stepped closer to the phone. “This is Lieutenant Mullocks. Is there a garage or a storage area anywhere on the property?”
“Looks like there is a shed out back.”
Grant scribbled down another word. Shovel. He flipped through another letter and found the word coffin. He dropped the pen and then looked to the sketch of the gravestone on the board. “Oh my God.”
Boots shuffling against concrete echoed through the speaker. “All right, looks like we’ve got… oxygen tanks.” The clatter of metal hitting concrete sounded between his words. “Some wooden planks, saws.” He sniffed. “The sawdust smells fresh.”
Mocks frowned, then turned to Grant. “What the hell was he making? Grant?”
With his stomach twisting into knots, Grant lurched forward, his arms weak and cold while his face burned hot. He snatched the sketch of the graveyard and then grabbed the picture of Susie as he headed toward the door. “He buried her.”
Mocks followed him toward the door. “Where?”
Grant shut his eyes, trying to calm the voices arguing inside of his head, the ones that pulled him in a thousand different directions. He took a breath and then forced his eyes open. “He buried her at the cemetery where Ellen’s buried. Where I also buried Annie.”
12
Grant gripped the interior SUV handles tightly while Mocks swerved through traffic, lights flashing, leading the caravan of police vehicles toward the North Shore Cemetery. He bounced his knee, the one outlet for his nerves.
“Grant,” Mocks said, saying his name like she’d repeated it several times. “You all right?”
“What’d the second unit find at Finster’s house?” Grant asked, dodging the question.
“It looked abandoned like Waffer’s residence,” Mocks said. “A lot of electronics, no cleaning supplies for bombs, but we’re not ruling that out.” She turned off the highway exit. “You think we’re going to find Susie Mullins with a bomb strapped to her back?”
Grant paused. “I don’t know.”
The radio cackled and Dispatch came through. “Lieutenant Mullocks, we have confirmation of Waffer’s vehicle on the premises.”
Mocks reached for the radio. “Copy that, Dispatch. We’re pulling up now.”
Upon arrival at the cemetery, the place was cordoned off, but the barricades were removed for Mocks and Grant as she parked at the graveyard’s entrance. They spotted the car marked as Arnold Waffer’s vehicle and stopped there first.
The sergeant on scene and in charge had the trunk open, and Forensics was already combing through the inside. “We have the cemetery locked down at every exit and entrance. Air support is three minutes out.”
“Dogs?” Mocks asked.
And before the sergeant could answer, an excited chorus of whines and whimpers erupted from behind them as the K-9 units arrived on scene.
Mocks nodded and then turned to Grant, who had his attention on the ocean of stone made up of the grave markers. “You ready?”
It had been a long time since Grant had visited Ellen’s grave. Over a year. He had planned to come back after he proposed to Samantha, because he wanted to come back with good news. Never would he have imagined coming back under these circumstances.
Grant hung back while the dogs led the charge, and they followed the scent directly to the tombstone where Grant believed they’d find the girl. Right next to his beloved Ellen and Annie.
“Fresh dirt,” Mocks said. “Let’s dig this up!”
Shovels were immediately planted into the dirt, and Grant and Mocks took a step back. He kept his fists clenched tight, afraid that if he let them go, they’d tremble. He didn’t want Mocks to see that. He didn’t want her to see that he couldn’t handle it.
Grant paced the edge of the grave, the cops shoulder-deep into the ground now.
Mocks leaned closer. “You think it’s a decoy? Maybe he just dug up some dirt and then buried her somewhere else?”
“No,” Grant answered, confident. “She’s here.” He stared at Ellen’s tombstone. “He wants me to take a trip down memory lane.”
One of the shovels hit something solid, and everyone stopped.
Grant crouched at the edge of the hole. “Find the edges.”
The officers cleared the box quickly, the fact that it was so small its own type of horror, and the sergeant who’d started diggin
g wiped dirt off the lock that sealed the girl inside. “I need bolt cutters!”
The orders were echoed down the line, and the tool arrived in a matter of seconds. The jaws opened wide, and then snapped through the steel like butter.
Grant remained by the hole’s edge, and his heart stopped when he saw the girl curled up in a fetal position, an oxygen mask strapped over her face.
The sergeant immediately pressed his fingers to her neck. “I don’t have a pulse!”
A hole was made around the thickening circle of officers for the medics coming in with their gear. The officer lifted the girl out of the box, her limbs dangling lifelessly as she was gently placed on a stretcher.
A second mask replaced the one that Susie Mullins had worn in the box, and one of the medics started CPR.
“C’mon, c’mon!” The medic pumped Susie’s chest, his arms rigid, sweat dripping from the tip of his nose. He checked her pulse and then hesitated before he started pumping the girl’s chest again.
“Oh my God.” Mocks covered her mouth and turned away. But Grant watched. He wanted to remember the anger.
The medic pressed his fingers against Susie’s neck again, and his eyes lit up. “I’ve got a pulse!”
A collective breath released from every emergency worker as the medics rushed toward the ambulance parked just outside the wrought iron fence on the graveyard’s perimeter.
But while everyone’s attention was focused on watching the little girl be carried off, Grant turned to look at the rest of the graveyard. As was the case with Kelly Sears, Grant believed that Arnold was nearby. Watching.
At the north end of the cemetery, just stepping out of a gate, Grant saw the backside of a male wearing a hoodie and baseball cap. “Mocks.” He jogged north, Mocks following, already in sync with Grant’s observation.
“We have movement on the north end,” Mocks said. “White male in a baseball cap, hoodie, and jeans. Could be our suspect.”
Grant saw the shed to the left and noticed the door was open, and he veered to check inside. An old man was crumpled up in the corner, lifeless.
Grant stepped out of the shed, removing the firearm from his holster as he sprinted toward the suspect. He weaved between the headstones, his eyes locked onto the figure in the baseball cap, moving toward the city. He passed through the gate, heels pounding the pavement as the perp merged into a crowd.
Grant didn’t call out the man’s name, he didn’t scream, he just kept moving forward, closing the gap between himself and the monster.
Arnold must have heard Grant’s footsteps, because right before Grant tackled him to the ground he turned, his eyes wide with surprise and fear.
The pair landed against the ground hard, both skidding forward a few inches, scraping against concrete.
Winded from the run, Grant was still able to flip Arnold over, pinning his arms down, and Grant was surprised the man didn’t resist more. He just laughed until his cheeks shone a bright cherry red.
“Did she die?” Arnold asked, repeating the question between laughter. “Did she?” He laughed even harder and Grant lifted him to his feet, shoving him into the arms of the officers that had gathered. “I hope she died!”
Arnold’s voice faded as Grant remained isolated in the crowd that had stepped away from him when he tackled Arnold to the pavement. They all stared, whispering, taking photos and videos, and it wasn’t until Mocks pulled him away that he moved.
“What the hell was that?” Mocks asked, waiting until they were out of earshot of the collection of phones aimed in their direction. “I had units in pursuit. He could have had a device, or a weapon, or—”
“He’s doing this because of me, Mocks,” Grant said, his breathing still labored. “I’m the reason those women were abducted. I’m the reason that little girl was in the ground. I’m the reason—” He stared down at his shoes. “I stepped away from investigating because I didn’t want this life anymore. I didn’t want to keep putting other people in danger.”
Mocks grabbed hold of his wrists. “I know you didn’t ask for this. You haven’t asked for any of the bad shit that’s happened to you, and you’ve had more than your fair share.” She drew in a breath. “But life doesn’t care about how much shit you’ve already shoveled, and it sure as hell doesn’t care what it does to your plans. You’re in it. You’re not alone. And it’s not your fault.”
Had Grant not known Mocks for as long as he had, he would have thought the words were meant to sting. But they weren’t. She probably knew him better than anyone else that was still alive. Maybe even better than Sam knew him.
The kick in the pants was meant to get him out of the funk, to get his head on straight. Because the job wasn’t done. A mother of two still needed to be returned to her family.
“Thanks,” Grant said.
“Yeah, well, just don’t get all sappy on me,” Mocks said. “I have a reputation to uphold now that I’m a lieutenant.”
Grant smiled. “I don’t think that’s in jeopardy of disappearing.”
13
Dennis sat in the room where he’s spoken to Grant hours ago, staring at the walls. They were the same color as the walls in his cell. He hated those walls. Of all the things to hate about prison, he hated those walls the most.
The food was lackluster but digestible. The limited outdoor time was aggravating, but it was better than zero outdoor time. The beatings from the guards were spiteful and cruel, but few and far between.
But there was madness in the dullness of prison walls. Bland. Gray. Lifeless. When a man was surrounded by that every day, all day, for years, decades at a time, it was a wonder that more inmates didn’t completely lose their minds.
Dennis had fought those walls, distracting himself with books and magazines, but after the first three years, the relentless dullness of those walls started to permeate into his brain.
Looking back at it now was silly, of course. They were just walls. But when he had reached the breaking point, he couldn’t have conjured up a more menacing foe. Because the walls were immune to manipulation and torture.
And then, one day, after punching his fist bloody and breaking his hand, he sat in the corner of his tiny cell, curled up into a ball, shivering from the madness that had taken hold.
It was in that moment, in the darkest, most frightening corner of his mind, when a thought struck him. It was nothing but a whisper at first, and the voice scared him even more than the walls. But it sparked an idea. It gave him a purpose.
Up until then, he had satiated his appetite for death with books. But it was a craving that ate at him from the inside, hollowing him out. But that idea… It made the cravings stop.
So now, every time he stared at a prison wall, he no longer saw the dull gray walls that refused to yield. Instead he saw a face, the same face he had carved on that wall the day that voice spoke to him. The face of Chase Grant.
Dennis knew that when his plan finally came into fruition, the former detective would think it was an act of revenge. And he supposed that in its most simplistic form, that was true.
But it was more than that. It was a triumphant cry within the darkness, a signal to those who thought he could be controlled and subdued. It was an act of impossible defiance, and one that people would be talking about for years to come.
Dennis shifted uncomfortably in his seat, snarling as he remembered the day that Grant had caught him.
Grant represented an ideology, manifested into reality by a system that believed it could do anything. If he could break that man, then he could break the ideology behind the man. And if he could break the ideology, then he could break the system.
Dennis leaned back in the chair, restricted by his chains. He stared at the empty chair across from him, remembering Grant sitting there, knowing that the former detective hated every minute of it.
Unlike Dennis, Grant had moved on. He’d given up the badge and started a new life. But Dennis would destroy Grant’s future just like the old detective had de
stroyed his. And when it was all said and done, Dennis would transform Grant into the very thing he hated. A killer.
The sound of lock and key brought Dennis’s attention toward the door, and one of the guards stepped inside, quickly followed by a nurse from the medical wing.
“Hello, Dennis. They brought me to you since they don’t want you leaving.”
“Well, I apologize for the trouble, Nurse Mabel,” Dennis said, practicing his smile. “Honestly, I think they’re getting worked up for nothing. I mean, it’s not like I could have done what they’ve said I’ve done from inside my cell, right?”
Nurse Mabel sighed as she filled the syringe with insulin. “Dennis, I don’t think anything. I just give you folks the medicine you need that was written down by the doctor.”
Dennis blamed his poor diet and lack of exercise for the onset of his Type 2 diabetes, but the condition had granted him an unexpected opportunity.
Mabel set the insulin down and gestured to the guard, who then walked over and unlocked the shackles around his wrists. With the cuffs off, Nurse Mabel rolled up the orange sleeve of his left arm, and then swabbed his pale skin with rubbing alcohol.
Dennis shivered and laughed. “It’s always so cold.”
“I know,” Mabel said, reaching for the needle. “Just stay still for me.”
Needle sunk into flesh, but Dennis didn’t flinch, watching the needle go into his skin. He always liked watching the injections. It reminded him of what he’d done to the people he abducted. It gave him an erection every time.
“Okay,” Nurse Mabel said, disposing of the medical waste into a red bag. “All done.” She wheeled her medical cart away from Dennis while the guard stepped in to reapply the shackles.
But as the guard positioned himself between Dennis and the nurse, Mabel couldn’t see that the guard didn’t squeeze his shackles all the way shut. Nor did she see the small blade that was placed in Dennis’s hand before the guard turned.