by Rachel Ford
At any rate, Andy didn’t make their rendezvous. Again, I didn’t know the exact location. But I did know the time: right after school pick up.
Which meant some time in the roughly eight intervening hours, he’d vanished. I’d be able to narrow it down further when I got details about his day. Maybe, if I managed to be really persuasive, I’d get a peek at his calendar.
Then I could find out who he talked to, and who he didn’t – all details the detective had not seen fit to share.
From there, I knew the rest well enough. Megan had tried to file a missing persons request right away, but the department hadn’t allowed that. They required twenty-four hours to have elapsed first.
I could see how it made sense, from some perspectives anyway. Andy was a grown man, in his mid-thirties. Grown men didn’t always come home. They didn’t have curfews. Sometimes, they had too much to drink. Sometimes, they had girlfriends on the side. And sometimes, they just had a lot going on and needed some time away to clear their heads.
Sometimes spouses fought, too. And that might not make it into a report. No sense taking manpower away from serious investigations because someone rented a room after a lover’s quarrel.
I supposed my opinion might have been different if it would have made any difference for Andy. But it wouldn’t have. Even if the cops had taken her report at three-thirty or four or whenever she’d tried to file it, Andy would almost certainly already be dead.
It wouldn’t have even made a difference to when they found the body. Megan filed the report on Tuesday, in the afternoon. They found him Wednesday evening by the dumpsters in Kennington Nature Park. His throat cut, but not a drop of blood anywhere.
He’d been moved after death. Dumped.
Then there were the bruises the detective mentioned. I could think of two possibilities. The first: whoever killed Andy overpowered him and killed him on the spot, in a location so remote no one had yet discovered the blood, or where they could either clean or conceal the evidence of a crime. They’d then transported or concealed his body until such time as they dumped it at the park.
The second, that seemed more likely to me on a purely gut level, was kidnapping. It would be consistent with the bruises, and it would explain why no one had noticed a body or a murder site.
Not that that absolutely needed to be explained. There were plenty of old warehouses and abandoned facilities in Kennington. But there were plenty of homeless people who slept in those buildings, and kids who played in them. And there were plenty of police on the lookout for something strange, with a serial killer on the loose.
Plus, the first two cases put weight on the kidnapping side of the scales. Mary Ann Cotton and Humpty Dumpty had written their own death notes. Humpty had been somewhere where the killer could go about dismembering the body after death.
It wouldn’t be much of a stretch to think the killer had taken Mary Ann Cotton and the sandy boy to that same place. To a place he felt comfortable enough to take a human body apart.
My phone rang, and I jumped. I glanced at the screen. It was just after eleven thirty. But the alert that flashed across the screen caught my eye:
Incoming call from Missy Sheldon
I answered the phone.
Chapter Seven
“Owen?” she said. She sounded addled, and maybe even a little afraid. “Oh thank God.”
I sat upright now. “Missy? You okay?”
“Yeah. I know it’s late. I’m really sorry. But I figured I wouldn’t be waking you.”
I smiled. That was true enough. Normally, I would have spent part of my daytime asleep, and I’d be working now.
“I had to talk to someone. But I know you’re working, and I’m sorry,” she apologized again.
“It’s fine,” I said. “I’m not working. I took the day off. You know, considering.”
“Considering? Oh, sweetheart, is everything okay?”
I blinked. Not at the familiar term; sweetheart and darlin’ were just a part of her vernacular. But she should have known that things were not okay. “Uh…Missy, did you hear from anyone yet? From a detective, maybe?”
“Owen, what’s going on?” Her tone was suddenly tense. “That’s what I was calling you about: I have a bunch of missed calls from some Detective Blake, in Kennington. It looks like she tried me half a dozen times today. Me and Toby.” Toby was Missy’s second husband. She explained they’d been on a device-free camping trip all week, and had only just got back home – and taken the devices out of lockdown. Jon – her and Andy’s boy – and Michaela – her and Toby’s girl – were sound asleep. Toby was getting ready for bed.
“You should call her back,” I said.
“I tried. It went to voicemail. Owen, I need you to tell me what the hell is going on.”
So I did. She went absolutely silent for ten whole seconds – an eternity, it seemed to me. Then, I heard her cry.
A sound I hadn’t heard in years. Not since the day her and Andy’s marriage unofficially ended. A sound I hoped I’d never hear again.
“Missy?”
“Oh Owen. Oh God. Andy? That serial killer? Oh my God.”
She had a million questions, and I had almost no answers. It was clear she had none for me, either. She didn’t know anything about the other victims. She’d barely talked to Andy these last years. Jon had kept up some level of communication with his dad, but not frequently. Both parties seemed okay with that.
“Should I have noticed something? Oh, God: tell me he hadn’t gone back to drinking. Not again.”
“No. No, not this time. Not as far as I know.”
“So what was he doing with this other woman? And what, some kind of addict?”
“I don’t know if they knew each other at all. I’m trying to figure out if there is a connection, or if it’s random.”
“What do the police think?”
“They don’t know yet.”
She was quiet for a long moment. “Owen, you’re – well, you’re not trying to solve this on your own, are you? Like…like one of those cold cases?”
“Of course not.” There was nothing cold about this case. And this was more than a hobby. This was my brother.
“Good. Because they can arrest you for that. You know that, right? Interfering with an investigation.”
“I’m not interfering in anything, Missy.”
“You promise?”
I hesitated.
She groaned. “Oh no. You are interfering.”
“I’m not. I’m just asking questions.”
“About a police investigation.”
“About my brother’s murder.”
She sighed. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to yell at you.”
“You didn’t.”
“Just…Owen, promise me you’ll be careful, okay? I know how much Andy meant to you, even when you guys didn’t get along. I don’t want to see you end up another one of this guy’s victims.”
I promised, and we talked for a while longer. She decided she wouldn’t wake Jon. He needed his sleep, and the news would keep until morning. Then she told me goodnight. She told me she’d keep me in her prayers. “You take care of yourself, darlin’. Okay?”
And she hung up.
I didn’t sleep after that. I laid back down for a while, and then I paced the living room floor. I switched between the sofa and the floor half a dozen times.
I was still awake at two in the morning when Jason crept in from the garage, smelling of some kind of vape smoke. He headed to the fridge, walking softly so as not to wake me.
He damned near jumped out of his skin when I called, “I’m awake.” I laughed at the clatter of chairs as he careened backward into the kitchen table in fright. I was almost as dangerous for him as his diet. “You okay in there?”
“Jesus fuck, dude,” he cursed. “You are going to give me a heart attack.”
“Sorry.”
“Fucking hell.” He took a long breath. “Jesus. Now I need a beer.”
&n
bsp; “It’s two in the morning.”
“Yeah, well, you should have thought of that before almost giving me a heart attack. You want one?”
I was going to say no, but then I shrugged. “Sure. What the hell.”
So he brought me a can of something watery and pale. We sat there in the dark, saying nothing and drinking our two AM beers. He brought a bag of cheese curds, which he offered and I declined.
He sat there chewing the squeaky cheese in silence. Once or twice, he’d venture a, “Hell of a thing.”
And I’d say, “You got that right.” Or I’d say, “I’m going to catch this guy, you know.”
And he’d say, “You bet your ass we’re going to.”
And then we’d lapse into silence again. He finished his beer and went back for seconds. He brought me one. I didn’t say no. I figured the alcohol content was low enough that I could probably drink a six-pack and been alright.
He fell asleep three beers in. I shook my head, slipping the can out of his hand and onto an end table. No sense the living room ending up like the back of my SUV.
Then I draped one of my blankets over him and laid down again. I had no illusions that I’d sleep. The hours were going to slowly crawl by until sunup, and I’d be awake for every miserable one of them.
I was thinking that one moment, and then jumping back to awareness the next as my phone buzzed and the screen lit up. Dawn had started to break outside. Light was seeping past the drapes. Somehow, three hours had elapsed.
I squinted at the screen, my vision blurring. It was some kind of news alert. I was about to set the phone aside when three words caught my eye: Nursery Rhyme Killer.
Adrenaline coursed through my veins, and my heart hammered in my chest. I read and reread the alert.
Breaking news: overnight blaze in Kennington Heights suspected work of Nursery Rhyme Killer
I scoured the internet after that for any news article I could find. The local channel, the same one that had sent Krissy Blake and Jack Edwards to the house, had a series of articles on their website about it.
The first was a breaking news piece from just after midnight. A fire had been called in in Kennington Heights.
Kennington Heights was the right side of the tracks. It was where Andy probably would have wound up, if his ministry had kept growing the way it had been so far. The outskirts of the Heights were where the cardiologists and radiologists lived, the top surgeons and high-level corporate administrators.
Then you got to the high profile attorneys, the CEO’s and the more successful small business owners, the ones who cleared a few million a year. It was where the born-wealthy had flocked when the unwashed masses built in around the historical district.
So, naturally, it was where the new money wanted to live too.
Consequently, it was expensive, exclusive, and private. The houses were giant, and the lots bigger, with what was termed mature landscaping, but translated to a lot of old trees. Which made sense, since a hundred years ago the entire development had been nothing but forest on the outskirts of the city. The developers had had the good sense to leave as much of the forest intact as possible.
The terrain was hillier than most of the city, which gave it an added sense of privacy beyond that afforded by the space and trees.
The article didn’t say where the fire was, beyond “the south end.”
The second article in chronological order proved a little more helpful. It said, “In the early hours of Friday morning, firefighters were called to a raging inferno at the home of District Judge Shelby Dandridge.”
There was a video with this one, of the shell of a huge house burning against a black sky while firefighters worked to put it out. Strobing red and blue lights flashed all around, and men and women in various uniforms ran this way and that.
A typical housefire, even if the house wasn’t typical, with emergency personnel doing what they could to put it out and protect the occupants and neighbors.
Then came the update, the one that had woken me.
“Anonymous sources within the Kennington Police Department have confirmed that the fire at Judge Dandridge’s house is connected to the slew of homicides known as the Nursery Rhyme Killings.
“A note found at the scene containing a fourth nursery rhyme indicates that the arsonist might have been the suspected serial killer.
“Witnesses report seeing a victim taken away in a body bag after the blaze was controlled. Police have not confirmed the identity of the victim.
“All attempts to reach Judge Dandridge have proven futile so far.”
There was a disclaimer at the bottom of the story.
“This is a breaking news story. Facts and details may change as more information comes to light. We will update when we have more news.”
I spent half an hour trying to find more details than that. The local papers and news channels had nothing beyond that, though: there had been a fire. Multiple witnesses reported seeing a body taken away. The victim’s identity was unknown, because they’d been in a body bag at the time of transport. Another nursery rhyme had been found. And Judge Dandridge was widely suspected to be the target, though of course no one would confirm that. Not yet.
And the area had been cordoned off, so reporters couldn’t get close. Details would be updated as soon as they emerged.
I was about to give up when I found a video entitled, “BREAKING: District Judge BURNED to DEATH by Nursery Rhyme Killer.”
The headline and its abuse of capitalization gave me pause, but I pulled up the video anyway. It had been uploaded five minutes earlier. It looked like it was a recording of some kind of live feed – featuring the ding-a-ling who had shown up at Megan’s place the night before. The true crime guy.
His real name was Wyatt Wagley, though he referred to himself in his videos as Wagley. He was no less obnoxious in recorded form than he had been in real life.
The video looked like it had been recorded within the last half hour or so. The sun was up, a pale light played over the city. I recognized the place right away, but if I hadn’t, well, Wagley was happy to tell me in the first few seconds of his video.
“Hey you all, it’s me, Wagley. I’m here in Kennington Heights, hot on the trail of the Nursery Rhyme Killer. NRK. That’s right. I am in his hometown, his turf.”
He panned the camera around, to show a bunch of homes – and police tape, and cruisers with flashing lights.
The view returned to him. “And I’m standing not even a quarter of a mile from the scene of his latest killing. And he has set his sights high for this one: District Judge Shelby Dandridge.
“You’ll remember, so far his vics have been low profile: a waitress, a junkie, a preacher. This is different. This is the big time, boys and girls.
“Either our killer just made his first mistake, or he’s got balls the size of coconuts. Because you go after a district judge? They come for you.” He pointed upward.
I wasn’t sure what the gesture was supposed to mean. Not aliens, probably. So maybe black helicopters? Was that even still a thing in conspiracy circles? I didn’t know.
He went on, but I’d heard enough. I wasn’t going to learn anything from Wyatt Wagley. And I sure as hell didn’t need to hear how ballsy my brother’s killer was.
I set the phone down. “You okay, man?” It was Jason.
And this time, I jumped. “Shit. I forgot you were sleeping.”
He yawned and shrugged. “It’s fine.” He gestured toward the phone. “So did I hear right? Another killing? Some kind of judge?”
I shook my head. “That’s that dumbass who showed up here last night. There was a fire, but they don’t know who died.”
Which, of course, required further explanation. So I brought him up to speed. He listened and murmured, “Jesus. Burning someone alive? That’s twisted, bruh.”
Chapter Eight
We made breakfast. Which is to say, Jason decided we should have something ready for Megan and the kids. Then he s
at on his ass while I cooked.
Which was alright, I suppose. I’d spent the night sitting still, mostly. I was ready to be doing something. And I knew better than to call Clark. She’d be busy right now at the crime scene. I’d wait until later.
Until after I fished for info closer at home.
I made eggs and pancakes. Nothing special. Nothing that required more skill than measuring mix and adding milk and eggs. But soon the kitchen smelled pretty good, and my stomach started to growl.
I hadn’t eaten since my four AM dinner the night before, as my workday wrapped up. Which was a mistake. My brain worked better with food in my stomach.
And right now, it didn’t seem to be working at all. I kept coming back to the fire, but I couldn’t make sense of it. It was such an aberration from his usual pattern.
Then again, did he really have a pattern? Strangulation, blunt force trauma, throat cutting – and now fire. Maybe varying his method of execution was his pattern.
It didn’t help that Jason’s tongue seemed to loosen the instant caffeine hit his system. In his mind at least, we were buddies. And he was apparently a man sorely in need of a buddy.
We talked for half an hour. Or, he talked, and I tried to ignore him while I got a stack of flapjacks ready and covered with foil, for heat retention. Then Maisie stumbled downstairs, bleary-eyed and still in her pajamas. “Uncle Jason?” she asked. “What are you doing?”
“Well, Miss Maisie,” he said, getting off his stool and heading for the cupboards. “We are making breakfast.”
“What kind of breakfast?”
“Pancakes and eggs.”
She smiled. “Can I have orange juice too?”
“Can she have orange juice? she asks. Why of course she can have orange juice.”
He set down a plate and a glass – the glass near her, and the plate by me. “One order of pancakes and fried eggs for the lady,” he said to me. She started for the refrigerator, but he ushered her back to the breakfast bar.
She climbed into one of the tall seats, and he procured the orange juice. “Here we are: a glass of orange juice.”