by Nick Pirog
Chapter 15
Caitlin had fallen asleep on the couch while I was returning the favor and I’d taken the liberty of stealing her bed. I’m still confused as to how I woke up with my hand wrapped firmly around her waist. She must have snuck in bed at some point, and I guess old habits die hard, especially subconscious ones.
Caitlin squirmed, then turned and faced me. Our faces were inches from each other and I’m not sure who initiated it, but next thing I knew, Caitlin’s tongue was tickling my small intestines.
It was a routine I knew well and one I enjoyed thoroughly. I slipped the Supersonics tee over Caitlin’s head, exposing her perfect breasts. She reached for my boxer briefs and the reality of the situation hit me. I took a deep breath and said, “We can’t. This would only complicate things for the both of us.”
She nodded her head in agreement but I could tell she was bruised by my chastity. The both of us laid there basking in the awkward moment, similar to the dust particles dancing within the brilliant morning rays, when the phone rang. Caitlin plucked the phone off the bedside table and said, “Dr. Dodds.”
I decided to make my getaway. I picked my clothes off the floor and snuck into the bathroom. I elected against a shower and washed my face with Caitlin’s Clinique bar, then threw on my same duds from the night before.
Caitlin’s stick of deodorant was sitting on the counter and I did a quick swipe under each arm. The perfume soap and baby powder deodorant created an overpowering feminine smell and I checked my pants to make sure my testicles hadn’t slipped into my socks. Everything intact, I walked out of the bathroom, only to have the phone rammed to my chest by Caitlin.
She murmured, “Director Mangrove.”
I covered the phone, “How does he know I’m here?”
“I told him.” She sniffed, “Did you put my deodorant on?”
I pleaded the fifth and put the phone up to my ear, “Prescott.”
“Sorry to hear about Jennifer. She was a nice girl.”
“Yes, she was.”
“And I guess I owe you an apology. You’re going to be getting quite a few of those in the next couple days.”
“I’ll put a check next to your name.”
“Good. The boys are on their way as we speak.”
By the boys I assumed he meant my friends Gleason and Gregory. “Sorry Charles, I’m flying solo on this one.”
“What’s it going to take for you to help us out?”
I could have asked for three or four men to watch over Lacy, but the last thing I wanted was two FBI goons eating all my food and hitting on my sister. I had a thought and said, “For starters, you can come to my sister’s gallery opening and buy a painting.”
“That it?”
‘That’s it.”
“That shouldn’t be a problem.”
Charles was an altogether good guy, and the two of us probably would have been friends if he wasn’t in charge of the most corrupt group of guys this side of Leavenworth. I thought of something else and said, “Also, I want Conner Dodds on the task force, and I want him to have FBI status.”
“That shouldn’t be a problem.”
The word, “Yes,” wasn’t in the FBI’s vocabulary. “That shouldn’t be a problem” was the closest you would ever get out of them. It left some wiggle room if they ever flaked, which they did frequently.
We did the who, what, when, and where, and I hung up.
I recounted the events to Caitlin. We were to meet the rest of the task force at the Federal Building in downtown Bangor at nine. She was on another planet and I said, “You okay?”
Her eyes darted around the room and came to rest around my left knee. She said, “I’ll be all right. We good?”
I tilted her head, kissed her lightly on the lips, and left the room. I wasn’t sure if I kissed her to satisfy my own anxieties or hers. It was my own version of “that shouldn’t be a problem.”
Caitlin showered and I ate Lucky Charms until the box was empty. I heard the newspaper thud against Caitlin’s stoop and read the clock: 8:08 a.m.
A little late for the paper wasn’t it?
Caitlin, like everyone else, had subscribed to the Waterville Tribune after the events of last year. The paper was now third in circulation only to the Bangor Daily News and the Portland Press-Herald.
I plopped down on the second of three porch steps, slipped the paper from its light blue plastic sheathing, and read the front-page headline. It was fortunate I was sitting down because my knees would have buckled had I not been. In 72-point font, plastered across the front page was the headline:
Maine Frame-Woman Found Maimed on Anniversary of Killings
Story by Alex Tooms
I started in on the article:
Jennifer Peppers’ mangled corpse was discovered in the home of Thomas Prescott (Yes, the same Thomas Prescott from the infamous murders of exactly one year ago) at exactly 11:37 p.m. last night. The body was found in much the same fashion as the women from last October’s massacre.
The victim’s, Jennifer Peppers’ (Prescott’s ex-fiancée), ragged mortal remains were dismantled and her eyes removed, prompting Bangor Chief Medical Examiner, Dr. Caitlin Dodds, to credit the MAINEiac, Tristen Grayer, with the slaying. The only recognizable difference between the Jennifer Peppers murder and the murders of a year ago was the fact the victim’s eyes were present at the crime scene.
Thomas Prescott was quoted as saying, “He wants us to know Jennifer watched her own death, watched her own life be taken from her.”
The big question is: If they’re crediting Tristen Grayer with the murder, then just who was the John Doe from a year ago?
How in the hell did Alex get wind of that kind of information? Lacy said Alex had been with her the entire time washing Baxter. Oh shit, the tape recorder. But how?
As I was pondering this, Caitlin emerged onto the porch dressed from head to toe in tan, an umbrella outfit covering homicide detective, medical examiner, and task force member.
She asked, “Did you call Conner?”
“I forgot.” I stood, handed the paper to her, and said, “You better sit down.”
I walked inside and called Conner. He thought I was kidding about the FBI status part, making me swear on my life. He said he’d be at the Federal Building at nine and I ran into the downstairs bathroom, did a quick brush and met Caitlin on the top step of her porch.
She was sitting cross-legged and looked up in horror, “We haven’t even notified the parents and that bitch has the audacity to print the victim’s name. And how the hell did she quote you on the eyes?” She looked at me skeptically.
“I didn’t tell her anything, I swear.” I crossed my heart.
I hadn’t thought about Jennifer’s parents. They lived in Jersey and Jennifer Peppers wasn’t exactly the rarest of names. Still, it was unethical from a journalist’s position to use names when they are yet to be disclosed. I made a mental note to give Ms. Tooms a truckload of shit the next time I saw her.
I filled in Caitlin about the tape recorder and she said, “But it was off when you put it in your pocket. I saw the tape stop spinning.”
We put the article on the back burner and Caitlin asked, “Should we take separate cars?”
Of course we should take separate cars. I wouldn’t not take separate cars if my brakes were out. I said mildly, “I think that might be best.”
We retired to our respective cars and I checked the dash clock. It was almost 8:30 a.m. I pulled my cell phone out and made the dreaded call to Jennifer’s father. I tried to keep it short and sweet, but it was closer to long and sour. I ended with the standard, “If there’s anything you need, anything at all—,” spiel and recused myself in order to, “Find, apprehend, and cut the balls off the man who did this to her.”
Next, I dialed Caleb Barstow. After four or five rings, a groggy voice answered, “Someone better be dead.”
/> “Someone is.”
This grabbed his attention. “You serious, professor?”
“You get the Waterville Tribune?”
“Doesn’t everybody?”
I told him to snag the paper, then heard him fumble out of bed and a door open. He came back on, “No fuckin’ way. This happened at your crib?”
“Yep. I need your help with something.”
“Name it.”
“I want you to keep an eye on my sister for the next couple days. Watch her from afar. Stake her out basically. You might have to miss some classes.”
“I don’t go to class anyway.”
I laughed and gave him stakeout instructions.
I entered downtown Bangor and pulled into the massive U.S. Federal Building parking lot. The closest FBI field office was located in Boston, which has jurisdiction over Maine, New Hampshire, Massachusetts, Vermont, and Rhode Island. In a case such as this, an adjunct task force office is stationed in the nearest US Federal Building for the duration of the investigation.
The Federal Building was a large red brick structure built when imaginative architecture was frowned upon. In the state of Maine, the building fell under the classification “skyscraper” because, at an outlandish height of twelve stories, it was the tallest building in the area and possibly the state.
I was on time for once, which meant I had twenty minutes to kill. I pulled Eight in October out of the utility compartment and flipped once again to the dedication page. I slowly read the eight women’s names one by one. As I did this, the theory I’d been trying to tie together for the last year, ultimately came full circle. It was like getting hit with a frying pan, falling and hitting a light switch, which in turn spotlights the bacteria growing on the frying pan which is penicillin. Or something to that degree.
I was going over the finer points when Conner pulled up next to me in his jet-black Camaro. I was surprised to see he was clad in slacks and a black button down, sans tie. Stepping out of the car, I said, “You’re gonna need to get a suit if you want to fit in with these fruitdicks.”
He smiled. “I’ve got an appointment with a tailor at noon.”
The two of us walked into the edifice and stopped at the front desk to retrieve our ID badges. We each took our respective badge and it appeared someone at the Bureau had a sense of humor.
I showed my picture to Conner and after a healthy knee slap he said, “Is that the mug shot from your BUI?”
It most certainly was the mug shot from my Boating Under the Influence arrest. Look out, Nick Nolte, you have some competition. I clipped the photo to my breast pocket and led Conner into one of the four elevator shafts. I pushed the button for the eighth floor, but the elevator didn’t respond.
Conner wisely slipped his ID badge off his shirt, inserted it in the slot beneath the numerals, and the elevator creaked to life.
After scanning his card twice more, Conner and I entered a large conference room. The room was roughly the size of a third grade classroom, only instead of twenty desks there was one giant one, and instead of third graders there were FBI agents, aka kindergartners.
Caitlin Dodds, Wade Gleason, and Todd Gregory each had a coffee mug in hand, an attaché case on the table in front of them, and stood when Conner and I entered. Gleason was first to make his way around the large mahogany table and we did what he called “knuckles.”
He said, “I guess I owe you dinner.”
“How ‘bout dinner and I never pay taxes again.”
He chuckled, “I’ll see what I can do.” His eyes fell to my breast pocket and he roared back in laughter. Gleason wiped the badge clean of his saliva with the cuff of his shirt and said, “Hey, at least they got your good side.”
Interesting, I was a detective at heart and either Gleason should be thanking the Academy or he was innocent of said crime. I looked at Gregory making his way around the table. Todd Gregory’s sense of humor topped out with a good Ziggy, so he wasn’t suspect. By default the guilty party was Charles Mangrove. I tucked this information in a file marked Revenge-See Good Fun and while I was there retrieved the file for Tristen Grayer marked Revenge-See Pain and Suffering.
Gleason moved on to Conner, and Gregory stepped into the batter’s box. Gregory extended his hand and said, “Well, Prescott, I guess I owe you dinner as well.”
Dinner with Todd Gregory sounded about as much fun as a vasectomy, but we were all being cordial here and I said, “Thanksgiving is right around the corner. Why don’t you tell Momma Gregory to set an extra spot at the table?”
He flashed his annoyingly perfect smile and I wondered if I could knock all thirty-two of his teeth out with one punch. Caitlin came next. If the two of us were playing charades, the card would have read Professional Gauche. We shook hands and exchanged pleasantries and no one would have guessed the two of us woke up in the same bed.
In any other situation the five of us would have shot the shit for twenty minutes, each of us filling our respective colostomy bag to the brim, but today was all business. We’d let a killer go free and he was back doing what he did best; chopping and raping, and not in that particular order. From the eight eyes sitting on my chest and the ache in the pit of my stomach, I surmised I was father corn in this steamer. Caitlin played catalyst, “Your theory, Thomas?”
Oh, right. My theory. Here goes everything. I stood, coughed into my hand, and said, “Tristen Grayer . . .”
I coughed once more to add dramatic effect, then continued, “. . . is a twin.”
Chapter 16
Blank expressions canvassed the faces of my peers. Gleason rocked back in his chair, steadfast, and did a rolling motion with his right hand, “Care to elaborate?”
I sat down and crossed my right leg over my left. “Do you guys remember Robert Elby? He was the neighboring farmer who stumbled on Ingrid Grayer’s body.”
They all nodded.
I continued, “Well, I tracked him down in late April and grilled him in depth about the Grayer family. He told me what he knew, and I went to the Aroostook County Records office to try to corroborate his story. Aroostook is so remote only about half the residents are in the record books, but I was fortunate enough to stumble on the Grayer family history. Penelope and Timothy Grayer were blessed with a daughter, Ingrid, of course, and identical twin boys, Tristen and Geoffrey.”
None of the four blinked. Caitlin asked dryly, “Tristen had an identical twin? Why wasn’t any of this researched at the time?”
“Because Elby initially told police Ingrid and Tristen lived in the farmhouse alone. No one had any reason to think otherwise. Why would we? I only went in search of the information months later because everything ended so neat and tidy.”
Tristen Grayer had shown these people a torn photo Scotch-taped back together. I was in the midst of pulling off the tape.
Gleason asked, “So where was the brother Geoffrey in all this?”
“Dead. At least according to Elby. Apparently, the Grayer farmhouse went up in flames three years ago, whereby the parents and Geoffrey died in the fire. There was no investigation. Hell, there isn’t even a record of any fire. No death certificates, nothing. It was during the winter and nobody noticed. Elby said when spring came he passed the Grayer farm and saw half the house had burned to the ground.”
Caitlin said, “We knew about the fire. It was hard to decipher at first sight because of the condition of Ingrid’s body, but while doing the autopsy I came across a large amount of scar tissue, presumably from a fire. Also, when Elby gave us the description of Tristen, he’d remarked how he was horribly disfigured from a fire he suffered years earlier.”
I set her straight. “Elby mistook Tristen for Geoffrey.”
Gregory looked flustered, and for the first time I couldn’t blame him. He asked, “So where was Tristen in all this?”
“That’s the question. My theory is that he flew the coop after he set the fire.”
> Conner said, “You think Tristen set the fire that nearly killed his entire family?”
“That’s precisely what I think.”
Gregory asked, “Why would he try to kill his whole family?”
“I would have to ask him that question but I’d assume it would have to be sexual. Everyone was probably doing everyone else. Mom, pop, sister, brothers.”
He smirked, “And just what evidence do you have to back this assumption?”
“For starters, while I was at the records office I did a little background on the Grayer family and there appears to be quite a bit of incest. The parents, Penelope and Timothy, were once brother and sister. It goes all the way back to Johanis Elbert Grayer bopping his cousin in the late 1800s and trickles down.”
Gregory threw me a skeptical look, “So the family fooled around. Tristen sets fire to the house and skips town. He’s out of the picture. Geoffrey kills Ingrid and goes on a killing spree. So we got the name wrong. We still got the right guy.”
I smashed my fists down hard on the table, sending a couple wayward drops of coffee spitting onto the table. “No, you fucking idiot, you didn’t get the right guy because about ten hours ago I found a woman in thirty pieces in my sister’s bed.”
Todd turned into Zechariah before my eyes and I said, “Let me finish my theory. Three years pass and Tristen, for whatever reason prompts these psychopaths to return to the scene of a crime, feels obligated to go sightseeing. October first of last year, he makes his way back to the Grayer farmhouse and is shocked to learn his siblings somehow survived the blaze.
“He bursts in and finds his derelict, burnt-to-shit brother screwing his derelict, burnt-to-shit sister’s brains out. Then, to top it off, Tristen discovers Ingrid is carrying Geoffrey’s child. The fashion in which he killed Ingrid tells the story. Tristen enjoyed every second of it. He’s never felt so alive. He’s instantly addicted. He wisely holds off killing Geoffrey, knowing full well he has someone to take the rap for all the monstrosities he plans to commit in the coming days.”
I could tell I was starting to turn the four of them and rode my momentum, “In the ensuing carnage, Tristen takes the eyes of each of his victims. I have this image I can’t shake of Geoffrey Grayer tied to a chair with each of Tristen’s victims eyes encircling him, as if to say, ‘If you hadn’t gone and fucked your sister, hadn’t stuck your peepee in the family teepee, then we would all still be alive.’”