Several women entered and exited the lounge. No one paid them any attention.
“Why did you and Mr. McKinzie donate the Elm Hill Mansion?” said Katie.
“We didn’t want to live there anymore. It was too big and we weren’t interested in remodeling. We thought it would feel more remote. After giving it much thought we wanted to have it benefit the community, so we spoke with a couple of local councilmen and asked if there was something the county needed. They gave us some suggestions.”
“And you wanted it to be a home for foster girls.”
“Why yes.”
“What was the real reason, Mrs. McKinzie?” Katie watched the woman closely as she stiffened, indicating she might be hiding something.
“I have a feeling, Detective, that you are very good at your job.”
“I try to follow up on every possible lead.”
Mrs. McKinzie stopped applying her lipstick and turned to face Katie. “I like you, Detective. And I’m rarely wrong about people. I can count on you for your discretion about this, of course.”
“Yes. That goes without saying.”
“I love my life. I’ve been blessed with the right decisions, right pedigree, and with a lot of luck. But… I made one decision that I wish I could take back.”
Katie listened intently, trying to second-guess what the woman was going to tell her.
“I was seventeen when I got pregnant. As a silly girl, I thought he loved me and that we would get married and life would be wonderful.” She sighed. “But that didn’t happen, of course. I was forced by my parents to have the babies, and then give them up for adoption.”
“Excuse me, but did you say ‘babies’?”
“Yes, I had twins—actually twin girls.”
Katie’s heart almost stopped.
It couldn’t be—could it?
“What happened to them?” Katie managed to say.
“Well, my parents said they were adopted, but years later I found out they went into foster care. The horror of babies going into something like that—I just couldn’t bear it. So, I thought that donating Elm Hill Mansion to be a place for these foster girls would be a good thing. Since it was in the vicinity where I had lived and given birth.” She reached into her small clutch purse and pulled out an old photograph of the newborn babies. “I know this may seem silly, but the nurse in the delivery room took a photo for me and I’ve kept it with me all these years.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“Well, my sin was paid for by me being barren. I could never conceive again. I’ve made peace with it.”
“I know that this is somewhat presumptuous and maybe even far-fetched…”
“Again, spit it out, dear.”
“Would your daughters have been twenty-three today?”
“Twenty-four in three months. Why?” Her dark eyes seemed to search Katie’s soul for what she was about to suggest.
“And you never knew what happened to them?”
She looked down. “No, but I pray for them almost every day.”
“Mrs. McKinzie, the girl that was found murdered at Elm Hill was twenty-three-year-old Carol Harlan, who had a twin sister, Candace Harlan. Both of them were the last girls at Elm Hill.”
“I see what you’re saying, but what are the odds? You couldn’t possibly think…” Her face turned pale as she struggled to finish the sentence.
“I don’t know, but would you risk the chance to find out? Here’s my card. Call me if you would like to meet Candace Harlan, or possibly have a DNA test done if you think that she might be one of your daughters. I’m sorry for being so blunt but you only gave me five minutes.”
Mrs. McKinzie was speechless as her eyes welled up with tears. She expressed gratitude and appreciated the kindness Katie had shown her.
“It was nice meeting you.”
Katie got up and left the ladies’ lounge. She was taken aback by the thought that was meant to be routine information about the mansion could result in a family reuniting and meeting for the first time.
“Hey,” said McGaven as he took her arm and spun Katie to face him, holding her tight. “No such luck with Mr. McKinzie, maybe you might be able to get his attention.” He studied Katie’s face. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. It’s just… We got what we came for… and more.”
Forty-Nine
Monday 1045 hours
McGaven was in the middle of printing out reports but nothing seemed to be giving him the information he was looking for. Frustrated, he said, “We keep uncovering interesting things, but not something that will get us a step closer to the killer.”
“You’re sounding like me,” Katie said. She had the arduous task of going over everything from the child protective services. She had spent her entire Sunday reading every word of the reports along with everything she had outlined so far. They were complete and detailed but nothing that would set them straight and in the correct direction. “Heard anything about Tanis from Spreckles PD?”
“No,” he said sourly.
“You making headway on the electronic version of the Hunter-Gatherer series?” she said.
“No. Everything is blurring together.”
“Anything that stands out?”
“No. What about those social worker reports?” he said.
Katie stopped and turned toward McGaven. “Well, for example, with the child protective reports, sometimes when social workers fill out forms, they may have someone else fill them out.”
“You mean like an assistant?”
“Yeah, or pre-forms. Where they have the wording all made up or phrases used as a general response.”
“Why would they do that?”
“To get the reports turned in on time. Also, if they were being paid off or if they were going to extort someone. It’s not that common, but it does happen.”
“I’m not finding anything that seems weird about the books. It’s just tedious and repetitive about the terrible treatment as a child. How adults aren’t willing to understand the juvenile mind.”
Katie’s cell phone rang and she snapped it up.
“Scott,” she said.
“Detective Scott?” said the caller. She didn’t recognize the caller ID number.
“Yes, this is Detective Scott.”
“Hi, Detective, this is Shane from the county archive department.”
“Yes, hi, Shane. What can I do for you?”
“Well, you told me to call you if I found anything that you might find interesting.” There was heavy static in the background, making it difficult to hear his words clearly.
“Yes.”
“Well, I found these pages from a book that were mixed in with the Elm Hill Mansion file.”
“What kind of pages?”
“They appear to be from a journal.”
“Oh.”
“And on one of the pages it refers to the secret staircase in the house.”
“Sounds interesting.”
“I have a few errands and I will be right by the Elm Hill Mansion. Can I meet you there to show these to you? I’d like to see the house,” he said.
Katie thought about it and then said, “Can you make copies and send them over?”
“I would, but these types of documents are so old that I need to be super-careful with them and they’re not allowed out of my keeping. But I can bring them to Elm Hill where you can have a look at them. You could take a couple of photos with your phone.”
She looked at McGaven poring over his work and reading endless pages of the manuscript. She also knew that Shane probably wanted to take a tour of the house, and she really owed him one. “Yeah,” she said slowly, looking at her watch. “I can be there in twenty minutes.”
“Okay, sounds good. See you then.”
Katie ended the call.
“What’s up?” asked McGaven.
“Shane from the county found some pages from an old book or journal that was mixed in with the Elm Hill Mansion stuff.”
/>
“Could be interesting.”
“Yes, I’m sure. I’ll run over to Elm Hill and check it out.” She began packing up some things, putting her cell phone in her pocket and gun in the holster. “I’ll be back in about an hour.”
“I’ll be here,” he said, not looking up from the piles of paperwork.
Katie hurried to the Elm Hill property and drove up the driveway. This time it stirred emotions inside her—some fear and some trepidation from her previous experience. She tried not to think about the time ticking away as it usually did during these types of investigations. So many things seemed to be tied back to this property. She thought about the people who built the home in hopes of having a big family—but it ended up being the biggest grief in their lives with the loss of those babies.
The property looked the same, but the gate was open. The large metal container was still on its side down the hillside. The crinkled and torn end was a reminder of her rescue. There were strips of metal bent back, looking like a giant tin can. She knew how close she had been to that container being her tomb.
She shuddered as she walked across the main area where long strands of yellow crime tape lay strewn across the property—now partially covered by mud. The large earthmover and heavy-duty forklift were still in the same position from that day. Looking away from the monstrous machine, almost able to hear the roar of its diesel engines, Katie turned her concentration to the rest of the property but nothing appeared out of place.
She saw another car, a small white compact, and assumed it belonged to Shane. Glancing up at the front door, it was open. Smiling in spite of herself, Katie knew that Shane was curious about the house and wanted a firsthand view—and to get out of the county basement for a change.
Katie stepped inside the foyer. “Shane?” She waited and looked at the remnants of the blue-and-yellow wallpaper which must have been stunning in the day. “Are you here?”
“Yeah,” came the reply. “Upstairs.”
“Oh, okay,” she said as she jogged up the staircase. She was getting a bit more excited about what he had for her to see. It must be quite interesting if he reached out to her like this.
As she rounded the bend in the staircase, she caught a whiff of stagnant air mixed with mold. It was a shame that they were going to demolish the house and not keep it for historical purposes—maybe a museum, or even a bistro. It was too late now.
There was a thud, so she stopped. Her first instinct was that something in the house wasn’t sturdy—but her footing was solid and, glancing around, nothing appeared to be falling in on her.
She grabbed the ornate wrought-iron railing and continued upstairs. When she reached the landing, it was vacant. There were several pieces of odd beige paper scattered on the floor.
“Shane?” she said. “Hey, where are you?”
Katie scanned the room suspiciously and slowly bent down and picked up one of the papers. It was a journal entry, dated 1897, in fancy cursive handwriting.
Abigail has now joined her sister Greta in the garden. I don’t know why God needed these two children, but they are in better hands now. May my sweet, precious girls rest in peace. I love you forever, Mommy.
“Wow,” said Katie. “This is amazing.” It appeared to be the journal of Emily Von Slovnick.
Another entry:
We rarely look at one another. I know he doesn’t blame me for the stillborns but his eyes never look into mine. I don’t know how much longer I can take this…
“How sad,” said Katie. She gathered all the papers together, wondering why they were on the floor if they were so valuable, and then decided to take some photos first.
Someone walked up behind her.
“Oh, these are fantastic, Shane, but I don’t know if it will help in the investigation,” she said and stood up.
“Don’t move, Detective,” the stern voice ordered.
She turned to see Jerry Weaver, the social worker, pointing a gun at her face. “Drop your weapon.”
Katie shook her head to indicate she didn’t have one. She was stunned by the change in appearance of the fumbling, goofy social worker she met just days ago. His eyes were steely, hardened, and his movements were deliberate. Hundreds of questions flooded her mind—all while she was trying to keep her wits about her. Her thoughts raced in fast forward.
“Do it,” he said. “I know you have a weapon.” He walked to a closet. “Let me make this easier for you.” He opened the door and inside was Shane, his body doubled over to his side, tied with his hands behind his back, and he appeared to be unconscious. “I will put a bullet in his incompetent brain if you don’t relinquish your weapon… Detective,” he said with hate-filled venom.
“Okay, take it easy,” Katie said. Slowly, she opened her jacket, revealing her Glock in its holster. She unsnapped it. At first, she thought she could overpower Jerry Weaver, but after watching him, she decided it wasn’t a good idea.
“Do it, Detective,” he said again, never changing the tone to his voice.
She dropped her gun but made sure it was still within fighting distance. “You know it doesn’t have to be like this.”
“Like what?” he said. “It’s going to be what I say it is.” He picked up the gun.
“Where’s Tanis?”
“Safe.”
Shane began to stir and expressed low moans. There was blood seeping from his scalp from where he had been struck.
“Look, let him go. He doesn’t know anything about what I know,” she said, testing him.
Laughing, he said, “You’re not going to analyze me, convince me, change my mind, relate to me, or walk away alive. Is that clear enough for you?”
Trying to ignore the rage that was simmering just below the surface in Jerry, she said, “Oh, I get it. It’s very clear to me now. Thanks for clearing that up.”
Jerry scaled back his anger slightly and took two steps from Shane and then back to Katie. “Why do you do that?”
“Do what, Jerry?” She knew that she was walking a very thin line with his psychological disturbance, but some things were becoming quite clear.
He stopped moving but the gun was still aimed at Katie’s head.
“Go ahead and mock me. You have no idea who I am.”
“Why don’t you tell me,” she said trying to decipher his movements and the intent behind them. “Or maybe I’ve heard it all before. Bad home life, mommy didn’t love me, I’m so misunderstood.”
He twitched. She’d touched a nerve.
“So maybe you just decided to make up a world where you are important? You immersed yourself in a fantasy about being in charge, about taking care of yourself and being a hunter-gatherer. But why did it have to be in Italian?”
“Detective, you never know where your inspiration will come from. His words consumed me, it was like he knew me. He looked right into my damaged soul and healed it with the romance of the Italian language…” He readjusted his grip on the gun. “You think you know me? You know nothing.”
“Oh, I know more than you think. What? You were kicked into a foster home? You somehow relate to these kids? At least you thought you did, but guess what, they didn’t relate to you,” said Katie watching him closely.
“I know what you’re doing. And it’s not going to work.”
“I must be getting warmer… foster kid… maybe you fell for a girl who didn’t return your affections… but she had your heart and then stomped on it… Am I getting warmer?” She taunted him, throwing out wild theories, but they could be very effective.
Jerry used his free hand to rub the side of his head vigorously in a strange, almost mechanical manner.
“I am getting warmer, huh?” she said. Knowing she only had one chance, she was waiting for the perfect, almost imperceptible moment to attack. Her training had taught her that there was always one… To be patient was key…
“Why did you have to kill them? What did any of them do to you?”
“They’re all…”
; “The same, Jerry? How can that be?”
“They are all the same… they can’t… don’t understand…” His speech became inconsistent and jerky.
“They don’t understand you? Is that it, Jerry?”
“I took care of them when they were dead, not mocking me anymore, no more laughter. I bathed them, washed their hair. I left them just as they came into the world—naked and pure.”
“You killed the wrong girl,” she said loudly.
“I know… I didn’t know for a while… it’s just… it was my first mistake.”
“No, Jerry your first mistake was feeling sorry for yourself.” Thinking quickly, she continued, “You made quite a few mistakes. The fingernail?”
He took a step back, confused. “No, that wasn’t a mistake. It was… I didn’t…”
Katie thought she might be able to disarm him and that he was going to admit defeat.
Jerry changed mood again, his personality suddenly forceful and condescending. “You think you’re special, Detective. But none of you are—just teases.”
“All this turmoil and killing because of a bad relationship? You can do better than that. Grow up… We all have problems, Jerry.”
“The constant beat-down… constant neglect… all of it was my fault… My fault!”
Katie could tell from his fragmenting speech that his mind was rolling back to the beginning of it all.
He lifted a hand to regain his composure and quickly wipe the sweat from his eyes.
At that exact moment, Katie launched herself at him. He dropped his gun on impact and it skittered across the room and through a doorway opening.
Fifty
When Katie hit the floor, Jerry took most of the impact beneath her. He didn’t move, so she thought he was knocked out and lessened her grip on him. A mistake. That’s when he struck, flipping her over on her back and punching her stomach. The oxygen left her body and she heard herself gurgle, trying to catch her breath after it was knocked out of her.
Jerry pinned her down and wrapped his fingers around her throat. She watched his pupils dilate, turning his eyes to almost black like a demon. His glee was evident in his effort to strangle her to death. Katie fought to stay conscious, lights flashed in her peripheral vision, and the sheer pain from him trying to crush her windpipe—feeling her throat compress against her spine—was overwhelming. Her hands couldn’t overpower his around her throat.
Last Girls Alive: A totally addictive crime thriller and mystery novel (Detective Katie Scott Book 4) Page 26