These Violent Roots

by Nicole Williams

  When I dared chance a look in my father’s direction, I found his classic demeanor of evenness, though the storm inside always seeped into the whites of his eyes. His fingers curled tighter around the arm of his chair.

  “The law is one size fits all. You can’t tailor and mold it to fit each individual whose defense centers upon the greater good. My god, I can’t believe what I’m hearing tonight.” Dad’s eyes swept the table, his head shaking. “I’m done for the night. It appears as though this team’s low on energy and resolve. I wouldn’t want anyone to misinterpret these symptoms as a greater cause for doubting the very mission of this group. And that is to bring a criminal to justice.” His voice rolled through the room as he rose from his chair. “Amelia will connect with each of you later this week to get a status update. If anyone feels their conviction waning where our mission is concerned, set up a private meeting with me so we can decide on the best solution moving forward.”

  “Not even you can pretend to be immune to the intricacies of this case, Silas.” Don swiveled in his seat as Dad moved toward the door. “This isn’t a simple case of tracking down your run-of-the-mill murderer. You’re asking us to bring down a real, live, masked crusader. He’s a damn hero in the eye of the public.”

  “And he’s the villain in the eyes of the law.” Dad stopped in the doorway, his wide shoulders seeming to span the entire width of the doorframe. “It’s simple. Decide what side of the line you stand on, and let me know.”

  “I stand on the side of the line that translates to the best bolster to my bank account,” Will announced, Titus intervening before he could help himself to another topped-off glass of vodka.

  “We would expect no less from a notorious mob defense attorney,” I rattled off.

  “Still jealous, Gracey girl?” Will quipped.

  “Of what? Your diseased liver?” I fired back, ignoring Noah’s subtle hints to back off.

  “That I made more last year than you have in your entire career working as a public servant?” A small burp slipped from Will.

  “Enough, for Christ’s sake.” Titus took the glass from Will’s hand, issuing me a warning look. “We’ve got enough problems without the two of you staging a status rivalry.”

  “Look at the big boy using big words like staging and rivalry. Bet they didn’t teach you that in mercenary school.” When Will reached to pat Titus’s cheek, Titus grabbed his wrist and made no small show of the size he had over Will.

  “Where do you stand on the whole messed-up Huntsman topic, Dr. Wolff?” Titus asked, not taking his eyes off of Will. “You seem to be the most impartial person in this room tonight.”

  “Impartial?” Will laughed several hard notes. “He peddles psychology sorcery to pedophiles. He runs support groups for kiddie predators. He’s a sympathizer if there’s ever been one.”

  “His wife puts those men in prison, and he’s a father of a young woman. My guess is Dr. Wolff isn’t as crystal on the subject as you think, Cunningham.” Titus let go of Will’s hand, grabbing the glass out of his other and dropping it in the garbage. The sound of it shattering pierced the air.

  Noah shifted in his seat as all eyes transferred to him. “From where I’m sitting, there’s nothing blurry on the topic. I see things—and people—exactly as they are.”

  Will clucked his tongue. “And what do you see when you look at me?”

  “Would you like the condensed or comprehensive account?” Noah twisted in his chair so he was angled Will’s direction.

  “Make an appointment if you want a diagnosis,” I interjected, giving Will a once-over. “Better block out a whole week, but I should warn you that Noah’s private pay rates rival yours, Will, so let’s get back to the reason we’re all here. To catch a killer.”

  “You don’t want my diagnosis,” Noah answered Will, plowing right through my attempt at circumventing the topic.

  “Amuse me.”

  “I dare not consider the conditions that would amuse someone such as yourself,” Noah replied.

  “Pussy,” Will chanted under his breath, thumping Titus’s chest in search of a partner. He received nothing from the wall of stone beside him.

  Noah sighed. “I haven’t been called that since middle school.”

  “I find that hard to believe. You strike me as the delicate type who’d make his buddy whack his catch of the day because you don’t have the balls for it.” Will pulled at his tie, staggering a couple of steps toward the table. “That the way of it? That the reason you’re not a real doctor? Can’t stand the sight of blood? Can’t stomach the idea of being responsible for losing a life?”

  Noah’s eyes circled the table. “Is he always this angry?”

  Teddy huffed, cracking his neck. “Most of the time. Yes.”

  “Don’t psychoanalyze that for us.” I lifted my hand at Noah. “We already know what Will’s issues are.”

  Across the table, Don fought with a smile.

  “Doctor Wolff, back to the reason we asked you here tonight.” Teddy folded his hands across his chest, leaning into his chair. “You’re telling us your patients and your colleagues’ patients around the country are terrified, paranoid even, of this Huntsman character?”

  “That’s correct,” Noah answered.

  “You’re telling us the Huntsman is scaring pedophiles straight?” Don pointed his pencil at Noah before scribbling a note.

  “For lack of a better phrase, that’s correct.”

  “And we’re wanting to turn this guy in why?” Don grumbled, dropping his pencil on the table.

  When everyone remained quiet, Noah answered Don’s rhetorical question. “Because he’s killed thirty-three people?”

  “We are people. The scum the Huntsman’s taking out are animals.” Don’s gaze floated to the door, probably to make sure my dad hadn’t returned to witness what was being said. “History has proven that going to prison isn’t enough of a deterrent for these types of criminals. Dying at the hands of a shadow in a macabre way sure as shit seems to be an effective one.” Don raked his hand through his hair, frustration creasing his expression. “So I’ll ask again, why are we so hell-bent on hauling this shadow into prison?”

  “Because he’s breaking the law.” Will pointed at Don, leaning into the table as though it were keeping him upright.

  “You’re the expert on that topic, Cunningham,” Don grumbled. “You’ve figured out a way to bend, muddy, and loophole every law in the land.”

  When Don made eye contact with Noah across the table, Will seemed to take that as some kind of nonverbal insult made against him. “Pedophiles have a seventy-five percent recidivism rate, correct?” Will’s brow cocked at Noah. “You get paid well to fail at your job.”

  Noah ignored the forearm squeeze I gave him, my silent way of suggesting he ignore the half-drunk, ego-bloated boychild in the room.

  “My approach is more successful than yours of sending them to prison, if you’d like to compare those numbers.” Noah angled in Will’s direction, a level calmness sculpted across every piece of him.

  Will chuckled, shaking his head. “Show me when you get close to zero percent and we’ll talk.”

  Something obscure, almost dark, ignited in Noah’s eyes. It was gone as suddenly as it appeared. “Looking forward to it.”

  Twenty-Three

  The outside of Joshua Price’s childhood home was well-kept, though lacking the details that exuded welcome. The windows shone, the yard was tended to, and the mailbox appeared freshly painted.

  It was a stark contrast to the last residence I’d visited—a dilapidated shanty where broken bottles and used needles made up the contents of the yard. Gerald Volkner hadn’t resided in it for over a decade, but the structure seemed to have been permanently diseased by the evil of one of its past occupants.

  I’d taken my pictures of that place from the driver’s seat of my rental car, trying not to consider what had happened within the walls of that house, or what still did. Amidst the broken glass an
d unsanitary needles was an upside-down tricycle and an abandoned toddler-sized rain boot left on the crumbling walkway.

  I waited for the time to read eleven before grabbing my purse and notebook to approach the Price residence. Mrs. Price had been reluctant to commit to a meeting with me when I told her I was flying out to Toledo to investigate the death of Gerald Volkner, but after assuring her I’d take up no more than thirty minutes of her time—and promising to make a donation to the foundation she’d started in honor of her son—she’d finally relented.

  The curtains drawn across the main front window fluttered as I made my way up the walkway. Before I finished climbing the last step, the front door pulled open.

  “Mrs. Wolff, I’m Jean Price.” The waif of a woman stepped aside, barely forty in calendar years but twice that age in strife. “Please come in.”

  “Call me Grace, and thank you again for taking the time to meet with me. I know talking about your son must be difficult.” I offered a restrained smile as I moved inside the home.

  “Not talking about him is harder. Believe me, I tried, but all that does is cause the wound to fester.” Mrs. Price closed the door, motioning me toward the living room that mirrored the look of the outside of the home. Neat and barren, absent of any ornaments offering warmth.

  “I have to admit I was a bit distracted during our conversation earlier this week.” She waited for me to take a seat on the couch before she settled into the high-back chair nearby. “But I do recall you mentioning you work for a privately funded group. The police stopped looking for Joshua eight years ago. Why is some private organization out of Seattle so interested in what happened to him all these years later?”

  Taking a few moments to collect my answer while putting my notebook and pen at the ready, I made eye contact with her. “I assume you’ve heard about this vigilante they’ve branded the Huntsman?”

  Mrs. Price’s pale hands wrung in her lap. “I have.”

  “And you’ve heard the claims that this person is responsible for the deaths of dozens of convicted pedophiles, masking their murders as suicides?”

  I made note of every nonverbal reaction coming from Mrs. Price: the tightening of her upper lip, the stiffening of her shoulders, the locking of her jaw. I was used to interviewing victims of abuse, experienced in dealing with parents of those victims as well, but something about this whole investigation was hitting closer to home than I liked. The Huntsman wasn’t just another perpetrator I was intent upon dealing justice to; he was an enigma who operated outside the parameters of society’s standards.

  “A retired detective who investigated Joshua’s disappearance called me up a few weeks ago to tell me about all of that. A bunch of silly conjecture if you ask me.” Mrs. Price’s gaze moved across the room to the one photo on display—a school photo of her eight-year-old son, taken the same year as his kidnapping. Frozen in time, Joshua Price would remain eight years old forever, while the rest of us were enslaved by time’s march.

  “What makes you say that?” I primed my pen on the first line of a fresh page.

  “Because Gerald Volkner killed himself.”

  An inkblot grew from where my pen remained posed on the notepad, unmoving. “New evidence has arisen that suggests otherwise.”

  Mrs. Price looked at me straight-on. “Whether or not his hand or another slipped the noose around his neck, that demon signed his own death warrant when he laid his hand on a child for the first time.”

  “I’m so sorry for your loss.” I leaned forward, resting my pen on the notepad. “I can’t imagine what you’ve been through.”

  “First Joshua, then my husband, then my friends. One by one, the losses never stop accumulating after something like that.” Her hands smoothed down her legs, her slacks starched and pressed, her nails chewed to jagged nubs. “I’m glad that man is dead. I don’t care how or who is responsible. All that matters is that he got what he deserved and won’t hurt another young boy again.”

  My teeth worked at my lip as I debated how to phrase my next thought. There was an intricate balance between delicacy and abruptness when navigating these kinds of conversations.

  “Your son was never found,” I said, more statement than question, but she nodded in confirmation. “Were you at all concerned that your son—alive or dead—would never be discovered when Gerald Volkner was found deceased?”

  “My son’s been dead a long time, Mrs. Wolff,” she stated, her throat moving as she said it. “Wherever his body was taken or dumped or buried, it has been at rest for long years. The last thing I’d want would be to exhume his remains to transplant them to another resting place when his body, along with his spirit, has been at peace all this time.”

  I glanced at the photo of Joshua Price, paying attention to details only a mother would notice, like the tuft of hair sticking out behind his ear, the crookedness of his tie, and the wide smile featuring a range of baby and adult teeth in varying degrees of growth and loss. It was those things—the imperfections—that the families of deceased loved ones held on to, cherishing like priceless artifacts. The imperfections reminded us that those loved ones were real and not some fragment of our dreams as time muddied reality with fiction.

  “Forgive me,” I said slowly, “but how do you know Joshua is dead?”

  “Do you have children, Mrs. Wolff?”

  “One daughter.”

  “Believe me when I tell you that you would know if she were dead or alive.” Mrs. Price’s eyes matched her voice, distant. “That child grew within you, was created from a part of you, bears half of your makeup . . . when that life is extinguished, you feel a part of yourself die with it.”

  Every possible response to that felt feeble, so I remained quiet.

  “I suspect you came here to ask about more than one mother’s tale of woe, so please do us both a favor and ask your questions so we can each move on with our day.” She sat up straighter, perched on the edge of the chair as though she wouldn’t flinch if someone slid it right out from beneath her.

  “Is there anyone you have reason to suspect might kill Volkner?” I asked, retrieving my pen.

  “He was convicted of molesting three boys in the nineties he served jail time for, but you and I both know there were more. So take into account anyone who cared for those boys, along with anyone who’s been abused themselves or loves someone who has been, plus those who view pedophiles as a sector of society that should be allowed to go extinct, and you’ll have a list to start with.”

  I scratched out the potential suspect column on my sheet. “Anyone in particular outside of family and friends? Maybe a strange face you remember from the courtroom that you noticed walking down your block. Think of any individual who might have approached you, inquiring into the particulars of your son’s disappearance, who wasn’t tied to the standard authorities you were dealing with at the time.” I scooted down the couch, closer toward her. “Maybe there was a letter or note you received that stood out.”

  Mrs. Price’s eyes lifted. “I’ve got a basement storage room full of boxes containing letters and postcards and mementos random strangers mailed us from all around the world when news of Joshua’s kidnapping broke.”

  I finally had a reason to scratch down a few notes. “What about any letters you received after Volkner’s death?”

  Her mouth pursed when I spoke his name, that word sour to her senses. “I received everything from congratulations cards to scrapbooks people had put together of news articles surrounding Joshua’s case to floral deliveries, as though I was celebrating a wedding or mourning a funeral. Depended on the day.”

  “I know some of the other victims’ families mentioned that they received notes claiming responsibility when the news broke of these suicides being murders. Did you or your husband receive anything similar?”

  “Of course we did.” She rose from her chair and moved toward the big window, staring at the curtains she’d drawn closed on the world. “I stopped counting the number of people who claim
ed they’d killed Gerald Volkner when I got to fifty.”

  “Would it be possible for me to see these notes?”

  “Why?” she asked, her tone taking on a cool edge.

  “To help me find a killer.”

  “You call this Huntsman a killer. I call him a hero.” Her arms drew around herself. “All of us who’ve lost children think of him as such. But I do begrudge the Huntsman one thing.”

  Folding up my notebook, I tucked it back inside of my purse, able to recognize a stonewall from years of interviewing people in similar situations to Jean Price’s. “What’s that?”

  “I wish it would have been me.” Her head turned back at me, the first sign of emotion registering in her eyes. “I should have been the one to avenge my son by killing the man who took him from me, did unspeakable things to his small body, then killed and dumped him as though he were something to dispose of once his use ran its limit.” She went back to staring at the drawn curtains, a tremor running down her back. “It might have cost me my freedom, but the alternative has cost me far more.”

  Standing, I angled toward the door. “Not everyone feels that revenge is the ideal means of vengeance. Some decide to forget, others slip into denial. Some people choose forgiveness.”

  Another rumble rattled in her chest. “Forgiveness is for those who haven’t had a child ripped from their home at night by a man who is sexually aroused by young boys. Forgiveness is for those who haven’t had to bury an empty coffin in place of their child’s body, which is decomposing somewhere I’ll never be able to visit. Forgiveness is for those who don’t lay awake at night wondering what their precious child’s last moments on this planet were like, and how many times he cried out for me, wondering why I wasn’t coming to save him. Forgiveness is a colloquial word reserved for Sunday mornings and lovers’ quarrels. This grieving mother wants none of it for herself.”

  “Mrs. Price—”

  “Gerald Volkner kidnapped, raped”—she choked back the rising sob, squeezing her eyes shut—“and killed my son. The only reason he wasn’t punished for it was because there was no body to prove it. The eyewitness accounts of Volkner stalking our house the weeks leading up to Joshua’s kidnapping. The previous victims Volkner had served time for who were the same age and had the same physical features as Joshua wasn’t enough. The fact that he didn’t have an alibi for the night Joshua was kidnapped. None of that mattered because the law and the court and the jury said it wasn’t enough. Your sacred law failed to punish a guilty man, and in so doing, failed to avenge an innocent boy.”