Only serial killer types did that. John Wayne Gacy, the serial killer who had once been photographed shaking hands with First Lady Rosalynn Carter, had buried dozens of victims on his own property. Chicago police had found the bodies of several dozen young men and boys buried in Gacy’s backyard, and in the crawlspace beneath his house.
But Deborah Vennekamp was no John Wayne Gacy. She probably wasn't even a killer. She was just a disturbed old woman with a streak of megalomania. A control freak. But nothing more.
34
After going back upstairs, Jennifer next visited the second-floor spare bedroom, where the computer was located. On her way, she checked Connor again: The boy was still absorbed in the television set.
Jennifer returned to the site where she had done her initial research, Classmates.com. Once again she accessed the scanned copy of the Mydale High School yearbook from the mid-1990s. This time, however, she had a different target.
In her last online search, Jennifer had focused her efforts on David Vennekamp. Why had she done that? Because he was a male who exuded social awkwardness (even in his picture)?
But hadn’t David Vennekamp turned out to be basically harmless, if more than a little pathetic? Did her initial focus on David make her guilty of reverse sexism? she wondered. Then she pushed that thought away: She already had enough to worry about, without making up reasons to feel guilty, too.
Once inside the Mydale yearbook, she searched for the other student named Vennekamp. Marcia, it turned out, had been a year behind her brother David.
There was an individual class picture of Marcia that didn't reveal much. But the yearbook’s index indicated that there were two other photos of the girl.
The second index reference to Marcia Vennekamp led Jennifer to a photo she would not have expected. There was a picture of Marcia Vennekamp in the group shot of Mydale High School’s National Honor Society. The photo of about twenty-five students had been taken in the school gym. Marcia sat on the second row of the bleachers, wedged between two other girls. For once she was smiling—or doing a reasonable imitation of a smile.
How did a teenage girl who qualified for the National Honor Society end up as a full-time fast-food employee in her mid-thirties? What had happened to Marcia Vennekamp?
Like David, Marcia Vennekamp also appeared in one of the yearbook’s random, slice-of-high-school-life photos. The third of photo of Marcia showed her in one of the school hallways. She was not alone. A tall, long-haired boy had his arm around her. The caption beneath the photo read: “Marcia Vennekamp and Chris Whitaker, cute couple, grab some alone time between classes.”
Another cringingly trite high school yearbook caption, to be sure. But the caption would have been written by a student who was on the yearbook committee, and that student had obviously felt comfortable identifying Marcia Vennekamp and this boy as a “couple”.
Then there was the fact that the boy had his arm around her, and that she was leaning into him. Whereas the photo of David Vennekamp and Josie Taylor had left considerable room for speculation and interpretation, there was little ambiguity here.
Marcia had said that she hadn’t had any boyfriends in high school; but that was obviously a lie—like much of what Marcia said, apparently.
Jennifer gave Chris Whitaker a closer look. There was little that she could tell from the grainy photograph. Whitaker didn't look like a high school heartthrob, by any means, but he was tall and he carried himself with a certain panache. Definitely not a jock—but maybe a boy who had carved out a different sort of niche for himself. At any rate, he would have been far ahead of David Vennekamp in the high school pecking order.
Before exiting the yearbook, Jennifer decided to take a second look at the photo of Josie Taylor that she had more or less ignored last time. This was not the photo of Josie and David, but the photo of Josie and another girl eating lunch in the school cafeteria.
Now that Jennifer reexamined this photo, she realized that it might not be as random as she had originally thought. In the picture, Josie and a girl named Mindy North leaned across the cafeteria table, the food on their plates ignored as the girls talked conspiratorially. Neither girl seemed to be aware of the presence of the photographer.
Mindy North was a blonde version of Josie Taylor: North was also dressed in dark, “goth” clothing. Even though the photo was black-and-white, Jennifer could detect heavy eye shadow and dark lipstick.
The caption beneath the photo read: “Josie Taylor and Mindy North plot the downfall of civilization.” Hyperbolic and silly, sure, but a slight improvement on the photo captions that Jennifer had read thus far.
After she had finished with the yearbook, Jennifer exited Classmates.com and executed three separate Google searches:
“Maxine Taylor, Mydale Ohio”
“Chris Whitaker, Mydale Ohio”
“Mindy North, Mydale Ohio”
Maxine Taylor was Josie Taylor’s mother, as Jarvis had told her. The Google search revealed that she still lived in Mydale. Jennifer wasn't familiar with the address that came up for her; but when she cross-referenced it to a Google map, she saw that it was in the general vicinity of the Tandy Lakes apartments—the older side of Mydale.
Chris Whitaker, Marcia Vennekamp’s old boyfriend, was easy to find online because he actively promoted himself. Or rather, he actively promoted his band. Whitaker was the lead guitarist for a Cincinnati-based indie band called Phenomenal Rush.
Phenomenal Rush had a small website, as well as a Facebook page and a Twitter feed that had last been updated in June. In the accompanying photos, she recognized Chris Whitaker right away. His face was a bit more haggard, but he’d managed to dodge male pattern baldness, and he hadn’t gained weight. He looked like a slightly aged version of his high school self.
There were numerous pictures of Whitaker among the band’s promotional shots: Whitaker smiling and casual, posing in a group photo with the rest of Phenomenal Rush. Whitaker onstage in the middle of a live performance, his face clenched with deathly seriousness as he made music with his electric guitar, leaning over the instrument as he played it. Whitaker smiling at an adoring audience in a local music venue: it seemed to be a medium-sized nightclub, but Whitaker was beaming at the crowd as if he were playing before thousands of fans in a vast arena.
Perusing the pictures, Jennifer now saw the niche that Whitaker had cultivated for himself during his high school days. He hadn’t been a jock, and probably hadn’t been a brain, either; Chris Whitaker had been a Guy with a Band. And while guys with bands weren’t quite at the level of football stars in the adolescent microcosm, they definitely had their own cachet. There would always be girls who went after guys in rock bands—even if those boys would never quite hit the big time.
Marcia Vennekamp had definitely gone for Chris Whitaker. The question was: Had Whitaker experienced the nasty side of Marcia’s mother? Given her delusions of perfection, Deborah Vennekamp probably wouldn't have approved of Chris Whitaker any more than she would have approved of Josie Taylor. She would have wanted her daughter to go out with the captain of the football team—or at least the captain of the chess team.
Jennifer’s search for the girl named Mindy North yielded no results. North had apparently left town, or otherwise disappeared. She executed a search for the entire Cincinnati area: This yielded three hits, but they were all either too young or too old to be the Mindy North who had once been photographed eating lunch with Josie Taylor for the Mydale High School yearbook.
35
October 1993
David always felt a little thrill when Josephine Taylor stood and talked to him in the halls. In this, his senior year, every girl in the school seemed to avoid all but the most incidental interaction with him.
Even his sister, who was one grade behind him, seldom acknowledged him in the halls. On more than one occasion, he had caught Marcia suddenly shifting directions when she saw David approaching in one of Mydale High School’s crowded hallways.
&nbs
p; But Josie was different. The two of them had shared a junior English class last year, and they had struck up something of a friendship last spring when Josie had, a scant two days before the deadline for a class essay, spontaneously sought out David for commiseration. “You’re smart,” she’d said. “No, don’t deny it, Vennekamp—I can tell. I bet you’ve already got your essay done. Haven’t you?”
David had nodded and admitted that yes, he had finished his essay the previous weekend. It wasn't a great essay, in his estimation, but it would support the middling B average that was his lot in junior English class, and most of his other classes as well. David was by no means a brilliant student, but he was a consistent one. That kept his mother off his back.
Somehow that first conversation with Josie Taylor had ended with David committing to writing her essay for her. David knew full well, in retrospect, (even as he’d realized then) that this had been Josie’s aim from the start. But he had been rewarded (sort of) when Josie had given his arm a little squeeze as he handed over the forged paper and she said thank you.
David had been rewarded since then with semi-regular companionship with Josie. She had disappeared during the summer (not that he’d tried to contact her), but she had reappeared as expected the following September. This academic year he and Josie shared two classes together: Senior English and World Civilizations, the latter with Mr. Jarvis. As further evidence that the universe might be willing to toss him a break now and then, Josie’s assigned locker was almost directly across the hall from his. So he saw her all the time.
David knew that Josie had a reputation for being a little on the wild side. Like him, she was something of an outsider at Mydale; but she was also an attractive girl who drew her share of male attention. That was an important difference. She hung around with Mindy North, another one of Mydale High School’s “alternative” goth-type girls. Mindy had no use for David and made no secret of the fact. Once or twice she had been openly rude to him. Josie had intervened, shooing Mindy away and telling David, “Mindy just doesn't mix with everyone. She’s a rare bird, you know?”
David knew that Josie was putting an optimistic spin on the situation. Truth be told, plenty of people (especially girls) at Mydale High School didn't seem eager to mix with him. So by that criterion, most of the school was comprised of “rare birds”.
David didn't know if all the stories about Josie were true (he had overheard one of the football players talking about taking Josie home after a party—even though she wasn't his girlfriend), but there was indeed something about her that was more than a little rebellious.
And it wasn't merely her dress, though her dress screamed adolescent rebellion: Today Josie was wearing black leggings beneath a short black skirt, a black, clingy top that clung to her thin waist and small breasts, and over that a black imitation leather jacket. Her fingernails were dyed black, too, of course.
The one noticeable color variation in her wardrobe was her purple amethyst ring. David had asked her about it once. Josie had grown uncharacteristically solemn, and replied that her father had given it to her.
Josie hadn’t volunteered much about her familial situation, and David hadn’t asked. He had gathered so far that her father was long gone from the home and more or less out of the picture—though whether Josie saw him or heard from him at all nowadays, David had no idea.
“Jarvis is a riot,” Josie said now, the admiration in her voice unmistakable.
They had been talking about their upcoming World Civilizations exam anyway. Josie had been hinting around, considering whether or not it would be possible for David to pass her answers during the test. He hoped she wouldn't prevail on him to take a chance like that. Firstly, because he would probably do it for her, if she pressed him. Secondly, because it would be suicide, more or less. There would be no way to pull it off.
David was thankful when Josie turned the conversation to a more general discussion of the class. Jarvis’s previous remark about David’s slowness had been forgotten; Josie had never mentioned it, at least.
Yesterday Jarvis had engaged in a long, rambling discussion with the three football players in World Civilizations, the teacher apparently lost in the illusion that he was a thirty-year-old high school student. The other students, eager for any diversion from the actual content of the class, had listened raptly. At one point there were guffaws around the room, and Jarvis had finally given everyone a hand signal to pipe down, lest one of the roving school administrators be drawn in from the hallway.
“Jarvis is an idiot,” David blurted out.
“No, he’s not,” Josie countered. “I mean, come on, David. He’s one of our teachers.”
This reaction puzzled David and made him uncomfortable for various reasons. What was Josie, the rebel, doing—defending a teacher? Weren’t all teachers automatically in the enemy camp, in the worldview of Josephine Taylor?
“That doesn't mean that he’s not an idiot.”
“No, but that doesn't mean that he is, either. Why do you have such an obsession with him?”
“Who said I was ‘obsessed with him’?” David bristled. He didn't like the sundry implications that could be drawn from that accusation—didn't like them one bit. The other kids at Mydale charged him with various forms of abnormality often enough. He didn't need to get that from Josie, too. Josie was, he thought tentatively, his one real friend here.
Of course, he also hoped that they could be more than just friends.
For a while now, David had been given what he saw as real reason for hope. Their hangout sessions were no longer limited to school.
They hung out together outside of school all the time. Well, sometimes they hung out. Josie seemed to require an increasing degree of help with her homework; and she frequently enlisted David’s services in the after-school hours.
She lived in a trailer with her mother out on Sandy Bottom Road. David had been invited to stop by; and they’d spent several unsupervised hours together there in recent weeks. But Josie always seemed to be busy when David arrived. As soon as her homework was done (or she had handed off some of it to David) she would apologize and claim that she had to do “chores” around the trailer.
David was always skeptical of these claims. The little residence on Sandy Bottom Road was a trailer, for goodness sake, it wasn't a dairy farm. What “chores” did Josie have to do? Was she going to put up hay?
David had recently reached a resolution. It was almost the end of October, and this was his senior year of high school. If he was going to have a girlfriend (let alone get laid—though that was a secondary concern) before he left MHS, then Josie was probably his best chance. Moreover, he liked her—despite her transparent opportunism. There was nothing wrong with a guy helping out a girl he liked, was there?
But it was time to take things to the next level; and the school calendar had presented the perfect opportunity. The homecoming dance of the 1993-4 school year was a little more than a week away. He had been planning to ask her for weeks now, but he had been putting it off and putting it off. It was now or never, he decided.
“Anyway, Josie, let’s not talk about Mr. Jarvis now. There was something else I wanted to talk to you about.”
“I’m all ears,” she said, leaning back against one of the adjacent lockers. She was neither smiling nor frowning. The ultimate poker face. Did she know what he was about to ask her? Did she at least have some rough idea?
“Well, I was thinking.”
“Thinking is good.”
“I was thinking that it might be sort of cool if we went to the homecoming dance together. If you don't already have another date, that is. I mean, I know we’re just friends—so far, anyway. But we hang out together all the time, you know. And it wouldn't be like I would expect anything of you.”
David suddenly caught himself. He had been babbling, building counterarguments for a refusal that had not yet come.
“So anyway,” he concluded weakly. “What do you think?”
J
osie raised her eyebrows and drew her mouth up into a little grimace. “Homecoming,” she said, as if repeating the name of some rare tropical disease.
“Yeah, homecoming,” David shot back, trying to make light of it. “It’s a dance.”
“Oh, I know what it is. Of course I do. It’s just that—we don’t really need to go to homecoming, do we? It’s so—trivial.”
David paused and tried to parse this answer. Sure, homecoming was “trivial”—compared to a peace conference in the Middle East, or cancer research. But they were in high school, after all; and wasn't most of what went on in high school “trivial” by one standard or another?
Then he understood her tactics—or thought he understood them. If she had said that she didn't want to go to the homecoming dance with him, because they were only friends, then he could have countered by saying fine, we’ll go as friends.
Or she could have flatly rejected him. But that would have meant a total break in their relations, and the end of his homework help.
By making the homecoming dance itself the crux of the rebuff, she had left him no room to maneuver further. The subtlety of the manipulation was ingenious, now that David thought about it.
Was he right about her? Or was he being too cynical?
“Hey! How about a candid shot for the yearbook!” David turned in the direction of the interruption, instantly annoyed on two counts: One, that Josie had rebuffed him—however circumspectly, and two, that they were being interrupted.
Peter Goldsmith and Fran Cutler. They were both seniors, both members of the school’s yearbook staff. Peter was a tall, lean boy with glasses and a tennis player’s build. Fran was medium-height, with red hair that she wore in a wild, frizzy arrangement. Fran was perpetually smiling and cheerful. There was something a little suspicious about her, David thought.
1120 Dunham Drive: A Clint & Jennifer Huber Mystery Page 21