“Not really. Anyone with internet access and some time on their hands can learn how to pick a lock.”
I wasn’t sure what to make of Waverly. On the one hand, I trusted Clementine wholeheartedly, and if this was her best friend, the young woman must have some redeeming qualities. But thus far, I’d seen her be rude to a colleague, dismissive of my questions, and frankly, cavalier about serious issues in her theater.
Waverly suddenly stood up. “I’ve got to go; Nash is starting rehearsal in ten minutes. He’ll have my head on a silver platter if I’m not down there with him. He’s such a child sometimes. Helpless as a baby seal on a drifting piece of ice.”
There wasn’t much left for me to work with at that point, so I walked out alone as a few remaining actors were walking in. They were wrapped up in their phones, or each other, barely noticing me, the stumbling, blushing cop who’d pretended to be one of their own for a moment days ago. It wasn’t until I was nearly to my car that I saw Maggie Armstrong and Milo Griffith once more entangled in each other’s arms. This time, instead of in a car, they were in a thicket of trees just off the parking lot.
Maggie and I saw each other at the same time. She instantly pushed off from Milo and straightened her shirt. It would have been too awkward to ignore them, or worse, to wave. I slowed my steps and pretended to look in my purse for my keys, and let Maggie decide how she wanted this to play out.
After a moment, the young woman and her older beau moved toward me.
“Hi, Gemma,” Maggie mumbled. “Um, you remember Milo?”
“Of course, nice to see you both,” I said, adopting a stiff, formal voice that instantly had me feeling twice my age. I forced myself to relax; I’d known Maggie for years. There was nothing wrong with their behavior. “How’s the play coming along?”
“Oh, fine. Milo, why don’t I meet you inside?” Maggie shooed him off, then turned to me. “You can’t say a word to my father. I’m still trying to figure out how to break the news to him.”
I bit my lip. “Maggie, I see your father every day at work. Lucas sits two desks down from me. You’re asking me to lie for you, to a fellow cop, when you know in our profession we have to be able to trust one another. Your father would never forgive me.”
“I’m not asking you to lie, just be silent. The topic should never come up; don’t ask him how I’m doing, what I’m up to. Avoid talking about anything personal with him, just for a few more days, pretty please? Until I can talk with him. He’s going to have a coronary as it is. White boy, ten years my senior. My dad’s progressive, but he’s not that progressive. Not when it comes to his little girl,” Maggie said. She was breathless now, fully begging. “I’ll do anything; you want a free babysitter? I’ll walk your dog. I’ll clean your car.”
“Why do I have a feeling that I’m going to regret this?” I sighed. “Do you love Milo?”
Maggie grinned. “More than anything. Thank you. I owe you, big-time.” She scampered off.
Hell.
I was definitely, surely, for certain going to regret this.
Chapter Eleven
Belle Vista was a recreation destination, a playground for mountain bikers and water enthusiasts. There were cabdrivers with doctorate degrees in chemistry and baristas who’d once been CEOs. People didn’t move to Belle Vista for careers, they came to play. They skied in the winter and hiked in the spring, rafted in the summer and hunted in the fall. Sunk in a shallow basin, surrounded by hills, and with the expansive Johnson River running through it, Belle Vista was like Neverland: live here, and you’ll never have to grow up.
Or rather, it would have been like Neverland, if Neverland had a high-security prison on its outskirts that housed thugs, rapists, and murderers. Captain Hook’s quarters. It was ironic: many of the prisoners inside would spend the rest of their days mere miles out of reach of paradise. And the residents themselves could never forget what loomed over their town, high on a neighboring bluff; there were signs everywhere warning drivers not to pick up hitchhikers.
I’d left Cedar Valley at seven in the morning on Friday, but not before casually mentioning to Clementine that I’d run into her best friend, Waverly, the night before. Clementine had blanched when I said the woman’s name, and explained that while they’d been close a few months before, Waverly had started showing obsessive behavior that Clementine wasn’t comfortable with. Things like jealousy when Clem didn’t return Waverly’s texts soon enough, or showing up unexpectedly after Clem had already declined an invitation to hang out.
I didn’t tell Clem that I was relieved to hear that the two weren’t so close anymore; I’d had a strange feeling about Waverly since meeting her the night before. She wasn’t suspicious, not exactly, but she was unsettling.
And now, driving away from the sanctity of my home and toward Neverland’s underworld twin, my nerves were shot. The two-hour drive should have been pleasant, but all I could think about was coming face-to-face with Gordon Dillahunt. The meadows and peaks I passed were lost on me, the songs coming from the radio all toneless.
I’d faced down killers before, but Dillahunt was different. He was, as Chief Chavez had said, the boogeyman. In photographs, the dentist was a small, unassuming man with pale arms and freckled hands. He wore his black hair short and neatly combed, with a razor-straight center part. Thick eyeglasses over a hooked nose and a tiny, almost feminine, mouth.
Of course, those were the press photographs, the ones that were printed for the public to gawk over, the ones published by the newspapers.
That was Dr. Dillahunt’s public persona, and his appearance was what he based most of his defense on, as his victims were men twice his size: muscular, strong men.
But to truly understand Dillahunt, or at least try to, as I didn’t know that I could ever truly understand that breed of evil, I had to study the private photographs, the photographs taken at the crime scenes. I’d seen the damage Dillahunt had inflicted on his victims, their broken faces and unhinged jaws. I knew how this man, with his small pouty mouth and flat eyes, killed.
He incapacitated his victims with chloroform, then viciously, without hesitation, stabbed them through the heart with a thin stiletto knife.
Then he moved on to their faces.
I followed the signs for the Belle Vista Penitentiary, leaving the town proper and curving up a winding road to a compound set high on a bluff. A series of guard stations required me to repeatedly slow down, stop, and show my identification. At the last station before entering the parking lot, the guard searched my trunk and ran an inspection mirror under the body of my car.
“This feels like visiting the CIA,” I joked with him.
The guard didn’t match my smile. “Standard procedure, Detective. We’ve had a couple of serious threats over the last few months. We can’t be too careful. Drive on through. I’d park close to the handicap spots, that’ll put you near the entrance. The warden’s expecting you.”
I did as the guard instructed and shortly found myself in a pristine white concrete-walled lobby devoid of any wall hangings or decorations. There wasn’t even a water fountain. I was given a set of paperwork to complete and a visitor’s badge, then told to sit on the bench that was bolted to the wall.
Ten minutes later, a thick, muscular man with a gray crew cut and beady eyes set into a fleshy face appeared at my side. “Detective? I’m Warden Cash Harrison. Come with me, please.”
“I appreciate your time, Warden.” We walked through a series of locked doors; at each one, Harrison would first scan his badge, then shield the keypad and enter a code.
“I’m happy to help my colleagues. Though from what you explained on the phone, I believe you’re wasting your time. Dillahunt is one crazy son of a bitch,” Harrison muttered. “I think that law student that’s been working with him is making things worse, though I’d have the ACLU up my butt if I dared tried to restrict her visits.”
“Colleen Holden, right?” I asked. We’d come to a set of stairs and began to make
our way up them.
“Correct. I understand you’ve been in contact with Field Parole Officer Richard Nuts? He’s had a few run-ins with Holden. She’s been reaching out to his parolees, interviewing them, trying to dig up intelligence on alleged prison abuses. Detective, I have no patience for that kind of nonsense,” the warden said. “I can’t speak for other facilities, but I run a tight ship here. I have to, or people get hurt. Killed, even.”
Another few flights of stairs, then I asked, “How many floors is the prison? I couldn’t tell from the drive in—the compound is deceiving, the way it’s situated on the bluff.”
“We do that on purpose, helps to muddy the waters if anyone’s trying to collect intel on our floor plans. This building, Unit A, is six stories. We have a visitor room here on this floor that you can use, though rest assured, Dillahunt will stay restrained the entire time. It’s sometimes easier that way than carting the prisoners back and forth on the stairs or elevators. Too much can go wrong. Here we go, we’re at the top. Dillahunt is at the end of the corridor. Penthouse suite.” The warden laughed mirthlessly. “More like the sky suite. That’s all the view his window affords: nothing but sky for miles and miles. The architect of Belle Vista Penitentiary, a sadistic old fart from the East Coast, purposely angled the windows so that they only look up. At the time, it was to prevent the inmates from seeing citizens on the ground, or signals from nearby peaks.”
“Why hasn’t anyone changed them?” I asked. We’d stopped before a door, where two black prison guards waited, their faces devoid of all expression.
“You got a couple million dollars to spend on window treatments for inmates? I didn’t think so. Well, this is where I get off the bus. Dillahunt doesn’t appreciate seeing me, and I’d hate to sour him off before you get what you need. Santiago and Lofland will take it from here.” Harrison ran a hand through his short gray hair and for a moment, his beady eyes widened in what I understood to be a look of pity. “Listen, I wish you luck. If you’ve got an appetite after your visit, there’s a great little Indian restaurant on South Street in Belle Vista. You can sit on the patio, soak up the scenery, and all of this will melt away like a bad dream.”
As Santiago and Lofland let me through the door, Warden Harrison strolled away. He began to whistle “Pop Goes the Weasel.” He turned a corner and disappeared down another corridor, the sound of his song and his footsteps echoing in my ears long after he was gone.
The guards left me in a windowless room while they fetched Dillahunt. I sat on a cold metal chair bolted to the ground, on the far side of a cold metal table, also bolted down. Like the lobby, the space was devoid of any wall hangings or other accoutrements. After a few minutes of waiting in the silence, I’d nearly picked the skin clean from the cuticle on my thumb. I forced myself to sit up, take a deep breath, and get a grip.
Dillahunt, though evil, was just a man.
Wasn’t he?
Quickly, too quickly it seemed, Lofland and Santiago were back. They escorted the petite, meek-looking man into the room and sat him in the chair opposite me, bolting his handcuffs to the steel ring set into the middle of the table. Then the guards stepped back and stood by the door, arms crossed, eyes on the back of Dillahunt’s head.
Dillahunt stared at me, his flat dark eyes magnified behind thick black-rimmed spectacles. When he spoke, his voice was high-pitched with the faintest trace of a Boston accent. “Who are you?”
“Mr. Dillahunt, my name is Gemma Monroe. I’m a detective with the Cedar Valley Police Department.” I stopped there, considering again what I wanted my next words to be.
On the table, Dillahunt’s fingers began to tap a steady beat. “Cedar Valley? You’re a long way from home, Detective.”
I nodded. “Yes. As are you.”
The tapping intensified. “Why are you here?”
“I’d like to talk to you about Caleb Montgomery.”
His eyes widened. “Oh? Do tell. I haven’t seen Old Monty in many, many years.”
“The judge has been receiving some nasty threats. I wonder if you could tell me anything about them.”
“Nasty how? What do they say?” Dillahunt’s voice was full of curiosity but his eyes remained flat, dark, unaffected.
I shook my head. “The content wasn’t memorable enough to quote, Mr. Dillahunt. What I’d like to know is if you had anything to do with sending them. I’ve read your trial transcripts. The words you use, the threats you’ve issued in the past … the letters Caleb received are similar in tone.”
“Caleb? So he’s a friend of yours, is he? Lovers? Is he your mentor?”
I remained silent, cursing myself for giving the killer the smallest glimpse into my personal life.
Dillahunt smirked. “No, not lovers. But you care for him. Did he ask you to harass me?”
“No. I came on my own.”
Dillahunt licked his lips. His tongue was quick, darting in and out of his small mouth like that of a snake. “Tell me, why else do you think I’m the ink slinger?”
“More than one of the letters accuses Caleb Montgomery of lying, perhaps in the courtroom.”
Dillahunt glowered. “Of course he’s a liar. I never should have been found guilty, at least not on the charges that the district attorney brought forward. Old Monty knew the evidence was dirty and he turned a blind eye. He turned a blind eye to it all and lied, there, in that courtroom, from his high horse. I hope he rots in hell.”
I sat back, thinking. Dillahunt wasn’t making any sense. Dirty evidence doesn’t come from judges or prosecutors; it originates with cops. I followed that thought and landed, with a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach, right back at the Cedar Valley Police Station.
Dillahunt was smug. “You’ve read my case, seen my work. Chavez and Underhill were a couple of dogs on my ass but I was too good for them, too … clean. They planted evidence and it was that evidence, and only that evidence, that is the reason I sit here today.”
I shook my head. “No. You’re a serial killer, Dillahunt. You’d have landed here sooner or later. No way you were going free.”
Dillahunt licked his lips again. “I hope the letters make Monty very uncomfortable.”
I tensed, aware that the investigation was likely to turn on its head with the answer to my next question. “You haven’t heard? It’s been all over the news.”
“What has? I lost my media privileges a week ago.” The killer mimicked chewing. “I took a small bite out of Santiago. He’s a tasty piece.”
My eyes slid over to Santiago, and the bandage wrapped around his arm. He stared back at me with a blank expression on his face. I gripped my hands in my lap; I’d removed my own bandages that very morning. My hands, while still pink and raw, seemed to be on the mend.
As Dillahunt opened his mouth again, I saw that his teeth were perfectly white, even, nearly sparkling. Once a dentist, always a dentist, I supposed. He asked, impatient now, “So, what have I missed?”
“Caleb Montgomery is dead.”
“No!” Dillahunt lost all color in his face. He let out a tortured moan and began to shake his head vigorously. “No! No, this can’t be true.”
Lofland, the larger of the two prison guards, stepped forward and laid a hand gently on Dillahunt’s shoulder. “Settle down.”
Dillahunt flinched. “Get your mitts off me, Lofland. Detective, please, tell me. What happened? Did the old fuck choke on a chicken wing? Swallow a piece of glass? Fall down the stairs and break his neck?”
Dillahunt’s reaction was too pure, too honest, to be staged. He was truly surprised. I saw in that moment that he didn’t have anything to do with the murder.
“He died in a car explosion, outside his law offices, on Halloween.”
Across the table, Dillahunt began to sob. With his hands bound to the table, he was unable to wipe his face, and the tears mingled with great gobs of snot. “He got off too easy! Look at me. How the hell am I supposed to survive another thirty years here? Montgomery issued my death
sentence. I didn’t deserve it.”
“You killed seven men, brutally, then shattered their faces. You, no one else. You deserve everything that you have coming to you,” I replied, starting to understand Dillahunt’s game. “You sent the letters.”
The killer nodded. “The idea came to me a few months ago. It was something to pass the time, something I could do to get at Montgomery, get inside his head like he’s been in mine all these years.”
“Mail’s monitored. How did you get the letters to Cedar Valley?”
With lightning speed, Dillahunt stopped crying and moved into rage, pure rage. “Screw you. You come here and deliver that kind of news to me, then expect me to answer your questions? Forget it. Guards! I’m done here.”
“Wait, please. Chavez and Underhill … the evidence you think they planted … what was it?”
Dillahunt screamed, “Guards! Get me the fuck out of here!”
Santiago unbolted Dillahunt from the table, then he and Lofland each took hold of one of Dillahunt’s arms. As they began to escort him out, the serial killer stopped screaming and looked back over his shoulder. “I like your smile, Detective. I hope to see more of you. Maybe in your dreams?”
I ran from the small cold room as soon as they left, desperate for fresh air and strong sunshine. In the lobby, I nearly crashed headfirst into a slim woman who was hurrying along, sunglasses holding her dark hair back, her face buried in her phone.
“Excuse me, sorry about that.”
The woman looked up at my apology. I recognized her immediately and blurted out, “Colleen Holden?”
She was twitchy, surly. “Yeah? Who are you?”
“My name is Gemma Monroe. I’m a detective in Cedar Valley. Can we talk a moment?”
Holden checked her phone again. “This isn’t a good time—I’m late for an appointment with my client.”
Shatter the Night Page 14