by Rick Mofina
He was drawn to the Swedish case of the doctors and the unspeakable things they did. Then he turned to the old Canadian case.
This could be one to consider.
Sixteen
Eternity, Manitoba
2000
“Why?”
Connie Tullock’s weak, watery voice had been amplified. The sound filled the small boardroom at Eternity Police headquarters, where the primary team had gathered around the table. The faces of the RCMP and Eternity officers were taut with concentration as Jurek replayed her dying words.
“Why’re you here...?”
“Connie, we need to know who hurt you.”
“What’re you doing here?”
Connie coughed, then mechanical beeping and pinging of monitors overtook the recording before it was switched off.
“Let’s hear it again, Bill,” Louella Sloan said, making more notes.
Jurek had not yet determined whether he liked Sloan, who’d insisted at the meeting’s outset that she be called Lou and she’d call him Bill. “It’ll make it easier for us to work together,” she’d said. Jurek had learned from the scar on the back of Sloan’s hand that she’d been shot by a killer she’d arrested, and also learned that she was divorced and that her daughter was studying science at the University of Toronto. But while Sloan checked her phone’s messages occasionally, she was all business when she stared at him over her glasses waiting for him to replay the brief recording for what must’ve been the twentieth time.
Again, after it ended, officers drew the same conclusions.
“I don’t make anything of it,” one said.
“She’s too sedated,” another said.
Sloan threw a glance to Jurek to see if his response had changed but he shook his head.
“She was really foggy, Lou, barely knew why I was there,” he said.
“I don’t believe Connie Tullock was talking to you, Bill,” Sloan said.
“What?”
All of the investigators looked at Sloan.
“Sometimes,” Sloan said, “when regaining consciousness after a traumatic event, victims are thrust back to the moments prior to the event and replay them.” She glanced to her notes. “Connie Tullock was talking to whoever was in her house when she and her family arrived home early.”
Jurek and some of the others nodded at Sloan’s observation.
“Then that means she knew them, that this was not random,” he said.
“Exactly,” Sloan said. “The crime scene supports this. There are few signs of a struggle.”
“The autopsy will tell us more,” Jurek said.
“It should. Now, while we can’t put blinders on and must remain open to all theories, at this stage we should follow the line that the victims knew the killer or killers,” Sloan said.
“Have your people found anything in their emails, phone, credit or bank cards that points anywhere?” Jurek asked.
“Nothing has jumped out yet,” Sloan said. “We’ll continue to focus on those in the Tullocks’ circles who were aware they’d be away, as well as those who might have harbored any ill will against them and where the evidence takes us. As for evidence, that note I received at the case meeting was from our forensic people who’d worked through the night. They’ve collected clear latents and impressions inside and around the property. Once they’re processed they’ll be run through the databanks,” Sloan said. “Until then, let’s interview people who were aware of the family’s movements and those with any grudges. We’ll go to your team on that, Bill.”
Jurek paged through his notes.
“We’ve got Ritchie Hicks, an ex-employee. Roy fired him three months ago for stealing equipment from the Prairie Winds Farm Equipment Center and selling it in Winnipeg and Saskatoon. After Hicks was fired, he was overheard at a bar saying one day he’d come back and get even with Roy Tullock.”
“And where is Hicks? Have you interviewed him?”
“Not yet. Last word put him in British Columbia or Alberta.”
“We need to find Hicks and confirm his movements.” Sloan went to her file folder. “We’re using gas and restaurant receipts to confirm the Tullocks’ route, times and dates to and from Saskatchewan along the Trans-Canada Highway. We’re also working on collecting all possible security camera recordings at all locations visited by the Tullocks.”
“Are you suggesting they were stalked?” Jurek asked.
“Anything’s possible. We’ll put out an alert on CPIC flagging Ritchie Hicks as a person of interest,” Sloan said. “Now, the Tullocks have a daughter, Victoria.” Sloan turned to one of the Mounties on her team. “What do you have, Frank?”
RCMP Corporal Frank Cullen flipped through his notebook.
“They call her Torrie. She’s sixteen. After she experienced several breakdowns, her parents arranged for her to become a resident at the New Dawn Sunrise Wellness Retreat in Winnipeg. She’s been there for five months. Winnipeg police report that Torrie’s under supervision by retreat staff. She can leave the facility but only when escorted. So for the last five months she’s never left Winnipeg.”
“All right. We need you to go there today and interview her for any insights. Go with Lorna,” Sloan said. “Let’s get back to the family’s immediate circle in town and who knew about their plans. Bill?”
Jurek consulted the statements and reports in his files. “We’ve done preliminary interviews with employees at the center and Tullock’s ag operations,” he said. “We’ve reinterviewed Marv Lander and Fran Penner, the senior employees who found the bodies, and we’re checking with deliveries, contract people, those who service the Tullocks’ grounds and pool. And there’s the babysitter.”
“The babysitter?”
“Janie Klassyn. She’s been sitting for the Tullocks watching Neal and Linda for several months.”
“Really?” Sloan removed her glasses, thinking. “Janie would know a little something about the inner workings of the Tullock household.”
“That figures,” Jurek said.
“Okay, when we finish here, you and I will interview Janie.”
Seventeen
Santa Ana, Orange County, California
Present day
Marisa Joyce Narmore.
She was thirty-two years old and lived in a town house in Santa Ana on Williams Street, not far from the 55 freeway, a cream-colored unit with an attached two-car garage in the back.
Emma studied the building, thankful that Greg Clifton had come through, phoning her with the contact information for the mystery woman.
“Thanks, Greg,” Emma told him. “I’ll call her and clear things up.”
“And we’ll keep this all confidential, right?” Greg said.
“Totally confidential.”
Only thing was, Emma had no intention of calling Marisa Joyce Narmore.
No, she wanted a face-to-face session to get answers.
It had taken a couple of days to plan, but Emma had adjusted much of her schedule and obtained approval to leave for appointments outside of school for the better part of today. Then she made the drive to Santa Ana, zeroing in on Marisa Joyce Narmore’s address.
She parked two blocks away. She walked by the town house complex and around the back, seeing no sign of a green Ford Focus. Searching the area a few more times, getting a read on Narmore’s unit, Emma reflected on how she had to fight every step of the way to get the life she now had. And now, she had to fight again to protect it; protect Ben and Kayla from whoever wanted to destroy it.
She took the note from her pocket and looked at it:
SOON IT WILL BE 20 YEARS. YOUR DAY OF RECKONING IS COMING.
Her jaw muscles bunched.
Who was Marisa Joyce Narmore and what did she want?
Emma had her suspicions but the fact was she didn’t know. Whoever Marisa was,
Emma was not going to let her ruin everything she had worked so hard to build. In the darkest years of her life she had learned a thing or two about surviving. Experience had taught her that when someone is trying to take you down, you get in their face fast, hard and smart.
It was now or never.
Emma went to the address, walked up the few steps to the solid door and rang the bell.
Immediately, a dog’s barking sounded from inside.
A few seconds later a man’s voice ordered the dog to be quiet as Emma heard movement toward the door, then locks clicking and a bolt sliding before the door opened about six inches.
Through the opening Emma saw a man in his thirties, messed hair, unshaven. He was shirtless, his chest and arms tattooed. One hand gripped the door, the other was down behind his back, where she glimpsed the dog, growling and barking. The man’s eyes took a slow walk over her.
“I’m not buying anything and I’m not looking for Jesus.”
While offering a small smile, Emma caught a hint of alcohol. “I’m looking for Marisa. Is she home?”
The dog barked again, and the man turned his head back. “Shut up!” Then to Emma he said: “Who are you?”
“I’m an old friend of hers.”
“What’s your name?”
“Is Marisa home? Can I speak to her?”
As the man stared at Emma, she noticed his eyes were bloodshot. He removed his hand from the door to scratch his chin, still keeping one hand behind his back, where the dog was barking again.
“Well, Marisa’s friend with no name, all I can tell you is she’s out.”
“Do you know where she is? Where I can find her? When she’ll be back?”
“Whoa.” The man half smiled. “You’re kind of a pushy thing, aren’t ya?”
The dog barked. Emma couldn’t see it.
“Leave me your name and number,” he said. “I’ll tell Marisa to call you. Or maybe I’ll call you?” He winked.
Emma bit her bottom lip, thinking, when she heard the dog’s paws scratching the floor as it barked louder. Keeping the door only slightly open, the man twisted, pushing the dog back with his foot, Emma glimpsing the hand behind his back.
He was holding a gun in it.
“No, that’s fine,” she said. “Thanks for your help.”
“I’d invite you for a drink but I got some other business,” he said.
“That’s fine. Thank you.”
Emma left and walked to her car.
All right, I know what I’m dealing with. I’ve got to rethink how I’m going to confront Marisa.
For now, she had another address to visit.
Eighteen
Orange County, California
Present day
The two-story house was on a quiet cul-de-sac in a small hillside section of the neighborhood.
Emma found the grassy yard with its flower gardens and palm trees welcoming, while she ruminated on her first attempt to confront Marisa Joyce Narmore less than an hour earlier.
Emma had contemplated it during the drive, determining she would keep the prop gun she’d sneaked out from the drama department while reconsidering how to deal with Marisa and her threatening note later. Right now, she had other important matters to take care of.
She rang the bell.
A man in his forties, wearing Dockers and a polo shirt, gray hair feathering his temples, answered.
“Hi, I’m Emma Grant, Carson’s school counselor.”
After a moment, awareness dawned on him.
“Emma. Oh yes, we’re expecting you. Austin Clark, Carson’s father.” He shook her hand. “Please come in. I just made some coffee—would you like some? Or juice, a soft drink?”
“Coffee’s fine, thanks.”
He led her to the kitchen, which opened to the dining room and glass doors leading to the backyard, the patio and the pool. Austin indicated the stools at the breakfast bar and Emma took one, glancing around.
“Where’s Carson?”
“Upstairs with his mom. They’ll be down.”
“How is he doing?”
“Good. Cream? Sugar?”
“Just a little cream, please.”
“He’s seeing a psychiatrist,” Austin said. “She’s got him on a mild medication and—” The ceramic mug shook a little as he set Emma’s coffee before her. “I don’t know how to thank you for what you did.”
Emma smiled and nodded, turning to the hall, where a woman was watching them. She was in her forties, dressed in a peach sweater and white slacks. A floral-patterned scarf covered her head. Emma noticed that she’d lost her eyebrows and eyelashes from her treatment.
“I’m Sonia, Carson’s mom. You must be Emma.”
“Yes.” Emma stood to shake her hand.
Sonia ignored it, embracing her in a powerful hug.
“Thank you,” Sonia said. “For saving our son.”
Emma nodded, brushing tears from her eyes.
“Hi, Ms. Grant.”
They all turned to Carson. Hair mussed, he was wearing shorts and a hoodie with the hood pulled up. He sipped from a bottle of apple juice in his hand, then stood there, looking at everyone before speaking.
“We know you want to talk to Emma, so Dad and I can leave you guys alone,” Sonia said.
“No, we’ll go outside.”
Carson opened the patio doors for Emma and the two of them went out. They leaned on the counter of the poolside bar, staring at the water.
“I’m sorry,” Carson said. “What I did was so stupid and so embarrassing.”
“No, no.” Emma touched his shoulder. “No need to apologize.”
“I felt, well, actually, I felt nothing. Just lost, empty, overwhelmed by everything, you know?”
“Yes. I do. Just about everyone has felt that way. But you wanted to kill the moment, not yourself.”
A smile began to emerge on his face.
“What is it?” she asked.
“That’s sorta what my shrink said, and I guess there’s some truth to it. I’ve got a lot of things to work on.”
“Give it time,” she said. “I’m so happy you’re still here with us.”
Carson smiled that broad smile. “Thank you for saving my life, Ms. Grant.”
“It wasn’t me. Your friends sounded the alarm. You’ve got a lot of people in your corner, a lot of people who love you and will fight for you. You’re going to come out of this stronger, Carson.”
They hugged, then went back inside.
When the visit ended at the door and Carson’s parents said goodbye, Sonia hugged her again.
“Words cannot convey what you’ve given us, Emma. Thank you.”
Gripping the wheel, Emma’s knuckles whitened as she drove away, battling emotions roiling inside her. She recognized a sense of accomplishment at playing a role in helping Carson.
I want to help people. I want to be a good person—I am a good person. But the note, the looming anniversary, even Kayla with her questions, forcing me to lie...it’s closing in.
Emma bit back on her tears, refusing to cry.
I will survive this.
At a red light, she checked the fuel gauge. It showed that she had less than a quarter of a tank. Two blocks later she pulled into a Mobil station and filled up, then went into the station to pay.
Inside, a man wearing torn, stained pants with a bulging knapsack slung over his shoulder was being told to leave by the attendant. While departing, the man asked people in line for money. Dirt encrusted the creases of his palm, his full wild beard was dotted with crumbs and he reeked of alcohol, a scent that triggered the shame, pain and desperate hopelessness Emma had known growing up. When his bleary eyes met hers, she reached into her bag and gave him a twenty. Still waiting to pay, she swiped through her phone for messages when it
pinged with a news notice.
Talk about timing.
It was another opinion piece from one of the Canadian newspapers she’d subscribed to. The headline read: Eternity Anniversary Will Open Old Wounds.
Emma began reading it, words flying at her—“How can people ever forget the unimaginable crimes...and how those responsible have gone on to live their lives...” when someone tapped her shoulder. A woman behind her indicated it was Emma’s turn at the counter. Emma apologized, slid her credit card from her wallet, paid and returned to her SUV, her stomach in knots.
Behind the wheel she resumed reading the news item when a horn honked. The pickup behind her wanted her to move out of the way so he could gas up. She set her phone down, fastened her seat belt and pulled away, working to clear her mind as she headed home.
Preoccupied with her thoughts, she didn’t notice a car that had been parked near the busy Mobil station and was now behind her.
It was not Marisa Narmore’s car.
This car was the same car driven by the floral shirt man she had seen near the restaurant when she, Ben, Kayla and Tug had gone to the beach.
It remained half a block behind Emma’s SUV, allowing several cars to stay between them as it followed her.
Nineteen
Cielo Valle, Orange County, California
Present day
Kayla arrived home hungry and went straight to the fridge for yogurt.
“I’m home!”
No one responded.
She replaced her key on the wooden rack on the wall. Kayla had made the rack for her parents a summer long ago, painting little hearts on it. Her mom loved it. The last peg held the keys to their cabin. Above it was a small photo of the place. Kayla touched it tenderly.
Sliding off her backpack, she saw a note posted on the fridge door: Gone to the dentist for a checkup, it said in her father’s handwriting.
Oh my God, he’s so old. You could’ve just texted, Dad. You know how to do it.
Kayla rolled her eyes and began eating banana yogurt when Tug shuffled into the kitchen, ball in his mouth, looking for a playmate.