by Rick Mofina
“You’re talking about the Tullock murders.”
“I am.” He nodded to the bungalow. “I understand that one of the killers lived in that house beside yours. Did you know her family?”
Looking toward the bungalow, cupping her hand to her cheek, she blinked several times as if something long buried had been unearthed. Tears stood in her eyes and she nodded slowly. “Yes, I knew them.”
“Would you talk to me for the book I’m writing?”
Turning his card over in her hand, she studied Ben’s face for a moment before deciding.
“Show me your driver’s license,” she said. “So I can see if you are who you say you are.”
Ben reached for his wallet and she studied his California license, his photo, reading his address like a traffic cop. “Can’t be too sure, you know.” She gave it back to him. “Would you like some coffee?”
Her name was Hedda Murdoch. Her house was done up great-grandmother style, doilies under everything, plastic on much of the furniture, the faint smells of soap, cedar and mothballs. Shelves and tabletops were shrines to her family, holding framed photos: a daughter in Chicago, son in Toronto, grandchildren and great-grandchildren. Hedda’s husband, Larry, a plumber, had passed away twenty years ago.
“The Mitchells started off as a happy family.” Hedda set down two mugs of coffee.
The Mitchells.
Ben made a note that it was Marie Mitchell who’d lived next door and nodded for Hedda to continue.
“Ned operated a tow truck business. Flo was a nice girl, worked part-time here and there but mostly stayed home with the kids. Then their little boy, Pike, died when he was around six.”
“How?”
“Choked on an apple. His sister, Marie, was the only one with him when he died. There were rumors.”
“What rumors?”
“That Marie killed him because she was jealous.”
“What do you think?”
Hedda shook her head. “I don’t know. Police called it an accident.” She looked off. “Marie was a quiet girl, smart but lonely. Like the other two, Nikki and Janie. The three of them used to be up to no good, shoplifting at the mall or sitting up all night in Ned’s RV in the driveway there. One of them babysat for the Tullocks—that’s how it started.”
Ben nodded as he took notes.
“Most everyone liked Roy Tullock, a rich but kind man. His wife was another story, stuck-up, like she felt she belonged in New York, not Eternity. But I’m not saying they deserved what happened. Lord no.”
Hedda shook her head, remembering.
“At first no one believed that those little girls, just fourteen, could do such a thing. Most everybody refused to believe it. I saw them arrest Marie.” Hedda stared into her coffee cup. “It just shakes you to your core, you know? Reporters from all over came here when it happened. Then there was the trial, then came the TV crime show people. And always the rumors flew.”
“The rumors?”
“That the girls made some sort of Satanic pact. Then there was the rumor that the Tullocks’ teenage daughter, Torrie, slipped away from the institute in Winnipeg and came home and killed her family. But the other Tullocks used their money and influence to protect her and avoid the shame it would bring on the family name because it had happened when Roy was making some big business deal.”
“Really?” Ben took notes.
“Who knows the truth?” Hedda said. “This is a small town. I’ll tell you something I know for sure is true. The murders wrecked Marie’s family, too. Flo committed suicide. Ned lost his business, lost his family, just gave up. Last I heard he was living on the streets somewhere.”
“What about Marie?” Ben asked. “It’s been years since her release. Would you, your family or neighbors know where she’s living right now?”
Hedda shook her head.
“Would you have any pictures of Marie and her family, or Marie with the other girls?”
“I had a few but I got rid of them. Don’t want to be reminded.”
Ben understood, and after finishing his coffee, he got Hedda’s number and mailing address. Closing his notebook, he thanked her and explained that if he used her name in the book he’d send her a release to sign.
* * *
Because it was near, Ben drove to Eternity’s public library.
The librarian got him copies of the school yearbooks he’d requested. They were for the years around the time of the murders, only he never said why he wanted them. Still, the librarian regarded him with a twinge of apprehension.
Alone at a table, he flipped through the albums, typical school yearbooks, filled with head and shoulder shots of students along with pages of sports teams, school clubs, events and trips. Careful to look alphabetically, Ben froze when he came to the G’s. Where he should’ve seen the photo for Nikki Gorman, he found a perfect postage-stamp-sized square hole. Someone had used a razor-sharp knife to remove it. He found the same thing had happened for Janie Klassyn and Marie Mitchell.
Wow. Whether this is to respect the law, or something else, it’s like a metaphor for a wound.
Ben took photos of the pages, then checked to get the name of the company that made the school yearbook. It was in Winnipeg. It should have unaltered copies on file. He’d request to buy one.
Or he could track down former classmates.
He took more photos of pages of students and teachers.
Ben then drove to the far side of the railyards to the White Spruce Estates. Figuring it unlikely someone would be living here for more than twenty years, Ben went to the manager’s office in the middle building. Sure enough, the superintendent confirmed the longest any tenant had lived in the complex was nine years.
“We got a high turnover,” said the man with the toothpick tucked in the corner of his mouth. “If you want to check the records, you gotta call head office in Brandon.”
Ben thanked the man, then drove north of the railyards, picking up the smell of the slaughterhouse as he made his way by the dilapidated houses and shabby apartments, stopping at the ramshackle duplex Jurek had shown him. He got out and knocked on the door of the unit attached to where one of the girls had lived.
No answer.
Enduring the stench, Ben leaned on his rental car trying to guess if Janie or Nikki had lived in this unit. He’d have to find out who the landlord was at the time and check rental records. Or he could go to a municipal office and request a search of property records. Ben took out his notebook when his phone rang.
It was Tessa Fox.
“Is this a good time, Ben?”
“It is.”
“Got some results for you.”
“Already? You’re fast.”
“I pushed my best contacts, people with high-level clearance and access to restricted databanks, so you must protect your sources, Ben.”
“I always do.”
“All right, now some of this information goes back a few years so I can’t confirm if it’s up-to-date. I’m still working on it. I’ll send you all the spellings and details in an email but I wanted to share what I’ve got so far.”
“All right.”
“Nicola Hope Gorman became Noreen Nicole Gruning and moved to the US.”
“The US?”
“All of them moved here. Hold on. In the US, Noreen Leslie Gruning changed her name to Lucy Isabel Lavenza. That’s her current name. Moved around. I’ll send you details and spelling. Her last known address: New York City. The Bronx.”
“Good.”
“Now, Marie Louise Mitchell, was changed to Melinda Spencer-Glantz, then changed again to Rita Mae Purvis. Lived in Oklahoma but moved to Texas. Last known address, Lufkin, Texas.
“And Jane Elizabeth Klassyn was changed to Sheila Beth Stratton. But that was changed to Vanessa Claire Prather. I have her in Maryland. I’m st
ill following her, she moved around, as well. I’ll send you last known contact information that I have for all of them.”
“This is fantastic, Tessa.”
“I’ll get back to you.”
Ben stared at the names he’d written down.
He was getting close.
Seventy-Five
Cielo Vallee, Orange County, California
Present day
Emma struggled to focus on her work that morning.
Eating an egg salad sandwich at her desk for lunch, she went online to look for the latest on the homicide in the park. Nothing new on the news sites.
Wait. The Register had posted an update ten minutes ago.
Detectives Appeal for Help in Homicide
Orange County homicide detectives are appealing for witnesses and information in the stabbing death of a 34-year-old woman whose body was found this morning in Suntrail Sky Park.
The woman’s body has been taken to the Orange County coroner’s office to determine official cause of death and identification. However, sources have told the Register that the victim is Rita Mae Purvis of Lufkin, Texas.
Rita Purvis.
Emma’s eyes widened. Her mouth fell open as she read.
A man walking his dog at dawn made the discovery in a wooded section of the trail that winds along the communities of Cielo Valle, Lake Forest and Mission Viejo.
“We’ll be canvassing surrounding neighborhoods, talking to residents, checking security cameras,” said a source with the Orange County Sheriff’s Department.
Anyone with information concerning the case is asked to call the Orange County Sheriff’s Department or submit an anonymous tip through the crime line website.
Emma’s heart beat faster; dizziness rolled over her in waves.
Balling her shaking hands into fists, putting them to her mouth, thinking. She went numb.
“Emma.” Roxanna, the office admin, stood in front of her. “Are you ill? You don’t look so good. Want me to call the nurse?”
Emma looked around as if waking. “No, umm.” She shut down her computer, closed and gathered files. Got up and put them away. “Thank you, Rox. Please cancel everything I have this afternoon. I’m going home.”
“No problem. Are you okay to drive?”
“Of course.”
Slipping her bag over her shoulder, Emma walked fast to the parking lot, casting around, looking across the street for anyone watching her. As she drove, Emma checked her mirrors.
Stay calm. At least Rita is out of my life now and forever.
Wheeling through her neighborhood, Emma took extra care not to speed as she scoured the streets for any signs of police going door-to-door.
Nothing.
She could hear a helicopter but couldn’t see it.
Police? TV news?
In the house, she was greeted by Tug, and welcomed the fleeting relief of his affection. She got him some treats and fresh water. She paced in the kitchen, taking deep, shaky breaths.
Rita’s dead but that doesn’t end the threat. When she confronted me in the parking lot, she said ‘we.’ I have to do something. Come on, think.
Emma halted.
She’d glimpsed the backpack she’d used in her search for Tug sticking out from the closet, and a memory came tumbling back.
No.
Emma seized the backpack, finding the treats, bowl and empty water bottle—but no knife.
The knife I took with me. Where is it?
I must’ve lost it on the trail—and Rita’s ring... I still have it. It’s evidence.
Rubbing her forehead, she paced again when her phone vibrated and chimed with a new email. Emma didn’t recognize the address.
The subject said: LIFE & DEATH
She read the first part of the message:
Look at this and where it’s going. Soon the whole world will know the truth about what YOU AND RITA did and what you are! LYING BETRAYERS!
A video was embedded.
Emma’s shaking fingers hovered over her keyboard as she considered whether it was safe to play it, ultimately deciding she couldn’t afford not to.
It showed Rita Purvis and Emma in the Trader Joe’s parking lot. It pulled tight on Rita’s upset face, then tight on Emma’s face. The clip of their exchange had no sound. It lasted twenty seconds.
The rest of the email continued beneath the video.
Rita Mae Purvis was last seen arguing with Emma Grant in the parking lot of a Trader Joe’s in Cielo Valle, Orange County.
Under it was a tower of email addresses for the Orange County Sheriff, and several news outlets.
The email signed off with: Your lying life is over!
Seventy-Six
Eternity, Manitoba
Present day
“The number you have reached has been changed, is disconnected, or is not in service. If you feel you have reached this recording in error—”
That was as far as Ben got with Lucy Lavenza in New York.
It had been the same for Rita Mae Purvis in Texas and Vanessa Prather in Maryland.
He tapped his phone to his chin.
One step forward and two steps back.
But he’d made progress with the names today.
And all in good time, thanks to Tessa.
Leaning against his rental car and staring at the duplex where one of the Skull Sisters had lived, Ben thought the smell of the slaughterhouse was not so bad now.
Unless I’m getting used to it.
Taking it all in while listening to the clunking of the railyards, there was no question this was a rough part of Eternity to grow up in.
Four doors down, Ben saw two people working in the flower beds in front of their small house.
He headed toward them.
The woman was in a sundress, wearing a floppy straw hat. The man wore a Panama hat. Both were on their knees, weeding.
“Excuse me,” Ben said.
They turned to Ben. He figured them to be in their late fifties, maybe early sixties.
“Sorry to trouble you, but I’m researching local history for a book. Have you lived in this neighborhood for very long?”
The couple exchanged glances, then the man nodded.
“Did you know the people who lived in that duplex?” Ben pointed to the place. “The one four doors down?”
The man nodded but the woman shook her head, admonishing him.
“We don’t want to talk about anything that has anything to do with those people.” The woman stood. “It was a long time ago. No need to stir things up.”
She disappeared into the house, leaving the man alone. He got to his feet slowly.
“My apologies for upsetting her,” Ben said.
“She doesn’t rile easily but anything to do with the Klassyn girl just sets her off.”
“Janie Klassyn lived there. I wasn’t sure.”
“Yes, with her mom and all their problems,” the man said. “The thing of it is, our daughter played with Janie a little bit and we thank the Lord every day that she never got caught up with that crowd.”
“Would you tell me about it?” Ben began taking notes.
The man held up his palms. “We’re not talking to you. I hope you’ll respect that, sir.”
Ben stopped. Saw the resolution in the man’s gray eyes, then put his notebook away and nodded. “I do. Again, my apologies. Thank you.”
Returning to his car, Ben considered the silver lining.
He now knew that Janie Klassyn lived in the duplex, which put Nikki Gorman in The Estates. Another step forward.
At that moment his phone pinged with an email from Darmont Hill College. Emma’s college in Indianapolis. The subject said: Important Please Call Me ASAP. It was from Clinton Parkerfield, Director of Records.
This is strange. Why would Emma’s college need me to call?
Ben dialed Parkerfield’s number.
“Thanks for calling, Mr. Grant,” Parkerfield said. “I’m following up on our emailed response to your recent verification request on the graduation status of a former student, Emma Anne Chance.”
Ben was puzzled. He remembered when he’d first met Emma, how he quietly looked into her background. He’d checked her California driver’s license, her addresses in California, marital history and professional certification. He scoured his memory.
I never checked her college because I saw her diploma in her apartment when we dated and by this time everything else had checked out.
“I’m afraid you’re mistaken, Mr. Parkerfield. I never made such a request.”
“We have it here in writing. Your researcher made it on your official letterhead but I can’t seem to contact her.”
“What?”
“So I decided to try to reach you directly. I used your website contact.”
“I’m not following—you said my researcher?”
For a moment, Ben wondered if it had something to do with the work Tessa Fox was doing for him when Parkerfield continued.
“Yes, a Ms. Susanne St. John. I had trouble trying to reach her.”
Then it dawned on Ben. Susanne was Kayla’s middle name. St. John was Brooke’s maiden name. Kayla had done this. His stomach twisted, he clenched the phone. Biting back on his anger, Ben swallowed.
“Yes, go ahead.”
“This won’t take long and it’s kind of embarrassing. You see, my wife’s a huge fan of your work. Well, I am, too. It’s kind of why I’m calling you personally. Anyway, I’d mentioned your query and we thought that if it had something to do with a book you’re working on then there’s something you should know.”
“And what’s that?”
Ben’s annoyance with Kayla for crossing a line competed with his attention.
“Well, it’s none of my business of course,” Parkerfield said. “And, I am going outside school rules. Can we keep this call confidential, Mr. Grant?”
What’s with this guy? “Yes, but I’m pressed for time.”