by Roger Hayden
Frohman remained seated, leaning to the side, giving Trudeau the opportunity to get everything situated. He left the room for a few moments and then re-emerged with a pen, notepad, and three thin kitchen knives. He set the notepad on the table and began hastily writing as Frohman mumbled unintelligibly. There was no time to spare. He pulled out his cell phone and examined the detailed directions, given to Walter and Ken, on how to stash the van.
He jotted down every road and turn onto Frohman’s “suicide” note and then backed away from the table, placing the pen in his pocket. He observed the slumbering Frohman while inspecting the sharpness of each blade. He knew exactly where to make the lethal incisions along Frohman’s wrists to make the blood flow quickly.
He chose a medium-size steak knife with a painfully sharp edge, though Frohman wouldn’t feel a thing. He took each arm hanging at Frohman’s sides and placed them on the table, wrists out and ready. A later autopsy would reveal the tranquilizer in his system and bring doubt upon being ruled a suicide, but none of that mattered at the moment. Of utmost importance was how the scene looked to Miriam and the detectives.
They’d have no reason to think the letter on the table was anything but the authentic last words of a deeply troubled young man. And an autopsy would show that the cuts were all made while Frohman was alive, and presumably his own doing.
Trudeau turned around and flipped on the light switch, illuminating the stained-glass dome light hanging above the table. He then held Frohman’s left wrist against the table and brought the end of the blade closer, prepared to make swift cuts without waking Frohman. It was a merciful act, one that saved Frohman the trouble of doing it himself further down the road. He dug the knife into flesh with steady hands, slicing the veins open and releasing a stream of blood onto the table that began to drip onto the floor. One more arm, a little clean up, and he’d be ready to take Tara to her new home, where she belonged.
***
Trudeau arrived at the site in question by afternoon, and as he drove up the hill, surrounded by rocky desert, he was impressed to catch a glimpse of the van at the exact location where he had instructed them to leave it at. The sight of the rusty van all alone and parked next to several saguaro cactuses was eerie, ominous even. He imagined Miriam surrounding the van with the detectives, desperate to free the girls from inside. Only the girls were not going to be anywhere in sight. As he drove closer to the van, its windows already concealed under a thin blanket of sand, he hoped that Walter and Ken had properly set up the propane tanks. His grand finale was riding on it.
Trudeau parked and glanced into the back seat of his car where the girl named Tara McKenzie lay unconscious, her hands and ankles tied together with a blanket tossed over her. Her head was on a pillow, her eyes closed as though she was just taking a nap. A little sedative had done the trick after the chloroform had begun to wear off over the past hour. When she woke up, she’d be in a new room, unsure if any of it was real or if she was dreaming.
A cloud of dust floated over the windshield as Trudeau sat quietly at the wheel, checking through his mental list, ensuring he hadn’t overlooked anything. Miriam had been led to Walter Browning’s house. Part of Tara’s finger had been amputated and shipped to the exact location of the supposed sting operation Trudeau had heard about through his contacts within the Ector County Police Department.
He had visited the Odessa police station earlier, as planned, and talked to Miriam face to face, planting the seeds of her actions soon to follow. Walter Browning and Ken Frohman were dead and there was no evidence he knew of that would lead investigators to him. He stepped outside the car, carefully looking around, and walked quickly toward the van.
He opened the side doors just a crack and peered in, knowing that to fully open them would trigger an explosion of the pressure cookers. He saw the wool blanket, complete with blondish wigs protruding from the top and pillows stuffed under to mimic body shapes. He reached his hand in, eyes following wires connected to the doors, and lifted the sheet, exposing three rows of pressure cookers hidden in a compartment on the floor.
Satisfied, he brought his arm out and closed the doors with careful ease. Walter and Ken had done a commendable job after all, and it had only cost Trudeau a few thousand dollars so far for their services. With a savings account nearly drained, Trudeau would need more money soon, especially given his plans for a fresh start.
He walked toward his Mercedes with a confident stride, pleased with how things had gone so far. He looked at the blue sky and the plentiful clouds, puffy and majestic, amazed that he had managed to pull any of it off. Though it wasn’t time to celebrate just yet. Miriam needed to find the van first. He had no desire to see her killed and figured her smarter than that anyway. She’d find the van suspicious from the outset and keep her distance. But in the end, someone would find the doors too tempting, open them, and by then it’d be too late.
“They’re not going to know what hit them,” he said, opening his car door.
He sat at the wheel and turned the ignition, humming to himself. His tie hung loose around his neck, his normally neat hair messy, his dress shirt untucked and sleeves rolled up. He had pushed himself to exhaustion over the past couple of days. Rest would come soon enough after choosing which girl he wanted to spend the rest of his life with.
A Hidden Past
Miriam walked inside Trudeau’s house from the back patio together with Detectives Hayes and Shelton, still clutching the phone at her side after having just received a call from Dr. Trudeau. He was on the road, driving erratically she imagined, and searching for a place to hide.
“He’s on the road as we speak,” she announced to the room as heads turned in their direction. “We need to set up checkpoints within a fifty-mile radius. Get some helicopters out there. He couldn’t have gotten very far.”
“We’re working on it,” Hayes said, distracted by some chatter on the hand-held radio he cradled close to his ear.
“We’re not finding much,” one officer said as he entered the dining room. “All the room are equally furnished, neatly arranged with not much in them.”
“Come downstairs,” another officer told him. “That’s where most of the evidence is at.”
Miriam tried to remain focused despite the many conversations and movements throughout the house. Trudeau scrapbook and journal lay closed on the table. She then grabbed the journal and opened it, examining what appeared to be a page of hastily written psychology notes. It was nothing unusual, but she saw something disturbing in the handwriting itself.
Detective Shelton appeared at her side, talking closely and startling her. “Hey, I’ve got to get in touch with Captain Vasquez and bring him up to speed on this mess. What did Trudeau say in the call?”
“It’s his handwriting,” Miriam said, staring down. “The same as on the note.”
Shelton followed Miriam’s focus downward and examined the writing that filled every inch of the page. “What note?”
Miriam turned to him with a frightened realization in her eyes. “The suicide note we found earlier today. The one that led us to the van. Trudeau wrote that.” Another thought struck her before she had even finished her sentence. The hand-written note on her windshield was a match as well, and she still had both letters. She cursed herself for not seeing the connection sooner. “I have a feeling Mr. Frohman didn’t take his own life after all.”
Shelton said nothing, but his troubled expression conveyed everything his words could have expressed. “What type of person are we dealing with here?” The question seemed to be what he was asking himself. Miriam didn’t have the answers, but she suspected that somewhere along the line, Dr. Trudeau had a serious breakdown.
“Who knows?” she said.
“Maybe he was always like this,” Shelton pondered. “Psychopathic behavior starts very early.”
A pudgy detective suddenly rushed toward the dining room table, holding a satellite phone. “Detective Shelton, I’ve got the FBI on the lin
e. They want to speak with the lead detective in charge.”
Shelton looked around and then took the phone, walking away from Miriam and down the hall for privacy. With the feds involved, she felt more hopeful that they could apprehend Trudeau. It wouldn’t be easy, regardless. Trudeau may have been injured, but she didn’t think that made him any less formidable. April was all he had left. He wasn’t going to let her go easily or at all. She flipped through the notebook marked “journal,” stopping at a page in the middle that immediately caught her eye. There, written over and over again on every line, from top to bottom was the same sentence: Make them pay. Make them pay. Make them pay.
She flipped to the next page and saw a complete continuation of the same line, covering the page and continuing to the next page and then the next. The seemingly endless repetitive scribbling from one page to the next sent chills down her back. And as she stared into the thick black words written in pen, some of the pieces began to come together. And before she could fully make sense of it all, Trudeau’s phone rang again in her hand.
Was he calling her back? If so, she vowed to keep him on the line as long as possible.
“Detective Hayes!” she called out, seeing his head turn from the kitchen. She held the phone up with anticipation. “The phone’s ringing. He might be calling again.”
Hayes rushed over, pulling the same small tracking device from his pocket as before. “Keep him on the line. Do not let him hang up!”
Miriam held the phone to her ear, took a deep breath, and then answered, ready to say whatever was necessary. “Hello?”
Hayes moved inches from her shoulder, trying to listen in.
“Miriam?”
She could barely recognize the voice.
“Yes, this is she.”
“Miriam. It’s Lou!”
Her face dropped, slightly embarrassed. “Lou? I’m so sorry.”
Hayes backed away, confused. “Your husband? How’d he get this number?”
Miriam waved him off dismissively. “I called him earlier. He’s just calling me back.”
Hayes then leaned closer, placing a hand over the bottom receiver of the phone. “We’ve got to keep the line open, Lieutenant. I’m sorry.”
“He has information,” Miriam said, pulling the phone away. “I have to talk to him. It won’t take more than a minute.” She brought the receiver to her mouth as Hayes was called back into the kitchen by one of the other detectives.
“Go ahead, Lou. Sorry about that.”
“Is everything okay?” Lou asked.
“Not really,” she said. “Trudeau’s still at large.”
“Well, Miriam. I have some news for you. His name’s not Nicholas Trudeau after all.”
Miriam gripped the phone, her heart racing, one hand pressed against the surface of the sleek dining table. “I knew it. I’ve been looking through his old scrapbook. It looks like he had a family.”
“Exactly. His name is, or was, Desmond Turner. His wife, Patricia Turner, was the daughter of a wealthy hotel magnate. Apparently, Trudeau, or Desmond, inherited a small fortune of his wife’s dowry some years back. He used to be a doctor.”
“What, like a medical doctor?” Miriam asked.
“That’s right,” Lou said. “He had just graduated medical school.”
The thought crossing Miriam’s mind was clear enough. Why on earth would someone who graduated medical school move into another field? Moving from the medical field to therapy was baffling.
“Okay, so he has money,” Miriam continued while flipping through the scrapbook toward the newspaper clippings. “What about this girl, Anabelle Turner? Apparently, she was kidnapped. Did Trudeau… Desmond have anything to do with that?”
“Not at all,” Lou said. “In fact, it was someone else entirely.”
Miriam flipped to another page and saw different headlines: Rescue Goes Wrong, Local Police Station under Fire for Missing Girl Aftermath, Kidnapper Shoots Self and Young Victim in Botched Raid.
“This was sixteen years ago,” Miriam said. “And it all happened around here. Who kidnapped his daughter?”
“A man named Willie Malone. A real sleazebag. Convicted sexual offender out on parole. He kidnapped Anabelle from a mall while the family was vacationing.”
One of the articles displayed Malone’s disheveled, bearded face in an old mug shot. Miriam read along as the enormity of the case and its meaning became clearer. She knew there was a connection but hadn’t had the details. How could a man completely change his identity and leave his life behind? And better yet, how did the Ector County PD never make the connection? Such questions baffled Miriam as Lou continued.
“The police got wind of where Malone was holding the girl. He had some kind of run-down cabin deep in the woods. They surrounded the place and attempted to capture Malone, but he had no intention of surrendering. Said that he’d rather be dead than go to jail. A negotiator was brought to try to coax Malone into releasing the girl. It was a delicate situation.”
He paused, taking a breath as Miriam read the story in the article below.
“Somewhere along the line, the police got antsy. Whatever happened is still in dispute today, even as the investigation cleared officers of any wrongdoing.”
Miriam held the phone tightly against her ear, bracing herself for the worst.
“They fired tear gas into the cabin,” Lou continued. “Malone had threatened to shoot himself and the girl, so they had to do something. But by the time they breached the cabin from all sides, two shots were fired. Malone and the girl were found dead with gunshots wounds to the head.”
Miriam covered her mouth in shock. She had suspected Trudeau’s hidden past, but couldn’t have imagined something so tragic. His written words came back to her: Make them pay. Make them pay. Make them pay. Who were the recipients of his vendetta and why? It seemed as though his plan involved kidnapping girls at random. What had any of those families done to him?
“Some time after the investigation, Trudeau brought a lawsuit against the department but lost,” Lou said. “He and his wife split up some years later.”
Miriam wanted to know the moment when he had changed his name and became a therapist, perhaps to one day get close to the very department he felt had betrayed him.
“Oh, and get this,” Lou continued. “He was dismissed from his medical residency. Fired for unethical practices. Performing unnecessary surgeries was among one of the charges levied against him. Desmond Turner disappeared sometime after that.”
“So how much of this therapist author identity is real?” Miriam said. “When did he start that?”
“It’s a little unclear. As far as I know, the name checks out. Everything’s legit. He got a degree in psychiatry and set up a practice in Midland, Texas, as Dr. Nicholas Trudeau. But there’s next to nothing on him beyond five years back.”
Trudeau’s elaborate makeover seemed too insane to consider. Was it really all about revenge? And if so, how long had he been plotting? Miriam questioned her own role in the case. Why had he been spying on her? Why had he sought her out?
“I don’t understand, Lou. What does any of this have to do with us?” She knew there wasn’t an answer there, but had to ask anyway, just to make sense of it all.
“The Snatcher case is the only connection I can think of,” Lou said. “But again, I’d advise you to get off this case. Let the feds do their job and get as far away from that lunatic as you can.”
“He wanted me here to manipulate me,” she said. “He must have studied my tactics during the Snatcher case, wrong as some of them were, and needed someone who would pursue him at all costs. But why?” She brought her hand up, wiping her eyes in frustration. “I feel so foolish. I should never have given him the upper hand.”
“You tried your best, Miriam,” Lou said. “But it’s time to come home now.”
Miriam steadied her tone. “I do appreciate all your work, Lou. You know that. You’re great.”
“No,” he snapped
. “You’re not doing this.”
“I’m sorry. You know I’m not going anywhere until April is found or they force me on the plane.”
Lou sighed on the other end. With the TV on in the background, it was clear that he was still at the house with Ana, defiantly staying in place. Both he and Miriam had their equal shares of defiance, neither wanting to budge, but Miriam wasn’t about to walk away from the case.
“You really don’t know who you’re dealing with here, Miriam,” he said. “The anger and vengeance in his heart is not something you want to confront.”
“I know what he’s capable of,” she said. “He rigged a van of explosives, setting a trap for the detectives.” She suddenly noticed Detective Hayes look over to her from the kitchen, concerned by the length of her call. She nodded and held up a finger asking for patience as he finally looked away.
“Explosives?” Lou said. “What did I tell you? He’s out for blood!”
“I know, and the more they underestimate him, the worse off we’ll be.” She paused and looked at a clock on the wall across from her. It was twenty past ten, and every minute mattered. By morning, Trudeau could be in another state or possibly out of the country. If his home was any indication of his resources, the man knew how to hide. “The FBI will be here soon. I have to at least stick around and brief them, don’t you think?”
“Miriam…” he said, voice trailing. “This isn’t even your jurisdiction. This isn’t your case. It never was.”
She could feel the resentment in his tone, a resentment that matched her own toward him at the moment. Perhaps the words hurt because they were closer to the truth than she liked. She wanted to tell Lou of her own vendetta against Trudeau. She couldn’t leave Odessa without evening the score.