by Gorman, A.
“The Devil is among us,” a voice boomed over the crowd. The room fell silent, searching for the voice: it belonged to Edna Cutter. A fragile old lady, a devout Baptist, mother of the fallen preacher who was killed by his wife. After her son died, she went off the rails; she was certain her son was not responsible for the ill-doing his wife had accused him of. She blamed Satan for his death, convinced her daughter-in-law was possessed by a demon. I was furious Edna was asserting her ridiculous beliefs when the sole focus should be the boys. Without thinking, I rise to my feet, banging my fists on the table. I feel rage take over, and the grief and worry I’d felt finally rose to the surface, taking hold of me.
“We are here to appeal to the public to find our missing children. We are not here to listen to your loony bible-bashing bullshit. Enough already, have some damn respect.” When there is no more air left in my lungs, I let my body fall backward onto my chair and put my head in my hands. I don’t recognise the long, painful sobs as they escape from me. I feel arms around my quivering shoulders. I look up to see Tammy and the other parents of our missing children huddle close; we all embrace and form a united circle. The cameras are going wild; journalists are crawling over one another to record the drama. I know this will be making headline news, and although it’s not for the right reasons, at least it will make people hear and see our story. Maybe there will be enough exposure to find our boys and bring them home safe.
Chapter Four
Rachel
A strong gust of wind knocks me backward. Leaves rise from the ground, swirling in mini tornados. A piece of tattered yellow tape that once served to conceal the dense wooded area has torn, and the small remainder is still tied to a bent out of shape post. A flock of crows swoop down from the brooding sky, their dark shiny wings reminding me of cloaks: shadows of death. Before tonight’s vigil, I head to where the lifeless bodies of the four missing boys were finally located. The search had lasted for ten days. By day seven, we knew we weren’t investigating a disappearance but a murder. Colebrook has been shaken to the very core. The once sleepy country town of Colebrook is now known throughout the world for the gruesome and heinous act of a murderer we still haven’t found. We have a few suspects, but they all have solid alibis for the approximate time of death the county coroner has ruled. I was called from out of state to help solve the Colebrook missing boys’ case because of my high-profile involvement in Dallas nailing a child-killer known as “Mr. Sparky.” As I drove through Colebrook for the first time, I remember feeling uneasy as I steered through the quieter streets, folks sitting on their front porches waving at my car as I passed by. When news of the boys broke, the community pulled together, and feelings ran deep, because in small towns like Colebrook, everything seems personal.
Telling a parent their child has been found dead is something I will never get used to. Out of all the years I have been involved searching for missing children, very few cases have had happily ever afters. When I came to Colebrook, my instincts told me this was a town that seemed wonderful—but there were many secrets bubbling under the surface. Maybe it was the way people were overly nice, smiling from ear to ear, too eager to please…Something didn’t sit right with me. I grew up in a small town until the age of fourteen. Instead of dreading leaving my old friends behind, I welcomed the new chapter in my life with open arms. I couldn’t wait to walk the streets of a big new city: Chicago is a melting pot of so many diverse communities. I loved turning the corner, never knowing what to expect—a Jamaican hair salon or an old record store selling vintage vinyls. In my experience, small towns equal small minds—always knowing exactly what is expected of you—always the same old stores selling the same old stuff. Colebrook is no different than many of the other small towns I’ve worked.
I sometimes think boredom can drive people to do crazy things, maybe crimes like stealing, but killing people, specifically children, can only be born out of a person who is truly heinous. This case has me baffled; every lead leads to a dead end, and it seems this multiple homicide is a one-off act.
I walk further into the dense woodland, the soil hardened and cracked like the shell of a hard-boiled egg, the fiery heat wave finally showing signs of cooling down in the last week. My cell phone buzzes in my pocket, taking me out of my thoughts. Its buzzing takes me by surprise; I am in an area where cell phone reception doesn’t usually reach. By the time I pull the phone out of my pocket, the screen already displays a missed call—a number I don’t recognise. I immediately call it back. It rings for several seconds, and just as I am about to hang up, I hear the whisper of a voice so faint it almost sounds ghostly.
“Detective Petree?”
“This is she.” I realise my tone sounds too harsh—too authoritative.
There’s a long pause.
“I’m still here,” I say, this time softer. My instincts scream at me, telling me this is a call I need to take. Fifteen years as a detective and my gut feelings have never failed me yet.
The cell phone static is terrible, I can only hear every third word or so, but I piece the small words together enough to hear the words: Colebrook boys. Then comes the sound of four bleeps, the life-line of the call failing.
Chapter Five
Pamela
I dream of the faceless killer. I hear the screams of the boys, begging for mercy. In my dream, he wears a long dark coat, and he moves through the woods like a shadow, an entity rather than a man. I run after him, and although he moves slowly, I can never catch up with him. I hear Brent’s voice in the echoes of the wind, so far away. I push my body through the brambles, ignoring the pain of the thorns as they scratch and pierce the surface of my skin. The woods are neither dark nor light, and my vision is distorted. One minute I am fighting though tangled weeds, my feet tied up in knots, and the next I am running freely through a clearing, but the voices of the boys have silenced. I am alone. Grief overwhelms me. Then in the far distance I see the shadow once more, and just as he is about to unveil his hood…I wake.
Three weeks have been spent mourning his loss, knowing he will never return to me. Nothing will ever bring him back, nothing. I cannot sit around and let go. I cannot allow the monster who did this to my child and his three friends walk free. I will not rest until justice is served, and a jail cell for the rest of his sorry life will not be enough—when he is found I want him brought to death; it is the only punishment remotely suitable. My dreams are a true reflection of my state of mind: chasing shadows. I lay in the silence of my bedroom; my only motivation these days is roaming the streets, looking for clues.
At first, the other parents and I sat for hours at a time together. Cradling cups of tar-black coffee in our hands at the local diner, we spoke of our grief, we spoke of our anger, and then we spoke of our revenge. Over the last few days, our meetings have dwindled down, each of them retreating to the privacy of their own pain. Brent’s father, Howard, came as quickly as he went, the shoulder of burden clearly weighing him down. He openly admitted he blamed himself and his choices, and for that very reason, he did what he does best—he ran away from his problems. The truth is I am past caring what that man does anymore. I am past caring about so many things.
Sometimes I wake in the night after a nightmare and get in my car. I drive to the woods where the boys were eventually found. I’m told their death was quick. Blows to the head in quick succession, like this information is supposed to bring me comfort? There is a menace that lives inside me now. Feelings of hatred I have never known before burn through my soul like a raging inferno. Last night, a candlelight vigil was held. Each of us held a pocket-sized photo of each of the boys, but the gentle hum of prayer offered me no comfort. I was angry. Where was God when our children were murdered? I begged God, pleaded with Him to return my boy. Main Street still has posters of the missing boys plastered to every lamp post in sight. When the bodies were found, I walked through the street and saw some people trying to drench the paper with hot water and pull the posters off with wooden rulers. I stopp
ed them immediately. I wasn’t ready to go from the status of missing to dead. I wanted those posters to remain a ghostly reminder there was once hope.
Brent Deacon Sharpe
Age: 8
Missing since 08/15
Last Seen: Salber Creek
His photo showed his messy red hair with his feral grin and gappy smile. It was taken just a couple of months ago in the backyard. I never imagined for a single second when I snapped the photo it would be used on a missing poster, and I certainly didn’t imagine it being used alongside the word dead. I stare at the blank wall in my bedroom, my body is still, but my thoughts never are. The phone rings. I ignore it. I became a slave to the telephone, jumping at its every shrill, reaching for the receiver, holding my breath. When the phone rings immediately after, the ring actually sounds like it is pleading with me to answer it. I push myself out of bed and grab the receiver on the kitchen wall. I still hope it will be the police telling me they’ve caught the sonofabitch who killed my little boy.
“I know who killed your son.” I grip the receiver tight in my hand. I know I’m standing still, but the room is spinning, and I can’t find any words.
Thirty minutes later, I am standing in the police station. The scent of sweat hangs in the air, and I feel sick. Yarman, a slim man in his fifties, comes to the front desk. It’s early in the day, but he’s already sweated through his uniform. His shirt clings to his chest so tightly, it looks like a second skin.
“Sorry, we’re not taking media drop-ins today.” He stares at me, his bulging belly pushing up against the desk. “You’ll have to make an appointment.”
“Officer Yarman. Don’t you find it disturbing I know who you are, but you don’t know my face?” He stares at me hard until the familiarity creeps back to him, and his jaw drops.
“Mrs. Sharpe. I’m sorry, ma’am.” He bows his head to deepen his apology.
“I need to see Detective Petree. I had a call this morning, somebody claiming to know who killed my son. I have a name, and I want this investigated, now.”
“I got a call this morning. A woman told me she knows who killed the boys.”
“Mrs. Sharpe.”
“I have a name: Turk Anders. I want you to go to his house now and arrest him.”
Detective Petree looks at a skinny man with beady eyes and glasses slipping down his large hooked nose; his arms are crossed, and he’s hanging on to my every word. I don’t know who he is, but given he’s in a suit, I assume he must be working on the case. The phone rings on Petree’s desk; she answers it immediately. “Hold all my calls; I’m in an important meeting.” Then she gently replaces the receiver on its cradle and holds my gaze.
“Late yesterday afternoon…” Petree begins; the skinny man shoots her a look as if he’s warning her not to go further, but Petree ignores him and turns back to me. Her fingers intertwine and rest in front of her on the desk. “I also received a tip off, but I didn’t get a name. The call was brief, and I was in a restricted cell phone service area. You’re certain the caller gave you the name Turk Anders?”
“One hundred percent.”
“Okay, well, we cannot just arrest somebody because of a tip off,” Detective Petree says matter-of-factly. I feel heat rise to my cheeks. No wonder they haven’t found the killer. My body bolts upright, and I rise to my feet. I’m done playing the rules. I’m done co-operating with this circus of an investigation.
“This is the first name you’ve actually got and you’re going to do nothing?” I hiss.
“Mrs. Sharpe. Please sit down and let’s be calm,” the skinny man says.
“And just who the hell are you?” I wipe away the saliva that’s just dripped down my chin with the back of my hand. My dignity and composure were lost a long time ago.
“This is Detective Unwin. He’s studied high-profile child killers; he’s come to help us.”
“High-profile?” I actually laugh. “You have no idea who the killer is, no leads, and all of a sudden you bring in some celebrity killer cop.”
“We’ve been trying to trace the number of the anonymous tip off who called me yesterday, Mrs. Sharpe, and…”
“Let me guess, you’ve drawn a blank yet again?”
“Now we have a name, an actual name, we are going to investigate it fully. If there is any evidence pointing toward this man, Turk Anders, I can give you my word we will make an arrest. I understand how frustrating this all is for you, Mrs. Sharpe, and the truth be told, I’m pissed we’ve not been able to hone in on a lead. I’m more pissed we didn’t find the boys in time, and I am truly sorry.”
“You need to call the other parents,” I say.
“We will,” Detective Unwin says. He smiles at me gently.
I’m told to wait at home and the police will visit me once they’ve tracked Turk Anders down and brought him in for questioning. I reluctantly agree; sitting at the police station isn’t going to help calm my nerves. I decide to call Tammy; I need to talk to somebody who understands. I walk out of the station with my cell firmly pinned to my ear and wait for her to pick up, which she does on the fourth ring.
“Somebody called me,” I say.
“Me too. Just now. Jimmy and I are headed to the station now.”
“I’m already here.”
There’s a pause. “When did she call you?”
“An hour ago. I came straight here; the police are trying to trace him.”
“Pam. Turk Anders.”
“Yes. That’s the name I’ve been given too.”
“We know him. Jimmy and I know him.”
I feel dizzy. Sick. “What do you mean, you know him?” Thoughts begin to whirl in my head. How do they know him?
“We need to get to the station, Pam. Wait there and I’ll tell you everything I know.”
The phone goes dead. I stand in the parking lot and try to steady my body against a parked car. My heart thuds, and my thoughts race. I look across the lot and see a woman holding a little boy’s hand. He is the spitting image of Brent, and I feel my legs begin to wobble as she draws closer, my gaze pinned on him, but when he’s next to me, I see he is another child. I don’t remember anything after that.
Chapter Six
Rachel
After another hour with no results and not much more information on Turk Anders, I walk out of the station just to take a minute and breathe. This investigation is by far the most challenging one I’ve ever dealt with. I understand Pamela Sharpe’s frustration; the resources and budget I’ve been given by Colebrook are nothing short of despicable. It astounds me the cops in the station even know how to recite the Miranda rights, let alone track down a cold-blooded child-killer. I’ve been teamed up with Unwin, he’s supposed to be one of the best, we have upstanding reputations, and together we are supposed to be able to crack this case. The problem is I see straight though Unwin. Maybe he was once in it for the passion of the job, good guy catches bad guy, but now I know he has ulterior motives. He’s a celebrity detective now, featuring on those cringe-worthy late-night crime shows with the suspense-building music playing in the background, depicting a crime in progress or dramatic find. He’s also written two best-selling novels, his latest, The Boy Who Cried Wolf, based on the tragic events of Charlie Kempton, a twelve-year-old boy who accused his teacher of molesting him. Charlie later confessed it was all a lie because his teacher had flunked him in math and his parents banned him from his beloved basketball as a punishment. The weight of reality hit him just before he was due to appear in court; he buckled under the pressure and confessed his lie. A few months later, Charlie’s lies still haunted him; sorry wasn’t enough. The bullying started with anonymous taunts on social media. When he told his parents and the police he was being cyber-bullied and his life was being threatened, nobody believed him. His body was found in the school bathroom a few weeks later. He’d been beaten to death.
My cell phone rings, informing me we finally we have a trace on Turk Anders; I’m not at all surprised when I am told he
has no prior record. I have a feeling we aren’t looking for a prolific child-killer. If we are, something would have shown up by now. I am given an address less than ten miles from the station, still within Colebrook limits, but a remote side of town. I scribble the address down on a napkin. I don’t want to call Unwin, but I know this is no time to let my pride get in the way. I need back-up. When you’re searching for a cold-blooded killer, you have to protect yourself.
Steering through the long winding roads, Unwin tries to make conversation. I give him yes and no answers and sometime the occasional um and ah. He talks about himself a lot and, of course, his celebrity status. I don’t want to feed his already swelled ego, but it seems the more I ignore him, the more he talks; I want to reach for a button and turn him off.
We finally reach the address of Turk Anders, but the house looks far from habitable. The grass is overgrown in front of what can only be described as a wood-planked shack. The ghost of white paint has long weathered, and several of the windows are boarded up with plywood. It is an idyllic location for a horror movie. A stereotypical house of horrors, and any minute now I half-expect to hear the hum of a chainsaw and a brute of a man bursting out of the front door like the Incredible Hulk. For the first time in what seems like forever, Unwin is quiet, carefully surveying the area, looking for obvious dangers. The only sounds to be heard are squawking crows flying above the roof of the house in a circular motion, occasionally landing on the gutters filled with dead leaves and muck, keeping their watchful beady eyes on us.