HABIT: a gripping detective thriller full of suspense

by T. J. Brearton

  Bostrom glanced over.

  Brendan continued, “And he was in the kitchen for a little while before going upstairs. I went back to the house to try and figure out why, and I was compelled to look at the collection of photos again. You realize none of this can be discussed with anyone. Not even your wife.”

  “I’m not married.”

  “No? Ever been?”

  “Once. Lasted about six months. I was young.”

  Brendan regarded the deputy. Bostrom had bright blonde hair and a strong jaw and hatchet nose. He was famous for his temper, but Brendan had always thought it a mistake to write off the deputy as a brute, as others in the department seemed to. Brendan sensed intelligence in the man, and the propensity for fierce loyalty. On the other hand, if he didn’t like you, he was a prick.

  “I found writing on the back of each of the photos. A sort of poem. And at first, I thought that this was what the killer was doing while taking time in the kitchen. But it doesn’t make any sense, actually, I was wrong. Forty seconds is not enough time to take the backs off several framed photos and write on each of them. He must’ve written it at an earlier time.”

  Bostrom made a turn into a Rite Aid parking lot. “So he must’ve been in the house before.”

  “That’s what I’m thinking.”

  “Makes sense,” said Bostrom, parking. “Nine times out of ten, the killer is someone the victim knows, or has at least met before.”

  Brendan considered this silently. He got out, gathered his crutches, and went inside for his prescription.

  * * *

  “I got something,” said Colinas. The State detective sounded excited on the other end of the line.

  “Can you meet me at my house?”

  “Sure. Be there in fifteen.”

  Brendan told Bostrom to gun it. The deputy seemed happy to oblige. He lit up the light bar and tramped on the accelerator.

  * * *

  At Brendan’s house, the three men crowded around Colinas’s computer.

  “I took this from the database. It took a couple of days, but this is who we got. Reginald Forrester, the name of the guy who owns the rental house in Boonville.”

  Brendan instantly remembered. This was the house where Rebecca Heilshorn had stayed while she was ostensibly closing on the Bloomingdale farm. Brendan had called the property manager who had seemed more huffy than helpful. But she had provided the owner’s name, in what may have been an ethical breech, but was certainly a stroke of luck.

  They looked at the picture. A man, in his late forties, smiled humorlessly for a headshot. Even just looking at him from the shoulders up, Brendan could tell he was well-built. Athletic. His hair was salt and pepper. He wore a black moustache with dashes of grey in it.

  “Who is he?”

  Brendan’s eyes were scanning the page for information, his heart beating. He couldn’t digest it all quickly enough.

  “Was a professor of English Lit at Cornell. Also, ah, taught Creative Writing. Resigned in 2003.”

  “He could have known the victim,” Bostrom said.

  Brendan almost forgot the deputy was still there. Technically, he shouldn’t be seeing any of this. But Brendan let it slide. Bostrom was in it now.

  “Oh I’m betting he did,” said Brendan.

  “I did a pretty extensive background check on this guy. He’s got quite a history. Nothing overtly illicit, but his past is full of head scratchers. Apparently he was in New York City attending a conference during the 9/11 attacks. Then he comes back to Cornell and he seems to go off the rails a little bit. He takes to writing some twisted shit and publishing it, and then he’s asked to take a leave of absence. A sabbath, or whatever they call it.”

  “Sabbatical.” Brendan was hanging on every word from Colinas.

  “Yeah, sabbatical. Supposedly he starts a blog talking about how Osama Bin Laden wanted to bankrupt America, and he figured provoking a war was the best way to do it. How we’re all oblivious to, in denial of, or reacting the wrong way – stockpiling munitions and whatnot – to the impending economic collapse. He claimed he was working on a way to reboot the American economy. Blog was called ‘Nero Fiddled While Rome Burned.’ Talk about a fruitcake.”

  Brendan’s mouth felt dry. Where had he heard that phrase? He thought to check his notes. But first, he wanted to see more on Forrester.

  “Let’s take a look at the blog,” Brendan said.

  “Can’t.” Colinas raised his dark eyebrows. “It’s gone. I got this info from a newspaper article talking about Forrester resigning from his professorial duties at Cornell. With ‘resigning’ in big old scare quotes. Apparently the administration didn’t like his anti-American, anti-human diatribe.” Colinas looked at Brendan and Bostrom. “Anyway, this is what I got. And you know . . .”

  Brendan waited.

  “This may be a stretch, but he looks to me like the same guy as in the ‘interview’ video. Even though the face is censored out, you still get bits of the hair, the body type. You know which one I mean? The one where she comes in and is on the couch answering questions before she . . .”

  “You watched the videos,” Brendan said.

  “Oh yeah.” Colinas’s voice grew tight. “Never really want to see a porn film again.”

  “I hear you.”

  Deputy Bostrom looked at the two men like he had no idea what they were talking about.

  “This is incredible.” Brendan rubbed a hand over his jaw.

  It was turning into a long day.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN / MONDAY, 3:30PM

  The phone rang. It was Alexander Heilshorn.

  “Okay. I’ll help you.”

  “That’s good. Because I think I found the man who killed your daughter.”

  Brendan waited for the reaction. It was not what he expected. “You’re thinking of Reginald Forrester.”

  “That’s right. Jesus, you knew?”

  “I know who he is, yes. He taught at Cornell for ten years before being persuaded to leave. For his extracurricular activities and for misconduct.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “My P.I. looked into him long ago, the first time Rebecca went missing and I wanted to get her back. Forrester was an alcoholic, and a never-was writer. He published some poetry and prose at various times, with minimal success. After 2001, his writing described a loss of God, and people’s unwillingness to face and consider the real cause of their own destruction. He assembled it all into an ambitious manifesto. A horrible mass of darkness and dread reflecting his changed view of the world. It scared his students, the faculty, and administration. He was even put on a modern-day black list. Read The Professors: The 101 Most Dangerous Academics in America, by David Horowitz.” Heilshorn took a breath. “He performed very well academically, even after he became a drunk. Just like you, Detective Healy, he was high-functioning. Until he wasn’t.”

  “And what happened?”

  “He disappeared. My P.I. lost him completely. But then he resurfaced. He became involved with XList.”

  “The escort service.”

  “In its current incarnation, yes. XList probably doesn’t even exist now, not on paper, not on the web, not anywhere. Not with this very investigation ongoing. Not for the moment, anyway. It is a chimera, Detective – XList, Silk Road, Sheep Marketplace – they can be taken down, but then they spring up somewhere else. My sources have linked Forrester’s name with Titan, which protects the interests of the black markets.”

  Brendan had never heard of Titan. “I sent an email to XList, to see about ordering one of their videos.”

  There was silence on the other end.

  “Hello?”

  Heilshorn’s voice sounded strained. “You wrote to them?”

  “Yes. I was trying to ferret out some more information about the videos your daughter was in; who the producers were, other actors, that sort of thing.”

  “And you got a response?”

  “I did. Why?”

  “Detec
tive . . . I’m sorry.”

  “For what? Mr. Heilshorn?”

  “You’re in a lot of danger.”

  Brendan looked around his house. Colinas and Bostrom had been gone for about an hour. He was going to meet with Colinas later, and Bostrom’s shift was ending at four. The Sheriff was likely to assign another detail to watch his back, Watts or Lawless maybe, but until they showed up, Brendan was on his own.

  “Why? Why am I in danger? Mr. Heilshorn, you said you would help me with this. So, help me. Tell me where I can find Reginald Forrester. Is he Leah’s father?”

  “You can’t find him.”

  “What do you mean I can’t?”

  “He’s not . . . He won’t let you.”

  “What? Mr. Heilshorn, he’s just an English teacher, not a superhero. I can find him.”

  “He’s a . . . different sort of man.”

  “I get that. Has relationships with his students. Writes Marxist manifestos. Runs a branch of an escort service. How have you . . . why have you kept this from me? From the police? Alexander? This is just nuts.”

  “I’ve already told you,” said the older man, sounding weary.

  “To protect the innocent, I understand. The other women who are like your daughter was. And their children. But how does finding Reginald Forrester endanger them? You know, I hear this all the time. The woman too afraid to turn in her abusive husband. The people afraid to blow the whistle on the corrupt company they work for. It’s paranoia, for the most part, let me tell you. If Reginald gets arrested, what – XList, or Titan, or whoever is behind them – they just turn around and behead a couple dozen women and their illegitimate children? No. I’ll tell you what will happen. I’ll get Reginald, I’ll bring him in. He’ll either do life in prison without the possibility of parole, or he’ll cooperate with the prosecutors and deliver names of the people who organize the Company, who coerce these girls out of college, or pluck them off the streets, or wherever, and get them turning tricks for senators, and get them into making these videos. We’ll get the names of the recruiters, the investors, the johns, all of it. And a task force will take it down.”

  Brendan realized he was sweating. The pain pills he had swallowed and hour ago were just starting to kick in, and the shooting pain in his hip was beginning to abate. But he was gritting his teeth, and gripping one of his crutches so hard his knuckles were white. He realized he was slipping into that anger-mode which frequently landed him in trouble, and he thought he even tasted blood again. He was surprised Heilshorn was still on the line when the man spoke.

  “I’m very sorry you see things this way, Detective. But I understand it. It’s what makes you the man you are, this faith in the system.”

  “It’s not just faith in the system.”

  “You’re awfully sure of yourself for a man who just spent nearly a week in his own filth and misery,” said Heilshorn with a flash of his own anger.

  Brendan sighed. He took a breath and rubbed his face. He realized he couldn’t remember the last time he had eaten. When he was hungry he could get rambunctious.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I need your help. Look, tell me how you can help me and be assured that no one will get hurt.”

  “I can’t.”

  “But you said you would help. That’s why you called.”

  There was a long pause. Brendan was opening his mouth to ask if Heilshorn was still there when the man spoke at last.

  “I do want to help. You have to know, despite everything, part of me wants to believe you. That after your critical move, the cavalry will ride in and this will all be over. I want to have faith in you, too, Mr. Healy. And I want justice for my daughter, and for my son. That’s why I’m going to tell you this, and I’m going to hope to God that I’m making the right decision.”

  Brendan waited. He could feel the pulse of the artery in his neck. He saw a flash of Rebecca’s face, her dead eyes staring at him in the mirror.

  Heilshorn sounded weary, “Rebecca was working out a deal with Forrester. She was going to continue . . . working for him. But there was to be an exchange. This is what she told me.”

  Again Heilshorn paused. Brendan fought the urge to implore the man to continue. He tried to remain patient.

  “You’re right; if Reginald goes, it does not necessarily mean a beheading of all the others, as you put it. But, he has a child with him.”

  “Oh Jesus,” Brendan said under his breath.

  He thought of the master bedroom being fixed up in the house. He thought of the question Rebecca had asked Marcus Burnell about hooking up a diaper sprayer. He thought of Rebecca returning to the business, and somehow Eddie Stemp, her ex-husband, finding out, and not knowing the details. So Stemp had tried to get her to quit by offering her that passage in The Screwtape Letters.

  “She’s just a child,” said Heilshorn in a voice so small Brendan could barely hear. “And Forrester is a monster. Make no mistake. If he gets even the slightest hint that the police are narrowing in, if the cavalry does in fact ride up to save the day, he’ll kill that baby, and he’ll run.”

  The silence in the house was like a weight. Brendan had never felt so alone as he sat at his table and looked out into the grey afternoon.

  “The fact that you wrote in to the Company – they’ll know it was you – has likely alerted them. Forrester tried to take care of you already. But you’re still alive. You . . . that must mean something.”

  Brendan tried to breathe, but it felt like his clothes were constricting him. What did it mean, that he was still alive? Did Heilshorn mean in the sense of fate, or the divine? Or did he mean that Forrester had been toying with him, letting him live for some other unknown reason? He loosened his collar, and at last he spoke.

  “I’ll go alone. Tell me where I can find Forrester.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT / MONDAY, 6:06 PM

  Brendan stood in the kitchen of his rented house. The lights were off – he hadn’t bothered to turn anything on as the sun dropped and the dark encroached. He stood next to the front door, where the streetlight filtered in, and checked his weapon. He opened the cylinder, examined the chambers for any debris or obstructions, and then loaded in fresh .38 caliber rounds. He snapped the cylinder home and replaced the firearm in the shoulder holster under his arm.

  He left the house unlocked and stepped outside. The evening was cool but the low clouds kept things humid. Brendan wore a light windbreaker over a sweater and jeans. He zipped up his coat and walked slowly towards the Camry.

  His hip was a dull ache, but he was surefooted on the driveway. He got into the Camry and called Colinas. His eyes flicked to the rear view mirror. He kept expecting a deputy detail to show up, but so far, none had.

  “This is nuts,” he said to himself.

  He realized that his hands were shaking. He took a moment to calm himself, and then he dialed Colinas. As the line rang, he realized that everything he had planned to say had suddenly left his mind. Colinas didn’t answer. Instead, his voicemail picked up.

  Brendan searched for the words. “Colinas. Healy. I . . . I ah, I got a tip on Forrester. I’m proceeding alone. That’s the only way I . . . This is just the way it’s gotta be, I guess. My GPS is on. If you don’t hear from me in two hours . . .”

  He didn’t know. Heilshorn’s words haunted him. The idea, no matter how far-fetched it may sound, that women and children could be harmed if the police got too close, was chilling. If something happened to him and a whole group of cops were dispatched, what then? What would be the point? Going it alone was only going to work if he succeeded. If he failed, and more police responded, it could be catastrophic. There was nothing to tell Colinas.

  This was all based on Heilshorn’s statements, though. Brendan searched his intuition and tried to determine whether or not the man could be trusted. He was obviously emotionally impacted by the loss of his children, and people in such situations often behaved irrationally. On the other hand, he had knowledge of things that supported hi
s claims to have been investigating the situation on his own for a significant period of time. Heilshorn seemed to know his enemy in this case, and Brendan’s gut told him that the old doctor wasn’t trying to be misleading.

  While he sat thinking about this, the voicemail clicked over with an automated voice: “If you’re satisfied with your message, press one. If you’d like to rerecord your message, press two.”

  Albany was a two hour drive. Heilshorn had given Brendan a specific location, and Brendan knew that it was one turn off 90 onto Western Ave. The whole thing would take two hours ten minutes, tops. He could call back when he got to Albany, in which case anyone coming for him would be far enough behind that Forrester might not get wind of anything. At the same time, his gut feeling told him he needed some sort of back-up.

  Brendan pressed two.

  “Colinas. It’s Healy. I got a tip on Forrester. But it’s got to be kept totally off the radar. I’m headed to Albany. Call me back and I can tell you more.”

  He hung up.

  A second later, a peculiar sense filled him like a cold liquid. Maybe calling Colinas had set it off – he didn’t know. But suddenly Brendan saw a complex scenario form in his mind’s eye, connecting it all together, each player bound in an intricate web.

  Rebecca Heilshorn in trouble. Kim “Eddie” Stemp informs on her to her father, Alexander. Mr. Heilshorn then contacts the local Sheriff. He explains the sensitivity of the situation and asks the Sheriff to look into it with the utmost discretion. Was that plausible? Did Taber already know?

  Brendan even imagined Argon being involved. He’d displayed knowledge about XList. So Taber called his old pal Argon for advice. For some reason, the Sheriff felt like the killer was about to strike. Why? How? Some inside information. The P.I. maybe. Or, Brendan suspected, even Delaney. Delaney had been acting, from the beginning, like he had some kind of inside information, behaving in a laissez-faire way unbecoming of a lead investigator. But Taber needed someone with no prior knowledge. A fresh player, untainted. So Argon served up the broken man – Brendan Healy. And then the killer strikes, and Brendan hunts the murderer of Rebecca Heilshorn.