Later that night, I climbed the stairs to my bedroom feeling numb and exhausted. I didn’t know Cassidy Burch, her mom, or her little sister. As far as I knew, I’d never run into any of them in a store or on the street, or anywhere else, for that matter. Unlike Cassidy’s friends on television, I’d never heard the girl sing or paint or laugh. I didn’t even know what her voice sounded like.
So then why was my heart aching so deeply? Why did I feel so angry? Cassidy Burch was the Boogeyman’s fourth victim. Why did it feel so different this time? Was I feeling guilty because I’d seen the man in the mask shortly before the murder and hadn’t said anything? Or, Jesus, after all these years… was I finally turning into my mother?
I crawled into bed and phoned Kara for what had to be the fifth time that evening. Despite having an exam the next morning and a pile of homework, she did her best to cheer me up before saying goodnight. Carly Albright called a short time later, just as she’d promised, but I’d already turned off my bedside light and the ringer, and gone to sleep.
2
When I caught up with Carly early the next morning, she was in a lousy, sleep-deprived mood. None of her usual sources had been able to find out what the killer had left behind this time at the Cassidy Burch crime scene. Obviously Detective Harper had given his men hell about leaking any information to the media, and now no one was talking.
Carly believed that the Boogeyman had stuck to his routine and left behind something pertaining to the number six, and I agreed. After a short discussion, we decided the most likely conclusion was the pumpkins. The police had been very open with their description of the jack-o’-lanterns that’d been found surrounding the body, but had never once mentioned how many there were. It only made sense, but it felt infuriating and somehow wrong not knowing for certain.
With news of the Boogeyman’s return, scores of national media swarmed their way back into town to cover what they were now calling “The Halloween Horror.” There was even a rumor that America’s Most Wanted was headed to Edgewood to stage a re-creation of the latest murder. While most local business owners kept their enthusiasm under wraps, a handful—including that jackass Mel Fullerton at the diner—were openly giddy at the prospect of once again bearing the fruit of all those media expense accounts. I recognized many of the news personalities from seeing their faces on television, and although I wasn’t overly impressed with any of them, I almost managed to become a local legend by coming within an inch of backing into A Current Affair’s own Maury Povich’s rental car in the shopping center parking lot. With the dark mood I’d been mired in as of late, I probably would’ve gotten out of my car and punched him in his smug little face. And if I happened to run into Geraldo Rivera anywhere in town, it was going down.
There was also a story circulating that the FBI was planning to conduct a house-to-house search of the entire town. Civil rights activists had already gathered, picketing the sheriff’s station and courthouse. Many homeowners interviewed on the news claimed they planned to defend their personal property by any means possible, including arming themselves.
Edgewood was turning into a powder keg, ready to blow at any moment.
3
When Edgewood High School reopened the following Wednesday—with George H. W. Bush as president-elect of the United States of America—the guidance counselor’s office had been taken over by a pair of grief counselors brought in from Baltimore City. By the end of that first week, a third counselor was added to the staff to help deal with the throng of upset teenagers that continued to stream into the office each day.
Returning high school students were also greeted by the sight of three detectives sitting behind folding tables in the lobby of the old gym. Going grade by grade and class by class, the detectives managed to interview each and every registered student—all 857 of them. It took them almost two weeks.
Afterward, I spoke with a handful of students myself, curious as to what kind of questions they’d been asked. Their responses were unsurprising: How well did you know the girls who were murdered? Do you know of any problems involving the girls—grudges, rumors, bad breakups, anything? Were the girls especially close to any specific faculty members or other school employees? Have you seen anything strange or unusual around town these past few months?
Soon after, an interesting story began making its way around town. Supposedly, the police were now focused on a thirty-one-year-old man named Aaron Unger. A well-liked English teacher and assistant soccer coach at Edgewood High School, he’d only moved to the area two years earlier from his hometown in Flint, Michigan. According to several people, including Bernie Gentile, Unger had already been questioned by detectives four times and had yet to provide a legitimate alibi.
Carly Albright chased the story for days and was able to confirm that many of the reported details were, in fact, accurate. But it all fell apart a short time later when she received news that Unger had finally revealed the reason for his initial reluctance in providing police with an alibi. Evidently, he’d spent Halloween night in the company of two paid escorts, and he’d been afraid that if the news became public, he’d (a) lose his teaching job; and (b) be charged with solicitation.
As it turned out, the police decided not to press charges and remained quiet about the whole situation. But in the end it didn’t matter. Aaron Unger quit at the conclusion of the school year and moved back home to Michigan.
4
On Friday, November 18, Carly met with acclaimed FBI profiler Robert Neville, and interviewed him for a feature article in the Aegis.
The practice of profiling—analyzing criminal cases in order to build psychological and behavioral profiles of potential suspects—had only become prevalent in the law enforcement community a decade earlier, when FBI agent John E. Douglas’s work on the Atlanta child murders of 1979–1981 thrust him into the public spotlight.
If John Douglas was widely considered the godfather of criminal profiling—and, indeed, he was—then Robert Neville was quickly earning the title of favorite son.
Young, handsome, and brilliant, Neville wrote an in-depth and controversial profile of the man known as “The Boston Butcher” that led to the 1985 arrest and conviction of a well-loved Massachusetts priest for the murder and rape of seven local prostitutes. A year later, his analysis work on the infamous Chicago suburb “Brady Bunch Murders” earned him his second promotion in as many years and landed him on the cover of People magazine.
Despite all the accolades, Carly wasn’t a fan. She claimed Neville was sexist and arrogant and had terrible breath. The interview only lasted thirty minutes, but she couldn’t wait until it was over. When I asked if she’d shared any of those observations with either Neville or her boss, she failed to recognize the sarcasm and instead gave me a snotty look and snapped, “What do you think?” I knew better than to say anything else after that.
The following excerpt from Carly Albright’s Q&A with FBI profiler Robert Neville is reprinted here with permission from both the author and the Aegis:
CARLY ALBRIGHT: What makes a good criminal profiler?
ROBERT NEVILLE: The ability to step into a criminal’s shoes and mind—to see the world with different eyes. Critical thinking, logic, reason, and such. Strong intuition and analytical skills. Emotional detachment. A strong stomach.
CARLY ALBRIGHT: Are you ever haunted by the work you do? Bad dreams? Depression?
ROBERT NEVILLE: No. Some things linger, certainly. But I tend to just reset and move on. I have to.
CARLY ALBRIGHT: Why was it important for you to come to Edgewood in person? Couldn’t you have developed a profile of the killer by looking over reports and talking with task force members on the telephone?
ROBERT NEVILLE: I could’ve done that, yes, but because of the nature of these crimes, it was clear to me that I should be here.
CARLY ALBRIGHT: What do you mean by “the nature of these crimes”?
ROBERT NEVILLE: Make no mistake—the attacks in Edgewood are escalating
in violence and depravity. Four murders in 151 days. He likes how it feels to kill, and he’ll do it again if we don’t stop him.
CARLY ALBRIGHT: And you’re certain it’s a “him”?
ROBERT NEVILLE: Of course. Even without an eyewitness, I was quite positive it was a man.
CARLY ALBRIGHT: What else can you tell us about the Boogeyman’s profile?
ROBERT NEVILLE: Well, he likes being called that. He likes the attention and the notoriety. He knows about those who have come before him. Son of Sam. BTK. The Night Stalker. We’ve allowed him to feel part of something now.
CARLY ALBRIGHT: What else?
ROBERT NEVILLE: White male. Mid-to-late twenties or thirties. Likely single or divorced. Average or slightly higher than average intelligence. Good physical condition. He’s either unemployed or has a job that allows him to move around freely late at night. He either lives nearby in a private setting or he drives a truck or van. He rapes and kills his victims somewhere private and then he dumps them elsewhere.
CARLY ALBRIGHT: So you believe he lives here in Edgewood?
ROBERT NEVILLE: The killer’s a local, definitely. He’s familiar with these streets and the dumping sites.
CARLY ALBRIGHT: Does he know his victims personally?
ROBERT NEVILLE: Not necessarily. In fact, most likely, no. But once they’ve caught his eye, once he makes up his mind, he watches them for some time before making his move.
CARLY ALBRIGHT: So you’re saying he’s driving around town picking random girls?
ROBERT NEVILLE: No. Not at all. He clearly has a type. Young, attractive, popular, long hair. He’s angry with these girls. He wants to dominate and destroy them. Why? Occam’s razor: the most likely answer is the simplest one. Someone that fits that physical description hurt him in the past. He feels burned or abused or cheated. Perhaps he feels lied to and that he was made to look foolish and weak.
CARLY ALBRIGHT: Why does he bite his victims?
ROBERT NEVILLE: Biting—that’s personal, intimate, and demonstrates his power over his victims. The same reason I believe he strangles them instead of using a weapon. He wants these girls—and the public—to know that they’re powerless to stop him from doing whatever he wants.
CARLY ALBRIGHT: And the severed ears?
ROBERT NEVILLE: Much of the same. He takes them as souvenirs, mementos. He controls everything. Most likely, over time, he pulls these souvenirs out of their hiding place and relives the experience.
CARLY ALBRIGHT: Why does he pose the bodies?
ROBERT NEVILLE: There could be a number of reasons. It’s part of what we call his “signature.” Once again, he may be exhibiting his power over his victims. “I not only controlled you in life, but also in death.” Or, when the act is completed, he may feel a sense of remorse, however fleeting.
CARLY ALBRIGHT: Several police officers I’ve spoken with have referred to the killer as “The Ghost.” So how do you capture a ghost, Mr. Neville?
ROBERT NEVILLE: Amusing but inaccurate. The man we’re looking for has proven elusive, but I assure you he is 100 percent flesh and blood. And he will eventually make a mistake, and we will catch him.
CARLY ALBRIGHT: Do you think he’s taunting the police?
ROBERT NEVILLE: I think he’s playing a game and he’s enjoying it. He likes killing, and he’s getting better at it.
5
And there it was in stark black-and-white: The killer’s a local, definitely. He’s familiar with these streets and the dumping sites.
I tossed the newspaper into the trash can and pushed my chair away from the desk. Who was I to argue with the great Robert Neville?
As I walked out of the bedroom and headed downstairs to drive to the post office to check my PO box, it dawned on me why I’d been feeling so unsettled and angry the past couple of weeks. No matter how much I’d wanted it not to be true, deep in my heart, I’d known all along that Detective Harper and Robert Neville were right: The killer was one of us.
6
That Sunday morning, while my parents were down the street at Prince of Peace Church, I met some friends behind the high school to play basketball. My former roommate Bill Caughron was there with his older brother, Lee, along with Jeff Pruitt, John Schaech, the Crawford brothers, and a couple of younger guys I didn’t know that well who were home from college on Thanksgiving break. We played a quick game of twenty-one to get warmed up, and then ran full-court for the next hour and a half.
It felt good to be outside, sweating my ass off, and catching up with old friends. Just what I needed to get out of the funk I’d been in. Of course, Cassidy Burch’s murder was the main topic of conversation. Jeff Pruitt and Kenny and Bobby Crawford had grown up on Boxelder Drive, a two-minute walk from Jessica Lepp’s house, where Cassidy and her girlfriends had partied the night she was killed. Bobby knew both Jessica and Cassidy and was still pissed off that Cindy Gibbons hadn’t made sure that Cassidy got safely into her house on Halloween night. “I’m not the only one who thinks it’s her fault, either. I heard she’s even getting death threats.”
One of the younger guys said his mom worked with Mrs. Burch, and that she was hanging in there, trying to be strong for Cassidy’s little sister. A bunch of the mothers had gotten together and arranged a meal drop-off schedule for the Burches so they wouldn’t have to worry about cooking. They were also taking turns running errands for the family.
Thirsty and sore afterward, I stopped at the 7-Eleven on my way home. As usual, it was a packed house in the rear aisle next to the coffee machines. I nodded hello to Mr. Anderson and Larry Noel, said excuse me to the others so I could squeeze by, and made my way to the Slurpee machine at the end of the counter. A little kid with red hair and freckles and a large booger hanging out of his left nostril had beaten me to it and was pouring himself a jumbo Blueberry Smash.
While I waited my turn—trying my damnedest not to stare at the crusty green nose goblin dangling perilously close to the boy’s upper lip; every time he breathed in, it disappeared back into his nostril and every time he breathed out, it reappeared—I couldn’t help but overhear snippets of nearby conversation.
“Wearing that ugly-ass hat of his…”
“… and he was there again last night. I saw ’em…”
“That son of a bitch’s too lazy to kill someone.”
“… over by the firehouse…”
“My money’s still on Stan. He’s got a…”
“… ain’t that difficult to find out he’s got a record longer than my arm.”
“… and if the cops won’t do it, we should.”
“Four dead White girls and a Black cop… what’s wrong with that picture?”
One of the men suddenly cleared his throat. Loudly. “You gonna pour yourself a drink or just stand there eavesdropping all morning?”
I blinked and realized the man was talking to me. The redhead with the booger in his nose was nowhere in sight. I looked over and tried to force a smile on my face. All of the men were staring at me. “I wasn’t listening. Just daydreaming. Sorry about that.”
Ignoring their grumbling, I grabbed a cup and started filling it. When I was finished, I slid a straw out of the box on the counter and took a deep breath. There was only one way to the cash register. Turning sideways to make myself as small as possible, I excused myself again and again and started working my way down the aisle. Until a hard shoulder slammed into my arm, halting my progress.
“You oughta watch where you’re going,” said a stocky bald man I didn’t recognize.
“Leave him alone,” someone said from behind me. I turned around and Mr. Anderson was standing there. He smelled like cigarettes and coffee. “How you doing, Rich?”
I swallowed with relief. “I’m okay. How are you?”
“Doing fine,” he said. “Wish your parents a happy Thanksgiving for me.”
“I will. Please tell Mrs. Joyce I said happy Thanksgiving, too.”
He nodded his head, and I started walking again
, anxious to get out of there. Just before I cleared the aisle, I heard a quiet voice behind me say, “That’s how you get yourself in trouble, boy.”
I kept walking and didn’t look back.
7
The second half of November was a particularly hectic time for the Boogeyman task force. With the holidays waiting just around the corner, people were excited to begin their preparations—grocery shopping for the long Thanksgiving weekend, as well as early gift buying and decorating for Christmas—but they were also nervous wrecks. Calls to both 911 and the tip-line continued to pour in at a record pace.
A man who lived across the street from the elementary school reported hearing footsteps on the roof of his house in the middle of the night.
A resident of Sequoia Drive heard a thump outside while doing the dinner dishes. She looked out the kitchen window and saw a dark figure leaping over her backyard fence.
One of the women who worked the counter at the post office left a message on the tip-line describing a mysterious pile of cigarette butts she’d discovered behind her shed. Her embarrassed husband called back an hour later to apologize. The cigarettes were his. For the past month he’d been slipping out of the house several times a day to sneak a smoke, even though he’d sworn to his wife he was quitting.
Chasing the Boogeyman Page 20