The long days were filled with quiet solitude, giving my mind plenty of time to wander. So, it was only natural that, after all that’d happened, some of those thoughts would take me back to Edgewood.
It had been ten weeks now since the Halloween night murder of Cassidy Burch, and, with the exception of the Mel Fullerton shooting, the town had remained peaceful. Mel was currently free on bail and staying out of the public eye, according to Carly, but the whole thing was a breathtaking mess, complicated by the surprise revelation that Ronnie Finley had been having an affair with Mel’s wife. As a result, many folks around town did not believe the shooting was accidental.
I found myself bundling up against the cold and taking long walks after lunch to break up my day and help clear my head. During those walks, I often chewed over the current situation with the Boogeyman. Based on Carly’s regular updates, nothing much was happening with the investigation. There was still the occasional report of a night prowler or Peeping Tom, and her next-door neighbor had called the cops just a week earlier to complain about a suspicious BGE meter reader wandering the neighborhood, but that was about it. On a whim, I’d visited the Enoch Pratt Free Library in downtown Baltimore one afternoon and ended up going down a rabbit hole, spending five hours searching their microfiche files for newspaper articles about recent murders in Pennsylvania, Delaware, and Virginia. Just because the killings had stopped in Edgewood didn’t mean the Boogeyman hadn’t moved on and started again elsewhere. Eyes blurry, I headed back to Roland Park later that afternoon empty-handed.
And still the questions remained: Why had the killings suddenly stopped? Was the Boogeyman waiting, biding his time before striking again? Or had he finally given up and left town, or maybe even gotten locked up for some unrelated offense?
I knew Detective Harper was asking himself the same questions day and night, and was in a much better position to formulate answers, but that didn’t stop me from wondering. The Boogeyman was a part of my life now—a part of all our lives. It was during those long, midday walks—Bruce Springsteen and the Rolling Stones blaring on my headphones—that I first began contemplating writing a book about the murders. If my former next-door neighbor Bernie Gentile was right, time would continue to march forward, the residents of Edgewood would eventually move on with their lives, and memories of the four dead girls would fade away until they were nothing more than a footnote in the town’s history. That didn’t feel right to me.
Toward the end of the month, my parents came by for a visit. My father strolled into the apartment cradling two paper bags overflowing with groceries—“Picked up a few extra items at the commissary”—and my mom came in with a month’s worth of Aegis back issues, as well as a recent copy of Reader’s Digest with “all the interesting articles marked” for me to read. The four of us shared a late lunch of soup and sandwiches in the cramped kitchenette and caught up on all the latest news. David Goode, who grew up across the street in Tupelo Court, was now engaged to a girl he’d met at college. Tal Taylor, an old high school friend, had recently started a new job with UPS. Norma Gentile was back in the hospital with more hernia trouble, but was expected to fully recover. There’d been no more prank phone calls, my mother was happy to report, and she immediately made the sign of the cross to make sure it stayed that way. Neither of them brought up the Boogeyman—whether by design or accident, I wasn’t sure. I almost mentioned that I was thinking of writing about the murders, but in the end I kept my mouth shut. I didn’t want to ruin the mood.
Before they left that evening, my mother kissed me on the cheek and slipped an envelope with fifty dollars inside my shirt pocket, so “you and Kara can go out to dinner one night.” I tried to give it back, but she wouldn’t hear of it. My father gave me an awkward half hug at the curb before climbing into the driver’s seat. Five minutes after they drove away, I could still smell his aftershave on my shirt. I already missed them like crazy.
5
Later that same afternoon, Carly called to tell me that the Edgewood High School bus driver was back on the hot seat. His name was Lloyd Bennett, and evidently, his alibis for the nights of the Boogeyman murders weren’t quite so ironclad after all. The woman he’d claimed to have been with on all four occasions had lost her nerve and admitted to the police that he was lying. She didn’t know where he’d been, but it certainly wasn’t with her.
Last Carly had heard, Bennett and his attorney were at the station house being interrogated, and detectives were filing paperwork to get a search warrant for his car and residence.
6
Carly phoned again a few days later to tell me she’d just been assigned a front-page gig focusing on the families of the Boogeyman’s victims. She knew that from day one I’d been clipping articles and making notes of my own about the murders—a kind of loosely organized scrapbook or journal—and wanted to know if I’d be interested in co-writing the article with her. She’d already gotten permission from her editor.
I told her I’d sleep on it and let her know. That night, I discussed the idea with Kara, and then I went for a run by myself and thought about it some more. On the one hand, it would make for an interesting challenge and be good experience. On the other hand, book or no book, I had little desire to speak with still-grieving family members and friends, and risk tearing open fresh wounds. I went to bed that night decidedly undecided, but when I woke the next morning, all my indecision had vanished. I suddenly knew: telling the survivors’ stories was the right thing to do, and I wanted to be a part of it. I phoned Carly shortly after breakfast and agreed.
We spent much of the next week sitting in hushed living rooms and dens, interviewing family members of the slain girls—with the exception of Mr. and Mrs. Wilcox, who’d sold their home in early January and moved to the Eastern Shore, and Mr. Gallagher, who’d politely declined our invitation. It was a somber, oftentimes tearful experience, but also surprisingly uplifting. Inspired by the overwhelming love and courage I felt in those rooms—within those special people—I found myself looking at the world through a different lens than I had before. It was hard to explain any better than that or even fully understand, but I couldn’t wait to see how this experience affected my writing. Talking to Carly, I discovered that she felt very much the same way. “This whole thing has changed me,” she told me one evening on our way back to the newspaper office. “I’ll never be the same after this.”
Once we got started, it only took us three days to write the article. I’d never collaborated before and expected countless headaches and arguments, neither of which ever materialized. On Friday, February 17, two days early, we turned in five thousand words, our maximum word limit.
On February 22, the article was published in the Aegis under a banner headline: THE FAMILIES MOURN AND REMEMBER. My mother called in tears to tell me how great of a job we’d done, and all three of the families we’d interviewed sent personal notes thanking us for writing such a humane and thoughtful tribute. My father had the first page of the article framed for both Carly and me. Mine still hangs above my desk as a daily reminder of the surviving family members’ bravery.
The Aegis maintained all publication rights to the article, so I was unable to reprint it here, but our editor, Karen Lockwood, graciously granted permission to reprint selected excerpts from our interview notes.
MRS. CATHERINE GALLAGHER
Albright: How are you and your family coping?
Mrs. Gallagher: The only way we know how: minute by minute, hour by hour, day by day. It’s been eight months, and it still feels like every day brings a brand-new challenge.
Chizmar: Has it gotten any easier at all?
Mrs. Gallagher: Yes and no. My husband and I have been going to therapy for almost six months. Grief counseling. It helps. We now have more of the necessary tools to cope with what happened to Natasha. And we’ve learned how to lean on each other in healthy ways. That’s important. God, it was so hard in the beginning. We were both so lost and angry.
Chizmar:
Is the anger still there?
Mrs. Gallagher: Oh yes, some days. I’ll go four or five days in a row feeling pretty strong, holding on tight to happy memories, and then bam, out of the blue, I explode. Just a couple weeks ago, I was loading the dinner dishes into the washer, and I started thinking about the time Nat put in too much detergent and flooded the kitchen with suds. I started laughing at first, and then I was crying. And before I knew what I was doing, I’d thrown a couple of plates against the wall. My husband came running in, scared out of his wits, which I felt horrible about.
Albright: How has your son handled the loss of his sister?
Mrs. Gallagher: Josh doesn’t talk about it much. He refused to go to counseling with us, but I know he’s hurting just like we are. He gave us the most beautiful Christmas gift—a photo album filled with pictures of Natasha from the time she was a baby up until when she died… when she was killed.
MR. ROBERT AND MRS. EVELYN ROBINSON
Albright: What’s been the most difficult part of losing your daughter?
Mr. Robinson: All of it. Not hearing her voice. Her laugh. Knowing she was taken a couple hundred yards from our front door and not being able to do anything to stop it.
Mrs. Robinson: For me, the hardest part has been helping Kacey’s younger sisters understand what happened. Even now, they have real trouble grasping how and why something like this could happen. To anyone. Bedtime is especially difficult.
Chizmar: How have family and friends helped you cope?
Mrs. Robinson: Everyone’s been amazing. I don’t know how we would’ve gotten through the funeral and that first month without everyone holding us up. I don’t even remember most of it. The girls’ and David’s friends have been wonderful.
Albright: Do you think the police will ever catch the man who did this?
Mr. Robinson: I sure as hell hope so, but I’m not holding my breath. Not anymore. When it comes to Kacey’s murder, I believe the police are no further along now than they were on the night she was killed.
MRS. CANDICE BURCH
Chizmar: By all accounts—based on the words of everyone I’ve spoken with and judging from my own time with you—you’re an extraordinary woman. You lost your husband several years ago, and now your daughter, yet you remain one of the strongest, most positive women I’ve ever met.
Mrs. Burch: Well, I thank you for saying that. I have my good days and I have my bad days. Most of those bad days, I keep to myself so nobody has to put up with me. But I also have another daughter, a beautiful little girl with a whole life ahead of her, and I don’t plan on letting her suffer any more than she’s already had to. We’re a team, me and Maggie, and we’re going to honor Cassidy’s memory every single day by sticking together and trying to make this world a better place.
Albright: Have you been in touch with the police lately? Any recent news at all?
Mrs. Burch: One of the detectives calls me from time to time, usually to ask if Cassidy knew this person or that person. Or if she’d ever been to this place or that place. I ask them every time if they’re making any progress, and every time it’s the same answer: they’re pursuing leads and tracking down people to talk to.
Chizmar: The Wilcox family recently moved away from Edgewood. There’s a FOR SALE sign in your front yard. Where are you headed?
Mrs. Burch: Not far at all. Just down [Route] 40 to Havre de Grace. I want us to wake up every day with a fresh view, a fresh start, but Maggie will still be attending Edgewood Middle School in the fall. We were able to work it out with the education board, which is a true blessing.
MISS VALERIE WATSON, English teacher, Edgewood High School
Albright: You taught both Natasha Gallagher and Kacey Robinson, is that right?
Miss Watson: I did. I had Natasha freshman year and Kacey sophomore year.
Albright: What kind of students were they?
Miss Watson: Oh, they were both such special girls, but in different ways. Natasha had so much energy she could barely sit still some days. I used to tease her about it, but she just laughed and said I sounded like her mother. She was a very good student and always looking out for her classmates, just making sure everyone around her was happy is the only way I can describe it. Kacey was the top student in my English class. Whatever the subject was, no matter how difficult, she just got it, and boy could she write. Her papers were college level As. I know she had her heart set on becoming a veterinarian, but she would’ve made a really great teacher or even a full-time writer. She was brilliant, but she never acted like she was, which is why the other kids adored her so much.
MR. CARL RATCLIFFE, Gallaghers’ neighbor
Chizmar: What do you remember most clearly about Natasha?
Mr. Ratcliffe: Her and her friends were always out in the yard doing cartwheels and flips and crazy stuff like that. Always laughing and carrying on and being loud and silly, but never in a disrespectful or annoying way, like so many kids today. She always said hello and goodbye, always asked if we needed help carrying in the groceries. Her parents did a fine job with that young lady. It’s such a crying shame what happened.
MRS. JENNIFER STARSIA, Robinsons’ neighbor
Albright: What do you remember most clearly about Kacey?
Mrs. Starsia: We have two greyhounds that we rescued from a track down in Florida. She loved those dogs so much and would come over all the time and visit with them. She’d talk to them too, just go on and on, having an actual conversation as if they could understand what she was saying. She was always such a happy girl.
Chizmar: How do you feel about venturing outside after dark these days in your own neighborhood?
Mrs. Starsia: For the longest time after what happened, I just wouldn’t go outside by myself at all—day or night. I’m a little better now. Daytime hours are fine, but I usually wait for my husband if I need to go somewhere after dark. We put up a fence in the backyard so we don’t really have to walk the dogs anymore. They can run around all they want. And my husband’s in charge of taking out the trash now.
MISS ANNIE RIGGS
Albright: This is the first time you’ve spoken with the media about what happened on the night of September 9. Why did you change your mind and decide to talk?
Miss Riggs: It was always my parents’ decision. Right after it happened, we were being bombarded with interview requests, and they were afraid I’d be overwhelmed. They also didn’t want me to say anything that might antagonize the person who attacked me. They’re still worried about that.
Albright: Do you ever worry that he might come after you again?
Miss Riggs: Sometimes, but I have faith in the police. They’ve been great. I know they’re watching out for me and my family.
Albright: What sticks out in your mind the most about the man who attacked you that night?
Miss Riggs: He just felt… wrong. Except for his breathing, he never made a sound the entire time, and when I saw his eyes through the holes in his mask, they were dead, emotionless. I still see them in my dreams sometimes.
MISS RILEY HOLT, Kacey Robinson’s best friend
Chizmar: If you had to name one thing you miss most about Kacey, what would it be?
Miss Holt: One thing is too hard, so I’ll name two. The first is her smile. It was never fake or phony. You knew she meant it. That was always something I could count on. The second is how generous she was. She would always give you the last piece of gum in the pack, every time.
7
It was my father who called me with the news two days later. I spoke with Carly that same afternoon—after going for a walk to try to make sense of what I’d just heard—and she filled me in on the details.
Late the night before, Natasha Gallagher’s father slipped out of bed, careful not to disturb his sleeping wife, and put on his boots and winter jacket. He left the house by a sliding glass door and walked into the woods using a flashlight. Once he reached the spot where his daughter’s body had been found, he dropped the flashlight and pulled a .
38 revolver from his jacket pocket. He slid the barrel into his mouth and pulled the trigger.
8
On the first Friday of March, I made the drive to Edgewood and spent the afternoon at my parents’ house. They had a stack of mail for me that for some reason the post office had failed to forward, and my father needed help repairing a long section of gutter that’d blown free of the roof during a recent storm. When we came back inside from finishing the job, my mom had mugs of hot chocolate waiting for us on the dining room table. It had been more than a month since we’d last seen each other, and it was nice to just sit and talk for a while; I’d missed that. And I’d missed their faces, too. We spoke on the phone several times a week—usually after dinner when I knew they would be sitting together watching television in the basement—but it wasn’t the same. I could tell they had similar feelings. The house seemed quieter than usual—the whole neighborhood did, for that matter—and before I left, I snuck upstairs and peeked into my old bedroom. Even though I hadn’t been gone that long, my folks had already converted it into a second guest room, but without my desk and bookshelves and posters on the wall, it looked kind of empty and sad.
Shortly after 5:00 p.m., my mom announced that it was time for her to start making dinner, and after assuring her for the third time that no I really couldn’t stay, I gave both her and my father hugs goodbye and went on my way.
After all, there was a third reason I’d chosen to visit Edgewood that day, and it was waiting for me just down the road on Route 40.
When I pulled into the Giovanni’s parking lot a few minutes before five thirty, snow flurries were dancing in the beams of my headlights. I hurried inside, hoping I was the first to arrive, but guessing I wasn’t.
Chasing the Boogeyman Page 23