Chasing the Boogeyman

by Richard Chizmar

  I was right.

  Detective Lyle Harper had already been seated. Dressed in a brown suit, he looked an awful lot like the first time I’d seen him on television—maybe a smidge heavier back then, and he’d also been wearing a tie the night of his press conference. He was talking with a waitress when I got to the table. She took my drink order and disappeared into the back.

  I’d been pleasantly surprised a few days earlier when Harper accepted my dinner invitation. I wasn’t at all sure he would, and wasn’t even exactly certain why I’d asked him in the first place. It was just an idea that was floating around inside my head as of late and I decided to finally act on it.

  We spent the first thirty minutes or so munching on bruschetta and clams casino, and catching up on our families, newlywed life, and the article that had been published in the Aegis a week earlier. The detective was the most relaxed I’d ever seen him. Right before our entrées arrived, he even managed to crack a joke about my frequent drive-bys of the dead girls’ houses. Before I could respond, he gave me a wink like that day in the car and burst out laughing.

  It was during the main course that we finally got down to business and began talking about the Boogeyman. We kept our voices low for obvious reasons.

  “So, Carly told me there’s nothing solid on Lloyd Bennett,” I said.

  “Not yet, but we’re working on it.”

  “He still doesn’t have an alibi?”

  Harper shoveled in another bite of lasagna. “We’re checking out a few things he told us. Interesting guy. We definitely have our eye on him.”

  “I saw a picture of him on the news. Not a bad match for the police sketch.”

  “Ehh, not a good one, either.”

  I couldn’t argue with that. “I’m sorry about that nasty editorial in the Sun,” I told him. “Talk about a hatchet job.”

  He shrugged. “Comes with the territory. I’m used to it.”

  “The guy who wrote it wouldn’t know a crime scene from his asshole. It was pretty obvious he was just fishing for votes.”

  “That’s okay. You can demand a retraction after we catch the guy.”

  I looked at him closely. Was there something he wasn’t telling me? “You still think you’ll catch him?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “Even if he doesn’t… do it again?”

  “Yes.”

  I wasn’t sure what to say, so I said nothing at all. Even with this Bennett guy back in the picture, I had my doubts, serious doubts, that the Boogeyman would ever be captured. In fact, if I were forced to place a bet on the final outcome, I’d put my money squarely on the killer’s identity forever remaining a secret—just like Jack the Ripper, Zodiac, and the Green River Killer, and any number of other infamous cases.

  So then why did he seem so confident?

  “Okay, spill. What aren’t you telling me?” I finally asked.

  He bit off a huge chunk of Italian bread and pointed at his mouth, pretending he couldn’t talk. I laughed and tried again. “I’ll wait right here until you finish chewing.”

  “We’ve almost had him twice now,” he said, leaning in closer after draining what was left of his beer. “If there’s a next time, we’ll get him.”

  “Twice?” I asked, confused. “The night the officer got bitten by the dog—”

  “That was the first time.”

  “What was the second?”

  “Early December. Two of my men had him cornered in a backyard, but he managed to get away. Again. He’s like fucking Houdini.”

  “And you’re sure it was him?”

  “Yes.”

  “How can you be so sure?”

  He motioned to the waitress for another beer, then said: “Cards on the table. This is all off the record, correct?”

  “Of course.”

  “And you won’t share this information with your reporter friend?”

  After a slight hesitation, I answered. “You have my word.”

  “The fucker was wearing a mask. I swear on my badge, it was him.”

  9

  The restaurant parking lot was dusted with snow, and a quick glance at the streetlights confirmed what the hostess had warned us about just minutes earlier: it was coming down harder now. The wind had also picked up, and it tugged at the collar of my lightweight jacket, sending icy fingers down the length of my spine. As we reached Detective Harper’s unmarked sedan, I glanced behind us, noticing the twin paths our footsteps had left in the snow. For whatever reason, seeing that gave me the surge of courage I was searching for.

  “I enjoyed that, Rich,” Harper said, fishing his keys out of his pocket. “Great meal. We’ll have to do it again some—”

  “What else aren’t you telling me?” I asked, cutting him off.

  He looked at me in surprise.

  “I’m sorry, Detective—but there is something else, isn’t there?”

  He stared at me for a long time, his close-cut hair turning white with flakes of melting snow. Then: “We off the record?”

  “Yes, absolutely.”

  He sighed. “Fine, fuck it. It’ll be all over the Baltimore Sun soon enough anyway. Someone leaked it to one of their reporters, but we convinced the powers that be to sit on it until April.”

  “I won’t say a word to anyone, I promise.”

  “We have his DNA.”

  I gaped at him. “What? How did that happen?”

  “We found a blood trace on a headstone at the cemetery, and another one on Cassidy Burch’s Halloween costume. They both came from the same person, and it wasn’t Cassidy.”

  “That’s… great news!” I said, barely able to contain my excitement.

  He nodded, his eyes dark slits. “The son of a bitch finally made a mistake.”

  10

  By the time I pulled out of the Giovanni’s parking lot, it was 9:20 p.m. and the snow was coming down sideways. According to the weather lady on 98 Rock, the roads were getting worse by the minute—I’d already seen several plows go by—which made my next decision all the more questionable.

  Instead of turning left and heading west on Route 40 toward Kara and the apartment, I found myself making a pair of quick rights and navigating the slippery hill up Edgewood Road. Five minutes later, I stopped at the mouth of Tupelo Court, directly across the street from my parents’ house, and turned off my headlights.

  Staring at the rectangles of golden light spilling from the basement windows, I pictured them inside, cozy and warm, dressed in pajamas and robes: my father kicked back in his easy chair, a paperback spy novel open on his lap, a crime show playing in the background; my mother nestled under a blanket in her own chair, eyes scanning the latest issue of Reader’s Digest or sewing a hole in one of my father’s work shirts. Perhaps there was a plate of crackers and cheese or sliced apples resting on a TV table between them. Or a pair of empty ice cream bowls—they both had quite a sweet tooth. At 10:00 p.m., when the show was finished, they’d turn off the television, check the doors, and head upstairs to get ready for bed. The door to my old bedroom would be open. The room dark and silent.

  A snowplow rumbled past me, its headlights glowering in the swirling darkness like some kind of prehistoric monster. I watched its taillights disappear around the bend in a spray of snow as it headed north toward Cedar Drive—and my thoughts returned to that long-ago winter evening when I was fifteen and stayed out late to catch one more run down the hill on my brand-new sled. I hadn’t thought about that night in forever, which was rather strange, considering the crest of the hill I’d stopped on as soon as I caught sight of my house in the distance wasn’t very far from the piece of ground upon which Kacey Robinson’s body had been discovered at the base of the sliding board.

  I was right, you know, I thought, my gaze returning to 920 Hanson Road. Nothing was ever the same again after that night. The world had changed—had grown—and there was nothing I could do to stop it. We all grew up. Moved away. Lost touch. Even me.

  Right then, sitting alon
e in my car, heart aching, sudden tears stinging the corners of my eyes, I would’ve given anything in the world to go back in time and be that crazy teenager again. Walking up Hanson Road with my plastic sled tucked underneath my arm; clothes soaked; heart full; head spinning; a mug of hot chocolate waiting for me on the kitchen table, along with dry clothes and a hug from my smiling mother; the smell of my father’s aftershave and the sandpapery feel of the callouses on his hands as he walked by and gave my neck a squeeze, the gentle wisdom of his voice.

  For a brief moment, I considered driving across the street, pulling into the driveway, and banging on the front door.

  But then a gust of wind buffeted the car, shaking me from my reverie, and a squall of snow corkscrewed across the windshield, obscuring my view—and I knew it was too late.

  Another time, I thought, turning on my headlights. Soon.

  I eased onto the road, back tires fishtailing for traction. Once they began to catch, I leaned on the gas, anticipating the slide, but knowing I would need the extra speed to crest the hill in front of the Andersons’ old house. Outside the passenger window, 920 Hanson Road blurred by, and I had just enough time to think: Who’s going to shovel the driveway tomorrow morning? before I was pumping my brakes on the downward slope of the hill.

  Five minutes later, I was following a snowplow west on Route 40, finally headed home, the lights of Edgewood fading away in my rearview mirror.

  Cemetery Dance #1 cover (Photo courtesy of the author)

  The culvert on Hornbeam Road where Mel Fullerton shot and killed Ronnie Finley (Photo courtesy of the author)

  fourteen April 2, 1989

  “… remained unsolved.”

  On Sunday, April 2, 1989, exactly ten months from the night fifteen-year-old Natasha Gallagher disappeared from her bedroom and her battered body was discovered in the woods behind her house, Detective Lyle Harper stood on the front steps of the Harford County Courthouse and addressed members of the media. The detective spoke for five-and-a-half minutes and took no questions when he was finished.

  The news he shared that afternoon was as disheartening as it was brief: DNA analysis was still in its infancy—the first case to utilize DNA evidence to secure a conviction had just recently occurred in July 1987—and as a result, only a handful of labs were set up for proper testing. The current average waiting period for test results was three to five months. In addition, there was no national DNA database in existence.

  After a four-and-a-half-month wait, the results had come back earlier in March. No DNA profile matches had been found for the traces of blood that members of the state police had discovered at the Cassidy Burch crime scene. The task force—comprised of members of the Harford County Sheriff’s Department, Maryland State Police, and Federal Bureau of Investigation—promised to continue pursuing active leads and testing additional persons of interest. The tip-line remained open.

  The murders of Natasha Gallagher, Kacey Robinson, Madeline Wilcox, and Cassidy Burch—all residents of Edgewood—remained unsolved.

  afterword September 2019

  1

  It’s a postcard-perfect early fall afternoon, and I’m cutting the lawn on my riding mower, trying to get as close to the edge of the pond as possible without going in—which has happened before; only once, but trust me, that was enough—when I feel my cell phone vibrate in my pocket. I slide it out and glance at the screen: CARLY ALBRIGHT.

  It’s been a while since we’ve last spoken—at least a month, maybe longer—so I stop the mower and cut the engine. A couple of geese honk their approval from across the pond.

  “Hello?”

  Carly says something in that sassy tone of voice of hers, but I can’t understand. My ears are buzzing from the sudden silence, and she’s talking too fast. I try again.

  “Hello? Carly?”

  “… him!”

  “One more time, sorry. I’m outside and—”

  “They caught him!”

  “Who?”

  “They caught him!” she repeats, yelling now. “They caught the Boogeyman!”

  2

  It’s been so long since I’ve heard that name spoken out loud it takes a moment for it to register. A low-budget horror film with that same title went straight to VOD not long ago, and I ran across some ads and a trailer for it online, but other than that, it’s been ages.

  It’s hard to believe that more than thirty years have passed since the Boogeyman’s reign of terror in my hometown of Edgewood—but the calendar doesn’t lie, no matter how much we may want it to.

  A lot has changed over three decades, but some things have remained the same.

  Kara and I are still together and going stronger than ever, mostly due to the magnificence of her heart and a bottomless well of patience and understanding. Along the way, we’ve been blessed with two sons, grown now—Billy, age twenty-one, named after my father; and Noah, age seventeen, named after a dear friend and one of Kara’s favorite physical therapy patients, a great and gentle man who once stormed the beach at Normandy and, through acts of unimaginable bravery, saved the lives of many other great men on that historic day.

  In the fall and spring, Billy attends Colby College in Maine—about an hour away from our friend Stephen King’s house—where he studies English and writing and plays lacrosse. Noah’s a high school junior and a math whiz and is already committed to playing lacrosse at Marquette University after graduation. During the summer, we’re all together in a two-hundred-year-old refurbished farmhouse we recently purchased in Bel Air, Maryland. The property has a pond and a creek and open fields and woods, and although it’s only been a couple of years, it feels like we’ve been here forever.

  I only wish my mother and father could’ve lived long enough to see it. They would’ve loved every inch of the place. My mom would’ve spent hours sitting on the back porch, watching the turtles chase each other in the pond and the hawks circling overhead. She would’ve adored the many gardens. My dad would’ve been fascinated with the centuries-old architecture, especially the two-hundred-year-old logs somehow holding up the ceiling in our stone basement, and we would’ve had to drag him out of the four-car garage every night to come inside for dinner.

  It was always the plan to have them come and live with us once they reached their golden years, but you know the old saying about God and making plans. My mother has been gone since February 2001. My father left to be with her six years later on July 7, 2007. I think about and miss them every single day.

  Kara’s father is also greatly missed, gone just a handful of years now, but her ninety-one-year-old mother is still with us, living in an in-law suite on the first floor of our new home. Much like her youngest daughter, she’s feisty and stubborn and full of life, and I think she likes it here with Kara and me and her grandsons. At least I hope she does. We count our blessings every day for this time with her.

  Of course, we haven’t always been so fortunate and, over the years, we’ve had to say farewell to a number of cherished loved ones: my eldest sister Rita passed away not long after this book was originally published; my uncle Ted, still one of the finest and funniest men I’ve ever known; Craig Anderson, my buddy Brian’s younger brother; Bernie and Norma Gentile; Michael Meredith; and my old friend Detective Lyle Harper. All of them gone now, but not forgotten.

  I came pretty close myself at one time. At the age of twenty-nine, I was diagnosed with testicular cancer. The doctors acted immediately and took care of business over two successful surgeries. When all was said and done, they told me I fell squarely into the 99th percentile for no recurrence of the cancer. With those odds, and a month or so of recovery time under my belt, I felt as good as new. But thank goodness I’m not a betting man, because boy did they get that wrong. Six months later, after experiencing severe pain in my stomach and lower back, and undergoing a lengthy series of scans and X-rays, those same doctors discovered the cancer had returned with a vengeance, spreading to both of my lungs, liver, stomach, and lymph nodes. T
hey immediately scheduled twelve weeks of intensive chemotherapy and gave me a 50 percent chance of survival, barely bothering to disguise the fact that they’d exaggerated those odds in an attempt to keep me encouraged and in the fight.

  But they needn’t have worried. With my family and friends at my side every step of the way, and God watching over me—yes, I do believe He had a hand in my recovery, and yes, I do know my mom is smiling down on me as I type these words—I somehow managed to once again beat the odds. This past July marked twenty-five years of living cancer-free.

  Even now, many friends tell me they believe I was saved so that one day I could become a successful writer and share my stories with the world. I always thank them for the kindness and counter with the same response: I believe I was saved so that one day I could become a father to my two boys.

  After more than a decade of living in cramped apartments and eating ramen noodles or peanut butter sandwiches for dinner and scrounging loose change from the sofa cushions or floor mats in the car, almost all of the big dreams that originated inside my heart during those early days in Edgewood finally came true. My little magazine, Cemetery Dance, is now in its thirty-second year of publication. In 1991 we bit the bullet and expanded the press to include a hardcover book imprint. To date, we’ve released more than four hundred books. I’ve written and sold nearly one hundred short stories of my own, as well as a number of books, including Gwendy’s Button Box, a cautionary dark fairy tale, co-written with Stephen King. Shortly after the book’s publication, a reporter asked if I’d ever dreamed I would one day write a book with Stephen King. I smiled and looked him in the eye and told the simple truth: “I’ve always been a dreamer, but I never ever dreamed that big.”

  I know exactly how blessed I’ve been—and continue to be—and not a single day passes that I don’t feel an overwhelming sense of gratitude and wonder. If I’m being completely honest, I’m still not sure how it all happened. A lot of luck, a lot of hard work, and the unwavering support and love of a lot of amazing people—that’s my best guess.