by Ed Markham
“We’re almost finished,” she said as they approached the house. “Only seven more to go.”
Kerrigan chuckled and spat again. “We should've stopped when we wrapped up the vacant houses.”
Carr pointed at the picture window to the left of the house’s front door. “This one look occupied to you?”
Kerrigan stopped and looked in through the window, which opened onto an empty living room. “Look at that,” he said. “I thought there were supposed to be people still living here?”
She shrugged. “Error in the real estate office’s computer, or maybe they only recently moved out. Who knows.”
She held a manila envelope in her hands, and she fished in it for the proper key among the dozen provided by the Grow’s real estate firm. As she withdrew the key, the other PSP officers and the German shepherd wandered around the front of the house, examining the flowerbeds and shrubbery.
Carr knocked a few times, waited half a minute, and then opened the front door. She and Kerrigan stepped inside but left the door hanging open.
“Hello?” she called into the emptiness.
They were standing at the start of a corridor that stretched to the back of the house. A staircase walked up the wall to their right, and Carr could see a number of rooms split off from the central hallway, which terminated in some kind of sitting area at the back of the house.
As they made their way down the hallway, they stopped in each of the rooms they passed. One was a small den, the next an office. Both had fireplaces that were spotlessly clean. Just before the end of the hallway, a doorway opened onto a large kitchen. They walked through it, and Carr admired the white granite countertops and elegant cabinetry.
“How much was this place going for?” Kerrigan asked her back.
She didn’t have to check the paperwork. “One point four,” she said.
He whistled. “You know what they say. There are millions of millionaires out there. How come I’m not one of 'em?”
She turned to him. “We picked the wrong profession. Come on.”
They left the kitchen and walked to the sitting room at the end of the hallway, which looked out onto an expansive, tree-walled backyard. The floors beneath Gina Carr’s heels were slate tile, and the room’s windows stretched from floor to ceiling. She guessed the home’s previous owners kept plants in this space. The light would have been good.
“Hey,” Kerrigan said at her side. He tapped her with the back of his hand. “Hey, hey. Look out back.”
She heard the urgency in her partner’s voice, and she peered through the window at the back of the property.
At first she hadn’t noticed them, but now she saw her PSP colleagues and the German shepherd clustered among the trees on the left side of the yard. The dog was shuffling on its front paws, nosing at the dirt with its rump in the air. As she watched, Carr saw one of the men break away from the cluster and start jogging toward the side of the house. The man saw Carr and Kerrigan watching him through the window, and he thumbed back over his shoulder to indicate that they’d found something.
Carr led Kerrigan back into the kitchen, where a door opened onto a small patio. They descended the few steps and walked quickly to join the men in the yard.
“What is it?” Carr called out as they approached.
The officer holding the shepherd’s collar handle said over his shoulder, “Cappy’s got something here. Quint went to get a shovel.”
They waited until the officer named Quinton returned carrying a spade-headed shovel. They moved aside as he scraped gently at the soil, which seemed the same dusty, pine-needle-covered shade as the surrounding earth. It took him a few minutes to move aside the first six inches of dirt.
After another minute of digging, he stopped abruptly and lifted the shovel away from the cavity. “Got something,” he said, his voice low and dry.
Carr leaned forward and saw a scrap of blue among the black-brown of the soil.
“Could just be a weed barrier,” she said. “Clear a little more away.”
Officer Quinton did as he was told.
After fifteen more seconds of scraping and clearing, he let out a small gasp and turned, dropping the shovel. “Oh, fuck me,” he said, bringing his hands to his waist. He took a few quick steps toward the house, breathing quickly and looking away from the hole he’d made. “God dammit, no way. No fucking way.”
Carr could hear he was fighting back tears. She stepped forward and looked at the spot where he’d been digging. Next to the square of blue tarp, which was now roughly the size of a pizza box, she saw black fabric and the word, “Jansport.” Next to this was a patch that said, “Rosemont Blazer’s Soccer.”
It was a child’s backpack. Gina Carr could see there was a body attached to it.
Chapter 53
AFTER CALLING IN the request for a forensic search of Ian Ganther’s house, David and Martin made their way back to the federal detention center in Philadelphia.
“It’ll take them at least a day to turn anything up, and I want to talk more with James Ganther,” David had said as they left Bethlehem.
His father had nodded his agreement. “I’ve been thinking about how he reacted yesterday. Maybe he realized his son might have something to do with it.”
Now, as both men stood in an office waiting for the facility’s staff to transport Ganther to an interrogation room, David watched as Martin reviewed the information in his notebook.
“Ask him what he knows about his grandson’s disappearance,” Martin said. “Also, ask about his artwork—the white faces of the soldiers in his paintings. There’s a symbolism there that I don’t get.” He paused and added, “ ‘The purpose of art is to wash the dust of daily life off our souls.’ ”
“Who said that?”
“Pablo Picasso. In Ganther’s case, I think the dust was more likely blood.”
David looked up when he heard a knock on the office door. It was Serwer, the same facility orderly who had joined him in the interrogation room the day before.
“We’re all set,” Serwer said. “You want me in there with you again?”
David shook his head. “It’ll just be me and Agent Yerxa today.” As he spoke, he gestured toward his father.
Since he’d spoken with Lauren the night before, David had been thinking of fathers and sons. For some reason he couldn’t explain, he wanted Ganther to know that Martin Yerxa, the man who’d arrested him all those years before, was investigating the latest murders with a son of his own.
Martin agreed, though he told David he worried his presence might shock Ganther into silence.
“We’ll find out,” David said. “Just try to ease him into things. Don’t push him too hard too fast, or he may break down again.”
“This ain’t my first rodeo,” Martin said, bristling.
Serwer led them down a corridor to the same interrogation room they’d used the day before. “I’ll be right outside if you need me,” he said. “And we’ll have two people keeping an eye on you in the observation room.”
David nodded. He looked at his father, and then pulled out his cell phone. He planned to MUTE it before entering the interrogation room. But before he could, a call came in from a number he didn’t recognize.
“This is Yerxa,” he said.
It was Gina Carr. “I’m standing outside of Graham and Lori Grow’s house,” she said. “And I have some news.”
“Go on,” David said. He could guess her news by the sound of her voice.
“Early this afternoon we found Joshua Grow’s body buried in the back yard of one of the homes you asked us to search.”
David closed his eyes and shook his head. He didn’t answer right away. “You’ve arrested the parents?”
“We have.”
“Did the Grows admit to anything?”
Carr was silent for a moment. “More or less. When we arrived at their house to make the arrest, Graham Grow ran to his study. He had a .38 in his desk. We found him kneeling with the gun i
n his mouth. He couldn’t go through with it, the coward.” She paused. “The piece of shit could kill his own son, but not himself.”
David didn’t speak, and Carr went on, “Lori Grow was hysterical. She just kept sobbing something about them wanting their old life back.”
David slipped his phone back into his pocket and stood quietly for a few seconds, looking at nothing. Then he turned to his father. “They found Joshua Grow’s body buried behind one of the parents’ properties. They’re both in custody.”
Martin shook his head and stuffed his hands into his olive slacks. Neither spoke for a long time.
Finally David gestured toward the interrogation room. “Let’s see what Ganther has to say today.”
Chapter 54
JAMES GANTHER’S EYES were red rimmed and his mouth hung slightly open, as though he were too weary to hold it closed. The smell of resin was even stronger than it had been the day before, and David could see Ganther’s sandy hair was matted with filth.
Ganther’s bloodshot eyes followed him as he stepped around the table and into view.
“James,” David said, “I’d like to introduce you to someone you may remember. This is my partner on this investigation, Martin Yerxa. He’s my father.”
David gestured to Martin, who stepped around the table to stand alongside him.
Ganther closed his mouth and sat up straighter in his chair. As David and his father sat down opposite him, Ganther watched Martin without speaking. Then he said, very softly, “I remember you.” He was quiet again for a few seconds, and then he did something that surprised David: He clasped his hands together and shook them appreciatively, as though he were a congregant giving thanks to a merciful god.
“I want to thank you very much for stopping me all those years ago,” he said. “If not for you, who knows how many kids I mighta kilt.”
There were tears in Ganther’s eyes now, and he wiped at them with the backs of his hands, which he kept clasped together. “Thank you, Agent Yerxa. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.”
“All right, all right,” Martin said, gesturing with both of his hands for Ganther to calm himself. “If you really want to thank me, answer some questions for us.”
Ganther’s eyes and lips turned down at the corners, and he settled his still-clasped hands in his lap. He nodded, but said nothing.
“Let’s start with your artwork,” Martin said.
Good, David thought. Ganther’s emotional state was precarious, and it would be better to get him started talking about something other than his family and the latest murders.
“My artwork?” Ganther repeated.
“Your charcoal sketches,” Martin said. “Why do all the soldier’s faces look alike?”
Ganther regarded the top of the table thoughtfully. “Because we were all the same over there,” he said. “All the same. The same demon in different bodies.” He paused, and then added, “We were all possessed by the same evil.”
“What’s this evil you’re talking about?” Martin asked.
Ganther shook his head. “The truest kind, Agent Yerxa. The kind that could kill innocent children. And I brought that evil back home with me, like I told you yesterday.”
No one spoke until Martin asked, “After you got out of prison, did you try to reconnect with your family?”
David blinked and worked to suppress a frown. Too fast, Pop, he thought. Slow down.
“Yes I did,” Ganther said.
“Tell me about that.”
Ganther’s eyes moved from David to Martin, and then down to the tabletop. “I knew I didn’t deserve their forgiveness, but I knew I had to ask for it just the same. Knew I needed to offer myself up as part of my penance. I remember I called Gloria after I got out, but she wouldn’t talk to me. I called her a bunch of times, actually, and she was kind enough to at least listen to me, though she didn’t say nothing. I told her how sorry I was and that I understood why she left me and why she probably never wanted to see me again. But then I told her I wanted to apologize to our son, and she hung up on me. I understood why, but I still felt like I needed to tell my boy I was sorry.”
Ganther rubbed at his cheeks with the backs of his hands as he spoke. “I recognize now that I screwed up again, but when I heard about his wife’s passing—about my son’s wife passing—I thought I should pay my respects. So I took all the money I had and I bought a new suit and I went to the funeral for her, which was a awful sad day. I stood near the back for the services and watched my boy’s face. I’d never seen him as an adult, and I couldn’t quite believe how he looked. Looked a lot like me, to tell the truth. And I felt the same way looking at his son, Chris, who looked like both of us. It was all pretty, uh, overwhelming, if you follow me. So I went up to Ian after most of the people was gone, and I told him I was sorry for his loss. I barely had time to get it out before Gloria sees me and starts screeching.”
Ganther shook his head. “I should've known it would happen. It was awful. Awful. And it was all my fault. Again. I left and figured I’d never talk to any of them again. But then a couple weeks later, Ian calls me on the telephone and says he wants to see me. I remember how happy I was, like God had smiled on me and given me a chance. Ian comes over to the place I was living in, and he brings my grandson with him. And that was probably the happiest day of my life.”
Ganther smiled then, though David could see it was a smile freighted with regret.
“We sat and talked for a long time,” Ganther went on. “And Ian asks me to tell him about what I’d done. Says I owe it to him to give him the truth. I felt strange to say it in front of my grandson, but I thought that was all part of God’s punishment for me, so I told him all if it. How the evil had a hold of me, and why I done what I done. I remember he had a lot of questions for me.”
Ganther’s eyes had been on his hands most of the time he spoke, but now he raised them to Martin’s. He let out a long breath, and again his eyes glistened with tears. “I didn’t understand, you see? All his questions, and wanting to see my artwork—I just wasn’t thinking straight. I was thinking about myself and the wrong I’d done, and not about what he might be doing wrong. What he might be feeling. Do you see?”
“No,” Martin said, shaking his head. “I don’t see. Tell me.”
Easy does it, David thought.
Ganther looked at Martin wordlessly, his lips drawn up and starting to shake. Then the tears broke free again, and he shook his head, his voice rising. “I just never would’ve guessed . . .” he said, and then trailed off.
“Guessed what?” Martin asked.
Now David cut in. “Let’s talk about your time in prison for a few minutes,” he said, not looking at his father.
But it was too late. Ganther was starting to sob now. He was sucking in huge gasps of air, and was opening and clenching his fists as though trying to squeeze out some inner sickness, or a great inexpressible grief.
“It’s all my fault,” he blurted out, shouting now. “All my fault.”
Serwer came in when Ganther started pounding on the tabletop. David tried to settle his own hands on top of Ganther’s, but the man snatched them away. He started slapping his own face hard enough to send spittle against one wall of the room.
David and Martin stood up from the table and watched as the holding facility’s orderlies rushed in, just as they had the day before. Serwer managed to get his arms around Ganther’s. He held him fast as the second orderly injected him with a sedative.
Almost immediately, the commotion died down to a point where only the sound of the men’s heavy breathing filled the interrogation room.
Chapter 55
“DON’T LOOK AT me like that,” Martin said.
He was pacing along one side of the corrections facility corridor, one hand stuffed in the pocket of his navy windbreaker so he could thumb his old Ronson lighter open and closed.
David stood against the other wall of the corridor, watching his father but saying nothing.
Mart
in went on, “We could dance around our real questions all day, but we don’t have time for that.”
“I asked you to ease him into it,” David said. “I asked you not to press him.”
“We would have had to press him at some point, and the same thing would have happened.”
David lifted a palm skyward as if to say, “I guess we’ll never know.” Then he let it go.
A few minutes later, Omar Ghafari joined them in one of the holding facility’s conference rooms. He connected his laptop to the room’s projection system and handed both of them a summation of his team’s findings, as well as the preliminary forensics report from Ian Ganther’s house.
“Forensics has identified two distinct prints and hair types in the child’s bedroom,” Omar summarized. “We’re fairly certain one set belongs to Ian Ganther based on prints and saliva samples we drew from some of the dirty dishes in the kitchen. So he was sleeping in his son’s room. His prints and hair samples are also the most prevalent, at least based on our first sweep.” As he spoke, the projection screen displayed enlarged photographs of the areas of the bedroom where the Bureau’s forensic agents had located Ganther’s prints and hair samples.
“What about the second occupant?” Martin asked.
“We don’t know a whole lot,” Omar said. “We’re running the prints through our system for a match, but you know that’ll take a while. Ditto on a DNA analysis of the hair. Trichology people told us the sample’s from a person of European ancestry, but that’s really it. Hair follicle ends identified as being in telogen phase, so they almost certainly fell out naturally, and weren’t pulled out in a struggle. No idea on the sex or age of the hair’s former owner. That’s really it so far from the house.”
David asked him, “What else can you tell us about Ian Ganther?”
“We ran a link analysis on his cell phone records, which stop abruptly the week before the murders started. Before that, he called his mother mostly. At least two or three calls a week in the months before he switched off his phone.”