Blind River: A Thriller

by Ben Follows

  Curtis laughed. “Was I that obvious?”

  “I’m a detective," said Trevor. "I’m not surprised. I was quiet and not very social in high school. I wouldn’t remember me either.”

  “Don’t mention it,” said Curtis, not paying attention. He was looking out the window at the pine trees which lined the road leading into Blind River.

  “Blind River,” muttered Frankie. “Kind of a weird name. Where’s it come from?”

  An image of a pond deep in the forest which he and his friends had dubbed the “True Blind River” popped into Curtis’s mind.

  “There’s a river, obviously” said Trevor. “A lot of early settlers came here because it was a good trade route, or at least they thought it was. The river has a turn where you’re immediately at a waterfall. A lot of people died from rowing over it. Once they turned the corner it was too late. So, the river was named the Blind River, and the town was built up around it.”

  “Interesting,” said Frankie. “Population?”

  “Around five thousand.”

  “Industry?”

  “Funny you should ask. We’ll be able to see it just about now.”

  The trees cleared away, and Curtis saw what he remembered and dreaded most about Blind River. On their left side, they could see a four-lane highway used primarily by transport trucks. The highway was always busy, but most of the traffic passed through on its way somewhere else.

  On the other side of the road was an immense gray building resembling a castle. The Blind River Maximum Security Penitentiary stretched into the sky. The grey walls and sentry outposts blocked the sun. The only people visible were the gate agents and guards with rifles standing on the walls, looking over the prison yard.

  Monica glanced at the prison, watching Curtis’s expression in the rearview mirror.

  Trevor continued explaining the logistics of the prison to Frankie. He explained how it had single-handedly solved the economy of Blind River a decade back and how a large percentage of the population was working in the prison or in related industries.

  The prison and the highway disappeared from view as they drove into downtown Blind River. It was nothing more than a short row of stores and offices which served as a center point of the spoke and wheel pattern the town was built on. The Presbyterian church stood in the center of the town.

  Each of the stores and offices were one of a kind, with no competition. There was one butcher, one book store, one grocery store, all locally owned.

  Cutting through the middle of the downtown was a river large enough for a medium sized boat. They crossed the bridge and Curtis looked down at the murky green water. The river was polluted, the bottom covered in beer bottles and garbage tossed off the bridge in the dead of night. There were signs prohibiting dumping in the river, but the police had long since given up trying to regulate it.

  Despite the shining sun, they only passed six or seven cars on the way into town. The stores lining the main road were empty, with prominent “Sale” signs which seemed to beg for customers.

  “Where is everyone?” said Curtis.

  “Staying home,” said Monica. “They’re scared. Four girls have disappeared. Everyone knows or recognizes at least one of the girls. We need to make this town safe again, before it starts falling apart.”

  They pulled into the police station and walked inside. The chief was waiting. They were instructed to leave their luggage in the car for the time being.

  “Where are we staying?” said Frankie. “I saw a motel by the highway. We can get rooms there if it’s needed."

  “It’s fully booked,” said Monica. “We’re working on accommodations. We’ll let you know as soon as we do.”

  They walked through the small bullpen where the detectives had their desks. The station was mostly empty save for the receptionist and a few tired detectives. On the far side of the station was a door leading to a small jail. Trevor explained that it had four cells and that they were currently unoccupied.

  Curtis and Frankie nodded to the other detectives in greeting and proceeded into a back room which Trevor explained was their war room. A white board had been set up along one wall to keep track of the investigation.

  Four pictures of young girls were at the top of the board, and beneath those were lists of information about their disappearances. Curtis was shocked how young they looked. According to the data beneath the pictures only one was out of high school.

  “You’ve read the files we sent?” said Trevor as they took their seats around the conference table. Chief Tucker took a seat farther back, making it clear he was only there to observe.

  “Yes,” said Frankie, taking the lead as she always did. “For the sake of making sure we have all the information, assume we don’t know anything. Start from the beginning.”

  Monica and Trevor took up spots on either side of the board. Curtis crossed his hands in his lap and lounged back in the swivel chair.

  “Three weeks ago,” began Monica, gesturing to the first picture, of a young girl with flowing blonde hair and too much makeup, “Ashley Hagerty, seventeen, didn’t come home late at night. She'd been fighting with her parents and they assumed she was at a friend’s house. When she didn't show up at school the next day, her parents called the police. We figured she'd run away. It wasn’t until the next ones started disappearing that we took it seriously.”

  “Five days later,” said Trevor, taking over and pointing to a picture of a confident, athletic girl, “was the disappearance of Darcy Oberman, eighteen. She missed the bus to her volleyball game. No one thought anything had happened until later that day. The kidnapper had a ten-hour head start.”

  Trevor pointed to the map of Blind River in the middle of the board. There were four red tacks. He explained that each red tack was the home of one of the victims. The other colors represented last known locations, and places of interest. Curtis stared at the map, trying to see a pattern, but it all seemed random.

  “The third disappearance happened ten days ago,” said Monica. “Trevor and I put aside our other cases to focus on this." She pointed to the second picture, of a brown haired, innocent looking girl with a butterfly clip in her hair. “Miranda O’Connell, eighteen, disappeared on her way back from piano lessons. She never made it home. Her parents called immediately. We found the butterfly clip near a local park.” Trevor gestured to a picture of a mud-covered hairclip. “There is a park where the lights shut off around ten. She disappeared somewhere in that fifty-foot stretch.”

  “Then three days ago,” said Trevor, “Harriet Matheson, seventeen, disappeared.” Trevor gestured to the final picture, of a girl with a variety of piercings covering her face and pink and green streaks in her black hair. “She was out drinking with friends by the woods, and left to buy more cigarettes. She never came back.”

  “We didn’t find anything,” said Monica. “The butterfly hairclip is the only piece of evidence we’ve recovered. It didn’t have any fingerprints or DNA on it. We've interviewed everyone we can think of. We have stacks of investigation reports. I’ve learned more about the people in this town than I ever wanted to know. We have no suspects, no leads, and no answers.”

  “So,” said Frankie, “we have four teenage girls from different cliques and friend groups who have been kidnapped and possibly killed while they were out at night in various parts of Blind River. Have you checked if any strange people have arrived in Blind River? Maybe a trucker who stops at the motel often?”

  “Nothing we could find," said Monica.

  Frankie nodded. “We’ll double check that, but let’s assume for the time being that the murderer is a local. Curtis, we need to get to work. Monica, Trevor, set up a meeting with the rest of the police department in an hour. I’d like to talk to them all.”

  “Of course,” said Trevor.

  Curtis and Frankie stood and walked to the door.

  “There is one other thing,” said Monica.

  Curtis and Frankie turned back.

  “
Someone in the police department is giving information to the local paper, The Blind River Observer," said Monica. "They know way too much about the case. Someone is talking to a reporter named Natasha Nolowinski.”

  “Natasha?” said Curtis. “I remember her. She was a bitch.”

  Trevor shot a look at Curtis.

  “Well,” said Monica, “she still is.”

  Curtis sighed. “We need a car."

  “We can drive you,” said Trevor.

  “No,” said Frankie. “We need to check out the crime scenes without any preconceived notions. A completely blank slate. Car?”

  “You can use mine,” said the chief, who Curtis had forgotten was sitting at the back of the room. “I’ll be here all day anyway. Just make sure it’s back by five. I’ll get you set up with an actual car by tomorrow.”

  Frankie nodded.

  “Wait,” said Chief Tucker as they turned to leave. “Why did you say murderer?”

  “Because I’m an optimist, Chief,” said Frankie. “If they’re still alive, they’re being put through things that no one should ever have to imagine, let alone experience. For their sake, I hope they’re dead.”

  4

  Curtis and Frankie started with the most recent kidnapping. If they were going to find anything, it would be there. They both knew very well that once the crime scene was opened up, the chances of finding anything were essentially zero.

  Normally, Frankie insisted on seeing the crime scenes, claiming it gave her a better visualization of the crimes. Curtis was perfectly happy looking at maps and pictures, a method which Frankie saw as impersonal. To Curtis, that was the point. The moment you lost your objectivity, you lost your ability to solve the case.

  Curtis felt strange as they drove through town. It was the same town he'd grown up in, but it wasn't.

  “This place is shittier than I remember,” he muttered.

  They found the spot at the edge of the woods where Harriet Matheson and her friends had been smoking and drinking. They parked the car in a lot at the edge of the dense forest.

  There were beer bottles and cigarette butts on the ground. The footprints had been destroyed by rain two days prior. They only knew the spot from the maps they’d been given.

  “What do you figure?” said Frankie, looking around.

  Curtis crouched beside the beer bottles on the ground. He looked into the forest.

  “Closest place to buy cigarettes would be the convenience store about half a mile back toward downtown," he said. "If I were the kidnapper, I’d wait in the forest, come out when Harriet was least expecting it, grab her around the mouth, drag her into the woods.”

  “You don’t think he took her somewhere?” said Frankie.

  Curtis shook his head. “I don’t know why you'd do it so close to the forest if you weren’t intending to use it as cover.”

  Frankie nodded. She took out her IPhone and began snapping pictures of the scene. Once she was finished, she said, “Let’s walk up to the convenience store and talk to whoever’s there. Maybe that can give us some idea.”

  “I don’t see how this fits in with the other kidnappings," said Curtis. "All the others were downtown or in the residential areas.”

  Frankie shrugged. “It has to be one guy. The chances of multiple kidnappers attacking the same kind of victim in the same town, which hasn’t had anything like this for two decades, is too low to even think about. He’s probably trying to be unpredictable.”

  “What about one main guy and one copycat?”

  “It’s possible," said Frankie, "but copycats are normally terrible. They get caught and confess. They’re weak and stupid. We’d have more evidence to work with.”

  Curtis stood and began walking in the direction of the convenience store. Frankie followed closely.

  “We assume it’s one person for the time being," said Curtis, "and that it’s probably a local, but we’ll check that.”

  “It might be someone you know," said Frankie.

  “Yes,” said Curtis. The name “Marino” jumped into his head, even though he knew it was impossible. “It could be.”

  Curtis looked up at the prison in the distance.

  “So,” said Frankie, “what’s the deal with you and Monica? Seems like there’s some bad blood there?”

  Curtis shrugged. “Just sibling stuff.”

  He looked over the lake. He realized Frankie wasn't with him and looked back.

  She had stopped. She was standing at the edge of the water, gazing at the far side of Lake Ontario, the faint silhouette of Toronto in the distance.

  “What are you looking at?” said Curtis.

  “What did you think of Trevor Marshall?” said Frankie.

  “I think he’s a good detective. He seems to know what he’s doing.”

  “And the chief?”

  “I would have preferred someone I know, but he seems to be good at his job.”

  Frankie paused for a moment. “You need to tell me what’s going on, Curtis. What are you so afraid of?”

  Curtis jerked his head toward her. “What are you talking about?”

  “You're distracted. None of these people have dealt with anything like this before. Chief Tucker might be a good man, but he's not a good cop, or else he wouldn’t be here. You're not noticing things like you usually do."

  “It’s nothing,” said Curtis. “I’ll be fine.”

  “You’re looking at the prison again.”

  “What?” Curtis looked away from the prison, trying to play it off.

  “Look, Curtis,” said Frankie, still looking over the lake. “If you don’t want to feel weak, that’s fine. Tell me for my sake. You're my partner. If you're compromised, I’m being left out to dry in a town with a potential serial killer. I can’t solve the case by myself.”

  “Yes, you could," said Curtis. "You’re the best agent I’ve ever worked with.”

  “Don’t ruin my point, Curtis. I need to know what’s going on, especially if it’s related to the case.”

  Curtis looked toward town, where the river the town was named after began. “You can’t tell anyone what I’m going to tell you. Even if it's involved in the case.”

  “Okay.”

  Curtis took a deep breath. “How much do you know about the history of Blind River?”

  “Almost nothing," said Frankie. "I had time to read the case file on the way here. I looked up the town on Wikipedia, but the article was only a dozen or so lines.”

  “The foundation of the town doesn’t matter as much as what has happened in the last twenty years,” said Curtis. “A major part of the Blind River economy was involved in the transportation of cocaine and methamphetamines.”

  5

  Frankie raised an eyebrow. “Blind River was involved in the drug trade?”

  Curtis looked at the ground for a moment, then looked up. “Some of the big drug lords of the south would use transport trucks to move their product. For example, if you're shipping furniture, put a few pounds of cocaine in the cushions. The cops started setting up roadblocks to check the trucks out on the highway. A local business owner named Sam Marino saw an opportunity. He made deals with the truckers to hide the product in his store and meet them on the other side of the roadblock.”

  Frankie nodded. “Who was chief at this time?”

  “My dad, Chief Gordon Mackley.”

  “I didn’t know your dad was a cop," said Frankie. "What did he think of all this?”

  “He didn’t know.” Curtis paused and took a breath. “The truckers got used to using Marino as a work around. They didn’t mind if the product didn’t add up perfectly. Marino started selling it out of his butcher shop. Then the truckers began giving him product in exchange for a percentage of profits. Everyone but the authorities seemed to know what was happening. Marino built it up to the point where he was manufacturing and distributing to a large section of the northeast United States. Within five years, almost everyone in Blind River was either involved with Marino or kn
ew someone who was. It made getting anyone to testify impossible."

  Frankie nodded. “No matter how bad someone was, whether they were a murderer, rapist or child molester, there will be someone at their funeral singing their praises."

  Curtis nodded and continued. “When the police became aware of it, it was too late. No one would talk. Marino used his shop to launder his money. No one was falling for it, but it didn’t matter.”

  “Why didn’t they call the feds?” said Frankie.

  Curtis shrugged. “The feds didn't care. We wouldn’t even be here if there wasn’t this weird lack of murders the last few weeks.”

  “Is Marino in the prison?” said Frankie.

  Curtis nodded.

  “How’d that happen?”

  “I’m getting to that.” Curtis looked over the lake and took a deep breath. “I put him there.”

  Frankie frowned. “Weren't you like ten years old?”

  “Twelve. I was working as a paper boy. Every morning I would deliver the New York Times and the Blind River Observer to Marino's shop. I got close to the people there. I would even get to hand deliver it to Marino. While I was coming and going, I would hear snippets of conversation. It didn’t matter that I was the Chief’s kid. They thought they were untouchable. I started wearing a recorder beneath my shirt, tucked into my pants. Over the next few months, I gathered enough information to make a case. I took the tapes to a lieutenant named Gerald Condra. He used the tapes, without revealing where he'd gotten them, to get warrants. In less than a year the town was cleared out. Marino and his inner circle were shipped off to prison.”

  “Who knows it was you?” said Frankie.

  “Director Johnson knows," said Curtis. "I spoke to him about it before I started working at the FBI. Condra died about ten years ago in a car accident, so he's out. The judge of the case must know. If anyone found out, I could be in trouble. A lot of people in Blind River were working for Marino and lost their livelihoods because of the arrest. If not for the prison, Blind River would be broke.”