by James Hunt
Grant picked up the bag with the letter. “Any suspects?”
“Without knowing the victim’s names it’s hard to determine who might have taken them,” Mocks answered.
Hofster pushed himself off the wall and leaned forward on Mocks’s desk, the tip of his black and yellow tie dipping into a container of pens. “I think that Pullman is just trying to get some attention, blowing smoke up our ass.”
Grant set the letter down and then reached for the watch. He ran his thumb over the face, which was set to the stopwatch feature. The numbers were counting upward, and the time had just passed the two-hour mark.
Hofster cocked an eyebrow. “That watch mean anything to you?”
“It’s a message,” Grant answered. “When I worked Missing Persons with Mocks— Lieutenant Mullocks, I used a watch similar to this one whenever I started a new case. The first twelve hours of an abduction are the most crucial. After the twelve-hour mark passes, the chances of a successful recovery drop eighty percent.”
Hofster shrugged. “So, you’re telling me that when that timer hits twelve hours, we’ll never find these people again?”
Grant returned the watch to the desk. “I’m saying that’s what I used the watch for. I’m not sure what Pullman has planned.”
“You were the arresting officer for Pullman ten years ago,” Williams said.
“I was still working Homicide then, but every law enforcement officer at the city, state, and federal levels was looking for him,” Grant said.
“But you were the one who caught him,” Hofster said. “What can you tell us about him?”
Grant sat in one of the two empty chairs in front of Mocks’s desk and rubbed his eyes. All of this was too surreal. Less than thirty minutes ago, he had been with Sam. He’d just gotten engaged. But when he lowered his hand and saw that Mocks and Hofster were staring at him, he nodded.
“Over the course of eighteen months, Dennis Pullman abducted, tortured, and then killed twelve men and women in the state of Washington.” Grant blinked, the images from every victim flashing against the back of his eyelids. “His killing process involved three phases. The first was choosing his victim. Men, women, he didn’t care about gender, and the only pattern we found in the victims were that all of them were under the age of forty-five. The second phase was to strip them of their humanity, reverting them to their most primitive instincts. He’d do that by stripping the victims of their clothes and tossing them in a cage. He’d starve them, beat them, and drain them of every ounce of humanity. He believed he couldn’t hunt them until they had become wild. The third and final phase was the hunt. Because most of the victims were on the cusp of death by this point, he’d administer a shot of adrenaline before tossing them out into the wilderness, giving them a head start. He was a skilled hunter and an even better tracker. He was a good shot with any weapon, but he preferred a .308 Winchester rifle with a mounted scope. The hunt could last hours or days, but he always found them. After he killed them, he’d scalp the body and then keep it as a trophy.” Grant paused. “In one victim’s case, he flayed all of the skin from her body. The medical examiner couldn’t determine if she was still alive or not when Pullman started.”
“Christ,” Williams said.
Hofster cleared his throat. “We’ve all read the case files, Mr. Grant, but what I want to know is why he’s doing this? What does this give him? He’s a serial killer, and killers derive their pleasure from murder, and he’s not doing any of that from inside his prison cell.”
Grant’s stomach soured, and some of the color disappeared from his face. “Pullman’s murders were never about killing.”
The room quieted, Hofster leaning back while Mocks leaned closer. It was before they worked together, before he worked Missing Persons, before Ellen died, before his world had completely shattered. He was a different man then, as he was a different man now.
“Because I was the arresting officer, I also handled Pullman’s confession.” Grant squeezed his left hand, an old tic. “When I asked him why he did it, he told me that it was his purpose. He told me that he was meant to cull the weak from society.” He looked to Hofster. “Killing was a means to an end for Pullman. It was about control; about believing he was superior. And judging by who he’s managed to get in a room and talk about him, I’d say that he’s deriving more pleasure than he’s experienced in a long time.”
The silence lingered after Grant finished, and it wasn’t until Williams exhaled over the speaker phone that anyone moved. “Mr. Grant, do you think that Pullman really did this? That he was able to coordinate the abduction of three people from inside his prison cell?”
“Dennis always prided himself on being the smartest guy in the room.” Grant reached for the watch in the plastic evidence bag and then nodded. “So, yes. I do.”
Jason cleared his throat. “All right, then I think the best course of action right now is to bring you up here and talk to him. The worst-case scenario is he just continues to string us along. The governor was expecting a call from me after this conversation. Chief?”
“I’ll follow up with the mayor,” Hofster answered, staring at a spot on the carpet.
“Oh—” Williams said. “Bring the watch. It was another one of Pullman’s requests, and I’d hate for you to come all the way out here for nothing should he be upset that you’re not wearing his gift.”
“Forensics cleared it,” Mocks said. “There wasn’t anything on it that we could use.”
The call ended, and then Hofster headed for the door, stopping with his hand on the knob as he turned back to Mocks. “I want every detective in Missing Persons on call. I’ll approve the overtime.” He flicked his eyes to Grant. “I hope you’re wrong about this.”
“So do I,” Grant said.
Hofster smoothed out his tie and then shook his head as he stepped out of the office. “That bastard should have gotten the needle.”
Grant stared at the watch, the seconds ticking faster, inching their way toward the twelve-hour mark. He opened the bag and then placed it around his wrist.
“Pretty shitty engagement gift,” Mocks said, and then her voice softened. “You all right?”
“Yeah,” Grant answered.
“Good.” Mocks folded her hands together in her lap. “Because you should be happy she said yes.”
Grant tossed the plastic evidence bag in the trash. “I am.”
“Hey.” Mocks rocked forward in her chair, her eyes clear and focused. Swap the green for blue and they could have been Sam’s eyes. “I’ll get you back to her as soon as the Chief and AG give me approval.”
Grant managed a half smile. She was still trying to protect him. “You can make it up to me by getting us an awesome wedding gift.”
“I’ll do you one better.” Mocks opened the bottom drawer and removed a box of strawberry frosted Pop-Tarts. She tore open a package, handed one to Grant, and kept the other for herself.
Grant smiled. “Glad to know that some things never change.”
“Yeah, well, some things do,” Mocks said, her mouth full of Pop-Tart. “This time I’m driving.” She spun around and pointed a finger at him. “And I will pull rank on you if you touch the radio.”
Grant bit into his Pop-Tart. “Yes, ma’am.”
4
Thanks to a quick call by the chief, neither Mocks or Grant had to drive. Instead, the trio took a private plane charter to Walla Walla that shrank the four-hour drive into thirty minutes. When Mocks asked Chief Hofster how they managed the sweet ride, he said that the governor called in a favor to the local FBI station chief.
The plane touched down in a small field where a car was waiting to take them to the penitentiary.
Once through the small community of the nearby town, Grant saw the facility high on a hill to the east. The structure stood alone in the middle of a field with enough open space between the prison and the surrounding forests to give the guards in the sniper towers plenty of chances to bring down their target.
The car slowed to a stop outside twenty-foot high barbed wire fences, and the guard at the post checked everyone’s IDs before he opened the gate.
The driver parked in a small lot on the prison’s west side. Grant, Mocks, and Hofster exited the car and entered the prison through the employee entrance, and they were immediately greeted with the harrowing soundtrack of a maximum security prison.
The mix of howls, screams, and curses that echoed from the depths of the prison had an unearthly timbre and were made more ominous by their anonymity.
Mocks and Hofster were required to surrender all firearms and any and all sharp objects, which included keys and nail clippers. Then they were required to step through a metal detector and undergo a search and pat down.
Once cleared by security, they followed a long, narrow, cramped concrete hallway littered with puddles, and fresh with the stench of putrid water and bleach.
They passed two more checkpoints, though neither required a search like the first, and were finally led to a small conference room where Grant met Attorney General Jason Williams in person. He looked like he’d just gone ten rounds with a heavyweight and lost.
“He still hasn’t said anything?” Hofster asked.
Jason, a black man in his late thirties, had the sleeves of his white collared shirt rolled up to his elbows and his pink tie loose around his neck. Sweat had stained his undershirt and dotted his forehead. “His lips are sealed.” He turned to Grant. “We have a recording device in the room, so don’t do or say anything you wouldn’t want on record. But it’s only audio. No video per the governor’s request.” He stepped toward Grant, pressing the tips of his fingers together. “I know it’s been a while since you’ve been in an interrogation room.”
“I’ll do my best to shake the rust off,” Grant said.
“I need names,” Jason said. “And that’s all we need.”
“No need to be a hero,” Hofster said.
Grant said nothing as Jason led him to the door, but stopped when Mocks called his name. He turned to find the woman he remembered when they first started working together. She was younger then, new to the detective’s badge, but already smarter than he was. It was the first time in a long time that he saw her vulnerable.
“Be careful,” Mocks said.
“I will.”
But while Grant followed Jason down the hall, accompanied by a prison guard, the butterflies that had plagued his stomach suddenly transformed into steel winged hawks wreaking havoc on his nerves.
Jason stopped at the door, waiting for the guard to unlock it. “Just take it slow.”
The hinges of the old steel door groaned as the guard pushed it open, and Grant stepped inside, momentarily blinded by the bright fluorescents of the room. The door slammed shut behind him, and when his eyes adjusted, he saw Dennis Pullman across the room.
People always thought that evil was some hideous monster that lurked in the shadows, maiming and killing with their fangs and claws, howling at the moon. But real evil was far simpler and boring than what people expected. Real evil worked in an office, drove a used Honda, and lived in a one-bedroom apartment. Real evil blended in with everyone else, enjoying the anonymity of the crowd. And it wasn’t until that evil decided to plunge a knife into a beating heart or put a bullet through a skull that people realized that evil was standing next to them, smiling just like Dennis Pullman was right now.
Pullman was chained to a chair, dressed in his bright orange uniform, his face freshly shaven and his dirty-blond hair neatly combed. He was shackled by the wrists and ankles, a two-inch thick steel bar running through the center of both and connected to a steel plate on the ground, preventing him from standing. He had been twenty-three when Grant had put him in those cuffs, but ten years later, he looked like he hadn’t aged a day.
“Detective Grant.” Dennis spoke the words with a tone of respect and relief. “I’m so glad that you decided to come.” He winced. “Sorry. I forgot it’s not detective anymore. Slip of the tongue. Such a shame too. Detective Grant.” He shivered after he spoke the name again. “It has such a nice ring to it, don’t you think?”
Grant walked calmly to the empty chair from across the table and sat down. He folded his hands in his lap, knowing that Dennis would want to talk his ear off, and waited for an opportunity to interject.
Dennis was still pasty, still wiry and thin. While some inmates may have spent their time bulking up, Dennis had not. The smile plastered on Dennis’s face was wide and practiced, exposing a set of small teeth.
But while the smile looked slightly forced, the average citizen would have considered it strange but harmless. It wasn’t until you started to notice the slight watery element to his eyes, the almost invisible twitch at the corners of his mouth, and the laser focus in those rich brown eyes that held such a contempt for humanity that no remorse could ever be felt for claiming twelve innocent lives.
“It’s been a long time, Grant,” Dennis said, keeping the smile, then frowned, concentrating. “What? Ten years?” He shook his head. “Too long.” He laughed. “You’ve got a little gray in your hair. Starting to get that Clooney look. Lucky dog. I bet the women love it.” He hunched low, bringing his mouth to his hand because the chains wouldn’t allow him to lift them high enough. “Sorry. I know that’s a sensitive subject for you after your wife passed. Ellen, right?”
Grant chewed the inside of his cheek, biting down harder than he did when he’d first entered the room.
“I read the news articles,” Dennis said, nodding, feigning empathy. “Such a terrible accident. And she was pregnant?” He clucked his tongue. “I don’t blame you for what you did to the man who killed her, Grant. It’s what any husband or father would have done. It was your right to kill him.”
“I didn’t kill him,” Grant said.
“No,” Dennis said. “But deep down, I know you wanted to. And that’s okay.” He adjusted himself in the chair, shimmying left and right in what limited capacity was available to him. “You’ve been busy since we last spoke. Transferred to Missing Persons. Awarded the Medal of Valor by Seattle’s former mayor.” He cocked his head to the side, maintaining that wicked smile. “Highest recovery rate by any detective in the history of Seattle, and the state.” He straightened out. “But then it all went south again. Just like it did after Ellen died. You flew too close to the sun, and all those women died because you couldn’t solve the case in time.”
Grant had figured Dennis would do his homework, but he underestimated how it would make him feel.
“The trial, the public attention, it must have been hard for you,” Dennis said. “I know how much of a private person you are. And I’m sure it was hard for you to give up the badge.” That grin widened. “You were so good at your job! It was why you started that consulting work with Mocks.” He narrowed his eyes, keeping the grin, and looking at Grant as though the pair shared a secret from the rest of the world and leaned forward. “It’s hard to stop the things you’re good at.” He rotated his shoulders and then leaned back, straightening his posture. “But you suddenly moved back to Seattle and stopped the consulting work altogether. Why?” Dennis stared at the floor, searching as if the answers were carved onto the concrete. “I mean, sure, you had a few rough goes during your career, but there isn’t anyone that works a case like you, Grant. You have a gift.” He lifted his eyes to Grant. “It’s shameful to let it go to waste.”
Grant rested his forearms on the table, hands clasped together. “What do you want, Dennis?”
Dennis chuckled. “What do I want? I want for you to get back in the game, Grant! I want you to have a purpose again.” A sense of wonder slackened his face. “I want us both to have a purpose again.”
“Your purpose is to rot in a cell for your crimes,” Grant said.
Dennis blew a raspberry. “Wrong. So wrong, Grant. You think you’re so much better than me, but you and I are the same person.”
“I’m not a killer,” Grant said.
> “Oh yes, you are.” Dennis nodded, that smile returning. “You’ve killed plenty of people.”
“I was in the line of duty—”
“So was I!” Dennis roared, his anger ricocheting off the walls, spinning around them like a tornado. Some spit had dribbled on his chin, and he smeared it onto the shoulder of his jumpsuit. “What I did for those men and women was a gift… people were just too narrow-minded to see the truth.” The anger faded. “It’s why I’m needed again.”
“Give me the names, Dennis,” Grant said.
“I will, but on one condition.” Dennis extended one finger from his shackled hands and then pointed it at Grant. “You will be the one who finds them. If someone else tries to retrieve them, then they will die.” He then dropped his eyes to the watch and smiled. “I think you could probably guess what happens when that timer reaches twelve hours?”
“The names,” Grant said.
“Of course.” Dennis cocked an eyebrow up, mulling around as he pretended to think of the names as if he didn’t already have them on the tip of his tongue. “Kelly Sears. Mary Sullivan. Aaaaand…” He bit his lower lip, then opened both eyes wide with realization. “Susie Mullins.”
Grant waited, wondering if the man wanted to spill any more information, but when none came, he stood and then headed for the door.
“Tell Samantha I’m sorry about ruining the engagement.”
Grant froze. Sweat trickled down from his underarms, tickling his ribs. He shut his eyes, waiting for his pulse to slow. He took three slow breaths and then turned.
Dennis still wore that plastic smile. “This is a big step for you. I’m glad you’ve gotten to a point where you’re ready for commitment again, Grant. Really. You deserve it.”
Grant stood there, afraid that if he should move, he might lunge forward and squeeze the life from Dennis with his bare hands.
But Dennis looked at Grant, unfazed, and casually gestured to the door. “Clock is ticking.”