Once Taken

by Blake Pierce

  “This is as bad as Marla Blainey’s murder five years ago,” Tooley said. “Worse, maybe. Lord, after that one, I’d hoped we’d put this kind of awful thing behind us. No such luck.”

  Tooley showed the group a close-up of the back of the woman’s head. A large, deep wound was visible, and the surrounding hair was matted with blood.

  “She sustained a sharp blow to the left parietal bone,” he said. “It was hard enough to crack the skull slightly. Probably caused concussion, maybe even a short interval of unconsciousness.”

  “What kind of object was used?” Riley asked.

  “Judging from the pulled hair and scraping, I’d say it was a blow from a heavy chain. Marla Blainey had the same kind of wound in about the same place.”

  Alford shook his head. “This guy is all about chains,” he said. “Reporters are already calling him the ‘chain killer.’”

  Lucy pointed to some tight close-ups of the woman’s abdomen.

  “Do you think she was beaten generally, over time?” she asked. “Those bruises look bad.”

  “They’re bad, all right, but they’re not from being beaten,” Tooley said. “She’s got contusions like that all over from being chained so tightly. Between the chains and how tight the straitjacket was, she spent a lot of time in severe pain. Same with Marla Blainey.”

  The group fell silent for a moment, mulling over the significance of this information.

  Finally Lucy said, “We know that he’s small and not very strong—and we’re assuming that it really is a ‘he.’ So it looks like he must’ve subdued each of the women with a single sharp blow to the head. When they were dazed or unconscious, he lugged them into a nearby vehicle.”

  Riley nodded with approval. It struck her as a good guess.

  “So how was she treated during her captivity?” Alford asked.

  Tooley shuffled the photos to reveal images of the dissected body.

  “Pretty badly,” he said. “I found almost no stomach contents. Not much in her intestines either. He must have kept her alive on water alone. But he probably wasn’t trying to starve her to death. That would have taken much longer. Maybe he was just trying to weaken her. Again, it was the same with Marla Blainey. The slashed throats were the decisive and fatal blows.”

  Another silence fell. There was little left for anyone to say, but much to think about. Riley’s head was abuzz with too many questions to ask. Why did the killer hold these women captive? The usual motives didn’t apply here. He didn’t torture or rape them. If he’d always intended to kill them, why had he taken his time about it? Did it take time for him to build up the will to do that?

  Obviously, she thought, the killer was obsessed with rendering his victims helpless. That gave him some kind of satisfaction. He’d probably suffered similar helplessness himself, maybe in childhood. She also suspected that he’d starved the victims for other reasons than simply to weaken them. Had the killer been starved himself at one time or another?

  Riley stifled a sigh. There were so many questions. There always were this early in a case. Meanwhile, there was a lot of work to do.

  *

  Two hours later, Riley was driving Alford’s loaner car south along the Hudson River, with Lucy as a passenger. They were on their way to Eubanks, the town where Marla Blainey had lived and was murdered. They had just left Rosemary Pickens’s house, where they had interviewed her two grown children.

  Riley reviewed the meeting in her mind. It hadn’t been very productive, and the distraught brother and sister hadn’t offered any solid information. They had no idea why their mother, always a kindly and helpful soul, would be targeted for such a brutal crime.

  Still, Riley was now glad that she had left much of the questioning to Lucy. Again, she was impressed by her new partner’s work—especially her ability to deal with people who were undergoing terrible shock and grief. Lucy had gently gotten the brother and sister to reminisce about their mother quite freely.

  Courtesy of Lucy’s sympathetic questions, a portrait of Rosemary Pickens was becoming clearer. She had been a loving, witty, and generous woman who would be badly missed by her family and everyone else in Reedsport. Riley knew how important it was to develop this kind of understanding of a murder victim. Lucy was definitely doing good work so far.

  As Riley drove along the two-lane road that bordered the wide Hudson River, she realized that she still knew very little about the talented young agent who was sitting beside her. Right now Lucy appeared to be deep in thought, undoubtedly considering the meager facts they had so far.

  “Tell me something about yourself, Lucy,” Riley said.

  “Like what?” Lucy asked, looking at Riley with surprise.

  Riley shrugged. “Well, you’re not married, I take it. Have you got a significant other?”

  “Not at the moment,” Lucy said.

  “How about the future?”

  Lucy thought quietly for a moment.

  “I don’t know, Riley,” she said at last. “I guess I’m not one for long-term attachments. Whenever I try to imagine life with a husband and kids, my mind just goes blank. Believe me, that kind of attitude doesn’t go down well with a Mexican-American family. Some of my brothers and sisters have already got kids. My parents expect the same from me. I’m afraid they’re going to be disappointed. But what can I do?”

  Lucy fell silent again. Then she said, “It’s just that I already love this job so much. There’s good work to be done. I want to give it everything I’ve got, make a real difference in the world. I don’t see how I could make time for anything else—not even a relationship. Does that sound selfish?”

  Riley smiled rather sadly.

  “Not selfish at all,” she said.

  By contrast, Riley had to wonder about her own choices. She’d tried to have it all—a marriage, a family, a demanding job. Had that been selfish of her? If she’d started off with Lucy’s priorities, might things be better?

  But then I wouldn’t have April, she thought. And April … April is worth the extra effort. She loved her daughter dearly and hoped that she hadn’t botched the job of raising her to be a genuinely good adult.

  A moment later they pulled into Eubanks. The town was larger than Reedsport, but it still wasn’t hard to find the modest but pleasant two-story house. Two men were sitting a swing chair on the front porch. They rose to their feet when Riley and Lucy got out of the car and walked toward the house. A stocky, uniformed man of about Riley’s age stepped forward to greet them.

  “I’m Dwight Slater, officer in charge here in Eubanks,” he said.

  Riley and Lucy introduced themselves. The other man was tall with a strong, friendly face.

  “This is Craig Blainey, Marla’s widower,” Slater said.

  Blainey greeted Riley and Lucy with a handshake.

  “Sit down, make yourselves comfortable,” he said in a startlingly deep and pleasant voice. It occurred to Riley that he might make a good preacher.

  Slater and Blainey sat back down on the swing chair, and Riley and Lucy sat in a pair of outdoor chairs facing it.

  Riley began with the essentials.

  “Mr. Blainey, it may seem strange for me to say so at this late date, but I’m very sorry for your loss. And I’m also sorry to have to dredge up what must be terrible memories. My partner and I will try to keep this short.”

  Blainey nodded.

  “I appreciate that,” he said. “But you should take as much time as you need. I understand there’s been a new murder up in Reedsport. I’m very sorry to hear it. But if I can do or say anything to put a stop to this monster, it will do my heart good.”

  Riley took out a notepad and began to write. She noticed that Lucy did the same.

  “What kind of work do you do, Mr. Blainey?” she asked.

  “I own a hardware store. It’s been in my family for a couple of generations. That tradition’s coming to an end with me, though.” His smile turned a bit melancholy. “My kids aren’t interested in ke
eping the family business going. Not that I can complain, they’re doing fine on their own. Jill’s studying at the University of Buffalo and Alex is a radio announcer over on Long Island.”

  A note of pride had come into his voice.

  Riley nodded to Lucy, a silent signal to go ahead and ask her own questions.

  “Do you have any other family here in Eubanks?” Lucy asked.

  “My brother and sister used to live here, and they’ve got kids of their own. But the whole thing with Marla …”

  Blainey paused for a moment to control a surge of emotion.

  “Well, this town was never the same for them after that. The memory was just too awful. They had to get away. Amy and her family resettled in Philadelphia, and Baxter and his family moved up to Maine.”

  Blainey shrugged and shook his head.

  “Don’t know why I didn’t feel the same way. I just felt all the more rooted here, for some reason. But then, I’m the type to remember the good times more than the bad. And Marla and I had a lot of good times here.”

  Blainey looked off into space with a wistful expression, lost for a moment in memories. Lucy spoke gently to bring him back to the present.

  “I understand that your wife was a corrections officer,” she said.

  “That’s right. In the men’s penitentiary across the river.”

  Riley could see that Lucy was thinking hard about how to pose her next question as delicately as possible.

  “Mr. Blainey, being a prison guard’s a tough job, even for a man,” Lucy said. “For a woman, it can be brutal. And whether you’re a man or a woman, it’s pretty much impossible not to make enemies. Some of those enemies can be very bad people. And they don’t stay in prison forever.”

  Blainey sighed and shook his head, still smiling sadly.

  “I know what you’re getting at,” he said. “It was the same five years ago. The police from Albany wanted to know about enemies she’d made there. They were just sure the killer had to be a former inmate with a personal grudge.”

  Dwight Slater looked at Lucy and Riley earnestly.

  “The thing is, I knew Marla Blainey really well,” Slater said. “She and Craig here were like family to me. And believe me, Marla wasn’t your stereotypical prison guard. You know the type I mean—sadistic, mean, corrupt. The truth is, a lot of people didn’t know what to make of her.”

  Blainey nodded in agreement and rose from the chair.

  “Come on inside,” he said. “I’ll show you a few things.”

  Riley, Lucy, and Slater all followed him into neat, comfortable living room. Blainey invited them to sit and make themselves comfortable. There were plenty of family pictures on the wall—picnics, graduations, births, weddings, school pictures. It was easy to see that Craig Blainey truly had surrounded himself with the best of memories.

  As Blainey opened a roll-top desk and shuffled through its contents, Riley’s eyes fell upon a photograph of Marla Blainey in her correction officer’s uniform. The woman was tall like her husband, with a similar strong, determined face. Even so, she had a smile that fairly lit up the living room even five years after her horrible death.

  When Blainey found what he’d been looking for, he handed Riley and Lucy each a couple of handwritten letters. Just a glance at the letters was enough to surprise Riley.

  They were thank-you messages from former inmates at the prison where Marla had worked. The men wrote to thank her for kindnesses she had showed them during their incarcerations—a word of encouragement, something to read, a bit of useful advice. The men had clearly put their criminal lives behind them. They felt that they owed at least a little of their success in the world outside to Marla.

  Blainey talked while they read.

  “I don’t want to give the impression that Marla had an easy time with her job, or that everybody liked her. She was surrounded all day long by bad people—liars and manipulators, most of them. She didn’t let herself get drawn into inappropriate friendships. She was a prison guard, and of course some of the prisoners had no use for her, actually hated her. Even so, I don’t think she ever made any real enemies, even there.”

  While Blainey spoke, Dwight Slater looked around the room, enjoying his own share of memories. He said, “I talk to the warden from time to time, and he still says she probably did more genuine good there than the social workers on his staff. She was like that with everybody.”

  Riley looked at Lucy and saw that she shared her surprise. Who would have thought that a female prison guard would have been such a beloved character? And why on earth had someone chosen to take her life in such a hideous manner?

  Blainey’s hospitable smile widened.

  “Well, I’m sure you’ve got more questions,” he said. “Would you like something to drink? Maybe some iced tea? I brewed some fresh just a little while ago.”

  “That would be nice,” Riley said.

  “Yes, please,” Lucy said.

  Riley nodded in agreement, but her mind was already elsewhere. She was beginning to feel familiar nudges just beneath her conscious awareness. She knew that her ability to get inside the mind of a murderer was rare, and she also knew that she was usually right about whatever came to her.

  That meant there was something else she really needed to see.

  Something important.

  Chapter 11

  A short time later, Riley and Lucy were in their car again, following along behind Slater. As always when approaching a crime scene, Riley felt her senses quicken into sharper alertness.

  It hadn’t been easy to persuade Slater to lead them there. As far as he was concerned, there was nothing at all to see—especially after all these years. Even so, Riley was anxious to get a look at the site where Marla Blainey’s body had been left. She knew that photographs couldn’t tell her what actual places sometimes could.

  A short distance out of town, the two-lane road crossed the railroad tracks and continued along the edge of the river. Slater pulled onto the shoulder of the road. Riley pulled their car in behind him.

  “I think this is where it was,” Slater said, getting out of his car. “It’s hard to remember after all these years.”

  “Let me look at those photos again,” Riley said.

  Slater handed her the folder full of photos of the Blainey crime scene. Riley peered through the trees at the side of the road. The bank sloped sharply down to the river’s edge, which was only about fifteen feet away.

  Riley compared the spot to a photo of the body that had been taken from the road. The underbrush had changed over the years, and for a moment it was hard to see any resemblance between the photo and the actual place.

  In the photo, she saw that Marla’s body, bound in chains and a straitjacket, lay in a heap against a fallen tree trunk. Riley stepped into the long grass beside the road. There it was, the same tree trunk down there next to the water’s edge.

  “You’re right, this is the place,” she told Slater. “How do you think he got the body down there?”

  Slater shrugged. “There wasn’t much to it,” he said. “He pulled his vehicle about where we are right now. Then he just rolled the body down the bank. The grass and brush were mashed down all the way.”

  He pointed to the photo Riley was holding.

  “You can see just the edge of a tire track right there on the shoulder,” he said. “Probably a van, but we couldn’t track down the vehicle. Nobody noticed the body for several days—not until someone saw buzzards circling.”

  As Riley compared the photo and the actual scene, she realized that she was standing on the exact spot where the killer had dumped the body. She gazed down the slope for a long moment, taking in the scene. She began to picture the chained and straitjacketed body rolling down the hill. Then she noticed that Lucy was staring at her intently. It struck her as odd. She returned Lucy’s gaze with quizzical look.

  “Oh, I’m sorry for staring,” Lucy said, a bit embarrassed. “It’s just that … well, I’ve heard you’ve go
t uncanny instincts when you’re at a crime scene. They say it’s like you get right into a killer’s head, feel what he felt, see what he saw, understand exactly what he was thinking.”

  Riley didn’t know what to say. She often did, indeed, become deeply absorbed in crime scenes. And her capacity to identify with a killer’s perspective sometimes disturbed even her. It was just her way of doing things, but Lucy was making it sound like an almost legendary skill. It made Riley feel uncomfortable and self-conscious.

  In any case, she wasn’t getting any vibes from where she was standing, no sense of the killer’s thoughts. She didn’t know whether that was because the place was too nondescript or because of the other people watching.

  “Hold this for a moment,” she told Lucy, handing her the folder.

  Then Riley scrambled down the slope, leaving Lucy and Slater watching in surprise.

  “You be careful,” Slater called after her.

  “Do you want me to come too?” Lucy asked.

  “No, I’m okay,” Riley called back. “You stay there.”

  The slope was steep and more treacherous than it looked from the roadside. She stumbled down against brush and branches, scraping herself a good bit along the way. The sharp descent was also a stern reminder that she was still hurting from her recent injuries. Muscles that had just started to feel better suddenly began to ache again.

  Finally, she reached the bottom of the slope. She stood beside the fallen log, only about a yard away from the water’s edge. This was it—the place where Marla’s body had fallen and stayed until it was discovered. The quiet was interrupted by the noise of a speedboat tearing down the river a short distance away. Its wake of gentle wavelets broke against the log, then died away into stillness.

  Drawing upon the memory of the photo, Riley pictured Marla’s body lying at her feet. She could see it clearly. She also realized that, if not for the log, the body would probably have kept right on rolling into the river. It had only gotten caught here by accident. Working in the dark, the killer might not have even realized that the body hadn’t gone all the way into the water.