by Roger Hayden
“Took his eyes…” Sterling said, pointing to the bloodied holes where his eyes used to be. “Another trophy, perhaps?”
Upon closer examination, Dobson could see that she was right. His eyes hadn’t been stabbed out, as he had thought. They had been taken. They had one victim with a missing head, another reportedly scalped, and now their latest victim was missing his eyes. Dobson could not make sense of the sick reasoning behind any of it, but it did point to a ruthless killer who showed no signs of slowing down.
He pulled a mini-flashlight from his pocket and shined it onto Gordon’s face. Glancing down, he noticed some blockage inside Gordon’s open mouth.
“I’ve got something here,” he said, surprised.
Sterling leaned closer over the seat to get a better look. In the back of his throat, just above the windpipe, something was stuck.
“Well, here goes nothing,” Dobson said, sweeping the inside of Gordon’s mouth with his index finger. He pulled out the paper, sticky with saliva, and examined it.
“What’s that?” Sterling asked.
“A ball of crumpled paper,” Dobson said. They exchanged glances, knowing what it was. They wanted to ignore it just for a moment.
Sterling tried to distract herself. “When did he leave his place?” she asked.
“We don’t know,” Dobson answered. “Got a call from Detective Harris. Gordon was already gone. Police received an anonymous tip that he was in danger, just like before.”
He hesitated to unravel the paper balled in his hand. He knew he wasn’t going to like what it was. Finally, unable to postpone it any longer, he carefully unraveled the revolting paper, exposing a familiar message tossed across the room with contempt by Gordon himself.
He looked at Sterling in grim acceptance and held the letter up. “I knew it. The damn chain letter…” He took a step back from the car, visibly distressed and talking to himself. “The same one he had tossed out. Did I doubt the connection? Not at all. But somehow I still didn’t take it seriously enough.” He folded the letter and stuck it in his pocket.
Sterling walked around the front of the car and approached him, concerned. “We don’t know what it means yet.”
Dobson spun around, balling his fist. “That letter was a red flag. Now another person is dead, and we’re standing out here with our dicks in the wind!”
“We can catch him,” Sterling said with confidence.
Dobson turned away and waved her off. “What do you know? You’re just a rookie.”
Her stunned, hurt expression made him immediately regret the words. “Look…” he said with a sigh. “I’m sorry.” He paused, glancing at Gordon’s body. “Frankly, I think we should let someone else take over the case.”
With that, he turned away and began to walk back to his car.
“Detective Dobson?” Sterling shouted out. “Where are you going?”
He stopped at the corner of the building and placed a hand upon its surface, leaning. “Back to the station to bring Captain Nelson up to speed.”
“And then what?” she asked.
“Get on TV and warn anyone who has received this chain letter to go into hiding. Then I’m going home.” Angered and dejected, he continued toward his car as Sterling chased after him.
“We can’t just leave him here!” she said, closing in.
Dobson stopped at the hood of his car and turned around. “You want this case? It’s yours.”
Sterling slowed and then halted, leaning over with her hands on her knees and catching her breath. “You know that’s not what I meant. What happened to Gordon McDonnel is not your fault. We weren’t sure who we were dealing with.”
Dobson raised his hand and cut her off. “No. I remember, Detective Sterling. You may be too polite to point it out, but I remember.”
She looked at him, confused.
“You wanted to watch McDonnel. I wanted to go home. You were right. I was wrong. I’m being genuine when I say that you should take over the case. You have my full vote of confidence.”
Sterling shook her head, completely baffled. “That’s not going to happen.”
“I’ll see you at the station,” Dobson said, turning to his car and opening the driver’s side door with a wave. “Hasta manana.”
“What is wrong with you?” she asked.
Dobson suddenly slammed his door closed, startling her. “What’s wrong? I’ve got a daughter fighting for her life every day while I’m out here knee deep in broken glass and weeds. I’m done with it.”
A silence fell between them as Sterling folded her hands together and spoke. “I’m sorry to hear that.”
Dobson saw a look of genuine sadness on her face, reminding him of the daughter he had just mentioned.
“It’s okay,” he said. “And I’m sorry for losing my temper.”
“I’m fine. No harm done,” she said as Dobson stood at his car, conflicted. “Did you still want to leave?” she asked. “I know we can catch this guy. I’m sure of it. But there’s no way I can do it alone.”
Dobson glanced up at the peaceful blue sky above, let out a long sigh, and then looked back at Sterling. “First, we have to figure out how this factory ties into everything. Second, we need to know how he is tracking us. And third…” Dobson stopped to catch his breath. “Third, we have to report this.”
Sterling nodded and pulled the cell phone from her pocket.
“I’ve got it,” Dobson said, holding up his own.
He wondered what he would tell them. It looked like McDonnel’s killer had either forced him to come to the factory or had lured him there under false pretenses. From there he was bound, tortured, and stabbed to death multiple times.
He swiped through his contacts and called Detective Harris, who answered on the second ring.
“Did you come to your senses yet, Mike?”
“It’s just like I feared, Jack. Gordon McDonnel is dead.”
A brief pause occurred on Harris’s end. “What happened?”
“I found him at the plastic factory over here on Old Industrial Way, stabbed to death.”
“Wait, wait, wait. I don’t understand,” Jack said. “Isn’t he the killer?”
“No. That’s what I was trying to explain to you. But it gets worse. The killer knew that I was here. He called the station and left a message for Detective Sterling to meet me here.”
“Crap!” It took several seconds before he said anything else. “We’ll get a team out there ASAP. Maybe catch the bastard before he goes back into hiding.”
Dobson looked around, glancing from the holes in the side of the factory to the surrounding woods. There didn’t seem to be a soul around, but it felt eerie to think that they might be being watched.
“Thanks,” Dobson said. “We’ll be waiting here.” He hung up and began to walk back to Gordon’s car as Sterling followed.
“What’s the plan?” she asked.
“They’ll be here soon. Let’s take another look.”
Flies had begun to gather as the increasingly noxious smell of Gordon’s corpse wafted through the air. Dobson slowly circled the car and asked Sterling to search the area for footprints. As she walked away, he opened the passenger side of the car and looked inside again. He saw that the keys were still in the ignition.
The car was in Park and the engine had been shut off. Dobson rose near the passenger seat when he heard a buzzing vibration from the glove compartment, startling him. He paused, initially unsure where the sound was coming from, and then he heard another buzzing. He leaned into the car and opened the glove compartment, surprised to see a cell phone inside, ringing.
“Sterling!” he called out. “Come over here.”
She rushed over as he took the phone and examined its flashing screen. The name said Cooper. Dobson hesitated a bit more, deciding that he couldn’t stall any longer.
“Hello?”
“Gordon?” a frantic man’s voice said.
“No, this isn’t Gordon,” Dobson said. “Who
am I speaking to?”
He was met with a seemingly stunned pause. “Um. This is Cooper. Who the hell are you?”
“You know Gordon McDonnel?” Dobson asked.
“Seriously, who is this?” the voice responded.
“My name is Detective Dobson with the Summerville Homicide Unit. I’m afraid Mr. McDonnel isn’t available to talk.”
“What?” Cooper said. “What happened? Is he okay?”
“Who am I talking to?” Dobson asked. “And how do you know Mr. McDonnel?”
Hearing Sterling’s approach, he pulled the phone away from his ear and pressed the speaker button.
“We’re old friends,” the man continued. “I just talked to him last night about this stupid chain letter we both got.”
Dobson’s eyes lit up as he glanced at Sterling. “Chain letter?” he said.
“Yeah,” Cooper continued. “Got it in the mail a few days ago.”
“Where do you live?” Dobson asked immediately.
“Leesburg,” Cooper said tensely. “A few miles away from his place. What happened?”
“Give us your address, and we’ll be right over to explain,” Dobson said.
“Wait. I want to know what happened. Was he hurt?”
“I can’t provide that information right now.”
The man sighed over the phone as Dobson pulled a notepad and pen from his pocket, prepared to write down notes.
The Family
Dobson drove down Old Industrial Way with Sterling gripping the armrest as the car bounced across the uneven road. The police were on their way to the abandoned factory just as he was in a rush to leave it. He had other priorities now. “Cooper” lived roughly eight miles away. The pattern of both Betsy Wade and Gordon McDonnel’s murder convinced Dobson that the killings were not random and that the killer possibly lived in Leesburg. He wasn’t an outsider at all, or so it seemed.
The pieces to the broadening puzzle were almost too much to keep up with. The department would need to release a statement about the killings. The town would have to be placed on alert. So much needed to be done and it was already past eleven.
“Ignore everything you’ve see me do today,” Dobson said as he skidded through a particularly tight curve at top speed. “I’m not setting a good example.”
Sterling turned her head. “You mean leaving the scene of a murder before the police arrive?”
“Exactly,” he said as they emerged onto a paved road, speeding past an intersection of flashing yellow lights.
“Leaving because we have to talk to this Cooper guy,” she said.
“That’s correct.”
“And he received a chain letter too?”
Dobson made a gun with his hand and pointed at her. “That’s what he said.”
Sterling nodded. “I don’t see anything wrong with following that up.”
Dobson suddenly jerked the car to the left lane and passed a semi-truck. Overhead trees raced by, reflecting on the windshield and offering temporary shade from the bright sky. His dashboard GPS said eight miles to 513 Vernon Street, an upscale residential area he was somewhat familiar with. Not much happened on Vernon Street, and Dobson couldn’t think of a more unlikely destination for an ambush, if that’s what they were heading into. Who knew who this Cooper guy really was? Dobson couldn’t help but feel a little paranoid, especially knowing that he had been tracked at least once at the factory. He wasn’t prepared to take any chances.
In the back seat sat Gordon’s cell phone placed within a plastic Ziploc bag and the crumpled up chain letter next to it in another. Had the killer left Gordon’s phone intentionally or just didn’t even realize that it was there?
Dobson had seen plenty of murders in his career, but nothing quite disturbed him like the quick mental flashes of Gordon’s butchered body sitting upright in his own car, seatbelt across his chest. The worst part was his missing eyes. He didn’t even look human. Dobson snapped out of his train of thought once he noticed Sterling still looking at him.
“What?” he said, glancing at her.
“I’m sorry,” she said, looking away. “There’s just a lot I still don’t know about you. A lot we don’t know about each other.”
Dobson shrugged as they slowed at a three-way stop, with more traffic around. “That’s not important right now.”
“It matters,” she said back, her boldness surprising him. “I’m trying to understand your investigative approach. You’ve been with Homicide a long time.”
“I’ll tell you one thing,” he said, shaking his head. “I don’t think I’ve dealt with a case like this in my entire fifteen years.”
“Here I thought I was being transferred to a nice, quiet town.”
They neared a long line of traffic with a slow-moving cement truck at the lead, reminding Dobson of how much he hated two-lane residential roads. He searched the incoming lane and saw a moment of opportunity as traffic steadily approached from the opposite side at a distance. He swerved into the lane and gunned it past traffic, slamming the gas.
Incoming traffic got closer, and for a moment it didn’t look like they were going to make it. Sterling gripped her armrest again, seemingly petrified. Dobson’s heart jolted as the front of a van entered his view, too close for comfort. He sped forward and swerved back into his lane, cutting off the cement truck.
The van blared its horn and zipped past them, inches from a collision. As they straightened out and slowed their speed, Sterling threw her arm down in protest.
“Do you always drive like a maniac?”
“Sometimes,” he said. “When the situation calls for it.”
Dobson slowed and turned right, entering a neighborhood of nice-looking homes, freshly cut grass, and a small public park. They were only a few miles away from their destination when Dobson’s cell phone rang from the center console. One glance at the screen, and he could see that the caller was Captain Nelson. There was no more ignoring his calls.
“Yes sir,” he said, answering the phone.
“Don’t ‘yes sir’ me, Dobson. Where the hell are you?”
“Just leaving the old factory,” he began.
“Yeah, so I heard. Sergeant Peterson just showed. Said you were gone. You want to tell me what’s so damn important that you would leave?”
“I received a tip from a friend of the victim. We’re going over to his house to talk to him now. It’s urgent.”
“Is that so?” Captain Nelson said, unconvinced.
“We’ve got to move quickly if there’s any chance of catching this guy,” Dobson said
“You get a handle on things before I have you assigned to desk duty for the rest of your abled-bodied career. Got it?”
Finishing his five years at a desk sounded tempting enough, but Dobson walked the line. Solving this case had become his priority in a sea of open cases; none gripped him the way a serial killer at large did.
“Tracking, sir,” he said.
Nelson began spelling out a list of things he wanted Dobson to do when suddenly he received another call beeping in. This time it was Harris.
“I’ve got to go, sir. We’ll update you soon.” He switched the call before Nelson could go any further. On the other line, Harris didn’t seem any happier.
“What’s the deal, Mike? You’ve got us all on pins and needles here.”
Dobson slowed at a stop sign just as a bicyclist sped past them. The GPS indicated that they were two blocks from their destination.
“I’m meeting with a guy who knew McDonnel,” he responded, phone to his ear. “Shouldn’t take much longer.”
“You know that Gabby’s at Betsy Wade’s house with Forensics wondering where the hell you are, right?”
Dobson clenched his teeth with his stress level increasing. “I’m confident she can hold down the fort until I figure this thing out.”
“Well…” Harris began. “I’ll tell her that you might be a while.”
Dobson nodded. “I won’t let you guys down. Pro
mise.” He thanked Harris and quickly hung up as they neared a two-story brick house with black numbers posted on a white mailbox, clear as day. They had arrived at 513.
Dobson slowed down and set his phone down. “No more calls, please.”
“Are we in trouble?” Sterling asked, concerned.
“Nah,” he answered, waving her off. “I might be, but you’re fine.”
He pulled into the home’s driveway and parked behind a shiny black Dodge Ram with a mini-van parked next to it. The lawn was entirely green, with plenty of space between the houses on either side. The residence was a stark contrast to Betsy Wade’s cluttered home or Gordon McDonnel’s second-story apartment. Whoever lived here made a good living. Dobson, however, still had his suspicions.
The front of the house had six windows, three at the top story and three at the bottom. At the entrance, there was a sizable front deck with a wooden guardrail and a roof over it. Several wicker chairs and potted plants covered the deck. Lights were on in some of the windows and off in others. From the second floor, Dobson saw a man peek outside from behind the curtains and then disappear.
“Looks like he made us,” he said, turning off the ignition. He and Sterling opened their doors and stepped out.
“Nice house,” Sterling said.
“Let’s hope this guy is who he says he is,” Dobson said, approaching the house.
Sterling pointed toward the closed garage door where two children’s bikes sat outside. “He’s got kids.”
They followed a brick path leading toward the front door as a hulky man stepped outside to greet them with short, slicked-back hair and dressed nicely in white pants and a yellow polo shirt.
“Detective Dobson?” he asked, approaching them with caution.
“Yes,” Dobson said.
The man stuck his hand out. “I’m Cooper Erickson. Nice to meet you.”
They shook hands firmly as Dobson turned to Sterling and introduced her.
Cooper shook Sterling’s hand and then spoke to them both. “You might recognize the name. I’m the owner of Erickson Developers.”
Dobson thought to himself. The name did seem familiar. He’d seen signs throughout town. The Erickson’s were a land development company, a well-established family business that had been around for decades. That would explain the house, for starters.