Murder Mountain

by Stacy Dittrich

  I called the bank that foreclosed on Karen Cummings’s house to see if they kept an itemized list of things that were auctioned off. They did, but only kept it for six months. We were still circulating the photos of the suspects through Roseland, but came up with nothing. The people who did recognize the tall guy only knew him as Big Al, as Jarrod had said. We had somewhat of a break when Michael called the FBI to check on the Chatham County Sheriff’s Office.

  It turned out that two years before they had opened an investigation into police corruption and meth labs going on with Sheriff’s Office involvement. The investigation began with several anonymous tips and ended when they failed to get any cooperation or witnesses to substantiate the claim.

  Spending as much time as we did together, I gathered up the courage to ask Michael about his wife. He had been married for six years and had a four-year-old son. His wife was a bank teller in downtown Cleveland.

  “My marriage was over two years ago. I only stayed for my son’s sake. My wife has always hated my job and has lately become downright resentful of it. I came to a point I had to admit to myself I was no longer in love with her.” He was solemn.

  But instead of leaving, he dove into his work more. He also added that it’s been a long time since a woman distracted him, or he’s been around one that’s he’s comfortable with.

  “I, essentially, closed off the outside world as far as romance goes, I didn’t look, and I didn’t care, until the day I met you, Cee.” He sighed. “You stirred up emotions I haven’t felt in years. What else could I do but take notice?”

  I never did respond to his disclosure when he told me, I merely stayed in my chair and remained silent. It disturbed me so much I immediately turned the conversation back to the case, which I think hurt him a little. It didn’t matter; he got to me that day. More than ever, I found my feelings for him growing at an alarming rate.

  This case, and Michael, consumed me so deeply that even Eric took notice. He was constantly telling me how distracted I was, how moody I was, and kept asking me if I was okay. I kept telling him I was fine, so he didn’t push the issue. I was hurting him too, and it was killing me. Eric and I always marveled at how strong our marriage was and how it would never break. Now we are beginning to find out we aren’t super-human after all.

  Michael and I were seated on the floor of my office one afternoon surrounded by piles of paperwork. We had gotten take-out from the local root beer stand for lunch. I was eating a salad when I heard Michael mumble something.

  “What?” I demanded.

  He started laughing.

  “What!” I repeated, missing the joke.

  Michael grabbed a napkin, reached over, and wiped the side of my mouth.

  “You’ve got salad dressing on your face,” he smiled.

  “Great. Thanks,” I mumbled, thoroughly embarrassed.

  I went back to eating my salad, and out of the corner of my eye, I noticed movement by the door. Looking up, I saw Eric standing in the doorway. He didn’t say a word and he had a weird look on his face. He saw the salad-dressing wipe, no doubt about it. Michael turned to see what I was looking at. He recognized Eric from my pictures, got off the floor, and walked over to Eric to introduce himself. Eric stood rigidly, but shook Michael’s hand, remaining silent.

  The tension in my office right then was so thick it would take a chainsaw to cut it. I couldn’t talk, either. I was so embarrassed, and felt so awkward, that I didn’t know what to say. I’d never been in a situation like this before in my life. What was even worse was that I hadn’t done anything wrong. I forced myself to act natural, got off the floor, and walked over to Eric. I gave him a kiss on the cheek.

  “Hey, baby. What are you doing?” I said sweetly, really wondering why he was there.

  “I told you I had court this afternoon,” he said, glaring at me.

  “I’m sorry. I forgot. How was it?”

  “I can see how you forgot, but it was court; it was fine,” he said this glancing at Michael, who had walked back over to our paperwork file, then went on, “I just stopped to say hi, didn’t mean to interrupt. I have to go now. I have to pick up the girls.”

  “Okay. You sure you don’t want something to eat, there’s plenty,” I offered.

  Eric, who’d started to walk down the hallway, turned around and gave me one of the nastiest looks I have ever seen. “No, I lost my appetite. I’ll see you later.” He turned around and left.

  I was upset, to say the least. Eric was clearly hurt by what he had seen. I could’ve argued with him until the end of time that he was being paranoid. The problem with that was that Eric was smart and sensed something between Michael and me. For me to call Eric paranoid would be disrespectful to him. I glanced over at Michael, who was now standing at the window. He turned around and I could see that he was a little upset, also.

  This was crazy. Three people were hurt and upset in a matter of five minutes over nothing. Michael and I were doing absolutely nothing (at least that’s what I kept telling myself.) I was sick to my stomach over Eric. We rarely argued, let alone had something like this happen. The bottom line was that if I had seen what Eric had, I would’ve flipped out. Eric handles things better than I do. If he were spending all his time with an attractive woman, and I happened upon the two of them eating, with the attractive woman wiping his mouth off, I would’ve gone off the deep end; especially if I suspected there were growing feelings between the two, which I knew he was aware of.

  Thinking in those terms, I was so upset I wanted to end the day and go home. Something such as this could also bring about a conversation between Michael and me about our feelings that I didn’t want any part of. In my mind, if we didn’t discuss it or act on it we were not guilty of anything. The second we engaged in conversation, the line would be crossed.

  “That went well,” Michael said, breaking the ice.

  I said nothing.

  “CeeCee, I feel like what happened, just now, was my fault,” he said quietly.

  “What did just happen, Michael?”

  “I think we both know; we just haven’t come out and said it,” he started, before I put my hand up and stopped him.

  “Nothing happened. Nothing. We were eating lunch and that’s it. We work together. That’s it. Nothing else. Eric must’ve been having a bad day. Drop it,” I said angrily.

  I decided, right then, that I didn’t want to work with Michael anymore. If I couldn’t control my emotions around him, then he would have to go.

  I was thinking of a way to tell him of my decision, when he began to apologize. “CeeCee, I’m sorry...” he said, but he was interrupted by my phone ringing.

  I went over to my desk and picked up the phone. “Detective Gallagher? It’s dispatch. We need you to respond to a homicide over at the old reformatory.”

  “The old reformatory? Was this cleared by Captain Kincaid? I’m tied up on Detective Boscerelli’s murder right now.”

  “She’s the one that called for you.”

  “Who is the victim?”

  I heard her shuffle papers. “Let’s see; oh, here it is. Victim is Matt Hensley. A tour guide found him in one of the old cells about an hour ago.”

  My blood ran cold. I remembered Matt making me promise that nothing would happen to him. So much for my promises. The reformatory? How did anyone get in there?

  The Ohio State Reformatory in Mansfield was a former maximum-security prison that closed in the mid-nineties when the state built a new prison nearby. It also boasts the largest standing cellblock in the country. The local historical society got together to keep the prison as a historical building and tourist site. Several major motion pictures have been filmed there and numerous television shows have aired documentaries on the building. With a reputation for having ghosts, the prison had set up a “Haunted Prison” tour during the entire month of October. People from all over the country traveled to Mansfield to take the tour. Whoever did that sort of thing had actually listed it as one of the scaries
t places in America.

  There’s no explanation, however, of how Matt Hensley’s killer or killers got into the place. It’s locked up most of the time. Why would they take him there, or kill him there? The phone rang again.

  “CeeCee? It’s Kincaid. Did you get the message to come out here?”

  “Yeah, I did. What is going on? How the hell did they get in out there?” I said this looking at Michael, who was obviously curious as to what was happening.

  “We don’t know yet, but be prepared. The case has been leaked to the media and they’re all over the place down here. Especially as it’s at the reformatory, I guess it adds a little mystery. So there are about ten news stations here, five national news, helicopters, and about two hundred people standing at the gates. It’s a circus. The sheriff and the chief are on their way here to give a statement. Apparently, Andrea Dean’s mother is up at the gates, talking to the reporters. They think this is all about a serial killer who is stalking local women. They don’t even know the victim at the reformatory is a male, so the sheriff may ask you to give a statement.” She said this all in a rush, sounding out of breath.

  “Andrea Dean got her big mouth honestly, it seems,” I observed dryly. “This is great; I can’t have the media breathing down my neck on this thing. How was Matt killed?”

  “It was bad. They found him with his wrists tied to the top bunk in one of the old cells. He was disemboweled. It’s pretty messy. Crime lab is already on scene.”

  “I’m on my way,” I said, motioning for Michael to follow me and telling him I would fill him in while we were in the car.

  When I turned onto Reformatory Road, the long drive that leads up to the prison, the sight before me took my breath away. Hundreds of people crowded around the place. I saw news people, radio people, citizens, cops, and local officials. All they had to do was add some balloons and clowns and we would have definitely had a circus.

  “Oh my God,” I gasped.

  “Holy shit,” Michael agreed, rolling his window down.

  We were swarmed as we neared the front gates. Media people know what a detective car looks like. It seemed as if dozens ran up to both sides of us.

  “Are you with law enforcement? Can you tell us anything?”

  “Is it true there’s a violent killer of women in the area?”

  “Can you give us a statement?”

  “Do you think the prison itself, and its ghosts, are responsible?”

  It was so bad I had to get on my radio and call for a uniform to clear the drive so we could get in. In the twenty seconds I waited, I believe I had thirty flash bulbs and ten news cameras put in my face.

  I pulled in front of the main entrance and parked by the coroner’s van. Kincaid was standing on the front steps, waiting. She informed us that the cell Matt was found in was located on the second floor of the east wing.

  The prison itself was a massive, gothic-looking structure, and I found myself thinking it was certainly a suitable scene for a murder. I had been inside it before, and each visit still gave me the creeps. We walked the long hallways to the cellblock area, and once we arrived there, we started up the steps to the second level. Paint hung off the cell bars and all the other metal fixtures in large, flaking pieces that added to the creepiness. The cellblock area is open, and once we were on the second level, we could look over the caged railings down to the main floor. I didn’t like heights, and by instinct, I grabbed Michael’s arm, emerging a look of surprise on his face.

  The cell Matt was found in was about the size of a closet and was covered with rust and flaking paint. It would be difficult for the crime lab people to process the scene because only one person could work in there comfortably. When I poked my head in the cell and saw Matt I thought I might vomit.

  “Jesus!” I said, “Why do they have to be so goddamn brutal? A quick shot in the head works fine, too.”

  Matt was facing the door, each wrist bound to the metal posts of the rusted top bunk. Almost in crucifixion style, his head was slumped forward and his legs were bent.

  His insides had been opened up and had spilled down his front legs onto the floor. The scene looked right out of a horror movie, except for the smell. When I was little, I would watch my father put his uniforms in a garbage bag in the garage after he was on the scene of a dead body. I always tried to ask him what a dead body smelled like and his answer was always the same.

  “There’s no other smell like it, it’s like trying to describe a color,” he would say.

  The answer used to frustrate me until I became a cop and realized what he was talking about. There is no other smell like that on earth.

  Matt’s corpse had been there for a while, and I smelled it when we were walking up the steps. As I stood in the doorway of the cell, it blasted me.

  “How long has he been here?” I asked.

  “I don’t know,” Kincaid shook her head. “The last tour group was five days ago, and he obviously wasn’t here then. Anywhere from three to four days, I would guess. I talked to the head of the historical society, and he said the building is so big and old that there would be hundreds of places where someone could gain access into it. It’s not as if it has an alarm or anything, but I’ve got the other detectives scouring the whole building. If you didn’t know, this is your case. This was your biggest informant.”

  Right, and one of my only witnesses, I thought. How convenient. These people were really starting to fray my nerves. Now they were to the point of making it into a game, playing with me. Why else would they kill him here, except to mock us.

  “Someone checking into the guy that found him? Getting a statement?” I asked.

  “Already being done. The sheriff and the chief should be here by now. We need to go down there and see them.”

  Michael had stayed quiet and continued to look at Matt. I had to nudge him to get his attention. The crime lab photographer was in the cell taking pictures, so there wasn’t much we could do at this end. We walked back to the front entrance and found the sheriff and the chief. I introduced them to Michael.

  “CeeCee, I don’t know if Naomi passed this along,” Chief Raines told me, “but you’re probably going to have to give the press a statement. The sheriff and I will talk to them first, with you and Agent Hagerman standing with us. You know the investigation, so they can ask you the questions. Keep the answers simple, they don’t have to know everything.”

  “I’m a little concerned about them knowing anything at all,” I said, scowling. “Has the captain filled you in on the case?”

  They both nodded.

  “Everyone that is a witness is getting killed,” I went on. “My biggest concern is, I think, that the Chatham County Sheriff’s Department believes I am done with the Lizzie Johnston case. If they are involved, which I think they are, I am basically telling them on the news that they are suspects. Now, Matt Hensley being killed here in Ohio adds to my belief the others were killed here, too. These people don’t want us going to West Virginia for any reason. That’s why they don’t do their bad business there.”

  “Let’s tell them that you are investigating a series of disappearances and homicides that may be connected to a narcotics investigation,” Sheriff Stephens suggested. “Tell them we have no concrete evidence at this time to support that theory, and that the investigation is still on-going. Tell them that any further disclosures may compromise the course of the investigation.”

  “Let’s get this over with,” said Chief Raines unenthusiastically, and we headed for the front gate.

  The media acted like a group of vultures that hadn’t eaten in a month. They ran up to the gate, yelling, screaming, and snapping pictures. The citizens took their places directly behind the press. It took the sheriff five minutes to get them quiet enough for him to give his statement. When he told them the investigation was being assisted by the FBI, they went into a frenzy, shouting claims that the sheriff wasn’t telling them everything. They demanded to know if this investigation was linked to B
oz’s murder.

  Then I gave my statement, and they attacked me worse than they had the sheriff. We walked away hearing loud accusations of a cover-up.

  Sheriff Stephens pulled me over to the side, alone. “CeeCee, we need to solve this case, and we need to solve it soon. It’s only a matter of time before the press puts the whole shebang together, and when they do, we’re going to have problems. I’ve already had two commissioners call me on my cell phone. We need to get this solved.”

  “I know,” was all I could think to say.

  Chapter Nine

  After leaving the reformatory and dropping Michael off at his car, I went to my office. I called my mother in Cleveland and asked her if she would drive down, pick up the girls, and take them back to her house for a week. Then I called Eric. He was very short with me on the phone and didn’t have much to say.

  Michael and I had barely spoken on the ride back from the reformatory. I’d told him I was going home. I didn’t want him involved in any part of what I was going to do. I had devised a plan, an extreme one that would put my family and me in jeopardy. I was going to bait the person or persons whom I thought to be at the center of this case. It wouldn’t be hard. It would take five minutes, but the ramifications of my actions would almost certainly be hard-felt and long lasting, the biggest (or stupidest) risk I have ever taken in my career. I knew that whatever took place would not happen for at least eight hours, at the minimum. My children would be out of harm’s way by then, and Eric worked nights. I was all set.

  I set the hard-copy photograph of the two suspects on the fax machine. I then typed a cover letter, attention to Captain John VanScoy, requesting his assistance in the identification of the two, with the utmost urgency. I added that we were close to an arrest, but needed this “loose end” tied up. Then I faxed the photo and the cover letter through to the Chatham County Sheriff’s Office. I let out a deep breath, unaware that I had been holding it for so long.

  If I were right, this would set off a rash of suspicions and paranoia on their end. I anticipated becoming a target over the next several days—if I wasn’t already. At the bottom of the letter, I also wrote in bold letters, “Tell me about Murder Mountain?”