The Suicide House

by Charlie Donlea

  Back when he was a student at Westmont Prep, easily influenced and intimidated, his fear kept him away. But there was no fear inside of him tonight. Now he was merely curious to learn everything he could about the myth. But as he paged through his research and scrolled through the websites that described the legend of the Man in the Mirror, he realized that in addition to his curiosity there was something else fueling his hunger. On a warm summer night, in the cool chill of his basement, he was finally able to define the emotion.

  It was anger.

  PART III

  August 2020

  CHAPTER 15

  CLAUSTROPHOBIA, SOCIAL ANXIETY, AND THE NAGGING NEED TO FOREVER be in control of her environment made air travel something Rory Moore avoided whenever possible, and something she did badly when it was mandatory. She had tried a little bit of everything over the years. From meditation (which drew the attention of other passengers instead of the opposite, desired, result) to pharmaceuticals (Benadryl and Advil PM had caused a violent vomiting fit that made one flight, in particular, more unpleasant than any other) to cold-turkey-suck-it-up-sit-in-the-middle-seat-and-deal-with-it (once, only once, and never, ever again).

  Coach seating—three across, packed in like limp sardines and crawling over one another to use a tiny bathroom shared by two hundred other passengers—had for years been out of the question. Once, when Rory and Lane were needed in New York for a case related to the Murder Accountability Project, a wealthy client had agreed to charter a flight for them after Lane explained that it was the only way to get them to the East Coast. Lane, of course, could have gone alone. He could have booked a commercial flight and read a book for two hours like everyone else. But he didn’t. He insisted on a private charter, and he got it. Rory loved him for more than just his good looks and his fierce mind. The man accepted her despite all of her suffocating peculiarities. He loved her just the way she was built and had never tried to rebuild her, as so many others in her life had attempted—from shrinks to teachers to law school roommates and professors.

  When a terribly expensive private plane was not an option, however, first class was the next best thing. She chose the window seat, and by the time her seatmate joined her, Rory had barricaded herself with two pillows and a blanket. She had Lane’s dissertation from his PhD days on her lap, and the prominent display of its title—Some Choose Darkness—was like a homeowner hanging a plastic owl on the side of their house to scare off woodpeckers. For good measure, Rory wore a surgical mask. A quick glance at the lady in 2A gave the image of a serial killer reading a How-To manual who either was trying to keep at bay the germs floating through the recirculated air so she could live long enough to make her next kill or was herself sick with the plague.

  Rory knew she was no treat to sit next to on an airplane, but her efforts paid off. The gentleman in 2B sat down without a word, and for the entire three-hour flight to Miami, he never attempted conversation.

  CHAPTER 16

  LANE’S INVITATION FOR RORY TO JOIN HIM ON HIS ASSIGNMENT IN Indiana was charming, and the more she thought of it as she drove north from Miami International Airport, the more his words ignited emotions that Rory preferred dormant. She had no immediate family left to spend time with, so the clinical and analytical portion of her brain told her it was a waste of energy to feel guilty for missed opportunities with them. But the emotional segment of her mind told her not to repeat the mistakes of her past by neglecting the single relationship that remained in her life. Rory wondered, after the events of the previous year, if her life needed some serious tending to. Perhaps some readjustment of priorities and some self-reflection on the things that mattered to her.

  Come with me.

  Lane’s words echoed in her mind, and she was helpless to quiet them. She attempted to channel her feelings into a corner of her brain where she could cover them and store them and keep them at bay the way she did with other troubling thoughts that constantly bombarded her and threatened to derail her life. Every day brought a funneling twister of emotions. It was how her brain waves fired. If she wasn’t worrying, she was obsessing. And if she wasn’t obsessing, she was planning. Her mind never really settled down. There was always a low hum of activity going on in her head. Over the years she had learned to manage this affliction by compartmentalizing her thoughts. The obsessive compulsion that begged for her to perform mundane and redundant tasks, such as checking her speedometer now and making sure her headlights were on, were packed away into a part of her brain that allowed her not so much to ignore the urges but to stow them on layaway. She stored those desires in a place in her mind that prevented them from interfering with daily life. Then, later, she pulled off the dustcover when she had a place to deposit the yearnings in a neat and orderly fashion. A place where those thoughts could run free until they fizzled out without further affecting her life. This process bought Rory time. It allowed her to live her life free from the superfluous demands of her mind.

  One outlet Rory used for this purpose was studying case files as a forensic reconstructionist. The repetition of reading and rereading interview transcripts, reviewing autopsy summaries until she had each page stored as an image in her mind, poring over detective’s notes and evidence logs, and studying crime scene photos until she could see them with her eyes closed was a perfect exercise for a mind that never turned off. In the environment of forensic reconstruction, her affliction worked as an asset.

  Away from work, there was another outlet for her obsessive compulsion. She discovered it when she was a young girl, before she understood that her mind worked in ways that others would consider unusual. Before she understood that the images and knowledge that ran like a never-ending scroll through her thoughts was the forming of her photographic memory. Before she knew that her intelligence was on a scale high above most everyone else’s. Before she recognized that being so advanced in one area of life caused other areas to be neglected—like personal relationships and social interactions. Before the diagnosis of autism was in the mainstream of medicine, another technique had been used to rein in her condition. She learned the skill when she was a young girl spending time at her aunt’s farmhouse. Tonight, as she snaked through the streets of Miami, she planned to hunt down the item that would permit her to use the talent she had learned as a child. It would allow her to live the next two months without worry that her quirks and idiosyncrasies would sidetrack her.

  But she was struggling to compartmentalize the feelings Lane’s invitation produced. The closer she came to her destination, the more her skin itched with anxiety and the more she wondered if, perhaps, feelings about the man she loved were not meant to be stored away and bundled with the nagging thoughts brought on by her obsessive compulsive disorder.

  Still, she tried. It was how Rory Moore existed.

  CHAPTER 17

  IT WAS CLOSE TO MIDNIGHT WHEN SHE PAID FORTY-FIVE DOLLARS TO PARK in a three-story garage in downtown Miami. The structure was lighted by bleached fluorescent that Rory would have hated had she been in her bungalow, but here in an unfamiliar city, she appreciated it. Her heart beat at an alarming pace, and her underarms and back were sticky with perspiration. She walked out of the parking garage and for ten minutes strode along the downtown streets. She had memorized the route the day before. Her watch sounded. It was ten to midnight and she picked up her pace. The Miami streets were populated with a steady chorus of couples and stragglers, but when she walked off the main thoroughfare and turned onto a side street, she was alone. The street lighting was minimal, and her combat boots echoed off the brick buildings. She saw the glow of a marquee up ahead and knew she’d make it. It was as sketchy as she imagined. The website had no photos, just an address and the estimated time for the auction.

  The lighted canopy, which was cheap and ratty, promoted the place in red lettering as THE DOLL HOUSE. Entrance into the establishment required Rory to take four steps down from the sidewalk. She took a deep breath before descending the stairs and then pushed through the f
ront door. A man with a thick neck and boring gaze lifted his chin at her when she entered.

  “I’m here for the auction,” she said.

  The man grunted his response. “Through the back door. They’re a little behind schedule.”

  The cavernous tavern was dark and dreary but well populated. The smell of charred burgers was heavy in the air, and the boisterous laughter of multiple conversations constricted Rory’s chest. She willed herself to breathe as she scanned the room and saw the door in the back. She headed to the bar first. The row of taps offered a disappointing display—all watered-down light beer options.

  “What can I get you?” the bartender asked.

  “Got any beers by Three Floyds?”

  “Three who?”

  Rory shook her head and scanned the beer bottles lining the shelf over the bar. “Lagunitas PILS.”

  The bartender reached into the cooler and twisted off the cap, setting the bottle in front of Rory. She dropped money on the bar and took her beer to the back room. It was just past midnight. Another man waited outside and Rory flashed her printed ticket, which the man took as her admittance. As she walked into this back room, The Doll House became more impressive. The lighting was brighter here, a stiff contrast to the tavern. The walls were lined with glass cabinets that held an array of collectible porcelain dolls. Other collectors, who had no doubt been here for hours, filled the room. They were all scanning the options and researching their histories. Rory had already done her homework, and it took less than two minutes to find the doll she was looking for—an Armand Marseille Kiddiejoy German baby doll in terrible condition. She stared at it now through the glass.

  Before Rory could inspect the doll, she had to chart her ID number into the log. She scribbled her number onto the log sheet and counted twelve entries above her, which meant she’d have bidding competition tonight. With no backup plan, this Armand Marseille was her only option. She had investigated the doll back to its origins and had come fifteen hundred miles to purchase it. She planned to do just that.

  She got the attention of one of the auctioneers, who unlocked the glass case. Rory lifted the doll from its resting place. Her mind fired like lightning now. It wasn’t quite an out-of-body experience, but in that moment Rory was not simply holding the doll, she was part of it. Her vision did not stop at the surface of the porcelain, but penetrated it. The porcelain face was covered in a lattice of cracks, and a large piece was missing from the left cheek and ear. There was a bald patch on the back right side of the doll’s head, where a lesser restorer had attempted to repair a different crack with devastating results. The effort was so amateurish that Rory wondered how someone of such little skill had obtained a classic doll like this. But even this egregious insult put a thrill in Rory’s chest. Her vision penetrated the doll and saw it from the inside out. Her mind was blind to the damage and only imagined the possibilities. The doll’s potential mesmerized her.

  “You good?” the auctioneer asked, pulling Rory from her trance.

  She nodded and handed the doll over. Ten minutes later she sat in the back of the auction hall, sipped her Lagunitas, and waited. Four auctions had been scheduled that day. This was the last. The pristine dolls sold first to collectors who wanted to take them home and display them on shelves with other perfect figurines. Rory had no interest in the unblemished dolls. They held no histories. They kept no secrets. Their stories had already been told. She was after dolls that had travelled the world and had the scars to prove it. She was after imperfect dolls that had lost their connection to their previous owners and were badly in need of affection and attention.

  She finished her beer and ordered another while the unblemished dolls sold, one after the other. With each successful auction, the small subterranean room thinned. By the time the ragged and dilapidated dolls came to the floor, there were just twenty or so collectors still present. It was almost one in the morning.

  “Up next,” the auctioneer said. “Is an Armand Marseille. Some damage to the face and ear, but in its heyday—”

  “Three thousand,” Rory said.

  The man looked up from the doll. “The opening ask is seven fifty.”

  Rory stood from the back row and walked toward the podium, her new combat boots rattling with each step. “Three thousand should take it then?”

  The auctioneer looked at the collectors remaining in the room. “Going once? Going twice? Sold, for three thousand dollars to the lady in gray.”

  CHAPTER 18

  LANE HAD SPENT TWO DAYS DELVING INTO THE WESTMONT PREP Killings and learning everything he could about the case. NBC had provided a file folder of research, but Lane had his own sources, too, and had dug as deeply as possible in just a short couple of days. Now, his car was packed as he drove south from the city. Two hours after leaving Chicago, just before noon, he pulled past the WELCOME TO PEPPERMILL, INDIANA sign. It took a few minutes for the GPS to show him the way to Winston Lane, where his cottage was located. The small home sat in a cul-de-sac at the end of the long road that butted up against a lake. He pulled into the driveway and shut off his engine. The front door had a lockbox hanging from the door handle. Lane spun the numbers, and the box popped open to reveal a key. He carried his duffel bag into the house, which was exactly as advertised—small, comfortable, and out of sight. It would be perfect for everything he had planned.

  A kitchen, sitting room with a fireplace, and an office made up the first floor. Upstairs was a single bedroom and a loft with a desk. He dropped his duffel bag onto the bed and headed back out to his car. From the trunk, he retrieved the box he had managed to pick up on the way down after some heavy negotiating and way too much money. But for his plan to work, the purchase was essential. He carried the box into the kitchen, opened the refrigerator, and lined the top shelf with the bottles it held, making sure they were in perfect order with labels out.

  When he finished, he wheeled a second suitcase through the kitchen and into the three-season room attached to the back of the house. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked the small lake in the distance, and Lane knew it was perfect. On a desk in the corner he emptied the contents of the suitcase, again lining everything in perfect rows. Then he removed a wrapped package and placed it in the center of the desk. Finally, he retrieved the large corkboard he had managed to cram into the back seat. He set it on a tripod and pinned photos to it.

  Thirty minutes after he arrived in Peppermill, the house was prepped and ready.

  CHAPTER 19

  RORY SAT IN THE FIRST CLASS CABIN OF AMERICAN AIRLINES FLIGHT 2182 headed for Chicago. She wore her surgical mask, read her How-To manual, and had her new porcelain doll stowed safely under her seat. Her right leg vibrated and caused the buckles on her combat boot to jingle. The gyration would typically stem from anxiety, but this morning it was something else. Between the closure of her latest cold case, the long overdue purchase of her new boots, and the acquisition of the Kiddiejoy porcelain doll, Rory Moore felt balanced and calm in a way she hadn’t for months. Not since before she ventured out to a cabin in Starved Rock, Illinois, to look for closure for herself and so many others.

  She closed her eyes and bided her time.

  * * *

  It was seven P.M. when Rory finally sat at her workbench. The shades were drawn, and the evening sun fought but failed to find a way around the edges. The den was comfortably dim, with the gooseneck lamp illuminating her workspace. Rory felt the twenty-four sets of eyes look down on her as she unwrapped her new purchase, as if the restored dolls on the shelves were as interested in Rory’s acquisition as she was. Carefully lying the Armand Marseille Kiddiejoy German doll onto the workbench, she started the inspection process the same way a medical examiner would look over a body about to be dissected. But Rory had no plans to take this doll apart. She was going to put it back together, one painstaking piece at a time. It would keep her occupied for weeks and allow the grating and demanding calls from her mind to be liberated. She had boxed those burdens up and sto
wed them over the past few weeks for this exact reason. Antique doll restoration had the potential to provide joy and bliss, and Rory had certainly experienced those things. But the pastime provided something else as well. A portal to a world free from worry, where her foibles turned to strengths and where she could use the eccentricities that threatened to spoil her everyday life.

  In her workplace she did not have to resist the irrational requests of her mind. She did not fight against the gnawing need to repeat things, over and over, until she achieved perfection. In this protected place, those tendencies were not only permitted but required. The repetitious activities involved in repairing antique porcelain dolls were an outlet for the obsessive compulsive disorder that had once ruled her life. As long as Rory could exorcise her demons during the controlled practices that took place in the tranquility of her den, then the debilitating calls from her mind were quieted during most other parts of life. It was how she existed. Her dolls were her survival.

  Tonight’s inspection was for information gathering only. No restoration would take place. Rory needed first to understand the doll and the damage it held and to map out a path for restoring it. She ran her hand over the doll’s face, feeling the lattice of cracks that spiderwebbed through the porcelain. Rubbing alcohol, which was many restorers’ chosen solvent, was too harsh. The pastels were never absorbed as well into porcelain that had been stripped with alcohol, and this explained the washed-out look of other restorers’ dolls presented at auctions. Rory’s great-aunt had created her own formula from dish soap and vodka, a solution that Rory had been using since she was a kid and that would be perfect for this new restoration.