The Suicide House

by Charlie Donlea

  She paused the video and kept her eyes on the screen as she spoke to Lane.

  “No signs of a struggle inside that room,” she said. “A lack of defensive wounds on either of the victims. Our thinking has been that the killer snuck up on them, but maybe that’s not right. Maybe the killer was one of them. Maybe the killer was with them.”

  “Another student?”

  “Possibly. In that scenario, these two would have been caught off guard, not because someone snuck up on them but because they had no reason to think whoever was with them had any intention of harming them.”

  Lane reached forward and rewound the video until they were back inside the house.

  “Look at the mirror,” he said. “It’s spattered in blood. That means the killer attacked from behind, allowing the blood spatter to protrude forward. Both kids were sliced across the throat. In order for blood to cause this kind of spatter pattern across the glass, both of them were facing the mirror and the attacker was behind them.”

  Rory nodded her head. “From what Detective Ott told me, and from what I have found in a quick Internet search, this game requires the kids to stare into a mirror and whisper ‘Man in the Mirror’ multiple times. Maybe they were doing this when they were killed.”

  Lane also nodded and scooted forward on the couch. “So the killer is either lying in wait or with them when they reach this room and stand in front of the mirror. He slices their throats, leaves one on the floor to bleed out, and drags the other outside to hoist him onto the gate. The assailant was either showing his dominance or exacting revenge. But to drag a 160-pound teenager outside and place him on the gate would have taken time. At least five minutes after the attack. That suggests that the assailant was both familiar with the area and in no rush. He was calm. Definitely organized. Definitely premeditated. This did not happen out of the blue. Once you get past the blood and the gore, what I’m seeing in this crime scene does not fit the idea that Charles Gorman snapped. This is too calculating and complicated to believe that he simply lost control.”

  Lane reached his hand to the back of his bandaged head and squeezed as he thought.

  “Losing control might cause someone to kill unexpectedly,” he said. “But the ritualistic hanging of this kid on the gate is something different. It wasn’t reactionary. It was planned and it was intentional. No matter how much these kids bullied Gorman, his profile doesn’t match someone who would lose control. It doesn’t match someone who would kill like this, or at all.”

  “But Gorman described the scene exactly as it is shown here in the video,” Rory said. “He wrote out the details of slashed throats and the impalement on the gate. That supports your profile of premeditation. That he carefully planned it out ahead of time.”

  Rory stared at the monitor a bit longer, and then finally turned to Lane.

  “The students at Westmont Prep were required to meet with their counselors once a week. I read through Bridget Matthews’s and Danielle Landry’s medical records and noticed that their therapy sessions encouraged them to journal their thoughts. Their fears and their anxieties, and some of their most private inner reflections.”

  “It’s a common tool in psychotherapy.”

  “Maybe Gorman’s manifesto was simply that—his innermost contemplations put onto the page as a therapeutic way to dispel them.”

  Lane cocked his head to the side. “But that would mean . . .”

  “Someone else could have read Gorman’s journal and set up the scene exactly as he described.”

  Lane sat upright, interested in Rory’s hypothesis. “Patient-doctor confidentiality dictates that only one other person would have had access to his journal.”

  “Correct.”

  “Does his file indicate that he was in therapy?”

  “It does,” Rory said.

  “Does it mention his doctor’s name?”

  Rory nodded. “Gabriella Hanover.”

  Westmont Prep

  Summer 2019

  CHAPTER 58

  THEY WAITED UNTIL MIDNIGHT AND MET UNDER THE GOTHIC PEDIMENT of the library building. The upward-shining spotlights shadowed the etching of the school’s logo: Veniam solum, relinquatis et. They were certainly together tonight, if only reluctantly. The latest challenge put forth by Andrew Gross required them to sneak into Mr. Gorman’s house and steal a personal item. During their most recent trip to the abandoned boarding house, they had all drank Miller Lite beer while Andrew boasted about this phase of the challenges from the previous year when he was a new initiate and his group of juniors had stolen an entire drawer of Mrs. Rasmussen’s bras. Word had spread of the theft, and rumors were whispered through campus that those involved in The Man in the Mirror challenges were responsible. A few days later, Mrs. Rasmussen’s brassieres showed up hanging in a neat line from the eaves of the library building just below the school logo. This incoming class of initiates had little chance of topping Andrew’s legacy of debauchery, and none of them were willing to go near Mr. Gorman’s underwear drawer. But Tanner was adamant that they could pull something off that would draw the seniors’ attention and respect.

  The key Andrew had given them was supposedly a master to the back doors of all the houses on Teacher’s Row. Whether it worked was to be determined. Gwen had mentioned that after Mrs. Rasmussen’s bras had gone missing the previous year, perhaps the locks to all the duplexes on Teacher’s Row had been changed. Gwen had also mentioned that since the mousetrap incident, another prank would not go over well. They were under close scrutiny, and both Tanner and Andrew had been called in to speak with Drs. Hanover and Casper, who warned that they would not tolerate the same level of disrespect that had taken place the previous summer. They were all reminded of the code of conduct Westmont Prep demanded. Breaking and entering was not part of it.

  Still, here they were, hidden under cover of darkness and slithering their way to Teacher’s Row. They each had their own reasons for tonight. Tanner was desperate to fit in and be accepted, and he would do nearly anything to one-up those he was trying to impress. Gwen and the others wanted, on some level, to be part of the exclusive group inside the walls of Westmont Prep. None would argue that point. But something else was driving them, too. Fear. Since arriving at Westmont Prep as wide-eyed freshmen, they had chased the myth of the Man in the Mirror. Nearly every student had. The folklore was so prevalent on campus that only a handful of students were able to escape the lure of the legend. Now, somehow, this group of six had been given the opportunity to participate in that fable. Not some cheap replica of it that a few other students had tried to create. June 21 was the real deal. But to get there, to receive the privileges that came from completing the Man in the Mirror challenge, they had to go through the initiation challenges. They believed in the myth just enough to follow Tanner tonight through the shadows of campus.

  None knew how much their lives were about to change.

  CHAPTER 59

  THE PLAN WAS FOR TANNER TO ENTER THE BACK DOOR OF MR. GORMAN’S duplex and grab the first thing he saw from the kitchen. It didn’t matter what it was, it only mattered that it belonged to Charles Gorman. Then they would quietly lock the door and disappear into the night having completed the final challenge before the summer solstice event.

  They stayed in the shadows and made it to Teacher’s Row, where only a few porch lights were ablaze. The rest of the houses were dark and silent. They approached number fourteen and went around back, their individual footsteps soft, but the collection of them together sounded like an army brigade. When they made it around the building, they noticed that one of Mr. Gorman’s windows was bright with yellow light.

  “Shit,” Tanner said. “He’s awake?”

  “Let’s just call this off,” Gwen said.

  “No way. We can’t fail a challenge.”

  “If we get caught, we’ll get kicked out of school. Hanover and Casper are already watching us this summer.”

  “You can leave then,” Tanner said. “But Bridget and
I are doing this.”

  Tanner looked at the rest of them.

  “In or out?”

  “Just go see what’s going on,” Gavin said. “If he’s awake, it’ll be impossible to sneak in. We’ll have to come another night.”

  Tanner turned from the group and crouched down as he approached the back window. His silhouette crept along the edge of the house until he was just to the side of the lighted window; then he leaned over and peeked inside. There was a moment of stillness as the others watched him. Each of them held their breath. They were on a trip switch, ready to bolt into the night if the back door opened or the curtains moved. But instead, they saw Tanner’s dark silhouette frantically waving them over to the window.

  “Get over here!” he said in a desperate whisper. “Now!”

  Gwen and Gavin looked at each other, and they all moved in a slow group toward the window. Tanner was laughing in a wheezing cackle, holding his chest as if he might have a heart attack. He pointed to the window.

  “Mr. G’s going at it.”

  Gwen and Gavin leaned past the window frame until the inside of the house was visible. Theo, Danielle, and Bridget did the same, each of their faces catching the soft yellow light that spilled through the window. Inside, the light came from a bedside lamp, the glow of which shadowed Charles Gorman’s naked body as he thrust his hips in a rhythmic cadence. Slender legs were wrapped around his waist, and they all got a voyeuristic look at their chemistry teacher’s rear end as he clenched and unclenched his butt cheeks.

  “Holy shit,” Gavin said as he quickly pulled away from the window. They all did the same and muffled their laughter.

  “Let’s get out of here,” Gwen said. “We’re not doing this tonight.”

  “This is too good to miss,” Tanner said, pulling out his phone.

  He clicked on his camera, swiped it to video, and began recording the action through the window. At one point, Mr. Gorman positioned himself as if performing a push-up, turned his head to the side, and offered a priceless expression of ecstasy before thrusting his buttocks forward one last time as his body shuddered. Tanner tried to hold the camera steady, but his laughter shook the frame back and forth.

  The others, too, had turned their gaze back to the window, finding it impossible not to watch. They were like gawkers staring at a car wreck. When Mr. Gorman turned his head so that his face was visible, they all ducked below the window frame. Tanner held his phone above the sill for another few seconds.

  “Let’s go,” Gwen said.

  “Almost,” Tanner said, pulling his phone down and slipping it into his pocket.

  From the same pocket he retrieved an air horn. Then he crawled from beneath the window and hurried to the back door. The others watched, still giddy from what they had just witnessed and not fully aware of Tanner’s intentions. Until, that was, they heard the soft squeak of Mr. Gorman’s back door opening. Tanner disappeared inside for a moment and then reappeared with a leather-bound journal in his hand.

  “First thing I could find,” he said, out of breath from the surge of adrenaline.

  “You are so crazy,” Gavin said. He grabbed Gwen’s hand. “Let’s get out of here.”

  They all turned from the still-open door and began their silent escape. That’s when the air horn sounded. Three long bursts that shattered the silence of the night with an earsplitting squeal.

  “Better run, losers!” Tanner said as he streaked past them. Mr. Gorman’s door was still wide open.

  With hearts thumping, they all took off into the night.

  CHAPTER 60

  CHARLES GORMAN WAS BREATHING HEAVILY WHEN HE COLLAPSED onto the woman under him. He felt her fingernails run the length of his back.

  “Stay tonight,” he whispered into her ear.

  “You know I can’t,” she said.

  He never pushed, only asked. They were both quiet, only their breathing audible as they lay tangled together. Then an ear-piercing screech tore through the house. Then another, and another. Three loud screeches that startled them both.

  “What the hell!” Charles yelled as he rolled off the bed and crashed to the floor as if the burst of noise had physically lifted him and thrown him down.

  The woman pulled the sheets over her naked body. Charles heard laughter and stampeding footsteps. He pulled on his underwear and bolted out of the bedroom, down the hall, and into the kitchen. The back door was wide open. He turned on the lights and looked around. The house was empty. He hurried outside and looked up and down the path that ran behind the duplexes. The pounding of feet was off to his left and quickly fading into the night. He took a few steps in their direction and listened again, but all he heard was the hum of locusts. Another moment passed, and he was tempted to run into the darkness and follow the footsteps. He was sure he could catch them. He figured they were headed for the dorms. But he was wearing only his white underwear. He turned and walked back into his house. When he made it back to the bedroom, Gabriella Hanover was already dressed. She was visibly shaken.

  “Goddamn kids,” Charles said. “They think they run this place in the summer.”

  Gabriella’s hand was shaking as she ran her palm across her mouth and over her cheek. “Who was it?”

  “I didn’t see them, but it had to be Andrew Gross or Tanner Landing.”

  “Charles, do you think they saw us?”

  “How could they have seen us?”

  “They were in the house, Charles! Do you think they saw us?”

  “No. It’s just a stupid dare. Open the door and blow an air horn, or whatever the hell that was. They wouldn’t have the balls to come into my house, the little shitheads.”

  “We could get in a lot of trouble if anyone found out about us. There are rules against what we have been doing.”

  “No one’s going to find out, Gabriella. No one saw anything. It’s stupid kids on a stupid dare.”

  “I’m your superior, Charles. This shows a complete lack of judgment on my part. If anyone found out about this, the school board would release me immediately. Not to mention that I’m sleeping with one of my patients. I could lose my license, Charles!”

  He came over to her and tried to comfort her, but she pushed him away.

  “I have to go,” she said. “We’ll talk tomorrow.”

  Gabriella Hanover hurried out the back door. Gorman stood in his kitchen and watched her leave. He walked over to the door and slammed it shut.

  PART VII

  August 2020

  CHAPTER 61

  RORY WOKE FRIDAY MORNING AS THE MATTED COPPER OF PREDAWN filled the window frames. She heard Lane’s still-labored breathing, the slight gurgle when he exhaled—a lingering symptom of the smoke inhalation. She checked the bedside clock and saw that it was 5:12 A.M. A light sleeper for life, Rory woke from the softest of noises. And once taken from sleep, finding it again was difficult. Opening her eyes was like firing up a computer. Her mind churned and processed, ready to be put to work. This was especially true when she was in the middle of a case.

  She slipped from bed and walked into the hallway in her tank top and shorts. She pulled a button-down flannel shirt over her shoulders. Inky shadows crept across the lower level of the cottage. Rory padded down the stairs, snatched a Diet Coke from the fridge, and headed to the three-season room. Sitting at her desk, she clicked on the lamp. The Armand Marseille Kiddiejoy lay in the travel box. She lifted it now to examine the work she had done restoring the ear and cheek. She had glazed the porcelain and epoxy, which had erased the lattice of cracks. She went to work this morning stripping the mismatched colors with Aunt Greta’s secret mixture of vodka and dish soap. When Rory finished, she took on the challenge of sanding smooth the porcelain. It was meticulous and tedious work, requiring redundant rounds of sanding with consecutively finer grade paper—the last of which was 600 grit, so fine she could barely feel it on her fingertips—until the texture of the repaired side was an exact match to the other. After two hours, Rory closed her eyes and
ran the pads of her fingers over the doll’s face, feeling for imperfections her eyes might have missed. She found none. Next she started the process of staining the porcelain to bring it back to its original color. Rory consulted lineage photos she had obtained at the auction, as well as pictures she pulled from the Internet. The German doll catalogue was open and resting on an easel in front of the desk, the current page earmarked to display an Armand Marseille Kiddiejoy doll in its natural form with cheeks the color of rosé wine over pale white skin.

  She started with the broadest Foldger-Gruden brush, the bristles of which were just under an inch wide. She used this broad brush to apply the first layer of foundation primer, which colored the surface of the doll’s face almond yellow. After the first coat, she applied the heat gun before running the blue ultraviolet light over the porcelain. A second coat of primer followed. As she moved between coloring and drying, Rory slipped the brushes into and out of the breast pocket of her flannel in swift motions, barely thinking as she conquered the scrupulous demands of her craft.

  It was another two hours before she realized that her back was aching. She stood and stretched the stiffness from her muscles before placing the doll to the side. She was nearly finished. All that remained was adding the details of the eyelashes, the blushing of the cheeks, the shadowing around the nostrils, and the coloring around the edges of the lips. In a flash, Rory’s mind ran through each meticulous brushstroke that would be required—thousands and thousands of them, one after the other. She itched to get started on those final details. It was, perhaps, her favorite element of restoration. But she needed the porcelain to dry before it would properly accept the fine pastels she would add.