I Know Your Name: A Chilling Psychological Thriller (Wolf Lake Thriller Book 5)

by Dan Padavona

  Raven came to him and placed a hand on his back. He wished this nightmare was over, wished the search teams would bring Shawn home to his father.

  “They gave up the chase at the cliffs. It’s looking more and more like Shawn fell over the side.”

  Raven rubbed his back and rested her head against his shoulder.

  “We won’t give up until we find him,” Raven said. “I don’t care how long it takes.”

  Behind them, a New York State Trooper SUV jounced over the terrain and angled toward the river. Darren and Raven walked over to meet the trooper. A lanky man with a limp climbed out of the SUV. Darren recognized Trooper Fitzpatrick. He’d collaborated with Fitzpatrick many times while working for the Syracuse PD. Fitzpatrick did a double take when he spotted Darren approaching.

  “Holt? Is that you?”

  “Good to see you again, Fitzpatrick. Wish it was under different circumstances.”

  Darren made introductions.

  “Why are you out here before the break of dawn? You part of the search team?”

  After Darren explained his relationship to the missing boy, Fitzpatrick softened his eyes.

  “I’m sorry, Darren. I didn’t know. We’re busting ass to find Shawn.”

  “Why are you setting up beside the lake?” asked Raven.

  “Uh,” Fitzpatrick stammered, running a hand through his hair. “We have a team arriving within the half-hour. They’ll use sonar to check the water. It’s a faster process than using divers, and the lake is still icy cold this time of year.”

  Darren knew what that meant. The troopers believed Shawn fell into the river and drowned. They’d locate Shawn’s body with sonar and drag him ashore.

  “Hey, man,” Fitzpatrick said, patting Darren’s arm. “Maybe your cousin made it out of the river.”

  “He’s a strong swimmer,” Darren said, pressing his lips together. Who was he kidding? An Olympic swimmer wasn’t strong enough to survive those rapids. “Do what you have to do, Fitzpatrick. We’ll search along the banks, in case he washed up along the shore.”

  Darren clasped hands with the trooper. Then he led Raven along the river, their sneakers squishing over the drenched ground. Lily pads covered the shallow portion of the lake where the river emptied its contents. Weedy overgrowth extended along the banks and shielded Darren’s view. If Shawn lay unconscious below the weeds, they’d miss him.

  The state park ranger peeled back the overgrowth. The river surged five feet away, dangerously close. Raven flashed a light along the bank and crawled onto a boulder. Standing upon the rocks, she gazed across the water to the far banks. The water splashed her face, and she stumbled. Heart pumping, Darren grabbed her.

  “Come down before you give me a heart attack.”

  She leapt the weeds and landed along the bank, her skin slicked from the spray. As she used her sweatshirt to towel her face dry, her phone rang. She glanced at the screen and scrunched her brow.

  “It’s Aguilar,” she said, worry creeping into her eyes.

  Darren placed his hands in his pockets and shivered. April mornings were frosty in New York, and the humidity from yesterday’s storms hung in the air. He tried not to eavesdrop but couldn’t help himself, remembering Aguilar was part of Thomas’s search team.

  Raven pulled up, her back stiff.

  “Are you sure?” A pause. Raven glanced back at Darren, then looked away. “We’ll be there as soon as we can.”

  The seconds seemed like hours as Darren waited for Raven to compose herself.

  “What is it? Did they find Shawn?”

  “They found a body in the woods. The height and weight match Shawn’s build.”

  “But they have his picture. Surely, they can determine if it’s him.”

  Raven bit her lip.

  “It’s his face, Darren. Someone hurt him bad. There’s no way to identify the . . . wait!”

  Darren sprinted up the hillside toward the forest. He had to know.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  Sunday, 7:35 a.m.

  The Nightshade County Medical Examiner’s building always gave Thomas a sense of emptiness. Maybe it was the way every sound reverberated off the cold, white walls, or the vacant hallways that seemed to stretch to infinity. Or perhaps he felt the phantoms of every family member who’d identified a lost loved one inside the facility.

  He placed a hand against Darren’s chest and held him back.

  “You’re not going in there.”

  “I need to see his face,” Darren said, his eyes hazy with tears. Raven stood at his side, one elbow hooked around Darren’s in case he lunged for the door. “I want to know what that bastard did to Shawn.”

  “We aren’t even sure it’s him.” Thomas touched his friend’s shoulder. “Give me a chance to identify the victim. Stay here while we examine the body.”

  Darren raised his eyes to the ceiling. His body coursed with anxious energy.

  “How long will you be?”

  “As long as it takes. You deserve a definitive answer.” Thomas locked eyes with Raven. An unspoken understanding passed between them—she’d keep a vigil over Darren until the ME completed the examination. Thomas started for the door and turned back. “It’s best we don’t notify the father. I don’t need Kemp Massey barging into the medical examiner’s office, demanding to see his son’s body when we haven’t even determined if it’s Shawn.”

  Darren hesitated before nodding.

  “I understand. The murder remains between us until you identify the body.”

  Thomas pushed the door open and entered the examination room. A naked body lay on the table, toes pointed skyward. Virgil Harbough, the venerable medical examiner of Nightshade County, shifted a spotlight over the corpse. His assistant, Claire Brookins, was a russet-haired woman with an amiable smile and enough energy to fuel a power plant. The twenty-seven-year-old was the leading candidate to take Virgil’s job after he retired.

  “Sheriff,” Claire said, donning gloves. She wore a face mask, blue scrubs, and clear plastic over her top.

  “What have you determined about our victim?”

  Virgil nodded at Claire.

  “John Doe is approximately five feet and nine inches in height, about one-hundred-seventy pounds. Light brown hair. That’s about all we can determine about his . . . appearance.”

  “That sounds like Shawn Massey,” Thomas said.

  “Hard to say. We’re struggling to estimate the victim’s age with the face so disfigured. I verified full eruption of the second molars. That points toward late teens or adult.”

  Thomas ran a tentative eye to the victim’s face—a bloody pulp, the bones crushed inward. His stomach turned at the grotesque sight.

  “Cause of death?”

  “Blunt trauma to the skull. Multiple blows, at least two dozen. His attacker wasn’t playing around.”

  “Time of death?”

  “Approximate time of death is between four and nine last evening.”

  The sheriff’s gaze moved to the doors. Darren was outside, waiting for an answer. This might be the ranger’s cousin.

  “Given the size and shape of the wounds,” Claire said, continuing. “My guess is the attacker beat the victim with a hammer.”

  “That’s an act of rage. A powerful message, at the very least. Who would do such a thing?”

  It was a rhetorical question. Thomas didn’t expect an answer from Claire or Virgil. He shone a penlight over the victim’s torso. The bugs had feasted on the victim’s flesh. Swollen bite marks covered John Doe’s skin. Had the killer found his victim in the forest and brutally murdered him? Or did the killer bludgeon the victim elsewhere and dump the body amid the trees?

  When the light moved over the victim’s shoulder, Thomas stopped and stared. A dirt smudge? No, a permanent marking, almost bruise-like in appearance.

  “Stop me if I’m wrong. But isn’t that a tattoo?”

  Virgil and Claire inspected the marking.

  “That’s a tattoo,
all right,” Virgil said. The medical examiner was slight of build, with gray hair and a matching mustache. “It looks as if he tried to have it removed.”

  “Whoever removed the tattoo botched the job,” Claire said, glaring at the marking through a magnifying glass.

  Thomas removed his phone and snapped a photo. Not satisfied with the clarity of the picture, he angled the spotlight closer to the victim’s shoulder and took another photograph.

  “That’s a prison tattoo,” Thomas said, scratching his chin. “Which means this might not be Shawn Massey.”

  “That’s good news. But who is it?”

  “Give me a minute, and I’ll find your answer.”

  Thomas left Virgil and Claire with the body and exited the examination room. He turned away from the lobby and padded down the long hallway, not wanting to involve Darren until he learned more. As he walked, he studied the photograph on his phone. The tattoo was partially removed, making it difficult to identify. At the end of the hallway, he located the staff break room and slipped inside, turning on the lights. The small kitchenette featured a dorm-size refrigerator, a microwave, one coffee maker, and a table with four chairs. He rested his back against the counter and phoned Deputy Lambert.

  “Lambert here.”

  “It’s me. Where are you?”

  “Back at the office. I plan to crash for a few hours before I rejoin the search team.”

  “Take all the time you need. Can you do me a favor before you turn in?”

  “Sure thing.”

  “I’m sending you a photograph. It’s a tattoo from our John Doe.”

  “Tattoo, eh? Sexy. What kind?”

  “Might be a prison tat. Put the picture through the database and see what pops up.”

  “Roger that.”

  The inmate database included vital statistics on current and former inmates, including tattoos and unique markings. Lambert placed the phone down. In the background, the deputy pounded away on his keyboard. Thomas tapped his foot, hopeful Shawn Massey wasn’t lying dead at the far end of the hall.

  A minute passed. It felt like an hour. Lambert picked up the phone and gave a low whistle.

  “I found a match on your tattoo.”

  A wave of relief poured through Thomas. The victim was a former inmate. That ruled out Darren’s cousin.

  “Who is our John Doe?”

  “Thomas, it’s Hanley Stokes.”

  “Stokes. Are you sure?”

  “It’s him. Even with the tattoo partially removed, the database spit back a perfect match.”

  Thomas fell back against the wall. His number one suspect in Megan Massey’s murder lay dead in the county morgue, and he still hadn’t found Shawn. After the call ended, he raced toward the lobby, stopping for a moment to tell Virgil and Claire he’d identified the victim. When he reached the lobby, he found Raven consoling an irate Darren.

  “Don’t do anything you’ll regret,” she said.

  Darren wiped a hand across his mouth in frustration before he noticed Thomas in the entryway.

  “This is bullshit, Thomas.”

  “What happened?”

  “Wells Ferry PD are out of control. They arrested Kemp for murder.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  Sunday, 8:20 a.m.

  Fate ripped Darren in opposite directions. Though Thomas determined the John Doe was Hanley Stokes, not Shawn, Wells Ferry PD had arrested Kemp Massey for murdering his wife. One piece of good news followed by a gut punch. It seemed impossible, as though he’d walked into a Twilight Zone episode.

  Raven urged him to slow down, as he weaved the Silverado through traffic and sped toward the highway, Wells Ferry twenty minutes away. It almost felt as if the Stokes murder was a diversion, a trick to preoccupy him while the police moved on Kemp. He brushed the hair from his eyes, his shoulders thick with fatigue. He didn’t trust the officers, but this wasn’t the time for conspiracy theories.

  “We’ll get Kemp the best representation,” Raven said.

  “Ironic, but the best criminal defense attorney in Wells Ferry was his wife, and she won’t be taking the case.” He slapped the steering wheel. “Wells Ferry PD blamed Kemp for the murder from the moment they arrived at his house. It’s my fault. I never should have told Kemp to let them inside.”

  “You couldn’t have known they’d railroad Kemp. And let’s be honest. Your cousin wasn’t forthcoming about the blood.”

  Darren pulled his lips tight. The evidence was circumstantial, and there wasn’t enough to warrant an arrest. So what else did the police have on Kemp?

  The Wells Ferry exit materialized along the shoulder. Darren coasted down the ramp and swung the truck toward the center of town.

  “Think this through, Darren. If the police catch you inside Megan’s house, they’ll arrest you next. It’s an active crime scene.”

  Darren clicked his tongue. His eyes moved to the mirrors when a police cruiser pulled onto the street behind them. He adjusted the mirror and peered at the cruiser until it turned onto a side street. He released his breath.

  “Someone murdered my cousin’s wife, and the next day, her client ended up in the morgue. It’s not a coincidence.”

  “No, it isn’t.”

  “Megan knew something about Hanley Stokes, and I’m afraid they both died because of it. I need to see her files.”

  Raven’s legs drummed. She didn’t approve of Darren’s plans, but she didn’t argue, either.

  Darren paused at a stop sign and checked each way for police cruisers. Then he pressed the gas. The truck rumbled into the east side of town. When he stopped the truck outside Megan Massey’s house, he searched the windows for movement. The crime scene investigators had moved on. Police tape covered the door.

  He climbed down from the cab and crossed the lawn with Raven beside him. At the door, he glanced over his shoulder. Nobody watching. He ripped the tape aside and held the screen door open, shielding Raven with his body as she jiggled the lock pick. The locking mechanism unlatched with a loud click. Darren shoved the door open.

  They stood in the entryway, the curtains drawn and the downstairs overrun by darkness. Bits of glass covered the hallway floor.

  “Where is her study?”

  “Upstairs,” Darren said. Kemp had mentioned in passing once that Megan converted a bedroom into a home office. He turned on his flashlight. “Here goes nothing.”

  He led the way up the staircase. The murder had occurred in the kitchen. After he found the Hanley Stokes case folder, he’d search the kitchen and see if the police missed anything. Not a stretch, considering the shoddy work they’d displayed since the investigation began. As he searched for Megan’s office, his mind returned to the lake shore and Trooper Fitzgerald. The troopers were using sonar to detect Shawn’s body. At any second, Darren might receive notification that the troopers had dragged his teenage cousin out of the lake.

  Wearing gloves, he pushed open each bedroom door until he found the office. There wasn’t much to the room. Just a mahogany desk, a black leather rolling chair, and a vertical filing cabinet stuffed into the corner. He paused at the computer and jiggled the mouse. The screen prompted him for a password. He was short on time and cracking passwords wasn’t part of his skill set.

  Raven opened each drawer on the desk. Darren moved to the cabinet and froze when something knocked against the house. Raven met his eyes; Darren killed the light. They stood in absolute darkness, a thin line of gray sliding beneath the closed door. He sensed, rather than heard Raven moving closer to him. Now they breathed in the dark beside each other. The house was silent now. Down the street, a horn honked twice before a vehicle motored past. Darren clicked the flashlight again.

  He tugged on the cabinet drawers. Locked, as expected.

  “Work your magic,” Darren said. “Then let’s get the hell out of here.”

  She slipped the lock pick into the top drawer and gave a twist. Darren slid the drawer open and angled the light over the folders, each label
ed with a name and arranged in alphabetical order. The last folder ended with Givens.

  He shot a worried look over his shoulder. If the police returned, he’d have a lot of explaining to do.

  “Skip the second cabinet,” he said. “Try the third from the top.”

  Raven knelt beside the lock. Darren directed the beam over the cabinet and cupped his hand around the light, preventing stray illumination from wandering around the blackout shades covering the windows. He wished he’d had a room this dark while he slept after overnight shifts. It only took a few seconds for Raven to unlock the cabinet. She slid the drawer open and sifted through the names, whispering each.

  “Pascall. Spraggins. Stanley. Welch.” She looked back at him. “No Stokes.”

  “Are the folders out of order?”

  Raven peeled through each folder a second time and shook her head. Either Megan Massey kept the Hanley Stokes file in a secret location, or someone had taken her case notes.

  Then the door opened. A flashlight beam shone into Darren’s eyes.

  “Freeze! Hands in the air.”

  Chief Wintringham stood over Darren and Raven with his knuckles on the desk.

  “You want to explain why you broke into an active crime scene and searched through Megan Massey’s filing cabinet? Because I need a reason why I shouldn’t throw both of you in jail for breaking and entering. And interfering in my investigation. You should know better. Especially you, Holt.”

  Darren stared at his hands. He’d met Wintringham a few times during his run with the Syracuse PD. The chief had noticeably aged from the last time Darren ran into him, ten or more years ago. Standing three inches taller than Darren, Wintringham remained an imposing force. Gray eyebrows narrowed at the bridge of his nose, and his handlebar mustache puffed as he spoke.

  “We believe Hanley Stokes’s death is related to Megan Massey’s murder.”