Agnes Hahn

by RICHARD SATTERLIE

  “I know the feeling. Sometimes I have to get out there and just drive. No destination. It clears the head.”

  “Something like that.” What, really? Reporter’s intuition? Lilin sounded different on the last call. There was a finality in her voice, almost like resignation. But that wasn’t all. Lilin had Agnes. Would there be two bodies in Inverness? He had to find out for himself.

  A white Toyota Corolla pulled up at the rear entrance of the police station right on time. Jason dropped the delivery person off at the rental office and headed south, toward Inverness.

  He had a little over three hours to anticipate what he might find, but instead he followed Bransome’s lead and emptied his head. Every time Agnes popped in, he forced his thoughts to one of his other assignments. He needed the short break, a brief clearing of anxiety-tainted speculation. A punch of a mental reset button. The relaxation exceeded anything he’d experienced in the last couple of weeks.

  As he cruised through Inverness, he backed off the gas pedal. What would he find in Eddie’s cabin? Lilin had said Eddie was at home. Alone?

  He yanked his foot from the pedal. What if Lilin was there, waiting for him? What if this was a trap? What if he was one of her targets? She had tried to kill him once before.

  Was it a mistake to come down here without Bransome? Without alerting the Marin County boys? A good scoop would be worth angering them all, but like before there was something else. And it centered on Agnes. He was worried about her. More. He wanted to find her.

  His foot pressed the gas pedal again. Anger replaced apprehension. Three hours wasted, thinking about nothing when he could have been developing a plan for his visit to the cabin. Now he would have to wing it. Make it up as he went. Errors plagued the unprepared, and an error here could be fatal.

  Jason turned onto the road to the cabin and pressed on the gas pedal. His anxiety level increased tenfold. The yellow crime scene tape that spanned the front door dangled from the left side of the door frame. Someone, other than law enforcement officers, had been in there. He pushed hard on the pedal and sped by.

  He drove on for what seemed like minutes but only registered a mile on the odometer. Off to the left, a turnout led to a narrow driveway and, presumably, to a well-disguised cabin. The driveway was overgrown. Not frequently used. He turned in and slowed the car to a crawl. Twenty yards into the brush, the roadside foliage opened up enough to allow him to turn off the doublerutted driveway and park, invisible from the main road.

  He turned off the ignition and sat, trying to catch his breath. A long walk was ahead of him, but it was still shy of noon. No reason to hurry.

  The high cloud cover had fragmented, so the sun cast moving shafts of light between trees, across the underbrush. Better to walk through the cover than on the road, to come in to Eddie’s cabin from the side. Just in case.

  Several thickets of dense, tangled bushes forced detours. After each diversion, he angled back until the road was in sight before turning toward the cabin again.

  The clouds thinned even more, and the air turned as crisp and clear as the waters of an alpine lake. The light breeze tickled his body and bathed it in a faint ocean scent. It reminded him of waggish summer days from long ago—before the obligations of adulthood swooped down and swiped their mischief. But there was an edge to the clarity. The horizon held a fog-thick veil of apprehension, like all the clouds were assembling to gang up on him. He wanted to turn and skip in the opposite direction.

  Ahead, a large rock, ringed by a horseshoe of short shrubs, looked like an idol to male pattern baldness. His chuckle caught in his throat. The cabin jutted from the tranquil landscape twenty yards beyond the rock. It was quiet, eerily so. Like the twittering birds were all holding their breath.

  Circling around behind the structure, he came to the opposite side. He looked to the left, and the right, away from the cabin, searching for evidence of a stakeout.

  He crossed the road and made another arc, again looking for evidence of hidden observers. There were none. If Lilin was watching, she was far enough away to give him a chance at detection, particularly with the sparse brush cover in the immediate vicinity of the cabin.

  With his circumnavigation complete, he inched to the side of the front porch. It creaked his trespass and he froze. A window invited his gaze, and he nearly fell backward at the sight. He saw spurts of blood inside, on the walls of the main room. He tapped his pocket and mouthed a curse. He’d left his cell phone in the car. What should he do? Did he need to go in? Did he want to go in?

  Agnes popped into his mind. Was this the Eddie show, or was it a double feature? He took a step toward the door, but again hesitated. He wanted to know if Agnes was in there, but then again, he didn’t. Could he handle seeing her mutilated body right beside Eddie’s? What did Lilin have planned for him?

  He heard a car on the road, coming in his direction, so he sprinted around the side of the house, back to the bush-lined rock. An old, beat-up pickup sauntered by, the sole occupant a long-bearded man with his hair pulled into a ponytail. Jason’s next exhalation lasted forever.

  Back on the porch, he chided himself for his reluctance. He was a reporter. He had a job to do. Any personal connection should be suppressed in a situation like this. Should be. He gripped the doorknob and hesitated. Should be.

  He released the knob—forgot to glove up. The latex gloves snapped tight on his wrists. He turned the doorknob with a loud click and stopped. No further sounds. No movement inside. The door pushed open without resistance. He leaned close to the hinge side of the door. Through the crack, he verified that nothing, or no one, waited behind the door. He stepped through the doorway, slowly closing the door behind him.

  Blood was everywhere. The smell nearly turned him around. The scent was metallic, sharp. Was this the smell of a violent death? Whose death? Eddie’s? Agnes’s? Both? He wanted to run, to get to his phone and call Bransome. But first, he needed to know. Was Agnes here?

  Blood had splattered and sprayed the walls and pooled on the floor, mostly in the kitchen area. It looked like the victim put up a struggle, and like he bled out right in this room. He? Hopefully so.

  Jason stepped around the stains, taking care to avoid any potential evidence. Red stains ran down from the rim of the sink like it had boiled over with blood. He peered in. A bloody lump of tissue rose from the drain like a leaning tower. It took him a few moments to realize it was a penis, business end down.

  He stepped back. He’d seen the photos of the other crime scenes. They were grizzly, but nothing compared to this. This one was more random, more disorganized than the others. More violent? Then, he noticed another difference. Next to the sink was a bloody set of fingerprints. He looked around and saw more prints. And footprints. The killer wasn’t wearing gloves this time. And she wasn’t careful. She’d slipped up. Or had she? Was this Lilin’s grand finale? Artists always signed their work.

  But where was the body? It wasn’t in the living room. He tiptoed around the bloodstains and through the door of the bedroom. It looked untouched since his last visit. There were no bloodstains, no signs of a struggle. No body.

  He went into the bathroom. There were diluted bloodstains in the sink, like the killer used it to wash her hands, but no other signs of mayhem and, again, no body.

  Or bodies. There seemed to be enough blood for two murders. Either one body totally bled out, or two were partially bled. And there didn’t have to be any blood at all for a life to be taken. He wanted to find a body. One body, not two.

  It wasn’t in the house. And he hadn’t seen anything on his observational circuit of the building, although his attention had been on the surroundings.

  He returned to the main room and looked down at the main pool of blood. It ended abruptly on the side nearest the door. He got down on his hands and knees. The dust spoke to him. Slide marks. Going out the back door. She must have rolled the body in something and pulled it outside. Not a rug. There wasn’t one in the place on their prev
ious visit. He got up and walked to the bedroom.

  The bed was made, as it was on their earlier visit. He lifted the bedspread. Fitted sheet, but no top sheet.

  He burst through the back door and walked the back wall of the cabin. No bodies littered the landscape. He froze. Just off the far corner of the back wall, a shovel leaned against a tree, as if resting from a recent, difficult job. He walked to the tree and paced in an arc, parallel to the back and sides of the cabin. Then another arc, farther out. Then another. He scanned the ground, looking for signs of recent disturbance.

  Fifteen yards out from the building, behind a low stand of shrubs, he found it. Freshly dug dirt was mounded in a four-foot by seven-foot patch. He kicked at the dirt midway on the long side, and it scattered easily. A few more kicks and he felt resistance. He used a gloved hand to move away more of the dirt, and a finger appeared.

  He stood back and a weak feeling nearly buckled his knees. The plot wasn’t big enough for two bodies, unless they were stacked on top of each other. He looked at the dirty fingertip protruding from the soil.

  Was it the hand of an elderly man? He couldn’t tell. He pulled in a full breath and held it, then pinched the fingertip with this thumb and first two fingers, and pulled. The hand lifted from the dirt, just beyond the wrist. He released the finger, and the hand fell back, stiff.

  The air hissed from his lungs. The hand was fairly large, with broad fingers and closely trimmed fingernails. He brushed off some of the dirt, and turned the appendage as much as it would give. Hair on the back of the hand was long, and the skin looked wrinkled. It was a man’s hand. Maybe an old man’s hand.

  He pulled upward a little more, and a white fabric appeared, wrapping the forearm. A bedsheet, no doubt.

  He dared do no more to the site for fear of destroying the evidentiary value, but even with a cursory look at the whole picture, he felt relief. Probably Eddie, and definitely not Agnes. He didn’t need a complete investigation to sense that Agnes had survived this carnage.

  He tapped his pants pocket again and remembered his cell phone was back in the car. Nothing more could be done here, so he headed back for the car, this time walking along the road. His gait pushed the efficiency driven switch point for a trot.

  Back at the car, Jason struggled to punch the buttons on his cell phone. His hands, steady through the grisly discovery, shook so hard he could barely read the phone screen. Was it relief that Agnes wasn’t the victim? Or was it nervousness over her unsettled fate? He’d seen many murder scenes, and he’d never reacted this way.

  He punched 911 and reported the scene and location to the local emergency people. His next call went to Bransome, who was in his car before the conversation ended.

  A third call went to his colleague at the Santa Rosa Press Democrat, Yolanda Torres, who had taken over the release of short updates on the mass murder case. He told her to get out to Inverness right away, to get a scoop on all of the competitors. He’d be waiting.

  He drove back to the cabin, backed in so he could watch the road, and waited. Would Bransome be mad? He seemed businesslike on the phone.

  Two Marin County deputies showed up twenty minutes after the 911 call. Jason followed them through the front door and kept a close eye on them so they wouldn’t contaminate the scene. He showed them the grave site, and one put in a call to the county coroner. Jason retired to his car when they began securing the site.

  Bransome drove up two hours after his call, beating Jason’s drive time by a full hour. To Jason’s relief, Bransome was calm, professional.

  “How’d you get here so fast?” Jason said. “It’s a hundred and forty miles.”

  “I used the lights and pushed the speed. Don’t have to worry about traffic when I do that.”

  He looked over at one of the deputies, a peach-fuzzed officer who retied yellow crime scene tape on a porch pillar with the care of a Christmas present wrapping.

  “I’m Detective Bransome. The lead investigator on the Hahn case from up in Mendocino. Can anyone give me permission to start processing the scene?”

  The deputy walked over and held out a hand. “Officer Grossmont. The coroner takes over murder scenes when he arrives. His name’s Finnegan. He’s a nice old man.”

  “Mind if I take a look inside? I won’t touch anything until he gets here.”

  “Be my guest. It’s pretty gruesome.” Grossmont looked at Jason.

  “He’s with me,” Bransome said.

  Grossmont stood back and pointed at the front door. Bransome shoved a camera into Jason’s chest and walked toward the cabin.

  The coroner arrived twenty minutes later and it took him another two to get out of his van. He wheezed in time with the steps of his portly waddle, each shaking generous jowls that obscured his jawline. A kindly look of calm never left his face.

  Bransome approached him. “I’m Detective Bransome from Mendocino. I’m the lead investigator for the Hahn case up in Mendocino.” He flashed his badge. “I’ve helped process all but one of the murders. I’d like your permission to do the same here.”

  “I don’t think you need my permission.” Finnegan stroked his grizzled chin. “So you think this is tied to the Menstrual Murders?”

  Bransome glared at Jason.

  Jason raised his palms. “Not from me.”

  Bransome turned back to Coroner Finnegan. “Yes. The man who owns this cabin is the suspected murderer’s father. The body is probably his.”

  Finnegan held up a hand. “A yes is all I need. I’ll trust you. I’m glad to have the help. I’ve been way too busy lately. You’ll share all data right away?”

  “Of course.”

  “I have a form for you to sign back in the van, but we can get to that later. Help yourself to the cabin. I’ll start with the body. I understand it’s in a shallow grave out back.”

  Jason and Bransome were partway through processing the cabin when a commotion outside drew their attention. A young woman was pleading with one of the officers.

  “Can you do without me for a few minutes?” Jason said.

  A head nod answered his question.

  Jason stepped around the blood spatters and onto the porch. Thank God. She had come in an unmarked vehicle. Yolanda Torres looked like a college student in her tight jeans and short cropped button-up blouse. An inch of flesh separated the garments, revealing a silver ring in the tight skin of her navel. She was new to the paper but already had passed several of her colleagues in terms of quality assignments. Using a baseball euphemism, she was a three-skill player. She had looks, personality, and smarts. Gobs of smarts.

  Jason cleared his throat, hoping the officer would reel in his tongue. “She’s a reporter—newspaper, not television. Doing a story on the murders. She’s here to observe.”

  Yolanda’s scowl jolted Jason. He knew she could speak for herself, and her patience was thin for situations like this—where two men talked around her like she wasn’t here.

  The officer scanned Jason from head to foot and back with a testosterone glare. “I’m not going to let this turn into a circus.” He turned his head to Yolanda and his look softened. “I can’t let you past the tape.”

  She glanced at Jason, who shrugged.

  “That’s fine,” she said. “I’ll wait out here, if you don’t mind. Can I ask you a few questions?”

  The officer’s cheeks pulled into a smile.

  Jason stepped aside, but he couldn’t yank the officer’s attention from Yolanda. “I’ll get back inside. The sooner we get done, the sooner we can get home.”

  The sequential logic seemed to register with the officer, perhaps because of the “get home” proviso. He nodded at Yolanda. “I can’t tell you much.”

  Yolanda walked over a few steps and motioned to Jason. She leaned close, her voice a whisper. “Thanks. He’s a piece of work.”

  “He’s doing his job.” Jason smiled. With his ID badge firmly clipped to his shirt pocket, defense of a fellow law enforcement employee came out, as if
by default. “You got all of the background information I sent?”

  “Yes, but I have a few questions.”

  “You’d better save them for later. I’ve got to get back in there. Detective Bransome is all business. I’m just now getting on his good side.”

  Yolanda’s eyes swept up, her angle in line with the open door and what was inside. She gasped. “I’ll be here.” She walked back over to the officer.

  Jason rushed back inside and stopped short. Bransome looked like he hadn’t moved. The detective lifted another print and shook his head.

  “I don’t understand. Why did she leave all the evidence this time?”

  Jason picked up the camera. “Question of the year.”

  “This one is real sloppy. It’s not like the others.”

  “Maybe she doesn’t care anymore. If this is her last one, maybe she didn’t bother to be neat. Maybe she thought Eddie didn’t deserve care and precision.”

  Bransome stood up straight and stretched his back. “Perps don’t change their ways this much.”

  “Maybe Lilin’s planning on disappearing. Maybe this is her final taunt.”

  “Or maybe someone else did this one.”

  “Not the bet thing again,” Jason said. “Why would Agnes want to kill Eddie? Up until a couple of weeks ago, she’d never heard of him.”

  “Let’s see what the prints say.”

  Jason surveyed the scene and grimaced. The uniqueness of the view didn’t jump out. It exploded. Still, it couldn’t be Agnes. She wouldn’t do something like this. She couldn’t. Could she? “Okay, but if she’s involved, she was probably forced into it. Maybe Lilin framed Agnes so she could make her escape.”

  CHAPTER 32

  THE SUN WAS ABOUT TO DIVE INTO THE PACIFIC, PROducing a narrow band of glare above the pink and orange cloud cover that stood away at the horizon. The drive to Mendocino was boring if one took the inland route and slow with the coastal highway. But speed wasn’t a necessity since Bransome had said he wouldn’t be able to process anything tonight. He had plans with the missus.