The Unseen - A Mystery (The Baudin & Dixon Trilogy Book 2)

by Victor Methos

  Dixon took a linen napkin off the table and brought it to his lap. He rolled the cloth over and over in his fingers, feeling the edges, before laying it across his lap. Randy made a spitting sound then cackled to himself. Dixon smiled, and when he looked at his wife, she was smiling, too.

  Dixon spent the night with his wife, though she didn’t force anything. As he lay in bed, she curled up next to him and wrapped her arms around him. He felt tears coming again but didn’t know why. The urge to drink was back. He slipped out of bed and went to the fridge. She had no booze, so he went to the nearest convenience store and picked up a twelve pack. On Dixon’s drive back to Hillary’s, Baudin called.

  “Don’t you ever call during normal hours?”

  “There’s no such thing as normal anything. Where are you?” Baudin asked.

  “Driving.”

  “Where?”

  “Disneyland. What the fuck do you care?”

  “Who pissed in your Cheerios?”

  He exhaled. “Sorry. I’m spending the night with Hillary and Randy. It’s messin’ up my head a little. She talked about Chris.”

  “What about him?”

  “She thinks he just picked up and moved away. No cops came out to talk to her about it.”

  “He probably didn’t have any family to file a missing persons report.”

  “No, not here. He had a mother in New Hampshire or somewhere back there.”

  “Don’t worry. No one’s gonna find out anything.”

  “Oh, really? Someone dug him up from the desert, and you think no one’s gonna know anything, huh? This type of shit has a way of coming back to haunt you, Ethan. If not physically…”

  “Psychologically? You feeling guilty about what you did? Is that what all this bullshit is about?”

  Dixon was silent for a moment as he pulled onto his street. “I killed him like he was nothin’. I should be in prison.”

  “You wouldn’t be in prison alone—I’d be there, too. And your wife and my daughter would be left alone in this darkness. So let’s cut all this shit about feelin’ bad. What happened, happened. You can’t change it, so feeling anxious about it is useless.”

  “Easier said than done, brother. I better go. I’m pullin’ into my house.”

  Dixon got out of the car with the booze and headed inside. He glanced back once at Chris’s condo, and the sight filled him with a dull gray dread. He turned around and decided that if his relationship with Hillary was going to work, they would have to move.

  28

  Baudin woke early, while it was still dark. He showered and got an apple from the kitchen before giving Heather a kiss on his way out the door. The early-morning sky was different from the night sky, though both were black and speckled with stars. Some hint of daylight permeated the blackness, making it seem somehow less majestic, less enigmatic. The night held secrets the day couldn’t touch. Baudin had read that in a poem somewhere and could never remember where.

  The morning shift at Grade A started in an hour. Baudin drove quickly on the freeway, which he’d thought would be empty, but he shared the road with more cars than he’d seen at most other times of the day. Blue-collar workers were usually forced to wake before everyone else. He doubted many stockbrokers or CEOs were on the freeway that early.

  At Grade A, he parked out front. He didn’t expect Peck to confess to him, but maybe Baudin could unnerve him enough to force him to make a mistake. He might get some sort of information to land a search warrant for Peck’s home. Baudin had no doubt a killer like Peck had taken a souvenir. Sex killers always needed to relive their killings, to masturbate while reenacting them. He wouldn’t have been surprised if Peck had videos of the killings stashed somewhere in his home.

  Baudin leaned his head back and listened to soothing opera, something by Puccini, and let his thoughts drift on the music. They floated around his daughter and his fears for her. One day, she would have to be off into the world by herself. He was nervous that he hadn’t prepared her. She was his only child, the single thing he had left that reminded him of his wife. He had shielded Heather from the world as best he could, and in doing so, he might’ve taken away situations that could’ve made her stronger.

  When he opened his eyes, a half hour had passed. Baudin watched workers filing into the plant for a good ten minutes before he saw Peck. The man wore jeans, a beige shirt with work boots, and a beige cap with the illustration of a fish caught on a hook. Baudin stepped out of the car. As Baudin approached the line of workers, Peck saw him.

  Something had changed. Peck’s eyes went wide, and he froze.

  Baudin stopped, too, suddenly feeling the need to reach for his sidearm, but he resisted. As calmly as he could, he said, “Henry, I just need to talk.”

  He didn’t know if it had been his demeanor, the way he walked or moved, but something had told Peck that Baudin knew. And Peck ran. He pushed aside the other workers and dashed into the plant.

  Baudin shouted, “Hey!” Then he had no choice but to run in. He shoved his way through a small crowd milling around at the door. Inside the plant, most of the lights were off, and the darkness was impenetrable except for a few lights on over the line of workers waiting to clock in. Baudin ran up to the edge of the light as far as he could and scanned from one end of the plant to the other. He heard footfalls in the darkness and dashed toward the sound.

  “Henry, I just want to talk,” he shouted.

  The footfalls grew faster. Baudin sped up, too. Then he smashed into a railing he couldn’t see. He nearly tumbled over and only stopped himself by gripping the railing at the last moment. His momentum carried him over, and he held the railing with both hands, holding himself suspended over a vat.

  The footfalls barreled toward him. Baudin hauled himself up just as something metal—probably a shovel—slammed into his cheek and sent him sprawling backward. He fell into an empty vat with a massive gong sound and rolled as he slid down the side. His vision swirled, and he saw Peck’s silhouette toss the shovel and run.

  It took him a moment to regain his balance and pull himself up. The sides of the vat had been cleaned and oiled, and he had to use hands, knees, and feet to get to the edge and reach the railing again. Heaving himself over the railing, he thrust out one foot and landed hard. Dizzy, he stood up straight.

  Baudin hurried through the darkness until he remembered the flashlight app on his phone. He took it out and lit an area about six feet around him. He could hear the workers across the plant talking and see the light track they were walking down, but he knew they couldn’t see him. He thought about calling it in, but Peck made it personal.

  Baudin ran to the wall and followed it down. At the thick steel door to the left, he closed his eyes and listened, trying to tell if anyone was still near him. If he didn’t want to keep exploring in the dark, the door was his only choice.

  He opened the door. The area beyond seemed to be a processing room. Multiple machines took up the space, and he wasn’t quite sure what they were used for. Nobody was inside, and once the door shut, he couldn’t hear the voices of the workers anymore.

  “Henry, I don’t know why you ran, but if you stop right now and talk to me, we’ll pretend this little incident didn’t happen. I just want to talk.”

  Baudin slipped out his sidearm and held it low. He didn’t feel any blood trickling down his face, but the left side of his head burned, and he knew it was swelling up.

  “Henry, come out. We can talk right here if you want. Away from everyone else.”

  He listened for a solid half a minute but didn’t hear anything. Slowly, Baudin eased around the machines. He could see hooks and grips attached to large metal plates that looked as though they could spin. He suddenly recognized the machines’ purpose—holding livestock upside down while their throats were slit.

  The lights were little more than bulbs surrounded by red cones to spread the light farther in the room. Little electric crackles emanated from them. He lifted his sidearm about chest hi
gh. “Henry, just talk to me. Why’d you run? I spoke with the DA. Your case is closed. You have no reason to run.”

  Easing his head around the corner of one of the machines, Baudin took in the rest of the massive room. At the far end, a conveyor belt sat still. Dark blood stains splotched the concrete floor. The room had seen so much death, it stank permanently of it.

  “Henry?”

  As quietly as he could, Baudin tiptoed to the door past the conveyor belt. After passing the last machine, he glanced behind him to make sure he was covered. When he turned back around, Peck swung at him with a heavy metal bar.

  Baudin ducked just a little too late. The bar hit his arm, which had reflexively come up to guard his head. The impact sent him into one of the machines as Peck lifted the bar and, with a scream, swung it down again.

  Baudin leapt out of the way, and the bar dented the metal frame of the machine. He swung around with his pistol, but Peck hid behind the equipment.

  “Where you gonna go, Henry?” His heart pounded in his ears. “Where you gonna run to?”

  A soft clank came from behind one of the machines, and Baudin caught sight of Henry’s boots. He bent down to his knees, took aim, and fired into the first boot. The leather exploded with a small spatter of blood, and Peck yelped.

  Baudin rushed him. He smashed the handle of his sidearm into Peck’s nose, causing his head to snap back. Baudin kneed him in the groin then swung the weapon again, catching Peck in the mouth. Teeth and blood flew over the machine as Peck lost his footing. He tumbled backward, and Baudin was on him. The handgun crashed into his face over and over, spattering blood up into Baudin’s nostrils and mouth. Finally, he stopped. Out of breath and in pain, Baudin sat up. He couldn’t tell if Peck was dead.

  Suddenly, Peck inhaled a frothy mix of blood and air. He rolled to the side and vomited. Baudin aimed his gun at the man’s head. The trigger underneath his finger was so light, a minor tap could have fired the weapon. He held it there for a moment then decided Peck was more valuable alive. Baudin lowered the weapon and returned it to the holster.

  “You stupid bastard,” Baudin said, leaning down and flipping Peck onto his stomach, “all I wanted was to talk.”

  “Fuck you,” Peck spat.

  Baudin slammed him again, causing the man’s head to bounce off the cement floor and knocking him out. Before calling it in, Baudin had to lean against one of the machines to catch his breath. He wasn’t as young as he used to be, and he wondered how much longer he had in his line of work.

  29

  Dixon didn’t realize Peck had been brought in until Jessop told him. He ran to the back interrogation rooms but didn’t see Peck in any of them. He went back out to Jessop, who informed him that Peck was at the hospital and Baudin refused to leave his side.

  On the way over to Cheyenne Regional, Dixon scanned the news stations to see if anyone was discussing the case. No one was. Catching a man who’d killed two women in a town as small as Cheyenne should’ve been big news.

  He parked and jogged inside. He showed his badge to the receptionist, who directed him to a room on the second floor. A uniformed officer sat outside the door, reading a magazine.

  “He’s in there with him, Detective,” the uniform said.

  “Thanks.” Dixon stepped inside the room and shut the door behind him.

  Peck lay in a hospital bed with bandages around his face, a strip of medical tape over a large gash in his nose, and both eyes blackened. Baudin sat in a chair across the room. His face, at least one side of it, was swollen and red like a small melon.

  “You okay?”

  “I’ll live.”

  “What happened?”

  “I went to talk, and he ran.”

  Dixon sat down in a chair on the opposite side of the room. “Did you tell him you were there to arrest him or somethin’?”

  “No, nothing. He saw me, froze, and then ran. He just knew he was in deep shit. Animals have a sixth sense about when they’re doomed.”

  “Did you apply for a warrant for his house?”

  “Hernandez is on it. We should have it any minute.”

  Dixon nodded. “You don’t need to sit here.”

  “I wanna be here when he wakes up. He has a concussion.”

  Dixon looked at Peck. “How long’s he been out?”

  “Few hours.”

  “Shit, Ethan. You tellin’ me he’s in a coma?”

  He shrugged. “His choice, not mine.”

  “And what if he dies? We need an admission.”

  “We’ll find things at his house. I guarantee it. We won’t need an admission.”

  Dixon leaned over and rubbed his forehead. “I’m so sick of this cowboy bullshit. You coulda called him on the phone.”

  “He knows he’s cooked. He woulda run no matter what.”

  “Well, we won’t know that now, will we?”

  Baudin’s phone buzzed. He looked at it. “They have the warrant. You wanna go search his house or criticize me some more?”

  Henry Peck lived in a suburb that could’ve been on a postcard. Dixon drove them down and realized he’d been out there only once before, on a drug call. The quiet neighborhood, filled with families, was the type of place where the neighbors sat on their porches in the summer and let their children play in the street.

  Police tape was up around the home, and the news media had beat them there. Several reporters waited at the edges of the tape, and Dixon knew they would be allowed in at some point. Uniformed officers didn’t mind doing favors in exchange for a little bit of airtime or, occasionally, some cash.

  Dixon parked farther back, and he and Baudin got out of the car. Baudin put out his cigarette on a fire hydrant then threw it down a sewer drain. They crossed the neighbor’s yard and ducked under the police tape. Dixon nodded to one of the uniforms, who nodded back.

  Inside, Peck’s home appeared as though no one lived there. The furniture consisted of a cot and sleeping bag against the wall and a television on a steel TV stand. No decorations, no memorabilia, and nothing personal adorned the space.

  Dixon crossed the living room to the kitchen, which was the same as the living room: nothing. Baudin went straight for the fridge. Dixon glanced that way and saw that the fridge was packed with only meat—either free or stolen samples from the plant.

  An officer stepped into the hallway. “You guys should probably have a look at this.”

  Dixon went down the hallway to find another uniform guarding a dresser drawer. “What we got?”

  “Underwear,” the uniform said. “Lots of it.”

  Dixon looked into the open drawers. Women’s underwear, everything from thongs to lacey teddies, filled each one. He didn’t have any latex gloves, and the forensics unit wasn’t out, so he carefully moved the underwear around with a pen he kept in his breast pocket. Searching for something a little more substantive, like jewelry that Peck had taken from his victims, he found nothing but more underwear.

  “Could be from victims,” Dixon said.

  “Could be he likes to wear women’s underwear,” Baudin said. “Have them run for DNA, I guess.”

  “You seem disappointed.”

  “I am. I thought for sure he’d have videos. Someone this vicious—I didn’t think a possession would be enough. He’d have to see it. I was sure of it. But I think the underwear’s his thing.”

  “Well, even the pope’s wrong sometimes.” Dixon looked at the uniform. “Anyone check the basement?”

  “No.”

  Dixon headed down there, and Baudin followed him. The stairs leading down to the unfinished basement were made of pinewood. They creaked and moved with each step, but the lighting in the basement at least let him see where he was going. Peck had placed lights every few feet, even unnecessarily, Dixon thought. Like he was too frightened to be down here in the dark. Dixon started on one end, and Baudin took the other. They searched for anything that might give them a window into Henry Peck. But other than a few tools, they found nothi
ng.

  Baudin placed his hands on his hips and looked around. “There’s something in this house that belongs to those two girls. If we find it, we’ve got him cold.”

  Dixon took off his jacket and rolled up his sleeves. “Let’s start in the garage.”

  30

  Baudin waited until the forensic investigation team arrived. He wanted everything filmed and photographed before he began tearing it apart. Two techs went through the house, and when Baudin was satisfied every room had been documented, he began taking apart the house.

  He cut up the rug, took out the vents and searched inside the ducts, broke open the garbage disposal and various pipes—he left nothing unexamined. In the garage, a sliding door occupied the middle of the ceiling. Baudin found a ladder and climbed up. If it was the stash of Peck’s most intimate secrets, he might have set up a trap. He called out, and a uniform came to the door.

  “Hold on to the ladder, would you?” Baudin said. “If I’m not out in five minutes, you get my partner and tell him there’s a trap up here.”

  Baudin took the first few steps and, with the muzzle of his sidearm, lifted the door. He slid it over then set it aside. He stuck his head through the hole and looked around. A window provided some light in the space. The room held several boxes and not much else. Baudin climbed up.

  There wasn’t as much dust or spiderwebs as he thought there should’ve been, which meant someone cleaned it regularly. Baudin crossed the room, having to duck to avoid hitting his head on the low ceiling, and looked around. He opened the first box.

  Photographs of women, clearly taken without their knowledge, filled the first box. Most had been taken through windows into homes and apartments, but some had been taken from inside the homes. Baudin opened the other boxes. They were empty—extra room for more photos.

  He picked up a few of the photos and grinned to himself.