William Davonier had three prior arrests for child molestation in the Baltimore area, but no convictions. Two of the priors had occurred when Davonier was working as a custodian in two different day care centers, and the third the previous summer, when he operated a ride at a theme park. In all three cases, the children involved were unwilling or unable to testify against him.
Some of the psychologists who had examined Davonier suggested that he might have suicidal tendencies, so the Susquehanna River near Indian Hill was dragged, and divers searched the most likely places where a body could be lodged, but none was found. William Davonier had simply disappeared. If he had been found alive, police could have gotten a conviction on kidnapping charges, because of Peter Hurst's identification from photographs, but the molestation charge would have fallen apart, as the boy's mother demanded to be present whenever her son was questioned, and when the subject arose of what Davonier had done to the boy, the mother stiffened and the child locked up, his memory inaccessible.
The closest Miriam Hurst ever came to admitting that there had been sexual contact was when she reluctantly asked one of the doctors who questioned Peter if there was a chance her son could catch "that homo disease."
"AIDS? Doubtful. Davonier isn't -- or wasn't -- homosexual, he was a pedophile. The last time he was arrested, his medical record was clean."
She had simply nodded then, registering the fact.
Both local doctors and police psychiatrists recommended that Peter undergo therapy for an indefinite period, but Miriam refused, and Clyde Hurst did as his wife wished. "Peter is a good boy," Miriam told the physicians. "With our love, and with the help of God and our church, Peter will be able to cope with this experience. He's a good boy," she repeated, as if Peter had been accused of the crime, and the people who heard the conviction in her voice feared for the little boy and what he might become.
"Besides," Miriam added, "it's over."
~ * ~
But for Olivia Marsh, one of the two officers who had found Peter Hurst in William Davonier's van, the case was far from over. When police searched Davonier's shabby row home, they found, among the hundreds of other examples of child pornography hidden in the cellar, several Polaroid photographs of naked children who had been found strangled and molested in Virginia, New Jersey, and Delaware over the past four years. It was convenient for several police departments that such a monster was dead.
But despite those convenient conclusions, Olivia did not believe that William Davonier had thrown himself into the river. "It doesn't make a bit of sense," she told Skip Feldman, a fellow officer with whom she had graduated from the academy. "I read his goddamned hearing transcripts on the molestation charges, and Davonier never showed a hint of remorse."
Skip put his empty beer mug down on the bar and signaled the bartender for a refill. "But what about those psychologists?" he said to Olivia. "The ones who said they feared for his life because of his 'self hatred?'" Skip sneered as he said the last two words.
"Those were the defense shrinks. They'd have said anything to get him a reduced sentence. Davonier did what he did because he loved it. As far as he knew, nobody had seen his van, nobody was after him in particular. He could've dumped that kid by the side of the road -- or over the cliff, for that matter -- and probably gotten away with it. So to put the kid in his van, set the lights flashing, then run back up the hill and through the woods in the dark to jump into the river? I don't buy it."
"So then where's Davonier?"
"Maybe in the river. Or in a shallow grave. Or under some rocks somewhere. But it wasn't a suicide."
"So somebody killed him and then hid his body," Skip said.
"Right. And that somebody is the one who put the little boy in the van for us to find. Let's face it, that wasn't the act of a pedophile. Or a child murderer."
Skip took a deep swallow of his new beer. "Wish we could find the guy who did it. I'd give him a medal. But why didn't the dogs find the body?"
"After that rain, those dogs were lucky if they could smell their own butts." She smiled when Skip laughed. "If it hadn't been for the van tracks, we wouldn't even have known the general area where Davonier molested the boy."
"Look, babe, they tried to find a body..."
"Well, maybe they didn't try hard enough."
"Maybe the river just took it."
"And maybe it's still up there in the woods."
Skip stuck out his lower lip and thought about what Olivia had said. He was never so cute as when he was thoughtful. Though they had dated several times in the academy, they hadn't begun sleeping together until they both found themselves rookie patrolmen on the Buchanan police force. At that point it seemed as though fate had taken a hand, and they had seen each other steadily ever since. Skip was even beginning to hint about marriage, but Olivia had not encouraged him. She was carrying too much baggage to get married right away, even though she thought she loved Skip as much as she would ever love anyone.
"Wanta go on a picnic?" Skip asked her with a little smile.
She smiled, hoping she knew what he was getting at. "Near the river?" she asked, and her smile turned into a grin as he nodded.
Chapter 11
The following day was Thursday, their day off, so Olivia spent the night at Skip's apartment, and the next morning, after a lazy round of lovemaking and a light breakfast, they drove out to Indian Hill Park. The day was overcast and threatened rain, so there were few cars parked in the dirt lot, and none at the end of the dirt road, where William Davonier's van had been found.
"Now what?" Skip asked as they got out of his car. "Just start looking for the body?"
"No," Olivia said. "I think first we look for the exact spot where Davonier took the kid."
"And how are we gonna do that? The rest of the force couldn't find it."
"Well, maybe they didn't know how to look."
"And you do?"
"I didn't take that course for nothing." Olivia had commuted to the University of Pennsylvania the previous spring to take a full semester course in Criminal Predation. "And I've read a lot about these creeps too, and studied Davonier's past history in particular. His shrinks said that he idolized children, but I think that was just to make him look harmless. He didn't idolize them so much as romanticize them. Looked on them as his lovers, rather than things to be used and tossed away."
"Are you kidding? Romanticize? After what he did to that little boy? And those other kids -- the dead ones?"
Olivia shook her head. "I'm not saying that he wasn't a monster, he was. But romanticizing it made it easier for him to live with himself. That way he lived a tragedy, not a life of evil."
"So he'd be looking for a, what, romantic spot?" Olivia nodded, and Skip's mouth twisted. "Jesus, what a sick fuck."
"So where would we go," Olivia said, without a trace of humor in her voice, "if we were looking for somewhere secluded and romantic?" Skip only stood there, looking down, his arms folded, shaking his head. "What is it?" she said.
"I just can't...I mean, when I have to link us with that sonovabitch...how can you do that?"
"You ever do any acting? Like in high school or college?" Olivia asked him.
"No."
"That's how you do it. It's easy. You just pretend to be somebody else. Think the way they would."
"A pedophile? A baby killer?"
"If that's what it takes. But for now let's just think about finding a nice romantic spot. Forget about pedophiles and perverts, and think about going someplace with me."
"How about back to my place and forgetting all this."
"Come on." She led him into the woods, trying to think like Davonier would have, trying to aim herself toward the lushest, greenest areas.
In less than fifteen minutes of walking, she came across a spot that seemed made for romance. It was open enough to be sunlit when the sky was free of clouds, but was encircled densely enough by thick-boled trees to give the sensation of privacy. Several large patches of moss we
re scattered about. Beds of moss, she thought, and her mouth tasted bitter as she thought of what cruel acts might have taken place upon one of those beds.
"You think this is it?" Skip asked her softly.
She tried to say maybe, but the word caught in her throat so that she had to clear it. "Maybe."
Olivia walked gingerly around the moss beds, looking at each one closely, trying to find any indications of depression in the soft green surfaces. The resilient plants, she thought, might not give up their secrets so generously, for trace evidence was easily washed away. Semen, blood, body tissue, all were subject to both the elements of weather and insect activity. After the weeks that had passed since the incident, it would be a miracle to find any organic evidence.
So the button, she thought later, was only a minor miracle. She froze, looking down at the bit of brass that still glimmered dully in the gray daylight. Then she took a glassine envelope from her fanny pack, and asked Skip, "Do you remember I told you what clothes we found with the boy?"
"Overalls and a t-shirt?"
"Overalls," she said as she knelt. "Oshkosh, by God. Look."
Skip knelt next to her and saw the button right away. It was lying face-up on the edge of a tussock of moss so that the manufacturer's name was easily visible.
"One of the buttons was missing," Olivia said. "What do you want to bet this is it?"
"So this is where it happened then."
"That's right. And this is probably where Davonier died too." She picked up the button with a pair of tweezers and slipped it into the glassine envelope. "Because if he hadn't died, we'd have found the boy's body here instead of his button."
"So who killed him then?"
Olivia stood up and shrugged. "Maybe a hunter coming across the scene?"
"You're not infallible after all -- there's no hunting allowed here." Skip's face brightened further. "What about a partner?"
"No. He was always alone in his priors. And there was no one else in the Polaroids they found at his place. There was never any indication that he liked to share his... particular vice. And patterns like that don't change. I really think it was as much an accident as anything, somebody coming across them and seeing right away what's going on, happens to be packing a piece, kills the guy and rescues the kid, but doesn't want to get involved, since he figures it's murder, or at any rate something that's going to get him tangled up with the law."
"Then where's the body, Olivia?"
"A body's a whole lot bigger than a button," she said, holding up the envelope, "and we already found that." She looked around, her gaze sweeping the labyrinth of trees and brush. "Supposing you want to get rid of a body, but you want to do it fast, because you want to get help for this kid. So which way to you go?"
"Away from the road?"
"And away from the van." She pointed. "That way."
They started walking. Olivia tried to imagine what it would be like carrying William Davonier, a dead weight of 140 pounds, on her back, and felt some of the desperation and terror that his killer must have experienced. Within minutes she was looking for the first place that could hide a corpse, but realized that she had neither the equipment nor the time to dig a grave, even a shallow one.
Then up ahead, nearly hidden behind a thicket of thorns entangled with a tightly woven tapestry of laurel, she saw several boulders piled atop one another, dropped there by some glacier millennia before. She had so put herself into the character of the unknown killer that it was not so much anticipation she felt as relief that here was perhaps a place she could hide her pretend burden.
"How about there?" she heard Skip say, and was annoyed at having her illusion of criminality shattered.
"Yeah," she said shortly. "I see it."
As they drew nearer she found that its opportunities for concealment did not seem as promising as she had hoped. As she examined the rocky labyrinth, she found no small crannies, caves, or holes that could not be easily accessed. Most probably were when the first searchers had come through.
"Olivia?" She heard Skip calling her. "Come here a sec!"
She rounded a boulder to find him leaning over, sniffing the air. "You smell anything bad around here?"
She did. It was sour and pungent, the unmistakable odor of something dead.
"Either there's a deer that half-buried itself, or we're in the presence of Mister Davonier," Skip said.
Olivia stepped closer to the area between two rocks from which she thought the smell was coming. Though it looked like solid ground in between the rocks, when she kicked at it, her foot sank several inches into a mass of leaves, and the weight of her falling body broke several twigs and branches that had been supporting the matted surface.
"You okay?" Skip asked as he helped her to her feet.
"Fine." The smell was worse now, and it most definitely came from the hole Olivia's foot had made. "Let's clear this away."
Less than a minute's work revealed a hole between the boulders large enough to look into. Olivia took a penlight from her pack and knelt next to it.
"You're gonna stick your head in there?" Skip said. "Why don't we just go back and let forensics do the dirty?"
"And have them come up here to find a dead raccoon? I don't want to be in a patrol car the rest of my life."
"That's no raccoon," Skip said, but she scarcely heard him as she took a deep breath, stuck both arms into the hole, and dragged her head and shoulders in as well so that she could see what the penlight's beam revealed.
She lost no time in coming back out. She remained on her hands and knees for a moment, thinking that she might be sick from the smell.
"Was it him?" Skip asked.
She nodded. "There's an incline, and then it falls off into a small dirt cave. He's at the bottom of the hole, about ten, twelve feet down."
"I suggest that now we call the department."
"I think that's one helluva suggestion."
Chapter 12
The body was identified as William Davonier's. Cause of death was a .38 caliber bullet that was fired into the top of Davonier's head, passing through the brain and upper and lower soft palate, exiting beneath the chin, re-entering the gullet, and finally lodging in the upper chest an inch behind the sternum.
The local media reported the finding of the "Baltimore Baby Killer's" body, and added that he had been "locally wanted for questioning concerning a crime involving a minor."
Paul Blair read about the discovery of the body in the newspaper. And after he read the details of Davonier's other murders, he found himself wishing most devoutly that William Davonier had not confessed everything to God. He thought it would be most unjust for such a man to enjoy the infinite wonders of heaven.
Paul noted that there was no mention in the article of the fatal bullet having been recovered. Since no suspicion lay on him, and since there was nothing to tie him to the place, the day, or the dead man, he decided not to destroy his .38 revolver. It had been a gift from his late father, and he shot targets more accurately with it than with any other pistol he owned.
~ * ~
The bullet had been recovered, however, from William Davonier's chest. The size, weight, and examination of the striations on the surface of the malformed chunk of lead revealed it to be a .38 caliber bullet, probably a flat-tipped wadcutter, a type used primarily by target shooters. The markings indicated that the weapon from which it was fired was a standard manufacture revolver, probably a Smith and Wesson, according to Tom Fredericks, the small lab's ballistics examiner. At Olivia's request, Fredericks sat down with her and showed her the characteristic details on the bullet's land and groove marks.
"Are these unique?" Olivia asked. "I mean, if the same gun that fired this bullet was used in another crime, is there enough here to get a match?"
Fredericks nodded. "Yeah. This one's as unique as a fingerprint. Assuming that the second bullet isn't any more damaged than this one, we could compare them. And even if it was all buggered up, you'd be surprised how eve
n really badly mutilated bullets still have tales to tell."
The bullet was photographed, then stored as evidence in the case, in the event a suspect should be found. After it was locked away, Olivia Marsh examined the magnified photographs for a long time, memorizing the distinctive identifying marks. On the rare occasions when she found herself idle at headquarters, she would take the binder that the photographs of the bullet were in, and look at them for a long time.
Both Officer Olivia Marsh and Officer David Feldman were given citations for their informal investigation that led to the discovery of Davonier's body.A year later, Skip Feldman received a promotion, and asked Olivia to marry him. She told him that she wanted to think about it for a while. Three months later, when she got her own promotion to the homicide division, she said yes, and they were married.
The new Detective Feldman inherited a large case file from the retiree she replaced. She also inherited the man's partner, a fifteen-year veteran who was not at all reluctant to work with a woman. Olivia found out why on the first stakeout they made together. In response to his advances, she coldly told him that if he couldn't control himself any better than that, he should jerk it off before she broke it off, and, after a few weeks of surliness from him, she had no further trouble.
Among the unsolved cases bequeathed to Olivia was the William Davonier killing. By that time it had become little more than a technicality, one of several unsolved crimes that no one expected to ever be solved.
But the bullet remained, and, while it had only passed through William Davonier's brain, it lodged itself firmly within Olivia Feldman's. And she became even more obsessed with it after her husband was killed.
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