The Lost Orphans Omnibus: A Riveting Mystery

by J. S. Donovan

  Rachel pulled out her phone. “This is Detective Harroway and Detective Peak. We need backup and fire trucks. A lot of fire trucks. ” Rachel filled HQ in on the address and then distanced herself from the house. Resting against the tree opposite the house, Rachel and Peak watched the corner of the roof fall in and waited for the fire department to arrive.

  The trucks came screaming down the road. The fire put up a fight, and the dry leaves sent trails of fire whipping throughout the forest. Thankfully, helicopters holding massive orange water jugs were able to help save the flora from its impending doom. About half of the house survived. The rest of it collapsed in on itself.

  “Nothing’s broken,” the young EMT said as he checked Rachel’s bruises. “You rest for a few days, and you’ll be fine.”

  “I don’t rest,” Rachel replied. Even though I’m dying to.

  Brushing soot from his windbreaker, Peak limped up to Rachel. “I just got off the phone with McConnell.”

  By his sober expression, Rachel knew that the lieutenant wasn’t calling to congratulate them.

  They were in his office an hour later, looking at the pictures of his son in a soccer uniform propped up on his desk. McConnell entered with haste. Standing over six feet tall, McConnell had a thin frame, a long face, and grey sideburns that had survived since the 1970s. He was usually an approachable man. Usually.

  “Detectives, I don’t need to tell you why you are here,” McConnell said as he sat down.

  Rachel sat with nice posture, while Peak slouched. Rachel felt her heart rate spike.

  “You two are good at what you do,” McConnell said. “Believe it or not, people in this town like you. You stop killers. You inspire many. Even made national news a few times. But this fire, it’s unacceptable. It wouldn’t have happened if you had followed protocol. But that’s nothing new for you, is it?”

  Rachel didn’t know how long McConnell had known about her and Peak’s shady methods, but Rachel had predicted a day of reckoning would come. She was just hoping it was not on the day she was nearly burned alive.

  “I’ve been very lenient, have I not?” McConnell asked rhetorically. “But now I need to tighten the reins.”

  “Why?” Peak asked plainly.

  McConnell raised his brows, slightly thrown off guard by the question. He quickly composed himself. “Speaking frankly, there’s new town management. As you know, the last mayor was recently fired for a money-laundering scandal—thank you, Detective Peak—and the one before that was a suspect in a serial murder case and was killed soon after. My point is that we can’t afford to make mistakes. Not when next year’s budget’s on the line.”

  “So it’s about money? Whatever happened to getting the job done no matter what the cost?” Peak asked.

  “That may be your motto, Peak. I’m just trying to keep this town in check. Both of you should be kissing my butt right now for the nice spin I’m putting on this forest fire business. Thus far, the only people who know you were in that house when the fire started are all in this room. Let’s keep it that way.”

  “Blackmail,” Peak said.

  “Sure is,” McConnell replied. “I’m forcing you to do the job I’m paying you to do.”

  Peak had nothing to say to that.

  McConnell pointed at them with his long finger. “Don’t make me suspend you two. I mean it.”

  “Yes, sir,” Rachel and Peak said in unison.

  McConnell directed his attention to Rachel. “You got anything you want to add, Harroway?”

  “No, sir.”

  “All right, then get back to it, or go home and rest. I’ll leave the choice up to you as long as you continue pursuing this case within the confines of the law that you’re sworn to defend.”

  Rachel and Peak returned to their desks.

  “I feel like I’m in grade school again,” Peak commented.

  Rachel replied, “He makes a good point.”

  “Too bad we won’t listen,” Peak said.

  Rachel felt guilty, but she knew she wasn’t going to be able to follow every rule. Not with something as chaotic and unpredictable as the Gift. It was a blessing and a curse in many ways. Without it, Rachel imagined she’d still be married to Bret and pursuing her mildly successful art career. She might even have children. The Gift consumed those hopes and dreams and left her with a single purpose: sending Orphans home.

  The forensics unit found nothing condemning in Giovanni Caro’s charred estate. However, there were a number of abnormalities. For one, the power was fully functional, which meant that Giovanni had flipped off the breaker switches on purpose. Why? Rachel didn’t have a clue. Also, the mattress in the basement was decades old and seemed more heavily lived in than the comfy one in the master bedroom. The half of the rat that was recovered had bite marks consistent with those of a human. Was he feeding rats to the children? Would they even have enough strength to bite a rat in half? Later, forensics informed Rachel that the bite was from an adult human. Was he eating rats? She recalled the fancy suits in the bedroom. For a man of such class, he certainly had an odd diet. The forensic team was unable to recover the poisonous berries from his refrigerator. The one that Rachel had packed away in the evidence bag had splattered and leaked during her tumble. Its juices stained the inside of her leather jacket. That pissed Rachel off nearly as much as being set ablaze. Her phone still had pictures of the house before the flames, but none of those would be admissible in court. On the bright side, Rachel knew that she had encountered the killer or someone working with him.

  Peak got a call from the estate’s owner. He put it on speaker.

  The homeowner started the conversation with a slew of obscenities and some less-than-cheery pointers on how the Highlands police should do their jobs. When his ten-minute venting period had concluded, Rachel said, “I wasn’t aware you owned the house, Mr. Travorian. Did you know someone else was living there?”

  “Yes. I rent the place out. I own many houses, Detectives. I’m not some flop.”

  Peak searched for Mr. Travorian’s name both in the police database and on Google. He had a few speeding tickets on his record and was currently living in Malibu. He was a Realtor with his hand in a few other investments: protein shakes, horse breeding, and other odd ventures that he liked to boast about.

  “Who was your last tenant?” Rachel asked.

  “Jason Winslet.”

  Rachel reached out to him next. He was a middle-aged programmer who seemed heavily distraught by the conversation.

  “I had no idea this would happen. Honest,” Jason said.

  “All right, Mr. Winslet. Are you currently renting out the house?”

  “Not exactly… You see, I didn’t spend much time in Highlands. Not my scene, but I signed on for twelve months. Instead of getting fined, I passed my lease off to another guy I met on a housing website.”

  “Who?”

  “Marco Blanco.”

  Peak searched for the name in the database.

  “I have bad news for you, Mr. Winslet.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Marco Blanco was killed at the age of seven in 1961. Gas leak in a New York tenement.”

  “Oh.”

  “You think you can come down and help us get a sketch of the man?”

  “Umm. I only met him once, and I’m about to leave for Stockholm for two weeks…”

  Peak leaned over the phone. “Cancel your flight.”

  “I can’t. I’m meeting with some important investors. Can’t I do it after I return?”

  “People might die,” Peak guilt tripped him. “Time is of the essence.”

  “I get that, but… I’m sorry, Detectives. I-It’s not a possibility right now.”

  Rachel rubbed her forehead. “Tell us what he looks like.”

  “Black hair. A beard—short beard. Green… No, brown eyes… I think. Good looking. Medium height. Decent muscles. I don’t know, he’s just a guy who likes to groom himself.” There was doubt behind his statem
ents.

  Rachel traded a look with Peak. This was not going well.

  “As I said, I only met him once. He had good money. Paid for rent three months in advance. Just a charming guy all the way around.”

  “He might be a serial killer,” Peak reminded him. “And he burned the house that you’re renting down. Your name was on the lease. You’re responsible for the damage.”

  The air seemed to leave Winslet’s side of the phone.

  Rachel interjected, “You help us get Marco, and we’ll talk to Mr. Travorian on your behalf.”

  “Okay, yeah, sure, but you’ll need to wait until I’m back from Sweden. Sorry, but this investment matters too much.”

  “So do all the lives that are in danger every second this guy walks free.”

  “I want to help, Detectives. I really do, but… ”

  Rachel told him the number to call if his plans changed, and then she hung up.

  Peak leaned back in his office chair. “Giovanni has multiple aliases. All of them are children that were killed in the twentieth century.”

  “If we can find out where he’s getting these names, it could point us in the right direction.”

  “Maybe,” Peak said. “Or he’s just walking around graveyards and picking a name at random.”

  “What do we know about him?” Rachel asked herself aloud. “He’s Italian. He has money. He likes art. He knows how to mix poisons. His targets are single mothers and their children. He may or may not eat rats and sleep on a pee-stained mattress. Oh, and he wears a jack-o’-lantern mask. What does that tell us?”

  Peak thought for a moment. “He cares about appearance and romance but has a dark side. I’m thinking abusive childhood. Maybe a hateful, most likely alcoholic mother. The child he abducts is a projection of himself. Perhaps his own mother was poisoned, and he finds release in continuing the cycle.”

  “We’ve looked into belladonna poisonings. Nothing like that came up.”

  “Belladonna could be symbolic in nature.”

  “Okay, but where’s he getting his money?”

  Peak scratched the back of his head. “It could be any number of things. Con man, CEO, another type of ego-stroking career. The man cares about appearances and is obviously sociopathic and manipulative. I imagine he uses that in his workplace.”

  “I guess, but where does the jack-o’-lantern mask fit in? It doesn’t seem to match that persona,” Rachel questioned.

  “A lot of things don’t fit the profile,” Peak replied. “We must scrutinize and doubt everything, Harroway. That’s the only way we’ll get to the bottom of this.”

  “Whatever happened to ‘the simplest solution is the usually the right one’?” Rachel asked.

  “That’s why we must scrutinize everything. It’s the only way to get rid of the clutter.”

  The statement prompted Rachel to call Jimmy Dekker, the jogger who reported Martha’s body. She left a voicemail. Feeling anxious, she decided to visit his home. Peak tagged along. Their cars hiked up the mountain road and ended at the modern-style house built into the mountainside.

  With a perplexed expression, Jimmy met them at the front door. He had brown hair, a clean-shaven face, and a muscular body. He didn’t match the description Winslet gave them. Still, Rachel kept an open mind. “How was your day, Mr. Dekker?”

  “Uh, good. Any luck on Martha’s killer?”

  “Mind if we come inside?” Peak asked instead.

  “Sure, whatever, man.”

  The interior of the house had a treadmill, a bench press, and a pull-up bar in the doorframe. It was his own personal gym. Large cartons of protein powder lined the kitchen countertop alongside an assortment of vegetables Dekker had begun to slice. His walls had pictures of Arnold Schwarzenegger and other famous bodybuilders with inspirational quotes. The detectives spent a little time questioning him, but what sealed his innocence was his workout routine. He showed them the list of names and numbers he’d put together. “These are my friends from the gym. They were all with me this afternoon and most every other day.”

  After they’d called a few, the alibi checked out. There was no possible way he could’ve been started the fire.

  Rachel thanked Dekker for his time.

  Peak seemed relieved the man wasn’t the killer. “Imagine how disappointing that would’ve been if he was the Poisoner.”

  Rachel smirked. They said goodnight and returned to their homes. Rachel took the winding road to Hadley House. Her body ached worse than it had when she jumped out the window. The EMT had picked the glass out of her arms and wrapped her forearm in bandages. She stripped them off when she climbed into the shower, noticing the dozens of purple bruises spotting her pale skin. There were a few small cuts on her neck and cheeks. She winced when the water hit her. With a towel wrapped around her body, Rachel entered her master bedroom just in time to see her phone ringing on the bed.

  Anonymous caller.

  Rachel answered.

  A distorted voice spoke into Rachel’s ear and sent a chill down her spine. “I’ll say this once, Detective: back off, or I’ll kill you next.”

  Then the line went dead.

  5

  The Mothers

  Rachel drove to the police department as fast as her unmarked Impala would take her. She had dressed in the first pair of jeans and T-shirt she could find, topping off her ensemble with her faded leather jacket. Her hair was in a loose ponytail, wiry black hairs sticking out, and she wore no makeup.

  “There is no way you can get a trace on it now,” Peak said as he arrived at the department’s steps. It seemed as if meeting at the office was the safest course of action.

  “That’s not the point. He has my personal number,” Rachel replied. She was still reeling from the phone call. The man’s words crawled deep into her ears and filled her with fear. I’ll kill you next. She thought of the Orphans, their dilated eyes, and the bile trickling from their purple lips. Then she saw her own face marinated in a plate of blood, wine, and vomit.

  Rachel’s work phone was constantly bombarded with business calls from the office or elsewhere. Her secondary phone, which the anonymous person called, had nine contacts, all of them close family and friends. The only way the Poisoner could get that number was through one of those people: Peak, Liam, Sequoyah, Clove, her old friend Deston from high school, Uncle Bartholomew, the psychiatric ward where her mother stayed, her ex-husband, Bret, and her best friend, Jenny Hua, in Seattle.

  Rachel’s stomach knotted. He could’ve gotten to any one of them. Rachel made it her mission to call them. She checked the time. It was nearly midnight. She’d call anyway.

  Her father answered, “Rach? What’s going on?”

  “Are you okay? Have you been hurt? Has anyone threatened you?”

  “What? Slow down, Rachel. I’m fine. Has something happened?”

  Rachel chewed her lip, unsure if she should reveal the truth. He’ll only worry. “Nothing, Dad. I, uh, just wanted to say that I love you.”

  “I love you, too, Rachel,” Liam replied with worried hesitance. “Are you sure nothing has happened?”

  “I’m fine. Really. This may sound random, but did you give my number out to anyone recently?”

  “I don’t think so, no. Why would I?”

  “Sure?”

  “Yes, Rachel.”

  “That’s all I needed. Have a good night.”

  “Rachel, wait.”

  Rachel hung up and stared at the steps beneath her feet. Stones of shame pelted Rachel every time she lied to her father. Him being a preacher at one time didn’t help with Rachel’s conviction.

  Peak leaned against the railing, burying his hands in his back pants pockets. His copper hair flowed in the chilly autumn breeze. “What do you want to do?”

  “I don’t know,” Rachel replied honestly. She made another call.

  Sequoyah answered immediately with his usual baritone voice. “What is the issue, Rachel Harroway?”

  “A serial kil
ler called me. Did you give anyone my number?”

  “Do not of accuse me of such things. I never betray my clients’ confidence. Do you have any more ridiculous accusations?”

  “Sequoyah, that’s not what I meant.”

  “Call me when you are ready to talk business.”

  The line went dead.

  “Perfect,” Rachel mumbled. “Just perfect.”

  Peak eyed her. “Are you really going to call them all?”

  “I have to.” Rachel went down the list.

  Deston from high school, seemingly in high spirits and at some sort of concert, wanted to take Rachel out to eat. He claimed not to have given her number out.

  Uncle Bartholomew did not pick up; that was typical. Apart from him being Rachel’s only other blood relative, they had very little connection.

  The psychiatric ward where her mother stayed was closed at this hour, but it was against the law for them to give out personal information. If the killer knew about Rachel’s psychotic mother, whom she hadn’t visited in years, he might know about the Gift, too. Rachel was ninety-nine percent sure the psychiatric lead was a bust. The final one percent made her shudder.

  She called up her old friend Jenny in Seattle. The call woke Jenny up, and she bombarded Rachel with a million questions. After ten minutes of that, Rachel was able to put an end to the conversation. It was the final call that worried Rachel the most: her ex-husband, Bret. Grow up, Rachel. That chapter of your life is closed. There’s nothing to be worried about. Rachel made the call and got his voicemail. She pulled up his name on Facebook. Seeing that he was currently an active user, she imagined that he was all right. After all, he was living the California dream with his swimsuit-model wife. Rachel looked her up. She was an actual renowned swimsuit model.

  “Any luck?” Peak asked.

  “I thought you hated rhetorical questions.”

  “Touché.”