I shake my head. “No. I woke up next to you this morning and freaked out.”
Ben starts laughing again, and it’s starting to annoy me. “Do you mind?” I ask. “This isn’t funny to me.”
Ben sits back in his chair, head bobbing. “Okay. I’m sorry. Really. It’s just – damn – it must be weird. I can’t get my head round it, I really can’t.”
“What’s there to get your head round?” I fire back. “I’m crazy. Insane. Okay?”
“No,” Ben says evenly, “I don’t think you are.” He leans towards me. “Ever since that first night, you know what? I believe you. De Nares thinks I’m crazy, but there you go. I don’t know what’s happening, or how it’s happening, but there’s something going on in that fantastic brain of yours, that’s for sure.”
I sit there in stunned silence. He believes me? For a moment, I consider that this is some sort of set-up, entrapment to try and get me to make a slip-up, reveal something the ABI wants to hear. But Ben seems genuine. I can’t be sure for certain, but I believe him. And that makes me feel good.
“Thank you Ben,” I say, my hands finding his over the table again. “Thank you.” A thought occurs to me. “So who is Doctor Sandwell?” The name seems familiar in some way, but I can’t seem to put my finger on it.
“First things first,” Ben says. “Let me tell you what’s been going on for the past few days. You must be dying to know.”
Ben’s right, and I smile. First things first. I have three days to catch up on.
6
What I hear is interesting, to say the least. Weird too, being told what you’ve been doing for the past few days, with absolutely no recall whatsoever.
After I knocked myself out by head-butting the cell wall, I was transferred to the Palmer emergency room where I was treated for a concussion. Doctor Elaine Mumby, the lady I’d seen twice before and apparently an eminent clinical psychologist, interviewed me in my hospital bed and reported that – in her professional opinion – I wasn’t lying, I actually believed what I’d told the ABI. Which is true, of course.
I was then transferred to the Neuroscience Centre at Alaska Regional Hospital, where I finally entered the care of Doctor Claude Newholme and his staff. According to Ben, I underwent brain scans, x-rays, MRIs, any test they could think of. Files were received from Mount Sinai detailing what happened in New York, the coma, the damage to my brain.
Ben says that while the tests were going on, De Nares was busting his nut, furious he wasn’t allowed contact with his prime suspect. And then my father arrived – nobody seems to know how he found out, but he must have haul-assed from Boston to get here so quickly – and broke De Nares’ case apart in minutes. Ben says he was impressed, and glad he wasn’t on the receiving end. Long story short, the judge rescinded the charges completely, although apparently De Nares still has his eye on me. When I asked Ben what De Nares would think about the two of us, he laughed and said it wasn’t a problem; I’m free, and Ben isn’t officially on the case.
Due to a complete lack of evidence, other than his presence in the general area, Paul was released without charge too, and – as far as anyone knows – flew straight back to New York. I never saw him. My father didn’t stick around either, and Ben’s not even sure if he stopped by to see me. Probably just came to ensure I didn’t embarrass him and his practice; his son committing suicide was bad enough, without his daughter being charged with aiding and abetting a homicide.
Although I had appointments to keep, I was let out of Alaska Regional on Tuesday morning. Ben had spent a lot of time with me, feeling bad about the whole affair, and we’d gotten to like one another. And so, on the pretext of Ben filling me in – confidentially of course – about the case, we’d met for dinner on Tuesday night. We’d hit it off well, arranged to see each other again on the Wednesday, hit some bars after dinner and one thing had led to another – two lonely people with a lot of stress and a few too many drinks – and we’d ended up in bed together. I couldn’t tell if Ben was disappointed or relieved that I couldn’t remember that part.
His description of our brief courtship is strange, as if it happened to someone else entirely, but after spending time with him this morning that I can actually remember, I can easily see how it could have happened. In fact, I think I might even like him.
Back to the case, Ben tells me that De Nares is trying his best to bust Pat Jenkins’ balls, but Ben doesn’t buy it; the times and dates just don’t add up. They can’t establish that Pat knew Lynette back in Seattle, but that doesn’t mean he didn’t. Either way, De Nares is still hanging in there.
My house has been turned upside over, with everyone from crime lab technicians to the canine unit riding roughshod through it. Not just mine though – they’d done a thorough job of Artie’s and Larraine’s too, as well as our other neighbors. The Townsends, the Latimers, the Eberles, even Judge Judd – they’ve all had their properties searched, from top to bottom. Given the state of the girl’s body and the cold weather conditions that night, the experts have decided that she couldn’t possibly have made it more than a few miles. It’s suspected she was being held somewhere in the immediate vicinity. Nothing was found anywhere though, and Ben says they’re still putting things back together. Maybe they should check further afield; the human body is sometimes capable of a lot more than we give it credit for.
The ABI and Anchorage PD are still trying to locate Dennis Hobson, and Kim Gaskell and all her partners and ex-partners are being brought in for questioning, preliminary enquiries being carried out in their home states, not even De Nares wanting to drag them all the way up to Alaska if there’s no need. Kim and her current husband seem to have strong alibis, but there are several question marks over some of the others, including Lynette’s biological father.
All of which brings us up to our fifth cup of coffee, and a new question I have for Ben. “Tell me about the unsolved murders from a couple of years back.” Maybe it’s more of a demand than a question, really.
Ben gestures to the waitress for a sixth cup. Looking at the weather outside, a blizzard starting to foul up the rush-hour traffic, we’re not in a hurry to go anywhere.
He purses his lips, brow furrowed as he thinks. “It was a bad time,” he reflects eventually. “A real bad time. Couple of hikers up in the Chugach State Park stumbled across some human remains. A femur first, uncovered after the snow and frost finally began to thaw, they weren’t sure what it was at first, but then they found a jawbone, definitely human. The rest of the skull was right next to it, just under the topsoil. They stopped looking then, the lady was sick and the guy called in the PD.
“Well, everyone but the army got involved, you couldn’t move for people in those hills, all departments got roped in, we scoured I don’t know how many square miles of that damned place, animals had carried the bones all over. Eight bodies in all, all decomposed beyond recognition, you know what the weather conditions here are like, forensic examiners had no idea about time of death. Depressed skull fractures might have indicated cause of death, but in the cases where the hyoid bones were found, they were broken, which might indicate that the victims were strangled.
“It took months to track down the names of the victims through dental records when we could find teeth, facial reconstruction and comparison to missing persons’ photos when we didn’t. In the end, we only managed to positively ID three out of the eight, with a strong idea about two more and absolutely nothing to go on for the remaining three.”
Ben shakes his head, obviously still upset by the events, and understandably so. “Prostitutes, the girls we identified,” he continues, “working the Spenard area, just like Lynette.” Another shrug of the shoulders, an audible sigh. “ABI and Anchorage PD pulled in hundreds of people, the FBI got directly involved too, making up offender profiles, you know, every john, sex offender and ex-con in the area was interviewed, but nothing. Just nothing. The girls we identified had been reported missing at the back end of two thousand nine; exp
erts guessed the other bodies had probably been there longer than six months, but that was the best they could do. Trying to link them to outstanding missing persons was a real sonofabitch too, you know how it is with street girls.”
I nod my head; I do know how it is, and it goes back to my previous thoughts about why they make appealing victims. If one goes missing, it rarely gets reported to the police. More often than not they move to another part of the country, maybe running from an abusive pimp, maybe because they think there’ll be richer pickings elsewhere. The bottom line is that they are a group of people forgotten by society.
“It reminded some people of a couple of girls who were found in some woods just outside Anchorage, back in two thousand six, two thousand seven,” Ben starts up again. “Before my time, but we all learned about it. Bodies were ID’d as runaways, young women, girls really, you know, fourteen, fifteen years old. Found strangled to death, probably on-site. Evidence of violent sexual assault.”
“Rape?”
Ben shakes his head. “No evidence of semen, possible the killer used a condom but no clear evidence to suggest that. Forced insertion of a blunt instrument, vaginal and anal. Anchorage PD suspected a branch had been used in one of the cases, they found it discarded near the body, blood and feces on it. They found a cross near the other.”
“A cross?”
Ben nods. “Uh-huh. A crucifix, big one – hardwood, square end. Possible the killer dropped it by mistake, maybe tripped and lost it in the dark. Didn’t seem to have been left on purpose anyway. And again, evidence up and down the lower shaft.” The disgust is evident on Ben’s face.
I can’t help thinking about Lynette’s autopsy report, the damage reportedly caused by a blunt instrument. Could it have been caused by a wooden crucifix? I guess it could have, but it could have been a thousand other things as well, and sexual assault with such objects is quite a common occurrence in these cases. It suggests a link, but far from proves it. Still, it’s the sort of thing which gets the investigative instincts on full alert.
“So what happened then?”
“Well, they looked up and down those woods for weeks, never found any more bodies. Never got a conviction.”
Ben smiles at the waitress as she pours his coffee. I wait until she leaves.
“Was there a feeling that the cases were connected?”
“Oh yeah, we all thought there must be some connection, but there was no real evidence to suggest it. The Chugach bodies were too decomposed for anything like that. Still, a lot of us thought they must be linked – I mean, could there really be two people that crazy out there?”
“Yes,” I say, knowing it is unfortunate but true.
“Yes,” Ben agrees, “we both know anything’s possible, right? But we couldn’t even match the signatures between the cases. We’re not even sure the Chugach women were sexually assaulted. Still, we looked up those old cases, brought in anyone we suspected back then, re-interviewed them. Still nothing.”
“Do you think this latest case is connected?” I ask gently.
Ben’s brow furrows in thought once more as he considers his answer. “Yes,” he says at last. “I’m pretty sure of it. Call it a gut instinct, I don’t know. But yes, I’d say they’re connected. Those early murders looked quick, on-the-spot. The bodies dumped in Chugach were hidden more carefully, I think the killer spent more time with them. And then those bodies were found, an investigation starts, so maybe the killer refines his method again, you know? Maybe now he takes girls somewhere even more private, murders them and then hides the bodies. Maybe even his own house, under the floorboards, in the garden. Easy to do out here, right?”
I nod. “I guess so.”
“And Heaven knows, there are a lot of people go missing, especially girls living on the streets. But how many have just run away, left town to escape pimps and boyfriends, and how many might have been . . . taken?” He shrugs those big shoulders, regretful. “It’s just impossible to say, and the killer probably knows that.
“So, what we have is someone who might have been killing girls for years, since at least two thousand six, constantly refining his methods. But eventually he gets a bit sloppy, like they all do.”
“How?”
“He let Lynette Hyams escape before he could kill her.”
I nod in understanding. Terrible as it sounds, letting Lynette escape was sloppy. But what does that mean? “Is he getting tired of it?” I ask. “Do you think he wants to be caught?”
The shoulders move again, up and down. “I’m not sure. I’m not even on the case, remember? But it happened right there, less than a mile from where I was having a good time partying and drinking beer. I want to help clear it up, officially or not.”
I nod again, gesture to the waitress. I’m about ready for my sixth cup. A thought occurs to me then, and I turn back to Ben. “Who’s Doug Menders?” I ask.
Ben can’t disguise the look of shock that instantly hits him. “How do you know that name?” he asks, and I wonder if there’s a hint of suspicion in his tone.
Still, Ben tells me he believes my story about the strange way I’ve been experiencing time, and I decide to tell him exactly how I heard the name. I tell him about the first time I saw the girl – the time when she died in the field, and not in my kitchen – and how she had pointed across the fields, towards the mountains. How I’d told Ben and Rob Kittson, and how Rob had indicated that a man called Doug Menders might live in that direction. How Ben had told Rob to stop talking.
“Why would you have told Rob that?” I ask.
Ben opens his mouth to speak, then closes it as the waitress returns with the coffee urn and pours me another cup. Waiting for her to leave, he then looks at me seriously. “I would have warned Rob to stop talking in front of people,” he says, “because Doug Menders was the prime suspect in both of those previous cases we’ve just been talking about.”
I look at my coffee cup, and wonder if they serve anything stronger at this time in the morning.
I think I need it.
7
The Glenn Highway isn’t quite so bad once you’re on it, although the blizzard’s no better. The snow’s coming down like an Arctic monsoon, and the windscreen wipers are working overtime to keep even a little visibility. But rush hour is over and traffic is lighter now, meaning our progress can be measured in miles, rather than just feet, per hour. I know how it can be; it once took me four hours to travel two miles through town.
Ben’s police cruiser is a Dodge Charger; pretty nice, although I can’t help thinking an SUV would be a better choice around here. Still, if catching crooks is your business, sometimes it pays to have something a bit faster.
I wonder, for the first time, where my own SUV is. I didn’t see it at Ben’s house, so I presume it’s at home. Or maybe the police station? Did Ben pick me up before our date last night? I realize I still have no idea.
We travel north through the city, the highway turning into North Cobb Street. There are people out on the streets, but most are hiding inside. Those citizens brave enough to be outside – or those with no other choice – are huddled up against the cold, multiple pullovers and huge jackets, hoods covering face masks that keep just the eyes showing. It reminds me of the steps of the courthouse in New York and I look away.
And then we’re out of the city again, taking a left off the highway onto the Farm Loop. My farm is a few more miles away, Douglas Menders’ cabin just a bit further than that.
“The ABI have already interviewed him, of course,” Ben says, talking to me but keeping his concentration focused laser-like on the road ahead. An icy country road and a three hundred horsepower rear-wheel-drive car aren’t a match made in Heaven, and I’m happy for Ben’s attention to be kept right where it is. I can feel my heart rate rising as it is.
“In fact, he was one of the first people we pulled in.” Ben changes down a gear as we approach a bend in the road. My hands grip the seat reflexively, but we glide round smoothly. “But t
here was nothing concrete we could hold him on.”
“His name wasn’t mentioned in the papers,” I say.
“He sued a lot of people after the last time, caused a lot of trouble. During his first interview for this latest thing, he gave everyone a warning, and I guess it must have worked. Nobody’s gonna rag on him in public unless there’s some very clear evidence for doing so.”
“Tell me about those other cases.”
“Well, he first came to police attention when those bodies were found in the woods near Anchorage. You know the protocol, we pull in anyone with prior convictions of a similar nature. Menders was a registered sex offender, served a fifteen-year term down in Florida for three cases of raping a minor. A related homicide charge was dropped, but the cops down there were pretty sure it was him. Ligature strangulation, but nothing could be proved, you know how it is.” The car rounds another bend, my hands grip tight again. Thirty-foot pines rear up at us from both sides, and I wonder if we’re going to get to see them close-up. But then the road straightens out again and I relax. For the moment, anyway.
“Anyhow, he moved to Houston after that, got another ten-year stint there for another couple of rapes. Only did three years though – he got religion, opted for surgical castration and early release.”
“Surgical castration?”
Ben nods as he drives, eyes still dead ahead. “Yep, one of those schemes they try out from time to time. Not sure if the research backs it up, but the idea was that it would reduce his drive, you know, ‘cure’ him of his problem.”
“But it didn’t?”
“I’m sure you understand the nature of these crimes from your own work,” Ben says as he skillfully navigates the car around another series of bends. I find I’m gripping the seat less and less tightly, and I nod my head. Yes, I do understand the nature of such crimes. Although the criminals often have high sex drives, the effect this has on their behavior is negligible to say the least. Mostly it’s about control and power, things which don’t really get sorted out through castration. It’s like saying the genitals are a rapist’s weapon, and without that he’s harmless. Unfortunately, time and again this has been proven to be untrue.
Red Moon Rising Page 11