“Derrick’s been good to her,” Nelly said with an exhausted shake of her head. “It’s hands-off when it comes to my child.”
“But you finally admitted he hit you, after you swore he didn’t.”
“He loves Maddie. She doesn’t piss him off the way I do.”
“How often does he hit you?”
“I don’t know. Couple times a year. Believe me, it’s like a honeymoon compared to the other two.”
Kate couldn’t tell if she was lying or not. The whole problem was sorting out the falsehoods from the truth. Untangling the threads of a messy, contradictory life.
She braced herself for the next question—a tricky step. “Let me ask you something, and please don’t be offended. It’s protocol in situations like this. Did any of your husbands sexually abuse Maddie, to the best of your knowledge? Is it possible? Sometimes we deny the things that are the most painful for us to admit…”
“No! And I’m not in denial,” Nelly barked, tamping out her cigarette with an exaggerated gesture. “I know what goes on inside my own home. Are we done?”
Kate stood her ground. “You haven’t been to the hospital to visit Maddie. Could I ask why? I know she’d love to see you.”
“I don’t know,” Nelly rasped. “Maybe I’m scared?”
“Of what?”
“What if she doesn’t get better?”
“But your presence will help her get better,” Kate reasoned.
“No, it won’t.”
“Why do you say that?”
“I worry…” Tears sprang to her eyes. “What if it’s my bad luck that’s doing this to her? I mean, what if it’s contagious? My terrible luck. This time, I told myself to stay away…”
“But that’s…” Kate bit her tongue.
“Ridiculous? Superstitious garbage? Is that what you were going to say?” Nelly grimaced as if she were in physical pain. “Just fix her. Please. I’m begging you. Fix my baby girl. That’s all I want.”
“I understand. But you have to come see her,” Kate insisted. “It reflects poorly on you if you don’t. Please understand… I’m trying to help you.”
Nelly’s face reddened. She sucked in a sob. “Okay.”
“Do you promise?”
“Yes.” There was panic in Nelly’s voice.
“Thanks for the coffee.” Kate stood up, then paused for a moment. “One last thing. Who is Maddie’s father?”
Nelly’s eyes widened. “Does it matter?”
“I think so, yes.”
She shook her head. “Who cares? He’ll be dead tomorrow!”
Kate drew back. It felt like a punch to the gut. “Are you talking about Henry Blackwood?”
Nelly shuddered. “Please go. Now.”
Kate nodded, her worst fears confirmed. She put a hand on Nelly’s shoulder. The woman was trembling. “Please come see Maddie.”
“I promise.”
29
KATE WENT HOME TO an empty condo. She sat on the edge of the bed and took off her ring. Her finger itched, and she rubbed the prickly skin. She closed her eyes and heard the sound of rope twisting. She saw her sister’s face.
She took a shower and started dinner. While she was chopping vegetables, the doorbell rang. It was the UPS guy, carrying a large cardboard box.
The package was from Detective Dyson. She sliced through the packing tape and opened a box full of police files, thick heavy folders containing hundreds of photocopied pages.
At first, she tried to ignore them. She ate her dinner in front of the TV and watched the news, but it was all too depressing. She loaded up the dishwasher, started a pot of coffee brewing, lit a cigarette and sat on the living room floor. She opened the box and spread the files out before her, embarrassed by her morbid sense of curiosity.
There were nine victims between the ages of six and sixteen; mercifully Savannah’s file was missing, but Kate mentally included her in the tally. Two of the girls had been murdered, four were missing, two were ruled as suicides, and one was an accident. The accidental death had occurred eighteen years ago in Blunt River; a six-year-old girl named Susie Gafford had fallen into an unmarked well on a neighbor’s property. Kate wasn’t sure why Palmer had included it, so she set it aside.
The second incident happened seventeen years ago, when a teenager named Emera Mason decided to thumb her way to a rock concert in Boston. She disappeared en route without a trace.
Sixteen years ago, Savannah Wolfe was brutally murdered.
Fourteen years ago, eight-year-old Vicky Koffman disappeared from a small community just north of Blunt River.
Twelve years ago, a preteen from Wilamette committed suicide by jumping off a cliff. The girl’s cousin was arrested for manslaughter, but the case against him had fallen apart, and Lizbeth Howell’s death was ruled a suicide.
Ten years ago, fourteen-year-old Hannah Lloyd went missing from her home. Six months later, her skeletal remains were found in The Balsams. Her head was shaved. Tucked into the folder were several gruesome crime-scene photos of the girl’s remains. Kate couldn’t tear her eyes away. Hannah Lloyd didn’t look like a person anymore. The primary suspect was a pudgy, balding twenty-eight-year-old with an aura of sleaze about him. Also included were newspaper articles about the trial ending in a hung jury, and about his apparent suicide a few years later.
Eight years ago, another girl from the county went missing. Maggie Witt, age nine, was playing in a park when she wandered away from her friends, never to be seen again.
Six years ago, eleven-year-old Tabitha Davidowitz was killed in a freak accident, or perhaps it was a suicide. She either fell or jumped off an abandoned building in the old factory district and landed on top of a car. The girl couldn’t have weighed more than sixty pounds, but she’d crushed the hood of the car and broken every bone in her body. The incident occurred in the middle of the night in an isolated part of town, and her remains hadn’t been found until forty-eight hours later.
Finally, just last year, Makayla Brayden went missing after her best friend’s birthday party. She was fifteen years old. There was a picture of the pretty teenager with the honest eyes and wide smile.
Kate had taken a few criminal psychology courses back in college and knew that most pedophiles had a predilection for a certain age, sex, and physical appearance. Except for gender, these victims were all over the map looks-wise—short, tall, thin, fat, different ages, complexions, hair and eye color. If by some chance Palmer Dyson was right, that the same offender had killed all nine girls, then it clearly wasn’t the girls’ looks that attracted him.
Her phone rang and she scooped it up without even checking the caller ID. “James?” she answered breathlessly.
“Palmer Dyson. Sorry to bother you. Is now a bad time?”
“No,” she said, disappointed. “I got your package.”
“So? What do you think?”
“So far, I don’t see it,” Kate said. “Four of the girls went missing, and three were suicides or accidents. Only Savannah’s and Hannah Lloyd’s deaths seem like they could be related.”
“Okay, you asked for evidence. Let’s look at the three girls whose bodies were found but whose deaths weren’t thought to be the result of murder. Susie Gafford fell down a well, and it was ruled an accident. At the time, there was a dispute about the manner of death, but I believe she was killed before being thrown down the well. More significantly, some of her hair was missing. The medical examiner attributed the hair loss to it getting caught on the stone wall and pulled off on the way down. But I believe whoever killed her took a chunk of hair as a souvenir.”
Kate rummaged through the pile of folders until she found Susie Gafford’s. She studied the police photographs of the little girl’s body, a lump forming in her throat. “I’m looking at the autopsy pictures now.”
“Check out the left side, underneath her ear.”
Kate nodded. “Hard to tell,” she said.
“Let’s go to the next one. Lizbeth Howell. S
he jumped off a cliff, and it was ruled a suicide,” Palmer said. “Once again, there’s evidence she was killed before her body hit the ground. Possible strangulation. Her hyoid bone was broken. While I was investigating the case, her mother mentioned that Lizbeth’s hair was shorter than it had been before her death, and she just couldn’t figure it out.”
“Shorter?”
“Two inches off the bottom. But since there were no recent photos of the girl, it was put down to the mother’s grief.”
“And the last one?” Kate asked.
“Tabitha Davidowitz. Jumped or fell off a roof, ruled a suicide. Once again, there was evidence of suffocation prior to the fall. Very difficult to prove, though. And it looks like she gave herself a haircut at some point before she went up to the roof. Just chopped chunks of it off, although we couldn’t find any scissors or hair at the scene. She was a troubled kid, so again… the medical examiner had his opinion, and I had mine. There’s a history of incompetence in the medical examiner’s office. I’m talking decades of mistakes. But the medical examiner had the support of the chief, so guess whose opinion held sway?”
“What’s his name?” Kate asked.
“Quade Pickler.”
So the man who’d worked on Savannah’s case still held the position. “And he disagreed with your findings?”
“He likes things neat and tidy. My theory’s kind of messy. Quade’s a political animal. Me, not so much.”
“Does anybody else in the police department agree with you?”
“I have my allies. But like I said, I’m retired now. And with the opioid crisis and rising crime rate, the guys really have their hands full. No one has the time or the inclination to review the old cases.”
“It’s interesting,” Kate hedged, “but it still seems like a stretch.”
“I see a pattern. He cuts off their air, and he cuts off their hair.”
A chill ran through her. “I really don’t know,” Kate said. “I need more time to digest this.”
“Well, here’s something else for you to chew on. Did you receive Blackwood’s email yet? He sent it through his lawyer. I got one too.”
She could feel the hairs rising on the back of her neck as she reached for her laptop and checked her emails. “I’m not going, Palmer. I already threw away my invitation from the DOC.”
“This isn’t about the execution, it’s for the visitation beforehand. Sort of a farewell party.”
“Why does he want me there?”
“He’d like to talk to you. A dying man’s request.”
Kate gazed at the night sky through the living-room windows. Beyond the city lights loomed a rich, cold darkness. “Will you be there?”
“Yes.”
“How well do you know him?”
“Well, I’ve known Henry for years, since your sister’s death of course. He wants to talk to you, Kate. I think he wants to make his peace with it.”
She was repulsed by the thought.
“Blackwood’s friends and relatives will be there, along with some other folks who’ve been involved in the case.”
“What about Nelly?”
“No,” Palmer said. “She doesn’t want to have anything to do with him.”
“Wise woman.”
“Well, it’s up to you,” he said. “No pressure.”
30
KATE CALLED JAMES TO discuss the pros and cons. In the end, she decided that it would be healing for her to confront Blackwood, after all these years. At first James tried to argue her out of it, but ultimately he agreed.
“How’s your mom?” Kate said.
“There were complications. She has to go in for a second surgery.”
“Oh God, that’s upsetting.”
“She’s in good hands. She has the best orthopedist in New England. But I’m going to stay with her, okay? And I want you to do what you need to do, Kate. But remember, it’s okay to change your mind.”
* * *
The following evening, Kate arrived at the maximum-security prison around six o’clock. Located seventy-five miles north of Blunt River, the enormous complex of cement buildings was surrounded by a fortress of guard towers and razor wire. She found a spot in the vast parking lot and muttered, “I must be crazy.”
Inside, it felt just as oppressive. She went through security, and was met on the other side by an armed guard who escorted her to the wing of the prison where the worst of the worst were housed. Gang members, murderers, violent offenders. The deeper they went into the bowels of the prison, the more she regretted her decision. Her knees had turned to jelly by the time they reached the death row unit, a grim concave of dank cells flanked by armed guards in bulletproof booths. Anxiety and tension were thick in the air. The guard radioed the control room and asked them to open the electronically bolted door. Ten steps in, the steel door slammed shut behind them with a resounding clang.
The thirty by forty-foot visitors’ room was like a giant holding pen. Everything was painted white, even the steel-barred door that locked you inside with the prisoner—who would be housed in a separate unit, a Plexiglas cage built into the cement-block wall that looked like an animal display at the zoo. Behind the thick bulletproof glass was a six-by-six-foot enclosure with a single chair and a phone. On the visitors’ side of the glass were several cheap plastic chairs and a wall phone for the guests to use.
The visitors’ room was crowded with several dozen people. A line had formed at a banquet table in the corner. Kate was astonished that anyone could think of eating at a time like this.
“Kate?” Palmer emerged from the crowd. “Glad you could make it.”
She was relieved to see him.
“How’re you doing?” he asked.
“I’m nervous as hell. I almost chickened out.”
“There’s nothing to worry about. He’ll be out shortly.”
“What’s up with the food?” she asked.
“Well, like I said, this is his farewell party. Most of these people are here to say goodbye. Can I get you something?”
“Any alcohol?”
He grinned. “Sorry.”
“Then no thanks.” Her stomach felt like a trash compactor for her emotions.
“Those two over there are his attorneys,” Palmer explained. “That lady with the blue hair is his spiritual adviser. Those guys are from the Department of Corrections; they consider Blackwood a friend. Those three men are his cousins. And that group in back are from an anti-death-penalty organization, I forget which one. They’re using him for political purposes—”
“I remember that guy,” she interrupted, pointing out a man in his sixties with piercing blue eyes. “Isn’t that the medical examiner?”
“Quade Pickler,” Palmer muttered. “You know him?”
“I saw him at the morgue when my father went to identify Savannah’s body.”
Quade noticed them and nodded, and Palmer nodded back. The crowd stirred.
“Oh. Here he comes now,” Palmer said, looking past Kate’s shoulder.
Kate turned. An armed guard was escorting Blackwood into the enclosed Plexiglas cage. She was shocked; he no longer resembled the unfriendly neighbor with the troubled gaze and the military buzz cut who’d haunted her dreams. The fifty-five-year-old was older, leaner, tougher. He had collar-length silver hair and a jowly, unexpressive face. His arms and neck were covered in smeary prison tattoos. He wore an orange jumpsuit but wasn’t handcuffed or otherwise restrained. He held a can of Diet Coke in one hand and a lit cigarette in the other. She couldn’t detect any fear in his eyes as he sat down and smiled at his visitors. He waved at Palmer, but when he spotted Kate he looked away.
Blackwood’s three cousins went over to talk to him first. There were hearty bursts of laughter and fist bumps against the bulletproof glass. Then it was Palmer’s turn to talk to the prisoner. Ten minutes later, he stood up and signaled for Kate to come over.
She felt like the homecoming queen—all eyes were on her as she crossed the lar
ge, echoing room. She tried not to stumble as she sat in a chair, still warm from Palmer’s body.
“I’ll be right over there,” Palmer said, “if you need me.”
She nodded and picked up the phone.
Blackwood put down his Coke and held the receiver to his ear. “Hello,” he said.
Old fears surfaced. Despite the protective barrier, she didn’t feel safe.
“I appreciate you coming tonight, Dr. Wolfe,” he said slowly, as if he were used to people misunderstanding him. “I wanted to tell you in person, ma’am. Here’s the thing.” He swallowed nervously. “I didn’t kill your sister. I have no idea who did. But I swear to God, I’m innocent.” He took a long drag of his cigarette, leaned back, and said, “If there’s anything you’d like to ask me… now’s your chance.”
She swallowed the dry lump of revulsion in her throat and said, “I’m here because Detective Dyson persuaded me to come. He believes in your innocence, but I still have questions.”
He nodded respectfully. “Go ahead.”
“If you didn’t kill my sister, then how did she end up in your backyard?”
“I’ve been wondering the same thing myself. I have no goddamn idea. Somebody must’ve framed me. God knows why. Doesn’t make sense.”
“Who would do such a thing?”
He looked at her blankly. “Whoever took those other girls.”
So Palmer must’ve shared his theory with Blackwood. Palmer was clearly on the prisoner’s side.
“Why didn’t Nelly come forward sooner?” Kate asked. “Why did it take her sixteen years to come out with the truth?”
“I suppose her conscience finally got to her.”
“What about your conscience?”
His eyes flared, and for a moment she felt his intense fury toward her, confirming her worst fears—here was a violent man, a dangerous man. But he swallowed back his indignation and kept his voice steady. “My conscience is clear when it comes to your sister,” he said.
Kate realized something just then. It hardly mattered whether she believed him or not, because he’d worn a groove in her psyche. Henry Blackwood would always be the face of evil for her, no matter what the truth was.
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