The Murder of Janessa Hennley

by Victor Methos

  “But not for you?”

  “As long as you remember that people, all people, are capable of anything, you can deal with it.”

  “Agent Parsons?” the receptionist said.

  Mickey rose and retrieved the twenty-two pages of autopsy reports. Immediately, he flipped through the clinical summary and the gross findings. Scanning the sheets of paper, he found the line for the stomach contents.

  “Well?” Angela said. “What’s it say?”

  “Ten liters of cake. The human stomach at full expansion can only hold about four. We were right; she was fed to death.”

  6

  Mickey sat across from Angela at the diner. He read the autopsy reports as she tapped her phone against the table. He glanced up at her; she grinned and stopped.

  A waitress—not Debbie—came to take their order. He ordered a coffee and a tuna sandwich. She requested pancakes, ham and eggs, a side of bacon, a slice of pie, and a Coke.

  “What?” she said, holding his gaze. “I’m hungry.”

  “You’re not going to make retirement, you keep eating like that.”

  “I’ve always had a fast metabolism. Some people just don’t have to worry about some stuff.” She took a sip of her Coke. “So, the reports say anything we didn’t know?”

  “Same as Lincoln County. Rope, probably nylon, caused the ligature marks. Stomach rupture and death by sepsis and exsanguination. The stomach ruptured at six liters, but he kept going. Trauma to the esophagus suggests the use of a feeding tube.” He placed the reports in the file, and the file in the satchel by his feet, as if that would hide the images. “It wasn’t enough for her to die. He wanted to feed her so much that the skin split on her abdomen. He wanted to see it.”

  “Weirdo. Any signs of sexual assault?”

  “None. Which is odd, considering she was nude.”

  “Maybe he couldn’t get it up?”

  “Maybe, but there was no sexual assault in Lincoln County, either.” He stared out the window, thinking for a moment. “We may need help on this.”

  “Why?”

  “He might’ve already fled the state, but if he’s still here, we have to move as fast as possible. I think we can do more if we call Kyle to send in a couple more agents. Or have Gillian come out.”

  “Gillian, as in our boss Gillian?”

  “She’s one of the best I’ve seen at this. If we need to catch him fast, she can help.”

  Angela looked at him as if he was a child. “She’ll also take the case away from us and maybe not give us any more tough ones.”

  “It’s not about that. It’s about the perpetrator and making sure he can’t do this again.”

  “That’s bullshit, and you know it. It’s a black mark when you have to call your boss to come help you. And this is my first case; I can’t let that be how Gillian remembers me. You’re getting to the end of your career, Mickey, but I’m just at the beginning. Please, don’t do this. We can catch this guy.”

  Mickey swirled some cream into his coffee. The white twirled into the black, forming a seashell shape. “All right,” he finally said. “But if I feel we’re not going in the right direction, I’m calling Gillian.”

  “That’s fair,” she said. “So what now?”

  “We need to go talk to her parents.”

  The Belnaps lived in a quiet suburb outside the town of Ridge Park, twenty miles from where police found Carrie Ann. Mickey studied the cars in the neighborhood. Mostly minivans and SUVs, a few Suburbans. Cars meant for hauling large families. Trees bowed over the spotless streets, providing shade. Two children were fighting with plastic swords on the sidewalk, and Mickey watched them a long time.

  “Mick?”

  “Yeah?”

  “You okay? You zoned off there.”

  “I’m fine. Just tired. Let’s go.”

  They stepped out of the car in front of an off-white brick home with a large driveway. Taking the concrete steps two at a time, Angela reached the doorbell first and waited off to the side of the door as Mickey had taught her. They were the parents of a murder victim; they might be jumpy and come to the door armed. She rang the doorbell once Mickey joined her.

  The door opened, and a woman wiping her hands on a dishtowel stood there. She glanced from one of them to the other. “Yes?”

  “Mrs. Belnap?” Mickey said.

  “Yes.”

  “I’m Special Agent Mickey Parsons, and this is Agent Listz. We’re with the Federal Bureau of Investigation and would like to have a few words about your daughter, if we could.”

  Though her hands were dry, she continued wiping them. “Okay, come in.”

  They sat on the couch. The woman went into the kitchen and started the dishwasher. When she came back out, she rested in a chair across from them. Her eyes focused on the wall to the left, and they appeared glassy. On the kitchen table, Mickey saw an amber bottle of medication with the lid off.

  “Mrs. Belnap,” Mickey said, getting her attention. “I’m sorry for your loss. I understand some detectives were by a couple days ago and discussed everything with you.”

  “Yes,” she said, grinning, “they were very nice.”

  “I’m sure they were. We’re all just trying to find out what happened to Carrie Ann.”

  “She’s at school. She’s studying communications because she wants to be a news reporter. Won’t she just make the cutest news reporter you’ve ever seen?”

  Mickey forced a smile. The pity he felt made him want to apologize and leave right now. But he knew he couldn’t do that. Otherwise, he’d be sitting in another home just like this, speaking with another parent about the same thing. “Mrs. Belnap, when was the last time you saw your daughter?”

  “This morning. We had cereal together. We’ve been doing that since she was a little girl, because her father used to do it with her. But Richard’s not with us anymore, so she and I do it.”

  “May I see her room, please?”

  “Certainly. Follow me.”

  They followed her down a short hallway to a room decorated with white wallpaper. Mickey realized the red hearts on the walls were stickers, not part of the wallpaper.

  “May we have a minute alone, please?”

  “Of course. But she doesn’t like it when people go through her things, so please don’t touch anything.”

  “We won’t. Thank you.”

  When she was gone, Angela raised her eyebrows. “Well, she’s a space cadet.”

  “It’s not her fault. You don’t have kids, but when you do, you’ll see why turning your mind off after something like this isn’t the worst option.” He scanned the room and then opened the closet, running his finger along her shirts.

  “What’re we looking for?”

  “Anything. I have a feeling this was a random attack. Those are the hardest cases you’ll ever have. Do you know why?”

  “No discernible motive. At least until we capture him.”

  “And even then, some of them don’t know why they did it. Just urges they can’t control.” He shut the closet.

  After looking under the bed and through the dresser drawers, he sat down in a pink rocking chair in the corner. Finally, he said, “There’s nothing here. Let’s go.”

  “Where?”

  “Last place she was seen alive.”

  7

  The pizza restaurant shared a wall with the bar next door. The pairing seemed incongruent. From what Mickey could tell, college students frequented the pizza restaurant, whereas Harleys lined up out front of the bar. It was a biker bar, but not someplace Hells Angels would go. More a place blue-collar weekend riders stopped to grab a beer before heading home.

  “We haven’t had lunch,” Angela said. “Let’s grab a slice while we’re there.”

  “You ate two hours ago.”

  “I’m a growing girl, Mickey.”

  “We can do that later. I want to go to the bar.”

  “She was at the pizza place, though.”

  “Yeah, but
where was he?”

  Compared to the bright sunlight outside, the bar was like a cave. A mirror dressed the wall behind the bartender, reflecting even the dimmest flicker of light. The bartender was a fat man with a dirty beard and a ponytail. His nametag said “Tony.” He was pouring amber liquid out of a bottle into a shot glass. He slid the glass over to a man at the end of the bar. Off to the side was another bartender wearing a Blackhawks T-shirt.

  A handful of solitary drinkers wore biker jackets adorned with skulls, pirates, and pentagrams. But Mickey had seen real bikers during an undercover operation into the Mongol biker club in Los Angeles. These guys looked like choirboys in comparison. Mickey guessed the stares they received were directed at Angela more than him.

  “What can I do for you, officers?” Tony asked.

  “That obvious, huh?” Mickey said.

  “Clear as day if you know what to look for.”

  “The girl that was kidnapped out in the parking lot, I’m sure a couple of detectives have already interviewed you about her. But I just had a few follow up questions.”

  “You don’t look local. I know all the deputies.”

  Mickey pulled out his badge and showed it to him before replacing it in his pocket. “Was there anybody in here that night that left around the time she was kidnapped? About eight o’clock.”

  “I don’t remember. I didn’t know she was kidnapped ’til, like, two days later.”

  “It’d be someone you’ve probably never seen before but that was here a long time. Just keeping to themselves. Maybe ordered one drink to sip, but didn’t finish it.”

  “I’m sorry. I’d love to help. I got me a girl her age out in Des Moines. If I knew anything, I’d tell y’all, but I just don’t remember. I don’t keep track of that stuff.”

  Mickey left his card on the bar. “If you think of anything, please let me know.”

  “I will.”

  He scanned the faces in the bar, and they all turned away from him. “Might as well get your pizza.”

  The booth faced a window overlooking the parking lot. Mickey played with a fork, lightly jabbing it into his thumb as cars came and went. The pizza—pepperoni with extra cheese—arrived, and Angela ate a slice before either of them spoke.

  “This is freakin’ delicious,” she said. “Have one.”

  “I’m not hungry.”

  “You’re going to starve. Have a slice.” She put a piece of pizza on a paper plate before pushing it toward him. He took one bite and placed the slice back down.

  “What’s wrong?” she said.

  “I’m scared he’s already fled the state. That we’re just going to be one step behind him the entire time.”

  “We’ll catch up eventually.”

  “There are a lot of victims between here and eventually.”

  A man walked up to the booth. His eyes darted around, and sweat glistened on his forehead. The bartender in the Blackhawks T-shirt.

  “You’re with the FBI, right? I heard you talkin’ to Tony.”

  “Yeah,” Mickey said.

  “I seen somethin’ the night Carrie Ann was taken. My name’s Dan.”

  Mickey moved down in the booth. “Have a seat.”

  Dan rubbed his fingers together, his gaze zooming around the restaurant as if he was expecting a hail of bullets to come flying through the windows. “She wasn’t leavin’, she went out to her car for a pack of smokes. That’s when I seen her talkin’ to a dude in a white van. He was drivin’ and smokin’ a cigarette.”

  “You saw him?” Angela said. “Saw his face?”

  He swallowed hard. “But I don’t want no trouble. I didn’t talk to the cops or nothin’.”

  “Why are you talking to us, then?”

  “’Cause the news said what happened to her. Ain’t no one deserve that. Especially her.”

  “You knew her,” Mickey said.

  “Yeah, I knew her. That’s why she was here. For me. She didn’t want her friends knowin’ we was… you know. She’d bring ’em for pizza and then spend some time with me. Her friends was college folk, and she was embarrassed, I think, but she never said nothin’. She treated me real good.”

  “I’d like to get a sketch artist to work with you,” Mickey said. “We need a composite drawing of the person you saw.”

  “No cops. The bar… We got issues. If folks there knew I was helpin’ the cops, even with somethin’ like this, they wouldn’t trust me no more.”

  “I understand. Can you describe him to me, then?”

  “Old dude. With a white beard. Looked kinda shady, you know? He was wearin’ a hat and glasses. He talked to Carrie Ann a bit, and she went ’round to the passenger side and got in his van.”

  “Wait,” Angela said, “she got in willingly?”

  “Yup. I thought maybe it was someone she knew. Then she didn’t answer her phone for a day, and then the cops come by.”

  “So you had this information and you just—”

  “Agent Listz,” Mickey said softly. He turned back to Dan. “Can you tell me anything else? Any number or letter on his license plate?”

  “No, I don’t recall the numbers. But I did see they wasn’t Iowa plates, ’cause they had like, oranges on it.”

  “Oranges?”

  “Yeah,” Dan glanced around. “They looked like balls,” he said quietly.

  Angela snorted and immediately covered her mouth with her hand. “Sorry.”

  “Dan,” Mickey said, sliding one of his cards to him, “if you think of anything else that can help me, will you let me know?”

  “Sure. I guess.”

  “And, I know this is asking a lot, but could I have your cell phone number? I promise it will stay between us. I just may think of some questions later.”

  He played with his fingers a moment. “I guess. Here, I’ll just text you.” After the text, he stood up without a word.

  “Dan, thank you for your help. I’m sorry about what happened to Carrie Ann.”

  “Me too.”

  When he was gone, Angela said, “Why’d you let him off so easy?”

  “You need to read between the lines. Why would he be afraid of working with the police as a bartender?”

  She shrugged.

  “He’s scared because they’re dealing drugs. If he’s seen as a rat, they’ll fire him. Maybe worse.”

  “You got that from what he said?”

  “I got more than that. The license plate.”

  She bit into another slice of pizza. “Yeah, what state has a pair of balls as their logo?”

  He grinned. “None, but Florida has two oranges.”

  8

  Stephanie Hawkes was vaguely aware of movement. She knew she’d been lying on a bed, because a pillow was propped next to her. She opened her eyes and saw a dresser against the wall. A bedroom.

  The dull ache in her head quickly became a pounding that overtook her senses until she couldn’t focus on anything else. Her eyes kept closing as though she’d been awake for days.

  Something hard pressed against her legs and then her hips. She was hoisted up onto her feet. Someone had lifted her up and was carrying her.

  Boots, jeans, and a white beard. The man smiled at her before dragging her down some steps into darkness. A light bulb flickered on. A single chair sat in the center of a concrete floor. White ropes wrapped around two of the legs and armrests.

  “W-what are you… what are you doing?” Her tongue was heavy and dry, as though she’d been chewing on cotton.

  The man pushed her into a chair and then wrapped the ropes tightly around her wrists and ankles. She peered down and realized she was nude.

  A chair scraped against the floor. The man appeared in front of her, his elbows on the back of the chair and his fingers interlaced as if he were about to give a lecture at a university. A cigarette dangled from his mouth, and the smoke drifted into her eyes.

  “You a pretty young thing,” he said. “How old are you?”

  “W-where am I?”<
br />
  “You right here, ain’t ya?”

  “I don’t understand,” she said, closing her eyes to protect them from the light. Everything hurt, and even the dim light of a hanging bulb was like staring into the sun.

  “Oh, ’nuff talk ’bout all that, now. We gonna have some fun.”

  “Fun?”

  “That’s right, darlin’. We gonna have some fun. So, where you from?”

  She opened her eyes. He smiled at her, revealing stained and yellowed teeth.

  “I know you,” she mumbled. “I know you.”

  “Well, we’ve met. Yeah.”

  A knock from upstairs and then the doorbell. Her gaze drifted up and then back to his. His brow furrowed, and he spit on the floor.

  “Well, shame to cut this short now, but we got ourselves company.” He took a case containing several syringes out of his back pocket. He plunged one into her arm. She tried to fight him off, but the only movement she could muster was a twitch in her arm.

  He took a Band-Aid from his pocket and gently placed it over the needle mark. “Don’t go nowhere,” he said with a grin before heading up the stairs.

  9

  The sun beat down on Mickey’s skin as though it didn’t have anything else in the world to do. He leaned against the hood of his rental car. Angela was inside an ice cream parlor getting a sundae. She texted him and asked if he wanted anything. He replied that he didn’t, and she sent him a frowning emoticon.

  He was waiting for two phone calls, but he wasn’t sure which one he wanted to come first. In front of him was just a dirt field, and clouds of dust kicked up every time a car started and made its way to the road. The stuff caked his Italian loafers, and he was staring at them when his cell phone buzzed.

  “This is Mickey.”