by Bob Avey
“Her name was Laura Bradford.”
He rolled another tire and rim around, lined up the holes, and lifted it into place. Using the four-way, he secured the wheel with the lug nuts.
“It’s important,” Elliot said. “Do you remember her?”
A nervous look slid across the man’s face. “I couldn’t tell you one way or the other about the name, but I know who you’re talking about.” He stood and pulled a shop towel from his back pocket and wiped his hands. “I used to see her out there in the backyard at night. She’d light a fire and move around like she was dancing or something.” He stuffed the rag back into his pocket.
“Would you mind if I had a look around?”
“Permission isn’t mine to give. Don’t know who owns it either. But I can tell you this. Several people stopped and looked around over there after your girlfriend left. None of them stayed for more than five or ten minutes. After awhile, they just stopped coming.”
He gathered his tools and started toward his garage. “I got curious about it once. Now, I’m a God fearing man, son. But there’s something not right about the place. You can feel it when you walk through the door.”
“Thanks,” Elliot said. He turned and walked toward the abandoned property. When he reached the front entrance, a once white-painted door with three rectangular windows, he thought about Mr. Shelby’s warning. He shook his head and shoved open the door, stepping inside the house where Laura Bradford had lived.
Standing in the hollow of the living room, Elliot had the unsettling notion that the air from outside remained there because its counterpart had become different, inhospitable. Even the light trickling in through the open doorway seemed reluctant in its intrusion. Wide planks of oak flooring stretched the length of the house, while intricate crown moldings, also carved from oak defined the ceiling. Arched doorways separated the dining area from the living room and the kitchen. No beer cans littered the area, no graffiti decorated the walls, and no makeshift sleeping-quarters crowded the corners.
If Elliot hadn’t known better, he might’ve thought the prior occupants had stuffed their belongings into the back of a truck late last night and left to avoid past due rent.
Barely visible, prints of mud showed someone had come part way into the house only to stop and turn back.
Elliot suspected the footprints were those of Walter Shelby. Fighting an urge to follow Shelby’s lead, he walked deeper into the living room until a doorway along the north wall caught his attention.
The passageway led Elliot into another room where the window shades had been drawn.
Elliot found his flashlight and switched it on.
The light fell across more blank walls and empty flooring.
The next area was a bathroom with two doors connecting it to both bedrooms. Wallpaper with a pattern of pink and blue flowers decorated the walls, and a medicine cabinet with a mirrored door clung to the wall above the sink.
When Elliot opened the medicine cabinet, although no toiletries sat upon the glass shelves, the aroma of bath powder filled the air. The odor did not diminish as Elliot left the area but became stronger, strengthened even with a hint of perfume.
Elliot stepped into the back bedroom and the light fell across something.
Having moved the beam in a wide sweep, Elliot jerked the light back to the corner.
A small writing desk caught the light and reflected it back.
Using the flashlight, Elliot applied upward pressure to a corner of the desk, lifting the writing surface.
The action revealed a storage area beneath the lid.
He pushed the top higher, causing the sliding hinge to lock into place. Repositioning the light, he shined it into the storage tray.
An issue of the Stillwater News Press, the local newspaper, lay folded in the desk. The date indicated it had been printed eight years ago, approximately three weeks before Laura showed up on campus.
Elliot picked up the paper and scanned an article that had been sectioned off, bracketed by the black markings of an ink pen.
The article talked about a band of people, drifters who’d started a commune near Stillwater, only to abandon the place. It wasn’t detailed, nothing much more than a side note, but someone, probably Laura, had found it significant. It struck a note with Elliot as well, reminding him of what was happening in Tulsa.
Even though the room had become noticeably colder, a bead of sweat fell from Elliot’s forehead and dropped onto the yellowed newsprint. He remembered hearing about it. Some of the students had joked, others had worried, but beneath it all had been a suspicion of the events being underplayed.
From the bottom of the desk tray yet another newspaper glared at him.
Placing the Stillwater paper on the floor, Elliot took the next paper and brought it close.
Originating a few days after the vintage News Press issue, The Daily O’Collegian, a university press, covered the same story.
Elliot’s throat went dry. The college piece had been written by his old friend, Stanley Gerald Reynolds III. He’d put a more sinister spin on the story, pointing out that the drifters had left under curious circumstances, leaving behind pets, clothing, even food in ice chests.
The thought that the newspapers could be evidence and should be left alone had not escaped Elliot, but a lingering question took precedence. Had Laura been fascinated by the unusual events of the case, or was it the coverage itself publicity for her own acts that had intrigued her?
Elliot found his notepad and copied the dates and issue numbers of the papers. He also recorded the name of the investigating officer. He returned the papers to the desk and walked into the dining room.
In the darkened area defined by archways, a sound faint and yet unnerving whispered from the kitchen.
Elliot mentally reprimanded himself for letting his guard down. He had his back to an unsearched area. He drew the Glock and whirled around.
No immediate danger presented itself, no intruders hiding in the corners, no armed suspects, and yet all was not ordinary. As if they were attempting to emphasize that there was nothing else to see, the drawers and cabinets of the kitchen hung open.
Elliot entered the room, wondering if the anomaly before him had been caused by vandals, although Walter Shelby said no one had been inside the house for any appreciable amount of time since Laura Bradford had left. He strolled across the kitchen and peered through the window of the backdoor.
Past the screened porch, near the northwest corner of the property, a massive oak grew, and beneath it a pile of rocks shaped like a pyramid protruded from the weeds.
Elliot decided he would check it later. He turned and walked back through the dining area to the living room. As he neared the front entrance, the atmosphere seemed to thicken, even to the point of resistance, as if each step maneuvered through the slush of dreams.
The dream-like quality escalated when he found the front door closed. He’d intentionally left it open.
Elliot wrapped his fingers around the glass doorknob and twisted, but it did not turn. He stowed the flashlight and used both hands, but the door, as if it had not been used in years and was frozen in place, would not move.
Leaning against the door, Elliot struggled for breath. The idea of Laura luring him here to die permeated his thoughts. He strode through the house to the kitchen exit. Once there, he grabbed the knob and twisted.
With ease, the latch released and the door swung open.
Elliot scrambled across the threshold and onto the back porch where the outside air fell over him like water. He pushed open the screened door and stepped into the backyard.
Barely visible beneath the weeds, the remnants of a trail led toward the curious stack of stones near the old oak tree.
Weaving through the tall grass, Elliot followed the pathway until he reached the pile of rock.
Up close, the pyramid more resembled a pile of debris constructed of old bricks and broken pieces of cinderblock. A metal band, approximately on
e foot tall, encircled the mound.
Elliot recalled Walter Shelby’s story about seeing Laura dancing around a campfire. The rocks covered what had once been a fire pit.
From what had been a near motionless atmosphere, wind swirled through the yard. Several limbs broke from the tree and crashed to the ground, and, in a near simultaneous action, a crow flapped to a landing atop the stack of rocks. When the bird landed, the wind stopped. The crow showed no fear, but lingered briefly before jumping to the ground near the base of the fire pit. As if to gain a better visual angle, the crow cocked its head, glancing at Elliot and back to the rock again.
Elliot followed the bird’s line of sight, the unusual antics of the crow having drawn his attention.
Something out of place protruded from the haphazard stack of rock.
He leaned down and examined the object.
Confirming his suspicions, a fragment of bone extended from the debris, and a glint of something shiny sparkled through the cracks.
The crow again took flight, its pumping wings spread like black-gloved hands.
Over-riding his logic, Elliot shoved the rocks aside until he reached the bottom of the pit, uncovering what was hidden there.
In the disrupted rock of the fire pit, the skeletal remains of a human lay in scattered disarray, including the hand, which held a silver and turquoise piece of jewelry, an earring with a tiny dream catcher attached.
A chill crawled up Elliot’s back. The earring was like those Laura had worn as she’d run past Elliot on the trails of the River Park, and identical to the one he’d pulled from the dirt at the ruins of the old apartment building where Gerald had disappeared.
Cawing again reverberated through the air. The strange bird had returned. From atop the oak tree, with its head cocked in a quizzical manner, through its bottomless black eyes, the bird seemed to ask of Elliot what he intended to do about all of this.
Chapter Twenty-Four
The officer identified himself as Detective William Ryan. He had been the investigating officer for the disappearances depicted in the old newspapers. The detective surveyed the premises, an apprehensive attitude underlying his actions. “First off, I want to know why you just happened to be here at the old house?”
Elliot recognized Ryan. He’d also been the police detective who’d questioned him and his friends after Laura disappeared. He gave Ryan the story, or at least enough of it to explain, then gestured for the detective to follow him to the back of the property. As he made his way through the weeds, Elliot glanced over to see Walter Shelby watching from his front yard. When he reached the fire pit, Elliot showed Ryan the skeletal remains and pointed out the earring.
Ryan squatted and examined the remains, his expression reflecting a mixture of surprise and fear. “Curious,” he said, “that you would stumble on to this, and know right where to look. Are you always so intuitive?”
Elliot scanned the oak tree, but the crow was gone. Most people didn’t think to ask about his intuition. “I saw something glistening through the rocks. It turned out to be the earring.”
“Tell me again why you were here in the first place.”
“I came looking for Laura Bradford. I didn’t really expect to find her, especially not like this.”
“How do you know it’s Ms. Bradford? You seem awfully sure of yourself.”
“It’s the earring,” Elliot said. “She wore them the last time I saw her.”
“You have a pretty good memory. What was it, eight or nine years ago? Yeah, I remember you. I had my doubts about you even then.”
Elliot turned and started toward the house. “There’s something else you need to see.”
Elliot led Ryan into the house, and when they reached the desk in the back bedroom, he showed the detective the newspapers.
Ryan scanned both papers, his jaw tightening.
“When you came on campus to investigate Laura’s disappearance,” Elliot said, “your demeanor indicated you thought it was a waste of time. But someone from your department heard about some strange things happening on campus and thought it might be related. You should have stuck with it. It seems they were right.”
A smirk crawled across Ryan’s face. “As I recall, you kids were pretty guarded about your answers. I thought you were just being protective of your spooky antics. Maybe I was wrong.”
“The dean scared us, threatened us with expulsion. Told us to drop it and let the school handle it.”
“Are you telling me the dean was involved?”
Elliot shook his head. “He was just trying to do his job.”
Some of the color drained from Ryan’s face as he tapped the newspaper in his hand. “It’s time you leveled with me.”
“I’m trying to,” Elliot said. “Laura Bradford was rapidly becoming my prime suspect. Looks like she’s cleared herself.”
Ryan jerked a thumb toward the backyard. “But what happened here? Who did this?”
“There must have been a connection between what was happening on campus and the disappearance of those drifters. Laura got too close to the truth and it got her killed.”
“And what about Stanley Reynolds?” Ryan asked. “Is he another missing person, or are you saying he’s the killer?”
He cuts their hearts out. That’s what they say.
“I don’t know,” Elliot said. “I haven’t covered enough ground, but when the case goes official, I’d like to count on your cooperation.”
Detective Ryan frowned. “Well, let’s see. Out of your little group of ghost hunters, who by your own admission had something to do with all of this, one is dead, one is missing, and one is in the hospital. And then there’s you. What happens in Tulsa is your problem, Detective. But this is my town, my case.”
Elliot started to reply but changed his mind. He turned and walked away, leaving Ryan alone in the house. When he reached the drive, he straddled the Harley, pulled his phone and called Dombrowski.
“Elliot. I’m glad it’s you. The car you called in about, the old Cadillac.”
Elliot studied the patrol car in the drive. The captain’s voice sounded tired. “Yeah, what about it?”
“It was gone when the wrecker got there. The old guy whose house it was parked in front of said someone came along right after you left and drove off in it.”
“Did the witness get a description?”
“Not really. Say, you don’t suppose it could’ve been your old school buddy, the one who’s missing?”
Elliot had known Dombrowski’s thinking would eventually come around to that.
“When are you coming back to work?”
“I don’t know, Bill. This might take some time.”
A city vehicle pulled into the drive behind Elliot, while another parked alongside the roadway. “Have you excavated the old house site?”
“No, you haven’t given me enough to justify it.”
“I’m working on it. Anyway, I just found the missing girlfriend. She’s dead, been that way for a while. What’s more, she disappeared around the same time a group of drifters went missing from the Stillwater area. There are a lot of similarities.”
“Similarities to what?”
Elliot watched Detective Ryan come from the backyard and hurry to his car. He had a spooked look on his face. “Their social status, the way they disappeared.”
“That doesn’t tell me much.”
“The killer is targeting homeless people with little to no family connections.”
“Your friend was dating a homeless person?”
“Laura wasn’t homeless. It’s what she knew that got her killed. Gerald knew something about it, too. I don’t know why he waited until now to start looking into it, but he must have believed the same thing was happening in Tulsa.”
“You’re not making sense, Elliot.”
“The murders aren’t being reported.”
“What murders? The only evidence you’ve found belongs to your old buddy’s girlfriend. That doesn’t look good for
him, does it? And why wouldn’t the murders, if there were any, be reported?”
“Because of who the victims were. Some of the other street people might talk among themselves, wondering what happened to so and so, but their curiosity wouldn’t be stirred much. They’re a transient subculture, and they’d figure their buddy had simply moved on.”
“But sooner or later somebody would run across something.”
“Maybe, unless the killer is disposing of the bodies and there’s nothing left to find.”
“How do you know all of this, Elliot?”
“I’ve asked a few questions here and there.”
“I hope you’re not making a nuisance of yourself with the local authorities.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it. Hey, I got to go. I’ll get back with you.”
Elliot disconnected, then crawled off the bike and walked over to Detective Ryan’s car and tapped on the window. When Ryan rolled it down, Elliot handed him a business card. “Sorry to drag all of this up for you. If there’s anything I can do to help, give me a call.”
“Just remember what I said.”
“Not a problem. Could I bother you with one more suggestion?”
After a brief period of silence, Ryan said, “What is it?”
“If you want to get to the bottom of this, you should find Professor David Stephens and bring him in for questioning.”
Ryan’s jaw twitched, his lips drew tight. “I’ll take it under consideration.”
“Why does this case make you so defensive, Ryan? Or are you always this hard to get along with?”
“Go home, Detective Elliot. Don’t make me tell you again.”
Elliot turned and walked away. Ryan was going to be a problem, but he couldn’t leave town, not just yet.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Elliot fired up the Harley and drove out of the neighborhood, leaving Ryan and his team to deal with what he’d found behind the old house. The investigation had taken a turn. He had no doubt the remains belonged to Laura. Terri Benson had said Laura had lived in the house, and Walter Shelby, who lived next door, had confirmed it. In addition, Shelby had often seen Laura in the backyard near the fire pit. All of that added to the distinctive earrings made it pretty clear. The question was: Why had her ghost come back to stir all of this up again?