But Cherish Spalding is different. From what Jimmy knows about her, she wasn’t a girl on the edge, and she wasn’t looking for a way out of anywhere. She had plans for her life and a bright future. She had resources, family, friends, ties with her community. She wasn’t exactly the easiest of targets, and this gives Jimmy pause.
Maybe Lydia and the others aren’t connected to Cherish at all, and maybe in his eagerness to link the cases, Jimmy’s missing something important.
Then, at the very bottom of the box, he finds the autopsy report. Broken hyoid bone. Petechiae. Postmortem excision of the tongue, cut clean with the sharpest of blades. The Ophelia Killer might be changing the types of girls he hunts, but the rest is the same. He’s not changing how he kills or what he does after, and that’s all the evidence Jimmy needs to feel confident that the man who killed Lydia Rhodes is the same one who killed Cherish Spalding.
Jimmy jots some notes down in his notebook, returns the too-thin stack of documents to the box, closes the lid, and thanks the detective for his time.
“Well? Do we have another Ted Bundy on our hands?” The detective flashes him a grin.
Jimmy doesn’t return the smile. “You’ll want to call Salem PD,” he says. “Ask to talk to Detective Michael Rausch. Tell him about this case. Tell him about Lydia’s tongue being cut out. Maybe if the information comes from someone with a badge, he’ll finally start paying attention.”
As Jimmy brushes past the detective on his way out, he wonders what might have happened if someone in this department had given Lydia Rhodes more than ten minutes of their time. If the investigating detective hadn’t looked down on her, brushed her off as another problem teenager in the wrong place, at the wrong time, making the wrong choices. If they’d tried even a little bit, maybe they could have caught the man who killed Lydia, and Cherish would still be alive. Not just Cherish, but all of the August girls.
Jimmy takes the I-5 freeway on-ramp north. The sun is a heavy orange ball dipping beneath the Coastal Range, spreading blue shadows across the Willamette Valley.
How many others, he wonders. How many like Lydia are out there waiting to be found?
The miles between Eugene and Salem are rural farmland interspersed with pockets of oak scrub and barns. There are so many hiding places, so many places too far from anywhere to hear a girl scream.
Chapter 7
Over the next six months, when Jimmy’s not working on articles for the Statesmen Journal, he chases the stories of the August girls. He makes phone calls and crisscrosses the state, hunting for cold case murders that resemble Cherish and Lydia and the three others he knows about. During his time off, he sorts through evidence boxes with sour-smelling detectives sitting close by. He looks for girls of a certain age, strangled girls, girls with no names, forgotten girls with missing tongues or flowers in their hair.
When he finds one that fits his criteria, he writes her name down in a notebook, if she has one—so far, he’s written Jane Doe more times than any other name. He also notes where she was found, the cause of death, and any known family members, or witnesses who spoke to the police, any suspects brought in for questioning. He writes down everything, even if it doesn’t seem important.
His shoulders grow heavy and more slumped with each new girl he finds. Some small part of him hoped that when he started this search, he wouldn’t find anything. He hoped he’d be laughed out of precincts, that the detectives he spoke to would send him off empty-handed, but every single time he’s asked, the detective has nodded and said, “Yes, we have a case like that.”
Jimmy takes pictures of whatever photograph is on file for the dead girl. Most often, it’s an autopsy photo. Once, it was a mugshot because the dead girl had been picked up for solicitation a few months before she was killed. He brings each girl home and adds her to the wall in his apartment across from the fireplace.
A state road map takes up most of the space. He sticks thumbtacks into the places where the girls’ bodies were found, looking for a pattern, finding none. One in Medford. One in Brownsville. Then Lydia Rhodes, who was killed in Eugene. Between 1970 and 1972, Jimmy finds no girls to match his criteria. Then in 1973, a girl was found dead in Bend, floating on her back in the Deschutes River, her hair tangled in the roots of a dead log, her hands clasped around a bouquet of Black-Eyed Susans. After that, he finds a Jane Doe in Gresham, a suburb of Portland, then number six in Corvallis, before the three Jane Does in Salem, and finally, the most recent August girl, Cherish Spalding.
Ten thumbtacks, two of them are blue, the rest are red. Two have names. The rest are nameless or known only by an alias, with no family to claim them. Whoever this monster is, he’s smart enough to know that killing too often in the same place draws unwanted attention. So he moves from place to place, choosing women no one cares about, doing his best not to get caught.
“I’m worried about you,” Jimmy’s mother says every Sunday when he goes over to her house for dinner. “You’re nothing but skin and bones. You look exhausted. Are you sure you’re sleeping enough?”
He tries to sleep but ends up staring at the dark ceiling, listening to the scanner on his nightstand pop and crackle. A sound that usually lulls him to sleep, but recently, the hiss has become the voices of the ten dead women, their last gasping breaths rising in a crescendo. The shadows start to move and swirl around him, and then Cherish appears with her empty eyes and her gaping wounds, the maggots feasting. She opens her mouth. He sits up, waiting for her to speak, to tell him who did this to her, who did this to all of them. But what comes from the abyss of her mouth is that same steady hiss of the scanner, bringing him no answers.
Tadd humors Jimmy with the story, occasionally allowing an Ophelia Killer article onto the front-page, but there are only so many ways to write about an investigation that’s going nowhere. People get bored. They stop seeing the boogeyman in every flickering shadow and lose interest. Cherish Spalding and the other women are buried deeper and deeper as more salacious news stories shove their way into headlines.
In November 1979, fifty-two American diplomats and citizens are taken hostage at the US Embassy in Iran. January ushers in a new decade and a recession. Six of the diplomats still being held hostage pose as Canadians and manage to escape. In February, the Winter Olympics begin in New York and, miracle of miracles, during the medal round of the men’s hockey tournament, the United States beats the Soviet Union, four-time gold medal winners and heavily favored to win. It’s the upset of the century, and all anyone wants to read about for weeks. In May, Mount Saint Helens erupts, killing 57 people and obliterating the entire north side of the mountain. Ash spreads thick over Southern Washington and into Oregon. The ash cloud then moves east, damaging crops and causing poor visibility across Washington, Idaho, Montana, and even into North Dakota. These are the stories making the front-page.
By June, no one is talking about Cherish Spalding anymore. No one cares about the Ophelia Killer, who may or may not even exist. No one cares except Jimmy, who grows more worried every day they inch closer to August. He calls the precinct every week to try and talk to Michael Rausch, but the detective never seems to be around. Annabeth apologizes and promises to give Rausch a message. Days fold into weeks fold into months, and still, Jimmy hears nothing back.
Then in July, eleven months after Cherish Spalding was found at Crocker Creek, Jimmy finally gets a call from Detective Rausch. “I heard you might have some information for me about this Spalding case?”
Jimmy’s hopes rise again. They’ll be cutting it pretty close, but they can still do it. They can catch this bastard before he kills again.
* * *
Jimmy suggests they meet at a coffee shop near the precinct, but Detective Rausch insists on coming to Jimmy’s apartment. “This isn’t the kind of conversation I want to have in public,” he says.
“I can come to the precinct, then,” Jimmy says. “Or we can use a conference room at the Statesman.”
R
ausch laughs into the phone. “You got something over there you don’t want me to see?”
Two hours later, Detective Michael Rausch is standing in Jimmy’s living room, staring at the wall of maps, thumbtacks, and dead women. He whistles softly through his teeth. “I heard rumors you were tracking this guy, but this looks more like an obsession.”
“I’m just trying to find patterns, connections, see if something was overlooked in these earlier kills that might lead us to him.” Jimmy goes to the wall and points at the four thumbtacks clustered around Salem. “These appear to be his most recent kills.” He moves his finger to a red thumbtack near Medford. “This one, in 1967? I think this might have been his first. He seems to have taken a break between 1970 and 1972, so maybe he was in prison or something? If he’s been in the system, that could help us. There weren’t fingerprints at any of the other scenes, but maybe there were some found on Cherish?”
Jimmy turns toward Rausch, hoping for the man’s input, but Rausch isn’t paying attention. He’s wandering through the apartment, lifting framed photographs off tables, inspecting the pictures inside, flipping through magazines and books.
“Detective?”
Rausch looks up with a thin-lipped grin. “You know, you really should offer a man something to drink before you start talking dirty.”
Jimmy shoves down the urge to kick Rausch out of the apartment. You catch more bees with honey, his mother’s always telling him. He returns Rausch’s tight smile and says, “I’ve got water.”
“I’m a whiskey man myself.” His smug grin twists tighter. “Got any of that?”
Jimmy walks the three steps that separate the living room from the kitchen. He finds the bottle of whiskey he keeps in a cupboard on top of the fridge. It was a gift from Tadd after Jimmy landed his first front-page story six years ago. The bottle’s still three-quarters full. He pours the detective a healthy dose.
“Want ice?” Jimmy calls to Rausch.
“Do I want you to water down my whiskey?” Rausch calls back, his voice slightly muffled. “What kind of man do you take me for, Slim Jim?”
When Jimmy steps back into the living room, he finds Rausch digging through the hall closet near the front door. Jimmy clears his throat. Rausch steps back, still smiling like he wasn’t caught snooping through another man’s things.
“Looking for something in particular?” Jimmy asks.
The closet door is still open. Rausch jerks his thumb at the coats. “Are these all the jackets you have? Got anymore hanging in your bedroom?”
“What? Why?”
“Ever worn a pea coat? You know the bulky wool ones with wide collars, big buttons.” Rausch closes the closet door, takes two long strides to where Jimmy is standing, plucks the whiskey from his hand, and keeps walking into the kitchen. “What about the military? You ever been in the Navy? Coast Guard? You’re about the right age to have been called up in the draft.”
“Not that it’s any of your business, but I got an academic deferment,” Jimmy says, following Rausch.
The detective flips open cupboards and pulls open drawers, looking for something, though Jimmy doesn’t know what. “Ever work on a fishing boat?”
“Why are you asking me these questions?” Jimmy steps in front of Rausch to keep him from opening any more cupboard doors. “And why the hell are you searching my apartment without a warrant?”
This time when Rausch smiles, he flashes teeth. “Don’t get your panties in a bunch, Slim Jim. I’m a curious guy, that’s all. Like you. You’re a curious guy, too, aren’t you?”
He tips the whiskey to his lips and makes a satisfied hissing sound as the alcohol rolls down his throat. His second sip is more like a gulp, and he might as well be drinking water. His eyes dart toward the sliding glass door that leads out to a small balcony off the kitchen.
“You able to keep that thing alive?” Rausch points at a potted cactus sitting in the sun.
“So far, so good,” Jimmy answers. “Now, are you going to tell me what’s going on with this coat business?”
Rausch ignores him and steps close to the glass. The balcony overlooks a small and tidy lawn behind the apartment complex. Within walking distance, there’s a shallow pond thick with reeds. Some days, the pond’s entire surface is covered in ducks, but today there are only three. A green-headed mallard and his two brown-speckled ladies.
“Got any fish in there?” Rausch asks.
“Just frogs.”
“Too bad. You a fishing kind of man, Slim Jim?” His eyes stay focused on the pond and the ducks paddling in circles.
“Not much. Went a few times with my grandpa as a kid, but I never took to it.”
“Too bad.”
“I always felt sorry for the fish,” Jimmy adds. “I always wanted to let them go.”
Rausch turns away from the glass and studies Jimmy. There’s a moment where neither man speaks, then Rausch breaks his gaze and marches back into the living room to study the wall instead.
“So tell me, Slim Jim.” He takes a long drink of whiskey, nearly draining the glass. “Who am I looking for here?”
Jimmy stands next to him in front of the wall. “Well, he seems organized. Careful. Until Cherish, the victims he chose were women who wouldn’t be missed. Vulnerable women who wouldn’t put up much of a fight. He leaves his crime scenes clean, dumps the bodies near water, in places where people aren’t likely to stumble upon them for a few days, weeks, months sometimes, after any good physical evidence has long been degraded. He’s probably educated or has some idea of how police investigate crimes, so he knows how to avoid detection. He’s changing his pattern, though.” Jimmy gestures to the four thumbtacks centered around Salem. “He’s not moving around as much anymore. And Cherish doesn’t fit his typical victim profile. She wasn’t just someone he picked up off the side of the road, like the others, a woman in the wrong place at the wrong time. From what her roommates told me, he was hunting her. He watched her from the street, maybe even followed her to campus. We should ask around, find out if anyone noticed a strange man paying Cherish particular attention in the months before her death.”
“What else do you think we should do?” Rausch asks.
Jimmy speaks quickly, pushing aside his dislike of the detective for the sake of the case. “It’s pretty clear that there are at least nine other women we can connect to Cherish Spalding’s case. Ten women killed by the same person. And there may be more I haven’t found yet. You have to expand your search, ask for more resources, get a special unit going. You need to start working with the other departments, too. Expand outside of the Salem PD. That’s how they caught Ted Bundy.”
“You think this guy is another Ted Bundy?” Rausch’s laugh is sharp and caustic. He swirls the last of the whiskey in the bottom of the glass before gulping it back. “That would be pretty good for you, now, wouldn’t it?”
“What do you mean? How could it possibly be good for me?”
“Those articles you wrote last summer, what did you call him? The Ophelia Killer? How many papers did you sell because of that? Now, think of the headline if you were to help catch him.” Rausch swings his hand through the air in an arc. “Small town reporter captures the next Ted Bundy. You’d be famous, Slim Jim. Isn’t that what this is all about?” He gestures at the wall. “Isn’t that why you’re doing all this? For the front-page story? The book deal? The morning show appearances?”
Of course, Jimmy’s thought about it. He’s only human. Reeling in that kind of story could open a lot of doors for him, but it’s about more than that, too. The women who were killed deserve justice. The people who love those women deserve answers. The communities where those women lived deserve to be able to fall asleep at night without worrying if their daughters are next.
“I just want him stopped before he kills someone else,” Jimmy says.
“He’s not as smart as Ted Bundy, you know.” Rausch sets the empty glass down on the coffee table.
“Why do you say that?”
Rausch moves close to the wall. He traces a finger over one of the photographs of Cherish Spalding. It’s the one Jimmy took of her laid out at Crocker Creek before the detective showed up.
“He left something behind,” Rausch says, stepping away from the wall again.
“What is it?” Jimmy can’t keep the excitement from leaping to his voice, even as he tries to push it down.
This is big. This changes everything. Physical evidence proves the person killing these women isn’t some phantom, a mythical swamp creature preying on innocent girls who stray too far from the highway. Physical evidence proves he’s human. Humans make mistakes. Mistakes are how they will catch him.
Rausch cocks his head. “You know I can’t tell you that.”
“I’m on your side here, Rausch. I know these cases inside and out. I know them better than anyone.”
“Yes, you certainly do.”
“If what you found is connected to these other cases, that could be enough to convince your chief of police to put a bigger team together. Call in the FBI even.”
“I don’t need the FBI’s help.”
“Are you sure about that?” Jimmy asks. “Last time I checked, you didn’t even have any suspects.”
“Police don’t tell the press everything, Slim Jim. We don’t tell our receptionists everything either.” The words crackle with anger. “I have a suspect, actually. And I’m looking at him right now.”
Laughter bubbles up in Jimmy’s chest, a choked, sputtering sound. “Are you kidding me? You think I did this?”
“Can you blame me?” He gestures to the wall. “I walk in here and find this…what is this? A shrine? A wall of memories? You can see how a person might get the wrong idea about your interest in this case, can’t you?”
“I’ve kept you in the loop about everything I’ve found. I tried to bring you in on this months ago, but you ignored my calls.”
“I’m a busy man, Slim Jim.” Rausch spreads his hands in the air.
The Ophelia Killer Page 5