The Edge of Normal

by Carla Norton

  Benioff studies the image. “What about those rooftops?”

  He gives a shrug. “Could be. But that’s some range.”

  “What is it, about a thousand yards?”

  “A thousand thirty.”

  Someone whistles.

  “Exactly. Sniper rifle, no doubt about that. Our shooter’s an expert marksman.”

  “Well, that clears the Cavanaugh kid,” someone snorts.

  “That and the ballistics,” Howard agrees, taking off his glasses.

  Lieutenant Stephens points at a tall, slope-shouldered woman. “Myla, tell us about the crime scene.”

  “I’m afraid it’s not great,” Myla Perkins says, rising. She goes to the front of the room and frowns at the screen. “We found no shell casings, no footprints, no tire tracks, nothing.”

  “But somebody must have heard the shots,” a deputy grumbles.

  “Two problems with that. First, there’s an auto body shop here, and another one here,” Myla Perkins says, indicating two corners of the industrial area on the map. “Grinders, power wrenches, you name it. So you’ve got all that ambient noise.”

  “Okay, so we’re talking major decibel levels,” Stephens says.

  “That’s right. Plus the noise of the bulldozer working at the jail. But we do have reports—from individuals more remote from the scene—who say they heard two shots. Unfortunately, we haven’t found a second slug.” Perkins gives a shrug of apology, adding, “At least not yet.”

  Howard frowns. “Our shooter isn’t just some cowboy with a truck and a gun.”

  “Ex-military?” Benioff wonders aloud.

  Howard grunts. “That’s a theory. Or could be law enforcement.”

  The room goes uncomfortably still as this sinks in.

  Stephens puts his fists on the table and leans forward. “Listen, people. I know some of you were happy to hear about Vanderholt’s death. I’ll be glad to dance on his grave myself. But if our shooter’s a vigilante, he’s something unusual. This was an expert hit. And we can’t let down our guards just because we approve of his target. We don’t know his motivation. We’re lucky he didn’t take out one of the guards. Any one of us could be next.”

  He gestures toward the man in the suit. “You all remember Agent Coulter, from the Sacramento field office. Barry, you want to fill us in?”

  The brawny FBI agent stands, clearing his throat. “You’re right that this shooter is rare.” Coulter’s voice has a guttural quality that makes new acquaintances think he’s getting over a cold. He clears his throat again, looks down at his notes, and begins laying out the scenario. “We need to start with Vanderholt. Why was he killed? Our profilers think it’s because the kidnappings of Creighton, Cavanaugh, and Hill are connected.”

  He looks around the room. Heads are nodding.

  “Our thinking is, the perp is a serial kidnapper. Note the timing, the approach: All at dusk, all unobserved. No sign of struggle. No ransom demand.” The FBI agent coughs and goes on, detailing similarities between the kidnappings: that all three occurred on or around Labor Day weekend, that all three girls were active in outdoor sports, similar in stature, etc., etc.

  How many times have they been over this? The police officer to Benioff’s right is drumming his fingers. The deputy on her left is jiggling his foot. Everyone is anxious to get on to something new.

  They know they got lucky with Tilly Cavanaugh. They know that kidnapped kids are usually killed in the first few hours and dumped at the first opportunity. The fact that Tilly was the second girl taken but was found alive has stumped them. Some have speculated that the kidnapper liked to keep the girls around, that maybe Abby and Hannah still had a chance, but with Vanderholt shot dead, that seems a faint hope.

  Stephens raps the tabletop with his knuckles. “Could you get to the new theory, Barry?”

  “Right.” The FBI agent shuffles some papers. “The thinking now is that Vanderholt killed Hannah Creighton somehow. Maybe it was an accident. Or maybe she fought too much, or proved unsatisfactory for some reason. So he disposed of her body, and then he took Tilly Cavanaugh as his second victim. She was different in some essential way, so he kept her alive. Or perhaps he had perfected his technique enough so that he didn’t need to kill her.”

  “But what about Abby Hill?” asks the deputy beside Benioff. “Are we supposed to believe that she’s still alive somewhere?”

  “We have no evidence of that,” Agent Coulter responds, wiping a palm across his crewcut.

  “Because where would she be?” The deputy’s tone is acerbic.

  “Our profilers think it’s more likely that he tried to keep the last two girls together, but something went wrong.”

  “Meaning that he killed Hannah, kept Tilly, and then killed Abby?”

  “Right.”

  A detective scoffs. “Is that the best you guys can come up with?”

  “Hold on,” Agent Coulter continues. “Let me clarify. The thinking is that Tilly may have been held captive with Abby. And that Tilly may have even seen Abby killed.”

  The task force members grumble and shift in their seats.

  “If that’s true, the kid must be terrified,” Benioff mutters. More loudly, she asks, “Has Tilly confirmed any of this?”

  “That’s a negative, at least for now,” Coulter responds. “An unknown. But the thing is, we have consulted with that forensic psychiatrist, Dr. Ezra Lerner, and he believes the victim may be withholding information, that she’s not responding to Vanderholt’s death in the way you’d expect.”

  “What does that mean?” asks Benioff, frowning.

  “Dr. Lerner says the girl might be responding to Vanderholt’s shooting as some kind of threat.”

  “Isn’t that consistent with a Stockholm Syndrome–type response?” someone asks.

  “The doc says it goes beyond that. He says the girl’s behavior is atypical. And he’s the expert, so let’s assume for now his opinions are correct and work from there.”

  The door opens and Deputy District Attorney Jackie Burke tips her head into the room. She arches an eyebrow, giving Lieutenant Stephens a questioning look.

  “I asked Jackie to join us this morning,” he says, motioning for her to enter.

  Burke finds an open seat by the door. She stands behind it but doesn’t sit.

  “You haven’t missed anything that you and I haven’t already discussed,” he says to her. “This is a good time. Jump right in.”

  “We have a problem,” she begins. She looks from face to face, just as Stephens did, before continuing. “We have a leak.”

  The room goes still.

  “Maybe we got lucky before, but now Vanderholt is gone, and so far we have no evidence linking him to our other missing girls. Okay, that’s all public knowledge. And by now everyone and their uncle knows that our search dogs found nothing. But from here on out, we need to tighten up. If anything else discussed in this room shows up on TV, or in the newspaper, or in Otis Poe’s blog, I’m going to skewer and grill every last one of you.”

  Benioff glances around the room. Someone coughs. An officer shifts in his seat. A deputy squints at Burke and shakes his head.

  “Listen up, people,” Stephens says. “That damn blog encourages every crackpot in orbit to vent. Since yesterday, the Internet has been flooded with all kinds of crap, mostly congratulations to Vanderholt’s killer.”

  “You can imagine the shooter’s response to reading all that nonsense,” Burke says. “You can bet he’s gloating over his notoriety.”

  Curses echo around the room.

  Jackie Burke crosses her arms. “Poe claims that the public defender’s office found some kind of evidence regarding Vanderholt, that he had something proving him innocent regarding the two other abductions. Now, I don’t know how Poe came up with this little theory, because Clyde Pierson certainly didn’t turn over anything exculpatory.”

  “No discovery?” Stephens asks. “No additional physical evidence?”

  �
��I talked to Pierson, and whatever he got, it wasn’t much.” She blows out air.

  “Maybe the leak is in the public defender’s office,” Myla Perkins suggests.

  “Could be,” Burke says, “but we don’t think so.”

  “The point is, people, it’s a good bet that Vanderholt knew something beyond what he confessed to,” Stephens says. “We need to work that theory. Whoever took him out needed to shut him up.”

  “Pierson sure seems to think so,” Burke says. “And he sounds scared. He’s leaving town.”

  Agent Coulter clears his throat. “Let’s move on. We don’t think the shooter was a vigilante. He could have been a partner of some kind, so assume he’s our link to the other girls.”

  “That’s how it smells,” Burke mutters, frowning at the floor, “but we need something solid.”

  “Excuse me,” says an officer in the back, raising a hand. “If you’re saying all the kidnappings are linked through the shooter, are you discounting the copycat theory?”

  “We’re not discounting anything.” Stephens snaps. “We’re keeping our minds open. The shooter could have had a grudge against Vanderholt, who knows? No one has claimed credit, so let’s work the theory that two perps were acting as a team. Meaning that our shooter might lead us to the other two girls.”

  “Or to their graves,” someone mutters.

  “We have a few cigarette butts, right, coming from Vanderholt’s residence?” Benioff asks.

  “Right,” Myla Perkins responds, “but no DNA yet.”

  “We can’t count on a match in our database, even then,” Stephens says. “So keep in mind that we need a lot more. Keep after registered sex offenders; there are a thousand of those slippery bastards. Keep working the crime scenes. And pull the owner regs for high-precision rifles, the whole gamut of sniper models.”

  “That’s half the force,” an officer protests.

  Lieutenant Stephens glares at him until he hunches down in his seat, then glances at Burke and continues, “Listen people, we need to find that shooter, and Vanderholt’s the key. Turn his background inside out. Known associates. Cell mates. Cousins. Hell, find out who he hung with in grade school. And bring that guy from the mall back here, Vanderholt’s boss. He’s ex-military, and I want his whole goddamn history.” Slapping his hands down on the table, he says, “So! The newshounds think we’ve just lost our only suspect? Let them. But things are heating up now, and you need to get creative. Get fierce. Find a witness. Find a lead.”

  “We owe it to those girls,” Burke says. “They deserve more than lame theories and a dead suspect.”

  “And don’t blab, people,” Stephens warns. “We need to keep this guy upwind.”

  THIRTY-THREE

  Tilly has specifically asked to be left alone. She is on the bed, curled in a fetal position.

  Reeve sits on the bed next to her. “Are you okay?”

  Tilly doesn’t respond.

  “Would you like to go to Jamba Juice? Or a movie? How about the mall?”

  Tilly glares at the wall, shakes her head.

  Reeve stifles a flash of exasperation. Sure, Dr. Lerner urged her to come and try to talk to Tilly, but what’s the point of spending all this time in here if the kid won’t even speak?

  Reeve gets up and walks around the room, wishing she could talk to Dr. Lerner about what is really bothering her. Envy is a petty emotion. She tries to resist, but it burrows in: Tilly’s kidnapper has been killed—how sweet that must be—and how many times has she wished that Daryl Wayne Flint were dead? She pushes the thought aside.

  A few of Tilly’s old pastel drawings have been replaced with dark, moody pieces slashed with yellow. Reeve bends close to look and notices Tilly watching her. “What?” she says, straightening.

  Tilly glances away,

  “What? Just say the word, maybe I can help.”

  Tilly exhales and sits up. “Don’t I wish.”

  “What’s going on?”

  Tilly shakes her head. “I just wish you knew more.”

  “That makes two of us.”

  “But I think I’ve told you everything I can.”

  “Okay, well, how about Dr. Lerner? He’s good. You can trust him.”

  “Dr. Lerner was hired by that lawyer lady, right?”

  “Jackie Burke, right. He was hired as an expert witness for the prosecution, if that’s what you mean. But that’s a good thing.”

  Tilly frowns. “What about you? Are you, like, are you a witness, too?”

  “God no, I’m…” Reeve mentally gropes for an answer. “I’m here as moral support. Because I understand what you’re going through. On a personal level.”

  “But Randy’s dead, so there’s not going to be a trial, so what happens now? Are you going away?”

  “Tilly, our relationship has nothing to do with the legal system. I’m your friend. And I’ll be around as long as you want.”

  Tilly clenches her hands in her lap, wearing a strange expression.

  “As for Dr. Lerner, if you want him to help you, he’ll find a way to make that happen. He’s very dedicated. He commuted all the way to Seattle to see me, and I would have been a mess without him.”

  Rather than soothe the girl, this seems to make her anxious. “But do you, um, do you talk to Dr. Lerner?” Tilly fidgets and averts her eyes. “About me, I mean?”

  “Only in general terms.” Reeve sits on the bed and adds, “So if you want me to keep quiet about something, I will.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes, really.”

  Tilly considers her with wary eyes.

  “You know, Dr. Lerner is very trustworthy. He doesn’t talk to me about any of the specifics that you share with him, either. Not without your permission. That would be unethical. So, whatever you want to have kept private between us is kept private.” Reeve hasn’t actually articulated this before, but as she says it, it rings true.

  “So you won’t repeat anything secret that I tell you? It would be, like, confidential, just between us?”

  “Unless you say otherwise, every word.” Reeve instantly recalls the prosecutor’s demand that she share every detail of their conversations, but to hell with Jackie Burke.

  Tilly gets off the bed and stands in front of her, an intense woman-child with pain etched in her face. “Honest? Can I really trust you?”

  “Of course.”

  Tilly closes her eyes briefly. Her body seems to shudder, like a pup shaking off water, then she opens her eyes and whispers, “So you totally, absolutely promise not to tell anyone what I tell you?”

  “I promise. Totally and absolutely.”

  “Not anyone, not even Dr. Lerner.”

  “Not a soul.”

  “Swear it. I mean really, like, on your mother’s grave.”

  Reeve blinks at her, then slowly raises a palm. “Yes, Tilly Cavanaugh, I do hereby solemnly swear not to tell a soul whatever you are going to tell me. On my mother’s grave.”

  Tilly stares unflinchingly, and Reeve stares back, waiting.

  Tilly swallows. “Randy Vanderholt wasn’t the worst.”

  “What? What do you mean?”

  “There was another man.”

  “Another man? You mean, another man at the house?”

  Tilly gives one solemn nod.

  “With Vanderholt? Or before that?”

  “With Vanderholt.”

  “Someone else that hurt you? Another kidnapper?” Reeve’s voice hits a high pitch.

  “Yeah, but not like, when I was taken. He came later, after I was locked in the dungeon.”

  “Two men? God, Tilly, have you told anyone else about this?”

  She looks away, shaking her head.

  “Why not?” Reeve can hardly believe what she’s hearing.

  “Because he’s out there. He’s watching.”

  “But Tilly,” she says, taking her by the shoulders, “you have to tell them. You’re home safe now, and it’s important that you tell them.”

&
nbsp; Till shakes her off. “No! I can’t!”

  “Tilly, you have to. The police will protect you.”

  “No! He said he would hurt us if I told.”

  “But—”

  “You don’t understand! He’s a cop!” Tilly spits out, glaring at her.

  Reeve opens her mouth to speak but chokes on the words.

  “You promised not to tell.” Tilly’s voice is ragged. “You can’t tell anyone.”

  “But you’ve got to tell your parents,” Reeve says, shaking her head in disbelief.

  “No! That would be the worst. They’d go straight to the cops.”

  “But Tilly, why do you think he’s a cop?”

  “Because Randy said so.”

  “What kind of cop? Police? Highway patrol?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Did you see a uniform?”

  “No.”

  “Or a badge?”

  “No.”

  “Well, there are lots of different kinds of cops. And maybe he was lying.”

  “Randy said that he was a dirty cop and that I should do whatever he says or he’ll make it worse on both of us.”

  “But Tilly, if you tell your parents—”

  “Don’t you get it? He’s watching! He warned me, he said if I ever rat him out, he’ll kill me and he’ll kill my family!”

  The terrible logic hits Reeve like a slap. The girl appears free but she’s trapped. “Tell me about this man. What’s his name?”

  “I don’t know. He made me call him Master.” She scoffs. “But to me, he was always Mister Monster.”

  “What does he look like?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “What do you mean you don’t know?”

  “I was always blindfolded.”