by J P Tompkins
“Why?”
“You’re too close. This happened in your house, for Christ’s sake.”
“That’s why I should write it. No one else knows this case like I do. No one else will get it right.”
He says nothing. I know he’s thinking because I can hear him doing his usual thinking habit—tapping the end of a pen against his teeth. “You can have as much time off as you need.”
“Nobody else can do this like I can,” I tell him again. “And I’ll leave myself out of it.”
I hear him release a slow, deep sigh. “Shit, I don’t know why I’m going along with this. You make sure I see the story before anyone else does. I’m taking first pass at it.”
“You got it.”
“I’m glad you’re okay,” he says. “Sorry about your roommate.”
“Thanks.”
“Damn. Right there in your house.”
I hear Paul’s truck starting. He turns it around, then drives past, slowing down as he approaches me and gives me the universal hand signal to call him—hand next to his head, thumb at his ear, little finger near his mouth. I nod, but I’m not going to call him. The loud rumble of the truck’s engine drowns out all other noise and I wait for him to get to the end of the street, turn, and drive away.
“It’s the second time he’s hit a house with two people in it,” I say to Neil. “He’s changing. Escalating the risk factor.”
Neil is silent for a moment, then says, “Don’t forget. First pass. If not, you’re off this story for good. You know I mean that, right?”
“Right.”
“I’m serious, Kate. And you’re still going to that doctor?”
“I am.”
“Good. Remember—first pass,” he says, and hangs up.
Chapter 11
Hogle and Roark went back into my house a short time ago and now they’re coming out, removing latex gloves as they walk. Hogle has his folio tucked under his arm.
As they get closer to their car, I get out of mine. I walk toward them to start my questioning, in full reporter mode, emotionally detached from what’s happening around me as if I were at some stranger’s house.
“How did he get in?”
I notice Hogle has a pen in his mouth, clenched between his teeth, sticking straight out like a long, thin cigar. “That is one creepy closet you have. Can’t say I’ve ever seen anything like that. Other than in movies, I mean. You go through that stuff a lot?”
“Research,” I say.
“Research.” Hogle’s voice is flat, parroting my reply.
“How did he get in?” I repeat, my voice more forceful.
Roark says, “Did you know the screen on the guest bedroom window is missing?”
“That’s been gone for a while.”
“How long?”
I shrug. “A year. Probably more. I took it down myself when I noticed it was rusted.”
Hogle opens the trunk of the car. It blocks my view of him as he fumbles around in there for something.
Roark is balling up his white latex gloves, switching the ball from his right hand to his left as he maintains eye contact with me. “The window was unlocked.”
I feel my face flush as I recall the night Erin moved her stuff in. I’m sure I told her about the window, how it was missing a screen and not to open it because of the bugs. The last time that window was open was the day I took the screen off and I know I locked it. I explain this to Detective Roark.
“Well, that might be how he got in.”
“Might be?”
“No other sign of entry, forced or otherwise,” Hogle calls out from the trunk.
I turn and look at my house, forensics techs examining the ground, every inch of grass in the front and back yards, the soil beneath the bushes that line the edge of the house. They’re looking for footprints, probably, or maybe something he dropped on his way in or out.
It’s not until this moment that I realize I haven’t even thought of where he hid before he came in. My back yard is fenced in. A thin stretch of woods is just beyond the fence, separating my yard from the neighbors who live behind me. Inside the fence, there are thin, spindly trees in spots, but two clusters of thick shrubbery. It was all there when I moved in, and all unattended to since. The neighborhood boy who mows my lawn for ten bucks is reliable and does a good job, but he isn’t exactly a landscaper.
“Did Erin ever have anyone over? Guests that you know about?”
I face Roark again. “No.”
He nods and is about to say something, but he’s interrupted by Hogle saying, “Watch your hand.” He moves it and he closes the trunk.
“Why do you ask that?” I say.
“Like I said, he might have come in through the window, but we can’t be sure. So far, there’s no sign of anyone coming in or out of it. No fibers on the sill—”
“And no fingerprints,” I say, sure of the answer because the killer always wears gloves.
“None,” Hogle says.
“But that had to be the entry point,” I say.
“Assuming someone broke in,” Roark says.
I can’t believe what I’m hearing. “You think she let him in?” I shake my head. Their doubt about the window makes no sense.
Both of their faces remain blank, expressionless, giving away nothing.
“Have you noticed anything strange around here lately, anything out of the ordinary?” Roark asks. “Knocks on the door, someone saying they’re looking for a certain house, anything like that?”
I choke down the contempt I feel at the question, as if I wouldn’t have been alarmed by something odd, out of the ordinary, happening. I’ve been covering this story for months. I know the details of every crime. I know what questions investigators will ask. I know what people should be on the lookout for. And they know I know all of this.
“Nothing,” I say flatly. “And there’s no way she let anyone in. I would know about it.”
“What about her ex?” Roark says.
“Paul? He hasn’t been here. I mean, not after she left him. He sold me this house and he was here a few times when they were together. But not since she left him, no.”
“That you know of,” Hogle says. “Any reason at all to think she might have met with him? Any chance at all?”
“No, she would have told me. And I can’t imagine her inviting him here. No way.”
“Just checking. We’ll check to see if he has an alibi. Just to clear him. But we do need to know everything we can about the weeks, maybe months, leading up to this,” Roark says. “Routine. You know.”
Hogle slides the sunglasses off the top of his head, covering his eyes. “You have somewhere to stay? It’s going to be a while before we can release the house back to you.”
I know I can’t go back in there to get anything. I’ve seen how murder scenes work. But one thing I don’t know is when I’ll be able to get back in. “How long?”
He shrugs. “Maybe tomorrow.”
“We’re moving as quickly as we can,” Roark adds, sounding helpful for once.
“Or the next day,” Hogle says. “Hard to tell. Maybe one of your inside sources can tell you.” He walks around to the driver’s side and opens the door.
I don’t say anything. I just step out of the way so Roark can get into the car and I can head back to mine.
◆◆◆
As soon as I’m in my car, I text Neil and tell him I’m not coming to the office, citing the fact that there will be too many distractions there. I tell him I’m checking into a hotel, that I’ll probably have to stay there at least one night, and I’ll write from there and send the story over to him.
My phone rings and the caller ID displays the name Cole Curtis.
I swipe the screen and immediately hear his raised voice almost shouting my name, then he lowers it and says, “Why didn’t you call me?”
“I know, I know. Sorry. When did you hear?”
“About two minutes ago,” he says. “I’m off today and I’ve been running erra
nds all morning. Then I get home and see you on TV. Where are you?”
On a street I almost don’t recognize anymore, I think but don’t say. This is too quiet a street for this kind of action, all the official vehicles, all the law enforcement personnel coming and going. But this is what happens when he strikes—he changes streets, entire neighborhoods, the whole city, every time he claims another victim.
“I’m still at the house.”
“In the house?” he says, surprised.
“No, I’m sitting in my car. I’m going to a hotel for the night. Maybe more than one night. Not sure yet.”
There’s a pause, and then: “Why don’t you come here? Stay the night. There’s plenty of room. And we can talk.”
“I can’t do that. Don’t you think it’s kind of risky?”
“I can assure you the department doesn’t have my house under surveillance,” he says. “Plus, as the head of IT, I would be the one to set up something like that. Or I’d know about it, at least. Nothing technology related happens in the department without me knowing about it.”
He’s clearly less concerned than I am that my staying at his house could blow his cover and out him as my source.
“I might be the one under surveillance by some of my colleagues,” I say, thinking about how many other reporters are now covering this story, since I am now no longer just an observer of the case, but a part of it.
“A taste of your own medicine,” he says. “But seriously, I insist.”
Chapter 12
Cole is waiting on his front porch when I arrive at his house, after a nearly thirty minute trip. I pull into his driveway and park next to his SUV.
This is the second time I’ve been to his house. The first time was for the interview that never ran. This is a neighborhood with big yards, which means lots of space between each home, and long driveways. That’s why he’s not worried about anyone noticing me being here.
But still, I’m uneasy about it. I have no intention of staying here for the night, despite his assurance that it’s okay. But I do want to talk to him. Need to, actually. Nobody else understands my passion for this case like Cole does and he knows everything about it. So I’ll spend a few hours here, before getting a hotel room.
I grab my bag that holds a spiral notebook, my laptop, and my tablet. I realize I have nothing I’ll need overnight no matter where I stay. No change of clothes, no toiletries. And my sleeping medication is back in the bathroom at home.
Cole remains on the porch, leaning against a pillar as I approach. He’s wearing shorts that reveal the scars on his legs. He spoke of them during the interview, but didn’t show me. Now I see them—curvy pink lines on his thighs down to the knees, two on the left and one on the right, and one scar that looks like a zipper around his left knee.
When I get to the top of the steps, he reaches for the front door. “Come on in.”
As I step inside, I hear the sound of the TV coming from the living room.
“Let’s go in here,” he says, and I follow, observing how his limp is more pronounced than usual and then I notice he’s not wearing those special shoes he told me about back when I first interviewed him for the story that would never run. They have a lift in the heel, designed to make movement easier. He’s wearing regular shoes now. “I’ll turn this off.” He bends down to pick up the TV remote off the ottoman, moving awkwardly, his left leg stiff and straight, still unable to bend at the knee.
Glancing at the television, I catch a glimpse of a baseball game, and then he mutes it.
“I had the local news on earlier, but had to change it. They kept repeating the same thing over and over,” he says. “Can I get you something to drink?”
“Sure.” I set my bag down on the floor next to the coffee table.
“Sit anywhere. I’ll be right back.” He leaves the room and goes into the kitchen.
I look around at the walls. One is blank, free of any decoration, but it looks like it might have once held some framed photos. Maybe of him and his now ex-wife.
I step toward the opposite wall, which holds his college diploma and a number of certifications in various fields of law enforcement training.
Cole comes back into the living room carrying two glasses and a pitcher of sweet tea. “Have you talked to her parents?”
“I tried calling her mom on the way over here, but it went right to voicemail.” Detective Hogle had told me they made contact with Erin’s parents, who said they were coming down here right away. It’s a four-hour drive and I figured they were in a spot with bad reception.
Or did her mother ignore my call and let it go to voicemail? I hadn’t thought of that before just now and it only adds to the dread I feel when I think about talking with them.
“Tell me what happened,” he says, as he pours two glasses of tea.
I tell him everything that happened this morning. He listens without interrupting.
“I’m not going to say ‘I told you so’,” he says. He’s talking about the time he tried to talk me into getting a gun. Cole and my parents were the only people worried that the killer would come after me.
We talked about the gun. About Cole advising me on which one to get, which one was the best for home defense. I listened, heard him out, and considered it all. But ultimately I decided it wasn’t necessary. Cole tried to convince me that the gap between attacks could lead to my letting my guard down. I told him my guard wasn’t up in the first place. To do so would be to give in to fear. It would change the way I approached my work. He didn’t understand it and maybe no one else would, either, but that’s how I felt and I wasn’t budging.
“Maybe if you’d had a gun…” He shrugs and lifts his glass, sipping.
“Nothing would have been different,” I say. “I slept through the whole thing anyway.”
I know it wouldn’t have changed anything. But that doesn’t absolve me of the guilt I feel. Erin certainly wasn’t afraid to stay at my house, but that doesn’t put any of the responsibility on her. It’s all on me. I was wrong. He did come to my house.
Breathe.
“It had to be me. I don’t know if he was targeting me or taunting me or what, but it’s too much of a coincidence and he couldn’t have picked her out.”
Cole nods.
“We were talking one night,” I continue, “and she mentioned something about getting in shape, maybe joining a gym.”
“Did she?”
“No.”
“So she doesn’t fit your theory. Neither do Beth Callahan or Payton Donnelly,” he says.
“There are dozens of gyms in town. Nothing else connects any of the victims. And he could be selecting the others some other way. It doesn’t rule out the gym at all.”
Cole isn’t the only one I’ve told about my gym theory—Kristi and Janelle belonged to the same gym. It didn’t seem like much, at first, but it was the only thing connecting any of the victims. I’ve talked to Detective Hogle about it twice. He listened to me the first time and said they’d look into it. When I approached him a couple of weeks later to follow up, he told me they checked it out, there was nothing there, it was just coincidence.
I take another big sip of iced tea. “I still think there’s something to it.”
Cole leans forward, placing his elbows on his knees. He speaks softly. “Kate, before last night, only two of the victims fit your theory. And it’s the same number today.”
“I know,” I say, and I look to my right, out through the glass door to the backyard.
“Back down the rabbit-hole,” he says, rising and pointing down the hall. “I thought you could use my office to write your story. I’ll show you where it is.”
Chapter 13
I’ve been down many of those rabbit-holes with this case. Long, twisty, deep holes, only to come to the end and have nothing to show for it except for wasted time and energy. But I followed each one, attempting to uncover the mystery of how he was choosing them.
Neighbors of both Kristi and Pa
yton mentioned hearing a loud rumble the night each was attacked. I had asked them if it was more like a car or a truck. All of them said no, it was neither, it sounded more like a motorcycle. All of them said it stood out not only because of the late hour, but because nobody in their respective neighborhoods drove a motorcycle that they knew of, at least not one that was so loud.
For the next week or so, every time I heard or saw a loud motorcycle in traffic, I couldn’t stop looking at it. And then I realized how many motorcycles there are on the roads. It was only after talking at length with Cole about it that I came to the conclusion that it had to be a coincidence. An offender this careful, this stealthy, wouldn’t be driving something so loud to or from the scene of an attack.
I found out from the reports that several neighbors at two of the crime scenes reported seeing a white van in the neighborhood in the weeks preceding the attacks. The van, they said, would be parked in different spots along the streets on different days. This could be something, I thought, so I began to look for white vans.
One morning on the way to the newspaper, I noticed two white vans at a stoplight. Then another, a third, at the next light. I counted all the white vans for the rest of the drive. The total: eleven different ones—none of which had any business logos painted on the side, no ladders secured to the top. Just plain white vans.
I mentioned this in the morning editorial meeting when I got to work. Kevin Delray, our lead sportswriter, said his father was a painter and also did some small carpentry jobs. His brother joined the business. They both drive white vans. After the meeting I looked into the popularity of the vehicle and found that white is the most common color for trucks, SUVs, and vans. I had followed numerous white vans—again, looking for what, I wasn’t sure—and all I had to show for it was lost time, wasted gas, and frustration.
Then there were the tips—phone calls to my work number, emails—most sent in anonymously, and the ones who did give their names insisted that they not be identified in any way. Some had good reason. They were genuinely scared of retribution, even if the suspect they were offering turned out to be completely innocent. Others had purely sinister reasons for hiding their identity, which was obvious without even putting much thought into their information.