The Drifting Gloom (Maddy Wimsey Book 2)

by J. R. Rain

  I fold my arms across my chest, staring at the three chairs decorated with bits of cut up rope. The sheer horror of picturing a family in that situation is too much for me to process. “Oh, no…”

  “The kid hides in a closet upstairs, gets 911 on the phone. The dispatcher’s telling him to stay hidden, but the kid reports he hears the suspect demanding the mother pick which one of her children he’s going to kill.”

  Shrimp étouffée almost comes up.

  “Real sick bastard,” mutters Medina. “Anyway, the kid hears that, grabs his daddy’s shotgun…”

  “And”―I glance at the kitchen archway―“barges in and fires at the suspect.”

  “The boy only winged him. The man fled out the front door before the kid could get off another shot. Officers arrived on scene a minute or so later and found the boy trying to get his momma untied.”

  I lean against the sectional for balance as my head spins. This could have been so much worse. Relief hits me so hard it makes me sick to my stomach all over again. “Any injuries?”

  “Only the suspect. The family’s probably at the hospital by now. Kid described the assailant as a ‘space man.’”

  Rick rushes in the door, muttering something about a Honda Civic between F-bombs.

  “Nice of you to make it,” I say with a wink.

  “Goddamn idiot disregards my dome light. I had to call in a friggin’ black and white to pull that jackass over. Who the hell does thirty-five in a one-lane fifty MPH zone with a flashing red light crawling up your rear bumper?” He waves his arms around in a bad parody of a Shaolin monk before exhaling. “Okay. I am calm. What happened?”

  “Send word out to all hospitals in the area to be on the lookout for a shotgun injury,” I say to Medina before facing Rick. “Our guy had some bad luck.”

  “You got it. I’ll be out front if you need anything, detectives.” Medina plucks her radio from her belt and heads for the door.

  I fill Rick in on what I got from her. His face cycles from chalk white to beet red and back again. “Holy shit… luck doesn’t even begin to describe that. This could’ve been ‘the one.’”

  “The one?” I ask.

  “The one scene so horrible, you realize you can’t do this anymore or you figure humanity’s just too far gone to bother trying to save.” He grumbles. “And that’s an imperial ‘you.’ I don’t mean you, personally.”

  I gaze down. Yeah, walking in on a whole family wiped out, three kids, might’ve done it for me. Or maybe I’d have gotten pissed off enough to work harder at my job. A black tube catches my eye, under a small end table behind where the two chairs stand together. My mind fills in a pair of siblings tied facing their mother, a mother helpless to defend them.

  Scowling, I storm over to it and crouch. My eyes water from the powerful smell of bleach and ammonia. Left hand over my mouth, breath held, I pull out my mini Maglite and shine it on a large gas mask. A three-foot-long ribbed hose connects the facemask portion to the top of a metal gasoline can between two screw caps. The can’s got a weld scar running down the middle, and around the cap on the left. In essence, it’s a death mask.

  “Geez, Wims, back up.” Rick grasps my arm and pulls me back. “That smells toxic.”

  I point the flashlight at the can. “That… son of a bitch… he’s… no wonder we didn’t find any chemical residue at the Cortez murder. Look at these weld marks. The can’s got two reservoirs. Ammonia on one side, bleach on the other. He puts the mask on the victim, then releases the chemicals.” I point to the tube that runs from the can to the mask. “They can’t get away from the fumes with the fucking mask on their head.” The thought this guy came so close to putting it on a child gets me looking for something to punch.

  “Calm down. He didn’t kill anyone tonight. Kid got a piece of him. That’s blood, Wims. DNA. We got the bastard.”

  I grab my phone and call in the forensics unit. “Bring whatever you need to handle hazardous materials. There’s a can here with industrial-grade bleach and ammonia.”

  “Get away from it,” says the dispatcher.

  “The chemicals aren’t mixed…” I describe the device so she can relay the information to the team before they get here, adding, “The suspect didn’t get a chance to use it.”

  “Sick son of a biscuit,” says the dispatcher.

  We leave a uniformed officer in the living room to make sure no one disturbs anything, and check the rest of the house. Two child bedrooms, one quite obviously belonging to boys, the other probably a girl’s room, have signs of a disturbance. Chair knocked over, stuff swept off a desk, bedding on the floor. The boys’ room has bunk beds, so I’m not sure how the guy missed the younger one… thank Morrigan. That explains the shotgun. She’s the Goddess of War after all. Realizing this guy had been ready to gas a child to death like Angela Cortez, I find myself regretting putting in that ‘no harm’ request.

  Deep breaths, Maddy.

  The girl’s room has little out of place, so I’m thinking he grabbed her first before she had a chance to wake up and struggle. In the parents’ room, we find a box of shotgun shells spilled on the rug by the closet next to an iPhone. Photos on the dresser show a woman with shoulder-length brown hair smiling next to a man in a Navy dress uniform. A few other pictures have the husband and three kids: a blond boy about twelve, a girl a little younger than him with the same light-brown hair as her mother, and a boy with dark brown hair―the same kid I saw in the bathroom mirror.

  My head spins.

  What was the point of the vision? A heads up? A sign from Morrigan that the magic would run its course soon?

  We find the shotgun, a Remington 870 express, on the kitchen table, two live shells standing up on end next to it. Upon asking around, we discover one of the officers had moved it there from where the boy had dropped it in the hallway.

  “Might as well bag it,” I say.

  “Yeah.”

  Rick follows me out the front door, but I stop short on the porch.

  “Shit. We drove our civvie cars here.” Damn. No evidence bags. We’ll have to wait for CSI to get here.

  “Hey, I got something here,” says Rick.

  I spin around.

  He’s pointing his Maglite into a bush to the right of the porch. He squats, pushing greenery aside. I take a knee next to him. A digital camera’s hanging stuck in the branches, its strap broken. The red sheen of blood gleams upon a spot of silver trim.

  “I don’t think this belonged to the homeowner.” Rick glances at me. “Wonder what happy little memories are on this thing’s SD card.”

  “Damn. I hate not having gloves. At this rate, I’m going to start packing crime scene crap in my truck.” The idea of what might be in that camera makes me cringe, but I’m happy as hell to have found it.

  “Goddess, and Lady Morrigan, thank you for hearing my plea,” I whisper.

  Somewhere nearby, a raven caw rings out over the din of a half-dozen police car engines idling.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Space Man

  Monday Night – July 24, 2017

  We arrive at the hospital a few minutes after 11 p.m., having left the house in the care of the forensics crew and patrol division.

  ‘Victim three,’ as she’ll be identified in the case record, Mrs. Lee Ann Sullivan, sits on the edge of a hospital bed still wearing the T-shirt and sweatpants she must’ve had on during the attack. Her eyes are red and bleary, but at first glance, I’m hopeful the only injuries she’s sustained are psychological.

  Though, that’s not necessarily a good thing.

  I knock on the doorjamb. “Mrs. Sullivan?”

  Her gaze flicks left, and she flinches. “Yes?”

  “I’m Detective Madeline Wimsey, with the Olympia PD.” I step in and to the side, gesturing at Rick who enters behind me. “This is my partner, Detective Rick Santiago. Can we talk to you for a moment about what happened tonight?”

  Mrs. Sullivan shivers. Tears roll out of her eyes. �
�Can I see my children yet? No one’s told me anything. Where are they?”

  “It won’t be long,” says Rick. “They’re getting checked out right across the hallway. We needed to talk to you without them, if it’s okay.”

  “Umm, okay.” She covers her mouth and nose in both hands, breathing hard. “He was going to kill us all, wasn’t he?”

  “We’re still trying to put together this man’s motivation. Is there anyone we can call for you? Parents? Is your husband still… in the picture?”

  Mrs. Sullivan nods. “Yes. Not as much as I’d like, but David’s on a deployment. He’s in the Navy. Out at sea for eight months. He won’t be back home until the end of September.” She breaks down again, crying into her hands.

  “We’ll get word to him,” says Rick. “The Navy will get him home to be with you after this.”

  She looks up, managing a weak smile. “Really? You can do that?”

  “It’s not our decision, but I’m sure the Navy will put him on a helicopter as soon as they find out what’s happened back home. He’s not like a SEAL or anything doing covert stuff?”

  “No. He’s an electronics officer on the USS Chancellorsville.” Mrs. Sullivan looks around like she needs help.

  Rick nods. “Unless they’re in the middle of a sensitive operation, I don’t see any reason they wouldn’t let him.”

  “Take your time,” I say, resting my hand on her shoulder. “I want to nail this bastard for what he almost did to your family. For what he did do.”

  “The more you can tell us now, the easier it will be for us, but we will understand if you need time,” says Rick.

  “No… no…” Mrs. Sullivan wipes at her face with a tissue. “It’s fine. You need to find this monster before he comes back, or attacks someone else.”

  We pull our notebooks out and flip them open. Yeah, it’s low-tech, but paper doesn’t run out of batteries and I can still write faster than I can type with my thumbs.

  “Please, Mrs. Sullivan, tell us everything you can remember,” I say.

  “The kids had just gone to bed. I was in the living room clicking through Netflix. I hear this crack sound come from the kitchen. So I get up and go check, but there’s nothing there. I guess he broke the patio door but I didn’t notice. I go back to the couch, and the next thing I know, I’ve got a hand over my mouth. It’s rubbery. He puts something metal to my head and tells me it’s a gun. If I make a sound or don’t do exactly what he tells me, he’s gonna shoot me and then kill my kids. He says if I ‘behave myself,’ it’ll all be okay.”

  Rick stifles a remark.

  Lying sack of shit, I think, while jotting down notes. “Go on.”

  “He tells me to get up. The guy’s got this freaky suit on like he’s straight out of one of those movies where there’s a zombie virus outbreak or something. His whole face is black except for a bit around the eyes.”

  I jot down: ‘Tyvek suit?’ That would explain why he’s not leaving any evidence.

  “He makes me grab a chair from the dining room and drag it into the living room. Kicks the coffee table out of the way. I’m expecting him to tell me to take my clothes off, but he just makes me sit down, then he ties my hands with plastic things, ties my ankles to the chair legs. He leaves me there and goes for the stairs. I beg him not to hurt my kids, but he only points the gun at me, so I shut up.”

  Rick looks as pissed off as I feel. He’s about to punch his pen straight through the whole pad.

  I nod while writing.

  “He’s up there for a while… when he comes back down, he’s got Alex and Emma tied up, one under each arm. He leaves them on the floor by me, tells them if either one of them even whispers, he’s going to shoot me in the face. The guy gets two chairs.” Mrs. Sullivan shudders, and wipes tears from her face. “He goes out the front door… comes back in a few minutes with a huge toolbox. Takes rope out, ties my kids to the chairs. Then, he shows us this horrible gas mask, and tells me it’s got poison in it.” She breaks down and weeps heavily for a moment before regaining her composure. “He puts it on the floor and takes out a camera. He starts recording my kids and telling them to beg him not to kill me. Emma could barely talk.”

  “Dear God,” mutters Rick.

  I can’t even say anything to that.

  “When he got bored with them, he made me beg him not to kill both of them. He seemed to get off on it, so I pleaded as hard as I could… but it didn’t help. After a while, he said he’d let me live, but I had to choose which of my children he killed. He told me his mask takes a while to kill, and it hurts. Said if I didn’t choose one, and I didn’t watch them the whole time they suffocated, he’d kill all three of us.” She starts sobbing again. “Alex told me to pick him to protect Emma.”

  Rick fumbles his pen, dropping it.

  Too angry to even think, much less write, I sit on the bed corner and hold my head in my hands. “Goddess… what is wrong with people? I’m so sorry you had to endure that.”

  We lapse into silence until an idea comes to me. I look up and squeeze her shoulder again, which gets her to snap out of her quiet sobbing to stare me in the eye. “We’ve been after this guy for a while. We think he’s a serial killer, but this guy targets people who work as managers. Children don’t fit that MO. I’m sure he was only putting you through that to torture you mentally.”

  Mrs. Sullivan fidgets with the bandages around her wrists. “I couldn’t get myself loose. I couldn’t save them. Why did I listen to him? I should’ve made him shoot me.”

  “It’s not your fault,” I say, rubbing her back. “It’s only one person’s fault, and we are going to find him.”

  “Mrs. Sullivan, would you mind if I ask what you do for a living?” asks Rick.

  “I work at Providence St. Peter. HR manager.”

  Rick shoots me a pointed look.

  “Did the man remind you of anyone you might’ve seen?” I tap my pen on the paper, still too angry at the thought of her kids in such a situation to write. “Did his voice sound at all familiar?”

  She thinks for a moment, but shakes her head. “No… I’ll never forget that voice. Creaky, like an old man, but forced. Like he’s doing a funny inflection on purpose.”

  Either he intended to let the kids live, so he didn’t want his real voice being heard, or he’s a complete psychotic nut who gets into character. Considering the lengths this guy has gone to in order to not leave any evidence, I’m not at all hopeful he would have spared any of them. However, this appears to have been his first time dealing with more than one victim at once. Gibson and Cortez had both been home alone. We have nothing to compare this scenario to, so, yeah, anything might have happened. All three could have been killed.

  I jot down ‘funny/elderly voice,’ along with the rest of my notes. Honestly, if Lady Morrigan got a little rough with the guy, I’d accept the return. A couple of shaving cuts and a broken tub drain are too mild. For this piece of shit, I’ll wear a cast for a few weeks. And… before I go crazy and start slinging dark magic around, I bite my lip, close my eyes, and center myself. I’ve already gotten a huge boon. I don’t want to push things any more askew than they already are.

  “When can I see my children?” asks Mrs. Sullivan.

  That look in her eye, like she doesn’t believe they’re even still alive until they’re right in front of her, sets something off in Rick.

  “Definitely. Right now.” He nods toward the door. “We’ll need you present when we interview them anyway.”

  The three of us make our way across the hall and down one room. Good call on Rick’s part. I don’t want to press this woman any more.

  We enter a large exam room with two beds. The hero, eight-year-old Jacob, sits closest to the door with his legs over the side of the bed, still shirtless in his pajama pants. He’s also sporting a rather noticeable bruise on his right shoulder in the general shape of a shotgun stock. A doctor with Indian features in a white coat prods a latex-glove-covered finger around the bruis
e, but the boy doesn’t flinch as she works, staring into space like a powered-down android.

  The other two children sit on the far bed. The girl, Emma, clings to her older brother, crying. Alex, the twelve-year-old, is the only one of the three who reacts to me walking in. His eyes go right to my badge, and he gives me a look like he really wants to talk to me.

  As soon as Mrs. Sullivan walks in, he sits up straighter. “Mom!”

  She looks at her kids, covers her mouth in both hands, and breaks down again. Rick and I take hold of her arms before she collapses, and guide her to the bed next to the smaller boy. She wraps her arms around Jacob, but the boy shows little reaction other than leaning into her with the faintest of relieved smiles.

  Emma yells, “Mom!” and springs off the bed. The girl’s still in the purple T-shirt she must’ve been sleeping in, and her sock-covered feet have zero traction on the polished hospital floor. She wipes out and hits the ground on her chest, but doesn’t even slow down, scrambling to all fours before leaping into a wobbly run. I catch her before she can fall again and steer her into her mother’s arms.

  Alex jumps off the bed. He’s wearing a teal hospital-issue bathrobe and doesn’t appear to have anything on under it. He fast-walks over, climbs up onto the bed and sits behind his mother with his arms around her.

  I tug the doctor aside and mumble, “What happened to the boy’s clothes?”

  “You are who?” asks the doctor, P. Acharya, according to the embroidery on her coat.

  “Detectives.” I hold up my ID, as does Rick.

  “Oh.” Dr. Acharya’s posture relaxes. “The police collected them due to blood spray from the suspect.”

  “Were the children injured?” asks Rick.

  The doctor shakes her head. “Minor abrasions from the ligatures, and the one boy suffered a bruise when he discharged a weapon. Excuse me a moment?”