by Peg Brantley
Cunningham shook his head. “Agent Grant—Nick—it was only a matter of time. Bonzer knew he didn’t have long to live. That’s why he wanted to make a deal. He didn’t want to die in here.”
The chaplain said, “There may have even been a part of him that wanted to come clean with everything he knew, everything he’d been keeping from the authorities and the families, before he died.” He obviously didn’t believe his own words any more than Nick believed them.
“Did he have anything written down? Any notes?” If Leopold Bonzer had written anything down the prison officials would have made certain the paper would be in Nick’s hands right now, but he had to ask.
Cunningham seemed to understand the profound impact of the prisoner’s death. “I’m sorry. He left very few personal effects. They’ve been boxed but they’re still in his cell.”
Nick looked at David Parker. “How about you, Chaplain? Did he ever tell you anything that might help?”
Parker’s eyes turned sad and haunted. Starbuck’s and iPhones suddenly seemed incongruous to him. Nick found himself sitting next to a man emanating a strong spirituality. Man of God took the place of Texting Man. This one looked a lot more real.
“My job is to fight for the souls of these men. One way I do that is to hear their confessions. It’s a step in the process, if you will. And the process of saving souls is something only a man who has their trust can even begin to do. As you might assume, Agent Grant, I hear a lot of confessions. Even if Leopold Bonzer chose to confess everything to me, I could not break that trust. A prison is a very small place—even one that keeps their prisoners isolated. I could not risk losing the souls I’ve worked so hard to gain. But please, Agent Grant, that trust also works between us. Believe me, if the prisoner confessed to anyone, it wasn’t me.”
Nick sat back in his chair. Each man in the room had a job to do, a job they each did well. Each had a calling. But none of that did anything to help the families of thirteen murder victims. He had failed them. My failure. No one else’s.
The warden returned and took his chair. He pulled out a folder lying on his desk and put it on top of some other paperwork, a signal for the meeting to draw to a close.
“We have another prisoner to prepare for, and the press will be all over this one.” The light from the window hit the warden’s face, illuminating both his pallor and his wrinkles. His was a face that reflected stoicism even as it acknowledged defeat in ever hoping to see the good in men. There would never be an available room at this particular inn for too many days.
Nick needed to get some closure of his own. He stood. “Warden, I’d like to examine whatever personal effects Bonzer left and I’d like to see his cell. Would that be possible at this time?” Even though Nick could throw his FBI weight around to get what he wanted, he preferred respecting other people’s turf.
“Now would not only be the best time, Agent, but the only time. The incoming prisoner will be assigned to the deceased’s space. Chaplain Parker, would you mind escorting Agent Grant to Leopold Bonzer’s cell? When he’s finished reviewing the personal effects, dispose of them as you wish. There is no immediate family.”
Through the halls leading to the center of Supermax where the prisoners were housed, Nick and the chaplain passed through security posts and remote-controlled steel doors opening, then closing in their wake. Some clanking, an occasional muted outburst, and a little mumbling accompanied them along the route. The prison used sensory deprivation not only as a punishment, but as a means of control. Unfortunately, Nick’s sense of smell wasn’t as deprived as much as he would have wished.
“What do you hope to find, Agent?”
“I wish I knew.”
Nick sat on the poured concrete bunk. The bedding had already been removed. When Leopold Bonzer died, his body had released its fluids and the smell of defecation remained strong.
Nick Grant closed his eyes for a moment and listened to the clamor of tortured souls around him. Imagined himself confined to this space, hearing these sounds, inhaling these smells, twenty-three hours a day for the rest of his life. Cabin fever would have nothing on this nightmare. A man would need to be able to turn to someplace else in his mind in order to remain sane, or some version of sane. Where was that place for Leopold Bonzer?
A cardboard box contained the worldly possessions of a man who, at one time, had made a decent living selling real estate, and who later confessed to killing thirteen people. It was almost empty. A tube of toothpaste, shampoo, deodorant, a comb, and the few personal effects Bonzer had possessed when he entered prison were all he’d left behind to show he’d spent time on this earth. His clothing and shoes were prison issue, and the paperback novel he’d been reading when he died had come from the prison library. Those items were in a separate box on the floor near the double steel doors to the cell. Material possessions didn’t prove a person’s value by any stretch, but somehow this void went hand-in-hand with the holes Leopold Bonzer had drilled into the lives of so many.
Nick moved the cardboard box filled with the pathetic detritus out of his way, pushed back onto the bed, leaned against the wall, and looked around. Most of the prison cells Nick had seen in other institutions were filled with graffiti and grime, bodily discharges of all kinds, and food that would never be eaten. No sign of the usual spit, semen, boogers or blood appeared in this cell. The prison staff took care of a lot of the body-fluids graffiti buildup by rotating inmates at least once a week, and prisoners were required to leave their residences lacking as much DNA as possible. Leopold Bonzer had cared about his environment and taken as much control as anyone could have in an ADX facility.
Nick wondered, Where might a man like Bonzer hide something of an intensely personal nature? A secret? It would have to be easily accessible, both for his own pleasure as well as the frequent moves within the prison. This cell holds his secret... I just know it.
There were no family photographs, presumably because no family existed, and no books or other allowable tokens sent from anyone beyond these walls, even though a cult of groupies on the outside lived for anything to do with Bonzer. No doubt they’d sent items over the years, but the subject of their adoration hadn’t kept them, at least openly.
The toilet was stainless steel and designed to flush an entire bed sheet without clogging. And based on the cleanliness of the rest of the cell, the toilet wasn’t a likely place for Bonzer to hide something precious. The automatic shower shared space with the toilet. Nothing there either.
The prisoner had earned some privileges for good behavior over the years, and enjoyed the black and white television, radio and electric light. Because of the remote control situation they were subject to revocation, but at the time of his death he enjoyed whatever limited use inmates could access.
Nick pulled the box toward him and retrieved the Personal Property Inventory forms, one form for the initial intake and one for each transfer. He looked them over and checked them against the items remanded to the small cardboard container. Everything matched from one list to the next. What Bonzer had been arrested with and what he’d moved through the system with had been consistent. But one item didn’t match the contents of the box.
A photograph. One photograph. A completely legitimate, allowable personal item. It wasn’t in the cell, and it wasn’t in the box. A photograph of whom or what? Why hide it?
Of course it was possible, even probable, that the photograph had somehow been destroyed since the last time the Personal Property form required completion. But Nick had known Leopold Bonzer. The serial killer lived a careful, meticulous, deliberate life. Unless he chose to destroy his property, it existed somewhere in this seven-foot by twelve-foot concrete cave.
Nick got off the bed and went to examine the radio and television just a step away. They were solid pieces of plastic, leaving him with zilch. Someone could slide a picture between the television and the wall, but it would not be well hidden and removing it would be next to impossible.
He
looked at the stainless steel mirror bolted tight to the wall, ran his fingers around the piece of polished metal. Nothing. Frustrated, he made a fist and smacked his hand against the mirror.
Agent Grant immediately regretted the outburst and tugged the sleeve of his jacket down to wipe off the impression his fist had left on the mirror. Well, who should I tell first? The Archers have been waiting the longest. Liam Archer had recently suffered a heart attack. Maybe I should talk to Susan Archer first so she can— He pulled his hand away and stared.
The tiniest bit of a corner of glossy photo paper had slipped past the bottom edge of the mirror. The old, worn layers of paper were beginning to pull apart. Leopold Bonzer’s secret was about to be exposed.
Nick pulled on one of the latex gloves he carried in his pocket out of habit and put his fingers gently on the corner of the photo and tugged. It didn’t move. If he pulled harder he might damage it. He pulled out his clippers, slipped the nail file under the edge of the mirror and applied a little leverage. The photograph slipped into his hand.
At first he didn’t understand what he was seeing. The photograph wasn’t of a person or a celebration or an event. It was a field, bordered on at least on three sides by thick trees. He flipped it over, hoping for some handwriting that would identify the picture. Nothing. Then it came to him. A picture of the burial ground.
Chapter Seven
He turned off the lantern. There was plenty of light from the moon. The last trip from the car had left him a little out of breath, but he rested for a few minutes and strength surged back into his body, his muscles, his mind.
Shovel in hand he placed his work boot on the blade and pushed, then pried the dark, moist earth up and piled it neatly to the side. Push, pry, pile. The repetition relaxed him. Push, pry, pile. The sound of the blade of the shovel cutting through the soil empowered him, approved his ambition.
After about thirty minutes of steady work he stabbed the shovel into the dirt. He tugged his damp shirt away from his back, then from his chest, rolled his shoulders and stretched his legs. After a break for a piss and some water he grabbed the shovel again.
Lucky with this one... more loam than rocks, and no goddamn clay. He bent and stood, bent and stood. After another hour and a half, he tossed the shovel up, then followed it. His biceps were smoking hot.
He bent over the rolled-up plastic tarp and untied the knot in the rope that bound it. It was a good rope. The best the hardware store sold. He coiled it and set it near the lantern. He placed the plastic tarp at the rim of the hole and gripped the hemmed edge as far apart as possible, almost reaching the corners. He hefted the bright blue tarp and backed up a step. Two. There was a satisfying thump and the plastic sheet became weightless. He’d hose it down later.
The loose, rich soil behaved, as usual, a lot better going in than coming out. The cool mountain air sifted through the fabric of his shirt. The moon, high overhead, fell behind a bank of clouds and the familiar became foreign. He wondered whether someone was watching him just as he had watched someone else twenty years ago. He shrugged off the notion, but his senses remained on high alert long after he’d transferred the last shovel full of dirt from one pile to the other.
He tamped the top of the grave, a scar in the middle of a sea of grass. After the first snow it wouldn’t matter. Hell, if I work things right it won’t matter in a few weeks.
Back at his luxury SUV, his equipment stowed in the rear, he took a moment to review his ambition. A worthy ambition indeed, he thought. An achievement worth pursuit.
He had all the money he would ever need thanks to the deaths of the old couple who had taken pity on a small boy and raised him as their own. He held a respected position in the community and he’d achieved a level of prestige among his colleagues.
What he didn’t enjoy—had never enjoyed—was any tiny bit of human emotion. He had dedicated his life to achieve one real tear, one genuine twinge, one moment of honest compassion, true and pure.
Chapter Eight
Jamie was sitting in her boss’s glassed-in office, the closed door muting the sounds of the bank behind her. The note on her desk when she walked in this morning said he wanted to see her immediately. Her stomach had curled into itself when she’d read it, and she still felt anxious.
“You know you’re one of the best loan officers this bank has ever had. You’re fair and honest with our customers, and you’re not a prima donna to work with.” Gabe Ahrens looked resolute and Jamie waited for the but.
She needed this job. Almost every penny she made went toward her monthly living expenses, home repairs and equipment for her Search and Rescue passion. Her savings account, such as it was, existed only to have accessible money for the house, so she drew it down the moment she had enough in the account for the next big project. And now Jax’s ongoing financial trouble meant Jamie might need to help her sister again. Buying Jax out of the family home had put only a tiny bandage over the gaping wound of her sister’s money problems. The funds had stretched only so far.
Gabe tore a piece of paper out of his tablet, looked at it, then pushed it across the desk toward her.
Jamie picked it up. It was a list of names and dollar amounts. “What’s this?”
“Those are loans that went to our competitors over the last few months because you weren’t in the bank. You were out with one of your dogs tracking who knows what where.”
“How did you—”
“It’s a small town, Jamie. All of these people tried you first, then moved on. Don’t get me wrong; I respect that you believe what you do on your searches is important. I do. And I agreed from the very beginning to offer you as much flexibility as we could, but this is a lot of money. The board is going to want some answers. I need someone who can give a hundred percent to the bank, at least during banking hours, and I’d like it to be you.”
“You know this job is important to me, Gabe, but my S&R life is too.”
“I need to know you’re with me on this, Jamie.”
Thoughts filled her mind as she scrambled for a solution. “What about getting someone part-time?”
“You mean part-time on-call? Unless you can schedule the need for your searches to happen only on certain days, a part-time loan officer won’t work.” Gabe pulled the list of loans the bank had lost away from her and tucked it into a folder.
She thought about the garbage disposal and the fireplace grate and the outside steps that would soon need replacing. The home she loved. The home her parents built together. The home her father had poured not only savings into, but had physically been involved in creating. The home her mom had decorated and baked in and where she had loved them and been loved. They had been happy there before her mom was lost to murder and her dad to revenge. Keep it together, Jamie. Keep it whole.
And what if one of her dogs got hurt? And then there’s Jax. There’s always Jax.
“I’m sorry. I’ll try to be in the bank more often.”
Gabe shook his head. “I need more than a try. I need a commitment.”
Jamie found herself in an impossible situation that required an impossible decision that could go only one way. Indescribable loss flooded Jamie’s heart with mourning and anxiety and grief. She would have to turn her back on the one thing that gave her the greatest opportunity to affect lives in a positive way if she wanted to continue to pay her bills and eat.
She sighed. “You have my commitment. I’ll be here.”
Chapter Nine
“Will you need us for anything else tonight, Nick?” His housekeeper was framed and backlit in the doorway of his study.
“I’m good, Felicity. Thanks. Enjoy your evening.”
“Remember, Jerome and I will be gone for the weekend but your meals are all in the fridge. Oh, and Jerome wanted me to be sure to tell you the roadster has been repaired and will be delivered next week.”
“You two spoil me.”
“We don’t spoil you nearly as well as a good woman would.”
&n
bsp; Even though he couldn’t see Felicity’s face, he sensed her wink. At least she hadn’t set him up with another blind date while they were gone. This was the second time the couple had moved with him. First from Virginia to Denver, and finally to Aspen Falls two months ago.
“Goodnight and goodbye. Have fun in Moab, and thank Jerome for me.”
Nick sunk deep into the soft leather club chair and closed his eyes. After authenticating the age of the photograph he’d found in the serial killer’s cell and confirming that the only latents were Leopold Bonzer’s, they’d put a team of surveyors to work to help locate the burial site. That had been two weeks ago. An FBI desk jockey named Arnold Abner, an agent he’d worked with before, was heading up that part of the investigation and reporting to Nick. So far the process of elimination marked their only progress with Nick personally investigating each of the possible locations.
Four of the six sites they’d checked out so far were in the opposite direction Leopold Bonzer had been driving when he got caught. The terrain fit but geographically they didn’t make sense unless Bonzer had changed his dumping ground. The fifth location lay in the right direction but was too close to town. His chances of getting caught somewhere that close would have been too high, and he hadn’t been caught for a very long time.
The thought that the sixth site might be the one made Nick ill. Government survey maps and photographs from fifteen years ago showed a promising location. One that kids now used as a ball field. Again, it was a little too close to town. As bad as Nick wanted to find the bodies of the thirteen people, he didn’t want them to be buried beneath the sod Little League games were played on. Fortunately or unfortunately, they’d cleared Rocky Crevice Park just this afternoon. Back to square one.
He kicked his slippers off and stretched his feet toward the flickering flames in the stone fireplace. Nick loved a fire. He shoved the sleeves of his sweater up each arm, then reached for his glass of scotch. He hoped the liquor would take the pain away. Some pain even the oxy couldn’t touch. Vivaldi’s Autumn suffused the air around him. The music worked its own magic touch on his nerves.