The TAKEN! Series - Books 5-8 (Taken! Box Set Book 2)

by Remington Kane

  “My guess? This was all built during prohibition and the root cellar was just a dodge to throw off the authorities back then. Indiana had particularly harsh penalties against moonshining, so I’m not surprised that someone would go to these lengths to hide their activities.”

  “Are the bodies on the other end of that tunnel?”

  “Yeah, and we’ve taken our photos and prints. Your men, Perkins and Harvey are back there dressed in protective gear; they’ve been helping me with the scene.”

  Stevens nodded. “You couldn’t have asked for better men, but let’s finish up here so they can clear out.”

  Colson laid a hand on his shoulder.

  “Brace yourself, Dan, I know you’ve seen some shit in your time just as I have, but Rothman’s depravity still turned my stomach.”

  “I’ll deal with it, just keep leading the way.”

  They walked down the tunnel stooped over a bit, because the ceiling was shorter than they were. Up ahead, Stevens could make out the glow of artificial lights and also hear the hushed voices of his deputies. The odor wasn’t pleasant, but it was hardly the stench of decay he had expected, given the number of bodies said to be on the scene.

  When he followed Colson out of the tunnel, his mouth dropped open in shock as he saw the naked body hanging from chains secured to the ceiling.

  The dead girl was Heather Alue, a missing student from the college two towns over. Stevens had received the missing persons alert on her a week ago and had memorized her face. Heather had been only eighteen, blond, shapely, and beautiful, however, in death, her mutilated body made Stevens wince and he had to swallow to keep the bile down. He took his eyes from the corpse and studied the rest of the chamber.

  The room was covered in white tile, walls, floor, and even the ceiling. There were hooks jutting out from each corner of the room, and Stevens wondered about their purpose, until Colson pointed to the packages of plastic shower curtains, they were stacked in a blue tote beneath the long table that sat against the left wall.

  The chains that hung from the ceiling were thick links of metal fastened to a set of cuffs that were covered inside by a fur-like material that would keep them from cutting into the flesh of their captive’s wrists.

  Below the chains was a drain that had once been gleaming stainless steel but was now tinged red from use.

  Atop the table lay an assortment of devices that, to Stevens, appeared medieval in both their design and undoubtedly their function, for those tools had only one purpose, and that was to be used to torture.

  On the right side of the room were dozens of 55-gallon polyurethane drums. They were all black and sealed up tight. Stevens noticed that they each bore a number and that two of them, numbers 1 and 42 had been pulled out from the stack. He pointed at them.

  “Are there bodies in those?”

  One of his deputies, a black man named Perkins, answered him.

  “Number Forty-two there holds the remains of a young woman who has only been dead for a few weeks... but barrel number one, Christ, Dan, the corpse in that one is so old that I thought I was looking at a mummy. The body must have been inside for years.”

  Stevens stared at the barrels. “Each barrel holds a body?”

  “That’s my assumption,” Colson said. “Your men here moved each one around and only the ones marked 43 through 48 felt empty.”

  “Good God,” Stevens said, and then he glanced back at Heather Alue’s corpse. “Someone please take that child’s body down.”

  Perkins grabbed a set of keys lying atop the table and found the one that fit the cuffs, with Deputy Harvey’s assistance, he freed the body from the chains and then the two men placed it inside a body bag.

  Stevens took another look around the chamber before speaking to Colson.

  “Didn’t you say that there was another way in? I don’t see it.”

  Colson pointed to a spot on the ceiling that sat above a metal cot positioned to the right of the table.

  “We put it back in place so you’d see how well hidden it was.”

  Stevens looked up at the ceiling and saw nothing, but once he walked over and stood atop the cot, he could make out the rectangular seams. He pushed up on the ceiling and the rectangle slide out of the way to reveal a cylindrical concrete tube that ran upwards at a forty-five degree angle. Handholds had been cut into the concrete at even intervals.

  “That’s an old sewer pipe,” Perkins said. “Probably two or three of them strung together. Whoever built this place was serious.”

  “I can feel a breeze, but where does it go to?” Stevens said.

  Perkins pointed at the cot.

  “There’s an old metal ladder under the bed that hooks into those holes there at the lip of the pipe. You use that to climb up, then grab the handholds cut into the pipe, and you’ll find yourself about a hundred feet behind the barn. I doubt Rothman used this passage much, at least it doesn’t seem like it.”

  “Hand me the ladder,” Stevens said.

  Perkins slid the ladder out from beneath the bed and gave it to his boss. Once Stevens secured it onto the pipe, he began climbing upward, in less than a minute he emerged above ground, as Colson and the others followed him up.

  The ground was wet, but the sky clear, as the earlier storm had moved on, and Stevens gazed up into a star-filled sky.

  Perkins pointed at the pipe’s lid, a circular piece of metal with a square piece attached to its top. He gripped at a corner of the square, flipped it, and the whole thing fell back into place with a clang. The square turned out to be old slats of wood that had been joined together. There was a rusted metal sign atop the wood warning that you stood on the site of an abandoned outhouse.

  “You could barely see the sign when we first found it,” Perkins said. “Plus, there was poison ivy growing all around it that we cleared away, that’s why we think it was seldom used.”

  Stevens shook his head in wonder and pointed at the ground.

  “All that, all that down there must have been going on for years, possibly decades, right under our noses,”

  “Dan,” Colson said. “What the hell do we do now? I can’t possibly process all this with the facilities we have.”

  “There’s only one thing I can do, Phil. I’ve got to call in the Feds.”

  CHAPTER 3

  Sheriff Stevens shook the hand of Special Agents John Brice and Robyn Dyer of the FBI. Afterwards, he smiled in greeting at the two civilian consultants that Brice had brought along with him, Dr. Jessica White and Dr. White’s husband.

  “Thank you all for coming, and please have a seat. I’m not ashamed to admit that serial killers are a little out of our league.”

  They were in the Sheriff’s office, which was large. The building that housed the station was over a hundred years old, and all the floors creaked at the slightest step. As his guests took seats at a round table with a coffee maker sitting atop it, Stevens grabbed a stack of Styrofoam cups and joined them.

  “Help yourselves to coffee.”

  Brice grabbed a cup from the stack and began pouring as he spoke.

  Jessica and her husband had met him during the Samantha Ryan kidnapping case, and it was he who asked them to consult on this case. He particularly wanted Jessica’s psychiatric expertise while he dealt with Claire Rothman.

  “What’s the condition of Mrs. Rothman, Sheriff? Is she still in a state of shock?” Brice said.

  “Well, she’s better, but so far she’s not talking. We offered her a sedative but she refused to take one.”

  “How well do you know the Rothmans?” Agent Dyer asked.

  “Not well at all. They pretty much kept to themselves. There’s a woman named Alice Greeley who worked for them as a housekeeper, and her husband Glenn did handyman work around the place. They’re both on their way in so you can interview them. They probably know that family better than anyone in town.”

  “Do you think that Mrs. Rothman knew about her husband’s activities?” Agent Dyer asked. />
  “No, and neither will you once you see her. The woman is in shock. Not only did she survive a home invasion, but she discovered that her husband was a serial killer, and to top it off, her mother was killed during the attempted robbery.”

  “Do we know that for a fact, that the mother was killed by the robbers and not Rothman?” Dyer asked.

  “Yes, she was killed with two shots in the back from a .45 at the scene, and the only prints on that weapon belonged to one of the perps.”

  Brice had set his laptop case on the table in front of him when he sat down; he tapped it now as he spoke to the Sheriff.

  “We received preliminary files on the Rothmans as we traveled here. They’ve been married for decades and that house was left to Mrs. Rothman by her grandfather. Roth’s sculptures fetch high fees and his work is in demand worldwide, despite that, we’ve been unable to locate many photos of the man, and all of them are years old.”

  “The Greeleys can help you there. Have them sit with a sketch artist.”

  “That’s a good idea, Sheriff, we’ll do that.”

  “John,” Dr. White said to Brice, “I’d like to see Claire Rothman as soon as possible.”

  “Are you also a federal agent, Dr. White?” Stevens asked.

  “No, Sheriff, I’m strictly a consultant. I’m only here because Agent Brice thought that I might be able to help, given my experience dealing with serial killers.”

  “I see,” Stevens said, and turned to her husband. “And you sir, are you also a psychiatrist?”

  “No, I’m here to help my wife, we work as a team.”

  “Alright, so you’ll both be talking to Mrs. Rothman?”

  “No, just my wife, that part I’ll simply observe.”

  “Actually, I will interview Mrs. Rothman first as Dr. White observes,” Agent Dyer said.

  Stevens nodded at the woman as he realized that Dr. White’s presence was strictly Agent Brice’s idea. He stood up from his seat.

  “First, let’s go see if she’ll talk to anyone, she hasn’t said much since we found her.”

  ***

  The interrogation room was nine by nine and made of gray cinderblock with a single door and a one-way mirror. A harsh fluorescent light hung down from the ceiling and the floor was covered in a black tile that had no pattern.

  Inside the room, Claire Rothman sat at the small, square table and stared down at her hands. She was sixty, with shoulder-length brown hair and blue eyes. Her face was pleasant looking, but displayed a mixture of stress and grief.

  Brice asked the Sheriff a question.

  “Is that room outfitted with recording equipment?”

  The Sheriff looked embarrassed as he removed a video camera from a cabinet beside the door.

  “This is all we got. The town council thinks there are better ways to spend the town’s money.”

  Agent Dyer checked the thermostat on the wall and when she saw that it was set to a comfortable seventy-four degrees, she frowned.

  “You should have at least lowered the temperature in the room when you sat her in there, Sheriff. A cold suspect is often a talkative suspect.”

  Sheriff Stevens nodded.

  “I understand that, but I don’t consider her a suspect—yet. That may change once you and the doctor speak with her.”

  Dyer stared at Jessica.

  “Remember, Doctor, I’m to do all the talking, for now, you’re simply to observe.”

  “I understand,” Jessica said.

  ***

  Claire Rothman looked up as Jessica and Agent Dyer entered the interrogation room.

  There was only one other chair in the room besides the one that Claire Rothman occupied, and Agent Dyer sat in it directly across from Claire. After introducing herself and Jessica, Agent Dyer stood and placed the video camera on a corner shelf that had been built to hold it, and then sat and got right down to business.

  “My name is Special Agent Robyn Dyer of the FBI and I’m speaking to Mrs. Claire Rothman, also present as strictly an observer is Dr. Jessica White.”

  Claire Rothman looked aghast at the camera.

  “Am I being arrested?”

  “No ma’am, not at this time; but if you know where your husband is, please tell us now and things will be much easier for you.”

  Claire Rothman stared at Dyer as if she were insane.

  “Easy? Agent Dyer, nothing in my life will be easy ever again. My mother was murdered and I’ve discovered that my husband is a monster.”

  “So, you’re saying that you had no clue that he was killing people, young women, dozens of young women?”

  Claire Rothman winced and looked down at the table.

  “I had no idea, none, if I had I’d... oh God, Robert, oh God, what have you done?”

  “Where is your husband, Mrs. Rothman?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “As I said before, if you cooperate, things will go easier.”

  Claire’s head shot up and she stared at Dyer.

  “Am I under arrest?”

  Dyer stared back. “Should you be?”

  Claire looked at Jessica.

  “She said that you were a doctor, what kind of doctor?”

  “I’m a psychiatrist,” Jessica said.

  Agent Dyer spoke up.

  “Dr. White is simply here as a consultant. I am the one in charge of this interrogation. Please speak only to me, Mrs. Rothman.”

  “Interrogation? So I am under arrest?”

  “No ma’am, but we need to know what you know, and the sooner we know it the sooner we can find your husband,”

  “But I don’t know anything, don’t you understand that, that the man I spent my life with has been deceiving me, has been using me as some sort of... of... cover. That everything I thought that I knew about him was simply a lie, a deception, and that our life together, was, was meaningless.”

  Claire broke down then and cried.

  Jessica watched Dyer check her phone and realized that she had received a text message from Brice.

  “We’ll continue this in a moment, Mrs. Rothman,” Dyer said, as she stood and grabbed the video camera. “Dr. White, please follow me.”

  When they returned to the hall, Brice pointed through the window at Claire.

  “That woman is in a delicate place. I’d like Dr. White to talk to her, alone.”

  “I’m not convinced of her innocence,” Dyer said. “I find it hard to believe that her husband could have been murdering women for years right under her nose. She must know something.”

  Brice nodded. “I agree, but it may not be conscious, and if not, then Dr. White is our best bet at uncovering that knowledge.”

  Dyer sent Jessica an annoyed look, but said, “Fine, let Dr. White speak to her, but if she gets nothing out of her, then I want another crack at her before she lawyers up.”

  Brice smiled at Jessica

  “Just talk to her, try to gain her trust, the more she talks the more we’ll learn, and even if she’s innocent, she may know more than she thinks.”

  Jessica said, “I understand.” Then, she looked over at her husband.

  “Good luck,” he said, and Jessica reentered the room.

  When Claire looked up, Jessica sent her a smile.

  “Would you like something to eat or drink, Mrs. Rothman?”

  Claire shook her head.

  “I’ve had too much coffee already, and after what I’ve learned about my husband, I don’t have an appetite.”

  Jessica sat, and gazed at Claire with sympathy in her eyes.

  “Tell me about your husband, when and where did you two meet?”

  “We actually met at church, my parents weren’t devout, but more Sundays than not we’d be there, and when Robert’s parents began attending services, the two of us met.”

  Claire then looked surprised, as she realized that the camera wasn’t in the room.

  “You’re not taping this?”

  “No, because I’m not interrogating you; I ju
st want to get to know you better, and thereby learn about your husband, the more the authorities know the better.”

  “They’ll shoot him on sight, won’t they?”

  “No, but they will protect themselves, and others.”

  Claire began to cry quietly as tears rolled down her cheeks.

  “I saw that poor girl in that... that... dungeon. How old was she?”

  “I was told that she was eighteen.”

  “Oh, Robert, oh God,”

  Jessica let Claire cry, and when she got herself together again, she asked Jessica another question,

  “I’m told there were more girls, many more, is that true?”

  “Yes, and Mrs. Rothman, Claire, the things your husband is accused of doing must have deep roots, surely you had some inkling of what he was, some hint?”

  Claire broke down again, and this time it took her nearly three minutes to regain her composure.

  “Dr. White, I have a story to tell you, a story I should have told a long time ago, and my only excuse is that I’d fallen in love.”

  “What are you telling me, Claire?”

  “I knew what Robert was from the start. I knew... because on the day we met, he almost raped and killed me.”

  Jessica sat back in her seat in shock.

  “What?”

  “On the night of the day we met, Robert abducted me from my bedroom, dragged me off into the woods, tied me to a tree, and tore my nightgown off. When he held a knife against my neck, I thought I was dead. Then, when he cut me free, I thought he was playing a game, but he told me I was free and that he was running away from home. Don’t ask me what made me stay with him, but I did... and, soon after that, we fell in love.”

  “I, I...” Jessica stuttered, and then rose from her seat. “I’ll be right back. I’m going to get the video camera. I think your story needs to be on record, all right?”

  Claire nodded while wiping tears away, and Jessica walked out into the hall.

  Brice walked up to her.

  “That’s some story, but why the hell would she stay with a man who nearly murdered her?”

  “It’s as she said, she loved him,” Jessica said, while staring at her husband, who she thought appeared uncharacteristically ill at ease.

  “The woman must be an idiot,” Dyer said. “Men like that are incapable of ever changing, and only a fool would believe otherwise.”