by Blake Pierce
“Thanks again for meeting with me,” Mackenzie said. “I know it was short notice.”
“No worries at all,” she said. “Between you and me, I hope we can come up with enough cause for me to have Sheriff Tate put a bug in the county’s ear to demolish that damn bridge.”
Haggerty poured Mackenzie a cup of coffee and the two women sat down at the small table in a quaint breakfast nook just off the kitchen. A window by the side of the table looked out to those oaks and elms in the backyard.
“I assume you’ve been informed about the news from yesterday afternoon?” Mackenzie asked.
“I have,” Haggerty said. “Kenny Skinner. Twenty-two years old, right?”
Mackenzie nodded as she sipped from her coffee. “And Malory Thomas several days before that. Now…can you tell me why you’ve been on the sheriff’s case about the bridge?”
“Well, Kingsville has very little to offer. And while no one living in a small town wants to admit it, there is never anything for a small town to offer teens and young adults. And when that happens, these morbid landmarks like the Miller Moon Bridge become iconic. If you look back at the town records, people were ending their lives on that bridge as early as 1956, when it was still in use. Young kids these days are exposed to so much negativity and self-esteem issues that something as iconic as that bridge can become so much more. Kids looking for a way out of the town go to the extremes and it’s no longer about escaping the town…it’s about escaping life.”
“So you think that the bridge gives suicidal kids an easy way out?”
“Not an easy way out,” Haggerty said. “It’s almost like a beacon for them. And those that have jumped off of the bridge before them have just led the way. That bridge isn’t even really a bridge anymore. It’s a suicide platform.”
“Last night, Sheriff Tate also said that you find it hard to believe that these suicides can’t all just be suicides. Can you elaborate on that?”
“Yes…and I believe I can use Kenny Skinner as an example. Kenny was a popular guy. Between you and me, he likely wasn’t going to amount to anything extraordinary. He’d probably be perfectly fine to ride out the rest of his life here, working at the Kingsville Tire and Tractor Supply. But he had a good life here, you know? From what I know, he was something of a ladies’ man and in a town like this—hell, in a county like this—that pretty much guarantees some fun weekends. I personally spoke with Kenny within the last month or so when I ran over a nail. He patched it up for me. He was polite, laughing, a well-mannered guy. I find it very hard to believe he killed himself in such a way. And if you go back through the list of people that have jumped off of that bridge in the last three years, there are at least one or two more that I find very fishy…people that I would have never pegged for suicide.”
“So you feel that there’s foul play involved?” Mackenzie asked.
Haggerty took a moment before she answered. “It’s a suspicion I have, but I would not be comfortable saying as much with absolute certainty.”
“And I assume this feeling is based on your professional opinion and not just someone saddened by so many suicides in your small hometown?” Mackenzie asked.
“That’s correct,” Haggerty said, but she seemed almost a little offended at the nature of the question.
“By any chance, did you ever see Kenny Skinner or Malory Thomas as clients?”
“No. And none of the other victims from as far back as 1996.”
“So you have met with at least one of the suicides from the bridge?”
“Yes, on one occasion. And with that one, I saw it coming. I did everything I could to convince the family that she needed help. But by the time I could even manage to get them to consider it, she jumped right off that bridge. You see…in this town, the Miller Moon Bridge is synonymous with suicide. And that’s why I’d really like for the county to tear it down.”
“Because you feel that it basically calls to anyone with suicidal thoughts?”
“Exactly.”
Mackenzie sensed that the conversation was basically over. And that was fine with her. She could tell straightaway that Dr. Haggerty was not the type to exaggerate something just to make sure her voice was heard. Although she had tried to downplay it out of a fear of being wrong, Mackenzie was pretty sure Haggerty strongly believed that at least a few of the cases weren’t suicides.
And that little bit of skepticism was all Mackenzie needed. If there was even the slightest chance that either of these last two bodies were murders and not suicides, she wanted to know for certain before heading back to DC.
She finished off her coffee, thanked Dr. Haggerty for her time, and then headed back outside. On the way to her car, she looked out to the forest that bordered most of Kingsville. She looked to the west, where the Miller Moon Bridge sat tucked away down a series of back roads and one gravel road that seemed to indicate all travelers were coming to the end of something.
As she thought about those bloodstained rocks at the bottom of the bridge, the comparison sent a small shiver through Mackenzie’s heart.
She pushed it away, starting the engine and pulling out her cell phone. If she was going to get a definitive answer on any of this, she needed to treat it as if it was murder case. And with that mindset, she supposed she needed to start speaking to the family members of the recently deceased.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Before visiting the family of Kenny Skinner, Mackenzie called to get explicit permission from McGrath. His response had been short, clear, and to the point: I don’t care if you have to talk to someone on the fucking Little League baseball team, just get it figured out.
That confirmation pushed her toward the residence of Pam and Vincent Skinner. The way McGrath explained it, Pam Skinner was formerly Pam Wilmoth. An older sister to Deputy Director Wilmoth, she worked from home as a proposal specialist for an environmental agency. As for Vincent Skinner, he just happened to be the owner of Kingsville Tire and Tractor Supply, having provided a job for his son since Kenny was fifteen.
When Mackenzie knocked on the door, neither of the Skinners greeted her. Instead, it was the pastor of Kingsville Presbyterian Church. When Mackenzie showed him her ID and told him why she was there, he let her in and asked her to wait in the foyer. The Skinner family lived in a nice house on a corner lot in what she assumed would be considered Kingsville’s downtown area. She smelled something cooking, wafting down from a long hallway. Elsewhere in the house, she could hear the ringing of a cell phone. She also heard the muffled voice of the pastor, letting Pam and Vincent Skinner know that there was a lady from the FBI there to ask a few questions about Kenny.
It took a few minutes but Pam Skinner eventually came to meet her. The woman was red-faced from crying and looked as if she had not slept a wink the night before. “Are you Agent White?” she asked.
“I am.”
“Thanks for coming,” Pam said. “My brother told me you’d be coming by at some point.”
“If it’s too soon, I can—”
“No, no, I want to get it out now,” she said.
“Is your husband at home?”
“He’s elected to stay in the living room with our pastor. Vincent took this incredibly hard. He fainted twice last night and goes through these little moments where he just refuses to believe it’s happened and—”
As if out of nowhere, a huge sob escaped Pam’s throat and she leaned against the wall. She hitched her breath and swallowed down what Mackenzie was sure was grief that needed to come out.
“Mrs. Skinner…I can come back later.”
“No. Now, please. I’ve had to stay strong all night for Vincent. I can manage a few more minutes for you. Just…come on to the kitchen.”
Mackenzie followed Pam Skinner down the hallway and toward the kitchen, where Mackenzie started to recognize the smell she’d noticed earlier. Apparently, Pam had put some cinnamon rolls in the oven, perhaps in an effort to continue putting off her sorrow for her husband. Pam checked on them
half-heartedly as Mackenzie settled down at a stool by the kitchen bar.
“I spoke with Dr. Haggerty this morning,” Mackenzie said. “She’s been lobbying to have the Miller Moon Bridge torn down. Your son’s name came up. She said she finds it very hard to believe that Kenny would have taken his own life.”
Pan nodded emphatically. “She’s absolutely right. Kenny would have never killed himself. The idea is absolutely ridiculous.”
“Do you have any strong and valid reasons to suspect that someone would want to harm your son?”
Pam shook her head, just as furiously as she had nodded it moments before. “I thought about that all night. And it brought up some harsh truths about Kenny, sure. He had some guys that might not have cared too much for him because Kenny tended to steal women away from their boyfriends. But it never came to anything serious.”
“And in the past few weeks, you hadn’t heard Kenny say anything or act in a certain way that might indicate that he was having thoughts about hurting himself?”
“No. Nothing of the sort. Even when Kenny was in a bad mood, he managed to light up a room. He rarely even got angry about anything. He wasn’t a perfect child but by God, I don’t believe there was a single ounce of anger or hatred in him. I just find it absolutely beyond comprehension that he would have killed himself.”
Another sob escaped her throat between the words killed and himself.
“Do you know if he had any sort of ties to that bridge?” Mackenzie asked.
“No more than the other teens and young adults in town. I’m sure he likely did some drinking or some flirting down there, but nothing out of the ordinary.”
Mackenzie could sense the dam about to break within Pam Skinner. Another minute or two and she was going to snap.
“One more question, and please know that I have to ask it. But how certain are you that you knew your son well? Do you think there might have been some second life secrets he was keeping from you and your husband?”
She thought for a moment as tears trailed down her eyes. Slowly, she said, “I suppose anything is possible. But if Kenny was hiding some sort of second life from us, he was doing it with the skill of a spy. And while he was a great kid, he was not very committed to things. For him to have to hide something like that…”
“I follow you,” Mackenzie said. “I’m going to leave you to deal with this now. But please, if you think of anything else in the coming days, call me right away.”
With that, Mackenzie got to her feet and placed her business card on the countertop. “I’m so very sorry for your loss, Mrs. Skinner.”
Mackenzie left quickly but not in a rude way. She could feel the weight of the family’s loss until she was back outside, the door closed behind her. And even then, on the way to her car, she could hear the sounds of Pam Skinner finally letting out her grief. It was beyond haunting and it broke Mackenzie’s heart a little bit.
Even when she was out of the driveway, the noise of Pam Skinner’s crying swept through her head like a fall breeze rattling dead leaves across an abandoned street.
CHAPTER EIGHT
There was no coroner in the entire county. Even the Office of the Medical Examiner was an hour and a half away from Kingsville, located in Arlington. Rather than driving back to DC only to most likely head right back to Kingsville, Mackenzie returned to her motel room and made a series of calls. Ten minutes later, she was phoning into a Skype session with the coroner who had overseen the Malory Thomas’s and Kenny Skinner’s bodies. Kenny Skinner’s body was not yet fully prepared and ready to evaluate, so that made things a bit harder.
Still, Mackenzie placed the call and waited for an answer. The man on the other end was one whom Mackenzie had worked with a few times on other cases, a middle-aged man with wiry gray hair named Barry Burke. It was nice to see a familiar face after the morning she’d had. She still couldn’t quite shake the sounds of loss that had come out of Pam Skinner as she left their house.
“Hey there, Agent White,” Burke said.
“Hey. So I’m being told that there’s not much we can get from the body of Kenny Skinner yet, is that right?”
“I’m afraid so. At the risk of sounding crude, it’s a pretty big mess. If you let me know what you’re looking for, I can send it to the top of the priorities list.”
“Any fresh scratches or bruising. Any signs that he might have been involved in a struggle.”
“Will do. Now…I assume you need to know the same about Malory Thomas, right?”
“That’s right. Do you have anything?”
“You know, we might. I hate to say it, but when we get a body that is pretty obviously a suicide, there are certain things that instantly drop to the bottom of our list of priorities. So yes…we found something on Malory Thomas that, in all honesty, could be nothing. But if you’re looking for scratches…”
“What do you have?” she asked.
“Give me one second and I’ll shoot you a picture,” he said. He clicked around for a while and then the paperclip icon popped up in the Skype window.
Mackenzie clicked it and a JPEG opened up on her screen. She was looking at the underside of Malory Thomas’s right hand.
Mackenzie zoomed in on the picture and saw what Burke was talking about right away. Between the first and second knuckle of three of the fingers, there were very apparent cuts and abrasions. The cuts looked very ragged and, while not bloody, raw and grisly all the same. There were two very large scratches on the upper part of her palm that looked like they might also be fairly recent. Lastly, there appeared to be some form of very faint indention in the meat of her hand just above the palm, making a small half-circle shape. For some reason, this one stuck out more so than the others. It seemed odd, and that usually meant it was the smoking gun she was looking for.
“Does that help you at all?” Burke asked.
“I don’t know yet,” Mackenzie said. “But it’s more than what I had a minute ago.”
“Also, this might be of note…one second.” Burke rolled away from his desk for about ten seconds and then came back into view. He was holding a small plastic bag. Inside of it was what looked like a piece of tree bark. He held it closer to the camera. Mackenzie saw a piece of wood about an inch wide and an inch and a half long.
“This was in her hair,” Burke said. “And the only reason we found it interesting is because it was the only piece of it in her hair. Usually when something like this is found on a body, particularly in the hair, there’s a good amount of it. Wood chips, mulch, things like that. But this was the only piece.”
“Weird question for you,” Mackenzie said. “Can you snap a picture of that and send it to my email?”
“Hey, that’s one of the least weird requests I’ve gotten this week. Job perks, you know…”
“Thanks for the meeting,” Mackenzie said. “Any idea when you’ll be able to get a better look at Kenny Skinner?”
“I’m hoping within a few hours.”
“I hope to be back in DC tonight. I’ll reach out when I get back and hopefully be able to make it by there.”
With those plans set in place, they ended the call. Mackenzie emailed the picture of Malory Thomas’s palm to her cell phone and then headed out at once. She thought of the scrapes and the barely there indention on the woman’s hand, as well as the single piece of wood. It all meant something…she could feel it trying to click into place in her head.
Rather than puzzle it over in the motel, she figured there was no better place to go over it than the scene of the alleged crime. Her only hope was that Miller Moon Bridge was less somber and sinister-looking in the light of day.
***
When she reached the turn-off that led to the gravel road that dead-ended at Miller Moon Bridge, she was pleased to see a county police car parked along the edge. The bored-looking officer looked up when she pulled her car in alongside his. She flashed her badge and he waved her on after squinting closely at it.
Within a quarter of a mile,
she reached the END STATE MAINTENANCE sign. It was at this point that the road became nothing but gravel. She took it slowly, listening to the crunch of pebbles beneath the car while it kicked up dust. After another mile or so, the first white struts of Miller Moon Bridge came into view, rising slightly in the air at a slanted angle. She came around a bend and then saw the whole thing, stretched out over the drop-off where a very dry riverbed sat underneath. While it didn’t look quite as spooky in the daylight, the structure did show its age.
She parked several feet away from where the wooden planks began. She tried to imagine driving a car to the other side of this thing thirty or forty years ago and the mere thought of it terrified her. As she stepped onto the planks, she looked to the other side. There were two concrete barriers standing about four feet tall between the end of the bridge and the start of a road that was clearly no longer being used. It quite literally felt like she was stepping out onto the very edge of the world, where everything came to an end.
As she walked slowly along the bridge, she pulled up the picture of Malory’s palm. She also opened the attachment in the email Burke had sent her after the Skype call. She opened up the image of the small piece of wood, having them both at the ready. She had no idea what she was looking for but felt confident she’d know it when her eyes fell on it.
As it turned out, that didn’t take very long.
She’d made it about ten feet across the bridge when she noticed the layout of the beams and struts that ran along the sides of the bridge. They all, of course, ran underneath it for support, but on the other side of the white rails that separated the bridge from the open space beyond, there was a single iron strut that stuck out about two feet wider than the bridge. It was just wide enough for someone to step out onto.