The Prettiest One: A Thriller

by James Hankins

  “Oh, I’m so sorry,” Caitlin said. “Maybe we shouldn’t—”

  “Not malignant, thank God, but not small, either. It was painful, and Jeff’s on some pretty good painkillers. He was past due for a dose when you called, but he made me hold off so that he’d be clearheaded when he spoke with you.”

  “I’m terribly sorry this is such a difficult time for you,” Caitlin said.

  “Between the painkillers and the sleeping pills, we’ll get through it. Just wanted you to know.” Caitlin nodded and Dolores nodded back. “Well, I’ll take you to him. We’ve got him set up in the spare bedroom right now so I won’t disturb his rest, when he’s able to get it. I can’t say he’s looking forward to your visit, but he’s definitely curious about why you want to talk with him about that old case.”

  Dolores paused, as though waiting for Caitlin to let her in on it, but Caitlin said, “It’s so good of him to see us, especially at a time like this.”

  Dolores hesitated only a moment more, then smiled sweetly and led them through what could have been Snow White’s living room, then down a short hallway before stopping outside a door that was ajar.

  “I’m hoping you won’t need to stay too long,” she said quietly. “He acts like such a tough guy, but . . .”

  “We won’t overstay, I promise,” Caitlin said.

  Dolores smiled again and knocked softly on the door. Caitlin heard a throat clear, then a voice say, “Come on in.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  JEFF BIGELSON LOOKED LIKE A man who had a knife sticking out of his back and was trying to pretend it wasn’t there. The pain was evident on his face as he lay in bed, propped up by pillows, gritting his teeth while somehow smiling a cheerless but brave smile. Dolores had assured Caitlin and the others that her husband wanted to speak with them, but looking at him now, Caitlin felt guilty for having come.

  Bigelson was a big man—not terribly overweight, just large. Given that he was lying down, Caitlin couldn’t tell how tall he was, but he filled the twin bed. It was plain that he had been strong once, and she could imagine that as soon as he recovered from his recent surgery, he might be strong again, at least for someone his age. She thought that probably very few people had given him trouble in his day. Maybe that toughness was why he had insisted on pushing past the pain he was obviously in and meeting with them.

  “Come on over,” Bigelson said. “I don’t have anything that’s catching.”

  They stepped into the middle of the room and introduced themselves, using the names they had given Dolores.

  “I’m sure my wonderful wife here offered you something,” Bigelson said.

  “What kind of a gal do you think I am? Of course I did,” Dolores replied in a playfully scolding voice.

  “Looks like a gorgeous day out there, Dolores,” Bigelson said. “You going to be out gardening?” Caitlin took that to mean that he wanted some privacy with his guests. His wife seemed to take it the same way because she said, “Well, I do have some hyacinth bulbs that need planting. I’ll be back to check on you in a bit,” she added, which Caitlin figured was a reminder not to stay longer than necessary. Dolores closed the door behind her as she left.

  As soon as she was gone, Bigelson said, “You look like decent people. Probably feel like you have to make small talk for a bit, ask how I am, tell me how sorry you are for disturbing me—”

  “We really are so sorry to bother you, Mr. Bigelson,” Caitlin said. “This seems like such a terrible time for us to have come.”

  “What I was going to say was, you don’t need to do any of that. To be honest, and not to be rude, the fact is I don’t need to hear it. You got things you want to ask, or talk about, or whatever it is you’re here for, and I think we’ll all be better off just getting down to it.”

  Bigelson shifted, and the pain was once again plain on his face.

  “I understand,” she said. “Just please know that we appreciate your time.”

  Bigelson nodded. “So Dolores told me you’re here about that piece of filth Darryl Bookerman.”

  Caitlin nodded.

  “That case was a long time ago,” he said. “The guy’s been in prison for two decades. And unless someone killed him there, which he deserves, he’s got at least another ten to go, if I’m not mistaken.”

  “That’s right,” Caitlin said.

  “Can’t imagine why you’re here about him now, then.”

  His eyes flicked to Josh, then Bix, then returned to Caitlin and stayed on her face. She knew that those weren’t the eyes of an old man looking at her now; they were the eyes of a detective.

  After a long moment, Bigelson said, “You’re not the girl who disappeared. Kathryn . . . something or other.”

  “Southern.”

  “Right, Southern. She was a redhead, too, as I recall, but she was the genuine article, according to her parents and the pictures we had. And I hope you won’t take offense, but your red comes from a bottle, if I’m not mistaken.”

  Caitlin nodded. Bigelson had confirmed what they had already known, but what about—

  Bigelson continued. “Are you . . .” His voice trailed off, then he asked softly, “Are you the girl we found there that day?”

  That was the question of the moment, wasn’t it? Now that it was out there, now that it had been asked and there was a good chance it would be answered, Caitlin wanted nothing more than to leave without hearing another word. If she was that “damaged” little girl, what good did it do to find that out now? She’d gotten along fine most of her life without knowing it. She had repressed it well enough, for more than twenty years, anyway. Why force herself to face it now? Bigelson studied her face a moment longer, and Caitlin was debating whether to apologize for their intrusion and make a run for the door when he said, “But no . . . I don’t think so. You’re not her.”

  For a moment, Caitlin feared that she hadn’t heard him correctly.

  “She had darker eyes and darker skin, like there was some other ethnicity or race in her blood not far back.”

  Caitlin suddenly felt almost weightless.

  Bigelson said, “You’re far more fair-skinned . . . lighter eyes . . . no offense, but you’re very Caucasian.”

  Caitlin couldn’t help but chuckle.

  For the first time since introducing himself, Josh spoke. “So if she’s not either of those girls . . .”

  “You said your name is Dearborn?” Bigelson asked. Caitlin nodded. “Is that the surname you were born with or a married name?”

  “It’s the name my parents gave me.”

  “Dearborn,” Bigelson repeated quietly to himself. “Doesn’t ring a bell.” He squinted at her face for a few seconds, and then his eyes widened.

  “I know who you are,” he said, and his voice was tinged with something that sounded a little to Caitlin like wonder.

  “You do?” she asked.

  “Sure. I never thought I’d meet you. Never thought you’d surface again. But it’s you, isn’t it? I know it is. You’re the prettiest one, aren’t you? The one who escaped?”

  “The prettiest one?” Josh asked.

  “Come on,” Bigelson said. “You didn’t come all the way to see me just to deny that, did you?”

  Caitlin didn’t know how to respond. “I . . . well . . . the prettiest one? The one who escaped?”

  Bigelson frowned at her. “Miss Dearborn . . .”

  “Caitlin, please.”

  “Okay, Caitlin, then. Let’s do this differently. You came to see an old police detective about an old case. Why? What does that case mean to you? What are you hoping to learn here?”

  Again, he had asked exactly the right questions. One had apparently been answered. If Bigelson was right, Caitlin was neither the missing girl, Kathryn Southern, nor the damaged little girl the police found in a dirty junkyard shack. But if that were so, then what connection did she have to the case? How did she know the name of the missing girl, Kathryn Southern? Why had she been having nightmares for mor
e than two decades about a monster she’d instantly recognized as Darryl Bookerman as soon as she saw his photograph?

  “Who is the prettiest one?” she asked.

  “Isn’t it you?” Bigelson replied. “Aren’t you the one who escaped? Maybe I’m wrong, but it sure seems to fit.”

  “This is going to sound a bit strange, Mr. Bigelson—”

  “Call me Jeff. Fair’s fair, Caitlin.”

  She nodded. “Okay, Jeff. This is going to sound strange, but I’ve had some memory issues.”

  She explained in the vaguest possible detail about suffering lapses of memory and the possibility that she had blocked out some traumatic events. To his credit, Bigelson—who had probably heard numerous claims of amnesia during his years of law enforcement—listened patiently and managed to keep his face from expressing doubt. As she spoke, she felt the old retired detective sizing her up, gauging her veracity.

  “Well, those were certainly traumatic events,” he said.

  “So,” Caitlin said, “can you tell us what you were talking about? You thought I might be the one who escaped. The ‘prettiest one,’ you said.”

  After a brief hesitation, Bigelson gave a short nod, as if deciding that he would choose to believe her. “That sick bastard Bookerman grabbed those girls off that playground when no one was looking. By the time their parents realized they were missing, he was long gone. Drove them a couple dozen miles back to his filthy place. Cops were out looking, but they never had a chance because they didn’t have a description of him or his vehicle.”

  “So how did they find him?”

  “The next day, somebody called the cops. See, this guy was walking his dog on the street and sees this little blonde girl come around the corner. She’s dirty and looks lost. He asks her if she’s okay, and she tells him that the Bogeyman had stolen her and two other girls she had been playing with off a playground, that he’d taken them to a garbage dump. At first, the guy doesn’t believe her. I mean, why would he? But then, according to the guy, he could smell garbage on her, like she’d just waded through a dump. So he called the cops and told them what he knew. We went out there and found Bookerman passed out drunk. The door was wide open when we got there. There was only one little girl inside that shack, though. It looked like the girl who got away just walked right out after the dirtbag passed out. The little girl in the shack, she could have walked right out, too, if she’d thought to do it. But she was in a bad way. She had been . . . abused. I think she was in shock.”

  “The little blonde girl who escaped said the man who took them was the Bogeyman?” Caitlin asked.

  “She called him that. We always assumed she’d heard his actual name somehow. Bookerman . . . Bogeyman . . . they’re close. But it’s also possible that she . . .” He paused. “You’ve seen a picture of him, I assume?”

  Caitlin nodded.

  Bigelson said, “Given his appearance, and the fact that he snatched that little girl and the others, maybe she believed he actually was a Bogeyman. There was no way for us to know for sure.”

  “We read an old news story about the case,” Josh said. “It didn’t mention a girl escaping.”

  “We never knew who she was,” Bigelson said. “When the guy hung up with the cops and turned around, the girl was gone. He looked for her, or said he did, and I believed him, but she was gone.”

  Bix joined the conversation. “Why didn’t you assume the girl on the street was Kathryn Southern, that she was the one who had escaped from the shack?”

  “Because the girl who got away was pale blonde, and Kathryn Southern had unmistakably red hair. Also, we showed Kathryn’s picture to the witness and he said it wasn’t the girl he saw.”

  “Didn’t you look for her, for the blonde girl?”

  “Of course we did. But all we knew was that she was a little girl of about five with blonde hair.” He looked at Caitlin again. “Bet that hair’s blonde under that bottled red.”

  Caitlin nodded.

  “But wasn’t there a missing persons report or something on the blonde girl?” Bix asked. “Hadn’t her parents called the cops when she didn’t come home the night before?”

  “That’s the thing,” Bigelson said. “They didn’t. No one was reported missing but the two girls . . . the one we never found and the one we did. So we had nothing else to go on. We asked around, but no one knew anything. We talked to the girl we found there, or we tried to, anyway, but she wasn’t in any shape to be talking . . . at least not yet. I don’t think she talked for a while, to tell you the truth . . . definitely not until sometime after the trial. But by that time, Bookerman was already in prison and there didn’t seem to be a reason any longer to look for the girl who had escaped. Like I said, no one else was looking for her, so we figured she must have just found her way home.” He looked directly at Caitlin. “Or should I say, you found your way home?”

  She shrugged as if she wasn’t sure, but she was. It was her. She had no doubt. She had been abducted as a child. She had been in that shack, in that junkyard. She had walked through that garbage dump. She had been . . .

  “Why wouldn’t you have been reported missing, Katie?” Bix asked.

  Caitlin didn’t respond. It was another mystery, maybe, but one more than she needed at the moment.

  “You really don’t remember any of this, do you?” Bigelson asked.

  “I don’t.”

  He grimaced suddenly, as though someone had twisted that invisible knife in his back. “Sorry,” he said. “I’m a bit overdue for my painkiller,” he added, waving his hand at his bedside table, on which sat a few prescription pill bottles, a pitcher of water with an empty glass, and a copy of the Boston Globe.

  “You want something?” Caitlin asked. “We can help you.”

  “Not just yet.” After a deep breath, he said, “I don’t know what you do or don’t remember, Caitlin, but if it makes you feel any better, I don’t think he touched you.”

  “What?”

  “I don’t think he got the chance to . . . to hurt you.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Because when we arrested him, he was still so drunk he was babbling like an idiot. When he saw you were gone, he said—and I can still hear the sonofabitch’s words—he said, ‘Damn it, I never got to the prettiest one. I was saving her for last.’ ”

  “That’s why you keep calling me ‘the prettiest one.’ Because he did.”

  She shuddered at the thought of the horror she had barely escaped. A moment later, though, an immense wave of relief washed over her because she did escape it. Then the emotional roller coaster she was riding sent her down another steep drop when she realized that she had walked out of that shack and left an abused girl behind. She thanked God that the girl apparently suffered no more abuse after Caitlin left to find help. If Bookerman had continued his depravity with her or, God forbid, killed her as he likely did Kathryn Southern, well . . . Caitlin didn’t know if she would have been able to live with herself.

  As if sensing what she was thinking, Bix said, “Looks like you saved that girl’s life, Katie.”

  Caitlin nodded but didn’t feel much like a hero. “For what, though? Sounds like she was completely traumatized by the experience. We don’t even know her name. Who knows if she ever fully recovered?”

  “She recovered all right,” Bigelson said. “Took a while, I can’t lie to you, but we followed up now and then over the years, and by the time the girl hit high school, she was doing okay, I think.”

  “I don’t suppose you remember her name,” Caitlin said.

  “I do.”

  “Any chance you’d share it with us? I’d love to find her and see for myself that she’s doing all right.”

  Bigelson shook his head slowly. “You’ll just have to take my word for it. She has a right to her privacy, and to whatever peace she’s been able to find.”

  Caitlin couldn’t argue with that. She was about to ask another question when she saw that Bigelson’s eyes had cl
osed. He looked like he might fall right to sleep, then he winced all of a sudden as, presumably, a stab of pain lanced through him. Caitlin started toward him, but he opened his eyes and held up a hand to stop her.

  “I’m okay,” he said.

  “Is it getting bad?” Caitlin asked.

  He forced a smile but shrugged in a way that told her it had passed “getting bad” a few miles back and was steaming toward “excruciating.” Caitlin was startled by a knock at the window. Dolores stood on the other side of the glass, a wide-brimmed gardening hat shading her face. Bigelson nodded to her and waved. Message received. The visit was running a little long now.

  “Anything else I can do for you here?” Bigelson asked them. His voice was getting weaker.

  “I think you’ve done enough,” Caitlin said.

  Bigelson nodded. He hesitated. “You seem like a nice girl. A nice woman, I mean. So before you go, I want to give you . . . well, let’s call it fair warning.”

  Caitlin frowned.

  “Remember when I said I know who you are?”

  She nodded. “The one who escaped, you said.”

  It was the old man’s turn to nod. “Well, there was that, sure. But as we talked, I realized there was more.” He nodded to the newspaper on the bedside table. “You seen the paper today?”

  Caitlin said nothing. Neither did Josh or Bix.

  “There’s a story in there about a murder in a warehouse over in North Smithfield. Got a couple of police sketches with it.”

  Caitlin remained silent.

  “One sketch looks a heck of a lot like you, Caitlin,” Bigelson said, then screwed his face up in pain.

  When it passed a few seconds later, Bix asked, “And what if it does?”

  Bigelson looked at Bix. “I don’t know what happened in that warehouse,” and Caitlin thought, Join the club. “I don’t know if she was there or what she might or might not have done if she was there. But I was a cop, son. I have to call the police, tell them you three were here. I have no choice. I can wait an hour or so before making the call, maybe, if that’ll help you, but I do have to call. I’m sorry, Caitlin.”