by Jason Parent
Sharon had seen him—the real him—and she’d killed herself because of it. The others ignored what their eyes perceived, apparently relying on the power they obtained through servitude as evidence of divine approval. Faith was a powerful weapon, particularly when it was backed by “miracles” science couldn’t explain. Still, with the police bearing down on them, he was beginning to wish the others would follow Sharon’s example. When he looked at his disciples, he saw three loose ends.
“We’ve done the Lord’s bidding here,” he said. “He will commend us for our actions.”
Ricardo wept softly. Doug and Kelly stood on either side of him, patting his back.
Deciding it was best to just ignore Ricardo’s grief, Carter went over and washed his hands and face in a bucket filled with bottled water. After disrobing down to his boxers, he threw his soiled clothes into the furnace. He put on a clean sweatshirt and jeans from his bag.
He turned to Doug. “Give me the box cutter.”
“I’ll do it,” Ricardo said solemnly. He took the box cutter from Doug and walked over to the body to mark the wrists. “May God accept you into his grace, born again pure.”
“Good, Ricardo.” Carter put his arm around his acolyte to feign support.
The box cutter dropped from Ricardo’s hand. Dust rose from the grimy floor where the tool landed. Ricardo put his head down and walked away.
While the others were watching Ricardo, Carter picked up the box cutter and slid it into his bag. “I’m going outside to get a jacket. I’ll be right back. We should probably get something to wash these bloody shoeprints off the floor. Ajax usually does the trick. But that can wait. Burn your shoes before you leave, though. After he’s clean, we’ll need to get rid of his car. We can do that while we think of how to display him.”
Carter carried his gym bag out to the van. The cops will be looking into Mr. Carter Wainwright now. He smirked. But it will take them a while before they realize they’re chasing a dead end. That should give me plenty of time.
He opened the van’s sliding door and got in. He pulled the box cutter and Craig’s wallet from his bag, wiped both clean of prints with his shirttail, then slid the tool under the seat. Later, he would throw the wallet into Ricardo’s trash barrel.
CHAPTER 20
On Christmas Eve, snow came down furiously. The scent of pine filled the air. Stockings hung over the fake fireplace. The cozy-quiet evening was reserved for the two of them.
Aaron drank eggnog while watching A Christmas Story for the forty-seventh time. I wonder if Ralphie will shoot his eye out this time. He laughed quietly to himself. Arianna, a New England native, stared out the window in awe, as if she had never seen snow before. Calypso, Aaron’s golden retriever, nestled among the presents under the brightly lit tree. All was restful. All was perfect.
“Is it time?” Arianna asked, smiling eagerly as she hopped onto Aaron’s lap.
“I told you, we can open presents whenever you want to.”
Arianna’s smile reminded Aaron of his youth, when the holidays brought excitement. Like the rest of life for him, Christmas had long ago lost its magic. He could never think of anything he wanted, anything that could fill the emptiness of his dull existence. The best one he could remember, though, was when Arianna got him the dog. He gave Calypso an appreciative look and returned to his movie.
“Party pooper.” Arianna prodded him with her finger. “Come on! Where’s your Christmas spirit?”
“I like Christmas,” Aaron said. “I like the food and all those desserts that your mom makes.”
Arianna ogled the presents under the tree. “Okay. Let’s start!” The phone rang, but Arianna waved it off. “Let it ring, Aaron. We have more important business at hand.”
“One second. We can’t avoid our friends on Christmas.” Aaron picked up the phone.
Arianna put on her pouty face, her upper lip tucked under her lower. He wondered if Arianna’s clients ever saw that side of her, the good side, a side that he’d seen less and less since she’d become a lawyer.
He picked up the phone. “Hello?”
“Hey, Aaron. It’s Ricardo.”
“Hi, Rick!” Aaron didn’t have to fake his enthusiasm. Unlike most things, Ricardo still mattered. “Merry Christmas!”
“Are you near a TV?” Ricardo asked, his tone grave. “Turn on Channel 6.”
“Why? What’s happened?” he asked as he reached for the remote. “Is everything okay?”
“You need to see this for yourself.”
“Okay, I’m doing it.” Aaron flipped through the channels one by one. The habit irritated Arianna, but she was far too busy shaking presents to notice.
When he reached Channel 6, his mouth dropped open. His mind and body numbed. A blue-and-gold wrapped present tumbled from Arianna’s hands to the carpet. She covered her mouth with her hand.
“Ricardo, I’ll call you back,” Aaron choked out.
“Do you see what they—”
He hung up the phone and raised the volume on the television. The screen showed a picture of a smiling, happy Craig, while a newscaster spoke. “The sixth victim, whom sources confirm as Craig Sousa of Somerset, Massachusetts, was tied naked around a Christmas tree at Bridgewater Common. His heart had been removed in similar fashion to prior murders in the Bristol County area. In this highly trafficked, commercial district near Bridgewater State College, police are requesting that anyone with information that may lead to the capture of the unknown assailant come forward.”
The camera moved to a middle-aged, uniformed police lieutenant. “At this time, we’re advising people to stay inside and enjoy the holiday with their friends and families. The Bridgewater Police Department is cooperating with a number of state and local law enforcement agencies in a joint effort to find the perpetrator of this horrible act and bring him to justice.”
A reporter offscreen asked the officer if the homicide was linked to the previous ones in the Fall River area.
“We are investigating every lead.”
Aaron started to cry.
Arianna wrapped her arms around his neck. “I’m so sorry, honey,” she whispered and gave him a soft kiss on the cheek.
A million thoughts ran through his mind. At last, he fixed on one. “Craig told me he was being followed, and I didn’t believe him.” His voice kept getting stuck in his throat.
“No, Aaron. This is not your fault. This is the doing of some twisted psychopath.”
“But he—”
“Look at me.”
He met her gaze and saw that she was crying, too. She kissed his forehead. He turned away.
“Let’s not go through this again,” Arianna said. “This is not your fault.”
“I don’t know. I feel like I could have done something if I just—”
“You didn’t kill him. You didn’t want him dead. You’re not to blame. Only the killer is to blame. Understood?”
“I guess,” he mumbled. Aaron didn’t want to agree, but he knew the conversation would end badly for both of them if he didn’t. Nothing she said made him feel any less responsible. His friend was dead, and he hadn’t done anything to prevent it.
CHAPTER 21
The police followed Doug everywhere he went. Officers watched Carter Wainwright’s home and business day and night, though he hadn’t been seen in days. Detective Jocelyn Beaudette was as sure of their guilt as she was of her own name. The problem was: she didn’t have enough proof.
After Craig Sousa’s death, the killers had taken a break for a few weeks, perhaps to let the dust settle. Jocelyn and Bruce kept tabs on all the members of Carter Wainwright’s jiu-jitsu classes and Friday-night Bible study. Every last one of them was a suspect, and she wanted to haul all of them in and see who she could break.
Since the gruesome Christmas display, most people stayed inside. Those brave enough
to carry on with their everyday lives appeared on edge, suspicious of those around them. A heavy shroud of gloom fell over Fall River, and New Year’s Day passed with little celebration.
All the while, Jocelyn worked. The circumstantial evidence was starting to add up. She just needed enough to obtain a search warrant so she could get a foot in the door. And once she got in, she would take down every last one of those killers. She hated them for their crimes and almost equally so for twisting her beliefs and the beliefs of so many good people. The religion she knew offered love and light, not what those lunatics professed.
Bruce made sure she did everything by the book. He insisted they go slow and take no risks that might jeopardize any future convictions. Phone records, bank statements, photographs, testimonial evidence from neighbors pertaining to the comings and goings of their suspects, and the like began to paint a picture in Jocelyn’s mind. But the most damning evidence, especially the van sitting in his garage, pointed to Douglas Fournier. Then they discovered that Fournier had purchased a disposable phone with his Discover Card from a store at the Emerald Square Mall three days before Huntley’s murder. The phone number matched that of the phone used to call Huntley on the night of his death. Finally, they were ready to present to a judge, and Bruce gave her the honor.
“We got it!” Jocelyn shouted, beaming as she ran out of the courtroom with the warrant in hand. “The judge was thrilled to sign this if it means getting our killers off the street. He gave me a lot of leeway, despite the fact that we have nothing solid linking Fournier to any of the crimes.”
Bruce nodded. “People are getting desperate. There’s a lot of pressure to arrest somebody. And it’s not like we’re empty-handed. That’s a solid start, but not enough for a jury. Our motive is weak, too. Fournier has led an otherwise-normal life, a good upstanding Christian citizen—at least his adult life. I can’t seem to find anything referencing his or his wife’s upbringing, familial relationships… it’s like they didn’t have a childhood. Despite our theories on motive, even the Jehovah’s Witnesses don’t generally take a break from their door-to-door pamphlet pushing to knock off a few sinners. Why would Fournier suddenly go psycho?”
Jocelyn scratched her head. “You sound like you’re not convinced we have the right guy.”
“I know we have the right guy. I just wish we had more proof to show the rest of the world that we have the right guy. There are just still so many unanswered questions. As far as the van goes, we still have no corroboration on the license plate. Also, where is he killing them? What is he using to remove the hearts?”
Jocelyn wanted her case closed. She didn’t need the explanation anymore, just a guilty party to charge, arrest, and if all went well, convict. “No matter. He hand-painted a van that doesn’t even belong to him. Besides, the judge ruled that we have enough. What reasonable expectation of privacy can Fournier have in a state-owned vehicle, anyway?”
His expression softened. “The search warrant is great news. You’ve done far better than I could have.” He extended his hand for a congratulatory shake.
Instead, Jocelyn leaned forward and kissed him on the cheek, her excitement getting the better of her. “Let’s go. I’m going to enjoy serving this one.”
After arranging for a couple of other officers to meet them, they drove to Fournier’s Somerset residence. It was an ordinary middle-class home in all respects: raised ranch, gray with white shutters, wind chimes hanging near the door, a two-car driveway. Nothing about the place said “serial killer.” A good killer’s home rarely did.
They arrived just as Officers Pimental and Stravenski were pulling their squad car into the driveway. She would have loved to have Temple there, too, since he had been instrumental in the case, but it was his day off.
As she got out of the car, she heard Pimental complaining to Stravenski. “Making me serve a search warrant on a friend isn’t cool. Is this Marklin’s sick idea of a joke? Why does he need me here?”
“So do you think Fournier’s going to be mad at you?” Stravenski asked with a smirk. “What are you going to do if he’s the killer? Do you think you could shoot him?”
Jocelyn listened to Pimental’s bitching, her frustration building. She glanced at Bruce, who was studying the house and didn’t seem to be paying any attention to them. A good thing, too, for your sake, Pimental. Still, her patience had run dry. “Officer Pimental,” she called, “serve the warrant.”
Pimental shot her a look filled with disdain, but he walked up to Fournier’s door and rang the bell. The door cracked open. A snarling snout with long, vicious-looking teeth forced its way through the opening. The nose belonged to a Rottweiler that managed to push out and lunge at Pimental.
Jocelyn laughed as Pimental jumped back, looking ready to run for the hills. The officer pretty much deserved that, in her opinion.
“Down, Molly!” a woman commanded as she wrenched the dog back into the house by its collar. “Back into your cage.” In an instant, the dog was gone.
“Damn, Kelly!” Pimental struggled to compose himself. “I nearly pissed myself.”
“Sorry about that. Molly’s a big softie once you get to know her. She just gets excited around new people.” Kelly Fournier looked past Pimental at Jocelyn and Bruce standing in the driveway with Stravenski. “What brings you here?” She wasn’t an imposing figure at five-feet-nothing. But the stern way she set her jaw and scowled down her nose at Pimental made her look more vicious than Molly, and she probably had a far worse bite.
Pimental cringed a little. “I hate to say it, but I’m here on business. We have a search warrant for Doug’s van.”
Mrs. Fournier’s face turned a sickly, milk-ish hue. “Doug!” she yelled and retreated into the house. “You’d better get out here. Aaron’s here, and he says he’s got a warrant.”
A moment later, all two hundred ninety pounds of Douglas Fournier appeared in the doorway. He didn’t look happy to see them. “What’s this all about?” He towered over Pimental like Goliath over David.
Pimental raised one hand. “Calm down, big fella. I don’t want to be here any more than you want me to be. We have a warrant to search your van. The sooner you let us do that, the sooner we can get out of here.”
“What do you want with my van?”
“Some of us”—Pimental nodded toward Jocelyn—“think you may be involved in some rather unpleasant business.”
Jocelyn frowned, making a mental note to deal with the officer later. His attitude was grossly unprofessional. If the police department weren’t so short-handed, she would make sure he never worked another of her cases again. And to think she’d thought she was helping him to add a big collar to his name.
“Pimental,” Bruce snapped, “what’s the goddamn holdup?” He winked at Jocelyn.
She smiled back. We’ll see how much he likes having Bruce pulling his chain all the time.
“Like I said,” Pimental continued, “we have to toss your van. Then we’ll be on our way. The warrant is for the van only, for tools and shit like that. So as soon as you open your garage, I can prove to them what I already know about you. I’m sorry about all this.”
Fournier shook his head. “This isn’t right, Aaron. But fine, I’ll meet you guys in the garage.”
He disappeared into the house, and a minute later, the garage rolled open. He stood inside with his arms crossed. His wife waited in the doorway connecting the garage to the house. Both seemed calm.
“Let me see the warrant,” Fournier said.
Jocelyn walked up to him and slapped the document against his chest. She continued past him to the van’s side door. “Is it unlocked?” she asked as she donned a pair of latex gloves.
Fournier fumbled around in his pocket, brought out his keys, and pushed a button on the fob. A double-beep emitted from the van. “It is now.”
Bruce opened the sliding door and hopped in. Jocely
n went around to the passenger side, intending to start with the glove compartment.
A few seconds later, Bruce said, “Jocelyn, you’re not going to believe this.”
“What is it? You got something?”
“A disposable phone. Verizon.” He pulled a crumpled sheet of paper from his pocket. “I’m checking the identification number… it matches!” He stuck his head out. “Stravenski, bring me an evidence bag.”
Stravenski hustled over with the bag. Pimental hung back, staring at the scene.
Bruce dropped the phone into the bag. “Seal it and label it. Don’t let it out of your sight.”
Having found nothing of interest in the glove compartment, Jocelyn bent over to look under the passenger seat. She spotted something metal and slid her hand under the seat to pull it out. She stared at the box cutter in her hand for a second then yelled, “Pimental! Evidence bag.”
While she waited for the reluctant officer, she looked over the seat at Bruce. “We’ll need to do a full search of the van, including prints, back at the station.”
Pimental arrived with the bag. She didn’t trust him, so she took the bag out of his hands. “Pimental, step out of the garage and call the station for a tow.” She dropped the tool into the bag and sealed it before passing it to Stravenski. “Label that, and keep it with the phone.”
Bruce said, “You can have the honor.”
Jocelyn grinned. “Thanks!” She walked around the van and approached Fournier, her hand resting on her holstered service weapon. “Douglas Fournier, you’re under arrest for the murders of Paul Fernald, Eliza Ramirez, Benjamin Reinhart, Garrison Huntley, Peter Robillard, and Craig Sousa.” She turned to Pimental, who looked as if he’d swallowed vomit. “Cuff him.”
Pimental didn’t move. Neither did Fournier.