Behind Closed Doors

by Carla Cassidy

  “Everything all right there?” he asked.

  “Fine. Anything new with you?” She held her breath, hoping, praying he’d tell her they’d found Michael Johnson and he was now behind bars.

  “We located Samantha Whitling. She now lives in St. Louis. Unfortunately at the moment she’s out shopping and there’s no way for her husband to contact her. We’re expecting her to return our call any time. Hopefully she can give us something that will help us identify Michael Johnson.”

  “So, we don’t know any more now than we did this morning.”

  “Ann, with every minute that passes we get closer. We’re going to get him. Hopefully by the time you go to sleep tonight, you’ll no longer have to worry about Michael Johnson.”

  “I hope you’re right.”

  As Clay hung up, he wondered if he’d been too optimistic with her. So far the day had worked on Murphy’s Law...everything that could go wrong was going wrong. It had taken them all morning to locate Samantha Whitling, only to discover her out shopping. The computer had gone down for two hours, leaving them helpless to continue background checks. Even the prison that had released Michael six months before couldn’t find the photo they’d taken on the day he’d arrived to begin serving his term. One frustration after another.

  Adrenaline had been pumping through Clay since the moment Raymond had called him back to the station in the middle of the night. But with the passing of each hour and the lack of any more progress, the adrenaline had begun to fade little by little, leaving behind a weary frustration.

  He looked up as Bob approached. “I’ve hit a dead end,” Bob said as he sank down in the chair next to Clay. “I’ve checked every male over forty years old on Ann Carson’s student list and nothing comes up as suspect.”

  “Why doesn’t that surprise me?” Clay said dryly. “Nothing about this case has come easily.”

  Bob frowned thoughtfully. “Are we sure this Michael Johnson is a student?”

  “We aren’t sure of anything.” Clay leaned back in his chair and drew a deep breath. “But I can’t believe Michael isn’t somebody directly in Ann’s life. He’s displayed too intimate a knowledge of her daily routine, her work schedule, all the little nuances of her life not to be somebody she sees regularly.”

  “What about the security guards at the college, the maintenance people...other teachers?”

  Clay nodded. “Check them out. Any male approximately forty years old.”

  “Got it.”

  As Bob left, Clay once again felt the overwhelming burn of frustration. Who in the hell was Michael Johnson? What name was he using? What mask did he wear now? As always, Clay had the feeling of time running out. Not only because his retirement approached, but because he somehow felt as if he’d tuned into Michael Johnson’s rage...felt it simmering to mammoth proportions. An imminent explosion. It was coming, and if they didn’t figure out who Michael Johnson was, Clay was afraid that the eventual explosion would destroy Ann.

  Ann stood on the curb at the campus main entrance, waiting for the patrol car to return to take her back to the apartment.

  It had been a long, difficult day. She hated relinquishing her classes to a substitute, hated the feeling that she was somehow letting down her students. Her life was no longer in her control, and she hated that more than anything.

  Sighing, she looked at her watch, wondering what was taking her ride so long. She was anxious to get home, kick off her high heels and share the bittersweetness of her day with Clay.

  Summer heat had returned and Ann found herself thinking longingly of the pool at Clay’s apartment complex. Although she hadn’t used the pool since moving in with Clay, she’d often heard the splashes and laughter coming from the area as she and Clay walked from their car to the apartment.

  She wondered if tonight she could talk Clay into a quick dip. Her face warmed as she imagined Clay in a pair of swimming trunks, his broad chest and muscular legs bare.

  “Hi, Ms. Carson.”

  She turned and saw Dean Moore, his wheelchair squeaking softly as he approached. “Hi, Dean. Going home?”

  “Yeah, it’s been a long day. How about you?”

  She noted how the sun gave his gray hair a slight silver cast. She would miss Dean and the stories he always wanted her to critique. “I’m just waiting for my ride.”

  “You need a ride? I’ll be glad to take you wherever you’re going,” he offered.

  “Thank you, Dean. But my ride should be here anytime.”

  He smiled at her shyly. “I know it’s a lot to ask, but would you look at a few more of my stories? I have them in the back of my van, along with a self-addressed, stamped envelope so you can mail them back to me.”

  “Sure, I’d love to look at them.”

  “You sure you don’t mind?”

  Ann smiled, thinking of how little this man seemed to have in his life, how important his writing appeared to be to him. “I don’t mind at all.”

  “Great...I’ll just go get it and bring it back to you.”

  As he started across the parking lot, Ann called after him. “Wait. I’ll go with you and save you the trip back.”

  “Thanks, I appreciate it.” He flashed her a bright smile.

  Together they moved across the asphalt that still retained the heat from the day. Ann noticed beads of sweat across Dean’s forehead and above his lips. “Warm, isn’t it?” she said.

  “Yeah, days like this I wish I could wear shorts, but my legs are...well...they don’t look so hot in shorts.”

  Ann wanted to ask him if he’d been the victim of an accident or an illness. What had put him in the chair? But she didn’t know the political correctness of asking such questions and so didn’t.

  “Here we are,” he said as they reached the van. He unlocked the back door and struggled to open it.

  “Let me,” Ann said, stepping forward to help. “If you’ll just tell me where the papers are, I’ll get them.”

  “Great. They should be just inside on the carpeting.”

  Ann leaned forward into the interior of the van, not seeing any paperwork on the stained carpeting. “I don’t see them.”

  “Maybe while I was driving they shifted and moved up tront more.”

  She leaned farther, still unable to see any papers. “Dean, I don’t think they’re here. ...” She gasped as something slammed into the back of her head, knocking her feet out from beneath her and sprawling her on the carpet inside the van. Before she could catch her breath, before she could even begin to assimilate what was happening, she was hit on the head again. For a moment stars danced, then faded into the darkness of the deepest night and she knew no more.

  It was after five when Samantha Whitling finally called Clay. Unfortunately, she had little to add to their investigation. “Michael Johnson and Ann Carson have haunted me for years,” she said in the same strong, vibrating voice that had served her so well as a prosecutor. “Never have I seen the battle between good and evil so well-defined. The innocence of a child against the raging madness of a sociopath. Why your interest in this ancient case now?”

  “I have a dead woman and a threatened woman, both named Ann Carson, both blonde and in their late twenties and Michael Johnson was released from prison six months ago,” Clay explained.

  “Hmm, then I’d say it’s definitely Michael. The day he was taken to prison he swore to get Ann Carson.”

  “Anything you can do to help us locate where Michael is now or what alias he might be using?”

  A long pause filled the line. “Hmm, I can’t think of anything. His mother lived there in town, have you contacted her?”

  “His mother? There was nothing in the files about her.”

  “I remember her as a pathetic thing. Old, thin, with life’s weariness on her face.”

  “You remember her name?”

  “No, I’m sorry.” Genuine regret resounded in her voice. “She only came to the trial one day for a little while. I never even personally met her.” />
  When Clay hung up, he felt no closer to solving the puzzle than he’d been a week before. He pulled out the list of potential suspects and stared at it for the hundredth time.

  There were now twelve names on the list...students, other teachers and maintenance workers at the college who were approximately the right age to be Michael Johnson. Twelve names. As he read them over, one by one, something niggled at the back of his brain. Something he’d forgotten, or dismissed, something important.

  “Clay.”

  He looked up at Bob. “What’s up?”

  “They all check out.” He gestured to the list in front of Clay. “None of them have prison records, none of the names appear to be aliases.”

  “Dig deeper.” Clay swept a hand through his hair. “Michael Johnson was in prison for twenty years. In that time he probably made contact with men who are experts at creating new identities. Whole lives and pasts can be manufactured.”

  “Okay, I’ll dig deeper.” Bob stood.

  Clay frowned, something still whispering in the back of his head. He stared at the list on his computer screen, the same list Bob was using to check backgrounds. “Bob, would you tell Raymond I want to talk to him?”

  “Sure.”

  While Clay waited for Raymond, he once again looked at the list of potential suspects, trying to listen to what his instincts seemed to be trying to tell him.

  “What’s up?” Raymond eased down in the chair across from Clay’s.

  “You made up this list of suspects, right?”

  “Right. Why, what’s wrong with it?”

  “Nothing wrong.” Clay hesitated, staring at the names one last time. “Why isn’t Dean Moore on this list? He’s about the right age.”

  “I’d think the reason he’s not on there would be pretty obvious. The man is in a wheelchair.”

  “Do we know why he’s in the chair? What’s wrong with him?”

  “No,” Raymond stretched the word into two syllables. “I see the wheels spinning, Clay. What are you thinking?”

  Clay leaned back in his chair and rubbed the center of his forehead thoughtfully. “I don’t know...maybe I’m grasping at straws, but something’s been bothering me since we went to talk to Dean Moore.”

  “At this point straws are all we have to grasp. What’s bothering you?”

  Thinking back over that day when he and Raymond had gone to speak to Dean, Clay tried to figure out exactly what had been niggling at the base of his brain. “The house where Dean lives... it’s an older house. The doorways were narrow...too narrow for a wheelchair to go through. Why would a man in a wheelchair choose to live in a home that wasn’t equipped to handle his handicap?” Clay rocked forward, something else now in focus. “And why would a man relegated to spending the rest of his life in a wheelchair rent the chair?”

  Raymond’s eyes narrowed. “What are you talking about?”

  “The chair. On the side of Moore’s wheelchair was a little tag that read B and B Rentals.” Clay slapped his hands down on his desk. “That’s what’s been bothering me. Why in the hell wouldn’t Moore own his wheelchair?”

  “I think you’re on to something, partner.” Raymond’s eyes gleamed with renewed fire. “I’ll do a background on him right now.”

  Clay nodded. “And I’ll call B and B Rentals and see what they can tell me.”

  Twenty minutes later Clay, Raymond and Bob met in the quiet of an interrogation room. “He doesn’t check,” Raymond said the minute they were all seated at the table. He enrolled in the creative writing class, but because it’s a community education course, he didn’t have to show any sort of identification or credentials. He isn’t registered in any other classes.” Raymond looked at Clay. “What’d you find out from the rental place?”

  “Dean Moore rented a wheelchair from B and B Rentals three months ago. The clerk remembered him because it was the first time they’d rented a wheelchair. Dean walked in and carried the chair out. He told the clerk his mother was infirm and coming to visit.”

  Raymond frowned. “But Dean Moore looks too old to be Michael Johnson.”

  “Twenty years in prison can make a man look older than his years,” Clay said dryly. “I want him brought in for questioning.”

  “Unless you’re ready to book him, I say we’d better go slow. So far all we know for sure is he’s probably using a wheelchair under false pretenses...hardly a crime.”

  Clay glared at Bob, emotion fighting reason. “Dammit, if what we think is right, this man is responsible for two deaths that we know about.” Reason won. He drew a steadying breath. “But you’re right. We can’t blow this. The man is smart and if we spook him he’s liable to disappear where we’ll never find him. We need more. We need to tie Dean Moore directly to Michael Johnson.” He looked at Raymond. “Check out Dean’s address. Samantha Whitling said Michael Johnson’s mother lived in the area. See who owns the place where Dean lives.”

  “And I’ll see if I can draw a link between Dean and Anntoinette Carson,” Bob said.

  Clay nodded tersely. They all turned as the door to the interrogation room opened and a young, fresh-faced officer stepped in. “Clay? She wasn’t there.”

  Clay stared at the young man, for a moment unable to make the transition from one subject to another. As his brain assimilated who the officer was talking about, a chill swept over him.

  “I waited around for her, even went into several of the buildings and asked about her, but she was nowhere to be found.” The officer’s voice shook, his face a sickly pale as he waited for Clay’s reaction.

  “Did anyone see her?”

  “One of the students said he saw her standing in front of the administrative building, but he went on to class and doesn’t know what happened to her.”

  Clay swept past the officer and raced to the nearest phone. He picked up the receiver and quickly punched in the seven numbers to ring his apartment. “Be there,” he breathed. Maybe she took a taxi, or caught a ride from a girlfriend. But neither scenario felt right. The phone rang once...twice...three times. With each ring a cold knot of terror hardened in Clay’s chest. Four rings. Five rings. Six rings. He felt beads of perspiration appear on his forehead.

  He hung up the receiver and turned to look at Bob and Raymond. “She’s not there.” His voice was a mere whisper. “Where is she? Where’s Ann?” he asked.

  Nobody answered aloud, but the answer was in the dread that radiated in the air between them. He had her. Michael Johnson had Ann.

  Chapter 16

  Ann came to slowly, fighting her way up from a black void. She knew she was lying on a bed, but how had she gotten here. And where was here?

  She sat up and opened her eyes. Immediately a stab of pain pierced the back of her skull. She moaned and squeezed her eyes closed, willing away a wave of nausea. Tentatively, she reached her hand up to the back of her head and felt a bump the size of an avocado.

  She winced, her fingers exploring to find further damage. Other than the goose egg, she seemed to be all right... except for the fact that she had no idea where she was.

  Attempting to separate clear thoughts from the haze of pain, she tried to think. She’d been at the college...she’d been standing at the curb waiting for a ride. She could remember the heat from the pavement radiating upward, the desire to get home and share her day with Clay. Her eyes flew open as she remembered walking to Dean Moore’s van. Dean. Had Dean done this?

  She sat up straighter on the bed, looking around in an attempt to sort out where she was. It was dark, the only light seeping in around the edges of heavy curtains that hung at a single window. The room was small, with only a bed and a dresser.

  Where was she? The place smelled like a million places she’d been in her past. The musty scent of other people, of lives passing through, lives without hope.

  She wanted to get up and get out, but fear kept her immobile. If it had been Dean who’d knocked her out and brought her here, where was he now? Why was she here? Her thoughts
were confused, jumbled, but more than anything a deep, abiding fear kept her planted on the bed, afraid to move.

  She realized she was crying, tasted the bitter salt of her tears on her lips. Her tears were the flavor of fear, a fear bred from knowledge. Dean Moore was Michael Johnson. The knowledge swam through her, filling her with a terror she’d never experienced before. Dean Moore was Michael Johnson and he intended to kill her.

  Hope washed away from her through the tears. And with the absence of hope came a wave of resignation. There was a certain amount of peace in the resignation, the knowledge that soon she’d be dead.

  It seemed this had been fate’s intention for her since the time of her birth. What her mother and that life-style long ago had not managed to accomplish, Michael Johnson would finish.

  Where was he now? Light seeped in from beneath a closed door. Was he in the next room, waiting for her to regain consciousness?

  Where was Clay? Why wasn’t he here to save her? Fresh tears fell as she thought of Clay. Never again would she feel the strength of his arms surrounding her. Never again would she gaze into his eyes and see the special warmth he held inside. Although he’d never told her he loved her, she knew he would grieve for her. Small comfort.

  She froze as she heard footsteps. Her crying stopped, usurped by sheer terror as she stared at the door. With the smell of the room, the surrounding darkness, and the deep, abiding fear, she was plunged backward in time.

  Once again she was a child, waiting for her mommy to come home, needing her mommy to protect her. She watched the door. Waiting. Waiting. Her breath caught in her throat as the footsteps drew closer. “Mommy?”

  Please, please, please... let it be my mommy. I’m scared. Please Mommy, come and hold me tight.

  As the door creaked open, Ann cowered in the corner of the bed. It wasn’t her mommy. The dark shape that entered the room was too big, too bulky to be her mommy. A sob caught in her throat as she realized she was alone with a monster.

  “I don’t want to go up there with guns blazing,” Clay said to Raymond and Bob. They were a block away from Dean Moore’s house and being followed by two more patrol cars. “If Ann is inside, I don’t want to spook him into doing something foolish. You’ve got the warrant, right?” he asked Raymond.