by Jo Macgregor
“Always.”
“Sure.”
I gave him the names of the Kehoe family, asking him to check possible variations of spelling, and he promised to see what he could do.
At my parents’ house, my mother opened the door, delighted by my unexpected visit. “Did you go barn hunting yesterday?” she asked at once. “I bumped into Henry Mason in Dillon’s yesterday, and he said you’d set off bright and early.”
It was supposed to be me keeping an eye on him, not the other way around. “What was he eating?” I demanded.
“I didn’t notice. He said you went alone.” There was a definite note of recrimination in her tone.
“Yeah, well,” I said, heading toward the kitchen, where I found my father reading the Sunday newspapers over a cup of coffee. “I thought it was going to be another dead end, and I didn’t want to waste your time.”
“And was it?” my mother asked.
“Was it what?”
“A dead end.”
I grimaced wryly. “In a way. I found a site where I think someone was once killed.”
That announcement was met with excited exclamations and a barrage of questions, which I tried to answer without giving away too much information. Singh had only cautioned me about talking to the press, but I suspected he wouldn’t be too happy if I told my mother and she blabbed to the whole town.
I poured myself a cup of coffee and took a seat at the table. “So, something else strange happened that I wanted to tell you about,” I said to my father.
“What was that?” he asked.
I had no idea how to start the conversation tactfully, so I just barreled in. “Is it true that you were a person of interest in the serial killer case I’m investigating?”
“Good heavens!” my mother said crossly while my father tucked his chin back in surprise, saying, “What? Why would— Where did you hear that?”
“Yesterday at that farm. Agent Singh told me.”
“I don’t trust that man,” my mother said. “Did you notice he wouldn’t accept any tea or coffee? He didn’t even want my water! What’s up with that?” She yanked on yellow rubber gloves and began washing dishes.
“He made it sound like you were a suspect,” I said to my father
He frowned. “That’s not true. I was never a suspect. You’re not—” My father directed a disbelieving look at me. “You’re not thinking I had anything to do with it, are you?”
“No, of course not,” I said and meant it. “I was just surprised and curious about it.”
He gave me another wary glance. “I happened to be at Lake Winnipesaukee in New Hampshire for a fishing tournament when a young man disappeared in the area. The police went through the campground, taking everyone’s details and asking if we’d seen the young man or noticed anything suspicious, that sort of thing. I was briefly questioned — voluntarily, I might add,” he said crossly. “And then I was dismissed from the enquiry. I was never a suspect.”
I nodded. “I reckon Singh was trying to get under my skin because I’ve been bothering him.”
“Passive-aggressive. I’ll bet his star sign is Cancer,” my mother said darkly. “Or possibly Scorpio — they can hold grudges for years.”
I chewed the side of my thumb, tearing at filaments of skin there. I figured that when the agent had come to this house with the button, my father’s overly inquisitive behavior had raised his suspicions, leading him to run a check, and the name of Robert John McGee had popped up in some old record of the investigation. Singh couldn’t have regarded it too seriously or he’d have been back to interview my father, but it had been a juicy little tidbit to use against me.
“Is that why you’ve been so interested in this case?” I asked.
He nodded. “That day at the lake when that young man went missing? It was horrible.” He rubbed a hand over his face and sighed. “It was that Antoine Marshall. Remember him from the TV program?”
“He was the one that was adopted, wasn’t he?” I said.
“That’s him.”
“So sad,” my mother said, stacking a plate on the drying rack.
“I guess the incident was one of the things that sparked my interest in murder and especially in serial killers,” my father said. “But I’m realizing I only ever really read about the killers, not their victims. And now I’m beginning to think that’s … a bit off. I mean, it’s not entertainment, is it?”
He looked at me with sad eyes, and I reached across the table to squeeze his hand before asking him, “Why didn’t you mention it when I had my first brush with this case, back when I found the skeleton?”
He pulled his hand away. “At the time, if you’ll remember, you’d been under the misapprehension that I might be involved in Colby’s death.” He looked really angry at the memory of that, and I felt heat creeping up my neck. “I didn’t want to add fuel to the fire of your absurd paranoia. I was hurt, Garnet, hurt that you could even remotely entertain such an awful thought about me.”
I could see the pain on his face and felt awful that I’d been the cause of it. I loved and respected my father. We’d always gotten along well, and we’d been each other’s sensible refuge from the crazy that was my mother.
“I’m really sorry about that, Dad. I wasn’t in my right mind at the time.” I got up and went over to kiss him on his forehead. “Forgive me?”
“Of course, kiddo,” he said gruffly, wiping a tear from the corner of one eye. “Will you stay for lunch?”
“Thanks, but I need to do some research based on what I learned yesterday.”
“I’ve been doing my own research,” my mother told me proudly.
“You have?”
“Yes. Here” — she handed me a dishcloth — “make yourself useful while I tell you about it.” Sounding like a quizmaster, she said, “What do you think is the most common star sign of serial killers?”
I exchanged a glance with my father, who grinned. Feeling relieved that we were back on our usual ground, I said, “I have absolutely no idea.”
“Pisces!” my mother said happily. “Most serial killers — well, the famous ones in your father’s books, anyway — are Pisces. Not too shocking, though, because Pisces are never fully in touch with reality, are they? And Geminis are in second place. All that smooth-talking charisma and the ability to live double lives, I suppose. And then Sagittarius. Reckless, you know? They like a bit of danger and adventure.”
She rinsed a cup and handed it to me while I stared at her, at a loss for words.
“Now interestingly, the signs of Pisces, Gemini, Sagittarius and Virgo all fall at the end of a season,” she continued, “which makes them mutable signs. And if you think about it, that makes sense too!”
“Why?” I asked in spite of myself.
“They’re the chameleons of the horoscope, aren’t they? Unsettled, unpredictable, changeable, adaptable. They like variety — in work, where they live, in lovers. They’re not good at sameness. It bores them.” She pulled the plug and watched the water drain. “Funny that Virgos weren’t at the top of the killer list. But maybe they’re just so neat and organized, they never get caught.”
“If anybody wants me, I’ll be in the living room, reading the newspaper,” my father said. Clearly, he’d had enough of this nonsense.
My mother wiped the sink to a shine and hung the gloves neatly over the faucet. “A lot of your dad’s killers have aspects in Pluto too.”
“Is that so?” I said, polishing a glass.
“A fixation with death and repressed urges, you know?”
“Right.”
“Do you know the dates of birth of any of the people at that farm you visited?” My mother asked.
“Nope.” I dried and put away the last plate. “In fact, I don’t know nearly enough, which is why I need to get on my way and start researching.”
“Back to facts instead of feelings, are you? Well, off you go then, and don’t forget to tell me everything you find out,” she said, though
her tone made it clear she thought I was unlikely to find out anything much.
– 31 –
Monday, April 23
I spent the morning working for Henry Mason, capturing his income and expenses into the accounting software he refused to learn and arguing with him about the relative deliciousness of salmon versus trout. It was a topic I had no opinion on, but I made an effort to be downright oppositional by declaring a passionate preference for the taste of cod in order to give him one of the debates he so enjoyed. Or perhaps because I, like him, was also a stubborn, ornery individual. He got his own back, though.
“I’ve been thinking about your odd eyes,” he said.
“Again?”
“They say that eyes are the mirror of the soul.”
“They do say that,” I admitted.
“So does that mean you’ve got mirrors of two souls?”
I turned away before he could see my startled reaction. The memory of Colby’s warm brown eyes surfaced. Whether or not my eyes mirrored two souls, when it came to color, I had one of his and one of my own.
Henry kept me busy the whole morning, but when I clocked out at lunchtime, I hurried back toward my loft, eager to dive into the research I’d meant to do the previous afternoon when I’d instead fallen asleep in front of some mindless television. Halfway up the stairs to my loft, I heard a car pulling into Henry’s driveway, so I turned and ran back down, expecting to see another grocery delivery van. But it was a midnight-blue Nissan, and I was shocked to see who climbed out of it. What on earth was he doing at my place? How did he even know it was my place?
He gave me a little wave and walked right up to where I stood at the bottom of the stairs. “Hello again, Garnet. How are you?”
“Professor Deaver,” I said. “This is a surprise.”
“I hope you don’t mind me coming to visit you unannounced like this?” He took a step closer to me, and I backed up until my heels were against the bottom step. “But I just happened to be in the area, and I thought I’d pop in and we could have another chat about killers and the Gay Slayer investigation.”
He was just in the area? Ri-ight. “How did you know where I live?”
He gave me a smile that was no doubt intended to put me at my ease but which only creeped me out. “Well, Kenneth told me you’d left Boston and gone home to your parents in Pitchford, and there was only one McGee listed in the directory here.”
I drew an indignant breath, but what he said next outraged me even more. “And your mother — such a sweet, friendly lady — steered me in the direction of your new digs.”
I’d be having a word with her all right. “Did I see you on Saturday, outside of a town called Crowbury?”
His eyebrows rose high. “Nope, not me.”
“I could’ve sworn it was you.”
“Maybe I have a doppelganger.” He chuckled again then pointed at the loft above the garage. “Your mother said you live up there. Are you going to invite me up? I’m just dying to pick your brains about the investigation and find out if you’ve learned anything new.”
The thought of allowing Deaver into my private space, of being alone with him anywhere, made me uncomfortable. Unpleasantly aware of the strong fruity scent of his aftershave, I quickly stepped around him and put more space between us.
“Right, but the only problem is, I … er …” I stammered. “I can’t. Sorry. I work for the man who lives here — he’s a lawyer — and I’m already late for my afternoon shift.”
“When I arrived, it looked like you were on your way upstairs.”
Where I’d been going was none of this man’s business. “I was just going to fetch my phone.” I hoped he hadn’t spotted it in the back pocket of my jeans. “But I really do need to get back to work.”
Deaver pouted. It wasn’t a good look on a grown man. “How about afterward? I’d be happy to wait,” he said.
“Oh dear, no. After work, I’ve got a date with my boyfriend,” I said, and added. “He’s a cop.”
“Another time then, I suppose.” He sounded put out.
“Yeah, maybe, but always call first as I’m hardly ever here. Mostly, you know, I sleep over at my boyfriend’s. The cop.”
“I see.” There was no trace of a smile on Deaver’s face now. With a curt goodbye, he got into his car and drove away.
I climbed the stairs slowly, unsettled by his visit, and made myself a quick bowl of Captain Crunch for lunch. I sniffed the air, imagining I could still smell Deaver’s sweet aftershave, but tracked the smell to the fruit bowl on top of the refrigerator. The bananas were now tight black bags of liquid and the apples as saggy and wrinkled as a witch’s face. I tossed the whole mess into the trash, finished my cereal, and sat down at the table beside my laptop.
I started by making a list of everything I knew about the killer, the Kehoe family, and their lodger. Images of the cat and the well and the cage blitzed into my mind every so often, but I pushed them aside and kept going, adding what I knew about the murders and the victims. When I sat back to read through the two pages of notes, I realized that I’d included what I’d “seen” along with verified facts, as if I now accepted my visions as truth. Interesting. When had that shift happened?
The idea that I’d forgotten something important nagged at me. I chewed on my pen for a minute, thinking, then added two new items to my notes: that Special Agent Tyler Washington was a good and helpful man, a real sweetheart, and that Senior Special Agent Ronil Singh was a cynical, passive-aggressive, uncooperative pain in the butt who didn’t play well with others. I still felt like I was missing something, and the niggle didn’t go away when I added “ungrateful” to Singh’s list of descriptors. I ran through my experience at the farm, my exchanges with the agent, and my departure, then made a note that, as unlikely as it seemed, I may or may not have seen pushy Professor Deaver in the crowd at the Kehoe farm. The professor’s expression of surprise at my question had seemed just a little too exaggerated.
Was there anything else? I racked my brains. Something to do with a car, maybe? Of course, the lodger’s car. I ran a search for Thunderbirds online, and the first thing I discovered was that they were manufactured by Ford. A frisson of excitement fizzed inside me. The man who’d picked up the hitchhiker had driven an old model Ford. I found a site that listed every model of Thunderbird ever made, each with an accompanying photograph, and punched the air when I found the exact one. The Ford Thunderbird 1988 had a badge with wings mounted on the front between the headlights, and right where I’d sketched shadows in my drawing of the car’s hood, the 1988 model had twin vents. There was no doubt in my mind that this was the right car.
I needed to share the information with the investigative team, so I sent Washington a text message telling him the car make, model and year, as well as the other facts I’d learned about Larry the Lodger and the family he’d stayed with. What the agent did with the information was his business; my conscience was clear.
I logged onto my laptop and checked whether any known serial killers had owned Thunderbirds. Almost immediately, I got a hit.
Samuel Little, a man who’d confessed to crisscrossing the country over a thirty-five-year span while killing ninety-three people, had a Thunderbird and had, in fact, been caught in the act of beating and strangling a woman in the backseat of it. But he was black, and all his victims had been women, so he wasn’t the man I was looking for. Pity. It would’ve been great to solve this case so quickly.
I took a break to make myself a cup of peppermint tea and catch up on the news, checking online sites for any mention of the discovery at the Kehoe place. So far, Singh was keeping a tight lid on it. There was just a brief report by the Caledonian Clarion that the authorities were searching a derelict farm outside of Crowbury in connection with a possible crime but that no further details were available. The media was still hyped up about the mass burial site in New Hampshire, and that the Button Man would soon kill again. One channel even displayed a countdown ticker to May s
ixth when they reported on the “Gay Slayer.”
Thirteen days, it said.
– 32 –
Based on my trip to Crowbury, I had a handful of suspects. Logically, there was an infinite number of suspects and the serial killer could easily be someone I’d never heard or thought of. But my intuition told me that it was someone linked to that house, to those people. I wrote down the names from least to most likely.
Assuming he hadn’t kicked the bucket in the well or subsequently died somewhere in New Hampshire, Melvin or Marvin Kehoe would now be in his eighties, and that was surely too old to still be killing young men. Then again, maybe that was why the killings had slowed, because he’d become less capable. Was he that grumpy old man on the farm down in Hucknall?
I scratched at a scab on my arm, thinking. I needed to consider the possibility that the odd, middle-aged man there might be Derek Kehoe all grown up. I should probably pay that farm another visit and ask around town about the creepy family. I didn’t feel a connection between the Hucknall and the Crowbury farms, but I reminded myself that feelings weren’t facts and added a follow-up trip to my to-do list.
Derek Kehoe, born the year after Hurricane Belle — which a quick search told me had been in 1976 — would be in his early forties if he was still alive, and might be living somewhere in New Hampshire or Hucknall, Vermont, or anywhere else.
Larry the Lodger, based on what I’d learned from the ladies in the diner, would now be in his late forties or early fifties and might be in Portland or San Francisco or anywhere else on the planet. I wondered if he was still driving the Thunderbird. Probably not. These days, it would be unusual enough to attract attention. If he was my killer, he’d now be behind the wheel of something less obtrusive and memorable. I wondered whether Liz or Ruth was right when it came to his sexuality because that might well be a factor in his motivation for killing young gay men.
I spent another hour researching serial killer motives in more detail and then, without consciously intending to do so, found myself looking for more information on Jacob Wertheimer instead. His profile was still up on Facebook with a picture of a group of friends at a club, all holding up beers in celebration. I scrolled down the timeline back to 2009 and saw his last post: a Halloween party photo of him dressed as Jack Nicholson’s crazy character in The Shining, complete with plaid shirt, red jacket, axe in hand, and his face stuck though a splintered rectangle of wood. His eyebrows had been sketched into sharp arches and he was grinning like a madman, but I could still see his blue eyes and freckles. I smiled sadly at the caption, which read, “Here’s … Jacob!”