by Jon Mills
It wasn’t like her situation was any more extraordinary than the thousands that disappeared every day in America. But call it a gut feeling, Jack got a sense there was more to this than she was ready to disclose.
The Skylark was considered a seedy one-star motel on Archer Avenue. The ugly, two-story, flamingo-pink building stood out like an eyesore. He pulled into the Walgreens across the street to get a bottle of Tylenol. For the past ten hours, he’d been fighting one hell of a headache. It was another reason why he wasn’t ready to agree to the woman’s request. Right now, all he wanted to do was toss a few pills back, hide his head under a pillow and wake up in a couple of days. The past few months had been non-stop. Back-to-back to jobs, mostly small ones to keep him ticking over. As much as he wanted to slow down and rest, work kept his mind occupied. Downtime was never good.
After returning to the motel, Jack parked at the far end. His room was on the ground floor. Outside sitting on a bench was a black woman who’d been sitting there from the time he left that morning until now. Chicago was full of street people looking for handouts; most were winos struggling with drug problems. She glanced at him as he locked up his vehicle.
“Spare a few dollars?”
It was the same line he’d heard since arriving there three weeks ago. Jack wasn’t hard up for cash, the last few jobs had netted him a tidy profit, and he knew what it was like to be down on luck. Whether she would use it for drugs and alcohol was immaterial. Jack fished into his pocket and yanked out a crumpled twenty-dollar bill, he stuck it in her palm and walked on to his room. He caught her glance at it, then she muttered something along the lines of God bless you.
Juggling keys and a bag full of drinks, Tylenol, and noodles, he felt the bag slip out of his hand just as a woman by the name of Serena came out of her room. She hurried over and started giving him a hand. She was a good-looking woman, probably about ten years younger than him, thirty-one, maybe thirty-two with dark wavy hair, and green eyes.
“Ah thanks,” he muttered as she tossed the pills into the plastic bag.
“Do you have a neti pot?” she asked.
“A what?”
“You know, one of those teapot devices you jam up your nose to wash the sinuses out with saline. Works wonders for headaches.”
“No.”
“Oh, well you can get one across the road at…”
“Walgreens,” they said in unison.
She took a step back and smiled. “You’ve already been there.”
He nodded and there was an awkward pause.
“I’m just off to do my shift. You need anything?”
“A real air conditioner?” he said with a smile.
She smirked. It was a running joke of theirs. The damn things installed in the rooms were ancient. His unit had been leaking and for what it was worth, it was pointless having it in the wall. He got more air from opening his windows on a humid day than from anything that pumped out.
“I’ll get that while I get you a gourmet dinner,” she said in a sarcastic way as if she was working at some fancy hotel. From the little she’d told him, she had run away from home when she was seventeen and spent her time working odd jobs in Chicago until she landed herself a well-paid job at the motel. They even gave her a room at a discounted rate.
“That would be nice,” he said pushing his key into the lock and turning it.
“Well, I should get going.” She made it a few steps, then turned. “Oh, by the way, I got back in contact with my folks like you suggested.”
“And?”
“They just want to see me.”
He shook his finger. “I told you.”
She winked and ambled away.
Inside the room a wall of humidity and the familiar smell of mold hit him. The place was in need of a serious overhaul. Jack tossed the bag down and went over to the drapes and pushed them back. The windows were cramped and barely any light poured in. Outside, he had a view of the Burger King, Angie’s bar, a gas station and Julie’s restaurant. In the day it looked dreary with the gray skies, and at night, the neon lights made it hard to sleep.
In the solitude of the room, Jack wandered into the washroom and took a quick shower. After exiting he slumped down on the bed and pulled out a tablet from his bag and powered it up. He set it on the side table to charge a little while he attempted to kick-start the air conditioning. It was unbearably hot inside. He flipped the switch on the unit and gave it a thump with the side of his hand. It let out a groan, then a high-pitched whirling noise.
He could have stayed in a nicer hotel. Heck, there was a lot to choose from but he hadn’t intended on staying in Chicago longer than a few nights. That soon turned into weeks once he got to know Serena. It wasn’t that he liked the motel. It was a shit stain, but she offered company and that he couldn’t pass up. So, he took on a few jobs locally and settled into a simple way of life. Besides Serena, everyone else left him alone. That’s the way he liked it.
After making himself comfortable, he poured himself a drink of bourbon and sat back on the bed with his tablet. Usually, his clients would give him a name, an address or a number for a person who was causing them trouble. The odd time he would have to go and knock on a few doors to find out where they were, but eventually, after a day or so of searching around, he’d find the problem and deal with it. This time was different. She hadn’t stated what kind of help she wanted, only that she was investigating the murder of five women in the town of Marlinton, West Virginia.
Jack brought up Google and did a search for “Dead Women in Marlinton, West Virginia.” It didn’t come back for a hit on that town but there was an article about “5 Women Found Dead in the Small Town of Green Bank.” He brought up Google Maps to get an idea of where it was located in relation to Marlinton.
Green Bank was located almost forty minutes north. He continued to read the article.
Is a Serial Killer At Large in West Virginia?
It has been almost two years since Rachel Dixon, the first of five women, disappeared from Marlinton, West Virginia. Only two months ago, a woman out walking her dogs found the body of Brenda Norris, the fifth woman, in Deer Creek. The deaths have shattered the families of the women and left a small town with more questions than answers.
Today a missing flyer, attached to a telephone pole, flaps in the wind, showing the faces of the five women from photos that have been circulated to media outlets. Despite the small amount of attention, the Pocahontas County Sheriff Department is still searching for clues and trying to determine exactly what happened in what has been called “The Quietest Town in America.”
Each of the five women was found lying face down in local creeks and streams. Though reports have suggested the women knew each other through their involvement in drugs and prostitution that has still to be confirmed. All of them are said to have been missing shoes, pocketbooks, identification and cell phones.
Sergeant Tom Berringer has been quick to dismiss any talk of this being the work of a serial killer, and each death is being treated individually. The FBI has refused to comment at this time.
The families of the women are furious with the way the police have treated this investigation and are desperate for answers.
“These are our daughters we are talking about. Regardless of what they did for a living, we want to know what happened to them. Who would do this? They were dumped like trash. The police say my daughter drowned but there is no way in hell that’s the case. She was petrified of rivers, she wouldn’t go near them. I know they are trying to blame this on her drug use but I know my kid. I just want them to catch who is responsible. Someone out there knows. We demand answers,” said the father of Paula Roberts.
Rachel Dixon went missing two years ago while heading out to work, according to her husband, Peter Dixon.
“She left home around six that evening from Marlinton to meet a client at the Lodge at the Edge of Green Bank,” Dixon told the Pocahontas Times. “She was meant to see her mother before she
went there. I spoke to her on the phone and then that was it. I was expecting her back at just after eight. She didn’t come home. Someone must have seen her.”
It’s still unknown if she ever made it to the lodge. Two weeks later her body was discovered in the North Fork River in the neighboring town of Green Bank. The medical examiner ruled the cause of death as drowning even though she was said to have had alcohol, morphine, cocaine, and amphetamine in her system at the time of death. It’s also believed that she knew the other women that went missing later. According to those that knew them, they were all drug users who engaged in sex work to support their addiction. Two of them had spent time in jail on various charges.
Though the families don’t deny they were troubled and their lifestyles put them at risk, they still want people to know that they were daughters, sisters, wives, and mothers.
Still, it appears that the residents of both Marlinton and Green Bank are divided.
“That’s drug use for you,” one woman who wished to remain anonymous said.
“I used to see them standing on the corner. What do they expect?” said another.
“It doesn’t matter what they did, it’s terrifying to think what these women went through,” yet another said.
However, according to the families, it appears the investigation has now gone cold. Phone calls to the district attorney’s office only resulted in being stonewalled, said the mother of Brenda Norris.
“We are not commenting on the Green Bank investigation until we have additional information that serves the investigation or the public by its release,” Gina Lopez told the Pocahontas Times.
Marian Holt’s daughter, Susan Holt, 28, disappeared from Marlinton on June 12, 2016. She was the second woman found dead, only two weeks after the first. Her body was found just south in a nearby creek that flows through Green Bank. The exact location is close to where Rachel Dixon was discovered.
The autopsy report listed her cause of death as “undetermined.” Yet her mother believes she was already dead prior to being placed in the water.
Jillian Carlton’s daughter, 34-year-old Paula Roberts, disappeared a month later, followed by Dixie Stokes almost a year later on May 16. Both women were found with large amounts of narcotics in them but apparently no signs of sexual assault.
Chapter 2
The call from Jack Winchester came a little after ten to confirm his arrival for the next day. Jenna Whitmore had been out walking the streets of Marlinton, retracing the steps of the five dead women.
Though their bodies had been found in the nearby town of Green Bank, all of them were locals and Jenna had a hunch that whoever was responsible knew both areas. It had become a nightly routine, a means of exercise as well as another chance to spot something she may have overlooked. She had done it countless times since moving there eighteen months ago, a move that was intentional. Jenna had grown up in the area, and after six years of being a journalist in New York, she’d ventured back home to put down some roots. She wasn’t getting much younger. She was thirty-eight and her mother had been harping on at her to find a man. Dates she could find. Good men, well that was the problem.
She looked both ways before crossing 8th Street, the main vein that ran through the town of just over a thousand residents. Marlinton was the largest town in Pocahontas County, West Virginia. Situated between the free-flowing Greenbrier River and the famous 78-mile-long trail, it offered more than enough for locals and visitors. At one time in the 1920s dozens of small railroading towns had dotted the landscape, now there were only nine in the rural county. Jenna was born a few miles outside Marlinton, in a town called Durbin, the second largest of the nine. Besides the recent string of deaths, the only time Marlinton had made headlines was back in 2013 when a fire destroyed an entire block of buildings on Main Street. Since then they had restored the area, and a restaurant called Tudor’s Biscuit World had been built where the old McK Building once was.
She’d moved into what was considered a fairly modern apartment on 3rd Avenue, a few blocks away from the heart of town. It was a five-minute walk to City National Bank and there was a quaint café across the street called DirtBean. Farther down was the Pocahontas County Opera House, a yellow building that looked more like a church than a location for theater buffs. On her way back she passed by the building that housed the Pocahontas Times, her place of employment until recently. She’d been let go for reasons that weren’t exactly clear. They cited that she had become too involved in the Green Bank case, and it was conflicting with her ability to perform her duties, but that was just bullshit. Never once had she slacked off or fallen behind on her other work even when covering the story of the women’s disappearances. They knew that but it didn’t seem to matter. According to them, she was attracting unwanted attention. More bullshit. She was pretty certain that Tracey Reid, one of her co-workers, had played a role in her dismissal. She’d been vying for her position with the paper since she was hired.
Though she fought tooth and nail to get them to change their mind, she eventually backed off and took on a few freelance jobs, mostly writing articles. It wasn’t as well paid as her last job but it paid the bills and kept things ticking over. Besides, it gave her more flexibility to work on investigating the Green Bank Five.
As she walked back to her apartment, she reflected on how different life in the small town was to the big city. New York was everything she had imagined, full of life, buzzing with activity and full of the promise of adventure. Marlinton, on the other hand, was a small town, with a slower pace. The nearest Wal-Mart was an hour and a half north in Elkins. With a little over a thousand people here, people generally knew too much about each other. Unlike the Big Apple, folks would wave, stop and speak to you in the daytime and would take the time to share every little detail about their mundane lives. At night though, the place took on a different feel. There was a dark underbelly; something that most locals wouldn’t admit. It was easier to turn a blind eye, keep lips closed than to taint the small-town atmosphere and its heritage. Mind you, it wasn’t always like that but a darker element had crept in and brought with it an increase in drug use, criminal behavior and sex work. It had begun to change the feel of what had become known as a safe place to raise a family. It felt different from nearby Durbin where she’d been born and raised along with her younger brother Corey.
If rumors were true, those in prominent positions in Marlinton, from the mayor all the way to the police, were involved in coverups but she didn’t buy it. She’d met them and from what she could tell, they were as a straitlaced and vanilla as anyone could be.
Jenna arrived at the apartment block, an ugly gray building that looked as if it crouched at the edge of the road. There was a total of ten apartments inside. Though the owner of the property was pleasant, her son wasn’t. He flat out refused to do any maintenance or even hire someone to fix issues. He said he didn’t have the money. Fortunately, the bulk of the issues occurred on the ground floor. With the addition of the second-floor apartments, she’d landed herself a nice one-bedroom apartment. With her bag slung over her shoulder, she entered the stairwell. The fluorescent lights blinked on and off. She cursed under her breath. How hard would it be to change a light bulb?
Farther down she noticed the exit door was ajar. Jenna frowned. That shouldn’t have been open. She heard movement in the dark and a cold chill came over her. Jenna double-timed it up the concrete stairs aware that one of the other residents might have left the door open. It struck her as odd because it was only meant to be used in case of a fire. She cast a nervous glance over her shoulder. Her nerves were fried. Since investigating the case, she’d received a threatening letter warning her to back off, and several mysterious phone calls in the night. Each time it happened, the person didn’t say anything. There was just the sound of heavy breathing. To say it had unnerved her would have been an understatement. It was pure intimidation; she knew it and so did whoever was doing it. She’d been to the police about it but their lack of in
terest in following up was evident from the first time she gave the report. She caught the officer at the front desk rolling her eyes. It was like they thought she had mental problems or that she was just seeking attention.
After a fair amount of pestering, an officer had been out to check on her apartment but that was it. He did nothing more than check the windows and doors and then make some off-the-cuff remark that she might do well by not dressing so provocatively. Jenna couldn’t believe what she was hearing. Sure, she’d worn a low-cut top, but it was scorching that day and it was nothing compared to some of the attire she saw locals wearing, with their ass cheeks sticking out the back of daisy duke shorts or tops that were practically see-through. It was almost like the cop was suggesting that she was a street girl.
After letting herself into her apartment and driving home the chain on the other side, she placed her bag down and peered out the window into the darkness of night. She’d never been one to get frightened, especially after living in New York, a city where muggings occurred on a daily basis. But here now, after all that had happened, it felt dangerous.
Next, Jenna went through her daily routine. She checked the bathroom, her bedroom, and closets while holding a can of pepper spray. Once satisfied that no one was lurking in the shadows, she breathed a sigh of relief and crossed the room to the open kitchen and poured herself a glass of red wine.
As she poured, her eyes darted to the table. There in a tidy pile was her laptop, notebook and folders. On top of that was a digital voice recorder. She’d bought a top-of-the-line model to keep a record of tidbits, statements, observations and potential suspects. It could hold over four thousand hours and since the investigation had started, she had backed it up numerous times to a hard drive. Jenna slumped down on a sofa and took a large gulp from her glass before poring over her words. She hit rewind and then play and listened again to a conversation she’d had with a woman named Bailey Montgomery. A john who’d picked her up outside the Locust Hill Inn and Restaurant had attacked her. At first it seemed like a typical encounter. She charged two hundred for an hour, and a hundred for half of that. Based on her description of the man, he was clean-cut and charismatic. It was only after they parked down a deserted trail on the outskirts of town that she saw the other side of him. He grabbed a hold of her throat while trying to slap on a pair of steel handcuffs. One minute she was engaged in conversation, the next fighting for her life. Fortunately, she’d managed to escape because she scraped his neck with her keys. In those brief seconds that he released her, she pushed out of the vehicle and scrambled into the surrounding woods to the safety of a nearby home.