Vengeance Road

by Rick Mofina

  They were perfect.

  At the car-rental agency’s airport desk there was a backlog due to an air-industry conference in town. Gannon used the delay to grab a burger and coffee, and study his Wichita map and the Eagle’s locator graphic pinpointing the crime scene. He also examined the online edition of the Eagle for any developments, relieved nothing new had emerged because it meant his exclusive was still valid.

  He drove directly to Clear Ridge Crossing, hoping that the crime scene had been processed and released. When he arrived he was astounded by the scale of the new subdivision.

  Nothing but stages of housing development for as far as he could see. And everywhere in all directions he saw equipment and trucks rolling in and out. He drove to a ridge that, by the maps, seemed to be the entrance to the area where the body was found. He saw nothing in the dusty distance that indicated a crime scene, let alone a point of entry into the dense forest that bordered the vast section.

  He drove to the row of temporary construction-site offices. He came up to a couple of men in jeans, plaid shirts and hard hats, carrying rolled white pages of plans, and asked for directions.

  “Yeah, you got the right place,” said one. He had a salt-and-pepper beard and the name Burt on the crown of his hat. “See that taller grove?”

  Burt aimed his tube of rolled pages to the hazy distance, which Gannon followed to the jagged tree line.

  “Where, exactly?”

  “Where the taller trees form a teepee shape.”

  “Oh right, yeah.”

  “Go in there.”

  “Thanks.”

  “The guys tell me the police cleaned everything out.”

  “That’s fine. Thanks again.”

  Gannon wheeled the Toyota around.

  Driving with confidence now, he left the trailers behind. As he bounced and jolted across the vast stretch of land, he recognized a chilling reality: he was following the killer’s path.

  No patrol units were posted when he arrived at the edge of the forest. Not a car. Not a uniform. Not another soul.

  It was a remote area.

  No one around to hear screams.

  He looked back at the dust clouds billowing over the busy construction zone then stepped into the woods.

  Birds chirped as he moved through the darkened thick growth of shrubs and towering trees. From time to time he came upon a discarded section of yellow plastic crime scene tape, reminders of the violence that had exploded here.

  Gannon pushed his way through the branches that snagged his shirt and jeans, as if imploring him to reconsider going farther.

  But he progressed to the scene then held his breath to absorb it.

  It had been processed.

  The large tree before him was marked with bright green fluorescent paint. Small circled x’s formed a triangular shape.

  Good God, did he suspend her on the tree?

  All around the tree’s base, a number of squared sections of the earth had been removed. Like Bernice Hogan’s shallow grave, they’d been carefully excavated and sifted.

  Was she alive here? Did she know she was going to die here?

  A wave of sadness swept over him. Here he was at a second murder scene, a thousand miles and a time zone away from the first. He stood in respectful silence for several moments before taking out his notebook. He wrote details and sketched what he saw.

  He’d just reached for his small digital camera to take pictures when he heard the thud of car doors and voices.

  Men and women approaching.

  Gannon stood his ground waiting, until he recognized New York State Police investigators Michael Brent and Roxanne Esko. They were with another man and woman. Possibly Wichita homicide detectives Candace Rose and Lou Cheswick, Gannon guessed, from his memory of the Eagle’s news photos.

  “Gannon? What the hell is this?” Brent said.

  “You know this guy?” Cheswick said.

  “He’s a reporter from Buffalo,” Brent said.

  “Jack Gannon,” Gannon extended his hand. No one took it.

  Cheswick didn’t like the situation. He was a casehardened cop who’d worked with his share of showboater cops with big egos, who tipped the press for profile to enhance a career.

  He’d only met Brent and Esko that morning and was now wary.

  “So he just decided to come all the way from Buffalo to this spot?” Cheswick said. “I wonder who gave him that idea.”

  “Not us,” Brent said, “but I have a few people in mind.” Then to Gannon, “Who tipped you?”

  “I don’t give up sources,” Gannon said.

  “I’d like you to leave our scene,” Cheswick said.

  “Unless you’re protecting it with invisible police, it’s obviously been released.”

  “Get the fuck out of here,” Cheswick said.

  “That’s a fine welcome to Kansas,” Gannon said. “I’ll go but I’ve got a few questions.”

  “You deaf, asshole?” Cheswick put his hands on his hips, spreading his jacket, revealing his badge and the butt of the gun in his shoulder holster.

  “Take it easy, Lou.” Rose turned to Gannon. “Ask your questions.”

  “Do you have a suspect?”

  “No comment at this time,” Rose said.

  “How is this case linked to the homicide of Bernice Hogan in Buffalo?”

  “No comment at this time.”

  “Can you confirm to me the identity of the person murdered here?”

  “No comment at this time.”

  “So this is how you guys are going to play this?”

  “Leave now,” Cheswick said.

  Gannon closed his notebook, looked each detective in the eye then shook his head.

  “Guess your idea of catching a killer, or protecting him, is making sure nobody knows a damn thing about him.”

  “Why, you prick! You don’t know squat!” Brent stepped toward Gannon.

  “Mike!” Esko stopped him.

  “Mr. Gannon,” Rose said, “you asked your questions, I answered them. Please leave.”

  Gannon nodded and headed out.

  “If I was the killer,” he said, “I’d be mighty thankful you’d kept everything out of the papers. Allows me to do my work without interruption.”

  “Wait,” Rose said.

  The other detectives shot her looks as Gannon turned to her.

  “We expect confirmation of identity later today. There’ll be a press conference this afternoon downtown at the City Building. Four fifty-five North Main.”

  “Thank you.”

  “And Gannon?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Welcome to Wichita.”

  53

  “This will be short,” said Lieutenant Gil Clawson, commander of the Wichita police Homicide Section.

  He’d taken his place at the table in the department’s fifth-floor briefing room, where reporters and photographers had gathered for a late-afternoon media briefing.

  Jack Gannon sat apart from the group, taking notes as Clawson introduced the other officials at the table.

  Clawson summarized the case of the unidentified body of a white female homicide victim discovered at Clear Ridge Crossing.

  “Through dental records and fingerprints we’ve confirmed the identity of the victim as Carrie May Fulton, twenty-two, of Hartford, Connecticut.

  What? Gannon was stunned.

  That can’t be right. It’s Jolene Peller.

  He looked to the wall where Brent, Esko, Cheswick and Rose stood, expecting them to correct the mistake.

  They ignored him.

  It was no mistake.

  A uniformed officer wheeled out a bulletin board displaying an enlarged head-and-shoulders photograph of Carrie Fulton. She bore no resemblance to Jolene.

  It’s not Jolene Peller? What about the locket? Why are New York State cops here? What’s going on?

  Gannon tried to grasp what Clawson was saying now.

  “We’re passing out a flyer with more informat
ion.”

  Fulton was reported missing by friends nearly three weeks ago from the vicinity of the Settlers Valley Mall in northeast Hartford, Clawson said.

  “We’re asking for help from the public. We’re interested in talking to anyone who may have had any contact with Carrie Fulton. We’ll take a couple of questions now. Yes, Scott from the Eagle, go ahead.”

  “Lieutenant, we’re hearing that this was a ritual killing and that it’s linked to another murder out of state. Can you confirm that?”

  “I’ll let my federal colleague take that.”

  “As is routine in cases where the victim is from out of state, the FBI works jointly with all law enforcement agencies. In this case, we are working with the Hartford PD and Connecticut agencies through our field office in Hartford.”

  “That doesn’t answer the question. Is Fulton’s homicide linked to any other murder?” the reporter asked.

  “We can’t confirm that now, but we’re not ruling out the possibility,” Clawson said, then acknowledged a TV reporter. “Tom, yes.”

  “Why have you formed a task force?”

  “We haven’t.” Clawson looked at his colleagues. “We’re working together as we routinely do on cases.”

  “Can you tell us the cause of death?” the reporter asked.

  “We’re not confirming that at this time.”

  “Any suspects?”

  “It’s early and we’ll be working closely with Connecticut authorities to establish Carrie Fulton’s activities before her body was discovered.”

  “Did you find a weapon?”

  “No.”

  “Do you have any idea what it is?”

  “We have an idea.”

  “Will you elaborate?”

  “No.”

  “Do you have any DNA, trace or physical evidence?” the Associated Press reporter asked.

  “We won’t discuss that.”

  “Any theories on how she got to Wichita? Any family? Friends? What’s her connection to the city or state?” the reporter continued.

  “Those are things we’re trying to determine.”

  “Who made the discovery?”

  “Some young boys. They were quite shaken by it, so we’re not releasing their names,” Clawson said. “I believe the Eagle had something on that.”

  Gannon needed to ask questions but didn’t want to reveal what he knew to the other reporters. He didn’t even want them to know he was there from Buffalo. Throughout the conference he weighed the wisdom of approaching Candace Rose. Of all the detectives on the case, she’d been civil to him.

  “Do you fear Fulton’s killer may kill again, sir?” a radio reporter asked.

  “We fear that of every suspect until we arrest them,” Clawson said. “All right, before we close, we want to invite any member of the public who might have a tip or lead to call Crime Stoppers, e-mail us, or send us a letter the old-fashioned way. The contact information is on your handout.”

  “Have you received any tips so far?” one reporter asked.

  “A few, yes. We’re following them up,” Clawson said. “Okay. The next media briefing will be announced when we have additional information to be released. Thank you.”

  As the briefing broke up, Gannon saw Rose leave the room alone.

  He caught up with her in the hall as she rounded a corner and prepared to make a call on her cell phone.

  “Excuse me, Detective Rose?”

  She turned without making her call, not smiling but not frowning, either.

  Gannon double-checked to ensure they were alone.

  “I didn’t see or hear anything about the locket,” he said.

  “The locket?”

  “What was Carrie Fulton doing with Jolene Peller’s locket?”

  Rose said nothing.

  “I didn’t hear anything about a truck or any connection to Chicago or a cop back in Buffalo.”

  “What do you want?”

  He handed her a page from his notebook.

  “All I’m asking for is a card, to allow me to keep in touch with you. Sometimes trading information can be helpful.”

  Without touching it, Rose looked at the folded slip of paper Gannon was offering. She let a moment pass before closing her hand around it.

  “Do you have a card you could give me, Detective?”

  She passed it to him.

  “Will you be leaving Kansas soon?” Rose asked.

  “Tomorrow morning.”

  “Have a nice trip.”

  That night Gannon lay on his bed with his laptop on his stomach.

  He tried to work as he grappled with sleep, the lingering smell of cigarettes and the rhythmic mattress squeaking in the adjoining room.

  The thin walls of his cramped room were stained with something brown. A TV was blasting from the room below. And despite his hammering on the wall, whatever was going on next door—a woman was now moaning and shouting—was not stopping.

  Most of the letters in the neon sign over the motel he’d found on Wichita’s outskirts had burned out. Something suggesting “heaven,” but Gannon’s thirty-two bucks had bought him a night in hell.

  He returned to his work, concentrating on Carrie Fulton and Jolene Peller, who stared back from his screen. Then he reread the few short stories on Carrie that he’d purchased from the Hartford Courant.

  His body ached from lack of sleep, jet lag and stress.

  He shut down his computer.

  The energy drink and coffee he’d guzzled were losing the battle to keep him awake and he was overcome with an utter sense of defeat.

  The case was now tied to three women and reached into at least three states. Five, if he counted Illinois and Texas. And another country, if he counted Styebeck’s family history. It had grown complex, involving more and more police agencies.

  He was not sure what to do next.

  As sleep arrived, Gannon tried to grasp the one bright spot amid his confused exhaustion.

  Hope.

  The tragic twist in the case had given Mary Peller a small measure of hope that her daughter was still alive.

  For if the victim here in Wichita was Carrie Fulton that meant there was hope that Jolene was alive.

  Which left Gannon with one last question as he fell asleep.

  Where was Jolene Peller?

  54

  Jolene Peller was surfacing through fear until she woke in darkness.

  Her heart slammed against her rib cage like a trapped animal. She thrashed against her bindings on the floor where she lay as she fought to remember.

  How long had it been?

  She didn’t know…. Where…where was she? Still in the truck…but where? She didn’t know…. They were moving…she recognized the drone…. Where…where was he taking her?

  Her fear grew. Something had happened…something.

  Carrie?

  What had happened? A memory streaked…a scream echoed….

  Carrie!

  Jolene shouted her name, cried out to the blackness, to the silence.

  To no one.

  Her body sagged.

  Jolene remembered light.

  The door had opened to dim light…like after sunset…the door opened and she saw a dark figure…silhouetted against the twilight…saw his boots, his gloves…saw the cattle prod.

  Noooo!

  Carrie had screamed.

  He’d come for Carrie as she’d crushed herself into the corner. He just walked to her, slapped her face, grunted and hoisted her to his shoulder as if she were cargo.

  Jolene help me oh God please help me!

  Jolene scrambled to her feet…steadied herself—to do what? She lunged at him, tried to head butt him…He turned, grunting as Carrie clawed at him then at Jolene, grasping in vain at her locket, pulling it until the chain broke.

  Don’t let him take me! Help meeee!

  He pressed the cattle prod to Carrie, knocking her unconscious.

  Then he pressed it to Jolene. The pain shot her to the fl
oor. She cracked her head against the hard wood, hurling her back into the darkness.

  Now, hot tears rolled down her cheeks.

  She was aware.

  Aware that she was alone.

  Aware that death was near as vague memories assailed her. Memories of Carrie’s distant screams that ended with the distant “thud—thud—thud,” like some enraged force was pounding the earth.

  “Thud-thud-thud.”

  In the dead silence that followed she thought, He must’ve killed her!

  Jolene sobbed into her stinking mattress.

  Why was this happening? Why? She couldn’t bear the agony, couldn’t go on. This can’t be real. It only happens in movies, in books, in nightmares.

  Wake up.

  Wake up!

  She was awake. It was real.

  Was he going to kill her? She had to find a way home. Had to find a way out. Had to find strength. Something to hold on to.

  Cody.

  Jolene reached for her locket but found nothing.

  Her deafening cry filled the darkness.

  Carrie had taken her locket.

  Stop it!

  Stop feeling sorry for yourself. Carrie didn’t die alone. She died with Cody in her hand.

  Cody.

  Jolene had to keep fighting for Cody.

  She tightened her hands into fists and felt Carrie’s keys. Felt the tiny flashlight. As if Carrie had bequeathed them. As if this was meant to be. For these tiny precious things were tools.

  Jolene knew now.

  She summoned the strength to think, to remember her plan. She summoned the courage, summoned the anger to not let that sick mother win. Not without the fight of her life.

  For her life.

  Jolene stood.

  All right.

  She ran her trembling hands along the walls, feeling, sensing, until she found it. The protruding nailhead. Sticking out about two inches. It felt about eye level. Okay. Jolene lifted her arms and began catching the duct tape on the nail head. Working it over and over, feeling the nail head puncture the tape binding her wrists. Sweating and sniffling, she repeated the action.

  Each tiny tear, each small rip was a victory.