by Blake Pierce
“Was he a big hunter like your husband?” Mackenzie asked, nodding to the magazines.
“He used to be. It was the one thing they used to try to do together. But they just never clicked, you know? Ray and some of his hunting buddies always made fun of him for going to college, for being into art in high school, for being loyal to one girl. That sort of dumb macho crap. Earlier this year there was a pretty big fight between Jon and one of the other guys in the hunting group.”
“What kind of fight?”
“Fists were thrown,” Pamela said. “I think Ray felt like he had to make a choice between his friends and a son he had never really seen eye to eye with. He chose his friends. And that’s killing him right now.”
“Do you know the name of the guy Jon fought with?” Mackenzie asked.
Pamela rolled her eyes. “Curtis Palmer,” she said through clenched teeth. “A grade-A asshole if there ever was one. He’s done some time before. Beating on his wife and kid and making them split town. That kind of thing.”
Mackenzie and Bryers shared a look that Pamela seemed to lock in on. “I could give you his address if you need it,” she said.
“Yes, I think that might be helpful,” Mackenzie said.
“I’ll go upstairs and write it down for you. Take your time down here.”
When Pamela was headed back up the stairs, Bryers flipped through the games and movies. “What do you think?” he asked.
“I think Jon Torrence had a rough life and was in the wrong place at the wrong time. I think we can run some records to see if there are any connections—maybe between the ex-girlfriend and the first victim—but I doubt anything will come of it. I think Jon was just a victim, plain and simple.”
“You know what bugs me?” Bryers asked.
“What’s that?”
“The abduction of Will Albrecht nineteen years ago. I think that’s the wild card here.”
“I feel the same way. Maybe we should cross reference the names of his known family and their friends with names from this current mess.”
They made their way back upstairs, where Pamela was waiting with a Post-it note. She also held her cell phone in her hand. She was frowning at it when she handed the Post it with the address of Curtis Palmer on it.
“Here you go,” she said.
“Are you okay, Mrs. Torrence?” Bryers asked.
“I suppose,” she said. She then showed them her phone. Her Facebook app was opened and showing them a headline from what Mackenzie assumed was a local news outlet that someone on her timeline had shared. The headline read Is There a Campground Killer in Strasburg? A video was beneath it, but Mackenzie had no interest in viewing it. The headline was more than enough.
The media was getting into it deep now. That meant she had to work fast, to bring this case to a close before their currently quiet crime scene of a state park became a media circus.
“How confident are you that you’ll find the man that did this to Jon?” Pamela asked.
“I can’t give certainties,” Mackenzie said.
Pamela nodded. “I understand that, I suppose. But if you could wrap it up before this makes national headlines and my son’s face is all over TV, I’d appreciate it.”
That was the closing comment as Mackenzie and Bryers made their exit. As they headed back to their car, Mackenzie paused for a moment to watch a van go cruising down the street. On the side, the call letters of a news station blared like a siren.
Mackenzie shook her head as they got into the car and drove in the same direction as the news van.
CHAPTER EIGHT
The address Pamela Torrence had given them led them to the outskirts of Strasburg. A few secondary roads took them away from the town and fed them out onto a series of county-maintained roads. These were unmarked roads with no lines along the center or sides, just strips of winding asphalt that led them deeper into the woods around the town. Along the way, Mackenzie took note of several locked gates on the side of the road, protecting what appeared to be dirt tracks that led back further into the woods. Most of these gates read DO NOT ENTER! PROPERTY OF and then named off one of several hunting clubs.
“Well, this certainly diminishes the charm of small-town life, doesn’t it?” Bryers asked.
Mackenzie wasn’t so sure. In the same way as the colors of the leaves in Little Hill State Park, this little rural excursion had also captured her attention. It was sort of like looking out to the ocean—the beauty and majesty of it was so great that it was sometimes easy to forget just how huge and ever-expanding it was.
“You okay?” Bryers asked her.
“Yeah,” she said. “Just lost in my thoughts. How about you? You seem to be coming down with something.”
“Oh, just some damn head cold or something. I don’t catch them often but when I do, they’re pretty bad.”
Five minutes later, they reached what she assumed was a driveway. There were hints of gravel in it but it was mostly just dirt. The mailbox that sat on the other side of the road contained old spray-painted numbers, identifying the address as that of Curtis Palmer. The dirty driveway was short, coming to an end at a spot where it was hard to tell where the driveway ended and the dead grass of the lawn began. They pulled up next to the beaten up truck that was already parked there. A ramshackle house sat in front of them. It was in terrible need of a paint job and the porch looked like it might fall in if a strong breeze passed through. An old junked Ford pickup sat to the side of the property, along with several old rusted tools and a few discarded crumpled beer cans.
As Mackenzie and Bryers got out of the car, an old hunting dog came trotting around the side of the house. It looked almost malnourished and let out a sickly bark at the agents. It started sniffing the ground and then sat in a lazy heap under the edge of the porch.
“Now this,” Mackenzie said, “diminishes the charm of small-town life.”
“I’ll say,” Bryers said.
They walked toward the porch and the dog started barking again, now more like a pained howl. It apparently wasn’t too concerned, though; it remained where it was, watching them with mild interest from his perch by the side of the porch.
Just as Mackenzie reached the first of the porch steps, the front door to the house opened. Curtis Palmer stepped out onto the porch, the human embodiment of his house. He was wearing a pair of tattered jeans with holes in both knees and nothing else. His chest looked concave in comparison to his rotund beer belly. His face was partially covered by scruff that could barely be called a beard. His mostly gray hair was sticking up wildly on his head and shagging down to nearly cover his eyes. He was holding a beer can in his left hand and the thumb of his right hand hitched into a belt loop on his jeans.
“Who the hell are you?” he asked.
It was not the best of welcomes and it nearly made Mackenzie point out that it was not quite noon yet and here he was, drinking from a can of beer. From the looks of the property and his beer belly, she doubted this was a rare occurrence.
Bryers apparently took offense to the way they were being greeted and perhaps even felt a little protective of Mackenzie. She assumed that was why he took one huge stride to stand in front of her and flash his badge to Curtis Palmer.
“I’m Agent Bryers and this is Agent White, with the FBI,” he said. “We were hoping you could answer a few questions.”
“FBI?” Curtis said, pronouncing the letters slowly. “You shitting me?”
“Not at all, sir,” Bryers said.
Curtis made absolutely no effort to hide the fact that he was checking Mackenzie out. When he gave a lopsided grin when he was done, she took a step closer to the porch to compensate for the one Bryers had taken.
“No, we are not shitting you,” Mackenzie said. “We were hoping you could answer some questions about the death of Jon Torrence.”
“That’s Ray’s kid, right?” Curtis asked.
“That’s right. You’ve heard about what happened, I assume?”
“I d
id,” Curtis asked. “I feel sorry as hell for Ray and his wife. But I don’t know why you’d waste your time coming to talk to me.”
“We have it on good authority that you and Jon came to blows not too long ago,” Mackenzie said.
“We did. But that doesn’t mean I killed him.”
“We’re not suggesting that,” Mackenzie said, hoping to try to find an opening for a civil conversation.
“So then what are you suggesting?” he asked, clearly trying to get a rise out of her. Mackenzie eyed him and she was pretty sure if she caught him staring at the shape of her breasts through her shirt and pantsuit, she was going to punch the bastard.
“We’re merely suggesting that a man that came to blows with the young son of a hunting buddy and ended his marriage by beating on his wife and kid might be worth checking out in terms of our investigation.”
“Go to hell,” Curtis said. He gulped down a huge mouthful of beer, crumpled the can in his hand, and threw it down toward Mackenzie’s feet.
“You understand that we can arrest you, correct?” Bryers asked.
“For what?”
“Failure to cooperate with an investigation,” Bryers answered back.
Mackenzie knew this was a stretch, but doubted if Curtis Palmer did. He looked to them with a scowl before saying: “What do you need to know?”
“For starters,” Mackenzie asked, “how often did you hunt with Jon and Ray Torrence?”
“I don’t know. Maybe two or three times during deer season. I usually do my own thing. I only join the hunting club so I can hunt on certain people’s land. I’m not a big fan of groups.”
Huge surprise there, Mackenzie thought. But to dash that thought, she asked: “Do you recall what the argument was about that caused the fight between you and Jon?”
“Not really. But look…if you want me to be honest, I didn’t like the kid. Sounds bad to say now that he’s dead, but it’s the truth. He was just irritating. Had no business out in the woods with a gun.”
“And why not?” Mackenzie asked.
“He never paid attention. He was always distracted or trying to make jokes. I don’t think the little shit ever bagged a single deer. He was just out there pretending. He said something to me one day—about me always drinking, I think. I took offense and threw a punch. Pretty sure you can’t arrest me for that nine or ten months after it happened, now can you?”
“How well did you know Ray?” Bryers asked. “Did you like him any better than Jon?”
“Ray’s an all right fella. Like I said, I’m sorry he lost his son but that ain’t none of my concern.”
“Do you ever spend any time in Little Hill State Park?” Bryers asked.
It was the look that Curtis gave them that made Mackenzie realize without a doubt that Curtis Palmer might be guilty of a lot of things, but the murder of Jon Torrence was not one of them.
“What for?” he asked. “There’s some good land over there, but the fucking park rangers think they’re GI Joe. No hunting. No trespassing. Useless land to me.”
Mackenzie gave a nod and turned away. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Palmer,” she said.
Curtis Palmer made a huffing sarcastic noise in response. Mackenzie didn’t bother looking back to him a single time as she made her way to the car. As she opened the passenger side door, Bryers stepped close to her and eyed her with a bit of disappointment.
“That’s it?” he asked.
“Yeah. He’s scum, but he’s not a killer. There’s no way.”
Bryers shrugged and looked back to the porch where Curtis had already gone back inside. “Yeah, I sort of agree. It was certainly worth checking out, though.”
With that, Bryers got back behind the wheel of the car. When he cranked the engine to life, the old dog started howling again but did not see the point in getting to its feet. As Bryers backed out of the dirt driveway, Mackenzie pulled out her phone and selected a number she had recently programmed in.
The phone rang twice in her ear before it was answered.
“Hi, Sheriff Clements? It’s Mackenzie White. I was wondering if you might have some time to speak.”
“Yeah, I’ve got a few minutes. What can I do for you?”
“We were in town to speak with Pamela Torrence and thought we’d follow up on one of the files in the documents the state PD sent over late yesterday.”
“Which file is that?” Clements asked.
“The apparent abduction of Will Albrecht,” Mackenzie said. “We had planned on speaking to family members while we were here today only to find that there don’t seem to be any.”
“Yeah, that sounds about right,” Clements said. “After Will went missing and the case sort of dead-ended, the Albrechts left town. Last I heard they were somewhere out in California with family on the father’s side.”
“How involved were the state police with that case?”
“Not too heavily,” Clements said. “Only when the press started covering it. Keep in mind, though…I was pretty low in the ranks back then. I think I’d been a policeman for about two or three years when Will Albrecht went missing. I remember scant details, but nothing solid.”
“And to your knowledge, he was never found?” Mackenzie asked. “Dead or alive?”
“Not that I know of.”
“Do you think his disappearance might be linked to these killings in any way?”
“Probably not,” he replied after some thought. “Why? Do you?”
“I have no idea,” Mackenzie said. “But given the little bit I know about the case, it has to be considered.”
“If you’ll stick around for a few minutes, I’ll make a call to records and see if I can get you everything we have on that. Come by the station in a bit and I’ll see that you get them.”
They ended the call and Mackenzie got the feeling that she might have won Clements over. Either that or he was just much more helpful and less irritating on the phone.
Outside, the afternoon wound down to evening as they headed over to the Strasburg PD in the hopes that a file from almost twenty years ago would reveal some answers to what the media was grossly calling the Campground Killer case.
CHAPTER NINE
Mackenzie felt like she was living in a rerun—almost like Bill Murray in Groundhog Day. It was reaching seven p.m. when Mackenzie finally made it home that night. While the drive to Strasburg wasn’t really that long, the four hours of total driving time not only seemed like a waste, but it was also surprisingly draining.
She took only twenty minutes to shower, make a sandwich, and grab a beer before she opened up the file folder she had taken with her from the Strasburg PD. Clements had showed great pride in handing it over—almost like he was giving her the keys to some kingdom she was unaware of.
The folder contained more than twenty pages detailing the disappearance of Will Albrecht nineteen years ago. She’d gone over them in the car with Bryers at the wheel but had not been able to fully concentrate on them. She pored over them now, in the quiet solitude of her kitchen, eating her meager dinner and taking in the details of the case.
The material in the folder told a simple yet sad story.
Will Albrecht had gone missing at the age of seven. His parents had, at the time, lived half a mile from Little Hill State Park. Almost every weekend, they would take a walk down to the park and either hike, go fishing, or have a picnic. Once Will learned how to ride his bike, he would take it with them, pedaling down the paved trails and experimenting with his skill on the bumpier foot trails.
One day, when the Albrechts had gone to the park with plans for a picnic lunch and some fishing afterward, Will had gotten a little too far ahead of them on one of the footpaths. According to Mary Albrecht, Will had gone around a small curb that went down a hill. He was there one moment and then gone with a shout of joy as the bike took the hill. She called out to him once before Stan, her husband, had shook his head and said they should let him have some fun with it.
Twenty sec
onds later, when they got to the bottom of the hill Will had ridden down, Will was nowhere to be found. They scrambled ahead a few more feet (the police reports placed this distance as exactly eighty feet) before they found Will’s bike. It had been upended, the handlebars turned almost completely around.
Their first worry was that he had lost control and been thrown from the bike. But a quick search of the wooded area around the trail turned up nothing. They searched fruitlessly for fifteen minutes before heading back to the welcome center to use their phone. It took twenty-five minutes for the first cop to arrive. Within an hour, five more had arrived.
Within eight hours, there was a town-wide search for Will Albrecht.
His body was never found and although the investigation went on for the better part of a year, not a shred of evidence was ever found to suggest what might have happened. No traces of blood or foul play. No traces that he had wrecked, banged his head, and simply went wandering out into the woods. By all accounts and purposes, Will Albrecht had simply disappeared.
There was nothing in the reports that Mackenzie could use other than the names of the officers that had led the charge on the case. She had copied these down and planned to use them if she continued to feel as if the abduction was somehow related to the murders.
She tried her best to place herself in the position of someone that would not only abduct a kid and but also kill people, butcher them significantly, and then scatter the remains in a state park. To dump the remains on government property was a ballsy move. It further reinforced her theory that the killer knew the area well—a local or someone with an almost intimate knowledge of the park.
Twenty seconds, she thought. That’s all it took for the abductor to snatch up Will and get far enough way into the woods to conceal himself.
Something about that scenario unnerved her. Twenty seconds…that spoke of planning, knowing exactly where to grab Will, and how to get away without so much as a noise.