Kaitlyn moved toward the living room, picking up the cordless phone from the kitchen counter as she did. She dialed as she pulled the curtains in the darkened living room open. The morning sun brightened the room as she listened to the phone ring. Her call was answered almost immediately.
“WPLX, how can I direct your call?”
“Sammy? It’s Kaitlyn.”
Sammy gasped and said, “Oh my god. Are you okay? We all heard what happened. It’s terrible.”
“Yes, I’m—”
“And in your neighborhood, too. Is there no place safe anymore? You must be devastated.”
Kaitlyn gazed out the window at her front yard. “It hasn’t been—”
“And you just got engaged too? I can’t believe this happened, to you of all people. I’m so sorry. Do the police know who did it yet?”
“They’re still—”
“Everybody’s been asking about you. Why didn’t you call sooner? We’ve all been worried sick, especially me. Even Ben Maxwell called yesterday. Said he saw your name in Sunday’s Post-Gazette and wanted to pass on his condolences.”
Kaitlyn smiled. Maxwell was the owner of an auto dealership conglomerate called Maxwell Auto Group. She’d voiced all of their radio spots for the past two years at his express request. “That’s nice of him. Can you—”
“Are you home? Don’t tell me you’re home. You are home, aren’t you? How can you stand to be there? You shouldn’t be alone. I’ll come right over and stay with you. Aren’t you—”
“Sammy!”
“Huh? What?”
“Is Scott in?”
There was a pause from Sammy over the phone. “Sorry, did I just verbally vomit all over you? Of course, I did. Let me get him for you . . . Before I do, I just want to say you should call me if you need anything. Okay? Anything at all. Any time for anything. You don’t have to go through this alone.”
The phone went silent for a moment. While she waited, Kaitlyn walked up the stairs to her bedroom. She stood in the door, surveying the dark room. Another voice came on the phone.
“Kaitlyn? How’re you doing?”
She crossed to the bedroom window, raising the blinds. “I’ve had better days, Scott.”
“I can’t begin to imagine what you’re going through. Don’t worry about coming in. Take as much time as you need.”
She moved to the dresser along the far wall, straightening a Chanel No. 5 bottle that had been knocked onto its side. She frowned. “But who’s going to fill—”
“Don’t you worry about that,” said Scott. “You just do what you need to do. Let me deal with covering your show. Might even do it myself.”
Kaitlyn laughed. “Scott, you haven’t been on the air for years.”
“That’s what happens when you go into management. You stop doing all the fun shit.”
The drawer of the end table by the bed was ajar. She pushed it closed with her knee. “Just a few days. I’ve got a few things to do before I come back to work.”
“As long as you’re coming back, that’s all that matters.”
“I will. Promise.”
“Great. Take care. Call if you need anything,” Scott said. “Do you want me to pass you back to Sammy?”
“No, she’s talked my ear off enough for one day. Thanks, Scott.”
After hanging up, she tossed the phone on the bed and frowned. She walked to the dresser and pulled open the top drawer. Brushing aside the underwear within, she searched the back of the drawer. There was nothing there. She ran her hand all around the drawer and pushed the contents from side to side as she did. Her chest tightened and she struggled for a breath.
She pushed the drawer closed and searched the one below it, and then ransacked the one below that. When she’d been through all five drawers, she returned to the top one again, yanking her clothes out and tossing them on the bed in an unruly pile. Kaitlyn sifted through the collection of lace and cotton but found nothing. She jerked back from the bed and ran both hands through her hair, then turned to glare at the empty drawer.
Jesse’s necklace was gone.
27
Rodney stepped out into the cool Philadelphia morning air. Although his interview with Kevin O’Neill hadn’t gone well, he felt like he’d made some progress. Kevin was now his prime suspect. His evidence was barely circumstantial. He wasn’t even sure if he had enough to justify bringing Kevin in for further questioning. But he might have found his first lead.
He checked his watch. It was closing in on noon. He glanced back up at the Stetler building. Twenty floors up, Kevin O’Neill was busy with his show. He would be off the air at 3:00. Rodney pondered his next step. Stick around until 3:00 and question him again? Maybe. But first, he needed to grab some lunch. He looked along the busy city street. A couple blocks down he saw a food truck. He couldn’t read the name on the back, but there was a line of people—ten or twelve deep—waiting to be served. Must not be too bad. It’s worth a shot.
As he strolled along the sidewalk—hands buried in his pockets—he thought back to what he’d found in Kevin O’Neill’s desk drawer. Beneath the various magazines were three old yearbooks, all from different schools, all with different years stamped on the front cover.
He lifted the first one out and found a page marked by a Post-It note. On the page, there was a photo circled in black ink. The young face looked vaguely familiar. The name below it was Scott MacKay. Some notes were scrawled in the margin near the image. Dates as well as some illegible scribble. The second yearbook was from a high school in North Carolina. The marked page contained a photograph that Rodney didn’t recognize. The name was Justin Newman. Might be the night DJ. There were more notes beside the image. Some dates. A few initials. He couldn’t make sense out of them.
He lifted the third book from the drawer. The high school was located in New Jersey. He flipped to the page marked by the yellow Post-It Note. He gasped. The face that stared back at him was his daughter. He looked it again. No, it wasn’t his daughter. He read the name below the image. Laura Hobson. It was circled in black ink, and whoever did it had gone around and around numerous times. There were more notes in the margins; the handwriting almost unintelligible.
For a moment, Rodney considered going to the studio and confronting Kevin with the yearbook. But he had no search warrant. No reason even to look in the desk. All this proved was that Kevin knew who Kaitlyn Ashe really was. It proved nothing else. It was suspicious, but nothing more. This evidence would never stand up in court. Probably would be thrown out immediately. He was out of his jurisdiction, and out of line searching the desk drawer in the first place. But he now had some direction. Something to dig into further. He finally had a suspect.
He continued to walk toward the food truck, pausing at an intersection to wait for the traffic lights to turn. He glanced around at the gathering throng of pedestrians. Some were lost in their own world, earbuds blocking out the city noise. Others were busy—heads down—thumbing away on their mobile phones. Some were in suits, some in tight Lycra fitness wear. Still others were dressed business casual attire. Dockers. Polos. Skirts.
The crossing sign indicated that it was safe to walk. The small horde of people pushed forward into the crosswalk. Rodney wasn’t in a hurry, so he was slow to move. Someone smacked into his shoulder, throwing him off balance. He spun and staggered for a moment before righting himself in the middle of the crosswalk. He searched the crowd ahead of him, trying to identify who had knocked against him.
Someone in a gray sweatshirt was moving rapidly away. The hoodie was pulled up over the person’s head. Rodney weaved forward through the mass of people, but his progress was slow. He tried to keep his eyes on the gray hoodie. The crowd thinned once he reached the other side of the street. He increased his pace to catch up. The figure had turned into a nearby alley between two office buildings. But, when he arrived at the entrance, there was no one in sight. Rodney stood for a few moments, looking at the passing faces, hoping to catch sight
of the figure. After a few minutes, he gave up. It was probably nothing anyway.
He turned back toward the food truck and moved on down the street. An uneasy sensation hung over him. Was he being followed? Was he being watched?
After lunch, Rodney made his way back to the radio station. It was 1:20 in the afternoon when he arrived at the entrance to the parking garage. He rode the elevator up to the twenty-third floor where his car was parked. As he exited the lift, he took a final swig from his bottle of Lipton Iced Tea. He tossed the bottle into a nearby trash can and walked toward his Dodge.
While eating lunch, Rodney had decided that he wouldn’t confront Kevin O’Neill just yet with the yearbooks. He wanted to talk with Bernie first, get his opinion on how to handle the situation. The legality of his discovery was questionable. If it was legitimate evidence, it would be best to get it through proper channels.
As he approached his car, he noticed something white caught beneath his windshield wiper. It flapped in the breeze that blew through the garage. He drew closer and stared at the folded piece of paper. He opened the passenger door and grabbed some gloves from his glovebox. Rodney lifted the paper from the windshield and opened it. His eyes narrowed as he read the message composed of newspaper clippings.
Stay out of this.
The Shallows
28
After fixing herself a bowl of Cheerios, Kaitlyn sat at the kitchen table. With her spoon, she toyed with the cereal for several minutes before pushing the bowl away from her. She didn’t have much of an appetite. The tea in her mug had grown lukewarm. She frowned when she took a sip.
“What do I do now?” she asked out loud.
The only answer was dead air. Kaitlyn dumped the cereal in the trash and set the bowl in the kitchen sink. The spoon rattled loudly when it fell into the bowl. She gazed out the window, staring across the cemetery beyond. How did it come to this? She’d been happy, successful, and in love. In a matter of weeks, it had all come crashing down. All because of one moment in her past. So many years had come and gone, yet she was still haunted by a single memory. Still haunted by his face as it slipped beneath the water. She’d changed her name, left the area for almost a decade, undergone years of therapy, all to rid herself of the nightmare. She’d been far along the road to recovery. Yet, somehow Jesse had reached out from the grave to hurt her one more time.
She moved into the living room, lowered herself onto the sofa, and grabbed the remote. She turned on the television to find the Channel Six noon newscast, which had started a few minutes before. A reporter stood outside of Philadelphia Police headquarters. “. . . of the LGBTQ community are outraged over the police’s lack of progress in finding the GBT Strangler. The unknown assailant, who has strangled seven victims, seems to prey on homosexual, bisexual, and transgender men. Police say the GBT Strangler uses a rope or thick cord to kill his victims and . . .”
Kaitlyn turned off the television and sat in silence. What kind of evil world did she live in? A strangler stalked the streets of Philadelphia and another stalked her. What could make someone take another’s life? What defect within someone’s psyche would lead them to kill? She recalled the blood covering Brad when she discovered his body. So red. So deeply red. His lifeless face staring through the windshield. His skin blanched white from blood loss.
Tears streamed down her cheeks. Could it be the same person? Could GBT be Brad’s killer? She thought through what she knew about the strangler. It wasn’t much. She’d not paid much attention to the news of late. What she did know was that Brad wasn’t strangled. He was stabbed through the throat. Did serial murderers change—what did the police call it—their MO? She shook her head. It didn’t make sense. None of it made sense. And what about the letters? Someone was making a point of reminding her of Jesse’s death. She couldn’t think of anyone who knew about the connection between Kaitlyn Ashe and Jesse Riley. Yet, someone had made the connection.
In the bedroom, Kaitlyn placed the laundry basket on the floor and started to pull clothes from the hamper. She picked out each item of clothing and gave it a quick once over before dumping it into the basket. A pair of blue jeans. A white frilly blouse. Pink lace panties with red hearts embroidered on them—Brad’s favorite. One sock. A couple T-shirts.
When she pulled an Oxford shirt from the hamper, Kaitlyn dropped to her knees. She drew the shirt to her face and sniffed. Brad’s scent still lingered within the fabric. A sweet, musky aroma mingled with Old Spice. A momentary smile formed on her lips as she remembered the last night he’d spent at her house. It had been the Tuesday before he died, less than a week ago. He’d brought Chinese takeout to the studio, then drove her home when her shift was over. He hadn’t intended to stay the night, but Kaitlyn had been overly persuasive.
“Lucky I’ve left a couple spare shirts in your closet,” he’d said as his naked body pressed against hers beneath the sheets.
The memory was too painful, and Kaitlyn broke down, pressing the balled-up fabric against her chest as she sobbed. Her tears cascaded down her cheeks and fell onto the shirt.
She buried her face in the shirt and squeezed her eyes into the soft cotton. Kaitlyn felt alone, lost in a world of despair that was out of her control. How long was she supposed to keep running from the past? All those friends she’d kept at arm’s length. She didn’t want to hurt them. Or was it that she didn’t want to be hurt? Back then, she’d promised herself that she wouldn’t let this happen again. Not ever. No one would ever get a chance to do what Jesse had done.
As her sobbing abated, Kaitlyn dropped the shirt back into the hamper. She wasn’t ready to deal with this yet. The emotions were still too raw. What she needed was something to take her mind off everything, even if only for an hour. Rising from the floor she crossed to the dresser and rifled through one of the drawers. She tossed a T-shirt onto the bed, along with a pair of running shorts.
A good run. That’s what I need.
A faint crispness still hung in the midday air as Kaitlyn stepped out of the back door into her yard. The mist that had earlier laid low across the cemetery had cleared. She could see straight across to the wooded boundary on the far side. Row upon row of stone grave markers stood like an army frozen in an eternal march across the field behind her house. She shuddered, realizing how much she hated living by a cemetery. She slipped her earbuds into place and jogged off along Belmont Avenue.
When she turned off the road onto the Heritage Trail, Kaitlyn fell into her usual cadence and was surprised at how easy it was to lose herself to the run. Between the music playing in her ears and the feeling of her feet pounding on the ground, she was able to momentarily forget.
With each step synchronized with the beat of the music, Kaitlyn continued to run along the trail. Despite her sense of calm, she kept a wary eye on her surroundings. She was alone, a thought she tried to push to the back of her mind. She pressed on, running as if nothing had happened. Running as if Brad was still alive.
As she rounded a bend, the overhead tree branches thickened, blocking the sun and casting the trail in shadows. The temperature dropped by a few degrees. Up ahead, she saw a figure hunched over on one of the benches that lined the side of the trail. The face was obscured by a chaotic mass of dark hair. The clothes looked grimy and unkempt. Kaitlyn tried not to think about the figure as she drew closer, but her hand consciously tightened around the small pepper spray canister on her keychain. She drifted to the opposite side of the trail, feeling a wave of unease creep along her spine. As she passed the bench, the figure rose and stepped toward her. The man’s face was cracked with the signs of a hard life. The stubble on his chin was thick and rough. He extended his hand toward her.
Kaitlyn stumbled away from him. His lips were moving, but she couldn’t hear the words. She threw her arms up as if to defend herself from his advances.
“Get away from me.”
He continued to move toward her. Kaitlyn backed away, her arms waving violently at him. She knocked an earbud from he
r ear. “Leave me alone!”
The man said, “Can you spare—”
Kaitlyn didn’t hear anything else he said. She pressed the button on the pepper spray, but nothing happened. Frantic, she pounded on it, then fumbled with the safety, releasing a giant cloud of acid rain into her attacker’s face.
29
Rodney finished speaking with the uniformed officer who stood near the ambulance. When he received the initial call from dispatch, he feared the worst. All they told him was that there had been an “incident” with Kaitlyn Ashe on the Cynwyd Heritage Trail. He breathed a sigh of relief when he arrived and found Kaitlyn sitting in a police car, wiping her face and eyes with a wet towel. The uniformed officer on the scene detailed what had happened. It sounded like nothing more than a misunderstanding. A homeless man had approached Kaitlyn for money. In her panic, she misinterpreted his intentions and sprayed him with pepper spray. When she realized her mistake, she called the police. It was an honest mistake.
On the drive over, he’d listened to WPLX, and in particular to Kevin O’Neill. He didn’t know much about broadcasting, but Kevin seemed tongue-tied. He stumbled over his words more than once and sounded flustered on the air. Had Rodney struck an unknown nerve? There were no direct clues pointing toward Kevin O’Neill except the yearbooks. Hell, they weren’t even clues. Just happenstance. But Rodney’s gut told him that Kevin was not who he appeared. Something was off. Something just wasn’t right.
Rodney thanked the officer and turned toward the nearby police cruiser. He glanced around. The hairs on his neck tingled. He’d swear that someone was watching him. He couldn’t see anyone in the nearby trees, or even in the cemetery beyond. He shrugged off the sensation, then walked to the police cruiser. He thought about the letter he found on his car just an hour ago. A warning. Was he getting closer than he thought? Someone seemed to think so. Best not to mention it to Kaitlyn.
Dead Air Page 15