Persecution

by C. A. Shives

  "What do you expect?" she asked, her voice taut with anger. "You haven't done anything to find Charlotte. You've been so wrapped up in these homicides that you've completely forgotten about my cousin."

  "I want to find Charlotte as much as you do," Tucker said. "But we've had three murders in this town. I have to investigate them, dammit. What kind of police chief would I be if I let a killer run loose?"

  Tears slipped from Elizabeth's eyes and spilled onto her shirt. "You've taken Art, too. I asked him to find Charlotte. I asked him to work for me. But you've wrapped him up in these murders, even though you knew that a homicide is like a drug to him. Even though you knew he'd stop looking for Charlotte and start looking for a killer."

  "I think the homicides and Charlotte's disappearance are related," Herne said. "I think there's a connection. If we find the killer, then we'll find Charlotte."

  "And in the meantime," Elizabeth said, "Charlotte's just rotting somewhere. Maybe being abused. Maybe being tortured. Maybe even dead." She pushed her chair from the table and let one sob escape before she ran from the room.

  For a moment Herne and Tucker sat without speaking. Neither one mentioned the truth that hung between them: Charlotte was likely already dead.

  Herne stood and poured himself two fingers of whiskey from the bottle on the sideboard. Tucker watched without comment.

  The acrid odor of the booze mingled with the Italian herbs that wafted in the air. Herne inhaled the scent of his drink deeply, and then brought the glass to his lips. When the first burn of the liquor seared his throat, Herne sighed with relief. He didn't feel less tense or less stress. He didn't feel less guilt. But he knew—if he drank enough—he'd be able to temporarily forget the failings that taunted him every waking moment.

  "Let's talk about this case before you fall into the fucking oblivion," Tucker said.

  "I'm just having one drink," Herne lied. "I'm fine."

  He sat back in his chair and pushed his plate away. Elizabeth's spaghetti—the perfect combination of sweet and spicy and garlicky—had lost all appeal after the whiskey touched his tongue.

  "Killer X seems to leave us plenty of clues," Tucker said. "Are we all so fucking dumb that we can't figure them out?"

  Herne shrugged. "It seems that way."

  "I don't believe it," Tucker said. "We're just not looking at things from the right angle. Take the eyes. Why does he cut them out?"

  "He wants them to be literally blind," Herne said.

  "But why?"

  "Because they've been metaphorically blind their whole lives. That's basically what Janie told us he said to her husband."

  Tucker stood and paced the room, his long legs striding quickly. Herne knew his friend preferred to be on his feet when he was thinking.

  "What have they been blind to? What is it they don't see?"

  "That's the big question," Herne said. "Answer that and we find our guy."

  Tucker nodded and stopped in his tracks. "It fits with Bobby Flynn. I still think he’s our best suspect. He’s accused these men of killing his daughter. Maybe he thinks they were blind to the damage they did. Or blinded by the money they saved by using an inferior product."

  "That's a stretch," Herne said.

  Tucker suddenly shifted gears and began pacing again. "And what about the X carved on the victims? What the hell does that mean?"

  "A signature of some kind," Herne said. "But not an identifier. Not a calling card."

  "How do you know?" Tucker asked. "How do you know the X isn't just his way of signing his artwork?"

  "Because he's already signed it," Herne said. "He cuts out their eyes. He slices them open from their crotch to their chest. He lets their guts spill onto the floor. And he uses the same drug and the same knife every time. He doesn't need to sign his artwork. It's as distinctive as a Monet painting."

  Tucker nodded and continued to pace, his feet silent on the thick carpet of the dining room. "Then why carve the X?"

  "It has some type of meaning," Herne said. "Something personal."

  "An initial?" Tucker asked.

  Herne shrugged. "Maybe. Though I doubt it would be that simple."

  Tucker suddenly stopped in his tracks, his eyes wide. He whistled low.

  "What?" Herne asked.

  "Bobby Flynn's daughter. I just remembered her name."

  Herne waited for Tucker to continue.

  "Xoe."

  “Zooey? Like that J.D. Salinger book?”

  Tucker shook his head. "Christ, the stuff you know amazes me. When the hell have you ever read a book? But no, the Flynn girl's name wasn't spelled with a Z. It was spelled with an X as the first letter. X. O. E. I remember seeing it in the file and thinking that it was an unusual name."

  Herne said nothing. His gut twisted at the thought that Bobby Flynn might be convicted of the string of murders they were investigating. If Bobby is the perpetrator, Herne thought, he deserved every moment of his revenge.

  Tucker slammed his fist on the table. "It's him. Flynn is our man. I'm fucking sure of it."

  "Don't be so certain," Herne said. "We have no idea if that X is an initial. And we've got other suspects that look good, too. Jeffrey McNeil was having an affair with Charlotte and lost money investing in Hayes Construction. It's possible there were other shady business deals going on there, too, that we haven't yet uncovered. And then there's Eric Barber. We've barely looked into him at all, and he had a motive for killing those men. Word on the street is that he hated them all."

  Tucker looked bleak. "So we're not any closer to finding the killer," he said. "Christ. Elizabeth is going to hate me soon. She already leaves the room almost every time I walk into it."

  "We're getting closer," Herne said. "We have suspects. And we're closing the gap between him and us. I can feel the circle tightening around him."

  And I hope that he can feel it, too, Herne thought.

  CHAPTER 21

  NOVEMBER 11 - SUNDAY MORNING

  Herne knew how he looked. He wore dark sunglasses to hide his bloodshot eyes, but he knew everyone saw the stubble on his face and the slight tremor of his hand. Telltale signs of a man coming down from a bender. He tossed a handful of breath mints into his mouth knowing they did nothing to mask the smell of whiskey that coated his tongue or the cigarette smoke that enveloped his black leather jacket.

  But he ignored their stares. He had a job to do.

  Tucker had called him at seven o'clock in the morning. In Herne's estimation, that time of day was ungodly even when he hadn't polished off almost a fifth of whiskey the night before.

  Unlike the city alleys Herne remembered from Philadelphia, the area behind Shady Hill Diner was clean and neat. There were no cardboard shelters for homeless vagrants. No piles of rubble. No needles left behind by junkies. No urine soaked newspapers.

  Instead, the small alley contained nothing more than two dumpsters.

  And a dead body.

  Herne smelled the death in the air—sour, bitter, bloody—before he saw the man lying on the ground, his body only partially hidden by the large blue trash receptacle. Tucker and Lee stood over the body, their tones hushed as they talked. A few feet away, Fiona snapped photographs with her camera. Saxon stood at the back door of the diner, and Miller's large frame blocked the entrance of the alleyway to prevent a passerby from viewing the crime scene.

  "Jesus, Art," Tucker said as Herne approached the body. "You smell like a damn brewery. What happened to your promise to only have one drink last night?"

  Herne glanced at Saxon and thought about the promise Tucker had once made to Elizabeth on their wedding day. "Don't talk to me about promises," Herne snarled.

  Tucker recoiled but didn't respond. But Herne knew that eventually the two of them would be revisiting the subject during another conversation.

  "So what do we have here?" Herne asked.

  "Looks like our killer struck again," Tucker said. "Same MO. Sliced 'em open like a deer carcass. Carved an X on his ass. Cut out h
is eyeballs."

  Herne looked at the victim's face. Although blood ran from the empty eye sockets and almost obscured the man's facial features, Herne recognized him immediately. "That's Johnny. He works here."

  "That's right," Tucker said. "Sheila found the body. She's pretty freaked out about it. Said she came out here to look for Johnny. They were getting ready to open this morning and figured he was out here smoking a cigarette before they unlocked the doors. Johnny's job wasn't vital—he was just a busboy and dishwasher and sometimes a cook—but she wanted to make sure he'd finished cleaning the men's room."

  "So when did he work for Hayes Construction?" Herne asked.

  "That's the fucked up thing," Tucker said. "He's never worked for Hayes Construction. In fact, Johnny was a transplant. He's only been in Hurricane for about three years. No one knows quite sure where he was before. I think there were rumors he was from Mississippi or Georgia. He had a southern drawl when he talked. I guess we all kinda took him for a drifter and figured he'd be on his way again sometime soon."

  "He's lived here three years and everyone considered him a drifter?" Herne asked. "How long do you have to live in this town to become a local?"

  Tucker paused. "I guess you usually gotta be born here."

  "Guess I’ll be a transplant for the rest of my days,” Herne commented.

  “Probably,” Tucker agreed.

  “So he didn't go to school with the other victims, right?"

  "Nope. In fact, I don't know if there's a connection between them at all. I've never seen Johnny hanging at the bar with those other boys. Never seen 'em running around town together. In fact, I don't think the men from Hayes Construction would have given a guy like Johnny the time of day. They were born and bred Hurricane folks. They didn't like outsiders much."

  Herne turned to Lee. "Anything new here, Doc?"

  "Well, I'll have to do a proper examination to tell you more. But something tells me this one is a little different than the others."

  "Different how?"

  The Asian doctor hitched his pants and met Herne's gaze. "I don't really want to go on record until I get a closer look."

  Herne offered what he hoped was a friendly grin. "Just give me your hunch, Doc. That's all I need. As a favor."

  Doc chuckled. “I never thought I’d hear you asking me for a favor,” he said. “But I guess it won’t hurt to tell you my hunch. This murder feels hurried. Faster. The incisions are sloppier. Not as precise or as neat. It's almost as if he ripped out Johnny's eyeballs instead of cutting them. Same with the X on the buttock. It's edges are jagged. It barely looks like an X."

  "A copy cat?" Tucker asked.

  "Impossible," Herne said. "We haven't leaked news about the X to the press. No one knows."

  "Janie Montgomery knows her husband had something carved on his ass."

  "But she doesn't know it was an X. It could've been a rainbow for all she knows."

  "So what does it mean?" Tucker asked. "Who was this guy to our killer?"

  Herne turned to Lee. "Was Johnny drugged?"

  "I don't know with any certainty, but I'd guess so given the injection site on his neck. Whoever Killer X may be, he certainly has a supply of sodium thiopental at his disposal."

  "And you say it's used in hospitals, right? Before surgery?"

  "Sometimes," Lee said. "Though not often. It's probably more frequently used in veterinarian offices. And, of course, before a criminal is given a lethal injection."

  Herne's grin was grim. "Bobby Flynn used to give the big jab at SCI," he said. "He might have had access to that drug."

  "So let's ask him some questions," Tucker said.

  Herne shook his head. "I've already asked him questions. He might be our guy. Maybe. But he's no fool. We're going to have to have some evidence first, or he'll lawyer up like McNeil."

  "Yeah. Jeffrey McNeil tops my list of suspects," Tucker said. "There's something not right about that guy."

  "He's hiding something," Herne agreed. "I don’t think he’s hiding evidence of murder or Charlotte’s body, but I'm not sure what his secret is. But I intend to find out."

  Tucker gave him a sidelong glance. "What do you mean?"

  "Don't worry about it," Herne said. "I'll take care of it."

  Tucker sighed. "That's what I'm afraid of."

  ~ ~ ~ ~

  On Sunday mornings, most Hurricane residents could be found in one of two places: the Holloway Baptist Church or the United Methodist Church. A few rebels attended the Catholic services in nearby Chambersburg.

  Immediately after Sunday services, everyone went out to eat. The “Sunday Dinner” was a big ritual in Hurricane, and typically involved a heavy, hearty meal. The Shady Hill Diner would feature specials like roast turkey and stuffing, lasagna and garlic bread, or sirloin steaks with mashed potatoes. Customers would line up at the door, sometimes waiting an hour before being seated in the small dining room. But the diner was closed this afternoon because of Johnny’s murder. Herne knew most folks would probably head out of town for lunch rather than slum at Woo’s Chinese Garden or Sal’s Pizza.

  Herne didn't know if Jeffrey McNeil was Baptist or Methodist. But he was willing to stake his reputation on the belief that the Physician Assistant and his wife stepped out for Sunday services like the rest of the local residents. In Hurricane, avoiding church would be akin to admitting one was an atheist. And for an up-and-coming medical professional like McNeil, that would be social suicide in a small town.

  No one answered Herne's knock on the McNeil's door, so he slipped around back. He wasn't concerned about being witnessed by a neighbor. A large privacy fence—a hate fence, as Maggie always called them—circled the entire backyard. The moment Herne slipped past the garage, he was invisible to any prying eyes.

  The lock on the back door was laughably flimsy but not unusual in a small town, where folks frequently left their windows open and their doors unlocked. Herne's own back door had two deadbolts and a heavy-duty chain. Security was a habit from his days in a city.

  He jimmied his debit card in between the door and the frame, then gave it a quick shove upward against the lock to disable it. Easier than getting money from the ATM, Herne thought. He entered the door swiftly and closed it behind him. If luck was against him and the McNeils returned before he left, he wanted the house to appear as if it hadn’t been violated so their guard would be down.

  Knowing that McNeil lived with his wife and a child, Herne skipped the usual hiding places. Kitchens were common stash spots for most criminals, but not with an inquisitive young kid in the home. People also loved to hide things in bedrooms, but not if they were also keeping the secret from their spouse.

  So Herne went in search of a den, an office, or a room that seemed to belong to McNeil only. He found it on the basement level. A small office had been created in the same room that held the hot water heater. Barely bigger than a walk-in closet, the room contained a desk, a chair, a file cabinet, bookshelves, and a laptop computer. Herne recognized it immediately as McNeil's when he saw the Physician Assistant Practice Exam textbook on the desk.

  Herne didn't bother to examine the computer. Although not a complete neophyte to technology, Herne wasn't exactly a tech expert. Searching someone else's computer for hidden files would require time and patience on his part. So he left the laptop for last in his search. If the rest of the room revealed nothing, then he'd take it when he left and review it in the privacy of his own home. And if it came to that, Herne would trash the office so it looked like a random burglary.

  The file cabinet was the first thing he searched, and he found nothing. Some old tax returns. A file of receipts. A few credit card slips. It was devoid of anything nefarious.

  Herne stood back and examined the books on the shelves. They were mostly medical reference books. Gray's Anatomy. The Physician’s Desk Reference. The Merck Manual. All of them seem related to McNeil's job.

  All except one.

  In the middle of the third shelf
sat a thick tome titled The Complete Works of Edgar Allan Poe. The only thing Herne knew about Poe was that he was a drunk. And a drug addict.

  Herne opened the book.

  The pages had been hollowed out to create a cavity between the covers of the book. Inside the cavity were four prescription pads. Each one was from a different hospital or medical practice. Behind the pads was a plastic baggie with an assortment of pills. Among them Herne immediately recognized hydrocodone and oxycodone. He had become intimately familiar with them after Maggie's death.

  The book also contained cash rolled into a wad and secured with a rubber band.

  Herne slammed the book shut and placed it back on the shelf without removing the contents. Now he knew McNeil's secret.

  He thought about McNeil. Despite his muscular physique, the man was weak. Sad. Cowardly. Pathetic. Herne didn't think McNeil had the guts to kill Charlotte even if she had discovered his hidden crime.

  No, Herne thought. Jeffrey McNeil is not our guy.

  But rather than feeling disappointed, Herne grinned. Another suspect had been eliminated. He was getting closer to finding the real killer.

  And maybe finding Charlotte.

  ~ ~ ~ ~

  Fatigue had seeped into her bones, making every movement laborious. Lack of food and water had finally taken its toll on her. She had no vibrancy left. No energy. No hope.

  The coil of the mattress spring had not broken off despite all her efforts. She had bent it—back and forth and back and forth—thousands of times, willing it to snap off in her hand. But it stubbornly refused to break, and now she felt too weary to continue with a task that yielded no result.

  She curled on the mattress, her arms wrapped around her legs, too tired to feel the cold dampness of the basement or the perpetual ache that throbbed in her muscles. A pounding headache thumped inside of her skull as the tears slid down her face.

  Charlotte knew she was doomed. Knew that there was nothing left for her except to become another victim in Trout’s sick game. Knew that she would be a decaying corpse before anyone ever found her. Knew there was no hope of rescuing herself. Knew death was her only escape.