by Jette Harris
“She got him good,” he observed, passing the photo to Remington. Tech made a feeble attempt to smirk. “And,” Steyer added, “she’s still alive.” A broad grin broke across his face.
“So, this,” Tech took the photo back, “is the fella who… who—uh…” He smirked as if he were about to crack one of his famous jokes, but faltered. His face flushed with rage. He flicked the photo. “This is the motherfucker fucking my granddaughter. He’s in fine form, ain’t he?”
Steyer nodded. He plucked the photo out of Tech’s hands, bagged it, and tucked it in his breast pocket.
“Well,” Tech continued, “I guess he would have to be, to survive resourceful little girls assaulting him with tubes of toothpaste…”
“Look at me,” Steyer said. “We can use this. This is hope right here. Heather is alive. It’s not too late. We can bring her home, Tech.”
****
Steyer sent Tech upstairs to regroup and take a shower, and the agents began to bag and label the contents of the box. Remington folded the shirt with care and slipped it in. A sweet, sickly smell wafted up as it hit the bottom. He snorted it out, then sniffed the bag.
“What is it?” Steyer asked.
Remington held the bag out. “What does that smell like to you?”
Hesitantly, Steyer leaned his face closer. His brow furrowed. He capped the Sharpie in his hand and pulled the bag up to his nose, inhaling deeply.
“Is it…” He sniffed again. “Apples?”
“Some kind of fruit,” Remington confirmed, smelling the bag again. “Rotting.”
Steyer glanced around and lifted Heather’s well-worn flip-flops. He sniffed and nodded. “Rotten apples.”
Remington raised an eyebrow. “Did the Phoenix go digging in the garbage for this stuff? Why?”
Steyer shrugged. “Perhaps he threw them away, then changed his mind.”
Remington shook his head. “It doesn’t make sense.”
Steyer slid his hands into his pockets and looked over the items: t-shirt, jeans, the photograph, a wallet. It would be at least two weeks before every item would get inspected and analyzed. He shook his head. “Put that on the list of things to ask while we’re interrogating him.”
“That list keeps growing.” Remington gave the t-shirt one last sniff, then sealed it. “It’s been over ten days. Why would he hold on to his garbage that long?”
****
Garbage pick-up did not come to the house, and Rhodes never thought he would come to appreciate that fact. Six large utility-sized garbage bags sat in a line along the back of the house, mostly clean-up and construction waste. Two of the begs contained the hostages’ clothes, shoes, and a few other paltry belongings, mixed in with remodeling debris (the boys’) and various household garbage (the girls’).
Rhodes was not happy he had to tear open two bags or rotting foot and sharp plastic packaging before finding the items, but his sense of mischief grew as he bleached anything that may have been exposed to his semen and packaged them all up as neatly as Heather had packed her parents’ belongings.
Extra bodies were a fine distraction, but risky and drew his attention from where he wanted it to be: on his caged entertainment.
61
Aneta Vlasov washed her hands in the utility sink. She wiped them dry on the inside of her apron and hung it on a hook. Her mind was blank and her feet ran on autopilot as they carried her down the sidewalk for the three miles between the Waffle House and her duplex. Sweat matted loose tendrils of hair to her skin and made her shirt stick to her belly. When it ran down her back, it snapped her mind back from blankness. She squirmed, wiping the sweat from her neck. Her hand came away wet, gritty, and greasy.
She wobbled as she mis-stepped off the sidewalk onto the red clay that comprised her yard. When she steadied herself, her eyes landed on the slab porch. A 24x24-inch box blocked her door, one flap still bouncing. The box had been sealed with packaging tape, but torn open—recently. Aneta glanced at her neighbor’s door. The blinds covering the window flopped and swayed.
Aneta stepped around the box and tilted her head. Her name was written across the top in neat print. She nudged open the loose flap and shot to her feet, covering her mouth. Desperately, she rifled through her purse and pulled out a beat-up old Nokia. She found REMINGTON and hit Call.
No service.
A sob tore from her throat. She fished out her key. Her hand was shaking so badly, she dropped it and fumbled to pick it back up. She shouldered the door open and ran to snatch the phone from off the cradle.
****
“Have you touched it at all?” Steyer asked.
Aneta swallowed. She knelt by the box and gestured how she had raised the flap. Steyer imitated the motion. A rumpled football jersey sat at the top, speckled with blood, but not much. Steyer photographed the shirt before holding it up.
“Is this what Z was wearing when he disappeared?”
Aneta closed her eyes and shook her head. “I don’t know. I didn’t see him that day. Or the day before…” She buried her face in both hands and sobbed.
Steyer folded the shirt and laid it on top of the box. He placed a hand on her shoulder. She leaned into his chest and cried.
“Shh… I understand. He understands…” He pulled back and looked her in the eye. “There might be something in that box that could lead us right to him. Right to your son.”
She nodded and wiped her face. Steyer knelt again. He placed the shirt across his knee. The next layer in the box was a flaking leather belt and a pair of jeans. He took a picture and pulled them out. There appeared to be a grease stain on the seat, but no blood. The boxers were threadbare and worn through in a few places between the thighs. At the bottom of the box was a relatively new-looking pair of trainers and a leather wallet almost split down the middle.
He pulled the shoes out to study the tread. “Are these new?”
Aneta nodded. “Witt bought them for him for Christmas. He knows… He will buy him things sometimes, things he needs for school and football.”
Steyer nodded. He flipped open the wallet. It had three crumpled one-dollar bills, a few business cards, some Post-its, and a photograph. The back of the photo was covered in sloppy handwriting, over and over, the same thing: I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry… He flipped it over. It was Heather Stokes’s freshman school photo. He glanced at one of the Post-its:
AnP
“Z” — the “-achariah” is silent. - Rhoads
ch. 6 & 8 reviews
write ?’s, dumbass
Steyer turned his attention back to the photo. “How exactly did Z’s relationship with Heather Stokes end?”
Before she could answer, Remington emerged from the other unit, tucking something into his jacket pocket. He shook his head.
“He and Witt were new friends. When Witt asked him about Heather, Z pretended it did not happen.”
“I imagine Heather was very hurt.”
“Later they agree to be friends, but they do not speak of it—of their time together.”
Remington winced. Steyer pretended he did not see.
“Did Z have any other girlfriends?” Remington asked.
Aneta frowned and shrugged. “He has many friends, but I do not believe he was ever…” She shook her head. “I never met any of them.”
“Are you familiar at all with Monica Shatterthwaith?”
“Lauri’s daughter? I’ve met her. She gives Z rides to school sometimes.”
“Are they close?”
Aneta shrugged. “I don’t believe so, but I would be the last to know.”
He nodded. “Would you like to press charges against Ms. Werner for vandalizing your box?” he asked. She turned away, toward her door, and drummed her fingers over her lips. She shook her head. “She won’t be giving you any more trouble.”
“May we take the box?” Steyer asked.
Aneta gazed at the box. Tears welled up in her eyes, but she blinked them back. “Of course.”
&nb
sp; Steyer lifted the box and they returned to the car. He placed it in the back seat as Remington climbed in to drive. Aneta stared at her neighbor’s door, then closed her own firmly behind her.
“What was that about?” Steyer asked.
“That woman is as unsanitary as she is unsightly,” Remington said. “I threatened to hang her on federal tampering charges, and she gave me this.” He pulled a tri-folded piece of paper from his pocket and handed it to Steyer. The older agent shot a glance at the closed door before unfolding it. He frowned. It was a photo—it appeared to be taken from a mounted security camera—of a bedroom. A male figure sat on the edge of a queen-sized bed. A female figure, recognizable as Monica Shatterthwaith, straddled his lap. Her arms were around his neck and his face was pressed against her chest. They were both naked.
Steyer’s face flushed. “This was in the box?”
“It was folded in the jersey.” Remington ground his teeth. He glanced at the door as well. It remained shut. The curtains remained still. “Do you think that’s Zachariah Vlasov?”
Steyer tilted his head from one side to the other in indecision. “It could be. It’s not tall enough to be the Phoenix.”
“I would say this complicates things, wouldn’t you?” Remington raised a fist and cracked his knuckles.
“Nope,” Steyer said, leaning close to the picture.
“No? Why not?”
Steyer turned the image toward him, pointing to the bottom left corner. A pair of legs, crossed at the ankle as if sitting in a chair, were barely visible. Despite the grainy quality of the photo, the legs were discernable as lean, well-muscled, and covered in dark hair.
Remington exhaled hard. “I can’t believe I missed that.”
62
Steyer spent the remainder of the day on his phone, calling every lab for an update on every piece of evidence they had sent in since their arrival. He was still on the phone—with what felt like very little to show for it—when Byron arrived an hour early for his shift.
Before this month, Byron would walk into the precinct every night with the sense the days could be interchangeable, whether he was coming in after a day on or two days off. But tonight he walked in with a sense he had missed so much and was irretrievably out of the loop. He had received a message about the boxes Tech and Aneta Vlasov had received, and curiosity was eating him as he put on his uniform.
Remington had been on his cell phone out front when Byron arrived. He had given the officer a distracted wave. Kondorf’s workstation was empty. Chief Collins’s door was closed and his light was off. But Steyer sat behind his desk with a phone to his ear, compulsively tapping and turning a pen.
Byron knocked on the door and Steyer waved him in. He held up a finger before Byron could speak.
“Yes, I understand,” he said into the phone. “I’ll call back in a few days, then, if I haven’t heard anything. Thank you.” He hung up with a sigh. He looked exhausted and down-trodden.
“Is there anything I can do to help?”
Steyer ran his hands over his face and studied the young officer. “I’m not sure if there is,” he said eventually. “Do you know when Lieutenant Kondorf is coming in?”
“About an hour.” Byron tried not to feel looked-over. “I can ask him to come in now, if you’d like.”
Steyer’s eyes dropped to the clock and he shook his head. “No, that shouldn’t be necessary. Please…” He pinched his nose and sighed. “Yes,” he began again, dropping his hand. “Please have him send me the most up-to-date list of the evidence collected from the abduction sites, their requisition numbers, the labs they were sent to, and any details or data that may have gone to him. Do you think you can remember that?”
“Yessir, of course.”
“Excuse me, Officer Byron.” Agent Remington stood behind him, phone in one hand, notepad in the other.
“Sorry.” Byron stepped aside. Remington brushed past him. Byron stared at the floor to compose himself, then swallowed. I’m not… he told himself. Then, It doesn’t matter. He raised his head with a deep breath.
“Both boxes and all contents arrived at the lab safely,” Remington said. “They only had a little bit of information to give us; Initial results came back from the Beaumont scene: All blood, semen, and saliva matched Deputy Beaumont’s. The residue on the towel turned out to be feces, belonging to someone with a high-protein, high-fiber… basically a very healthy diet.”
Steyer nodded, not surprised.
“They also said the water bottles didn’t have any markings, residue, or DNA to indicate anyone drank from them, but they lifted a partial handprint—but no fingerprints—traces of pepper spray—which could explain why they were poured and not consumed—and silicone…?” He raised an eyebrow.
Steyer groaned and leaned back in his chair. “That would explain the lack of fingerprints in the presence of a handprint.”
“He covered his fingers with silicone?” Byron asked.
Steyer nodded. “High-grade silicone gel, used by actors. It can be made to look and feel like skin… and to cover fingerprints.”
Remington exhaled slowly, like he was deflating.
“Is it common?” Byron asked. “I mean, can we track a vendor or something?”
Steyer shook his head. “If we have a suspect and find silicone in their purchase history, we might be able to pin him—like if we get a suspect and match his handprint—but we wouldn’t be able to find someone using that information. Too many vendors sell silicone.” He sighed and stood, looking at Byron. “Let Lieutenant Kondorf know I’ll be here early to get that list from him.”
“Yessir,” Byron said with a nod.
Steyer gave Remington a pointed look. “You and I need sleep. We’ll continue making calls first thing in the morning.”
Remington ran a hand over his face, groaning, “New stuff is piling up every day. This is going to take forever.”
Byron shrugged. “Maybe that’s the point.”
The agents froze, looking at one another, then turned to stare at the officer. “Repeat what you just said,” Remington demanded.
“Uh… Maybe that’s the point,” Byron repeated. “He’s… he’s throwing all this stuff at you to distract you from something else.”
Remington turned to Steyer. He exhaled again, but this time it sounded more like an incensed bull. “Why else would he dig in ten-day-old garbage for some clothes?”
Steyer stared at him with blank, unfixed eyes. Byron could practically hear the cogs whirring in his head. He blinked and turned suddenly to the map, pointing. “This…” he said. “We’ll deal with everything as it comes—bag and tag—but this is our main priority. We can make those calls while on the road.”
“Yes, sir,” Byron said with a curt nod. “And we may be able to knock some of those out tonight.”
63
Rhodes pulled up to the corner and parked, but didn’t turn the Jeep off. He turned the A/C to full blast and thumped his head rhythmically against the window. He wanted so much to lose control, to hurt Monica for her part in the stunt they had pulled. He paused to touch his bruised eyebrow, running his finger over the scab. Heather had done the physical damage, but she and Z had been punished sufficiently. Monica—screaming, crying, pathetic Monica—had not been punished nearly enough.
Movement under the tree line across the street from the girls’ houses drew his attention. Rhodes leaned over the steering wheel and squinted. David—the one with the scars—was poking something on the ground with a stick. When he turned the thing so its rigored paws stuck up in the air, Rhodes could tell it was a raccoon.
(Just a kid being a kid.)
He curled his lip and rested his chin on the steering wheel, watching enviously, his wrath forgotten.
A high-pitched shriek came from the Shatterthwaiths’ porch. Devin—the little one—flew across the yard to the dead thing’s rescue. He shoved his older brother away. A battle of pushing and the slapping of arms ensued, until the older siblings cros
sed the law at an unhurried pace and pulled them apart.
Xavier picked the toddler up and tossed him over one shoulder. They bounced back to the house with Devin laughing as if nothing had gone wrong in the history of the world, ever. Rhodes sighed, envious.
January, 1968
Flint Hill, CO
The long black car took Aunt Betty away. Thatch watched with his face pressed against the rails of the upstairs banister as the men in white coats moved her stiff body. She had been lying at the bottom of the stairs all night, and she stayed in position when they lifted her. Thatch suppressed a giggle. Mama had shut herself in her room. He didn’t want to upset her any more than she already was by laughing.
Uncle Jed watched them move the body with his hands on his hips and a strange look on his face, like he was looking at a mess he didn’t know how to clean up. Mama usually took care of the messes, but she was crouched on the floor next to her bed, sobbing into her arms. Virgil Roanhorse stood by the door with his brother, Homer. He reached out to Jed a few times, but never got around to patting him reassuringly on the shoulder. Jed didn’t like messes.
“Homer wants to talk to Judy and the boy,” Virgil finally said. Thatch’s heart jumped at being included.
Jed rounded on him. “What for?”
“It’s just procedure,” Homer assured him.
Uncle Jed couldn’t argue with that. As soon as the men in coats moved Aunt Betty onto a cot and out the door, he beckoned Thatch downstairs and waved him outside.
Homer Roanhorse looked just like Virgil, except his black hair was short and he wore a brown uniform and a badge that said Rio Blanco Sheriff’s Department. He placed a hand on top of Thatch’s head as they headed around to the back of the house.
“Can I see your gun?” Thatch asked.
Homer looked to Virgil, who shook his head. “I don’t think your Ma would approve. No sense making her any more upset than she already is.”