by Amy Cross
“It's complicated.”
“Sure, but -”
“This is my home,” he adds abruptly, cutting me off. “It's been my family's home for generations. Why should I run away from it?”
“That makes sense.”
“It's just complicated,” he continues. “You wouldn't understand.”
“I'm sure I wouldn't.”
“But people from the news,” he adds, “it's mostly their fault. They're the ones who stir things up. They come to places like this and they ruin everything and then they leave. And there's nothing you can do about it, because they know how to do it all within the rules of the law. Everything's alleged or rumored. They just won't leave people alone. They come onto your property, they go through your trash, they ask your neighbors about you. And it doesn't matter that you didn't do what they say you did, no-one cares, because all those questions get squashed together until they sound like their own answers and...”
Again, his voice trails off.
For the first time, I notice that his fists are clenched, as if he's struggling to control his rage. This man has been through a lot.
“You should get out of the truck now,” he adds finally.
“You're angry,” I reply. “I get that. What is it that people -”
“You should get out of the truck,” he says again, before leaning over me and opening the door, then leaning back into his seat. “Now.”
“I can help you,” I continue, trotting out my usual nonsense about how people need to open up to me. “It might help if you get your side of the story out to the world. Let them know what it was like for you, prove to them that you didn't do anything wrong. I know you shouldn't have to lay it all out like that, but it's just the way the world works these days. Try playing the P.R. game for once, and maybe you'll feel... lighter, somehow. As if people aren't constantly accusing you of things behind your back.”
He pauses, as if he's considering the possibility, and then finally he sighs and shakes his head.
“Why not?” I ask.
“I can't.”
“I'm sure it feels impossible, but -”
“I just can't!” he snaps, interrupting me. “Not everyone's like that! Not everyone wants attention! Is that so difficult for you to understand? Now please, get out of here!”
I open my mouth to ask him another question, but suddenly I realize that he seems almost to be warning me to get out, as if he's worried about what might happen if I don't. I hesitate for a moment longer, still trying to think of something to say, and then I clamber out into the cold morning air before turning back to look at him.
He reaches over and pulls the door shut.
Before I have a chance to even try to speak, he puts the truck into reverse and backs the vehicle away. Tires squeal as he swings the truck around, and then he drives away fast.
I stand and watch until he's out of view, and then I wait a little longer until I can no longer hear the sound of his engine as he races away. I guess he's going home, back to that big old farm, and I can't help thinking about him rattling around alone in all those empty rooms. Did he tell me to get out of the truck simply because he wanted to get going, or was I right that it was more for my own safety? There was a moment there, when he sat with his fists clenched, that I really thought he was about to explode. He seems like such a calm man on the surface, but I saw glimpses of something else underneath.
And I guess I didn't really see anything to suggest that he's a murdering monster after all. I mean, sure, he's creepy and a little weird, but is he the kind of guy who'd abduct girls and kill them? I know I shouldn't allow my emotions to cloud my judgment, but I'm having a real hard time picturing Thomas Roper doing anything like that.
A few minutes later, I'm at the desk in my room, furiously typing on my laptop. I need to get down everything I remember from my exclusive night at his farmhouse. I guess a big part of this story is going to be all about Thomas Roper after all.
Chapter Twenty
“No, I didn't get a chance,” I say as the guy in the repair shop writes some more notes on a piece of paper. “This total lunatic just ran me off the road and then drove away. There was nothing I could do to avoid it.”
“I can get out there this morning,” he replies, “but I'll need to see the vehicle before I know what needs doing. We'll bring it back here and take a look, and then I'll call you. Might be this evening, might be tomorrow.”
“I'm guessing this is going to be expensive, huh?”
“It's gonna be what it's gonna be,” he mutters, somewhat unhelpfully. “I really won't be able to give you any more information before I've seen the damage.”
I open my mouth to ask for a ballpark figure, but at that moment I spot a familiar figure crossing the street outside.
“Call me,” I tell the guy in the shop, as I hurry to the door. “I need to get back on the road as soon as I can! And as cheaply as possible!”
***
“I just took an early night,” Malone says as we make our way toward the station. “I saw the light was off in your room, so I figured you did the same.”
“Something like that,” I reply, not really wanting to get into the details right now.
How would he react if I told him that I was at Roper's all night? Would he be horrified? Would he be amazed that I didn't get murdered?
“I figure it'll take us the rest of the morning to go through the remaining files,” he continues. “And after that...”
I wait for him to continue but, as we cross the street, I start to realize that maybe he's hoping for me to jump in with an idea. The problem with that, however, is that I genuinely don't know where we should go from here. Maybe I was a little naive when I came here, maybe I thought I'd uncover a mountain of clues that the incompetent local police had missed; now I'm really starting to understand that Malone's investigation hit a brick wall, and I have to contemplate the possibility that we might not get to the bottom of Kimmy Duchette's disappearance.
I need to shake things up.
“I was at Thomas Roper's house last night,” I blurt out suddenly.
Malone stops at the steps and turns to me.
“It's complicated,” I continue. “I wasn't planning to go out there, but then I kinda bumped into him. Literally. And I figured I should at least see what the guy's about, so... I went to his house.”
“You went inside?” Malone asks, sounding pretty incredulous.
“It's bare in there,” I explain. “He hardly has any furniture. Don't get me wrong, it's a nice place, but it doesn't feel lived-in.”
“Roper is a loner,” Malone replies. “As far as I know, he never speaks to anyone, with the exception of cashiers and clerks.” He pauses, eyeing me with a hint of suspicion. “Don't take this the wrong way,” he adds, “but why would he invite you to go back to his place?”
“You don't think I can be charming?”
“I... think you can be...”
His voice trails off for a moment.
I wait.
“I'm sure you could... to some degree...”
“I can be charming!” I tell him.
“And is that what happened? You charmed your way into his place?”
“As it happens, no,” I reply. “I woke up there.”
He raises a skeptical eyebrow.
“It's a long story,” I add. “Roper helped me, if you really have to know. He turned out to be quite a gentleman.”
“So did you learn anything?” he asks. “You were pretty suspicious of Roper the first time I met you. When you got to his house, did you find anything odd? Bags of chopped-up bodies? Bloodied hooks on the walls?”
“Funny,” I reply. “And no, there was nothing like that. He was actually kinda... nice.”
“Nice?”
“Yeah. Nice.”
“That's it? Just... nice?”
“It's not a crime to be nice,” I point out.
Damn, I hate that word. What does nice really mean, anyway? Sa
fe? Bland? Boring?
“Sure.” He seems a little nonplussed for a moment, before turning and leading me up the steps that lead to the main door. “So I guess he's off your list of suspects, then? Good timing, Maggie. Thomas Roper was, if only due to a process of elimination, the one aspect of this case that we could've still looked into.”
“I'm not saying he's off the list,” I reply, hurrying after him. “I might have been a little wrong with my initial assessment of him, though. He's got a right to be reclusive if he wants. That doesn't make him a bad guy.” He holds the door open for me, and I head inside. “And he had plenty of opportunities to kill me last night. I was even unconscious for a while. What does it say about him, if he didn't kill me?”
“That he has the patience of a saint?”
I turn and scowl at him.
“Maybe you're just not his type,” he adds.
“His type?”
“Kimmy was fifteen when she disappeared. And going further back, Esmee Waters was fifteen too. And you're...” He pauses. “Well, don't take this the wrong way, Maggie, but you're not fifteen.”
“I think if he'd been the murderer, he'd have murdered me,” I tell him. “I'm definitely highly murderable.”
Sighing, I realize that this conversation has gone seriously off the rails. And I'm not sure that murderable is even a word. It definitely should be, though. I'll have to check that later.
“I'm going to go through and get started on the files,” I say, hoping to return things to some semblance of normality.
“I'll fetch some coffee,” he replies, before taking a set of keys from his pocket and handing them to me. “Who knows? Maybe we'll get lucky?”
As one of the deputies comes over to talk to him, I turn and head toward his office. In the back of my mind, I'm already starting to wonder whether I might have to head home tomorrow. Assuming my car can be patched back together, I should really start looking for a new job, and any dreams of swooping into Ridge Falls and miraculously solving this case have begun to feel pretty flimsy. Is that because the case is unsolvable, or is it because I'm not Rolinda Derringham? Would she have made more progress by now?
I unlock the door and step into the office, and I have to admit that my heart sinks a little at the pile of files that we still have to check. Wandering over, I tell myself that there's still a chance of finding something, although I can tell that there's another, deeper voice in my mind that's basically already given up.
No.
No, I'm not giving up until all the avenues have been exhausted. I'm going to nail this story, and I'm going to get that front page. And if this is my last day here, then I'm going to make sure that I use it well. Heading around the desk, I take a seat and grab the first file, and I force myself to ignore all my doubts and to instead focus on the task at hand. Even if we don't find the murderer, there's a story here. There has to be.
Suddenly the door swings open and Malone steps through, and I instantly see from the look on his face that something has happened.
“What's wrong?” I ask. “Are we out of coffee?”
I wait, but he looks utterly horrified.
“Is the coffee machine broken?” I add, but I'm starting to realize that something serious must have happened. After a moment, I get to my feet. “Malone?” I continue. “What's wrong?”
He stares at me for a moment, and it's as if all the color has drained from his face.
“I just got a call,” he says finally. “We found a body.”
Chapter Twenty-One
“You really don't have to be here for this,” Malone says firmly as we hurry down the slope that leads from the side of the road, toward the people who are working ahead in a clearing in the forest. “In fact, it might be better if you -”
“If you don't want me here,” I reply, “then tell me to go. Otherwise I'm coming with you.”
“We searched this area,” he continues, and I can hear the frustration in his voice. “I was here myself with the men. We went over the whole place, we had dogs, there's no way we could have missed anything.”
“Then it was left here later,” I point out. “That's not completely out of the question. Kimmy -”
“We don't know that it's her!” he snaps. “Not yet!”
“Sure. The body, then. Whoever it is. It could have been moved here more recently. There are plenty of possible explanations.” I wait for him to admit that I'm right, but we've almost reached the crime scene now. “We have to keep an open mind,” I remind him. “Don't let anger cloud your thinking.”
He doesn't reply, and as we reach the clearing I stop and stare at the sight of several figures working near a large metal pipe. The figures are wearing light blue hazard suits, so it's pretty clear that they're dealing with something sensitive, and after a moment I see one of them taking a clear plastic bag and placing it on a red mat.
It takes a few seconds before I realize I can see a human hand inside the bag.
I immediately turn away, horrified by the sight, before forcing myself to look. I turn back and see more bags being placed onto the mat, and I finally begin to understand what Malone said earlier. On the way out here to the forest, he muttered something about a body having been found “in parts”, but it's clear that this person has been hacked into scores of small pieces. And then, just as I'm starting to feel nauseous, I see half a face being placed on the mat, with its features having been cut straight down the middle.
Turning away, I feel for a moment as if I'm about to throw up.
“What have we got here?” Malone barks. “Do we have a name yet?”
“It's her,” another voice replies, trembling slightly. “We'll have to have a proper identification later, but it's Kimmy. See for yourself.”
“You don't know that for sure,” Malone replies, “she could be -”
“I knew the girl, Aiden!” the other voice says firmly. “Not well, but I knew her, and I'm telling you... It's Kimmy Duchette.”
With my back still turned to the horrific scene, I hear the crinkling of plastic bags and the thuds of multiple sets of footsteps moving all around the site. I know I'm going to have to turn and look again, but the thought is horrifying, and finally I reach a compromise. I half turn, until I'm looking over at the large pipe that's poking out from the side of a small hill, and then I make my way over to see exactly where the body parts were found.
“It's from one of the old factories,” Malone explains as I join him. A few more bags are still being removed, each containing another part of the corpse. “These things haven't been used for years.”
“And the pieces were found in here?” I ask, trying to focus on proper questions in an attempt to keep myself from screaming. Somehow it helps – a little – to stick to the job.
“About five meters in,” Malone says, turning to me. “It's almost like someone wanted us to find them.”
“And you checked this area?”
“Of course we did!” he snaps.
“And -”
“We checked every inch!” he shouts angrily. “We had men coming through here, over and over! We had dogs! We had thermal imaging cameras! We did everything that was humanly possible!”
“Okay, I get it,” I reply, before watching as the final bag is taken away. “So someone cut her up and put her into bags, and placed them here. I think you're right, I think this was designed to be found. But why would someone want to send us a message, a year after Kimmy went missing? And what is the message?”
“The message,” Malone replies through gritted teeth, “is that there's a maniac on the loose, and he or she apparently doesn't mind if we know. What kind of sick bastard would do this?”
“Someone who's pretty limber,” I point out.
He turns to me.
“How were the bags arranged in the pipe?”
“Neatly. Why does that matter?”
“If they were five meters inside, that suggests someone who was able to climb down there without any worries,” I point
out. “Sure, it's doable, but it's not something that just anyone could do. Also, why five? Why not two, or ten?”
“I don't get what you're -”
“Why put them far enough inside that they can just about be seen, but too far for them to be seen easily?”
“They were spotted by a guy named Ed Burroughs,” Malone explains. “He was walking his dog through here, and the dog started trying to climb into the pipe. Ed thought it might be contaminated, so he didn't let his dog inside, but he happened to glance in and he could just about make out the bags.”
“You could hide a body out here,” I reply, “and it'd likely never be found. And if you wanted to make a big demonstration, you could do so many things. Instead, this killer seems to have gone for a kind of halfway house approach. There's no logic to it.”
“This person is a killer!” he says firmly. “How could there be any logic to any of this?”
“There's always logic!” I tell him. “People do things for reasons! This murderer put the bags in that part of the pipe for a reason. Not further in. Not closer to the exit. They were put in that particular spot, and we need to know why, because we need to understand how this person's mind works.”
He sighs and starts to turn away, and then he hesitates. I can tell that he's furious, and that he's not thinking straight. In fact, I can't shake the feeling that he's on the verge of exploding with fury and frustration.
“Aiden?”
Hearing a voice nearby, I turn to see an elderly man coming over to join us.
“Might I have a word?” he adds.
“It's okay,” Malone replies, “Maggie's with me.”
“I've carried out a preliminary examination,” the man explains, “and it's clear that the deceased was dismembered using a sharp blade, maybe an ax. I don't think a machine was used, I think this was someone literally hacking at the pieces. In some cases, multiple cuts had to be made in order to sever the various pieces.” He glances at me for a moment, and then he turns to Malone again. “The pieces only just fit the bags. In some cases, the seals had come open. I think the dismemberment was likely part of the disposal process. There doesn't seem to be anything ritualistic about it. Also, I see no evidence of physical assault, although I'll have to take a closer look once I get her back to my table.”