“I’d argue with you,” he said to Everly, “but it won’t help. I know it.”
“No,” she said. “It won’t.”
“You can come, but you have to do exactly as I say. One wrong move and you could get shot.”
“I understand,” said Everly.
Wyatt used a crowbar, provided by the sheriff’s office, and pried the door open. It led to the same hallway he’d chased Larry down that morning. His pulse raced like he was still running, his breath echoed in his ears. He drew his gun and stepped lightly, listening for sounds beyond those of his footfalls on the floor. Ahead was the pocket door to the conference room where they’d held the meeting. The hallway continued, ending at the back of the main pub, where they’d hopefully find an unsuspecting Larry.
Wyatt held Everly’s hand as he pushed open the door. It gave a whisper of sound.
“Stay with me,” he whispered to Everly.
She gripped his hand tighter. “I’m not going anywhere.”
A recessed light illuminated a long, mahogany bar. A mirror hung on the wall and showed a reflection of the room. Tables, with chairs placed on top. An empty dance floor, with parquet tiles. A forgotten mop and bucket. No Larry.
Marcus Jones and Sheriff Haak came through the doors adjacent to the lobby.
“Anything?” Marcus asked.
“Nada,” said Wyatt.
“Which means he’s somewhere,” said Everly.
“Unless he snuck away,” said Wyatt. “And left his truck as a decoy.”
All eyes turned to the sheriff. If Larry had escaped, his office would be to blame. “I’ll see if the front desk has video of the last two hours,” said Haak.
“I’ll do a floor-by-floor search,” said Marcus.
“Everly and I will check through the kitchen and restaurant.”
With a nod, Marcus and the sheriff left to do their tasks. Another door was tucked into the back corner.
“That’s got to be the kitchen,” said Everly.
“Stay behind me,” said Wyatt. He pulled his weapon again as he slowly pushed open the door. The room was black as pitch. A faint light from the pub seeped in and spread across the threshold. There was a faint creaking. The room stank of ammonia...and blood. Wyatt immediately recognized the stench. He ran his hand along the wall, searching for a light switch. Using the flat of his hand, he flipped all the switches upward.
The room filled with blinding light.
A piercing scream filled the small kitchen, and the noise ricocheted off the steel appliances. Wyatt spun to the sound. Everly stood on the threshold, her face chalky white. She lifted a trembling hand and pointed to an alcove at the back of the room.
Hanging from a noose was the body of Larry Walker.
* * *
Larry hung by his neck, the rope slowly swinging. His complexion was gray, and a trickle of blood leaked from his mouth. His eyes were open, even in death. A chair was lying on the ground, toppled to the side, from where he’d kicked it away.
Everly began to shiver. Wyatt was at her side. He placed a hand on her shoulder.
“It’s okay,” he said.
“No,” she said, her voice shrill. “It’s not.”
“Don’t look. Look at me,” Wyatt insisted.
She moved her gaze to his face. His dark brown gaze anchored her. Slowly, she stopped shivering.
“Wyatt! Everly!” Sheriff Haak stood on the threshold, breathing heavily. “I heard screaming.” His color faded as he took in the scene. With a gasp, he asked, “Dear God, what happened?”
“It’s a suicide,” said Everly, surprised that she’d found her voice and even happier to use it. “Larry knew that we suspected him of all the murders. Then he killed himself before being caught.”
“It doesn’t make sense,” said Wyatt. “Serial killers typically don’t commit suicide.”
“There’s a piece of paper on that table,” said the sheriff. He pointed to the stainless steel workspace in the middle of the room. He ambled over to investigate.
Placing his palms on either side of the page, he began to read out loud. “‘I’m not going to apologize for what I’ve done. Those men deserved to die—every last one of them. I’m not going to tell you why I did what I did. You wouldn’t understand. I’m tired of hiding and running and being afraid of getting caught. Today was the closest I’ve ever come to being apprehended and I’m not going to jail.’
“It’s not addressed to anyone in particular,” said Sheriff Haak.
Everly remained mute, but she suspected that Larry had written the note for Wyatt’s sake.
The sheriff continued, “Nor is it signed.”
“How can we tell if the note really came from Larry?” Everly asked.
“Who else would write this?” the sheriff asked.
He had a point. Everly shrugged.
“It’ll be easy to prove whether it is his or not. All we need is a confirmed writing sample from Larry Walker and a handwriting expert,” said Wyatt. He continued, “Even if Larry wrote this note, I still don’t like this. Serial killers aren’t afraid. They don’t feel remorse. None of this is typical.”
Pulling the phone from his pocket, Wyatt placed a call. “Marcus,” he said. “Come into the kitchen, we found Larry.” He paused, listening to the answer, and hung up.
“I need to call Doc Lambert and have him collect the body,” said the sheriff. He exited the kitchen, leaving Everly and Wyatt alone.
“If you want to go and wait in the pub,” he said, “you can.”
The offer was tempting. In fact, Everly wanted to get away from Larry’s unrelenting stare. Yet, this man had taken her brother’s life. She owed it to Axl to see the investigation through to the end. She shook her head. “I’ll stay,” she said.
“Suit yourself,” said Wyatt. He approached the body.
“What are you doing?” Everly asked, her pulse racing. “This is a crime scene. You can’t tamper with evidence.”
“Technically,” said Wyatt. He spotted a box of plastic gloves on one of the counters, used for food prep, grabbed a pair and slipped them on, then patted down the corpse. “It hasn’t officially been labeled a crime scene yet, although you are right about the evidence tampering.”
She cast a quick glance over her shoulder. “Then what are you doing?”
“Looking for something to connect Larry to the killings.”
Using two fingers, Wyatt withdrew a wallet from Larry’s back pocket. He brought the wallet to the island and set it down. It was nylon with Velcro closures. Wyatt opened the main compartment. There was fifty dollars in cash and a driver’s license, along with two credit cards. Inside was another compartment, hidden behind the first. The material bulged.
“There’s definitely something in here,” said Wyatt as he opened the second section.
Everly moved closer to get a better view. Larry had hidden away dozens of bills. “More money?” she asked.
Wyatt pulled them out. “Not just money. He has a stack of two-dollar bills—all of them have been ripped in half. My guess, each of these bills matches the other halves found on each of the victims.”
* * *
Carl Haak hated that his department was so small they needed Rocky Mountain Justice—an organization new to Pleasant Pines and he knew next to nothing about—to process the scene, taking photos, dusting for fingerprints, collecting evidence. He hated that his deputy, Travis Cooper, was looking to Marcus Jones for leadership. He hated that, even though there were only three RMJ operatives—Julia McCloud, Luis Martinez, and Marcus Jones, the trio were top-notch at their jobs. But what he hated the most was that Larry Walker never should’ve gotten away with so many killings in Pleasant Pines, and that responsibility belonged to Carl.
He’d failed the town in more ways than he cared to count. With his retirement in a couple w
eeks, he’d never make amends. His gut was filled with painful acid. He’d called in Dr. Lambert to collect the body. With the spate of serial killings, Doc Lambert didn’t want to be too hasty this time around and he refused to name a cause of death or call it a suicide. All the same, it seemed obvious to Carl Haak—Larry Walker knew he was about to get arrested. To avoid spending the rest of his life in jail, he had taken his own life.
At the scene, Carl had catalogued the stack of two-dollar bills, torn in half, found in Larry’s wallet. The way Carl saw it, Larry had placed one half of a bill with each victim and then he’d kept the other for himself—a macabre souvenir from a kill. Since more than twenty bills—all ripped in half—had been found, it meant that Larry had taken more lives than anyone had ever guessed.
It also meant that people other than Carl had missed the obvious. Still, it was the most singularly humiliating moment in his long life.
“Sheriff?” someone asked. It was one of the guys from RMJ—Martinez. He was an ex-cop from Denver, and even though he was thirty years Haak’s junior, he knew his way around the scene better than the sheriff ever would. “Did you want to organize a team to search Larry’s home?”
That was another thing that grated on Carl’s nerves—all these impressive operatives running a search while trying to make Carl, the failure, feel like he was in charge.
After a moment’s pause, he said, “Why don’t you do it?”
The big guy held a camera that cost more than Carl’s monthly mortgage payment and looked over his shoulder. It was obvious that he was taking pictures for evidence and didn’t want to leave before the task was done.
“I’ll do it,” Wyatt Thornton offered. “I want to get into that bastard’s house and see what else he has from previous victims. You should probably come with me, Sheriff.”
It was a measly bone thrown to an old dog.
“Yeah,” said Carl as he pushed himself to stand. His knees creaked with the effort. “Sure. Travis,” he called to the deputy.
The young man was working with the female operative, Julia, a tall blonde with her long hair pulled into a ponytail.
Travis said, “Yeah, Sheriff?”
“You stay here and...” He paused, not sure what to say. “I’m going to Walker’s house and see what’s what.”
Wyatt turned to Everly Baker. “I’m going with the sheriff to look at Larry Walker’s house. You should stay here. Maybe get a room and try to rest.”
“No way,” said Everly. “I still haven’t found my brother’s camera. What if Larry had it?”
“You can come along if you want,” Wyatt offered.
Everly accepted a little too quickly for it to only be about her brother’s camera—something that could be brought to her if found.
Carl studied Wyatt and Everly as they walked from the pub and into the lobby.
Despite her tenacity, Sheriff Haak had come to like Everly. If it hadn’t been for her urging, nobody would have ever looked into her brother’s death, or any of the others. He hoped that once she went home, she’d rebuild her life and maybe find peace.
They headed through the lobby. The front door opened and Darcy Owens, the desk clerk, stepped in from the night. Her blond hair fell loose around her shoulders. Wrapped up in a heavy coat, she wore sweatpants and sneakers.
“Is it true, Sheriff?” she asked in a breathless whisper. “The owner called me and said that Larry committed suicide.” Her voice cracked on the last word.
“He did.” Carl hitched his pants by the belt loops. “Hanged himself in the kitchen.”
Darcy went pale. “Why?”
Wyatt stepped forward and answered her question with one of his own. “How well did you know Larry?”
Darcy appeared to be taken aback by Wyatt’s question. “How well do I know him?” she said. “Well enough, I guess.”
“Did you socialize with Larry?”
“Occasionally, the employees would have drinks in the pub after it closed. The inn holds parties for employees a couple of times a year. I’ve hosted game night at my house. Larry was always invited.” She chewed on her bottom lip. “What’s all of this about?”
“It seems that none of us knew Larry as well as we thought we did,” said Carl.
Twin dots of red appeared on Darcy’s cheeks. “What’s all this about?” she asked again. This time there was an edge to her question.
Carl shifted from one foot to the next. He wasn’t ready to tell folks what was happening; or admit that he’d failed at his singular task of keeping the town safe.
“It seems as if your tip paid off,” Wyatt said for him. “Larry was involved in Axl Baker’s death.”
Darcy’s jaw dropped.
Everly stepped forward. “I’m going to miss my brother every day for the rest of my life. Now I know what happened—or, at least who was to blame.”
Darcy wiped tears from her eyes. “I’m just so sorry.”
“It’s not your fault,” said Everly. “Besides, if you hadn’t pointed us in Larry’s direction, we never would’ve figured any of this out.”
“Wyatt,” Darcy breathed. “You caught the killer.”
Yep, Carl had been right about Wyatt Thornton from the get-go. The man had the kind of looks that made the ladies go gaga. “Well, Darcy, if you think of anything, you let me know,” said Carl.
“There is one thing,” said Darcy. “One night, when we were all having an after-hours drink, Larry became really sad. Like, really, really sad. I asked him what was wrong, and, he told me that he’d...done things in Vegas.”
Carl’s shoulder blades pinched together. “What kind of things?”
Darcy chewed on her lip.
“You have to tell us,” said Wyatt. “Larry’s gone and you don’t need to protect him anymore.”
“And besides,” added Everly, “there are other family members, like me, who want to know what happened to their loved ones.”
“I’m not sure that it’s much. I mean, at first, he told me that he’d had legal troubles with some girlfriends. Fights that got out of hand, that kind of thing.”
“And then?” Everly persisted, when Darcy didn’t seem to know what to say.
“Well, I told him that we all have issues and exes who’ve treated us badly. He said it was more than that. He told me that he thought he was evil.”
A chill ran down Carl’s spine. “He actually told you that?”
“At the time, I thought that it was the whiskey and he was just depressed. But it seems like he might’ve been right. If Larry did kill Axl Baker, and those other men, then maybe he was right. Maybe Larry really was evil.”
“You might have to talk to Chloe Ryder,” said the sheriff. “She’s the new district attorney.”
“Chloe Ryder,” Darcy repeated. “There was a social work intern at my high school named Chloe Ryder. I wonder if it’s the same person.”
Before Haak could respond, Marcus Jones approached at a trot. “I was examining the body and I think there’s something you need to see.” He held a fancy camera, with an illuminated screen.
“Can you give us a moment,” the sheriff said to Darcy.
“Sure thing,” she replied, before heading over to the reception desk.
Marcus paused for a moment, no doubt waiting for Darcy to be out of earshot, before holding up the camera. Everly and Wyatt moved in close.
“See this,” Marcus said, showing a picture of hands, mottled and purple.
Carl said, “I see the fingers of a dead person, but I assume there’s more.”
Marcus made the picture bigger. “Look here. The fingertips are scratched.”
Sure enough, the pads of the thumb and two fingers were scraped raw. “Do you think he struggled? And was forcibly hanged?” Carl wasn’t going to miss any obvious signs of foul play a second time.
“I th
ink we need to consider every angle,” said Marcus.
“Or his hands might’ve gotten scraped when I tackled him in the parking lot,” said Wyatt. “Or he might’ve struggled during strangulation. Even if Larry was determined to kill himself, his instinct would’ve been to claw at the rope.”
“And he worked in the kitchen,” added Everly. “As a cook I imagine that he was always getting burned or cut.”
For Carl, the simplest explanations were usually true. But that belief had caused a heap of grief and he wasn’t about to make the same mistake again.
Chapter 11
Larry Walker had lived in a small apartment at the back of a run-down house. It consisted of a kitchen/living room combination, a single bedroom in the rear and small bathroom between the two. From the Spartan furnishings to the lack of acquired junk, it was obvious that Larry didn’t have much use for material possessions.
“How long has Larry been in Pleasant Pines?” Everly asked. “Two years? Three? Doesn’t it seem odd that he has next to nothing?”
There were other things about Larry’s apartment that bothered Wyatt more. “Here’s what gets me the most,” said Wyatt. “There’s absolutely nothing to connect Larry to any of the killings—not even Axl’s missing camera.” He continued, “You saw that stack of money. If each bill represents a killing, then Larry is responsible for over twenty murders. Keeping personal belongings from the victims illustrates the power of the killer. In short, I’d expect to see trophies from each of the victims—and we haven’t found any yet.”
“Or maybe that’s just it,” said Everly. “Larry hasn’t been a typical serial killer, if there is such a thing, from the beginning. Maybe that’s why he’d gotten away with his crimes for so long.”
Maybe Everly was right. Could Larry be a new breed of serial killer? One that could seamlessly blend in to society? Or had Larry just gotten lucky, been smart enough to kill without arousing suspicion? Even that idea was hardly satisfactory. It brought back the original question. “Then where is the camera? We already know from the initial discovery of your brother that it’s not near the old schoolhouse.”
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