by Roger Hayden
Dobson hung his head down in the darkness of his bedroom where sunlight glowed from behind closed curtains. Rachel was long out of bed, and the strangeness of waking up in the middle of the afternoon had made him cranky and disoriented. He had expected to feel refreshed and ready to attack the case with a clear head and fresh perspective.
But it was in his time of slumber from the stakeout the night prior that the killer decided to reemerge. And still Dobson could conjure little understanding of what had happened.
“Find Sterling,” he said. “I don’t care what you have to do. Put an APB out on her Jeep. Search high and low, and don’t stop until you hear from either her or the Ericksons.”
“We’ll find her,” Peterson said with a comforting tone of optimism, though he couldn’t shake the encompassing dread twisting his stomach into knots He looked at his watch. It was 3:15 p.m., and the stakeout of the Erickson home hadn’t gotten them any closer to the chain letter killer.
Dobson was both angry at Sterling for putting herself in a dangerous situation alone and relieved that she had been there to save the Erickson children. Maybe she was okay after all. If only she’d answer her damn phone. It was her second, maybe third day on the force. He couldn’t remember. The last couple of days had been a blur.
“I’ll be here waiting by the van,” Peterson said. “Sergeant Cruz and Corporal Powell just pulled up.”
Dobson fumbled with his slacks, pulling them up with one hand and fastening his belt. His hair was a mess and he hadn’t even gotten a chance to take a shower. “Get the K-9 unit out there,” he continued. “Aerial support, if needed.”
“We’re on it,” Peterson said.
Dobson buttoned his long-sleeved shirt in the mirror and straightened his tie. “Where are the Erickson children now?”
“They’re with a neighbor for the time being.”
“Okay, good,” Dobson said. “I’m on my way.” He tucked his shirt in with the cell phone pressed against his ear. “Every decision we make is crucial. There are lives at stake here.”
“Got it,” Peterson said.
Dobson thanked him and got off the phone. He quickly put on his shoes, grabbed his badge and gun, and left the bedroom, swinging the door open to a sunlit hallway. He walked toward the living room where his wife, Rachel, and daughter, Penny, sat on the couch with the TV at low volume.
Rachel was reading from a magazine on one side of the couch while Penny lay on the other side, typing on her laptop. They casually turned their heads as he walked in, shielding his panic and trying to appear normal.
“Hey there. You okay?” Rachel asked. Her red hair was pinned back and braided; Penny’s long and braided in comparison. They must have done each other’s hair earlier.
“Have you seen my car keys anywhere?” he asked.
Rachel sat up and looked around. “No, I haven’t. Did you check the key rack?”
Dobson shook his head. “I never hang them there.”
“Maybe you did this time,” she said.
Penny glanced up at Dobson, noticing his apparent distress. “You don’t look well, Dad. What happened?”
He turned and headed into the foyer. “I’m fine, honey. Just a lot going on.”
Hanging on a rack on the wall near the door were his car keys, just as Rachel had said. Relieved, he took the keys, entered the kitchen, and grabbed his coat hanging over the back of a chair. The bight afternoon sunlight shining through the windows threw him off. Waking up in the middle of the day was disorienting enough. The current circumstances only made things worse. Dobson re-entered the living room to offer Rachel and Penny a quick goodbye.
“Things are heating up already,” he said. “Gotta run.”
Rachel looked up examined his stubbly, tired face with extra concern. “Penny’s right. Maybe you should sit down for a moment. I can make you something.”
“I appreciate that, but I don’t have any time.”
“Mike, please—”
“Sterling’s missing!” he said, louder than he had meant, startling them. “I’m not sure what happened, but I’m on my way to find out.”
“Your new partner?” Rachel asked.
Penny remained quiet, with fear showing on her thin face.
“Yes. My new partner,” Dobson said. “But everything is fine. I’ll be back later.”
He said goodbye and left the living room in a hurry. He opened the front door and rushed outside, shielding his eyes from the sun. His gray four-door Chevy Impala waited for him in the driveway next to Rachel’s Volvo. He kept his head down, as his red tie fluttered in the wind, and unlocked the driver’s side door. Once inside, he grabbed his sunglasses on the dashboard and put them on.
A little better, he thought, though his nerves were shot and mass confusion still lingered in his head. He started the car engine and called Sterling’s cell phone, waiting until it went to voicemail. “Sterling. Damn it. I hope you’re okay. Call me as soon as you get this message.”
Dobson hung up and sent a follow-up text, pleading with her to answer. He still held on to the hope that she was okay or too busy to answer. She could have been on the trail of the killer for all he knew. Something, however, wasn’t settling right with him. The chain letter killer seemed to be everywhere and nowhere at the same time. Increasingly frustrated, Dobson gripped the steering wheel with both hands and raced out of the driveway, tires skidding against the pavement.
A slew of questions permeated his mind. Why did she go there alone? Didn’t she know any better? What was she doing at the Erickson’s house in the first place? Whatever, the answer, Dobson knew that she was his responsibility, regardless. He called her cell phone again and left a message.
“I mean it. Call me the moment you get this message,” he said with urgency.
He fled through the neighborhood at top speed through Heathrow Heights, the upscale neighborhood the reasonably wealthy Erickson family lived in. Next, he called Cooper Erickson, only to receive no answer as well. Dobson thought it odd that with everything going on, Cooper would ignore his call or allow himself to be indisposed.
“Mr. Erickson, this is Detective Dobson,” he began after the beep. “I need you to call me back immediately. Thank you.” He ended the call, frustrated. No one was answering. Had the chain letter killer gotten to them all in broad daylight, during normal business hours? Impossible.
Janet Erickson’s van was said to have been abandoned at the scene. With Sterling’s jeep nowhere in sight, it only made sense that she might have been taken hostage. He hoped and prayed that it wasn’t the case.
Dobson could feel his control of the case slipping. There were too many surprises. It would only be a matter of time, he feared, that Captain Nelson would reassign the investigation to someone else, possibly the Feds. It would be one last low note of his long career with Summerville Homicide, but there were more important things to worry about than retirement at the time.
He swerved through lanes, speeding past downtown traffic, heart racing and frantic. He felt as though he had failed everyone, Sterling not the least. He had underestimated their suspect. Perhaps he was being watched the entire time. Eight miles from the Erickson neighborhood, he began to consider the theory first posed by Sterling that their activities were of no secret. But no one could be at so many places during the day and night without being seen.
Dobson then realized that if he had any chance of finding Sterling, he’d have to exceed his own expectations and stop at nothing to find out where their suspect went. All he needed was a little time, which was in short supply; a luxury that didn’t then exist.
He suddenly recalled Cooper Erickson’s supposed whereabouts that day. Earlier that morning, Cooper had mentioned his company’s role in the Winter Garden Plaza expansion. Dobson hoped that he was still on site and just too busy to answer his phone. He swerved into the left lane, deciding to change course. The only way to find out what was going on was to talk to Cooper directly. He slowed at the light of a busy inter
section and turned around in the opposite direction, engine roaring along the three-lane road.
A mile farther, Dobson slowed and turned into a largely vacant plaza where a large section was blocked off with fencing due to the pending construction. He ignored the detour signs and drove through an open gate leading into the construction site where a gutted building stood in the distance. He slowed along the bumpy road past a stack of plywood and an unmanned crane.
He squinted and saw a trailer ahead next to a row of Port-a-Johns. Curiously, no one seemed to be around—no crew or any sign of Cooper—though the gate into the site had been left wide open. As he neared the trailer, however, Dobson saw Cooper’s black Dodge Charger parked among several empty spaces. He was there after all.
Dobson sped up and swerved as he came to a halt in front of the trailer, kicking up a large dust cloud that trailed in the air. He was glad to have caught Cooper before he left. Maybe they could find out what happened to Janet. He was also faced with delivering the shocking news that Cooper’s children had been targeted in a hit and run, if he hadn’t already been informed of it.
Dobson parked and turned off the ignition, glancing toward the trailer. No one walked outside, despite the unmistakable sound of Dobson’s vehicle pulling up. He opened his door and stepped out to a quiet breeze and eerie silence that consumed the area. With its door closed and blinds shut, the trailer looked unoccupied. Dobson had expected Cooper to at least stick his head out the door upon his hasty arrival. But there was nothing.
He hurried toward the trailer entrance and stopped. His gut feeling told him that something wasn’t right. There was no other warning more obvious. He pulled his pistol from his side holster and climbed the steps to the entrance. His hand hovered over the tiny circular knob as he listened, ear pressed against the door.
He gripped the knob, turned it, and swung the door open, charging into the darkened trailer with his pistol aimed. Inside, he could see a desk, a couch, and a few chairs, but no sign of Cooper. An air conditioner hummed on a windowsill in the corner.
“Mr. Erickson?” Dobson said, looking around.
He carefully approached the desk, slightly crouched with his pistol gripped in both hands. “Cooper?” There was no answer. Behind the desk, in the corner, was an old filing cabinet. The inside of the trailer smelled of sandpaper and wood. Dobson swung behind the desk and pulled out the chair, glancing under it.
Cooper wasn’t hiding nor was anyone else. A family photo of Cooper, Janet, and their two children rested on the desk’s surface next to an office phone. Dobson picked up the phone and immediately placed a call to the Summerville Police Station. Kari, one of the receptionists, answered, and Dobson asked to be transferred to Captain Nelson immediately.
“Yes, Detective,” she said.
Dobson waited with the phone against his ear and his pistol in his other hand. He wasn’t sure of Cooper’s whereabouts, but his absence proved alarming enough to call it in. The open trailer door creaked as sunlight poured into the dusty trailer. A water cooler bubbled next to the couch where manila folders lay across a coffee table. There was nothing normal about an abandoned construction site, especially one this quiet.
“This is Captain Nelson,” the captain’s voice said on the other end.
Dobson was quick to dive in. “Sir, this is Dobson. I’m at the Winter Garden Plaza construction site, and there’s been some developments.”
“Like what?” Nelson said in a distracted voice. “Is Sterling with you?”
“No, but I need some backup here.”
“I thought you were watching this guy, Mike. What happened?”
“We were,” Dobson said while catching his breath. “Last night. But now I can’t get a hold of Cooper or Janet Erickson. A van tried to run down their children earlier, we think it’s Janet’s.”
“What?” Nelson asked, stunned. “This long past the point of being out of control. I want you and Sterling back at the station immediately.”
Dobson leaned over the desk, phone against his ear, increasingly frustrated. “He’s out there right now. We can catch him.”
“Not before he kills yet another victim. I don’t want to hear anymore. It’s time a special task force.”
Dobson held the phone receiver, hesitant. “I’ll be there as soon as I find Cooper Erickson.” He then hung up the phone to avoid any potential argument. He stared across the empty trailer, his mind a sea of troubling thoughts. He walked out of the trailer with his pistol aimed and cautiously examined the construction site before him.
The quietness was unsettling, save for traffic moving in the distance. He walked down the steps and approached Cooper’s truck, sunlight reflecting from its shiny surface. Dobson stopped and turned around just as the trailer’s air conditioner switched off. On the side of the elevated trailer, he saw work boots sticking out of the bushes.
“Mr. Erickson!” he called out as he inched back toward the bush, alongside a tarp-covered chain-link fence.
Upon closer inspection, he could see the blue jeans. Dobson closed in, pistol steadied, and knelt next to a stack of cinder blocks. He saw a trail of blood in the sand, which led straight to the bushes. “This is Detective Michael Dobson with the Summerville PD! If there’s anyone there, come out with your hands out, or you will be shot!”
He waited for a response. The legs sticking out of the bushes didn’t move. He had a terrible feeling about who was lying a few feet away. Dobson rose with little time to spare and moved quickly to the bushes. Lying in the dirt, only partially concealed, was Cooper Erickson. His face was a discolored blue, bloodied mouth open, and eyes closed. One look at him, and Dobson knew that he was already dead.
Dobson moved quickly around the bush and behind the trailer, aiming his pistol ahead. Sweat dripped down his forehead as he swept the area, side to side. No one was around. The killer, it seemed, was no longer there. He turned back toward the bushes and knelt next to Cooper’s body. His throat was slit open and covered in dark red blood that had formed a gooey puddle in the sand under his head.
Dobson hesitated to touch him, paralyzed by the shock of the man he had sworn to protect now murdered. He felt strangely unmatched and overwhelmed. The killer had struck in broad daylight and somehow managed to remain inexplicably unnoticed. Dobson thought of the abandoned minivan found not far from the Erickson home.
Things weren’t looking good for Janet Erickson. It like the killer had even tried to murder their children. Dobson couldn’t understand it. He had never seen anything so heinous and detestable in his entire career. Was he even prepared for a case like this? He stood up, lightheaded and short of breath, and reached inside his pocket for his cell phone. There was no word from Sterling yet.
Her absence certainly didn’t help the situation. He made one quick call, requesting immediate backup and then waited. As he walked away from the trailer toward Cooper’s pickup truck, his hazy mind began to clear with scenarios of what could have happened.
The killer was moving quickly like an assassin between targets. He knew where Cooper was working, and Dobson was pretty sure that he knew of Janet’s whereabouts too. The question remained of how he was able to strike with assurance that there would be no witnesses. Perhaps Janet was taken alive. There was only one way to find out.
“I need a sweep of the court house parking garage,” he said into the phone.
The dispatcher on the other end seemed confused. “I’m sorry, Detective. A sweep?”
Dobson hurried past the trailer and toward his car parked by the gate. “The south end parking garage. I need all available units there. We’re looking for a woman by the name of Janet Erickson. White female. Early forties. Five feet seven. She’s a paralegal.”
A pause came at the other end. “Available units have already been dispatched to the Winter Garden Plaza. I thought you had called them there.”
Dobson swung around his car to the driver’s side, searching for his hand-held police radio. He hoped he hadn’t left it a
t home or office. “No, no. That’s okay,” he said loudly into the phone as an overhead helicopter jettisoned past.
He glanced up and saw that it was a police helicopter, wondering if it was headed to the Erickson neighborhood. “I need them here,” he continued. “All first responders. We’ve got an active homicide.”
The dispatcher confirmed as Dobson thanked her and hung up. Still no call from Sterling, and Dobson’s initial concern was venturing toward fear. Sirens blared in the distance as Dobson walked the perimeter of the construction site.
He knew that the killer was gone, and as he circled around the pickup truck and toward the bushes where Cooper’s body lay, he recalled that they were dealing with a trophy killer. Only this time, it didn’t appear that any part of his latest victim was missing to add to his collection.
Dobson didn’t want to move the body. He didn’t even want to look at it. Two children no longer had a father, and the longer Dobson remained at the murder scene, the more he began to blame himself. Three police cars sped into the parking lot with an ambulance not far behind.
Dobson rushed forward, toward the open gate and waved the responders in. Their sirens ceased as their emergency lights continued to rapidly flicker. Dobson went back toward the trailer as a cloud of dust kicked up from the arriving entourage nearly engulfed him. The officers on the scene were quick to park and get out of their vehicles as Dobson took a deep breath and approached them.
“We’ve got a body over there,” he said, pointing to the side of the trailer. “Get Forensics on the radio and get them here immediately.”
“Is that who I think it is?” Sergeant Jimenez asked, lifting his shades.
“Yes. It’s Cooper Erickson. He was murdered maybe less than an hour ago,” Dobson said, shaking his head. “Keep a lid on things until we know what’s going on.”
He suddenly paused and saw a red caked dirt beyond the police car. He walked past the officers and approached the puddle. Redness had seeped into the sand like an oil stain. There was little doubt that Dobson was standing where Cooper had been stabbed.