Next to Die: A gripping serial-killer thriller full of twists

by T. J. Brearton

  “She never remarried?”

  “I think she was afraid to. There were a couple guys – literally, two men she saw for a while after dad – but that was it. What about you?”

  Her skin reddened a shade and she looked away. “No. No more marriage for me.”

  “Where’s, ah…?”

  “Danny? Oh, he’s around. Sometimes.”

  “So the boys were with him last night, or…?”

  “No. The neighbor came over and stayed.”

  She seemed to want to drop the subject of her ex-husband so Mike switched gears. “What about your parents? How are they doing?”

  “Still together, doing well. They live in Upper Jay. Dad’s a retired history teacher, mom worked at the bank for years, as a teller.”

  “That’s good.”

  They both settled back for a minute, looking up at the ceiling. “It doesn’t feel like we grew up in the same town,” she said.

  “Well I mean, I was gone most summers and I’m what – ten years older than you?”

  “Keep guessing.”

  “Fifteen?”

  She smiled, said, “So you got into this because of your dad.”

  “I guess so, yeah.”

  “I remember thinking, you know, picturing Officer Friendly, sort of walking around the community, smiling, and helping people. When I was growing up… I don’t know. My parents kept me pretty sheltered, I guess. I mean, I got into it a little bit when I was older, I partied a little bit, you know, out in the woods, kids drinking beer. Like Norman Ridge. You ever go out to Norman Ridge, drinking?”

  “Sure.”

  “But then, I think it was my first year, we had this huge drug bust. I didn’t go into the department straight out of college, I traveled a little, went to California – but that very first year, I’m as green as a blade of grass, and there’s this big, multi-agency sweep.”

  “Cut your teeth?”

  “Cut a million teeth on that one. My first year and part of the biggest roundup in county history. At least for the time. And it was fine… you know… but there were some things that just… Ugh. It was a wake-up call, know what I mean?”

  “I do.”

  They fell into silence for a full minute, both of them thinking about the past, Mike thinking about his long-departed wife. Then Lena said, “We should get going.”

  The first hints of dawn were coming in pinkish light through the half-drawn blinds.

  Lena grabbed a shower first, leaving him to sit on the edge of the bed, looking at the wreck of their clothes. This was crazy. His first time in a long time, and it was a Lake Haven detective and they were in the middle of a huge case.

  But she was so damned cute. And smart. And funny. And she seemed to like him. What did it matter? Sex was no big deal.

  But it felt like a big deal.

  Mike pushed off the bed and looked at himself in the mirror attached to the bureau. At fifty-three, his stomach was still relatively flat. He’d started going gray in his mid-thirties but it had stayed concentrated to his chest hair, some streaks above his ears. At this point he’d outlived his father.

  He hadn’t talked about his dad to anyone in a long time. It continued to stir something – he wasn’t quite sure what yet.

  Maybe that his father had a reputation for being a good box man, too, and always used his first name, made it informal, drew out confessions. But Mike hadn’t gotten a confession out of Steven Pritchard.

  He walked to the bathroom and rapped on the door with a knuckle.

  “Yeah?”

  “Permission to enter?”

  “Granted.”

  Steam filled the room, turning the shower door opaque. He could see Lena’s shape. She’d kept her hair up, just doing a rinse. He could stand one, too.

  “Permission to enter further.”

  She sighed. “Don’t get my hair wet.”

  He slid the door away and stepped into the tub. Enough room in there for them to fit comfortably.

  “What do you want to do next?” Lena asked, soaping up.

  He dragged his eyes away from her sudsy pubic hair, wet breasts, and looked at her face. “It’s been twenty-four hours and we haven’t heard one word about Marlene Blackburn. You feel like gambling?”

  “Me? Gambling? Oh, I’m down for a game of blackjack any old day of the— no. I do not feel like gambling. We’ve got the meeting with Joe Pritchard and Terry Fogarty today to go over the estate stuff.”

  “I’m about to reach the terminal end of my patience.”

  She blinked some water away. “You have a terminal end? You seem pretty patient to me.”

  “I couldn’t wait a week to get you in bed.”

  “I got you in bed, Mike. And we talked about this – the casino might as well be tribal territory.”

  “Maybe I just feel like gambling, and I bump into her, casually ask her if Steve Pritchard has been shacking up with her.” He took the soap from her and scrubbed.

  She pushed past him, stepped out, and wrapped herself into a towel. “No, we’ve got the meeting set for today. We need to get prepared.”

  Mike ducked his face under the showerhead, then shut off the faucet and stepped out. “Maybe we split up, just for a couple hours?”

  “How are we gonna do that? We took one car.”

  “I could grab one of those motorcycles left behind…”

  “Haha.”

  “What are you doing? Are you brushing your teeth with your finger?”

  She spat into the sink. Turned on the tap, splashed some water into the basin to wash away the spittle. “Look, this is your thing I’m talking about – your old scores theory. I’m with you on it, so we also need to talk to Cheever, right now, so we can take a warrant and get into Lavoie’s stuff, look at the Child Protective Services cases she shared with Harriet when they both worked in Lake Haven. I’ve got a change of clothes in my car. You?”

  “You drive around with a change of clothes in your car?”

  She winked at him. “You never know.”

  “I don’t have any.”

  “Well, then we’ll stop by your place. I think Cheever will go for it, I really do. But then that means it’s going to be a lot of ground to cover, a lot of cases to look through; we need to do it together. So after the meeting with Joe Pritchard, we spend some time on these cases. If we still haven’t heard from Perkins by tomorrow, you can head to the casino. Pritchard is in county lock-up and not going anywhere.” She headed back into the motel room and started fishing her clothes off the floor.

  “He might.”

  Lena stood upright, gave him a look.

  “Pritchard lawyered up,” Mike said. “I just saw the email on my phone. Signed an attorney–client contract last night. The lawyer has requested a bail hearing, citing that the previous bail was exorbitant.”

  “Well at least we know he doesn’t have any money.”

  “Or he’s cheap.”

  “So if he gets out,” she said, “we’ll tag him. A day or two, at least. He won’t go anywhere, anyway, I don’t think.”

  “No?”

  “No,” she said. “Maybe it was Harriet, maybe not – but he’s here for something. In the area.”

  He thought about it a minute. He also thought about unspooling her from the towel, but they’d gotten sidetracked long enough. “Alright,” he said.

  She came close to him and he thought she might kiss him, but she touched his arm with a demure smile then went back to gathering her clothes.

  They dressed in silence – Mike figured both of them were wondering the same thing: if it had been the right idea to get in bed with a colleague, what they knew about each other, and the volumes they didn’t.

  “How long has it been for you?” he asked, buckling his pants.

  “What?”

  “This.”

  Her eyebrows went up as she buttoned her blouse. “You’re asking me how long it was since I had sex?”

  “Yeah. Is that so crazy?” He held
up his hands. “I’m not looking for exact figures or anything.” He nodded at the bed. “But we just pulled an all-nighter; I don’t think either of us got our breath back for more than a good twenty minutes at any point. I’m telling you, I’m not as young as I used to be. I’m sore in places where I didn’t know I had muscles.”

  A smile broke over her face, but she rolled her eyes and kept dressing. “It’s been a while.”

  “Yeah. Me too.” He frowned at her. “Why are you putting those clothes back on?”

  “I’m not walking out to the car in a towel, Mike – what would the neighbors think?”

  * * *

  Joe Pritchard resembled his brother but was taller and clean-shaven, though just as fierce in the eyes. Mike had glimpsed him at the memorial, but from afar. He and Overton welcomed Joe, Terry, and Victor into Mike’s office.

  Once everyone was comfortably seated, Mike jumped into it. “We’ve had the documents faxed over from the estate lawyer. We’d like to discuss the property in Gloversville. But first let’s talk about what’s happened. As you know, Steven Pritchard was picked up this past weekend for fighting with a man outside a bar in Lake Haven. Petrov didn’t press charges, but Steve has been charged with disorderly conduct and assault in the third degree. After the arraignment, he sought counsel and is now contesting bail. There’s a hearing scheduled for this coming Monday. Bail was set high, in part for remarks Steve made to me the night of his arrest. He’d said, of Harriet, that ‘she had it coming.’”

  Mike gazed at their faces, watching the various reactions. Terry seemed to turn inward while Victor blushed with anger. Joe Pritchard grunted and said, “Sounds like Steve.”

  “It sounds like him?”

  “Steve has problems,” Joe said. “He called me, asked me to bail him out. I told him to get a good lawyer.”

  “I’ll come right to the point, Joe: Do you think your brother would have done something like this to your sister?”

  Joe’s answer was immediate, filled with conviction. “No. Absolutely not.”

  Terry blew out a held breath and got up from the chair, walked toward the wall, then turned around. “How can you say that? Rita was afraid of Steve, Joe. She told me about his potential for violence…”

  Mike waited to see how Joe reacted. The elder Pritchard stayed calm. “Steve is all bark and no bite, Terry, always been that way.” Then he looked Mike in the eye. “This guy, Petrov; he hit him?”

  “You asking if Dmitri Petrov struck Steve?”

  “No – did Steve hit him. Did he actually hit him? Or was he just yelling, running his mouth?”

  “He didn’t physically strike Mr. Petrov, no. But he kicked the door open while detained in the back of a police car. An officer had to use force to restrain him.”

  “Yeah, mace. Steve said.” Joe shook his head. “Well, you said this Petrov guy didn’t press charges… Doesn’t sound like there were any to press. Anyway, look – I know about my brother. He’s his own worst enemy. His mouth has always gotten him into trouble. But he never touched Rita, and never would. He said what you say he did, okay, he even admitted as much to me, but that’s because Steve is an asshole, and that’s when he’s sober.” Joe looked at Lena. “I’m sorry about the language.”

  Lena’s brow drew together in a scowl. “Why are you apologizing to me?”

  Joe opened his mouth, closed it. Opened it again. “Sorry to everybody.”

  “Yeah,” Victor said sarcastically. “You’re sorry, Uncle Joe.”

  “Victor,” snapped Terry. “Please.”

  “Let’s get into the estate,” Mike said, eyeing Victor. Then he took a quick glance at his notes, refreshing the critical information. “The property is on Route 8, in Gloversville; 103 acres, a once-working dairy farm. In the Last Will and Testament of Arthur and Cecilia Pritchard, the house and property was bequeathed to you, Joe, and to Rita, each of you with one-half.” Mike looked up. “I’m not passing judgment on family business, but I’m wondering if this is what’s behind Steve’s comment about your sister deserving death.”

  Joe’s expression hardened. “Well, what you’re… I don’t want to help anyone build a case that my brother murdered our sister, for God’s sake. He told me he was somewhere else. Right? With a woman on the res.” Joe looked between the investigators. “Did you check on that?”

  “We’re in the process.”

  “Well, what’s taking so long? If he was with someone else, and they’ll give a deposition or whatever, then he’s off the hook, right? This thing with the bail – the judge has got to knock that down; it’s excessive. And a year in jail for kicking a car door?”

  Terry broke in. “Was he upset with you, Joe? Did he think you had it coming, too?”

  Joe tilted his head to look at Terry behind him. “He was, Terry. For your information, I spent months on the phone with Steve. He’d call, sometimes drunk, sometimes just royally ticked off. Once, he was even crying. He told me he tried to talk to Rita a couple times, but she shut him down.”

  “Oh, for God’s… She drew a boundary, Joe.”

  “Steve wanted to lease the property from us,” Joe said to Mike and Lena. “He was trying to get Rita and me to come to terms on that. This whole thing played out over a few years, Rita and I spoke on it a few times. I was willing, and I thought maybe she was, but you gotta deal with, you know, a lot of paperwork, so the whole thing – it never really got off the ground. And Steve, okay, he gets these ideas but doesn’t follow through. He’ll think he’s gonna return the place to a working dairy farm, but then he’ll lose interest. Couple months later, suddenly it’s the most important thing in the world again.”

  “Can I ask,” Lena said, “why your parents would’ve kept him from such an inheritance?”

  “Look,” said Joe. “Much of an estate passes by law to beneficiaries, despite what the will says. Like retirement proceeds, life insurance, joint bank accounts, payable-on-death bank accounts, stocks registered with a transfer-on-death form – these all go to a specified beneficiary.”

  “I’m aware,” Lena said, a bit coolly.

  “Well, Steve’s a beneficiary in these regards. Okay? So, you know. It’s not like he was cut out of everything. Just the farm.”

  Lena said, “If you’re implying that Steve should have been content – he filed twice in probate court just this past year. And he doesn’t seem to be able to come up with any money for his bail.”

  Joe looked bewildered. “Naw, you sure? Probate? Steve knows once a will is drawn up, it’s final…”

  “But that doesn’t mean uncontestable,” Lena said. “Do you know about your parents changing the original will?”

  Joe blinked. “Changing it? I mean, I dunno, maybe they updated and added a few things, I guess…”

  “There are actually several codicils attached to the will,” Lena said. “Apparently your brother Steve was originally set to inherit a third of the Gloversville farm, but then that inheritance was revoked. That change was dated, signed, and witnessed just a few months before your mother passed. So, she changed it after your father died two years prior.”

  A thick silence developed. Terry sat back down in his seat, looking like he had something to say.

  “Terry?” Mike asked.

  Harriet’s husband sighed, long and heavy, glanced quickly at Joe, then looked at Mike and Lena. “Rita mentioned talking to Cecilia before Cecilia died. They talked about Steve, about his behavior. To be honest – okay, I told her I didn’t think that he should get any part of the Gloversville property.”

  Joe opened his mouth but Terry put up a finger and hurried on. “Stocks, insurance, all these other benefits – okay. But that property was in Rita’s family for over 100 years. Splitting it three ways – I thought it would only cause infighting. Like Joe just said, Steve would get some harebrained idea – he’d already talked to her about razing the old barn, the house, rebuilding… I mean, he had some crazy plans, Joe. And you and I both know he would’ve gotten halfwa
y into it, figured out how much work was involved, or gotten distracted by something else and…” Terry raised his shoulders and let them drop. “Cecilia was worried about it, and she talked to us. And me and Rita, we helped her make the right decision. And yeah, she was honest with Steve that she did. He called her a cunt, and that was the last they spoke.”

  Mike was surprised to see tears in Joe’s eyes.

  Terry said, softly, “Steve might be inconsistent about everything else, but he could hold a grudge.”

  Joe seemed to shrink. He wiped away the moisture in his eyes. “Fuck.”

  Finally, Lena said, “So, Joe. Do you still think – is it out of the realm of possibility that Steve, maybe just in a moment of – I don’t know. That he could have done this?”

  Joe slowly lowered his head until his chin rested against his dress shirt. “I don’t know.” His voice was almost inaudible. “Goddammit. Maybe.”

  * * *

  Mike and Lena had skipped lunch, rushing to catch Judge Cheever. In the car, they had talked a bit about Joe Pritchard – who had plans to fly back to Salt Lake City that afternoon – and the tension between him and Terry and Victor Fogarty. With Cheever’s consent, they moved on to the DSS armed with a court order to open old cases from Child Protective Services.

  Shalene Jaquish was the assistant director, her position above both Harriet Fogarty and the remaining supervisor, Jessica Rankin. Jaquish was a fast-talking, busy woman, the kind that oozed efficiency. Even as she sat at her desk and reviewed the order from Cheever, she was getting things done. The phone rang, she answered it and spoke, solved a problem, sent an email.

  She pushed the paperwork at Mike and Lena. “Come with me,” she said, and led them through a door, down a flight of stairs, where she snapped on a light in a massive underground records room.

  “So,” she said, still moving, hips swinging along, “you can’t take anything out of this room. Copy machine is there in the corner. But I would guess if you’re going through all cases involving both Harriet and Corina Lavoie, you’re not going to want to Xerox everything or you’d be here a week.”