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

by T. J. Brearton

  Lena took a couple of steps back from the table, her eyes on Mike, then she glanced away. “Ah shit, Mike.”

  “They look similar, don’t they? In the eyes, the nose there. You see it?”

  She nodded, unspeaking.

  Mike went for the phone on her desk, picked it up. “Where is the contact information for DSS employees?”

  She came around behind him, clicked through files on her laptop, and pointed out Trevor Garris’s cell phone. Mike punched in the number, waited, got a voicemail. “Mr. Garris, Mike Nelson with the state police. Give me a call back if you can – just have a few questions for you… Need your technical expertise. Thanks.”

  Mike walked back to the file on the center desk. “If I can just find this Durie kid’s trail, where he went… Because he just disappeared.”

  “Foster parents have to be licensed by the State of New York,” Lena said. She pecked at the keyboard. “Once a DSS investigator gets a call and determines that there’s cause to remove a child from a home, they contact local county agencies to place the child and have them work the case. Right?”

  “That’s my understanding.”

  “Okay, so… Family Court matters are handled by court circuit – the 20th judicial circuit services Pierce County. If he lived here…” She squinted, looking at the screen, and Mike moved beside her. “The county where the child lived would handle the dependency case – the parents would be seen in that courthouse for all judicial reviews, and have to deal with DSS in that county, if there was one.”

  “And there is one.”

  “Yes,” Lena said. “But the child might not wind up placed in that county – maybe there’s not enough homes. So, foster homes can be outsourced, and on any given day a prospective foster parent can get a call from one of several local agencies with a child that they urgently need to place, adoptive parents too. Okay, I’m looking at the adoption actions we’ve got, hang on.”

  Mike moved to the window, looked out at the main street, thinking. It all meant that if this was some kid who’d grown up with a chip on his shoulder, had snapped and gone after DSS caseworkers perceived to have ruined his life, he could have gone just about anywhere.

  Lena said, “Got something. H. Garris in Saratoga.”

  “Jesus, Lena… Saratoga… What if John Durie was adopted by someone down there, the Garrises? You got a number?”

  “But,” she said, “different names?”

  “Maybe they changed it to give the kid a fresh start, something like that.”

  She gave him the number and he placed the call. The line rang until a young male voice answered. He identified himself as twenty-year-old Alex Garris when prompted. Mike said who he was, then asked, “Are your parents home, Alex?”

  “They went out to a dinner. My dad has this thing with work.”

  “Okay. Could you have him give me a call?”

  “Sure.”

  “Got something to write with?” Mike relayed the number, thought a moment. “Can I ask you one question? Can you confirm something for me?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Is your brother Trevor Garris?”

  “Yes… Yeah, he is.”

  “Okay. Thank you. Do you know if he had a different name when your parents adopted him?”

  The young man shouted to someone else. “Toby! Did Trevor have a different name when Mom and Dad adopted him?” There was a muffled reply, then Alex came back to Mike, “Could be. We kind of… that was when me and Toby were little. He had another name, though, yeah, maybe.”

  “Thank you, Alex. Be sure to have your father or mother give me a call, okay?”

  “Yes, sir. I will.”

  Mike hung up, pressed a thumb to his lip.

  Lena was expectant. “So?”

  “I don’t know. I mean, look, like I said, it’s just thinking. I could eat crow. I hope I do. But if there’s nothing there, then we’re back to zero.”

  Her brows drew together in a tight scowl. “We’re not at zero – we have this whole thing. We have the DEA here. We have one of these guys – maybe more than one of them, a lookout, an assailant – possibly killing Harriet because of this farm in Gloversville they wanted.”

  “Yeah, okay, but where’s Pritchard? His bail reduction just got denied and he’s still looking at a year for the assault. Why isn’t Chapman bailing him out?”

  “Because for all they know he’s still a suspect in a murder investigation and they want nothing more to do with him. Or when he couldn’t wrest the property from Harriet, either he had her killed, or they did it, and now they’ve turned their backs on him.”

  “I think Pritchard was nobody to them before any of this happened – before Harriet was murdered. I think he tried to get involved in this thing, tried shoehorning his way back into the will to get the farm and have something to offer them, something closer to this ethanol plant, Truenol. But it didn’t happen. So he’s still nobody to them. He was arguing with Petrov the other night, running his mouth about his sister because he’s impotent… angry…”

  “So then that’s why he killed her, or like you said, had her killed,” Lena said. “He blames her for preventing him from getting in with this group. He finds some piece of shit who’s disturbed enough to do it for cash. Maybe one of these biker guys. Mike this is—” She bit off the sentence, exasperated.

  He touched her arm. “We got Dmitri Petrov ready to flip on the whole meth thing. The guy ran up a fucking tree. He’s scared of these guys, Caruthers and Bates and all of them. He wants protection and he’s going to talk.”

  Her gaze drifted, then she shut her eyes. “Mike, I want to be with you on this. But we’ve been looking at adults with an axe to grind, maybe a drug operation with collateral damage.” She looked at him. “You’re talking about a ten-year-old kid who was abused, a victim of his parents’ drug dealings.”

  “Exactly. Ten years old – it’s not like he was three or four and has no memory of them. Or even six, like Tommy Caruthers, who seems to have come through alright. He’s hardwired. Kristen wasn’t much older when Molly died.”

  “But he’s been marred by what they did,” Lena said, getting louder. “Brain damage? For that you blame your parents. Right? Or, again, you’re pissed at the cops who busted them, or the judge who put your mother in rehab.”

  Mike said, “You know, the other night, when we had our thing, you asked me about my father, and I started thinking about when I’d go down, live with him in the summer. There was this kid from the neighborhood, Neil Johnson, I’d play basketball with him. Real angry kid, rotten home life, mother was never around – her drugs of choice were coke, crack. Anyway, she’d leave Neil and his brothers and sisters alone for days in their stiflingly hot little third-floor walk-up in Brooklyn. She’d come home every once in a while and pass out, and the kids – Neil – he’d stroke her hair, rub her feet, get her some water, and eventually they were taken from her. Neil went downhill pretty fast. He was violent, he did a stint in juvie and by eighteen was at Rikers.”

  “Okay…”

  “Here’s the thing, though – you could never say anything bad about his mother. Ever. He’d kill you for it – or he’d try to. He loved her no matter what. So, he took it out on the system. And now here’s this other kid, John Durie. He gets taken from his mother at ten years old by Child Protective Services, and she goes off and O.D.s in a bathtub. You know… I think it’s just human nature. You love your parents, even when they’re the worst thing.”

  She pulled away from him and started back to her desk. Mike watched her. “You pissed at me or something?”

  “No, Mike. Getting you a tissue – you’re bleeding.”

  Mike touched his neck, saw blood on his fingertips. From chasing Petrov through the woods, no doubt. She handed him the tissue and he dabbed at the blood.

  “You’ve got leaves in your hair,” she said. “Look at your pants, your hands are all cut, your nails look like you clawed your way out of a grave.”

  T
hey’d drawn together again in the middle of her office. A train of motorcycles rumbled past outside.

  “It’s this,” Mike said. “It’s Durie, it’s Trevor Garris… or I don’t know what.”

  * * *

  Bobbi sat staring at the wall, sitting at a table with Rachel and two guys she didn’t know. The guys were part of a group; some of them played darts and laughed over the loud music, too drunk to hit the board. Rachel was telling the two of them about hikers finding the body of Corina Lavoie, then Lennox disappearing the next day.

  Bobbi didn’t want to listen to anymore, so she got up and headed for the bathroom.

  Just before she stepped in, someone walked into the bar, and she waited, hoping maybe it was Connor, but it wasn’t.

  She closed herself in a bathroom stall, sat down on the toilet, pulled out her phone, and opened her text messages. Nothing from Connor. She’d blown it. Or was she playing some stupid game with him? He comes on with charm and confidence and she panics. Tells him she needs to think about it, needs some space, and he gets upset and backs off. Then she can’t stop thinking about him. Pathetic. Not who she’d planned to be. She’d planned to be straight-up. No games. And right now she wanted him; right or wrong, she wanted him, and so she started dabbing with her thumbs.

  She finished peeing, cleaned up at the sink, and her phone vibrated on the porcelain.

  Connor:

  Yeah we’re still at JJ’s. U going to be out long?

  She dried her hands, quickly typed back:

  Not sure. Can’t drink since I’m on call. Who are you with?

  Too long, kind of invasive. She erased it, tried again:

  Not sure. You?

  She sent it and waited. Someone else came in and Bobbi offered a quick smile, began to feel awkward just standing there as the woman closed the door to a stall.

  Her phone jiggled. Connor wrote:

  Maybe just one more. Not often i get a break.

  She thought of a response, typed it out, heart fluttering:

  Well, maybe I can help with that.

  Her thumb hovered over the Send button, but she erased the text, muttering, “God,” under her breath. Then she wrote it again, erased it again. He wasn’t looking for someone to be his kid’s mother; he’d said as much. But wasn’t that the default position for her? Regardless of what Connor said, how else did it work? She became Jolyon’s friend? What about discipline? How did that get sorted? She practically choked on the irony: Here she was, a caseworker trying help children and their parents, and she felt like she didn’t know anything.

  Her father always told her that her mind went too far ahead – but jumping in with both feet, that was the bold advice for people when there were no kids involved.

  It was her work that was making her cynical, afraid. Had to be. Worried about mistakes she hadn’t even made. No one was expecting her to be stepmother of the year, right? It was just people. Just life. You had to take it one day at a time.

  She sent:

  I’d like to hang out with you.

  She waited some more, bit at her fingernails, realized she was doing it, and stopped. The other person in the room flushed. The jukebox song changed to a country tune, blaring through the thin walls.

  His reply came back:

  So come to JJ’s.

  Another flip of her heart. He was receptive. That was progress.

  Bobbi stepped aside so the other woman could use the sink. She’d have to ditch Rachel, though. Maybe Rachel was okay now and would understand – Bobbi was on the rocks with this guy, needed some time alone with him. Of course, Connor could still have his co-worker with him. Maybe bringing Rachel, if she wanted to come – and Bobbi figured she would – would be the right move. Rachel was between men. Bobbi didn’t know much about Connor’s co-worker, just that he seemed shy. Rachel loved shy, then she could dominate.

  Resolved, Bobbi walked out of the bathroom. The music was louder than ever, foot-stomping bass with twangy lyrics. Rachel was in the same place and it looked like one of the guys mooning over her had bought a fresh round of drinks. Bobbi made it halfway across the bar when someone else came into the place.

  She stopped, cold, in the middle of the room, and stared.

  The door swung shut behind him, and Jamie just stood there.

  Twenty-Six

  He’d borrowed a clean white shirt from one of the Lake Haven PD guys and was buttoning up when Lena said, “I did a search for Saratoga High School Class of 2012. The first hit was for a list of graduates in the Mercury News. No pictures, just names.” She peered at him from her desk. “Trevor Garris is one.”

  “He’s two people,” Mike reminded, “if he’s John Durie pre-adoption and Trevor Garris afterwards. I mean – the father got sent up for meth distribution, killed himself in jail. Not a great legacy. So, maybe he changes his name to fully individuate. Maybe his adoptive parents encourage it. And I was just thinking – Garris, as an IT guy, could have access to the records room. Remember the server was down there.”

  He waited, wondering if Lena was going to keep pushing back. But she said, “And there was a camera; we could see if there’s any footage of him looking through old files, like we were, finding out the people involved with his case from when he was ten.”

  “Exactly.” He felt relieved.

  “So then this guy would have two IDs or what?”

  “All he needs is the one. He could’ve used his adoptive parents’ names – those adoption papers are a perfectly valid state document – and get a driver’s license, and from there a Social Security number. And he’s officially Trevor Garris. And yeah, I’m thinking he’s down there in the records room, learns that Lavoie transferred out, picks up her trail in Watertown. He’s been with DSS for how long?”

  “Went to work for them just about a year ago,” Lena said, looking at her screen. “So there’s time, yeah, for him to find out about her, go after her. She’s kind of a loner, so she makes an easier first target. Harriet is tougher because she’s married and she works in the same place Trevor does.”

  Mike felt wired. It was falling into place: Trevor Garris locates Lavoie, learns her routine, makes sure he bumps into her one night at the movies. He explains who he is, but he’d have to make it nice then somehow persuade her to go with him. Or he knocks her out, or something, takes her right there. Then he brings her to Tupper Lake, dumps her in the bog. Why?

  “Eddie Roth said there was a cemetery not far from Spring Pond Bog – Haymeadow,” Mike said. He thought of Neil Johnson again, and his devotion to his mother, no matter what she’d put him through. “Can we check where Melissa Clay’s body was laid to rest?”

  “Yeah. We can do that. My guess though is that she was brought back home, buried in Tupper Lake. Probably Haymeadow.”

  * * *

  Jamie looked like shit; that was the first thing she noticed.

  Bobbi kept a distance between them. “What are you doing here?”

  His eyes were plaintive; he looked hurt or something, even sick. His hair was long, tucked up under a battered baseball cap, and he’d grown a beard. “I’m here to see you, B.”

  Bobbi glanced at the table where Rachel was just getting up, laughing about something, an empty pitcher of beer in her hand. Her laughter faded and she slowed her approach as she observed Bobbi’s situation.

  Bobbi forced a smile and held up a finger, indicating it was okay, she just needed a minute. If Jamie was dangerous, she didn’t want Rachel involved. Then she moved toward Jamie, took his arm, and led him toward the door.

  Outside was a small bloc of smokers standing along the edge of the street; Bobbi walked a few yards away and Jamie followed. She turned around to face him. He took a step toward her but she held up her hand, keeping that distance.

  “You look good, B,” he said. His voice was hoarse.

  “Jamie, what are you doing?”

  “Took me a while to find you. I been to three different bars. Been shouting over the noise, asking peopl
e if they’d seen you.”

  “You’ve been out looking for me? Jamie, you’re acting like a stalker.”

  He pouted, as if wounded. But she knew Jamie, his tricks. This was his lost-puppy routine to lure her back in. He said, “I figured you weren’t going to take my calls or anything, Bobbi. Why’d you get so cold? You were never like that when we were together. You were sweet.”

  He pulled a pack of cigarettes out, bent his head, and lit one up. Squinted through the smoke at her. “Why’d you come all the way out here to live?”

  “Because there was a job opening, Jamie. Because it’s a job in my field.”

  “It wasn’t to get away from me? Because I think it was. I mean, you’re mad. I understand. Even though I apologized a million times.”

  She watched as the group of smokers headed back inside. The music grew momentarily loud as they opened the door and went in, leaving Bobbi alone on the street with him. The main drag was just twenty yards away, a car going by every now and again, but the side street was dead. She was ready to go back in. But she was angry.

  “Jamie, stop it.”

  “Stop what? I can’t come see you? Jesus, Bobbi, you act like we weren’t together for four years.”

  “Three and a half. And you act like you didn’t cheat on me, or push me around. You act like you’re not a completely… This is all about you, Jamie. Not me. This is because you feel rejected, and it hurts your ego.”

  He opened his mouth to argue but she was on a roll. “Let’s say we get back together. Huh? Yeah, baby, let’s do it. I miss you so much. Your ego gets repaired and then you’re off and running, off with another woman, off doing whatever you feel like, just the same.”