Best Kept Secrets

by Tracey S. Phillips

  “Check it out,” he said and raised his hand high.

  “You gonna do home repairs?” Caryn giggled. The warm feel of bourbon made her feel happy. Loose.

  “Dad asked me to buy it a year ago. Said his old one went missing.” He laughed, shaking the porch. “I bought this before he went to the hospital and forgot all about it.” Eks took another swig. “Long story short, it’s been in my car ever since. I have no idea what Dad wanted with it.” Ekhard raised the hammer in the air and let it fly with an amazing clatter and shatter into the window. A million little shards of glass fell to the porch floor, freeing a ghost of a curtain to flutter in the breeze. “Now we can go inside.”

  Ekhard cleared the broken glass from the base of the window then leaped into the darkened house. Caryn thought better of climbing through the window and tried the door handle. Unlocked. The front door groaned as she pushed it open. “You could have just …” but Ekhard was nowhere to be seen. To her right, the living room had some broken furniture. At first glance, she thought there was an animal curled up on a ripped sofa, but it was only the cotton stuffing exploding from the couch cushions. She flicked a switch; lights didn’t work.

  From another room, Caryn heard the crash of something breaking. It sounded like Ekhard was in the kitchen. She entered with an arm over her eyes to protect them from flying debris. Torn wallpaper peeled from the wall, and there was the smell of mildew and old wood. And smoke.

  He reached into the cabinets and scooped the dishes onto the counter, letting them break. Then he picked one up and, threw it like a Frisbee at the wall. Crash!

  “What are you doing?” Caryn ducking as pieces of china flew toward her.

  He dropped the hammer on a small stack of plates, turning his face away from it as he did. “What’s it look like?”

  Caryn took another chug of bourbon and set the bottle in the sink. “So this is, like, our house, isn’t it? If it belonged to Anna Clare?”

  “That’s right. She told me her mother died here. No one bought the place. She married Dad because she had no place else to go.”

  Ekhard took the flashlight from Caryn and shone it inside the cabinets. His free hand swept the pans, cups, and jars of ancient goo to the floor. He ripped off the wall a spice rack with little containers of seasonings. The pile grew.

  Caryn looked into another closed cabinet and found a fresh bag of bread. “Eks?”

  “What’s that?” They gazed in wonderment at the unlikely find.

  “It’s fresh,” she said.

  “Does that mean someone lives here?”

  Caryn laughed. “This place is a pit. There isn’t even electricity.”

  Ekhard tipped the bottle back again, then set it on the counter. “Let’s look around.” He led the way to the top of the steep staircase, where he took a sharp turn to the right.

  Caryn was already woozy from the bourbon, but she was sure that she smelled smoke. Three doors in the hall were closed, and the smell of smoke grew stronger.

  “Smell that?” Ekhard asked.

  “I think someone’s here,” she answered.

  Ekhard held the flashlight in one hand and the steel hammer in his other. He nodded to Caryn, telling her to open the first door. A closet. The two bumped into each other in the cramped hallway, and a boozy giggle erupted from her throat.

  A floorboard creaked. The noise came from the farthest room.

  With his elbow, Ekhard nudged Caryn and pointed the light at that door.

  Unafraid, Caryn opened the door like a hurricane wind. She exploded into the room, and Ekhard fell in behind her. On entry, they heard a high-pitched shriek.

  Ekhard pointed the flashlight on a small Weber grill. It was staged in the middle of the floor with pieces of wood burning in it. A dirty sleeping bag and a backpack lay to the side of it, as if someone had been sitting there. Candy wrappers and an opened carton of milk lay beside them. He shone the light around the room. The roof was missing from this portion of the house where high wind or a tornado might have taken it some years ago.

  Caryn heard shuffling. Ekhard pushed her, and she wobbled, pliant. The flashlight bounced to a point behind them, and she saw a shoe behind the door where they had entered.

  It was a dirty blue trainer or jogging shoe, and it was filled with a dirty sock. A leg wearing frayed jeans was attached to the foot. Caryn took the flashlight from her brother. Her breathing was shallow.

  Ekhard began wheezing, then he coughed. Someone whined, and Ekhard lifted the hammer into the air above his head. He nudged Caryn toward the open door. With one hand, she slammed the door shut.

  Now exposed, a girl about the same age as they were screamed. She was dirty and thin. A runaway, Caryn thought. Her frizzy brown hair looked like it hadn’t been washed in weeks.

  “What are you doing here?” Caryn asked, trying to sound threatening.

  “I don’t have no place to go.” The girl’s voice quavered.

  “Get out,” she said. “This is my house. You can’t stay here.”

  “I don’t have no place else.” The girl stepped toward Caryn.

  “Stay back,” Caryn said, lifting her hand. Behind her, Ekhard held the hammer high. It made her braver.

  “You can’t stay here,” Ekhard repeated.

  The runaway looked from Caryn to Ekhard, then lunged at Caryn with her hands at her face. Caryn dropped the flashlight on the floor to fight with her fists. She punched at the girl’s heavy coat, then reached for her hair. The girl raised a hand. Something in it glistened. A knife? Caryn’s heart pounded against her ribs as she stumbled backward and tripped on the sleeping bag. She fell on her back, and right away the girl was on top of her. The knife flashed in the firelight, and she tried to catch the girl’s hand. Caryn wrestled to grab the blade, holding her opponent’s arm in a tight grip. She struggled to keep her away, but the girl had gravity on her side. She pressed the knife into Caryn’s throat, cutting.

  “Get off her!” Ekhard screamed. He swung the hammer at the back of the girl’s head.

  CHAPTER 40

  MORGAN

  Morgan had waited until she was in her rented Toyota to open the envelope Rebecca wanted her to have. Inside, Rebecca had placed a signed credit card receipt from a steak house in Lafayette, Indiana. The signature was unmistakable. In a tidy cursive, it said Nathaniel E. Johnson.

  He had paid for a dinner for two and a bottle of wine.

  Morgan’s heartbeat sped up at the discovery.

  It was the weekend before Thanksgiving, and she came in to work early, calling Donnie on the way. His weekends were sacred, she understood. But she had woken up in the middle of the night and compared photos of Nathaniel Johnson from the Baker and Baker website with pictures of Ekhard Klein from his high school yearbook. Ekhard was a blonde, while Nathaniel had darker hair. Otherwise their square jaws were identical. So were the amber-brown eyes and angular noses.

  Morgan had filed for a warrant to search Nathaniel Johnson’s house. While waiting for it, she sat hunched behind her unusually cluttered desk where file folders and paperwork buried the metal surface. On top, photos of bloody, ravaged bodies were spread in a geisha’s fan. At her feet, boxes filled with loose ends were stamped with the year 2004. As she was flipping through a six-inch stack of paperwork in her lap, Lieutenant Holbrooke appeared at her left.

  “Morgan!” she exclaimed. “That address you inquired about? A report came in this morning from the city of Lafayette. Last night a woman was attacked with a hammer at that house. Tippecanoe County PD answered the call.”

  The lieutenant had Morgan’s undivided attention. In her pressed navy blue pantsuit, she was an intimidating law officer.

  She continued, “The woman escaped but wished to remain anonymous and never gave her name. Go check it out. Now!”

  Morgan flew out of her chair. “Tell them I’m en route.”

  “You’ll have the warrant before you get there.”

  On her way, she called Donnie. “I’m on my
way to Nathaniel Johnson’s house. Donnie, he is Ekhard. Listen, I don’t expect you to drop what you’re doing with your family today. I’ll call when I get done and give you a report.”

  “Swing by my place. I’ll drive,” he said.

  Over the last few hours, freezing rain had sealed seven counties in a hard, icy crust. But the drive to 6818 Hyacinth Court in Lafayette took twice as long due to incompetent drivers, not weather conditions. Donnie ground his back teeth the whole way.

  “Stop that. I can hear you.” Morgan was riding in the passenger seat.

  “Sorry. Can’t help it.”

  “What’s bothering you?”

  “Angie is taking a small turkey over to her parents’ house this afternoon. We’re doing an early Thanksgiving dinner since they’re going on vacation next week.” Donnie’s grip on the steering wheel whitened his knuckles.

  “I don’t know how you do it all.” Morgan gazed out the ice-coated window. Windshield wipers pushed half-frozen slush out of the way.

  “Hey, I signed up for this. My girls and Angie are what really matters.”

  “To me catching this killer is the most important thing. I won’t stop till it’s done, Donnie.”

  “I admire that about you. So tell me what we’re walking into here.”

  Morgan told him that she had called Tippecanoe PD. Though no one was home when police arrived, fresh blood on the front doorknob gave officers at the scene enough reason to enter. Based on what they found at the scene, she and Donnie were granted access.

  Blinking holiday lights decorated many homes on Hyacinth Court although it was daylight. The holiday decorations gave sparkle to police vans, a dozen black-and-whites, and two television news vans that lined the street. Donnie parked behind a black SUV and shut off the engine. Tree limbs glistened with sparkling ice that reflected a billion red and green lights from someone’s holiday display.

  Cautiously, they exited the SUV to step onto slippery pavement. Across the street, a half-dozen giant inflatable Christmas decorations filled a neighbor’s yard. A cheerful snowman smiled. An oversized Santa waved a floppy arm under the weight of an icy layer. The rest puffed and twinkled—a surreal scene. From the front window of one house a couple smiled and waved at her.

  “Excellent. The crime scene has become someone’s holiday entertainment.” Morgan didn’t wave back. Careful of the ice, she took short strides.

  Hard ice pellets bounced off Donnie’s shoulders and stuck in his hair.

  An officer shook a bag of salt on the slanted driveway. “Happy Holidays, right?” his tone was more acidic than cheerful.

  “Yeah, whatever,” Donnie replied.

  The faded-green front door had been taped open and the doorknob removed for evidence. Inside, Morgan brushed the water and ice off her red winter jacket, creating a shower on the already wet floor.

  “Checking in?” A female officer sat at a folding table, a makeshift desk in the entryway.

  “Detective Jewell from Indy Metro homicide.”

  The woman in the entrance wrote on a log, then handed the clipboard to her to sign.

  “Detective Jewell, I’m Lieutenant Hanne. Call me Henry.” Not much taller than Morgan, he shook her two fingers with a limp hand. “Hope the drive wasn’t terrible.”

  “It sucked,” Donnie said. “Shall we get on to business? The roads aren’t getting any better. And I have to get back by two.”

  “All right then.” With hands on his hips, Henry turned around in the small entryway.

  Nathaniel lived simply. Except for one worn-out recliner, there was no other seating in the living room to Morgan’s right. Beside the chair there was one small table and, across the room, a large television. There was no clutter. No decorations, garbage, or beer bottles. No newspapers or books. None of the normal stuff of living lay around this room.

  “Has the woman who called come forward?” Morgan asked.

  “No. We’ll get forensics to sweep for DNA.” He waved a hand toward the front door. “When we know her identity, the DA may use her as a key witness.”

  Morgan’s fingertips caressed the notebook in her pocket as she remembered the coffee cup she had sent to forensics.

  Henry scratched his thinning gray hair. “We’re checking with local hospitals. No one has reported injuries like what you’ve seen with this hammer killer investigation.”

  Donnie poked through drawers in the kitchen. “Have you arrested the homeowner?”

  “Nathaniel Johnson is MIA.”

  “Nathaniel Johnson is a false identity,” Morgan explained. “His name is actually Ekhard Marcus Klein. He’s the suspect, the unsub we’re looking for. He’s been at this for a long time.”

  Henry added more details. “His car is gone, and he’s just changed jobs. Doesn’t seem to have any friends. We know of a gym membership, nothing else.”

  “Send out an APB out on this guy. His picture is going viral,” Donnie said. She peered down the hallway at the photos on the wall.

  “You’d think he grew up here,” Henry said.

  “He’s only lived here four years,” Morgan informed him.

  “Where was he before that?”

  “We don’t know yet. He’s changed his identity at least twice in the last twenty years. It’s likely that he’s moved around the state as his identity changed.” The name Larry Milhouse came to Morgan’s mind again.

  “What did you want to show me, Lieutenant?”

  “Come with me.” Henry led the way through the kitchen and down a carpeted basement staircase to a lower rec room that had seen better days. Orange carpet dated the room. Dark-red fuzzy wallpaper completed the look. The only furniture, a few dining chairs, sat against one wall. Stacks of boxes had been opened by the police.

  “Nice room,” Morgan said. “Where’s the mirrored disco ball?”

  Donnie lifted a photo album out of one box and flipped through it. Morgan peered over his arm at pictures of children on the beach with a woman.

  “That’s Anna Clare,” she said.

  “She looks just like Caryn, Ekhard’s sister,” Donnie said. “Family albums? Is that why we’re here?” Donnie tossed the heavy book onto the floor.

  “Come this way.” Lieutenant Hanne led her through another door to a small utility room with a concrete floor. The furnace and electrical box hid one wall. On the left, white pegboard stretched the length of the room upon which a collection of hammers formed a perfectly straight line.

  The breath went out of Morgan.

  “I heard about you and that Hallie Marks case. I thought you’d want to see this,” Henry said.

  Morgan stepped closer to the wall, her hand raised to within inches of a stainless steel, blue-handled utility hammer with something dark smeared on the head.

  “Send them to Indy, to Olivia Hawthorne at Metro Homicide. We need DNA testing on the …” She couldn’t finish. Ten hammers hung in the row. Two new ones with the price tags still attached lay on the bench.

  Donnie’s mouth hung open.

  “There are more than we thought,” Morgan said, her eyes wide.

  CHAPTER 41

  CARYN

  Caryn needed to act out. The impulse to hit something or someone overwhelmed her along with that other feeling she hated—loneliness. That was what triggered her anger. Ekhard had betrayed her. He had abandoned her. And Caryn had decided after her mom left that no one would ever do that to her again. Since she kicked Mack out, Caryn hadn’t seen him. He’d sounded hurt when he left that morning. What did he expect? He was a married man. In fact, that was the reason Caryn was with him. It kept him at bay. It ensured that his first relationship was with his wife, not with Caryn.

  Yet, as her anger grew, Mack was the closest thing to a target that she could think of.

  In Carmel, a suburb of Indianapolis where the upper crust of the city lived, the Rapture at 86 West was meticulously managed, stroked, and tenderly loved by Gilroy Mackintosh. And to say that this boutique hotel was his baby was an un
derstatement. It was his life. No wonder his marriage was in jeopardy.

  Like the pretentious residents of this suburb, Caryn walked in with her head high and her chest inflated. She pretended she was a paying guest. “I’d like a word with the manager,” she said to the host at the front desk.

  The middle-aged man wore a black suit and a gray vest with a silky dark-blue tie. “Are you a guest at the hotel?” he asked with a bit of a Southern drawl.

  “I most certainly am.” Torn between making a big show of herself or remaining innocuous and invisible the way Mack liked her, Caryn opted for tactic number one. “Don’t you know who I am?” She didn’t wish to be swept under the rug.

  “I’m sorry, ma’am,” he replied, weakly.

  “My name’s Caryn Klein. I’m staying in the executive suite on the sixteenth floor. I’ve got a problem, and I need the manager.” She doubted he would look up the guest staying in that room. Luckily, she was correct.

  “Is there something I can help you with, Ms. Klein?”

  “No. Only Mr. Mackintosh can solve this problem. Get him for me, now!” Caryn clicked the heels of her intimidating, pointy black high heels into the tile floor. Her hands remained in the pockets of a long khaki-colored trench coat.

  “Yes, ma’am. I’ll page him for you.”

  Joshua Groff, according to his name tag, picked up a phone and dialed three digits. “Mr. Mackintosh, could you come to the front desk please? Ms. Klein from room 1605 is here to see you.”

  Joshua hung up the phone. “He’ll be right out.”

  Hunched over and glancing furtively around the lobby, Mack appeared with reproach in his eyes. “What are you doing here?” he mumbled under his breath.

  Caryn kept up her act. Holding out her hand for a handshake, she introduced herself. Mack left his hand at his side.

  She spoke loudly so the reservation desk employee could hear. “Mr. Mackintosh, I have a problem to address with you. The bed in my room is unsuitable.”