by Jim O'Shea
“This is beyond belief,” Libby said. “How did you figure it all out? How did you find me?”
“I might have gone the rest of my life not knowing my true history, had it not been for the news coverage of our dear sister’s death last year. When they posted photos of the twenty-one known victims, I saw Melissa for the first time. In many ways it was the first time I saw myself, and I realized the truth instantly.” She paused and swiped her cheek with the back of her hand. “Somehow, I think I always knew.”
Libby was once again transported against her will to the U.S. Naval base in Naples, Italy—the U.S.S. Girardeau sailing southwest in the distance, the bright flash, the concussive blow. Her head fell.
“I’m so sorry, Elizabeth,” the woman said. “It was not my intention to bring back unpleasant memories.”
Libby waved the words away.
“I made no mention of what I’d discovered that evening at dinner with my adoptive parents. Even though I clenched my hands so hard during the news broadcast that my fingernails drew blood from my palms, they were none the wiser. They could only see my face, and I’d learned to be an expert at masking my emotions over the years. That skill came in handy over the next eight months, as I learned more and more about the fairytale life you and Melissa had enjoyed. Nothing like the hell on earth I endured in Idaho.”
Libby shuddered.
“Patrice Tarman was sterile, I came to find out, and I believe God made her that way intentionally. Some women aren’t meant to be mothers, just as some aren’t meant to be daughters. My adoptive parents did not birth their own children, so I became their property. For mother, an unpaid housekeeper—for father, something much worse.”
Libby swallowed against a dry throat, while a large tear rolled unchecked down her cheek.
“My bedroom window was boarded over my entire life, but my years of forced seclusion were not without an electronic window to the outside world. I had no human contact other than the Tarmans, but did enjoy an immense amount of intellectual stimulation from television at first, and eventually the internet.”
Libby wiped the moisture from her cheek.
“I believe I would have made a very good genealogical researcher,” the woman said, “or perhaps an archeologist, because I found what had been buried for so long in less than a week. The Tooele County and State of Utah electronic files showed no record of my birth, the ones in Idaho and Wyoming no documentation of my adoption. The Tarmans’ tax records, both state and federal, claimed zero dependents going back my entire thirty years, so as far as society and the government was concerned, I did not exist.” The woman folded her arms across her chest and frowned.
“Our self-imposed seclusion, my limited home schooling, and the total absence of visitors suddenly made sense. Even though my only true window to the outside world was electronic, that fact that I wasn’t permitted any email or social media accounts made even more sense. But I always sensed there was more, much more…and I had to find it. Fortunately, being the skilled investigator I am, it didn’t take long.” The woman pulled a small, leather-bound notebook from the back pocket of her jeans and laid it gently on the table next to the knife. “I’d let you read this yourself, Elizabeth, but we don’t have time. Your detective friend will be here soon, and I want to make sure you hear the entire story before he does.”
She placed the knife gently on top of the book. “This is Patrice Tarman’s diary, my adoptive mother; although I belonged to her no more than the baby Jesus belonged to Mary. Ironically, I found this in a secret space under the Tarmans’ stairs.” The woman used the edge of the knife’s blade to open the book and fan its pages. “The day I first read her diary was the day my new life began. Not only did it provide the details surrounding my birth and early years, it also confirmed my suspicions that I was part of a much bigger story. The most disturbing part was Grandma Pearl’s fear of me, one I always sensed growing up but could never understand.” Her eyes thinned to slits. “Hell was not a place according to Pearl,” she said, her voice just above a whisper. “It was a dark corner of my soul.” She gently closed the book with the tip of the knife, violently thrust its blade through the cover, and then offered up a composed smile.
“Patrice’s assessment of my condition was much more clinical than Pearl’s—bi-polar disorder brought about by our family’s genetic predisposition, combined with a lack of oxygen to the brain at birth. I picked up the narcissism all on my own.” The woman turned the palms of both hands upward. “No matter which version you choose, it was obvious I had been victimized by having the worst parents in the history of the world. But with my newfound knowledge came power, and I realized I had an opportunity to right a horrible wrong.” She leaned forward and planted clenched fists on the table. “Hate became my religion, Elizabeth.” Her eyes narrowed to pinpoints. “Revenge became my church, the life taken from me my Holy Grail.”
Libby closed her eyes, and an unexpected prayer passed silently over her lips, beseeching God, whom she wasn’t even sure she believed in.
“I spent the next eight months researching the internet. That strange dimension of information created by mankind and, lucky for someone like me, totally devoid of them. It didn’t take long to find former Navy Petty Officer Third Class Melissa Meeker, her home in Utah, and eventually her family. My family. I learned all about Nicholas, Marilyn, and you, Elizabeth—your homes, jobs, social connections—all out in cyberspace for the taking.”
The woman paused for a moment, apparently to provide Libby an opportunity to process all she’d heard or perhaps to interject a comment or question—but Libby wasn’t capable.
After a few seconds of silence, she continued. “I was surprised to discover my biological father was a Christian preacher, but when I considered my life up to that point and my goals going forward, it worked out perfectly. I found a copy of his holy book in the Tarman house, of all places, and it didn’t take long to identify my mission statement from its very pages.”
Libby gasped, as her brain stumbled from thought to thought. “The Bible on my coffee table.”
“Your Bible now.” The woman smiled and nodded. “The public is not yet privy to this information, Elizabeth, but pages from a Bible were found at several of the Ginger Killer murder sites. Would you like to guess where that particular Bible is right now?”
When Libby’s brain pictured the large book on Officer Mard’s lap, the magnitude of the woman’s words washed over her like a tsunami. “How?” she asked, while staring through suddenly glassy eyes.
“I’ve been in your house for several months.”
Libby stared.
“Your secret space under the stairs was the perfect place for me to execute my plan, Elizabeth. It was easy to come and go when you were out and provided me access to everything I needed, especially information.”
Libby cringed. The sleeping bags. “How could you…” Libby struggled to keep from stammering. “How did—”
“The eulogy Father gave at Mother’s funeral was very touching.”
Libby tried to keep her mouth from gaping open but failed.
“Yes, I was there. Disguised in the back row, and later at the house and gravesite. I believe you saw me.”
While Libby struggled to regulate her breathing, puzzle pieces of a different kind assembled in her brain—the sightings, objects either disappearing from or moving around her house, the mysterious sounds, the occasional scent of vanilla orchid.
The woman’s lips cracked into a lopsided smile. “It was there I first learned about your and Melissa’s special hiding place, and decided to make it my own. The old firewood door behind the stairs made it very easy to come and go.”
“It was you in the chair that night at my parent’s house,” Libby said. “You planted the dog tags.”
“I also delivered the silly drawings that almost got you fired,” the woman said, clapping and grinning. “So much fun! You tend to be a bit careless with your keys, so I was able to stash that puzzle pie
ce in your credenza at work. By the way, not a fan of the new hair color, but looking exactly like you made it so fun and easy to come and go as I pleased. I even wore your clothes to complete the illusion.”
“It was you at the bank and it was you who stalked my parents.”
“Guilty as charged.” The woman stood, bowed at the waist, and smiled. “By the way, they were our parents.”
“What else did you do to me? To us?”
“Let’s just say that I set out some very tasty breadcrumbs for law enforcement to follow.”
“So, I’m not crazy.”
“That will be for the courts to decide.”
While Libby processed words that seemed out of context, the woman leaned over and planted the palms of her hands on the table. “Back to my mission,” she said solemnly. “I myself am not a big fan of the New Testament, all that love and forgiveness and whatnot. I’m more of an Old Testament girl— the wrath and sacrifice—especially the blood sacrifice.”
Libby sobbed. “Those poor women.”
“Poor women?” The woman’s face twisted with rage. “What about me, Elizabeth? What about the torture I endured for thirty years?”
“They did nothing to deserve what you did to them.”
“They existed!” The woman held the diary down with one hand and pulled the knife out with the other, leaving behind a crimson stain. She circled behind Libby and held its blade up to her throat.
“Just like you. All of you with your pretty faces and wonderful lives.” She slid the razor-sharp edge lightly across Libby’s throat before pulling it away. “Your fate, however, will be a little more fitting.”
“I did nothing,” Libby said, her voice more air than substance.
The woman stared at her with a look of confusion splashed across her face. “You mean other than helping to strangle me in the womb? Or the fact that you’ve been living the life that should have been mine all these years?”
“Is that what this is all about? You want my life?”
The woman shook her head slowly, while pressing her lips together into a thin line. “Unfortunately, a ruined life is not worth taking. Not even Humpty Dumpty’s men will be able to put together the pieces of your life after I’m done with you, but I can take what’s left of yours and live it elsewhere.”
“You’re completely insane.”
“Insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting the results to be different. So I’d say I’m far from insane. The steps I took were bold, I grant you that, but not insane. The first one was ridding our planet of two depraved souls before they festered into an infected boil and spread their pus any more than they already had. I did the world a favor by eliminating Bryan and Patrice Tarman.”
Libby grasped the arms of the chair. She had slumped down so far that she had to catch herself before sliding off.
“I was born into my new self that fateful night, Elizabeth, baptized by blood. Sure, it was Bryan and Patrice’s blood, but so what? They were the not-so-spotless lambs that paid the sacrificial cost of my freedom.”
“You said you’d never left your parents’ house in your entire life. How could you do all of this?”
“As I said, I’ve always had total access to the world from a virtual standpoint. I realized right away I had to commandeer enough of the Tarmans’ financial assets for my journey, and learn to drive a car. Fortunately, it took just a few days to accomplish both tasks. I found a stash of money in that same hiding place under the stairs, and drove Patrice’s old pick-up truck up and down our road for hours until I felt comfortable behind the wheel. After a little on-line driver’s education to make sure I understood the laws, my journey south to Tooele City began.”
“Your killing spree.”
“My right of passage.”
Libby’s brain raced through multiple scenarios in her mind—none good. The woman was not only insane, but also approaching the end of her story. Hunter, by her calculations, was most likely still ten minutes away. The odds of the whole thing ending well seemed unlikely. “You’ve had a tough life. Anyone will be able to see that and be lenient if you turn yourself in.”
The woman smiled and sat back down. “You won’t like the next part of my story, Elizabeth, but I feel you deserve to know the truth.”
Libby’s stomach clenched into a tighter knot.
“I’m also responsible for the death of your—check that—our parents.”
Libby’s eyes glazed over briefly, until understanding overcame confusion. The woman had the weapon, but Libby now had the rage. She leaned forward slowly with her gaze trained on the knife, but the plan was thwarted when the woman grabbed it off the table and swung it in a wide arc. “I don’t blame you for being angry, Elizabeth. Especially about Father. After all, Mother knew the truth, but he was totally innocent. Father was just what I’d call collateral damage.”
“They died from heart failure. Your little scare tactics would not have been enough to cause that.”
“Probably not.” Her voice sounded controlled, calculating. “Although my performances were truly inspired, they were most likely not enough in and of themselves. However, no one checked to see if the heart medicines required to keep them both alive were actually in their bloodstreams. Good thing, because if there had been tests they would have found otherwise. Or if anyone had bothered to analyze the substance inside the red and green capsules left in their medicine bottles, they would’ve found common, everyday baking soda.”
Libby closed her eyes and felt tears well up, her anger now surpassed by a surge of grief. She eventually opened her eyes.
The woman had picked up the loose puzzle pieces off the floor and placed them on the table. She returned to the side opposite Libby and carefully slid the jigsaw puzzle toward her. “You assumed the remaining pieces were all about the writing on the back, didn’t you? That writing is mine and does reference a verse referencing the sins of the father, but the fronts of the pieces are what really mattered. Would you like to guess what these remaining pieces reveal?”
Libby stared down at the small pieces of wood— many with dark coloration—and then up and into the feral eyes of a predator.
“The idea didn’t come to me until I saw the hospital photo Father posted of you and Melissa on social media. I’d always been fond of jigsaw puzzles and decided to gift you with one that depicted life as it should have been. Triplets born to Nicholas and Marilyn Meeker, three beautiful baby girls wrapped in swaddling clothes, and lying in a twentieth century manger.”
The woman pulled a photo from her pocket, unfolded it, and placed it on the table. It was the familiar image of baby Libby and Melissa in the Tooele hospital, with one major change. A third infant, wrapped in black fabric, had been inserted into the empty bassinet on the right.
“Using my computer to create this vision was truly inspired,” she said, with her fingertip resting on the photo. “And represents the world as it should have been. Inspired, no doubt, but using some of the pieces as clues that would eventually lead to you was, I must humbly submit, pure genius.”
“Let’s share your story with the world.” Libby’s heart and mind raced. “You and I can still be a family.”
For the briefest of moments, the woman’s face seemed to soften and her eyes glisten. But just as quickly, they reverted back to a steely glare.
“You can trust me,” Libby said, but it was clear from the woman’s smoldering gaze that she didn’t.
“It won’t work, Elizabeth.”
“You can’t possibly blame me for what happened to you.”
“Blame is such a harsh word. I’d prefer to think of it as making things right. We shouldn’t wallow in guilt and pointed fingers. Nevertheless, the ledger must be balanced.”
Libby felt another surge of anger. “You’re nothing but a ghost to me, and I don’t believe in ghosts.”
The woman shrugged. “Maybe I don’t believe in architects. So what?”
Libby took a deep breath and gritte
d her teeth. “I'm not afraid to die.”
“Good for you,” the woman said, flashing a tiny smirk. “Because I'm not afraid to kill you.” She jerked at the sound of a knock on the front door.
Hunter.
When the woman backed away from the table with the knife in her hand, Libby saw it as a chance…perhaps her only. She screamed and bolted for the door.
35
Hunter stopped at the entrance to Libby’s street, took a deep breath, and stared at the full moon resting on the roof of a familiar Craftsman bungalow.
Per his request, a Salt Lake City Police squad car had replaced the City’s surveillance van, and Hunter waved it forward as he passed. He pulled his car far enough into Libby’s driveway to leave room, drained the remainder of the flask in his jacket, and checked the 9mm in his holster. Although he didn’t anticipate the need for a weapon, he chambered a round and returned it to his holster with the safety off.
The Idaho technician had finally called and confirmed the match Hunter feared. Libby’s prints on the museum coffee mug matched the one found at the Becker house, placing her at the crime scene. Combined with the discovery of the Bible pages, the matching china in her cabinet, and a slew of additional circumstantial evidence, Hunter was at the house on Stansberry Lane to finally make an arrest in the Ginger Killer case.
He’d been attempting to solve a complex puzzle all along without enough pieces, but such was no longer the case. Put together, they formed the perfect image of a murderer—perhaps too perfect—and that part bothered him. There was always something beyond physical evidence in a case, and the Ginger Killer was no exception. Despite the preponderance of physical evidence, there was something he could sense but not put his finger on—a truth outside the facts.
But he could deny those facts no longer. Elizabeth Lynett Mitchell, or most likely a personage buried deep inside her, was who he’d been searching for all along, and the implications surrounding the arrest overwhelmed him. Hunter braced himself.
It all ended now.
He released his death grip on the steering wheel and asked the two Tooele officers to wait a few moments before entering the home behind him. He trudged up the icy walkway, knocked on the front door, and heard a muffled shriek inside the house that sounded like Libby’s, followed by rapid footsteps. Hunter pulled his weapon as metal slid and clicked against metal for several seconds before Libby slung the door open, pulled it shut behind her, and ran into his arms.