Ever So Silent

by Christopher Little

  “Despite subsequent doubting research, let me also introduce you to the Macdonald Triad, because it remains a widely taught theory. It is also known as the ‘homicidal triad’ or the ‘triad of sociopathy.’

  “In 1963, a psychiatrist from New Zealand named John Macdonald suggested a link between fire-setting, cruelty to animals, and persistent bedwetting after the age of five to homicidal and sexually predatory behavior.

  “So, that adds bedwetting to our list.

  “Thus, we have nine criteria. How many of these apply to what we know of Will Foster?” He looked out over the room.

  Nobody spoke.

  “Exactly one,” he said forcefully. “By all accounts, Will is an intelligent man. From what our investigation has uncovered, none of the other criteria fit. Well, I suppose, he could have been a teen-aged peeping Tom. But I kind of doubt it. Also, his parents told me that Will stopped wetting his bed at a very young age and that he treated the family dog as his best friend.”

  Emma watched the whole room erupt. Everyone chattered at once.

  But in her own mind, Emma felt, if not vindicated, at least cheered.

  Wouldn’t it be wonderful if they weren’t looking for Will?

  Emma heard a loud Ahem. “Are you done, yet, Lieutenant?” Stella said to Skip with evident hostility.

  “Actually, not quite.” He smiled at Stella. “I’d like to make a few more points, if you’ll indulge me. He said to the assembled cops, “Can I have your attention for a minute or two more?”

  48

  Yahoos

  Lieutenant Skip Munro continued, “The best friend a serial killer has is a cop who makes erroneous assumptions. That bears repeating. The best friend a serial killer has is a cop who makes erroneous assumptions. Has anyone heard of Henry Louis Wallace, aka ‘The Taco Bell Strangler?’ ”

  Hearing nothing, he continued, “Wallace killed eleven women over a four-year period. Why did it take the Charlotte, North Carolina, police so long to catch him? A couple of reasons. Most serial killers kill strangers. So, betting on the standard assumptions, they searched for a white male in his mid-20s who didn’t know his victims. Wallace turned out to be an African-American who had connections with all his victims. The only thing they got right was his age—”

  Stella stood. In a loud voice she said, “Well, Will Foster knew Ethan Jackson, Deb Barger, and Vanessa Mack. Aren’t you just proving I’m right?”

  “Bear with me, Chief, I just have a few more points to make, after which we can discuss your case.” He waited for Stella to settle down. Emma could see how rattled she was.

  “Here’s another scenario. Imagine you’re called to an active shooter incident at Hampshire High. As you arrive on scene, what are you looking for? Instinctively, you’re looking for a white male high school student, probably dressed in black, carrying an AR-15, who is going to shoot himself before you can take him out. Right? Don’t forget that Iranian-born nut job who shot up the YouTube headquarters. She was a woman.

  “In 1998, Roy Hazelwood of the FBI infamously declared, ‘There are no female serial killers.’ Guess what? He was wrong. About fifteen percent of serial killers in the United States have been women. It is believed that there are more who were never caught. Among conventional murderers, about ten to thirteen percent are women. While it is true in the active shooter/mass murderer scenario—that is, shooters who aim for multiple victims at once without a cooling-off period between kills—only three percent are women.

  “What I’m trying to get across is simple. Follow the evidence and let the evidence inform your conclusions. Don’t allow your presumptions to get ahead of the evidence. Okay, I’m done now. Thanks for letting me say my piece.”

  Stella stepped up to the podium. Huffily, she said, “I think I speak for all the officers present when I say that it would be nice for you to remember that you’re not talking to a bunch of yahoos here.”

  A couple of cops clapped. She said, “See what I mean.”

  Munro smiled enigmatically and retook his seat in the front row.

  Stella wasn’t finished.

  “I am more than happy to follow the evidence,” Stella said. “Don’t forget that the killer left his calling card, his signature, three separate times. That evidence spells WIL. If anyone cannot see that there is just one L missing, then I say you’re not paying attention to the evidence. In my opinion, the killer has signed his work.”

  “I’d like to add something, too.” Everyone turned in their seats. Mayor Dick Wardlaw was standing in the back of the room with his hand up in the air. “You should all be aware that the entire town of Hampshire is affected by these, um, incidents. My phone has lit up like one of your police light bars.” He paused. Emma thought he was waiting for a laugh. When he didn’t get one, he continued, “Folks are scared, people. They ask me why the police haven’t caught the serial killer yet. I’m forced to wonder the same thing. Be advised, the pressure is on … both on me and you.”

  “We are well aware of that, Mayor Wardlaw,” Stella said. “Okay guys I think that’s enough for now. Thank you, Lieutenant Munro, for giving us the benefit of your wisdom and experience. We sure appreciate it. But I think, going forward, we will be running parallel but equal investigations.” Stella glanced at a note card on the podium. “We have distributed a recent photograph of Vanessa Mack to all area departments and, of course, to the state police. Just as we did previously with Will Foster. We’ve issued areawide alerts for both individuals. Her husband, Dave Mack, is flying back from Cincinnati. Although doubtful, it’s possible he will be able to provide us with some useful information.”

  She stared directly at Skip in the front row. “The Hampshire Police Department’s priorities are to find Vanessa Mark and bring her home safely and to find Will Foster and bring him home in handcuffs.”

  Emma looked around the room, trying to gauge the reaction of her former colleagues. There seemed to be broad approval for Stella’s pushback. Emma saw Stella walk over to Munro and shake his hand.

  Emma seized the opportunity. She hurried to the front of the room. It was purely an instinct, but she wanted to hand over Vanessa’s earring to Stella while Skip was present.

  “Hi, Emma,” Skip said, friendly as can be and seemingly unfazed by Stella’s remarks, “are you feeling any better? And where’s that fine dog of yours?”

  “She’s waiting outside.” Without raising her voice over the hubbub in the roll-call room, Emma said, “Pepper. Come.”

  Pepper ran into the room and came to a screeching halt by Emma’s side.

  “Well I’ll be damned,” Skip said. “That’s amazing.”

  Stella followed the conversation, frowning.

  “I was really interested in your remarks,” Emma said. “I find it so hard to believe that Will would harm anyone, let alone Deb and Vanessa, who are nearly as close to him as they are to me.”

  Stella said, “Well, I can believe it.” Emma thought she sounded, at the least, petulant.

  Emma removed the baggie from her purse. “I’m afraid I have a new piece of evidence which suggests that Vanessa was forcibly abducted.” She showed them the earring.

  Stella didn’t waste a nanosecond. “Where the hell did you get that?”

  “Your team missed it. It was under the sofa in Vanessa’s living room. Pepper found it.”

  “The Mack house is a goddamn crime scene,” Stella sputtered. “You had no right to go in there. Anyway, we haven’t finished processing it yet. You’re not a cop and neither is your goddamn dog. I could charge you for breaking and entering and for illegal possession of Archie’s gun!”

  “Don’t get your panties in a twist,” Skip interrupted. “This is important evidence. Let me see that.” He carefully examined the earring in the baggie. “Definitely looks like blood. I’ll get this to our lab. Good work, but I agree this doesn’t look very good for Vanessa.” Turning to Stella, he said, “My advice to you is to worry a little less about imagined slights and find Vanessa Ma
ck on the double.”

  As her face reddened, Stella straightened her uniform blouse and glared at Skip, but she kept her mouth shut.

  Lieutenant Monroe said a polite goodbye to Stella, gave Pepper a friendly pat, and headed toward the door. Stella spun in the other direction.

  Emma found herself briefly alone. Again, her heart went out to Vanessa, and her instincts told her not to expect a happy ending.

  A tap on her arm caused her to turn around. She found herself nose-to-nose with Dick Wardlaw.

  49

  Revolver

  Dick Wardlaw’s smile bared his stained teeth. “What a surprise to see you here!”

  Emma could not bring herself to say hello. The slime ball repulsed her with his bulbous face and asymmetrical, leering eyes.

  She waited.

  He studied her face and said, “Gee, you really suffered a beating. Somebody worked you over pretty good. But you’re still beautiful. Bruised but beautiful.”

  Emma looked for an escape route. She tried to catch Buzz Buzzucano’s eye, but the bastard turned away. She didn’t blame him. Who’d want to get sucked into a conversation with Dick Wardlaw?

  “I found Lieutenant Munro to be pretty impressive,” Wardlaw continued. “He made some very cogent points, and he seemed to be exonerating your ex-husband.”

  Emma didn’t fall for the “ex” trap.

  “In comparison, I found the acting chief lacking. She seems to be a prisoner of her own theory, her only theory. I may have made a mistake about you, Emma. I’m considering reversing my decision. You see, I prefer to work with people who can keep an open mind.”

  No one could have misconstrued his words.

  “There’s a new French restaurant in Great Barrington. It’s called Chez Max. Why don’t we dine there sometime this week and discuss making you chief again? It’s very expensive.”

  Although she tried hard, Emma couldn’t come up with an appropriately withering response.

  “Oh c’mon,” he wheedled, “stop being such a stick in the mud. I just want to be friends. Don’t forget, I could do a lot for you in this town …”

  Still unable to come up with the perfect rejoinder, Emma turned on her heel.

  She and Pepper made tracks for the exit.

  Emma felt sick to her stomach. Dick’s persistence insulted her.

  When they arrived back at the house, Pepper raced into the kitchen, her tail wagging. Emma followed. Mark was sitting at the kitchen table reading the Times that he had brought to the hospital. He seemed quite at home. Emma wasn’t sure how she felt about that.

  “Where have you been? I was worried about you.”

  Emma countered with, “How is your mother?”

  “Fine. But where were you?”

  Emma was beginning to feel that Mark’s concern—she had no doubt he was sincere—was intrusive. She never liked feeling boxed in. On the other hand, it was a welcome change that someone cared.

  She tried for a gentle yet firm tone. “I’m not a baby, Mark. I need to do things—”

  “Understood. But you need to look after yourself. Look at you. You’ve sustained a serious head injury. What did the lady doc call it?”

  “An epidural hematoma.”

  “Exactly! I probably should never have let you leave the hospital.”

  More firmly this time, Emma said, “That was not your decision.”

  Her newfound popularity was claustrophobic. Not that she would ever compare Mark to Dick Wardlaw, but she needed to cool his ardor.

  Emma sighed. “We need to get a few things straight. I like you Mark, and I’m grateful for the help you’ve given me. And for your concern, too. But I’m not ready for a relationship. This is not the time.”

  “What’s all this about a relationship?” he replied angrily. “Who said anything about a relationship? You’re sounding pretty presumptuous.”

  “Let’s just agree,” Emma said, less in anger than in exhaustion, “that I need some time alone to nurse my wounds. I also have a headache.”

  “Message received! I think it’s time for me to go.”

  He got up and left the house.

  Emma said to herself aloud, Smooth work, Emma, you just lost your last friend.

  She went upstairs with the Sunday Times crossword puzzle, swallowed two Tylenols, and climbed into bed. Pepper looked at her quizzically but joined her. Her headache was becoming more intense, but she was determined to do something alone and for herself.

  She puffed herself up with four pillows, two of hers and two of Will’s. She balanced the magazine section on her thighs and grabbed a ballpoint pen from her night table. She worried briefly about her selfishness. About how she had hurt Mark’s feelings. But she felt like being selfish. She pushed him, and the rest of her worries, out of her consciousness. For the moment, anyway.

  That day’s theme was “The Long and Winding Road.”

  She started solving from the lower right corner. It was not the usual way she did it, but the easy way.

  The bottom right clue was simple: “Hospital opening.”

  Answer: “stent.” The lower right corner always has common letters like S and T.

  In time, she’d answered enough clues to reach 116-across. There were twenty-one spaces for the answer, which ran the full width of the grid.

  The clue was “Revolver love song?”

  Puzzle therapy was working. She smiled as she penned in the answer.

  “Got to Get You into My Life.”

  Pepper started barking, her someone’s-at-the-door bark. She got off the bed and went downstairs. A big part of Emma hoped that Mark hadn’t returned. A small part of her hoped he had.

  Pepper was sitting in the hallway, no longer barking. Strange, Emma thought, her head pounding. She opened the door. There was a package on the porch. It was an ordinary cardboard box, but, oddly, it was tied closed with a red ribbon like a birthday present. Pepper gave the box a thorough sniffing before Emma picked it up and took it into the kitchen.

  Emma didn’t know what to expect, but she had a strong feeling that she was not going to like what was inside. She sliced the ribbon with a kitchen knife.

  50

  Follow my Instructions

  I do not intend to use the .38 to shoot Vanessa Mack. I have in mind a more pleasurable scenario.

  I’ve only brought the weapon to compensate for my injured arm, although I’m sure I can take her with one arm tied behind my back. Tee-hee!

  But I’m shocked by the speed with which Vanessa spins and flees. I have to take a moment to jam my Smith and Wesson into the waistband of my jeans to free up my good arm.

  I chase her through the living room. She is not as fast as I initially thought. I stretch out my arm to seize her neck. Instead, my gloved hand snags her earring and tears it from her earlobe. She screams. I feel sure a torn earlobe is painful. It must be, because it stops her in her tracks.

  I slap her face hard to let her know who is in charge. And I re-aim the gun.

  “Please,” she begs, “I have two kids. They can’t live without their mother. I don’t know why you are doing this, but please don’t hurt me.”

  “You let your kids watch too much TV. That’s bad for them. You should also give them better food instead of the crap you feed them.”

  “Whaaat?”

  I can see that Vanessa realizes that I have been spying on her. This seems to terrify her even more.

  But she shouts, “You’re crazy!” anyway.

  She can see that that makes me very angry.

  “No, wait, I didn’t mean it,” she says, whimpering now. “I’m just so scared. I don’t know what I’m saying.”

  I feel calmer after her apology.

  “No offense taken.”

  Personally, I don’t know if I really mean what I just said, but it seems to take her hysteria down a notch. Always a good thing under such circumstances.

  I look around for the missing earring. I don’t like to leave an untidy scene, but I can�
��t find the damn thing.

  Vanessa stares at me, cowering.

  I say, “Now, my dear, I’d like you to remove all your clothing and your earring.”

  “I…I can’t do that.” She shakes visibly. She wraps protective arms around her breasts. “Please?”

  Although the snub-nosed .38 is a small gun, it makes a satisfyingly loud click when I cock the hammer.

  “Why are you doing this. I don’t understand,” Vanessa pleads.

  “Follow my instructions, and you won’t get hurt.”

  Vanessa can’t be sure whether I am lying.

  I am lying.

  She takes off her blue travel dress. She slowly removes her bra and really stalls when it comes to removing her black thong. Isn’t Dave the lucky one?

  I admire her. She has a nice figure. I’m surprised to see that she shaves her crotch. I wouldn’t have thought that she was the type, but like Deb, she has left a small, downward triangle of pubic hair.

  Girls’ Club?

  I point to it with my gun. I say, “Just like Deb huh? I wonder if Emma has joined your club.”

  Vanessa covers her privates and wails. Her terror is complete. At least that’s what she thinks.

  “Shut up!” I command. Her wailing gradually morphs into a loud sniffle.

  I shift gears, adopting a friendly, everyday tone of voice. I’m not into sexual assault or rape, as I believe I’ve stated. Rape is for the weak and the inadequate. Revenge is for the powerful.

  “Say, you don’t have a box and some ribbon, do you? I need to give someone a present.”

  I find I am getting tired of Vanessa. Her abject hysteria is rewarding but also annoying. I decide to keep things moving.

  “Do you have any personal stationary, Vanessa?”

  She nods numbly. I follow her naked backside into the living room, where she opens a faux-antique drop-front desk. It’s very Bed Bath & Beyond. She removes a pad with her name printed in pink script on each sheet.