The Buried

by Kathryn Casey

  “That guy can’t escape me long.”

  In the reception area, I touched the security pad with my passkey and took the door into the open area where the admin clerks sat. All the desks were empty except one. Seeing the captain’s secretary, Sheila, I knew this had to be serious. She hated weekend duty. The look she gave me only confirmed my fears. All wasn’t well. The phone to her ear, she waved toward the captain’s office. I responded with my raised-eyebrow, should-I-be-worried look, and she mouthed, “Maybe so.”

  It wasn’t just the weekend. If this didn’t wrap up soon, the captain might miss dinner, something I knew was high on his list of things he hated to do. He’d once told me, “Lieutenant Armstrong, one of your responsibilities is to keep things going around here calmly enough so I get to have an evening meal with my wife.”

  I understood that frustration. Except for sleep, I hadn’t been home in two days. I barely waved at Maggie and Mom that morning, saw Bobby carting in an armload of wallpaper sample books for Mom to choose from for the new house. As I pulled out, Mom stood on the porch watching Bobby walk toward her, shaking her head. She had such sadness in her eyes.

  In the conference room Captain Don Williams, nearly seven-feet of him, sprawled out in a chair, hand to chin, listening intently. Across from him a petite woman with long brown hair sat in a wheelchair. She talked softly, but sounded upset. Her shoulders shook. The captain eyed me.

  “Take a seat, Lieutenant,” he said.

  As soon as I walked close enough to see the woman’s profile, I knew why the captain wanted me there. “Kristilynn,” I said. “What’s up? Everything okay?”

  It had been at least six or seven years since I’d seen Kristilynn Cavanaugh. We were close during the investigation and the trial. I’d relied on her for information, and in return I offered comfort, reassurance that we’d keep Liam Kneehoff behind bars. “We have a lot of evidence,” I told her. “He won’t be getting out.”

  Kristilynn still worried, and the nightmares didn’t help.

  She called at odd hours, well into the night. “In my dream, it was just like that day,” she’d start, and I’d listen patiently while she described yet again her harrowing escape.

  She’d come out of a store after buying a new dress and drove a few blocks when her car ran out of gas. “I know I just filled it up. I don’t understand,” she complained to Kneehoff when he pulled over beside her.

  “Maybe a mechanical problem,” he said. Later, we’d discover that her fuel line had been punctured.

  “I have a gas can. I can give you a ride, fill it up, and drop you back off,” he offered. Once inside the black Benz, she saw the gun.

  On I-45, driving as if he had a destination in mind, he described what he intended to do to her. It struck her as odd that his tone never changed. He could have been discussing the importance of engine cleaners in motor oil. While he talked, they sped down the highway. She looked around, frantic, trying to decide what to do.

  Later a forensic mechanic figured out that Kneehoff had the lock on the passenger-side door rigged. Once set, it only opened from the outside. His mistake that day was that he forgot to click the lock shut.

  Knowing the fate that awaited her once they reached their destination, Kristilynn determined that she had no choice. On the highway, she grabbed the handle and the door swung open. The SUV swerved wildly as he slammed on the brakes and grabbed for her, but she jumped. She hit the hard, rough, concrete, rolled and rolled until she skidded onto the shoulder and smashed into a concrete barrier.

  At first, she feared he’d come after her, but other cars drove up behind them, some pulling over to help her. Kneehoff sped off. A motorist ran toward her and Kristilynn begged, “Please help! I can’t move my legs.”

  After the jurors sentenced Kneehoff to death, Kristilynn stopped calling late at night, asking me to check with the prison to make sure he hadn’t escaped. The nightmares came less often, and in her wheelchair, she returned to college. She gave up her dream of being a nurse and instead became a kindergarten teacher. Soon, her life normal again, she stopped calling me completely. I was a reminder of a painful time, and Kristilynn Cavanaugh had moved on.

  Some months earlier, we’d shared a phone call. I explained to Kristilynn that the governor had pushed back Kneehoff’s execution while he led us to more victims. That day, she sounded worried, but she didn’t complain.

  “You know, I want him gone, no longer walking this earth so I never have to worry about him again. But I can wait. Those victims need to be found,” she said. I heard the heavy emotion in her voice, the grief she carried that I knew would never leave. “I’ve come to feel that I represent all of them. That I live for them, since they’re no longer here to live their lives.”

  I felt pride in her, that she’d come so far. We were confidants who’d traveled a dangerous road together that led to a serial killer, and finally to resolution.

  That being the case, I didn’t understand when in the captain’s office Kristilynn locked her blue eyes on me and shouted, “How could you do this? You asked him for help? You allowed him to say those things about me?”

  “Say things? About you?” Genuinely confused, I asked, “What are you talking about?”

  The captain clicked on the video on the website, one dedicated to interviews of Death Row inmates. Instantly, Liam Kneehoff’s voice filled the room. I listened intently. Despite the air conditioning, sweat collected on my forehead, and the small hairs on the back of my neck bristled.

  “Do you regret that she got away?” Wilkins asked about Kristilynn’s escape.

  “I did, of course,” Kneehoff responded. “She was my one great disappointment. I would have done anything to finish what I’d begun.”

  “You would have?”

  “Oh, yes, definitely. She was the one responsible, you know, the one they used to identify and arrest me. Kristilynn Cavanaugh was the beginning of the end for me. In fact, for years I sat in my cell thinking of her, wishing someone would kill her for me.”

  The captain pressed pause. “Sarah, that’s all he says about Kristilynn, but there’s a lot more you might want to listen to, including how he says he advised you on the church burning cases. Is that true?”

  I hesitated, deciding how to answer.

  Life can be complicated at times. There weren’t any regulations against asking a serial killer for help, but it fell substantially outside our normal investigative techniques. “Yes, I asked him about the arsonist,” I admitted. “Why not? Kneehoff has those urges, different but similar. I wanted his take on the guy, what his motives are, how he sees the world. I wanted to know how dangerous he thought the arsonist was, if the guy would kill again.”

  The captain looked uncomfortable, but nodded, as if he understood. Kristilynn, meanwhile, would have none of it.

  “So, you made him seem like a good guy, helping out in an investigation, and now he’s telling people he wants me dead! Dead!”

  Now, that was hard to explain. “I didn’t have anything to do with that interview, Kristilynn. Absolutely nothing. I didn’t even know that Kneehoff was giving one. And it’s not in my power to stop him from talking.”

  “Is that true?” she asked the captain.

  “Yes, it is,” he said. “The courts have ruled that inmates don’t lose their First Amendment rights, so Liam Kneehoff is entitled to talk to the press, people like this who host podcasts. We have no influence over whom he talks to or what he says.”

  At that, Kristilynn bowed her head and closed her eyes. When she again looked up at me, she asked, “I know he’s in prison. I know you’re being careful. But what he said… am I in any danger?”

  “Liam Kneehoff is on death row,” I reminded her. “He’s not getting out. As soon as we finish following the leads he’s giving us, he’ll be rescheduled for a lethal injection.”

  “So, I’m okay. I shouldn’t worry.” Kristilynn wiped away a tear slowly trailing down her cheek.

  “You shouldn’t worr
y,” the captain said. “He’s in prison. He can’t hurt you.”

  “I don’t…” she started. “I couldn’t live through something like that again.”

  “You won’t have to,” I said. “I promise.”

  “You’ve never lied to me, Sarah, and I appreciate that,” she said. “I trust both of you.”

  As she turned her chair to wheel toward the door, she craned her neck and looked back at us. “Whatever you do, bringing him out to that field, going through the routine in that cell, don’t lose track of him. Don’t let him escape. If you do, he’ll kill me.”

  From an office window, I watched Kristilynn wheel her chair up to her specially equipped car. She lined herself up with the driver’s seat, bobbled a bit and pulled herself in. Then she lifted the chair in and put it beside her. As she backed up and then pulled forward out of the lot, I thought about how brave she was, and I wondered if I would be as courageous in her situation.

  At my own computer, I listened to the interview again, this time to the end. I thought about Kristilynn, Kneehoff, and Beau Whittle, the arsonist the serial killer said he understood.

  The captain was getting ready to leave when I found him.

  “How many hits have they had on that website?” he asked.

  “More than a hundred thousand and growing,” I said.

  “My wife called. She says they played part of it on the news this evening, local and even some of the national stations picked it up. Seems there are a lot of anti-death penalty folks getting behind Kneehoff. Why? Makes no sense to me. If they’re going to champion someone, maybe not a serial killer?”

  I shook my head. Kristilynn would be home, where she lived alone with the stray cats she habitually rescued. Kneehoff wasn’t a threat to her from behind prison walls, but with so many stirred up, I wondered if someone else might be. “Can we ask the local police to watch over Kristilynn for a few days?”

  “I already put in a call to the chief. They’re going to have an unmarked unit on her street overnight,” he said. “I don’t think we need to tell her. We don’t want her to panic.”

  “How long?” I asked.

  “At least a day, maybe longer, until this chaos calms down.”

  “Thanks,” I said, meaning it.

  “Sarah, this isn’t your fault,” he said.

  “I know,” I said. “But it doesn’t make me any less sorry that it happened.”

  “Try not to worry.” The captain grabbed his briefcase. “Back at it on Monday. You taking tomorrow off?”

  “I’m hoping so. Not sure. If all goes well for Sheriff Delgado, if he brings that guy in, I’ll have Sunday with the family.”

  As I watched the captain walk out the door to leave, I thought again about Kristilynn Cavanaugh and Kneehoff’s interview.

  Who would hear it? What might they do?

  “For years I sat in my cell thinking of her,” Kneehoff had said. “Wishing someone would kill her for me.”

  Eighteen

  Del searching for Beau Whittle, I decided to head home and arrived in time for dinner. Instead of four places, Mom set three at the table. She didn’t explain why Bobby didn’t join us as usual.

  Maggie appeared not to notice, as she prattled on about her robot research. After we cleared away Mom’s gazpacho and a homemade ham and cheese quiche, my daughter claimed the kitchen table. She had parts spread out end-to-end, gears, switches, metal springs, and tiny circuit boards.

  “I’ve got some work to do,” she whispered to me. “I’m thinking about redesigning the arm functions.”

  Then I remembered. “That plate you’re planning to use for the face. Can I see it?”

  “Sure,” Maggie said. She walked over and lifted it out of a box pushed against a wall. It was one of my old dishes, the blue ones I had when Bill and I first married. Some broke, and we bought a different set, but I’d always loved them. I served our first dinner as husband and wife on those plates, the worst beef stew ever made. It was so bad, we had to clear out of the house and open all the windows to get rid of the smell. I told Maggie the story, and she laughed along with me.

  “How about we put that one back and find something else out in the garage?” I asked.

  “Yeah,” she said, and then she thought about it. “Someday, Mom, if you don’t need these blue dishes, can I have them?”

  A film of tears suddenly coated my eyes, thinking about our family stories, how my daughter would always remember my cooking failure and cherish those blue plates as much as I did.

  “You bet,” I said.

  In the garage, we found an old white plate with a scalloped edge. After Maggie settled back to work, Mom and I sat in the porch rockers and watched the horses mill around in the corral. Warrior had his hair braided with ribbons, Maggie’s afternoon project.

  “Are you going to church with us in the morning?” she asked.

  “I’m hoping to. If they make an arrest tonight in the case I’m working, I’ll take the whole day off.”

  “Good,” she said.

  I hesitated, reluctant to push her, but I wanted to know. “Where’s Bobby tonight?”

  Mom sighed. “At the Petroleum Club, having dinner with friends. It’s a business thing. They’re talking about what OPEC is planning and how it’ll affect oil prices.”

  “Oh, I thought…”

  “No, no, nothing like that. But we did talk about my concerns this morning, after you rushed out of here to work and Maggie wandered off on her bike with Strings.”

  “What did you tell him?”

  Her brow creased.

  “The truth. That I love him, but I don’t know if I can do this. That I’m worried about getting in too deep and losing him.”

  For a moment we stayed, quiet. Mother and daughter, we needed no words. I waited.

  “Bobby seemed upset at first,” Mom said when ready. “He wanted to know why I waited so long to bring this up. I admitted that I didn’t know why, that it just happened. He fumed some, went stomping off up to the new house.”

  “He’s upset. I can understand that,” I said.

  “A while later, he came back. He wasn’t mad anymore,” Mom explained. “He’d thought it through and decided all that’s really important is that I love him. If I’m worried about a marriage license, he said he’ll live in sin with me until the day he dies and not be afraid to face Saint Peter at the final judgment.”

  “That sounds like that man of yours.”

  “Doesn’t it?” she agreed, a deep fondness in her voice.

  “So what are you going to do?”

  “We said we’d take this week to think it over, while we keep working on the house, picking out the flooring and things. It’s coming along. I found a beautiful tile for the main room today that looks like wood.”

  “You okay with that? Waiting to decide?” I couldn’t tell by the tone of her voice what Mom was thinking.

  “Yeah,” she said. “If I want to, he’s willing to call off the wedding. Then we can take our time to decide where we go from here.”

  “Would you live with him without being married?”

  Mom had obviously already considered that because she took no time before she gave her head just the slightest shake. “I’m too old fashioned for that, Sarah, too set in my ways. I can still envision the look I’d see on your grandparents’ faces if I even considered that.”

  “So, it’s all or nothing?”

  “Yep,” she said with a regretful exhale. “All or nothing.”

  We put the horses in the stable about nine. Maggie wanted to stay up and work on her robot, but at ten I ordered her to bed. Mom and I were exhausted and needed sleep.

  The house peaceful after they wandered upstairs to their rooms, I turned off lights, checked the stove, the doors, bedded the place down for the night. In the living room, I pictured the old days, my dad in his favorite chair, my husband, Bill, sitting across from him. They laughed about something, while a toddler Maggie crawled across the floor. Life was goo
d then. It was still good, but different. And I understood Mom’s fears. Maybe she just needed to keep what she already had safe and not stretch out.

  Mom and I had never talked about my skin theory. It occurred to me after Maggie was born. Suddenly I had another person I loved. I couldn’t take my eyes off of her. I felt blessed every time I looked at her. One day I realized that with Maggie, I had more surface area, more skin in the game. Anything that hurt Maggie hurt me. My love for her made me more vulnerable. Of course, that was all secondary. I never doubted for a second that Maggie was worth everything and anything the future could bring.

  Mom didn’t describe her fears quite that way, but I figured that’s what she meant about Bobby. By loving and marrying him, she felt exposed.

  Before I went to bed, I checked messages, nothing from Sheriff Delgado, so there’d been no arrest of Beau Whittle. That afternoon the sheriff had sounded confident, but I worried that Whittle could be hard to find. He grew up in those woods, lived around the river his whole life. He had friends who might hide him, lonely places he knew where no one would see him. I’d noticed photos on Edith Mae’s sofa table of Beau in camo and carrying a shotgun. Our fugitive was a hunter, probably knew how to live off the land.

  None of that would make things easier.

  Then, just before I crawled in bed, my cell rang.

  “Lieutenant, you need to bring Liam Kneehoff back out to the site,” Tim Miller said. I thought about mentioning that it was pretty late for a phone call, but I knew Tim didn’t sleep much. He had problems closing his eyes at night, especially when he had a search going on. “We’ve got a sizable dig now and no skeleton. I don’t know where to start in the morning.”

  Oh, this wasn’t going to make for a peaceful night, thinking about allowing that evil to again leave his cell.