Freak

by Jennifer Hillier

  Jerry’s heart panged. The random reminders of his wife were always the worst.

  “JJ is pretty strict about Jeremiah’s chores,” Frye was saying. “Sometimes, maybe a little too strict. Plus . . .” The neighbor’s voice dropped even lower. “Jeremiah’s been home every day for the past two weeks. JJ told me the kid either has to be in school or working—that’s the rule if he wants to live at home. But he hasn’t been going to work.”

  “You spying on your neighbors, sir?” Torrance’s face was unreadable.

  “No, of course not.” Frye looked frustrated. “I keep an eye on things, is all. That’s what I’ve noticed. Oh, and another thing . . .”

  Torrance and Jerry waited.

  “Jeremiah moved JJ’s car out into the driveway late one night. The Corvette.” Frye cleared his throat. “So two, maybe three weeks ago, I was up late getting a glass of milk—helps me sleep—and I heard someone tinkering around in the garage. I look out the window and see the ’Vette in the driveway. It doesn’t run, you gotta push it, and Jeremiah would never touch that car without his dad around, he knows better. I thought, okay good, JJ’s finally home and messing around in the garage, I don’t have to worry about the kid anymore.”

  Frye scratched his head. “The next morning, the car was still in the driveway, and it was still there the day after, too. I finally saw the kid outside and asked him what his dad was planning on doing with the car. Jeremiah tells me he was the one who moved it out, because he was cleaning up the garage. I joked and said, ‘You’d better not mess that car up,’ and he just sort of smiled and said, ‘Or what?’ and walked away. I thought it was a strange answer, ‘Or what?’ What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Jerry turned and looked at the Corvette, back in the garage where it was supposed to be. Then he looked at the floor underneath. Something, a shadow, caught his eye, and he leaned forward to get a closer look.

  And froze.

  He turned back to Torrance, but his former partner wasn’t looking at the floor. He was staring at the neighbor.

  “So you think because he moved the car and because he didn’t mow the lawn that the father is somehow dead?” Torrance didn’t bother to mask the skepticism in his voice. “That doesn’t make any sense, Mr. Frye. If he was missing, why hasn’t Jeremiah reported him?”

  “JJ, he’s a good guy, okay? And he’s my friend.” The neighbor hesitated again. “But if I’m being totally honest here, he’s not the greatest dad. If Jeremiah was my kid, I’d be home more. Jeremiah shouldn’t be on his own so much. He needs a lot of guidance.”

  Torrance finally nodded. “So how would you describe the relationship between father and son?”

  “Strained. Tense.” Frye’s brow furrowed. “I know JJ smacks him around sometimes. Don’t get me wrong, the kid can be frustrating as hell, but I don’t think that’s right.”

  And yet he’d never once called Child Protective Services to voice his concerns, Jerry thought. Typical.

  “Listen, Mr. Frye, we’re still looking into things here. Do you have a phone number where we can reach you in case we have more questions?”

  Frye recited his phone number, which Torrance typed into his phone. When the neighbor finally left, Jerry pressed the button to close the garage door.

  “There’s that look on your face again,” Torrance said. “What’s up?”

  “Mike, look.” Jerry pointed to the floor once the garage door was all the way down. “Look at the concrete underneath the Corvette. What do you see?”

  Torrance stepped a little closer and peered down. Then, realizing he was casting a shadow over the spot he was trying to analyze, he moved a few inches to the side. Kneeling, he touched the concrete with his finger, then turned and looked around at the rest of the floor.

  “Shit,” the detective said softly. “The concrete under the ’Vette is fresh. It’s not the same color as the rest of the garage.”

  Jerry nodded. “And it’s not dirty.”

  “The kid poured new concrete here?”

  Jerry squatted beside Torrance and touched the floor. “It’s cured, but it’s super sandy still. This is a new job.”

  “So that’s why he moved the car out? To . . . redo the garage floor? Why?”

  “Maybe he buried something. Or someone.”

  Torrance frowned. “You really think Jeremiah Blake killed his father? Why the hell would he do that?”

  “Psycho killer, remember?” Jerry said. “You’re the one who keeps telling me it doesn’t have to make sense. I’m just telling you what I see.”

  chapter 28

  IT TURNED OUT that even with a warrant, you couldn’t just go and tear up somebody’s house. Not without special permission. Never mind that the homeowner was possibly deceased and that looking for his body was the reason you needed to dig up the garage in the first place. You needed probable cause, not just a patch of fresh concrete.

  Like a confession, for example.

  Jerry and Torrance were back at the King County Jail, sitting across from a very bruised Jeremiah Blake. The kid’s left cheek was the color of eggplant and there was a long scratch on his right arm. He looked miserable and very, very vulnerable. He wouldn’t say who’d jacked him, of course, and Jerry couldn’t help but feel a tiny stab of sympathy. County jail was much worse than prison. Blake might be eighteen, but he looked fifteen. He was still just a kid.

  “I thought they were putting him in a cell by himself,” Torrance said to Blake’s public defender, a young woman named Shannon Koscheck, who looked fresh out of law school and almost as pathetic as her client did. Her mousy brown hair flopped over one eye and she was constantly flicking her bangs out of her face. Her navy suit looked cheap and brand-new. Public defenders didn’t make much.

  Koscheck looked confused. “I just got here.”

  Jerry appraised the boy in front of them, who seemed extra skinny now that he was dressed in orange scrubs. “You all right, kid?”

  Blake shrugged. “I’m fine. Just hungry. I’m missing chow right now.”

  Chow. The kid was learning the lingo.

  “The kid’s only been here for a day and already he’s beat up,” Torrance said to the corrections officer standing in the corner of the room. The CO shrugged, but whether it was because he couldn’t care less, or didn’t know about the situation, Jerry couldn’t tell. Torrance sighed loudly and dug into his wallet, pulling out a twenty-dollar bill. He waved it at the CO, who looked at him questioningly. “Go find someone to get this kid a burger.”

  “That’s not my job.”

  “That’s why I said to go find someone.” Torrance glared at the man, who looked genuinely confused. “Come on, someone in this place has to be going on break soon. Whoever goes can keep the change. Help me out here, man. I gotta question this kid and he’s gotta eat.”

  The guard stepped over and took the money. “I guess I can ask somebody.”

  Torrance looked back at Blake. “What do you want? McDonald’s? Burger King?”

  “Carl’s Jr.,” the kid answered promptly. “The six-dollar burger. And curly fries and a chocolate milk shake.”

  The guard looked unhappy. “I’ll be right back.”

  “Thanks,” Blake said when the CO left. “That was nice of you.”

  “That’s because he’s a nice guy,” Jerry said. “And I’m a nice guy.”

  “Look, kid, we’re not gonna bullshit you, okay?” Torrance said. “We’re not gonna play games. No good cop/bad cop routine, no tricks. You’re too smart for that, anyway. We’re here because we need to ask you some questions. You’ve been straight with us before, and I’m going to trust you’re going to be straight with us now.” He leaned in a little. “You’ve been very helpful in telling us everything we needed to know about the murders, and because of that, you’ve saved us a lot of time and energy. I spoke to the assistant prosecuting attorney assigned to your case. You plead to first-degree murder on all counts, you go to jail for life. But no death penalty. That’s good
news, right?”

  “Don’t say anything,” Koscheck said to her client. “Let me talk.”

  Blake shot her a dirty look. “I’ll say what I want, thanks. You work for me, remember.” The attorney’s face reddened. Blake focused on Torrance. “I can handle life. But no loony bin, okay? I don’t want to go to a loony bin. I want to go to the Washington State Pen.”

  “That’s up to the judge, but I doubt anybody will be recommending a mental health facility. The APA didn’t say anything about that.”

  “Good. Will I be in gen pop?” Again with the lingo.

  “Don’t know,” Torrance said. “Not up to me.”

  “Do you want to be in general population?” Jerry said.

  “Look at me,” the kid deadpanned. “Of course not. I’d be somebody’s bitch inside of a week. I already had that at home, thanks.” He stopped. “Shit. I didn’t mean to say that.”

  “Oh, I don’t know about that,” Jerry said easily. “You’re Jack the Zipper. You’ve murdered four women. You’re a scary motherfucker. Serial killers get serious respect in prison. Everyone’s going to want to be your friend. Plus you’ve got that whole twitchy don’t-fuck-with-me thing going on. I predict you’ll be very popular.”

  “Jack the Zipper?” Blake repeated, his eyes blank.

  “That’s what they’re calling you.” Torrance’s voice was patient but Jerry could see the tension in his former partner’s jaw. “Kind of catchy, no?”

  “Yeah,” Blake said, processing it. His face brightened despite the bruises. “Yeah, it is. They’re seriously calling me that?”

  “It’s in all the papers.”

  “Which ones?”

  “The Seattle Times did a piece just this morning about you.” Torrance was a smooth liar. “Just a small article, not front page, but that’s because you’re not officially convicted yet and the police aren’t releasing too much information to the media at this point. But I’ve heard a few people call you that. I think I heard it on KIRO Seven this afternoon as I was driving over.”

  “Yep,” Jerry said. “Me, too.”

  “I haven’t heard anything,” Shannon Koscheck mumbled, but she may as well have not been in the room.

  Blake’s gaze shifted between Torrance and Jerry. After a moment he seemed satisfied they were telling him the truth.

  The door to the room opened and the CO brought in a greasy fast-food bag and a sweating container of milk shake. Blake eagerly pulled out its contents, and a moment later the burger was a third gone, the kid’s mouth was full, and the smell of ground beef and fries was everywhere.

  “Hey, Jeremiah.” Jerry watched the kid inhale his dinner. He spoke as if a thought had suddenly occurred to him. “What’s your dad up to these days?”

  Blake stopped chewing and swallowed. It seemed to go down a little slower than the previous bite. He took a sip of his milk shake. “I told you guys already. He’s on a crab boat. Working.”

  “We’ve been looking for him,” Torrance said.

  “What for?” The kid wiped his mouth with a napkin. The burger, still warm, sat in its container. Blake glanced at it, but it was clear he’d just lost his appetite. “I’m eighteen. He doesn’t need to be here for anything. I got my own lawyer and everything.”

  “Yeah, but he’s your dad,” Jerry said. “Don’t you want him here?”

  “He’s busy,” Blake said curtly. “I’m going to prison for the rest of my life. He can visit me anytime he wants. What’s the difference if I see him now or later?”

  “You don’t think he’d want to be here to support you?” Torrance pulled his phone out of his jacket pocket. “What’s the number of the crab boat? I’ll call him right now, fill him in on what’s happening with you.” His fingers hovered over the phone’s screen and he looked at Blake expectantly.

  “I really think he’d want to know what’s going on,” Jerry said. “Unless there’s some reason he can’t be reached?”

  Blake licked his lips. Sipped his shake. Ate a fry but didn’t seem to enjoy it.

  “Is he in trouble, Jeremiah?” Torrance reached over and stole a curly fry. “Should we send some cops out to find him?”

  A long silence. For a moment, the only sound in the room was Torrance’s jaw cracking as he continued to munch on curly fries.

  “You won’t find him,” Blake finally said. He was beginning to look upset, rocking back in his chair, food forgotten. He started humming a tune Jerry didn’t recognize.

  “Don’t be so sure,” Jerry said, finally unable to resist a fry himself. It had cooled but was still damned tasty. He ate another one. “We have lots of resources.”

  “Jeremiah, is he dead?” Torrance softened his voice a little. In between his chewing, he managed to sound almost casual. “If he is, you can tell us.”

  “Don’t say anything,” the public defender said, but she needn’t have bothered. Blake had gone to his happy place.

  “I think he’s dead,” Torrance said to Jerry, who nodded in return. He focused his attention back on the kid. “The only question now is, where’s the body?”

  “Probably buried somewhere.” Jerry’s mouth was full of curly fries. “Maybe somewhere near the house.”

  “Or at the house.”

  “Or in the garage.”

  “Under the Corvette.”

  “Under fresh concrete.”

  “Just like Ethan Wolfe used to do it.”

  Shannon Koscheck put her hand on her client’s arm. “Say nothing.”

  Blake shook her off. “What’s the difference? I’m already going down for four murders. He was an asshole,” he said to Jerry and Torrance, his voice cracking. He was starting to cry, and it made him seem even younger. “It was self-defense.”

  “Jeremiah!” his lawyer said, horrified. “Don’t say another word until we discuss this in private.”

  “I don’t want to discuss this in private.” Blake focused his bleary eyes on Torrance. “I didn’t mean to do it, okay? But I had no choice.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding me,” Koscheck said under her breath.

  And just like that, they had their confession. Torrance smiled and punched a few numbers into his cell phone. Turning away, he spoke in a low voice. Jerry knew that he was arranging for a team to go dig Jeremiah Jonas Blake Sr. out of the concrete garage floor.

  “Tell us what happened with JJ,” Jerry said.

  Blake didn’t hesitate. “He came home early, found weed in my room.” His eyes widened. “Oh shit, I shouldn’t have said that.”

  Torrance disconnected his call. “I don’t think it matters, son. You’ve already confessed to murdering four women and your father. We’re not going to get too excited about a little marijuana.”

  “Oh. Right.”

  “So he laid into you because of the dope?”

  “Yeah. He was also drunk, so he was extra pissed. Usually, when it comes to weed, he just yells how that stuff will fuck with my head, smacks me around some, and that’s about it. But this time, he threw a beer bottle at me. I ducked, and it hit the wall and broke and a piece of the glass cut my face.” Blake moved his shaggy hair away from his jawline and showed them. Indeed, there was a small scar on his cheekbone. “I was scared and mad. I wasn’t thinking. I went at him with the beer bottle and slashed at him. I cut his face. He shoved me against the wall and shook me, banged my head a buncha times. My dad’s a big guy, you know?”

  “Not a fair fight,” Torrance said, the sympathy in his voice sounding sincere.

  “I shoved the beer bottle into his neck.” Blake’s face had a faraway look as he remembered, his voice growing distant. “So much blood came out, it was so crazy. I thought it would spurt, you know? Like in the movies? But it didn’t. It sort of gushed out, warm. His face—you shoulda seen his face. He was like, all surprised, and his eyes were all big and round. He clapped a hand to his neck but the blood just kept gushing between his fingers. Then he collapsed to the floor. Then he died.” The kid blinked. “The end.”r />
  “And you buried him in the garage.”

  Blake nodded, looking distressed. “I didn’t know what else to do.”

  “How long has he been in the garage, Jeremiah?” Torrance asked.

  “Two weeks and two days.”

  Jerry shuddered.

  “Will I get to go to the funeral?” Blake looked at them, his face crumpling. “He’s my dad. I loved him . . .”

  The kid broke down then, and the tears were painful. His attorney, not seeming to know what else to do, awkwardly patted her client’s back.

  “We’ll plead out.” The defeat was written all over Shannon Koscheck’s face.

  Torrance finished off the curly fries and nodded. “Damn right you will.”

  Jerry allowed himself a small sigh of relief. Finally, it was over.

  He left the room, reaching for his phone. There was only one person he wanted to talk to.

  chapter 29

  JEREMIAH BLAKE HAD confessed to the murders, and with Jack the Zipper off the streets and behind bars, Abby’s transfer was executed the next day, thanks to Bob Borden’s savvy legal maneuvering.

  Abby was a little bit sorry Mark Cavanaugh wasn’t here to see this momentous occasion, but the corrections officer had been fired a couple of days ago. Sergeant Briscoe, the old hag, had turned him in for drinking on the job. Briscoe was a petty, bitter woman, yes, but how many times had Abby warned Mark to be careful? She hadn’t heard from him since the firing, and as of today, had no way of contacting him. She’d had to leave her phone with her cellmate, and while getting a phone at the new prison would be her first priority, it would probably take a few days.

  The prison doors opened. The afternoon air was cool and refreshing, and even though she’d been outside at some point every day since she’d been incarcerated, the air somehow felt different now that she was no longer behind the fence. She’d only been at Rosedale for thirteen months, not long comparatively speaking, but it had felt like thirteen years. She stopped walking to take a deep breath, inhaling the scent of evergreens and sunshine. The corrections officer escorting her tugged on her arm.