by Alex Kava
She knocked and waited, though she didn’t expect him to be here. He’d still be in Cleveland, only hopefully this time he hadn’t gotten to the crime scene before everyone else. Tully and Racine had probably already arrested Everett and his accomplice, Brandon. They had DNA to prove Everett’s guilt, eyewitnesses and photos to put Brandon with two of the victims minutes before their deaths. Case closed. So what was still nagging her? Maybe she simply hated that Garrison—that the “invisible cameraman”—had gotten away with screwing up crime scenes. Maybe she was curious about his apparent obsession with death, his voyeurism. Perhaps she simply needed to keep her mind preoccupied.
Maggie glanced down the hallway and knocked again. This time she heard scuffles on the staircase. A little gray-haired lady appeared on the landing, staring up at her through thick glasses.
“I think he’s out of town,” she told Maggie. But before Maggie could respond, she asked, “Are you from the health department? I don’t have anything to do with those roaches. I want you to know, it was his doing.”
Maggie’s suit must have looked official. She didn’t say a word, and yet the woman was scooting in front of her to unlock Garrison’s door.
“I try to keep the place clean, but some of these tenants…Well, you just can’t trust people these days.” She opened the door and waved a hand at Maggie as she headed back to the staircase.
“Just close up when you’re finished.”
Maggie hesitated. What would it hurt to take a look?
The first thing to catch her eyes were the African death masks, three of them, on the wall over the cracked vinyl sofa. They had been carved from wood with paint-smeared tribal symbols across the forehead and cheeks and under the eyeholes. On the opposite wall were several black-and-white photographs, labeled portraits: Zulu, Three-Hill Tribe, Aborigine, Basuto, Andamanese. Garrison seemed obsessed with his subjects’ eyes, sometimes cropping the forehead and chin in order to draw more focus to the eyes. A bottom photo, labeled: Tepehuane, showed what looked like the back of his subject’s head, perhaps a defiant stance, a denial. One meaningful enough for Garrison to keep.
Maggie shook her head. She didn’t have time to psychoanalyze Garrison, nor was she certain she would if she had the time. There was something odd about a man who could be so fascinated by ancient cultures and their people and yet stand back and watch young women be attacked in a public park. Or did Garrison consider everyone to be simply a photographic subject and nothing more?
At the police station, when she questioned him about the incident in Boston Common, he had said something strange about her having no idea what it took to stop or to make news happen. Yet, wasn’t that exactly what he had been doing with Everett? His photos had broken the story about the church’s members and their possible connection to the murder of the senator’s daughter and the murder in Boston. But it went further than that. It was his photographs that caused Everett to initially even become a suspect. In a sense Garrison’s photos had led them directly to Everett. He had made news happen.
Something skittered across the floor behind her. Maggie spun around. Three huge cockroaches escaped into a crack half their size under the kitchen counter.
Damn it!
She tried to settle her nerves. Cockroaches. Why did it not surprise her that Garrison would be surrounded by them?
But the landlady was correct in that Garrison’s apartment did not match the spotless hall and the staircase, nor the rest of the aging but clean building. Discarded clothes trailed to the bedroom and bathroom. Crusty dishes and empty beer bottles littered the kitchen counter. Stacks of magazines and newspapers created leaning roach hotels in almost every corner. No, she shouldn’t be surprised to see Garrison’s roommates were cockroaches.
She wandered through the rooms, finding nothing interesting in his clutter. Although she wasn’t sure what she expected to find. Suddenly, she stepped on a book that lay in the middle of the floor, as if someone had dropped it. The leather binding was clean and smooth. It was definitely not something he usually kept on the floor. On closer inspection she realized it was a journal, the pages filled with a lovely, slanted penmanship that sometimes took on a frantic urgency, easily visible by the dramatic changes in jagged lines and curves.
She picked it up and it opened to a page bookmarked with what looked to be an old unused airline ticket, the corners worn and creased. Destination was Uganda, Africa, though it certainly was long expired. The entry it marked was also dog-eared, the only page with its gold-trim creased.
“Dear son,” the entry began, “this is something I could never tell you. If you’re reading it now, it’s only after my death, and I apologize that this is the manner in which I have resorted to tell you. A coward’s manner—it would certainly embarrass any Zulu tribe member. Please forgive me for that. But how could I possibly look into your sad and already angry eyes and tell you that your father had brutally raped me? Yes, that’s right. Raped me. I was only nineteen. It was my first year in college. I had a brilliant career I was preparing for.”
Maggie stopped and flipped to the beginning of the journal, looking for a name, a reference to the owner, and finding none. But she didn’t need a name. She already knew whose journal it was. It certainly couldn’t be a coincidence. But how had Garrison come across the book? Where in the world had he found it? Among Everett’s personal belongings, perhaps? Would Everett have kept the journal of a woman he had raped more than twenty-five years ago? And how would he have gotten it?
She slipped the book into her jacket pocket. If Garrison had stolen it, he couldn’t mind her borrowing it. She was ready to leave when she noticed a small room off the kitchen. It wouldn’t have attracted her attention except that a faint red light glowed from inside. Of course, Garrison would have his own darkroom.
No. She was wrong, she realized as she opened the door. It wasn’t just a darkroom. It was a gold mine.
Prints were strung on a clothesline that stretched the length of the small room. Chemicals had been left in the plastic trays, lining the inside of an oversize sink. Bottles and canisters and developing tanks filled the shelves. And there were prints everywhere, overlapping one another and covering every bit of space on the walls and counter.
There were more prints of tribes doing their ceremonial dances. Prints of Africans with hideous scars. Prints of strange mutant frogs with legs coming out of their heads.
And then she saw them—prints of dead women.
There must have been about a dozen prints. Women naked and braced against trees, eyes wide open with duct tape across their mouths and their wrists handcuffed. Maggie recognized Ginny Brier, the transient they had found under the viaduct, the floater pulled from the lake outside of Raleigh and Maria Leonetti. But there were others. At least a half dozen others. All in the same pose. All with their eyes wide open, looking directly at the camera.
Jesus! How long had this been going on? And how long had Garrison been following Everett and his boys?
Her hand reached for the light switch without looking to find it. She couldn’t take her eyes away from the dead women’s eyes. Surely there was a light other than the red safelight. She found the set of switches and flipped one, causing the entire room to go black. But before she could flip the other one on, she stood paralyzed, staring in disbelief. The clothesline that stretched across the room glowed in the dark.
She leaned against the counter. Her knees went weak. Her stomach plunged. The clothesline glowed in the dark. Of course, what a perfect invention for a darkroom. What a perfect weapon for a killer.
How could she have been so stupid! Garrison didn’t just photograph the dead women. It wasn’t dead eyes that interested him. The eyes are the windows to the soul. Why hadn’t she thought of it before? Was Garrison trying to photograph the fleeting soul?
She flipped on the red light again and took a closer look at the photos, the track marks on the victims’ necks. Over and over again, he must have brought them back to consciousness,
posing them, waiting, patiently waiting for that one moment while he watched with his camera ready on a tripod nearby, waiting. Waiting over and over again to catch a glimpse, to photograph that moment when the soul left.
Garrison. It was Garrison and his obsession with that last moment of death.
Maggie heard the creak of floorboards in the living room. She grabbed for her gun. No cockroach was that fucking big. Was it the landlady? Maybe the real health inspector had arrived. It couldn’t be Garrison. He was in Cleveland.
She inched her way to the darkroom’s door, edging along the counter. Another creak, this time louder, closer, just on the other side of the door. She took aim, holding the gun with both hands and ignoring the slight tremor in her knees. Then in one quick motion she kicked open the darkroom door and rushed out, pointing her gun and yelling “Freeze!”
It was Garrison.
He stood in the middle of his apartment over the frightened landlady, holding a length of clothesline around her neck, yanking on it like a leash. The old lady was on her small bony knees, gasping for air, her glasses gone, her eyes glazed over as her skeletal arms flayed and struggled against him. He seemed unfazed by it all as he looked up at Maggie. It was as if he didn’t even notice Maggie’s gun pointed at his chest. Instead, he held out his free hand and demanded, “If she doesn’t have it, then you must. Hand over my mother’s journal.”
CHAPTER 77
Tully had a bad feeling about this whole mess. Yes, they had caught a rapist, but had they caught a murderer? The kid, Brandon—the tough guy, the asshole who beat up and raped young girls—broke down into a sniveling crybaby when they arrested him for the murders of Ginny Brier and Maria Leonetti. But now, as he and several agents followed Stephen Caldwell into the hotel where Everett was supposedly staying, now Tully wasn’t too sure anymore.
The desk clerk had given them a card key. No questions were asked when the badges came out. Caldwell claimed he didn’t know why Everett hadn’t shown up at the park. There was something in the polite black man’s manner that told Tully he was lying through his teeth. It didn’t help matters that Caldwell himself seemed in a rush to get somewhere when they finally found him outside the pavilion, gathering certain members together. No, Tully had a feeling this Caldwell, this stool-pigeon asshole, had his own agenda. Now he wondered if they were wasting time. If that was also Caldwell’s agenda. Was the hotel a distraction? Was Everett on his way to some airfield?
The elevator opened at the fifteenth floor and Caldwell hesitated. Agents Rizzo and Markham gave him a shove, not even bothering to wait for Tully’s instructions. They were pissed, too. None of them had to say a word to one another to know something was not quite right.
Caldwell hesitated again at the hotel room door, and Tully noticed the man’s hand tremble as he missed the slot for the card key twice. Finally the door unlocked.
Rizzo and Markham had their weapons drawn but at their sides. Tully gave Caldwell another shove for the man to go in ahead of them. He could see the perspiration glistening on his forehead, but Caldwell opened the door and entered.
Caldwell came to an abrupt halt, and Tully could see he was just as surprised as the rest of them. In the center of the room, Reverend Everett sat in a chair, his wrists handcuffed, his mouth taped shut and his dead eyes staring directly at them. Tully didn’t need a medical examiner for this one. He recognized the pinkish tint to the skin and would need only one guess. Cause of death would be cyanide poisoning.
CHAPTER 78
“Just let her go,” Maggie said, not flinching, keeping the gun pointed directly at Garrison’s head.
“You have the fucking book, don’t you?” His eyes held hers while his hand tightened the noose around the old woman’s neck. Maggie heard her sputter, and out of the corner of her eye she could see her bent and misshapen fingers clawing at the clothesline, clawing at her own neck.
“Yes, I have it.” She wouldn’t move, even to give him the book. “Let her go and I’ll give it to you.”
“Oh, right!” He laughed, but it was a nervous, angry laugh. “I let her go, you give me the book and we both just go our separate ways. What do you think! I’m some fucking idiot?”
“Of course not.” A few more minutes and none of it would matter. The old woman was gasping, her fingers making a pathetic attempt. Maggie knew she could take him but it would need to be a head shot and there could be no missing. But then they’d never have all the answers.
“It makes sense now,” she told him instead, hoping to distract him. “Everett’s your father. That’s why you wanted to destroy him.”
“Not my father. Just a sperm donor,” he said. Suddenly he yanked the woman up in front of him, as if only now realizing he needed a shield and taking away Maggie’s clean head shot. “I can’t do anything about biology, but I could make sure that fucker paid for what he did to my mother.”
“And all those women,” Maggie said calmly. “Why did they have to pay? Why did they have to die?”
“Oh, that.” He laughed again and got a better twist on the clothesline. “It was a study, an experiment…an assignment. You might say for the greater good.”
“Like father, like son?”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“Everett stole lost souls. You wanted to capture them, too. Only on film.”
“We are nothing alike,” he insisted, a rash of red spreading across his face and betraying his calm. She had struck a nerve.
“You’re more alike than you want to believe.” Maggie watched closely as he listened, his fingers forgetting as he did so. “Even your DNA was close enough to throw us off. We thought Everett killed those girls.”
He smiled, pleased by this. “I really did have everyone fooled, didn’t I?”
“Yes,” Maggie said, playing along. “You certainly did.”
“And I have photos of his unfortunate demise. Just got back from Cleveland with the exclusive.” He waved a free hand at the duffel bag on the counter that separated the kitchen from the living room.
He pulled the old woman with him, getting close to the bag. She was breathing more steadily now. Garrison seemed unaware of the loosened noose as he tried to find his precious film. “Haven’t decided yet who I’ll give the exclusive to. Looks like it might be a bigger story than I thought. Especially now. Now that you’re here. Now that you’ve changed everything.”
He didn’t seem angry about this. No, he seemed resigned. Perhaps he was just as happy to be caught, so that he could finally share all his illicit photos, all those horrible images, and get the credit, receive the fame—no matter what the cost—just to stroke his overactive ego. It wasn’t that unusual. Maggie had known of other serial killers who purposely got caught, just to show off their handiwork, just to make sure they didn’t go unrecognized.
She found herself releasing the tension in her arm. She kept the gun pointed at him, but her trigger finger relaxed. Garrison’s mind was preoccupied, his only concern on the film, on his fame.
“Three fucking rolls in living color,” he said, reaching into the duffel bag as if to show her, dragging the old woman with him.
She expected to see black film canisters. The pistol was in his hand and he fired before she could duck. It ripped through her shoulder, knocking her into the wall. She tried to regain her balance. Instead, she felt her body sliding down the wall. She couldn’t move her arm. Tried to raise her gun. The arm and the gun wouldn’t move.
Garrison was pleased.
“Yes, looks like I’ll be very famous, indeed,” he said, smiling. Then he shoved the woman aside and at the same time raised the gun.
“No!” Maggie screamed at him.
In one smooth, easy movement he shot the old woman. Her small body slammed against the wall with a sickening snap of bones and flesh as her body crumpled into a heap.
Maggie tried to raise her own gun again. Damn it! She couldn’t feel her fingers. She couldn’t even feel the gun. It was still gripped in
her hand, but she couldn’t feel it, couldn’t move it. The bullet had paralyzed her arm from shoulder to fingers.
He came at her, his gun aimed at her chest. She needed to lift the goddamn gun. She needed to point, to squeeze, but her arm wasn’t obeying. Just as she reached for her weapon with her left hand, Garrison was there, standing above her. His black boot kicked at her useless fingers, knocking the gun out and sending it skidding across the floor.
There was a stinging pain in the side of her neck, but still no feeling in her right arm. She could feel blood trickling down her sleeve and could see several spots on the floor. She still couldn’t move the goddamn hand.
“Where’s the book?” he said, standing over her. Then he saw it in her jacket pocket and pointed at it.
“You’ll need to get it yourself,” she told him. “I honestly can’t move.” She would make him get it. She still had one good hand. She could grab him, grab the gun.
But he didn’t make a move toward her. In fact, he no longer seemed to care about the precious book. He glanced back at the old woman, then looked around his apartment as if assessing the damage, as if trying to decide what his next move should be.
“You keep it,” he said, to Maggie’s surprise, and he went back to the kitchen counter, rummaging through his duffel bag. “Just remember it goes with the photos,” he told her as he took out several black canisters and set them on the counter. “This can’t be anything less than a front-page exclusive—above the fold, continued inside.”
Then he started bringing out the rest, and Maggie’s stomach took a plunge. Out came the handcuffs, duct tape, more clothesline, a camera and another collapsible tripod. She tried her feet. What the hell was he doing? She steadied herself and eased herself up, using the wall as an anchor and her good arm to balance her. Garrison swung back around, gun pointed and ready, stopping her in half-stance.
