The Criminal Mind

by Thomas Benigno

  “Right.”

  “Good, and though I’m almost afraid to ask—where exactly is she now, if you know?”

  “She’s in Manhattan, staying in my daughter’s apartment in Riverside Towers.”

  To which Riggins responded: “You’re kidding, right?”

  After my call with Riggins ended, it took me two hours to fall asleep—although I’m not sure I ever did, completely. I couldn’t help but wonder exactly why Maureen—the only name I knew her by—was conning me. And what an elaborate con it was.

  She started working at the diner on Main Street in Franklin sometime after Eleanor’s passing. Exactly when, I can’t be sure. She was friendly. She was attractive. I was lonely. No doubt she knew everything about me. My Google history alone would have disclosed the Jones Beach serial killer investigation and the building of the Veterans’ Center in Manhattan. She would have known I was wealthy. She would have known that my rich wife had died and that I was alone. But knocking herself on the head with a hammer to get me back to Tennessee? That was extreme, which made the con, in retrospect, all the more unnerving. But that’s what a good con does. It defies logic, catches you by surprise, is unpredictable, convincing, and therefore, very dangerous. Regardless, one thing was for certain: Up until the call I got from Donald Riggins, I was clueless, definitely being conned, and so were my kids.

  Come morning, I called Charlotte. It was Friday, and the time was 8:00 a.m. She would be at her desk in the corner office of her grandfather’s hedge fund, probably trading bonds before the equity markets opened at 9:30. When she picked up the phone, I immediately asked about Maureen.

  “She’s gone, Dad. Left yesterday.” Charlotte didn’t sound at all disappointed. “Didn’t she tell you? Said she was meeting up with a girlfriend of hers who happened to be in New York. She sure did ask a lot of questions about you while she was here, though. Tried to hide them in conversation about one thing or another.”

  “Where are you now?” I asked casually, as I tried to conceal my concern.

  “Where else? It’s 8:02. I’m in my office and trying to convince a few billionaires to stay away from long-term bonds.” She sounded tired and exasperated.

  “If you hear from Maureen, let me know.” I hesitated. “And by no means let her stay in your apartment again.”

  “Finally realized she’s a gold digger, huh? John and I could’ve told you that. John had that gal figured out the first time he met her.”

  “Thanks for letting me know,” I said sarcastically.

  “C’mon, Dad. You were smitten, and I liked seeing you happy again. Besides, John and I knew you were too smart to let her take advantage of you. After all, we only suspected. It’s not like we knew for sure. We were also willing to give her a chance for your sake. But I am sorry. Are you okay?”

  “Yes. I suppose.”

  “And are you sure she’s from Tennessee? I listened to Mom’s Southern accent my whole life. Maureen’s didn’t exactly sound authentic.”

  “It wasn’t, and her name is not Maureen. It’s Olga, Olga Sokolov.”

  “Holy crap! What is that? Russian?”

  “Apparently.”

  “I don’t like this one bit. Have you tried calling her?”

  “It just rings and goes dead.”

  “Have you tried her at your apartment?”

  “There’s no landline there.”

  “To hell with that. I’m taking one of our security guards and heading over.” As smart and as tough as her mother, Charlotte was wholly proactive, as I knew she would be. None of what I was hearing from her surprised me.

  “Okay, but please be careful. You still have the key your mother gave you?”

  “Yes, and if I catch her there, fake Maureen is the one who’d better be careful.”

  “Charlotte, please don’t make me crazier than I am right now. And bring two security guards.”

  “If she knows what’s good for her, she’d better leave the country.”

  “And you wonder why I’m worried about you going to the apartment.”

  But what really made me nervous was Maureen’s likeness to Eleanor. It made me wonder whether she acted alone, and to what lengths she, and whomever else she was working with were willing to go to achieve their ultimate goal—whatever that was.

  Since Paul had scheduled our breakfast meeting for 9:30 a.m., I was looking forward to drowning myself in a long hot shower before further discussions about missing children and God knows what else. Then my cellphone rang.

  The caller ID read: MAUREEN.

  “No, it’s not your long-lost love,” Riggins blurted as soon as I picked up.

  “Very funny,” I answered.

  “Guess where I found her phone?”

  “I am apparently no longer qualified to answer any questions where Maureen—or should I say, Olga—is concerned.”

  “Seems Detective McCormick had it.”

  “Are you about to tell me that he stole her phone?”

  “In the process of gathering evidence, yes.”

  “And did he gather any?”

  “After a little help from yours truly and a call I made to Quantico, we got in.”

  “Got in?”

  “We were able to access her cellphone history and contacts––at least those she hadn’t deleted. It will take a while to get the full history.”

  It didn’t sound like Riggins was waiting to get a warrant. No surprise there, though I doubted he’d even be able to get one if he tried. After all, what crime had Maureen committed thus far? As yet, I hadn’t been defrauded of anything—unless hurt feelings and embarrassment count for something.

  Riggins continued. “Seems your Maureen hadn’t counted on McCormick lifting her phone, but he sensed something wasn’t right about her. Unfortunately, there were no texts on the phone that we could find, and no contacts either. She erased them. All we came up with was a brief, recent call history she had yet to delete. Three calls to be exact, and all made by her.”

  “Were any of those calls to me?”

  “No. All three went to prepaid cellphones. One was purchased in Brighton Beach, Brooklyn—big Russian population there, you know. The second was bought in the Bronx. The third—which might concern you the most—was purchased in Nashville, Tennessee.”

  “You mean there was someone local she was secretly contacting?”

  “While she was conning you, yes. That’s about the size of it.”

  “I had a feeling once that we were being followed.”

  “That was no feeling. I’m sure you were. And one more thing: You two ever talk marriage?”

  “No,” I answered tersely.

  “Were you two living together?”

  “No, but she slept over at my house quite a few times.”

  “Hmm.”

  “What? What is it, Don? What’s with the ‘hmm’?”

  “You know, people con people all the time. And it’s always for money. I just haven’t figured out exactly what her angle was yet.” I waited for what Riggins would say next, but all I could hear over the phone was heavy breathing, until he uttered with a calm sense of confidence that both comforted and frightened me. “Don’t worry,” he said. “I’ll figure it out.”

  “You got any other good news for me?”

  “Yeah…be thankful you’re still alive. I got a bad feeling about this gal—Russian connections and all.”

  We met for breakfast at a local diner, where Paul brought us up to speed on Jasmine’s lunch meeting with Fran Manz. Charlie then asked if Jasmine knew the exact year the assault took place on the high school sophomore. Paul was fairly certain it was 1953.

  “Ancient history,” I said, not in the best of moods. “What the hell can we learn from ancient history?”

  “A lot,” Lauren answered. “That seminary, which became an o
rphanage and then a group-home, keeps coming up in our investigation. It’s like a haunted house with ghosts trying to tell us something.”

  “I don’t know if it’s my mind playing tricks on me,” Charlie said. “But even from the photos of it, it looks like one hell of a creepy place.”

  “It’s not really, once you get up close,” Paul said. “There’s a playground and a basketball court behind the main building, and further back, a Little League baseball field.”

  “And this kid who got assaulted…what was his name again?” Charlie asked.

  “Jasmine said his name was Holcomb, Richard Holcomb,” Paul answered.

  “I don’t remember growing up with anyone with that name,” Charlie said. “If I did, I would have remembered him.”

  “First of all, if my math is correct, the assault took place when you were only four years old,” Paul responded. “And by the time you were old enough to know what was going on, Mr. Holcomb was a fugitive from justice wanted for murder, so I doubt he was showing his face anywhere.”

  “What about this talk of a tunnel?” Charlie asked. “Seems like a great place to hide and travel through undetected. Could this be something worth looking into?”

  “I doubt it’s a tunnel,” Paul answered. “Stories, over time, tend to take on a life of their own—like small-town folklore. I also did some digging, too. The Chamber of Commerce gave me the names of the local storeowners dating back to the 1950s and 1960s. Some of them are still alive. Early this morning, I took a drive and went to see one old man who’s convalescing in a nursing home in nearby Phoenix. He had a diner, smack in the middle of town from 1950 to 1990. The old guy was happy as all hell to have a visitor, and more than happy to reminisce about old times. He claimed to have the memory of an elephant, and proudly recited every Brooklyn Dodger on the 1957 team that left for Los Angeles. He also remembered Richard Holcomb, and knew about him jumping bail in New York City. He told me that there were several witnesses, including a shop owner or two, who swore they saw Holcomb get off a bus in Cartersville’s center of town, and walk into the corner sewing shop. Apparently, the local police couldn’t have cared less about Holcomb’s ‘wanted’ status. They didn’t even bother to follow up on the tip. The old man also said that over time word on the sighting changed from Holcomb going into the sewing shop, to him walking into the woods behind it. Either way, after that, Holcomb was never seen nor heard from again. This may be where the myth of the tunnel started. After fifty years, who knows what really happened?”

  “Aren’t there a lot of underground caves in upstate New York?” Lauren asked.

  “Definitely,” Charlie answered. “But before we go there, I want to know more about this sewing shop. I often wondered what happened to the woman who owned it when me and my family lived here.”

  “Couldn’t say,” Paul answered. “I doubt she is still alive though.”

  “This is the woman who claimed that she was the last one to see my sister alive—or should I say—the next-to-the-last one,” Charlie said sadly. “She told the police that she saw Peggy chasing after an outbound bus on the same day she went missing. That never made any sense to me, especially since my sister’s body was found right here in Cartersville.”

  “But why would the woman lie?” Paul asked.

  “You tell me,” Charlie said. “It’s something that has always been gnawing at me.”

  “I just wonder how much going back to the 1950s can help us in 2018,” I said. “I don’t know—maybe I’m just losing my patience with this investigation.”

  “You’re not expected to have patience, at least not now,” Paul said. “Besides, you said the same thing on Long Island in 2010 when it was just the two of us working the case. I told you to have patience then, and I’m saying the same thing now. We work tirelessly. We eliminate false leads. We try different avenues of investigation, hoping to find the right one. We’re not here because it’s easy. We’re here because children have been going missing, and it doesn’t seem that law enforcement ever has or ever will do anything about it.”

  “You call this law enforcement?” Charlie asked, with biting sarcasm.

  “If law enforcement up here is as phony and corrupt as I think it is, then that only makes our job even harder—and this investigation all the more dangerous,” Paul said definitively.

  “Another thing,” I added ominously. “Donald Riggins got back to me. Seems my girlfriend of late was an elaborate con artist.”

  “What?” Charlie interrupted. “You mean she gets assaulted in her apartment while she’s conning you? I’m sorry, that’s too much of a coincidence, if you ask me.”

  “That’s because it’s not a coincidence. She did it to herself to get me back to Franklin.”

  “I’m sorry, Nick,” Lauren said in a tone that was both curious and sympathetic.

  My cellphone’s Moon River melody interrupted my train of thought. It was Charlotte.

  “The apartment is untouched. I don’t think she returned,” she said anxiously.

  “Did you go with security?” I asked.

  “Yes, but I brought only one guard, not two.”

  “Where are you now?”

  “Headed back to the office.”

  “Charlotte, until we get this sorted out, I want you to have eyes in the back of your head. Understand?”

  “Yes, but there’s more, Dad. Olga, alias Maureen, left a note.”

  “I thought you said the apartment was untouched.”

  “It was. The doorman confirmed that she never returned. That’s when he handed me the note she gave him. Seems she ran into the lobby, handed it off, and then hurried out. It was in a sealed envelope with your name on it.”

  “Read it to me.”

  All eyes around the breakfast table were fixed on me, and listening. Hearing my end of the call, Paul, Lauren and Charlie could easily decipher the other.

  “You are in great danger. I had no choice in this.” Fear and concern were evident in Charlotte’s voice.

  “How did she sign it?” I asked.

  “She didn’t. But damn it, Dad, I—”

  “Just destroy the note,” I said. “And don’t worry. It’s probably as phony as she is.”

  “I know you’re with Paul, but please be careful, okay? Dad, you will listen to me this time, right?”

  “Yes, and don’t worry.” I answered as convincingly as I could.

  Evidently, Paul had heard enough about my forlorn self and my phony girlfriend. “Meanwhile, we’ve got a missing kid out there who may or may not still be alive,” he said.

  “Let’s hope he still is,” Lauren added.

  “Enough canvassing. We’ve got to get in those woods, starting where the boy’s bicycle was found,” Paul insisted. “The sheriff’s department claims they combed the area and came up empty, which doesn’t count for shit. For all we know, all they did was shine a flashlight through the trees. Besides, it’s entirely possible that the kid was dragged into a vehicle.” Paul turned to me. “And one that had a tire with a bulge in it.”

  I nodded.

  “Of course, that tread could also be from any random car that just pulled over onto the shoulder.” Paul said, and then thought again. “But I don’t buy it. That’s why we’ve got to get into those woods and check for ourselves.”

  When I got back to my room, I called Jasmine. She put me on hold. She was on the phone with Paul, while at the same time trolling the dark web on a new computer—which seemed wholly unnecessary since the whole point of the dark web was to provide its users with complete anonymity. But Jasmine was taking no chances. Paul wanted a complete breakdown of the topography of the wooded area next to the roadway where Billy’s bicycle was found. To get it, Jasmine moved from her store-bought computer to her office Mac, then right to Google Earth to get the best assessment of the terrain.

  Paul later to
ld me that Jasmine was not in the best of moods that day. She was disgusted with having to search for child molesters in chat rooms and on child porn sites, while hoping to find something—anything—that might provide a lead.

  “I know how important this investigation is,” she told Paul. “I also have a pretty good stomach. But I have already thrown up in my mouth twice, and I just don’t know how much more of this I can take.”

  Paul simply responded: “Then take a break, remember why we’re doing this, and get back to it.”

  Regretfully, Paul was right. A ten-year old boy was still missing, which meant that all avenues—however dark and disturbing—had to be explored.

  After they hung up, Jasmine was only too happy to talk to me—another reprieve from scouring the underbelly of the internet.

  If this were Metropolitan New York, or an affluent suburb of Long Island, this ten-year-old boy would probably have had a cellphone with location tracking. Billy didn’t. But it occurred to me that perhaps we could track Billy’s location by using the IP address on the kidnapper’s computer. In a small town like Cartersville everyone knows everyone else, which is why I believed that the children were not held captive in some neighbor’s home, but in a secluded cabin, barn, or house—of which there were many in the area.

  I asked Jasmine to employ her hacking skills and get information on all cellphone transmissions and IP addresses traceable to secluded locations in and around Cartersville. In turn, she was only too happy to comply, especially since it meant that she had to cease plodding through the dark web to do so.

  In 2010, Jasmine’s hacking skills had helped narrow down the possible places the Jones Beach killer was keeping his victims, both dead and alive. Though the terrain in Upstate New York was nothing like that of Long Island, I was still hoping her genius and talents at punching the right computer keys would pay off as it had before.

  Paul wasn’t so optimistic, which is why he wanted us on foot and tracking through several square miles of forest in and around Cartersville.