by Chelsea Cain
“So whoever killed them, killed the others,” Archie said.
Robbins looked around the table. “It looks like it.”
Archie gazed back and forth from one wall to the other. There was another element all the child murders shared. “They were all left somewhere higher than where they were taken,” Archie said. “We didn’t notice it then.”
“Maybe Gretchen killed them all,” Henry said.
“She didn’t kill him,” Archie said, pointing to the photo of Calvin Long. “She was with me.”
“No offense,” Robbins said, “but you were dying, and, might I add, high on the same paralytic that we’re saying was used on these kids. We can’t rely on your sense of time.”
But Archie could rely on what he knew about Gretchen. And he knew that she wouldn’t leave him for that long. She enjoyed hurting him way too much. Archie’s eyes wandered over the crime scene photos on the wall. “He drugged them, killed them slowly, and then moved the bodies to a higher place, always a higher place.” He thought of the Church of Living Christ and the crucifixes throughout Colin Beaton’s childhood home. And then it dawned on him. “He wanted to leave them closer to God,” Archie said.
“Well, that’s fucked up,” Claire said.
“Now he’s moved on to adults,” Archie said. “Any traces of the paralytic in those screens?”
“Jake Kelly was just outside the window when it would have been detectable,” Robbins said. “Gabby Meester was positive.”
“What about Mrs. Beaton?” Archie asked.
“Jackpot,” Robbins said. “I suggested to the Columbia County ME that he might want to run an expanded tox screen. It came up positive.”
“This whole theory is based on the word of a woman who is sitting in the state mental hospital,” Levy said. “There’s no proof that James Beaton is even dead. He could be in Cancún right now sucking on a margarita with some hot tamale and watching his half-Mexican kids play in the surf.”
Ngyun walked into the break room with a folder under his arm. “He’s not in Cancún,” Ngyun said. “He’s in New Jersey.”
He had their attention.
“They couldn’t identify him at the time,” Ngyun said. “The body was too degraded. Nothing like a train ride across country in a freight car to accelerate decomp. A hobo found him. They’re not called hobos anymore. But the modern equivalent. Some local cops caught the case, and didn’t try very hard. ME’s office kept the bones in a box.” Ngyun pulled a photograph out of the folder and stuck it to the board. “This is his skull,” he said. “A few years ago some anthropology student at Princeton did a reconstruction for a class.” He pulled another photograph from the folder and put it on the board next to the skull. “Look familiar?”
A plaster cast of the skull had been filled out with modeling clay and prosthetic eyes. It looked just like James Beaton.
“Why didn’t anyone match it to the missing person report?” Archie asked.
“It was for a class,” Ngyun said with a shrug. “I guess they thought they couldn’t rely on the work, because no one asked for a copy of his finished project. I had to track down the student to get a copy. He’s using his Ivy League anthropology degree to work as a barista in New York, by the way.” Ngyun looked at the doorway. “You need something?” he asked.
Archie turned to see a man standing in the doorway with a laptop under his arm. He was in his twenties, goateed, with a ponytail, wearing a T-shirt and tight plaid shorts. Archie guessed he wasn’t a cop.
“That’s L.B.,” Claire said. “The composite guy.”
“Good,” Archie said. He leaned behind Ngyun and snapped the Beaton family photo off the dry-erase board and held it out to L.B. “Can you age him?” Archie asked. L.B. inched into the room and took the photo.
He looked at it, and then he looked up at Archie. “Is this a test?” he asked.
“What?” Archie said.
L.B. opened his laptop and clicked on an icon on his screen. A digital composite of a man’s face materialized. “This is the composite I worked on with that kid yesterday,” he said. The image on his laptop showed a disembodied head and neck floating at the center of a white screen. Composites were created by assembling photographic splinters of facial features until the correct combination matched the image in a witness’s mind. The effect was unnervingly real-looking. The head on L.B.’s screen was a man in his mid-thirties, with dark hair and a hollow face. L.B. held the family snapshot up next to the screen and put his finger next to Colin Beaton’s teenage face. “It’s the same guy. Look at the bone structure.”
The room was silent.
Archie looked at the teenage Colin Beaton in the snapshot, and then at the laptop composite image of the man who Pearl claimed had tried to attack her. He could see the resemblance.
Pearl had been telling the truth about the man she’d seen. If Colin Beaton had tried to grab her, it implicated him in Jake Kelly’s murder, which led then to Gaby Meester’s murder, and the six child murders on the flash drive, which led to the child murders they had attributed to Gretchen.
Colin Beaton had killed them all.
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52
She can’t stay here,” Archie said.
Susan stood in her front door. Archie stood on the porch with a Child Protective Services caseworker named Peggy.
Susan shrugged and opened the door for them to come in. “Fine,” she said.
Archie had thought she would take it harder.
He walked inside the house. Peggy followed him. Peggy had smooth brown skin, dark hair ironed so straight it looked wet, and the poise of someone who’d seen her share of chaos. The house smelled like marijuana. Peggy arched an eyebrow at him. He shrugged.
“They’re outside with the goat,” Susan said. “Come on.” She led them through the kitchen, past the kitchen table, where Archie saw her laptop set up next to a collection of coffee cups and empty water glasses, and out the back door.
The yard stretched back a good quarter acre and was framed with English ivy and bamboo that walled it off from the neighbors.
Every inch of space was utilized. A huge tree, its branches festooned with Tibetan prayer flags, shaded the back half of the yard. A fire pit was surrounded by old wooden dining room chairs, bleached gray by the elements. An overgrown garden gleamed red with tomatoes. Sheets fluttered on a laundry line next to a pair of drawstring tie-dyed pants. In the far corner of the yard, a mattress-sized compost pile constructed out of wire mesh and snow fence baked in the sun under a black tarp. Archie counted three birdbaths.
Beyond the garden, under the tree, near the wall of ivy, was a rickety wooden shed that looked like a large dog house. Between the back porch and the shed stood a brown and white goat. Squatted on either side of the goat were Bliss and Pearl.
They both looked up.
Archie walked toward them, flanked by Peggy and Susan.
Bliss looked at the goat and then at Archie. “I have a permit,” she said, in a way that made Archie think that she didn’t have a permit.
The goat’s muzzle was stained with tomato juice. It nuzzled against Pearl’s shoulder.
“Pearl needs to come with me,” Archie said.
Pearl looked stricken. She put her arm around the goat. “No,” she said. Her eyes darted to Peggy, and Archie saw recognition on her face. Kids in the system knew social workers at a glance.
Bliss stood up, brushed the dirt off her hands, and put her hands on her hips. She was wearing a T-shirt that read fuck the man.
Peggy said, “Take it easy, ma’am.”
“I’m a member of the NAACP,” Bliss told Peggy.
“Excuse me?” Peggy said, crossing her arms.
Susan sighed.
Archie focused on Pearl. “The man who tried to attack you?” he said. “He killed Jake Kelly. He murders children. He burns people alive. He thinks you can identify him, and he wants to kill you.”
Bliss wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, smear
ing her red lipstick. Then she lifted her chin defiantly. “He doesn’t know where she is,” Bliss said.
“She should be in protective custody,” Archie said.
Pearl shook her head. “I’ll run away.”
“I was thinking of a more secure environment than the center,” Archie said.
Pearl’s jaw dropped. “You want to put me in juvie? I didn’t do anything.”
“You’ll be safe there,” Archie said.
“She’s safe here,” Bliss said.
“She’s a ward of the state. She needs to be in a state-sanctioned facility or with a foster parent. It’s the law.”
“I am a registered foster parent. You can place her here with me.”
Susan did a double-take. “You’re a foster parent?”
“Remember Luther?” Bliss asked.
Archie looked questioningly at Susan. “Luther?”
“They dated,” Susan explained.
“He taught weekend seminars to prospective foster parents,” Bliss said. “I completed my training at the Eugene Holiday Inn Express. I had a home study and everything.”
“And you passed it?” Susan asked, incredulous.
Bliss looked a little offended. “Yes. Why wouldn’t I?”
Peggy lowered her chin and raised her eyebrows.
“They can smell it, Mom,” Susan said.
Archie tried to suppress a smile.
“I have a medical marijuana card,” Bliss said with a hapless shrug. “For my anxiety.”
“She’s doing well here,” Susan said to Archie. “Pearl hasn’t electrocuted anyone yet.” It was a begrudging endorsement.
Archie sighed. He didn’t really want to put Pearl in lockup, and he knew what a crapshoot the foster system was. He could put her in danger trying to protect her.
Peggy said, “If she completed the training, she might be eligible. We could do an emergency placement. Something temporary.” She leaned in close to Archie. “She does seem to really love the goat.”
They were all staring at him.
Even the goat.
Archie ran his hand through his hair. Then he turned to Susan. “You call or text me every two waking hours,” he said.
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53
When Archie got back to the office he had a message that Huffington had called, so he called her back.
“Anything?” he said.
“I sent my guys over to the high school,” Huffington said. “Some of the teachers remember Melissa. But no one could think of any close friends. She was a bit of a loner. No luck on locating Colin Beaton, either. The church is taking care of his mother’s funeral expenses.”
Someone had made a color xerox of the photograph of the Beaton family standing in their yard and left it on Archie’s desk. He picked it up and looked at it. “When’s the funeral?” he asked.
“Tomorrow. Ten A.M. There’s a service at the church and then they’re burying her at Mountain View Cemetery.”
Colin Beaton had murdered his mother. But he had also cried on her pillow. Archie wondered if he would find a way to be at her funeral. “I want to send some of my people out, to mingle with the guests, maybe set up some surveillance.”
“You think junior’s going to show?”
Archie squinted at the teenage Colin Beaton, unsmiling, his eyes fixed on the camera. “I want to be there if he does.”
After he got off the phone, Archie did an Internet search on the Church of Living Christ. Several church children had died over the years, because their parents had chosen their faith over seeking medical care. Juvenile diabetes. Strep. The kids had died of treatable conditions, while their parents and other followers of Reverend Lewis knelt in prayer around their beds.
“How’d it go with Pearl?” Claire asked.
Archie glanced up from his desk to see Claire at his office door. “I let her stay,” Archie said.
“Softie.”
“She’s bounced around foster care for years,” Archie said. “She deserves a break.”
“She gamed you. Admit it,” Claire said.
She left and Archie looked at his desk, where Pearl Clinton’s file lay open. She had rotated through foster homes almost her whole life. In and out of people’s lives. A member of the family, until she wasn’t anymore.
Then he picked up the xerox of the Beaton family again. Colin wasn’t looking at the camera. He was looking at the person holding the camera. The girl casting the shadow.
Archie closed his eyes and tried to conjure the alternate image he’d seen on the Beatons’ wall. Colin had stepped out of that picture, behind the camera. And the girl had taken his place.
Why include a teenage girl in a family photograph?
Unless she was part of the family. Sort of.
Archie opened his eyes.
He pulled a business card from his pocket and punched in the number for Peggy at Child Protective Services. He could feel his heart racing and he put his elbows on his desk and rested his forehead on his free hand. He listened to the phone ring. He checked his watch. She’d said she was going back to the office, but that didn’t mean she was at her desk. After seven rings, she picked up.
“Peggy Holbrook,” she said.
“It’s Detective Sheridan,” Archie said. “Can you tell me if someone was a registered foster parent about twenty years ago?”
“Is this about Bliss Mountain?” Peggy asked. “I looked her up. Her foster parent status is legit.”
“No,” Archie said. “James and Dusty Beaton. St. Helens, Oregon.” He scratched his head. “Is that enough?”
“Hold on.”
He could hear her typing on a keyboard. She had acrylic nails and they clicked on the keys.
He pressed his forehead harder into his palm.
“I’ve got their file right here,” Peggy said. “Looks like they had one placement. Didn’t last long. A few months. She ran away. Happens sometimes.”
Archie’s throat tightened. “What was her name?”
“Gretchen Stevens. But that may have been an alias. She walked into a hospital in St. Helens, Oregon, with a few shattered ribs. Says here she was bloody and covered in mud. No ID. Claimed her parents were dead.” He heard her typing again. “This is strange. There’s no photo in the file.”
“Didn’t they try to find her family?” Archie asked.
“The file’s incomplete. They would have had to run her name through the system before they placed her. But not all runaways get reported missing.”
Archie picked up a pen. “Who was the caseworker?”
“Tena Tahirih.” There was a pause, and Peggy made a sympathetic clucking noise. “I knew her. She died a few years ago.”
“Great,” Archie said.
“I can send over what I have.”
Archie leaned back in his chair. Nice to meet you, Gretchen Stevens. “E-mail it to me,” he said.
When he got off the phone he immediately called Huffington.
“I think the girl in the photograph was a foster kid named Gretchen Stevens. I’m going to send you what we know about her. Ask around. See if she was registered at the school. And send someone over to the hospital. She was a patient there. They might have her medical records.”
“Medical records are confidential,” Huffington said.
“Use your charm.”
“It is considerable,” Huffington said.
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Archie put on his one dark suit to wear to the funeral. It was dark blue, but passed for black. He wore it for funerals and for court appearances. Considering the wear the suit had gotten the past few years, he was going to have to buy a second one. He loosened his tie. He could already feel the heat collecting around his collar, and he didn’t even have the jacket on yet.
He drank his second cup of coffee leaning over the sink so he wouldn’t stain his white dress shirt.
Henry didn’t knock. He walked in and said, “I feel like a jackass.” He was wearing a short-
sleeved gray button-down shirt and dark gray pants with black cowboy boots.
For Henry, it was evening attire.
“You look fine,” Archie said, slurping down the rest of his coffee. He set the mug in the sink and grabbed his suit jacket off the back of the chair. When he turned back to Henry, Henry was staring slack-jawed at Rachel, who had just come out of Archie’s bedroom wearing his robe and drying her wet hair with one of his towels.
“Hi,” Henry said.
“Oh, good,” Archie said to Henry. “You can see her, too.”
Rachel grinned.
“There’s coffee in the pot,” Archie said. “I’ve got to go to work.”
Archie had to practically push Henry out of his apartment. Henry’s cheeks still glowed with amusement when they got down to the car. “So, who is she?” Henry asked.
“My neighbor,” Archie said.
They were quiet as Henry pulled onto I-5, and then over the Fremont Bridge and onto Highway 30 through the Northwest Industrial District.
“She looks like you-know-who,” Henry said.
Archie looked out the window at the faceless buildings and acres of parking lots. “Gretchen Stevens,” he said. They had pored over the DCS file together. Henry still wasn’t convinced.
“It’s just sex,” Archie said.
Henry glanced over at Archie. “And she’s never murdered anyone?”
“Not that I know of.”
“I think this is a big step forward for you.”
“Thanks,” Archie said.
The highway narrowed and the loading bays gave way to trees and feed stores. Henry was still beaming, tapping out a tune on the steering wheel that only he could hear. “You’re going to tell Claire, aren’t you?” Archie said.
Henry’s grin grew wider and he nodded. “Oh, yeah,” he said. Then he chuckled happily to himself.
“What?” Archie said.
“Susan’s gonna hate her,” Henry said.
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