"It's not looking good for Richard Caulfield," he said.
"He doesn't have anything to worry about," Darlene said. "It's the family that's gonna have to deal with the fallout."
Harry nodded. "All right. We can get a warrant and have a team over there in an hour."
"We don't need a warrant if they let us in."
Harry shook his head. "It's better that we get the warrant...just to cover our asses."
"You can call your favorite judge on the way over. If the Caulfields don't let us search the house, we'll have the warrant waiting for us. But they'll let us search. They have no reason not to."
Harry remained seated.
"Come on, Harry."
"What? Now?"
"No time like the present."
Harry stood. "Fine."
"Who's driving?" she asked as they walked side by side through the precinct.
"I am. I get carsick when you drive."
"Seriously? We've been together for, what, a year now?"
"About that."
"And I'm just finding out now that I'm a terrible driver?"
"I didn't say you were a terrible driver."
"You said you get carsick when I drive."
Harry smiled. "It's not you; it's me."
Darlene laughed. "Thank you for that, but I'm pretty sure it's me."
"No, really. I get carsick when most people drive."
"Really?"
"I just get a little more carsick when you drive."
Darlene shook her head. "You should've quit while you were ahead."
"It's all those short stops."
She held up a hand. "Okay, I get it."
"The trick is to slow down before you stop."
"You're an asshole, Harry."
"I love you, too."
They exited the precinct, where they were instantly met by a throng of reporters held at bay by a line of uniformed officers. Darlene and Harry each dropped the obligatory "No comment" as they cut their way through the crowd and made their way across the parking lot.
"I know what you're thinking," Harry said as he pressed the unlock button on his key fob and opened the driver side door of the department-issued white 2020 Chevy Impala.
Darlene snickered as she settled into the passenger seat. "Of course you do. You always know what I'm thinking."
"That's why we make a great team." He started the car and backed out of the parking space.
She gave him a lopsided smile. "It's annoying."
Harry furrowed his brow and glanced at her as he stopped to shift the car into drive. "What is?"
"That," she said. "That mind-reading thing you do."
"I'm not reading your mind. If I was able to read your mind, I wouldn't have to ask you..." He stopped himself. "Never mind." He drove toward the parking lot exit.
She frowned. "You wouldn't have to ask me how I'm doing."
"Right."
"I told you this morning; I'm doing fine."
Harry nodded, but he didn't seem convinced.
"Now what am I thinking?" she asked.
"Huh?"
"You said you knew what I was thinking. What am I thinking now?"
Harry smiled. "You're thinking that we already have our man."
"Or boy."
"You're thinking that Richard Caulfield did this."
Darlene placed her fingertips on the sides of her head and pulled them away. "Wow. Mind blown, Harry. You really did know what I was thinking. How do you do it?"
"You really think he killed those kids?"
"Of course. Don't you?"
Harry shrugged.
"Oh, come on, Harry. He was wearing a ski mask. The knife in his chest was from his very own kitchen. And he was obsessed with slasher flicks."
"And he's dead," Harry said. "Convenient."
"Convenient for us. And convenient for Jill Turner. And convenient for all the other people that kid might have killed in the future."
"Convenient for whoever else might have done this."
Darlene was nonplussed. "You really think somebody else was involved?"
"I don't know." A pause. "How do you think the knife ended up in Richard Caulfield's chest?"
"I think that, more than likely, there was a struggle, and Jill Turner turned the tables on him. I doubt it was a murder-suicide because he left her alive."
"Richard Caulfield butchered three kids with relative ease, but he couldn't handle a girl who, according to descriptions, is a frail little thing, a hundred ten pounds, tops?"
"You don't think she had something to do with it, do you?"
"I don't, which is why I want to talk to the girl."
For the second time that day, Darlene rang the Caulfield's doorbell. And for the second time that day, she was going to deliver some bad news. Neither she nor Harry would say it directly; they wouldn't tell the Caulfields that their deceased son was a person of interest in a triple-homicide, but when they asked for permission to search the house, the Caulfields would get the message loud and clear. And knowing that their son had an unhealthy obsession with slasher flicks, there was a good chance that they weren't going to be surprised. Devastated, sure. But not surprised. And at some point, the Caulfields would know the truth about their son.
Mr. Caulfield opened the door with Mrs. Caulfield just over his shoulder. Darlene was becoming all too familiar with their grief-stricken expressions and had to think back a few hours, before she delivered the tragic news, to remember what they looked like when they weren't inconsolable. She could tell herself that she felt bad for showing up on their doorstep when they were in the earliest and most intense stage of the grieving process, but she wasn't really sure that she did feel bad. She wasn't sure that she felt much of anything. As she did moments after delivering the news to each of the four families, she just felt cold and empty. She supposed cold and empty counted as feelings.
Darlene knew her words would be wholly inadequate when she said, "Mr. and Mrs. Caulfield, I know this is an extremely difficult time for you, and that's putting it mildly, but can we come in?"
Mr. Caulfield hesitated, nodded, and pushed the screen door open. "Of course."
Darlene and Harry stepped into the foyer. Billy Caulfield was watching curiously from the living room couch. Darlene considered smiling at the boy, thought better of it.
"What's this about?" Mr. Caulfield asked.
"We'd like permission to search Richard's room," Darlene put it rather bluntly, perhaps more bluntly than she'd intended. But any pretense at delicacy just seemed like a waste of time. Now or later, the truth about their son was going to hit them harder than any perceived insensitivity on Darlene's part. It was best to rip the band-aid off. At the same time, she had an investigation to conduct, and directly accusing her son without sufficient evidence wasn't the most prudent course of action.
"Why would you want to search Richard's room?" Mrs. Caulfield asked.
"We're just beginning our investigation," Darlene said. "At this point, I'm afraid we're not at liberty to discuss the details."
She knew the words were cold, sterile. She might as well have directly accused their son. But she decided that she didn't care. In all likelihood, Richard Caulfield killed three seventeen-year-olds. And she had less sympathy for this couple than most people would in her position.
Harry stepped forward. "As Detective Moore said, we know this an extremely difficult time for your family, but we want to get to the bottom of this. We want to catch the person or persons who did this to your son. Your help and cooperation would be greatly appreciated. We'll let you know as soon as we have more information."
Leave it to Harry.
"I guess it's okay," Mrs. Caulfield said through choked back tears. She looked to her husband, who nodded his approval but said nothing.
"Thank you," Harry said. He looked to Darlene like a father silently prompting a child who's forgotten her manners.
"Thank you," Darlene echoed.
Darlene led the way
to Richard's room.
"Jesus," Harry whispered as they stepped into Richard's room. He closed the door behind him.
"I showed you the pictures," Darlene said.
"Yeah, but the pictures didn't do it justice. Seeing it all like this..."
"I have a feeling we haven't seen anything yet." She opened Richard's nightstand drawer. She reached in, pulled out an 8.5" x 11" spiral sketchbook, flipped to the first page, and stopped. "Case in point," she said, turning the book toward Harry.
Harry stepped up alongside her. "Jesus."
"You already said that."
"Well, I'm saying it again. Jesus."
The sketch lacked color, but it was a vivid depiction of a violent fantasy all the same. A man in a ski mask, standing behind a woman, his left arm wrapped around her forehead, his gloved right hand drawing a knife across the woman's throat, a patch of the woman's shirt shaded with the woman's blood.
"And this is only the first page," Darlene said. "Ready to see more?"
"Not really, but go ahead."
She flipped the page. The masked man was standing over the same woman, her throat cut, lying face down in a pool of blood. She was dead, but he wasn't done with her yet.
She flipped the page. The masked man was crouched over the woman, the knife buried in her back.
She flipped the page. The knife raised, blood streaming from the blade onto the woman's back where it mixed with the blood pouring from the woman's wound.
She flipped the page. Bringing the knife down, blood trailing the blade in its wake.
She flipped the page. The knife inflicts a second wound to the dead woman's back.
"What the fuck," Harry muttered.
Darlene took a deep breath and flipped the page. Another pull of the knife, blood streaming from the blade.
She flipped the page. The masked man stabs the woman a third time.
She flipped, and she flipped. Page after page dedicated to this one victim.
But the masked man moves on. He chases a young man, catches him, slashes his throat, stabs him repeatedly, all depicted over the course of several pages.
The masked man moves on to his third victim. Another young woman. He chases her, tackles her, slashes her throat, stabs her repeatedly.
Page after page. Victim after victim.
Darlene shuddered and closed the book.
"You all right?" Harry asked.
She considered the question. "No. You?"
Harry shook his head. "No, not at all."
He turned, walked to the closet, opened it. "Jesus."
"Again?"
"Yeah."
Darlene stepped up beside him. "Jesus," she said. A small pile of what appeared to be bloody clothes, but Darlene knew better. "Fake blood."
"Yeah." A pause. "Any guesses as to what's in the box?"
Darlene looked at the small cardboard box situated behind the pile of bloody clothes. "Props, I'm guessing. You wanna do the honors?"
"Sure." He pulled the box from the closet and peered in. "Good guess, Detective Moore. Plastic knives, three of them, a plastic machete, a plastic hatchet, and two half-gallon jugs of Halloween blood."
"Well, along with the knife, it looks like we have more than a few smoking guns here," Darlene said.
Darlene walked to the living room, where Mr. and Mrs. Caulfield and Billy were seated on the couch. "I'd like your permission to take a few items from Richard's room."
"What items?" Mr. Caulfield asked.
"Evidence. Items that may or may not be relevant to the case."
"Do you think Richard had something to do with this?"
Darlene hesitated. She wanted to say yes, she thought Richard had everything to do with this. She wanted to ask them if they had any reason to believe that their son was capable of something like this. That question would come in time.
"We don't know," Darlene said. And once again, she may as well have told them the truth.
"You don't know?!" Mr. Caulfield exclaimed.
Darlene looked from Mr. Caulfield to Mrs. Caulfield―her mouth agape, a fresh round of tears beginning to surface―to Billy, seated with his head hanging.
"We don't have any suspects," Darlene lied. "Right now, we're looking at...everything, every piece of evidence, every angle, anything that might help us solve this case. That's why I'm hoping you'll give us permission to take a few things from Richard's room."
The Caulfields looked skeptical, but they nodded in unison.
"Thank you," Darlene said.
Mr. and Mrs. Caulfield watched from the living room couch as Darlene and Harry carried clear empty evidence bags into the house, into their dead son's room, and carried those bags out, now filled with items that were meant to incriminate their son. The Caulfields may have been naive about their son's obsession, maybe even negligent. Culpable? No, Darlene wasn't willing to go that far. But they certainly weren't stupid people. They knew what the evidence bags meant. And all they could do was sit there and take it as their world was rocked for the second time in the span of a few hours.
With the trunk and the backseat of the car filled with nearly everything they needed to make their case against the late Richard Caulfield, Darlene's cell phone rang. She didn't recognize the number.
"Detective Moore," she answered.
"Detective Moore, this is Amanda Turner. Jill, my daughter, she's awake, and she's ready to talk."
Chapter Thirteen
Darlene and Harry arrived at the hospital just after 8 pm. Jill had been moved from the recovery room to her own private room on the hospital's second floor. As per Harry, two uniforms had been stationed outside her door.
Amanda greeted them at the door, smiling from ear to ear. "She's as good as new," she said, taking Darlene's hand as if they were old friends. "Doctor says she can probably go home in a day or two."
Darlene smiled slightly, wondering if going home in a day or two was such a good idea, and peaked over Amanda's shoulder, getting her first glimpse of the girl. The hair was the first thing she noticed. Thick, unkempt, light brown curls falling just past the girl's shoulders. Darlene could imagine Brittany's face framed in that tangled mess.
The girl was wide awake, but she wasn't looking at the door. Her face was tilted toward the window, but she didn't seem to be focused on anything. She was gazing absently, seemingly uninterested in the visitors chatting with her mother a few feet away. But surely she was interested. She had apparently told her mother that she was ready to talk.
Darlene didn't know what was in the girl's head. How could she? But she imagined that if she had gone through something akin to what Jill had gone through and survived, she might very well have the same look on her face.
Darlene politely pulled her hand away from Amanda's vice-like grip and gestured to her partner. "Ms. Turner, this is my partner, Detective Mitchell."
They shook hands and exchanged pleasantries as Darlene took the opportunity to step into the room. Jill turned her head away from the window, and Darlene got her first good look at the girl's face. No, she didn't look like Brittany, but she reminded her of Brittany, and that was enough.
"Jill," Darlene said.
"Hello." That same vacant gaze remained, like she was awakening from a trance.
"Hi. I'm Detective―"
"Moore," Jill interjected. "I know. My mother told me you were coming."
Darlene smiled as she approached Jill's bed. "Oh, good. Well, how are you feeling?"
"I'm okay. I just feel...weird."
"That's understandable. It's been a weird day." She nearly winced as the words left her mouth. Not exactly the most sensitive choice of words.
Jill didn't seem offended. She didn't have much of a reaction at all. She simply nodded with the side of her face against the pillow, her eyes filled with a sense of wonder, as if trying to figure Darlene out.
Darlene gestured to the empty chair next to Jill's bed. "Mind if I sit? Oh." She caught herself and looked back at Harry. "Mind if we sit?"
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This brought a smile to Jill's face. "Yes...or no." Her smile widened. "I don't mind if you sit."
Darlene sat as Harry grabbed a chair from beside the wall and pulled it up next to Darlene's. "Hi, Jill. I'm Detective Mitchell." He took a seat.
"Hello." Jill's face had brightened, but her tone remained somewhat hypnotic. The girl was heavily medicated.
Darlene looked back over her shoulder at the closed door. "Mrs. Turner?" she asked Harry.
"She's gonna wait outside."
Darlene nodded. Harry might have asked her to wait outside, but Darlene had the sneaking suspicion that it was Mrs. Turner's choice.
Darlene glanced at Harry. "So..."
"So..." Harry echoed.
"So your mother said you're ready to answer a few questions?"
Jill looked away and nodded. The brightness in her countenance vanished.
Darlene pulled a small pad and pen from her jacket pocket. "Jill, I know this might be very difficult for you. I can't even begin to imagine what you've been through or what you're going through, so we'll take it slow. If there's anything you're not ready to talk about right now, just let us know. Okay?"
Jill nodded slightly, her eyes focused on the wall beyond the foot of her bed. "Okay," she muttered.
"Good." She paused. "Do you remember what happened?"
Jill hesitated. "Some of it."
"Some of it?"
Silence.
Darlene looked to Harry. Harry took his cue. "Can you tell us who did this?"
Jill hesitated, nodded. "Richard Caulfield."
Darlene and Harry exchanged a glance. Darlene jotted the confirmation in her pad. Harry was jotting in his own pad, Darlene noticed.
"Can you tell us what happened?" Harry asked. "From the beginning? How did it start?"
Darlene heard an unmistakable sniffle followed by a sigh. "Remember, Jill, take your time," Darlene said. "If there's anything you're not ready to talk about, we can do this another time."
She nodded, sniffled a couple of times, and wiped at her eyes. "Richard, he invited me to go camping for the weekend with him and his friends―Gary Butler, Denise Richardson, Jessica Lewis, Katie Beckham, and Diane Wright. Of course, I accepted because, you know, he's him, and I'm me."
The Final Girl Page 6
