by Ed Markham
David could smell the wood on his father’s skin, and Martin’s palm felt coarse and dry from the work.
Standing before each other, David was taller and trimmer than Martin, with black hair that contrasted his father’s short-cropped, silver mane. But while Martin’s hair had lost its coal, he still shared his son’s pale Nordic complexion and blue eyes the color of cold water.
“Good to see you, son,” he said, not lowering his big voice though he and David weren’t two feet apart. “So what are we looking at here? You didn’t give me much on the phone.”
We? David thought. He hadn’t yet decided whether to bring his father in on the investigation, but it wasn’t worth arguing about until he’d made up his mind.
“Someone’s been kidnapping and murdering children,” he said. “Three boys so far. All thirteen or fourteen years old.”
Martin’s eyebrows rose for a moment and then plunged downward, chasing his frown. “Where?” he asked.
“Two in Pennsylvania, one in New Jersey. The latest turned up yesterday in a town called Winslow, about thirty minutes east of here. I have the case files upstairs.”
Martin glanced at the ceiling and snorted, as though he’d just heard an unwanted guest walk across the floorboards overhead.
“We’ll get to those files later,” he said, his eyes returning to his son’s. “Let’s eat some dinner first. I’ve worked up a hell of an appetite down here.” He grinned and resettled one of his big hands on David’s shoulder. “I want to hear all about you and my future daughter in law.”
Chapter 4
IT WAS NEARLY seven o’clock when father and son finished eating. They cleared away the dishes and Martin retrieved a cigarette from the pack of American Spirits he kept fresh in a Zip-loc bag in his freezer.
“Still at one a day?” David asked him.
He nodded as he withdrew his brushed-steel Ronson lighter from his pocket. He stepped out through the kitchen door that led to the cement patio behind the house.
As he rinsed off the dishes at the kitchen sink, David could see his father standing and smoking near the small vegetable-and-herb garden his wife had spent so much of her free time cultivating, especially during her last summer. After Angela’s death, Martin had taken up the care of his wife’s peppers and tomatoes, her basil, rosemary, and parsley.
When he returned to the kitchen, Martin opened a beer for his son and poured himself a “real” drink—his usual George Dickel on the rocks. David retrieved the case files from the front hallway. He set them before his father on the kitchen table.
Along with his drink, Martin had prepared his spiral notepad and pen. He looked for a moment at the files and then pulled off the top-most folder. He handed it to David. “You mind narrating?” he said. “You know my relationship with small print goes south after sundown.”
David nodded and took the folder. “Gregory Merchant,” he read out loud. “Age thirteen, of Doylestown, Pennsylvania. Disappeared on his way home from school on October nine. A family out for a weekend walk discovered his body five days later on a riverside trail near New Hope, about ten miles from the boy’s home. Someone shot him once from behind, through the heart. The medical examiner’s report lists no signs of sexual abuse. Merchant’s stomach was full, indicating he’d eaten shortly before his murder. Few signs of physical abuse apart from some bruises and cuts on his face, which the ME estimates occurred very shortly before death.”
He flipped to the photographs included at the back of the file.
In the first photo, Gregory Merchant’s body lay supine on a small patch of sandy earth surrounded by oak and maple trees. The gray-green Delaware River slid by mutely in the background. Whoever had killed him had positioned his hands at his sides as though he were laid out in a coffin.
David could see Merchant had dark blonde hair and long bangs that fell across the forehead of the white mask that covered his face. The boy had died wearing khaki cargo pants, brown boots, a rugby shirt, and a black fleece jacket. His school backpack sat upright beside him.
There were many more photos, including some supplied by the boy’s parents that showed a happy, healthy adolescent. In one picture, Merchant wore a shiny blue-and-gold uniform, his right foot posed atop a soccer ball. His wide smile barely creased his young cheeks and forehead.
David looked up from the file and started to hand the first photograph to Martin. He stopped when he saw his father’s expression; the blood had drained from Martin’s face, and his eyes were far away.
“Pop,” David said, leaning forward and laying a hand on his father’s wrist. He’d never seen him look so ashen. “What’s the matter?”
Martin was quiet for a moment, and then he began to shake his head slowly from side to side. He blinked, and his eyes moved to his son’s. “Nothing,” he said, flexing his hand so David would know to let him go. “Let me see that picture.” He took the photo and stared at it for a long time without speaking.
David watched him closely. He knew it wasn’t the nature of the case that was bothering his father; Martin Yerxa had been a serial crimes investigator for more than thirty years, and he’d no doubt worked dozens of cases involving child homicide. Martin was a man accustomed to images like these. And, considering the absence of sexual abuse and the swift means of dispatch, the Merchant boy’s murder seemed almost humane compared to most child killings.
“Pop,” David said again.
Martin blinked. “Let’s get on to the next one,” he said, moving his eyes from the photograph in his hands to the second file folder.
David thought about pressing him for an explanation, but decided to let it go. He picked up the second case folder and began reading the details.
The next victim, fourteen-year-old Matthew Bush, had gone missing from Emmaus, Pennsylvania, on October 21. His parents had told police he’d gone for a bike ride before dinner and never came home. Four days after his disappearance, an elderly couple discovered his body in a nature preserve on the small mountain abutting Emmaus.
The boy was Caucasian, with dark hair and blue eyes. His body had been arranged like the first victim’s. Again, the murderer had shot him once from behind and had concealed his face behind a white mask, hiding the few signs of physical abuse.
“County police are calling him Geppetto after the puppet-maker from Pinocchio,” David said. “The masks are homemade—paper maché. Our people pulled one of them apart, but the newspaper he used doesn’t help us. The New York Times—no ads, nothing local.”
Martin nodded and then fixed his eyes on the tabletop. Again, he seemed to drift away.
David was quiet for a few moments, and then he spoke loudly in an effort to crack his father’s glassy stare. “What’s bothering you?”
Martin’s eyes toured the small kitchen before meeting his son’s. “Nothing, boy. I’m just beat.” He glanced at the open case files, and again David saw something in his father’s expression he couldn’t place.
“Think it’s time I turned in,” Martin said, standing up abruptly from the table. “What time are you leaving for Winslow tomorrow?”
“Around six-thirty. Maybe earlier.”
Martin nodded. “Fine. I’ll see you in the morning.” He offered his son a distracted pat on the shoulder and left the kitchen without another word, his cocktail sitting nearly untouched on the table in front of his vacated chair.
David sat quietly for a few minutes, drinking his beer and puzzling over Martin’s reaction. Eventually he returned to the case files.
When he walked upstairs a few hours later, he saw through the crack beneath his father’s door that a light was still burning in Martin’s bedroom.
Monday, November 4
Chapter 5
IT WAS STILL dark outside when David made his way downstairs to start the morning coffee brewing. He was surprised to find his father already up and dressed, and sitting at the kitchen table with his hands wrapped around his travel coffee mug, which was never far from his reach.
“How long have you been up?” David asked him.
“Not long.” His voice was gravely with fatigue, and the bags beneath his eyes were dark.
David hadn’t yet decided whether to bring Martin in on the investigation, but the look in his father’s eyes settled things. He walked to the coffee machine and poured a cup for himself from the half-full pot. He took a sip, and could tell from the slightly burned taste that Martin had been awake for at least an hour.
The two men regarded the kitchen floor silently for a moment as they both sipped their coffees. “The county coroner is expecting us at seven,” David said. His words were quickly swallowed by the pre-dawn quiet.
Martin nodded but said nothing. His eyes never left the floor.
Thirty minutes later, they crossed over the Delaware River and into Central New Jersey.
As David drove, Martin read the few details they had on the latest victim: “Mark Stephenson. Age thirteen. The boy went missing from school October 29. Found yesterday morning by Barb Peterson, a retired entomologist. Like the others, Stephenson was shot once through the back, and the murderer left his body in plain sight near a wooded walking trail. No visible signs of abuse or trauma, apart from the gunshot wound and bruises on Mark’s face.”
“Mark?” David asked. It was strange to hear his father call the victim by his first name.
Martin said nothing, and David let it go. Instead he wondered aloud, “Few signs of trauma, and no sexual assault. So what did our subject do with these boys while he had them?” When his father didn’t answer, he added, “Whatever it was, he’s speeding up. He waited a full week in between the first two, but only a few days between the second and third.”
Martin nodded, but did not speak.
When they arrived at the county coroner’s office where Mark Stephenson’s body was undergoing examination, David watched his father step out of the car clutching his insulated travel mug. Martin stuffed his free hand into his jacket pocket and took a moment to look around.
It was a chilly, odorless November day, and the New Jersey sky was uniformly gray beyond the leafless branches of the surrounding trees.
Once inside, they showed their credentials to the receptionist.
“You don’t look like FBI agents,” she said, eyeing David’s attire.
In place of a suit and tie he wore charcoal twill trousers, dark boots, and a gray T-shirt beneath a black jacket. It was the same thing he wore every day, and it served his purposes—one of which was to dissuade people from attaching to him their suspicious, faulty notions concerning the FBI, most of which were personified by a man in a black suit.
The receptionist directed father and son down a long blue-and-white-tiled corridor. As they walked side by side, the sounds of their shoes on the synthetic, slip-resistant rubber flooring were muted and soft. They pushed through a set of twin doors and found themselves in an examination room.
David saw the county coroner, whom the receptionist had identified as “Dr. Cremins,” standing in front of a cadaver on the far side of the room. Cremins was a small man. He wore a dark green shirt that ballooned out of the black slacks that were cinched very tightly at his waist.
Cremins turned when he heard them come in, and as he did David was afforded a better look at the corpse on the exam table; it was an elderly man’s.
“Well, well,” Cremins said. He removed his rubber gloves and tossed them into a nearby trashcan with a hook shot that David found obscene considering the setting and circumstances. “The F-B-I. I was told you might be down here today, but I didn’t quite believe it.” He frowned at them and added, “I thought you’d be wearing suits.”
Cremins had grey-black hair that was thinning on top but long enough in back to touch his shirt collar. His voice was high-pitched, and he looked to be in his early forties. Quickly recovering from his disappointment that David and Martin didn’t match his mind’s rendering of FBI agents, he grinned and said, “Fifteen years working here in Winslow, and this is my first visit from your esteemed organization.” He shook his head as though he were offended, but only in a good-natured way. “You’re here about the Stephenson kid?”
David nodded, and he and Martin introduced themselves.
Cremins said, “I got the call from my area supervisor yesterday, so I decided to come in last night and wrap up my examination in time for your visit. Didn’t want to keep you gentleman waiting.” He walked toward a small office located just off the autopsy room and gestured over his shoulder for David and Martin to follow.
“Awful. Just awful to see a person so young in here,” Cremins said as he took a seat behind his desk. His amused expression didn’t match his words. “Of course, it happens more than I’d care to think about.”
Martin flashed his son a look as they arranged themselves in the two chairs opposite Cremins. The look said, “Who is this clown?”
Before withdrawing his notepad from his pocket, Martin placed his coffee mug on the coroner’s desk. Cremins frowned at the mug as though it were obstructing the harmony of his workspace. But then he realized David was watching him, and he smiled as if to say, “No problem. Anything for the FBI.”
The coroner retrieved three identical red folders from the top drawer of his desk. He handed one to David and one to Martin while reserving the third for himself. David had the feeling there were more red folders stashed in his desk, just in case Cremins had had to accommodate a few more agents.
The small man paused to retrieve a pair of glasses from his shirt pocket before he began reading his own report. He started with a lot of the biographical information Martin and David had already reviewed in the car on the drive to Winslow. He confirmed the presence of food in the boy’s stomach, indicating Stephenson had eaten shortly before he was murdered—just like the others.
As Cremins spoke, Martin jotted down his thoughts in his spiral notepad, occasionally pausing to take a sip of his coffee. David sat quietly and listened.
“Based on the body temp and stage of decomp,” Cremins said, “I believe Stephenson was shot ten to fourteen hours before his body was found.”
“What can you tell us about the gunshot wound?” David asked him.
Cremins flipped a few pages deeper into his report. “The bullet entered the victim’s back just to the right of the left scapula and struck a rib before entering and exiting the boy’s heart. Based on the size and shape of the entry wound and the powder residue, the cartridge was likely a round-nosed .45 caliber, full metal jacket, fired from a range of two to three feet.”
Martin’s body stiffened. David glanced at his father, but the older man’s face was blank as he stared across the desk at Cremins.
“Any trace of the bullet?” David asked.
“Several traces,” Cremins said. “But I’ve already had those sent ahead to your ballistics people.”
Recalling the other case files, David knew medical examiners had found bullet fragments in each of the first two victims, both .45 calibers.
He flipped ahead in the report. “What else?”
Cremins leaned forward with his elbows on his desk and set his report down flat so he could hover over it. “Blackening around the lower rim of the wound indicates the bullet entered the victim’s back at a fifty-five degree downward slant.” He looked at David and lifted his forearm, pointing his hand and fingers at his desktop to demonstrate the angle. “Based on the distance I established between shooter and victim, that angle would mean the person who fired the weapon was only one or two inches taller than Stephenson, who was five-foot-four. That’s assuming the boy wasn’t standing on anything, the shooter wasn’t crouching, or any other circumstances that would have modified the entry angle.”
“That’s a lot of assumptions,” Martin said.
“Yes it is,” Cremins
said.
David was silent for a few seconds, imagining the myriad scenarios that could explain the entry angle. The boy standing on the side of a hill, or on a staircase.
“But there’s something else,” Cremins said. “Turn to page twenty-six.” The little man seemed antsy as he gestured for David and Martin to flip ahead in his report. “I found saliva residue on the victim’s body.”
“Where?” David asked.
Cremins paused. “Behind his left ear.” He said this with an air of theatricality as he swiped a hand at the back of his own ear, demonstrating the saliva’s location. “I’ve sent a sample ahead to your people for DNA testing. The pattern of the saliva residue—it’s flecked, not a strip. If you asked me to speculate, I’d guess someone was standing behind the boy and shouting into his ear.”
Chapter 6
DAVID AND MARTIN drove from the county coroner’s office to the Winslow Fish and Wildlife Preserve, a thick ribbon of woods and marshland that bisected the local township and bled out into the surrounding county. They parked eighty yards from the head of the walking trail where Barb Peterson, the retired entomologist, had discovered Mark Stephenson’s body the previous morning.
Normally David would have visited the crime scene first. But a full day had passed since the boy’s body was found, and there wouldn’t have been much for him to coordinate at the scene. He thought it would be better to give the forensic techs another hour or two to do their jobs while he spoke with the coroner.
Father and son walked together past the township P.D. cruisers and forensic vans, nodded to the officer standing watch at the police line, slipped beneath the yellow tape, and headed into the woods.
The trail was studded with evidence placards, which they avoided by walking on the fringe of the path. David could see the cluster of activity a few hundred yards up the trail, but for a few seconds all he could hear was a cold November breeze moving through the trees. He placed a hand on his father’s arm to halt him, and then removed his cell phone from his pocket. He took a photograph of the wooded trail, and then the two continued on.
