Son of a Gun (A David and Martin Yerxa Thriller - Book 2)

by Ed Markham

  Ganther paused and wiped at his chin with the back of his wrist, his eyes still distant. “I remember it was a few weeks after Gloria left me. I was going for one of my walks, and I passed a middle school near where I lived. All of these parents were there, picking their kids up in their nice cars. And I remember looking at those people and their spoilt kids and thinking that they didn’t deserve that happiness. Not at all. They didn’t deserve to be happy when all those poor kids had been shot up on the other side of the world. It wasn’t fair. And that’s when I decided that they needed to see what it was like over there. They needed to feel that fear, and go through all that anguish. I already felt like I was the goddamned devil for what I’d done, and this felt like a way to punish myself and accept what I turned into. If I was going to be a devil, at least I could use the bad in me to make people understand.”

  Ganther looked at David, and his eyes again filled with tears. “That’s how sick I was,” he said. “That’s how messed up in the head I was. I can still remember just what I was thinking, and how it made good sense to me.” Again, he leaned forward and buried his face in his palms. He wept openly. “I kilt four children,” he said through his sobs. “Four boys before they arrested me on some drug charges and locked me up. And thank god they did, too. Otherwise who knows how many more I would’ve kilt.”

  David waited. When Ganther had calmed down, he said to him, “What about since you’ve been out of prison?”

  Ganther sat back slowly, his face tear-streaked, and looked at David with an expression of confusion. “Since I’ve been out?” he repeated.

  “Have you hurt any more children?”

  Ganther’s mouth dropped open. “No. Jesus, no. Course I haven’t. Why would you ask me that? Why would you think that?”

  David searched Ganther’s face. “When you were at Harvey’s home,” he said, “or at the number four cabin, do you remember having any dreams about the children you killed?”

  Ganther was quiet for a minute. Then he nodded. “Yeah. Yeah absolutely. But they weren’t dreams. They were nightmares. I thought a lot about those kids I kilt, because that’s part of the therapy, you know. You got to confront what you done—accept it in order to get past it. That’s what Harvey told me. Accept it to get past it. And I know that’s the truth. I was scared to do it, but I knew I had to.”

  “And in these nightmares,” David said, “did the children look different than you remembered?”

  “Different?” Ganther asked.

  He nodded.

  “No,” Ganther said. “I’ll never forget the way they looked. Never. Every one of their faces is burned right into my brain. Right into my dang soul.”

  After a long silence, David said, “Do you remember ever putting a white mask on any of their faces?”

  “What?” Ganther asked. “A white mask?”

  “Like in your pictures, James. A white mask like the ones people wear in your drawings and sketches.”

  Ganther’s mouth moved silently for a few moments as though he were trying to grasp this. “Why would I do that?” he asked.

  David answered, “We’re talking to you today because three children are dead, and a fourth is missing. Someone killed each of them in the exact same way you killed those boys back in 1978. And someone’s left a white mask on each of their faces, just like the masks in your artwork.”

  As he described the latest murders, Ganther’s eyes grew wider and more horrified until David was certain he was about to scream.

  “No,” Ganther said, shaking his head. “No. No, no, no. Oh please god no!”

  He started to stand but fell back over his chair. David stood abruptly and waved at the camera for someone to send Serwer back in.

  By the time the large man entered carrying the hand and ankle restraints, Ganther was kneeling on the ground and clutching the seat of his chair as if it were a life ring and he were lost in a violent sea.

  His eyes were far away, and he was screaming and weeping uncontrollably. “No,” he shouted, over and over again. “No. Please Jesus, no.”

  Chapter 43

  DAVID STOOD IN the hallway outside the interrogation room, watching as Serwer and another attendant sedated Ganther and slipped him into restraints.

  Martin, Omar, Kerrigan, and Carr emerged from the video observation room down the hall.

  “That was some confession,” Carr said.

  David didn’t answer her. He had turned and was looking at his father.

  Martin walked past him to the doorway of the interrogation room. He leaned on it and looked on silently as Ganther, now pacified, was being shackled and held while the orderlies waited for a gurney to arrive so they could transport him back to a holding cell.

  “You were right,” David said to his back.

  Martin nodded solemnly. “I never had much doubt. But it still feels good to finally know for sure.” He drummed his fingers on the door leading to the interrogation room. “I don’t know what to think about his reaction to the latest murders.”

  David looked past his father into the room. They were quiet until Omar Ghafari approached with a cell phone pressed into his shoulder. He said to them, “I’ve got Dorsey on the line from Jonestown. He says Horn’s cabins and tents are clean—including number four. Also, the initial sweep of Ganther’s truck turned up nothing. Forensics will keep working on it, but so far there’s no sign of Carson Affeldt or any of the other victims.”

  Martin and David watched as the holding facility’s staff wheeled Ganther out of the interrogation room; he looked much as he had that morning when SWAT had sedated him and dragged him from Harvey Horn’s house.

  “Also,” Omar said, “Horn’s attorneys are making a big stink about the fact that we transported him here with Ganther. They’re saying—”

  David turned and held up a hand to quiet Omar. “It’s the DEA’s problem now,” he said. “Unless something turns up on Horn’s property related to our investigation.”

  Omar gave him a thumbs-up, and David turned to address Kerrigan and Carr. “We won’t be able to talk with Ganther again today,” he said.

  Carr nodded. “We’ll get back to work on those searches of the Grows’ listed properties. Hopefully we’ll turn something up.”

  “Hopefully you don’t,” Martin said.

  “Either way,” she said, “we’ll be in touch.”

  When she and Kerrigan were out of earshot, Martin said to his son, “Have you heard back from Ian Ganther?”

  David checked his phone, which he’d switched onto silent mode before interrogating Ganther. He frowned. “No.”

  Martin crossed his arms over his chest. “If we don’t hear from him tonight, I think he’s earned a visit.”

  Chapter 44

  THE WHITE MASK hovered in front of the mirror, held aloft by a pale hand and arm. A slight figure wearing a white T-shirt and brown pants was also present in the mirror’s reflection.

  The man held up the mask in such a way that his face and head were obscured. After a few seconds, he moved the mask to one side. The face that looked back at him was only slightly more animated than the vacant expression of the paper maché mask.

  The man’s hair was light and receded steeply from his brow. He had a full beard and mustache.

  He looked at himself for a long time, his eyes moving from his own reflection to the reflection of the mask, which he held up to the right of his head.

  After a time, the man moved the mask back in front of his reflection. With his free hand, he worked at his face. When he moved the mask away again, the beard was gone. He wore only the artificial moustache.

  But there was more about the man’s face that looked different. It seemed older now, but also more jovial. He smiled, but was dissatisfied with the shape and quality of the expression. He slid the mask back in front of his face for a moment, and then away again. He smiled a second time, and appeared more satisfied with this effort. He practiced frowning and looking confused. He performed looks of concern and ho
rror. He spoke to himself—asked himself questions and answered them—and tried to conjure the appropriate reactions. He seemed displeased with the way his mouth moved as he spoke, and he spent time adjusting the movements of his jaw and lips.

  All the time, the mask moved back and forth, covering and uncovering, obscuring and revealing. Now the man was one person. Now another.

  The changes were profound—the skin in parts of the man’s face seeming to tighten and loosen almost supernaturally. Different smiles. Different frowns. Different shapes constructed from the same raw facial material.

  At one point the man turned abruptly away from the mirror and cocked his head, listening. His expression was blank now, like the mask’s. He heard a voice, very faint and faraway.

  He waited and listened, and heard the voice again.

  He stood quietly for a time, saying nothing. When he was sure the voice had quieted, he turned back to the mirror. He stood looking at himself, and tears filled his eyes. They collected there until he blinked.

  As the tears ran down his cheeks, the man’s mouth spread into a gaping smile. In one quick motion, he brought a hand up to his face and wiped his palm across his tears. He brought his damp palm to his mouth and licked at the salty liquid, making an exaggerated sucking sound. He smacked his lips a few times, and his smile broadened. He slapped his own smiling face, and then he brought the white mask up again, blocking his reflection in the mirror. When he moved the mask away a few seconds later, his face was blank, though a blush had bloomed on his cheek where he’d slapped himself.

  Chapter 45

  DAVID BALANCED THE beer bottle on his thigh and looked across the small study to where his father was sitting below the extended neck of a reading lamp.

  Martin took a sip of his whisky before replacing it on the end table beside his leather chair, the twin of the seat David occupied. Martin held his spiral notebook in one hand, and was reading over his hand-written notes from earlier in the day.

  “You look tired,” David said to him.

  His father nodded without looking up. “I haven’t spent the night in a police station in a hell of a long time. Looking forward to a reunion with my own bed tonight.”

  David nodded and took a drink from his beer.

  The two had arrived back at Martin’s house after grabbing a bite to eat at a nearby bar. Father and son had said little to each other during dinner as they both replayed and reviewed the day’s events. It was only nine o’clock, but both were listless from lack of sleep.

  “We’ll stop by Ian Ganther’s first thing in the morning,” David said.

  Martin looked up at him and pruned his lips. “The way his son disappeared—Christopher—that’s sticking with me. And the way his mother reacted to our questions about it.” He shook his head. “Something’s there.”

  “What about James Ganther?”

  “He’s not going anywhere,” Martin said. “We’ll give him some time to recover, and we’ll talk with him again tomorrow after we check out his son.” He was quiet as he took another drink from his whisky. “I don’t know what to make of all this.”

  David said, “I asked our people to start working up a more thorough background report on Ian and Phil Ganther. I also requested transcripts of the police interviews related to Christopher Ganther’s disappearance, and some of our people are going to Phil Ganther’s to check him out tomorrow while we’re visiting Ian’s place.”

  “Good,” Martin said. He yawned into his fist.

  David examined the label of his beer. “Do you have experience with copycat crimes?” he asked.

  Martin looked at him. “Some.”

  “Any lessons?”

  “They’re not a tribute—at least not normally. It’s not a hero-worship deal. The original act plants a seed, and the copycat waters it with his own motivations and sickness.” He paused. “We need to focus on the why, not the how. That’s how we’ll catch him—if we haven’t already.”

  Martin finished off his drink and stood up. “Now I need to go to bed.” He patted his son’s shoulder on his way out of the study.

  David sat alone, sipping his beer and trying not to mull the day’s events. After a minute he pulled out his phone and dialed Lauren’s cell number.

  “Agent Yerxa,” she answered.

  He smiled. “How’d it go today?”

  “My shoulder’s hamburger. If we do any more shotgun work I’m going to have to shoot left-handed.”

  He twisted the beer bottle on his thigh. “Who do you picture when you’re shooting? I’ve never asked.”

  She laughed. “No way, pal. Just because we’re dating doesn’t mean I’m going to give that up.”

  It was an old adage within the FBI’s psych departments that if you could find out who an agent imagined while practicing on the range, you could pretty accurately construct his or her psychological profile from that single detail.

  She added, “But you can tell me who you shoot at if you feel like it.”

  “Myself,” he said without hesitating. He thumbed at the edge of the damp label on his beer bottle and peeled it away.

  Lauren was quiet for a beat. “You’re kidding right?”

  “No I’m not kidding.”

  When he’d first started at the FBI, David had found it impossible not to picture the young man he’d killed—Grant Waller—every time he stepped onto the range. He was at the point of flunking out of the academy when he’d started imagining himself as the target. The thought calmed his hands enough for him to meet the Bureau’s basic firearms proficiency requirements.

  Lauren laughed into the phone, bringing him back to their conversation. “OK, you shoot at yourself,” she said. “I’m going to try my best not to deconstruct that, but it’s gonna be tough.” She paused. “Since you were honest, I guess I’ll fess up. I usually shoot at this bitch I knew in high school. My hatred for her is totally disproportionate to her impact on my life, but she stole my boyfriend our junior year and started a rumor about my dad being an illegal immigrant. I still hate her. Sometimes I also shoot at Ben Roethlisberger. He’s a rapist, and he almost always beats my Ravens.”

  He smiled.

  “So. Tell me,” she said.

  He thumbed at the residue of label glue on his beer bottle. “We’re making progress.”

  “That’s good to hear.”

  “We tracked down the man Martin suspected of similar crimes back in the seventies, and he admitted to those murders.”

  “You’re kidding?” she said. “Holy shit. You dad must have been elated.”

  “Not really. It doesn’t look like that guy is responsible for the latest deaths. We think our subject is still out there.”

  “Any other ideas?”

  “We’re checking out his son and brother.”

  She snorted. “A father and son tracking a father and son, huh?”

  This idea caught him off guard. “I hadn’t thought of that.” He set down his beer bottle and leaned forward, working this over in his head.

  “Uh oh,” she said. “I can hear your gears grinding through the phone.”

  “I’m tired, that’s all,” he said. But he was barely listening to himself now. His mind was burning a path forward.

  “Right,” she said. “Sleep well, David. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

  He stayed up for another hour, pacing the length of his father’s study and flipping through the photographs in his phone. He was thinking about fathers and sons now, about how James Ganther’s crimes and imprisonment might have affected his son Ian. He was also thinking about the missing children. All boys, he thought. And all around the age when children first start to feel the bite of adulthood.

  When he finally climbed into bed, sleep was slow to come.

  Chapter 46

  CARSON AFFELDT STOOD looking at the water in the toilet. It was absolutely still, and he could see the shape of his head and shoulders—as well as the light in the ceiling—reflected in the water’s surface.

 
; It had been more than a day since he’d had a drink of water, a scrap of food, or a moment of human interaction. Right now he only cared about the first.

  Carson had thought he understood what it meant to be thirsty. But in the last eight hours, he’d realized he didn’t have any idea. He was light-headed, and his bottom lip felt stiff and desiccated. He’d sat for a time thinking about Starbursts, his favorite candy, in an effort to coax saliva from the glands near the back of his tongue. He felt a desperate need to wet his mouth, and this had worked a few times, though the wetness didn’t last long in the arid desert that his mouth had become.

  He’d resorted to playing video games for most of the evening. Movies were too excruciating; characters were always eating and drinking things.

  Now, as he stood over the toilet trying to discern anything but water in the water, he decided he had no choice. He’d already flushed the toilet a dozen times in an effort to wash away as much crap and urine residue as he could. He kneeled down and plunged his cupped hands into the water. It was wonderfully cold. He took handfuls of it into his mouth until the water was low enough that the backs of his hands brushed the bowl. He stood and flushed the toilet, waited for it to refill, and drank again.

  When he’d satisfied his thirst, he sat down against the wall of the bathroom. His stomach began to ache, but he didn’t mind it. His thirst was gone, and the ache in his gut was interfering with his hunger. He pulled his knees up to his chest and found that this helped with the stomach pain. He could feel the wooden two-by-fours—the ones decorated with Mark Stephenson’s writing—pressing into his back.