The Sixth Wicked Child

by J. D. Barker

  “I didn’t ask them about the kids. I didn’t want to know, and they didn’t volunteer much information. They did their thing, and I did mine. I paid down my debt one trip to that motel after another. I’m honestly not sure when you started watching us. I learned later that one of the kids found your business card and called you, told you what was happening, but I didn’t know that at the time. The first time I saw you across the street in that parking lot, watching the motel, watching me in my van, I wasn’t 100 percent certain it was even you. Tough to see at night. I suppose part of me didn’t want to see. It was Stocks who told me it was you. He was the one who told me to handle it. I thought about my debt. Certainly that would knock it down. I didn’t want to go there, Sam. You gotta believe me. But I had a wife at home, and we were starting a family. I needed that monkey off my back. They told me to bring you in. I knew you’d never go along, not you, not straight-and-narrow Sam Porter, no way. But I didn’t tell them that. I think I saved your life by telling that little fib. Not sure how much time I bought, but I bought you some. Why the hell didn’t you back off? Half the cops were on the take—you could have walked away. You didn’t, though. I saw you watching me. I saw you following me. When you came out to the farmhouse that night, when you followed me out there. There was no turning back, not for you, not for me…

  “There’s no easy way to say this, Sam, so I’m just going to come right out with it. We had that farmhouse wired, and we knew that kid Weasel had called you and set up the meet. We also knew it went sideways when you followed me out to the farmhouse. That’s why I drove him back to the city. I knew he’d get out, escape the van, we let him. I knew he’d try and give you whatever evidence those kids put together. We didn’t know where they’d hidden it, though. We needed him to lead us there. Lead you there too. He took the bag with the money, the camera, and led us right to the notebook they’d hidden—the one detailing all the activity at the Carriage House Inn. When I saw the notebook, when I had the notebook, him, and you all together, something inside me closed off. The little bit of good inside me went to sleep, because that’s what needed to happen. I knew if I thought about it, I’d never be able to shoot you. I took out the gun Stocks had given me, and so help me, I pulled the trigger on you.”

  Bishop read the next sentence in his head and paused for a moment. His voice threatened to crack when he read it aloud.

  “I finished off the boy too. That’s what Stocks and Welderman wanted. I couldn’t bring myself to put a second shot in you. I didn’t think you’d make it to the hospital, but you did, you tough son-of-a-bitch, you did, and then it was too late for me. The boy’s body in my van. Their little bag of evidence in my van. They told me to make it all disappear. I screwed that up too. I kept it. Figured it was some kind of insurance, and best to stash it all away. When you woke from the coma with no memory, I told myself I was in the clear. Nobody knew anything. Here’s the thing, though: I knew. No matter what I did to forget, something reminded me, and over the years, those reminders got louder. Guilt has a way of screaming. I could hear that dead kid out in my van, louder every night.

  “I didn’t start out my life expecting to be a bad cop. A series of small events got me there. Sitting here now, down in my basement, with a rope coiled up on the floor writing a letter to you—guilt got me here. I’ve got to silence those screams.

  “I think those kids blamed you for not acting sooner. For not rushing the farmhouse and arresting everybody. Kids don’t understand what it takes to build a case. They don’t understand good police work. I suppose, neither do I. You do, Sam. Always did. You’re a fine cop. The kind of cop I wish I had been. You do right for the both of us. Take care of my Robin for me. Tell her I was one of the good guys, once.”

  When Bishop finished, he read the letter a second time to himself, then folded the pages, slipped them back into the envelope, and set it on the counter beside him.

  Porter was first to speak. “Tegan called me a few weeks before I came out to the farmhouse. I remember that now. She…she had spoken so fast on that first call. All I got was something about them taking pictures of her at the motel. I didn’t know about the prostitution. I didn’t even know she was underage. I didn’t know how big this all was. I started to piece things together, then I got the call from the boy…Weasel. He told me to meet him, they had evidence for me…”

  “And Hillburn shot you when you tried to collect it,” Bishop said. “Then he shot Weasel.”

  Porter nodded.

  “I didn’t know he called you,” Bishop admitted. “Tegan never told me, neither of them did… I…we had no idea…” his voice trailed off as he considered this. How it would have changed so much.

  The gun still steady, Porter asked, “What happened to the girls?”

  Bishop could have lied, but there was no point. “Tegan and Kristina managed to tie up Finicky back at the farmhouse, but neither of them had a father who taught them the proper knots. Finicky got loose, managed to wrestle the gun from Tegan. Then she made some phone calls. Kirby was part of the crew they sent to clean up. I thought…I thought you were too. They took The Kid to one of their own doctors at first, Stanford Pentz, but his injuries were too severe—he was worthless to them, so they dumped him at a hospital outside Charlotte. I suppose he was lucky they didn’t just kill him. The girls were moved to another holding house, this one in Wisconsin. They kept them there until it was time for the sale, time to get to the Guyon. Vincent, Paul, and I didn’t learn that until we had a chat with Dr. Oglesby, one final session. He was kind enough to return my knife to me that night, the photo of Mother and Mrs. Carter too. In return, I buried him in my lake with his friends.”

  Bishop tried to turn, but Porter thrust the gun toward him. “Face the mirror, keep your palms on the counter.”

  He nodded, did what he was told. “We waited at the Guyon, managed to get them out, and hid in an abandoned brownstone on the west side with some other homeless kids. Stayed there for nearly two years.”

  Bishop started to turn around again. “Sam, I thought—”

  “Don’t,” Porter said. “Just don’t. Face the mirror.”

  Through the window, near the shoreline, Bishop saw Kristina glued to Vincent’s side, a big grin on her face. Tegan was awake, laughing at something Libby must have said. His mother and father were both facing the water, only a few inches apart. Everything as it should be.

  Porter didn’t say anything for a long while. When he did, there was an edge to his voice. “I need to know the truth about something. Frankly, the only thing I even give a shit about anymore. The only thing. Did you really give Harnell Campbell the .38 and drive him to that convenience store?”

  Bishop said nothing.

  “Or did you just say that to get me to come after you? I’ve thought a lot about it. You needed me angry. You needed me unstable, running on emotions instead of logic. I understand why you would say something like that, but I need to hear it from you. Was it true or just something you said to get what you needed out of me? I need to know—are you responsible for Heather’s death?”

  In the mirror, Bishop glanced down at the bags on Porter’s feet. “Who knows you’re here, Sam?”

  “Not a damn soul. You’re not the only one with access to fake IDs.”

  Bishop forced his breathing to slow, forced his body to remain calm, as Father had taught him. He nodded toward the window. “If I tell you the truth, will you let them all go? Will you let my Libby go?”

  Porter nodded slowly. “You have my word.”

  “All of them?”

  “All of them.”

  It was Bishop’s turn to nod. “I did, Sam. I might as well have killed Heather myself. Harnell Campbell was so hopped up on meth, I could have gotten him to do just about anything that night.”

  Porter’s face went pale. A vein on the side of his head throbbed hard enough to be visible from across the room. It took him a moment to process this. His finger left the guard and wrapped over the trigger.<
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  Porter swallowed, his voice thin. “Calli Tremell, Elle Borton, Missy Lumax, Susan Devoro, Allison Cramer, and Jodi Blumington…did you kill them, did you kidnap Emory…or was it Kloz?”

  Bishop looked down at the sink. Some bubbles from the soap were caught on the lip of the drain. He wanted to turn the water on, wash them away. He didn’t. Instead, Bishop closed his eyes. “I killed them all, Sam. And it was so fucking sweet.”

  The single gunshot inside the small cinderblock building was loud enough to echo out over the park. On the rocks near the shoreline, half a dozen seagulls shot up into the air and disappeared into the morning sky before the last of that bang faded away.

  * * *

  May 2019

  Pittsburgh, PA

  Author’s Note

  It’s hard to say good-bye. I’ve lived with Sam Porter, Anson Bishop, and the others for several years now, and watching them pack their bags and leave has been difficult for me. I knew this day would come, though, and I prepared as best I could. I like to think they’re all in a better place now, moving on with their lives, as I have. Most, anyway.

  When I started the series, a particular question weighed heavily on my mind—can a serial killer be made? Is it possible for a good person to be shaped into a sociopath simply because of the environment in which they grew up? Throughout my life, I’ve met people who were raised under the most horrible of conditions and turned out just fine. To the contrary, I’ve also known people who, as children, had every possible advantage in life and squandered that opportunity as they grew older. They went sour. I’ve spoken to countless killers and found they came from every possible background—demographics, social standing, and financial situation may have played a part in the person they would become, but there was always another force at play, one that was stronger—the human spirit. Whether good or bad, that spirit overcame life’s obstacles. That killer gene—psychotic or sociopathic—was either there at the get-go or it wasn’t. It wasn’t a seed that could be planted and nurtured any more than it could be squashed when first noticed in someone thought to be bad.

  Anson Bishop believed he was doing the right thing. Was he? I suppose that’s up to you to decide.

  As with my other books, many of the places described here are real. If you’re ever in Chicago, check out the old Cook County Hospital. At last visit, it was still there in the center of town, a padlock on the door, developers unsure what to do. If you happen to get inside, you’ll find the statue of Protection right where Kloz left it (although the mayor has been removed).

  BackPage.com is real as well, or was, rather. When the site was dismantled, one of the largest human trafficking rings went with it. Child pornography and prostitution as well. What started out as one of the first online answers to printed classified ads shifted focus over time, went bad. I suppose great ideas can go sour too.

  Once you’ve finished reading the FBI page now in place where BackPage.com once thrived, try typing Focused Ultrasound Therapy into your search browser of choice. While still an infant in the medical world, the treatment has shown significant promise, particularly in the treatment of brain tumors. I’d like to thank John Grisham for turning me on to it; fascinating stuff.

  Special thanks to Tim Mudie for editing not only this book, but the other two in the series. And thanks to my agents—Kristin Nelson, Jenny Meyer, and Angela Cheng Caplan for helping me find a home for the series around the world both in print and on the screen.

  Thanks to the fans everywhere who helped take my little story to the top of various bestseller lists. You’re the reason I do this.

  Thank you to my incredible wife, Dayna, for putting up with the thousands of Post-it notes around our home necessary to keep this story straight in my head. They can come down now, go in a little white box secured with black string. Maybe one day I’ll give them another look.

  Until next time—

  jd