by Tony Urban
Some of the swagger went out of the man. Maybe he realized he was tripped up, or maybe he only then figured out he was a suspect. “What day of the week was that?” he asked.
“A Wednesday,” Hank said.
Any uneasiness Andrew Leek felt vanished. “Wednesdays are league night at Dusty Lanes. I’m the best bowler on the team. Never miss it.”
Carolina was right, it couldn’t be easy. “Can anyone confirm that?”
“Sure. The other four guys on our team. They all work here. Plus Mel, who dispenses suds. The five guys on the other team. I think that night was Melton Welding, but there’s a schedule posted in the break room I can check.” He gave another stained smile. “Oh, and a redhead with big fat titties who was there with some friends. She asked me to go home with her and I was happy to oblige. I can give you her name, too, but I’m a gentleman and hate to ruin her reputation so you’ll have to ask real nice.”
Carolina and Hank exchanged glances, knowing the man wouldn’t tell a lie so easy to disprove. Leek had nothing to do with the murders and there was no use wasting more time verifying his story.
Andrew chuckled, knowing he had the upper hand. “Anything else, officers?”
“Not at the present. Thanks for your time,” Carolina said.
Andrew spat out a brown slurry which landed between Carolina and Hank. “Happy to help. Cooperate is my middle name.” He cackled, looking at Carolina. “That’s a joke, miss.”
Then he turned and walked off without another word.
Next up was Roland Younger, who lived in a small cottage in a residential section of Abrams, one town over from Millpine. A twenty-plus-year-old Chevy Cobalt, more putty than steel, was parked in the driveway.
The property seemed carefully tended to with a freshly mown lawn and a large flower bed bursting with blossoms. A nearby vegetable patch was equally impressive and featured tomatoes so plump and ripe Carolina was tempted to grab one and take a bite.
On the front door was a hand-painted, heart-shaped sign reading ‘WELCOME TO OUR HOME’ in careful cursive. Below it had the name ‘THE YOUNGER’S.’ A variety of dollar-store lawn ornaments - smiling raccoons, cheerful chipmunks, and grinning owls were scattered about, along with a plethora of miniature US flags.
“I tell you something. If they offer me cookies and tea when we get inside, we might as well charge him immediately. Nobody normal lives like this,” Hank said before rapping on the door.
Carolina knew he was being facetious, but she believed there was a bit of truth in his words. A place like this used to make her gag. The thought of being cute and lovey-dovey was so foreign to her that her immediate reaction was to poke fun.
But lately, she was realizing that it wasn’t the cuteness and lovey-dovey stuff that did it. It was her own upbringing. If she’d lived in a house like this, she might be a better person than who she’d become. Maybe her attitude wasn’t superiority, but jealousy.
“Whatever, Hank,” she said. “I know you think this is all a waste of your time, but it’s standard police work. We need to keep ruling out all possibilities until we find someone we can’t rule out. We don’t get to break into some guy’s house because he’s got a checkered past, plant a bloody knife somewhere, and put him behind bars. We need to do our due diligence.”
Hank ignored her comments, most likely from sticking him in a sore spot. But she didn’t care. He was the one who got her involved.
He knocked again and they waited in silence. It was awkward and the air was heavy, but she knew if she opened her mouth again, she’d just say something to piss him off even more.
Finally, after what felt like an hour, the door opened.
“Can I help you?” a woman asked. She held the door open just a crack, keeping her foot pressed against the bottom.
Carolina saw a white chihuahua trying to nose through the barrier. It made her think of a super miniaturized version of Yeti and that made her smile.
“Mrs. Younger?” Hank asked, holding up his badge.
“I’m Christine Younger, yes.” She looked to be in her early forties and was clad in shorts, a tank top, and dirt-stained gardening gloves.
“I’m Sheriff Kolazarek. I’m looking for Roland Younger,” Hank said. “I’m assuming that’s your husband.”
“He’s in the backyard, helping me garden. You want to come inside, and I’ll fetch him?” she opened the door another fraction of an inch. As soon as she did, the chihuahua yipped at them.
Hank stepped back at the noise and peered down at the small dog. It greatly amused Carolina to realize he was afraid.
“That’s all right. We’ll just walk around the side,” Hank said, still backing away.
The two made their way around the house, stopping to unlatch a gate in a chain-link fence to garner entry.
“Didn’t want to see what the inside of that house looked like,” Hank muttered. “Probably full of shitty little tchotchkes. Wouldn’t be much of an interview with me holding back my vomit.”
Hank was really laying it on thick and she couldn’t help but prod. “I thought it was because you were gonna piss yourself over that scary chihuahua. This fence is probably to keep him in the yard. I hope he doesn’t decide to attack.”
She saw the color drain from Hank’s face and couldn’t believe a self-professed tough guy like him would be afraid of such a little dog. This would provide a lifetime of blackmail material.
“Just stuff it,” he said.
Carolina let it go and led the way into the back yard. Much to her disappointment, the chihuahua was nowhere in sight.
“I left Mosley in the house,” Christine said as she appeared around the corner, referring to the dog as if reading Carolina’s mind. She had a knowing smile on her face and gave Carolina a quick wink. Hank ignored it all.
The yard was well-kept, most of it being taken over by hostas and lilies and ivy, plants that enjoyed the shade thrown by a copse of birch trees. In the center was a wooden deck covered with flower boxes and planters. A picnic table sat on it, and behind the table sat a middle-aged man.
He was busy carefully trimming back an overgrown petunia, but he glanced up at their arrival, greeting them with a warm smile. His emerald eyes peered out from beneath untamed eyebrows, and he used the back of his hand to wipe away beads of sweat from his forehead.
“Roland Younger?” Hank asked.
“That’s me. Christine says you’re the police?” he asked.
“Sheriff, actually,” Hank clarified.
Roland lifted his eyebrows and nodded. Carolina couldn’t tell if he was being nice or was actually impressed.
“I’d stand and shake your hand, but…” Roland pushed himself out from behind the table, his wheelchair rolling back. He held up his hands, apologetic.
Another one off the list, Carolina thought. “What happened?” she asked.
“Took a tumble off the roof a few years ago. Landed poorly.” He tapped his legs.
“I’m sorry,” Carolina said. They’d hit an embarrassing dead end.
Chapter Twenty
Carolina found the sheriff’s station in Hopkins County quiet to the point of being morgue-like. In any police department she’d been in before, there would be people bustling about trying to look busy, making noise as if they were actually solving cases. Even in little old Dupray, the station was more active than Hopkins with its three full-time employees.
The quiet allowed her to concentrate as she reviewed the case files and notes, hoping to find something which had been missed or overlooked, but she was growing more doubtful by the minute. Instead, she found herself feeling like this case wasn’t going to be cracked via evidence.
She had to find something else, some commonality that tied it all together. How was the killer choosing these women? And how was he abducting them unnoticed? There was more digging to be done, but she couldn’t yet figure out where to stick her shovel.
Before she could drive herself insane with the never-ending options, Leigh arrived at her si
de waving a bear claw in front of her face. Carolina looked up at the young woman and saw a warm smile spread across her face.
“Hope you like sweets,” Leigh said.
“Who doesn’t?” Carolina asked. Even though she was still satiated from breakfast, she accepted the pastry and chomped off a toe. It was on the dry side, but she wasn’t about to complain. “This job is going to make me fat.”
Leigh laughed. “There are worse things in life,” she said, tapping on a pack of cigarettes in her uniform shirt pocket.
“As far as bad habits go, smoking barely registers,” Carolina said, returning her gaze back to the file.
She flipped through papers but still felt Leigh’s presence lingering behind. She waited for the deputy to catch on, but apparently Leigh didn’t. Finally, Carolina turned back to her.
“Need something else?” Carolina asked.
“Can we talk?” Leigh asked, tilting her head toward the rear exit.
Outside, Carolina worked on the bear claw and leaned against the wall while Leigh pulled a Marlboro to her lip, letting the smoke flow out of her nose like the world’s perkiest dragon.
“So, what’s up?” Carolina asked, licking icing off her fingertips.
“Is it true what Hank says about you?” Leigh asked.
Well, that was a question. So many things ran through Carolina’s mind about what he thought of her. Bitch, not a team player, cost him his job, snob, and the list went on.
“I guess it depends on what he said. Is this about me getting him kicked out of the Baltimore P.D.?”
Leigh shook her head. “No. It’s about him saying you’re the best cop he’s ever worked with.”
It took every bit of self-control Carolina possessed not to let her jaw drop and her eyes grow wide. “He actually said that?”
Leigh nodded, taking another drag on her cigarette.
It took Carolina a moment to process. It seemed so unlike Hank. “If I say it’s true, it makes me sound pompous. And like a bit of an asshole.”
“No. Men get to say they’re the best at things all the time. Nobody condemns them for it. People shouldn’t treat us like bitches just for being good at what we do,” Leigh said.
Carolina smiled. She admired Leigh’s moxie. But at the same time, the girl was still only learning the basics of being a cop and far too young to have an ego. Carolina also knew that she had been even younger than Leigh and straight out of the academy when she was riding shotgun with Hank, cruising Baltimore’s worst neighborhoods. And she’d never lacked confidence.
“Why’d you decide to be a cop?” Carolina asked her.
Leigh shrugged. “You want the real answer, or the one that sounds good?”
“Why not both?”
“Alright. First answer: you can’t beat county benefits. Medical, full dental, lots of paid time off. Plus, you can retire after twenty-five years with a full pension,” Leigh said.
Carolina winced. It sounded like the worst reason possible to become involved in law enforcement. “Now tell me the other option.”
Leigh’s permanent smile faded. “When I was seven years old, my dad beat my mom so bad she spent four days in the hospital. Why’d he do it? She asked him not to slam the screen door when he came into the house. I saw it all happen. And I told the sheriff. Back then, it was Andrew Strickman, and he was drinking buddies with my dad. And you know what Sheriff Strickman said to me?”
Carolina shook her head, but she had an idea.
Leigh put on a deeper voice. “Hon, a woman that aggravates her husband needs taught a lesson. If your momma’s as clever as I think she is, she’ll know better from now on. So don’t you worry your pretty head about none of this.”
Carolina stood silent, watching Leigh’s face transition from the pain of the memories to anger.
“And he was right, in a way. My mom learned to keep her mouth shut, but to this day she still flinches every time my dad comes home from work and lets the screen door slam shut.” She looked to Carolina with watery eyes. “I wanted to be a cop so some day I could tell a seven-year-old girl that her mother doesn’t deserve a beating for any reason. That she doesn’t need to learn to keep her mouth shut.”
“That’s a much better answer,” Carolina said. She pointed her finger at Leigh. “You should go with that one when someone asks.”
Leigh laughed and dropped her cigarette, grinding her heel on it in the street. “Okay. I’ll take your advice.”
She seemed more her usual, chipper self, but Carolina thought she saw lingering pain in her eyes. She wasn’t typically the type to pry, but something about Leigh’s expression made her think the deputy wanted her to ask. So, she did.
“Your dad?” Carolina asked. “Did he ever hurt you?”
Leigh paused, considering her answer. “He never beat me.”
“You’ve got to do better than that,” Carolina said, trying to keep the mood from turning morose. Girl talk had never been her specialty.
“He was a big outdoorsman. The kind of guy who thought he could be dropped into the middle of Alaska and live off the land. Anyway, when I turned thirteen, he told my mom he was taking me camping. We headed down to Kentucky, drove into the wilderness, then hiked I don’t know how many miles to some Godforsaken hollar. He handed me a pack of matches and his hunting knife, and told me I needed to prove I was worthy of being his daughter. Then he left me there.”
“Shit,” Carolina muttered. “What did you do?”
“What he taught me.” Leigh said. “I was able to catch two rabbits in snares. Almost got a squirrel, too. But I drank some contaminated water and puked my guts out for a few days. That wasn’t the worst, though. The worst was wondering if he was coming back for me. A big part of me didn’t think he would.”
“How long were you out there?” Carolina asked, unable to imagine going through that at such a young age.
“He came back the following week, stayed there with me for a few more days and acted like it was a completely normal thing to do. Maybe to him it was.” She shook her head. “Anyway, we drove home and when mom asked how camping went, we both said it was a lot of fun.”
Carolina didn’t know how to respond to that, but thankfully, Leigh changed the subject.
“Are you going to catch whoever killed those women?” Leigh asked.
Carolina looked at her then paused before answering. “No,” she finally said.
Leigh’s face froze, clouded in a mixture of shock, disappointment, and fear.
“We’re going to catch him.” Carolina added her most reassuring nod and hoped the girl believed it.
Chapter Twenty-One
Near-scalding water ran from the faucet, throwing off steam as Mitch pumped a charge of soap into his palm. He squished his fingers together then used his stump to work it in. It was strange, the simple things that became unusually complicated after losing a hand. Tying shoes, cutting vegetables, reading a paperback book. But hand washing, that was one of the worst.
Once he felt he’d done an adequate job, he stuck his hand under the faucet and let the water rinse off the soap. It was hot enough to be uncomfortable, hot enough for him to appreciate the pain.
He turned the water off and examined his fingers. His nails were honed into a point and he ran them over his stump, watching the skin go from tan to hot white then to crimson red. He could have pushed just a little harder and broken through the epidermis, but such games would have to wait.
Dominating his mind was the brief encounter with the blonde woman. Leigh was her name, not that it mattered much to him. But it was nice to have a reference while he learned her patterns and routines. This wasn’t exhilarating like the hunt itself, but it was vital that he know his prey.
How wonderful it would be to sink his teeth into her fair, ample flesh. Let her blood flood his mouth and revel in the ecstasy of the kill. He needed to know more. He needed to feel more. And he could barely focus on anything else.
But, for now, he had to continue his facad
e of being a regular human being with a pointless existence. He stepped into the waiting room where a half dozen or so people sat with an equal number of pets. He barely noticed them as he went to the desk and grabbed the file waiting in his tray, flipping it open and checking the name. Only then did he look at the small crowd.
“Maude Garley?” he asked.
A plump woman in her seventies raised her hand like an over-eager student checking in for home room. In her lap sat a pug which was as chunky as its owner.
“Yes,” she said. “And this is Snickers.”
As Mitch observed her, he thought both the dog and its owner should cut back on the Snickers. That almost made him burst out in laughter, but he knew he couldn’t do that, not in the waiting room with onlookers. If he did, they might notice his fangs which he was certain were becoming obvious.
He gave his most proper closed-mouth smile. “Come this way,” he said, leading her to Exam Room Number Three.
Once inside, he stepped behind a stainless-steel table, using it as a barrier. Lately, he’d grown less and less comfortable around people and couldn’t stand when most were within arm’s reach.
Maud set the dog on the table. Snickers peered up at Mitch, its eyes wide and watery, nose twitching. Mitch felt his do the same. He could smell the sickness in the animal. It was almost overpowering in the small room.
When he reached out to pat the dog’s head in a reassuring means of comfort, the small animal recoiled, its tiny feet sliding against the steel as it tried to back away. It would have fallen straight off if the woman hadn’t grabbed it and held firm.
“He’s not usually so skitzy,” Maud said.
Mitch gave a knowing nod. “Just a little scared, aren’t you, pal?”
The dog trembled, full of fear, full of the knowledge of Mitch’s true nature.
“It’s perfectly normal,” Mitch said. He looked to Maud’s wrinkled, aged face. “Now tell me why you brought your little friend in today.”
