Gone, But Not Forgotten

by Phillip Margolin

  “Why do you have to search my house?” Waters asked angrily. The officers tensed. “Why the hell can’t you leave me be? I ain’t looked at that girl no more. I’m workin’ steady. Miss Cummings can tell you.”

  “There’s no need to get upset,” Nancy answered calmly. “The sooner we look around, the sooner we’ll be out of your hair.”

  Waters thought this over. “What do you want to see?” he asked.

  “The basement.”

  “There ain’t nothin’ in the basement,” Waters said, seeming genuinely puzzled.

  “Then we won’t be here long,” Nancy assured him.

  Waters snorted. “The basement. You can see all the basement you want. Ain’t nothin’ but spiders in the basement.”

  Waters pointed down a dark hall that led past the stairs toward the rear of the house.

  “Why don’t you come with us, Mr. Waters. You can show us around.”

  The hall was dark, but there was a light in the kitchen. Nancy saw a sink filled with dirty dishes and the remains of two TV dinners on a Formica-topped table. The kitchen floor was stained and dirty. There was a solid wood door under the staircase next to the entrance to the kitchen. Waters opened it. Then his eyes widened and he stepped back. Nancy pushed past him. The smell was so strong it knocked her back a step.

  “Stay with Mr. Waters,” Nancy told the officers. She took a deep breath and flicked the switch at the head of the stairs. There was nothing unusual at the bottom of the wooden steps. Nancy held her gun with one hand and the rickety railing with the other. The smell of death grew stronger as she descended the stairs. Grimsbo and Turner followed. No one spoke.

  Halfway down, Nancy crouched and scanned the basement. The only light came from a bare bulb hanging from the ceiling. She could see a furnace in one corner. Odd pieces of furniture, most with a broken look, were stashed against a wall surrounded by cartons of newspapers and old magazines. A back door opened into a concrete well at the back of the house near the alley. Most of the corner near the door was in shadow, but Nancy could make out a human foot and a pool of blood.

  “Fuck,” she whispered, sucking air.

  Grimsbo edged past her. Nancy followed close behind. She knew nothing in the basement could hurt her, but she was having trouble catching her breath. Turner aimed a flashlight at the corner and flicked it on.

  “Jesus,” he managed in a strangled voice.

  The naked woman was sprawled on the cold concrete, swimming in blood and surrounded by an overpowering fecal smell. She had not been “killed” or “murdered.” She had been defiled and dehumanized. Nancy could see patches of charred flesh where the skin was not stained with blood or feces. The woman’s intestines had burst through a gaping hole in her abdomen. They reminded Nancy of a string of bloated sausages. She turned her head aside.

  “Bring Waters down here,” Grimsbo bellowed. Nancy could see the tendons in his neck stretching. His eyes bulged.

  “You don’t lay one hand on him, Frank,” Turner managed between gasps.

  Nancy grabbed Grimsbo’s massive forearm. “Wayne’s right. I’m handling this. Back off.”

  A uniform hustled Waters down the steps. When Waters saw the body, he turned white and fell to his knees. He was mouthing words, but no sound came out.

  Nancy closed her eyes and gathered herself. The body wasn’t there. The smell wasn’t in the air. She knelt next to Waters.

  “Why, Henry?” she asked softly.

  Waters looked at her. His face crumpled and he bleated like a wounded animal.

  “Why?” Nancy repeated.

  “Oh, no. Oh, no,” Waters cried, holding his head in his hands. The head snapped back and forth with each denial, his long hair trailing behind.

  “Then who did this? She’s here, Henry. In your basement.”

  Waters gaped at Nancy, his mouth wide open.

  “I’m going to give you your rights. You’ve heard them before, haven’t you?” Nancy asked, but it was clear Waters was in no condition to discuss constitutional rights. His head hung backward and he was making an inhuman baying noise.

  “Take him to the station,” she ordered the officer who was standing behind Waters. “If you, or anyone else, asks this man one question, you’ll be scrubbing toilet bowls in public rest rooms. Is that understood? He hasn’t been Mirandized. I want him in an interrogation room with a two-man guard inside and another man outside. No one, including the chief, is to talk to him. I’ll call from here to brief O’Malley. And send Michaels in. Tell him to call for a full forensic team. Post a guard on the stairs. No one else comes down here unless Glen says it’s okay. I don’t want this crime scene fucked up.”

  Grimsbo and Turner had drawn closer to the body, making certain to stay outside the circle of blood that surrounded it. Grimsbo was taking short, deep breaths. Turner willed himself to look at the woman’s face. It was Patricia Cross, but barely. The killer’s savage attack had not been limited to the victim’s body.

  The young uniformed officer was also riveted on the body. That is why he was slow to react when Waters leaped up. Nancy was half-turned and saw the action from the corner of her eye. By the time she turned back, the cop was sprawled on the floor and Waters was bolting up the stairs, screaming for his mother.

  The officer who was watching the cellar door heard Waters’s scream. He stepped in front of the entrance to the basement, gun drawn, as Waters barreled into him.

  “Don’t shoot!” Nancy screamed just as the gun exploded. The officer stumbled backward, crashing into the wall opposite the cellar door. The shot plowed through Waters’s heart and he tumbled down the stairs, cracking his head on the cement floor. Waters never felt the impact. He was dead by then.

  Ten

  “It was on the late news. I can’t believe you caught him,” Nancy Gordon heard Peter Lake say. She was alone in the task force office, writing reports. Nancy swiveled her chair. Lake stood in the doorway of the office. He wore pressed jeans and a maroon and blue rugby shirt. His styled hair was neatly combed. He looked happy and excited. There was no indication that he was thinking of Sandra or Melody Lake. No sign of grief.

  “How did you crack it?” Lake asked, sitting in the chair opposite Nancy.

  “An anonymous tip, Peter. Nothing fancy.”

  “That’s terrific.”

  “It looks like you were right.”

  Lake shrugged his shoulders, stifling a smile.

  “Say,” Lake asked sheepishly, “you didn’t tell anyone about my stakeout, did you?”

  “That’s our little secret.”

  “Thanks. I feel like a fool, going off on my own like that. You were right. If Waters caught on, he probably would have killed me.”

  “You must feel relieved, knowing Sandy’s and Melody’s killer has been caught,” Nancy said, watching for a reaction.

  Lake suddenly looked somber.

  “It’s as if an enormous weight was taken off my shoulders. Maybe now my life can go back to normal.”

  “You know, Peter,” Nancy said casually, “there was a time when I tossed around the possibility that you might be the killer.”

  “Why?” Peter asked, shocked.

  “You were never a serious suspect, but there were a few inconsistencies in your story.”

  “Like what?”

  “The time, for instance. You didn’t call 911 until eight-fifteen, but a neighbor saw you driving toward your house around seven-twenty. I couldn’t figure out why it took you so long to call the police.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding.”

  Nancy shrugged.

  “I was a suspect because of this time thing?”

  “What were you doing for almost an hour?”

  “Jesus, Nancy, I don’t remember. I was in a daze. I mean, I might have blacked out for a bit.”

  “You never mentioned that.”

  Lake stared at Nancy, openmouthed.

  “Am I still a suspect? Are you interrogating me?”

  Nancy
shook her head. “The case is closed, Peter. The chief is going to hold a press conference in the morning. There were three black roses and another one of those notes on a shelf in the basement. And, of course, there was poor Patricia Cross.”

  “But you don’t believe it? You honestly think I could have …?”

  “Relax, Peter,” Nancy answered, closing her eyes. “I’m real tired and not thinking straight. It’s been one very long day.”

  “I can’t relax. I mean, I really like you and I thought you liked me. It’s a shock to find out you seriously thought I could do something … something like what was done to that woman.”

  Nancy opened her eyes. Lake looked distant, like he was visualizing Patricia Cross’s eviscerated body. But he had not been to the crime scene or read an autopsy report. The media had not been told the condition of Patricia Cross’s body.

  “I said you were never a serious suspect and I meant it,” Nancy lied with a forced smile. “If you were, I would have told Turner and Grimsbo about the stakeout, wouldn’t I?”

  “I guess.”

  “Well, I didn’t and you can’t be a suspect anymore, what with Waters dead, can you?”

  Lake shook his head.

  “Look,” Nancy told him, “I’m really whacked out. I have one more report to write and I’m gone. Why don’t you go home too, and start getting on with your life.”

  Lake stood. “That’s good advice. I’m going to take it. And I want to thank you for everything you’ve done for me. I don’t know how I would have gotten through this without you.”

  Lake stuck out his hand. Nancy stared at it for a second. Was this the hand that ripped the life out of Patricia Cross and Sandra and Melody Lake or was she crazy? Nancy shook Lake’s hand. He held hers a moment longer than necessary, then released it after a brief squeeze.

  “When things get back to normal for both of us, I’d like to take you to dinner,” Lake said.

  “Call me,” Nancy answered, her stomach churning. It took every ounce of control to keep the smile on her face.

  Lake left the room and Nancy stopped smiling. Waters was too good to be true. She did not believe he was responsible for the carnage in his basement. Lake had to know about the alley and the back door. With Waters at work and the mother an invalid, it would have been simple to drive behind the house without being seen, put the body in the basement and butcher it there. Lake was the anonymous caller, she was certain of it. But she had no proof. And O’Malley would soon tell the world that Henry Waters was a serial killer and the case of the missing women was closed.

  PART THREE

  CLEAR AND CONVINCING EVIDENCE

  CHAPTER 6

  “And that’s what happened, Mr. Page,” Nancy Gordon said. “The case was closed. Henry Waters was officially named as the rose killer. Shortly after, Peter Lake disappeared. His house was sold. He closed his bank accounts. His associates were handed a thriving business. And Peter was never heard from again.”

  Page looked confused. “Maybe I’m missing something. Your case against Lake was purely circumstantial. Unless there was more evidence, I don’t understand why you’re so certain Peter Lake killed those women and framed Waters.”

  Gordon took a newspaper clipping and a photograph of a man leaving a motel room out of her briefcase and laid them side by side.

  “Do you recognize this man?” she asked, pointing to the photograph. Page leaned over and picked it up.

  “This is Martin Darius.”

  “Look carefully at this newspaper picture of Peter Lake and tell me what you think.”

  Page studied the two pictures. He imagined Lake with a beard and Darius without one. He tried to judge the size of the two men and compare builds.

  “They could be the same person,” he said.

  “They are the same person. And the man who is murdering your women is the same man who murdered the women in Hunter’s Point. We never released the color of the rose or the contents of the notes. Whoever is killing your women has information known only by the members of the Hunter’s Point task force and the killer.”

  Gordon took a fingerprint card from the briefcase and handed it to Page.

  “These are Lake’s fingerprints. Compare them to Darius’s. You must have some on file.”

  “How did you find Lake here?” Page asked.

  Gordon took a sheet of stationery out of her briefcase and laid it on the coffee table next to the photograph.

  “I’ve had it dusted for prints,” she said. “There aren’t any.”

  Page picked up the letter. It had been written on a word processor. The stationery looked cheap, probably the type sold in hundreds of chain stores and impossible to trace. The note read: “Women in Portland, Oregon are ‘Gone, But Not Forgotten.’ ” The first letters of each word were capitalized like those in the notes found in the homes of the victims.

  “I received this yesterday. The envelope was postmarked from Portland. The photograph of Darius and an Oregonian profile of him were inside. I knew it was Lake the minute I saw the picture. The envelope also contained a clipping about you, Mr. Page, your address and a ticket for a United Airlines flight. No one met me at the airport, so I came to see you.”

  “What do you suggest we do, Detective Gordon? We certainly can’t bring Darius in for questioning with what you’ve given me.”

  “No!” Gordon said, alarmed. “Don’t spook him. You have to stay away from Martin Darius until your case is airtight. You have no idea how clever he is.”

  Page was startled by Gordon’s desperation.

  “We know our business, Detective,” he assured her.

  “You don’t know Peter Lake. You’ve never dealt with anyone like him.”

  “You said that before.”

  “You must believe me.”

  “Is there something else you aren’t telling me?”

  Gordon started to say something, then she shook her head.

  “I’m exhausted, Mr. Page. I need to rest. You don’t know what this is like for me. To have Lake surface after all these years. If you had seen what he did to Patricia Cross …”

  There was a long pause and Page said nothing.

  “I need a place to stay,” Gordon said abruptly. “Can you suggest a motel? Someplace quiet.”

  “There’s the Lakeview. We keep out-of-town witnesses there. I can drive you.”

  “No, don’t. I’ll take a cab. Can you call one for me?”

  “Sure. My phone book is in my bedroom. I’ll be right out.”

  “I’ll leave you the fingerprint card, the photograph and the newspaper clipping. I have copies,” Gordon said as she gathered up the note.

  “You’re certain you don’t want me to drive you? It’s no trouble.”

  Gordon shook her head. Page went into the bedroom and called for a cab. When he returned to the living room, Gordon was slumped on the couch, her eyes closed.

  “They’ll be here in ten minutes,” he said.

  Gordon’s eyes snapped open. She looked startled, as if she had drifted off for a few minutes and had been scared awake.

  “It’s been a long day,” the detective said. She looked embarrassed.

  “Jet lag,” Page said to make conversation. “I hope you’re right about Darius.”

  “I am right,” Gordon answered, her features rigid. “I am one hundred percent right. You believe that, Mr. Page. The lives of a lot of women depend on it.”

  CHAPTER 7

  One

  Something was definitely wrong with Gordon’s story. It was like a book with a great plot and a flat ending. And there were inconsistencies. The way Gordon told it, she, Grimsbo and Turner were dedicated detectives. If they were convinced Lake murdered six women and framed Waters, how could they simply let the case go? And why would Lake suddenly leave a thriving practice and disappear, if he thought he was in the clear? Had he ever followed up on his romantic interest in Gordon? She hadn’t mentioned any contact after the night of Waters’s arrest. Finally, there w
as the question Page had forgotten to ask. What about the women? Gordon had not told him what happened to the missing women.

  While he waited for someone in the Hunter’s Point Detective Bureau to pick up the phone, Page listed these points on a yellow legal pad. Rolling black storm clouds were coming in from the west. Page was awfully tired of the rain. Maybe these clouds would give him a break and float across the city before dropping their load. Maybe they would leave a space for the sun to shine through when they left.

  “Roy Lenzer.”

  Page laid his pen down on the pad.

  “Detective Lenzer, I’m Alan Page, the Multnomah County district attorney. That’s in Portland, Oregon.”

  “What can I do for you?” Lenzer asked cordially.

  “Do you have a detective in your department named Nancy Gordon?”

  “Sure, but she’s on vacation. Won’t be back for a week or so.”

  “Can you describe her?”

  Lenzer’s description matched the woman who had visited Page’s apartment.

  “Is there something I can help you with?” he asked.

  “Maybe. We have an odd situation here. Three women have disappeared. In each case, we found a note in the bedroom pinned down by a rose. Detective Gordon told me she was involved with an identical case in Hunter’s Point, approximately ten years ago.”

  “It seems to me I heard something about the case, but I’ve only been on the force for five years. Moved here from Indiana. So I wouldn’t be much help.”

  “What about Frank Grimsbo or Wayne Turner? They were the other detectives.”

  “There’s no Grimsbo or Turner in the department now.”

  Page heard a rumble of thunder and looked out the window. A flag on the building across the way was snapping back and forth. It looked like it might rip off the pole.

  “I don’t suppose there’s any chance I can get a copy of the file. The guy who was eventually arrested was Henry Waters …”