by Anthony Izzo
Matt flipped open the suitcase and pulled out a battered Red Wing shoe box. “Let me show you these.”
She had no idea what to expect, but she was willing to wager one thing: it wouldn’t be dull.
Donna entered the bedroom feeling the way the archaeologists who raided the burial chambers of the Egyptian pyramids must have felt. A strange wonder at being among the possessions of the dead flowed through her.
The sheets on the bed were in a ball and a pillow lay cockeyed on the nightstand. Someone had left the dresser drawers open an inch or two. Her immediate thought was that someone had rifled through the drawers and then halfheartedly closed them when their search was complete.
Not someone. The killer had rifled through them.
She tried Bob’s dresser first, opening the drawers by sticking the pen she always carried in the crack and pulling each toward her. Using the pen, she poked around, lifting up folded shirts and underwear, hoping the killer had left a clue behind. She was a little surprised that the clothes had not been ripped from the drawers and scattered all over the room.
In most burglaries, the house was ransacked.
Maybe this guy was a neat freak.
After searching the drawers in Bob’s dresser (and wishing she’d remembered a pair of gloves) she crossed the room to Rhonda’s.
Her foot brushed against something on the floor. Pointing the flashlight, she saw it was a pair of jeans, sticking out from underneath the king-size bed.
She hunkered down to get a closer look. Brown with white stitching on the back pockets, not Bob or Rhonda’s style.
She stuck her pen in one of the belt loops and pulled the jeans from under the bed. She put her face to the floor and looked around beneath the bed. There was a yellow T-shirt under there as well.
She pulled the shirt out using the same method as she did for the jeans. Unfolding it with her pen, it became clear that the wearer was a fan of the King. There was a circular iron-on of Elvis Presley dressed in full rhinestone jumpsuit garb, crooning into a microphone, eyes closed, sweat beads visible on his forehead. The peeling, turquoise lettering above the picture read Elvis Presley—Long Live the King of Rock ’n’ Roll.
Donna wanted to check the pockets on the jeans but was hesitant because there was no telling where the jeans could eventually wind up. Rafferty probably hadn’t noticed them and wouldn’t be back to investigate, but it never hurt to be careful. If she got prints or hair on the jeans, it would give away the fact that she had come to the Barbieri house.
She searched the closet and found a pair of brown leather gloves—it wasn’t likely anyone would notice they were gone. She wished she’d thought of using the gloves sooner, for it would have saved her digging through the dresser drawers with the pen.
She slipped the gloves on and dug her hand into a pocket. The left front yielded two quarters and a half melted stick of Wrigley’s Spearmint.
The right front pocket contained the payoff.
She pulled out a plastic baggie filled with brown powder, probably heroin. As she stuck the bag in her pocket, a bang came from downstairs. It sounded like a piece of furniture being tipped over.
What if it’s Rafferty or one of his boys?
She stuffed the clothes back under the bed, as close to the way she’d found them as she could manage. She heard the thump-creak of someone climbing the stairs.
She got to her feet and quickly ducked into the walk-in closet, parallel to the bedroom door. The sliding door had been left open and she slid it shut, careful not to let it squeak or bang.
The floor squeaked as the unseen visitor came closer to the bedroom, moving down the hallway and sniffing like a bloodhound. Why the hell was he sniffing?
She took out her Beretta and opened the closet a crack, getting a peek at the room but also increasing her chance of being spotted. She wanted to see who she was up against if it came down to a confrontation.
The sniffer entered the room, back to the closet, a painfully thin man with white-blond hair. He immediately hit the floor and pulled the clothes from under the bed. Rifling through the pockets, his hands trembling visibly, he threw the jeans to the ground. “Fuck!”
Donna knew she was looking at the man who had killed her sister-in-law, and for a moment a very dark part of her wanted to step from the closet and empty her full magazine into the piece of crap.
Keep your cool, Donna.
She prided herself on the ability to remain calm under fire when other cops might have hurt a perp. You couldn’t go around blasting bad guys like the cops in the movies. But this was different; this man had most certainly brutally murdered a woman who was like a sister to her. That trigger would be so easy to squeeze.
Stop it.
She swallowed, her throat feeling like she’d drunk a sand cocktail.
If she moved now, she could get the drop on the guy, get him on the ground and maybe get him to talk. Plus she’d be between him and the bedroom door, cutting off his escape.
Hooking her fingers around the door, she whipped it open, sprang from the closet and aimed the nine between Blondie’s shoulder blades. “Hands on your head. Now.”
CHAPTER 14
Matt plopped down on the bed and Jill sat next to him. Holding the shoe box in his lap, he pulled the lid off and set it between them.
The box was filled with yellowed newspaper clippings and computer printouts. Matt stuck his hand in the box and took out the article on top of the pile. He skimmed it and handed it to Jill. It was a newspaper clipping from the San Francisco Examiner dated October 7, 1992.
A San Francisco woman considers herself lucky to be alive after a brush with a mysterious animal. Charlene Matthews, 31, was camping with her boyfriend when they were assaulted by what authorities believe was a bear.
“We were sleeping in the tent. It was about ten at night. We heard a crashing sound in the woods and then the next thing it was ripping our tent to pieces,” said Ms. Matthews.
The mystery animal slashed a cut in Ms. Matthews’ leg, requiring her to have thirty-nine stitches. Ms. Matthews disagrees with local officials’ contentions that a bear attacked her.
“It was no bear. It walked like a man. And it smelled rotten.”
Captain Roland Lemieux of the San Francisco Police attributes Ms. Matthews’ reaction to shock.
“She underwent a serious trauma, and I can see why she thinks she may have seen something out of the ordinary. But we’re confident that it was in fact a wild animal. The campers left food out and that’s a sure way to attract an animal.”
Captain Lemieux told reporters he found a trail of beaten brush where the animal entered and left the campsite. The animal has not been found.
Apparently it was scared off when another camper heard the commotion and fired rifle shots in the air.
“Matt, this could have been anything,” Jill protested.
“It wasn’t a bear. I went to San Francisco and interviewed Charlene Matthews. The interview’s on a tape in this box if you want to hear it.”
“Sure. I’m a curious type.”
“One problem. I don’t have a tape player.”
“Bring it to my place. We’ll listen to it there.”
He took a Memorex tape out of the box and set it next to him.
Matt turned on the air-conditioning to make them more comfortable and the room became pleasantly cool.
Over the next half an hour, Jill read through dozens of articles and printouts:
A Boy Scout Troop in Seattle that had spotted something in the woods that looked like a “monster.”
The disappearance of the entire town of Redrock, Colorado, in 1917.
The similar disappearance of Manitou, Ontario, in 1944. The sole survivor of Manitou had been found by the Royal Canadian Mounted Police wandering in the woods nearby, bloodied and battered, muttering, “They came and got us. They got us all.” When asked who “they” were, he replied, “Devils, who else?”
A detailed account of how John Sn
yder, a Native American who lived on the outskirts of Las Vegas, fired his shotgun at a “man-beast” that had tried beating his door down at two o’clock in the morning in 1974. Snyder, who lived alone, wounded the intruder, forcing it to flee. The Las Vegas Police found a trail of black fluid leading into the desert and tufts of wiry hair caught in the screen door. One of the officers also described, “The worst smell I’ve ever encountered. Like manure and ammonia mixed together.”
“Did you speak with John Snyder, too?” Jill asked.
“No. He died ten years ago. Cancer of the pancreas,” Matt replied. “But I did look up his daughter Sharon. She wouldn’t let me in the house, but she did tell me one thing. She also said that if I told anyone she would deny it.”
“Well?”
“She told me her father was haunted by what he saw that night for the rest of his life. He wouldn’t go out after dark and he kept a shotgun at his side constantly. Right up until the time the cancer took him. She also told me she was in the house the night of the attack,” Matt revealed.
“Did she see this thing too?”
“Yes. She would only go as far as saying she had never seen anything like it before or since. And that her father thought it was a demon coming to take his life.”
Jill sifted through the articles and printouts, reading more of the same types of accounts. A farmer in Nebraska who heard a prowler in his yard one night was nearly dragged off into a cornfield by what he described as “something from another planet.” He had escaped death by fending the creature off with an ax.
The stories continued from around the country: Louisiana, Texas, Illinois, Maine, Florida. Most had been discounted as Bigfoot sightings.
Jill finished reading and handed the articles back to Matt. There was one article left in the box, which piqued Jill’s curiosity. She didn’t ask about it, though. Not yet.
“Matt, there’s crazies all over the country. People who think they’ve seen Bigfoot, or UFOs or the Loch Ness Monster. Okay, maybe not the Loch Ness Monster.”
He frowned. “But most people just see those things. These are people who were attacked. And in a lot of cases there was physical evidence left behind.”
“What if they were wild animal attacks that people mistook for bizarre creatures? Bears? Mountain lions?”
“Most people know what those things look like. The things in these articles couldn’t really be described by anyone.”
He had that hard look in his eyes again. She had to admit that the articles did make a case, especially the cop in Nevada who described the odd smell. That she had experienced herself. Plus, the articles came from reputable newspapers and not the National Examiner or some other wacky tabloid that claimed Jesus had an alien twin brother.
“This town’s full of them, Jill. I’m convinced. And anyone who’s not one of them is probably in a lot of danger. Getting Rafferty may not be enough. There could be hundreds more of them. Just like the things that killed my family.”
“So you see how crazy it is, killing the town’s top lawman?”
“If there was a way to take them all out ...”
“You can’t be serious.”
“They’re dangerous, Jill. This town is dangerous. Let me show you.”
Was Matt nuts or was she not being open-minded enough? “I hate to bring this up, but what about your family? Was there any account of their death in the papers?”
“Yeah. Rafferty put up a good front, even faked an investigation. Check this out.”
He handed Jill the last newspaper clipping. The headline read:
Suspects Still at Large in Slaying of Family
The men responsible for the murder of three members of a Lincoln family are still at large, Police Chief Ed Rafferty told the LINCOLN GAZETTE. Police have no leads or possible suspects.
“This crime is definitely random. We have no motives for the killings. And unfortunately, the Crowe boy didn’t see the killers.”
According to Rafferty, Matthew Crowe, 16, was exploring the woods near Emerling Park when assailants attacked his family. When Crowe returned to the clearing where his family was having a summer picnic, they had disappeared. Police found blood and scraps of clothing in the woods, which, according to Chief Rafferty, indicate the victims were killed and their bodies dragged through the woods.
Rafferty has told the GAZETTE that the crime was the most brutal he has ever seen: “I’ve seen some bad ones, but this was the worst. Very vicious killing.”
Rafferty believes the suspects may have been under the influence of drugs. He has made a vow to catch the killers. “This crime won’t go unsolved. Not in my town,” the Chief said.
The victims are John Crowe, 38; Maggie Crowe, 37; and Michael Crowe, 5. Funeral services for the victims will be held at St. Mark’s Roman Catholic Church Saturday at 10 A.M.
Jill handed the article back to Matt.
“And they never found the killers,” Jill said.
“You got it.”
“Anything happen to the guy who wrote the article?”
“No. As far as I know he’s still around. Name’s Jack Hanley. The Gazette’s out of business, though. Newspapers don’t last long in Lincoln.”
“What about outside police agencies?”
“They never looked into anything, and after Rafferty threatened me, I was too scared to tell anyone what I saw. That, and they wouldn’t have believed me.”
Jill was now more confused than ever about Matt Crowe and Lincoln. She still wanted to hear the interview with Charlene Matthews, and she suggested they go to her place to hear it.
“Let’s hit it, then,” he said.
They left with the tape in hand.
BOOK TWO
The Devil Unmasked
CHAPTER 15
Donna stepped from the closet. She kept the light on the guy. He squinted and raised his hands, as if to ward off the light. “I can’t see.”
He was broomstick thin, pale-skinned and had heavy dark circles under his eyes. There were purple-brown track marks up and down the insides of his forearms and he stank of ripe sweat.
“Who the hell are you?” he asked.
“I should ask you that.”
He dug at the inside of his left forearm. “You a cop?”
“I’m a friend of the woman you killed.”
“Don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Bullshit, you don’t.”
Loosen up, she told herself. Her neck stiffened and cords of muscle tensed in her forearms like wires pulled tight by an invisible winch. “Hands on your head. Then get down on the ground. Slowly.”
He put his hands on his head but remained standing. “You’ve gotta be a cop. Only cops talk like that. How about dousing that light?”
“On the ground.” Donna lowered the flashlight slightly. The guy stopped squinting.
“You’re in here illegally, you know,” he said.
He trembled, occasionally twitching at the neck and shoulders. He must’ve been hurting pretty bad for some smack, she decided.
“One more time. Get on the ground or I’ll shoot you.”
“You won’t.”
“Try me.”
For some reason, he thought he had an edge on her, maybe because she was a woman. But she was a woman with a large gun, and bullets didn’t care which sex fired them. Maybe the need for his drugs was ruling his actions right now.
Pulling the baggie from her pocket, she dangled it with one hand while holding the gun and keeping him covered with the other.
His eyes widened. “That’s mine!”
“So you were in this house before. I found this under the bed.”
He reached out his hand, palm up, as if expecting her to just hand it over. “Gimme that!”
“Answer some questions and maybe I will.”
“The hell with your questions.”
He charged at her and Donna spun, planting a roundhouse kick in his solar plexus. It felt like kicking a sack full of hockey sticks.
The guy doubled over, lost his balance, tried to right himself by touching his hand to the floor, and teetered onto his side.
Clutching his midsection, he rolled back and forth on the ground next to the bed. “I think you broke my ribs,” he groaned.
“That’s quite a performance. I didn’t kick you anywhere near as hard as I could have. Get up.”
He pushed himself to his feet, Donna keeping the Beretta on him the whole time.
For a moment, she actually pitied him, a man so obsessed with drugs that he would charge someone with a loaded gun to get them. The fact that she had knocked the tar out of a guy who weighed a buck twenty-five didn’t make her feel so hot either. She probably could’ve blown on his bony frame and knocked him over.
But when she thought of what he might have done to Rhonda, all thoughts of pity faded from her mind.
The room was now shrouded in plum-colored shadows. The junkie, still in the process of getting his wind back, sucked air in big gulps.
“Sit on the bed,” Donna said.
“Will you give me my smack?”
You can’t be serious, she thought. But having the bag of smack did give her some leverage. “Answer my questions, first.”
“Are you a cop?”
What the hell? Maybe telling him she was a cop would give her even more leverage. “Yeah. Now what’s your name?”
“Charles Dietrich.”
“And you came back here for your drugs?”
“You promise I can have some?”
“I promise.”
“I left them here, yeah.”
“What were you doing here in the first place? When you left the drugs?”
Dietrich rocked back and forth on the edge of the bed. He hugged his midsection. “I could ask you the same question. What’re you doing here?”
Losing patience with you, Charles. “I saw you breaking into the house. I chased you in here and found you looking for your drugs. And then I detained you. Anyone asks, that’s my story. And I think the cops would believe me over a lousy junkie.”
