by Ben Follows
Frankie held up the warrant.
Natasha smirked. “This won’t work. I don’t have it.”
“You’re under arrest," said Frankie. "We have warrants to search your home and office for my notepad, which is federal property.”
Natasha stood as two officers came into the cubicle behind her. “You won’t find your notepad," she said.
Somehow, Frankie knew that was true. They wouldn’t find the notepad. Natasha would have disposed of it. However, they had enough evidence to hold her for the time being.
The officers took out a pair of handcuffs, but Natasha shook her head. “Don't use those. I’ll come with you, but you’ll regret this. Just think of the story I'm going to write about this. Before it was small-time, but corruption and lying within the FBI is a story worthy of a Pulitzer.”
Frankie looked around the office at the other reporters, none of whom seemed surprised nor even cared that Natasha was being arrested. Some of them had already gone back to work.
Frankie turned back to Natasha. “You think you’re some big shot reporter, don’t you? You think you’re better than this rag you write for, but can’t fathom why you can’t get another job. You want to know what I think? I think you’re a pathetic and talentless—"
Natasha spat in her face, the spit landing on Frankie’s right cheek.
Frankie took a deep breath, restraining herself. She grabbed a Kleenex from the box on Natasha’s desk and wiped off her face.
“Why did you do that?” said Frankie.
“You act like you’re so much better than me,” said Natasha. “This entire thing is bullshit, and you know it.” She smiled and leaned in, whispering so only Frankie could hear her. “You won’t catch the killer," she said. "He’s smarter than you. A lot smarter.”
Frankie remembered what Kendra Matheson had told her about Natasha knowing something.
“What do you know, Natasha?” she said calmly. “Tell me what you know, and who’s telling you, and we can make this all go away.”
Natasha shook her head and smirked. “You missed your chance to ask for my help, Agent.”
Frankie turned to Trevor. “Take her away. She’s full of it.”
Natasha just grinned, as though she was barely holding herself back from breaking out laughing as she was lead out of the Blind River Observer to the waiting police car. Frankie watched the car pull out and drive away, wondering how many people in this town knew something about the case she didn’t.
37
Frankie met Curtis outside the police station. The oppressive sun beat down on them.
“You got Nolowinski?” said Curtis.
“She’s waiting in one of the jail cells," said Frankie. "I told her I'd be there soon, make her worried for a bit. She’s sitting across from Ken Hagerty. Can’t imagine he has anything nice to say to her.”
“Good. I don’t think Marino knows anything, and even if he does, he isn’t interested in talking.”
Frankie nodded. “Natasha played the same card. She claimed to know who the killer is.”
“We can hold her on that.”
“I know. I’m going to interrogate her after she stews for a bit. Teams of officers are searching for my notepad now, but I don’t think they’ll find it.”
Curtis sighed. “We can get back to focusing on the missing girls.”
Neither said what they were both thinking. Without a break in the case soon, they might never find the killer. He could already be a thousand miles away.
They walked inside the police station and into the war room. Trevor was already inside. Chief Tucker sat to his right. A few minutes later Monica entered, explaining that she had left the nurses in charge of Gordon Mackley for the sake of staying involved in the case. Curtis wanted to tell her to go back, but he knew he'd do exactly the same.
“Okay,” said Frankie, walking over to the board where there were already dozens of photos and notes connected by strings. “We've cleared out all external concerns, and now we can focus entirely on the investigation. You have all those files I asked for?”
“Right here,” said Chief Tucker, patting the boxes piled on the table. “All the records of known criminals, anyone with a criminal record who was in town on the days of the disappearances, and all case files within a hundred-mile radius which match the M.O. We’ve gone through everything, including every potential connection to Sam Marino’s organization, and we’ve got nothing. We have Natasha and Ken Hagerty in the cells. We can interrogate them.”
“Natasha won’t talk right now,” said Frankie. “Give her some time to stew. Ken doesn’t know anything. We’ll see how Natasha’s fan base responds to her imprisonment and go from there. Everyone grab a box and start going through the files. Anything we missed, any connection between the cases whatsoever, we need to find.”
They each took a seat around the table and began going through the boxes at a frantic pace. With five of them, the chief included, locked away in the war room, they moved through the boxes at a high speed. The sheer quantity of files still took them almost eight hours to complete, by which time the station was mostly empty.
They took a fifteen-minute break, mandated by Frankie. They then divided up the files which had been listed as likely to be related and started again. The sun outside the windows descended.
Curtis leaned back in his chair, staring at the wall in front of him where everything was pinned and connected. He stared at the wall, urging the mess of strings and pictures to configure themselves into something resembling order. He rubbed his eyes and sipped at his coffee. He stood and looked at the other four, all of whom were in similar states of concentration, all staring at the wall in front of them.
Curtis glanced at his almost empty cup. “Anyone want more coffee?”
Trevor and Monica nodded. Chief Tucker shook his head.
“Frankie?" said Curtis. "You want anything?”
Frankie didn’t respond. She was transfixed, staring at the wall with a focused expression.
“Frankie?”
“Be quiet,” she said softly.
Curtis opened his mouth to speak, then thought better of it. Frankie stared at the wall as the other four stared at her. The silence stretched on until Curtis was about to say something. Frankie jumped to a standing position and walked to the wall with a triumphant smile.
“Miranda O’Connell," she said. "That’s the key."
Curtis frowned. “What do you mean?”
Frankie walked to the center of the wall, where the pictures of the four girls were pinned, and began going down the lists of information.
Frankie grabbed the picture of Miranda O’Connell. “She’s the odd one out. She’s the only person who left evidence, and person kidnapped from a residential area.”
“Fat lot of good it did us,” said Chief Tucker.
“Wait,” said Curtis, putting out a hand. He felt like he could see where Frankie was going.
Frankie took the picture of Miranda O’Connell off the wall and placed it on the desk. “If we take out Miranda O’Connell," she said, "then patterns begin to emerge. They were all on the outskirts of town, in areas where they shouldn’t have been, drinking or possibly doing drugs.”
“What about the fourth body?” said Chief Tucker. “We pulled four bodies from that pond. Are you saying we just ignore the fourth body?”
Frankie sighed, yet she looked proud. “I should have seen it earlier. None of you were in the room when the O’Connell’s came to identify their daughter. All the others took one look, and even in that rotten, desecrated state, they were able to identify which body belonged to their daughters instantly. The O’Connell’s hesitated. They waited too long, and I think it was more Dr. Novak’s reactions and subtle hints toward the unclaimed body we wanted them to pick that made their decision for them."
“You’re saying they picked the wrong body?" said Tucker. "Why?”
“Because we wanted them to," said Frankie, "and they wanted closure. We wanted clues, and they
wanted to know that their daughters suffering was over. They would rather she was dead and nothing more could happen to her any more than that she was still in the kidnapper’s grasp.”
Tucker put his hands in the air, as though he was at a complete loss.
“I think the fourth body is someone else,” said Frankie. “Another victim of the killer from somewhere else that he hid in the same spot,” She paused as though for dramatic effect, “and I think Miranda O’Connell is still alive.”
38
The entire room fell silent.
For a few moments, the only sound was the wind outside the windows. Curtis was first to recover. He looked at the board, tracing the connections and trying to find a flaw in Frankie’s logic. There was none he could see. It wouldn’t stand up in court, but it was a starting point. That was all they needed right now.
Taking Miranda O'Connell out changed everything. Patterns started emerging and some semblance of order began to appear on the wall in front of them.
Chief Tucker began to pace back and forth across the room, mumbling to himself like an insane mathematician. Trevor and Monica just sat there, looking like two kids in a class where the material was so far above their heads they just nodded along.
“So what now?” said Curtis. “What does that leave us with?”
Frankie glanced back at the wall. “Start with the obvious and work our way out from there. All of these girls were underage, all were drinking on the night of their respective kidnappings. It makes sense that the two are connected. Who works at a bar and has served prison time?”
Curtis frowned. “Bobby Randall? You think he’s the killer?”
Frankie shrugged. “It would explain why he pushed you toward Marino. He was trying to distract you. He might be our best suspect.”
Curtis sighed, trying to find the flaw in the logic. “Okay,” he said after a pause. He checked his watch. “I don't see him as a killer, but we can talk to him. He’ll probably be home now. Trevor, can you get his address? I’ll talk to him. Have cars set up outside if he tries to run.”
Chief Tucker said, “You got it.”
Curtis looked around the room. “Anyone else have anything to say?”
No one said anything, so they stood and walked out to their cars. Monica was tasked with calling the judge.
They stopped by the judge's house and pick up the arrest and search warrants.
They drove through the dark and windy night to Bobby Randall’s home. It was only a block from Randall’s Tavern, and the light from the television could be seen through the blinds.
Curtis knocked on the door. Bobby answered a few moments later, wearing a white t-shirt and sweatpants.
“What are you doing here, Curtis?” he said. He looked past Curtis to the police cars parked along the road. He frowned. “Did you find something?”
“Bobby,” said Curtis, feeling uneasy. He knew Frankie’s logic was sound and that they had no other suspects, but his gut was telling him this was wrong. “Why did you tell me about Marino?”
Bobby shrugged. “I thought you deserved to know. You were in danger.” He opened his eyes wide, as though a light had just gone on in his head. “You think I did it? You think I killed those girls?”
“Did you?” Curtis tried to look as sympathetic as possible. “We can sort this all out if you just tell me what happened. Was it an accident?”
“No! I didn’t do anything! Why would you think I did it, Curtis? I helped you! I fucking helped you!”
“I’m sorry," said Curtis. "If you’re innocent, I need you to come with me now and we can clear this up.” Curtis held up the two warrants. “Bobby Randall, this is a warrant to search your home in connection to the murders of Darcy Oberman, Harriet Matheson, Ashley Hagerty, and Miranda O’Connell.”
He wondered absentmindedly when they would reveal to the O’Connell’s that their daughter was alive. They had decided to keep that information secret, but every moment which passed was another in which the parents were grieving a body that wasn’t their daughter.
“What?” said Bobby, grabbing the warrant and reading it. “Curtis. . . Come on, you know me.”
“Come with us to the station and we’ll get this all sorted out.”
“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.” Bobby stared at the warrant for a few more moments. When he spoke, his voice was soft and defeated. “Curtis, can you do me a favor?”
Curtis shrugged. “What?”
“Don’t tell anyone about this. I’ve had enough difficulty rebuilding my life without needing to be arrested again. If people think I killed those girls, that could be the end for me."
Curtis nodded. “I promise.”
“Okay.”
Bobby and Curtis walked out to the waiting police car. Curtis read him his rights as they walked, but Bobby wasn't listening.
Bobby climbed into the back seat of the car without saying a word.
“You know,” said Frankie once Bobby was secured in the back of the car, “I keep expecting Natasha to show up, but I guess she’s not coming, huh?”
“I guess not.” Curtis glanced at the back seat. Bobby was staring out at the neighborhood around them. “Let’s leaves Bobby at the station for a bit and let him stew overnight while we search his house. Keep him separate from Nolowinski. In the morning we’ll be well rested and he’ll be ready to talk if there’s anything else.”
Frankie thought for a moment then nodded. “Unless we come up with anyone else as a suspect or something else happens.”
“Agreed.”
They climbed into the car and drove back toward the jail. Curtis looked at Bobby in the rear-view mirror. He didn’t look like a killer or show any signs of guilt.
Then again, serial killers had a disturbing tendency of looking like normal everyday people.
39
Curtis sat in their motel room, listening to the gentle breathing of Frankie’s sleep. Her cross necklace had fallen to one side and rested on the pillow. Curtis had never understood her faith, but had also never questioned it. Whatever kept people going through the hardships of life was their business as far as he was concerned. As long as no one was dragging him to church or forcing their beliefs down his throat, they could believe whatever they wanted.
His phone rang. It was a call he’d been expecting. He stood and walked out to the balcony, which overlooked the highway. The streetlights illuminated the road below him as a transport truck thundered past.
“Hey,” he said, leaning on the railing. “How are you doing?”
“I’m doing well,” said Melanie, sounding tired. “How about yourself?”
“I’ve been better. Seen some things I’d prefer not to.”
“You catch the killer yet?”
Curtis sighed. “Not yet. We have someone in custody we think might be the guy, but I have a bad feeling about it. I don't think it's the guy. It’s nice to hear your voice.”
“Thanks, sweetie.”
“Tell me about your day. I need a distraction.”
“Well," said Melanie, "this weekend has actually been tough for us. We have a big project with Ford, so we’ve been working all weekend trying to get that prepared. It’s mostly print ads, you know, newspapers and magazines, but there's also a possibility we’ll get to start doing some television ads if they like these.”
“That’s awesome.”
“Yeah, I’m proud of them," said Melanie. "It’s been a bit of a nightmare with morning sickness and all that.”
Curtis smiled and listened as Melanie continued talking about her life, her worries, and her concerns. It seemed so small compared to the life and death issues he was dealing with, yet at the same time that tether to the real world, a world where his only concern was what color to paint the nursery, kept him happy and sane.
It was also what reminded him of his promise to go back.
About an hour later, Melanie realized it was almost midnight and hung up, citing that she needed to be at work the next morning. A
fter saying their “I love you’s" and the usual promise that he return to her, Curtis was left standing on the balcony with his phone in his hand. He stared straight out over the highway, watching the transport trucks thunder past every few minutes. In the distance he could see the lights of downtown Blind River.
He took a deep breath. He thought of the family he would soon have. That was what he was fighting for.
Curtis saw the logic in arresting Bobby Randall, but there was something about it that just didn’t work. Curtis stared up at the half moon, trying to figure out what was bugging him.
He sighed and went back into the motel room.
40
Kendra Matheson slouched over the bar, country music blasting behind her.
She hated country music. The rest of the week Sally’s Bar and Grill was a respectable establishment where she could get whatever she wanted, but tonight it was filled with cowboy boots, cowboy hats and way too much plaid. There was a country band on stage and a dance floor was filled with untalented dancers attempting to square dance.
Kendra waved a hand to Sally, the bartender, and shook her empty glass. Normally, Sally would have cut her off by this point, but what Kendra had been through that day bypassed any such limits. Sally poured her another drink and half-heartedly told her to slow down before giving up.
“You look like you could use some company."
Kendra looked up to see a man sitting beside her wearing a black button down shirt. The only country thing about him was an ill-fitting cowboy hat on top of his head. It took her a moment to recognize Nate Williams out of his prison guard uniform, but when she did she smiled. “Hey, Nate," she said. "Not working tonight?”
Nate took that as an invitation and slid onto the seat beside her. “I’m heading over to the prison in an hour or so actually. I have a night shift. I can’t drink for that reason. One of my buddies invited me out for a bit.” He suddenly became somber. “I heard what happened today. I’m sorry.”
