by James Hunt
“Yes, can I help you?” The old man had a stoop in his back and a white mustache. Matching tufts of white hair protruded from his cap, and his pair of watery red eyes made him look like he was crying, probably because of all the dead people.
“I was visiting my mother’s grave, and I saw someone had sprayed some graffiti on it,” Arnold said.
“Damn kids.” The old man frowned, huffing as he flipped the rake around and pounded it against the ground like a staff. “They think they can just come in here and do whatever they want.”
Arnold raised his hands. “No, it’s okay. I was just hoping we might be able to clean it off?”
The old man’s expression softened. “Of course. Where’s the plot?”
“On the north end of the property,” Arnold answered, gesturing ahead to ensure that he and the old man passed the shed where no one could see them.
“Let me just drop this off and grab a few things,” the old man said and then trudged forward, Arnold falling in behind him. “When did she pass?”
“Hmm? Oh, a few years ago,” Arnold answered, forgetting about his dead mother. His mother died ten years ago. It was a drug overdose. Arnold had never brought her flowers. Not that he didn’t want to. He just didn’t see the point.
“It’s nice that she has a son who still comes by to see her,” the old man said, keeping his head down as he trudged forward. His breathing had become labored, and Arnold wondered if the guy would die before he even got to the shed. “It’s a shame how little people come to visit. I’ll go weeks without seeing a visitor.”
Arnold only half paid attention to the old man’s words. He was too busy glancing around making sure that they’d be alone. He then checked his watch, knowing that he’d have to make this quick.
The old man reached for his keys, his arthritic fingers struggling with the lock for the shed. “Where did you say your mother’s plot was again?”
“The north section of the graveyard,” Arnold answered, growing impatient.
“Ah, yes, that was it.” The old man cackled, finally inserting the key into the shed’s lock and pushed the door inward. “My mind is about as slow as my body—”
Arnold positioned his hands around the man’s neck and applied one harsh twist. The caretaker collapsed to the floor.
8
During the flight back to Seattle, Grant kept to himself, staring out the small circular window. It was beautiful outside. Sun shining, a few puffy white clouds dotting the sky, but Grant remembered the weather report, which called for storms and wind later in the evening, bringing in the first cold front of the season and signaling the unofficial end of summer.
The plane landed, and Grant followed Mocks to a police cruiser waiting for them on the tarmac. They rode with the Chief, both he and Mocks with a phone glued to their ears, making sure that the team was ready the moment they walked through the door.
On the ride back to the precinct, the Chief took a break from his phone and turned to face Grant. “Before this goes any further, I just want to make sure that you understand that you’re not here in any official capacity. It’s only a matter of time before the media catches wind of this, and when they do, I want to make sure you’re as far away from the camera as possible.”
The cruiser hit a pothole, rocking everyone from side to side.
“I understand, Chief,” Grant said.
“Good.” Hofster faced forward in his seat again and returned to whatever business he had on the phones.
Once they arrived at the precinct, all of the boxes from the prison were brought to the conference room, where Mocks introduced Grant to the detective who would act as their team lead on the case.
“This is Detective Lane,” Mocks said. “He’s been with our unit for over a year now.”
“Nice to meet you, Detective,” Grant said.
“It’s an honor.” Lane had a firm handshake, and he cleared his throat, shifting his weight from foot to foot like he was nervous. “You probably don’t remember me, but I worked with you on your last case.”
Grant narrowed his eyes, recognizing the man. “You drove me to Wyoming.”
“Yes, sir. You’re the reason why I became a detective.” Lane blushed.
Mocks patted Lane on the shoulder. “Let’s not drool on the carpet, Detective.”
Lane cleared his throat. “Yes, ma’am.”
Mocks stepped forward into the room once all the boxes from the prison had been brought in, raising her voice over the chatter from the half dozen detectives that had been called in to assist on the case. “All right, everyone, listen up. We’ll be divvying up into three groups, led by Detective Lane here. We need to work through Pullman’s letters, transcripts from his visitor logs, and his reading material while he was incarcerated. We’re looking for anything and everything that stands out. He’s obviously been in communication with people to coordinate the abductions, and I want to know who Pullman might have been in communication with, how they communicated, and where the victims might be located.”
Grant walked over and taped the three drawings they pulled from the cell, then handed Mocks the book on cryptography.
Mocks lifted the book. “We believe that Pullman was sending hidden messages through the letters of fan mail he responded to.” She looked to Grant, giving him a nod to jump in.
Grant cleared his throat. “Pullman and his associates most likely used some kind of a key or legend in their communication. And like the lieutenant said, this has been going on for a very long time. While searching the letters, you’ll want to isolate anyone who showed an infatuation with Dennis, and anyone who wrote to him consistently.”
One of the detectives raised their hand and pointed to the drawings. “What are those?”
Grant stepped closer to the sketch of the house. “We found these in Dennis’s cell. They were displayed on a wall in this exact order, and we think they could be locations where the victims were taken.”
A heavyset female officer with a buzz cut frowned. “Is that a graveyard?”
“Yes, we believe it is,” Mocks answered. “So let’s start narrowing this down, people.” She clapped her hands together. She gestured to Grant. “We’ve got a decade worth of data to sift through, so let’s go!”
Lane assigned the detectives to one of the three teams and each group began their tasks, sifting through the letters and books and lists, searching for anything that they could use to locate the victims.
Grant checked the timer on the digital watch. They just passed the five-hour mark.
“Hey,” Mocks said, walking up behind him. “I’m getting pulled into a meeting with Chief Hofster and the governor. You all right to hang out here?”
“Yeah,” Grant answered.
Mocks stepped backward toward the door. “Let me know if you find anything.”
Grant turned back to the drawings, trying to determine their significance. The headstone was an obvious symbol of a graveyard, but for whom? And the house and the cabin were so vaguely sketched that they could have been any middle-income home in the country.
Unable to break through his funk, Grant joined the team sifting through the letters. They worked efficiently, the flurry of hands fighting for table space for their respected tasks.
One of the detectives was reading a letter, and he grimaced. “Jesus, it’s like they think he’s some kind of a god.” He set it down and picked up another.
“People did the same thing to Bundy and Manson.” Grant picked up a letter, finding nothing of note, and set it back down. “Society has always had a fascination with serial killers.” He walked over to the detective examining the list of books. “How’s it looking?”
“He definitely kept himself busy.” The detective started breaking down the titles into separate genres and created a timeline for when he read them. “Looks like the first year he kept to the classics. Fitzgerald, Orwell, Hemingway, Dickens, Twain, and a surprising amount of Austen. It was a trend that carried over into his second year,
but here, look at this.”
Grant leaned closer as the detective circled a few more titles.
“Around year three, he started branching out. More scholarly works regarding psychology and theology spanning all religions: Christianity, Islam, Judaism, and Hinduism. It’s like he was researching.”
Grant turned back toward the detectives sorting through the letters. “Looks like Dennis might have started getting more serious around his third year, so start looking for letters dated around that time frame.”
Lane frowned, flipping pages of Dennis’s reading list. “His interests were all over the place.” He raised his eyebrows in surprise. “He read the training manual for SCUBA certification.”
One of the detectives working the possible locations walked toward the printer in the room, grabbed three papers, and walked over to the board. “I’ve got photos of the victims.”
Everyone in the room lifted their gaze toward the board, the room quiet as little Susie Mullins was the first picture up. But as Grant watched the detective tape the second photo to the board, his heart skipped a beat.
The hair, the eyes, the skin, it was a spitting image. Grant walked toward the photo like a zombie, using the conference room table to help keep him upright. He snatched the picture off the board, his skin cold. “Who is this?”
“Kelly Sears,” the detective answered, then put up the third and final image of Mary Sullivan. Grant dropped Kelly’s picture.
“Susie,” Grant said, trying to gather spit in his mouth. “How old is Susie?”
“Eight.”
“Whoa, are you all right?” The detective picked the photograph off the floor.
Grant collapsed into one of the empty conference room chairs. Mary Sullivan was a spitting image of Sam. Tall, blonde, blue-eyed, but just slightly older. Kelly Sears could have been his late wife Ellen’s twin. And Susie was the same age that his own daughter would have been if Annie had survived the car wreck that claimed her life before it began.
“He picked them,” Grant said. “They’re not just random victims, they’ve been watched. Hunted. Just like he would have done it.” Grant pushed himself off the table and grabbed the closest detective’s attention. “Compile the list of everyone who wrote a letter and anyone that visited him. Then I want to cross reference their addresses with the addresses of the victims.”
The detectives swarmed to make it happen, and Grant re-examined the photographs and the sketches that Dennis had drawn.
“I’ve got the addresses from the letters heading to the printer,” Lane said.
Grant walked over, snatching the paper the moment it was dispensed in the tray. He scanned the document quickly, looking for anything familiar, then flipped to the next page and froze. “Get Mocks. Now.”
Without question, Lane sprinted out of the office, and Grant focused on those sketches one more time, and suddenly that house Dennis had drawn wasn’t so vague.
Winded, Mocks hurried into the room, trailed by Lane. “What do you have?”
Grant gestured to the pictures of the abducted, singling out Mary Sullivan. “Tell me that doesn’t look like Sam.”
Mocks walked over, taking her time to examine the photograph before she finally nodded. “I see it.”
Grant pointed to Kelly Sears. “And she is the spitting image of Ellen.” He then walked over to Susie’s picture. “Our daughter Annie would have been eight this year. The same age as Susie.”
Mocks exhaled. “Holy shit.”
Grant nodded. “He did this on purpose. He knew that I’d see the resemblance. He’s making this about me.” He handed Mocks the list of addresses that Lane had printed out. “Chet Denning visited Dennis in prison three years ago, and he was in communication with him via letters.” He tapped the address that he’d circled. “His home address is the same house where I lived with Ellen.”
Mocks set the papers down and retreated toward the door, pointing to Lane. “I want every available unit to secure that area! Let’s go!”
9
The caravan of police vehicles pushed aside the traffic on the I-5 as they sped toward the suburbs. Grant, Mocks, and Hofster rode in one vehicle with Mocks and Grant in the backseat while Hofster rode shotgun.
“We have SWAT and air support.” Mocks hung up her phone. “All roads leading to the house have been blocked off for a half mile radius.” She then turned to Grant. “What are you thinking?”
“I’m thinking that we’re dealing with a psychopath who has been planning this day since he was caught ten years ago,” Grant answered. “We could be walking into anything.”
Hofster grunted, his expression growing solemn. “That’s reassuring.” He faced forward in his seat and was quiet for a while before he spoke up again. “If I send you inside, Grant, am I going to regret it?”
Taken off guard, Grant shifted uncomfortably in his seat.
“Well?” Hofster asked.
Grant cleared his throat. “No, sir.”
“Right.” Hofster reached for the radio on the center console. “This is Chief Hofster. I’m en route to the location, and I need a vest and a communication link ready upon our arrival.” Hofster turned back to Grant. “When was the last time you fired a weapon?”
“Two years ago,” Grant answered.
With Hofster keeping his eyes on Grant, he clicked the radio again. “And I’ll need a standard issue service pistol with a holster.” He let go of the receiver. “I hope you’re not as rusty as I think you are.”
“That makes two of us, sir,” Grant said.
The convoy of police cars pulled into Grant’s old neighborhood, past the growing cluster of news vans sitting just outside the blockade that was moved to allow their vehicles to pass beyond.
When the car pulled over, Hofster was the first one out, followed by Grant and Mocks. And for the first time in years, Grant was less than five hundred feet from the front yard that he had used to mow.
With the contrast of the traffic jam of vehicles behind them, the empty stretch of road ahead seemed even more barren.
“We’ve evacuated the immediate surrounding houses,” Mocks said, stepping aside as Grant pulled on the Kevlar vest that he was handed. She handed over an earpiece and pointed to the vest. “There’s a body cam rigged into the Kevlar, so we’ll see everything you do.”
“Have we confirmed she’s inside?” Grant asked.
“Two heat signatures at the center of the house, but the blueprints don’t show any windows, and there’s only one door.”
“It’s the center bedroom,” Grant said. “Ellen used it for—” He cleared his throat, knowing that the detail didn’t matter. “I know where it is.”
Mocks handed over the pistol already in its holster. “I’ll have a negotiator on standby if it’s needed, and he’ll relay everything you need to say into your ear.”
Grant clipped the weapon to the right side of his belt, adding a weight that hadn’t been there in a long time. A weight he wasn’t sure he could even carry anymore. “Hopefully it’ll be a quick in and out.”
“Yeah,” Mocks said, but her expression betrayed the worry that rested underneath. She took a step forward, as if to hug him, but the professional setting held her back. “Be careful.”
Hofster approached Grant from the left. “I need a word before you go in. Privately.” He walked toward the front barricade, the patrolmen stationed there clearing a space for the pair to talk.
Grant joined him, still adjusting the Kevlar strapped over his body. The equipment was tighter than he remembered.
Hofster lowered his voice and leaned close. “Listen. I didn’t want you to be a part of this. And I know Mocks didn’t want it either. This request is coming from the State Justice Department who is taking Dennis’s rules seriously. But if this goes south, they’ll also want to be able to pin the blame on someone. And judging by the way we’ve all been blindsided by this fucker, I’d think the probability that it goes south is high.”
Grant glanced down to
the house. “If I’d know any better, Chief, I’d think you were trying to give me a heads up.”
“Mocks is the best lieutenant I have,” Hofster said. “She’s going to sit in my chair one day, and she trusts you more than anyone. For now, that’s good enough for me to trust you.” He raised a finger and wagged it with a warning. “But you don’t forget that you haven’t worn a badge in seven years. People tend to glorify their past, and I don’t want you walking into that house as the legend that rookies talk about in the academy.”
“I’ll do my best, Chief,” Grant said.
Hofster lowered his finger, and in nearly the same instance, the hard lines on his face softened and he placed his hands on his hips. “You were a good cop, Grant. You broke the rules, but you had shit options no matter what road you went down.” He looked back at the house. “I hope it’s different for you this time.” He shook Grant’s hand. “Good luck.”
Hofster retreated behind the police line and Grant crossed the threshold of the barrier that had been set up. The stretch of road lengthened from the isolation, but while Grant kept most of his attention on the house, he noticed the SWAT members hidden in the bushes between the homes on his left and right.
Helicopters hummed overhead, circling the small, quarantined section of suburbia that wasn’t used to such a large police presence. At least it hadn’t been that way when Grant had lived here with Ellen. But a lot could change over the course of a decade.
Grant placed his hand on the pistol’s handle, keeping low as he approached the property. The front door was closed, and the curtains had been drawn over the windows.
He removed the pistol from the holster, gripped it with two hands, and walked up the front porch steps, keeping on the left side of the door. His palms were already slick with sweat and his heart fought to burst from its cage of Kevlar.
He shut his eyes and tried to calm himself. After a few seconds, his hand steadied, but his pulse didn’t. He grabbed the handle, and he gave it a twist. It was open.
The door hinges creaked, and the old wooden floorboards groaned their disapproval as he stepped inside. It was dark. Grant led with the pistol, his training coming back to him as he kept soft hands and stiff arms, clearing the empty rooms on his path toward the center of the house.
