by James Hunt
Winger flew forward, limbs flailing wildly as he crumbled to the floor and lay motionless. Dennis stood, his breath hyperventilated, squeezing the pistol so tight that his knuckles flashed white as he aimed the weapon at Winger’s lifeless body.
It was the boy’s muffled screams that finally broke Dennis from the paralysis of his rage. He walked back to the boy, calmer than before, and then checked the judge’s pulse. He was dead.
Dennis tucked the weapon in his waistband and removed the hunting knife from its sheath. He looked at the boy. “Your father wanted me to spare you.” He knelt and gripped the scruff of Brockwater’s neck and sawed off the man’s scalp. “A father’s dying wish.” He peeled the fresh flesh from the skull, holding it up for the boy to see, and then placed it in a bag with the bus driver’s from earlier in the day. “You’ll live. But not because of your father’s request. I want to leave a message, much like the judge left to me.” He walked over to Winger and removed the prosecutor’s scalp as well. “There won’t be a day that goes by that this doesn’t enter your mind. It will fester and grow and destroy you like a cancer, taking a little piece every day until it’s hollowed you out.” He tossed Winger’s scalp in the bag, and then sealed it as he walked back over to the boy. He reached down and brushed the boy’s bangs off his forehead, mimicking the judge’s action from earlier. But there was no love behind the gesture. “Witnessing your father’s death will become your own prison cell.”
Dennis looked to the judge one last time. The wonderful red bloom that had formed in his stomach and blossomed onto the floor had finally lost its shimmer. Death’s beauty revolved around its fleeting nature, and it only deepened Dennis’s craving for more. And he would have more. Much more.
12
Lane eventually tracked the judge’s SUV to a neighborhood where State Prosecutor Larry Winger lived. He had been the one to prosecute Pullman during his trial ten years ago.
Police cruisers had flooded the small neighborhood, triggering neighbors to step from their houses to investigate the sudden surge in police presence. Mocks parked just outside the blockade set up around Winger’s house, and she and Grant walked swiftly toward the front door where the sergeant in command greeted them.
“We have positive IDs on both,” Sergeant Foyer said. “It’s Brockwater and Winger.”
“The boy?” Grant asked.
Foyer gestured to the ambulance. “Medics are examining him.”
“Have we searched the neighbors?” Mocks asked.
The sergeant stepped inside the house, his voice fading as Mocks followed him inside, while Grant lingered on the front doorstep. The angle prevented him from seeing the boy, but Grant was glad the kid was alive. One less face to haunt him during the nightmares that were sure to come once all of this was finished.
The bodies hadn’t been covered yet, the forensic tech on scene snapping pictures while other members swept the house. The bloodied heads marked the scalps that Dennis had collected as his trophies.
“We need to track down the defense attorney that represented Dennis during the trial,” Grant said. “He might be a target. I think his name was Chambers.”
Mocks paced around the bodies with the sergeant. “Looks like Winger tried to run for it.” She planted her fists on her hips before she settled into a squat. She slipped on a glove and picked up a small round device next to Winger’s body. She held it up for Grant to see. “Look familiar?”
Grant took a closer look at Brockwater’s body, finding another transponder. “The same one we found at Jimmy Shanahan’s crime scene.” Hovering right next to the bodies, Grant could still feel the heat coming off. “We just missed him.” He pivoted toward the front door. “Brockwater’s car is still in the driveway, so Pullman must have taken off on foot. Probably knew we’d track it.” He faced the bodies again, judging the distance between Brockwater and Winger, and based off of Winger’s position toward the door, Grant suspected things didn’t go as well as Dennis had hoped. “He got distracted by something.” He made eye contact with Sergeant Foyer. “Has the boy said anything?”
“No,” Foyer answered. “He was in shock. Practically catatonic.”
Mocks nodded for Grant to go ahead. “I’ll finish up here.”
Grant dropped the transponder he found into another evidence bag, then headed toward the ambulance outside.
The majority of the cases he’d taken on during his years as a Missing Persons’ detective had been children. The goal was to find them before they could experience any life-altering trauma, as if being abducted wasn’t bad enough.
But what Eddy Brockwater had seen would change the boy’s life forever. The heinous acts he witnessed would require therapy and years of counseling to overcome. Grant had failed him. A young boy who only a few hours ago who had been asleep in his bed.
Outside, the quiet suburbia had been flooded with the lights and dull roar of chatter from the first responders that had arrived on scene, and there were more neighbors stepping out of their homes.
With cell phones out capturing video and posting it online, Grant knew that it wouldn’t be long until the news crews showed up, transforming the crime scene into a circus.
Grant found Eddy being attended to by a paramedic, tucked safely in the ambulance and out of view from the rest of the world.
The medics had wiped blood from the boy’s face, his father’s blood, but a few drops lingered on his ears and his forearm. His skin was a ghost white, his eyes wide as saucers, his vacant stare fixated on some empty space of concrete.
Grant drew in a breath, knowing that while getting the boy to talk about the tragedy seemed cruel, it could provide vital insight into what Dennis had planned. And Grant was willing to take whatever advantages he could to catch Pullman before more people died.
The medic working on the boy climbed out of the ambulance and walked toward Grant. “His vitals are fine. No apparent injuries. But…”
“What?” Grant asked.
The medic took a breath, still hesitant to speak, but then kept his voice low. “Look, I don’t know if this is helpful or not, but when the kid finally stopped screaming, I started asking him questions. Just general stuff, you know? His name, his age, where he lives...”
“What’d he say?” Grant asked.
“He said that he was going to die.”
Grant frowned. “Did he tell you how?”
“No,” the medic answered. “I tried to ask more, but he shut down after that. Listen, I’m not an expert in child psychology, but there was something unsettling about how he said it. It was like… like he really believed it.”
“Okay,” Grant said, then patted the medic’s shoulder. “Thanks for the heads up.”
After the medic disappeared, Grant studied Eddy for a little while longer. It had been a long time since he’d interviewed a child. And it was something he’d hoped he would never have to do again.
The key to speaking with children was to be patient and to never have a condescending tone. Kids could pick that out quicker than their favorite candy.
“Hi, Eddy.” Grant stepped into the patch of concrete that the boy was fixated on. He pointed to the bench adjacent to Eddy’s seat. “Do you mind if I sit?”
Eddy neither consented or objected, so Grant joined him in the ambulance.
“I’m sorry, Eddy.” Grant clasped his hands together tightly. “A lot of people are going to say that to you, and after a while, those words are going to feel empty, and it’ll be hard for you to even pretend like you’re appreciative of their apologies.” He glanced at the boy, who continued to stare blankly ahead, unresponsive.
“But it’s important for you to know that it’s okay to be mad about what happened today. If you want to scream, you can scream. If you want to cry, then you can cry. But one day you’ll need to speak to someone about what you went through and what you saw. And when that day comes, you have to listen to what they tell you. Can you do that for me, Eddy?”
Eddy kept his chin d
own, his eyes on the tips of his shoes. “I never want to remember today.”
Grant treaded lightly, knowing that if he pushed the boy too quickly, then he’d clam up. “I know you don’t. And I know it’s even harder to talk about it.” He paused. “The paramedic told me that you said you thought you were going to die.”
Eddy nodded.
“Do you still feel like you’re going to die?” Grant asked.
Again, Eddy nodded.
“Why did you think that?”
“Because of that man,” Eddy answered, his voice just a hair above a whisper. “The one who killed my dad.”
“Did he tell you that he was going to kill you?”
Eddy shook his head.
“Then why would you think you’re going to die?” Grant asked.
“My mom died. My dad died. And now I’ll die.” Eddy picked at the edges of the blanket with his fingernails.
Grant had experienced loss, but for him it was different, and he knew it. He was a grown man, and Eddy couldn’t have been older than nine. It was a lot for a boy his age to deal with. He was at a crossroads, the most important crossroads of his life.
“I don’t want to be alone,” Eddy said, his voice cracking with grief, then he leaned into Grant’s shoulder and cried. “I don’t want to die.”
Grant placed his arm around the boy. He was silent while the boy cried, letting the tears run their course. When Eddy stopped crying, he leaned away from Grant and wiped his eyes.
“How are you feeling now?” Grant asked.
Eddy slumped forward. Little dark circles dragged his face down as he looked up at Grant. “Tired.”
Grant nodded and then brushed the boy’s hair back. It was a simple gesture, and Grant suspected that the judge had done the same motion a million times over the course of the boy’s life. “Why don’t you just sleep, okay, buddy?”
Eddy nodded, eyes half-closed. “Am I going to be okay?”
“Yes,” Grant answered.
Eddy yawned, and just like that, the boy was out like a light.
Grant watched the boy sleep for a moment, and then draped the blanket that was around Eddy’s shoulders down his body and stepped out of the ambulance. He found Mocks on the phone in the yard.
Mocks covered the mouthpiece with her hand. “Lane found something on the judge’s computer. He thinks Brockwater might have accessed those juror files you mentioned— What?” She raised the microphone to her lips. “Holy shit.” She put it on speaker. “Say that again.”
“Brockwater’s computer history shows that he printed out files of all twelve jurors,” Lane answered. “Names, Social Security, current addresses, and employment.”
Grant leaned closer to the phone. “Look for anything that might stick out. Closest addresses to Winger’s house, or places of employment where the victim would be alone, or—”
“I’ve got something,” Lane said. “Michelle Bentz is a park ranger for Okanogan-Wenatchee National Forest.”
Grant and Mocks exchanged a look, both of them heading toward the cruiser in the same stride.
“Lane, I want you to contact the Rangers’ office there and see if Michelle’s working.” Mocks fished her keys out of her pockets. “Have another tech call her house and see if she answers.” She covered the phone and shouted for Foyer. “Sergeant!”
Foyer jogged over, leaning into the conversation with his left ear. “Yes, ma’am?”
“Coordinate all units to head to Okanogan-Wenatchee National Forest, and put a priority on air support. I’m going to try and get them specific coordinates, but they should be prepared for an emergency evacuation.”
“Yes, Lieutenant.”
Mocks unlocked the cruiser, and both she and Grant climbed inside. “Lane, you still with me?”
“Yes, Lieutenant, I’ve got the rangers on another line,” Lane answered.
Grant nodded. “He’ll definitely go after the Michelle first. It’s been too long since he’s been able to hunt in his natural element.”
“Okay, I have confirmation that Michelle is on duty,” Lane said. “They’re radioing her now to come in from her post.”
“No!” Grant shouted. “Tell her to stay put. If she has to travel through a wooded area, then she’ll be a prime target for Dennis.”
“Yeah, tell her to sit tight.” Mocks started the engine. “Get her exact coordinates, and tell her that she’ll have an air lift out of there.” She shifted into drive. “We’ll catch that bastard before he can get her into his crosshairs.”
13
When Sam was escorted out of the hospital after her discharge, she was met with bleak and cloudy skies.
The weather in Seattle was a far cry from what she was more accustomed to in Texas, but she liked the green. A girl could only take so much desert and dry land. But she had gone from one extreme to the other.
The officers that drove her back to her apartment building didn’t say much, and she was thankful for the silence. After an entire morning of being poked and prodded by the doctors before she was released, she needed the peace and quiet.
Sam leaned against the interior car door, staring out the window as they passed through the city. She’d been able to watch the press conference about Pullman earlier this morning. Every staff member at the hospital was crowded around the televisions.
The photograph they showed during the press conference might as well have been an advertisement for the criminally insane. Just staring at Pullman’s picture gave her the chills. The hair, the wide smile, and his small teeth, he looked like a boy who had transferred to adulthood with missing parts.
Once the press conference was over, the staff lingered by the television screens, frozen in place. Sam had watched them from the hallway, each of them afraid that they would be next.
Sam understood that fear because she had experienced it firsthand. And while she had told Grant that she was fine, she hadn’t told him how violated she’d felt knowing that whoever had slipped into their apartment and drugged her had done so at Pullman’s request.
Sam reached for her phone, disappointed when she discovered that Grant hadn’t called her. But she understood how a case like this consumed your time. She’d worked more than her fair share of overtime at the U.S. Marshals’ office.
But it was different when Grant sank his teeth into a case. The man didn’t know how to let go. It was what made him such a fierce detective during his time, but it was also what nearly killed him.
“Have there been any updates on the case?” Sam asked, breaking her vow of silence.
“Progress hasn’t trickled down to us yet, ma’am.” The driver turned back to her with an empathetic grin. “Sorry.”
Sam turned back toward the window, hoping that Grant found Pullman soon. Before he slipped back into old habits.
Over the past two years, Sam had watched Grant become reacclimated into the world, stepping out of the shadows to discover a new life. He changed careers, switching his pistol for a guitar, and started giving lessons and teaching part-time at the local high school.
Sam had been surprised to learn how good he was. And when he played for her the first time, which was also the first time he’d played since his first wife had passed, it brought her to tears. Because in that moment, she saw the man beneath the scars and pain. A good man. The man that she had fallen in love with and wanted to spend the rest of her life with.
When they arrived back at the apartment, one of the officers escorted her all the way up to her place, and when he lingered in the hallway after Sam unlocked the door, she remembered that Grant had told her about the cop that would be staying inside with her.
“Orders, ma’am,” he said, shrugging.
The cop hung out in their small living room, taking a seat on the couch while she headed to the bedroom to shower and change. She still smelled like the hospital, and she thought a shower and a fresh change of clothes would help wake her up.
When she stepped out of the shower, Sam heard the telev
ision from the living room. Dressed in a shirt and shorts, her hair still wet, she walked to the kitchen for a glass of water.
“I hope you don’t mind.” The cop gestured to the television screen and the news. “Just wanted to keep up-to-date. I can turn it off if—”
“It’s fine,” Sam said. “Can I get you anything?”
“No, ma’am. Thank you.”
Sam sipped the water and caught sight of the guitar by the kitchen window. There was a small bench cut out in the wall, and Grant would sit there and practice, going over lessons for his students. She would stand right where she was now and watch his hands work deftly over the strings.
The tears that formed surprised her, and Sam turned away, angry that she was so emotional. She shut her eyes, quieting the screaming voices of doubt and fear in her mind. He was fine. Everything was going to be fine. Mocks was with him. She’d help take care of him. She wouldn’t let him backslide.
“Good afternoon,” a reporter’s voice rang clear from the television, and Sam turned around after she had managed to compose herself, drying her eyes. “Today’s top story has centered around an escaped convict, Seattle serial killer Dennis Pullman. In a brief statement earlier today by Police Chief Hofster, he outlined the department’s plans to capture Pullman with the aid of state and federal authorities. But one individual assigned to this case who was not mentioned in that report may prove more dangerous than Pullman himself. For more on that, we turn to our very own Lacey White.”
The camera pivoted toward a young woman who looked like she belonged in the finalist list of Miss America instead of the local news station.
“Thank you, Tim,” Lacey said. “Earlier today, we were given a glimpse into the possible horrors that could rain down upon our city, and while authorities gave us details about the convict, we know little about the events regarding his escape. And to understand that, you have to understand this man.”
A picture of Grant appeared on the screen and Sam set her glass down, drawn to the image, stopping behind the couch as she crossed her arms.
