The Silent Child Boxset

by Roger Hayden

  * * *

  Detective Harris walked with other detectives inside Simmons’ house as police cordoned the area outside. Paramedics were on the scene but instructed not to move the body until investigators completed their sweep of the kitchen. Bill Simmons was identified as the victim. He was a forty-six years old, twice-divorced father of two who lived alone. There was no evidence of a break-in or robbery as a motive. Simmons’s back and front doors were both unlocked. The killer could just have walked in. This led Harris to believe that they must have known each other. Detective Richard Prater from Homicide took several pictures of the seated corpse, taking special notice of the lacerations on the victim’s side and arm. There was also bruising on the face, a sign of a struggle. A thorough search of the kitchen gave no clear indication of what had happened. Most curious of all, no note was left behind.

  “It’s strange,” Harris mused. “Every other act perpetrated by our killer has left some kind of note linking the crimes.”

  Captain Star soon arrived with ex-Detective Knight in tow. The captain looked naturally flustered as Knight strolled in next to him, dressed in his retirement garb, including a cabana hat, a short-sleeved button-up shirt, and cargo shorts. He also walked with a cane. Harris was aware he had suffered knee and back injuries a decade ago in the line of duty.

  She almost felt bad for him and for dragging him out of the comfort of retirement, but then remembered the murdered man in their midst and the young girl who was still missing. The blinds and curtains throughout the small house had been opened, allowing daylight to fully enter the room. Six police cruisers, two unmarked cars, and an ambulance occupied the street outside, noticeably drawing the neighbors’ attention to the house.

  The captain approached Harris after a quick glance at the victim and a hand to his mouth to deflect the smell. “First question. What were you doing here?”

  “Sir?” she said, curious.

  “You discovered the body, yes?”

  Noticing most eyes in the room on her, Harris elaborated. “I came here to talk to Mr. Simmons. I received word that he had sold a van that matches our description to a strange individual.”

  Captain Star studied her for a moment, finger to his chin. “And then you just waltzed in here and found him dead?”

  “I had reason to believe someone was in here,” Harris said. “The door was half open and I walked in after getting a whiff of the smell.”

  Knight walked past them both and stood at the end of the table, observing the victim. “Slit his throat like it was nothing.” He paused and looked around the otherwise quaint kitchen. “No note this time.” He then placed his cane against the wall. “I believe our killer almost made a mistake.” Harris and the captain turned to face him, curious where he was going and hopeful he’d discovered something. “If what you’re saying is true, our killer purchased the van and later decided to kill Mr. Simmons, fearing that we’d make a connection.”

  Detective Prater, relatively new to homicide, approached Knight with a hint of skepticism. “That’s some incredible foresight on the killer’s part. What makes you so sure about it?”

  Sensing tension, Captain Star stepped in. “This is retired Detective Charles Knight. He worked this case many years ago.” He then leaned closer to Prater. “And he’s here to help, so let’s treat him accordingly.”

  Knight raised an it’s-okay hand. “I appreciate that, Captain, but I don’t mind questions. This elusive bastard has been haunting me long enough. And I’m stunned that after five years, it’s still ongoing.”

  “I think we all are,” Star added. He turned to look at Harris and Prater. “On that note. I want him found today. Not tomorrow or next week. Talk to everyone on this block. I shouldn’t have to tell you how to do your jobs.” He paused and took a deep breath. “Sorry. You know what I mean. We’re already dealing with one fallen officer. This department will accept no more.”

  Harris stepped forward. “Sir, about this federal task force—”

  “They’ll be here this afternoon,” he quickly interjected. “Get as close to a lead on this as you can. They’ll take it from there.”

  “I say we’re pretty damn close,” Prater added with confidence. “Dust every inch of this house for prints and try to find the murder weapon.”

  “He wears gloves,” Knight said, causing the others to look at him, startled. “Disguises too. He can move without drawing attention to himself. He has extensive explosives training and could be independently wealthy.” Knight looked up and noticed their eyes on him. “Sorry. Just seems like the same case as before. But before, he never outright murdered someone this way.” Knight turned and pointed to the victim. “This was to cover his tracks. It has little to do with the game.”

  Two male paramedics entered the kitchen with a wheeled gurney. Harris and the others moved aside to make room. Captain Star waved his hand, clearing the air around him. “Yes. Get the victim’s body out of here and to the medical examiner for an autopsy.” The zip-tie from around Simmons’s wrists had been cut and bagged as evidence. The EMTs carefully lifted him from the chair and placed him inside a large body bag. Simmons had been seated for so many hours that his body had practically stiffened in that position. Harris watched, sickened, as Simmons’s joints cracked when they tried to lay him down. They soon zipped the bag and wheeled him out of the kitchen, though the stench of death remained.

  Captain Star followed them out of the kitchen, waving the group into the living room. “Have the next of kin been notified yet?” he asked Harris upon her approach.

  “Not yet, sir, but I’m on it.”

  He placed his hands on his hips with an exhausted sigh. “Fine, fine. Look. I’ve got to get back to the station. I just wanted to find out what the hell was going on. I’m asking for your best.”

  Harris nodded. “We’re closing in. I can feel it.”

  Knight approached Star as Prater remained in the kitchen, taking more pictures. “Maybe I can address him directly. Draw him out of hiding. Maybe… I can offer him a deal.”

  Star placed a hand on Knight’s shoulder. “I do appreciate that, Charles. We all do. But you’ve got to take it easy. We’re happy for the help, but we can’t be liable for your safety.”

  “Yes, of course,” Knight said. “I’m here to provide info. My days of chasing down bad guys are long over.”

  “Something tells me you’d like to tear this guy a new asshole though,” Star said with a laugh.

  They shook hands like old friends. Harris was curious how they had gotten so close, but it certainly didn’t bother her. Having the captain on their side would only help. A few police officers slipped inside with their radios blasting. The van’s description had been released on all channels.

  Harris hoped that an All Points search would get them closer, but her instincts told her that the killer was already ahead of them in that regard. Suddenly she realized that it was just she and Knight standing there. She motioned toward the couch, covered with a plaid blanket, and asked if he wanted to sit. Knight nodded and they both sat toward the middle, the cushions sinking around them.

  “Thank you so much for coming,” she said. “I’m sorry I wasn’t at the station earlier, but you can see why.” She crossed her arms, almost hugging herself, and Knight gave her a small, sympathetic sigh. He then removed his cabana hat and set it aside.

  “Yes,” he said, observing the living room. “I saw a lot of things in my time, but it’s still hard for me to believe that a person could do all this.” He stroked his stubble-ridden cheeks, seeming at a loss for words. Harris knew the feeling all too well. The hiatus had only been temporary. It was certain now that their culprit was never going to stop killing or kidnapping or planting explosives. It would never end unless they ended it for him.

  “There are two of them,” Harris said. “They’re local. They never stay in one place for too long. This game you’ve described sounds like an act of vengeance.” She glanced at their blurry reflections on the blank fla
t screen TV across from them.

  “I wonder how they met?” Knight asked as though the question was meant for himself.

  “Simmons and his killer?” Harris asked, receiving a nod from Knight. “Auto Trader? Classified ad?”

  Knight slapped his leg. “Exactly. We search Simmons’s phone records, I guarantee there’s a call or text message somewhere about this van.”

  The idea was so obvious, Harris was surprised it hadn’t been the first thing she thought of. She’d witnessed killers who had thoroughly covered their tracks before, but even the most careful seldom caught everything. In the age of advanced technology, leaving a simple phone call was often overlooked. “That’s a great place to start,” she assured him. For a moment, they disappeared into their own thoughts. Knight studied the carpet as Harris glanced at the police outside, neither really seeing anything. She then looked at Knight, clearly hatching an idea. “How long are you free today?” she began.

  Knight tapped his fingers along his cabana hat and then answered. “A few hours. As long as I get back by dinnertime.”

  “Sounds like you know what’s on the menu.”

  “I do. Bonnie is making lasagna tonight. A personal favorite dish of mine.”

  Harris rose from the couch and offered her hand in assistance. Knight took it and came to his feet with a grunt. “Just a few more hours,” she said. “I’d like to head back to the station and work on getting those phone records.” She turned to address Detective Prater as he entered the room. “We’ve got some business at the station. Are you good?”

  He held out his latex-gloved hands, shrugging. “I suppose I’ll be canvassing the neighborhood then?” He wasn’t happy.

  “It’s only fair,” she said, standing her ground. “I’ve done a lot of legwork myself.”

  “Fair?” Prater said. “We’ll see once the Feds take over.” During their brief confrontation, Harris noticed that Knight was now standing in the opposite corner of the room, fixated on something. She excused herself and went over to him. He was at a desk, with papers scattered on top and framed photos resting at an angle. She had no idea what had caught his attention. Her eyes followed his direction to a few notebooks lying below.

  “What is it?” she asked, concerned.

  “I don’t believe it…” he said. Before she could ask again, he picked up one of the notebooks and held it up. She looked at the front and found that it was labeled “journal” in black marker. She snatched it from his hands and flipped it open. Much to her excitement, the pages were dated. She flipped wildly through until reaching a portion of blank pages. The journal had come to an end.

  21

  In the Shadows

  Clouds gradually parted from the gray sky above the farmhouse. Everett had just come outside, dressed in a beige trench coat with a suit and tie underneath. He had just had a clean shave, and his hair was slicked back and gleaming. His square-framed glasses had been swapped for more studious-looking, circular ones. With his leather briefcase in hand, he resembled an insurance salesman or solicitor. That was the idea. Everett had a series of disguises for his travels. It had become a staple of the game they often initiated on their unsuspecting town. The most crucial element was not getting caught.

  He and Belma hadn’t been active in the game for years. They had wanted to keep things quiet. They had wanted to raise their family, but during that time, they had faced some complications. He didn’t have all the answers to why things hadn’t turned out as planned. The past couple of years had been messy. They had lost three members of the family.

  Their first surrogate, Sarah, had tragically taken her own life. Their third, Jenny, had tried to escape one too many times and could not be trusted. Jenny’s son, Allen, had succumbed to illness and passed away before his third birthday. But they had three other children: Everett Jr, Meadow, and Katelyn. The family was growing. And how great it was to have a son again.

  Everett walked between the columns and down the wooden steps of his front porch, taking in the fresh air. The breeze provided comfort after his many hours in the basement. He felt cautiously optimistic about his prospects that day. A million things could go wrong. He might not return home at all. He hated traveling without Belma, but she was needed more at the house, especially with their new arrival. This was a mission he had to embody command with his own volition. He had to keep the inevitable mistakes to a minimum. But with just the right timing and fortune, they’d pull it off.

  He approached their Buick station wagon parked in front of the house. Tracking through the grass dirtied his dress shoes, but his shoe cleaning kit was packed in the car with everything else. Halfway to the car, he heard the front patio door swing open as Belma left the house to catch up to him.

  She called out to him, carrying a fedora in hand. Everett turned around at the driver’s door, wondering what was up as she approached. “Don’t forget your hat,” she said, placing it on his head, out of breath. “It makes you look so distinguished.” She pecked him on the cheek as he adjusted the hat and thanked her.

  He opened the car door and then pointed at her. “I’ll be back in a few hours, so make sure to have a room ready.”

  Belma clasped her hands and jumped once in the air. She wore a long flower-patterned sundress with her red hair tied up in a loose bun. Lines formed across her freckled cheeks, widening with a worried smile. “This will do it then, right? Everything will be better?”

  Everett leaned inside and placed his briefcase on the passenger seat. He returned outside and pulled Belma close, hugging her. “This evens the score, my dear. True happiness awaits.”

  She kissed him on the cheek and lips, pulling him tight and not wanting to let go. Everett gently pushed her away, emphasizing that he needed to get moving. “Our window of opportunity is very slim.”

  “Well, he’s out of the house, right?” she asked.

  Everett nodded with one hand on the door. “So far, so good. But not a minute to spare!”

  “Did you bring your equipment?” she asked, peering into the backseat.

  Everett removed his fedora and tossed it inside atop his briefcase. “I sure did.”

  Belma began counting off her fingers. “You’ve got the stun gun, the zip-ties, the binos, knock-out juice, your pistol, gag—”

  “Yes, dear,” he said, turning to enter the car.

  “Wait!” Belma said, reaching out to him just as he shut the door.

  Seated behind the wheel and with increasing frustration, he tried to keep his impatience in check. “What is it?”

  “You haven’t talked to Crystal yet. Don’t you want to see her before you go?” It was an amusing ploy, Everett thought, but he’d have to pass. Belma suffered from an acute separation anxiety and would often not want him to leave her side for any reason. The trick was to never linger. As much as it pained him sometimes, he had to ignore her pleas and keep moving.

  “I’ll talk to her later,” he answered. “And besides, these girls don’t mean a whit to me until they’re fertile.”

  Belma laughed and playfully slapped him on the shoulder. “You old dog, you.”

  Everett turned the ignition as the engine roared to life. “Gotta run, babe. I’ll see you soon.”

  She reverted to her giddy self and wished him luck. He shifted the car and drove down the dirt path leading out the gate. It was a long, bumpy trek to the main road and an even longer one into town. He glanced at his rearview mirror and saw Belma standing in front of their house waving at him. He anticipated the end of the game with much fervor. The nerve of lawmen and women intruding on their lives was an affront he couldn’t abide. And he and Belma were going to make them pay.

  * * *

  Detective Harris could hardly wait to examine every word of the approximately hundred-page journal. Its entries spanned from the previous year to the present. Naturally, her primary interest was in the last few pages. The excerpts ran from a few paragraphs to a page. The date was listed above the often-frenzied handwriting that f
illed each line. There was no reason to assume that Simmons had even mentioned the sale of his van or who had purchased it in his journal, but there was only one way to find out. The open pages sat under Harris’s desk lamp. She hovered over the them with Knight seated nearby. Her finger traced along the line of a recent entry as she read along.

  I don’t know why she won’t let me see my sons more often. It’s like she wants to punish me. For what? Our divorce was, as you could say, amicable. Next thing I know, I’m the worst father ever.

  From what she had skimmed so far, most of the entries rehashed stories about his ex-wife, Samantha, and how much he missed his two sons. Harris couldn’t deny the sadness she felt reading the words of a hard-working murdered man who wasn’t bothering anyone. She skimmed the next few pages, reaching the first entry of his last week alive.

  “There has to be something useful in here,” she said under her breath. “I know it.”

  Knight agreed but was notably silent. Her office door and blinds were closed. Muffled commotion sounded from outside. The chief’s press address had raised more questions than it had answered. The federal task force was due to arrive at the station at any moment. Lieutenant Felder’s memorial ceremony was scheduled for 6 pm that evening.

  Simmons’s house was still an active crime scene. A search was underway for documents pertaining to the van sale. There was no more hectic day in recent memory. But for twenty minutes, none of it mattered. She didn’t want any interruptions.

  Sick of waking up and feeling like a piece of garbage, the next entry said. I wish the drinking could stop, but nothing else gets me through the night sometimes. I’ve missed two days of work as it is. I’d reach out for help but there ain’t a person around. Fuck it. I’m just depressed.