The Suicide House

by Charlie Donlea

  “Listen, Ryder, I don’t have time right now.”

  “Have you been reading the threads on your website?”

  “I’m right in the middle of something, Ryder.”

  “Of course not. You probably have a slew of assistants who do that for you. I bet you’ve never even looked at the comments you ask your listeners to make. But there’s one you should know about. Do the numbers thirteen-three-five mean anything to you?”

  “Thirteen, three, what?”

  “Shit,” Ryder said in an annoyed voice saturated with condescension. “You really are clueless. And you’re the one with the hottest podcast since Serial.”

  “Ryder, if you get ahold of my producer tomorrow, she can set up—”

  “You better get out there. Like, right now. I’m on my way as we speak.”

  “Out where?”

  “Thirteen-three-five.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “Bring your recording equipment. Take Route 77 south. Once you see mile marker thirteen, go another third of a mile. That’s the thirteen and the three. We’ll handle the five when you get there. But I’m only waiting twenty minutes, then I’m heading in by myself.”

  “Heading where?”

  “To the boarding house. Better hurry or you’ll miss me.”

  The call ended abruptly, and Mack stared at his phone. Then he clipped his microphone to his collar, tapped it to confirm it was working, and ran out the door.

  CHAPTER 6

  MACK TALKED AS HE DROVE. HIS HEADLIGHTS BROUGHT ROUTE 77 to life in the otherwise dark night. The country roads on the outskirts of Peppermill were pitch black, and listeners would detect urgency in Mack’s voice when this segment of the podcast aired.

  “I’m driving on Route 77,” Mack said into the microphone on his collar. “It’s almost midnight, and the road is dark and empty. A comment was left on the website message board about an hour ago asking me to come to a place called Thirteen-three-five, so that’s where I’m headed.”

  The entrance to Westmont Prep High School was located on Champion Boulevard, and Mack knew from studying maps of the property that the campus expanded all the way back to Route 77. Maps had been posted on The Suicide House website to give fans an aerial view of the woods and the house where the murders took place. A half-mile-wide belt of forest separated the house from Route 77. Mack did his best to explain this as he drove, but his anxiety made him jumble his words. His producer would have to clean up his description, and he’d have some voice-over work to do if any portion of tonight’s journey ended up on the podcast.

  He watched the mile markers and announced each one that he passed.

  “I see the green mile marker up ahead. It’s pitch black out here, so I’m slowing down as I approach. I’m looking at mile marker thirteen. I was told to drive another third of a mile, so I’m watching my odometer as I do this.”

  A minute of silence followed as Mack ticked off the mileage. He noticed that, for the first time during the production of this podcast, he was nervous. He swallowed hard when the situation materialized in front of him and his headlights caught more and more of the scene.

  “Okay,” he said into his microphone. His mouth was parched from the sudden release of adrenaline. “Something’s in the road up ahead. I’m just about a third of a mile past the marker, and there’s a car parked on the shoulder. It looks like a sedan. The headlights are off, and the driver’s side door is open. I’m pulling behind the car now, and my headlights are brightening the interior. No one appears to be inside.”

  Mack put his car into park and looked around. He spotted Ryder Hillier off to the side of Route 77, in the shallow gulley between the shoulder and the woods. She was waving the flashlight of her cell phone for Mack to join her.

  After climbing out of his car, Mack walked to the abandoned vehicle in front of him. He looked inside. “So, this car is located exactly one-third of a mile past mile marker thirteen. There’s no sign of anyone inside the car. It looks abandoned.”

  Mack walked down the embankment and over to Ryder.

  “What the hell are we doing out here?”

  “You recording?”

  Mack nodded.

  “Good. So am I.” She held up her phone. “Come on.”

  “Is that your car?”

  “No.”

  “Whose is it?”

  “Let’s find out,” Ryder said. She disappeared onto the path that led into the dark woods.

  Before the flashlight from Ryder’s cell phone was completely gone, Mack hustled after her.

  “Ryder, tell me what’s going on. Where are we going?”

  “Half a mile farther on this path,” Ryder said. “Thirteen, three, five. I can’t believe you’re doing a podcast about the Westmont Prep Killings and you don’t know what those numbers mean.”

  After half a mile, they came to a chain-link fence that had been sheared by bolt cutters and curled out of the way to allow access to a dirt path. They both ducked through. Not far past the fence, the path ended at the edge of the forest. A rusty chain sagged between two posts and dangled a PRIVATE PROPERTY sign. When they made it that far, Mack Carter was staring at the shadowy structure where fourteen months earlier the Westmont Prep students had been slaughtered.

  “So,” Mack said into his microphone as he collected himself. His voice trembled. “I’ve walked about a half mile into the woods and now, as the trees end, a path leads to the wrought iron gate that surrounds the abandoned house on the edge of the Westmont Prep campus. This is the house—”

  A thunderous rumble seemed to bubble up from the earth as he spoke, shaking the ground beneath him. Then a deafening whistle.

  “The train!” Ryder said as she took off toward the house.

  Mack hesitated only a second before he chased her. They followed the path around to the back of the house and then cut to the right as the trail led through a brief thicket of woods and ended at train tracks. The train was already thundering past when they arrived. Ryder held her phone in front of her as she videoed the passing cars, some of which were decorated with graffiti but moving too fast to decipher. It took three minutes before the rattling finally ended as the last car passed, leaving the night assaulted but quiet.

  Ryder pointed. “Holy shit.”

  Mack followed the direction of her finger across the tracks. There, on the other side, was a body lying in a heap. Ryder stepped onto the tracks and crossed. Mack took a quick glance in each direction and saw only the parallel rails as far as the night would allow. Then he stepped to the other side. When he approached the body, Mack followed the glow of Ryder Hillier’s cell phone as she recorded the finding. Under the glow of the light, Mack saw limbs at grotesque angles and the head bent to the shoulder, surely broken and unfixable. One leg was trapped under the body, the other bent like a hockey stick at the knee. Both arms were tucked close to the torso with hands sunk in the pockets of his jacket. Mack’s stomach roiled and he was tempted to look away, but something about the face drew Mack in. He slowly crouched down to get a better look. Through the blood and gore and the disfigured appendages, he recognized Theo Compton.

  PART II

  August 2020

  CHAPTER 7

  DR. LANE PHILLIPS SAT IN THE BACK SEAT AS THE CAB PULLED DOWN Michigan Avenue. He paged through his notes to bring himself up to date on the Westmont Prep Killings from the previous year. He had become lost in the pages and didn’t hear the cabbie until the Plexiglas partition rattled with knocking.

  “Here,” the cabbie said.

  Lane looked up from his notes. The cab driver stared at him in the rearview mirror and pointed out the passenger window. “We’re here.”

  Lane noticed the lobby of NBC Tower on Chicago’s Near North Side. He blinked his eyes a few times to come back from the pages that had set him in Peppermill, Indiana, and the gruesome killings that had taken place there.

  “Sorry,” he said as he closed his folder and handed his fare to the
driver.

  It was nine on a Tuesday morning, and Columbus Avenue was congested with foot traffic when he stood from the cab and looked up at NBC Tower. Lane Phillips was a forensic psychologist and criminal profiler. His best-selling true-crime book profiling the most notorious serial killers of the past fifty years—many of whom Lane had personally interviewed—had sold more than two million copies in its first year of release. The total was closer to seven million today, and the book showed little sign of slowing down. It was the go-to manual for anyone interested in the most heinous killers this world had to offer. Lane was a consultant for numerous crime shows, and his frequent television appearances, radio interviews, and op-eds kept him in the public eye. He was good in front of a camera, which made him a sought-after guest on both cable news and the morning programs whenever high-profile cases made it into the news cycle.

  A few years back, a North Carolina girl name Megan McDonald had gone missing for two weeks before miraculously escaping her abductor. In the aftermath, it was Lane Phillips whom the networks called to explain what the girl must have been going through as a survivor of abduction. A famed profiler, Lane was contacted by the FBI when Megan’s abduction was linked to the disappearances of other women so that Lane would create a profile of the man who might have taken them.

  All of Dr. Phillips’s talents, and the many opportunities they produced, required a talent agent to manage the offers that came to him. As Lane walked from the cab, Dwight Corey waited on the sidewalk outside of NBC Tower. Lane spotted him immediately. Even on the swarming streets of Chicago, which were populated by every category of businessperson, Dwight stood out in a crowd. He was a six-five black man who wore custom Armani suits when Lane joined him for Saturday afternoon lunch meetings. Casual for Dwight Corey meant that the crisply starched shirt he wore under his impeccably tailored jacket was without a tie. Today, though, for this meeting, Dwight sported a sharp green tie with a beige Armani suit. The French cuff sleeves of his shirt protruded perfectly and were highlighted by gold cuff links. His shoes carried some sort of glow that caused Lane to squint.

  Lane, on the other hand, gave off an entirely different aura. He wore dark jeans and a sport coat over an opened-neck oxford shirt. His shoes were comfortable and scuffed, and his hair was a mess of wavy locks that he controlled with an opened-palm swipe from front to back whenever the long strands fell into his face. He had carried this look when he was a poor PhD student hopping from one prison to another interviewing convicted killers, and despite a successful and prominent career, it had never varied.

  Lane extended his hand as he approached.

  “It’s been too long,” Lane said.

  “Good to see you, friend.”

  Lane pointed at Dwight’s shoes. “You have batteries in those things?”

  Dwight smiled. “A little style might do you well. But don’t worry, this new gig doesn’t include anyone looking at your ugly mug, or your terribly out-of-date sport jacket. I’ll only be subjecting the audience to your voice.”

  “This thing about the Westmont Prep Killings? It’s not for television?”

  “No. But it’s the hottest thing going at the moment.”

  “I thought you said Mack Carter was involved.”

  “He is. And he wants you badly.”

  “How badly?”

  Dwight slapped Lane on the back and looked at his watch. “Let’s go find out.”

  CHAPTER 8

  THEY SAT ACROSS FROM EACH OTHER AT A COFFEE SHOP IN THE LOBBY of NBC headquarters. Lane poured a second sugar into his coffee.

  “Sugar is one of our greatest carcinogens,” Dwight said. “Probably as bad as the tar in cigarettes, yet we ingest it every day. No lawsuits. No legislation. Just a happy bunch of zombies sucking on pixie sticks and dying of cancer.”

  Lane paused in mid-pour and looked up with mouth open and a confused expression on his face.

  “No,” Dwight said. “Don’t stop now, you’ve already poisoned it. You can’t undo it, and I’m not buying you another one.”

  “And you wonder why we don’t have face-to-face meetings as often as we used to.” After a brief pause, Lane finished emptying the sugar packet into his coffee. “The last time we went to dinner, you lectured me about my porterhouse.”

  “It wasn’t a lecture, I just pointed out where the meat came from and how it was harvested. Most folks don’t know.”

  “And I was very happy in my ignorance.” Lane took a sip of his coffee. “Ah, now that’s damn good.”

  “It’s like drinking hemlock.”

  Lane ran his hand through his hair. “I hope I live long enough to hear this offer. Tell me about it.”

  “Do you listen to podcasts?”

  “Podcasts? Yeah, I listened to one about bass fishing before I headed down to Florida last year. It didn’t help.”

  “Well, they’re big and popular at the moment. Radio, through the podcast medium, is making a comeback. It’s a similar phenomenon to what’s happening in television. Fewer people are watching broadcast television, but more people are streaming content. Radio is following the same path. No one listens to the radio anymore, but everyone is downloading podcasts. From politics to Zen parenting, there’s something for everyone within the ether of podcasting. But one specific genre in particular is generating huge audiences—true-crime. Right up your alley. Most of these podcasts simply rehash old crimes, attempting to retell the stories in a unique way. A few of them attract big advertisers and make legitimate income. But the podcasts that make it big, well, they never die. They run again and again as new listeners discover them. Years later, listeners can download old episodes. The podcast resells their product to other advertisers, over and over again. If you’re lucky enough to get a piece of the revenue, it could provide income for years.”

  Lane raised his eyebrows. “You want me to do a podcast?”

  Dwight held up a finger. “Not any podcast. The biggest one out there. NBC is producing it, and it’s already generated a massive audience after just four episodes.”

  Lane held up the folder he had been reading in the cab. “The Westmont Prep Killings?”

  “Correct.”

  “Is this about the video of that kid who jumped in front of the train?”

  “Theo Compton, yes.”

  “Isn’t the guy who uploaded that video to YouTube being sued by the kid’s parents?”

  “It’s not a guy, it’s a woman. A journalist named Ryder Hillier. And yes, she’s being sued by the family. YouTube banned the video, and now the footage is hard to find because it’s so heavily restricted and scrubbed from the Internet. It’s a perfect storm. An illicit video, a mysterious suicide, and a lawsuit. All tied to a huge, well-known murder case. Very bizarre, with a splash of gore and mystery. Everything true-crime fanatics salivate over. NBC has this podcast lined up to be the next big thing, including the investigator.”

  “Ah, this is where Mack Carter comes in.”

  “Correct. It’s ingenious. Mack is on hiatus from his nightly television show, specifically for the podcast. His absence from television gives the podcast more urgency. When his eight million nightly viewers see that he’s missing from the show and learn that he’s preoccupied with an important assignment, they’re naturally curious to know what the assignment is. People who have never listened to a podcast are starting to download it.”

  Mack Carter was the host of Events, the most popular newsmagazine show on television. Millions tuned in each night to watch Mack investigate everything from the JonBenét Ramsey case to the secrets of escaping from a submerged car. The tragic death of a family of four who drowned when their car veered into a retention pond prompted the live event when Mack drove a car into a swimming pool and then showed the world the best way to emerge alive. It was one of his most watched episodes and put Mack Carter on the map.

  “And now,” Dwight said, “in addition to a big case and a big host, they’ve got a big mystery. That’s where you come in. The YouTube vid
eo of that kid who jumped in front of the train? He was the third Westmont Prep student who survived the attack to go back to that house and kill himself on the tracks. Two girls, one guy. They all jumped in front of that freight train. The same train Charles Gorman—the teacher who was accused of killing the kids—jumped in front of as the police were getting ready to arrest him.”

  “Jesus Christ.”

  “The suicides have been a well-kept secret. Local law enforcement wanted to keep them quiet, but thanks to that video and Mack Carter’s podcast, they’re a secret no more. Mack is promising to get to the bottom of the mystery, and ratings are through the roof.”

  “And my role?”

  “NBC wants you, as a forensic psychologist, to figure out why, one by one, every student who survived that night is going back to that house to kill themselves.”

  Lane leaned back in his chair, staring up at the ceiling of the café. His mind was already creating a profile of the type of person who would return to a place of such trauma to end their own life.

  He finally looked back to Dwight. “From what I read about this case, Gorman jumped in front of that train but wasn’t successful at ending his life.”

  “No, he wasn’t,” Dwight said. “The train threw him twenty yards into the woods. The guy’s half a vegetable now, sitting in a secure psychiatric hospital wearing diapers and being spoon-fed. The three students who have actually succeeded at killing themselves have all used the exact spot Gorman attempted suicide. It’s located right next to the abandoned boarding house. And that’s where you come in. Mack Carter needs to tell his listeners why this is happening.”

  Lane shook his head, trying to take it all in.

  “Podcasts are suddenly sounding pretty good to you, aren’t they?”

  Dwight’s shiny gold watch beeped. He looked at it and then pointed to Lane’s coffee cup.