The Suicide House

by Charlie Donlea

  “Good. Your subject this summer is Mr. Gorman. In a nutshell, you’ll make summer very unpleasant for him. Tanner, do you have enough brain cells left to understand this?”

  A few of the seniors behind Andrew laughed.

  “After you have successfully completed the challenges, you will have an opportunity to become full members. This opportunity will present itself on June twenty-first, when you all gather in the woods behind this house on the night of the Man in the Mirror. You’ve probably all heard rumors about what takes place on the summer solstice, but trust when I tell you that whatever you’ve heard pales in comparison to the real thing. Those who make it through initiation remain members for life.”

  Andrew looked each of the juniors in the eye.

  “Are there any questions?”

  If there were, they didn’t have the chance to ask them. Just as Andrew finished speaking, the whistle of the train’s horn echoed in the distance.

  “The train!” one of the seniors said.

  Andrew smiled. “Time to move.”

  A rumble shook the walls, then a roar followed as the train approached.

  “Open the windows!” Andrew said, looking at the juniors. “Open everything!”

  Quickly, the seniors went to work pulling the spray-painted windows of the front room open. Others ran through the house doing the same. The doors to every room were thrown wide. In the kitchen, cabinets and pantries were ripped open.

  Gwen knew the folklore. The train that ran next to the abandoned boarding house carried the spirits of those who had been claimed by the Man in the Mirror. The spirits entered the house but could reside only in rooms with windows and doors that remained closed. Closets, dressers, armoires. The spirits could rest anywhere that was sealed.

  Gwen took off. She couldn’t tell if what she felt was a sense of dread or just silly excitement over being part of the myth she had heard so much about during her first two years at Westmont Prep. She raced up the stairs with Danielle. They went into the first bedroom and pulled open the windows. When they did, the growl of the passing freight train grew louder. They opened closet doors, bathroom cabinets, and an old trunk that sat in the corner. They ran from room to room and did the same until they were sure everything was open.

  When they made it downstairs, the others were returning from different parts of the house. In the front room Andrew began pulling a tarp over the tall standing mirror that rested in the corner. Spirits were also able to reside in uncovered mirrors, Gwen knew. And until the train was gone, one should never look at their own reflection.

  The train’s whistle blew just as Andrew cloaked the mirror. Before he had it fully covered, Gwen glanced at the surface for a split second. She was at a sharp angle and could not see her own reflection but had a clear view of Tanner’s. He was staring at the same spot on the mirror. Gwen closed her eyes and squeezed her lids tight.

  It was June 11. Ten days later, Andrew Gross would lay dead in that room and Tanner Landing would be impaled on the wrought iron fence outside.

  PART V

  August 2020

  CHAPTER 41

  IT WAS EVENING WHEN THE DOORBELL RANG. RORY AND LANE HAD BATTED ideas around all afternoon until Lane grew exhausted. He was on the couch with his head back against the cushions. Through the front window Rory saw an unmarked squad car pull into the driveway and park behind her own.

  “Detectives are here,” Rory said, instinctually securing her glasses. “Are you up for talking?”

  “If they’re here on a Sunday, I don’t think we have a choice.”

  Rory stood and headed for the door. She pulled her beanie cap low on her forehead before opening the door.

  “Ms. Moore,” Detective Ott said.

  “Detective. Come on in.”

  Rory stepped aside to allow the detective to enter the cottage. Lane stood on wobbly legs and shook hands with Ott.

  “Dr. Phillips. Henry Ott.”

  “Nice to meet you, Detective.”

  “We actually met already at the hospital, but you were just coming out of it.”

  “That’s right. I’m afraid my head is still ringing. You mind if I sit?”

  “Of course. I’ll be brief. Or we can do this another day when you’re feeling better.”

  “Let’s get it out of the way now,” Lane said.

  They sat around the front room table—Rory and Lane on the couch, the detective in the adjacent chair. Lane ran Detective Ott through his presence in Peppermill, the podcast, and his association with Mack Carter. He went step by step through his three days in Peppermill, finishing with the evening he had gone back to Mack’s place to review the audio from the night Mack had discovered Theo Compton’s body by the tracks near the abandoned boarding house.

  Ott listened carefully, asking few questions along the way. He pitched Rory a couple of lazy follow-ups from their first meeting. She recounted her version of events again. Besides having nothing to hide, she also had a photographic memory, so the second time through her story was a verbatim statement of the first—something that either solidified her honesty or shrouded it in doubt.

  “You’re the only detective I’ve ever talked to who doesn’t take notes,” Lane said.

  Ott shifted in his chair as if what he was about to say was uncomfortable.

  “Yeah, I guess my visit is both professional and personal. I’d rather not record it, in case what I’m about to ask doesn’t go over so well.”

  Lane nodded his head. “Ask away.”

  “Officially, the Westmont Prep Killings are closed and have been for a year. Charles Gorman was accused and, although not technically convicted through the court system, he’s our guy. He understood what he did and tried to get out of it by jumping in front of that train. We placed him under arrest and formally charged him in his hospital bed the next day while he drifted in a coma. He’ll likely never stand trial, but officially it’s a done deal.”

  “Officially,” Rory said.

  Ott ran his palm over the stubble of his chin.

  “Yeah. On the record, the case is closed. But off the record, something about it has never sat right with me. Ever since I showed up on Westmont Prep campus the night of the crime and drove in a golf cart through those woods to that horrific scene, things fell perfectly into place. Too perfectly. Don’t get me wrong, I was happy to close the case, and almost every bit of evidence we gathered led us to Gorman. But every time another student kills themselves, I question everything I’ve ever known about the case.”

  “Like what?” Rory asked. Her posture had changed. She was no longer sunk into the couch hoping for the cushions to hide her. She was now straight-backed and alert. Her mind allowed her thoughts to move only toward that which made no sense. Most people avoided confusion and chaos. Rory was drawn to it. The mysterious and unexplained intrigued her, and she could no more ignore them than a moth could resist a light source.

  “Well, the biggest question I ask myself is whether we got the right guy, or did something else go on that night? Is something still going on?”

  “That’s what Mack Carter was trying to figure out,” Lane said.

  “Yeah, well, that’s pop culture.” Ott waved his hand. “He was a television personality producing a podcast for sensationalism and for ratings and profit and celebrity. That’s why I never had any comment when he asked for it. I prefer to work in the shadows. I don’t need the public knowing every step I take on the case or every lead I come across. And I definitely don’t need citizen detectives chasing those leads.” Ott shook his head. “But now Mack is dead, and I’ve got a fire marshal thinking the gas leak at his house was manufactured.”

  Rory and Lane looked at each other. They hadn’t yet verbalized their fears about what had happened at Mack Carter’s house, but they both sensed the unasked questions that floated between them.

  “Someone wanted to stop Mack Carter from looking into this case?” Rory asked.

  “I guess that’s the million dollar question
,” Ott said.

  “The latest kid to kill himself, the Compton kid,” Lane said. “He talked with Mack. Part of the conversation was aired on the podcast. The kid made it sound like there was a group of students inside Westmont Prep who knew something about that night that they’ve kept to themselves. He said Gorman didn’t kill his classmates. Not in so many words, but he hinted at the idea.”

  “If those students exist,” Ott said, “they’re not talking. I’ve interviewed every kid at the school. Many of them more than once. None of them have anything new to say, so if there’s a group of kids who are hiding something, they’re staying quiet.”

  “Or killing themselves,” Rory said.

  There was a short stretch of silence in the room before Ott finally looked at Rory. “I guess that’s why I’m here tonight.”

  “Do you have a different theory about what happened?” Rory asked.

  “No. If I look back through the case, which I do every time another Westmont Prep kid commits suicide, just about everything still points to Charles Gorman.”

  “How did you get onto Gorman?” Lane asked. “From what I’ve learned so far, there was no physical evidence tying him to the crime scene.”

  “There wasn’t, but there was plenty of circumstantial evidence to go after him.”

  “You said just about everything pointed to Gorman,” Rory said. “What didn’t fit?”

  Detective Ott leaned forward to rest his elbows on his knees. “That’s my biggest problem.” He looked at Lane. “You have anything to drink?”

  “Unfortunately, not much. I’ve only been here a few days.”

  “We’ve got beer,” Rory said.

  “Could I have one?”

  “Sure thing,” Rory said, doing her best to act calm.

  But as she walked to the kitchen to pour a Dark Lord, her hands were trembling with impatience and her mind ravenous for information.

  CHAPTER 42

  “I ARRIVED AT THE BOARDING HOUSE IN THE EARLY MORNING HOURS,” Detective Ott said as he held a pint of Dark Lord in his hand while he leaned back in the chair. “Three or four o’clock. I found two dead kids. One was impaled on the gate outside, the other was in a puddle of his own blood in one of the rooms inside. Only one student remained at the house, a girl named Gwen Montgomery. She was in shock and sitting on the ground next to the kid on the gate. She had blood on her, and at first I thought she was injured. But most of the blood was Tanner Landing’s.” Ott took a deep breath. “She said she tried to pull him down off the gate before realizing it was futile. He was impaled quite dramatically. So she sat down next to him, called nine-one-one, and then rocked back and forth until the first responders arrived. She was so out of it, the officers allowed her to sit on the ground until I showed up.”

  Ott sat up and bit his bottom lip before shaking his head and looking at Rory.

  “This girl,” he said, “she’s the only thing that doesn’t make sense.” He took a long sip of stout. “The blood on her hands and chest? Most of it belonged to Tanner Landing, but some of it remains unidentified. We’ve never been able to place it, never figured out who that blood belongs to.”

  “What’s the girl say?” Lane asked. He, too, was sitting up and leaning forward toward the detective.

  “She said she ran through the woods to get to the house, where all the students planned to meet. When she arrived, she found Tanner on the gate and tried to lift him off, bloodying herself in the process. Says she never went inside. The unidentified blood was also found on Tanner Landing’s body. Not much, just traces. And there was a lot of blood at the scene. It looked like a goddamn slaughter. The Landing kid was cut across the throat and impaled through the chin and face. Most of the blood was his.”

  “So this unidentified blood could belong to the killer?” Rory asked.

  “It could, yeah,” Detective Ott said.

  “But the blood didn’t match Charles Gorman?”

  Ott took another long sip of beer.

  “It didn’t match anyone. Gorman, Gwen Montgomery, or any of the students. We tested the entire faculty, too. No match.”

  “You tested everyone?” Rory asked. “The entire staff, custodians, part-time employees?”

  “Anyone and everyone who stepped foot on that campus was tested,” Ott said. “All blanks.”

  “So how did you get on Gorman so fast?”

  “After I surveyed the scene, I allowed the crime scene guys to do their work of documenting everything—photo and video. The house, the bodies, the woods, the train tracks. While they were working I went back to the main campus and started gathering information. The whole campus was awake by that time, maybe five or six o’clock, with whispers about what had happened out at the abandoned boarding house. I had the dean of students, Dr. Gabriella Hanover, by my side. She walked me through the dorms. I questioned every student that morning. Quickly, informally, just to get a feel for what had happened. Most had no idea about the boarding house. But a few said they were there. They had gone the back way through the woods, and when they arrived at the house they saw Tanner Landing on the gate, panicked, and ran back to campus to call for help. The timing of the calls adds up. The Montgomery girl called first, and then a series of calls followed. I’ve read all of the nine-one-one transcripts and listened to the recordings. They all sound like panic-stricken teenagers.

  “None of the students’ stories sounded suspicious, and they all matched closely enough for my liking. None were on my radar at the time. Gwen Montgomery was the only student I didn’t question that night. The EMTs transported her by ambulance to the hospital, where she spent the day and following night before they discharged her. By then, I was a day into my investigation and already on Gorman’s trail.

  “I talked with the faculty that morning after I questioned the students. I spoke with the assistant headmaster, Dr. Christian Casper. I spoke with a couple of teachers. The faculty was thin because it was summer and most of the teachers were gone. Nothing was interesting me during these interviews until I knocked on duplex number fourteen.”

  “Gorman’s place,” Lane said.

  “As soon as he opened the door, I knew something was up. He was very nervous and evasive with his answers. There were a lot of inconsistencies with where he was the previous night and who he was with. I put him high on my initial list and told my supervisor about my suspicions. It was later in the day, after we pulled Tanner Landing off the fence and got him to the morgue, that we gained access to the kid’s phone. We discovered a video that appeared to be shot through a bedroom window. The video depicted Charles Gorman . . .”

  Ott glanced quickly at Rory and then took another sip of beer.

  “Uh . . . mid-coital and in a state of ecstasy.”

  “Screwing?” Lane asked.

  “Yeah. The video was of Gorman having sex in his bedroom and was . . .” Detective Ott looked up at the ceiling as he again searched for words. “The video was a total breach of privacy and could be considered quite embarrassing. We later learned that the Landing boy had uploaded the video to a social media site. The time line shows that he did this a few hours before he was killed.”

  Rory and Lane looked at each other. Partners in business for fifteen years, and lovers for more than a decade, they needed only eye contact to know what the other was thinking. Lane’s profile of the killer included the likelihood that Tanner Landing’s death—a wrought iron tine through the head—had been an act of revenge. The news of this video made the small oval on Lane’s Venn diagram, the one that included the overlapping characteristics of Gorman and the Westmont Prep killer, grow a bit larger.

  “I managed a search warrant the following day. Gorman wasn’t home when Drs. Hanover and Casper unlocked his front door for us. We searched the house and found his manifesto hidden in a wall safe in his den.”

  “Manifesto?” Rory asked.

  “Three handwritten pages describing in exact detail what he planned to do to Tanner Landing and Andrew Gross. It was a
verbatim description of the crime scene. He named his victims. He described the way he would kill each of them. I later learned that Gorman had been the target of some sort of hazing by these two students. The video was the last straw and seemed to set him off. After we found the manifesto, we had enough to bring him in. The only problem was that we couldn’t find him. We thought he ran, so we started looking for him. Put out an all-points to track him down.”

  “When did you find him?”

  “One of our uniforms was at the crime scene, out at the abandoned boarding house. We were still collecting evidence at that point. When he did a sweep of the area surrounding the house, he found Gorman out by the train tracks. He’d jumped in front of the train. My guy thought he was dead at first, but he wasn’t. We got medics on the scene and they kept him alive. They stabilized him at the hospital, but he was comatose for weeks before he finally opened his eyes. But Charles Gorman never really came back to us. His mind was gone. Traumatic brain injury left him in a persistent vegetative state.”

  “Brain dead,” Lane said.

  Detective Ott nodded. “He was eventually transferred to Grantville Psychiatric Hospital for the Criminally Insane. In fourteen months, he’s never spoken a word. The doctors say he never will. I go to see him every so often. I used to go to make sure he knew I got him. Lately, though, I go to see if he’s capable of telling me I got it wrong. He barely blinks when I’m in the room. I chased a few leads after Gorman tried to kill himself, just to tie up loose ends. They never led anywhere. Gorman was our guy, and that was that.”

  Rory adjusted her glasses again. “It adds up to a pretty convincing circumstantial case,” she said. “A man with motive for revenge and a manifesto that’s practically a confession.”

  “And we think Gorman understood this, which is why he tried to end his life.”

  “The only thing that never made sense was the unidentified blood?”

  Detective Ott cocked his head back and downed the rest of his Dark Lord. “And the kids who keep throwing themselves in front of trains.”