The Suicide House

by Charlie Donlea

  She grabbed another Diet Coke from the fridge and heard the chair in the upstairs loft skid across the floor. She knew Lane was back at his computer, plugging more markers into the MAP database and looking for any connection he could find that dealt with suicides and pennies flattened on train tracks. Lane had spent most of the previous afternoon working on Rory’s penny discovery—cataloguing each hit the database spit out and trying to make sense of it all. Late last night he said he had come across a promising lead. She was anxious to hear what he’d found, but just like Rory, Lane had his own quirks. One of them was the need for isolation while he was in the middle of a project. She’d give him space until he was ready to share what he had learned.

  She sat back down at the desk in the three-season room. It was nearly ten o’clock when she moved her attention to the evidence box. Across from her was the corkboard that held the faces of the Westmont Prep students and the man accused of killing them. She pulled Theo Compton’s file in front of her. Rory had read through it once before, on the first night after Detective Ott had delivered the box of files. She read it again now. Her mind had recorded everything during her initial reading, but a distant thought kept bubbling to the surface of her mind—a subconscious inkling she could not immediately identify or recognize. Rory only knew that this underground thought needed excavating. If Rory ignored this notion, if she failed to dig and find its significance, some part of her mind would be forever preoccupied with what she had missed. Soon, that preoccupation would turn into an obsession. The obsession, if not quelled, a compulsion. In her everyday life, Rory fought against this affliction. In her day-to-day routine, this type of thinking was an illness powerful enough to ruin her life. In her work, however, Rory harnessed that illness and all its idiosyncrasies to find what everyone else had missed.

  She pulled photos from Theo’s file and laid them on the desk. They were large eight-by-ten prints of the train tracks, Theo Compton’s body, shoe prints, and the surrounding area. During Rory’s first time through the file, she had been focused on the flattened and oblong penny found in Theo’s pocket at the time of his suicide. But there was something else. Something her subconscious mind had noticed. She worked now to figure out what it was.

  The photos had been taken by medical legal investigators from the LaPorte County coroner’s office and were shot after Mack Carter had called 911 and after EMTs had arrived on the scene to attempt to revive the victim. In the process, they had repositioned Theo Compton’s body before pronouncing him dead. The folks from the coroner’s office arrived next to document the scene. Despite the photos Rory studied now, she remembered a different image of Theo Compton. This snapshot that blinked in and out of her memory was taken before the medical legal investigators or coroner or EMTs had arrived on the scene. It was from when Mack Carter had found Theo’s body. There was a recording of that moment, and Rory had seen it. The shaky video Ryder Hillier had taken was a grainy, poor quality cell phone recording with only the phone’s flashlight attempting to break through the ink-black night. Despite the amateurish quality of the video, Rory remembered something about the recording now. Whatever it was had been stored in her mind, where it sat dormant and untouched. But tonight as she stared at the crime scene photos of Theo Compton’s body, that other image came to life. Something about it was clawing at her brain and causing the synapses of her mind to fire. Rory tried to conjure the image and figure out what was bothering her, but the notion was just out of reach.

  She opened her laptop and pulled up Ryder Hillier’s blog, hoping to view the video. But the footage had been restricted. Rory checked the journalist’s YouTube channel next, only to find the same result. She searched the Internet, but every site that promised the forbidden recording was a dead end. This video is no longer available was listed on each link Rory clicked. The recording was gone.

  Rory sat back in her chair. There was something about the video that didn’t match the photos she was looking at now. She closed her eyes and attempted to spin the scroll of information in her mind back to the moment when she had viewed the video. No matter how hard she tried, though, she could not raise the image she knew was there. She knew only that the stored image had her questioning an assumption everyone had made to this point.

  What if the Westmont Prep students hadn’t been committing suicide? What if they had been killed?

  Rory stood from the desk and grabbed her rucksack, then unzipped the front compartment and pulled out the business card Ryder Hillier had given her the night they met at the hospital. She clicked her phone to life and dialed.

  CHAPTER 62

  RYDER HILLIER SAT ACROSS FROM THEO COMPTON’S MOTHER AT THE kitchen table. She had made the four-hour drive to Cincinnati early Friday morning, and now, at just past ten, Ryder accepted Mrs. Compton’s offer of coffee. The steam spiraled up from the mug when Paige Compton placed it in front of her.

  “Thanks for coming all this way,” Mrs. Compton said.

  “Of course,” Ryder said. “Thank you for inviting me. I’m anxious to hear your story, but I want to mention again how very sorry I am for posting that video of your son. Please believe me when I say I’m filled with regret and remorse.”

  “Thank you for saying that. But whether you posted that video or not, my son would still be gone. Tell me,” Mrs. Compton said as she sat down at the kitchen table, “how did you know Theo would be at the boarding house that night?”

  Ryder put her hands around the hot mug to keep them occupied. She was still hesitant to be sitting in the Comptons’ kitchen—first because of the lawsuit Paige Compton had levied against her, and second, because if her editor found out she was chasing this story, he’d fire her on the spot.

  “Theo left a message on Mack Carter’s podcast website,” Ryder said. “The message indicated that he’d be out at the house that night.”

  “Doing what?”

  “At the time I read the message, I had no idea.”

  “What did the message say?”

  “Haven’t the police gone through this with you?”

  “No. They’ve barely talked to me. They informed me that Theo killed himself but haven’t given me or my husband a second thought since. And because we’re so far away, all we can do is leave messages and hope for a call back.”

  “Would you like to see the message Theo wrote?” Ryder asked. “I could pull it up on my phone.”

  Mrs. Compton’s eyes grew wet with tears. She nodded.

  On her phone, Ryder pulled up The Suicide House web page. It had been two weeks since the last episode aired, and despite the death of Mack Carter she knew his massive audience was hoping for further installments. She scrolled through the message board until she found Theo’s cryptic comment. “Here. It said, ‘MC, thirteen, three, five. Tonight. I’ll tell you the truth. Then, whatever happens, happens. I’m ready for the consequences.’ ”

  Mrs. Compton took the phone when Ryder offered it.

  “What do the numbers mean?” Mrs. Compton asked as she stared at the message.

  “They’re coordinates of sorts. Directions on how to get to the abandoned boarding house through a back route.”

  “How did you know what they meant?”

  “I’ve done quite a bit of research on Westmont Prep since the killings last summer, and I have written about it on my blog. During my research, I stumbled across the coded message. An alumnus I interviewed clued me in on the meaning. It sounded as if most of the student body knew what the numbers stood for. There’s some folklore around the code, and a lot of rumor and speculation about what goes on at the boarding house.”

  “Does it have to do with that game they were playing?”

  Ryder shrugged and shook her head. “I’m not sure exactly. I only knew that Theo was asking Mack Carter to meet him out at the boarding house. That’s why I went. I was chasing a scoop. Trying to break a story and be the first to report on it.”

  “What sort of breaking news did you think you’d find?”

 
; “I wasn’t sure. I knew that Theo had started to reveal some details when talking with Mack Carter before he decided against it at the last minute. Your son was featured on one of the podcast episodes. I’ve always believed there’s more to the Westmont Prep story than what’s out there, and I suppose I figured your son knew something about it. But please believe me when I tell you that I had no idea I’d find Theo the way I did.”

  Mrs. Compton sat in silence until she looked up from the phone and stared Ryder in the eye.

  “Why would my son ask an investigative reporter, who was doing a podcast about the murders at his school, to meet him at the very place where the murders took place, only to kill himself before that reporter arrived?”

  The question was so blunt and direct that it caused Ryder to blink several times as she considered it.

  “I... don’t know,” Ryder finally said.

  “Theo never talked to me much about what happened the night he and his friends went to that house in the woods. He never talked about the boys who were killed last summer. He said it was too hard to discuss and that the doctors at school were helping him and the students get past the tragedy. I never pushed. I thought he was going through enough without his mother nagging him. But then Theo called me. It was the night before he died. He said he was worried.”

  “Worried about what?” Ryder asked

  “About what he was thinking of doing.”

  Ryder leaned forward. The steam from her coffee rose up into her chin. “What was he thinking of doing?”

  “He said he was going to talk to a reporter about what happened that night in the woods, and about some things that were going on since that night.”

  “What things?”

  “Theo had a group of friends he was close with at Westmont. Kids he had known since freshman year. He said they had something they wanted to tell the police about that night. Theo said he was ready to get it off his chest.”

  “What was it?”

  Mrs. Compton shook her head. “He never told me. He was only calling to warn me that it was going to get him in some trouble. He said he couldn’t hide it anymore. He knew something about his chemistry teacher. The one who killed those boys.”

  “Mr. Gorman? What did Theo know?”

  “Again, he never told me. But he wanted to tell someone and had decided that someone should be Mack Carter. But before he did . . .”

  Mrs. Compton began to cry.

  “But before he did...” Ryder said with a measured tone. “Theo killed himself?”

  Mrs. Compton shook her head. “Not my Theo. He would never do that.”

  Ryder allowed the implication to settle. But she needed to be sure she was on the same page.

  “So, if Theo didn’t kill himself . . .”

  Mrs. Compton looked up, tears rolling down her cheeks. “Someone killed him. Someone who didn’t want Theo to talk about whatever happened with his friends that night.”

  Ryder scooted her chair forward a bit. “Have you spoken to the police about any of this?”

  “I’ve tried,” Mrs. Compton said. “I’ve tried to convince them that Theo would never end his own life. He would never do that to his family. But they won’t listen to me. They think I’m just a grieving mother unable to come to terms with her son’s suicide. That’s why I called you. The police are not going to give my son’s death a second thought. But I know you will. I need your help. I need you to figure out what Theo wanted to get off his chest. What he was going to tell Mack Carter.”

  So many things ran through Ryder’s mind. The Westmont Prep case was not dead. She was suddenly looking at it from a new perspective, coming at it from a different angle, armed with a conclusion no one else had made. She knew cold cases were solved when new eyes looked at old evidence.

  “Okay,” Ryder finally said, collecting her thoughts. “I’m going to look into this for you. See what I can find. I’ll do what I can, but no promises that I’ll make any progress. I think I’ll start with Theo’s friends.”

  “That’s the problem,” Mrs. Compton said. “There are only two of them left. And for all I know, they were the ones Theo was scared of.”

  Before Ryder could ask another question, her phone rang.

  CHAPTER 63

  GWEN MONTGOMERY CLIMBED THE STAIRS OF THE LIBRARY BUILDING until she reached the top floor. Six sturdy wooden desks were positioned in precise order between shelves that held old periodicals and encyclopedias. Students came here for quiet. Students came here to really study, not to chat and laugh like what happened on the main floor of the library. During summer session, with only a scant number of students on campus, the upper level of the library was always vacant. It had become the spot for her meetings with Gavin. The dorm had been deemed too dangerous for their discussions.

  She walked to the row of windows that overlooked the front entrance of campus—the giant brick pillars that were connected by the tall wrought iron gate that ceremoniously closed each year on Gate Day, trapping the students inside. Although not visible from her perspective inside the library building, Gwen knew the windows she looked through now were positioned just below the etched letters on the building’s pediment that reminded students that they came to Westmont Prep alone but left together. She wondered now if she’d ever leave at all.

  “Hey,” Gavin said in a whispered voice behind her.

  She startled and turned away from the windows.

  “What’s wrong?”

  His question, all by itself, bothered her. Gavin knew goddamn well what was wrong, and his nonchalance about the situation had always disturbed her, but never more so than over the last few weeks. Their actions had affected so many lives.

  “I feel like we have no idea what’s going on,” she said. “We have no idea what anyone knows. Ever since the podcast ended, and Ryder Hillier’s site was scrubbed, we’ve been in the dark.”

  “That’s a good thing,” Gavin said. He walked closer to her. “Remember how worried you were when we heard about the podcast in the first place? The less people poke around, the better for us.”

  “But at least we had information to go on. At least we knew what the pulse of the investigation was. Now, we know nothing.”

  “We know no one’s asking to talk to us. That’s all we should care about at the moment. You want people poking around? You want to see what would have happened if Theo had spilled his guts?”

  “Jesus, Gavin! You talk like it’s a good thing that Theo killed himself.”

  “It’s a goddamn tragic thing! But it might have been worse had he told Mack Carter about that night. Shit, Gwen. I’m the only one thinking clearly here. And for that, I’m crucified. Where would we be right now if I weren’t holding things together?”

  She didn’t answer.

  “Listen,” Gavin said, his tone softer. “I know this is hard. But we don’t have a choice anymore. We did at one point, and we made our decision. Now we have to ride this out. We have to stick together. We’re the only ones left, Gwen. It’s just me and you.”

  Gwen nodded and shook her head. She wrapped her arms around her boney shoulders and hugged herself.

  “I just wish we had a way of knowing about the investigation. I wish we had a way of knowing what they know.”

  “Don’t you see? A lack of information is a good thing. It means they don’t know anything. And as long as you and I stick together, it will stay that way.”

  He came over and took her in his arms. But Gavin’s touch had lost its comfort. He was no longer endeared to her. He had changed so much since last year that Gwen barely recognized him.

  CHAPTER 64

  GWEN WIPED THE TEARS FROM HER EYES AS SHE WALKED FROM THE library. The pressure was starting to crush her. It was actually far past starting. It was killing her. It was as if she had been carrying a massive boulder on her shoulders for the past year, struggling with quivering thighs to move through life. Finally, after fourteen months, it was too much to bear. Gavin’s words no longer comforted her. His
reassurances that time would heal her wounds and take away her guilt were no longer believable. He was part of it all. He was, perhaps, the cause of it all. It had been his idea.

  Without Gavin, Gwen needed someone to guide her. She couldn’t turn to her parents. Not now. Not after so much time had passed. Dr. Hanover’s efforts, too, had been ineffective. Only one person had ever eased her pain. Only one person had quelled her guilt for that night. She trusted him with her life, and with no one else to turn to, she finally decided to tell him everything.

  She walked through campus until she reached Teacher’s Row. She didn’t look at number fourteen when she passed it. Doing so reminded her of the night she and her friends had wreaked so much havoc. The night her life changed forever. How different things would be had they not gone to Mr. Gorman’s duplex that night. How different her life would look today had they not taken that video or followed Tanner Landing like a herd of sheep. Gwen pushed the memories and what-if thoughts from her mind. She’d driven herself mad over the last year with dreams of going back in time. Of fantasies that the clock could be turned back for her, that she could change the decisions she made that night.

  When she reached Dr. Casper’s duplex, she walked up the stairs and knocked. The front door opened. She didn’t give him the chance this time to protest her presence. She didn’t give him the opportunity to refuse her pleas for help.

  “I have to talk with you,” she said, and then walked past him and into the front room that acted as his office. She took a seat in the high-backed plush chair where she had always sat during her sessions with him, until she had been reassigned to Dr. Hanover after the killings.

  It took a while before Dr. Casper appeared in the doorway. Gwen could sense his apprehension, as if he knew her words were about to change her life. As if he knew she was fragile and on the brink. She saw him morph into the person he had always been to her. The doctor who had always known how to help her. Someone who would never turn her away, no matter how terrible a thing she had done.