“We were playing on the tracks like we always did.”
“Like you always did?”
“Yeah. We came here all the time.”
“To do what?”
The kid shrugged again. “Watch the trains go by. See how close we can get to them. If you get close enough you can feel the wind move you.”
“Sounds dangerous.”
There was a short pause.
“I don’t know. I guess.”
“Is that what happened to William? He got too close to the tracks?”
“Kinda,” the kid said. “We were flattening pennies.”
Gus raised his eyebrows. “Doing what?”
The kid reached into his pocket and pulled out a penny. Gus saw that it was thin and flat and oblong. “We put pennies on the tracks and let the trains run them over. They look like this when we’re done.”
Gus took the penny from the kid. It was stretched thin and reminded Gus of a piece of Play-Doh but still sturdy and stiff. Lincoln’s face was recognizable in the copper, but there were no longer grooves or edges to his image. He ran his thumb over the surface. Smooth as a freshly sanded piece of wood.
“You said you come to the tracks a lot?”
The kid nodded.
Now Gus shrugged. “So you probably have other pennies?”
“Yeah,” the kid said without hesitation. “I have a bunch.”
“Yeah? Where?”
“My bedroom.”
Gus looked at the penny one last time and then handed it back to the kid.
“So what happened tonight? With William?”
“I don’t really know. He got too close, I guess. We both put our pennies on the track, and then the train came. I sort of backed away, but William stayed close and the train just... I don’t really know. He was just gone.”
“Can you show me where it happened? The spot where you and William were standing and where you placed the pennies?”
The kid shrugged one last time. “Sure.”
In the gritty glow of the rail yard lighting, with the dark night beyond, Gus followed the kid back to the tracks.
CHAPTER 69
LANE REMOVED THE BANDAGES FROM HIS HEAD AND CHECKED THE damage in the mirror. A large swath of hair had been shaved along the upper right side of his head, and the staples looked as if they were holding together a package of pork tenderloin. He briefly considered removing them himself, but he knew there would be hell to pay for such a stunt. He was already having trouble convincing Rory to go along with his plan. Ripping staples from his own head a week before they were due to come out would not help matters. He left them alone and took his first shower in nearly a week. It felt heavenly, despite the sting on his scalp.
He shaved and dressed in a button-down oxford and sport coat. His shaggy hair was long enough to hide the ribbon of baldness where the staples were located, but he opted for a ball cap to make sure he didn’t turn anyone’s stomach. He walked down the stairs and into the three-season room where Rory was working.
“What do you think?” he asked.
Rory looked up from the file she was reading.
“Ah, back to human,” she said. “The hat’s a nice touch. It clashes nicely with the sports jacket. How do you feel?”
“Like a hundred bucks.”
“Cute. Maybe you should rest for a couple more days before you do this.”
Lane shook his head. “Not a chance. This detective was anxious to talk, but also anxious in general. I got the impression it was now or never with this guy.”
“Then talk over the phone. What if you go all the way down to Florida for a dead end?”
“I’ve got a feeling the old-timer has something substantial for us. He said he wants to talk in person, wouldn’t do it over the phone. He’s one of those old-school dicks. He’s not about to give up information to a stranger over the phone.”
“Are you sure you’re up for this?”
“I’m sure.”
“The doctors said no driving for at least two weeks.”
“And I agree. I won’t be doing a lick of driving.”
The doorbell rang just as the words were out of his mouth.
“See? There’s my escort.”
Rory stood from her desk, putting her glasses on in the process. “I feel terrible that he came all the way down here for this.”
“Don’t,” Lane said. “I’ve made him a wealthy man over the years. Plus, he got me involved in this thing to begin with. He owes me.”
Lane walked out of the three-season room and to the front door. Dwight Corey, his agent, stood on the front porch. Dwight was dressed in gray tailored pants that fit him perfectly, bright almond shoes, and a button-down shirt that was without a hint of wrinkle.
“Now how the hell did you manage to drive down from Chicago without wrinkling your shirt?” Lane asked.
Dwight pinched his eyebrows together as he looked at Lane. “You look like crap. I’m not allowing you to wear a baseball hat with that jacket.”
“You should have seen him with his head bandaged,” Rory said.
Dwight leaned to get a look at Rory over Lane’s shoulder.
“Good to see you, Rory.”
“You, too, Dwight. Sorry to make you come all the way down here.”
“Not at all. I needed to check up on my star client, anyway.”
“Come on in,” Lane said.
Rory and Lane sat on the couch, Dwight in the adjacent armchair.
“All kidding aside, how you feeling, pal?” Dwight asked.
“Been better, but getting better, too,” Lane said.
“Good to hear it. Listen, I’m happy to help out, but there’s another reason I came, too. It has to do with both of you, actually.”
Lane looked at his watch. “We’ve got thirty minutes before we have to leave.”
“I’ll get right to the point. NBC has been in touch since... Mack Carter passed. They’re in a tough situation with the podcast. It’s very popular, with a huge following. They’ve put it on indefinite hiatus, but behind the scenes they’re looking for someone to continue the series. They floated the idea of you and Rory committing to eight episodes over the course of two months. One episode a week. Basically, they’re asking you to see what you can find, and report on it.”
Lane shook his head. “We’re not entertainers, Dwight. We’d do the podcast a disservice. And currently we don’t have anything to go on. We’re still chasing leads.”
“I thought you told me on the phone that you had an in with someone at the Peppermill Police Department.”
“We do. The detective in the Westmont Prep case has given us a peek into the files. But he did it off the record.”
“No one’s asking you to give up your sources. The network wants the podcast to continue, and they want you two to host it. They’ve made a lucrative offer.”
Lane glanced quickly at Rory. She didn’t need words to tell Lane what she was thinking. He stood up. “Let’s go to Florida. Podcasts aren’t our thing, Dwight. I was happy to offer my opinion, but I’m afraid hosting is not for me.”
“I had to ask,” Dwight said.
Lane strapped his bag over his shoulder and kissed Rory good-bye. “I’ll call you tomorrow after I hear what this detective has to tell me.”
“He can’t drive,” Rory said to Dwight.
“I’m on it,” Dwight said.
“And he’s supposed to get eight hours of sleep.”
“I’ll tuck him in tonight.”
“No alcohol, either,” Rory said.
Dwight winked at her. “I’ll watch him like a hawk.”
“A fifty-year-old man with babysitters,” Lane said as he walked outside. He climbed into the passenger seat of Dwight’s Land Rover and they headed for the airport to catch a seven P.M. flight out of Indianapolis.
Rory’s keen eye had discovered a promising thread that ran through the Westmont Prep mystery. That thread led to a retired detective in Florida and a case he had worked
years before. Lane hadn’t swallowed a pain pill for forty-eight hours. Besides a dull headache, his mind was clear and his thoughts were ordered. He was itching to get back to work. With only a light carry-on, he and Dwight made it through security without incident. By seven-thirty, the plane reached its cruising altitude. Lane reclined his first-class seat, pulled his ball cap down over his eyes, and fell asleep. He would land in Fort Myers, Florida, at 10:52 P.M. Eastern time.
CHAPTER 70
RORY WAS IN FULL BATTLE GEAR, THE AUGUST HEAT BE DAMNED. SHE wore her thick-rimmed nonprescription glasses on her face, her beanie hat low on her head, and her gray windbreaker buttoned up to her neck. She had her rucksack over her shoulder and, as always, her Madden Girl Eloisee combat boots on her feet.
Rory typically worked her cases solo. Besides her collaboration with Lane, her investigation into a cold case involved her, a box of files, and whatever clues waited to be discovered. Occasionally, though, the leads required interaction with other humans—Rory’s least favorite part of the job. She had already walked the crime scene with Henry Ott and had to endure the awkwardness of meeting Gabriella Hanover. Now the clues she had found in Theo Compton’s case file had led her to this coffee shop on a Friday night to meet with the reporter named Ryder Hillier. Nights like this were the hazards of her occupation—perils no workmen’s compensation package would cover.
She parked a block down from the corner coffee shop and was surprised by the crowd when she pulled the café door open. Young people fueled by caffeine tapped away on laptops and occupied every table in the place. She recognized Ryder Hillier from their meeting at the hospital, spotting her at a table near the back corner. She adjusted her glasses one last time, took a deep breath, and walked over.
“Hi,” Ryder said. “I was starting to think I had the time wrong.”
“Sorry,” Rory said. “I was in the middle of something and couldn’t get away.”
“It’s no problem,” Ryder said. “Want a coffee?”
Rory shook her head. “No thanks.” She sat down. “Sorry to call you out of the blue like I did, but I have a... favor to ask.”
Rory knew favors from journalists were never free.
Ryder nodded. “I’m listening.”
Rory saw the apprehension on Ryder’s face.
“I need to see the video you shot of Theo Compton the night he died. I’ve tried to find it on the Internet, but it’s gone.”
“Lawsuits seem to do that. It’s been scrubbed as if it never existed. Probably a good thing. I never should have posted it.”
“Do you still have the original, though? On your phone?”
Ryder nodded again.
“I need to see it.”
“Why?”
“Because of a thread I’m chasing.”
“So you are working the Westmont Prep case.”
Rory paused and looked around the café.
“Not officially,” she said. “But I’m quietly taking a look at the case.”
“What’s in it for me?” Ryder asked.
“Not much,” Rory said. “But if I find what I think is in the video, I’ll tell you my theory. I’d only ask that you not write about it for your paper. At least, not yet.”
“I don’t really have a paper at the moment. My editor and I are not seeing eye-to-eye about my current legal problems.”
Ryder took a sip of coffee.
“I’ll let you see the video if you not only clue me in on what you’re looking for but also bring me up to date on your other theories about the case. I won’t put any of it in the Star, but I’ll cover it on my true-crime blog.”
“How do you know I have any theories at all?”
“You’re a bit of a legend inside the true-crime world. There’s no way you’ve been in Peppermill for a week without coming to any theories.”
Rory reached for her beanie hat and adjusted it lower on her forehead. As usual, she was never as anonymous as she believed.
Rory nodded. “I’ll tell you what I have so far if you promise to give me a week before you write anything.”
“Deal.”
Ryder reached across the table to seal their agreement with a handshake. Rory shook her head.
“Honor system. Just two women agreeing to help each other.”
Ryder nodded and withdrew her hand.
“Let’s have a look at the video,” Rory said.
Ryder pulled out her phone and swiped the screen a few times, then scooted her chair so she was next to Rory. The video began to play. The footage was as bad as Rory remembered, with the screen mostly filled by black night with the occasional shaky image of foliage from the forest coming into view. Then the abandoned boarding house as Ryder ran past it. The audio was turned to high, and Rory heard a rumble from the phone’s speakers that was barely audible over the noise in the café. Then the train filled the screen, the blur of cars passing from right to left. It seemed to go on forever. Then, suddenly, the train was gone and the screen filled with black again until the wobbly image of Theo Compton’s body materialized.
“There,” Rory said. “Stop the video.”
Ryder touched the screen to pause the footage.
“Go back,” Rory said. “Just a few frames. Just after the train passes.”
Ryder slid her finger across the screen, pulling the speeding train backward into the shot and then moving forward in slow motion until the last car slid out of the frame. Then the grainy image of Theo Compton’s body materialized on the other side of the tracks.
“Go a little further,” Rory said.
Ryder let the video play for another second or two and then stopped when Rory asked.
“Look,” Rory said, pointing at the screen.
She had seen the video just once before, but in that single viewing she had remembered the exact position of Theo Compton’s body. Now, as she stared at Ryder Hillier’s phone, she knew for sure.
“Look at his hands,” Rory said.
Ryder pinched the still frame on the screen and then expanded her fingers to enlarge the image.
“What am I looking at?” Ryder asked.
“Both his hands are in his pockets.”
Ryder noticed that they were. “What does it mean?”
“People kill themselves by stepping in front of trains all the time,” Rory said. “According to the statistics, it’s one of the leading methods of suicide. I just wonder how many of those suicide victims are so calm about ending their lives that they keep both hands in their pockets as the train bears down on them.”
Ryder took a closer look. Theo Compton’s body lay faceup on the ground, both hands sunk into his pant pockets.
“The photos taken by the medical examiner show a different scene,” Rory said. “In those photos, Theo’s hands are out of his pockets.”
“We moved him,” Ryder said. “Mack and I. We didn’t know he was dead, so we moved him and tried to resuscitate him. Then, when the EMTs arrived, they did the same until they officially pronounced him dead and called the coroner. During all the jostling, his hands must have come out of his pockets.”
Ryder took her gaze from the phone and looked at Rory.
“I spoke with Theo’s mother earlier today. She was adamant that Theo would never kill himself. I wasn’t sure what to make of her argument, because it’s the same thing almost every parent would say. But maybe she was right. She said Theo called her the night before he died to warn her.”
“About what?”
“That he was going to tell Mack Carter something about the night of the Westmont Prep Killings that he and his friends hadn’t told the police.”
Rory kept her gaze focused on the image of Theo Compton’s body, his hands secured in the pockets of his jeans. “Maybe someone pushed him,” Rory said.
“And if someone pushed Theo, maybe they pushed the others.”
“Maybe,” Rory said, “someone pushed Charles Gorman, too.”
The Bronx, New York
The day after
the train had knocked William Pederson out of his shoes and dragged him for two football fields, Gus pulled to the curb outside the family’s two-story home. He slipped his arms into his suit jacket, walked up the stairs, and knocked on the front door. Mrs. Pederson answered. Gus noticed the same ruddy rings around her eyes and nostrils that he’d seen the night before. It had been a delirious night for her, Gus was certain. He’d seen other mothers who had lost their kids. It was a hazard of the job that he’d never fully learn to deal with.
“Mrs. Pederson,” Gus said. “Is now a good time to talk with your son?”
The woman nodded and opened the screen door. Gus walked into the home and followed her to the kid’s bedroom. She waited in the doorway while Gus stepped into the room. The kid was lying on his bed, one arm behind his head and with his legs crossed. A MAD magazine on his chest.
“Hey, buddy,” Gus said.
The kid looked up but didn’t speak.
Gus lifted his chin. “I used to read those when I was your age.”
“William had a bunch. He let me read them.”
Mrs. Pederson walked into the room and snapped the magazine from his hand. “I asked you not to touch these. William had them in chronological order and didn’t like you going through them.”
The kid put up no protest or resistance. He didn’t move, in fact, as his foster mother yanked the magazine away from him.
“He said I could look at them,” he said. “I wouldn’t have taken it if I thought he didn’t want me to have it.”
Gus looked at Mrs. Pederson and then back to the kid.
“If you don’t mind, I want to ask you some more questions about yesterday.”
The kid shrugged like he did the previous night. “You already asked a bunch.”
“I did. But I have a few more.”
The kid was silent.
“You and William? Were you guys close?”
“I don’t know. Sometimes, yeah.”
“You said that you and William went to the tracks all the time. Is that right?”
Another shrug. “Yeah. We went a lot.”
The Suicide House Page 22
