by Susan May
Most of her work was puff pieces. Marcus was right about that. She wondered if his occasional nagging about them was his way of testing her, see if she had grown stronger without having to come right out and ask the question.
What was wrong with writing about banal things like how to get your start in business; ten things airline hostesses don’t want you to know; and interviews with best-selling novelists and comedy film stars? People enjoyed reading them or she wouldn’t keep winning the commissions. These articles were magazines’ bread and butter, and they always seemed to be the ones she was working on when Marcus asked what she was doing. The Pulitzer Prize-winning articles were never given to freelancers like her. She was fine with that, too. From the first few articles she wrote twelve years ago for Seventeen, Family Fun, and Entertainment Weekly, her career had pretty much travelled down the fluff-piece path.
Kendall opened up a fresh browser and Googled Toby Benson. He was on Facebook, Twitter, LinkedIn, and a website called ListenFM (the last being just someone with the same name as his).
When she clicked through to his Facebook account, she found he had 232 “friends.” Over the past twenty-four hours, dozens of posts had been left on his page. Most were from real friends, sharing an outpouring of shock and horror, all messages of condolence, the presiding sentiment being there must be some mistake, that Toby Benson was no killer.
“Good buddy, tell me this is a mistake. This can’t be true.”
“Toby, you will be loved and missed.”
“God bless you and condolences to the Benson family.”
Toby’s account settings must have allowed anyone to post to his page. Comments from people who clearly weren’t his friends shared the feed.
“You fu*&!@# lunatic. Shooting was too good for you.”
“You should have been hacked to pieces or hung.”
“Hope hell is hell!”
Many more continued in that vein. Arguments had sprung up between his friends and these posters. His friends continued to defend the impossibility they knew someone who’d become a cold-blooded killer. Twitter had a similar mix of sentiment among Toby’s 332 followers. When Kendall read back over Toby’s comments and tweets of the previous few days, there did appear no indication he harbored any thoughts of randomly venturing out hell-bent on murder. In fact, he seemed very normal, sharing snippets of weekend activities: a party, a lunch, and an evening watching Netflix. Just like everyone else, he was gorge-viewing Breaking Bad.
Somewhere, at this moment, a freelancer was probably writing a story on violent TV shows inciting murder.
Another twenty minutes of checking the first few pages of Google results for Toby Benson, and Kendall began to feel as surprised at Benson’s actions as his friends. She’d found no comments about him hating the world or being unhappy; no pictures of him holding a rifle, à la Lee Harvey Oswald before he assassinated President Kennedy; not even an Instagram account picture of him holding as much as a bread knife, let alone an axe.
It was weird that a guy who looked so normal could do something so abnormal. Kendall was no investigative journalist, but surely there should be something. Maybe it was drugs or a broken relationship? Or was there a crazy switch in people’s heads? And Toby Benson’s crazy switch simply got flicked?
Now there was an article title: “The Crazy Switch: How to keep yours turned off?”
She made a note on the ‘pitch’ pad by her computer. It was stuffed full of ideas and thoughts with potential to become stories.
Really, though, she was procrastinating, delaying getting out there and talking to someone who’d experienced crazy. She was truly a wuss. Hearing the gory details, and asking the questions surrounding death and violence was probably her worst nightmare.
“How does it feel to know you came this close to death?”
“Does this make you appreciate your loved ones?”
Even thinking about it, the back of her neck suddenly felt clammy.
Kendall navigated back to The Western’s News page, to find it updated with further information. Now they had a quote from Toby Benson’s sister.
“My brother was the sweetest, kindest man you would ever meet. Our family is shocked and devastated.”
This new article contained pictures of survivors. Beverley Sanderson—mid-forties, shaggy blonde hair, well-groomed eyebrows, and over-pink lipstick—was one of three people whose photo was subtitled “survivor.” Kendall read the entire article, but found no quotes from any of the witnesses.
Something about the smiling persona of the polished looking Mrs. Sanderson made Kendall think she might be the person to approach, that she might be willing to talk. After years of interviewing people, Kendall had a feel for who was a talker and who wasn’t. Time was the issue. In order to get to these witnesses before a big media outlet pulled out an equally big checkbook, she needed to move.
Searching through the online phone directory, Kendall immediately found Beverley Sanderson. The listing read B & R. Sanderson. “R,” no doubt being the husband, Roy, who was, also, mentioned below the photo. If this was the same woman—and Kendall was pretty certain it was—she lived only a few blocks away.
Kendall scribbled down the address, quickly changed her clothes—tracksuit and slippers just didn’t give her the right air—and headed out the door. The address was close enough to walk. She decided not to call first and give the Sandersons a chance to say “no” to an interview. Most interviewees found Kendall’s enthusiastic and easy style relatable. Complete strangers found themselves opening up to her about the most intimate and personal experiences.
Her stomach filled with stone at the thought of hearing gruesome details. You need this commission. This would also prove to Marcus she was tough, that she’d grown up. She imagined the look of pride on her brother’s face as he read the article.
Kendall hurried out the door, grabbing her laptop bag and an apple as she did. Today hadn’t started well, but it was getting better by the hour. Even her headache had faded. This massacre was a horrific event, but a girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do to pay the rent. Even if that meant dealing with the nightmares that would invariably follow.
Chapter 6
O’GRADY STOOD IN THE KITCHEN staring at the pools of dried blood. Trip was out in Café Amaretto’s dining room among the ruins of what had only hours before been a bustling eatery.
He wondered what would become of the place and if it would ever recover. Eventually the murders would become folklore, but it might take several reincarnations of the business for people to forget. At the very least they would need to re-staff their kitchen. Basically the premises was screwed as any type of food establishment in the near future.
Forensics had already been over the place. The remnants of their visit—dozens of little numbered a-form placements littered around the kitchen and dining room—told of the hive of activity in the preceding hours. It would take days to process the scene. Not that it mattered hugely. There wasn’t going to be a trial. Benson had seen to that.
Lesson one for mass killers who want to survive: when police arrive, put down your weapon. No guarantees even then, but if you wave the weapon you’ve just used to slaughter innocent people, don’t wave said implement at armed human beings, police or not. The result rarely goes your way.
Trip and he planned to run interviews today with the witnesses—thirty-four freaked out patrons, four wait-staff, one female owner who ended up in hospital overnight under sedation, and several passers-by who witnessed something they would never forget. By night they should have a clear picture of events.
Preliminary interviews puzzled O’Grady. Toby Benson was unknown to the wait-staff as far as they could remember. Arriving around nine-thirty, he’d smashed in the kitchen door, then proceeded to go crazy with an axe.
Normally these situations turned out to be an ex-employee, a spurned ex-husband of an employee, or at least someone with an axe to grind (excuse the pun). They still hadn’t found any connect
ion. Nada. This Benson character had simply flipped out—O’Grady’s bet was a mental illness—and his victims were simply in a “wrong place, wrong time” scenario. O’Grady’s experience told him if it looked like a crazy fish, smelled like a crazy fish, then that’s what you were cooking … a crazy fish.
Examining the damaged kitchen door, O’Grady ran a cautious finger over the lock’s remnants. The door was badly splintered; thin, jagged pieces of white wood stuck out at haphazard angles.
He pushed gently with his right hip to force the door open, keeping his hands in the air so he didn’t touch anything and contaminate evidence the CSI team hadn’t already noted.
Out in the alley, he carefully scanned the area. More yellow evidence markers littered the narrow laneway. Several forensic officers wearing thin white suits from head to toe moved slowly around, bending every few feet to examine something that had caught their eye. Down the end of the alley, where the entrance opened into the busy early morning street, yellow police tape flapped in the breeze. Just behind the tape, an officer stood, arms folded, staring out at the gathered crowd of curious onlookers.
O’Grady turned back to look at the door. Splinters of wood hung from around the lock. If nothing else, the guy was determined. Why had he picked this door, in this lane, when there were countless other restaurants and bars? The million-dollar question.
The detective took one more glance down the very ordinary-looking access lane and walked back in. He regarded the kitchen from the point of view of the killer upon first entering. The blood on the floor where the waitress had died drew his eye. The coroner had removed the body a few hours earlier. Poor girl. She was only twenty, waitressing to pay her college tuition.
Over by the kitchen sink they’d found the kid. O’Grady would never forget that image. He’d seen a lot in his eighteen years on the job, with twelve as detective, but what that freak had done to the kid was horrendous.
One of the beat police first on the scene had lost his lunch and his dinner within twenty seconds of walking in. Fortunately, he’d made it to the lane, so he hadn’t polluted any evidence. O’Grady had taken a moment, too.
The boy’s body had been nearly hacked in two. The first strike caught him full in the right shoulder, cutting through down to the armpit, severing the appendage from his body. Still alive after the first blow, he had tried to escape but looked to have fallen on oil spilled on the floor.
While he lay there defenseless, the killer had swung his axe with such force it took only a few blows to tear the kid apart. All Benson left were two halves of the kid’s body—upper and lower torso, joined by small threads of muscle—and his arm back by the sink.
The kid was seventeen. Jesus Christ. What the fuck was that?
O’Grady didn’t envy the coroner’s job. At least his conclusion wouldn’t be cause of death: unknown. This was an open and shut case. Death by lunatic.
You caught one of these cases rarely. If you were lucky—or unlucky, depending on your viewpoint—it could be considered a bonus. Another type of personality might dine out for a lifetime on a case like this. There might even be accolades or a promotion for closing it swiftly and putting the public’s collective mind at rest.
O’Grady preferred to keep a low profile. He didn’t like tributes. He didn’t talk about his job. He was haunted enough by past events without rehashing the unsettling violent aspects of his career. Those memories he compartmentalized for his own sanity, only bringing them out if a case required it of him.
In this case, where he and Trip were there to simply mop up evidence and do the paperwork, “tying bows” was all he would focus on. Let the profilers sift through the life of Toby Benson and come up with the reasons, to give everyone a better night’s sleep.
He glanced at another pool of blood near the boy’s. The chef, a hefty man, bled out quickly. For him, at least, death was quick. O’Grady stared at the mottled dried stains of sticky, rust-brown, clotted with black globules. Of all the “make you, break you” cases he could snag, this one he’d have happily missed. Even with his mantra of leaving work at work, he didn’t think the images would leave him for a long while. Italian was off the menu for the near future, too.
When he closed his eyes tonight, exhausted, he knew his mind would continue to circle one question: what would possess someone to massacre these people? If you wanted to make a case for evil, there was the confirmation, pooled in vivid red on this kitchen floor.
Chapter 7
KENDALL HAD NEVER AMBUSHED SOMEONE for a story. She wasn’t one of those hard-nosed journalists who ran down the street after people shouting, “What do you have to say about ripping off old people?” Anyway, she probably wasn’t fast enough to pursue anyone more than ten feet while holding a microphone. What she did have was a natural curiosity and, after all these years, a good instinct for people and stories.
She stood on Beverley Sanderson’s doorstep wondering if her knock would bring anyone to the door, forcing herself to breathe deeply to calm her nerves. She’d managed only about two breaths before the sound of footsteps inside sent her heart racing.
The door swung open, revealing a woman in her mid-forties, her blonde hair held back by a bright purple scarf. She wore an unnaturally white smile. Kendall thought at first she must have the wrong address.
“Yes?”
“Beverley Sanderson?”
“Yes.”
“My name is Kendall Jennings, and I’m working on an article for Healthy, Wealthy and Wisdom magazine.”
The woman stared at her. In her nervousness, Kendall continued to talk, uncertain whether she was seconds away from the door being slammed in her face.
“Perhaps you’ve heard of it? They’re sold in all the supermarkets. Very popular. Over three hundred thousand copies sold.”
Still the woman stared.
“I thought you might speak to me about your experience at Café Amaretto last night.”
Beverley Sanderson continued to hold the edge of the door. Her stare revealed nothing. Kendall imagined it coming any moment: the get-off-my-property-scum-newsperson retort. It surprised her the woman had even come to the door. Surely, she’d already had approaches by dozens of news outlets vying for her story.
Well, nothing ventured, nothing gained. Kendall smiled her biggest, brightest, you-can-trust-me smile.
“A lot of people want to know what it’s like to survive what you went through …” Still nothing from the woman. She quickly added, “And Jennifer Aniston was on last month’s cover.”
Beverley Sanderson’s face suddenly came to life. Her countenance lit up as though a spotlight was focused on her for a close-up. “Oh, you want to interview me? Is that what you mean?”
“Ah … yes … if you have time. It’s just a few questions.”
“Yes, yes. I’m fine. Come in. Jennifer Aniston. Wow!”
Beverley pulled the door further open, then stood back to allow Kendall to move past her into a mid-seventies style living room, complete with dark brown leather couches and orange flock wallpaper. Most extraordinary were the china dogs. They were everywhere. On every surface, they sat, lounged, heeled, and lay on their stomachs. Bookshelves, on top of the coffee table, and on several purpose-built ledges dotted along the room’s walls.
“You like dogs, Beverley?”
“I love dogs. But I can’t have a dog. Allergies. I’ve tried all types of dogs and medications. I just sneeze and sneeze. This is the next best thing.”
Standing this close to Beverley, Kendall realized the woman was older than she looked in the newspaper picture. She was mid-fifties, and even at ten in the morning her face was plastered with a full complement of makeup. Her hot-pink lipstick combined with dark red lip liner gave her a clown-like appearance. The hair poking out from beneath her scarf was teased to a bushy bouffant.
“Coffee, Kelsey?”
She didn’t bother correcting Beverley’s mistake with her name. Something told her no matter how many times she corrected
her, Beverley would never get it right.
“Fantastic, thanks.”
Kendall glanced around the room, taking care to show an interest in the dogs.
It surprised her how together the woman was—hardly what she expected after what Beverley had witnessed the previous night. Most people would be distressed for days, even months. If they were like Kendall, years.
She couldn’t decide if Beverley’s stoic behavior was oddball or admirable. Although, now Kendall thought about it, the woman’s calm perspective would certainly provide great counterbalance to other eyewitnesses—if she could get interviews with them—who weren’t dealing well with the horrific event.
“I won’t be a moment. I’ve just boiled the kettle.”
Beverley bounced out of the room. Now alone, Kendall walked slowly around the cluttered space, checking for further insights into the woman. Alongside the dogs were scattered faded photos of children wearing clothes dating them as growing up in the eighties. On the wall behind the three-seater lounge hung a large frame containing variously sized professional portraits of a still overly made-up younger version of Beverley. In her youth she’d been quite striking. Beverley and her husband obviously liked to cruise; many other photos depicted the pair aboard a liner or posing on exotic beaches, a cruise boat in the background.
“Here we go,” Beverley announced, as she walked back into the room carrying a tray with two mugs, a gilt coffee pot, a matching milk jug and a plate of cream cookies. She fussed over the coffee, pouring two cups and held out the cookies to Kendall with “Have one. I baked them this morning.”
She smiled at Kendall as though she were a long lost relative and they were about to catch up on lost years. Her demeanor was bizarrely congenial, considering what they were to discuss. In her mind, Kendall began crafting the opening to her article.
