The Unseen - A Mystery (The Baudin & Dixon Trilogy Book 2)

by Victor Methos

  When they arrived at the school, they both got out and turned their gazes on a line of kids walking with one teacher in front and one teacher behind the line.

  Dixon guessed his elementary school experience had been a lot different from Baudin’s. Having grown up in foster care, Baudin might have seen school as the only reprieve in his life, or he might have gone the opposite direction and rebelled every chance he got.

  “Did you like school?” Dixon asked.

  “At this age? No. I moved around a lot, sometimes three or four times a year, so I never really had any friends or connections to the teachers. You?”

  “Yeah. I actually miss it. No real responsibility, ya know? Just go to school, do enough not to get kicked out, and then have fun the rest of the time. I wish being an adult was that simple.”

  “Maybe it should be.”

  They entered the school, and Dixon noticed the low ceilings right away. He wondered if all elementary schools had ceilings that low. When he was a child, the halls of his school had looked massive.

  “Excuse me,” Dixon said to a woman stepping out of the front office, “we’re looking for Mrs. Karen Soccoro.”

  “And you are?”

  “The police. Just a follow-up to something we’re looking into. She’s not in any trouble or anything.”

  “Oh, okay. She’s in room 112, down the hall and to the left.”

  Another class marched out of their classroom and stopped in the hall. Dixon couldn’t believe how loud they actually were. Several kids were yelling conversations, and a boy with a shirt that wasn’t buttoned correctly had his finger so far up his nose it had nearly disappeared.

  They turned the corner and found room 112. A woman in a beige skirt and glasses stood at the front of the room, with a map of the United States behind her. She was speaking to a class of what looked like fourth or fifth graders. She saw them and stopped.

  “Karen Soccoro?” Dixon asked.

  “Yes.”

  “May we speak with you a moment, please?”

  The woman hesitated then told a TA to take over. She stepped into the hall and shut the door behind her. “Yes?”

  When Dixon showed her his badge, she had no reaction. “I’m Detective Kyle Dixon. We just wanted to chat with you a second about something. If you could spare five minutes, we’d really appreciate it.”

  She nodded and opened the door a crack. “I’ll be back in a few minutes,” she said to the TA. Then she turned to the detectives. “We can talk in the teachers’ lounge.”

  Dixon and Baudin followed her to a room about the size of a classroom. A worn couch sat in the center, and several vending machines were pushed against the wall. Dixon had always wondered if teachers had to pay for their snacks, and it seemed unfair that they did.

  Dixon sat down at a circular table and waited until she did the same. Baudin paced around the room, scanning documents and other things lying around.

  “I’m sorry to come to your work, Karen,” he said. “But we wanted to get this over with as quickly as possible for you. I know it’s going to be uncomfortable.”

  Her eyes went wide. “What’s happened?”

  “Nothing’s happened. We’re investigating Henry Peck and were told that you may have been one of his victims.”

  She folded her arms. “I don’t have anything to say about that.”

  “Is it true you wouldn’t cooperate with the DA in Peck’s prosecution?”

  She shook her head. “I’m afraid I just don’t want to talk about it, Detective. It was a long time ago, and I’d like to let sleeping dogs lie.”

  “I understand that, but we believe Mr. Peck may have murdered two young women. We need to find out as much about him as we can.”

  She swallowed and looked down at the table. “I wish I could help you… but I can’t.” She looked from one of them to the other. “Am I free to go now?”

  Dixon nodded. “Yes.”

  Karen rose and headed back into the hall. Dixon listened to her footsteps as she went back to her room. Baudin was touching a handheld massager on the counter. It turned on, startling him. He put it back and waited for a minute to make sure it didn’t start again.

  “You had nothin’ to say?” Dixon asked.

  He shook his head. “Not here.”

  “Well where then?”

  “You want people to open up, they have to be somewhere comfortable. She’s not comfortable here. I bet she’s never told anyone at her work about Henry Peck.”

  Dixon sighed. “So you wanna hit the last woman on the list?”

  “Sure. I’ve got nothing else to do.”

  26

  The last woman on their list lived three hours away, on the Wyoming-Utah border. Dixon called several times, and no one answered the phone, so they drove to her address. Baudin sat in the passenger seat, and at one point, he fell asleep.

  “You drive,” Dixon said. “I’m gettin’ tired.”

  They stopped alongside the interstate, and Baudin got into the driver’s seat. He drove the rest of the way to a small town that resembled something he might’ve seen on a ’50s sitcom. The lawns were well manicured, and the fences had been painted perfectly. The cars in the driveways gleamed, and Baudin noted appreciatively that no billboards were up anywhere.

  “It’s amazing how much mind pollution we have to put up with,” Baudin said.

  “What d’ya mean?”

  “Billboards, commercials, emails, texts, mailers… there’s no break. To corporations, we’re nothing but objects to be manipulated. They don’t see us as people.”

  “Well, then I’m glad they don’t run things.”

  “The entire world is run by corporations and outlaws, man. Everything else is an illusion.”

  The home was in a cul-de-sac, where they parked and got out. Dixon knocked, and Baudin stepped back to look in the window. While Baudin was scanning the neighbors’ homes, a woman in a white-and-blue dress opened the door. Her skin had a faint red tint to it, as if she’d tanned too much before coming to the door.

  Dixon put on his widest smile. “Ann Boyer?”

  She studied them for a second before saying, “Yes?”

  Dixon showed her his badge. “We’d like to talk to you about a matter of some urgency, ma’am.”

  “What matter?”

  “The matter of Henry Peck.”

  Her face grew stern, and then her eyes narrowed. She took a step back. “I don’t want anything to do with that man.”

  “Ms. Boyer, we’re investigating him for a series of new crimes and just trying to get a handle on what happened before. We spoke with the prosecutor at the time, Mike Sandoval, and he said—”

  “I can’t help you.” She slammed the door in his face.

  Baudin grinned as Dixon debated whether to leave or kick the door down. He finally decided to knock with the back of his fist, but Ms. Boyer didn’t answer.

  “We could get a warrant,” Dixon said.

  “For what? Slamming a door on us?”

  “She’s hiding something.”

  “Obviously. But it could be that she’s so disgusted that the system let her down, she doesn’t want anything to do with us. I’m not forcing a rape victim to talk, are you?”

  Dixon put his hands on his hips and looked around the neighborhood. “No, guess not.”

  Baudin checked his watch. “Let’s head back. There’s nothing we can do here.”

  Once back in Cheyenne, Baudin went home and checked in on Heather. She and Gina were studying, and he didn’t want to bother them. He asked them a few questions about their day and how school was going then left them alone.

  He went down to the basement, lit a cigarette, and sat staring at the photograph of Mike Sandoval. The man had been smooth. Every answer had been perfectly catered for them. Every hair on his head immobile, he had no lint on his suit, and his nails were manicured. Everything had been in its place. Sandoval cared about control more than anything.

  When Baudin asked h
im about the frat, Sandoval hadn’t been ready for that, though. No other detective would’ve asked him about it. He had lost control of the conversation with that question, and for a moment—and just a moment—he hadn’t known how to respond. On top of that, talking openly about Chief Crest made him visibly uncomfortable. Baudin had drawn the line. Sandoval was now aware that Baudin knew who he was, and he would probably do whatever it took to destroy Baudin. He’d known it was a calculated risk. The only way to deal with a man like Sandoval was to get him to crawl out of his hole, to come out swinging and make mistakes.

  Baudin went upstairs after his cigarette and made a sandwich of veggie ham and mustard. The fake meat tasted bland, but the mustard gave it some flavor. He wolfed it down and followed it with a glass of water before checking in on Heather one more time. The girls were giggling then stopped when he opened the door.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “Nothing, Dad.”

  “Girl talk, huh?”

  “I guess.”

  “I’m running out for an hour. Do you guys want me to pick anything up on the way back?”

  “Couple milkshakes from Shakey’s.”

  “Your wish is my command, daughter.”

  Baudin headed out the door. Evening was falling, and a chill had accompanied it. The breeze tossed a few leaves along the sidewalks before his house. He watched them for a moment before getting into his car.

  He had written Karen Soccoro’s home address down in his notepad app, and he put the address into Maps. He set the radio to an ambient station in iTunes and turned up the heat, though it wasn’t cold. The car got toasty quickly, but instead of turning down the temperature, he took off his jacket.

  Sometimes he missed Los Angeles—the diversity, the ocean, Hollywood, and even the ghettos. But LA was changing. The oceans were becoming more and more polluted, to the point that he didn’t think people would be able to safely go into them in the next few decades. Hollywood was built on the movie-making industry, but the movie-making industry was leaving because of the crushing taxes the government of Los Angeles and California imposed. Only the ghettos were constant. Only they were growing.

  Baudin watched Karen’s townhome for a while. A light on inside—the kitchen, he guessed—went off. Another went on upstairs. He waited a few minutes then got out and knocked.

  Karen came to the door in a bathrobe, clutched tightly at the front. She peered over the chain across the opening. “I already told you—”

  “He enjoys terror. If he gets away with killing these two girls, he might get around to coming for you next. If you want to die, I won’t bother you. But if you want me to stop him, you’re gonna have to open this door.”

  Karen remained silent for a long while. Then she shut the door, slid the chain off, and opened it. Baudin stepped inside.

  The townhome was neat and had a grandmotherly feel, with lots of photos on the walls, decorations, plants, and vases. It smelled slightly of incense. She led him through the kitchen and to the living room, which was darker than it should’ve been because a tree out front blocked the streetlights. Karen sat on the couch, still gripping her robe, and Baudin sat across from her.

  “I don’t believe for a second that you’re the type of woman that would be raped and then not come forward about it.”

  She stared down at her coffee table, her fingers turning white as she gripped her robe. She glanced up at him then back down. A television was on upstairs, and Baudin wondered if she was married, though she hadn’t been wearing a wedding ring the two times he’d seen her.

  “I can’t help you.”

  “Why?” Baudin asked. “Who got to you?”

  She swallowed. “I can’t. I’m sorry.”

  Baudin leaned forward. “I’m not like other cops, Karen. I don’t do things the way they do. I’m here to help, and you can trust me. If you don’t want me to tell anyone we talked, no one will ever know.”

  Karen closed her eyes and mumbled something Baudin thought might’ve been a prayer.

  “He came to my house because some channels weren’t working properly. It wasn’t this place. I lived in a house then, with my husband. My husband was at work. I was lying in bed, reading, while he fixed the cable. It happened so fast… in an instant. He just ran in and jumped on top of me. He raped me right there, whispering horrible things to me—the things he would do to me if I told anyone.” She swallowed again. “When he was done, he went about his work like nothing had happened. He even left a bill on the kitchen counter.”

  “Was it you that called the police?”

  “Yes. I filed a complaint. Detectives came out and talked to me. They said he had other rape charges they were investigating him for and were about to make an arrest.”

  “So what happened?”

  She exhaled. “One night, I was coming into our garage, and I felt this… pressure against me. It slammed me into a wall, and then I felt metal against my neck. And a voice said that I would want to testify against him, but if I did, they would kill me first and then my husband.”

  “Did you tell the police that?”

  She shook her head. “No. I notified the prosecutor that I wouldn’t be cooperating.”

  “Did he ask why?”

  “No. He just said it was my choice and that he wouldn’t force me.”

  Baudin wanted to light a cigarette but resisted the urge. “Did the voice sound familiar? Was it Peck?”

  “No. I’d never heard it before. It was someone else.” She hesitated. “I talked to some of the other girls. This was after. One of them called me to talk about it. The same thing had happened to them. Someone threatened their families.”

  “But Michelle Chesley came forward.”

  “She was the only one. They didn’t threaten her. I don’t know why.”

  Baudin saw a clearer picture now. Someone had systematically intimidated all of Peck’s credible victims, leaving only the one who wasn’t an ideal witness to begin with. Peck was an unsophisticated man. Baudin even got the sense that he was downright slow, certainly not clever enough to pull off something like that, particularly since he was probably being held in custody when at least some of the women were threatened. Someone was protecting Peck.

  “If you think of anything else,” he said, leaving his business card on the coffee table, “you call me directly. Don’t speak to anyone else.”

  “I won’t.”

  “Can I ask one thing, though? That was a long time ago. You still seem plenty frightened to me now.”

  She walked him to the door. “I got a call two days ago, saying that if I told you anything, they would come after me. I did a star sixty-nine on the number. It turned out to be a payphone at the airport. I think it was the same voice I heard in my garage that night, but I can’t be sure.”

  Baudin nodded, thanked her, and left.

  27

  Dixon pulled into Hillary’s driveway. He was shocked that he thought of it as her driveway—it was his home, the only place in the world he actually considered his home. But it was beginning to slip away and become “Hillary’s home.” He couldn’t allow that to happen. If his own home slipped away from him, he wasn’t sure he would have anything left.

  He got out of the car and took his time walking to the door. He closed his eyes then opened the door without knocking. She was in the kitchen; he could see her from where he was. After slowly shutting the door behind him, he made his way to the couch. He was about to announce his presence when he saw Randy in a playpen against the wall. The boy’s eyes lit up when he saw Dixon, though Dixon figured he didn’t know him from Santa Claus. He crossed the living room and picked up his boy. Wrapping his arms around him, he didn’t let go until he felt Hillary’s hand on his shoulder.

  “Sorry,” he said.

  “I’m glad you came. I was just making dinner.”

  They sat at the table, with Randy seated in a high chair, which he’d been too small to use when Dixon had lived in the house.

  “Di
d you want to say grace?” Hillary asked.

  “You better say it. I’m not feelin’ spiritual these days.”

  She said a prayer over the food, but Dixon kept his eyes open, staring at the boy. Randy could be his son—that was still possible. Maybe Hillary was right, and not knowing was better.

  “We can get a paternity test tomorrow morning,” she said, seemingly reading his thoughts. “I set it for ten. Can you be there? It’s at Cheyenne Regional.”

  “Yeah…” He paused. “If this is going to work, maybe there’s no need to know. Maybe in the end, it doesn’t matter?”

  She grinned. “He’s your son as much as anyone could be, Kyle. But if you’re going to always be thinking ‘what if,’ then it’s better to know.”

  He nodded and picked up his fork. Dixon wasn’t hungry, but she had gone to the trouble of making the meal. He took a couple of bites then stirred the food around on his plate.

  “You should know, since we’re being honest right now, that Chris doesn’t live across the street anymore.”

  Dixon glanced up to her. “No?”

  “No. It was really weird actually. He just took off. Someone from his work came by here and asked if I’d seen him.”

  “No police came by?”

  “Why would the police come by?”

  He shrugged. “Sometimes they do when people just up and leave.”

  She watched him for a moment. “I broke it off with him, Kyle. I told him you were my life. You were who I wanted to grow old with. That’s why he left. He was, like, obsessed with me. I think he just couldn’t handle it. I’m really nervous he’ll just show up again one day and try to make claims on Randy.”

  Dixon nodded, leaning back in his seat, staring at the plate.

  “You okay?” she asked.

  “Fine. Can we not talk about him, please?”

  “I know it must be painful. I’m sorry. I just thought we had to do it at some point. Anyway, I just wanted to let you know he’s not around anymore.”