by Robert Ellis
Matt didn’t need to repeat the question. They were reading the same book and turned to the same page. He opened his briefcase and fished out the Strattons’ family portrait still sealed in the plastic freezer bag.
“The killer masturbated on Tammy’s and Kaylee’s underwear the night he took this picture. The image was taken at the funeral home, and everyone in it is dead. Their bodies will need to be exhumed as soon as possible.”
Rogers appeared to be flabbergasted, even dazed. He leaned closer to examine the photo. After a few seconds, he seemed to get it, then shook his head again and let out a sigh. Several moments passed, the silence electric. When the special agent finally spoke, his voice was just above a whisper.
“I need you to do me a favor, Jones.”
“How can I help?”
“I want you to keep this to yourself and lie low for a couple of days. I understand how difficult that will be for you, but I need to do certain things my way. Can you do that for me?”
Matt nodded.
“Who’s your friend?” Rogers went on. “Who has a copy of this disc?”
“I’d rather not say, sir.”
Rogers took the hit and let it go. “I deserved that. Let me ask you this. Can the person be trusted to keep it under wraps for a while?”
“It’s not really in his nature, but in this case, yes. He’s aware of what’s at stake and has already agreed.”
Rogers picked up the phone and entered three numbers on his key pad. After listening for a moment, he spoke into the handset.
“Get in here, Lee.”
Rogers hung up. A few moments later the door opened and the man with the tie, the gun, and the gelled haired walked back in.
Rogers got up from his desk chair. “Lee, you need to tell Jones that you’re sorry for the things you just said to him. He’s a better detective than you are. He just broke open the case. If you don’t apologize, then leave your badge at the front desk and get out.”
CHAPTER 60
Andrew Penchant rolled his desk chair closer to the TV and waited. Get Buzzed had cut to a commercial break, and the acid brewing in Andrew’s stomach had risen into his throat, his rage oozing out of every pore in his milky-white skin.
With only seven minutes left to go, there had been no mention of the video clips he had sent to Ryan Day at his hotel. No mention of either sequence he’d burned onto a disc. Day had signed for the package almost ten hours ago. It seemed more than disturbing that his gift to the gossip reporter hadn’t led off tonight’s show.
After three and half minutes of nonsense—a string of commercials targeting the brain-dead—the show switched to a live feed from Ryan Day himself.
Andrew took in a deep breath and exhaled in anticipation of what he believed would be his first taste of fame and fortune. Day had played it smart after all. He was saving the best for last.
Andrew moved closer to the screen. Day was leaning against a park bench, the shot wide enough that Andrew could barely tell that he’d kicked in the reporter’s face just a few days ago. The Love sculpture was over Day’s right shoulder, the Christmas tree over his left, with a view of the art museum in the distance.
After twenty or thirty seconds—and to Andrew’s horror—he realized that the idiotic man was talking about love and forgiveness, the meaning of the holiday season for all people no matter who they were or what they believed in or prayed to. The dumb shit was saying how grateful he felt about being alive, how lucky he was to have such wonderful friends and family members in his life.
And then Get Buzzed ended. And then that stupid motherfucking TV show had the audacity to stop.
Just like that. The show that Andrew had been waiting all day to watch was over.
Andrew wanted to hit something. Break something. Kill it.
He had gone to all that trouble of burning the disc and paying extra for immediate delivery by a messenger service. He’d been hoping that the video would explode onto the scene and immediately “go viral.” That after all this time, he would finally achieve the fame he deserved, and the media attention and wealth that went with it.
Instead, that little shit didn’t play it. He didn’t even mention it.
That little worm he should have killed when he had the chance.
His mother’s bedroom door opened, and Avery walked out with three Glade PlugIns that looked like they’d gone dead.
“They’re not working,” she said. “Nothing’s working anymore. And something’s going on outside the house.”
Andrew’s eyes rocked from the TV to her face. “What’s going on outside?”
“Someone has a flashlight.”
Andrew’s body shuddered as he leaped out of the chair and ran into his mother’s bedroom. The stench had evolved over the past twenty-four hours. The foul odor had become so rich, so dense, so outrageous, that he had difficulty breathing without gagging. As he noticed the beam of light moving across the window shades and crept across the room without looking at his mother’s rotting face, he couldn’t understand why Avery spent so much time in here alone. It seemed so singular and so strange.
He shook it off, moved the shade slightly, and peeked through the narrow gap. It was Mr. Andolini. The old man had walked through the gate and was standing in the driveway with a flashlight in one hand and his cell phone in the other.
Andrew felt his stomach fire up. He turned and shot Avery a quick look, then knelt down to listen to the old man through the open window.
“There’s a foul odor coming from the house,” Mr. Andolini was saying. “No, it’s not gas. It’s the smell of something rotting. Something big like a dead body. The windows are cracked open and it’s December. Something’s wrong, I tell you. I haven’t seen the woman in days.”
Andrew got up, motioned Avery out of the room, and shut the door. “He’s on the phone with the police.”
Avery shivered. “We need to get out of here.”
“You need to get dressed. I want to pack some things.”
Avery stepped into her jeans, her voice all spooked out. “There’s no time to pack. We need to get out of here, Andrew. Now.”
Andrew shrugged. While Avery finished dressing, he tossed his gun and the STP oil filter—Dirty Diane—into his knapsack. Then he shut down his laptop, unzipped another pocket in the pack, and slid it in. He’d bought more reefer and a new lighter and fresh pack of rolling papers and tossed them into the pocket as well. As he gazed around the room, he felt the panic begin to wash through his chest and belly.
He needed more time. He needed to check on what he was leaving behind.
There was another hit of reefer in the bong. One more hit before saying good-bye. He struck the lighter and sucked the smoke into his lungs.
“Come on, Andrew,” Avery said, pleading. “Let’s get out of here.”
He started coughing, grabbed his knapsack, and followed her as she ran downstairs and headed for the front door.
“Don’t open it, Avery. Wait a minute.”
She turned and looked at him, and he could tell by her wild eyes that she was way past being scared. Andrew ran over to the window and peeked outside. Mr. Andolini had just closed the gate and was walking back to his house. Once he went inside and closed the door, Andrew turned and gave Avery the nod.
“My car’s parked in front of the next house up. Let’s go.”
He switched the lock and shut the door behind them. Leaping down the steps, he could see Avery rushing through the darkness toward his car. He could hear her gasping for air. He could hear her grunting and groaning and even sobbing as she tried to run faster and faster still, like just maybe the Grim Reaper was closing in from behind.
CHAPTER 61
Matt tapped on Ryan Day’s hotel suite door. When he didn’t get a response, he dug his cell phone out of his pocket and sent the gossip reporter a text. After a few moments, Day returned the message.
On location all day. Back later.
Matt returned the phone to his pocket a
nd walked down to the elevator. Rogers’s favor seemed so difficult to keep. He wanted to be part of the hunt. He wanted to be there if and when the man with blond cornrows was identified and captured. He wanted to be there if the man put up a fight.
He had ordered breakfast in and spent the first few hours of the morning following up on some of the new information Dr. Baylor had given him. He’d scoured the New York Times’ archives and read every article he could find about the murders the doctor committed as a twelve-year-old boy. Matt had even managed to locate the house in Maplewood, New Jersey, where the homicides occurred—the house where his mother had been born and spent her early childhood.
The doctor had told him that their home had been on and off the market since the murders, and that there was a rumor among neighbors to this day that the house might be haunted. In fact, the property was on the market again at an asking price of $2.1 million. Matt had found pictures of the place, both inside and out, on the Realtor’s website and had become more than curious.
He rode the elevator down to the lobby. He’d parked Genovese’s Honda in the garage across the street. Within a few minutes, he was pulling onto Filbert Street and winding his way through the city toward the Ben Franklin Bridge and I-95 North. According to the car’s navigation system, depending on traffic, the drive to Maplewood wouldn’t take much more than an hour and a half. At eighty-five miles per hour, the trip only took sixty-five minutes.
He toured the neighborhood briefly, then made a right turn onto Curtis Place, searching out house numbers and trying to bridle his memories of his mother. His love for her and the pitch-dark sadness at losing her when he was a boy. That feeling of being abandoned by his father and turned into an orphan until his aunt reached out and saved the day.
He could still see himself sitting on his mother’s lap. He could still smell the fragrances of her clothing, her skin, and the shampoo she used to wash her beautiful hair. He spotted the house and slowed down. A Realtor’s sign was in the front yard, along with information leaflets about the property. Matt pulled over and let his eyes wander up and down the street. It was late morning on a weekday. Everything seemed quiet, so he turned into the drive and got out.
He spent a few moments thinking about what this might look like to a neighbor and decided to walk onto the front lawn and take a leaflet. As he gazed at the house, he could hear his uncle’s voice describing the home he so obviously cherished as a boy.
It was smaller than Matt expected. But it was also nicer. He felt the same way about the neighborhood and imagined it a near-perfect place to grow up.
He walked around to the back, climbing the steps to the rear porch and gazing through the window. Then he stepped over to the back door and looked through the glass.
No one was living here. The house was up for sale, the rooms completely empty of furniture. Even better, the burglar alarm on the wall by the door had been shut down.
He turned and checked the neighbors’ houses. Both were set closer to the street and not visible from here. Behind him were the garage, a pool, and a privacy hedge blocking the houses on the next street. He thought it over. If he could get in without breaking a window, if he could—
He dug his key ring out of his pocket, examining the deadbolt and wondering if one of his jiggler keys would work. He carried three, and decided to try the last one on his key ring first. It took less than two minutes to hear that telltale click and feel the deadbolt slide back into the lock.
He pushed the door open and entered the kitchen. He felt his pulse quicken. He didn’t want to spend too much time here. Just long enough to feed his imagination and get a feel for how his mother had lived the first ten years of her life when things were still good.
He made a sweep through the first floor, noting the high ceilings and ornate moldings and the wood floors that looked and smelled like they’d just been sanded and refinished. After stepping into the sun porch and gazing out the windows at the street and front yard, he hit the stairs and found the master bedroom. He played the murders back in his head. The things he’d read online and what the doctor had told him. The wall where the bed would’ve been placed seemed obvious. His grandfather’s chest of drawers, the place where he kept his piece, felt like it might have stood beside the large walk-in closet.
Just thinking about the idea that he had a grandfather, that he’d used the word in his mind, blew him away. It didn’t matter that the man turned out to be a scoundrel just like his father. That in the end, he needed to be shot and killed just like his old man.
Matt tried to shrug it off, but the task of processing everything he was learning about himself and his family seemed overwhelming.
As he found the stairs to the attic, he couldn’t help remembering what he’d told his supervisor in Hollywood. The monsters swimming inside his head were gone. Really? He smiled as he chewed it over. Maybe they were just hiding yesterday.
But the smile only lasted until he reached the third floor.
Baylor had claimed that he’d hidden the murder weapon underneath the insulation between two joists, and Matt assumed that he was describing an unfinished attic. The rooms here had been finished with plaster and moldings, and he couldn’t believe how disappointed he felt. Matt had wanted to see the attic as it had been on the night of the murders. He’d wanted to see the place where his mother and her siblings had hidden all night until daybreak.
The ceilings were vaulted here, matching the slope of the roof. He examined the woodwork and smoothed his hand over the plaster. Nothing about these rooms appeared newer than what he’d already seen on the first two floors.
And then he noticed it. A small door placed just above the baseboard in the room farthest from the stairs. He knelt down, grabbed the handle, and pulled the door open. It had the look and feel of a secret room. Matt pointed his cell phone into the darkness, switched on the flashlight, and crawled inside. There were blankets here, pillows, an old radio, and a stack of children’s books. He spotted the bare lightbulb and pulled the cord. As his eyes drifted over the space—his imagination all lit up—he couldn’t remember a time when he felt more alive. He had never experienced such joy.
He crawled across the boards until he reached the exposed joists and insulation. Working his way toward the roof, he lifted away the insulation until he reached the end, and there it was.
The murder weapon.
Placed exactly where his uncle had said it would be.
A Smith & Wesson .38 Special. Matt wrapped his hands around the handle and held it to the light. It was a big gun for a twelve-year-old boy to fire. Big and awkward. Matt knew that in its day, a .38 Special like this one was the weapon of choice and would have been carried by almost everyone in law enforcement.
Matt checked the cylinder and found four spent shell casings. He could feel his heart going. He could see his uncle as a boy standing in the darkness of his parents’ bedroom. He could see him pointing the gun, struggling to hold the weapon steady, and probably shocked and frightened by how loud the first shot would have sounded.
Four spent shell casings. The gun that killed the man who had stolen everybody’s money and ruined so many lives. A man who had fed off others until there was nothing left to eat.
Another King of Wall Street. Another bloodsucker like his father—dear old Dad.
Matt switched off the light and crawled out of the secret room. As he gazed at the pistol in daylight, it looked like an antique.
It looked like a family heirloom with a unique history that no one would ever know or remember. A vague story from a long time ago. Something about a secret room in a house that used to be haunted, but no longer was because the murder weapon had finally been located and removed.
He slipped the gun into his jacket and headed back down to the kitchen. The leaflet with information about the house was on the counter. Matt took it with him as he walked out the door and down the driveway to his car. It was still before noon, and he had all day to deal with keeping his favor to Spe
cial Agent Rogers. Try as he might, he didn’t think he’d make it.
CHAPTER 62
Matt ordered two bagels with lox spread to go, along with a large coffee and two sugars. He was standing at the counter, watching TV at one of his old haunts, Deli on a Bagel, in Pennington, New Jersey, about an hour south of Maplewood. He’d just driven by his aunt’s old house. As he cruised down Route 31, heading for I-95 just a few miles south, he spotted the sandwich shop and decided to stop in.
The news channel had just interrupted their broadcast with a special report, and Matt braced himself for news that the FBI had made progress and he wasn’t with them.
But it was something else. The body of a thirty-five-year-old woman had been found in her home in the Northeast last night. Sarah Penchant had been shot and killed, her body not discovered for several days. The police were looking for her boyfriend, Reggie Cook, an ex-con with a history of sexual abuse. Matt looked at Cook’s mug shot on the screen and lost interest. The ex-con looked like a slob. If he’d been on the run for a couple of days, Matt guessed that he was long gone.
The woman behind the counter set down his coffee and a paper bag with his order. Matt walked over, then heard something on the TV and stopped.
“She had a twenty-one-year-old son,” a man was saying. “And they were unusually close. He’s missing, too.”
Matt looked up at the TV, sensing something. A reporter was interviewing the dead woman’s neighbor on the sidewalk—an old man standing before the death house. And he was repeating himself.
“She had a twenty-one-year-old son, and they were unusually close. He’s missing, too.”
The mug shot of Reggie Cook had been replaced with a new one. Matt heard himself let out a groan. His entire body lit up and shivered as he swallowed the image on the screen without chewing it over. The dead eyes that he’d missed at the hotel bar and those blond cornrows.
The face of a mass killer. A mass killer who now had a name.
Andrew Penchant.
Matt bolted out of the deli to his car. When he tried to get his keys out of his pocket, he realized that he had the bagels and coffee in his hands. He pulled himself together. Once he got everything in the car and climbed behind the wheel, he fired up the engine and entered Wes Rogers’s number into his cell phone. Rogers picked up after the first ring.
