Red Moon Rising

by J. T. Brannan

  I wonder if she is actually considering what Pat thought, or voicing her own opinion of the “coincidence”.

  “Yes,” I answer after a moment’s thought, deciding to be honest, “he did. He was drunk, so he probably didn’t know what he was saying, but he seemed suspicious.”

  “Hmmm,” Larraine murmurs through another mouthful of pie, “it figures. Man like that is born suspicious. Treats everyone like they operate the same way he does.”

  I am glad that Larraine seems to disregard the possibility of my involvement in anything. Or at least, I am glad that she is making the effort to pretend, anyway; it makes me feel better, whether it’s true or not.

  “How does he operate?” I ask.

  Larraine shrugs her shoulders. “I don’t like to gossip,” she says – which is always the telltale sign of someone who does, of course, “but I’ve heard some bad things about Pat, things from back in Seattle.”

  “Oh?” I say, feigning disinterest, disguising my eagerness for more information – all part of the gossip game. “What sort of things?”

  “Well,” Larraine starts, conspiratorially, “those ‘sexual misdemeanors’ the papers talked about? Turns out Pat used to be a teacher, until he was caught . . . having sex with one of his students.”

  She says the words with obvious distaste, which begs the next question. “How old?”

  “Fourteen,” she spits. “Rotten son of a bitch . . . If it’s true,” she adds, as if to cover herself from a charge of slander. “Apparently works as a dog-catcher for the local council now, can’t get a job in a school anymore, had to beg for that job, by all accounts.”

  I nod along with her, wondering where she gets her information. But she does work with Pat’s brother, I remind myself, and that would certainly be as likely a source as any.

  Wasn’t Dennis Rader, the infamous BTK serial killer, working as a compliance officer or dog catcher when he was eventually caught? I ask myself, wondering about the parallels. People like Rader are drawn to those sorts of jobs, experts suppose, because they are positions of power, positions where they can exert their influence over others. Is Pat the same?

  I guess this explains the “last time” Pat had mentioned back on the farm; he must have been referring to this incident . . . mustn’t he? Unless there is more to Pat Jenkins that we still don’t know . . .

  “I suppose that backs up the rumors about him spiking that girl’s drink,” I say. It’s not gossip, I tell myself; it’s fishing for relevant information.

  Larraine finishes another bite of pie and nods. “It sure does. Little Sophie’s not even fourteen yet, not ’til summer. Sick bastard, with a wife at home as well.”

  I can see she is angry, that she obviously has a strong dislike for this man, and I imagine that it is perhaps because he reminds her of her own errant husband.

  “But they released him,” I say, cautious about how I phrase things. There are some things that I presumably should know about the case, which – given that I’ve missed out on a couple of days, during which anything might have happened – I might not know. I need to try and get additional information without revealing too much about my own situation. It seems that Larraine is a great person to get this from – she is, after all, the “community den mother” as Artie describes her, and she seems eager to exchange stories.

  I just need to be careful what I say.

  “They released him, sure,” Larraine says, “but I don’t know, he seems . . . suspicious, don’t you think? It might just be his background, and I guess we shouldn’t judge anyone too harshly on that. But I don’t know what you think, but I get an uneasy feeling whenever I’m around him.” She pours me another cup of tea from the china pot, then another for herself. “Oh, I get on with his brother just fine, we work over in Anchorage together, you know. Artie’s pretty nice, I’ve known him a long time. But even he has doubts about his brother, I think.”

  “What sort of doubts?”

  Larraine shrugs uneasily. “Oh, I don’t know, just the way he talks about him sometimes, I guess. But maybe it’s nothing.”

  “Do you think he might have been involved?”

  “In that poor girl’s death?” She drinks some tea, pushes her empty plate away as she thinks. “I’m not sure,” she says. “Reports say that she must have been held for several days before you found her, and Pat only got to Alaska on Thursday evening. I suppose it would be impossible for him to have abducted her.”

  “Unless he got here earlier than he claims,” I suggest, but Larraine shakes her head.

  “No, I think the police checked that out, they definitely have him on the Thursday flight from Seattle, people back home corroborated the fact he was there until then.”

  “I guess if he abducted her late Thursday night, early Friday morning, it’s still possible. Or else . . .” I say, wondering if Larraine will jump to the same conclusion as I did, when I’d thought about the matter back at Ben’s house that morning.

  “Or else,” she says, “another person abducted her before Pat arrived.”

  “If that is the case,” I say, knowing that more than one person was probably involved, but also that this fact hadn’t been in the newspaper article and so wasn’t public knowledge yet, “then who would he have been working with?” I paused, pretending to think. “I suppose the most likely person would be . . .”

  “Artie,” Larraine finished for me, nodding uneasily. “Yes, I’ve been thinking about that.” She drinks her tea, not taking her eyes off mine; the effect is unnerving. “He was arrested too, you know.”

  “Really?” I ask, surprised; that wasn’t in the article either, and Ben had never mentioned it. “I didn’t hear about that.”

  “Well,” she continues in a conspiratorial whisper, “he was brought in for questioning really, but held there for quite some time. The police – or the ABI, or whoever’s in charge – must have been following the same train of thought.”

  “But they released him without charge.”

  “No evidence. House was clean, nothing at all to tie the girl to him in any way.”

  “What do you think?”

  “I like him,” Larraine starts, her voice unsure now, “but I know his job doesn’t do him any favors in a case like this.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, he runs the shelter, of course. You know, for runaways, drug addicts, we get a lot of working girls there too. The police haven’t released the identity of that girl yet, but from what they’ve said, it looks like she was from this sort of group, if I’m not out of turn saying it. So, the cops probably know that the girl might have come across his path there. Makes sense, from their point of view.”

  She is right, and I am amazed I’ve missed it until now. Yes, Lynette Hyams was exactly the sort of girl who could have turned up at Anchorage Street Shelter, and it turns my suspicions immediately more toward Artie Jenkins. It would be an ideal cover, a perfect place for scouting helpless, vulnerable victims. Lynette could have been spotted by him, selected as a victim; possibly abducted by him, kept in some as-yet unknown location for his brother.

  Just because his house was clean doesn’t, I remind myself, cross him off the list completely; it is entirely possible that he has a secondary location somewhere. We live in the vast semi-wilderness, there must be countless places where a cabin or small hut could lie undetected; and if it was an underground chamber, then it might never be discovered.

  I think about walking back down the forested mountain and a chill goes down my spine as I think about what – or who – might still be out there. Is there an underground chamber somewhere? And if so, does that mean there might be more victims, still held there?

  I shake my head to clear it; I can’t think about those things, not now. It is a rabbit hole, and if I go down there, I may have difficulty getting back out.

  “Are Pat and Artie under police surveillance?” I ask, making a note to ask Ben about it as well. He’s not on the case, but I’m sure he wil
l know; and if he doesn’t, he can certainly find out.

  “Yes,” Larraine says, nodding her head, “I think so. Oh, nothing obvious, of course, but on the journey back from Anchorage, Artie was going hell for leather on the theory, he’s convinced his phones are tapped and people are watching him. Probably the ABI, if they’re doing their job right. Another slice of pie?”

  “Yes please,” I say, watching as she levers herself up from the kitchen table, returning with the pie. She places a large slice on each of our plates, pours the cream and sits back down. I wait until she is seated, then say, “Of course, if Pat’s involved, Artie doesn’t have to be. There is another possibility.”

  “Menders?” Larraine asks, her mind razor-sharp. I nod my head, and she contemplates the idea. “Could be,” she says. “And I get on with Artie, so I’d be delighted if he wasn’t mixed up in all of this.” She thinks some more, eats some more. “I guess people discount Menders because of the surgery,” she says, “but there’s nothing to stop him abducting someone. He’d just need a ‘friend’ to . . . well, you know . . .”

  I’ve read the autopsy report. I do know. Menders could have used his crucifixes, he could have tortured her, he could have sewn her up, he could have done many of the terrible things I’ve read about; but someone else would have had to rape her.

  Pat Jenkins and Douglas Menders?

  It’s possible, certainly, but how on earth would they have known one another?

  But I make a mental note to talk it over with Ben later. It might have already been checked out, but any form of communication between the two men – email, letters, chatrooms, anything – would be highly incriminating.

  “I guess they’re checking DNA,” I say, wondering why I hadn’t asked Ben earlier. But it has been a long time since I was involved in anything like this, and the coma has obviously taken its toll. I know that semen was found with the body, and I am sure that De Nares is trying to match it to his suspects. I realize that I don’t know what the rules are for this in Alaska. Does the suspect have to give permission? Can you only take samples from people arrested for a crime? Charged for a crime? Is the ABI even allowed to cross-reference Pat’s DNA with the semen found with Lynette Hyams?

  I realize then that there are no details in the papers that I’ve read about the attack, no indication that there was any sexual assault, and decide to be more careful with what I say.

  “Maybe they managed to find something under her nails or something, you know?” I add to my first statement, not wanting to appear to know more than I should.

  Larraine nods. “Maybe,” she says, “and that would be a real breakthrough, wouldn’t it?”

  Maybe it would, maybe it wouldn’t; in these cases, things are rarely so clear-cut. Sometimes the evidence is excluded on legal grounds, other times it is spoiled before it even reaches the crime lab, and it is often not quite so incontrovertible as many people believe.

  “Yes,” I say half-heartedly.

  “I mean,” Larraine continues eagerly, perhaps perceiving my own lack of enthusiasm, “this is the first time a ‘fresh’ body has been found, if you’ll excuse the term.”

  “A ‘fresh’ body?” I ask, momentarily confused.

  Larraine nods her head sagely. “Those bodies up in Chugach were too badly decomposed for there to be any evidence left, if I remember correctly.”

  I am surprised, yet I try not to show it. So Larraine thinks the crimes are related too? “You think there’s a link?” I ask.

  “Don’t you?” she responds as she pours us both some more tea. She looks up at me and shrugs. “It just seems like common sense, you know. How many people like that are out there? And whoever it was that killed those poor girls before, he was never caught. So why wouldn’t he be back?”

  “Why wait so long?” I ask, wondering if Larraine will come to the same conclusions as Ben and I had.

  “The killer might have been arrested for something else,” she says, “and was unable to do anything until now. Or else he’s just moved to a different area, maybe another country altogether. Or maybe, he’s been hiding the bodies somewhere more effectively. Maybe he’s never stopped, it’s just that no more victims have been found until that girl escaped. Heaven knows, it’s difficult to get reliable information on some of these girls. I help out in the shelter, remember? Girls come and go on a near-daily basis, we help them when we can, but what happens to them after they leave is anyone’s guess. As horrible as it sounds, they’re non-people, as far as the system is concerned. I’ve been worrying about them for years, warning them to be careful.”

  “You’re convinced it’s the same person?”

  “Or people,” she says, nodding. “But I guess I just don’t want to think about there being more of them out there. It’s too scary to think about, isn’t it?”

  I nod in return. “It sure is,” I agree. “What do you think motivates somebody like that?”

  “Hate,” Larraine answers almost immediately. “What else can it be? This guy, he hates women. Why?” She shrugs her shoulders. “Who knows? Maybe his mother beat him as a little kid, maybe his wife cheated on him, maybe the girls laughed at him at school, saw him in the changing room, you know the sort of thing. Hell, maybe all of that and more. But I think anyone who kills women – and from the press reports of those earlier crimes, they all seem to be a part of the same sort of group, teenage girls, young women, on the streets – well, I think anyone who targets that group must hate women, for whatever reason.”

  “I think you’re probably right,” I agree with her, thinking about Pat Jenkins, about those young girls he’s been linked to. Thinking about Douglas Menders too, someone who could definitely be said to have a problem with women.

  My eyes must have strayed subconsciously toward the mountain, because Larraine follows them, making the connection. “Do you know what’s going on up there?” Larraine asks, gesturing up the forested slopes, where the lights and sirens still come from, her eyes like a hawk’s.

  I’ve enjoyed our conversation here in this homely kitchen, and I genuinely like Lorraine; but at the same time I’m all too aware how easily she is sharing information – gossip – with me. I cannot be sure if she’ll relay our entire conversation to Artie in the car on the way to work in the morning – Hey Artie, you’ll never guess what that nosy-parker Jessica Hudson thinks! I like her, but you should have heard . . .

  I get the feeling that her experiences with men might make her more easy sharing such intelligence with women, but you never know; and I’m not entirely happy to think of her talking to anyone about what we’ve discussed, male or female.

  Consequently, I know I need to be very careful about what I say here.

  “No,” I say, “I’ve got no idea, it’s hard to tell exactly where the lights are coming from. I suppose the two most likely options are, they’re raiding Doug Menders’ cabin for some reason, or else maybe they’ve found something in the woods up there.”

  “Another body?” Larraine asks, and I know my suggestion has successfully engaged her.

  I shrug. “Could be,” I say. “Or maybe a secondary location, like a cabin, or a chamber or something,” I continue, remembering what I’d been thinking about only minutes before.

  Larraine nods her head, deep in thought. “Yes,” she says, “yes, I guess it might be.” She looks up at me. “Terrifying, isn’t it? This whole thing, I mean, we can make educated guesses, but we’ve got no real idea who’s doing it, or why. We don’t know if there are more victims out there, we don’t know if it’s the same person that killed those other girls, or if it’s a new monster altogether. Whatever the answer, it doesn’t help me sleep at night.”

  “Yeah,” I sigh in agreement, “me neither.” Although at least when you finally go to sleep, you wake up the next day like a normal person. “How are your kids handling things?” I ask, the thought just occurring to me. “They’re just young boys, surely they must be frightened to death?”

  “They’re gettin
g older,” Larraine reassures me, “they’re not scared of the boogeyman hiding under the bed anymore, you know. They’re growing up big and strong, Adam’s nearly twelve now and Rich has just turned fourteen. And whoever this psycho is, I think it’s clear he’s only interested in females. No,” she confirms, as if to reassure herself, “there’s nothing for them to be frightened of.”

  I hope she’s right; but the presence of any sort of killer in the area must surely be a worry?

  “Are they at school?” I ask, and she quickly turns to a clock on the mantle of the small kitchen fireplace. She stands quickly, an apologetic look on her face.

  “I’m glad you reminded me,” she says with a guilty smile, “I should be on my way to get them. They’ve got soccer practice after classes finish, but they should be done soon and – Heaven knows – the school buses don’t come anywhere near here. But I just feel terrible leaving you like this,” she says, genuine sympathy in her eyes. “Would you like to stay here while I’m gone? You can help yourself to more tea and cake.”

  “No,” I say, standing from the table and stretching my aching legs, “I should be getting back myself, see how the horses are doing.”

  She seems disappointed, as if she has let me down in some way, then nods her head. “Okay,” she says, “but at least let me give you a lift. I think you’ve had enough of walking in the snow for one day.”

  I smile. “It’s a deal,” I say.

  “And who knows,” she says as she gets her coat from a rack on the wall, “maybe we’ll hear something on the news about what’s happening up there?”

  I put on my own coat and nod in agreement, only too aware of exactly what is happening up there – the ABI is processing the crime scene of Douglas Menders’ homicide.

  “Maybe,” I say with a hopeful smile as I follow Larraine out of the door toward her SUV and – at last – home.

  I wave goodbye to Larraine as she pulls away from my driveway, and rap on my own front door. It feels strange, but I know that Amy will be there and – even though it is my own house – I don’t want to just barge in, unannounced.