“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you. It ain’t normal.”
The correctional officer tried unsuccessfully to stifle a snort. Rainey cut her eyes in his direction, before redirecting Chance.
“So, this ‘girl you had a few drinks with’ is assaulted, you’re questioned, and then let go. How does that tie in with the toolbox full of evidence indicating you may be a serial rapist and murderer?”
Chance sighed, defeated. “I don’t know why I even try. You’ve been tryin’ to lock me up since I was sixteen for a murder I didn’t commit.”
“Murder? Is Alyson dead, Chance?”
“She’s been gone for eleven years. If she was alive, I imagine we’d know about it by now, don’t you?”
“Until I find out what happened to Alyson after she left the lake with you, I’ll keep asking the question. Where is Alyson, Chance?”
“I don’t want to talk about Alyson. I asked for you so you can explain to these people that I am not a serial murderer. You do this for a living now, right? Profile me. I’m a drunk, but I’m not a killer.”
One corner of Rainey’s mouth rose slowly in a half-smiling smirk. “You’re a drunk and a killer, Chance. We established that at the beginning of this interview.” Before he could react, she changed directions again. “Now, tell me about the stuff in the toolbox. If you didn’t put it there, how did it get there?”
Agitated, Chance snapped back, “For all I know, you put it there.”
Rainey was quick with her emotionless answer, “Nope. Try again.”
A flustered Chance rapidly spit out his story before Rainey could interrupt him again. “I left my truck in Wanchese at my friend Howard Daniel’s house.”
Rainey couldn’t help but think Chance had no idea his friend Howard was a rat, but she said nothing as he continued to explain.
“I came back to the states on a trawler that was headed home to Wanchese. When I got back, Howard says my truck is where I left it. I found them newspaper articles, pictures, and stuff in the toolbox, all sealed in plastic, and clean, as if it hadn’t been there long. I’m thinking, how did anyone know I was back in the states before I got here? I got my truck runnin’, threw some new tires on her, and got the hell out of there.”
“Why didn’t you leave the toolbox? Why not throw it away?”
Chance leaned toward Rainey to support his sincerity. “I thought it would be good evidence that I am being set up.”
Rainey couldn’t hide her amusement this time. “So you drove to Florida with a toolbox full of evidence that implicates you in several murders as proof you aren’t a murderer. That is certainly an interesting strategy.”
Everyone in the room heard the loud, gravelly voice coming down the hallway. It wasn’t a voice raised in anger. It sounded like a man engaged in a backslapping laugh with an old friend. The bolt on the door clanged open. The two men still chuckled as they entered.
The big-voiced older gentleman held an unlit cigar stub in the corner of his cheek-consuming smile. He gave the man with him a last pat on the shoulder, as he said, “You come on up to Tybee and we’ll drink Scotch, go fishing, and let the widows from the condos fawn over us.”
The balding crown of the shoulder pat recipient’s head blushed red, which was made more pronounced by the white hair that surrounded it. He smiled at his friend, drawling shyly, “I doubt there would be much fawning over an old, balding, out of shape man like me.”
Cigar man said, “If your heart’s beating and your pecker works, they’ll be interested.” He followed this pronouncement with a deep chested chuckle that vibrated the room.
The jovial tone changed rather rapidly, as Rainey was let in on the identities of the two men. Cigar man went first.
“You must be Special Agent Rainey Bell,” he said, sticking out a meaty hand for a shake. “My name is Horace Blackman. I know your daddy. Fine fellow, just fine. I represent Mr. Hale and am bringing this interview to a halt.”
Rainey rose to her feet and shook his hand. “Mr. Blackman. I was under the impression you had retired to Georgia.”
“I have and you are well-informed, but there’s a redhead in Carolina that has my number, so to speak.” He turned his attention to Chance. “You look like hell, young man. You’ll feel better when you dry out. I’ll see to it that you continue to receive excellent medical care for the duration of your rehabilitation.”
“Thank you, Mr. Blackman,” Chance said politely.
“Now,” Horace said, focusing on Rainey again, “I thought you knew better than to speak with a lawyered up suspect.”
“Your client waved his right to counsel and consented to speak with me on the record. Mr. Blackman, Chance called me.”
The balding man introduced himself next.
“Ms. Bell, my name is Richard George. I’m with the State Attorney’s office. Information has come to light that precludes your further involvement in any investigations concerning Mr. Hale. Your superiors have been informed.”
Rainey bristled at the dismissal of her official status. “It’s Special Agent Bell, Mr. George.” Rainey was used to power plays within the justice system. She also suspected a little collusion between these two old friends. “What information?”
George’s smug look signaled Rainey wasn’t going to like what he was about to say.
“We have the results from the fingerprint and DNA analysis on the articles inside the vacuum-sealed bags found in the toolbox. Maybe you would like to explain how your prints were found on several of the flyers and the Virginian-Pilot article about Donna Travis’s assault.”
Rainey had a suspicion as to how her prints ended up in the toolbox collection of murder memorabilia found on Chance Hale. If he knew she was posting the flyers, he could have grabbed a few. Maybe he saw her reading the paper in the parking lot. Maybe she wasn’t as good at surveillance as she thought. Either way, this conversation was out of line.
“Isn’t it highly improper to have this discussion in front of the defense, sir?”
Blackman chuckled again. “Just like your daddy. Full of spit and vinegar, smart too.”
Rainey turned to the attorney. “I’m sorry, what?”
“Your daddy and I go back to my Durham attorney days. I just now spoke with him. I gave him a call when his fingerprints also turned up on some of the evidence. While I don’t believe you or Billy Bell did anything improper, I assure you I can convince a jury that you did. I convinced ol’ Dick here in about five minutes.”
Rainey’s mouth fell open.
Blackman turned to Chance. “Son, you’re going to prison. I cut you a deal for fifteen years on a vehicular manslaughter charge. Take it. You’ll be out in eight to ten.”
“Fifteen years,” Chance repeated, as if saying it made it real.
“That’s a hell of a deal, son. Florida doesn’t take too kindly to drunks taking mommas from babies while on family vacation. It isn’t good for business. With your record of DUIs and other marks on your past, Mr. George here could make a case for throwing away the key. Of course, I wouldn’t let him, but in the meantime, I’d have the rest of that inheritance as my down payment.”
Chance asked, “What about the toolbox, the missing women?”
Mr. George closed the matter.
“Mr. Hale, the evidence is compromised. The State Attorney’s office has no further questions at this time.” He turned to Rainey. “Special Agent Bell, I believe you’re wanted back at Quantico. Good evening.”
And with that, the albatross would be left to rot in one of the boxes in Rainey’s compartmentalized world of emotions. She went back to Quantico. The fact that her fingerprints were on flyers she put up was no surprise to anyone. Chance went to prison. No more skulls or bones arrived in boxes with Rainey’s name on them. Alyson Grayson’s mother still prayed every night to find her girl. Years rolled by and the investigation into Chance Hale’s involvement in the disappearance of seven women went deeply cold, until…
Part II
“Since then, at an uncertain hour,
That agony returns:
And till my ghastly tale is told,
This heart within me burns.”
― Samuel Taylor Coleridge,
The Rime of the Ancient Mariner
9
August 29, 2016
Bulls Bay, Albemarle Sound
Northeast coast of North Carolina
“It’s getting choppy up here. If you don’t find it in the next two minutes, I’m calling it. It’s lightning on the south side of Roanoke Island.”
The hollow-sounding voice of the diver returned through the speaker, “Give me five, Carter. I know it’s here.”
“The fall semester started today, and this equipment was due back to the department last Friday. This cloud is an omen, Rye. Time to call it a summer.”
“Hold on, I see something.”
Carter rolled his eyes at his research partner, though she could not see him. Rye was somewhere beneath the boat searching the Albemarle Sound bottom for wreckage of ancient sea craft.
Replying to Rye’s “hold on” request, Carter said into the headset microphone, “Those words I want on a tee shirt. The mantra of the summer of 2016.”
“No, really. Under all this vegetation, there’s a…I don’t know. It’s definitely the source of the rectangular object on the sonar…but I don’t think…”
The sounds of grunting filled Carter’s headset. “Hey, Rye. Are you all right?”
“Yeah, I’m just trying to move some more of this vegetation.” Another grunt preceded the rest of the communication. “Crap, it’s just a couple of crab pots that got tangled together. They look weird though—”
“Okay, come on up,” Carter said, already standing and looking southward to the darkening sky. “Don’t rush. But we really need to get going.”
Over two hundred vessels had gone down in the shallow Albemarle Sound. He did not want to add to that number. Shallow sounds could make for violent water in the right circumstances. It was ninety degrees in the sun a few minutes ago. The temperature was dropping as the coming squall drew the breeze off the water. Standing in the shallow-drafting small whaler, Carter was listening for the thunder after the most recent flash of lightning in the distant clouds.
“Oh my, god! Oh my, God!” Rye’s voice exploded in his ears.
“What!” Carter jumped, jolted from cloud-watching by the panicked voice from below. Then remembering his job to keep his diver safe, he spoke with calm authority into the microphone, “Do not freak out. You’re underwater, albeit shallow, you need the full minute to surface unless this is an emergency worth a bad decompression experience.”
“Carter! There’s a skull in there.”
“Shit, Rye. Did we actually find the wreck?”
“No, in the crab pot, or whatever it is. There’s…oh my, god!”
“Stop saying that.”
“Carter, I’m coming up, and you need to make two phone calls. One to tell Dr. Heidnik that his equipment will be later than expected and so will we.”
“Why? What is it, Rye? What did you find?”
Rye ignored his questions and continued, “The second call”—a chuckle interrupted her, more as a nervous release than humor—”well, I guess that really should be your first. Call 9-1-1. You’re reporting the remains of a murder victim.”
“How do you know it’s a murder victim?”
Carter heard only breathing in return.
He repeated, “How do you know it was murder? I can’t just call and say we found a murder victim in a crab pot. Why can’t I just say ‘remains’ and let them figure out what happened? It could just be a fisherman that fell in by accident.”
His diver broke the surface behind the boat. Carter reached out and took the fins held up to him and then helped Rye navigate the ladder. Once onboard, the heavy sigh from the other side of the mask encouraged Carter to hurry his assistance with its removal, as Rye flopped onto the seat.
Once free of the mask and after a few deep, slow breaths, Rye pushed the neoprene cap from her head and rubbed her fingers through her sun-streaked hair. She had arrived with long monochrome brunette waves. The longest hair on her head was now three inches. It had been a summer of changes. She looked up at her research partner. Carter stood with his phone in one hand and a bottle of water in the other.
“Carter, I can’t imagine under what circumstances one would find an accidental or natural death victim inside a crab pot out in the middle of the sound. Can you?”
Carter handed her the water bottle and then immediately made the call.
“Yeah, hey, we’re out in the Albemarle Sound, just off Bulls Bay, and well, we found a body. We think it’s a murder victim.”
Rye watched Carter nod to the voice on the other end of the call.
He turned to face her when he said into the receiver. “Well, it’s a body stuffed inside a crab pot at the bottom of the sound. What would you think happened?”
He paused to listen, before reading off the coordinates from the onboard GPS. Rye looked over the side, remembering the remains of a life trapped there on the bottom.
She whispered over the waves chopping at the hull. “You’re not alone anymore. They’re coming. They’re coming.”
10
January 14, 2017
Former home of Joshua Lee Hale
Pembina, North Dakota
“I’m telling you, it’s coming from this wall. Here, smell right here.”
“Oh, I believe you, Mr. Kirby. I can smell it from where I’m standing.”
“Oh,” Sydney Kirby said to the contractor. “I guess I’ve smelled it so long, I don’t get the full effect until I get right up against this wall. Pretty rank, huh?”
“Yes, it is,” Jim Jarrett said, as he moved over to the wall and began running his hand along the surface. He looked up at the joint where the wall met the ceiling and then turned back to his client. “Mr. Kirby, do you know who used to live in this house.”
Sydney nodded his head. “Yes, a serial killer lived here. I know the story.”
Jim asked, “Do you know when this doorway was closed up and the wall resurfaced?”
“No. I wasn’t aware of any old doorway. I had a water pipe leak right over there.” He pointed about five feet from the resurfaced area. “We fixed that, but left the rest of the wall alone.”
“Well, you can see the doorway, if you know what to look for, especially if the job wasn’t that well done.”
“Where would a door go? We’re in the basement.”
“Mr. Kirby, I think there is another room on the other side of this wall, and someone didn’t want it found.”
“Get the fuck outta here,” Sydney said.
“I’ll be happy to open it back up for you, but considering the smell, I’d suggest you go ahead and call the police. If it isn’t a body, it’s probably something else you and I do not want any part of.”
“Maybe it’s a sewage pipe or something.”
Jim smiled. “Mr. Kirby, I’ve been doing this a long time. I know what shit smells like. That smell right there is rotting flesh.”
“But that Hale guy blew himself up almost twenty years ago. How would there be a body just now smelling?”
“Global warming,” Jim said. “Maybe she’s just now thawing out.”
“No, seriously. How could a body last that long underground?”
Jim picked up a giant sledgehammer. “Only one way to find out,” he said, before taking a big swing at the wall.
The first hit sent drywall flying. Sydney took a step back. The second crushed the concrete block filler behind it. The third sent cold, putrid air surging into the room. Jim covered his nose and mouth with a rag he quickly drew from his pocket. Sydney turned green and tried not to gag as he pulled the cell phone from his pocket. Jim used his free hand to fish a small pin light from his pocket. He pointed it through the hole he had created into what appeared to be a tunnel. His light hit an old decaying freezer sit
ting in a puddle of goo.
Jim asked, “Did you cut any wires when you worked on the leak?”
From under the collar of his sweatshirt pulled up over his nose, Sydney replied. “Yes. They found a junction box and wire that looked like it ran out of the house underground, maybe to the old garage foundation behind the house. From what they told me, it was an add-on to the original wiring and a fire hazard hidden in the wall that way. They cut it, and nothing stopped working. So I assumed they were right.”
“Well, something stopped working, Mr. Kirby and it’s the source of your smell. There’s a freezer behind this wall. Care to guess what’s inside?” Jim looked back at his dazed customer, who stood still holding the phone, immobile. He asked through the cloth over his mouth, “Not sure who to call, huh?”
Sydney shook his head. “I figured I’d just call 9-1-1. I’m just trying to decide how to say I think a serial killer left a body at my house.”
Jim chuckled through the cloth. “I think that’ll probably get the kind of folks you’re looking for on the move.”
Sydney fought another gag reflex and said, “Yeah, that’ll probably do it.”
11
March 24, 2017
The Bell-Meyers Residence
Chatham County, NC
“Hey! No hitting,” Mack exclaimed.
“That’s a yellow card, Weather,” Timothy, the rule follower explained.
“Weather, I think you need to take a timeout.”
“But Nee Nee, Mack keeps catching the ball.”
Rainey looked down at the little blonde storming her way, hands on hips. Except for the green eyes, she was a miniature of her mother. Not only did Weather look like Katie, she also matched her in fiery determination. She stomped toward Rainey with her jaw set hard and her brow knitted.
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