by Andrew Mayne
I snap out of my dreamlike state and feel my blood boiling. “You fucker . . .”
“You started this. Now you have to end it. Right now you’re weighing the odds. Do you tell the police everything I told you? Or do you do exactly as I asked? Do you think they could protect everyone? They don’t even think I exist.”
“I know your name. I’ll tell them.” I don’t yet, but I know it’s in the binder.
“No, you don’t. You know an old name I haven’t used in thirty years. That boy, the one that . . . He doesn’t exist anymore.”
“Is that what it is? Some hick molests you and you become a serial killer?”
“It’s not that simple, Theo. Deep down we’re all animals. But that’s not important. You know what you need to do.”
“How do I know you won’t harm them anyway?”
“You don’t. But you’re a logical man. It’s not in my interest to do that. I just want to hear on the news tomorrow that you confessed.”
“What if I do everything you ask me and they don’t believe me?”
“That’s why you need to do one more thing to convince them. I can’t trust you not to eventually tell them. That’s why you’re going to use that gun of yours to put a bullet in your head after you make your confession.”
“I . . . I’m supposed to kill myself?”
“Yes, Theo. Videotape a confession. It had better be the performance of your life. Then shoot yourself. It’ll be quick. You won’t feel a thing. Jillian will be safe. And if you don’t, someone you care about will be dead by tomorrow night. Maybe her. Maybe Gus. Maybe someone I haven’t mentioned.”
I don’t know how long after he hangs up that I sit here, staring at a swaying tree branch, hypnotized.
My ringing phone wakes me out of my stupor.
“Hello?”
“Hey Dr. Cray, it’s Sergeant Graham.” Her voice is friendlier than the professional tone she struck with me this morning. “We didn’t get to finish up. I have a couple more questions for you. Are you still at the pancake place?”
“I . . . had to run an errand.”
“Okay. Well, if you could pop by the substation, we can wrap up. Can you be here in an hour?”
“Sure,” I lie.
“Great. See you then.”
I’m not the only liar. She was too friendly, too cordial. I’m sure she went by the pancake place and realized I wasn’t there.
They want to talk to me about Mrs. Lane.
Right now they’re wondering why I would kill her, torch the woods, then go to them with a story about the Cougar Creek Monster. It doesn’t make any sense. It’s insane. But it all leads back to me.
Damn.
If I want to keep Jillian and Gus safe, I better think of something.
CHAPTER SIXTY-NINE
ADMISSION
Joshua Lee Clark, that’s his name. At least that’s what it used to be. When I turn to his page in the binder, the eyes give it away. Dark green, sitting under a mop of reddish hair. The eyes are intelligent but unsure. It’s not a photo of a scared eleven-year-old. It’s a wary animal caught in the flashbulb’s glare.
He was placed in foster care after his mother was found stabbed to death in the kitchen. Joshua told the police it had been a domestic dispute between her and his estranged father. Nobody else saw his father come or go, but there had been a history of violence and the police found Joshua’s story credible.
I’m not sure I do, knowing what I know now. The calculating voice on the other end of the phone was capable of anything. He admitted to killing Julie Lane, his foster mother, in an attempt to silence her and frame me.
Killing for him is effortless, whether it’s for pleasure or expedience. And now he’s threatened to kill people I care about if I don’t do what he says.
I have to lie and invent explanations that will be paper thin. I have to do everything I can to convince the people I was trying to get to believe there was a killer out there to now think it was all some scheme I concocted.
It’s absurd and won’t stand up to scrutiny. But Clark is right: if I punctuate the lie with my own death, they’ll make it fit.
If I admit to killing Juniper, they’ll believe me. I can convince them I arranged Chelsea’s death if I say it happened on a trip I made up here the year before.
Same for the other bodies. If the time frame doesn’t match up, if I was out of the country when they were killed, I’ll concoct some story about putting their bodies in a freezer to hold them longer or something like that so I would have an alibi.
I’ll say the Cougar Creek bodies were ones I found elsewhere and planted years ago at the hot spring.
How hard will they try to debunk the testimony of a dead man? If I give them everything they need, they’ll be happy.
Whatever it takes to keep Jillian safe.
They’ll want a motive, too. I can’t just explain how I managed all of the killings—they’ll want to know why a sick mind would conceive of such a deranged plot.
I’ll tell them I’ve always been off. Obsessed with violent thoughts toward women, the desire to pull off the perfect murder. I’ll tell them I killed Juniper because it wasn’t enough to watch strangers die; I wanted to murder someone who knew me.
Why would I kill myself?
If I’m a sociopath, it can’t be due to guilt. Is it because I want to gloat openly? Or is it that I fear they’re closing in on me?
When they arrested Ted Bundy, he told the police officer who caught him it would have been better to have just shot him. He felt no remorse but wasn’t immune to anxiety.
I’ll need to make a detailed timeline to explain when I did my crimes. I should also be prepared with some explanations of how I fooled the methods for dating bodies, like the refrigerator. I could name some preservatives as well as some enzymatic accelerants.
To make it more convincing, I should see to it that when they search my car they find the necessary tools and chemicals. There’s probably one or more chemical supply companies nearby that can provide me with what I need.
Yes, I think I can do this. Hell, I’ll post my video confession online for everyone to see. That would be too much for the news to resist.
That should convince him of my sincerity.
There’s a clarity that arrives when life forces you into a binary situation.
If I had more time, there might be other choices. Regardless of the name change, I’m sure I could have found him. But I was too late and too clumsy. Any attempt to bid for more time would be transparent to him. He has the upper hand.
I devote my mental energy to the chemicals and materials I’ll need to convince the police I was able to muck around with the bodies, screwing up their estimated time of death.
There’s an enzymatic solution used as an industrial cleanser that would cause advanced necrosis before breaking down. A few gallons of that would be convincing. A mild acid wash in a bathtub would cause skin discoloration and aging.
I could say I used a CO2 tank to cause the internal organs to rupture from decomposition.
If I wanted to really screw with forensics, I could say I drew blood from one body and placed it in another to mess with their DNA analysis.
Hell, I could even convincingly turn a corpse into a dead clone of a living person if I transferred enough blood, used a clotting agent to have it solidify in the veins they’d tap, then destroyed the dental records by using hydrofluoric acid to wear down the teeth—as if they were attacked by aggressive bacteria.
Okay, I know what I’ll say. I know what I need to do.
I’ll write up a summary of my methods, make a video confession, and then let the police know where to find my body.
It’s the only way to keep Jillian safe.
CHAPTER SEVENTY
SURROGATE
In my solitude I have pondered much on the incomprehensible subjects of space, eternity, life and death.
—Alfred Russel Wallace
Faking my own death is easier s
aid than done—especially with such short notice. While there was no way in hell I could convince someone conducting a thorough forensic examination that somebody else’s body was my own, I could buy myself some time. I have three or four days at most until Mead and her staff take a look at the corpse and realize that the whole thing is a sham.
I have to find Joshua Lee Clark before then. Once he realizes what I’ve done, he’s going to go ballistic and Jillian and Gus won’t be safe.
If I thought Clark would leave them alone, I might have put the bullet in my head. But I don’t trust him. Once I’m dead, he’ll probably eventually kill Jillian just for kicks. It’s what he does. While he presented himself as a coldly rational person on the phone, he’s a murderer who enjoys killing. It’s in his DNA.
To buy time I have to let him think I’m dead. To do that, I need a body. On average, twenty-four people die a day in Montana. The number of males around my age averages about two to three per day.
According to the Montana Gazette, Christopher Dunleavy, age thirty, was found unresponsive two days ago and taken to Missoula Memorial Hospital, where he was declared dead on arrival from a prescription-drug overdose. Authorities say they’re trying to contact family members. Translation: his body is sitting in the hospital morgue waiting for someone to make burial arrangements.
The social media profile I found for him shows someone that doesn’t resemble me facially but has a similar body type—close enough for what I have planned.
I dial the hospital and have the switchboard connect me to the morgue.
“Cold storage,” says a friendly woman.
“Hello, I’m calling from Hudson Creek sheriff’s office. Do you still have Christopher Dunleavy’s remains?”
“Yes. Still waiting on next of kin. What’s up?”
“There’s been a wrinkle. I think the state crime lab wants to have a look.”
“Says who?”
“Mead, I believe.” Better to throw her name around.
“She doesn’t trust our forensic examiner?”
“No. No. There might be a criminal element. Trying to identify the source of the pills.”
“Oh, got it.”
“Yeah. Anyway, DEA has asked for an examination.”
“Just have someone come sign for it and they can do as they please.”
After laying the groundwork for taking the body, I have to actually pull it off. Sadly, I can’t just drive up to the hospital in my SUV and have them load the body in the back.
Fortunately, in Helena I find a truck rental company with a new high-top black van—exactly the kind of thing you’d expect a government agency to use.
I put the vehicle on my credit card, assuming that by the time police check those records I’ll be dead or Clark captured.
When I arrive at the hospital, my hands are clammy and I’m not quite sure if I’m up to pulling it off. I’ve hastily bought a dark-blue windbreaker so I look like some kind of officious person. My cover story is going to be that I am a federal examiner brought in by the DEA—if they even ask.
I park in back near the loading zone. As I walk toward the rear entrance, I spot a young cop on break leaning against his car, smoking a cigarette. Immediately I become apprehensive, but then I get an inspiration.
“Excuse me,” I call out.
“Yes, sir?”
Perfect, a cop with good manners. “Do you know where the morgue is? I’m picking up a body for the state crime lab.”
He points to a set of doors. “I think it’s through the entrance and to the right. I don’t work this place often. I’m just waiting for my partner to check on a witness.”
“Well, if you have a second, could you help me out? I got to load the thing. I could use someone to hold open the doors. My partner’s wife went into labor in Bozeman, and he had to head there.”
“Sure thing,” he says, dropping the cigarette. “As long as I don’t have to touch anything.”
“Thanks, Officer . . . Patel,” I reply, after seeing his name tag. “I’m Bill Doff.” I give him the name of my high school algebra teacher.
“Nick,” he says, shaking my hand.
As we walk inside, I make sure the small talk isn’t professional and call attention to an attractive nurse who passes us in the hallway.
“It’s why I like hanging out here,” says Nick.
When we get to the front desk, we’re greeted by the same friendly voice I spoke to on the phone.
“Hello, we’re here to pick up Christopher Dunleavy. I believe somebody called?”
“Oh, you’re from the state lab?” She gives Nick a smile, implying that he might be a more frequent visitor than he let on.
“Yes.”
She slides over a form on a clipboard. “Just fill this out.”
I bluff my way through the boxes and put Mead’s name in the field for requesting official.
She looks it over and nods. “I’ll just need a transfer form.”
A what? I was afraid there would be some kind of paperwork I didn’t know about.
“Right.” I hesitate. “Mead didn’t send me over with one.”
I’m about to ask to see what one looks like so I can try to forge it at a FedEx office, but the clerk relents. Probably because I have a police officer standing next to me—which clearly means I’m an official person doing official things.
“That’s okay, just fax it over ASAP. I’ll have an orderly load the body on a gurney and bring it out back in ten minutes.”
“Wonderful.”
Fifteen minutes later I’m driving away with a stolen corpse. I make one more stop at a medical supplier to get whatever I can legally obtain, then steal the rest from a parked ambulance using my secret door-opening trick.
CHAPTER SEVENTY-ONE
FATALITY
Christopher Dunleavy’s dead eyes stare out at me from behind the wheel of my Explorer. There’s a little more color in his skin. There should be—I pumped two pints of my blood into his body. I was already running low from my previous accident and not sure if I should have spared even that much.
But to make the thing work, it’s absolutely critical that the medical examiner who shows up on the scene to pronounce the body dead doesn’t see immediate signs of lividity. To minimize those, I put heparin, a blood thinner, in my donor blood and used a syringe to inject the liquid into his body, then massaged the surrounding area.
As I did this, I kept the heater running at full blast and put pocket warmers around his neck and under his armpits, so when they check for a temperature he’ll seem recently dead, instead of freshly sprung from a hospital freezer.
It’s a sloppy job, and I know it. If I can confuse the initial examination, I’ll be fine until Mead or whoever cuts open poor Christopher and sees all my shoddy craftsmanship.
To fit him into the driver’s seat, I had to loosen up his limbs, which had already stiffened from rigor mortis. A syringe filled with muriatic acid injected into the major muscle groups decalcified the filaments enough to make him fairly pliable.
The final result is a semi-stiff corpse sitting in my Explorer with his hands poised around Gus’s shotgun, ready to pull the trigger and blow off his face—which also proves easier said than done.
Besides the emotional difficulty of literally defacing another human being, I become aware of the practical problem. How could I pull the trigger and make it look like he did it? If the door was open and I stood there, it would leave a rather odd blood splatter with a missing section. The same if I sat in the passenger side.
I consider trying to wire up something through the brake pedal but settle on reaching a garbage bag–wrapped arm through the window and manually pulling the trigger.
I’m sure a competent forensic technician would notice something amiss, but again, I just need a few days, not an unsolved mystery that lasts for years.
I toyed with the idea of setting Christopher on fire as well. While that would certainly complicate a forensic examination, it might m
ake Clark too suspicious. If news reports said the body was burned beyond recognition, I’m sure he’d suspect something is up.
I have to give him exactly what he asked for.
I toiled late last night trying to make Christopher look fresh and planting all the identifying pieces of evidence so it would seem pretty clear-cut who was in the car. I dressed him in my clothes and put my wallet in his pocket.
As I tied my shoes on his feet, I became aware of all the subtle things I was probably getting wrong—like doing the knot upside down. I did my best to fix all those details and spent an hour obsessing over everything, trying to make certain that it wouldn’t be immediately obvious.
In the end, I had to just settle and tell myself that it would be enough to convince first responders and make the news with enough information for Clark to draw the conclusion I want.
Beyond all the forensic details, the most important element will be my confession. Working on Christopher, I laid out what I was going to say in my head. It took my mind off the horrible things I was doing to this man’s body.
I’d worked with plenty of dead bodies before I came to Montana, but this was crossing a line. How far apart was I from Clark? Yes, Christopher was already dead, but I was violating him in some way. The last thing he could have wanted when he took that fatal overdose was some asshole to desecrate his corpse. And what about his family? What happens when they finally come to collect him for burial and see what I’ve done?
This is getting to me to the point I have to sit down and take a break.
I drop down on the hard dirt where I parked the Explorer and stare at Christopher’s face. The moonlight reflecting off his red and white cheeks makes him look like a creature half in this world, half not.
“What the hell are you doing, Theo?” I ask myself.
“Surviving,” I reply. “Surviving.”
Even if I see my way through this mess, I’m positive nobody would ever understand why I did what I did. “Why didn’t you tell the police? Why didn’t you warn everyone?”
