The Fear Collector

by Gregg Olsen

  “You owe me and my mother an explanation,” Grace said. “Were you having an affair with Tricia?”

  Finally, a look in his eye—a snap of recognition came to his face.

  “No, no, I wasn’t, but . . . she knew about it, Detective. She saw me with her. She told me that what I was doing was wrong, which I already knew.”

  “When did she confront you?” she asked.

  “A week before she disappeared. It didn’t have anything to do with her disappearance. I wasn’t having an affair with her. I agreed with her that it was wrong. I broke it off.”

  “How can you be sure it didn’t? Professor, how can you be sure?”

  The professor looked up, his eyes full of tears.

  “Because I’ve lived every day since then telling myself that very thing. That it didn’t matter. That it couldn’t matter.”

  “Who was the student?”

  Phillip kept his eyes cast downward. “Margaret Howell.”

  The name was like a bullet to Grace’s chest.

  “Peggy?” she asked. “You were involved with Peggy?”

  The professor shook his head and finally looked up. “I was, like I’ve admitted to you a moment ago, a fool. I don’t like the word involved. It seems too personal. Too committed. I was stupid. We both were.”

  He’s still justifying it, she thought. “The reports I read indicated that the affair was only a rumor, that you were exonerated by the school.”

  Phillip looked over in the direction of his wife as she moved down the hall toward the living room.

  “She forgave me,” he said, overcome by emotion, but fighting to hold it together. “She told them that she’d lied. She gave me a second chance.”

  That’s all that Grace wanted, too. A second chance.

  “What did my sister do about it? Peggy was her best friend.”

  The professor nodded. “The last time we had coffee, we talked about it. Your sister had urged Peggy to stop seeing me and she promised she would. For the most part, it was over. It really was.”

  In the second-floor generic-as-can-be interview room, four people gathered to discuss Emma Rose. Only one knew something. Maybe two. Alex Morton looked worse than the proverbial deer in the headlights. The teen’s tough-guy attitude had evaporated. He trembled a little underneath the thin graphic T-shirt of some band Grace had never heard of, and his breath seemed a little short. He moved his hands from his lap to the table, as though he couldn’t seem to get comfortable. Not even a little bit. And in what was not a shocker to the detectives, in the seat next to Alex Morton was a lawyer, not his father. Nor was it surprising that the lawyer was one of the best in Tacoma.

  Kiernan Weber was about sixty, a kind of genteel fellow who had served as a superior court judge in Tacoma before retiring to private practice. He came with the best reputation.

  The best that money could buy.

  A lot of money.

  Palmer Morton’s money.

  “I understand that you have some questions for my client,” he said in his characteristic deep baritone, a voice that routinely sent shivers down even the toughest defendant’s spine. Prosecutors and defense attorneys, too. “I hope we can answer them to your satisfaction today,” he said.

  Grace had testified in Judge Weber’s courtroom a few times. This was the first time she’d seen him off the bench. She respected him, like most in the department. Yet, she wondered if money was so important that a man like Weber, with a pension as big as the moon, really needed to scoop up more of the green stuff.

  “Judge, as you know, we’ve met your client.”

  “And your client’s father,” Paul added, never missing a chance to turn the blade for a reaction.

  Judge Weber nodded, refusing to play. “That’s right,” he said. “I understand all of that. And as far as I know, both have been cooperative.”

  “Reasonably so,” Grace said, wanting to add something about how they had probably lied to her, but she let it go. Goodwill to the man next to the teenager trumped a sarcastic remark.

  “That’s good to know,” he said. “I’ve always been on the side of cooperation.”

  “We have some new information and we’re hoping that you can shed some light on it.”

  “That’s why we’re here. Tell me, detectives, is my client a target of your investigation? There was certainly some drama in getting us all here this morning.”

  “We’re trying to find a missing girl, Judge. We need help. We have reason to believe your client wasn’t completely candid when we talked with him at his residence,” she said, holding back the word mansion because it seemed so ludicrous to use that kind of loaded word. The kid was a kid. Whatever money he had came from inside his dad’s wallet.

  Paul spoke up. “We also think that your client’s father wasn’t so truthful, either.”

  Judge Weber’s face betrayed no emotion. He just listened and took it all in. It was hard for Grace to think of anything other than testifying in the judge’s courtroom. Hiring him to defend his son was a brilliant move on the part of Palmer Morton.

  But maybe not enough so to save Alex.

  “You’ve come across something new. Not sure if it’s evidence of anything, but something you wanted to talk about this morning.”

  “Right,” Paul said.

  “We want to show you something,” Grace said, sliding the DVD of the surveillance video from mall security into the player. Showing the image of Emma Rose talking to someone with the Mortons’ BMW 3 in the background was powerful. Powerful enough to maybe jar Alex into actually saying something of value. Grace and Paul had discussed the idea before the rich kid and the judge showed up. Neither saw it as tipping any hand to a potential killer, because there was no body, no clue, no nothing about the whereabouts of Emma Rose. Playing the clip of the parking lot was all they had. If he was charged later, Alex Morton would get to see the video through discovery. There’d be plenty of time for him to come up with an excuse, of course.

  Alex sat stiffly in the chair. He was still by then, apparently, giving up the notion of getting comfortable in a place that could never be so.

  “Do you mind if we ask your client a few questions?”

  “I do mind, and I’ve advised Alex that it might be in his best interest to answer some. But he wants you to know that he liked the girl.”

  “Are you talking about Emma Rose?” she asked.

  The judge nodded while Alex just sat there, doing as he had undoubtedly been coached.

  “Yes, of course. Emma Rose.”

  “Fine,” she said. “May I direct a question to Alex?”

  The judge looked at Alex and the young man nodded.

  “Before doing so,” Judge Weber said, “is Alex a target of your investigation?”

  Grace shook her head emphatically. “No.”

  “Is he a suspect?”

  “No,” she said, again decisively.

  “Is he a person of interest?”

  There was a slight hesitation, but Grace answered. “We’re just trying to find a missing girl. Alex might be able to help. Our focus, our sole focus, is on finding Emma.”

  “All right,” the judge said. “What do you want to know?”

  “How long did you date?” she asked the teen.

  Judge Weber indicated for Alex to answer.

  “A little while,” Alex said. “Not much. It wasn’t that serious.”

  “But you liked her, right?”

  Again, a little nod from the judge.

  “Yes, I liked her.”

  “Did you break up with her or did she break up with you?” Grace asked.

  Before Alex Morton could answer, Paul leaned forward.

  “She dumped you, right?” he asked.

  Alex’s throat tightened and tried to remain calm. “I guess so. I guess she dumped me. So what? It wasn’t going to go anywhere.”

  “You didn’t like being dumped, did you?” Paul asked.

  Judge Weber shook his head. “Look, we’r
e not in a courtroom and by the line of your questions, I’m thinking that you’ve gathered us here for more than a little mere fact finding.” He turned to Grace. “I thought you had a video clip you wanted to show us? Isn’t that why we’re here?”

  “Yes,” she said, her eyes fastened on Alex. “Getting to it.”

  “You said that my client isn’t on the clip, correct?” he asked, his voice deeper and more forceful than ever.

  She nodded. “Correct.”

  Judge Weber appeared to size up the detectives before speaking. “You want us to look at the tape to see if there is anything Alex can tell you to be helpful. That’s all, correct?”

  “Yes,” Paul said, a little irritated with the way the former judge was trying to control things like he was still in the black robe.

  “Fine then. Then let’s roll the tape so we can get out of here. I have a Rotary meeting at noon.”

  Grace reached over and pressed the PLAY button. While the DVD played, she kept her eyes on Alex. She knew that even a junior sociopath like she presumed he was would betray his feelings. Provided he had any. She’d done some background work on the boy—abandoned by his mother, being raised by an insufferable blowhard father—and she almost felt sorry for him. But if he had anything to do with Emma Rose’s disappearance, any sympathy she had would be gone. Right then everything was about trying to find the missing girl, hoping that she would be alive.

  Hoping that she wasn’t the victim of a serial killer.

  The screen showed the mostly empty parking lot. A few carts. A few cars. Then a figure of a young woman appeared. She was small, lithe. She started from the direction of the Starbucks and moved across the screen toward the transit stop.

  “That’s Emma,” he said. “Quality sucks, but that’s her. She practically skips when she’s in a hurry.”

  Alex kept his eyes riveted to the plasma. Grace kept her eyes on Alex.

  Emma turned around and started talking to someone in the direction of the Starbucks. The angle was so poor it was hard to tell if she was angry, laughing, or what. Her shoulders moved rapidly and one hand flew up in the air. But it was hard to say if it was a gesture of recognition or one meant to rebuff someone.

  Like the potential stalker former boyfriend across the table from her.

  “Do you know who she’s talking to?” she asked Alex directly.

  “How would I know?” he said.

  Paul had been itching to move the needle. All this making nice, all this respect for the rich judge with the rich client, was turning his stomach.

  “You weren’t there that night?” he asked.

  Before Alex had the chance to answer, Judge Weber put his fingers to his lips and the teen clammed up.

  The judge didn’t say anything, but it was clear to both detectives that he saw what they hadn’t noticed at first, second, and fifteenth view of the tape—the car.

  “This interview is over,” he said, his eyes meeting Grace’s with a cold, decisive stare.

  “Do you drive your dad’s car?” Paul asked.

  Judge Weber stood up, pulling his client to his feet and pushing him toward the door. “Don’t answer, Alex. We’re done now.” Before exiting the interview room he turned to Grace.

  “I always thought you were one of the good ones,” he said. “Guess there really aren’t any more of those around here, are there?”

  “Glad to know you’re able to double dip. Must be nice to get a pension and have a job at the same time,” Paul said.

  The judge smiled. It was a cold smile, the kind meant to punish or humiliate rather than charm.

  “Yeah, it is. And yes, I make a lot of money. Goodbye, Detectives Alexander and Bateman. Rotary at noon. I enjoy being a part of my community. You know, because I can afford to.”

  Paul turned to Grace.

  “Jesus, I don’t know who’s more of a prick—the judge, the kid, or his dad.”

  “Did you have to piss him off?” Grace asked.

  Paul glowered. “Did you have to be so respectful?”

  “Don’t go there,” Grace said, frustrated by the whole situation. “I’m not the one with a thick Internal Affairs file.”

  “Low blow. But so what? Did you see the look on the judge’s face when he saw the car?”

  “Oh yeah. Let’s name him.”

  “Suspect?”

  “Person of interest. Let’s rattle the Mortons’ gilded cage a little and see what falls out.”

  CHAPTER 37

  Jeremy Howell was six when his mother, Peggy, told him who his father was. Peggy would later say she held off for years because her son was too young to completely understand. It wasn’t that she thought the boy was dumb. Far from it. After all, how could he be anything but brilliant? Indeed, there was no arguing that Jeremy was smarter than the average second grader at Geiger Elementary—the same school his father attended when growing up in Tacoma. Jeremy had been reading at the fourth-grade level and could recite all fifty states and their capital cities—something that Peggy was sure was nothing short of genius.

  Peggy, her son, Jeremy, and daughter, Cecilia, were living in her late mother’s house on Ruby Street back then. She told people she was a widow whenever they asked about Jeremy’s father. Most assumed the boy’s dad had been killed in a car accident or maybe in combat in the Army or Air Force. With a pair of military bases nearby, it was easy to allow people to think whatever they needed to believe.

  Peggy could never tell anyone that he’d died in the electric chair.

  Jeremy was watching a Superman cartoon when Peggy decided the time was right. She went over to the set and turned off the sound.

  “Hey, Mommy, I was watching that,” the boy said.

  “I know. But what I have to tell you is more important than a cartoon.”

  He looked at her, studying her face for some kind of hint about what could be more important than what he was doing at the moment of her unwanted interruption. He didn’t like it when his mother talked to him like that, as if she knew what was best for him. He knew best all by himself. He looked back at the silent TV as Superman went after Lex Luthor.

  “Jeremy,” she said, taking a seat on the sofa—the sole piece of furniture in the front room. “Your daddy was a very important, famous man.”

  This seemed to interest Jeremy and he turned his attention away from the silent TV to his mother.

  “Who?” he asked.

  Peggy wanted this particular disclosure to go perfectly. She’d planned it over the past several nights as she lay in her bed staring at the ceiling and conjuring the words that would not scare, but make him understand the importance of what she was imparting.

  “I will tell you,” she began. “But I want you to know something first.” She waited for him to acknowledge the meaning of her caveat, and the six-year-old nodded slightly.

  “What, Mommy?” he asked, using the “mommy” word because he knew that she liked it when he did so.

  Peggy looked serious. “This is very important. Remember when I told you that sometimes people hate other people for no reason.”

  “Like you hated your mom?”

  Peggy shook her head. “I had reason. No, I mean, like sometimes people get the wrong idea about someone and they just decide that hating is better than understanding.”

  “Okay,” he said.

  “Your daddy was accused of doing bad, bad things. He did not do them. He was not a bad man, but a lot of people thought he was.”

  “What did they think he did that was so bad? Was he in jail?”

  Peggy nodded. “Yes, he was in jail. They said that he did terrible things.”

  “But what terrible things?”

  Peggy swallowed, this was the hard part. He’d been raised in a world that condemned evil. Horror and shock were the routine responses to murder. Repulsion, too. “They said he killed someone.”

  Jeremy’s eyes widened as he took in that bit of information. “Who did they say he killed?”

  “Some g
irls. Some girls.”

  Jeremy pushed his mother to be as direct as she could.

  “Did he kill them?” he asked.

  Peggy shook her head with exaggerated vehemence and patted him gently on one knee. The boy recoiled a little; his mother’s touch was a rarity and he didn’t always like it when she tried to show any affection. Affection seemed foreign and uncomfortable.

  “No, son,” she finally said, “he did not. He absolutely did not. He never should have been in prison. Not for one minute.”

  “Is he in prison now?”

  Peggy looked at the TV. She hadn’t thought things completely through. She thought that she could explain what happened to Jeremy’s father after he was a little older. It was the stupid school’s fault having to shove a stupid “family tree” assignment at her. It seemed so unfair. What about those slutty moms who can’t figure out which guy is their child’s father? How were they going to wriggle out of the school assignment?

  “No,” she said, her eyes now welling with tears. “Your daddy died in prison. He never got to get out and be with us. He wanted to. He really did. He loved you and he loved me. No matter what anyone says about him, remember that. Remember what I’m telling you.”

  Jeremy nodded. “What is my daddy’s name?”

  “Theodore,” she said.

  Jeremy shrugged a little, searching for a connection. “Like one of the Chipmunks?”

  Tears were streamed down Peggy’s face. The emotion was genuine. “Yes, like one of the Chipmunks. But everyone who knew him called him Ted.”

  Jeremy thought a moment and reached for the remote control. He didn’t ask his dad’s last name. The name Theodore was bad enough.

  Despite her tears, Peggy felt relieved. She patted Jeremy once more and went to the kitchen cabinet, where she kept a bottle of inexpensive vodka hidden behind a box of Rice Chex. A drink was in order. Her son would get the full disclosure later. She had to ease him into the truth with lies. In due time, he’d find out just how special he was. There would be no shame at all. Just the kind of pride that comes from knowing that greatness courses through a family bloodline.