Peak Road - A Short Thriller (Jon Stanton Mysteries Book 10)

by Victor Methos

  “Your name’s not going anywhere. I don’t even know your name, and I’m fine keeping it that way. I just want to know what you saw. Jennifer thinks you may have seen something that could help us.”

  She blew out a puff of smoke. “Yeah, I seen somethin’ all right.”

  “What?”

  She thought for a moment. “I was drivin’ to the store late one night. This was ’bout five or six years ago. Jennifer was sick, and I needed to pick her up some Tylenol. To get to the grocery store, you go up this little path through the trees and around. That’s the fastest way. So I did that.” She paused, playing with her cigarette. “It was dark even though the moon was out. I was goin’ through, and I seen somethin’ movin’ off to the side. Thought it was an animal or somethin’. Then my lights hit it. It weren’t no animal.”

  I leaned forward, my elbows on my knees. “What was it?”

  “It looked like a man but had fur. Brown-and-black fur. It was down on one knee and had a dead animal in its hands. A rabbit, I think. The rabbit had its throat bitten out. He dropped the rabbit and looked up at me… and I seen them eyes. I’ll never forget ’em. The eyes looked like a man’s eyes, but it weren’t a man. And they were so angry… just so angry.”

  She seemed to zone out for a moment, then she blinked a few times and was back. She tapped her ashes onto a small plate on the coffee table. “Anyway, I hit the gas and flew past. I don’t think it followed me. But I ain’t never taken that path again. I go only on the roads now.”

  Jennifer was staring down at the coffee table, a glazed-over look on her face.

  “Could it have been a man wearing a suit?” I asked.

  She shook her head. “It had blood on its mouth from the rabbit. Eatin’ it raw. I’m tellin’ you, it weren’t no man.”

  “Have you ever seen it again?” Mickey asked.

  She shook her head. “No. And I don’t want to, neither. I’ll tell you one thing though: they showed the photos in the newspaper of the Noels. Of Danny Noel, anyway. Looked the same as that rabbit.”

  I glanced at Mickey, whose eyes were fixed on the woman telling the story.

  Jennifer said, “I heard stories, too. People in school would talk about it. Couple of boys went hunting up there at the gorge, and they said they saw it, too.”

  “Which boys?”

  “Travis and Trent Erby. Travis lives in Vegas now, but Trent is still here. He lives with his parents.”

  I made a mental note of the name, since I didn’t want to write anything down in front of them. “Can you think of anything else that could help us? Anyone we should talk to?”

  Jennifer shook her head. “Most folks aren’t gonna talk to you about it.”

  I took out my card, the one the sheriff had handed back, and put it on the coffee table. “If you think of anything, let us know. And thanks for speaking to us. I promise it stays in this room.”

  Jennifer’s mother rose and said, “You ain’t gonna find it. And them families is dead. Ain’t nothin’ gonna bring them back. Revenge or justice, whatever, don’t do nothing for the dead.”

  “No,” Mickey said, rising as well. “But maybe it does for the living.”

  12

  After leaving Jennifer’s home, I sat with Mickey in the car at the curb. Mickey turned on a classic rock station at a low volume. Pink Floyd came through the speakers. He didn’t start the engine.

  “They were frightened,” Mickey said. “I think they know whoever did this still lives in town. Maybe he never left.”

  “You think he stopped for twenty years?”

  “I’ve seen it before. A trucker in Kansas, killed six prostitutes on his routes. Married, had four kids, volunteered for his kid’s soccer team… Stopped killing for fifteen years for his family, and then one day, just needed to do it again. He was sloppy by then, though, and someone spotted him dumping one of the bodies. Some of them can stop.”

  “Not like this. This is disorganized killing like I’ve never seen it. I wouldn’t be surprised if there was an underlying mental illness like schizo-affective or paranoid schizophrenia. He has no control of himself.”

  “He doesn’t leave anything behind. How many disorganized serial cases have you had where they don’t leave anything behind?”

  He was right. Disorganized killers, as opposed to organized killers, were like random natural disasters. They struck, caused as much damage as they could, and didn’t know why. They left behind massive amounts of evidence, because much of the time they didn’t even know they were killing. Underlying severe mental illness coupled with a traumatic, violent childhood was often the root cause. Or so the textbooks said.

  “Organized killers have a paraphilia they need to get aroused—some non-sexual object or body part that is sexual for them. The kind of random chaos in these killings shouldn’t appeal to an organized killer. There’s not enough time for him to live out the fantasy. It’s almost like he’s an organized killer acting like a disorganized killer… I haven’t seen this before.”

  “Me, either. First time for everything, though.” He started the car. “You wanna see if we can find Trent?”

  “Why don’t you do that? I need to go somewhere first.”

  I dropped Mickey off at the motel. Within minutes, his contacts at the Bureau would find Trent’s address, his criminal history, his psychiatric history—something most people didn’t even know the government had access to—and every other bit of information about Trent’s life. We would go visit him knowing more about his life than most of the people closest to him did.

  The FBI turned to the NSA data-mining service to gather information. Much of it was kept secret from the public and was only marginally legal, although the FISA court, the court in charge of monitoring the intelligence community, knew such data wasn’t exclusively used to conduct surveillance and research on terrorists.

  I put the Noels’ address from the file into the GPS in my phone. Considering how small Peak Road actually was, finding the home took longer than I’d expected. The home was up a road on a small hill. Though they had neighbors, the houses were set far enough apart that they could see each other but not have to interact. I wondered if any of the neighbors had even heard the screaming.

  I got out of the car then leaned against the door. The home appeared to be a cabin, with log siding and large windows with a view of the surrounding forest. It had no backyard, just the woods engulfing it. I tucked the murder book under my arm and slowly went up to the home.

  A basement window off to the side was surrounded by yellow police tape. I was surprised how every police agency used yellow tape. It seemed other colors would’ve worked better. The yellow had become so commonplace that it was like background noise. In some places, people routinely ignored it.

  I ducked underneath and went around to the side of the home. The window was shattered completely; only a few shards remained in the frame. I took out my phone and turned on the flashlight app. The broken glass was sprinkled through the dirt and leaves, and the scattered bits on the patio shimmered in the moonlight.

  I had to enter the house as he had. I brought along the keys only in case the victims’ families had fixed the window. I stepped down into the well before the window and crawled through.

  13

  The darkness consumed me, but I turned off my flashlight app. He wouldn’t have brought light with him. He was an animal that would rely on his instincts to find what he was looking for.

  The basement smelled like mildew and was just as cool as the outside air. Rain had gotten in through the open window, and the carpet was still wet.

  Slowly, I took a few steps into the basement. It was an open space with only a small hallway down to the side that led to a bathroom. I walked down the hallway because he would have. He would need to check the bathroom to see if anyone was in it.

  Then he would take the stairs. I moved over to them. Moonlight was coming in through a window on the upper floor. I took the stairs as quietly as I could, like
a predator stalking its prey, using moonlight as a guide.

  At the top of the stairs were the kitchen and the backdoor. A potted plant sat on a side table next to the door. I ran the palm of my left hand across the leaves as I crossed the kitchen. According to the layout of the house, which the detectives had drawn during the investigation, the bedrooms were down the hallway to the right, away from the living room. I didn’t want to go in there yet.

  I set the murder book down on the kitchen table and flipped the light switch. The power was still on. The house looked different in the yellow light of the kitchen, but it was just as silent. I expected noise, as though a family still lived there.

  Sitting down at the table, I took a moment before opening the murder book. The first pages were the police reports and supplemental narratives. The killer had shattered the basement window then gone upstairs without waking anyone. The toddler’s room was the first bedroom he’d found. Her death was instant but brutal. He then moved to the master bedroom, where Mr. and Mrs. Noel were asleep. One of the detectives noted that the television was on but turned low. He hadn’t written down what station it was turned to. The couple probably routinely fell asleep with the television on. One of them would have to wake in the night to turn it off. I tried to turn the television on to see what the last station was that they were watching, but it wouldn’t turn on.

  The killer had murdered Mr. Noel first. One massive wound to the throat had severed veins and arteries, and police had found a massive chunk of flesh covered in bite marks on the floor next to his side of the bed. Traces of vomit told me the killer had tried to eat it but couldn’t swallow it.

  That had to have woken Mrs. Noel. She was found on the floor. She probably tried to get out of bed and head to her daughter’s room. She had bruising around her ribs and a rug burn on her back. Her toe was fractured. He had probably tackled her during her attempt to flee. Unlike Mr. Noel, she’d received only a small bite to the throat, enough to bleed but not enough to kill. That’s when he’d tried to rape her.

  The autopsy report stated there was no tearing, bruising, semen or any other evidence of rape. The forensic pathologist who’d performed the rape kit thought that only an attempt was made because the fibers and hair found in Mrs. Noel’s mouth matched fibers and hair found in her pubic hair and labia. If he was covered in a fur suit, grinding against her would’ve left the fibers and hair behind.

  Blood loss had been the cause of Mrs. Noel’s death. Unable to rape her, he had bitten her to death.

  I see pure, white rage. Nothing else. You are nothing to me. You are materials for my rage, and I will show you the power of nature. I am nature. I am your god…

  The house creaked and startled me, and only then did I realize my eyes had been closed. I looked down at the file and saw that I had flipped through the reports to the photos. The first photo was of the toddler.

  Children don’t matter to me. I’m not here for the child.

  That was just a consequence of his rage. I flipped through those photos quickly. I rose from the table when I got to the photos of Mr. and Mrs. Noel. I took the hallway slowly, as he would have. Every other part of the process would have been rushed but not the stalking. He would’ve wanted to feel the anticipation for as long as he could, feel the power he held over this family.

  I opened the bedroom door. No one had cleaned up the blood. Most major cities had crime-scene cleaners to clean up the homes. Peak Road was too small for that. The relatives would have to clean it themselves.

  I placed the largest photo of Mr. Noel on his side of the bed. Men had a tendency to take the side of the bed closest to the bedroom door, a subconscious mechanism to offer protection against an invader.

  I took out the largest photo of Mrs. Noel and placed it on her side of the bed. Then I stepped back closer to the door, seeing them as he would’ve seen them.

  The windows were closed, and they probably had been that night. It had been raining the night the family was killed. I stepped closer to the bed, staring at it.

  You are mine. You have always been mine. You were born for this, for me. And I was born for you.

  I went over to the right side of the bed and knelt. Then I moved over to the bloodstain on the floor near the bed—the spot where he’d killed Mrs. Noel. She’d gotten about four feet away.

  I took a few steps back to the light switch by the door then turned on the light. Blood hadn’t soaked just the sheets and the floor. Small droplets were spattered across the walls, too. Blood dotted the ceiling, the ceiling fan, the nightstand, the closet doors, and the television—on both sides of the room. Both Mr. and Mrs. Noel had tried to fight, possibly for their daughter. They hadn’t known she was already dead.

  “What is it you need?” I whispered. “What do you see when you close your eyes?”

  I turned off the light and stepped back out into the hallway. I had to look—to see what he was capable of. I closed my eyes and drew a deep breath before opening the door to the child’s room. Inside were a crib and toys. Blood—arterial spray—coated the room.

  I quickly shut the door, my heart pounding so hard that it deafened me. My breathing was shallow, and my vision blurred. My chest tightened; my fingers itched. I ran to the front door. I was moving so fast that I fumbled with the chain and couldn’t get it open. I pulled on the door so hard, the chain broke off, and I sprinted out into the night air.

  I collapsed on the grass and dirt and put my head down. I felt as though someone were sitting on my chest. I took breaths as deep as I could and kept my eyes closed. I lay on my back, breathing in through my nose and out through my mouth. After a few minutes, my heart began to slow, and I caught my breath.

  I sat up, watching the surrounding forest. The trees moved with a breeze, making a sound like human voices. I rose and walked back to the car.

  14

  At the motel, I sat in the parking lot for a moment, just breathing. I focused my mind on a single thought—the way the waves crackled against the sand on the beach near my house. I thought about this for a long time before I opened the door and headed inside.

  I took out the key to put into the lock, then I noticed the door was open. I pushed it wider and didn’t see anyone inside. “Mickey?”

  I could hear loud music a few doors down, but our room was completely silent. I could see Mickey’s bed from the door—he wasn’t in it. The rest of the room was dark. I reached back and put my hand on my gun but didn’t take it out of the holster. I scanned the parts of the room I could see, and saw no one.

  I stepped inside, and something hit my ribs like a truck, flinging me out of the room and onto my back. A dark figure ran out of the room and sprinted into the night.

  I got to my feet and drew my gun. I raced into the dark. The figure went toward the road. I could see a silhouette every time the person neared a light post. The sprinter was faster than I was, leaping over trashcans and dashing through bushes as though they weren’t there. I followed the figure onto the sidewalk. My legs were burning, and he was getting away.

  I kept going for block after block until my chest seared as if someone had dumped acid in it. Finally, my legs wouldn’t go any farther. I stopped on the sidewalk, so off balance from the blow I’d taken that I nearly fell over, sucking air as if I’d been held underwater.

  The figure disappeared around a corner.

  I was searching the motel room when Mickey opened the door.

  “He was here,” I said. “Where were you?”

  Mickey froze. His eyes ran over the room. “I walked down to the all-night pharmacy. How do you know he was here?”

  “Because he gave me this.” I lifted my shirt. A bruise matching the metal blade of the shovel lying on the floor crossed my ribs. “He caught me when I walked in.”

  Mickey hurried into the bathroom and searched. I knew what he was looking for—a note or something purposely left behind. If this man had been so brazen as to come to the motel room of the investigators looking for him, there was
a chance he was trying to stop but couldn’t. He would want us to make him stop—suicide by cop.

  “Anything?” I asked.

  “No. You?”

  “Nothing.” I sat down in the recliner by the window, my hand over my ribs. “He ran so fast, I couldn’t keep up. And I think he ran barefoot.”

  “Barefoot?”

  I nodded. “I think so. I didn’t get a good look at him.”

  Mickey sat on the edge of the bed for a moment. “It got back to him that we were here. And we haven’t talked to that many people.”

  I put my feet up on the bed, trying to alleviate the pain radiating from the side of my body. “I think we need to pay Jennifer another visit.”

  I resisted going to the hospital that night and barely slept. The next morning, I went back to Jennifer’s house, and I had Mickey wait for me outside. He tried to insist that he take me to a hospital, but I wouldn’t go. I had felt fractured ribs before, and mine were merely bruised now. Doctors couldn’t do anything for bruised ribs.

  It was early but not early enough that Jennifer would be asleep. I knocked on her door and took a step back. Seconds later, she opened the door.

  “Hi,” she said, a grin on her face. She wasn’t concerned, which meant she thought my visit was a social call.

  “Can we talk?”

  “Sure. You wanna come in?”

  “How about we go for a walk?”

  “Lemme get my shoes.”

  I waited on the porch and looked out at the car. Mickey had his head leaned back against the seat. He had been the best investigator I’d ever met, full of boundless optimism that somehow, the good guys would always win. That had been ten years ago, though. Now, he looked like a tired old man. Instead of his usual energy, I had the sense that everything was a sheer act of will. Suddenly, I felt bad for him in a way I hadn’t before.