Fatal 5

by Karin Kaufman

  What Follows After

  “Walsh excels once again with this psychological thriller…the author’s narrative moves at a relentless pace, with tension building to an almost unbearable degree until the very end.” – Library Journal

  “As is only to be expected from bestselling author Dan Walsh, What Follows After is a solid emotional thriller with a message…It has plenty that will appeal to both men and women.” – Crosswalk.com

  For these and more of Dan Walsh’s books, go to http://danwalshbooks.com/books/

  Author’s Note

  If I’m a new author to you and you haven’t yet read any of my other published novels (besides this one, there are over a dozen others in print), let me start off by saying thanks for checking out When Night Comes. I hope you thoroughly enjoy it. If you do, at the end of the book I’ve included another note mentioning two recent novels that are the most similar to this one.

  But in general, When Night Comes opens up something of a new door for my writing. The traditional rule in the publishing world is to stay locked into one genre, and only write books within that genre, because that’s what your readers expect from you. For those of you who’ve read and enjoyed my other novels, you are familiar with my character-driven storylines, strong romantic threads, and a lot of page-turning suspense. You’ll find all of that in When Night Comes.

  So what’s the difference?

  Magazine and blog reviewers have often compared my books to the works of Nicholas Sparks. Because in addition to the things I’ve already mentioned, most of my novels include a strong spiritual theme and a powerful emotional punch. It’s not uncommon for readers to get choked up while reading my books and many even cry (it’s a good cry, though, not the sad kind).

  That’s probably not going to happen when you read When Night Comes. You’ll be tempted to bite your nails a few times but not likely reach for the tissue box. I still enjoy writing my more “Nicholas Sparks type” books. In fact, I’m working on one right now.

  But to be honest, when I read I’m not always in the mood for an intense, emotional ride. Sometimes, I just want to read a fun and entertaining novel of suspense. When Night Comes, represents that other kind of book I like to read…and to write.

  A suspense novel.

  I hope it’s the first of many more to come. I’d love to be able to write both kinds of books in the days ahead. I won’t be offended if you’re the kind of reader who only likes one or the other, but I hope a lot of you are like me and enjoy reading both.

  To make it easier to tell the difference, my suspense novels will have a totally different kind of cover than my other books. I decided to do it this way than to write under a different name.

  If you want to write me and tell me your thoughts, feel free. I love to get reader emails and read all of them myself.

  For Cindi, the great love of my life.

  You make it all worthwhile

  “Combinations of wickedness would overwhelm the world…did not those who have long practiced betrayal grow faithless to each other.”

  — Samuel Johnson

  1

  Dead bodies have a way of changing everything.

  Sergeant Joe Boyd drove his unmarked car down Chambers Road toward a possible homicide. He’d heard the officer on site reporting over the radio, his voice all jittery and pathetic. Sounded like he’d completely lost it, talking about throwing up and never seeing anything like it. Have a little dignity, Boyd thought. It was a Saturday morning. Figures it would be a Saturday, the one day in the week Boyd got to sleep in.

  At this point in his career, he wasn’t sure if he wanted to deal with a murder or not. Two months ago, he had been a homicide detective in the relentless, suffocating pace of Zone Five, arguably the toughest precinct in the Pittsburgh PD. He had worked there since coming out of the academy sixteen years ago and didn’t relish the idea of leaving all that excitement to move down here to neighborly little Culpepper, Georgia.

  But it was either that or his family. I’m out of here, Kate had said. It’s them or me. Take your pick.

  Kate had fallen in love with the town their first drive through. Boyd had to agree, Culpepper seemed like a better place to raise a family, a town the bad guys hadn’t found yet. Since moving, he had been home for dinner more often than not. Started showing up at his son’s Little League games; that was a first. At least three or four nights a week, his daughter could count on daddy reading her a bedtime story. He even made it to church most Sundays.

  And now this.

  Boyd pulled up to the scene, a two-story apartment building painted a cheap shade of blue. Must have been four patrol cars already there, the better part of the force. Boyd had learned in Culpepper a drunk driver rated at least two or three. “What you got, Hank?” Boyd asked, getting out of the car. Hank Jensen was the one patrolman Boyd thought had a chance of making it in the big leagues.

  “Check it out, Joe. It’s pretty strange.” He met Boyd at the sidewalk and walked with him toward a black iron gate leading to the entrance of the apartment in question.

  Another patrolman opened the gate and walked past without uttering a word, dread all over his face. “Hey,” Boyd said. “Take care of that crowd over there. Keep everybody by the sidewalk.”

  “Okay, Sergeant.”

  The corner apartment door was wide open. Another officer rolled yellow tape between the pillars in the corridor, marking the scene. Boyd walked past a concrete stairway and stepped into the corridor.

  “So, who died?” He walked through the door. A small two-room efficiency. Nothing unusual in the living or kitchen area. A little messy. No body. That’s right, supposed to be in the bedroom.

  “White male, twenty to twenty-five years of age,” Hank said. “Probably a student at the University. Lots of them in this dump. Don’t know his name yet. Haven’t found any ID. Medical Examiner’s on his way.”

  At least Hank tried to impress him. “Who found him?” Boyd looked at the busted door lock. Someone hurt his foot on that one.

  “I think it was a friend.”

  “Where is he? Let’s talk to him.”

  Hank hesitated. “We can’t, Joe.”

  “What?”

  “He’s not here.”

  “He’s gone? The friend’s gone?” The look on Hank’s face was Boyd’s answer. He knew this scene looked too smooth, too organized for these guys.

  “I didn’t let him walk—”

  “Then who did?”

  A troubled-looking officer sat on the edge of the couch. He lifted his head and looked at Boyd. “He did,” Hank said quietly. “That’s John Dobbs. He’s a rookie, Joe. He wasn’t thinking.”

  So Dobbs was the guy he’d heard on the radio. Boyd had barely said two words to Dobbs before. A great way to get acquainted. He tried to calm down, remember his people skills. It was probably Dobbs’ first homicide, he told himself. So what if he let a principal witness, maybe even the murderer go free. But it was okay. We can fix this. “You get his name, the name of the witness?” Boyd asked Dobbs, feigning politeness. “Maybe his address?”

  “Well, no…not exactly,” Dobbs said, rising to his feet.

  He didn’t get his name. Did you lend him your squad car, maybe a little spending cash?

  “But I know he’s a student at the university,” Dobbs continued. “I’m sure I could pick him out if I looked at the school’s computer. I’m sorry, Sergeant. I know I blew it here. I’ve just never seen anything like this before.” Dobbs rubbed the sweat from his forehead. He was tall and husky. Looked down at Boyd like a football player with his coach.

  “It’s all right,” Boyd said. “Just tell me what happened.”

  “I got the call about an hour ago,” Dobbs said. “When I got here there was this guy standing out by the sidewalk waving me down. He was pretty upset. He got sick, right as I pulled in. Said he was the guy that called us. That his friend was inside, dead, stiff and dead. I got outta my car, and we came in here. He was the one that ki
cked in the door, did it before I got here. I asked him what happened, then I walked into the bedroom and saw his friend. Then I got sick.” Dobbs looked like he might throw up again just thinking about it.

  Boyd listened, scribbled down a few notes. “What did this mystery friend say happened here? The exact words.”

  Dobbs seemed to shake off the wave of nausea. “He said they both attend Culpepper, history majors or something. He said he knocked and knocked, but there was no answer. Thought something might be wrong because they had talked a couple a nights ago about hiking somewhere this morning, and he was there to pick his friend up. He walked around the back and looked through the blinds to see if he was asleep or had his earplugs in. Then he sees him lying there. He banged on the window a couple of times, but the guy doesn’t move. Then he knew something was wrong. He runs back around the front and starts kicking on the door and calling out his name. The door finally broke, and he went in. And there he was. Dead and his face—”

  “Did you ask him if he touched anything? Did he touch the body? Move anything?”

  “I didn’t ask, but I’m sure he didn’t. Soon as he knew his friend was dead, he said he ran out and got sick. Then he called us.”

  “When did you lose him?”

  Dobbs looked down at the floor around his feet, as though the answer was down there somewhere. “I don’t know, sir. He must have slipped out when some of the other guys showed up. I was explaining things to them, and we were setting things up for prints. I should have told him to stay put. But I really don’t think he had anything to do with this.”

  “Sounds like he didn’t,” Boyd said, “but why would he take off like that?”

  “I think I know why.” Dobbs looked toward the bedroom door.

  “Well, look Dobbs…I still wanna talk to this guy. Go over to the school. I don’t know if they’re open on Saturday. Try the registration building. See if someone’ll let you take a look at their student files. Find out who this mystery friend is and let me know right away.”

  “Yes sir.” Dobbs hurried out the door.

  Guess it’s a full time job being so ignorant. “Let’s see what we got here,” Boyd said to no one in particular. He felt a pressure building in his gut. The situation was playing ping-pong with his Mini-Wheats. He rearranged his waistband, tried to make some room. It didn’t work. He walked past another officer on his knees, dusting the bedroom doorknob for fingerprints. Hank Jensen followed behind.

  Boyd stood inside the doorway and took a slow pan of the room. By the way the others acted, he expected some Charles Manson scene of blood and gore, dismembered body parts, satanic slogans on the walls. Something. But there was no blood, no trashed room, no signs of violence or foul play. Just some cheap wall posters of jet planes and girls in bikinis. Some clothes hanging out of an open dresser drawer. A pair of high-top sneakers parked neatly beside the bathroom door. A pair of trousers in a pile beside the dresser. A dead body lying in a bed, looking very much like a sleeping college kid. “Anyone take any pictures of the scene?” he asked Hank.

  “I did, before you got here.”

  “Good.” Boyd looked at another officer kneeling by the bedroom door, dusting for prints.

  “Get anything?”

  “Yeah, plenty,” the officer said without looking up. “My guess is…they’re all gonna be our victim’s.”

  “Why you say that?”

  “That’s just it, Joe,” Hank piped in. “Look around. Except for the front door, there’s no way in or out of this place. All the windows have been locked from the inside. I’m not sure we even got a homicide here.”

  Homicide or not, they definitely had a dead body in that bed. There was no mistaking that familiar smell. Boyd had never understood why people described it as sickening-sweet. Nothing sweet about it. He guessed by its intensity the boy probably died late last night, or in the early evening. He walked to the bed and looked down at the body, then at the kid’s face.

  Yeah, that’s weird.

  2

  The look on the decedent’s face sent a chill through Boyd. Few things could. He’d seen a lot of dead people over the years, but he couldn’t recall ever seeing anything quite like this.

  The kid’s face seemed more like a mask, like a still shot from a horror flick. Stark white in the center, olive green around the edges. His eyes flat—wide open in a horrific stare. Mouth frozen open in mid-scream. Bone dry. His hands clenched in fists around his sheet and blanket, tucked tightly beneath his chin. Bloody scratches highlighted his forehead and cheeks. Boyd noticed dried blood under his fingernails.

  Looks like he attacked himself.

  The boy’s hair was dark and greasy and stuck out in several directions. Set against the odd color of his face, he looked more ghoulish than human. “You didn’t find any ID?”

  “No,” Hank said. “Haven’t searched the room myself. One of the guys did.”

  That gave Boyd no confidence. “How about the landlord? Where’s he at?”

  “We’re trying to get hold of him now. The place’s too small for a resident manager. We called the number we found on the internet. Unfortunately, we got voicemail.”

  “When’s the M.E. supposed to get here?”

  “I thought he’d be here by now.”

  Boyd walked into the front room and peered through the blinds. The M.E. did have a ways to drive, coming from the county seat. A Medivac van had arrived with two attendants killing time inside. Boyd went back into the bedroom, covered his mouth and nose with a handkerchief, and pulled at the bedcovers with his other hand.

  “Joe, whatta you doing?” Hank said.

  “I wanna see what killed this guy.” He wrestled the covers from his fingers and peeled them back. No gunshots. No stab wounds. Just a skinny guy in a T-shirt. “Look, Hank.”

  Hank peeked over his shoulder. “I ain’t surprised. I didn’t think we had a murder here.”

  Boyd nodded. “Know what I think? I don’t know how yet, but I think this guy died in his sleep. I want you to get to every guy that’s been here—I mean you personally. Tell them not to say anything to the press about a murder. Tell them not to say anything at all. Just refer everyone to me. We don’t need people thinking we got a murderer loose around town. We’ll have hundreds of parents calling us and pulling their kids outta the college.”

  “I’ll go right now.”

  “And Hank….”

  “Yeah?”

  “Don’t worry about the guys in here. I’ll tell them. You go after the guys out by the sidewalk and the ones who’ve left the scene.”

  “Right.” Hank headed for the door.

  “And Hank?” yelled Boyd.

  Hank halted. “Yeah, Joe?”

  “One more thing. I wanna put a lid on the scary look on this kid’s face. If the M.E. confirms we got natural causes here, stories about the look on this kid’s face alone could stir up all kinds of trouble we want no part of. We don’t want word of this to get out to the public. Some people would have a field day with this. ‘What scared this young man to death?’ You follow me?”

  “Sure, Joe. That’s the last thing this town needs, or this kid’s family.” Hank was off again.

  Boyd covered the body up as best he could. The TV was still on, set to the blue screen. He hit the eject button and a DVD popped out. One of those slasher films by the look of it. How could anybody watch this crap? He looked again at the pair of jeans in a pile by the dresser. He bent down and patted the pockets, felt something hard and square beneath his fingers. “Don’t tell me nobody looked in the kids jeans,” Boyd shouted. “C’mon people.”

  Sure enough, it was a wallet, light brown leather. He tossed the pants back on the floor and opened it. Staring back at him was a student ID card on the left side, presumably the young man on the bed when he was having a better day. He looked down at the nightmarish face on the corpse and back again at the photo. It was a bit of a stretch. “Yeah, I see you in there,” he finally said.

  He rea
d the name. “So, you are…Ralph Riesner, a senior at Culpepper University, military history major.” He took a few steps forward and looked down at that horrific face.

  “Must’ve been some dream you had, Mr. Riesner.”

  3

  Jack Turner hoped this little trip might be just the thing.

  He drove along the winding country roads just south of Culpepper taking in the beautiful synergy of autumn colors, sipping a Starbucks latte, listening to Michael Bublé croon some big band tunes. It was Sunday afternoon. After what he’d been through the last few weeks with Gwen, his almost-fiancé, he needed this diversion. And it would give him some time to make progress on his new book. The best thing, though, was getting the chance to return to his alma mater as the conquering king.

  Well, maybe king was too strong a word.

  His cell phone rang, startling him. He fumbled for it in the passenger seat. “Hello?”

  “Jack, that you?”

  He recognized the voice instantly. “It’s me, Professor.” Professor Thomas Thornton, Jack’s former mentor and the man responsible for this trip.

  “I keep telling you, call me Thomas now.”

  “I can’t see me doing that, Professor.”

  “Where are you?”

  “If I remember it right…” Jack looked around, found some familiar landmarks, “…I’m about ten minutes south of you.”

  “Well, the reason I called is…just making sure you want to stay at that old place. I meant what I said, Jack. You can pick anywhere in town. I got that nice cabin out at Lake Sampson. Nice and quiet out there, great place to write. I was at that old apartment yesterday and—”

  “It’s what I want, Professor. Really, it’ll be perfect.” Jack had decided to stay at the same little place he’d rented the entire time he’d been a student at Culpepper—a little garage apartment at 433 Rambling Road. Seven years had passed since he’d last seen it.