Getting what information they could, Rachel and Peak left the Parkman residence and took a trip to the Medical Examiner’s office. The detectives didn’t need to discuss anything. Rachel felt they were on the same wavelength--the Mayor was a worthy suspect, but no hard evidence linked him to the murder of Albert Jacobson. It was just as likely that he was spending his time with his mistress Iris Goldberg. Until they got something solid, they couldn’t bring John in. Rachel hated that.
WOODROW GATES UNZIPPED the black bag, and Rachel caught a whiff of formaldehyde. Albert Jacobson’s pale and naked body lay on a cold slab before them. Rachel tasted vomit. She’d seen hundreds of dead people and their Orphans, but Al’s naked, rotting body was an image she could’ve lived without. His eyes were sunken deep into their sockets and his lips were dark purple. Down his torso was a Y-shaped stitch mark accompanied by multiple sutured stab wounds, scrapes, and burrows where insects had feasted.
“If not for the animal sedative he self-injected, the pain would’ve crippled him,” the coroner said, pointing at the track marks on the corpse’s arm. “He had three fractured ribs, collected over two dozen bruises, and has third degree burns on his face. All of that was before he got stabbed six times: four in the abdomen and twice in his chest. The toxicology report will tell us if there are any more substances in his bloodstream.”
“Did you find anything else?”
“He ate barbeque for lunch,” Gates replied.
Following the sauce-stained receipt in Albert’s pocket, the detectives headed to Joey’s BBQ Pit, a local favorite.
“That’s the one all right,” the obese woman told them from behind the counter. “Al was a regular. Got the same pork sandwich and slaw every visit.”
“Did he ever meet with anyone during these visits?” Rachel asked while Peak studied the wall of fame that boasted pictures of customers and newspaper articles about Joey’s.
“A handful of times, Al would drag a friend along. Even the Mayor.”
“When was that?” Peak asked.
“Maybe a week or two ago. A few times before that, too.”
It's safe to say John Parkman and Albert’s friendship hasn’t died down, as Carry suspected. The idea intrigued Rachel, but it still wasn't enough. “Could you provide us with descriptions of every person Albert ate lunch with?”
The obese woman’s eyes went wide. “That’s a lot of remembering.”
Rachel and Peak gave her a look.
“Doesn’t mean I can’t try,” the woman said nervously.
Rachel was provided with a few old receipts and descriptions of various old men. The men, she assumed, were business owners in Highlands wanting to discuss issues and complaints with Albert, the Treasurer. Snapping photos of the receipts, they returned to the precinct and started on their next lead: the porcelain doll. Rachel browsed the Internet for dolls with a similar make and model but found no matches. The nearest custom doll maker was two cities away. Rachel gave the owner a call. The wizened old man replied, “There’s only much so I can do without seeing it.”
“What’s your email?” Rachel asked and jotted it down. She headed to evidence lockup and removed the doll from its box. Curiously enough, Forensics found no fingerprints on it. As a formality, they ran a DNA test on the hair. Knowing how backed up the lab was, it would be weeks before they learned anything. Even worse, the hair would only tell them the ethnicity of its owner.
The doll was two and half feet long with chocolate brown hair. Its hazel eyes were glossy, innocent, and lifeless, reminding Rachel of all the child Orphans she had avenged. Rachel turned the doll over, snapping pictures of it. She took off its clothes and shoes, looking for a maker’s mark. MB was penned at the bottom of the shoes. Rachel proceeded to take pictures from every angle, forming a 360-degree profile of the doll. She emailed it to the shop owner. He got back to her quicker than expected.
“I have models like it,” the owner explained. “But MB isn’t me. It’s the mark of a doll maker for sure, but not one I’m familiar with.”
“Any tips for finding the actual maker?” Rachel asked.
“I can send you the link to a few forums I participate in, but finding a match is unlikely. We’re a private bunch, one that hasn’t always adapted well with the outside world.”
Rachel said goodbye and hung up. She rubbed her hand over her mouth. The doll was a dead lead, unless… Rachel threw her pencil at Peak.
He swiveled his chair around. “Mature.”
“We should go antiquing.”
“I’d rather not at the moment. There are a few other cases that require my attention, and by the stack of files on my desk this morning, McConnell doesn’t see Albert’s murder as a high-priority case.”
Disappointed, Rachel conquered this issue the time-effective way: phone calls to every local antique shop. When they answered, Rachel inquired about any dolls sold within the last month, six months, and year. She got no hits. Apparently, Highlands didn’t have a big market for creepy children’s toys. Rachel felt relieved to hear that. Without any leads on the doll’s maker and/or owner, Rachel let that lead dangle while she thought about the potential murderers of Albert Jacobson. In her mind, there were a few key suspects.
Number One: Mayor John Parkman, the good-looking, well-liked mayor of Highlands, with a failing marriage and a close connection to the victim. The Orphans of Maxine Gunther and the other girls showed Rachel that Parkman knew something about their deaths, but that information seemed lost now.
Number Two: Lexi Heavens, ditzy local escort who Albert admitted to sleeping with when Rachel first interviewed him.
Number Three: Tristan Ball, the town’s Parks and Recreation director, who was a suspect of the Highlands Girls case. He had no alibi, had a long-lasting friendship with Albert, and was suspiciously more than willing to cooperate.
Number Four: Jennifer Blankenship, the only surviving female honor student of the 1977 Roper murders. Rachel contacted her briefly during the investigation of Maxine Gunther’s death. The woman had told Rachel to never call her again. She currently lived a couple of hours away in Spartanburg, SC.
That exhausted Rachel’s lists of names. Still, there were potential killers. Anyone of the Highlands girls’ relatives could’ve revenge-killed Albert, but that made little sense. Firstly, why would they wait until after Albert tried to kill Rachel before making their move? Secondly, how did they find the cabin where Albert hid?
By the phone call Albert made hours before his murder, someone Al knew must’ve killed him. It needed to be an accomplice, an estranged lover, or someone who he cheated. Rachel made note of these potential unnamed killers.
Albert’s Orphan could assist her, but Rachel wanted no part of him. Not after everything he’d done to her. Rachel would have to solve this the old-fashioned way.
“CAN’T you see how Albert died with your... Gift?” Peak asked as they drank craft beers at The Lost Hiker, one of two bars in Highlands. As an atheist, Peak usually squirmed when asking such a question. but it appeared to Rachel that he finally believed in Rachel’s powers.
Rachel sighed. “I could, but I don’t want to.”
Peak eyed her curiously.
Rachel elaborated. “When I use that part of my Gift, I don’t just see how someone dies. I become them. I know their thoughts, their feelings, their hurts and pains, and more. When I come out of it--what I call the Reality--everything I felt and thought as them stays with me. Even now, I can recall Maxine Gunther’s fear and death.” Rachel took a sip of her beer. “Albert seems to have lived a checkered life. There are things I don’t want to know.”
Staring at nothing, Peak nodded.
Like most nights, they didn’t talk too much.
The next morning, Tristan Ball came into the station at Rachel’s request. He was an unassuming man with a bland square face, fuzzy mustache, and glasses. In the interrogation room, he handed Rachel a movie ticket and sat back in his seat. “That’s from last Thursday night. It ended
around eleven in the evening.”
“Thank you.” Rachel took the ticket and studied it. “Rom-com? Were you on a date?”
“No,” Tristan blushed. “I like the sappy romantic stuff.”
“Do you have an alibi that morning, between 12 a.m. and noon?” Rachel asked.
“I, uh, well, not from 11:30-ish to 6 a.m. I was sleeping then. But from around 7 or so, I unlocked the office. The rest of my employees came in thirty minutes later. Cameras will prove that. Do I need a lawyer?”
“I don’t know, Mr. Ball, do you?” Rachel asked.
Tristan stroked his chin. “Well, I’m innocent, so I don’t really know where that puts us.”
“Have you had any contact with Albert Jacobson days before his murder?”
“Not really,” Tristan said.
“Did you call him on any of these dates?” Rachel read out the days in which the burner phone made calls to Albert.
“Nope.” Tristan suddenly changed gears. “I don’t get why it matters that the guy is dead, you know? In high school, we were good buddies. I thought we were now, but after learning he’s a literal serial killer, I could really care less that he’s dead or who killed him. He murdered eight girls and tried to kill you and your cynical partner. Kudos to his killer, that’s what I say.”
Rachel glanced up at the camera in the corner of the room. She jotted down what Tristan said.
“Do you know where Albert lives, Mr. Ball?” Rachel asked.
“Of course I do. I’ve been to Al’s estate many times.”
“And as Park and Rec director, are you familiar with the hunting cabins in the woods below his cliff?”
“I’m aware that some exist. So that’s a yes,” Tristan said confidently.
“And you have no alibi for early Friday morning between midnight and 8 a.m.?”
“I’m single, so no.”
Rachel nodded slowly. “Thank you. We can stop for today.”
“You sure?”
“Yes. For now.”
Tristan rapped his knuckles on the aluminum desk and stood. Rachel followed him outside the precinct. From his desk, Detective Peak watched her go. They traded a look that they both knew. This could be the one.
Rachel watched Tristan climb into his truck with the Parks and Recreation decal on the side. He waved her goodbye and drove down the road.
Peak appeared behind her.
“What is your gut telling you?”
“I don’t know,” Rachel admitted. Her Gift was muted still by her smoothie. The only Orphan she could see was Albert Jacobson. He hadn’t made himself known since Parkman’s speech.
They returned back into the station, only to see the other officers with stark-white faces.
“What happened?” Rachel asked the bullpen.
Lieutenant McConnell rushed out of his office and spoke as he slung on his jacket. “Dennis Trevor from the Yellow Moon Motel just called us. One of his room cleaners found Mayor John Parkman murdered on the bed.”
5
TASTING DEATH
A camera’s strobe flashed, illuminating the dingy motel room’s brown painted walls and the body on the bed. Dark blood pooled around the frontmost leg of the bed’s wooden frame. The dark liquid dripped steadily from the mattress corner and stained sheets above. Mayor John Parkman’s feet, still in laced-up tennis shoes, dangled over the edge. His bright blue eyes were dry and lifeless, but somehow, he remained attractive even in death. Stabbings from a long blade shredded the front of his olive-green fleece. A red hole in the Mayor’s neck yawned. Palms to the sky, Parkman’s hands, fingers, and expensive watch were red and sticky from dried blood.
After the photographer completed his work, Rachel stepped closer to the body. Silently, Peak scooted in beside her.
“Man is the most dangerous animal,” he said, eyeing the gore with his emotionally indifferent face.
Rachel traced the blood spattered on the carpet to the crimson pool on the ruined bed. “He was stabbed here.”
Peak turned to the crimson tears hardened on the TV’s screen and the wall above it. “The spatter is too high for the chest wounds. Stand there.”
Rachel stepped adjacent to the bloodstained floor and faced Detective Peak. He simulated a knife jab at the side of Rachel’s neck. After doing that two or three times from different angles, Peak nodded to himself. “That’s one. Upper jugular. In-and-out in a single swift motion. Walk back to the bed.”
Rachel simulated stumbling back. Peak looked past her, studying the body. “He fell back to the bed, squeezing the hole in his neck.”
“Bloody hands. Makes sense,” Rachel agreed.
“By the ruffled sheets at the mattress’s lip, the killer jumped on him and stabbed him repeatedly as he bled out.”
“A crime of passion?” Rachel asked herself aloud.
“That, or whoever did this took pleasure in the act. The neck wound sealed his fate. The rest was flavor.”
Could his estranged lover Iris Goldberg be the culprit? Something about that didn’t feel right to Rachel. The murder was too much like Albert’s. She’d wager that the autopsy would prove it was an act done by the same knife. Rachel chose to not voice her theory yet. Humans had a tendency to find connections between events without evidence.
The motel owner, Dennis Trevor, claimed that the room was as it was when he called the police. One of two fluorescent bulbs was active under the pagoda lampshade on the stand by the bed. Inside of its drawer, Rachel found the Gideon Bible and Highlands town guide brochure untouched. Nonetheless, Rachel picked it up and sifted through the pages. No highlighted verses or bookmarks. She put it back as she found it.
Peak pulled aside the curtains. Daylight flooded the room. Dust particles danced in the air. Outside the window and beyond the inclined street stood a thick wall of foliage, including honeysuckle bushes and more opposite of the hotel. After scanning the outer world, Peak closed the curtains and observed the air conditioner below. Sixty-eight degrees: relatively cold for a Highlands summer night. He took note of the moon-shaped red smudge on the decrease temperature arrow. A nearby forensic analyst captured the partial fingerprint with something like clear tape. He groaned. “It’s a glove print.”
Rachel closed the lampstand drawer and traded a glance with Peak. “Not so random after all.”
Rachel scanned the desk with TV stand. The remote sat in front of the screen. There was no indication that it had been touched. Rachel took a note of that on her sketchpad. She looked around for a travel bag in the open coat closet and for a toiletry kit in the bathroom. None to be found. Interesting. Rachel jotted another note down. Either John didn’t plan to stay the night, or the killer stole his stuff.
Peak shined his flashlight beam behind the bed’s backboard. Finding nothing, he knelt down beside the bed. Still nothing.
Rachel canvassed the bathroom. She found nothing of note under the sink, in the shower tub, or inside of the toilet tank. Exiting the bathroom, Rachel created a mental checklist for other areas of the room she hadn’t searched.
The coroner entered. Peak ordered him to roll over the body. There was a bloody puddle beneath John Parkman. Peak took off the Mayor’s shoes and checked his pockets. He opened the body’s mouth and shined a flashlight within. Molars.
Stepping back, he let the coroner speak. “The body was discovered at 10:37 this morning. Based on the width of the blood puddle, it looks like the mayor was killed somewhere between 11 p.m. and 2 a.m.”
“Some motel guest may have seen or heard something.” Rachel made a mental note to check back with Lieutenant McConnell for that information. He was hands-on for this case. There was no room for error when a mayor dies.
Rachel set her jaw and stared at John Parkman’s cadaver. She felt a tugging feeling at the corner of her shirt. The hair on her neck stood.
“You look upset,” Albert whispered into her ear.
Rachel turned to The Roper, startled. Rachel’s pulse quickened. Albert rested his fat hand on
his shoulder. “Mighty sad, John’s death. He was a good friend, and your biggest lead in my murder. I’m fuzzy on the rules. Does his murder count as justice, or am I stuck with you forever?”
Rachel kept her mouth closed.
Albert chuckled. “Still won’t talk to me in front of your friends? I wonder what they’d think if I tightened my fingers around your little neck and choked the life out of you right now?”
Rachel excused herself from the room. She speedily stepped through the hall and out the back door. Checking to see if anyone was around, she turned to Albert. He looked at her through the holes on his burlap sack. Blood pulsed from his chest wounds.
“What do you want?” Rachel asked.
“To stop the person that killed me, like I said.”
Rachel crossed her arms. “You’re saying Parkman didn’t do it?”
“I never said that,” Albert said. “I can’t remember who delivered the final blow.”
“Who did you call the night of your death?”
Albert paced around. “You talk too much.”
“That makes two of us.”
Suddenly, Albert’s hand was around Rachel’s throat and lifting her inches off the ground.
“Don’t give me lip,” Albert growled.
Gasping, Rachel kicked and grabbed at her attacker.
All her efforts failed. She could see the world spin.
He’s doing it again! Rachel screamed on the inside while she gagged. Her face lost its color.
After a few seconds, Albert dropped her. Rachel caught her breath and rubbed her hand over her sore neck. It’s fake. She needed to remind herself. He can’t really hurt me.
It didn’t feel that way.
“I haven’t quite decided if I like tormenting you. I enjoy girls with a little more pep in their step. Nevertheless, I might have to become an equal opportunist offender if our case isn’t solved during this… grace period.”
“Grace period?” Rachel asked, coughing.
“You know, the two or three days you have to catch my killer.” Albert smiled under his mask. “If not, I’ll string you up by my rope, and we’ll have a lot of fun together.”
The Haunting of Rachel Harroway- Book 2 Page 4
