McConnell scratched his long sideburn. “I don’t want to rule out that possibility, but the idea that Parkman had known of Albert’s actions, and was killed for it--it feels like a stretch.”
The other men agreed.
“‘Sides, I’d bank that every Highlands lifer had attended that school. That’s a lot of dots to connect.”
Jones’s face lit up. “That could be it! The killer wants to draw the conclusions about the link between the two murders when it's an officer--one who has knowledge of the doll--using that to downplay his involvement in Parkman’s death.”
“Both the recovered dolls were porcelain but aesthetically very different,” McConnell said, thinking. “It’s still a stretch, Jones, and now we’ve gone from one killer to two killers. Nonetheless, you pursue it. Keep it on the QT as you vet the other officers. That goes for all of you.”
A jittery feeling buzzed inside of Rachel like she was the only student in the class that knew the answer but couldn’t voice it. “We should stay on Jennifer Blankenship. I learned she was in town during the time of both murders.”
“It’s a lead,” McConnell said, unconvinced. “We’ll take whatever we can get.”
Rachel and Peak searched the crime database for any similar cases across the country. “Doll” and “MB” were the keywords. They combed for hours, ingesting all sorts of homicide photos and crime gore that left their stomachs churning. Three cups of coffee later, Rachel got a hit. She sat up from her slouched position, brushed a few strands of hair behind her ear, and glued her eyes on the computer screen.
Yakima, Washington. 2:19 p.m. on August 23, 2008. The body of a forty-four-year-old male, Mikey Wexler, was discovered in his apartment’s shower. Multiple stab wounds decorated his chest and stomach. The neighbors contacted the police after they noticed blood dripping from a black stain on their ceiling. Moments later, a police officer entered Wexler’s flooded flat. Collectible and boxed Star Trek toys coasted across the shallow river in the living room. Through the ajar bathroom door, the shower sprayed over the body. The shower drain had been clogged by a rag. Someone wanted the place to flood.
Rachel tapped the arrow keys on her keyboard to browse through the crime scene pictures. Two days of decay had stiffened Wexler's naked cadaver. Under the constant stream of cold running water, his stab wounds were cleansed of blood, raw and pruning. In various photos of his apartment, Wexler stood naked and pale away from the officers at work. It seemed his gaze followed them right back to Rachel. The detective rubbed her eyes. When she opened them, the Orphan changed positions in the soaked apartment. His mouth was open in mid-speech. Rachel clicked through the photos, seeing the naked man’s mouth move again. She held down the arrow key and watched the photos flicker rapidly as they changed like an old-fashioned slide show. Wexler moved closer and closer to the camera, mouthing the words, “Help me. Help me. Help me. Help me.” And on and on and on.
Rachel took a deep breath, hoping he would’ve revealed a better truth. She tried to ignore the man and examine the crime scene photos. An unopened box of condoms was discovered on the man’s dresser. Forensics showed no sign of forced entry in the house or bathroom. A toxicology report came up negative on all signs of drugs.
The police report listed a number of Star Trek and other 1970s collectibles recovered from the flat. At the bottom of the list was the discovery of a Porcelain Doll beneath Wexler’s sink. The brunette beauty slumped against the pipes in a position that matched Wexler's cadaver. Its eyes were plastic and seafoam green. Its paint was without blemish. The doll was untouched by the water.
“The more I look at them, the more I hate dolls,” Peak said, chair rolled up next to Rachel’s.
“No psychological explanation as to mankind's fear of the uncanny?” Rachel teased.
Peak thought about it for a moment. He squinted his eyes at the doll. “No. I just really hate dolls.”
“Don’t tell Clove that,” Rachel joked and dialed the detective’s number listed on the crime report.
Peak pursed his lips and nodded to himself.
“Detective Brown speaking.”
Rachel put it on speaker phone so Peak could hear
“Hi, Detective. This is Detective Harroway and Detective Peak from Highlands PD. Do you have a moment to discuss a case you worked on last August 23, 2008?”
“...Sure. What’s this about?”
“I’m sure you’ve heard about the Highlands Roper and the local mayor found dead in a motel room.”
“I’ve been picking up a few odds and ends out here. Craziness all the way around.”
“We’ve recovered porcelain dolls from both crime scenes,” Peak added.
Rachel could practically visualize Detective Brown sitting up in his chair and hunching over his phone. “That wasn’t in the news report.”
“It won’t be,” Rachel said clearly. “Tell us about Wexler.”
She felt her pulse quicken as she awaited the Washington Detective’s response.
“It was a mess, and the Wexler guy was a nobody. Let me elaborate, he had no family, no friends, and he worked out of his apartment hustling collectors’ toys on eBay. We get this call one day from the residence in the condo below him, saying that their roof is leaking, and they think it’s blood and water. They were right.”
“Were there any suspects?”
“No. No witness either. It didn’t look like there were signs of breaking and entering.”
“We saw that in your report. With the condoms and the nature of his death, it appears that he was with a partner.”
“I thought the same thing, but Forensics didn’t find any semen samples. I remember someone visited Wexler around his estimated time of death. The cameras showed a woman.”
“What did she look like?”
“That was nearly a decade ago. I believe she had red hair and wore big glasses. I thought she was a lady of the night by the way she dressed, but the department keeps track of who’s prowling the streets, and the lead died off.”
Red hair, Rachel thought. It made sense that the woman wore wigs. “Tell me about the doll.”
“I would’ve chalked it up as being part of the victim’s toy collection, but the place and position it rested in… I don’t know, it didn’t fit.”
“Were there initials on the doll’s right foot?”
“You mean the letters MB?”
Rachel and Peak exchanged looks. Rachel felt chills on her arms.
“I thought that would lead me somewhere, but like Wexler and the other evidence, nothing turned up. By the time I shelved the case, I was still scratching my head. I’m scratching now.”
Rachel and Peak kept pulling cases from the databases. For every two dozen random catalogued dolls found at a crime scene, they’d find one similar to Wexler’s. It wasn’t always a male victim. One was a female librarian found stabbed to death on her living room floor. The doll there had auburn hair and was discovered in the cupboard. Another victim was a computer science major who was found lying facedown on the kitchen floor of his rental condo. The blonde-haired doll was lying in the freezer drawer of his refrigerator. The final two victims, a man and woman, fit the profile as well: loners, killed in lonely places, with only a doll to hint at their killer.
Rachel’s face sank with her frown. These case files were just the ones that listed a doll in the crime report. How many other times were victims slaughtered without the killer’s tell? A pit formed in Rachel’s stomach when she realized that she had no way of knowing.
“How has no one connected this?” Rachel asked.
“Different states. Years apart. No connections between victims,” Peak explained, using only the reasons off the top of his head. “This week appears to be the first time that she’s killed two people in the same town.”
With a sort of reverence, Peak looked at the statistics that he’d typed up over the last few hours. “She’s been playing it smart. Very smart.”
Rachel wasn’t impressed, “Eit
her she’s gotten bolder over the years or she’s sloppy, but to go after the Roper and Mayor, she had to know that would raise flags.”
“She might have, but if she’s the woman that Albert called the night of his death, we know she had a sort of relationship with him. Perhaps not romantic, but open enough that he would call her to help him escape.”
Serial killers working together. Rachel hated the sound of that. “Albert could have told her that he suspected John’s knowledge of their relationship.”
“She uses that to blackmail him--”
“--and some psychological pleasure prompts her to leave behind her signature.”
Rachel and Peak soaked the information up.
“If she follows the pattern, then she won’t stay in town,” Rachel said begrudgingly. If she escapes, the Roper kills me. Endlessly. Rachel felt the black hand of fear squeeze her heart.
“We’ll have to stop her before that,” Peak declared.
Rachel contacted Jennifer’s travel agency and requested a list of every one of Jennifer’s out-of-town jobs. When Rachel received the fax, she compared them to the locations of the victims over the last twenty years.
Three locations matched. Rachel chewed on her thumbnail. That was all she needed to bring Jennifer in.
Rachel paced around the cold interrogation room. Peak followed her cyclical trek from his slouched position on one of two aluminum chairs on his side of the table.
“I wonder what sort of predator she is? What sort of evolutionary track led her to this point?” Peak asked, leaning back in his chair and looking at the ceiling. “Is she genetically flawed, or like you, did the imperfections make her stronger?”
“Thanks for the compliment,” Rachel replied.
Peak disregarded the response. “There’s a seduction about her kills. Every victim willingly opened their home to the woman and was slaughtered so swiftly that they never had a chance to fight back. Also, the wounds are consistent with a ten-inch pig hunting knife like the one you described. I’m curious if she views the kill like a hunt, similar to Albert.”
“Maybe they’re kindred spirits.”
“Maybe.” The detective readjusted his posture. “The Orphans give you any secrets?”
Rachel thought of Albert’s accusation and Wexler in the photos. “No. They’ve not been helpful.”
“I guess we're going to have to trust the cold hard facts this time around.”
An officer opened the door. He gave Rachel and Peak a disconcerting look as Jennifer Blankenship stepped inside, followed by the sharp-dressed attorney Lennard Splints. The hard-faced lawyer fixed his crimson tie and extended his hand to the detectives while his client took a seat. As a formality, the detectives shook and lowered themselves into their seats. They smiled falsely at the lawyer that represented Albert.
Jennifer kept quiet and rested her hands on the lap of her business skirt. The stench of cigarettes mixed with the smell of her perfume.
Splints sat at the edge of his seat. Before he could open his mouth, Rachel interrupted. “We are not making any accusations against your client at this time. This is a follow up from our initial meeting in her home.”
“Did you kill Albert Jacobson?” Peak asked Jennifer, foregoing tact.
“No,” Jennifer said, her expression cool and collected.
“Did you kill John Parkman?”
“No.”
Rachel opened a folder and placed a few crime scene photos of Wexler and the other victims before Jennifer. She flinched at the gore.
“Do any of these men or woman look familiar?”
“No,” Jennifer said, eyes glued to the stab wounds on Wexler's naked corpse.
“Take a moment,” Rachel added. “Really think.”
Jennifer studied the photos one at a time. Her expression turned more horrific the more she looked at them. “I have never seen nor interacted with any of the individuals in these photographs.”
Peak pulled out a copy of the travel ledger. “Do you recall taking a trip to Yakima, Washington from August 18 through the 28th in the year 2008?”
“Yes. It was a business trip. Our agency is always looking to branch out into new territories.”
“How about Chama, New Mexico in March of 2001?”
“Yes. Another business trip.”
Peak threw in a curve ball. “San Rafael, California in July of 2003?”
Rachel recognized it as the date of one of the kills, but not one of Jennifer’s travel destinations.
Jennifer switched out the way she crossed her legs, putting right over left instead of left over right. “No.”
“Where were you?”
“I was working from home. My boss can send you the call list from that month.”
“You’re an intelligent woman,” Rachel said. “It’s amazing you remember every business trip you’ve made over the last two decades.”
Jennifer smiled slyly. “It’s part of my job to know travel plans, locations, and dates. I didn’t fall into this career by accident.”
“Last time when Jacobson was in here, he compared you to a bag of hammers,” Peak said, fishing for a response.
Jennifer chuckled. “He was a jerk in high school too.”
“Did you ever suspect he was killing your classmates?”
“Not once. I was friends with most of those girls,” Jennifer’s eyes watered. “After I heard that Al was their… It was a lot to process. I was with my mother when I heard the news.”
“I’m sure you're aware that your mother’s current physical state makes her an unreliable alibi for the night of John Parkman’s murder.”
“My mother’s condition requires constant care,” Jennifer said. “It would be negligent to leave her alone.”
Splints removed a medical file and allowed Rachel to browse through it. He pointed out the doctor’s recommendation for a full-time house nurse to tend to Mrs. Blankenship’s needs.
Hours passed. Jennifer had a response to every question. Splints filled in the gaps. By the time they were finished, no solid evidence linked Jennifer to the murders, nor did she have a slip of the tongue. Nonetheless, Rachel couldn’t shake her suspicious feeling. The perfection of her responses raised red flags, seeing how Splints wouldn’t have had time to coach her. Peak pointed out that Jennifer's mannerisms were subtle but significant. She’d cross her legs during certain questions.
“Some people twitch, others squirm, Jennifer is using this movement to control those tics,” Peak theorized as they drank craft beers at the Lost Hiker. An autistic guitarist played on the small stage. The lights were dimmed and the bar was lacking most of its usual characters.
Rachel tapped her finger on the high table top. “What if we’re looking at this the wrong way?”
“We could be,” Peak said apathetically.
Her partner’s lack of enthusiasm didn’t help the situation. Rachel sipped her drink, recalling a dozen cases where the Orphans were able to reveal their killer quickly. That’s what Albert did, but he could be toying with Rachel.
“We’ve been pursuing Jennifer too viciously. It may be blinding us,” Rachel said. “We need to change our tactics.”
“She’s our best lead. What do you have in mind?”
“We keep after the doll maker and the initials MB. Let Forensics run their test on the little evidence they’ve acquired.”
Peak killed his drink. “You can visit your father. He offered a wealth of information the last time you spoke to him.”
Rachel considered it. Off the corner of the bar, Mayor John Parkman stared at Rachel with unblinking eyes. His mouth opened and closed like a fish while blood cascaded out of his neck and down his shoulder.
LIAM HARROWAY WORE his bowling polo and scored a strike when Rachel entered. He stretched his legs while he waited for the bowling ball to return. At 11 p.m., the alley was at its fullest. Every lane was packed with groups of high schoolers and families. It seemed like the one place in Highlands that was unaffected by the tragedies
.
Liam turned to Rachel when she arrived. “Good to see you, Rach. Wanna join me? It helps with stress.”
He picked up his bowling bowl, strutted up to the lane, took a breath, and sent the ball curving towards the pins. With a crash, they scattered, leaving a nasty split between two of the farthest pins. “Can you believe that’s the second time that happened to me tonight?”
He gave Rachel a hug and gestured for her to sit down next to him. “Are you feeling better?”
Rachel nodded.
“You sure?” Liam asked with a concerned tone. “You were nearly murdered by a serial killer.”
“Nearly being the key word,” Rachel replied.
“I told you God had a plan,” Liam smiled. Sweat glued his grey bangs on his lightly-wrinkled forehead
Was it to curse me with this Gift?
“You were in class with Jennifer Blankenship. Tell me about her,” Rachel asked.
“Don’t let my congregation hear this, but she was quite the firecracker back in the day. Long legs and gorgeous brown hair that went all the way down her back. I sat a few seats back from Jennifer. Guys were always throwing her notes and paper airplanes. She ignored them.”
“Did she ever go hunting?”
“I can’t say,” Liam replied, thinking hard about it. “Her dad might have.”
Rachel gave him her full attention.
“Stepdad,” Liam corrected himself. “That probably doesn’t do much for your investigation. A lot of people in Highlands hunt.”
“What happened to her real father?”
“You’d have to ask Jennifer that. I saw the guy once when I was in elementary. He was a scholastic type by the way he dressed, but had nasty streak of anger in him. He actually picked the girl up and gave her a shaking in the parking lot. It didn’t look like that was the first time he was rough with her either. I’d expected her to cry like most children, but Jennifer never cried.”
The Haunting of Rachel Harroway- Book 2 Page 7
