by Blake Pierce
“So I’m a suspect?”
“Yes, but only by default.”
“I’ll help however I can,” he said. “But I would really rather her husband not know about this.”
“Did you use a condom?” Mackenzie asked.
“Yes.”
“Then your name can probably be omitted entirely for now. Assuming you’re innocent, of course.”
Bob Tully nodded and Mackenzie felt like she was looking at a broken man. She wasn’t sure if he’d felt anything for Maureen Hanks other than lust, but he was clearly hurt over the news of her passing.
She felt in her gut that Bob was innocent. But she also knew that if they didn’t find a killer soon, or at least irrefutable proof that Bob was at home all night after the phone call about the guitar, he would probably spend the foreseeable future in this conference room or a holding cell somewhere.
I guess I need to see what I can do to make sure that doesn’t happen, then, Mackenzie thought as she drained her cup of coffee.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
They ended up releasing Bob Tully for lack of real evidence, but a few formalities were set into place. He had been instructed not to leave town until the case was wrapped and, in secret, a cop was tasked with keeping surveillance on him just in case. Mackenzie looked over the brief report that had been drawn up in regards to the apparent murder of Maureen Hanks just to make sure all of her bases were covered.
Then, with no real avenue to pursue, she went back out to her car and headed toward the water tower. She found it much easier this time, approaching it from the same direction Bob and Maureen would have been coming the night before. She parked her car where she assumed Bob and Maureen had parked. The water tower was perhaps two hundred yards away, a faded white bulk in the distance.
Mackenzie got out of her car and walked to the grove of forest that separated the tired old field from the water tower. She had never been one to mind nature, but there was something about the isolated feel of Kingsville. She could only imagine what it must have felt like for Maureen Hanks as she had been led toward the water tower among these trees and brush at night.
She reached the clearing where the water tower stood and went back beneath it. She studied the graffiti and checked around on the ground for anything she might have missed the night before. She once again went to the ladder and climbed up. It was less stressful in the light of day, easier for her to convince herself that she did not have a fear of heights.
At the top, she looked down, trying to reconnect with that sensation she had felt last night—the sense of power, the sense of standing tall over everyone else.
She wondered if that’s what was attracting the killer to these high places. Did he need to feel powerful? And if so, how did that tie in to his need to kill his victims?
No, that doesn’t make sense, she thought. If he needs the feeling of being over something, he’d likely also need it to get his victims to these high places. It’s more likely that he’s bringing the victims with him for a reason.
“Because he doesn’t want to be alone,” she said out loud. It was an easy thing to consider; she had, after all, felt a pang of isolation by just walking to the water tower.
She shifted gears in her head, trying to see the points of view of both murder sites from someone who may fear the height rather than use it as a tool to fabricate a sense of power. Right away, it seemed to make sense. It could almost be like a sacrificial system, in a way. The killer takes the victims to these high places, probably meaning to kill them anyway, but why? It was a question that could have multiple answers but it also gave her at least some sort of motive, no matter how skewed.
Having a slight fear of heights made it easy for Mackenzie to identify with this probable motive. But she still knew nothing about the killer. She was going to have to speak to someone who knew a little more about specific phobias.
And just her luck, there just happened to be someone who could potentially help her less than five miles away.
***
Jan Haggerty hadn’t sounded all that surprised when Mackenzie had called her and fifteen minutes later, when she answered Mackenzie’s knock at her door, she looked nearly expectant. The next few moments were nearly a complete replay of what had occurred the first time Mackenzie had visited. They walked into the kitchen where Dr. Haggerty poured large cups of black coffee and then they entered her office.
“You know,” Haggerty said, “I only heard about Maureen Hanks about fifteen minutes before you called.”
“How did you hear so soon?” Mackenzie asked.
“Ah, the small-town grapevine. My mother-in-law called and said she thought I’d probably get a visit from that FBI lady again. I asked her why and she told me. And God only knows how she knew.”
“And how did she know I paid you a visit earlier in the week in the first place?” Mackenzie asked.
Haggerty only shrugged as she sipped from her coffee. When she set it down, she said: “People are nosy around here. I’m afraid it’s one of the many stereotypes about small towns that just happen to be true.”
“Well, the reason I’m here again is because I was hoping you might know a thing or two about phobias—particularly a fear of heights.”
“Fear of heights is known acrophobia,” Haggerty said. “It comes down not even really to a basic fear of heights. It’s more of a trust issue—trusting your own balance and that the thing you are standing on at such a height will not fail you.”
“Do you know if it’s just an instilled sort of thing, like something people either have or don’t have? Or can a traumatic event maybe put it in you?”
“I’m sure both are true,” Haggerty said. She considered something for a moment and then added: “I assume you think the murderer has some attraction or aversion to height, yes?”
“I do,” she said. “And I was hoping you could help me figure out how someone like that would think. I assume that he’s scared of heights and is using the murders as a way to overcome that fear.”
“That’s interesting,” Haggerty said. “What led you to that conclusion?”
“Other than some sick fascination with control—which I haven’t ruled out yet—there’s simply no solid reason to choose throwing people from a great height as a means of killing them. It makes me think that he’s taking these people to these heights because he’s afraid to face them himself.”
Haggerty nodded. “Interesting. So he could be pushing them off when he discovers that they are not helping him overcome his fear.”
“Or when he does start to feel safer and sees them as disposable,” Mackenzie added.
“If we are dealing with someone with these kinds of mental issues, there are a few basic things to consider,” Haggerty said. “What’s the source of his fear? Why has he chosen these people as his victims? Does he see them as some sort of link to his fear of heights?”
“So would you agree with me that the killer has a fear of heights rather that some sort of love for them due to a sense of power or control?”
“Yes, I believe so. Someone that was in it for the control aspect would likely not choose something as unpredictable as high places for the scene of the crime. Too much is taken out of their hands. There’s too much unpredictability. And speaking of which…I wonder…can you tell me if Maureen Hanks was naked?”
“No, she was not.”
“But Malory Thomas was, right? See…it makes me wonder if there is some sort of synaptic disconnect in the killer. A legitimate phobia is, at its base, just the body’s arousal in a situation—not sexual in most cases, but just a heightened state of alert. When this kicks in, your nervous system floods your body with either the need to escape or the need to explore something further. It seems like our killer might land somewhere between those two.”
“So if you had to place money on it, would you say the killer has some sort of mental detachment?”
“If he does, it’s not going to be a severe one. Making a woman climb all the way
to the top of that water tower requires patience, planning, and bravery.”
“I was thinking the same thing,” Mackenzie said.
“You know, I’m not an expert on phobias and I honestly don’t know anyone that is. But I do know that there are support groups for this kind of thing all over the place. If you’ll give me a second, I can probably find a business card for someone who runs one of these groups up near your neck of the woods.”
“That would be perfect. Thanks.”
Mackenzie sipped from her coffee as Haggerty stepped away elsewhere into the house. Mackenzie started to think about the kind of person who might feel that same sort of control and power she had contemplated while standing on the water tower. But it was more complicated than that; it also had to be someone who had a fear of such a height—and maybe, if she dared go a step farther, a respect and awe of that fear.
A few moments later, Haggerty appeared with the promised business card. She handed it to Mackenzie with a frown on her face. “I really wish I could do more to help.”
“Nonsense,” Mackenzie said. “You’ve been a tremendous help. Little things like this,” she said, holding up the business card, “can usually be much more help that you’d expect.”
“I hope so,” Dr. Haggerty said. “When word really gets around as to what’s been happening here in town, it’s going to get crazy. People stop trusting each other. Friendships and family ties break down. It can get nasty in small towns like this.”
“Well, let’s hope we find our killer before it gets to that point,” Mackenzie said.
Yet when she left two minutes later with nothing more than an old business card for her troubles, finding a killer seemed harder than ever.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Mackenzie was glad Kingsville was just over an hour away from DC; it made the back and forth monotony of it all much more bearable. She wasn’t stranded like she typically was when she was on assignment elsewhere in the country. Because of the close proximity, it only took her forty-five minutes to get from Kingsville to Herndon, which would place her only twenty minutes away from DC when she was done.
The business card Haggerty had given her was for a man by the name of Oswald Gates. The card claimed he was an LPC specializing in “achieving peace and rest through group settings.” He’d seemed agreeable enough on the telephone and although he had not maintained a phobia-based group in over a year, he jumped at the chance to meet with her.
His office was located in a small brick building right in the center of the city. When Mackenzie parked in front of it, she took the plain generic building for the sort of place that held AA meetings regularly, and where there were probably thrift sales or bake sales for local charities on the weekends. Perhaps a little unfairly, she figured it was the perfect place for people to gather to discuss their fears.
She entered the building and found that it smelled of Pine-Sol and strong coffee. She figured it was a community center of sorts, complete with a corkboard in the hallway with fliers, posters, and announcements about upcoming events. At the end of the hall, she found Oswald Gates’s office. He was turned away from the door, digging through a battered gray filing cabinet. Mackenzie knocked on the door and Gates turned around to face her. He was a middle-aged African-American with a well-kept beard that covered most of his neck. He wore a pair of reading glasses that made his eyes look enormous.
“Hi, Mr. Gates,” she said. “Thanks for meeting with me on such short notice.”
“Of course,” he said. “You know, Kingsville being so close, I’ve heard about those suicides. But I gathered on the phone with you that you think there might be something more to it?”
“That’s the way it’s looking,” Mackenzie said. “As I said, I got your number from Jan Haggerty and she thought you might be able to offer some more insights into the mindset of someone who has a fear of heights.”
“I can certainly try,” he said. He slapped at a pile of files he had no doubt pulled from the filing cabinet behind him. “What would you like to know?”
“How much experience do you have with people with acrophobia?”
“A pretty good deal. Fear of heights is the most common fear among humans. It’s so common that most people don’t even think about coming to support groups for it because they think it’s perfectly normal. I have worked with a few, though.”
“Do you recall any who were aggressive? Do you find that aggressions or maybe even depression seems to be linked to a fear of heights?”
Gates took a moment to think about that and then shook his head. “No. Again, it’s such a common fear that there’s rarely anyone ashamed of it. Now you’ll have people that get scared of heights even when they look down from the railing of their front porch and those are the types that might get embarrassed about the phobia. But no…as far as I know, based on my own experience and what I’ve read on the matter, aggression isn’t a byproduct of acrophobia.”
“Can you tell me maybe some of the things you can align with people with this fear?” Mackenzie asked.
“Yeah, it’s pretty easy. I worked with one man for about six months because he knew he was headed into a career where he’d have to travel a lot. And the thought of getting on a plane didn’t scare him at all. It was the chance that he might get a peek out of the window when they were in the air. He had night terrors about that for months.
“But even with him, it was an easy fear to navigate. I took him up to the roof of this building one day. Had a session up there. He was sweating it the whole time but when I showed him the fire escape out back—showed him that there was a safe way back to the ground—it helped. We then went on to another building and another until one day we went up to the clock tower near the center of town. Four stories tall and he was able to look down without losing his cool.”
“So you think a gradual approach helps people overcome this fear?”
“Yes, and there are journals and studies on it that back it up.”
“So based on all that you know, what do you think might cause someone who is scared of heights to forcibly take someone with them a high place?”
Gates frowned and said, “You mean like a bridge or a water tower?”
Mackenzie nodded. While she was not yet one hundred percent sold on the fact that the killer was afraid of heights, the look of grief on Gates’s face made her lean even more toward it.
“It’s hard to say,” Gate responded. “Perhaps it’s because it’s a transfer of power or control. It’s not unthinkable to assume that because being at those high places makes them feel frightened, having total control over someone at that scene might make them feel stronger. They could be using the victims as a source of power.”
“You mean the mentality of ‘I may be scared to be on this bridge, but I’m sure as hell in control of you so at least I’m in control of something.’ Something like that?”
“Something like that, exactly,” Gates said. “But I think if he’s then taking it to the point of murder, it may be something more than just trying to get over a fear. I think in that instance, it’s more about controlling the victim. He’s trying to free himself of the fear by viewing these high locations as something other than a place that scares him. It seems like he’s trying to make the place all about control.”
“And although that’s a messed up point of view, do you think someone could be successful at overcoming their fear in such a way?”
“I honestly don’t know. That’s so far beyond anything I’ve ever even pondered.” He sighed and shook his head as if trying to shake the idea of it out of his mind. He then pushed the small pile of folders that had been sitting in front of him over to Mackenzie. “I looked through my files as far back as five years. Sorry to say this is all I could find for you.”
Mackenzie flipped open the first file folder. The pile contained only seven and each one was very thick.
“What are these?” she asked.
“The notes and files I have on anyone who came through my door
and had a legitimate fear of heights over the last five years. Like I said, there aren’t many that seek actual help for it. And I really don’t know if any of that will help. I figured maybe you’d find some sort of similarity between them all that might help.”
“Yes, this is fantastic, thank you.”
“I do ask that you not take them with you, though. Confidentiality and all. I might be willing to turn a blind eye if you wanted to take them to the print office at the other end of the hall and make copies, though.”
“I think I’ll just look them over right here if that’s okay. It shouldn’t take more than a few minutes.”
“Help yourself,” Gates said. “I need to go grab some papers from the print room, so make yourself at home. I’ll be back in a second.”
With that, Gates left the room and headed down the hall. Mackenzie wasted no time and dove right into the files. The files were quite thin, some only one page in content. But Gates took pretty good notes, detailing the person’s thoughts and emotions as well as his own notes. She saw a lot of what they had just talked about but paid close attention to some of his bulleted notes.
One woman who had come in had even been afraid to get on elevators. For her, it wasn’t the sight of heights that terrified her as much as the sensation of going up. She also saw a brief study of the man Gates had told her about—the man who had wanted to overcome his fear so he could take flights for work.
She spent five minutes looking through his notes, typing her own notes into her phone whenever she came across something noteworthy—and, quite honestly, there wasn’t much.
That was, not until she got to the fifth folder.
This was the thickest folder by far. There were three pages of typed notes, a single sheet of Gates’s notes, and then a dozen or so black-and-white photographs. She looked over the notes, seeing the story of a man named Tyler Black. He’d been terrified of heights as a child but had slowly gotten over them. As a teenager, he’d been arrested for indecent exposure, having sex on a condemned bridge just outside of New Jersey. He’d eventually made his way to Landover, Maryland, for a job and it had been there that the fear had hit him again. According to Gates’s notes, Tyler had simply started having dreams about falling from tall buildings and of skydiving only to find that his parachute wouldn’t open.
