by Todd Ritter
Two polished pennies sat atop each of his eyes, hugged by bushy, gray-studded eyebrows. Both coins had been placed heads up, Abe Lincoln’s profile glinting in Kat’s direction. The effect was eerie, the pennies looking like eyes themselves—dead and unblinking.
A wound marred the right side of his neck, partially hidden by his shirt collar. Pushing the fabric out of the way, Kat examined the gash. About three inches long, it had been stitched shut with black thread. Beads of blood had frozen to the thread, like raindrops in a spiderweb.
Similar ice crystals could be seen on George’s lips, which were coated with rust-colored flecks of dirt. That’s when Kat realized it wasn’t dirt she saw. It was dried blood. Lots of it, crusted around more black thread that crisscrossed his lips.
George Winnick’s mouth had been sewn shut.
Kat gasped again as the pain in her ribs deepened. It was an overwhelming sensation—part nausea, part horror. Still, she managed to make it back to her patrol car and radio Carl.
“I need you to listen closely,” she said. “Call the EMS squad. Tell them to get here immediately.”
“There’s someone inside the box?”
“Yes. George Winnick.”
Carl reacted the way Kat had expected him to—he prayed. She waited as he murmured a quick prayer for George’s soul. After the amen, he asked, “How did he die?”
Kat told him she didn’t know.
“What I do know is that you need to get on the horn and call the county sheriff. Tell him to bring the medical examiner. We’re going to need some help, because this—”
She stopped speaking when she realized she had no idea what this was. Nor did she have the first clue how to handle it. All she knew was that she had been right about the relentless chill. The cold was a bad omen.
Very bad.
TWO
It’s called a death sentence—that single line in an obituary detailing who died, how, and when. Henry Goll, who wrote them on a daily basis, enjoyed the nickname. He liked its sly wordplay, its mordant wit. Plus, he appreciated how the name hinted at a deeper, darker truth just below its surface: from the moment we are born, we are sentenced to death.
Part of Henry’s job was to make sure every obituary printed in the Perry Hollow Gazette contained a death sentence. For the most part, it was easy. A grieving family gave the information to the county’s only funeral home, which in turn faxed it to Henry. Using that as a guide, he sat in his cupboard-sized office and wrote a respectful overview of the deceased’s life. The death sentence always came first. It was the meat of the obituary, the only thing readers really wanted to know. The rest—family, work histories, achievements—were just side dishes to be consumed later.
Henry knew the obituary for George Winnick was a fake because it wasn’t a complete death sentence. Other than a name and a time of death, it contained barely any information at all.
George Winnick, 67, of Perry Hollow, Pa., died at 10:45 P.M. on March 14.
Five years of being the obituary writer at the Gazette had made Henry an expert at spotting fakes, which arrived with alarming frequency. He had no idea how anyone could see humor in that kind of prank, but many did. The worst offenders were teenagers, who often sent in fake death notices of much-reviled teachers. Others were sent by the alleged corpse’s friends, usually during a milestone birthday. Under Henry’s watch, none had managed to sneak into the paper. Whenever he saw an obituary claiming someone had died on his fiftieth birthday, he automatically threw it away.
He was close to doing the same with George Winnick’s, which had been sitting in the fax machine when he entered his office that morning. But because there was nothing suspicious about the age and date listed, he figured it was best to at least confirm it was a fake before relegating it to the trash.
Henry’s first and only call was to the McNeil Funeral Home. Tucked away on the far end of Oak Street, McNeil was a father and son outfit that had a monopoly on Perry Hollow’s dead. If someone in town passed away, the folks at McNeil knew about it.
Deana Swan, the funeral home’s receptionist, answered the phone after a single ring.
“McNeil Funeral Home,” she said in a bored voice. “This is Deana. How may I help you?”
Henry cleared his throat before speaking. “This is Henry Goll from the Perry Hollow Gazette.”
Deana interrupted him with a pert “Hey, Henry.”
“I have a question about a fax I received.”
“Why don’t you ever say hello to me?”
Taken aback, Henry replied with a confused “Pardon?”
“You call here, like, every day. And you just get straight to the point. No hello. No chitchat. Why is that?”
Henry was at a loss for words. “I don’t know. Maybe I’m not that interesting.”
Deana’s response of “That’s not what I heard” surprised him, mainly because she offered no follow-up. Henry didn’t find himself interesting in the least, so he doubted Deana’s mysterious source.
“Trust me,” he said. “I’m not.”
Henry wasn’t lying. He might have been interesting once, but his life in the past five years was a strict schedule of work and solitude. Every morning he arrived at his third-floor office by nine. He worked until six, taking an hour to eat lunch at his desk. When he left for the day, it was via the back stairs, where he could bypass the prying eyes in the main newsroom. Once home, Henry exercised for precisely an hour. After that, he prepared dinner, watched an old movie on TV, then read a book until he grew tired. In the morning, he had breakfast, made his lunch, and repeated the routine.
His unbending schedule, coupled with the fact that he rarely showed his pale face in the newsroom, had earned him a nickname among the reporters—Henry Ghoul.
No one suspected Henry knew about the nickname. But he did. And he thought it amusingly appropriate, just like death sentence. He was the phantom of the newsroom, the odd duck writing about dead people. Sometimes he went out of his way to act accordingly, sweeping ghostlike up the back steps and making sure moody music emanated from his office under the eaves.
As for the other, crueler reason they called him Ghoul, Henry tried not to think about it. He couldn’t change the way he looked. Not now, anyway.
“Well, interesting or not, you should visit me sometime,” Deana said. “We can go to lunch.”
Her suggestion was the biggest surprise in a conversation filled with them.
“That’s probably not a good idea,” Henry said.
“Why? I don’t even know what you look like.”
Henry touched his face before he spoke, his fingertips running along the scar that started at his left ear, sliced through the corners of both lips, and ended in the center of his chin. Moving upward, his hand slid across the mottled skin above his left eye. Although he couldn’t see it, he knew the large burn mark retained a dark redness against the white of his flesh. It was usually darker in the morning, only fading as the day progressed.
“We should get back to the fax,” he said.
Deana didn’t bother to hide the disappointment in her voice. “Of course. What’s the name?”
“George Winnick. I can’t tell if it’s legitimate or not.”
Henry heard the rustling of paper on Deana’s desk, followed by a few taps on a keyboard.
“There’s no sign of him in our records,” she eventually said. “Did the fax come from us?”
Henry told her the fax didn’t seem to have come from any funeral home—another sign of its impostor status. Having nothing else to add, he thanked Deana for her help and hung up before she had another chance to invite him to lunch. He then grabbed the obituary for George Winnick, crumpled it into a tight ball, and dropped it into the trash.
Henry spent the rest of the morning writing obituaries for people who actually were dead. There were four of them altogether, two coming from funeral homes outside of the county and two faxed to him by Deana Swan. On the second fax, just beneath the funeral home’s l
etterhead, she had scrawled, “Sorry if I made you uncomfortable.”
She had, mostly because Henry had been momentarily detoured from his usual routine.
He worked in the same manner he lived: without spontaneity. Everything in his impeccably organized office had its place and its purpose. The lamp on his desk illuminated the cramped and windowless room. The bookshelf bulged with reference materials. The fax machine, exactly an arm’s length away, provided grist for the mill.
While writing, he played one of the many tragic operas downloaded onto his computer. That morning, he listened to Wagner’s Tristan and Isolde. Instead of a distraction, the swelling music, soaring arias, and tale of doomed love served Henry well. It helped him concentrate, allowing him to sustain the somber mood necessary to write about those who had shuffled off this mortal coil. And by the time poor Isolde died of heartbreak, he had finished his work for the morning.
Lunchtime was promptly at noon. Henry ate the same meal every day—turkey on wheat, small salad, bottle of water. He brought everything from home except the water, which was purchased from the vending machine downstairs.
In the break room, a lone reporter stood in front of the snack machine, mulling over his options. He offered a forced smile, which Henry refused to return. Henry Ghoul didn’t smile.
The reporter’s name was Martin Swan. Blandly handsome, he had the look of a former football star going to seed in the working world. His white shirt fit tightly, and his silk tie trickled down a broad chest and the beginnings of a beer gut. Henry knew nothing about him other than the fact that he was Deana’s brother. In a town as small as Perry Hollow, coincidences like that were common. Because of this tenuous link between them, Martin always felt compelled to talk to Henry, even though his voice was usually poised somewhere between sincerity and indifference. Today was no different.
“You’ll be getting an obituary from my sister soon,” Martin said flatly.
Henry stood at the machine next to him, fishing in his pocket for change. “What makes you think that?”
Martin’s voice suddenly became animated. “You didn’t hear the big news?”
“Hear what?”
“Someone was murdered this morning. Chief Campbell found him in a coffin on the side of Old Mill Road. It’s creepy as hell. Poor George.”
The name made Henry freeze. “George Winnick?”
Martin nodded. “Did you know him?”
A chill shot up Henry’s spine. He felt surprise. And fear. The coincidence was too great to not cause at least some bit of fear.
“What time was he found?”
“I think eight or so,” Martin said. “Have you heard something about it? I’m working the story, so tell me if you have.”
Henry left the break room without saying another word. Taking the back steps two at a time, he rushed into his office, streaked to the garbage can, and rustled through its contents until he found the balled-up sheet of paper.
He smoothed the fax out on his desk, scanning the single sentence typed across the page.
George Winnick, 67, of Perry Hollow, Pa., died at 10:45 P.M. on March 14.
In the top left corner of the page was a series of small numbers printed in black. A time stamp of when the fax was sent. Henry read it three times, disbelief growing with each pass. Another chill galloped up his spine. Unlike the first, it stayed there, refusing to be thrown off even as he scooped up the fax, grabbed his coat, and sprinted out the door.
THREE
The man sitting opposite Nick Donnelly was ugly. There was no doubt about it, no eye-of-the-beholder bullshit. He was ass-ugly, yet Nick couldn’t stop looking at him. He was fascinated by the man’s pockmarked cheeks, greasy hair, and teeth that resembled half-nibbled corn on the cob.
Nick bet it was torture to be that unattractive. Thank God he’d never know. The Donnellys were a good-looking, strong-bodied clan. Black Irish, with faces that could have been carved by Michelangelo himself. Add in the rogue’s smile inherited from his father, and Nick knew he was one handsome devil.
But this other guy—this Edgar Sewell sitting a table’s length away—he’d had a hard life. Nick was sure of it. Being taunted. Being called names. Heart sinking every time he looked in the mirror. It still didn’t excuse what he did. Nothing could, no matter how ugly he was.
“So, Edgar,” Nick said. “Why did you do it?”
Dressed in an orange jumpsuit, the man lowered his eyes to the handcuffs at his wrists and said uncomfortably, “I told you already.”
Edgar’s voice matched his looks—unbearable. High-pitched and wavering, it made Nick’s ears hurt.
“Tell me again.”
“Why do you need to hear it again?”
“Because I want to help you.”
It was a lie. Edgar Sewell, the killer of three little girls, was a lost cause. He would spend the rest of his life in this shithole prison outside Philadelphia. Nick’s true goal was to crawl inside his mind and figure out what drove him to commit his unspeakable acts. Understanding that could possibly help Nick stop the killers who were still out there, still preying on the innocent and unsuspecting. That’s why Nick wanted to know.
“They told me to do it,” Edgar said.
“Who?”
“The voices.”
It was the old voices-in-my-head-made-me-kill excuse. Nick had interviewed four killers in the past week, and Edgar Sewell was the third person to use it. But it was a bullshit excuse, used to hide their true motivations. People like Edgar killed not at the behest of ominous voices. They killed because they wanted to.
“What did these voices sound like?”
“I can’t remember.”
Nick leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms. “That’s interesting. If voices in my head told me to butcher little girls, I’d remember what they sounded like.”
That made Edgar change his tune. “I do remember.”
“Then tell me.”
Edgar stalled by putting his left thumb to his lips and licking it, his tongue a flash of pink poking around the thumbnail. Nick had seen two other killers do the same thing. It was a trait that signaled maternal issues.
When Edgar became aware of Nick watching him, he jerked his thumb away and said, “Elvis.”
Nick had to give Edgar credit for originality. The others had simply said Satan. But the lie also pissed him off. After an hour, he had learned nothing new about Edgar Sewell. But now it was time to put him on the spot and, hopefully, get some real answers out of him.
Nick reached down and opened the briefcase sitting next to his chair. He pulled out a manila folder that contained three photographs. The first one showed a brown-haired girl who smiled shyly for the camera. Nick slapped it onto the table and slid it toward Edgar.
“This is Lainie Hamilton. Do you remember her?”
Edgar refused to look at the photograph, turning his head until he faced the wall.
“I know you do,” Nick said. “She was eight and lived downstairs from you. Her mother, Ronette, was a prostitute, just like yours was. And on June 1, 1980, you offered Ronette twenty dollars to have sex with you. Any of this ring a bell?”
Edgar popped his thumb into his mouth and shook his head.
“She refused, didn’t she? She laughed at you. Maybe called you ugly. You went back upstairs to your apartment and stewed. Later that night, when Ronette was walking the street, you snuck downstairs, broke in, and killed Lainie.”
The thumb popped out long enough for Edgar to say, “The voices told me to.”
“There were no voices,” Nick said, his own voice growing angry. “It was only you. And you killed little eight-year-old Lainie of your own free will. You even liked it so much that you did it again six months later to the daughter of another prostitute.”
Nick tossed a second photo onto the table.
“Then you did it again.”
A third photo. All three of Edgar Sewell’s victims—the youngest six, the oldest eleven—looked up at th
eir killer with innocent eyes.
Forced to face their stares, Edgar said, “They deserved it.”
“Who? The girls?”
“The mothers. Those dirty, filthy whores. They thought they were better than me. They were rotten sluts who were mean to me and made fun of me and called me ugly, just like—”
Nick finished the confession for him. “Your mother?”
Edgar nodded so vigorously that Nick was afraid he’d bite off part of his thumb, which was shoved fully between his lips. Then, to Nick’s surprise, Edgar Sewell did what none of the other killers he interviewed had done.
He cried.
The tears signaled that the interview was over. Nick knew he’d get no more information out of Edgar. Which meant it was on to the next prison—this one in Centre County—and maybe two more after that, if Nick had the time.
Before leaving, he stopped by the prison’s public restroom, which was one step above a gas station’s. One toilet. One urinal. Permanent grime coated the sink’s basin. Nick tried not to touch it as he splashed cold water onto his face. In the mirror, a hollow-eyed man stared back at him.
Christ, he was exhausted. This was the start of his second week interviewing killers, and all that talk and travel had taken its toll. But it would be worth it in the end, he hoped.
After drying his face, Nick exited the bathroom and then the prison itself, relieved to be free of its walls, its bars, its unrelenting grimness. His mood brightened enough that he could muster a whistle. A little “Folsom Prison Blues” in honor of his location.
The good mood—and the whistling—lasted only until he reached the parking lot, where an unexpected visitor waited for him.
Captain Gloria Ambrose, his boss at the Pennsylvania State Police Bureau of Criminal Investigation, leaned against the unmarked car that had shuttled her there. She hugged herself for warmth until she caught sight of Nick. Then her arms dropped to her sides. The move was vintage Gloria—always trying to look tougher than she really was.
