Even In Darkness--An American Murder Mystery Thriller

by Lynn Hightower

  Am I really going to have to do this, I think? I’m tired. I’m worried. I don’t care about this stuff.

  ‘It’s not just the money, Joy,’ Brice says.

  ‘It’s public opinion,’ Abby adds. ‘Brice can pull his strings, but the best thing all around will be for you to go and just get people all stirred up and on your side. That’ll get the donations pouring back in. And the FBI will look really bad if they come and arrest you after your house burned down and everybody thought you were dead.’

  I think back to my dinner with Hal. Two beers, falling asleep in his car. Oasis.

  ‘I better do it,’ I tell Brice. ‘But call them for me, will you, and check the arrangements? Make sure they’ll be sending a car out and tell them to pick me up here at my hotel, since obviously they can’t pick me up at the house.’

  It takes a while to get off the phone. Brice and Abby have questions about Andee and Caroline. I have to turn down an offer of hospitality, but my mind is wandering. I am happy that I took my favorite jeans with me to Arkansas, but they aren’t going to fly at Spindletop. I’m going to have to shop.

  TWENTY-SIX

  The knock on the door of my hotel room is soft and barely registers at the fringe of my sleeping subconscious. I have dozed off on the couch, dogs piled around my feet. Leo is the first to react, and he comes awake with a startled yelp that morphs into his grumbly growl. The knock comes again, and Leo stays one step ahead of me on the way to the door. Ruby follows, but veers into the kitchen toward her water bowl. I remember that I need to give her the pills.

  I shove my hair out of my eyes and look through the peephole. I have no idea who the man is, but he knocks again, and though my keyhole view is limited I don’t see anything that makes me nervous. I leave the chain lock on and open the door a couple of inches – just enough for Leo to get his nose in the crack.

  ‘Good morning. I’m sorry to disturb you, but I’m looking for Joy Miller.’

  The man is at least six feet tall and seriously overweight. His hair is a dark reddish blond, wavy, and he has large jowls, a thick neck and rather riveting blue eyes. There is a box tucked under his left arm, and he is holding a white bag.

  ‘Who are you?’

  He shakes his head and gives me a sideways smile. ‘Sorry. My name is Goodwin, Dr Johnny Goodwin. I’m a forensic consultant to the FBI.’ He reaches into his back pocket and pulls out a leather flip case. ‘Sorry, I don’t do this sort of thing very often. I spend most of my time tied to a desk.’

  He passes the identification through the crack in the door, though it is awkward, his hands are full. The picture is recent, the print a little small, but it tells me that this man is Dr Jonathan Goodwin, a resident of Chicago, Illinois, and Special Forensic Consultant to the Federal Bureau of Investigation.

  ‘I drove down late last night, after Russ called and told me about your house getting torched.’

  ‘Getting torched’ sounds odd when it’s not on television. I hand the ID back through the door. ‘Agent Woods hasn’t mentioned you.’

  ‘By all means, give him a call. And look, if you want me to come back later, that’s fine. I know you must be overwhelmed, and I don’t want to intrude. But it would be helpful if you and I could have a conversation as soon as you feel up to it.’

  His voice is attractive and I find it oddly comforting. There is something understanding about it. Something kind.

  ‘I can only imagine how you must feel,’ he is saying. ‘You’re probably just blown away and numb.’

  ‘Is that an official state of mind? Blown away?’

  ‘You’ll find it on page two hundred and eighty-seven of the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental States – third edition of the DSM According to Goodwin.’

  I am smiling, which surprises me. ‘Come in, Dr Goodwin.’

  I have to close the door before I can unlatch it, which feels awkward, particularly as it takes me a little while to fumble my way through the locks. Jonathan Goodwin, Special Forensic Consultant to the FBI, seems at ease and unperturbed when I finally get the door open to let him inside.

  Goodwin watches to see that I lock the door behind him. This is one person who understands the danger of the Dark Man.

  ‘I just heard about your cousin Marsha. I’m so sorry.’ He heads straight to the little kitchen and puts a briefcase, a box of doughnuts and the paper bag down on the little table. ‘I know it must seem like the world is falling down around your ears right now, Mrs Miller. I know you probably don’t feel like talking to me. But I also know you want to bring your girls home. Having this talk may help.’ He unpacks two cups of coffee and two bottles of orange juice from the bag. He is a graceful man, with the physical confidence of someone who is automatically good at sports.

  ‘Behind this curtain we have chocolate-glazed doughnuts, still hot, from Krispy Kreme.’ He raises an eyebrow and nods his head toward my dog. ‘Uh oh.’

  I turn and see that Leo has had an accident on the kitchen floor.

  ‘Hey.’

  Leo hangs his head and backs away, and I shoo Ruby off when she decides to have a sniff. I grab paper towels and begin to clean up the spatters of dark yellow.

  ‘Sorry,’ I say to Goodwin. ‘It’s been a weird few days.’ I throw the first batch of soiled paper towels away and gather up another handful. From the corner of my eye I see Ruby wander into my bedroom and heave herself with great effort into the middle of the bed. She groans and stretches out. It’s embarrassing how, the minute a stranger shows up, Ruby and Leo morph into candidates for an episode of When Good Dogs Go Bad.

  Goodwin heads to the living room coffee table with the doughnuts, the coffee and juice. ‘OK if I set things up over here?’

  ‘That’s fine.’ I wash my hands. Goodwin claims the easy chair, and I settle on the couch, Leo at my feet. He lies with his head between his paws, watching.

  ‘Is there any chance you’ve got some good news for me, Dr Goodwin? Has the Cyber Squad, or whatever you call it, nailed down the location from the web cast? Agent Woods doesn’t tell me much, you know.’

  ‘I don’t have news for you there. They’re probably still working backward from the last bounce.’

  ‘Nicaragua.’

  ‘All the bad guys bounce there. Think of it as a way station along the route.’

  ‘Too bad they tripped this guy’s alarm system.’

  ‘I’d say it was inevitable. Collateral damage, I guess.’

  ‘Is that how you guys look at my house burning down and my cousin getting killed – collateral damage?’

  ‘Sorry for sounding like a hard ass. But I may as well be honest with you here. The kidnapper told you not to bring the Feds in, which is exactly what you did.’

  ‘So my house and Marsha were the repercussions.’

  ‘I think so, yes.’

  ‘And you don’t agree with Woods? You don’t think I burned my own house down to kill my cousin Marsha for having an affair with my husband fourteen years ago?’

  Goodwin’s eyebrows go up. ‘Completely ridiculous.’

  ‘I saw my cousin in the hospital last night. She talked to me before she died. She told me you guys have a picture of the kidnapper. You know who he is.’

  He seems startled, then nods his head slowly. ‘We do, actually.’

  ‘You admit that?’

  ‘Yes. I think they should have let you know immediately, but it wasn’t my call. Woods is still pretty wound up about that lie detector test you won’t take.’

  ‘You guys are doing a really bad job.’

  ‘I understand why you feel that way. Here, Mrs Miller. Have a doughnut. Ladies first.’

  ‘Under the circumstances, I can’t believe you’re offering me doughnuts.’

  ‘What ticks you off the most – that I brought them or that you want one?’

  I fiddle with Leo’s collar. ‘Both, I guess.’

  He grins at me. ‘Carbohydrates and chocolate stir up endorphins and are listed in the literature as
reliable mood enhancers – something all women know by instinct.’

  There is no point fighting it. I skipped the breakfast buffet earlier, and I’m hungry. The doughnuts are so fresh they’re crisp, the chocolate coating fudgy and rich. I feel my blood sugar rising. No doubt the endorphins will flow. I wonder if Andee and Caroline have had breakfast. I wonder if they’re still alive.

  ‘This was nice of you, I guess.’ I wipe icing off my chin.

  ‘I figured you could use a little bit of nice.’ Goodwin finishes off a doughnut and drains half a bottle of juice. He brushes crumbs off his lap.

  ‘I consult in a lot of cases like this, Mrs Miller, but usually not hands on. They overnight me a file, we talk on the phone. Send e-mails. But this situation is unusual for two reasons. One, we’ve got your granddaughter and daughter-in-law out there somewhere, in the power of this man. And two, I have history with the kidnapper. Like you said, we know who he is.’

  I lean forward. ‘So you know him, then? How did that happen?’

  ‘He read an article I wrote a few years ago on apex predators. He was intrigued and he got in touch.’

  ‘What is an apex predator?’

  ‘Top of the food chain. You know – like great white sharks, the man-eating lions of Tsavo, Romanian brown bears. My theory was that serial killers are apex predators, functioning as a form of natural selection, culling the human herd. Which is how an apex predator functions in nature. Our kidnapper was interested in the premise that it’s a matter of fate or nature; that serial killers are meant to be. He was particularly interested in the possibility that without serial killers the human race would not survive, in the same way that if we kill off all the sharks in the oceans, then the ripple effect will kill off all other forms of ocean life.’

  ‘He has an ego, doesn’t he?’

  ‘Goes with the territory. But I also get the sense this guy is finding his way. For what it’s worth, I think it’s genuine. That he’s trying to understand why he is who he is.’

  I rub my forehead. ‘And what do you think, Dr Goodwin? Do you believe the kidnapper is looking to me to show him the way to redemption? Do you think I’m the reason for his epiphany? You said you thought he was genuinely looking. You don’t think he’s just playing games?’

  ‘I think it’s a complex mixture of both. But he was serious about what he said in the note. You’re the one. You, Joy Miller. I think he’s looking for a way out of who he is, but at the same time the possibilities make him feel extremely vulnerable. Do I think he has hopes? Yes. That’s what he’s looking to you for. Hope. But I don’t think he actually believes it’s possible, there at the bottom of his heart. Provided, of course, he has one.’

  ‘Oh, he has a heart. It’s a question of whether he’s got access.’

  ‘I wonder if you’d still think so if you were aware of all the things he’s done.’

  ‘No one is beyond redemption.’ I pull my hair up off my neck. It’s cool in the hotel room but I’m sweaty. ‘Evil can be a habit. A way of thinking. Kind of like an infection of the thought processes. This guy has spent years swept up in a love affair with being bad. But he can put a stop to it. He can redirect his thought processes.’

  Goodwin stares at me. ‘So you’re still a believer. You haven’t been active, in the ministry, for so long now. I guess I was wondering.’

  ‘I work behind the scenes now. It was time for a change.’

  Goodwin waits for me to continue, but I have nothing left to say. He shrugs and slaps his knees with the palms of his hands. ‘This will be easier than I thought, then. You can answer his e-mail. Give him the answer he wants to hear. Tell him he is capable of changing his nature, and how.’

  ‘You know about the e-mail?’

  ‘Yes. It didn’t look good, you hiding that. It’s another reason Russ doesn’t trust you.’

  ‘I don’t care about Russell Woods.’ I chew my bottom lip. ‘But my answer to the e-mail worries me. You’re saying just tell him what he wants to hear?’

  ‘Well, now, that’s tricky, Mrs Miller. If you really believe it, tell him. But he isn’t going to be convinced just because you play nice, right? We’ve got three gutted evangelists to prove that method wrong. Whatever you tell him, you’re going to have to back it up with conviction supported by some kind of cogent logic.’

  ‘Even if I do that, I don’t think he’s going to like what I’ve got to say.’

  ‘Really? Don’t you want your granddaughter back alive?’

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  Goodwin opens his briefcase, an old-fashioned mail carrier’s leather bag, scratched and worn. He puts a picture out on the coffee table just inches from the remains of my doughnut and a few drops of spilled juice. ‘Is that him?’

  I feel the life draining out of me, as if my wrists have been slit. Leo lifts his head and puts his nose on my knee.

  ‘How would I know?’

  Goodwin waits patiently, not saying a word. Leo presses his head into my lap. If Goodwin is trying to wait me out, we’re going to be sitting a while.

  He cocks his head sideways, and his voice is gentle. ‘It’s obvious that you recognize the man in this picture.’

  ‘Mr Goodwin, I’ve had a hell of a week. If you’re here to play games with me, then leave, and take your doughnuts with you.’

  He sighs deeply. ‘Mrs Miller, you know this man, and we both know that you do. Even if you hadn’t recognized the picture, which clearly you have, it’s obvious that there’s some kind of history between you.’

  I stroke Leo’s ears. Normally he’d tuck his head in my lap, but for now he is keeping watch.

  ‘You must know that Woods keeps you under loose surveillance, right? They don’t have a detail on you every minute but they check up on you regularly, intercept your mail, keep track of your cell phone and e-mail.’

  Goodwin leans toward me and I sit further back on the couch. Leo growls very faintly, something I feel more than hear, a vibration deep in his chest.

  ‘There are two possibilities here. One. You and the kidnapper are working together. You’ve brooded for years and gone over the edge and you’re exacting your revenge at last. That’s the working theory for Russ and Mavis, and they’re not in love with it, but it is what makes the most sense, when they factor everything in.’ He shrugs. ‘Start coloring outside the lines, and the FBI has no idea what to do. There hasn’t been a ransom note. They don’t understand why, and when they don’t understand something, they don’t like it.’

  ‘And is that what you think?’ I ask him. ‘That I’m the mastermind behind some convoluted plot? That I burned down my own house? Wait, don’t tell me. That’s revenge too, against Marsha for cheating with my husband way the hell back when.’

  ‘Me? No, Mrs Miller, I think the whole idea is ludicrous.’ He waves a hand. ‘That means we go to option two. That you know this guy, somehow, some way, something in your past, but there’s a reason you’re afraid to give us the connection. A good reason. That’s the one I like.’

  He’s right, of course. I give him credit for that.

  ‘That’s why I’m here, Mrs Miller. To ask you to give me the back story. Whatever it is that you’re afraid to tell, I promise you – I give you my word – it isn’t going to come back on you in any way. We don’t care what happened between the two of you, except as it pertains to this case. And I’m convinced that whatever the connection is, that’s going to be the key that unravels this mess.’ He leans toward me. ‘Right now we’ve got two teams working your granddaughter’s disappearance, and they’re all off track. They’re looking at you and by the time they get their heads out of their asses, it might just be too late for an optimal conclusion. Which is how Woods will word it in the final report.’

  Goodwin holds a hand up to stop me, though I haven’t said a word. ‘Here’s what I’m going to do. I’m going to start by telling you what I know. What I’ve put together about this man in the years I’ve been following his trail. And it’s a nasty trail, Mrs
Miller, a bloody one. Don’t kid yourself. A guy like this – no way someone like you can handle him. You put together all the resources they’ve got in law enforcement these days, and he still may just beat them at the game. And while I talk you’ll have time to think. If it’s a risk for you, I’m sorry. But if you love your granddaughter – and I have no doubt you do – it’s a risk you’re going to have to take.’

  Then Goodwin laces his fingers over his large loose stomach and tells me what he wants me to know.

  ‘His name is Cletus Purcell and he was born in Jackson, Kentucky.’ Goodwin rubs his forehead. He is frowning, like he is somewhere else in his head. I suppose, in a way, he is.

  Like any good psychiatrist, Goodwin focuses his initial attention on Purcell’s childhood. ‘If you want a sure fire recipe for creating a sociopath, place them in seven different foster homes before the age of three.’

  ‘Seven?’

  Goodwin nods. ‘Before the age of three. He stayed with number seven until he was fifteen, then he ran away and after that he was out of the system. It was a bad placement. The Hermans. They kept an average of five foster children, all coming and going constantly, all considered “at risk”.

  ‘The Hermans were fundamentalist Christians whose motto was “spare the rod, spoil the child”. The father was a skinny guy with bad asthma, Benedict Herman. He actually started his own little church. Lana Herman was a mountain girl, and she was the disciplinarian. Every child I’ve interviewed who was placed in that home talks about her with a air of what you might misunderstand to be respect, but is actually terror. They look at her the way small animals look at predators.

  ‘Two years after Cletus Purcell ran away, the Hermans were investigated by social services and shut down. All their placements were removed, and in a few months’ time the couple were put under indictment. None of the charges went anywhere in court, even though they were abusing and neglecting their kids. They were also suspected of trading children back and forth with other foster parents who were involved with their church. The children received no medical care, the Hermans didn’t bother to use benefits that wouldn’t have cost them a cent. The kids wore hand-me-down charity clothes and got precious little food. As far as the investigators could tell, the Hermans didn’t spend money on themselves either. Their social service checks were growing in a savings account at their bank that had an interest rate of one percent.