The House of Broken Backs: A Joanna Mason Novel

by Amy Cross

  "Could be better," he mutters. "Schumacher's already getting onto me for answers about this mess and threatening to pull me off the case and give it to this new guy, Jordan Carver. I swear to God, Schumacher's getting more and more paranoid about media coverage since he started getting feedback from the precinct's public relations department."

  "The precinct has a public relations department?" I reply.

  "Oh yeah. And they're much happier now you're not around so much."

  "What about you?" I continue. "How's life?"

  "Fine," he replies, clearly keen not to get involved in a detailed conversation. "You?"

  "Fine," I say, figuring that maybe Elaine didn't tell him that I spoke to her earlier. Either that, or Dawson really doesn't want to get drawn into a personal discussion right now.

  "Okay," he says, leading me up onto the porch. "So the first girl knocked on the bottom of the door." He steps into the house, before turning to me. "Mr. Wash opened the door and found the girl, a Caucasian in her early to mid twenties, down on the decking with injuries to her face, neck, torso, arms and legs. He then became aware of other women crawling toward the house with similar marks. Twenty-eight of them in all, each with a broken or fractured back."

  "You got names for any of them yet?" I ask, turning and looking out across the dark garden and at the vast wilderness beyond.

  "Nothing so far," Dawson replies. "We've tried everything we can think of, but it's as if these girls just landed here from nowhere. No DNA matches, no distinguishing marks, not even any dental records to go on."

  "Nothing at all?"

  "It's like they're non-people," he continues. "How does that happen? Hell, you sneeze these days, it gets recorded in some database somewhere. How do twenty-eight people manage to completely avoid ending up in the system?"

  "They don't," I mutter. "Not unless someone goes to great lengths to keep them hidden."

  "Two of them have died since they showed up," he replies, handing me a set of photos showing some of the girls. "Respiratory failure, although autopsies are being carried out as we speak to determine the underlying causes. Wherever these women were being held, they were being fed very little, although they weren't completely malnourished. Someone wanted to keep them alive, even if there was no need to keep them in prime health."

  "Any sign of sexual abuse?" I ask.

  "Nothing. That was one of the first things we looked for, but almost all the girls appear to be virgins. Whatever was going on here, it wasn't anything to do with sex, although..." He pauses. "I guess it's possible that they were being sold for sexual purposes. I'm sure a genuine virgin might fetch a decent price on the darker parts of the internet. I guess I'm gonna have to do some heavy wading in the digital black markets."

  I look down at the photos. Without exception, the girls look more confused than pained, as if they have no idea what's happening to them. Judging by their expressions, it's almost as if they've never had any real contact with the real world before, which I guess might be possible. When I first heard about this case, I assumed that they were probably kidnap victims, but now I'm not so sure; I'm starting to wonder if they've been kept like this since birth.

  "No," I say eventually. "This isn't about sex."

  "But maybe virginity would -"

  "It's not about sex," I say again. "Sure, there are markets for that sort of thing, but not enough to justify this kind of major operation. Look at them. These girls all seem to be in their late teens or early twenties. Without wanting to sound too cynical, I don't think they'd be kept back this long if their sole purpose was to get fucked." I flick through some more of the photos. "How old did you say they were again?"

  "It's hard to say for sure," he replies. "They don't seem to know themselves, and it's not like we can cut them open and count the rings. Some were pretty young, though. The youngest appears to be six or seven."

  "But none older than early twenties?" I ask.

  "As far as we can tell so far."

  Still staring at the photos, I wait for a moment of inspiration to strike. I guess it's natural, in a situation like this, to assume that sex is somehow involved in the mix, but I can't shake the feeling that something else has been happening to these women, something more cold and clinical.

  "You want to come inside and speak to the home-owners?" Dawson asks eventually. "They're -"

  "No need," I reply, interrupting him. "I doubt they can tell us anything. They're just the unlucky ones who happened to have this explode on their doorstep." Turning to look out into the darkness surrounding this remote little house, I pause for a moment as a cool wind continues to blow. "Whatever's been going on here, the answer isn't in the house. It's out there somewhere."

  "What makes you say that?" Dawson asks.

  "Because if I was going to keep a load of women chained up somewhere, I'd want to do it out in the middle of nowhere so that there'd be no chance of getting overheard by the neighbors." I turn to him. "This place is a total bust, and I'm not in the mood to waste time. Take me to the burned-out building you found."

  "Let me take you inside first -"

  "There's no time," I say firmly.

  "Why not?"

  "Because I think these girls are just the tip of the iceberg," I tell him. "I think there are probably more of them out there somewhere."

  John

  "Mr. Noone!" a familiar voice calls out. "What are you doing out here so late?"

  Freezing in place, I look down at the can of gasoline in my hands. My mind seems to have gone completely blank, and for a moment I have no idea what to say. Slowly, I turn to find my neighbor, Patricia Nolan, standing nearby, wearing her nursing uniform. I guess it's just my luck that she's coming home from a late shift in the small hours of the morning, but I need to think fast. The last thing I can deal with is a last-minute complication, not after the hellish day I've had so far.

  "I was just..." I start to say, before carefully placing the can on the ground and glancing over at the street to make sure that there's no-one around. "I was trying to kill some weeds," I continue, even though I know that the explanation is painfully thin. "You know how it is," I add. "The damn things just keep growing through. They won't take a hint."

  "I guess," she replies with a frown, before checking her watch.

  "I know it's a weird time to be gardening," I continue, trying to walk a careful line between being too talkative on the one hand and too quiet on the other, "but I've just been so busy lately, and as you know, I have to be on the road for weeks at a time with my job, so sometimes I have to grab spare moments whenever I can get them. I tried going to bed but I couldn't sleep, so I figured that rather than toss and turn and risk waking Sharon and the kids, I'd come out here and..."

  My voice trails off.

  She stares at me.

  I wait for her to go into her house.

  She sniffs, almost as if she can smell the gasoline.

  "And how have you been?" I continue, forcing a smile.

  "Good," she says, still looking skeptical. "Working hard, you know?" She glances past me, as if she's convinced that something's wrong.

  "Huh," I reply. "Yeah. Sure." I pause, trying to work out whether this is going to be a problem. She's clearly having trouble believing my story, and given what's about to happen, I really don't need to have interfering neighbors telling stories to the police. She might not have worked out what's really in the can just yet, but once the house goes up in flames, it won't take a rocket scientist to ignite her suspicions.

  "Well," she adds after a moment, "I'm exhausted, Mr. Noone. I think I really need to just get inside, grab something to eat and get some sleep." She pauses, and it's noticeable that her gaze moves down to the gasoline can next to my feet. "Good luck with your gardening," she continues. "See you around."

  "See you around, Patricia," I reply.

  She turns to walk over to her door.

  After checking one more time that there's no-one nearby, I reach into my pocket and pull
out the gun that I thankfully kept when I left the house. Raising it, I take a moment to aim before firing a single shot that goes straight into the back of Patricia's head, dropping her down onto the garden path before she even has time to gasp. I hurry over and check her pulse, and sure enough she's dead, with blood having sprayed across the path.

  "Great," I mutter, putting the gun away before grabbing Patricia's arms and starting to drag her toward my back door. I keep looking up to make sure that no-one else happens to be out at such a ridiculous hour, but fortunately the rest of my neighbors all seem to be tucked up in bed. As soon as I get Patricia to the door, I pause for a moment as I try to work out what to do with her body. I had everything worked out before this little interruption, but Patricia's a real thorn in my side and I'm not sure how her body can be explained.

  For a few seconds, my mind feels completely blank. Why can't people just mind their own business?

  "Think," I whisper, trying to get myself back into gear. "Come on, you fucking idiot, come up with something!"

  Finally, I realize that there's only one solution.

  "Fuck it," I mutter, pushing the door open and dragging Patricia into the house. At least this way, there's no chance of anyone finding her until the fire's over, by which point she should be nice and crispy. Sure, the police might think it's strange that one of the neighbors was in the house when it burned down, but I'll let them worry about coming up with an explanation. As long as they don't suspect my involvement in any way, nothing else really matters.

  Hurrying back out of the house, I make my way to the front and quickly finish my work: I empty the rest of the gasoline can all over the front door and then once it's empty, I toss the can to the ground and take a step back, staring up at the bedroom window and imagining Sharon's dead body still slumped on the bed. Looking at the next window, I think of the children; I wish there'd been a way to avoid all of this, but in a way I've known for a long time that the moment was coming. I gave them some good years, but it was always bound to end like this. Reaching into my pocket, I pull out a matchbook and strike one, before staring for a moment at the flickering flame.

  This is it.

  Another one down.

  "Fuck you, Albert," I whisper. "This is all your fucking fault. Manuel too. If you morons had been able to do your jobs properly..." I pause for a moment, consumed with rage, until finally I take a deep breath and force myself to face the truth: those two assholes are dead, and there's nothing else I can do except make sure that this situation is dealt with.

  I pause.

  Slowly, I walk to the sidewalk and then turn to look back at the dark house. Near my feet, there's the beginning of the thick gasoline trail I laid earlier, ready for this moment. Leaning down, I hold the burning match just above the surface before finally dropping it. I turn and start to run, and although I don't look back, I can hear the whoosh of the flames. When I get to the end of the street, I glance over my shoulder just in time to see that the entire house has become an inferno. Soon there'll be screams from the neighbors; soon there'll be the sirens of fire trucks; soon there'll be shouts as people try to stop the blaze.

  But by then, I'll be long gone.

  Joanna Mason

  "There's no way we can be absolutely certain that this is linked," Dawson says as he parks close to the dark remains of the burned building, a few miles from the house where the women were found. "It might just be a coincidence."

  Staring out the window, I watch as police officers and forensic examiners continue to sift through the debris. Strong portable lights are illuminating the scene, and when I check my watch I see that it's almost 5am. My head's pounding, and I'm starting to think that instead of being hungover, I might actually still be a little drunk. Still, I've worked like this before, and I can damn well do it again. All that really matters is that I have that moment of inspiration that always used to hit me during a big case; if that moment doesn't come, I'm not sure I'm even 'me' anymore.

  "So are you okay?" Dawson adds.

  "I'm fine," I reply a little defensively, opening the car door and stepping out.

  "You'd tell me if something was wrong, wouldn't you?" he continues, getting out the other side and coming around to join me.

  "Of course," I say, staring at the ruins of the building. "I'm totally fine. I've got absolutely nothing to tell you." I turn to him. "Why? You got anything to tell me? Any news?"

  He pauses, looking a little uncomfortable. "No," he says eventually.

  "So tell me about this place," I reply, starting to walk toward what's left of what appears to have been quite a large structure, perhaps an old barn. Twisted metal girders are poking up from the ground, but the place looks to have been mostly made of wood: there's ash and charred panels all over the place, and when I get to the edge of the police cordon I realize that while a cold wind is still blowing, there's actually a noticeable heat haze rising from the wreckage. "This was linked to the girls," I continue, watching as a forensic examiner works nearby. "There's no way something like this could be a coincidence."

  "Hang on," Dawson replies cautiously. "Just because two things happened on one night, you can't assume they're linked."

  "I know," I mutter. "But they are."

  "And you know that... how?"

  "Common sense," I reply with a faint smile. "Think about it. The women were being held here, like cattle in a barn. God knows why, but we'll work that part out later. They were held here, probably chained and with their backs broken to keep them from escaping, and then suddenly, all at once and completely en masse, they got free and crawled to freedom. It would've taken them, what five or six hours to get to the Wash family house from here?" I pause for a moment. "That's pretty much impossible," I add. "Maybe one could get free. Maybe. But all of them? Someone must have intervened, which means someone intentionally set them free, probably someone who had a key." I turn to Dawson. "A crisis of conscience, maybe? Or just someone who didn't need the women anymore and saw no reason to kill them?"

  "We're thinking that maybe some kind of cult -"

  "This wasn't a cult," I say firmly.

  "It might have been."

  "Have you ever actually been to a cult's compound?" I ask. "This doesn't have the same sting. Anyway, it sounds like the women were completely uneducated."

  "Some of them don't even have basic language skills," he replies.

  "Exactly," I continue, "and how do you persuade someone to join a cult if you can't even talk to them properly? How do you get them to worship you and follow you if they blatantly don't understand what's happening?" I pause for a moment as I feel a tremor of excitement; the moment of inspiration is coming, and I figure I just need to keep working a little longer before it hits. I live for these moments, when the doubts vanish and crystal clear truth suddenly arrives fully-formed in my mind. I don't claim to understand it; I just know that my brain works on things subconsciously and then, when it's done, the answer seems to pop into my head from nowhere. The best part is, I'm always right. Always.

  It's been months since I was on the verge of something like this. I feel alive again.

  "Over here!" a voice calls out.

  Turning, I see that one of the forensic examiners is waving at Dawson.

  "I'm not dismissing the idea of a cult," Dawson mutters as he hurries past me, slipping under the cordon and making his way across the wreckage.

  "Of course you're not," I reply with a smile as I follow him. "It's okay, though. I'll come up with the real explanation and you can thank me later, once you've caught up."

  "Human remains," the medical examiner says as we reach him. He points at a tell-tale glint in the ash, and it's clear that there are several sections of charred bone scattered across the ground. "Impossible to be certain, but I'd say there are at least two victims here, maybe more."

  "Not everyone got out alive," Dawson mutters.

  "Most did, though," I point out. "You've got twenty-eight, including the two who died after they were pi
cked up. There can't be more than a few left here, so most made it away. I guess the ones who stayed were too sick, or too scared to rebel against their masters."

  "Still think this wasn't a cult?" Dawson asks, clearly believing that his theory is gathering support.

  "Absolutely," I reply, feeling as if I'm closer than ever to a breakthrough. Any second now, I'm going to come up with an idea, something that makes this whole mess make sense, and I'm damn certain it's not going to have anything to do with a cult. Frankly, a cult is the kind of dumb suggestion that your average plodding detective would usually come up with, so it's a good job I'm here to keep things on track.

  "We're beginning to get a picture of how the fire started and spread," the forensic examiner continues. "There was an accelerant, so someone wanted to burn this place to the ground. The whole building was doused in gasoline."

  "Maybe it was part of some kind of ritual," Dawson suggests.

  I can't help but smile at his continued insistence that a cult was involved in all of this.

  "There are also several sets of tire marks in the area," the examiner continues. "We're working on them now, but they're going to be of limited use unless we can get a sample and try to make a match. It's definitely three different vehicles, with one set of tracks being much fresher than the others."

  "People were coming and going," Dawson continues. "Makes sense. A cult would need -"

  "It wasn't a cult," I say firmly, my amusement starting to give way to annoyance that Dawson won't listen to me. "I'm telling you now," I continue, turning to him. "This has none of the hallmarks of a cult, and even if it did, it still wasn't a cult."

  "You can just pick that up from the air, can you?" he asks.

  "Can't you?"

  "Then what was it?" he asks after a moment.

  "Give me a minute," I reply testily, before looking over at the forensic examiner and realizing that he's staring at me. "What are you looking at?" I ask, suddenly feeling a little paranoid that maybe he can tell that I'm ill.