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Slater shrugged. “When I get time I do go over everything again, looking for something, anything, we might have missed. I’ve re-interviewed anyone who knew the two boys—the ones we were originally able to ID—in the time span before their murders. The problem is, after nearly thirty years…” He spread his hands.
“Yeah. If they did know something back then, they’ve undoubtedly forgotten it by now. Things like who each of the boys ran with.”
“From what I do know about them,” Slater replied, “they were both gay, they were runaways, and they hustled to stay alive.”
Teague sighed. “That undoubtedly fits Chris, too. The hustling part. Though how he ended up here…”
“A question I for one don’t know the answer to. Possibly he hitchhiked and got dropped off here. That’s how one of the other boys ended up in Wellsburg.”
“What about the third boy?”
“From what little we could find out, he just showed up one day in Laport. That’s about five miles west of here. Wellsburg’s twelve miles to the north.”
Teague nodded. “So the killer could have been living in the area.”
“That was what the detectives thought back when the killings happened, but whoever he is, he knew enough not to leave us any clues.”
“And now he might be back at it again.”
“I told you, there are differences in the MO between our murders and the one in Faircrest.”
“A copycat then?”
“Always a possibility. What was done to that boy matched the info that was made public. The sodomizing, the way he was tied up, the fact that he was gagged, although in his case the gag was an old rag not…” Slater shook his head.
Teague chuckled. “Almost let something out there? Now if I was going to guess what, I’d say…the victim’s underwear, or socks.”
“Good guesses, but I’m not going to confirm either one.”
“Why not? It’s not as if I’m going to run to the newspaper with it. Or with anything else you tell me. I’m smarter than that and I have a vested interest in finding the killer—if it is the same man.”
“He’d be in his early to late fifties by now, at least,” Slater said. “A bit old to be able to kidnap a teen. Even one who’s not in the best of shape from living on the street.”
“I agree. The chances are it is a copycat. Are there any similarities between the newest murder and the others that weren’t let out in news reports?”
Slater looked as if he didn’t want to answer, leading Teague to believe there were. Finally Slater nodded, adding, “But I’m not going to tell you what.”
“Something to do with the objects used?”
“Since the coroner couldn’t determine what those were with any certainty—no.”
“With how they were strangled? I know a good ME can tell if the person doing it was right or left-handed.”
“Not even that because…”
“Leap of logic maybe,” Teague said. “They were hanged?”
“Yes and no.”
“You’re going to make me drag this out of you word by word, aren’t you?”
“Not really, because I have no intention of telling you any more than I have.”
“Damn it!”
“Look, Mr. Donovan, you may be a very good private detective. In fact, from what I’ve found out about you, you’re an excellent one and you’re well respected by the police in your city. But that doesn’t negate the fact that you’re a civilian.”
“And God forbid a civilian should try to help the police find a killer.”
“Is that what you want to do? Help us? Or do you want enough information so you can, with luck—and that’s what it would be—find and deal with the man yourself?”
Teague gave a brief nod. “That thought had occurred to me. However, I’m not stupid. Finding him will take more than just me. The only advantage I have over the police is that I can skirt the letter of the law to find out what I need to. You can’t. That is, I can if you tell me the parts of the story I’m missing.”
“Let me think about it and I’ll get back to you.” With that said, Slater stood. “I have other things I need to take care of involving present cases.”
“Understood.” Teague took out a business card, circling his cell phone number. “You can get in touch with me here.”
* * * *
Detective Slater did call, somewhat to Teague’s surprise, to set up another meeting for that evening. Teague had thought the detective would brush him off. “This is off the record,” Slater told him in no uncertain terms before asking Teague to meet him at a local diner across town from the precinct.
Teague arrived to find Slater seated in a booth well away from the front window. He slid in across from the detective, ordering coffee when the waitress arrived.
“When I said this is just between you and me,” Slater said, “I meant it. There are two reasons I’m willing to talk to you about this. One, it is a cold case, not an ongoing one. Secondly, is the fact that I know you were right when you said you could do things that I, as an officer of the law, can’t.” He smiled dryly. “I’m a realist if nothing else. Not that the information I’m going to give you will be of much use I’m afraid. But I’ll also put you in contact with the detective handling the killing in Faircrest. I’ll warn you, he’s a hardnosed SOB who will probably tell you to get lost, but it’s the best I can do for you.”
“Thanks. If he does, then he does. That’s the name of the game as they say. So, what do you have for me?”
“This.” Slater opened the briefcase that Teague could just see was sitting on the seat beside the man. Taking out a slim folder, he handed it to Teague “The details about the deaths are all there, including everything we held back when they happened. They show that the murder of your friend was done in exactly the same fashion as the others, down to the way he was strangled. It’s not pretty, as you’ll see from the crime scene photos.”
Teague looked around to make certain no one was watching before opening the folder. For the moment he skipped the written information, going directly to the photos of the bodies as they’d initially been found. He sucked in a deep breath. “Holy shit.”
“Yeah, it’s bad,” Slater agreed.
The picture, obviously a photocopy of the original, showed a young man’s body, naked, lying at the foot of a large tree. His wrists and ankles were lashed together behind his back, hog-tying him. The killer had fastened a second, heavier rope around his neck. It’s free end, at the point when the photo was taken, hung limply over the branch of the tree. It didn’t take much imagination to understand that the killer had pulled the boy up by it, thus strangling him to death.
Teague repressed a shudder, saying, “From what you told me, the strangulation was slow.”
Slater nodded. “The coroner estimates that the killer probably pulled him off the ground until he was almost dead, let him down, and did it again. Four times in the case of the young man in that photo. Five when it came to Chris Frye. Possibly because he was lighter than the other two boys so the killer was able to play with him longer before tiring.”
“The bastard did more that sodomize and strangle this one,” Teague said tightly as he studied another photo of the young man’s body. There were what appeared to be several cigarette burns on his back, arms, and the soles of his feet.
“The county coroner said that was done before the killer started hanging Barry—that’s the boy’s name. More torture before killing him. It was the same with the two other boys. That’s one bit of information that was held back.”
“What kind of sick son-of-a-bitch are we dealing with here?”
“Given that all three boys were gay, and hustlers, you tell me.”
“Obviously he hates gays, but why go to such extremes? Who did what to him to make him take his hatred out this way, by torturing them so horribly?”
“When we catch him, we’ll ask,” Slater replied sardonically.
Teague looked at the pic
tures of the second boy, and then, reluctantly, at those of Chris. If you had listened to me…Damn it, Chris. You didn’t deserve this. None of you did. “All right. How does the murder of the kid in Faircrest differ from these?”
“For starters, there were no cigarette burns.”
“Info that wasn’t given to the press, you said. So the fact there weren’t burns fits with the Faircrest killer being a copycat, not the original killer—or he’s his student.” Teague frowned at that last thought. “I presume the detective in Faircrest…What’s his name?”
“Hoyt Newman.”
“I presume Detective Newman agrees there might be a copycat at work.”
Slater snorted. “Newman doesn’t agree that the murder has anything at all to do with our serial killer. As far as he’s concerned it’s coincidence and nothing more despite the fact that the victim was found in a dense forested area along the river just outside of town, hogtied, sodomized, and hanged.”
“Literally hanged?”
“Yes. He wasn’t on the ground the way these victims—” Slater tapped the file, ‘‘—were when they were discovered.”
“Another variation. Still, that doesn’t mean it isn’t the original murderer. If he is in his fifties or older he might not have the strength to semi-hang the victim several times before going for the coup de grâce.”
Slater smiled. “Coup de grâce. I like that. And you have a valid point. That takes a fair amount of muscle.” Slater drummed a tattoo on the table. “I don’t like the idea of an apprentice.”
Teague snapped his fingers. “Apprentice. That’s the word I was trying to think of. Be that as it may, if he does have one, why wait twenty-seven years to start up again?”
“Perhaps he was in prison. Or he moved on to somewhere else and started over. Although if that’s the case he also changed his MO. I’ve run everything through the NIBRS data system and came up with no true matches. The closest, although Newman would disagree, is Lee Grimes. That’s the name of the kid whose case he’s handling.”
Changing the subject somewhat, Teague asked, “What are the chances I can talk to the detectives who handled these three cases?” He pointed to the file.
“Slim to none, unless you like to travel or have an in with God,” Slater replied. “Two of them are dead and the third one retired and moved to Florida.”
Teague chuckled. “Isn’t that what all retirees do? Do you have a phone number for him?”
“I’ll check when I go back to the station in the morning.”
“Thanks.”
“What are your plans now?” Slater asked.
“Spend the rest of the night going through all the information you brought me. If you come up with a number for the detective in Florida I’ll call him. Then I’m going to head to Faircrest.”
* * * *
By the time Teague had finished reading through the file on the serial killer murders he was even more disgusted and dismayed than he had been originally.
He put you through hell, Chris. You and the others. How can someone be so full of hate that they’ll torture and kill an innocent kid? Okay, perhaps innocent isn’t the right word, all things considered. But none of you were really criminals and you weren’t harming anyone. You were just doing what it took to keep body and soul together the best that you knew how.
Setting the file aside, Teague started off into space, remembering the last time he’d seen Chris. They were in Teague’s car, in the lot outside the bus station. Chris was hyper, talking about his future.
“I’m going to go to, maybe Los Angeles. See if I can break into the movies.”
“Porn movies,” Teague replied, laughing when Chris flipped him off. Then Teague sobered. “I wish you’d stay here. I can get an apartment with the money I’ll make working for Mr. Graham at the hardware store. Hell, I can pick up extra cash at the Creamery in the evenings. I bet Ms. Alison would hire you there, too.”
“Not happening,” Chris had stated. “I’m over it. There’s no future here and besides which I want to get as far away from family as I can. Yeah, Mike’s a good guy but he doesn’t get it. This town is so…small town.” He gazed out the car window for a long moment before turning back to Teague. “You need to leave too before you turn into Mr. Graham or some other tired old man. That’s all there are here, Teague. Old, tired people who don’t know there’s a world out there if they’d only explore it. That’s not going to be me. No way, no how.”
Teague wanted to hug Chris at that point and tell him it didn’t have to be that way. But he was tired of arguing with him. He knew he’d never win. “Take care of yourself,” he said softly. “And keep in touch.”
“Yeah. Will do.” Chris glanced around before leaning in briefly to brush a kiss over Teague’s lips. “I promise.” Then he was out of the car, his backpack swinging over his shoulder as he almost ran into the bus station.
* * * *
That was the last time I saw you. You never did keep your promise. You just…vanished. How the hell did you end up here, and dead? Teague opened the folder, taking out the picture the coroner had taken of the then unidentified teen who was Chris Frye. So young. So beautiful. Well, not in this photo, but you were. Once. I’m going to find the bastard who killed you, Chris. Somehow, I will.
* * * *
Chapter 3
Teague woke when Slater called early Saturday morning to tell him that there was no phone number available for the ex-detective who had handled the murder in Laport. Teague thanked him for looking, and for all his help, telling Slater he’d keep him appraised about anything he leaned after he got to Faircrest.
“Good luck with Newman,” Slater said with a dry chuckle. “It will be interesting to see if you can convince him his victim fits the pattern, and that it could be the same killer involved in his case as in my cold cases…”
“Or an apprentice or a copycat. Yeah. Well, all I can do is try.”
“If you manage it you’re a better detective than I am, even if you are private.”
“We’ll see what happens,” Teague replied before hanging up, smiling at the ‘private’ comment. He was glad Slater had decided not to hold that against him, although he knew the reason why.
He showered and dressed, then packed up before going down to get breakfast in the motel’s dining room. By nine-thirty he was on the road. After having to take a slightly longer route to avoid a construction zone, he figured he’d still make Faircrest by five, barring bad weather. At least it’s only September. Rain I can handle. Snow I’d just as soon pass on, even if it is highway most of the way.
It wasn’t until the highway began heading south-west two hours later that he really felt he was in the mountains that he’d only seen from a distance previously. Four hours later he was driving on a two-lane highway that ran between high, rocky cliffs on one side and a rushing stream on the other. Towering pine trees dwarfed the few cars on the road and there were times—like when he’d pass a small side road—that he was tempted to turn off and explore the surrounding territory. Only common sense and the need to make Faircrest before dark descended kept him going forward.
He left the mountains, entering an area with low foothills off in the distance, fields between them and the highway. Around four-thirty he drove through a small town that for a moment he thought was his destination until he saw a highway sign telling him he still had another twenty miles to go.
“I was right,” he said as he drove into Fairfield and checked the time. “Five almost on the dot. Not bad for someone who’s never done any mountain driving.”
He drove down Main Street and found a motel about a block away from the river that ran through the town. He checked in, went up to his room to unpack, then decided to explore the business district before finding somewhere to eat supper. It didn’t take him long to figure out there wasn’t much to the Faircrest downtown other than motels, fast food places, and a plethora of small shops that catered to tourists passing through. He did find the police departme
nt, housed in a fairly modern building across the street from City Hall.
With that finished, he finally went looking for a restaurant that served more than burgers and fries. Luck was with him, he decided, when he spotted a place tucked off Main Street with a patio to one side. After finding a parking spot in the restaurant’s lot, he went inside, asking the hostess if he could sit on the patio. There was a table available, and a nice waitress who handed him the menu and took his order for coffee. When she returned, he asked for her recommendations and after she suggested the surf-and-turf or the pepper steak, he chose the steak.
While he waited, he watched the people walking by. Some were obviously tourists, families, or couples, checking out every shop they passed. The rest were, as far as he could tell, locals who knew where they were going. Probably home for the day or to the local bar. He’d passed a couple of bars and seen that they were well populated, even though it was early evening. Not much else to do if you live and work here, other than hit up a bar or a club. That made him wonder if there were any gay bars in town. He used his phone to check online and found that there weren’t, although there was The Red Calf, which was listed as a lounge that was ‘gay friendly’, according to the site he was on. There was also a park that was a popular cruising spot after dark, according to another site. That piqued his interest. Not that he’d go there for that reason, but it was certainly somewhere a homeless kid in a small town might try to find someone who’d pay him for a quick blowjob. Somewhere the killer might go to, looking for his next victim. Presuming he’s still in the area.
After finishing his meal, which was as good as the waitress had said it would be, Teague paid his bill, adding a sizable tip, and went back to his car. Since the park was on his way back to the motel, he decided to check it out. It was along the river, with a couple of picnic tables visible from the road and a large parking lot. Darkness had fallen by then, and the park was empty with the exception of a few people down by the river’s edge. Mostly lone men, Teague noted, although there was one male/female couple and a family with two small children that the parents were obviously trying to herd toward one of the cars in the lot. As Teague slowly drove by the park, he saw one of the single males approach another one and begin talking. True, they could be old friends, but their body language says otherwise. He continued on rather than waiting to see if his conjecture was correct.
