by Lisa Unger
Juno had his head cocked to the side and a questioning look on his face as he waited for her to respond.
Why are you here? She asked herself not for the first time.
“I dreamt of you,” she found herself confessing. She revealed the details of her dream to him.
“Others have claimed to dream of me and a loved one. Some claim that I help them communicate with people on the ‘other side.’ I can’t explain that. But maybe your mother is trying to tell you something.”
This answer annoyed her because it managed to be vague and presumptuous at the same time.
“What do you think she is trying to tell me, Juno? And what do you have to do with it?” She knew that she sounded belligerent.
“Maybe she is trying to tell you to let go of the past,” he said, calmly, not even responding to her angry tone.
“I have let go of the past.”
“Running away from the past and letting go of it, moving forward, are two different things.”
His words were sincere, and they touched her because she knew he was really trying to help her. He was not trying to manipulate her, but she felt invaded, felt herself edging away from him inside, bringing down walls to protect her truth. She wasn’t responding any better to this “psychic healer” than she had to any of her shrinks. Go figure.
What do your dead parents tell you, you smug bastard? The words were poison darts, waiting to be thrown. But she held her tongue, knowing they were vicious, designed to hurt deeply.
“You don’t know me,” she said weakly.
“That’s true … in a way. But then why have you come here?” he asked calmly, unflappable.
“I’m sorry. I don’t know,” she answered. She honestly didn’t know. She had planned to avoid the church, yet she had carried quarters to light the votive candles. Instead of turning away from the church, she ran right to it. Was it something outside herself or inside her that had led her back here?
She rose to leave. “I’m sorry,” she said again.
“Please don’t be sorry, Lydia. I understand you.” They were simple words, easy to say. But he meant them and they touched her, even if she wasn’t sure they were true.
“When you’re ready, you’ll be back,” he said. He rose also, and finished putting his guitar away as if their conversation had never interrupted him.
She paused and looked at him. He looked so normal, so earthly now. He no longer seemed angelic to her, as he had while he was playing his guitar during mass. He was flesh and blood, like she was. How could he exert so much power over her emotions?
“When I’m ready for what?”
“To come home to God, of course.”
“But why you?” she asked. “Why were you in my dream?”
She knew what he was going to say before he said it and was disappointed at the cliché in advance.
“The Lord works in mysterious ways, Lydia.”
She walked up the aisle, more confused than she had been when she entered. But something that had been like a stone in her heart had shifted.
chapter thirteen
Before Jeffrey headed to the station house, he called the New York office to check in and to let his partners know that he was unofficially looking into something with Lydia. As Jeff walked the perimeter of Lydia’s house, making a security check, he spoke to Jacob Hanley on his cellular phone.
“You want us to send some guys down?” asked Hanley.
“I don’t think so. Not yet, anyway. I’m not convinced there’s anything going on here.”
“Well, it does sound a little weird. And have you ever known her to be wrong?”
“That’s the only reason I’m here at all.”
“Yeah, right.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I wish you two would just get it over with.”
“Mind your own business, Hanley.”
“I mean, you need to just take control of the situation. Force her to realize that she loves you, man. Give her an ultimatum.”
“I think you’ve been watching too much daytime television. Fuck off, Hanley.”
“Don’t get your panties in a twist. Meanwhile, why don’t I run a few checks up here for you.… What were those names again?”
“Do that. Make yourself useful, for once.” He gave Hanley the names and hung up. Believe me, he thought, no one would like to get it over with more than I would.
As far as the security of Lydia’s home went, he was happy except for the fact that the breaker box was outside the house. It was in a locked, weatherproof yellow case, but if the power for the alarm system was located in there, it wasn’t ideal. He wasn’t overly concerned, though, because the system, he knew, was designed to default to alarm. In other words, if the power went out, a signal still went to the local police. But he would need to check with Lydia about the setup later.
He got into Lydia’s Kompressor and headed to the station. He thought about calling ahead to let Morrow know he was coming but decided to keep the element of surprise on his side. One could never be sure how local law enforcement would react to private investigators, particularly ones without actual clients. Jeffrey wanted the facts as they existed, not narrated or colored by someone else’s agenda—whatever that may be. He expected Morrow to be wary of him after their last meeting in St. Louis. Jeffrey had been sure that was the end of Morrow’s career, whether he deserved it or not. Jeffrey wondered if Morrow was still drinking.
He walked into the small precinct house and was greeted by a burly, redheaded desk sergeant who eyed him suspiciously.
“I’m Jeffrey Mark,” he said, flashing his private investigator’s identification out of habit. “I’m here to see Chief Simon Morrow.”
The desk sergeant never took his eyes off him as he picked up the phone and dialed.
“There’s some private investigator here to see you, Chief.” He paused. “Okay.” He said to Jeffrey, “What is this regarding?”
“Just tell him Lydia Strong asked me to talk to him about Lucky.”
The sergeant repeated the information into the phone and paused before putting the receiver back in the cradle. “Have a seat. He’ll be right with you.”
“Thanks, I’ll stand.”
When Morrow walked out from a door behind the desk, he did a double take as he recognized Jeffrey. But he recovered nicely and offered his hand. Jeffrey took it and felt that his grip was strong but somewhat clammy. He thought Morrow was sober; his eyes were clear and his breath smelled of peppermint and coffee. But he was definitely guarded, looking Jeffrey up and down uneasily.
“Agent Mark, what can I do for you?”
“I’m not with the FBI anymore, Chief. I have my own investigation firm now.”
“Then what brings you to New Mexico?”
“I was wondering if you have a few minutes to talk to me about your missing-persons cases.”
“What’s your interest?”
“Let’s just say I know a thing or two about missing persons and would like to offer my help.”
Jeffrey was a man’s man, most often liked and trusted right away. His manner was understated, respectful. But his handshake was steel, and his eyes revealed a hard edge other men immediately recognized. He was amiable, but not to be fucked with.
“Well, I don’t know how much there is to look into.”
“Really? Well, you have four missing people, one of them presumed dead. Is this normal for your jurisdiction? Or maybe some of these people have turned up safe and sound. Or maybe all you have in the barrio is a prostitute killing.”
Jeffrey’s not-so-subtle reference to Morrow’s unpleasant past caused him to flush. He felt his cheeks burning. Morrow remembered that Jeffrey had treated him with respect in St. Louis, but brought him down just the same. In fact, their first meeting had been eerily similar to this one. Morrow had knots in his stomach.
“Come with me,” said Morrow, leading Jeffrey to his office.
Seated, Jeffrey waited while
the chief got him some coffee. The office was a mess, files stacked in every corner, a half-empty cup of coffee and a stale Danish on the desk, an ashtray piled high with cigarette butts. The blinds over the windows behind the desk were covered in a thick layer of dust and hung unevenly. The white walls were gray with age. A typewriter sat by the desk on a rickety old table. Jeffrey rose to look at it; he hadn’t seen one quite like it in years. This thing must be an antique, he thought as he fingered the round black keys. It wasn’t even electric.
As he was inspecting the typewriter, he caught sight of something out of the corner of his eye. It was a photograph, a picture of a mutilated German shepherd. The dog had been sliced open from stem to stern. Its body cavity looked to have been partially gutted and the ribs had been sawed off.
He looked up to see Simon Morrow standing in the doorway, a cup of coffee in each hand.
“Lucky, I presume,” Jeffrey said, raising the photograph with a slight smile.
“Yes,” Morrow answered, clearing his throat. He handed Jeffrey a cup and seated himself behind his desk, the old chair creaking beneath his weight.
“I have to admit, Morrow,” Jeffrey began, “when Lydia Strong told me of her suspicions about some of the recent events down here, I was skeptical that there was anything to worry about. The crimes seemed rather random, petty. The missing persons seemed like typical runaways. But looking at the facts, an arson, the mutilated corpse of the dog, four people missing now—one of them presumed dead if the paper is to be believed—I’m starting to wonder. Some would say these are classic indicators of a maniac on the loose—possibly even a serial killer.”
“Maybe. But nothing until the murder, or supposed murder, this morning really clinched it for me. Look at it from my perspective. As far as the arson goes, out here, there are a lot of old structures, like the barn, that are burned down by kids making mischief or by people trying to defraud insurance companies.
“The seventeen-year-old girl who went missing has run away from various foster families three times. The missing couple—well, people take off. It was suspicious, they took nothing with them, but that’s not a crime. Besides, I figured if something had happened, the husband probably killed his wife, hid her body, and ran off. He’d been beating her for years. We’ve brought him in at least a dozen times over the last five years.
“But around three A.M., when we got the call from Maria Lopez’s apartment building, I started making connections. I mean, four people missing in a town this small—it means something. I’m just not sure what. I’m not sure I’m ready to say there’s a serial killer out there. That’s why I haven’t called the FBI. I don’t want to involve them unless I have to.”
“What about the surgical-supply warehouse and the dog?”
“The supply house seemed strange. I mean, whoever did that stole enough stuff to set up a small hospital. And it seemed even stranger still when the dog turned up.” He motioned to the picture still in Jeffrey’s hand. “But there was no evidence connecting those events. Either thing could’ve been kids, pranksters.”
“You must have some pretty sick kids in this town.”
“Hey, don’t you read the news? Kids in a rural area are restless, looking for kicks. More and more there’s a lot of methamphetamine around—that’s some dangerous shit, turns normal people homicidal. I guess Nintendo doesn’t cut it anymore.”
They laughed. Like people laugh at a funeral, uncomfortably, hushed.
“So what are you thinking now, Chief?”
“I don’t know. I’ve got detectives and Forensics from State at the crime scene right now. They’ll be here by noon with whatever they’ve gathered. I just don’t know. After what I saw this morning, I’m starting to think something very ugly may be going on. But I’m really reluctant to call in the feds. Things always get messier when they’re around. No offense.”
“None taken. I know what you mean; it’s part of the reason I left to start my own firm. Too much bullshit from the top. I started to worry more about public relations than about doing my job,” he said, partly to put Morrow at ease, to create a sense of camaraderie, and partly because it was the truth. “I think you can avoid calling them in. After all, the only reason to do so would be if you can’t solve the case yourself, if there is one.”
“That’s true.”
“Whatever your opinion of Lydia and of me, you must be aware of our track record. If you let me take a look at your files and let me know what the guys from State find at the scene … If there really is a serial offender, maybe we can give you a hand. The feds never have to be involved until it’s over. Until your department has solved the case. We’re ghosts, me and Lydia, you never even have to let anyone know we were here.”
“Why are you interested in this?”
“Let’s just say I’m doing a favor for a friend. And in doing so, I could do a favor for you and your department. It wouldn’t be the first time since I started my firm that I’ve worked with the police—confidentially, of course. Otherwise I have a good contact in the Behavioral Sciences Department who I’m sure would be happy to give his opinion if I called.”
Chief Morrow rubbed his balding head. He honestly couldn’t tell if he was being offered a helping hand or if he was being threatened. Was Jeffrey saying, Let us in or I’ll call the FBI myself? Whether it was a threat or not, if Morrow could avoid involving the FBI, even if it meant working with Lydia Strong, he would be happy. He was smart enough to know that trouble was brewing and neither he, nor anyone in his department, had ever handled a serial case. Hell, he had to go through the state police department to gain access to VICAP and the other FBI databases.
“I’ll send everything over to you later today. Where are you staying?”
“With Lydia. Do you know where her house is?”
He nodded.
“In the meantime,” Jeffrey said, “make sure no one else talks to the press. There’s already too much information out there.”
“One of the cops guarding the scene leaked the Lopez story to his girlfriend, who is apparently a reporter trying to make a name for herself at the local paper. He’s being reprimanded. But they don’t know everything.”
“Like what?”
“This, for starters,” he said, handing Jeffrey an evidence bag that contained a hand-carved wooden crucifix. “At each of their homes, I found one of these, different shapes and sizes. It might not mean anything, though. People are pretty religious around here.”
“Left there by the perpetrator, or as part of the victims’ belongings?”
“Part of their belongings.”
“What else?”
“Lucky, the dog. The paper mentioned that the dog’s organs had been removed. Well, we found most of them in a pile by the body. It looked like whoever was performing the ‘surgery’ was interrupted when the blind man came out into the church garden.”
“ ‘Most of them’? What didn’t you find?”
“The heart.”
Lydia expected boxes of files to be carried in by the cop that arrived at her house later that afternoon. But instead there were just four moderately thick manila envelopes. The lives of Shawna Fox, Christine and Harold Wallace, and Maria Lopez had been reduced to a few piles of documents. What kind of life, Lydia wondered, leaves only a paper trail in its wake?
There were voices inside the files, though. Voices with stories to tell, with secrets to reveal. Voices that had been silenced. Lydia regarded the files and paused before opening the one on top, as if it were the lid to Pandora’s box. She looked over at Jeffrey, who was sitting on her couch, feet up on the coffee table, reading through his notes from Morrow’s noon meeting as if he were reading the newspaper, cool, disinterested. She envied him. She was about to step through a portal to another time and place, about to take a journey into some dark and unknown world, while he could remain here on earth, a beacon for her safe return.
“Let’s make the boards,” Jeffrey said, putting down the notes. “I can’t thi
nk straight without them.”
Lydia slipped three 4- by 10-foot pieces of corkboard from behind the bookshelves and Jeffrey pulled easels from the closet to the right of her desk. They set them up in front of the plate-glass window-wall. They wrote the names of each victim on index cards and made columns for each on one board. On the other they pinned a map of the area. And on the third they pinned newspaper articles, clustered together by subject.
“Let’s see what we have here,” said Lydia, opening the first file.
Shawna Fox had been trouble for just about everyone she met: her teachers, her foster parents, her counselors. She was a discipline problem, a poor student, a runaway. A ward of the state since her parents had died when she was five, Shawna was a child who had never known a happy home. She had been arrested three times—once for driving drunk without a license in a car stolen from her boyfriend when she was fourteen; once for selling marijuana to another minor; and once for prostitution in Albuquerque.
A psychologist’s evaluation read: “Shawna is reticent, unemotional and yet prone to violent outbursts. She seems to have no remorse for anything she has done. Is not able to see that her behavior is self-destructive. When asked why she behaves the way she does, she replied, ‘I do what I have to do to stay alive.’ She would not elaborate. More than likely the victim of abuse from one or more of her foster parents. A tragic case, seems that there’s little hope for a turnaround.”
Unlike the last three times Shawna ran away, the final time she took nothing with her and stole neither money nor possessions from her foster parents. An ongoing investigation turned up no leads. An anonymous tipster told police he had seen a lone girl walking on the highway toward Albuquerque. When he had pulled over to ask her if she needed help, she ran into the desert. He drove on. It was dark so he could not be sure if she matched the description he read in the paper.
