“How would this guy know how to make something like that?”
“I could find it for you on the Internet in two minutes,” Fleury said. “You just need the materials, available at any good hardware store.”
“If he knows guns well enough to make a suppressor,” I said, “then he probably knows that we’ll be able to trace that slug back to Steele’s weapon, assuming that’s what it was.”
“Probably, yes.”
“So he’ll know that we’ll know there was a connection between the two shootings. There won’t be any pretense of unrelated deaths anymore.”
“That’s true,” Fleury said. “Although he probably already figured out that something was up when he saw that trooper’s car at the head of the driveway. The one question is, does he realize we’ve connected the suicides, as well?”
“I don’t see why he wouldn’t assume that, too.”
“Only one way to know for sure,” Agent Long said. “When we catch him, we’ll have to ask him.”
She opened her own folder and grimaced at what she saw.
“Are those the photos?” I said.
“Yes. Not pretty.”
“May I see them?”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“I’ve seen crime scene photos before. Come on, let me see them before I get kicked out of here.”
“Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
She slid the folder across the table to me. Maven inched his chair closer so he could see, as well. The first photo showed Lieutenant Haggerty lying on his back, both arms stretched out on the floor as if he were caught in the middle of making a snow angel. The shot was taken from directly above him, a clean hole centered perfectly in his forehead. The blood had drained out through the exit wound and was pooled all around him.
There were several other pictures taken from different angles. Close up, farther away, his legs draped over the upended chair. Shots of the room. The back door slightly ajar. The new snow on the back porch.
“As you can see, the killer came through the back door,” Fleury said. “The exterior light was on, and the door was unlocked. There’s another road about a mile back, through the woods. Our man probably parked there and walked.”
“How would he know how to get there?”
“Again, the Internet. You can bring up a map of just about anywhere and see every little road, every driveway even.”
“Why wasn’t there another trooper watching from that back road?”
“There was yet another road about two miles to the east,” Fleury said. “He might have come from there instead. How many troopers can you put out there every single night, all night long?”
“They should have been in the house,” Maven said. “I don’t care if he didn’t want them.”
“Yeah, well, they’re probably telling themselves the same thing right now.”
“You have other photos there,” I said, nodding at the remaining pile of folders. “Are those the other crime scenes?”
“Yes.”
“Even the suicides?”
“Alex,” Agent Long said, “I’m serious now. You really don’t want to see these.”
“Yes, I do. It’s the last thing I’ll ask.”
She let out a long sigh, then pushed the folders over to me one by one. There was one set of photographs for each crime scene, starting with the double homicide of Sergeant Steele and his girlfriend, Donna Krimer-the scene Maven and I had stumbled upon. At the time, we hadn’t done much more than peek inside the doorway. Here was the whole thing in living color.
Sergeant Steele was laid out spread eagle on the floor, his arms stretched out like Lieutenant Haggerty’s, but in this case, Steele was facedown. There was an obvious entrance wound in the center of his back. The bullet probably passed right through his heart and killed him instantly. Instead of the bright red blood that had surrounded Lieutenant Haggerty’s body, the blood here was a different color-darker, duller, almost rust colored. This is what happens to blood when it lies on the floor for two days.
Donna Krimer lay five or six feet away from Steele, in her own pool of dark blood. She was on her side with both arms extended in front of her. You couldn’t even see her face. It almost looked like she was doing a dramatic death scene on a stage, every limb arranged just so. Except of course she would never stand up for her curtain call.
The next folder I didn’t even need to look at, but I did anyway. It was Charles Razniewski Sr., sprawled out on Chief Maven’s kitchen floor, his throat cut wide open, the blood painting everything around him. Chief Maven looked away from the photos, gripping his coffee cup so tightly I was surprised it didn’t shatter.
I looked at Razniewski’s open eyes one more time before I closed that folder. Photograph or no photograph, I knew I’d be seeing those eyes forever.
“It’s like we’re going back in time here,” I said. “Am I right? We sort of lost sight of that because we found out about everything out of order. But the three apparent suicides actually happened before the three obvious homicides.”
“That’s right,” Agent Long said. “If you think about it… the three children, then the three fathers. Maybe it was just those three after all. Maybe this guy’s done.”
“Or maybe that’s the way the opportunities came up for him,” Maven said. “My daughter’s been out of the country for almost five months.”
“I agree we have to act like you’re still on the list,” Agent Long said. “I’m just saying, it’s possible he considers his work to be completed.”
“What if Raz hadn’t come up here?” I said. “Our killer would have to travel a lot farther to find him. Maybe he’d still be alive now and it would be him next on the list.”
“I still don’t understand how this guy even knew he was here in Sault Ste. Marie,” Agent Fleury said. “That part still bugs the hell out of me.”
“He obviously knows all about these people,” Agent Long said. “He’s been watching them all very carefully.”
“Or he has access to some special source of information,” Maven said, “bringing us back to the idea that he’s in law enforcement. Or used to be.”
“Yes, as you were saying before,” Agent Long said. “That’s starting to sound a little more likely now.”
I opened up the next folder. Now we were into the suicides. Or what had been considered suicides before this whole case started coming together. The first was Haggerty’s daughter, again moving backward through time. She was the most recent. After all the blood of the previous photographs, these were somehow even more disturbing. There was no blood. No signs of violence whatsoever. They were almost… I couldn’t even bring myself to think it, but yes, they were almost peaceful.
A woman in her bed. It was a double bed, with the woman on one side and on the other side, where another person should have been, instead there was a large helium tank. Like you’d use to blow up balloons at a birthday party. It was the most out-of-place thing I’d ever seen and it made me feel absolutely sick to my stomach. The worst thing of all was that the woman seemed to have her arms wrapped around the tank, like it was… damn, like it was a teddy bear or something.
I closed the folder for a moment. I took a few breaths. Maven’s face was white. He’d seen his share of crime scene photos over the years, too, but I was sure he had never seen anything like this.
I opened the folder again. Looking closer, I saw the clear plastic bag around her head. The kind of bag you’d find a suit or dress inside when you went to the cleaners. It was wrapped neatly around her head and it appeared to be tied off at the neck with a cord of some type. An electrical cord? No, it looked like fabric, like the cord you’d use to tie back your drapes. Hardly even visible at all was the clear tube that ran from the tank to the bag.
“I told you you didn’t have to look at those,” Agent Long said.
I didn’t answer her. I kept going. I opened the next folder.
It was Sergeant Steele’s son. He was lyi
ng on the ground, on his back, in the snow. You could tell that it was still snowing when the photographs were taken. The snowflakes were already collected on his face. The left side of his head was ruined from the exit wound and the blood was soaking into the snow beside him. The pistol was in his right hand, his finger still on the trigger.
His eyes were closed. Once again, this time despite the blood and the gore… the whole scene almost looked peaceful.
I closed the folder. There was one left. I opened it.
Misery Bay. When I had been there, it had been empty. Now as I looked back in time at this moment captured in the photograph, I saw young Charles Razniewski hanging from the tree. His body was limp, so devoid of life you’d think he was some kind of rag doll or hanging effigy or some other crudely fashioned thing. Not a person. This wasn’t a child, not a man’s beloved son hanging here in the cold. From the spot the photographer had chosen, you could see Lake Superior through the opening in the trees. It was late in the day, so the sun was setting in the western sky and from behind the hanging body was completely in shadow. In the next photograph it was nothing but a dark figure seeming to blot out the sun itself.
The photographer had moved around to the front for the next few shots. Charlie’s face was blue. His hair was crowned with snow. There, about three feet in front of him, was this car. It was covered with snow, too. The driver’s side door was open.
I kept looking at the photographs. Unlike the others… these, for some reason I couldn’t stop staring at them. This is where it all began, I thought. This was the first.
“I think that’s enough, Alex.”
I didn’t move. Agent Long had to reach over and close the folder.
“Are you okay?”
“No,” I said. “I think it’ll be a long time before I’m okay.”
***
We went over the three candidates they’d identified the day before, the three men who’d been arrested by Steele and Haggerty and who had lost children to suicide not long after. The thief, Henry Parizi, with the solid alibi from his current parole officer. The actor/filmmaker, Clyde C. Wiley, working on his next project sixteen hours a day, seven days a week. The ex-cop who had vowed revenge, Kenny Fraser, now deceased. All three had been eliminated, so it was time to pick up the search again, to go through the records with an even closer eye to find another candidate.
I didn’t actually see them get that far. By noon the big boys from Detroit had arrived and I was kicked out of the building.
So what the hell was I supposed to do?
I ended up driving around for a while, feeling numb and having no idea where I was going. Eventually, I ended up back in Paradise. I drove right by Jackie’s place. I put my plow down and went up my road, not even thinking to avoid looking at that first cabin. If nothing else, at least that particular hang-up had been displaced from my mind for a while.
I parked the truck and went inside. I got the fire going, then I looked around for something else that needed my attention. Eventually I went back outside and started chopping some wood. I had plenty, but swinging a big ax seemed like a good idea.
An hour later, I was tired and my shoulders were sore, but otherwise I didn’t feel any different. So I drove down to the Glasgow. Vinnie was sitting at the bar reading the newspaper. I sat next to him.
“How’s your mother doing?” I said.
“Not too bad today.”
“You got a shift at the casino today?”
“Later, yeah.”
I nodded my head. Eventually, I found myself tapping my fingers on the bar top.
“Something bothering you?” he said.
“You still got those boxing gloves?”
“Uh, yeah. Why?”
“I need to hit somebody. And to have somebody hit me back.”
“What do you suggest, we box in the parking lot?”
“I don’t know, maybe. You still playing in that hockey league?”
“No,” he said. “Besides, you made me promise you I’d never ask you to play hockey again, remember?”
“Where’s Jackie, anyway?”
“He went out. Should be back soon.”
“What, did he leave you in charge of the place?”
Vinnie did a quick scan around the room. We were the only two people there.
“I didn’t go to bar management school,” he said, “but I think today I can handle it.”
“He should be here,” I said. “He’s the only person I can drive crazy enough to make me feel better. Well, him and Chief Maven, but he’s kinda busy right now.”
“Alex, I know you’ve been through a lot lately, but-”
“I can’t just sit here, okay? I’ve got to do something. Anything. I’ll see you later.”
He watched me walk out the door like he was seriously wondering if I had lost my mind. Which was a fair question at that point.
Agent Long was right, I said to myself as I got back in the truck. I never should have looked at those pictures.
***
By five o’clock I was debating whether to call Chief Maven on his cell phone. I wanted to know what else had happened that day, if the additional agents from Detroit had helped develop any new breakthroughs. In the end, I decided it was still probably too soon for that. They were probably still catching up with everything.
Call him tomorrow, I told myself. He’ll tell you what’s going on. You know he will.
By six o’clock I was back at the Glasgow. Vinnie was gone, but Jackie was back. He stood behind the bar and watched me pacing back and forth in front of the fireplace. He started yelling at me to knock it off, but even that didn’t make me feel any better.
By seven o’clock I had eaten dinner and had actually sat down in a chair for a while. The problem was I’d keep seeing those pictures whenever I was still for even a moment. I couldn’t even say why they bothered me so much. I mean, apart from the obvious fact that seven people were dead. There was something else about the photographs, some horrible thread that ran through all of them.
He’s still out there, I thought. I could feel him. He was breathing the same air I was breathing, and he was waiting to do this again.
By eight o’clock I was back in my truck, driving hard toward nowhere. Eventually, I pointed it east and headed into the Soo. I passed the state post and was tempted to park in the lot. Go inside, start asking around, see what was happening. I didn’t see Chief Maven’s car.
It was almost ten o’clock when I finally pulled in front of the Cineplex. I shouldn’t be bothering Leon again, I thought. I’ll probably get him fired this time, but I don’t know who else to talk to.
I sat there in the truck with the heater still going, looking out at the customers hurrying through the cold air into the theater. They’d sit in the dark and they’d forget all about everything else in their lives for at least that long.
Not a bad idea, I thought. I should try it myself. Maybe it’ll even work. But which movie?
I ran down the list on the marquee. All the movies had titles I didn’t recognize. Not that it mattered. I could pick one at random and give it a shot.
Then something came to me. I didn’t get out of the truck. I didn’t go bother Leon. I put it back into drive and I drove across town instead. To Chief Maven’s house.
***
His car was in the driveway. I knocked on the door. When he opened it, I could see that he had his service revolver in his right hand.
“McKnight, what are you doing here?”
“Sorry to bother you, but I figured you’d still be up. Can I come in for a minute?”
He held the door open for me. I went inside. He put the gun away, and as I took my coat off I could smell the bleach coming from one direction and the new paint coming from another.
“You’ve been busy here,” I said.
“Just trying to keep myself from going insane.”
“Yeah, I know how that one goes.”
“Come on in and sit down.”
&
nbsp; He led me into the kitchen. It was as bright and clean as an operating room. As I sat down in the chair, I tried not to think about what had happened in this very spot. Right there at my feet.
“How did everything go today?” I said.
“After you left? Well, four more agents showed up, including Long and Fleury’s boss. So we blew the rest of the day getting them all up to speed.”
“That’s what I figured would happen.”
“Are you okay? You look a little rattled.”
“I’m fine. I’ll live.”
“Come on, McKnight. Why did you really come out here?”
“I’ve got something I want to run by you.”
“Go ahead.”
“I’ve been thinking about those photographs we saw today.”
“Yeah, me, too.”
“Here’s the thing,” I said. “I know this is going to sound crazy. It already sounds crazy in my head and it’s going to sound twice as crazy when I say it out loud, but I’m gonna say it anyway, all right?”
He inched up his chair a notch and leaned forward.
“Those photographs,” I said. “You saw them, too. I mean, I know you’ve seen crime scenes before, but was there a little something, I don’t know, extra in those photographs?”
“Extra what?”
“I don’t know, it’s just like there was something a little bit too… what’s the word… a little too composed about them.”
“Composed. I’m sorry, I still don’t follow you.”
“When I run those pictures through my mind, which I can’t stop doing, it feels like each one of those scenes was somehow… I don’t know, like they were thought out in advance. You know what I mean? With everything in the perfect position. Even the bodies…”
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