Sins of the Father (Book 2, The Erin Solomon Mysteries)

by Jen Blood

  “I’m assuming Diggs told you about my father’s possible connection to the case?”

  He nodded. “I did a little research of my own to learn more after I spoke with him. And I’m meeting with the coroner in Quebec tomorrow.”

  “And today?”

  He got up and retrieved his briefcase, pulling out a stack of files three inches thick. He tossed them all onto the bed next to me.

  “I shouldn’t actually be showing you these,” he said.

  “So why are you?”

  It took Juarez a few seconds before he had an answer for that. “Because based on what happened last night, I’d say you’ve struck a nerve with someone—someone who is unfortunately very much alive, and not keen on sharing his secrets. And since you’re obviously not going to back down…”

  “Obviously,” I agreed.

  He grimaced. “Obviously. So that means it’s in everyone’s best interest to catch this lunatic as quickly as possible. I think you could be the key to making that happen.”

  I picked up the files and began thumbing through. With each one, my anxiety ratcheted up a notch. I recognized a few of the names, but most I’d never heard of before.

  “What are these?”

  There were at least fifteen files, each with a photo clipped to the front. Every photo was of a different girl, ranging in age from sixteen to over thirty.

  “Between 1981 and 1990, eight girls between the ages of seventeen and twenty-two disappeared in northern and central Maine. Five of them were found in that grave across the Canadian border.”

  “So who are all the others?”

  He didn’t answer. I looked through more carefully, studying the faces. They were all white, with fair skin and slender builds. Several were redheads, but not all. Locations centered around northern New England, primarily Maine, New Hampshire, and Vermont. I cleared my throat.

  “Who are they, Jack?”

  “I searched the database for a certain body type, facial features,” he finally answered. “And cross referenced with geographic area and similarities to each of the disappearances: victims who disappeared from their homes without a struggle, leaving behind shoes, purses, younger siblings or children…”

  “You don’t actually think my father killed all these people,” I said.

  “At four of the sites in those files, one man’s fingerprints were found.”

  I pushed the files away. “Jeff Lincoln,” I guessed.

  “Jeff Lincoln,” he agreed.

  “My father was living out on Payson Isle when a lot of these happened,” I argued.

  “There are boats to the mainland. You were with him part of that time, but not all. Right?”

  I pulled one of the files out of the stack, opened it, and stared at the photo inside. Ashley Gendreau. The photo on top was her senior picture, taken in a pasture I assumed must be around here somewhere. She’d had a nice smile—the kind you’d expect to precede a great laugh. I closed the file again.

  “Diggs told you what happened last night?” I asked.

  “Someone broke into the room and left a photo of Erin Lincoln,” he said. “Someone who’s been following you and Diggs.”

  “My father wouldn’t have done that,” I said.

  He didn’t say anything.

  “Diggs doesn’t think he would have, either,” I lied.

  Diggs came through the door just in time to catch me in the act. “Diggs doesn’t think who would have done what?”

  “You don’t think her father would have broken into the room?” Juarez asked curiously.

  “I didn’t say that.”

  My frustration was building fast. I turned on him while he was still unsnapping the leash from Einstein’s collar. “If my father was this psychotic killer, don’t you think I would have noticed? Wouldn’t there have been some sign?” I asked. “And why would he leave me that picture of his sister last night?”

  “To scare you off,” Diggs said.

  “He knows me better than that,” I said. “After everything that happened out on Payson Isle, you really think he’d believe a friggin’ snapshot would make me turn tail and run?”

  “Look, whether it’s your father or someone else is moot at the moment,” Juarez interrupted. “I think the point we should be focusing on is that someone broke into this room last night and left a photo clearly incriminating them in not only a vicious murder forty years ago, but of stalking you now.”

  Diggs raised his coffee cup. “Exactly. Listen to the Fed, Sol.”

  I couldn’t really argue either of those points, so I didn’t bother trying. “Fine, whatever—there’s a killer with his sights set on me. What else is new? You’ve already said you’re not gonna try to make me go home. So, what’s the next step?”

  Juarez and Diggs shared a commiserating glance. “Five of the six victims found on the border were from Aroostook County,” Juarez said. “I’ve contacted the families. The plan is for me to speak with them today to see if I can get any information before meeting with the coroner in Quebec tomorrow.”

  “Excellent,” I said. “We’ll come along—I’d like a chance to talk to them myself.”

  His gaze flickered back toward Diggs. It was nice to know that, despite everything, the bromance was alive and well.

  “I was actually thinking you two could stay around here,” Juarez said, “and keep asking questions about the Erin Lincoln murder. That’s the coldest of eight very cold cases at this point, but I think it could tell us a lot about the killer.”

  To my surprise—and Juarez’s, judging by the look on his face—Diggs shook his head. “I think that’s a bad idea. She should stick with you today.”

  Juarez frowned. “I’ll be back here tonight—just don’t get in any trouble.”

  “Have you met Solomon?”

  I crumpled a piece of paper and threw it at Diggs. It glanced off his shoulder, doing precious little to drive my point home. “I know I’m no Bella fucking Swan, but could one of you at least pretend to want me along for the ride?”

  Diggs quirked an eyebrow at Juarez. “Does that make me the vamp or the wolf?”

  “I will hurt you,” I said.

  The humor vanished from Diggs’ eyes. “I think she should go with you,” he said to Juarez again. “We’ll meet back here tonight, and then we’ll head to Quebec together tomorrow.”

  “You’re sure?” Juarez asked.

  “Oh for crying out loud,” I said. I looked at Diggs, who’d taken on the same haunted fifty-yard stare he’d had the night before. “I can stay with you,” I said quietly. Juarez went to the door, giving us as much privacy as was possible in a ten-by-twenty motel room.

  I sat down on the bed. Diggs came over and joined me. I heard the door open and close, and knew Juarez had left the building.

  “If the guy in the truck last night really was the guy, he could have killed me right then…” I began.

  “You need to stop acting like your bulletproof,” he interrupted before I could finish. “Or, if you’re not going to stop, you at least need someone who can keep you safe. Juarez knows what he’s doing—just listen to me for once in your life, and stick with him. He’s a good guy.”

  “You know what? Fine. Whatever. But you’ll be here when we get back, right?”

  “I’ll be here.”

  He grabbed his backpack and started for the door, then stopped at the threshold. “I’ll take Stein with me; we’ll cruise the countryside, see what we can find out.” He got quiet again. “Be careful, okay?”

  I nodded. “You too.”

  “Yeah,” he agreed. “I will. I’ll see you tonight.”

  I sat on the edge of the bed for a minute or more after he left, staring at the door like that would somehow bring him back. And maybe even convince him to stay.

  It didn’t.

  ◊◊◊◊◊

  The first stop with Juarez was to the home of Jenny Bishop—or the home of Jenny Bishop’s father, anyway. Her parents had divorced not long aft
er her disappearance in 1982. Now, her mother lived in a retirement home in Jersey, while Brian Bishop remained in the same house where his daughter had last been seen thirty years before.

  Juarez and I pulled into a winding private drive in Houlton at just past eleven that morning. A whitewashed fence ran the length of the property, three chestnut horses grazing in the distance. The Bishops had done well for themselves, and apparently tragedy hadn’t changed that: the front yard was landscaped within an inch of its life, the grounds mowed golf-green short.

  I’d put on my Sunday best and was sweating in a very unladylike fashion, even though my Sunday best was just a skirt and blazer. Juarez was trussed and trimmed, his necktie knotted to within an inch of its life, and he’d never looked cooler. I knew it wasn’t his fault he had better genes than me, but I found myself a little resentful all the same.

  An old white farmhouse sat at the back of the Bishop property with an exact, scaled-down replica built closer to the drive. I paused in front of it, recalling Jenny Bishop’s file: A model student, lifetime horse lover, only child. The apple of her father’s eye.

  Juarez looked at me. “Are you coming?” he asked.

  “Yeah. I just…” I gestured toward the playhouse, then looked around at the rest of the grounds. “It seems a little…”

  “Sad?” he finished for me.

  “I was thinking creepy, actually—but sad works, too.”

  “These kinds of interviews are never easy,” he said. “Are you sure you want to do this?”

  “I just rode two hours listening to American Idol’s Greatest Hits; I’m thinking it can’t get much more painful than that.”

  “That was nothing,” he said, surprising me. “I’m saving the good stuff for the trip back.”

  “I can’t wait.”

  I wiped my damp palms on my skirt and waited for Juarez to take the lead up the walk. He was right, actually: there was something sad about this place, a kind of emptiness that went much deeper than the well-groomed façade. This was where the story led next, so I wouldn’t hesitate to go in and ask Brian Bishop whatever questions needed asking. It didn’t mean I had to like it, though.

  Brian Bishop was thin and drawn and had a way about him that suggested he’d been an old man for a long, long time. He stood aside as we walked through the front door, then led us into a living room that had probably been the height of fashion in 1982. Based on the décor, however, it hadn’t had an update since that time. It was like the whole house was holding its breath, frozen in time. Waiting for Jenny Bishop to come home.

  Photographs covered the tops of two antique dressers and most available wall space. A little blonde girl with glasses was featured in most of them; her life had been well documented. Baby pictures, first steps, school photos, birthdays… A pudgy toddler grew into a lean, smiling little girl with pigtails, and eventually into a pretty, athletic teen. Photos of dance recitals and gymnastics trials followed every stage of her development, all the way through high school to the first day of college. And then, suddenly, they simply… Stopped.

  There were only a few pictures on the wall taken more recently than the ‘80s, mostly school photos of other kids—cousins and other family members, some of whom had a vague resemblance to the daughter the Bishops lost. I got the sense that those other shots had been put up under duress. If he had his way, I had little doubt that Brian Bishop would have gotten rid of anything and everything that wasn’t his daughter.

  Juarez sat down at one end of an outdated floral sofa. I followed his lead and sat next to him. Brian sat in a recliner a few feet away.

  “You’ve talked to the police,” Juarez said. “About the bodies they recovered…?”

  Brian nodded. He wore thick-framed glasses and pants two sizes too large, held up with black-and-white checked suspenders.

  “They’re sure it’s her?” he asked. “I don’t see how they’d know so fast, this long after… How could they know so soon?”

  “They had the records you provided when Jenny first went missing,” Juarez said. “They’re very good at what they do—it wouldn’t have taken that long. I’m very sorry, but there’s no question that one of the bodies belonged to your daughter.”

  The old man nodded again. As much as a minute went by while we waited for him to say something. When he didn’t, Juarez continued.

  “I know a lot of time has passed,” Juarez said, “but I was hoping you could walk me through that day one more time.”

  Brian took his glasses off and rubbed his eyes. “Of course,” he said wearily. “Whatever you need.”

  “Jenny was home for the summer?” Juarez looked at the file briefly, but I could tell he didn’t really need to. He may have just gotten the assignment, but it was obvious he already knew this case cold.

  “Yes,” Brian confirmed. “It was her first year at UMaine Machias. She’d never been away from home before; it wasn’t an easy year for her.”

  “Did she have any problems with boyfriends, or any men she might have known on campus that she said made her uncomfortable?”

  “No. Nothing like that. No confrontations, no men we’d seen lurking around, no suspicious friends.” He said it like he’d been through this many, many times before.

  “Did you ever spend any time in Black Falls?” I asked.

  Juarez looked at me sharply.

  Brian shook his head, confused. “Up at the border? No. Why? You think that’s where the man who did this was from?”

  “We don’t know,” Juarez said quickly. “It’s just one of many leads we’re following right now. Let’s get back to that day, if it’s all right.”

  Brian went through the entire day for us: breakfast together on the deck since it was warm out, then Jenny had planned on spending the day riding the trails with some friends. The friends got to the stable at about eleven that morning, where they found Jenny’s jacket and her backpack. There’d been no sign of a struggle. Her favorite horse was already saddled and in the paddock; it looked as though she’d been riding when she was interrupted. The nearest neighbors were miles away, and no passersby reported seeing anything unusual in the area that day.

  It was like she’d just dropped off the face of the earth.

  “What was going on for you at the time?” Juarez asked. “Was there anyone you’d met in your business dealings who made you uneasy? Anyone who commented on your family, maybe asked about your daughter?”

  He shook his head. “No. There was nothing like that. We’d just received a settlement after I filed a suit against a manufacturer in Detroit about a year before, but that was a large corporation—there was nothing personal about any of it. The only time I even had to go to court was for the settlement conference in Augusta.”

  “Which firm represented you?” Juarez asked.

  “The same one that represents me today: Whitman, Myer & Goldman. They’re out of Hartford, where I’m from originally. We dealt with a large firm out of New York.”

  While Juarez jotted that information down, Brian’s gaze shifted to the wall of photos in his living room.

  “I thought she’d come home, you know,” he said to me. “You always hear people say they’d know if their child was gone; somehow, they’d know. But I never did. My wife told me years ago it was time to move on.” He looked around the room helplessly. Behind his thick lenses, his eyes swam with tears. “I could never figure it out, though. How to do that.”

  He stood, went to one of the dressers, and picked up a photo of Jenny at four or five. She was sitting on a horse, Brian behind her in the saddle. They were both laughing.

  “She was everything,” he said, still looking at the picture. “Sun and moon. I didn’t want anything else, once she was born. Didn’t need anything else. And then once she was gone…” He looked around again, like he was searching for something he knew he’d never find again. “Then, I just wanted her back.”

  “I know how hard this is, but we won’t take much more of your time,” Juarez said. “I ha
ve a few photos I’d like you to look at. If you could just tell me if you recognize any of these men…”

  Brian nodded. Juarez set a photo album on the coffee table and flipped to a page bookmarked with a yellow Post-it. Amid a half-dozen shady villains I’d never seen before was a single face I knew well: My father. I held my breath while Bishop scanned the pictures, then flipped to the next page. He’d barely glanced at Dad’s picture.

  At sight of one of the men on the next page, however, Bishop went completely rigid. He looked up at Juarez, his eyes wide.

  “This is Hank Gendreau,” he said. “The man who killed his daughter back a few years after Jenny disappeared. Why is he here?” He choked on the words, his breath suddenly coming harder. “Are you saying… The way his daughter died. Is that what happened to Jenny?”

  He’d gone deathly pale. I sat back to give him some space. Juarez set the album aside and slid to the edge of the couch, closer to Bishop. He put his hand on the man’s knee.

  “I’d like you to sit back and take a couple of deep breaths,” he said. His voice was almost mesmerizing, it was so calm. “I know how hard this is.”

  “You didn’t answer my question,” Bishop said stubbornly, still fixated on the now-closed photo album. “Is that how she died? I remember that case—every bit of it. Jenny…”

  “We don’t have the coroner’s findings yet,” Juarez said smoothly. “There’s no hard evidence that that’s how she died.”

  It was a lie, I knew. Considering the look on Bishop’s face, I couldn’t imagine telling him anything else.

  We didn’t learn much more from Brian Bishop after that. He gave us the same details he’d given investigators thirty years ago, and didn’t recognize anyone else from the album of suspects—including my father—as far as he could recall. Considering how many years had passed since that time, however, I wasn’t ready to take that single win as a sign that dear old Dad was in the clear.

  As we were leaving, Juarez took Bishop aside and asked if there was anyone he could call.