Retribution

by T. K. Walls

  “Sheriff, you are not dealing with idiots!” Ryan said, visibly angry. “I am fully aware of what can be disclosed and how to disclose the results of an autopsy during an investigation! I called you down here not to get a lecture on how to perform my responsibilities and duties, but to inform you of the current state of affairs with this body! If you remember, you called me back from my vacation to examine this guy. And by the way, finding reports on missing persons is the job of your department, not mine. In fact, my job is to identify the body once you provide missing-person information to my office. Hell, right now, all I can tell you is that this guy did not die in the surf, he did not drown, and he certainly didn’t die yesterday. And he didn’t put on that wet suit! Someone put it on him, and some sort of lubricant was used to get it on him. He died at least three days ago. His internal organs had signs of exposure to very low temperatures, not freezing but very cold. The decomposition on this guy isn’t what should appear after three days, but it should be. It only appears to be hours, at the most maybe twenty-four. This means he died, someone had the means and ability to keep the body cold, and then this poor bastard was placed in a wet suit and dumped on our beach.”

  Ryan paused for effect, but the sheriff didn’t respond. “And when I do find out the cause of death—and trust me, Mac, I will—and when I determine as close as possible the time of death and the manner of death, you, Sheriff, not the media, will be the first to know!”

  “Of course. I apologize,” said Mac. “I wasn’t inferring you didn’t know how to do your job. Or that you would run to the media. I am just ensuring we handle this accordingly and properly so that when we do find the guy responsible, we don’t risk losing a conviction. This county hasn’t seen a murder in over sixteen years. None of our county prosecutors have ever prosecuted a murder case.”

  Mac could feel his face turning red. The last thing he wanted was for Ryan to think he wasn’t capable of managing this investigation, or that he had somehow forgotten how to do an investigation. It may have been ten years since he left Boston PD, and at least that many years since his last homicide, but he hadn’t forgotten how to do an investigation. This town was supposed to be his retirement community.

  “Look, Ryan, I know you know what you are doing, and you know I am more than capable of working with you on this case as well as managing the investigation. Let’s work together on this one like we have worked on other cases. The only difference with this one is that this guy isn’t a suicide and he didn’t die of natural causes. I think we are in agreement that we have a lot more going on with this guy than just his death. We need to figure out as soon as possible who he is. Perhaps once we know that, we can figure out who killed him and why. I have a feeling that if we don’t find out who he is soon, something else is going to happen.”

  “OK, Mac,” said Ryan. “As you know, the lab tests will take a couple of weeks. At the very least, maybe someone will report him missing and we can identify him. Otherwise, we wait and say nothing.”

  FIVE

  SETH HAD NEVER LIKED THE HOUSE. It was a large, looming, ominous-looking piece of architecture that sat at the top of a hillside cliff in the middle of a town much too small for a house of its size. The house could be seen from almost anywhere in town. In its time, it signified wealth and success. It was built out of imported light-red bricks from England at the height of the natural-gas boom. The bricks had been painted over the years until it was no longer the beautiful, rich, rustic red color but a pale, dingy yellow. The monster of a house contained servant quarters complete with two kitchens, one for the family and another for the factory workers. Adjacent to the workers’ kitchen was a large rectangular dining room designed to feed the employees. The house was built next to a glass factory his family had owned. His grandfather had built the factory and the house, as well as the surrounding smaller homes for their workers.

  The house also contained a library, two master bedroom suites with sitting rooms, five additional bedrooms, seven fireplaces, and a grand ballroom on the third floor. The staircases were massive and elegant and made from imported wood from the Black Forest, with large floor-to-ceiling windows at each staircase landing. The house during its prime was the jewel of the town. Today it sat in decay and rot, its history and grandeur long forgotten. Seth had inherited this house from his father, who had inherited it from his father. He had grown up in this house. Over the years the house had fallen into disrepair, and the cost to maintain it was extraordinary.

  Built in the early 1900s in northern Massachusetts, the house had once been a lovely modern home for his grandfather’s family, but it was also designed to support at least a hundred factory employees. In the case of bad weather, the employees utilized an underground tunnel that led from the house to the factory. In keeping with the times and his grandfather’s vision of the future, the tunnel had steel doors and various places for lighting. After hours his grandfather would lock the doors leading to the house.

  Over time, industry left the area and moved to larger cities, leaving the factory behind. The small rural town could not compete with rapidly growing cities, and eventually the town also fell into disrepair. When the factory closed in the 1960s, his father sealed the doors leading from his house to the underground tunnel, and the smaller homes around the factory were sold. The last surviving reminder of more affluent times was his grandfather’s house.

  When the house and the factory were first built, they used steam from a pond for heat. The pond was located at the bottom of the massive hill upon which the house sat. At the bottom of the hill and just past the pond was a large ravine. A small pump house sitting next to the pond supplied steam to both the house and the factory. Over the years, the factory had been dismantled until all that remained were the exterior walls. But the pump house was left fully intact. Only the pipes leading from the pond into the pump house were disconnected. The rest remained. Perhaps it had been too difficult to dismantle, as it was at the bottom of the hill next to the pond, or maybe it had simply been forgotten.

  Seth now owned the property that was once his grandfather’s, and he had hired a property management group several years back to look after the factory, house, and grounds. Even the property group had forgotten the pump house, which was probably a blessing in disguise, as his second kill was lodged in the large pipes that remained in the pump house.

  His first kill had happened purely by accident. As a young adolescent, he had discovered how to open the sealed doors to the tunnel that ran from the house to the factory, and was showing the tunnel to his classmate. The boy’s name was Tim. He was a year younger, slight in size, and initially eager to see the long-forgotten tunnel. But after Seth opened the doors, Tim became scared and tried to run from the basement. Desperate to show his friend the tunnel, Seth grabbed Tim and dragged him toward the heavy steel doors, losing his grip and allowing the steel door to slam shut on the child. Tim was killed instantly.

  At first, Seth was scared. He was afraid to move, afraid to say Tim’s name. Blood was pouring from the other boy’s head; his eyes were open and staring at nothing. When Seth realized Tim was dead, instead of going for help, he sat in the tunnel for what seemed like hours, talking to the lifeless child. He knew he had to hide the boy. He couldn’t keep playing with the corpse. Eventually the body would smell and his parents would discover his secret. He carried Tim through the tunnel toward the factory and set him up against the entrance door. Before he left the tunnel, he cleaned up the blood. His parents never went into the basement, and no one knew he had been able to open the tunnel doors. But he wasn’t taking any chances that someone would go into the basement and see the blood.

  As the years went by and he grew into an adult, Seth continued to visit Tim whenever he checked on the house. Even as the body decomposed and eventually became only bones inside tattered clothes, Tim still looked the same to Seth as he did the day he had first come to play.

  Thinking of his early days made Seth smile. Tim was not only an accid
ent; he was also an awakening. It had surprised Seth that Tim’s death didn’t bother him. Yes, he was scared at first. He often wondered why he’d been scared, because Tim’s death had actually excited him—so much so that he was curious to discover whether his excitement would grow if the next time he killed intentionally.

  He had been twelve when Tim died, and he was still twelve when he committed his second killing. But this time, the killing wasn’t an accident.

  The second kill was also a playmate, but someone he had never played with before. The homes originally built for the factory workers had now become low-income rental homes, and unattended children were abundant. One particular child usually wandered the streets and often made his way to the pond.

  Seth spent the afternoons watching the child from the window of his bedroom on the second floor of the house. His bedroom was in one of the old suites that had a turret window. He stood in the turret watching the boy make his way down the hill to the pond, a plan developing in his mind as to how he would kill him and where he would hide the body. He quickly decided the perfect hiding place would be the empty pipes that remained inside the pump house.

  One afternoon in late fall, he noticed the boy was alone, skipping rocks into the pond. It was quickly becoming dark as Seth made his way down the hill. Within minutes, he was along the shore of the pond. He gathered several small, flat, round rocks and started to throw them across the water, making them skip. Soon he and the other boy were skipping rocks together.

  “Do you want to check out that old shack?” Seth pointed to the pump house along the banks of the pond.

  “What for?” asked the boy.

  “Maybe we could make it into a clubhouse or something,” Seth said, easily convincing the child to go into the pump house. Once they were inside, Seth removed a thin steel pipe from the liner of his coat and struck the boy alongside his right temple. The child instantly crumpled to the ground. Seth waited to see if the child would move. He didn’t feel scared. What he did feel was excitement, a rush. He liked that feeling. He didn’t feel the need or desire to talk to this child; there was no reason to. He didn’t even know his name. Instead he placed the lifeless body inside the pipes, pushing him in as far as he would go. After he was done, he threw the steel pipe he had used to strike the child into the center of the pond. Then he sat down by the water’s edge and waited until the sun was completely down before making his way back up the hill to the house. Once back in his room, he kept watch over the pump house

  * * *

  These days he usually checked on the property a couple of times a year. He ensured the grounds were well maintained and not an eyesore. To keep the bodies from eventually being found, he tried to make certain the county would have no reason to enter either the house or the pump house.

  Seth walked up the front steps to the house, unlocked the large wooden doors, and stepped into the foyer. Closing his eyes, he took a deep breath. When he opened them, he imagined the house as it had been during his childhood. Instead of seeing dust, dirt, and large empty rooms, he saw the library with books on every shelf, and the dining room table with perfect place settings. If he listened closely, he could hear his mother humming in the kitchen.

  He walked through the downstairs, looking into each room, and then made his way upstairs. His first stop was his bedroom. He opened the door and walked immediately to the turret window and looked down at the pump house. It was the same as it had always been, with the exception of being surrounded by weeds and scrub trees. Unlike with Tim, Seth never returned to the pump house to visit the other boy. He had always been satisfied with just looking down at it from his window.

  There had been others during his youth, of course, years ago. The playmates had been an awakening of sorts. He never felt remorse or guilt over his kills, and he never had a need or desire to keep souvenirs from them. He had always been careful to make certain he wasn’t connected to them, and oftentimes he wasn’t even aware of their names.

  As he turned to leave his room, he thought about the body he had left on the beach. This time there was a loose connection, and he hoped the police wouldn’t be smart enough to piece it together before he finished with his plans. After his plans were completed, he truly didn’t care if he was finally connected to a kill, but not before. In fact, he didn’t care what happened to the house, the factory, or even the pump house once his mission was complete.

  He took one last look at the house, checking to ensure it was safely secured. Before leaving he doubled-checked the basement. Satisfied that the house was locked and his secrets still safe, he closed the massive wooden front doors and walked down the half-moon-shaped concert steps to the sidewalk. Before getting into his car he looked over at the bungalow home that sat to the right of his house.

  SIX

  BOSTON WAS GOOD TO DR. BRADLEY RIVERS. Brad, as his friends and family called him, lived a life of privilege. He had wealthy parents and had always attended exclusive private schools. He had grown up with the finer things in life and craving more. His parents gave him everything he wanted and denied him nothing. When it came time for college, Brad insisted on attending a local state university. His parents balked, but in the end he got what he wanted, as usual. What his parents later discovered was that Brad’s desire to attend the state university had more to do with his high school sweetheart, Rachel, than with academics.

  Brad and Rachel had met when they were both cast in their high school play, Barefoot in the Park. Rachel played Corie Bratter, and Brad played the part of her husband, Paul. The play centered on the newly married couple and their adjustment to living together in New York City. Brad was instantly in awe of Rachel. She was a strawberry blonde with small curls that framed her face. When she spoke, the corners of her mouth turned up slightly, and she was most beautiful when she smiled. Brad knew when he met her they would someday marry.

  The couple did get married the summer after graduation and before they each went to Harvard, he as a medical student and she as a law student. They rented a small apartment near Harvard Square and struggled through graduate school, living on ramen noodles, eggs, and grilled cheese sandwiches. Rachel completed her law degree but never sat for the bar exam, instead focusing on Brad’s career and starting their family.

  Rachel loved to promote her husband, and helping him build his practice was her passion. They decided to wait until after Brad’s residency to begin having children. The oldest two were boys, and the younger two were twin girls. Rachel and Brad were active in their children’s school functions and activities, and they attended church every Sunday. By all appearances, the family led a perfect life.

  Brad had built a nice medical practice, specializing in facial plastic surgery. His specialty was reconstructive surgery for accident and burn victims. He spent several years building his practice and enjoyed being at the top of his field. In the early days Rachel was his office manager and was responsible for hiring the staff, who adored her. Every year she hosted a dinner party for both the staff and partners.

  During his free time, which was limited, Brad learned to fly and earned his commercial pilot’s license. Soon after earning his license, he bought into Krannert, a small independent airport located in Reagan, New Hampshire. It was there he met his future business partner and lawyer, after Eric redeemed his gift certificate for flight lessons. The two men quickly became friends and colleagues, and eventually Brad put Eric on retainer as legal counsel for the airport as well as for his medical practice. Both men had a passion for flying and an equal passion for money. Eric also earned his commercial pilot’s license, and the two close friends opened their own exclusive international charter service.

  Brad took his family on frequent trips by private plane from Krannert to their winter home in Palm Beach, Florida, with occasional shopping trips to New York and Chicago. He enjoyed flying so much that when he wasn’t working in his medical practice, he was in the air. Brad made it a point to always be cheerful, kind, and compassionate. At least that
was how his friends described him. However, the nurses he worked with would describe a different person altogether. The nurses found him rude, intolerant, and lacking in compassion, which was in direct contradiction to his specialty.

  Rachel planned the family’s annual holiday shopping trips. She loved the trips—the shopping, the restaurants, and the time alone with her husband. Brad always picked the location, as he usually combined a little business for the airport with the trips. Between Brad’s work and his passion for flying, Rachel rarely saw him. But she had learned that to love him meant she had to share him with these things. She busied herself with fundraisers to help finance the airfield and keep it open, as well as numerous other charity events in their Boston community. Their children attended private schools, but they were also involved in local events and charity functions

  * * *

  Rachel’s usual morning routine involved getting the kids ready for school and getting Brad his breakfast, a task she looked forward to since this was the only time during the busy day she’d have alone with him to talk.

  “Honey, what do you want this morning for breakfast?” she said as he entered the kitchen. “I have eggs and bacon, but I can also make oatmeal or pancakes. Coffee is already poured for you, and I added your cream. Just the way you like it!”

  Brad put his arm around her waist and pulled her toward him, kissing her lightly on the cheek. “Whatever is easy for you to make. I am sure I will like it. So, what have you planned for the Rivers family annual shopping trip?”