by Roger Hayden
“Well…” Barbara began. “She had mentioned a man before.” She paused, looking up into the white-paneled ceiling. “Gordon what’s his name?” She then looked at Dobson. “They didn’t last long.”
Dobson took one of her hands in his, excited. “How long ago was this?”
Barbara shook her head. “The last ‘normal’ conversation I had with her was about four months ago. She mentioned Gordon then. Said that they were happy.” She paused with a sigh. “Then I got an angry voicemail from her a few weeks after, saying that they were through and blaming me for it.”
Dobson leaned back in his chair, rubbing his chin. Captain Nelson quickly typed across his keyboard, seemingly taking notes.
Barbara wiped at her eyes. “She had said that she went to the same high school as Gordon. That they had reconnected after all these years.”
The room went silent, save for the hum of the air conditioner from an overhead vent. Dobson thought of the yearbook and the shoebox of letters taken from Betsy’s house.
“Could Gordon be the person she was so afraid of coming to get her?” Dobson asked.
Barbara shook her head. “I wish I remembered more of what she told me last night, but my memory isn’t the best these days. She called me, panicked, saying crazy things. I didn’t know what to make of it.”
Dobson scribbled tidbits into his notebook: Gordon, also Alan, a re-married ex-husband upstate, a late-night phone call to her mother, and so on.
Captain Nelson cleared his throat and adjusted the black tie of his decorated class-blue uniform. “Thank you, Mrs. Wade. If there’s anything else you can remember, please let us know.”
“That’s it,” she said, dabbing again around her eyes with Kleenex. “I’ve said enough. I want to see her body.”
Dobson glanced to the captain with uncertainty. Had she been informed of the decapitation? Nelson gave no indication in his blank expression. Instead, he picked up his office phone and made a call. “Yes, can I speak with the Medical Examiner please?” He fitted the phone between his shoulder and head and continued typing.
Dobson squeezed Barbara’s hand again to get her attention. “Where do you live?”
“Myrtle Beach,” she said. Her sad eyes suddenly shifted down. “I should have moved closer to her.”
Captain Nelson finished his brief phone conversation and then hung up with a grim expression on his face. After a long sigh, he finally spoke up.
“Mrs. Wade. Do you know the nature of your daughter’s murder?”
She looked at him, oblivious. “What do you mean?”
“I want you to brace yourself. Please.” He paused, taking a breath. “She was found early this morning… decapitated.”
Silence again filled the office as Barbara stared ahead, frozen. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Please listen. You need to know before you see her,” continued.
“No,” Barbara said, standing up on wobbly legs. “I won’t hear this.” She motioned to leave but tripped into Sterling, who did her best to hold her up.
“It’s okay. I’ve got you,” Sterling said.
“Tell me it’s not true,” Barbara said, turning to face her.
Sterling wanted to assure her but couldn’t hide the truth in her eyes.
Barbara then covered her mouth with both hands, mortified. She wailed like a wounded animal, and there was no way they could stop her, or even try to. It seemed forever until she began to moan, holding her sides and rocking back and forth, and eventually, the sobbing began to ebb, fading away gradually until at last it stopped. She whispered, “Who would… do such a thing?”
“Maybe you should lie down,” Captains Nelson suggested.
She turned her head slowly in his direction. “No. I want to see her now.”
Sterling propped Barbara up and helped walk her to the door and out of the office. There didn’t seem to be much more they were going to get out of her. Dobson looked at the scribbled notes on his pad. She had offered some important tidbits. It was now his job to piece them together, starting with this “Gordon.” He and Betsy Wade had gone to the same high school. Considering the circumstances, that was a damn good start.
Dobson cleared some files from his desk and placed Betsy Wade’s yearbook directly in front of him. Sterling sat near his couch with the shoebox in her lap.
“I hope that they were in the same grade,” Dobson said, flipping open the yearbook. He then moved a worn notebook close by and opened it to a blank page while grabbing a pen from a desk holder.
Sterling pulled out a stack of letters and set it on the couch next to her. “What do you want me to do with these?”
Dobson looked at her while reaching for his office phone. “We’re looking for any correspondence, particularly from this Gordon guy.”
He dialed a number, waiting several rings before someone answered. “Hey, Sharon, it’s Mike. Did you check the records for unsolved murders in Maine yet?” He paused, listening. “Yes. In the last ten years.” He paused again. “Twenty-six?” he said, jotting into his notepad. “That’s fine. I’m looking for one Victoria Owens, but send me what you got. Thanks.”
He hung up the phone and turned on his desk lamp, shining its light on the open yearbook. He stared at the pages while tapping his pen against the notepad. “I’m going to have to make a spreadsheet of Betsy’s entire senior class,” he said, thinking out loud. “Might even have to go back to her freshman year.”
Sterling continued reading letters, placing several to the side. “A lot of these are letters she wrote her ex-husband and never sent,” she began. “It’s really sad.”
Distracted, Dobson responded. “Anything useful?”
Sterling scanned one of the letters she had just placed aside. “She’s just telling him how much she misses him.”
Dobson flipped to the next page of the yearbook, continuing his search. “There’s got to be a Gordon in here somewhere.”
Sterling suddenly held up a postcard and called out to Dobson, who immediately looked over. “This might be what we’re looking for.”
Intrigued, he got up and walked over to her to get a better look.
She held it up, displaying a picture of Dollywood, Tennessee. “Dear Betsy,” she began. “Hope we can take a trip here sometime. You need to get out of the house more. See you soon! Hugs, Gordy.”
“Gordy…” Dobson said, taking the postcard. He then walked back to his desk and flipped the yearbook to the back, examining all the classmate signatures. He flipped through each signature page until finding the same handwriting, much to his elation.
School’s out forever! – Gordy.
It was the connection they needed.
He flipped back to the graduating class and started at Betsy’s picture with her straight blonde hair hanging just past her shoulders and an innocent smile in her eyes. Dobson suddenly realized that this was the first time he had seen a picture of her with her head still intact.
He ran his finger through the names and past every gawky-faced school picture, certain that Gordon would be found.
His eyes darted across from page to page until he saw it.
“There!” he said, with his index finger pointed at the name, Gordon McDonnel. He grabbed a Post-It note and stuck it to the bottom of the page and then matched the name with a picture, third row, bottom right-hand corner. Gordon had a round freckled face, big glasses, and thick black hair. He was smiling halfway without showing his teeth.
Sterling stood up. “What’d you find?”
“One moment,” Dobson said, grabbing his office phone again and dialing. “Sharon, I need you to run a name for me please.” He paused, waiting. “Okay. Gordon McDonnel, two Ns, one L. Attended Summerville High School, graduated 1991. Okay, thanks. You’re awesome.”
He hung up his phone, smiling, clearly pleased with the find. His attention then snapped back to Sterling. “Sorry. What’d you ask?”
“I was going to ask what you found, but never
mind,” she said. “Gordon McDonnel… I wonder where he lives.”
“We’ll find out soon enough,” Dobson said, leaning back in his seat. He then noticed that she was holding another letter in her hand.
“What’s that?” he asked pointing.
“Oh, this?” Sterling asked, holding it up. “Found it in the mess of letters.”
Dobson took the letter and began reading it. It wasn’t specifically addressed to anyone, but it did have a clear and intended recipient.
Dear lucky student from Summerville High, Class of 1991,
Our twenty-fifth-year high school reunion is right around the corner! Congratulations! You have been selected to receive this letter of goodwill and fortune. It is imperative that you choose a classmate of choice to next send this message to, for if you fail to do so, you will find irreversible consequences for breaking the chain. Thank you, and best of luck!
Dobson read the letter two or three more times before setting it down. The lettering was Times New Roman 12-Point font, the same as the other letter in his coat pocket, brief as it was. There had to be a connection.
“Weird.” Dobson reached for his phone again but stopped. “No. I’m not going to tell the captain yet. Not until we find a definitive link.”
With his hand still inches from its receiver, his office phone rang, startling him. He pressed the speaker button and then leaned closer.
“Go ahead, Sharon,” he said.
“I’ve got a Gordon Lawrence McDonnel at 3048 West Jordan Lane, Leesburg.”
After quickly jotting the address down, Dobson glanced at Sterling in disbelief. “That’s right next to the Food Mart. About five miles from here. Thanks so much. I owe you a drink.”
“Sure thing,” she said.
Dobson hung up and rose from his seat, animated. “We’re really getting somewhere with this. I can feel it.”
“Are we going to talk to him?” Sterling asked, grabbing her shoulder bag and ready to go.
Dobson walked around his desk but then suddenly halted in his tracks. “Let’s be smart about this. If we talk to him, we can’t let him think we think he’s guilty.”
“Why not?” Sterling asked.
“Because he’ll have more reason to lie. And God forbid he finds a lawyer before we’ve said two words to him.”
He grabbed his coat and the yearbook, then headed toward the door. “Put Ms. Wade’s letters back in the box and let’s go.”
He opened the door and stepped outside as Sterling packed everything back in the shoebox. He had kept the postcard, however, and placed it in his coat pocket with the chain letter. While waiting, he observed the busy cubicle area, faces starting at computer screens.
“You want the lights off?” Sterling asked.
“Yeah, sure,” he said.
She flipped a switch and exited the room as he closed the door. They continued out through the security door and lobby, walking outside under the long pavilion leading to the parking lot. both lost in their own thoughts. Dobson only hoped that Gordon McDonnel would be home. The phone number they had for him resulted in no answer. Not even a voicemail greeting of any kind.
As they reached Dobson’s car, he began to explain to Sterling his own personal approach to generating suspects. “Being a detective is about planning. We don’t rush a case at the expense of doing it right,” he began.
She nodded, though he didn’t know if she was listening to him half the time. He wondered what she was always writing in her notepad. Evaluating him? Making note of his every move and decision? The thought was irritating, but how could he blame her? She was trying to learn.
Dobson opened the driver’s side door and stepped in. The car was hot inside. He quickly start the engine and turn the air conditioning on high. Sterling strapped herself in as he typed McDonnel’s address into the dashboard GPS. After a quick search, the residence was listed as being 8.5 miles away, just under a ten-minute drive.
“What are we going to do if he’s not home?” Sterling asked, closing her door.
“We’ll talk to his neighbors, anyone who may have seen him acting suspicious over the past few days, especially last night.”
He watched from his peripheral as she quickly jotted something into her notebook, at it again.
“Of course, if no one talks, we just shoot them,” he said, backing out.
Sterling stopped writing and looked at him. “Very funny…”
Dobson flashed a smile as they continued through the parking lot and onto the main road in pursuit of a man they may never have found out about had they not spoken to Barbara Wade. If they could close the case by nightfall, it would be a first for Dobson and nothing short of a miracle. Ruminations of the chain letter flowed through his mind. Did any of it mean a thing, or was her murder nothing more than a simple thrill killing unrelated to Ms. Wade’s life? By 3:30 that day, anything seemed possible. Then Dobson’s cell phone began, ringing from the center console.
An unrecognized number flashed across the screen. He hesitated to answer at first, but took the phone and swiped to answer as they reached the red light of a moderately busy intersection.
“Hello?” he asked, half-expecting to hear his wife’s voice calling from the hospital.
“Hey, Detective. It’s Cruz,” a man’s voice said.
“Cruz?”
“Sergeant Cruz,” he said defensively.
“Oh, I’m sorry. Yes, Sergeant. What’s up?”
“I’ve got some info.”
His tone sounded troubled and urgent. Dobson couldn’t help but feel a little confused. He hadn’t spoken to Cruz since that morning, and a lot had happened since then.
“Go ahead?” Dobson asked, rubbing his forehead. He then floored the gas through the light as it turned green. The navigation system indicated a left turn in 1.5 miles, through downtown.
“The murdered friend of Betsy Wade,” Cruz said, voice rising. Dobson heard the faint sounds of a crying infant in the background as Cruz banged something around, maybe a chair being shoved back.
“Where are you?”
“I’m home. Hold on. I’m moving into another room.” Things suddenly got quieter. “Sorry. Been at this all day. Are you ready?”
“Yeah, go ahead,” he said with a quick glance at Sterling. She got the hint and prepared to write as he put the cell phone on speaker.
“Victoria Owens. Betsy Wade had told us her name, but back in high school, she went by Harmon, her maiden name.”
“Yes. I’ve got the name. Was she murdered?” Dobson asked.
Cruz sounded distracted as he paced the room. “Yes. Two months ago.”
Cruz was quick to get off the phone when a woman’s voice called his name—just another cop trying to balance his work and family. Dobson could relate all too well. The name Victoria Harmon, however, raised more questions than answers. He asked Sterling to reach into the back for the yearbook and start searching.
“This could be the last big piece of this puzzle,” he said, feeling an unmistakable excitement. Sterling unfastened her seatbelt and reached into the backseat, taking the yearbook.
“Senior class. Victoria Harmon,” he continued.
Sterling nodded and flipped through the yearbook, toward the back.
“Interesting,” she said, looking down.
“What is it?” he asked as he slowed the car and turned left.
She ran her hand directly down the middle line of the book in the signature section. “There’s a page missing here. Someone tore it out.”
“What?” he said, eyes struggling between the road and the yearbook. “See if you can find her in the class pictures.”
Sterling flipped to the beginning of the senior class and ran her finger down each name.
The police radio suddenly blared with static, followed by a patrol car calling in a domestic dispute. Dobson lowered the volume and looked to Sterling, growing more impatient by the minute.
She was already toward the end of the class listings. She fli
pped several pages back, starting over, as other possibilities entered his mind. Perhaps Cruz got the name wrong, or worse, Victoria Harmon and Victoria Owens were different people altogether.
“There!” Sterling said with her finger pressed against the picture of a smiling young girl.
The chances were evenly split, but Dobson felt as though they had just made a breakthrough. Or so he hoped.
Alibi
They soon arrived at a small two-story apartment complex surrounded by a chain-link fence, with several mailboxes and empty trash cans in front. The doors of each unit had numbers on them. The building itself looked old and rundown with gray paint chipped and fading, the neglected roof needing repair. Dobson parked on the side of the two-lane cracked pavement street, half in the grass and a few feet from the side of the fence surrounding the property. He was eager to look at the yearbook and see the picture of Victoria Owens.
It was the only complex the street, surrounded by single-family homes lining both sides of what seemed like a quiet neighborhood. A man wearing baggy clothes and a skull cap walked the sidewalk ahead of them toward a bus stop. He stopped at a wooden bench and then looked around, taking no notice of them.
There wasn’t a single resident outside of the complex, and drawn curtains covered the windows of most units, as though no one was home, or if they were, they were hiding. It was still afternoon, and Gordon could be at work for all they knew. Or he could have skipped town already, feeling the heat, guilty or not.
Sterling handed him the yearbook with a sticky note marking Victoria Harmon’s page. He looked down, examining it. Her eyes were half open, and an airy smile exposed large front teeth. Her hair was tied back in a bun and she was wearing a sleeveless top. She looked happy, like most all the other kids.
“Someone just walked outside,” Sterling said, pointing toward the apartments.
Dobson looked up and saw an elderly woman outside the building, walking a small terrier on a leash. “Perfect,” he said. “Let’s see what she knows.”
He opened his door and yanked the keys from the ignition, adjusting his tie as he stood. Sterling got out and placed a dark blue ball cap on her head.
