Where the Truth Lives

by Mia Sheridan

  Reed let out an uncomfortable laugh. “You really have been keeping close tabs on the case,” he said. The comment unnerved him though. Did the old man have insider information? Or had he just picked up the idea from news reports? Reed pictured Gordon Draper sitting in his wheelchair in front of the TV, flipping from station to station as they broadcast the latest, pontificating on every angle as the media liked to do. He almost felt bad for Draper. A lonely man with no family left, no career, only his regrets to keep him company. Along with TV marathons of Law and Order. Those were always the folks who got overly involved with police investigations.

  Mr. Draper laughed. “What can I say? I’m a bored old man with only my garden to keep me company now,” he answered, confirming what Reed had just been thinking.

  “Yes, well, if you think of anything else regarding Everett, will you give me a call?”

  “Absolutely. Goodbye now.”

  Reed hung up the phone, a strange skittering tickling his spine, wondering why his call with the man had given him a case of the creeps.

  I’m sorry I can’t offer more. But now, that would hardly be fair. He’d laughed, as though it was a joke, but it was weird. Did he know something he was choosing to hold back for some reason?

  This killer of yours, he has an endgame.

  Endgame?

  “Endgames” weren’t typical of serial killers. But then again, neither was using the plot of a comic book series to commit brutal murders. Was all this leading to some final conclusion dreamed up by the now-deceased creator of Tribulation?

  Reed stood there, looking out at the Cincinnati skyline mostly unseeing, all the information in his brain swirling, drifting, coming together and then moving apart.

  Reed’s father had had an endgame, hadn’t he? An endgame that no one figured out in time.

  A ball formed in Reed’s stomach. He needed those final Tribulation editions. He needed to know how this all ended, and if their killer was on the path to recreating some bizarre conclusion.

  He heard the soft patter of footsteps behind him and turned, smiling to see a sleepy, mussed Liza. “Hey,” he said, turning. “I hope I didn’t wake you.”

  She shook her head, walking to where he stood and wrapping her arms around his waist. He gathered her to him and kissed the top of her head, breathed her in. Calm descended. “Who were you on the phone with?”

  “Actually, I was on the phone with Gordon Draper.”

  She bent her neck to look up at him. “Really? Why?”

  “Because for some strange reason, this case keeps leading us to his grandson, Everett.”

  Liza paused, a crease appearing between her brows. “Everett? But Everett’s—”

  “Dead, I know. Did you know him well?”

  She shook her head. “Not really at all, except through his grandfather who would speak about him on occasion.” She paused. “He was a nice boy . . . quiet . . . troubled. Actually, he was at that camp with me, the one I told you about? His parents died and—”

  “Camp Joy?” A flash of surprise caused Reed to drop his arms, turning so he could look at her more closely.

  She nodded. “It was the only occasion I spent any time with him, and even then, only because we were in the same cabin.”

  Camp Joy . . . the same cabin . . . “So you knew him?” Reed asked, voicing his thoughts aloud as his mind scrambled to piece . . . something together.

  “No, not really but—”

  His phone rang, jolting him from his thoughts. He swore softly, taking it from his pocket. Ransom again.

  “Coffee,” Liza mouthed, pointing toward the kitchen. Reed nodded as he connected the call.

  “Sorry, man,” Ransom greeted. “Your day off’s gonna have to wait.”

  His stomach sank. “What happened?”

  “Another body. I’m told this one is . . . odd. And our guy left it at Spring Grove Cemetery.”

  Spring Grove Cemetery? “I can be there in twenty,” Reed said.

  “See you then.”

  Reed went into the kitchen where Liza was adding coffee to the machine. Regret knotted in his gut. Fuck, he’d wanted a whole day with her. Just them. She turned, her eyes meeting his. “You have to go in,” she said. It wasn’t a question, just a statement, and there was no whine or bitterness behind her words. He appreciated that. So much.

  “I’m sorry. It’s the last thing I wanted.”

  She pressed brew and walked to him, putting her arms around his neck. “I figure as the woman of a homicide detective, I’d better get used to it.”

  Reed grinned. Damn, that sounded at least semi-permanent, and he liked the hell out of it. “It’s not always like this. But there are times . . .”

  “Like now,” she said, kissing him briefly on his lips and stepping away. “Get going, Detective Davies.”

  He started to turn and then turned back. “Hey . . . I wouldn’t normally ask this, but can you do me a favor and stay in while I’m gone?”

  She frowned, leaning a hip against the counter. “Are you worried about my safety?”

  He ran a hand through his hair. “I don’t know. I don’t have any specific reason to think so but—”

  “Reed,” she said. “If you have a feeling I should stay in, I’ll stay in.”

  “Thank you,” he breathed. “For trusting me. It might be nothing but—”

  “Go.” She laughed. “I’m in the middle of a book anyway. It’ll keep me company until you get back.”

  “Okay good. I’ll call as soon as I know when that is.” He turned and went to his room where he changed quickly and grabbed his badge, wallet, and firearm. Near the front door, he called a final goodbye to Liza.

  As he drove toward the crime scene, his stomach felt tight. What in the hell was this going to be? It felt like they had so many pieces, but they hadn’t put them together fast enough to stop this guy. His hands tightened on the steering wheel as a sense of futility gripped him. They needed more. Just a couple of threads and a picture would form. Reed could feel it. As awful as it was, maybe this new murder would bring them a few more clues as to what avenues to take to stop this madman.

  Reed stopped at a red light, picking up his phone, as he considered what Liza had told him just fifteen minutes before. He let himself fully ponder it now. Yet another connection to Everett Draper, and no way was any of it a coincidence now. He glanced at the time on his clock, wondering what sorts of hours Camp Joy kept. He was still five minutes out from the cemetery, so he decided it was worth a try. He googled the camp and dialed the number and a moment later a man answered the phone. “Camp Joy, how can I help you?”

  Reed identified himself and told the man he was looking into a crime and needed some information on some campers who had been there fifteen years prior.

  “Uh, okay, wow. Um, I’m probably going to have to have our administrative director call you back. She’s not in yet, but she’ll be here soon. Can I take down some information so she can pull up the records before returning your call?”

  “That’d be great. Like I said, it would have been fifteen years ago, and it was a group of kids there just for the weekend who had recently experienced trauma in their life. From what I understand, it most likely would have been arranged by a social worker.”

  “Ah, yeah, I’m familiar with that program. The state doesn’t do that anymore. Budget cuts. Anyway, do you happen to know what month it was?”

  “I don’t.” He needed to question Liza more in-depth about it, but he’d been surprised by the news, and they’d gotten interrupted . . .

  “Okay, no problem. I’ll have Barbara pull that year. There probably weren’t more than twelve. We only have two cabins that are appropriate for larger groups of kids. The camp liked to keep them together, you know? So they would have been in either Buckeye or Sycamore.”

  Reed’s pulse jumped. “Buckeye?”

  The symbol.

  The brand.

  Holy shit.

  “Yeah, I can’t say for sure, bu
t most likely. I’ll have Barbara Guthier get back to you though.”

  “Please,” he said. “As soon as possible would be great.” He gave the guy his number and then disconnected the call, turning into the cemetery entrance.

  What the fuck did this mean? He wanted to sit and think about it all, consider how it involved Liza and why, but there was already a slew of city vehicles parked down a slope near a massive oak tree.

  And someone else was dead.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  The body was propped against a gravestone, partially slumped over so the face was not immediately visible. Reed greeted Ransom, who was climbing out of his car as well, and began walking toward the criminalist that had arrived before them.

  “Any information yet?” Reed asked Ransom.

  “None. Except that it’s odd, and that it’s an older white male.”

  “Odd? In what way?”

  “I don’t know. Guess we need to see it.”

  Reed smelled the body before they were within a few feet of it. “Christ,” he said, wincing. “Well, that’s different. He let this one rot.”

  “Goddamn, I hate that fucking smell,” Ransom said. “If I haven’t mentioned it before, make sure Cici cremates me. I’m not ever about smelling that way, even when I’m dead.”

  “Noted.”

  So, Reed thought, that’s what they’d meant by odd? Either the killer had let this one rot, or, because of the more isolated location, he’d been sitting there longer than the others before being discovered.

  As they approached the corpse leaning against the gravestone and the smell of decayed flesh intensified, Reed turned around, facing the same direction as the body. Why was he placed here?

  There was a manmade pond visible from that vantage point, but it was probably too far away to be meaningful to the scene. “Do you know who found him?”

  “A city cop doing a detail. It was the guy’s first one here, so it appears that this discovery was random.”

  Huh. Something else odd, in addition to whatever the techs had found.

  Reed looked down, squinting at the stone near his feet, moving the grass aside so he could see the name. He didn’t recognize it, but when he moved to the one beside it, he saw that that one looked newer, the name easily read. “No way.”

  Ransom, who had turned to look in the same direction as Reed walked over to where he stood. “You don’t fucking say.”

  Reed looked at him. “Everett Draper.”

  “Gentlemen,” Lewis called. He was kneeling next to the body a few feet behind them and had probably just noticed their arrival.

  Reed and Ransom turned, walking toward the body, Reed swallowing down his disgust at the stench.

  “Lewis,” Reed greeted. “Any information on the victim’s ID?”

  “Nope. No ID on the guy. We checked his pockets. But, look at this.” Lewis reached a gloved hand up and pushed the man’s head back.

  Reed stared, blinking. The man’s face was a rotted mess of decayed and sunken flesh, his cheek lumpy and . . . moving as maggots squirmed beneath what had once been skin. Even through the carnage of death, he looked . . . familiar. Reed frowned.

  “Damn,” Ransom swore. “Dude’s not just dead. He’s dead.”

  “It’s not just the decomposition that’s a departure from the other victims,” Lewis said. “Take a closer look." He gestured toward the man’s eyes, still intact, just blackened with paint, hardly noticeable in the midst of the rest of the purple and black death palette of what had once been a human face. Reed rubbed his chin. The killer had followed the same MO, but had not removed the eyes and left this one to rot, which made it a different MO entirely.

  “What’s with his legs?” Ransom asked.

  Lewis glanced down and Reed tore his eyes from the DOA’s ravaged face and looked at his legs. They appeared . . . shriveled within the fabric of his pants. Atrophied. Shock slammed into Reed as his gaze flew once again to the man’s face.

  “He was disabled in some way,” Lewis was saying. “He’d have been in a wheelchair.”

  “No,” Reed said.

  “Oh yes, no question.”

  Reed’s mind was reeling. “I don’t get it. This isn’t possible.”

  “I don’t get it either,” Lewis said. “The eye situation is less grisly anyway, but the rest?” He made a face.

  A distant buzzing was growing louder in Reed’s head. “The decomposition,” he managed.

  “Yeah,” Lewis answered. “This guy has been dead for a week, if not a little longer. Also of note, there’s no brand on the back of the neck that I can see, though the skin there is pretty decomposed.” Lewis lifted his head momentarily. “It’s possible he’s been sitting right here, but no one noticed him.” He glanced around. “It’s out of the way. Also, this guy?” He held up the man’s fingers, purple and bent in unnatural positions. “He was tortured. There are wounds all over his body. The killer took a little extra time with him.”

  Reed shook his head, standing, and taking a step backward. “No, not possible.”

  “Oh, it is,” Lewis said, pulling up the man’s sleeve, where several gashes stood out, gaping and dark red against purple, peeling skin. “Look. He’s been burned, stabbed, sliced. Someone really went to town on him.”

  “Not that. Not any of that,” Reed said, shaking his head, his heart pounding. “I know him.”

  “What?” Ransom asked and Lewis looked at him curiously.

  “That’s the former director of Lakeside. Gordon Draper.”

  “Wait, what?”

  “But”—Reed rubbed his temple—"it’s not possible that he’s here. I just talked to him. I just talked to him this morning.” He was breathless, his words staggered, as though he’d just finished a run.

  Ransom was staring at him as if he was watching Reed slowly lose his mind and wasn’t quite sure how to react. Maybe he was losing his mind, because this was absolutely not possible.

  “I talked to him today,” Reed emphasized, as though saying it more than once would cause the mystery to become clear. “I called him after we spoke, Ransom. Today.”

  What’s his endgame do you think, son?

  Son. Reed let out a small sound somewhere between a groan and a gasp for air as he grabbed his skull.

  Oh, dear God.

  No.

  Nonono.

  He turned to Ransom, pulling him aside as Lewis gave them another strange look and went back to work. “It was Charles Hartsman.”

  Ransom’s face screwed up. “Your bio father? Dude. No. Wait, slow down. Talk to me, man.”

  “I talked to Gordon Draper this morning, Ransom. And I talked to him a few days ago too. But that isn’t possible because Gordon Draper was dead.”

  Ransom let out a slow breath. “Shit.” He looked to where there were several uniforms standing near the path, the first officers on the scene most likely, and a few more who they’d probably end up putting at the front gate. The scene was organizing. More CPD employees were arriving. Soon, the place would be swarming. “Do you feel sure about that?”

  “Yes,” Reed said. “Very. No one else could have done an imitation that convincing.” He’d read about his father’s crimes, knew exactly how he’d committed them, convincing even the smartest and most observant people he knew with his dead-on impersonations.

  Reed took a few steps back to Lewis. “Is the cause of death the same as the other victims?” he asked, gesturing to his own neck.

  Lewis looked up. “No, actually. That’s the other odd part. Eyes are intact and this man—Draper, you said?—was killed with a stab wound to the heart.” He used a gloved finger to move the jacket the man was wearing aside, showing a blood-soaked shirt beneath, a black hole directly over the man’s heart. “What do you make of it?”

  Reed’s own heart echoed hollowly. “Okay,” he mumbled, only realizing after he’d walked away that he hadn’t responded to Lewis’s question. He felt like he was trapped underwater.

  “The MO i
s all different,” Reed said. “It’s like he tried to recreate it, but either failed, or didn’t care to get the details right.” He wanted it to appear related but . . . not?

  “So you think the Hollow-Eyed Killer is someone completely different?”

  Reed nodded, even while doubt ricocheted through him. Was he right? Or could Charles Hartsman be the Hollow-Eyed Killer? And if so, why? What motive would he have?

  Casus Belli, Charles Hartsman had written on the wall above what had been believed to be his final victim. The war is ended.

  But maybe that had been a lie?

  “I don’t know, Ransom. I don’t think Charles Hartsman committed the other murders. His physical description is completely different than the one the witnesses who saw Julian Nolan being coerced up the stairwell gave. No, this one”—he gave his head a nod to the body behind him—“seems different. Out of place completely. But . . . we can’t rule anything out.”

  Ransom’s expression held deep worry. “Okay. We’ll call Sergeant Valenti first, and see how he wants to handle this.” Ransom paused. “I think I agree with you though. It doesn’t feel like he’s been our perp all along. But what reason would he have to involve himself in any of it?” he asked. “Charles Hartsman? To come back to Cincinnati, risk getting caught, intrude on an ongoing murder investigation”—he waved over to the prone body of Gordon Draper—“kill again, if he in fact did that as well?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t know.” His father. Charles Hartsman. He’d spoken to his father this morning, not Gordon Draper. He couldn’t fathom why or how, but he knew he was right. He knew he was.

  Why kill Gordon Draper though? Why in the world would Charles Hartsman murder a retired hospital director?

  His mind scrambled, trying to recall what Hartsman had told him.

  He ran a hand through his hair, going back over his conversations with the man over the past week. “He told me about Tribulation,” he said. “He’s the one who gave me that tip.”

  “Okay,” Ransom said, a worried frown creasing his brow. “Listen, let’s let the techs do their job and get out of here. We’ll call Sarge on the way. We’re going to need to get inside Gordon Draper’s house, Reed. And the sooner the better. Then we’ll brainstorm.”