by Mia Sheridan
Oh shit. What if Charles Hartsman was still there? No, he wouldn’t be that stupid. Reed’s mind careened from one thought to another. He’d killed a man and then impersonated him. He wouldn’t be hiding out in his house. They still needed to check it out. And stat.
“Let’s go.”
They jogged to the officers near the road, telling them they had a tip to check out, and to guard the scene closely. “You got it,” one of the men said.
“Did you guys drive together?” he asked the man and his partner. They both nodded. Ransom pulled his keys from his pocket and handed them to the officer. “That’s my car over there,” he said, pointing to the city car he’d driven. “Make sure it gets back to the homicide building?”
“Sure, sir. Will do.”
“Thanks. Appreciate it.”
Thirty seconds later, Reed was pulling out of the cemetery, Ransom in the passenger seat.
Ransom pulled out his phone and Reed heard his sergeant’s barked hello over the line. Ransom filled him in on what they’d discovered at the scene and where they were headed.
“Okay, yeah, we’ll wait,” Ransom said. He responded to a few more barked orders Reed couldn’t make out and then disconnected the call.
“He wants us to wait for some uniforms. He’s sending them from District Two now. Hopefully we’ll arrive about the same time.”
“I need to tell you about the call I made on the way to the scene too. It involves Everett Draper as well.” He told Ransom quickly about Liza’s weekend at Camp Joy and how she’d told him Everett Draper was there with her.
“You’re kidding. Why didn’t she tell us this sooner?”
“Why would she? She had no idea Everett Draper’s name had even come up in the case. And she didn’t have any personal knowledge of him in recent years.”
“All right. But still. What does some camp have to do with any of this?”
“I’m not sure, but something. I called there on the way to the scene. The admin director’s supposed to call me back, but I spoke to a man who said that in all likelihood a group like the one Liza and Everett would have been a part of, would have stayed in a cabin named Buckeye.”
Ransom stared over at him for a moment. “Well, fuck me sideways.”
Reed’s phone rang, showing a similar number to the one he’d dialed earlier. “This is Camp Joy calling now,” he told Ransom. “Detective Davies.”
“Hello, Detective. This is Barbara Guthier with Camp Joy returning your call.”
“Thank you for getting back to me, Ms. Guthier. I’m not sure how much the man I spoke with earlier told you, but I’m looking for information dating back fifteen years.”
“Yes, Zeek told me exactly what you needed. The names of campers who stayed in Buckeye for the weekend as part of a state-run program for kids who’d recently experienced upheaval in their home?”
“Yes. That would be it. I’m not sure of the month, but a teenager named Elizabeth Nolan would have been in the cabin in question.”
“Okay, well that’s helpful. Hold on just a second.” He heard her flipping through papers and after a moment, she came back on the line, “Here we go. Elizabeth Nolan, age thirteen. That was in June.”
“Can you tell me who else was in that cabin with her?”
“I sure can. There were five campers in Buckeye that weekend along with Elizabeth Nolan. Milo Whiting, Sabrina Attenburrow, Everett Draper, and Axel Draper.”
That buzzing noise that had been steadily growing in Reed’s brain since he’d recognized Gordon Draper grew louder now. He knew all those names except one. Axel Draper. Draper.
Everett’s brother?
Reed’s head throbbed. The picture. He’d looked right past him when Gordon Draper had pointed out his grandson’s picture because they’d been discussing Everett. But Reed remembered now.
There had been two boys in the photo.
“I really appreciate the information,” he managed. “If I have any other questions, can I call you directly?”
“Absolutely, Detective. I’m calling from my office number. Feel free to use it should you need anything else.”
He mumbled a thanks and hung up the phone, staring wordlessly ahead at the road disappearing under his car for a moment.
“The other campers,” Reed said. “They were Milo Whiting.”
“Milo Ortiz,” Ransom said. “He took his sister’s husband’s name later. Holy shit. Okay.”
“Sabrina Attenburrow.”
“Sabrina McPhee.”
“Yup. She was married. Attenburrow’s gotta be her maiden name.”
“Everett Draper and Axel Draper.”
Ransom paused. “Axel Draper. His brother.”
“Yes,” Reed said. “Yes. Gordon Draper took both his grandsons in after their parents died in a house fire. They must have both been sent to that camp as a reprieve of sorts between experiencing the loss of their parents and relocating to their grandfather’s home.”
Ransom stared ahead for a moment. “Five of them, you said?”
“Yeah,” Reed answered.
Five angels mistakenly sent to hell.
He looked at Ransom. “They’re the main characters. The angels born in hell.”
Ransom ran a hand over his short-cropped hair. “All right, okay so . . . Axel’s one of them? And these bodies . . . is he leaving them as . . .”
“Gifts,” Reed said. “He’s leaving them as gifts.”
“Goddamn,” Ransom said. “He’s our guy, isn’t he?”
Reed’s heart was pounding. “I think so. I think so, yes.” But where did Hartsman come into this?
And what about Liza? He picked up his phone, his hand somehow steady as he dialed her number. It rang three times . . . four. His skin broke out in a cold sweat.
“That was quick.”
He blew out a harsh breath of pure relief. “You’re okay.”
Liza paused and he heard something rustle. “Yeah, I’m fine. Why? Is everything all right?”
Yes. No. I have no idea. “Things are unfolding, Liza. I just want to make sure you’re okay. Hey, listen, along with Everett Draper, his brother, Axel, was at that camp with you?”
Liza paused again as though trying to recall. “I guess he was there, yes. Honestly, I’d forgotten him. He was very quiet, rarely spoke. Just sort of . . . watched.”
Yes, he had. And he’d seen more than anyone realized. “Okay. Hey, if you remember anything else about him, call me, okay?”
“All right. Why though? Is he part of this?”
“Yes, I think so. I’ll fill you in when I get home. The alarm’s still activated?”
“Yes. I’m all locked up. I’m fine. Reed . . . be careful, okay?”
“I will. Talk to you soon.”
He called Zach’s phone next. “Hey there,” he said, his tone grim. “I just heard. Another one, huh?”
“Yeah. Listen, Zach, Charles Hartsman might be in town. I’ll have to catch you up later, but . . . you might want to head home to Josie.”
There was a beat of silence. Reed heard all Zach wanted to ask in that short pause, but he held it back, knowing he’d get answers later. Trusting Reed. “On my way. Be careful, Reed.”
“I will.”
Reed pulled off the exit toward Gordon Draper’s home.
He dialed the number for Sabrina McPhee’s gallery and when her answering machine picked up a minute later, he hung up. He’d already left several messages. “Fuck,” he murmured. “Something’s not right. Neither Sabrina McPhee nor Milo Ortiz has called me back.” Reed glanced at his phone, keying in a search for the number for Rumpke, the garbage collection company Milo Ortiz worked for. A receptionist answered and Reed told her what he needed and a moment later, she was routing him to Milo Ortiz’s boss.
They pulled into Gordon Draper’s neighborhood. “You’re calling about Milo Ortiz,” a man with a gruff voice asked.
“Yes. My name is Detective Davies, and I have some questions for him but haven’
t been able to get in touch in the last few days.”
“That makes two of us. Ortiz has been a no-show. It happens. But I gotta say, it surprised me. The guy’s always been real reliable. Guess you can’t trust anyone these days.”
Reed managed to rattle off his number and asked the man to call him if he heard from Milo.
“That can’t be good,” Ransom noted, having obviously gleaned the information from Reed’s side of the conversation.
No, no it wasn’t. It felt like Reed’s blood cooled another few degrees. As soon as they were done here, he’d have a couple of uniforms go to their apartments.
They pulled up to the curb in front of Gordon Draper’s home, just as a patrol car rounded the corner coming from the opposite direction. Reed and Ransom got out, and Reed leaned over to address both uniform cops. “We’re going to check things out inside. Watch our backs?”
“Yes, sir. Radio if you need us.”
Reed and Ransom approached the door, drawing their weapons. As they moved closer, Reed saw that the door was cracked open. Everything inside Reed slowed, his focus becoming laser sharp. He glanced at Ransom who nodded, each of them moving to one side of the door. Ransom reached out and used his gun to rap on the glass. “Cincinnati Police!” he yelled.
They waited. No sound came from within, though a small moving shadow caused them both to lean farther back, weapons raised. “Cincinnati Police!” Ransom yelled, louder this time. Ransom caught Reed’s eye. “It’s been a while,” he said. “Still got it in ya?”
He was trying to add some levity, but all Reed could think was that he might be about to come face to face with his father. He’d have to shoot him. He wouldn’t hesitate. Sweat broke out on his brow. He’d make sure Charles Hartsman knew who he was and then he’d put a bullet in his brain. “Let’s do it,” he said, using his foot to push the door all the way open.
A cat meowed, running through the now fully open door, rushing past them. “Fuck!” Reed breathed out, easing his finger off the trigger. He’d almost shot the thing.
He quickly triangulated the open door, his eyes latching on to the overturned wheelchair in the open foyer area. He heard Ransom’s voice, calling the two uniform officers for assistance, and telling them to call for more cars.
The District Two officers were there in less than twenty seconds, their guns drawn as they followed Reed and Ransom into the house, working as a unit to sweep the rooms on the lower floor. Nothing seemed out of place, except the overturned wheelchair. But that wasn’t much of a surprise was it? They already knew Draper was dead.
“Detectives,” one of the officers called. “Over here. There’s a light on in the basement.”
“I’ll take the second floor,” Ransom said, moving toward the staircase, and Reed nodded, walking to where one of the officers had opened the basement door. A dim glow shone from downstairs, coming from one of the rooms beyond. “Cincinnati Police!” Reed yelled, before nodding to the officer. Reed went first, sweeping his weapon around the corner before stepping into the large open area, devoid of anything other than an old, musty-looking couch, and a couple of cardboard boxes in the corner. The light was coming from a room to the back.
His pulse jumped, heartbeat swooshing loudly in his ears. He looked behind him at the officer and the man nodded, indicating he had the rear. “Cincinnati Police!” Reed called once more. With a gasp of breath, he swept the open door, lowering his weapon, as his eyes went wide.
The room was empty, at least of human life.
But . . . he stepped forward. “Oh Jesus,” he choked.
Holy mother of God.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
“I’ve never seen anything like it outside of horror movies,” his sergeant muttered, shaking his head as he looked around the smallish space. “It’s a fucking kill room.”
That was as good a name as any, Reed figured, looking around with revulsion at the table stained with thick dried blood and old stains, to the trays of torture implements of which he didn’t even want to imagine their usage, to the chains and hooks on the walls, and the barred cage built in to the wall in the corner.
People had suffered there. Unimaginably.
One being Gordon Draper himself if the semi-recent pool of congealed blood was any indication.
Reed had been there for almost forty minutes and he still didn’t feel desensitized, cold dread reverberating through him at the thought of the things that had gone on in this dim, dank room of horrors.
“Gordon Draper used this, huh?” Sergeant Valenti asked, leaning over and peering at the dusty tray of tools.
“He had to have,” Reed said. “It was his house.”
“How’d he get up and down the stairs?” Sergeant Valenti asked.
“Maybe he didn’t so much anymore.” Reed thought back to the photos of the man he’d looked at when he’d first visited this house, the photos of a different Gordon Draper. Strong and standing. “He wasn’t always disabled.” And according to the layer of dust on surrounding objects, the room hadn’t been used in some time.
“You think it was Charles Hartsman who made mincemeat of Draper?” his sergeant asked, pointing to the third set of footprints on the floor, the ones that had been there when Reed arrived.
“It had to be him. I believe he impersonated the man. And it would explain the different MO.”
“Motive?” his sergeant asked.
Reed blew out a slow breath. “I don’t know. No fucking idea.”
His sergeant looked up, narrowed his eyes, and peered at him. “You all right, Davies? Does this bring up a conflict of interest? I could recuse you from this case.”
“No.” He took a deep breath. “No, it doesn’t. The fact that Charles Hartsman may be involved, absolutely will not affect my professionalism on this job. I give you my word, Sergeant.”
His sergeant studied him for another moment. “All right. We can’t really afford to lose you anyway. You know this case inside out. But don’t make me regret it.”
“I won’t, sir.” They didn’t have indisputable proof that Charles Hartsman actually was involved at this point. But Reed knew he was. Inside his gut, he knew.
As the sergeant stood looking around at the walls and ceiling, Reed allowed his gaze to follow the third set of prints, a sort of drag mark next to them that Reed assumed must be where Gordon Draper’s feet had trailed along the floor.
At first it had appeared that the footprints led directly to the autopsy-type metal table in the center of the room, and then they overlapped as they took the same path out, presumably sometime later. But now Reed saw that they’d actually deviated slightly from the original path, seeming to stop at a spot closer to the door where more dust was disturbed. As Reed squinted down at the dirty concrete, he noticed that there appeared to be a large, loose section of cement. “Sarge,” he said, and his boss turned toward him. “Look at this.” Reed went over to the section of floor, reached into his pocket, and removed the gloves his sergeant had brought with him when he’d arrived and given to Reed. He maneuvered his fingers in the large cracks at each side until he was able to shift the piece of flooring. It lifted easily and Reed set it aside, both of them peering inside the dirt hole.
“Goddamn,” his sergeant mumbled. Inside were dozens of Polaroids of women, their faces tear-streaked, makeup running down their cheeks and rimming their eyes as they stared terrified into the camera. Reed picked one up, his heart beating dully as he took in the frightened expression of the woman in the picture. There was a name written at the top in black Sharpie, the letters square and blocky: Cora Hartsman, “Mimi.”
Reed stilled.
Hartsman.
Mimi.
The note, the one written to Charles Hartsman on the CPD tipster site. Charlie, I know where Mimi is. She’s my sweet pea, and she did not leave. Contact me.
And he had. This, this was what had lured Charles there.
Had Gordon Draper attempted to contact Charles, or had it been Axel Draper, the o
ld man’s . . . what? Successor?
Mimi. Hartsman.
Charles’s mother.
Gordon Draper had murdered her.
Oh Jesus.
His mind raced as he tried to remember what he knew about Charles’s birth parents. Not much. Just that his mother had been a prostitute and his father a junkie. They’d abandoned him to the system, although later, his mother, apparently clean, attempted to get him back, but was a no-show at the court hearing, as often happened with addicts. Only . . . she hadn’t just been a no-show. Maybe she had been trying.
She hadn’t left him.
She’d been taken.
She’s my sweet pea and she did not leave.
Nausea washed over Reed in a sudden, shocking wave of sickness. He swallowed, focusing back on the photo of the young, scared-looking brunette with red lipstick smeared across her face. This woman is my grandmother. There was something paperclipped to it with a rusty paperclip, and when Reed pulled the photograph aside, he saw it was a seed packet. He stared, another memory tickling the edges of his mind.
I was out back in the garden.
I’d let it get so out of hand . . . untended. Gardening is not the easiest of pastimes for a man in my predicament.
Gardening.
His eyes moved slowly to the seed packet attached to the photo in his hand, already knowing what he would see.
Sweet pea.
“This is Charles Hartsman’s mother,” Reed said. “It has to be why he murdered Gordon Draper.”
His sergeant paused, his brow twitching as he took the photo from Reed and looked at it, obviously noting the last name. “We’ll check it out.”
Reed nodded numbly, picking up another photo.
Each photo in the dirt hole had a paperclip attaching a seed packet to it.
“The garden,” Reed said, meeting his sergeant’s eyes. “These women . . . they’re buried in his garden.”
They heard the sounds of footsteps on the stairs and stood, turning as the first of the criminalists entered the room. “Davies. You’re bound and determined to have us running all over town today, aren’t you?” Lewis said as he entered, coming to a standstill as he looked around at the chamber of death. “This isn’t good.”
