by Jette Harris
“My scholarship bought me a laptop. I watch the news on that. I’ve had trouble keeping my grades up this month. My instructors understand, but… there’s still no excuse.”
“In that case, you understand how important it is for you to be one hundred percent honest with me.”
“He called me.”
All the air drained from Steyer’s lungs. He took a deep breath. “When?”
“After the funeral… I was angry. I was scared. The phone kept ringing, but when anyone answered, the caller would hang up. One day, I was home alone. The phone rang. I wasn’t allowed to answer the phone when I was home alone, but I did anyway. I thought they were gonna hang up! The first thing he says is, ‘Don’t hang up, please. It’s Detective Hunter.’ I say, ‘I know you’re not a detective.’ Except I was still talkin’ like trash, so it was probably more like, ‘I know you ain’t no cop. You that bird; You killed my mommy.’”
“How did he respond to that?”
“He didn’t at first. He was quiet for a long time. I was afraid he was going to hang up. I didn’t want him to, so I said, ‘You’re a liar!’ That got him going. ‘I didn’t lie to you,’ he said. ‘I was going to let your mother go, but when I got back to the House, she was already dead.’ He told me, when he got back to the house, Ian had gotten loose and murdered my mother and one of the others.” She was silent for a moment. “Is that possible, Agent Steyer?”
Steyer drummed his fingers over his forehead, then sifted through the file. The bodies and the house were too badly burnt for a conclusive autopsy, but it appeared two of the bodies—identified as Laila Speers and Benedict Criss—were mutilated before the fire, while Ian’s body was mostly in-tact, only his skull was shattered.
“The evidence would support that account,” he replied. “What else did he say?”
Hailey took a deep breath. “He said, ‘I make a point always to keep my promises, but your mother was already dead when I made that promise.’ Then he hung up.”
Flicking the folder shut, Steyer rubbed his brow. If she had told him this when it had occurred, or the next time he spoke with her, he could have traced the call. It was possible at least seven people would still be alive. But not now.
“Agent Steyer, why would he do that? Why would he apologize? He kills people—what does he care about a little kid?”
“I have a theory.”
“He never touched me.”
“I know,” he assured her. “I believe you.”
“Agent Steyer, do you think he’s going to come for me? Am I in danger?”
Steyer took a deep breath. “No, Hailey, I don’t.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“Because he knew you as a child.”
73
Rhodes had to get away from the house. He had rubbed his skin raw, but could not get the feeling of rancid blood off. He jumped the back gate and climbed into the Jeep. He took several deep, even breaths, and checked in the rear-view mirror to make sure—again—he had washed all of Z’s blood off his face.
Settling back into his seat, he pulled the burn phone from his center console and slid the battery into place.
2 MESSAGES RECEIVED
JAMAL BYRON
20/5/06
Knocking out 3 houses 2nite. Wanna join?
22/5/06
Did u evr make tht list of vacant houses?
Rhodes huffed and let his head fall against the window. He needed to see that map. He needed to start wrapping up this Sabbatical so he could just strike a match and board his flight. Neither of those things seemed so easy now. If Byron is looking for more addresses, they must almost be done with the list they already had.
Rhodes twisted in his seat to look back at the house with the sudden sensation Steyer and Remington could be pulling up to the gate right now. It looked so calm from the outside, but they would be two corpses too late.
Turning the phone off and disassembling it, Rhodes took a deep breath. He tugged at the hair on the back of his head, gradually slowing. He dropped his hand and straightened.
(Steyer and Remi would be two hostages too late… but I have three corpses…)
Rhodes shoved the door open and ran back toward the house.
74
Dispatcher: 9-1-1. Is this a medical emergency?
Caller: Oh, no. I was walking my dog on one of the Kennesaw Mountain trails and we smelled somethin’ real bad. We followed our noses and found a body off… about ten meters off the trail.
Dispatcher: A human body?
Caller: Oh, yeah! Looks young, too. Could be one of them kids, you know?
Dispatcher: Do you know the name of the trail you’re on?
Caller: Oh, it’s off… uh… Callaway Road.
Dispatcher: Can you name an intersection? Any landmarks?
Caller: Mmm…
Click.
Dispatcher: Sir? Hello? Are you there?
****
Remington stroked his cheek with the back of his hand, an energy drink poised on his lip.
“What’s on your mind?” Steyer looked up from his new notes on the Detroit file.
“I got bored last night and turned on the TV. Watched the first few episodes of X-Files.” Remington finally took a drink. “I kinda dozed off, but something… tugged at my mind. Lauri said Tech’s dog tags were on Heather’s keychain, with her car keys?”
Steyer nodded. He put his coffee cup down.
“Have we recovered any car keys? Ever?”
Steyer knitted his brow. He skimmed the evidence boxes in his mind. He had spent hours—entire nights—pouring over them after returning from Detroit, looking at each piece individually and spreading them all across the floor to see if he could make sense of anything. To double-check, he crossed to his desk and pulled out a folder labelled PHOENIX, PHX—1994. He pulled out the list of items recovered from the crime scene. There were two padlock keys and two sets of handcuff keys, but no car keys or keychains. He picked up the folder labelled PHOENIX, DTW—1997. The list here was significantly shorter; The fire had done its job with disappointing efficiency. Like Arizona, there were padlock keys, but no car keys.
The San Francisco file was tome-like in comparison. Steyer had to put down the two slender folders to lift it. Since the fire had only consumed part of the house, they were able to recover a long list of items. Steyer skimmed it, running his finger down each column. There were only two keys: One key for the front and back door, and one for the interior doors.
“No,” Steyer said, looking back up.
“Chuck and Heather were abducted at their cars; Both would have had their keys on them—their vehicles may have even been running. In that case, he would have actually had to reach in and pull the keys from the ignition. If not, he returned everything but their keys.”
“He is keeping souvenirs.” Steyer raised his hand to his mouth. “Remi, you’re brilliant.”
“Well, yeah, but—”
A loud knock made them turn to the door. Chief Collins didn’t wait for them to invite him in, but stuck his head inside. “Dispatch just received a call. Someone reported finding the body of a young man.”
Steyer and Remington looked at one another with identical expressions of confusion.
75
Byron was surprised to look at his ringing phone and see Steyer’s name. He cleared his throat before answering with his last name.
“Officer Byron, we need you to come in early,” the agent said.
Byron’s heart raced. Hope rose in his chest. “What can I do for you?”
“Meet us at the Cheatham Hill Kennesaw Mountain parking lot.” Steyer took a deep breath. “We might need you to identify a body.”
The air drained from Byron’s lungs. He leaned against his kitchen counter and slowly sank to the floor.
“Officer Byron?”
“I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”
****
Byron’s hands were shaking so badly, he couldn’t button the top buttons
of his shirt. When he pulled into the parking lot, Detective Young was waiting to guide him up. Byron walked up to her shaking his head.
“Body is definitely male,” she informed him, taking command of his buttons.
Byron took a deep breath and lowered his head until he regained control of his body.
“Ready?”
Nodding, Byron followed her. After about a quarter of a mile, a group of uniforms, brown, blue, and green, milled on the edge of the trail. A row of little orange flags and a line of police tape guided them through the woods. Over a ridge, Agents Steyer and Remington stood by a brown mass of cloth among the leaves covering the ground. The breeze carried the sewage-like stench of decay up to them.
“I don’t see any obvious cause of death, but he was definitely dumped here,” Remington was saying. “The body’s decomposing, but there isn’t any… slime on the ground underneath. It’s been sitting around somewhere else for a while.”
Byron’s stomach turned.
“Officer.” Steyer looked Byron over, noting his paleness. “We’re fairly certain this is neither Zachariah Vlasov nor Charles Witt. But we’d like confirmation before we make any assumptions.”
Remington knelt by the cloth, a wool blanket. “Ready?”
Byron nodded. Remington pulled the blanket back. Byron furrowed his brow. He stepped closer, finding a bearded face among a mass of long, wiry hair. He shook his head.
“Definitely not Witt,” he said, “or Z.” He crouched down beside the body, breathing easier despite the smell. Tilting his head, his lips parted slightly. He jumped up.
“You OK?” Remington flicked the blanket back over the face.
“That’s—” Byron pointed to the body, then turned from Remington to Steyer to Young, the familiar face. “It’s Michelle.”
“Michelle?” Steyer asked, raising his brow.
“Mich—Michael. Michael Menter.”
Young shook her head. “No…” She crouched and pulled back the blanket again. A long, slow exhale indicated her surrender. She nodded. “Bless his heart,” she muttered, throwing the blanket back down.
“Her heart,” Byron corrected in a low voice.
Remington spread his hands. “His or her?”
Byron’s mouth twisted, unsure of how to answer.
“Her,” Steyer replied firmly, furiously scribbling notes. “How do you know her?”
“She graduated the year before me. She was savin’ up for hormone replacement therapy. but her parents kicked her out. Washed their hands of her.” He ran a hand over his face and turned away.
“Do her parents still live in the area?”
“They live a few miles from here,” Young replied.
“We’ll send a unit over to notify them, see if we can get a definite ID.”
“They won’t come,” Byron muttered. “They don’t care.”
The corner of Steyer’s mouth twitched. “You would be surprised how some parents respond to news of their child’s death.”
Byron lifted his hands to his head, hoping it would make it easier to breathe. Steyer nodded to Young, dismissing them. She placed a hand on Byron’s back and guided him away.
****
“You will be relieved to hear Mr. and Mrs. Menter will reclaim—” Steyer grimaced. “—Michael. They will give… him… a proper burial.”
Byron scowled and turned away, but nodded. He didn’t see Steyer catch Kondorf’s eye and dismiss him with a nod.
“I’m going to see if I can’t find any sugar for my coffee,” Kondorf said. He wandered off in the opposite direction of the coffee station.
Steyer leaned on Kondorf’s desk. “Did you know Mr. Menter is actually Judge Menter?”
Byron nodded coldly.
“He’s going to sign off on a warrant stating we can investigate any vacant property, so long as we attempt to notify the property owner beforehand. There are stipulations, of course, but nothing that will slow us down significantly.”
“Good,” Byron murmured, nodding. “I’ll call Mrs. Vlasov and have Kondorf call the Witts, just in case they heard anything and were worried.” He took a deep breath and reached for the phone, but Steyer stayed his hand.
“Were you and Michelle good friends?”
Byron leaned back and looked away. Pursing his lips, he shook his head.
“You seemed a bit more upset identifying her than when you were worried it might be Charles Witt.”
“This is my fault.”
“Did you kill her?”
“No, but—”
“Then this is not your fault, officer.”
“I know what you mean, but it feels like my fault. Her dad wasn’t really around much, so she could get away with wearing feminine clothes to school. For her senior prom, my junior prom, she and I went together as a joke. But when I took her home, you know… she kissed me. It freaked me out a bit, but nowhere near as much as when her dad walked out.”
“Ah.”
“He didn’t say a word, but the look on his face! I booked.” He pursed his lips and shook his head. “I should’ve stayed. I should’ve taken her with me.”
“Did he beat her?”
“I don’t know. She didn’t come back to school. She didn’t walk at graduation.” He sighed.
“Officer Byron… Jamal, what happened to Michelle Menter is not your fault.”
“I know.”
“You were just a by-stander.”
“I could’ve helped.”
“That still does not make it your fault.”
Byron’s radio squawked and he jumped. He chuckled at himself, shaking his head as the dispatcher called in a car accident a few blocks away.
“Do you feel a bit better?” Steyer asked.
“Yeah.”
“Good. Now, go.” He clapped a hand on the officer’s shoulder. “Help people.”
76
Remington, Steyer, Young, Kondorf, and Byron pushed two desks together and pulled chairs up to them. A half-empty Krispy Kreme box posed as their centerpiece. They passed around stacks of paper, manila folders, emailed memos, making notes of their own, occasionally asking questions or making comments.
This impromptu, sugar-fueled meeting in the early hours of the morning was brought on by a deluge of lab results over the past two days. They did not have to compete with boxes, bodies, or other unpleasant red herrings, just the clock. They read in silence until Young held her memo up.
“Preliminary reports say there was a horse hair on Michelle Menter’s blanket.” She raised a questioning eyebrow.
“Like from a brush or something?” Remington asked.
She shook her head. “Lab says it doesn’t look processed.”
“Huh.” Remington scratched his chin and shrugged.
“There was a lot of horsehair in Phoenix,” Steyer said, “because the shack was on a horse ranch that had folded two years before.”
They looked back down at their reports. Byron looked around, eager to contribute. “Kerosene was used as the accelerant in Beaumont’s patrol car. Was kerosene also used at the other sites?”
Remington shook his head.
“Kerosene was used in San Francisco,” Steyer said. “It was very efficient until the fire department got there. Gasoline was used in Detroit. That fire went out when the house exploded—which gasoline will do. In Phoenix, it doesn’t appear he used any chemical accelerants. The bodies burned, but the structure was largely intact.”
“He’s learning as he goes.”
They all nodded.
“More traces of silicone gel on the Tazer cap found under Heather’s car,” Remington said, “Michael Dovale’s cell phone, and the putty knife from the district office.”
“He’s either really careful to put it on, or always wearing it,” Young commented.
Steyer raised his brow. “My money would be on ‘very careful.’”
“Why is that?” Byron asked.
“He likes the sensory experience too much to dampen it.”
“He likes to get his hands dirty?” Young asked.
Kondorf cleared his throat. “It’s like a condom.”
Byron snorted and turned his attention back to the report in his hands. His eyes didn’t move over the paper, though. His dark complexion reddened.
Remington leaned across the table. “Officer Byron—”
Byron jerked his head up.
“You OK? Your face is red.”
Byron opened his mouth, but didn’t answer immediately. “Yeah. Oh, yeah. Sorry. Just… reading the Beaumont report, imagining the—uh—incident at the Krispy Kreme.” He cleared his throat. “Wild.”
Around the table, brows rose and heads bobbed in agreement.
“Excuse me.” Byron slid the Beaumont report over to Kondorf and made a beeline for the bathroom.
D THRACE
20/5/06
Knocking out 3 houses 2nite. Wanna join?
22/5/06
Did u evr make tht list of vacant houses?
23/5/06
Hey
I need 2 tlk 2 smo let me know whn ur free
25/5/06
Gt 3 more houses to check out. Wanna join?
77
Taps emitted from Steyer’s pocket as he reached to unlock the hotel room. He juggled his briefcase and the keycard as he answered it with an eager expression.
“Steyer.”
The eager expression faded into disappointment, but rebounded with a soft smile. Remington realized the caller must be Johnny.
“Let me get settled in and plug my phone in to charge,” Steyer said. “I’ll call you right back.”
Steyer hung up and pushed the door open. Remington followed him in, dropped his briefcase on the floor, and collapsed face-first onto the bed. His skin felt sticky and his back was sore. They had covered seven houses that day, and three of them required forced entry. The heat had grown oppressive before ten in the morning, and grew muggier as the day wore on. Black clouds gathered over them like spectators to their repeated failures.
