As soon as he’d made the connection he’d driven over here and waited. Followed Dwight to and from work, discovered his lonely shift at the box factory. Had even sat high on a perch overlooking the warehouse floor, witnessing Dwight’s clumsy, ham-handed attempts at mimicry. He winced at the memory; the clod couldn’t even successfully torture someone to death. He was so incompetent his victim had managed to kill himself first.
He’d followed Dwight to a barbecue, watched from across the street as he drank himself into a state of advanced inebriation, then swerved back to the factory and loaded the body into his car. He hadn’t even bothered to wrap it, the man had noted with disdain, just dumped it in the plastic-lined trunk of his junky Tercel. It was a miracle that Dwight had made it to the dump site and back without a routine traffic stop, which would have ruined everything. He wasn’t surprised when Dwight left the body in a park adjoining his own property, the bumbling fool probably thought that was enough to implicate him. His daughters played in that park sometimes, he thought, seething. After what he’d been subjected to these past few weeks, he intended to make Dwight suffer. And then he meant to kill him.
Once Dwight left his dump site, he’d placed what was left of the boy in a special hatch in his truck and drove back to his workshop. It had taken the rest of the night to clean him up, removing all forensics evidence. In his stupor Dwight had even forgotten to gouge out the eyes, the man thought. Disappointing, really, to have attracted such a bungling nemesis. But at least it had given him an impetus to hone his skills further, kept him sharp when he’d been starting to get sloppy.
His face curved into a smile as he pictured Dwight’s reaction to the news. As he watched through high-powered binoculars, Dwight stood on his front porch scanning the newspaper headlines. He had an eager expression on his face, like a kid at Christmas. The man shook his head slightly and set down the binoculars as he said aloud, “Don’t worry, Dwight, they’ll find your boy today. Just not where you left him.”
Monica sighed. She’d been banging on doors all day, trying to track down this Jordan kid. She closed her eyes for a minute as she ran a hand through her hair, feeling sections that had stiffened with dried sweat. She flinched as an image of Danny’s tortured body flashed across her mind. You’d think it would get easier, seeing the next victim, but it didn’t.
She’d managed to track down Tony, the bartender from Club Metro, but he hadn’t seen Jordan in a few weeks.
“Probably took off, to be honest,” he’d concluded with a shrug. “Season ended early this year, because of all the…well, you know.” He’d rubbed his muttonchop sideburns thoughtfully. “If he’s anywhere around here, he’s probably crashing at somebody’s house.” He’d given her the names of Jordan’s past boyfriends, then grabbed her hand as she was leaving. “You know, these are good kids, mostly. Lost, but good kids. They don’t deserve this.”
“Hell, no one does,” she agreed.
Now she was knocking on the door of the third house down the list. So far, the first house she’d visited was already sealed up for the winter. The caretaker who answered her knock said the owner had gone back to New York, and he had no idea if there was a young man with him. The second guy was in the middle of packing when she showed up. He was nice enough, said he hadn’t seen Jordan in a few weeks; the good-looking kid helping him pack was probably the reason why. She had two other names on her list, then she was out of options.
It was another beautiful house, she thought as she gazed wistfully from the front porch down the sweeping expanse of lawn. Gabled, with fancy teak furniture scattered across the porch and probably even nicer stuff inside. Not that she minded her place, she reminded herself. It had suited them just fine over the years. In fact, once Zach left for college, it would probably feel huge to her. Part of her hated the fact that that day was rapidly approaching. Zach had his first real girlfriend now, a pretty little thing with dark hair and light eyes. In spite of herself, Monica felt a pang of jealousy when she caught the expression on Beenie’s face as he gazed at her. That was the curse of being a mother, she reminded herself; they never stopped being the center of your life, but you sure as hell stopped being the center of theirs.
She heard footsteps and instinctively stepped to the side. The door opened, and a good-looking guy in his forties stuck his head out.
“Oh, hello, Officer,” he said with surprise. “What can I do for you?”
She put on her most winning smile. “Sorry to trouble you, sir, but I’m looking for Jordan Davenport.”
“Why? Did he do something?” He looked concerned and stepped forward, blocking the door with his body.
Monica shook her head vigorously. “Nope, nothing like that. Just turns out he might have some information for us, about a friend of his.” She leaned forward slightly.
“Oh, okay,” the man said uncertainly, then called over his shoulder. “Jordan! Someone’s here for you.”
Jordan slouched to the door a minute later. Monica had to resist the urge to throw her arms around him—all morning she’d been picturing him lying dead in a forest somewhere. “Well all I can say is thank God, Jordan. Honestly, I wasn’t sure I’d see you alive again.”
“What? Why not?” He scuffed his feet on the carpet. “What do you want?”
“Danny’s dead, Jordan.” She watched him. A shadow crossed over his eyes, but the rest of his face remained expressionless, a stolid mask. Her heart ached for this kid, what he must have suffered through to be so numb.
“I don’t know anything about that,” he said, surly.
“We’re not blaming you for it, Jordan. I just need to ask you a few questions.”
“Like what?”
“Like, did Danny ever make it back to the house after we left?”
Jordan shrugged and propped his body against the doorsill. “Dunno. I took off right afterward.”
“And you haven’t been back since?”
“Hell no. Got chased out of there, the owner showed up and said we had to clear out. Threatened to turn us all in unless we started paying rent.”
Monica cocked her head to the side. That was odd timing. “Yeah? Who’s the owner?”
Jordan avoided her eyes. “I don’t know, some guy.”
“You ever seen him before?”
Jordan shook his head. “I’ve only been crashing there since July.”
“So who paid the rent for you all?” Monica asked, puzzled.
Jordan shrugged. “Some guy. I never met him before, it just gets set up every year.”
“What, at the same house?”
Jordan nodded in response. “Yeah, the guy covers the summer, June through August, then we gotta clear out. I figured I’d try to catch a few extra days, you know, until I got a ride somewhere. But the owner said get out, so I came here.” He glanced over his shoulder. His sugar daddy had disappeared into the depths of the house, but was probably eavesdropping from somewhere nearby.
“So let me get this straight,” Monica said slowly. “Every year you guys show up, and someone’s already paid the rent. You crash there all summer, then clear out come fall.”
“Yup.”
“Did anyone ever mention meeting this guy that’s so generous?”
“Nope. I just figured it was one of the guys from Metro.” Jordan leaned forward and dropped his voice. “The money some of these assholes got? You wouldn’t believe.”
“I’ll bet,” Monica said. “So what did the owner look like?”
“Good-looking,” Jordan said appreciatively. “Not too old, maybe around your age. I offered to do him if he’d let me crash a few extra days, but he wasn’t having it. I didn’t get a vibe off him.”
“Meaning what? You don’t think he was gay?”
He shrugged again and slouched lower against the door. “Dunno. He was dressed pretty nice, but like I said, no vibe. Most guys, even if they don’t want to fuck you, you kinda know.”
“Okay,” Monica said. “Any idea who Danny might’ve gone off with?
Jordan’s lip started bleeding a little where he was gnawing on it. “He was freaked, said he wasn’t going off with anyone he didn’t know. Even said maybe he’d go home for a while, and Danny…he wasn’t crazy about home.”
“Can you give me a list of some of the people he dated this summer?”
“Yeah, but they mostly took off already,” Jordan’s eyes and voice both dropped as he asked, “Was it bad? What they did to him?”
“Yeah, it was real bad.” Monica again fought the urge to pull him in for a hug. Standing there, he looked so alone and fragile. With his mop of blond hair, he reminded her a little of Zach. “So listen up. You trust this guy?” She jerked her head toward the house.
Jordan nodded slowly. “Yeah, he’s one of the good ones.”
“And he’s going to take you with him?”
“He says so. We’re supposed to bail tomorrow.”
“Okay, I want a number where I can reach you. And here’s my card.” She paused, flipped the card over, and scribbled on it before handing it over. “That’s my cell. If anything goes wrong and you need a place to crash, you give me a call, hear?”
“Yeah, sure.” He examined the card for a minute, then tucked it in his pocket. “Thanks.”
“No problem. Now go get me that number.”
“Okay.” He walked a few steps away, then turned back. “Did you figure out who the others were, the first ones you found?”
Monica shook her head. “Not yet. We’re working on it.”
Jordan stared at the floor, and said, “One of them might be named Freddy.”
“Freddy what?”
“Freddy Robbins. I thought he just took off last summer, but then…usually you run into the other guys somewhere, you know? And I haven’t seen him.”
“Anyone else like that you can think of?” Jordan nodded. Monica spoke briskly, employing the same tone she used to get Zach to do something. “So write their names down, too. And send your friend out, I want to have a few words.”
Dwight paced across his tiny bedroom in a panic. He felt the walls crumbling, his world coming down around him, and in desperation he was yanking at the remaining tendrils of hair that wound down his neck with one hand while the other rapped a beat in the air. In spite of himself he couldn’t stop humming, that Peter and the Wolf song he’d loved when he was a kid. It was blasting in his head at top volume, so loud he couldn’t believe his mother couldn’t hear it.
Stupid bitch. She’d given him hell yesterday for coming home drunk. She was threatening to commit him again if he didn’t stop, said she could see the sickness coming back. He wouldn’t go, wouldn’t lose another three years in that goddamn place with their goddamn doctors and goddamn arts and crafts. “Doesn’t matter now, though, doesn’t matter…” he mumbled as he turned again, took three steps, turned by the bed and headed back for the door. If the CIA found out what he’d done, they’d never take him. Weren’t supposed to kill people until after you got in. He’d known that but had forgotten, somehow. He’d gotten distracted. It was all the Captain’s fault—Dwight saw what’d been done to those boys and wondered what it felt like. It wasn’t his fault, really. He’d explain that to them and they’d understand…
The broken shades were pulled closed. In the half-light that filtered through, the contours of the room were barely visible. The ceiling was low and composed of cheap tiles that hung just two feet above his head. A bed in the corner was a mass of tangled sheets; mounds of filthy clothing and dirty plates exuded a musty smell. The only clear illumination in the room came from a computer screen that glowed from a small desk set in the corner, one of those cheap pasteboard ones that were always on sale. A headline on the screen blared, Serial Killer Strikes Again In New York.”
He rubbed his face with both hands and shook his head, trying to jar the song loose, but only succeeded in making it louder. He knew he had to do something but couldn’t decide what. Work started in a few hours, but he was afraid they’d be waiting for him there. He’d cleaned up the warehouse as best as he could, but maybe he’d missed something. He should never have done those tequila shots at the barbecue, they’d fucked him up. It still didn’t make any sense. He’d been hammered, but so hammered that he thought he dumped the kid somewhere else? The whole point had been to leave him right on that bastard’s doorstep, so they’d take a closer look at the Captain. Hell, he’d never even been to Grafton Lake, probably couldn’t find it sober if he tried. So what the fuck?
Dwight plopped down on the bed, exhausted. It occurred to him that maybe the Captain was on to him, that he was being played, too. Probably not, but if he had it figured out…then Dwight was royally screwed, it would ruin the whole plan. He scratched at the growth of beard on his chin and deliberated. Finally, he stood and slapped on some deodorant, then gave his uniform a sniff. A little rank, but it could go one more day, he decided. He pulled it on, fastened his holster, then dug around his closet until he found what he was looking for. Either way, it was time to start the second phase of his plan.
Twenty-One
“Agent Jones, would you mind taking a look at this?”
Kelly glanced up. Colin Peters was holding out a stack of files. He appeared concerned. “What are they?” she asked.
He hesitated before saying, “Suspicious death reports. When I talked to Stacey—she’s new to records, just started last week—she mentioned coming across them and thought I might be interested since the deceased are all young males age eighteen to twenty-four. Skeletal remains.”
Kelly shuffled through the files, brows furrowing as she did. “How far do these go back?”
“I haven’t been through all of them yet, but so far—at least a decade. And then I came across this.”
The outside of the file was stamped “Accidental Death.” Kelly flipped it open, scanned the page quickly. “This one is five years old?” she asked after a minute, looking up at him.
“Yup.”
“What does it have to do with our case?” Kelly asked.
Colin hesitated briefly then said, “I think it’s pretty apparent, once you read through it. Listen, I don’t want to make trouble here. But check out the name of the investigating officer.” He nodded at the file.
Kelly scanned down the page until she found the right line. Her lips pursed, and she said, “I’m going to hold on to these until I finish going through them myself, okay?”