Garage Sale Stalker (Garage Sale Mysteries) (29 page)

CHAPTER 67

F
ollowing his mo
rning meeting
with Greg Bromley, Adam drove across the gently rolling green hills of pastoral Virginia countryside to his impromptu appointment with the commandant of the military school which Ruger once attended. After a productive forty-five minute interview there, he returned to Fairfax County by 3:30 p.m. to meet with the Medical Examiner. His watch showed 4:00 as he drove toward the police station to prepare his case report.

When his phone rang, dispatcher Akeesha’s melodic voice sounded in his ear. “If this is hero-of-the-moment, Detective Iverson, McManus wants to see you in his office when you finish with the M. E. Oh, and you have two messages from a pretty little voice named Hannah.”

Adam brightened. “Thanks, Akeesha.”

Twenty minutes later, he pulled into the police station parking lot and in another five he knocked on Number One’s door.

“Come on in, Adam,” Jim McManus welcomed him enthusiastically.

A big, broad, animated, fiftyish man of Irish descent, McManus had a thick head of wavy gray-streaked black hair and bushy brows above expressive hazel eyes that brimmed with life—twinkling when he joked, which was often, and piercingly inquisitive when all-business. Above his disarming smile were the keen mind and sharp eyes of the detective he was for twenty-three years.

Demanding as it was, straight police work comprised only part of McManus’ challenge in privileged Vienna, McLean and Great Falls; inevitable exposure to politics, the rest. Congressmen, senators, lobbyists and all the wealthy in Fairfax County expected—sometimes demanded—preferential treatment. Moreover, the proximity of this upscale suburb to the nation’s capital lured embassy personnel, adding confusion where cultural distinctions, language differences and diplomatic immunity complicated police issues. All things considered, McManus handled his nearly impossible task with remarkable skill.

Sure, he was the boss, but Adam liked him anyway.

“Good to see you, lad. You’re here straight from the M.E.? Good! So, what did we learn from Mr. Ruger Yates?”

“Remember telling me to pay attention and I’d learn something new every day on the job?” Adam began as his boss nodded and leaned back in his chair. “I thought the plastic safety cap that snaps over a hypodermic needle gave foolproof accident protection. But the M.E. reminded me those needle caps snap right off when ready for use. In Yates’s case, the needle cap worked free and unsnapped so that when he fought with us, the unprotected part of the needle broke off. The larger piece of the broken needle stayed in the detached cap, but enough needle stub remained on the syringe to jab through his clothes and into his skin. The plunger must have pushed home when I tackled him at the end of our scuffle.”

“Scuffle, was it? I hear that hardly describes it,” McManus chuckled. “So what was in the syringe?”

“The toxicology report says it’s a deadly poison taken from certain dart frogs in Central and South America. Sounded sci-fi to me since frogs here are harmless, but Yates had access to bizarre stuff through his Special Forces connections.”

“Frog poison? Hah, I thought I’d heard everything but that is a new one. And just how do they get the frog to cooperate?” McManus flashed his famous smile, eyebrows raised.

“Toxicology says they ‘agitate’ the frog so he excretes this poison out of pores in his back.”

McManus chuckled. “Now, how the hell do you
agit
ate
a frog?”

“The natives poke a stick down its throat and if that doesn’t do it, they use the stick as a handle to hold the frog over fire. Stuff like that.”

“So poison he intended for others got him instead! Some poetic justice there, don’t you think?”

“Yes, but he was also stabbed in the abdomen with a four-inch screwdriver. The M.E. says,” Adam read from his notes, “‘a two centimeter laceration punctured the subject’s descending sigmoid colon on the lower left side. Besides causing pain and some bleeding, that wound would have needed suturing and a drain within another few hours for him to survive.’ Obviously, the fist fight with us messed it up even more.”

“So he was going out one way or the other, eh? Well, he
did
save the taxpayers the bundle for his prosecution, jailing and execution. And who knows better than we do that sometimes the guilty get off during trial after all, despite our efforts.” McManus sat up. “What else?”

Adam told him about the Bromley interview. “The man honestly thought he rescued the boy and put him in a safe place. But knowing now about the nine murders, he’s carrying a load of guilt for not intervening differently.” Adam then described his visit with the military school’s commandant that corroborated Bromley’s earlier information. “Bromley located her surviving son and heir in the US Army after Mrs. Yates died. That soldier was Ruger Yates.”

“Anything revealing in his service report?”

“Actually, yes. You know how secretive those covert guys are, so most of his file is censored. But I phoned a friend of mine in Special Forces. He didn’t know Yates but knew of him. He told me Yates was under suspicion for the disappearances of three women near different bases where he was stationed. Their bodies were never found but he was the last known person seen with them. With only circumstantial evidence against him, they took no official action. Instead, they got rid of their problem each time by transferring him to a new assignment.”

“So a pattern fits?”

“Yes, Sir,” Adam agreed. “According to my friend, Yates had impressive sharpshooter rifle skills. Even so, with those unresolved cases, the Army wasn’t entirely disappointed when he resigned to go home to take over the property he inherited.”

“And we inherited something too, didn’t we…” McManus said, “…a serial killer!”

CHAPTER 68

M
cManus answered the p
hone,
made the call short, and returned to Adam’s briefing. “So it turns out the perp had a wee fetish, did he?” McManus queried.

“He sure did! Until we found his victims’ purses hidden under his office floorboards, those Army cases remained unsolved. What a break that the handbags contained their original contents, expecially the women’s ID’s.”

“He liked trophies, eh?” McManus said. “So we solved nine crimes with one: the two lucky women you rescued here in the nick of time, the three he did in the service, another from Maryland plus one from Pennsylvania and the two who were our own unfortunate McLean casualties. What about the digging at the Yates property?”

“It’s a fifteen-acre farm. Graves could be anywhere. We’re using cadaver dogs to locate bodies. The remains of the two local adult females you just mentioned were found five feet deep and not near each other. We assume who they are from the degree of corpse decomposition and the purse information under the floorboards, but not which one is which. Their dental and DNA should be in tomorrow. We’re still looking for more bodies. But here’s an odd twist. The graves with the women’s bodies were unmarked, but the mound near the house with a cross on top that looks like a grave was empty.

“Figure that one!” McManus gave a mirthless chuckle.

“Here’s another hard one: why did the mother continue the abuse the father started once he was sent away to that institution? She had to be half nuts herself by then to keep assaulting her children. We’ve pieced together things done to these little boys that were...” he groped for words, “...worse than POW interrogations, and these were just kids! Whatever child protection programs they had back then must have been underfunded and overworked.”

McManus gave another wry laugh, “…just as they are now. It’s mighty tough work they do.”

“Sir, I happen to know firsthand that our county’s Child Protective Service is an effective operation. I investigated one report myself and saw how they rescued the kid, arranged his rehabilitation treatment and provided information for us to arrest and prosecute the abuser.”

A frown darkened McManus’ expression as he shook his head in disgust. “After all these years on the force, I still can’t stomach this damn brutality to the little ones. We think we’ve seen everything, don’t we, lad? Then this comes along.” McManus changed the subject. “Mrs. Shannon stumbled into Yates via that garage sale ruse, right? The other dead women can’t tell us how he lured them, but has the young girl revealed how he got her?”

“Yes and, Sir, you may want to advise the media about this for public awareness. He took Tina MacKenzie at a fast-mart store around 10:00 p.m. She says the area was nearly deserted except for a black pickup truck that pulled up next to her. She made a purchase, returned to her vehicle and locked its door. She was about to start her car when he tapped on her window. She was wary but the man was neatly-dressed, gave her a friendly smile and didn’t try to jerk her car door open. This was a public place, so she felt safe. Then he held up a five dollar bill and told her through the closed window that she’d dropped it when she left the store. She thought he was nice to return the money instead of pocketing it. So she rolled down the window to take the cash and thank him for his honesty. Adam paused, picturing the scene.

“And...” McManus pressed.

“And when the window was open he pressed a smelly, damp cloth hard against her face. Probably chloroform or an equivalent. It happened so fast, she couldn’t scream or defend herself. Nobody witnessed the incident to help her. The store clerk saw and heard nothing, or so he said. He didn’t even recognize her picture… and no surveillance tapes because their cameras were broken. Possibly Yates disabled them earlier. The girl woke up gagged and restrained in the front seat of Yates’s pickup truck. Back at his house, he locked her in that cellar ‘confinement box,’ the same one where he put Mrs. Shannon. So that probably was part of his regular routine with captives.”

“What a shame law-abiding citizens must be suspicious to be safe. But we can’t be everywhere.” McManus sat forward, elbows on his desk. “Anything else I should know up front before I get your final report?”

“Actually, Sir, one more thing. I guess you’d call it a jurisdictional issue.”

“What?” McManus looked up in surprise.

“Before I talked with the friend I mentioned earlier, I first called Army Special Forces about Yates’s military history. They said they’d send someone right over to help us with the case. Turns out their rep just wanted to get his hands on Yates’s office computer, which he
impounded
. We raised hell, but he had an order signed by the Secretary of the Army. Legal says they supersede our authority. Now they’re not telling a single thing to help our case.”

“Give me their contact’s name and I’ll look into it. Detective work would be a snap around here if it wasn’t for the damned politics, the spooks and the military. But here in Fairfax County, I’m lucky enough to have ‘em all!” McManus smiled at Adam. “Thanks, lad.”

As Adam stood and moved toward the door, McManus added, “By the way, Detective, you did a hell of a fine job all around. Good police work! Thanks.” He stuck out his hand.

Adam turned and grabbed his captain’s hand. “Thank you, Sir.”

Adam left, knowing he needed to get ready for dinner tonight at the Shannons’ house. Hannah revealed their ulterior motive was learning the latest about this case that had so dramatically affected their lives. Then he frowned, thinking of another piece of unexpected information he had to deliver that could upset them even more.

CHAPTER 69

“H
ow many ar
e coming
tonight to hear Adam’s update?” Jason asked Jennifer as she bustled around the kitchen.

“The whole family. I set places for twenty-one, including us. Would you mind opening the wines?” She checked the clock. “They shouldn’t arrive for another hour so let’s eat about 7:00.”

Jason uncorked several bottles, poured a glass for each of them and sat thoughtfully at the kitchen table, sipping his drink. “You know, Jen, in a strange way maybe Adam and Ruger have some things in common.”

“What?”
Jennifer halted mid-stir, her eyebrows raised in shock.
“How
can you compare that do-good policeman with a murdering psychopath?”

“Well now, hear me out. Both were rejected by their mothers for reasons they didn’t understand. Both grew up in adoptive homes, if you consider military school an adoptive home. Both ended up in uniformed services, if you include the police in that group. And both excelled in their chosen careers.”

“But, Jay,” she interrupted, “what about their differences? Ruger was negative and Adam is positive. Ruger suffered horrible abuse when he was very young and Adam didn’t!”

“Oh?”

“Hannah says when they talked about childhood Adam said he couldn’t ask for better parents than the Iversons, who adopted him. That’s worlds different from Ruger’s parents, who
tor
tured
him.”

“They were both about six when they went to other homes,” Jason continued, “if you think of the academy as a home. We know the misery of Ruger’s early years. Adam never speaks about his.”

“Hannah says he was too little to remember. And what if Adam had double luck… loving people around when he was a baby and then a wonderful adoptive family? If that’s true, they had
opposite
experiences because Ruger went from a cruel home to a military school, which you’d hardly call loving.”

“Didn’t you learn from those letters you found in the cellar that several generations of the Yates family were dysfunctional? Is that just a coincidence?”

“Ah, the old nature-nurture question: are we the way we are because of heredity or environment? I think the old college-knowledge said it’s the interaction of both!”

“But Jen, that’s from forty years ago. Maybe this kind of behavior is better understood now.”

Mincing garlic for mashed potatoes, she said. “Actually, Jay, there might be another explanation for Ruger’s behavior.”

Jason looked up. “Oh?”

“The doctor who x-rayed my ankle asked how I twisted it and my answer included describing Ruger. He reminded me that doctors are legally responsible for reporting signs of physical abuse, which aren’t always obvious like bruises and scars and broken bones. They can be invisible.”

Jason frowned, “Invisible?”

“Like brain damage from too little oxygen if a child is choked or smothered or if his head is held under water. Or if a child is shaken so hard his brain moves inside his skull. Or if a child’s head is banged or slammed hard during a beating to cause brain injury. Or if he’s forced to take pills or drink chemicals like cleaning products that harm his brain or nervous system. Or even starvation, if a child hasn’t nutrition to grow a normal brain, especially infants and toddlers.”

“Geez, I never thought about that.”

“And Jay, there’s more.” She slid sliced onions into the green beans. “After what happened to me, the doctor asked if I wanted counseling. I said no because while my experience was awful at the time, Ruger was the threat and the danger ended when he died. Not so for poor Tina, of course, but her terrible treatment was different from mine. Anyway, the doctor explained that besides invisible physical damage, emotional damage is also invisible. He talked about Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, which we know is that thing soldiers with battle fatigue or shell-shock have. But it can happen to anybody exposed to a terrifying experience; whether a group trauma like a plane crash or a tornado or a house fire, or an individual one such as a car crash or mugging or abuse like Ruger’s.”

“So how do you know if you have this PTSD or not?” Jason asked.

“That’s the puzzle. Some heal and recover, some don’t.”

“Well then,” he said, “let’s pick Hannah as an example. An event left her heart-broken and disillusioned. After a five-month funk, she managed to heal and is functioning normally again.”

“Oh, Jay, I wish you’d picked a different example. Hannah is functioning, but we won’t know how normally until she tries to love someone again. And even if she does, can she make a go of it or will the old trauma return to cripple her new relationship? She’s made good progress and I want her happiness more than anybody, but Jay, I don’t know if she’s out of the woods yet.”

“Gee, I guess you’re right. I wanted so much to see her okay again, I looked only at the surface.”

“My doctor said it can take months or years of
sa
fe
living for someone with PTSD to balance that terror, if ever. We know Ruger had too many strikes against him to recover, but I’d like to think, given a normal home life, he might have been a very different person.”

Jason countered, “I’d like to think so, too, Jen, but even if that explains what happened to him, it doesn’t excuse what he became. Society can’t allow killers on the loose.”

“Right. The trick is to find and rescue kids like Ruger and help them recover.”

Jason tapped the newspaper, “Believe it or not, here’s an article about a study that says gene changes might explain why two people exposed to the same experience can have such different reactions. It says…” he read from the page, “‘…the common denominator among those with serious stress reactions to a current trauma appears to be a previous trauma at a young age.’”

“Like my dog bite? Hey, I learned a good lesson: it’s sensible to be cautious around strange dogs. But if I had PTSD, wouldn’t I be afraid to leave the house for fear a dog would get me?”

Jason chuckled, “Well, you
certainly
aren’t afraid to leave the house.” He put the newspaper down. “It’s only one study, Jen, but unlike your dog situation, I think it means people with serious PTSD
did
have early trauma and just when they thought they were safe at last as adults, terror found them once more and now they’ll never feel safe again.”

“But I thought genes took generations to make even tiny changes. How can a gene change in just one lifetime? Instead of gene changes, didn’t they just learn fear from a couple of unfortunate experiences?”

They both fell silent, wondering at these complex questions.

Jennifer thought of Ruger’s scarred, half-starved dog and its positive response to her food and kind voice. For a time, she thought they became bizarre fox-hole buddies of a sort. Had the dog made a different choice in the deserted mansion’s bedroom, rejecting the cruel man and joining her instead of attacking, she’d have brought the animal home and tried to rehabilitate him, despite her phobia.

Would she have been successful or could animals—and people—become broken beyond repair?