It was past nine by the time Melissa returned home and set about fixing herself something to eat. A lot had happened since morning, but because she’d made no headway in the investigation, she almost felt a meal and a shower were undeserved.
Skipping the shower, she made herself a simple dinner of tuna salad and hard-boiled eggs, accompanied by a large ice-filled glass of tea. She ate in the living room, seated on the couch, where she mulled over the day’s events.
Earlier that afternoon, after the medical examiner had bagged Father Kern’s remains and taken them to the morgue, Melissa stayed behind in the neighborhood. She went door to door, questioning residents if they’d heard or seen anything that would further her investigation, but like the Patterson case in Corcoran, nothing panned out.
Which reminded her; she had one last call to make.
After taking a generous bite of tuna salad, she pulled out her notepad and flipped to the page where she’d jotted down the phone number for Doctor Ryan Damerow and his wife. The Damerows were the closest neighbors to the Pattersons. Melissa had spoken with their gardener and learned the couple had gone to Duluth for a wedding. They weren’t expected to return home until sometime tonight. Hopefully, they’d be back now.
She picked up her cordless telephone from the end table and dialed the number, chewing while she waited.
The answering machine clicked on after three rings.
“Damn.” Setting the phone down, she turned her attention to the report on Mel and Florence Patterson resting on the table in front of her.
Melissa picked it up, then tossed it down again without opening it. She’d already read it twice. Through all the technical jargon, the coroner’s basic statement was that both people had died from a result of their injuries; the killer hadn’t left a single trace of himself on either of them, not even a microscopic one.
She stabbed at her salad, but then set it aside without finishing. Instead, she picked up the final item she’d brought home with her: Judge Anderson’s copy of Frank’s book.
Opening it, she leaned back and began to read.
The wall clock ticked off the seconds. Time slid by. She absentmindedly twirled a lock of her hair as she scanned the text, but with each turn of a page the twirling slowed. She straightened up as she read, her brow furrowing more and more often as the story unfolded before her eyes.
Halfway through Frank’s book, Melissa slammed the cover shut and tossed it aside.
“You’ve got to be kidding me!”
She picked up the remains of her meal and stormed out of the room, dropping the salad bowl into the sink a little too hard. She leaned against the counter.
Through the doorway, Frank’s book lay on the floor, cover up. His picture watched her.
In total, the book numbered two hundred eight pages, printed in big text that read, for the most part, like an elaborately worded police report. She’d skimmed through the beginning and middle, focusing on the parts they’d talked about earlier in the day. Despite its small size and simplicity, she scolded herself for wasting the time she’d already spent on it.
When Frank told her of his idea that Kane might have had an accomplice, she thought reading his book could help her understand what kind of a person—if an accomplice existed—she needed to look for. She had three bodies and two missing people who each seemed linked by the dead killer’s identity, so any information she could gain from it might aid her in her search for a suspect.
Not so. She found herself struggling with more questions now than before she’d started reading it.
To her surprise, Frank’s writing had revealed theories he never mentioned when she’d visited him, things he no doubt purposely neglected to discuss. And she understood why. If he’d told her his true beliefs about the killer, she would’ve labeled him insane. Hell, it was no wonder why his book had bombed. For God’s sake, the man actually believed Kane’s partner was—
The phone rang.
Melissa returned to the living room and scooped up the handset.
‘Private number’ showed on the caller ID.
Hoping for a return call from the Damerows, Melissa answered. “Detective Melissa—”
“Detective, it’s Frank Atkins.”
Her eyebrows rose in surprise. She paused to collect herself before answering. Considering how much information he’d withheld during their meeting, it was amazing he had the courage to speak to her at all.
“Hello, Frank. This is unexpected.”
“I’ll get straight to the point,” he said. “I saw a preview for tonight’s news earlier. They say there’s been a double murder out in Corcoran, that the bodies are a week old, and the killer might still be on the loose. Real nice sales pitch, isn’t it? Naturally, I’ll have to wait until ten to find out if I’m in danger or not, but I was hoping you could tell me sooner. Is what they say true?”
“You’re wondering if it’s related to Judge Anderson’s disappearance?”
“Is it?”
“You know I can’t give out case information, Frank. Even if you were an investigator once, I’m not obligated—”
“I know Anderson lived minutes from Corcoran, Detective,” Frank interrupted without raising his voice. “I had a friend from the department do a check on his unlisted address.”
“What for?”
“I’m concerned,” he responded. “Two murders, that close together; it can’t be a coincidence. If the killer is operating in that area, there are going to be more bodies, and soon.”
She smirked at his justification for becoming involved. “You’re not ‘concerned’ about just any nameless murderer, are you? You’re suggesting it was Kane’s partner.”
“I didn’t say that,” he replied, “but it’s possible. If so, I think I know where the killer will go next.”
“Where?”
“Kane’s grave.”
“I’ve given that thought,” Melissa agreed. “But right now I’m more concerned with finding potential witnesses and examining the forensic evidence rather than staking out a cemetery.”
“They worked together for years,” Frank went on. “There’s no telling exactly how long they knew each other, but one thing’s for sure, they were devoted to one another. I’m certain Kane’s burial site will attract the killer’s attention, and I’d be willing to bet it’s in the same area where the killings are taking place.”
Melissa closed her eyes and shook her head. Back in Frank’s apartment, she’d felt sorry for the man because she saw a good detective who had succumbed to an almost obsessive-compulsive need to prove the impossible. She’d heard of it before, about investigators who became so wrapped up in their work they refused to let it end, even when it had.
“So, tell me,” she said. “Where is Kane buried?”
“That’s the problem,” Frank replied. “I don’t know. After his death, his body was supposed to be released to his mother, Catharine. Unfortunately, she died almost two years before Kane came out of his coma. She’s buried in St. Paul, alongside Kane’s father.”
“So, what happened to Kale?”
Frank sighed with irritation. “It seems Catharine knew she might not live to see her son again, and that he might not make it out of his coma. She had a special condition added to her will that specified Kale’s burial site be kept off public record. I’ve spoken with her former attorney about it several times. I guess after all the carnage Kale committed she believed certain people might desecrate his grave. Her attorney oversaw all the burial arrangements. I managed to learn that Kane’s body was indeed interred, rather than cremated, but the attorney won’t disclose the cemetery’s whereabouts without a judicial order. All he told me was that they used an ‘old family plot’ and that everything was done in accordance to the law. The guy’s a weasely son-of-a-bitch, but he’s got powerful friends in the system, and he’s managed to stonewall me each time I’ve tried to get the location. And, believe me, the bastard takes great pride in being the keeper of that little secret. That’s why I called you.”
“What do you want me to do about it?”
“With your investigation, you can get a court order—”
“Hold up a second,” she cut in. “Frank, the thing is… I’ve been reading your book, and I’m afraid I can’t agree with your theories. I certainly appreciate your willingness to help—I really do—but I think I’ll proceed with this investigation based on the facts and make my own judgments to how they’re connected with the case.”
Frank had gone silent. Melissa read his frustration in the pause.
“I respect the work you’ve done,” she continued, “so I’ll definitely take your advice about checking into where Kane’s body is buried. At the moment, however, I’m caught up in trying to get all the information I can from the Andersons’ neighbors. Besides, if a seasoned investigator like you had trouble locating Kane’s grave, I doubt anyone else will have better luck.”
“Please, Melissa.”
“There were two homicides out in Corcoran,” she confirmed, “but it’s too early to tell if they’re connected with the Andersons’ disappearance. I’m having trouble getting in touch with their neighbors, which is why I really need to get going. I have a ton of calls to make yet. You understand, right?”
“Yes, of course,” he replied, his voice dry.
“Thanks again for your input,” she said, cringing at her inability to find a better way of letting him go.
Frank sped west on Highway 55, the night’s breath blowing against the Chevy’s windshield. He switched off his cell phone and tossed it onto the passenger seat.
“Damn,” he whispered.
Focusing on the road, he reminded himself that he couldn’t blame Melissa for not accepting his ideas. Not many rational people would. He knew he was on his own.
In his free hand he clutched a piece of paper with Judge Anderson’s home address on it. He held it up.
And saw a blood-soaked man run onto the road.
He cried out and slammed on the brakes, spinning the steering wheel to the left. The Blazer’s tires shrieked. He swerved into oncoming traffic, and the blinding glare of another vehicle’s headlights filled the windshield. A horn blared.
“Shit!”
He jerked the wheel right again and cut back into his lane, sliding to a stop half-off the road’s shoulder.
Frank pulled his gun and whirled around, aiming out the rear window.
Thirty feet behind him a tattered crimson tarp hung from an old road sign, one loose end fluttering in the wind.
Frank stared at it, chest heaving.
Slowly, he lowered his gun and faced forward again, taking a deep breath and closing his good eye. He touched the skin below his eye patch with his free hand, feeling the scar on his face. There was no time to stop and dwell on old demons.
He had to keep moving.
Frank opened his eye and holstered his weapon.
Beside him, on the passenger seat, an open laptop with GPS linkup displayed a mapped layout of the region, highlighting the directions that would lead him to the Judge’s neighborhood. If Melissa wouldn’t look into finding Kane’s resting-place, at least he could check the proximity of the two crime scenes. He’d gotten the name Patterson from an old contact at the same television station that aired the news announcement of the murders in Corcoran, and his Internet search turned up only one Patterson couple listed in that county.
He pulled back onto the road, giving the engine an extra burst of fuel to make up the lost time.
Oddly enough, every time he repeated the Judge’s directions to himself, the list of turns and road names triggered an unsettling bout of déjà vu, leading him to the same creepy conclusion.
He’d been there before.
In the living room, Melissa scooped up her phone and gave the Damerows’ home number another try, dialing the buttons by memory.
This time, the phone rang twice, and then nothing.
Melissa waited. It didn’t sound like the call had been answered, but she got the unsettling feeling the line had indeed connected, that someone was listening to her.
“Hello?” she asked.
Silence.
“My name is Melissa Humble.”
Still nothing.
“I’m a police detective investigating a murder. Two people were killed near your house, and I’m trying to find anyone who may know something about it. It’s probably nothing, but I had to check. Oh, hell, I guess I’m just wasting my time here. Actually, I know I’m wasting my time. I mean, let’s face it, for every scumbag I bust there’s fifty more to take his place. Isn’t that what humanity is, one big cesspool teeming with psychopaths? How the fuck can one cop change that? I can’t. There, I said it. Shit, I might as well put an end to this whole thing right n—”
Her pager went off, stopping her in mid-sentence.
“Wha-what was I…” She shook her head, unable to complete the thought.
She became aware of a strong buzzing in her ears and what sounded like whispering coming from the phone. Overpowered by dizziness, she staggered toward the couch but hit the wall instead. She dropped the phone. It clattered on the floor.
She slid to a sitting position as the room cantered around her for another few seconds, raising a hand to her forehead—
To discover that she now clutched her .40 Smith & Wesson in a white-knuckled fist.
She couldn’t recall crossing the room to her desk or pulling it from its holster.
“What the hell?”
The safety was off, a round in the chamber.
Setting the weapon on the coffee table, Melissa maneuvered herself to the couch. She looked to the phone on the floor, remembering the venomous sound of her own words and the volume at which she spoke them.
She picked up the handset and put it to her ear. An electronic voice was suggesting she try her call again. She terminated the message and hit redial. After three rings, she got the Damerows’ answering machine.
She hung up.
Her spell of light-headedness had passed, but she still didn’t trust herself to stand. Instead, she looked to the item that had interrupted her outburst—her pager—and saw the latest message was a weather update from her service provider: severe thunderstorms were coming.
She erased the bulletin and tossed the pager on the coffee table.
“Get a grip, Humble,” she whispered.
Finally, she got up and returned the phone handset to its base. On the built-in answering machine, she found the light-up display blinking, indicating a new message. She hit the machine’s “play” button and listened to her own words echo from the speaker.
“Isn’t that what humanity is, one big cesspool teeming with psychopaths? How the fuck can one cop change that? I can’t. There, I said it. Shit, I might as well put an end to this whole thing right n—”
Her mouth hung agape. Along with the lost memory of retrieving her pistol from the desk, she’d apparently hit the phone’s record feature, capturing every disturbing word she’d spoken. Most unnerving of all, the agitated voice on the recording sounded eerily like someone speaking their final words before ending their life.
“This is nuts.”
Standing by the phone, she found herself reflecting on the clawing words of Frank Atkins.
“There are going to be more bodies, and soon.”
She didn’t know what had just happened, but after her long day of one frustration after another, the incident had drained the last of her patience and left her thirsty for answers.
Melissa slid back into her shoes and snatched her car keys off the end table in the entry hall. She knew she wasn’t crazy. Though she couldn’t remember it, she’d spoken to someone at the other end of the phone line.
Now she wanted to find out who.