Photograph, page 13
But something smelled off.
It was weird that Phil Potter had been so quick to assume that the homicides were unrelated, coming so closely together in time.
It was weird that Chuck Kimble didn’t think the Daugherty case was worth mentioning when he told me about Dawn’s murder.
Maybe they were both right. Maybe there was no connection.
Or maybe I was about to kick a hornet’s nest in Devil Creek.
The reporter, Terry Blaine, had left The Herald-Palladium years earlier, but he hadn’t left Berrien County. He’d “gone corporate,” he told me, signing up to run public relations for a large consumer-products manufacturer based in St. Joseph. When I told him who I was and what I wanted, he agreed to talk to me.
We met on the pier that jutted into Lake Michigan, adjacent to the St. Joseph River. Twin lighthouses guarded the channel. Terry brought a bag lunch with him and ate it while we talked. He was in his mid-fifties, medium height and a little heavy, with chocolate-brown hair and a mustache that caught the crumbs of his homemade turkey sandwich. He walked with a little bit of a limp and told me he was still getting over a knee replacement two months earlier.
Three words.
Cynical. Bored. Disappointed. As in disappointed in himself. He looked like a man who wasn’t altogether happy with the choices he’d made in life, or in what he’d had to give up to acquire other things.
“I appreciate you taking the time to talk to me,” I said.
Terry swallowed a bite of his sandwich and washed it down with a can of Diet Coke. “No worries. I needed a break from the daily grind. I was working on a press release for a new Wi-Fi feature on our dishwasher. You can turn it on via the app so the dishes are done before you get home.”
I smiled. “Wow.”
He rolled his eyes. “Yeah, that’s my life. Really exciting.”
“Have you been at the company long?”
“Almost twenty years. I started out as a marketing coordinator and worked my way up. I lead the whole team now. The benefits are great, and the money’s good for this area. I put two girls through college in Chicago, and I’ve got one more at Northwestern. My job made that possible.”
“Good for you.”
“Well, I wasn’t going to win a Pulitzer working for a county daily. If I wanted to get anywhere in journalism, I was going to have to find a bigger city, and I could already see the writing on the wall about the future of newspapers. Plus, my wife has a lot of family roots around here, so she didn’t want to move away. The obvious choice was to find a stable job.”
“You don’t sound too happy about that,” I pointed out.
“Oh, there are days when I feel like I sold out. But it is what it is. My family comes first. Anyway, I was intrigued to get your call. I haven’t heard anybody talking about the Prince murders in a long time.”
“The Prince murders?” I asked.
“That’s what we called them in the newsroom. You know, Prince, 1999. Those were crazy days for us. Six people killed in violent deaths in the space of a few months? In this area? Nothing like that had ever happened before, and thank God, nothing like it has happened since.”
We leaned on the railing of the pier. Children thundered up and down the boardwalk around us in both directions. The waves of Lake Michigan rolled against the beach, and the sound of the surf made me homesick for the Atlantic coast. It was seventy degrees and breezy, which was probably warm by Michigan summer standards, but I wished I’d brought a sweatshirt.
“I know about Dawn West and the Daugherty family,” I said, counting on my fingers. “But you said six murders. Who were the other two victims?”
Terry sighed. “Well, to explain that, I have to give you a little history lesson. Things weren’t great in this area in 1999. A lot of drugs were rolling into the county. The epicenter was the local high school, which serves Devil Creek and a few other nearby towns. Nasty shit going around, a lot of opioids, a lot of kids OD’ing. It was just a matter of time before somebody died. The dealers were local, but the whole thing was being run out of Chicago. Ruthless bastards. Nobody could seem to touch them. The county attorney, Greg Daugherty, he was a good guy. He’d been trying to find a case that would stick against these assholes, but he hadn’t had any luck. Then in March that year, police got a call. One of the top local dealers had put his girlfriend in the hospital, busted out all of her front teeth and put a knife in her six times. She survived, but just barely. The girl agreed to talk, and that meant Greg had the dealer on tap for attempted murder. Guy wouldn’t see the light of day for years. Except Greg was smart, and he got the girlfriend to sign on to a plea deal instead. She had a kid, and she knew what was going on with drugs in the schools. The boyfriend would plead down to felony assault if he rolled on his Chicago bosses. It looked like the first big break in his quest to take the gang down.”
I closed my eyes. “But?”
“But the boyfriend hung himself in prison. Or that was what the guards said. Nobody bought that. He was murdered. Two weeks later, the girlfriend died in a hit-and-run. Driver never even slowed down. He was gunning for her. So much for taking on the Chicago gang. People got the message loud and clear about keeping their mouths shut.”
Terry shook his head.
“And the Daughertys?” I asked.
“Jesus, yeah. I have to tell you, I never saw that one coming. When the case fell apart, everybody figured that was the end of it. I never dreamed they’d go after Greg. But man, it was brutal. Shotgun blasts taking out him, Lauren, and Zeke. I was the first on the scene from the press. Must have only been minutes after it happened. I got lucky, if that’s what you can call it. My oldest daughter was taking piano lessons in the same neighborhood. I was there to pick her up when we heard sirens. I followed the noise, the gate was open, there were still only a couple of police cars in the driveway. So I started taking pictures. I got as far as the foyer before they stopped me. Made me want to vomit. I’ve never seen blood like that.”
“How many shooters?”
“The cops eventually concluded it was only one.”
“A Chicago hitter?”
Terry hesitated. “Well, they found a stolen car at the scene with Illinois plates. The shooter must have escaped on foot and had a backup car stashed somewhere else. Because of the plates, the police thought the killer came from Chicago. But me, I’m pretty sure he was local.”
“Why do you think that?”
“The Daugherty house was gated,” Terry told me. “Locked down tight, perimeter alarms. Greg wasn’t taking any chances with his family. There’s a microphone at the road. Whoever it was, Greg had to buzz him in. That means he knew him.”
“But the police never found out who it was?”
“Well, if Phil Potter had any suspects, he never said a word publicly. I never caught a whiff of it.”
My eyebrows arched. “Do you think Phil knew more than he said?”
“I think after what happened to the Daughertys, anyone in Devil Creek with a family wasn’t going to take any chances.” Terry shook his head. “Phil had three little girls like me.”
I shivered again. It wasn’t the cold this time.
“What about Dawn West?” I asked.
“What about her?”
“In your article, Phil said there was no connection between her murder and the triple murder of the Daughertys. Do you believe that?”
Terry took another swig from his can of Diet Coke. “Cards on the table?”
“Sure.”
“I mean, you think there’s a connection, right?” he asked. “That’s why you wanted to talk to me.”
“I don’t believe in coincidences.”
“Neither do I.”
“So did you find something?”
Terry wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He stared off at the blue waters of the lake. I saw something cross his face, and for a moment, I thought it was the sadness of his memories. Then I looked into his eyes and realized I was wrong. This was something else. This was fear.
“Listen, the Chicago gang broke up years ago. Somebody moved in on their territory, there was months of warfare back and forth, and the newcomers came out on top. Everything quieted down around here after that. The drugs didn’t go away—they never do—but we didn’t see the same level of violence anymore. Not like it was at the turn of the century.”
I waited.
“So normally I’d figure I was free and clear to talk, you know?” Terry went on after a long pause. “Except now you’re telling me two people got murdered in Florida this summer, and you think it’s all connected. That makes me think twice before saying anything.”
“Why? What’s going on, Terry?”
“What’s going on is I have a good, safe life, and I don’t want to screw it up.”
“Then why agree to meet me?”
“Because I may send out press releases about dishwashers in my day job, but I’m still a reporter at heart.”
“Terry, whatever you tell me stops with me.”
He sighed. “Okay, here’s the thing. A year later, in 2000, I was working on a follow-up story. The Prince murder investigations had gone nowhere, so I was digging in. I was asking questions. That included a lot of questions about Dawn West. I talked to her parents, her brother, her teachers, everybody. I was like you. It smelled wrong to me. I didn’t believe what happened to that girl had no connection to what had happened to the Daughertys, and I was trying to figure out what the police had missed. It’s not like I advertised what I was doing, but this is a small town. People talk. Everybody around here knew I wasn’t letting it go.”
“What happened?”
“My wife got a phone call. She was working at a fitness place in Benton Harbor. She got a call on the gym’s line, and this woman told her I was dead. My body had been found in the river, and my throat had been slashed.”
“Jesus.”
“It took her about an hour to figure out the call was fake. I was still alive. But we both got the message. It was a warning. If I kept digging, that was what was going to happen to me. The next day, I quit the paper and started making calls to find a PR job. I never looked back.”
“I don’t blame you.” Then I thought about what he’d told me. “You said the person who called your wife was a woman? Did your wife recognize her voice?”
“No. She sounded young. But whoever the woman was, she was convincing. My wife really believed I was dead.”
“And you think the call was connected to Dawn West’s murder?”
“I’m sure it was. Somehow Dawn was the weak link in the chain, and somebody wanted to make sure it didn’t break.” Terry put a hand on my shoulder and squeezed. “If what you say about Florida is true, then somebody is still trying to cover it up. All these years later, they haven’t forgotten, and they haven’t stopped. You need to be careful, Shannon.”
FIFTEEN
Daughters struggle to get over the death of mothers, and mothers most definitely struggle to get over the death of daughters. That was obvious when I sat down later in the afternoon with Gretchen West.
The West family home, unchanged in three decades, was located half a mile off the north–south highway, on a dirt road that ran between clusters of oak and fir trees. If you wanted to walk to Lake Michigan, you’d be there in twenty minutes. There were plenty of houses here, but the trees mostly blocked my view. Neighbors had built their homes hundreds of yards apart, giving each family plenty of breathing room. Berry bushes grew wild from the sandy soil, sparkling with little colored dots of strawberries. Near the West house, I passed an old farm field, but nothing grew except tall weeds. I saw a couple of kites hovering in the sky, clutched in the hands of invisible children. Somewhere in the field, a big dog let out a gruff bark.
Gretchen was expecting me. I’d called her in advance. This wasn’t the kind of talk you wanted to have by surprise. She met me at the door of the single-story cottage, and she led me around to the backyard through wild unmowed grass. Plastic chairs surrounded a firepit. A rusted swing set creaked in the wind, and a hammock had been slung between two trees. I saw an old archery target set up at the back of the yard near the evergreens.
Dawn’s mother took one plastic chair, and I sat in the one closest to her. Bugs whined around us like the twang of jaw harps. Somewhere nearby, a hint of farm manure wafted in the air. I noticed Gretchen’s eyes drift to a double window in the back corner of the house, and I guessed that on the other side of the window was the bedroom that had once belonged to Dawn.
Dawn West. Sixteen years old.
I had a vision of the teenager silently opening that window on an August night and climbing outside into the sticky heat and the lake-land darkness. I pictured her swatting away mosquitoes as she ran for the dirt road. It would be the last night of her young life.
Where were you going?
“Mrs. West, I know it’s been a long time, but I’m so sorry about Dawn.”
When I looked at her face, I knew it didn’t feel like a long time at all. “Not a day goes by,” she murmured, without needing to finish the sentence. Dawn continued to haunt this house years after her death.
“I’m sure my call came as a surprise,” I added.
“Well, a little bit, but I’m happy when anyone shows an interest in Dawn’s case. Detective Kimble stops by from time to time. We sit out here, and we talk, but there’s not much to say. I don’t know anything more than I did back then, and neither does he. Your phone call was the first moment I’ve had in a long time where I thought there was still a chance that I might find out what happened to my girl.”
“I’ll do my best,” I said.
Gretchen offered me a weak smile. The family resemblance between mother and daughter was strong. Gretchen had wheat-colored hair like pale gold, cut short and parted in the middle and feathered into layers. She had the same uncomfortable blue eyes I’d seen in Dawn’s yearbook photo. She wore no makeup, but she had a pretty face, oval and symmetrical. Her blouse was yellow, and she wore it untucked over tan slacks and multicolored slip-ons.
I saw a tattoo on her wrist. It looked like a rising sun, and I guessed it was a tribute to her daughter.
“Do you really think these murders in Florida are connected to Dawn’s death?” Gretchen asked. “After all this time?”
“I do.” I found the photo of Faith Selby on my phone. “This is one of the victims. She’s the mother of my client. She took the photograph at Thunder Mountain Motel that set all the wheels in motion. I was wondering if you know who she is.”
Gretchen took my phone. She studied the picture long and hard, and her forehead made a little crinkle.
“You look like you recognize her,” I said.
“I don’t know. There’s something in her face, but it’s been too long.” She held the phone tightly as if she didn’t want to give it back, but then she shook her head. “I’m sorry. If I knew her back then, I can’t place her anymore. I wish I could.”
I shifted to Faith’s photograph at the motel. “What about the little girl here? Does she look familiar?”
“No, I’m sorry. I mean, maybe if I saw her face, but from the back, she could be anybody.”
“Yes, okay.”
“There’s really not much I can tell you, Shannon. Believe me, I wish I could help.”
“I understand. What can you tell me about Dawn? I’ve seen her picture, but I don’t really know who she was.”
Gretchen glanced down at her lap. A shadow crossed her face. I expected the usual mother’s story of perfection when it came to her lost daughter, but Gretchen surprised me.
“I’ll tell you what I remember, but don’t count on me knowing everything. I’ve had a lot of years to think about my relationship with Dawn and about all the things my husband and I did wrong. It took me a long time to realize we didn’t know her very well. You see, Dawn was the good girl, so we didn’t worry about her. Our other child, her older brother, Gordon, was a different story. Gordon was constantly in trouble. Theft. Assault. The police thought he was dealing drugs. I’m afraid my husband and I spent so much time trying to deal with Gordon’s issues that Dawn got a little forgotten. I hope she didn’t blame us for that.”
I could see in her face how hard that confession was.
“Detective Kimble said Dawn was very smart,” I said.
“Oh, she was. Definitely. She used to tutor other students in math. I don’t know where she got that. I’m hopeless in math, and my husband isn’t much better. But somehow it all made sense to Dawn. She was very artistic, too. Good with both sides of her brain, I guess. She liked music, painting, photography.”
My head snapped up. “Photography?”
“Yes, we gave her a camera for Christmas when she was fourteen. She nearly bankrupted us with all the film and developing.”
“Do you still have her photographs?”
“Of course. We have a box in the house with a lot of Dawn’s personal things. It’s sort of a memory box. The police took most of it after her death, but when the investigation went nowhere, I asked Phil if we could have it back. He returned it to us, but I never had the courage to open it again. It’s been sitting in our attic for years.”
“Would you mind if I borrowed it? Just for a couple of days?”
Gretchen shrugged. “Yes, if you like. The police didn’t find anything, so I doubt it will help you. Dawn didn’t keep a diary or anything like that. She had a lot of deep waters, but they were all in her head. She was a private girl. Shy. Closed off. I wish I’d found a way to reach her.”
“What about outside school? Did Dawn have a job?”
“No. She always had too much homework for that. And during the summers, she was busy with her art projects.”
“You said she was closed off, but she couldn’t have been alone all the time. Did she have a best girlfriend? Someone in whom she might have confided?”
“She was friendly with a few girls around here, but I wouldn’t say any of them were besties.”
