The Lost Son: A Mystery Thriller, page 14
London Road seemed pretty quiet, given the nice weather, but Terry supposed most of the people had just finished their lunch hour and gone back to the office, store, site, wherever they worked. As he passed a Macy’s, he saw a disheveled man asking passersby for change. His worn cardboard sign read GOD BLESS YOU, and unlike everyone else who seemed not to want to acknowledge him, Terry fished out a twenty and dropped it in his cup.
“Thank you, sir.”
Terry nodded and continued down London. On the corner, he could see the coffee shop, the chalkboard outside advertising the latest trendy caffeinated beverage craze. His navy-blue suit looked sharp in the brightness of the day, and he could smell freshly baked pastries as he got nearer. Terry ran a hand over his tight crew cut, enjoying the feel of the bristles between his fingers, and knew he was only doing so to settle his nerves.
You just arrested a serial killer, and this is when the butterflies kick in? Terry thought to himself. If that doesn’t require a few therapy sessions, then nothing does.
If Terry had spent the first three-quarters of his twenties giving every bit of emotion and energy he had to his work, then so be it; being a cop had been all he ever wanted. He knew relationships could be wonderful things—he only had to look at his parents—but maybe the right woman just hadn’t come into his life. When they did, surely they would ignite a flame in his heart and let him know they had arrived. Only one woman had come even close to achieving this, and he didn’t even know her last name.
The door to Pauline’s Cafe opened with a ding, and Terry stepped inside. Sally was behind the counter, tending to an old man in a fedora. Although Terry had set off 10 minutes ago with coffee on his mind, he was very aware something else had been dragging him to the corner of London and Main. Catching Leonard Cole had been the highlight of his career thus far, but it had only helped in scratching a professional itch.
“Hey, Sally,” Terry said as he approached the counter.
“Hello, detective,” she chimed, her emerald green eyes deep as a still pond. “What can I get you?”
Terry smiled. Then Sally smiled back.
Chapter 18
How Upset?
“I’m sorry we couldn’t meet alone,” Alan said, giving that half-smile that always seemed to stir something inside her. “But things are crazy at the station, and me and Terry gotta be workin’ ’round the clock till it calms down.”
“I get it,” Georgia replied, her hand coming up to the bump on her forehead. She nodded to the young detective at the counter getting their coffees. “He seems nice.”
Alan looked back over his broad shoulder at Terry Wakes. “Yeah, he was brought up right.”
They were sitting in a little diner that looked out over the Contoocook River. This area of Concord was drenched in thick, luxurious woodland, and the scenery had always been one of the reasons Georgia wanted to live her life in New Hampshire. Of course, over the last seven years, every river, lake, or body of trees had been tainted, and her mind instantly registered them as places where a child’s body might be rotting. It was a horrible way to feel, but it was something she knew would never leave her.
Alan turned back to her and brought his hand up to the lump on her head. After he had lumbered out of the black Buick in the diner’s gravel parking lot a few minutes before, he had done the exact same thing. He repeated the question he’d asked then.
“How did this happen again?”
She knew what he was getting at, as she always felt the same way in the hospital. Years of seeing the worst in people led a person to instantly think the worst, meaning a bruise on a woman just had to be domestic violence. Even though Alan knew William well enough, this skepticism seemed to trump everything else in his makeup.
“I fainted,” Georgia replied, smiling. It felt nice to have someone worry about her. “When I saw the news.”
“I bet,” was all Alan said. He removed his hand from her head but continued to look at the lump with questioning eyes.
After collapsing in their living room, Georgia had come around minutes later with her head pounding and a seemingly unconcerned William kneeling over her with a damp cloth. The news was still playing in the background, and it had only taken seconds for everything to sink back in. Her son’s killer had been caught, and she had fainted upon hearing the news.
That had been yesterday morning, and in the aftermath of everything they had just absorbed, William and Georgia had somehow managed to have another blazing row. His snarling comment that she probably thought the man who had just been arrested deserved a second chance had enraged her, and she had thrown the closest thing in her vicinity at him. This happened to be an ornamental vase given to them years before by William’s parents. She’d missed, but the sound of it exploding against the wall had been deafening.
William had actually spat on the TV screen, muttering unintelligible threats directed at who she hoped was Leonard Cole and not her, before grabbing his coat and storming out of the house. Alan had called minutes later to speak to her, and when he asked if William was around, she had lied and told him her husband was working. When Alan asked if she wanted him to come around, she politely told him she wanted to be alone, which had been at least a half-truth. Georgia had slept in the house alone, and when she woke up this morning and called Alan to see if he could meet for lunch, William still hadn’t returned.
Terry came back with three steaming cups of coffee and placed them on the table. He was an extremely good-looking young man, with mousy brown hair cut tightly in a crew cut that showed off his features. His eyes were like hazelnuts, and Georgia could tell he kept himself in shape. He wore a fitted dark blue suit, and when he smiled at her, she felt a calming reassurance and a settling familiarity. Georgia knew this look would serve him well in law enforcement and with the ladies.
Terry squeezed into the red vinyl bench seat next to Alan. Outside, the morning was cool and crisp, and a cloudless blue sky sharpened the trees and shrubs. Through the window beside the table, Georgia could see several small boats out on the river. Concord had been rattled by the news of Leonard Cole’s arrest, but unlike Georgia and William, everybody else’s lives continued on as normal.
“So, how’s Cillian?” Georgia asked. She knew she should be talking about Carter and Leonard Cole, but it was very hard to do. All she had really wanted when she woke up this morning was to be in the presence of Alan Letzki, something which had jarred her quite a bit.
“Still no change,” Alan replied, taking a sip from his coffee.
Georgia shook her head and frowned. She had dealt with Cillian and Dan a bit in the early years of Carter’s case, and she found them both to be excellent detectives and decent men. She had heard about Cillian—or Kev, as his colleagues called him for some reason—being shot through the neck on the news. “It’s such a shame.”
“It is,” Alan agreed, and Terry nodded.
Although she had come here to see Alan, Georgia was finding the presence of young Terry extremely comforting too. He had an air of safety around him, and she saw a lot of kindness underneath his tough exterior. Of course, she had barely spoken two words to him except to introduce herself, but she was willing to go with her instinct on this one. Anyhow, Alan seemed to trust him, and she didn’t think he would ever be wrong on such a thing.
“How are you holdin’ up, Georgia?” Alan asked. He had enquired about this outside as he inspected her lump for the first time, but she knew he wanted an honest answer now.
“Truthfully?”
“Of course.”
“I’m not sure,” Georgia said. “I mean, I should feel… I don’t know what I should feel.”
“I know what you mean,” Terry suddenly interjected, then seemed to catch himself. Alan and Georgia both looked at him, and he added, “Sorry.”
Alan turned back to Georgia and spoke for his partner. “Cole tried to snatch Terry when he was a kid.”
“Jesus,” Georgia gasped, genuinely shocked. “You were the kid in 2004?”
Georgia knew all the details available to the public—and a little more, thanks to Alan. It was a known fact that someone had tried to kidnap a young boy in 2004, a year before the first successful one. But with it being a minor, the child’s name was always confidential. Georgia supposed that with Leonard Cole now in custody, such details would soon come spilling out.
“Yeah,” Terry said, clearly embarrassed for some reason. “I’m sorry.”
“Whatever for?” Georgia gasped.
Terry shrugged, his almost pretty face pained. “Maybe if I’d given a better description—”
The change in Alan’s demeanor was instant. He snapped his head around to face his partner and growled, “Hey! You were nine years of goddamn age, Wakes. Don’t ever let me hear you blame yourself for that piece of shit again.”
Georgia heard some cutlery behind her rattle, and a few people eating eggs at the counter spun around on their stools. It felt like one of those old spaghetti westerns when the anti-hero steps into the local saloon for the first time. Terry had a shocked expression on his face, but Georgia was almost certain she saw relief trying its best to slip through the cracks.
Alan looked around at the onlookers sternly for a moment, then turned back to Terry. With his voice lowered, he said, “Sorry, rookie. I just don’t want you to ever blame yourself for somethin’ that happened when you were a kid. Especially when it concerns someone like Leonard fucking Cole.”
Terry laughed and shook his head. “Okay, Letzki,” he raised his hands in mock surrender, “just don’t swing for me, okay?”
“We’ll see,” Alan replied through a chuckle, then took another sip of his coffee.
Georgia found herself giggling too, then Terry joined in, and in spite of the fact that she had recently gotten the news of the man who killed her son being captured, she felt somewhat normal. On top of all of this, she hadn’t had a drink or a Xanax that morning—had barely even considered it—and that felt like a miracle in itself.
The three of them drank the rest of their coffee in silence, watching the New Hampshire countryside breathing through the window. Georgia found herself stealing glances at Alan from time to time, his rough and ready features coated in a thin layer of gray stubble. His thick arms rested on the table, making his white shirt strain against them.
I wanted him to be near me when I woke up, not my husband, she realized. He was the one I thought of first.
After a while, she asked, “And how are you guys?”
Alan and Terry looked at her, and Alan said, “Good, all things considered. It’s been one hell of a month.”
“I can imagine.”
“The press has been eating us alive,” Terry added.
“I don’t pay attention to all that,” Georgia said.
“Unfortunately, a lot of people do.” Terry chuckled.
“Hmm,” Georgia agreed, and then for reasons she couldn’t understand, added, “William had a meltdown when the news about that man being killed in the city came out.”
“Kevin Thorpe?” Alan asked.
“Yes. We were in the car when it came on the radio,” Georgia added, in too deep to stop now. “He got very upset when I said it was wrong someone had murdered him.”
“People are always on the fence about these things,” Terry said, crumpling a used sugar packet and dropping it into his empty cup. “They know the person got some form of justice, but they also understand that murder, in any form, is wrong.”
“That’s basically what I told him,” Georgia replied, smiling at the young detective.
“How upset?” Alan asked sharply.
“I’m sorry?”
She saw Alan’s eyes flick up to the lump on her head. “How upset did he get?”
“Just shouted a bit,” Georgia replied. “Can you blame him, given what he’s been through?”
Alan’s hand came out and landed on hers, swallowing it. “No, of course not, Georgie. I’m sorry.”
She smiled and said, “Don’t worry about it. We’re all a little tense.”
Terry readjusted his position awkwardly, and Alan gave her hand a squeeze before retracting it. Just then, his phone vibrated on the table, and he picked it up.
“Hey, Chief,” Alan said, then paused for a moment. “You’re kiddin’ me! We’re on our way.”
Alan hung up and slipped the phone into the inside pocket of his sports coat. Then he turned to Terry and lowered his voice. “You’re not goin’ to believe this, rookie.”
Chapter 19
Modus Operandi
The body found in the small cottage off Hemlock Road was that of Robert Finney, a 28-year-old African American man on the sex offender registry for the last eight years of his life, having been busted for downloading and attempting to distribute child pornography in 2014. Known around his local area as an oddball, he had served his four-year sentence without any trouble, casually returned to his home on Hemlock upon his release, and locked himself away inside. With the house already bought and paid for by his wealthy daddy and a weekly allowance afforded by the same man, Finney never really had to venture outside and rarely did, according to reports.
Terry remembered hearing something about the small gathering of local protestors around the time of Finney’s release in the summer of 2018, but they had soon died out when nothing changed. Finney had remained on law enforcement’s watchlist, and all checks by Kev and Haggler in the four years since his release came up clean. But Finney was a computer whiz and knew how to cover his online tracks, so there was always the chance he had managed to go under the radar in continuing his disgusting life of leering over abused kids on his screen. The police budget in Concord was minimal at best, and unless ex-convicts blatantly re-offended, they were hard to keep tabs on.
News of his murder had spread, of course, but with the capture of Leonard Cole the day before, it would only appear on page two for now. Still, according to Haggler and the evermore infuriatingly disinterested Benny Benz, early signs on social media were that the public was actually starting to side with whoever had taken out two known sex offenders. If the victim’s previous crimes had been committed against adults, Terry wasn’t so sure people would be so accepting, but Robert Finney and Kevin Thorpe were into kids, which always ignited hatred among the masses.
“What are we releasing tae the media in the mornin’?” Haggler asked, sitting forward in his swivel chair and resting his chin on his fists.
Four of them were gathered around Haggler’s desk on the second floor of the office. Benny Benz, as ever, seemed like he wanted to be anywhere else. His constant references to all the action being in New York were becoming tiresome, especially given recent events. His greasy jet-black hair was pulled back tightly in a man-bun, and his fake tan looked far too prominent against his shiny gray suit.
“The press already has all they need,” Alan replied. The detectives had been at the crime scene most of the day, and now that night had fallen, they were trying to piece everything together. “But we’ll try and keep the gorier details out of the equation.”
“His cock and balls on the nightstand,” Benny Benz snorted. “Guy oughta have put up a fight.”
“He was drugged, Benz,” Alan growled. Terry saw Haggler’s jaw tense as he turned his head and looked at his new substitute partner.
“Still,” Benny added, oblivious or just nonchalant about the undeniable animosity toward him. “Some fuck tryna take my manhood, I’d fuck the guy up.”
“He was fuckin’ drugged and tied to the fuckin’ bed,” Haggler snapped, then turned back to Alan. “So, we got a serial killer then.”
It wasn’t a question, but Alan answered anyway. “Seems like it.”
Robert Finney had been found the same way as Kevin Thorpe. Early forensics would be slow—the body hadn’t been discovered for what appeared to be at least a few days—but there had been definite trauma to the back of the head. Also, there were the puncture wounds from a hypodermic, the penis and testicles on the nightstand, and the expertly removed fingers inserted into the anus. It was definitely the same MO.
“We’re looking at someone in the medical profession,” Terry said. “They knew what they were doing. And procuring atracurium and rocuronium and administering them correctly ain’t easy.”
“Internet, though, Wakes,” Haggler said, his Scottish accent strong. “Any fucker with a phone ken Google these things and figure oot how tae do it.”
“True,” Terry replied, but he was still leaning toward someone with medical training, most probably surgery. “But I think we should check medical students in the area, preferably those who either failed the exams or left early for other reasons. Our guy is most likely someone who holds a grudge, and getting a failing grade could have set it off.”
“Not a bad idea,” Haggler said. “Get on that, Benz.”
“Hmm?” Benny replied, looking up from the fingernails he had been picking at.
“Open yer fuckin’ ears, Benz,” Haggler snapped. “This ain’t no fuckin’ free ride, eh.”
Benny Benz’s eyes narrowed into slits, and Terry could see him considering a reaction. In his head, Benny probably saw things playing out like a Steven Segal movie, a man who he so blatantly wanted to be. Maybe he would flip the desk between him and Haggler, then chop him in the neck. He could then utter some cool guy response in a deep voice and stroll out of the precinct into the crisp night air.
