“Eyes and hair are easily changed,” Jackson commented. “Here’s the thing—when you put them together on a computer screen, you do have something of the same face shape.”
“I want to see both Ballantine and Hank Fremont again,” Griffin told Jackson. “I want to see what their reactions will be—and if they see the images as the same woman.”
“I have a feeling she’s a chameleon,” Jackson said. “Walking down the street, she can doff a wig and a jacket, and even pop out contact lenses. She’s probably not a redhead or a brunette.”
Griffin let out a sound of aggravation. “So we get the pictures out on the news—and say she may not look like the pictures at all.” He frowned, studying the screen image in which one of the computer techs had tried to combine the pics. There was something about the face shape that seemed familiar to him.
“What is it?” Jackson asked.
“I don’t know—I can’t quite get it. But I think I have seen this woman.”
“Maybe after you’ve seen Ballantine and Hank Fremont again, it will come to you.”
“Maybe. Are you coming with me?”
“Yes, and after, I’d like to go back to the prison again. Aldridge knows something. I know he does. We have to get him to tell us what’s going on,” Jackson said.
Griffin agreed.
They started with the Ballantine house. George was home. He told them he was going to take the week off and stay close to Chrissy.
Chrissy seemed to be happy. While George led the way to the parlor, Griffin was alone with her in the kitchen for a minute.
“Do you think I’m an idiot?” she asked him quickly in a whisper.
“An idiot? Why?” he asked.
“Forgiving George. They say women should be strong and leave a cheater.”
“Chrissy, ‘they’ haven’t lived your life. Only you know what’s right for you.”
She smiled and gave him a kiss on the cheek. In truth, he didn’t really understand the underlying psychology of any of it.
Maybe Chrissy was just so glad to believe her husband wasn’t a murderer that discovering an indiscretion meant nothing.
Or maybe she was just a very good woman, understanding both she and George had been through rough times, and marriage was something both parties had to work on. Maybe she was able to forgive—and move forward.
In the parlor, Jackson already had the sketches out, showing them to George Ballantine.
“I thought it was a wig,” George said. He looked at Griffin as he came into the room. “A good wig.” He glanced at his wife, shamed embarrassment on his face. “It was a good wig. It never came off. And, I didn’t say anything. She might have been coming back from cancer treatments, for all I knew.”
They thanked George and moved on to find Hank. He wasn’t at his residence, however, and when they checked in with Roxanne Greeley, she told them when she had called him back the night before, he had already been in bed and said if she wanted, he’d see her that evening.
She sent a text to Hank for them and tried calling; there was no response. But just as they were leaving Roxanne’s, he called back. He was on a service call out in Framingham, but would be happy to see them if they wanted to come to him, or later that afternoon.
They agreed to meet that afternoon; Hank would come to the station.
Jackson spent part of the drive to the prison on the phone, calling Adam Harrison to see they’d have easy access once they got to the prison. The officials there were not fond of making arrangements for a prisoner like Bertram Aldridge to be interviewed.
But arrangements were made. And Bertram Aldridge appeared to be delighted by the visit—though he frowned when he realized that Victoria Preston wasn’t with them.
“We told you she wasn’t coming,” Griffin told the man.
“She’s something, though, huh? I mean, you buffoons and the police never would have found all those women without her, would you? Now, I admit, two died—no, three died—before you were involved. That one in the water... Darlene Dutton. Too fast. Fools. If they’re playing a game, they started out botching it pretty badly. I mean, if your victim drowns right away and no one even believes you have a victim, what kind of masterful planning is that?”
“You know who is doing this,” Jackson said flatly.
“I’m in here. I haven’t had any correspondence—at all—since you clowns came to see me. No, I just get the news. I don’t care what they say or what they try—everyone gets the news,” Aldridge told them.
“But one of the major events was at the Pine house, South Boston,” Griffin said. “Is that why you hated George Ballantine? He had family from the same place, but his family moved on and he turned into a rich and prosperous man?”
Aldridge leaned forward. “His family were cutthroats.”
“What makes you say that?” Jackson asked.
Aldridge leaned back. He started to cross his arms over his chest, but his shackles stopped him. He shrugged and leaned forward.
“I had a great-grandma who used to talk about the old days when I’d stay with her. She remembered the murders from when she was a kid. Said she saw the doctor who disappeared there. He had been a wealthy man, and she was pretty sure he’d been done in because he was rich. He’d brought a whole ton of money—in gold—with him to start up a practice. She believed a fellow named George Ballantine killed him—for the money. ’Course, after, he had to hide the money. But here’s the crux of the thing. Turned out my ancestor was suspected of the crimes and shunned. My ancestor—who didn’t commit murder and sure as hell didn’t wind up with the gold.”
“And that’s why you murdered women with a knife—women who had nothing to do with your past or Ballantine’s past?” Griffin asked.
Aldridge smiled—the look on his face was the closest thing to a glance into pure evil that Griffin had ever seen.
“I murdered women with a knife because it got me off. Because I loved the spill of blood. I loved their screams. I loved looking into their eyes and seeing they knew they were going to die, but somehow hoping until the last second they were not. I murdered women with a knife, Special Agent Pryce, because it was pure, primal pleasure.” He leaned back suddenly. “But I was younger then. The act itself was so important. We learn patience with age.”
“Federal charges can be filed, Aldridge,” Griffin reminded him. “I can see you on a gurney now, a needle in your arm.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah. The federal government can go after the death penalty. But, it ain’t easy—we both know that. You’ll never connect me,” Aldridge said.
But Griffin was certain he had unnerved the man.
“You get the news,” Jackson said.
“And I think you’ll be surprised quite soon to discover that we are on to one of your people,” Griffin continued.
Now he was certain something in the man’s face changed.
“No, you’re not,” Aldridge said, and then added quickly—too quickly, “Not that I have any people.”
“Well, we’ll see you again, Aldridge,” Griffin said, rising.
“Gotcha!” Jackson said, rising.
Aldridge’s chains rattled against the table. “Assholes!” he screamed after them.
“Yeah, pretty much so,” Jackson muttered as they left. “Though, I wonder what will happen when we post images of our mystery woman. Aldridge gets the news—he’ll see we’re on to something.”
“We can hope. This June Jensen might just be a run of the mill gold digger or user. But I don’t think so. And I think we did get something from him today,” Griffin said.
“What’s that?”
“These killers have moved around. They get what they want, when they want it. They’ve got some kind of decent financing.”
“Which might suggest George Ballan
tine.”
“Or someone who found the stash that belonged to the doctor killed in the late 1800s,” Griffin said. “Aldridge knew it was there—maybe Aldridge had used some of it. I think we need to head back to the Pine house. Let’s assume, too, the money was in gold or silver. Anyone using it now would have to go very carefully.”
“Or take a loss on the black market.”
“But even then, we’re looking at some nice income—usable income—at today’s rates. The killers have money. They have easy access to a car. They know Boston, because they had to know just the right time to dump the refrigerator with Gail Holbrook in it,” Griffin said. “And, here’s the thing. I believe they’re known in the neighborhood—and no one is surprised to see them when they’re on the Freedom Trail, or around the Paul Revere house—or the Ballantine house.”
“Let’s head on out to find Hank Fremont.”
“Yeah, but let’s get ahold of Barnes right away. I don’t think we should wait. Hank Fremont may be able to help us and we can put up another image after. But for now, let’s move. Let’s get the images—with the police overlay as well—up on the news.”
“I agree,” Jackson said. “Something has to break. They must have made a mistake somewhere, and involving the public now with our mystery woman might help us recognize that mistake.”
“Let’s pray that ‘June Jensen’ herself is the mistake,” Griffin said.
* * *
Vickie met with Alex Maple at a café just outside Faneuil Hall.
She always loved coming there, and since it was both vibrant and historic—originally built in 1742 by Peter Faneuil as a gift to the city—she figured it was a place Alex Maple might like—and where her cop—a man named Justin Hornsby that day—could comfortably sit and enjoy coffee and the beautiful summer’s day as well.
She’d worried about recognizing Alex; she shouldn’t have. No one wore the scholarly nerd look better. He was tall and bone thin and slouched slightly as he walked. His hair was brown and shaggy and fell over one eye.
She wondered if she might resemble a nerdy scholar, too—they looked at one another and said each other’s name carefully as Alex approached Vickie’s table.
She laughed and rose to greet him.
“I was—and wasn’t—surprised when I got your message,” he said, pulling out the chair opposite her. “Naturally, I’ve seen the news and know that the bodies were found at the Pine house. And, of course, I sent what info I had to the anthropologists working on the bodies from the wall. Otherwise, I’ve got to tell you, not too many people get into scholarly papers written about events that may or may not have happened back in the 1800s. But I know your name, of course. We’re about the same age. I was in high school in Brookline when Bertram Aldridge escaped and went after the Ballantine house—with you in it. I looked you up, after you wrote me, of course,” he told her. “I admire the work you’re doing with Grown Ups. And, of course, I looked up your book. Nice style! I haven’t figured out how to convey what excites me in my research without boring people to tears.”
“What are you doing now?”
“I’ve got a guest spot at Harvard. I’m hoping for a full-time position.”
“You went there for college—my dad was a professor there.”
He nodded and smiled. “Great teacher. I had him years ago. After looking you up and checking on your books, I figured you had to be his daughter.”
A waitress came. They ordered coffee.
“I’m trying to find out anything else you can tell me about the situation on the south side. The police really did nothing?” Vickie asked.
“I don’t think it was so much a matter of them doing nothing. I think that they had no idea of what to do. Remember, that was way back, as far as forensic science went. And, sadly, a lot of people in the area then were immigrants, many were just traveling through. When they disappeared, there was no bloodshed seen anywhere. They were just gone.”
“You’d have thought the bodies would have smelled. That someone would have known.”
“Farms were still far apart. From what I understand, the Pine family seldom lived on the farm. The odor of manure from the animals must have been strong and maybe some kind of natural substance was used to keep the odor down,” Alex told her. “Anyway, I found something of interest the other night. I was going through papers written by guys who came long before me. I guess some people have been curious through the years. Anyway, a guy named Hugh Belford—Harvard class of ’39—also wrote on the subject. He honed in on the doctor who had planned on opening a practice in Boston on the south side. Doctor Marquette, Alain Marquette. Witnesses said that Marquette treated a Jonah Aldridge when he first arrived in the area, so Jonah Aldridge definitely knew Marquette. When the man’s brother, Robert, arrived in town, he accused Aldridge of killing his brother to steal his money. There was quite an uproar over it all. Apparently, though, he was never arrested and nothing was ever proven. Aldridge was an outcast from that day forward. I don’t know if that helps you any or not.”
“Do you know where the Aldridge home was?”
“Right on Washington. But it was torn down decades ago. I think there’s a building there now that houses offices and shops. Whatever—apparently, Aldridge sure as hell never appeared to be rich. His family would have definitely been considered blue-collar, lower working class. I’m curious. I guess those horrible people somehow knew about the bodies in the wall at the Pine house, but...even so, how do you think that affects these kidnappings and the deaths?”
“The killers are most probably hiding in the throng of Boston’s day-to-day movement,” Vickie said. “But to go from place to place, to manage to get wooden boxes, refrigerators and all, and to get around—they have to have some money.”
“So, you don’t think George Ballantine is involved?” he asked.
“I don’t. But I’m not sure what the police think—or the agents, or if they all think alike. And, God knows, I don’t consider myself an expert. But I do know George and his children—I mean, his son—and I know that his family loves him.”
“Yeah. BTK killer—bind, torture and kill. He was a regular Joe,” Alex reminded her.
“Yes.”
“Oh, of course, here’s something else to think about. We know the Aldridge back then also had a number of children.”
“Yes, but the Aldridge in prison now doesn’t have a family—neither a wife nor children,” Vickie said.
“Doesn’t have a wife—that doesn’t mean a man didn’t have kids.”
“True, and something to think about. Though how we might find an illegitimate child, I don’t know. However, I can suggest that to the people who investigate for a living. They can track down women he was known to have had relationships with. Nonkilling relationships.”
“Who knows? Maybe he did kill the baby mama, just not the baby,” Alex said.
“Good point.”
“Anyway, if you think of anything I can help you with at any time, I’m here.” He smiled. “Actually, I tend to be available. I have a habit of talking too much history. Or hanging around at art galleries. Love art.”
“I have a friend who majored in art at Boston College,” Vickie said. “I should introduce you some time.” Of course, now Roxanne was involved with Hank. Still, people could be friends. “She’s great—works with the kids for Grown Ups, too.”
“Nice,” he said.
They chatted a few more minutes. Vickie wasn’t sure what she’d gotten from him, if anything.
Except, of course, a stronger belief that Bertram Aldridge was pulling the strings.
He must have known about the bodies in the wall at the Pine house.
And, he must have known, too, there was a hoard of gold which had belonged to one of the victims in the wall. It hadn’t been found—that anyone knew about. Of cour
se, this was assuming that one of the bodies in the wall had been the doctor, Marquette, and he’d still had a stash when he’d died, and his killer had hidden at least some of it—afraid to use conspicuous treasure from a dead man.
The nice thing was, she figured, when they did part ways, she’d found a new friend. She liked Alex. They promised to keep in touch.
When she rose to leave, she saw that her cop, Justin Hornsby, was casually folding his newspaper and rising, too.
She headed toward her apartment, glad to know Justin Hornsby was behind her.
She passed an electronics store and paused. The news was showing from TV screens in a variety of sizes. Two images were shown—sketches of June Jensen.
They were then overlaid, shown as one. Though the woman had appeared very different at first, the overlay showed the facial structure—nose, chin, eyes—were shaped very much the same.
Something about the image caused her to frown.
Did she actually know the woman?
Maybe she had seen her on Boston Common, or walking the street—or maybe even in a restaurant. She might have passed her in a ladies’ room, or been behind her in a grocery store line.
She shivered.
Yes, at some point, she had been close to that woman. She recognized something. Something familiar. But it was disturbing. She should know—she should...something.
She just didn’t.
She hurried on; she did have the kids this afternoon, and she was anxious to see Griffin again. Maybe together they could figure out what it was in the picture that seemed so very familiar.
* * *
Griffin called Vickie, determined he’d be in touch with her throughout the day.
She answered cheerfully; she’d met with Alex Maple and her very fine officer—Justin Hornsby—had kept a close watch. He was, naturally, behind her now.
“Do you think you might have learned anything from Alex Maple?” he asked her.
“I think so. One of the victims in the wall—I theorize, at any rate—was a doctor named Marquette. He’d come to Boston with a lot of money. Sam Aldridge way back then was suspected of doing away with him, but there was no body. The money vanished. So—theory—Bertram Aldridge knew about the bodies in the wall and he gave the information through some code via his phone calls and letters that led his killing duo to the money. They’ve used it on this spree of theirs—to get around, probably to buy the clothing and wigs and whatever else this June Jensen has been using. Hey—the image with an overlay—did George or Hank recognize her as the same woman?”