With each file, Garcia wrote down the patient’s name on a pad of paper, and took notes. He was specifically looking for a patient who committed violent acts against a female. Except for Adam, the other boys did not lash out at females in particular. Garcia tried to make out the squiggles of the psychiatrist’s hand-written notes, but nothing caught his eye, until the fourth or fifth patient:
“...enjoys expressing himself artistically, making collages from magazine photos of famous women, then cuts into the collages, removing eyes, noses, and lips in photos until he creates the shape of another face. Patient, underneath his psychic pain, is trying to establish an identity. He sees women as a source of pain, although he was not abused by his mother or other women. Soft-spoken and shy in sessions, does not like group therapy. Patient has been suicidal, no history of violence...”
Garcia checked the length of the patient’s stay; one month, court-ordered. He checked the parents’ background. The father worked at the paper mill, the mother lived out of state.
He returned to the patient’s name. Trey Winstead. Treated at Haven Rest after a suicide attempt two years ago, he had slashed his wrists. Garcia circled his name on the list.
He returned to the files, unearthing a few other potential suspects. He was not surprised to find Rick Chambers, who had stayed a week for treatment a year after Trey. Garcia could call Sharon Chambers, he was sure she had talked to her nephew.
Garcia checked his watch. He had time, so he looked through the last of the files. Nothing caught his interest, so he returned the files to the clerk.
“Detective?” the clerk asked.
Garcia turned around on his way out.
“You forgot this.” The clerk handed Garcia the print-out.
Garcia glanced down at every website Justine had visited for the last month. FriendsRing, not to mention Facebook, along with various fan sites, including one for an underaged club called the Dive. Garcia was familiar with the place, the club’s building used to be the old piston ring plant, Marine PR, which had stood empty downtown for almost fifteen years. The Dive did not cause much trouble, but he wondered why Justine would find the place interesting.
He could come back and interview her again. He had yet to stop by Lister’s house in North Marine.
*****
Garcia made the drive to Lister’s impressive home, a brick Tudor-style structure with a three-car garage. He cruised up the long driveway, passing pine and oak trees, leaves turned red and gold.
He could tell that the house was uninhabited before he shut off his car. At five o’clock, there was not one light on.
Garcia exited the car and walked up to the front door. He pushed his finger against the doorbell. He did not hear any steps, dogs barking, or door opening. He took a peek through a window, and received his answer.
The living room was empty of furniture, a rug rolled in the corner.
Everyone is moving out, Garcia thought. Am I one of the few people left in Michigan who owns his house?
Garcia had called Lister’s offices yesterday, and he was answered by a recorded message informing him that Lister Construction was no longer in business.
Garcia took a short walk around the house. Lister’s son Martin had gone on to play football at Michigan State University, his daughter Jennifer went to law school at Northwestern. Garcia took in the rose bushes and large swimming pool, thinking about the kind of men Lister had hired over the years, including ex-cons.
Garcia tried to recall, as he stared at the kidney-shaped pool with leaves floating on the water, any ex-cons he knew who were employed by Lister over the last few years, and none came to mind, but he could call a parole officer who had once helped him with a case. He could ask if any of her clients had worked for Lister.
Less than a week had passed between victims, and Garcia did not feel he was getting any closer to finding the Ravisher. Emily was attacked six days ago, so he would be getting ready. A warning could be printed in the Marine Press, asking girls not to be alone, for parents to provide rides. The last attack took place on a Saturday morning, on a dirt road in broad daylight, but no witnesses. No one was paying attention, because no one thought of their daughters as being the next girl; even the protective parents of Emily Watts, who had shielded her from the violence on TV and in movies by not allowing her to see it, and could easily blame her attack on some psycho that was the product of an ungodly world they were separate from. Garcia was told by Emily’s parents and their pastor that it was his responsibility to stop the Ravisher, because they did not consider him much better, even if he was a police officer, because he had the sin of the world on him.
Kristen Beck had returned to her job at Chester Chicken, her brother and boyfriend keeping watch. Ann-Marie Holden had stopped calling him, and Emily never received an e-mail from the Ravisher.
The longer he’s out there, the more time he’s going to have to plan his next move, Garcia thought. He could be getting bored already, but he won’t stop if he thinks he’s getting away with it.
Garcia walked back to his car. The memory of Angela Kent’s abduction and rape had stayed on his mind since he spoke to Cal. What Justine said was not cryptic to him; Garcia always wondered what Philip Kent’s motive would have been in hiring men to attack his wife and even kill his six year old daughter. However, he had to take what Justine said with a grain of salt. The clerk mentioned that Justine once thought she could control everyone at Haven Rest and, by ignoring her roommate’s seizure, got rid of an unwanted presence. With someone like her, the truth could be shaped and used to her advantage.
Philip Kent’s attack on Jimmy Hepler had been planned. He went to the Blue Diamond club-house and waited at the back of the building, his vehicle parked blocks away. Hepler walked out alone through the back door around two-thirty in the morning. Philip sneaked up behind him with a metal baseball bat, keeping his blows on Hepler’s face, then cutting off most of the man’s nose. When the 9-1-1 call came in, the dispatcher later claimed that the caller sounded like a young boy. Philip, an educated man who designed airplane parts, had carried out his plans, but also could have been covering his involvement in his wife’s attack. Justine had not been shy about bringing it up, along with her contempt for her parents. Either way, Garcia could not expect Justine to deal with him honestly, unless there was something in it for her. He could feel sympathy and compassion for the six year old girl who was drugged in one room while her mother was brutalized in the next, but the fifteen year old Justine was a different animal all together. Even if she was a liar, he could not seem to get her words out of his mind:
“He would see my mom scarred forever than have me in his life...”
What would make a father hate his wife and child so much? Garcia thought. And how does it connect to the Ravisher? Was Justine, in spite of her own psychotic tendencies, trying to tell me something?
Chapter Eighteen
“Piper, Cal told me about Justine’s mother,” Sonya said. “What happened to her...”
Cal had called Sonya, asking if she knew the kids who had visited Justine Kent at Haven Rest. She knew who he meant, but held back, wanting to speak to Piper first.
“The story was in the local papers,” Piper said. “Almost everyone knew...”
“The police thought Justine’s father hired some men to rape his wife. He only beat up that Hepler guy because he wanted to make himself look innocent. Why?”
“They couldn’t prove Justine’s dad had anything to do with the rape, because they couldn’t find a reason. Are you trying to find out who the Ravisher is, or are you more interested in Justine now?”
Sonya heard the impatience in Piper’s voice, but pressed on. “You thought Justine knew something. All she mentioned to you was a patient who liked to cut out pictures of women’s faces in magazines. Cal told me that she didn’t tell Garcia much, so I think she’s playing games, Piper.”
“Justine always has
a purpose; otherwise, she wouldn’t bother.”
“Are you trying to tell me that she’s sensible? She’s schizophrenic.”
“That’s the label they gave her after she stabbed Devon at Crandall. I never bought it, but she did...for a reason.”
“What about those stories she wrote? The evil aliens? And if she wasn’t crazy, why did she stab that boy?”
“I think she was just sick of being at Crandall; all of the teasing and put-downs.“ Piper sighed. “She may have been wanting to find a way to separate herself from her father. If she hated him, I never noticed, and he was never around much when I was at her house.”
“What about her mother?”
“She was usually upstairs taking a nap or would go out. Justine said something about her seeing a therapist. She had surgery once.”
“Did you know about the rape during this time?” Sonya asked.
“Justine told me one night, and I thought it was just another story, especially when she said that her father had been a part of it.”
“And she didn’t tell you why he would do it?”
“No. That’s what made it seem like a story. But I should have known better.”
“Do they still live in Holland Hills?”
“No, they separated last year. Angela hired an attorney from my dad’s firm in Falls River, so they might finally go through with it.”
“Did her mom have her suspicions?”
“I think so. But only she would know why Mr. Kent would hire those men.”
“Don’t you think it’s a coincidence that Jimmy Hepler was a Blue Diamond?”
“No. The bikers in her stories could have been the same as the aliens; just a distraction for me and everyone else while she was making other plans.”
“To get out of Crandall?”
“It doesn’t seem like much, I know. But both of her parents graduated from Crandall. They donated money to the school. I think she wanted to get even with them, especially her father. It almost makes sense.”
“He was sent to prison...”
“He only served a few years, he was free by the time Justine was ten years old. She came to Crandall by the time she was twelve, and we became friends. I had been there since the second grade.”
“What was it like at Crandall?”
“Higher expectations, more money, more bitchiness. At the same time, more opportunities.”
“Better than East Marine, I would think.”
“In some ways, worse. At East Marine, there’s so many kids, you can be invisible if you want. At Crandall, everyone knew your business. Ever hear of the Holland Hills Country Club?”
“Yes.”
“That’s where the Crandall parents cross paths most of the time. Justine and I used to go there for Sunday brunch with my mom. We would have to sit for hours while the other parents bragged up their kids’ accomplishments. You had to be good at everything, or you couldn’t be seen there. They gave off the impression that they were only tolerating my mom because she had become a member when she was still married to my dad, but I don’t think they liked having divorced people around. The only thing I miss is the tennis court. I liked tennis, so did Justine.”
“When she was still...normal?”
“To be honest, Justine was never normal, but she was fun.”
“Did you two...ever...?”
“Not like that! We weren’t ready, just kissed sometimes. Held hands when we were alone.”
“Do the other girls at school know?”
“Like Kelly or Courtney? Jess? If they do, they haven’t said anything. Bobby has probably told them, but that’s okay, I never swore him to secrecy.”
“I thought you didn’t like secrets.”
“The only thing I hate more are lies.”
*****
Sonya went downstairs to find Bill staring at his old knives on the couch, a piece of paper in his hand.
“I found the receipt,” he said. “Mike Winstead bought that knife from me. See?”
Sonya took the receipt and read, in Bill’s neat print, the date and time of the sale, along with the brand of knife, serial number, and how much Mike paid, his and Bill‘s signatures scrawled on the bottom.
Aron called from the kitchen. “I think Mike may have brought it back for some reason.”
“The sale date is last March,” Sonya said. “Before you moved in, Dad.”
“I found some more in that box,” Bill said.
He pointed to a shoe box, gray from age, with the word ‘Florsheim’ printed in yellow letters on the side. “Kyle Stone bought my old Winchester rifle from me around the same time.”
“Kyle hunts?” Sonya asked.
“His dad used to take him sometimes,” Bill said. “Out past North Marine. The brothers would take acid and shoot at nothing. I watched ‘em once; T. Hanson and Donut and those other maniacs. I got lost out there. This kid found me, green paint on his face...”
“Uncle Bill, remember when you told me about those girls that disappeared? When was that?”
“What girls?”
“Fifteen years ago,” Aron said. “But it started before then. Some girl would turn up missing...”
“At the bottom of the lake,” Bill said. “Yeah, I remember that. Ben Garcia and the other cops would start searching the lakes and river whenever another girl was found. It would stop for awhile, then stopped all together.”
“Why do you think it stopped?” Sonya asked.
“Because whoever was killing those girls went away.”
“To Florida?”
“That’s what I think. Or maybe the brothers turned against him.”
*****
Bobby was doing his homework at the kitchen table when he heard the key turn in the lock.
Delia did not make Rick give back his key to the apartment. His things were still in there, piled on the couch.
Rick stepped in. “Hey.”
Bobby ignored him. Rick went into the kitchen, pulling out a black garbage bag from underneath the sink. He dropped the clothes into the bag, twisting the top between the fingers of his left hand, closing the bag shut. “Tell Mom I’m staying with friends.”
Bobby nodded, his back to Rick.
“I saw your friend at the bookstore, hiding in the parking lot. She needs to mind her own business. She could get hurt.”
Bobby swung around. “What are you talking about?”
“I know who’s attacking those girls, cutting up their faces. The Diamonds knew from the beginning, but the cops don’t want to look that close. Brings back bad memories of fishing girls out of the lake.”
Bobby noticed Rick was staring at his fingers, still in the splint.
“Who is it?” Bobby asked. “Another Blue Diamond?”
Rick shrugged, making the bag sway in his hand. “It doesn’t matter. They’ll deal with him.”
“Why don’t they tell the police?”
“Because the police are lazy drunks, like Garcia. Why would the Diamonds tell them anything?” Rick tossed Bobby the charm bracelet, and Bobby caught the chain between his two bound fingers. “Take this to Ashley when you see her.”
“She says you owe her money.”
“I gave it to her brother. She’ll get it.”
“Why would the Diamonds even care about what the Ravisher is doing?” Bobby asked.
Rick chuckled, his chubby face split in a grin as he swung the bag back and forth. “He calls himself the Ravisher, but the Diamonds call him Dead Man Walking. Donut’s hired his cousin Toon to come up from Florida to do the hit.”
“Why...so much planning?”
“The Diamonds always watch out for each other, bitch.”
“Did the Ravisher do something to a Diamond?”
“It’s more complicated. I don’t even know the whole story. But I do know it has something to do with those dead girls.”
“A serial killer?”
Rick threw
back his head and laughed. “The cops can’t say it was just the drugs. Marine has a lot of sick people...”
“Are you taking your meds, Rick?” Bobby asked.
“All I do is sleep on those pills. Nothing feels real. But I’ve never felt real. Like a ghost.”
Bobby could recall the last time Rick made ‘ghost’ remarks, and Delia put Bobby on an informal suicide watch two summers ago, culminating in Rick trying to jump off the roof of the downtown Marine Harbor Hotel. Sharon got him to come down, Rick once again hospitalized. Bobby had been thirteen, Rick eighteen.
“What friends are you staying with?” Bobby asked.
“Shawn and his girlfriend Bree. They’re at the Marine Estates trailer park.”
*****
“Hi, Tony,” Garcia said.
Tony Beck met the detective outside of the old house he shared with Kristen and their parents. “Hi.”
“Are your folks home?”
“No. Dad’s at work. Mom and Kristen went to the store.”
Garcia leaned against the hood of his old Chevy, a few autumn leaves sticking to the drops of rain. “I took a ride out to Lister’s house in North Marine. It’s empty.”
“I heard about the backruptcy.” Tony ran a hand through his thick hair, a red fleece jacket over his T-shirt and jeans. “You’d think Old Man Lister would have a stash of money hidden out by his swimming pool. Like The Sopranos.”
Garcia did not suppress his smile. “How much were you paid an hour?”
“Nine dollars.”
“That’s it?”
“His kids were in college.”
“What about the ex-cons? The illegals?”
“The illegals made seven-fifty. And they worked their asses off.”
Garcia nodded. “I’m a bit out of luck, Tony. Something on paper would have been helpful, but I think you must’ve worked for Lister long enough to remember a few names.”
“They would come and go. I only worked for Lister for about five months last year. The same the year before.”
“During the summer?”
“Right. Peak season for construction. We could have a house up in a month or less.”