He disappears around the corner, and I’m suddenly engulfed by an overwhelming sense of loneliness. I feel isolated and cut off, as if I’m the only person left on earth. As the snow swirls down from a cast iron sky, I’m reminded of how much my life here in Painters Mill means to me—and how much I stand to lose if I don’t fight for reinstatement.
I go back to the VICAP report. It makes for grim, monotonous reading. Murder. Rape. Serial crimes with all the disturbing details that go along with them. By six o’clock the words begin to blur. My eyes feel as if they’ve been filled with sand. I’ve been on the phone so much my ear aches. Still, I’ve got nothing. Doubt begins to gnaw at my earlier resolve. Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe Jonas Hershberger is guilty. Twenty years have passed since I knew him. I know firsthand that time and events can change the course of a person’s life. Look at me.
Stymied, I go to the cabinet above the fridge and pull out the bottle of Absolut. I pour too much into a tumbler and take that first dangerous sip. Back at my laptop, I try to log in to OHLEG to check on my earlier inquiries only to find my account has been disabled.
“Damn it.” My last law enforcement tool is gone. I stare at the screen, frustrated and angry, with no idea where to go from here.
On impulse, I pull up a popular search engine and type “carving,” “abdomen” and “exsanguination” and hit enter. I don’t expect much in the way of useful information. Too much weird crap on the Internet. I get links to excerpts from novels, some bizarre short story, a college thesis on the media and violence. I’m shocked when I see a link to the Fairbanks Daily News-Miner. I click and read.
THIRD BODY WASHES UP ON THE TANANA RIVER
Alaska State Troopers say the body of an unidentified woman was found late Tuesday by a group of hunters. The woman is Caucasian and appears to be in her late twenties. According to Trooper Robert Mays, “her throat was cut” and she had “ritualistic carvings on her abdomen.” This is the third body discovered along the bank of the remote Tanana River in the past six months and valley residents are alarmed. “We’re keeping our doors locked,” says Marty West, a Dot Lake resident. “I don’t go anywhere without my gun.” The body has been sent to Anchorage for an autopsy.
I stare at the screen, my heart pounding. The similarities are too striking to ignore. Nothing had come up on VICAP, but that’s not too unusual; the database wasn’t widely used by local law enforcement until recently. Some of the older data wasn’t entered into the database at all due to lack of manpower.
A glance at the clock above the stove tells me it’s nearly eight P.M. Alaska is in the Alaskan Time Zone, which is four hours earlier. I google the Fairbanks PD for a phone number and dial. After being transferred twice, I’m told Detective George “Gus” Ogusawara retired seven years ago. I ask if he knows where Gus is living. He refuses to give me a number, but tells me to try Portland or Seattle.
I go back to the Internet. Lucky for me, Ogusawara isn’t a common name. I start dialing and get the right man on my second try. “Is this George Ogusawara?” I begin.
“Who want to know?” A tenor voice with a strong Asian accent.
Quickly, I identify myself as chief of police. “Were you an investigator in Fairbanks?”
“I was a detective in Fairbanks, ma’am. I retire as Detective Lieutenant seven years ago. Now that you know you have the right fellow, what you want to know?”
“I’m investigating a series of murders similar to the ones that happened in Fairbanks back in the early 1980s.”
“Bad medicine, those murders. Give everyone nightmares, including me. What you want to know?”
“I understand the killer carved something on each victim’s abdomen.”
“Before he torture and kill them, yes. Guy a sick motherfucker, let me tell you.”
“The report I’m looking at doesn’t say what he carved. I was wondering if you recall what it was.”
“Even a hard-assed cop like me don’t forget something like that. He carve numbers. You know. Roman numerals. One. Two. Three. Like that.”
“Was the killer caught?”
“He the only reason I don’t retire until I’m too old to enjoy myself.” He pauses. “You think you got him down there?”
I don’t want to tell him too much. Already, I’ve crossed a line by telling him I’m chief of police. “I’m not sure. Is there anything else you can tell me about these murders?”
“They the worse thing I ever see. Real bad guy, this killer.”
“You’ve been very helpful. Thank you.”
He starts to say something, but I hang up. My mind races with the information I’ve just been given. Three similar murders in Alaska, over three thousand miles away. Is there a connection? Could it be the same killer? If so, what took the killer from Ohio to Alaska and then back to Ohio?
I go back to the search engine and pull up everything I can find on the Tanana River Killer. I’m reading a small article from the Tanana Leader when a name stops me cold.
Nate Detrick, a guide for Yukon Hunting Tours, discovered the
body and contacted police . . .