“One was nineteen.”
“My sister and Katie were sixteen. Besides, the nineteen-year-old was hooking. The Demon’s victims were prostitutes or transients or women who were skunk-drunk and made terrible decisions. That wasn’t my sister, that wasn’t Katie.”
“Psychos can be opportunistic—”
“Barnes worked at night, both Ellen and Katie were abducted during the day.”
“Vicks—”
“And the way the other bodies were positioned . . . that wasn’t my sister.”
“Your sister wasn’t staged.”
“That’s exactly it, Shanks. She wasn’t staged. She was dumped in a grave, and a deep grave. Someone planned it out. It took a while to dig a hole that deep. It was not like the Demon, who really was opportunistic. None of the Demon girls were buried. They were dumped but not buried.”
Ben stood and started pacing in the small office.
“I know not all killings by the same murderer are identical. Sometimes killers change depending on the situation. But Ellen’s was clearly planned. Stalked. I just know it. I’m a math head, Shanks. I see patterns, and Ellen’s didn’t fit the Demon. Not to mention that physical resemblance between my sister and Katie—same age, same height, dark hair, dark complexion for Caucasians: Katie’s Black Irish and Ellen had more Indian in her than either Haley or myself. And when you find Katie’s body, you’ll see I’m right.”
“Sit down, Vicks, you’re making me nervous.” Ben stopped pacing and finally sat. Shanks said, “I’m listening very carefully to what you’re saying. And like always, if you have any ideas, I’m open.”
Ben threw back his head and exhaled. “God, I’m tired.”
“I know you are.”
Then he sat up. “Did you tell my parents yet?”
“My next phone call.”
“It’s going to be horrible at home. Reliving it all over.”
Shanks softened his voice. “What can I do for you now, Vicks? Want to go out for coffee?”
“No.” Ben looked up. “No, thanks . . . but if you want to do something for me, let me see the file.”
“No.”
“Why not? Because you’re not feeling kindly toward me?”
“Vicks, c’mon. I see you more than I do my own daughters.”
“Much to your chagrin.”
“If I didn’t like you, I’d tune you out. But I do like you. I’d adopt you if you didn’t have two wonderful parents. I care about your welfare. Why do you keep torturing yourself?”
“It’s what I need to do.”
“What you need to do is be a teenager, Ben. Chase girls, drink vodka, smoke a little weed . . . God, I can’t believe I’m saying this.”
“I want to look at the file.”
“Just sit back and close your eyes. I’m sure you know it by heart.”
“I like to read it. I like to see the print because every time I see it, I see something different—not necessarily new but different. That’s what I do. I’m relentless so you don’t have to be.”
“Now who’s insulting who? You know Ellen has been my priority one since that day.”
“You said I was gloating.”
“You’re right. That was terrible. I’m very sorry.”
“And I’m sorry for maligning your diligence. But I still want to see the file.”
The usual pause before Shanks would cave. He was, above all, a good guy. He said, “I’ll pull it, but first you need to get me some coffee.”
“Done.”
Shanks handed him two mugs. “Get yourself some coffee too. As long as you’re going to hang around, we might as well make it official. Happy birthday.”
Ben’s birthday had been almost a month ago on July 31—same as Harry Potter. He had turned that nothing age of seventeen. Shanks had taken the time to remember. “Thank you.” He managed a small smile. “Thanks a lot.”
“Stop staring and get me coffee. I’m losing my caffeine high and you’re making it worse. And make a fresh pot.”
After being the errand boy, Ben was finally rewarded with his sister’s files: boxes of them, well worn and dog-eared, his sister’s homicide recorded in notes, pictures, and futility. There were some words that were always the hardest to digest: manually strangled and sexually assaulted.
His sister—his flesh and blood—broken down into organs, flesh, and bones by the autopsy report, the pictures taken postmortem. Snapshots were also taken at the grave although the body was unrecognizable as Ellen. In any big city, there would have been no way Ben could have gotten access to privileged material. But this was River Remez—a small town.
He read until his eyes gave out and it was clear that Shanks was waiting to go home. Slowly, he returned the files he had read back to the boxes. Shanks stowed them away and got up. “You need a lift?”
“I have my bike.”
“I have a bike rack. It’s getting dark.”
“There’s enough sunlight to get me home. But thanks.” Ben paused. “Did you tell my parents?”
“I called your mom. You were too busy reading to notice that I left the room.”
“That sounds like me.” The two of them walked outside. The sun was still above the horizon, but not by much. Ben sighed. “Okay, then.”
“Ben, I’d be happy to come over and talk to her in person.”
“Don’t put yourself through it. I know my mom. She’ll just hole up in her bedroom.”
“What about your sister?”
“I’ll take care of her. She’ll be functioning in a few days. I’ll see you next time.”
“What next time?”
“C’mon, Sam. You know me. Until he’s caught, there is always a next time.”
“Ben, you’ve got to stop.”
“Is he gonna stop, Sam?” When Shanks didn’t answer, Ben said, “I’ll stop when you know without a doubt whatsoever that he’ll stop. Until then, it’s business as usual.”
Chapter 3
Usually the family ate at seven, but Ben knew that tonight would be different. Haley and Lilly were sitting at the dinner table. They had either finished the meal or hadn’t even started. His sister was twirling strands of curly auburn hair with her forefinger.
“Did you ladies eat?” Ben asked.
It was Lilly who answered. “No.”
“Where’s Dad?”
“Working late,” Haley said.
“Where’s Mom?”
Haley pointed to the kitchen.
Mom was at the stovetop, stir-frying vegetables. Next to the stove were cubes of cooked cold chicken on a paper plate. She was wearing a black apron and an expression to match. Her graying brown hair was pinned back, and her face was bathed in steam.
Ben knew he had to say something. “I’m sorry, Mom.”
She didn’t answer.
“I know how hard this must be—”
“Ben . . .” She turned around and her eyes were dry. “I’m not feeling my best. Would you mind taking over?”
“Of course.”
She put the pan down and retreated to the bedroom. His mom slept a lot. On weekends, it was rare to see her up before ten. He finished up cooking, added the chicken cubes, and then dumped the stir-fry onto three plates. Not very appetizing but it was hot and fresh. He took it back into the dining room with knives, forks, and napkins. Water was already at the table.