Ross Brass is the one case I chose. Even if his charges were dropped, he’s a suspect in another case. There are more murders with his signature and now an APB is out. But he’s in the wind.
It’s the case that makes the most sense for me to look into. With nothing but time on my hands and a stain on my reputation, both because of him, I want this bastard behind bars for more than one reason. It’s not a vendetta, though, it’s simply my fucking job.
It’s not the case that’s opened on my laptop laying only a foot from me on the bed. The dim light of it calls to me to come back to it even though I’ve read through it a dozen times already. There’s not much there, to be honest. Twenty years ago, detective work wasn’t what it is now. The lack of forensics and technology and protocols … it all adds up to incomplete files, scanned papers that are more incoherent thoughts and assumptions that aren’t backed up than anything else.
What is known is that there were three men, at least, who kidnapped, assaulted and sexually abused a number of boys ranging from six years to ten years old. Two men were found dead at the scene, where the remains of the missing boys were found buried along with evidence that they were fed to the dogs roaming around the property. The third man was badly injured by the dogs; with his throat ripped out, he died in the hospital hours after discovery. One boy was alive when police arrived, only to die shortly after in the care of medical professionals who simply couldn’t treat all his injuries.
The case is a horror story and a tragedy that kept mothers awake at night. It destroyed a small town in northeastern New York and I can’t even imagine what their families went through.
Including Cody, given that Christopher was only identified by teeth buried in the black dirt and the little boy who survived said he was alive only days before. A week would have made a difference in a life. A single week. The lead detective on the case retired shortly after and one note I haven’t forgotten is in the files. A note stating that he suspected one of the men nearly a year before they were caught, but nothing came of the home search.
A photograph stares back at me as I drag the device into my lap and lean against the headboard.
Christopher Walsh was one of the sixteen boys over the course of four years.
There’s no one to question now, only ghosts.
Yet questions pile up in my mind, refusing to let it go, because deep down inside I’m vaguely aware there’s something here that I’m supposed to know.
The creak of the floor is synonymous with a number of things. The first being a striking fear that runs through me, followed by a chill that rolls down my spine. The second and most obvious is an unsolicited exhale and the memory of the last time I saw Marcus.
His mouth on mine, his body so close I can still feel the heat of him. The detailed reminder that comes with a whisper of his kiss against my lips washes away so much of everything else in this very moment.
Still, my gaze shifts from the darkened corner where a man obviously stands, to my gun, very much in clear sight on my nightstand.
With my pulse both heating and racing, I struggle to move. Another creak of the floorboards shifts the shadow and I stare into the darkness.
“It’s only me,” he speaks, breaking the silence.
My question is merely a murmur. “Should I close my eyes?” I don’t know how I’m able to breathe, let alone whisper the words.
I can’t see a damn thing but I swear I know he’s smiling when he answers me, his voice gruff as if he hasn’t spoken in a long, long time. “It depends on two things.”
The thumping in my chest is harder and my body hotter in every way possible, to the point that I desperately need to move out from under the covers, but my body is far too paralyzed to do so.
“What two things?”
“Can you see me?”
A hesitant exhale accompanies the headshake I offer as an answer.
“Good.”
“And the second thing?”
“Is that gun for me?”
Lie to him, my inner voice hisses, but the truth comes out instead as I say, “Yes. You or anyone else who broke in … but I figured it’d be you. How did you get in?”
There’s a hint of something in my voice I can’t quite place. My gaze follows the slight shift along the dark shadow.
“Because you’re scared?” he asks and ignores my questions. A hardness as well as curiosity are present in his tone.
“Yes,” I say, offering the word but I’m not sure he heard it so I nod and with it, my arms finally move. Even that small a change seems too much and I do everything I can to be as still as possible.
It feels as if my body is trembling, but when I peer down, I’m still as a statue.
“Don’t be afraid. I don’t have any desire to hurt you.” The recognition of his voice, of the event that transpired in Cody’s kitchen loosens my coiled muscles. Again I peer at the gun before turning back to the darkness in the corner. He must be leaning against the wall.
“Does that mean I don’t have to close my eyes?” I ask him.
“You really should.”
My throat is tight as I swallow and the sound it makes is audible and wretched.
Marcus only chuckles, and then tsk-tsks me. “I said don’t be afraid, Delilah.”
“How long have you been here?” I ask him, focusing on my alarm clock that now blinks 12:12 in a harsh red, mocking me. My phone never alerted me that the power went out.
“Maybe a half hour … That seems about right.” Gesturing to the blinking clock, the man I believe is dressed in all black, or at least dark colors, only responds, “It had to be fast not to set off the alarm. Don’t blame yourself for not noticing right away. You were so caught up in … a case? I presume?”
I still can’t make out his features, but I know he has a hood above his head. Something that could easily block his face if he wished. His outline is defined with broad shoulders and the height of a tall man. Every other detail, though, is hidden from view.
So I keep my eyes open and ask again, “How did you get in?”
“The same as before. Does it matter?” he asks and I shake my head although it feels deceitful. Of course it matters. Every detail matters.
“I have a question for you,” I say and the words come out unbidden.
“I have some for you too, want to trade?” Amusement laces his response and I can’t ignore the stir in the pit of my belly.
There’s a touch of menace in his question but I gather my strength and my sanity, refusing to fall deeper into the hole I’ve found myself in.
“How did you get in before? The power didn’t go out then.” Although the second statement is firm with resolve, the moment it slips from my lips I question its truthfulness.
His tone reflects boredom and that strikes a chord inside of me as he turns his back against the wall, no longer looking at me. Instead he stares at my door and all I’m offered is a silhouette. “I know your security code; I know the brother of a man who was on your security detail who was preoccupied with … a more pressing matter. Another was busy with a broken light in the parking lot. Distractions. I get in with distractions and contacts and information that’s easily traded.”
With his tired and clearly disappointed response, he inhales deeply and I ask another question, some mundane part of me still stuck on the how or possibly not yet willing to dare ask about the why.