Murder Mountain (9 page)

Over the next several days, I did nothing on the case but hit dead ends. The address that Matt Hensley told me that Bob took him to was one of many vacant houses on Fairfax Avenue. I’ll bet I made at least fifty phone calls to people I thought might know something, but none of them did. One of those calls was to Jarrod Lawhorn, who, of course, screamed in my ear that he told me he would call if he’d heard something, and hung up on me. I decided then that someday, whether its ten years down the road or next week, I would find the opportunity to put my hands around Jarrod Lawhorn’s neck and wring it until he quit breathing.

I was doing everything I could to avoid talking to Bobby Delphy. If Kincaid had known he was involved, I would have been chewed to shreds for not talking to him first. And realistically, she would be right; he might have been able to tell me everything I needed to know, including the whereabouts of Lizzie Johnston, but I couldn’t do it just then, and I knew that he wouldn’t talk to another detective.

After several days, I realized that I hadn’t yet contacted Andrea Dean. I would’ve chewed myself out if I could.
How did I forget to do that?
I thought. I started gathering my things to go to Andrea’s house when my phone rang.
This is how I forget to do things, getting interrupted all the time,
I thought as I answered it. It was Nick from Missing Persons.

“Hey, Cecelia,” he almost chirped, “I got everything you needed if you want to come get it all.”

“Good deal. I’m on my way,” I told him, and headed to his office.

But Boz yelled at me from down the hall before I was even out the door of the bureau, “Hey, CeeCee! Whatcha doin’?”

“Not much. I’m on my way to see Nick in Missing Persons.”

“Oh, is that on the case you guys were talking about?”

“Yup.”

“Hey, I wanted to ask you, since I know you’re busy, is there anything you need help with? I’m pretty caught up with my stuff,” he smiled.

“Well, as a matter of fact, there is something you can do for me, Boz.”

“Throw it at me, hot stuff.”

“There’s a girl named Andrea Dean that I need a statement from. She lives at the corner of Benedict Avenue and Hanna Road. Dispatch probably has her address, but supposedly, she’s heard some things around Roseland about what had happened to this missing girl. She told the girl’s dad that she didn’t know any names or any specifics, but obviously, she’s lying. If you could go over there and crack her open for me, I would really appreciate it,” I said with the most winning smile I could come up with.

“No problem, darlin’, I’m on my way.”

With that, I was out the door to go see Nick.

Nick’s tone of voice on the phone made me curious about what he’d found. He normally didn’t get too excited over things, but his tone had had a slight, but definite, elevation in it when I’d talked to him. Walking into his office, I saw that he had about six files lying on his desk.

“Here you go, Cecelia,” he said, instead of greeting me.

“What’s that?”

“You’re not going to believe this. I never paid attention, but there were only six files still open on women who were missing. I don’t know how the others got closed out, but this is it, and all of ’em with Roseland connections. Definitely couldn’t find any connections to West Virginia, though.” He pushed them towards me.

I briefly scanned the names on the files: Sarah Whitehall, Karen Cummings, Linda Holbrook, Ashley Newman, Kara Simpson, and Lisa Grendle. I hadn’t heard of any of these women before, which was unusual since I’d worked in uniform for a long time. I asked Nick if any of the circumstances surrounding the missing women were alike.

“Just Karen and Lisa; the others were older and had serious domestic issues; they probably took off or their husbands buried them in the back yard. Karen and Lisa were habitual drug users, didn’t have any family around, and weren’t even reported missing for weeks. Karen was actually reported by the newspaper delivery boy because her papers were piling up. No one missed them, that’s for sure. But when we checked their apartments, both had left their purses and personal belongings.” He looked at me questioningly.

“Interesting,” I nodded. “Lizzie Johnston didn’t take anything, either. She walked out of her house to go get cigarettes.”

“Maybe she had a packed bag hid outside or something.”

“Possibly but unlikely. Do you mind if I take these files?”

“Nope. Just get ’em back to me before retirement,” he smiled.

“Okay. If anything turns up on these girls I’ll let you know.”

“Take care, Cecelia.”

Sitting in my office, I was wondering how Boz was doing with Andrea Dean. I started looking through the files I had taken from Nick. He was right. Out of the six women, only Karen and Lisa had similar characteristics. There was nothing in either file that indicated that they knew each other—something that I was immediately curious about.

Something else—these girls had absolutely nothing in common with Lizzie Johnston. Well, maybe in her last six months, but not before then. Karen and Lisa were in their late twenties, grew up in foster homes, and apparently didn’t have a lot of friends. They also both had lengthy criminal records, mostly minor drug offenses and thefts. Lizzie had a loving father, lots of friends, and no record. I had to find a connection somewhere.

Just as I was gathering up my paperwork and calling an end to the day, the portable radio that was sitting on my desk started screaming with voices. I heard the 10-3 yelled out and my hair stood up on end; probably how the other officers felt when I called it while Delphy was kicking my ass. My portable’s volume had been down so I hadn’t heard anything leading up to this.

As usual, about twenty other cops got on the radio, talking over each other, asking what was going on. I grabbed my phone and called the communications center, yelling before the dispatcher even said anything, “It’s Detective Gallagher; what’s going on? Who’s in trouble and where’s he at?”

“It’s Detective Boscerelli, Ma’am,” the dispatcher’s flat voice telling me just what I didn’t want to hear. “They found him in a clearing in the woods at the dead end of Hahn Road. We had a report of a suspicious car in the woods, and when the uniforms pulled up and did a license plate check, they recognized his car. They called the 10-3 a couple seconds after that and then called for an ambulance.”

I barely let her finish before I dropped the phone and ran out of my office. Please let him be okay, I said over and over in my head. I was in a dead run across the parking lot toward my car and saw a marked cruiser pulling out of the compound. I immediately flagged him down and jumped in the passenger side. I knew I would get there a lot quicker running with lights and sirens on.

The deputy driving was clearly upset, and we didn’t say a word to each other; he was too busy driving at least 90 miles an hour through the city streets to get to Roseland. I wished he would go faster. My heart was racing and I was shaking like crazy. Words can’t describe this feeling: you can’t get there fast enough, you feel helpless, you panic, your imagination runs wild, and you pray hard. All I kept thinking was that they’d called for an ambulance, which is a good sign.

If someone is clearly dead, the coroner is called out. The panic in the voice of the deputy who called the 10-3 told me that whatever condition Boz was in was not good.

In what seemed like an hour, but was actually less than three minutes, we turned onto Hahn Road and saw the numerous flashing lights. The scene was horrific, like it usually is, with everyone running around, some not knowing what to do. An enormous crowd of citizens had gathered on a corner and had to be watched by uniforms, which is the last thing they wanted to have to do at a time like this.

The cruiser had barely stopped before I jumped out and went running towards the edge of the woods where the ambulance was parked. I literally almost ran directly into Captain Kincaid. How she beat us there is beyond me, but I stepped back because she stopped.

“Where’s Boz? Is he okay?” I almost shouted.

For the first time in my career, I saw Captain Kincaid lose her composure. She was shaking, her eyes were red, and she looked on the verge of tears. This scared me and I knew what was coming.

“He’s dead, CeeCee,” she said quietly. “His throat was slit.”

My head was spinning and I felt dizzy, trying to absorb what she’d just told me. I shakily turned towards the clearing where I could see Boz’s car. It was facing into the woods in a clearing about 50 feet from the road. Then, I felt arms grabbing and people yelling at me as I ran towards the car. I wasn’t paying attention because I was focused on proving Kincaid wrong.
He can’t be dead,
I thought as I came to the driver’s side window.

What I saw stopped me in my tracks. Boz was sitting in the driver’s seat, his head tilted to one side, literally resting on his shoulder, because whoever slit his throat had almost completely decapitated him. I wished that I had listened to everyone and not run up to the car because the sight of Boz’s throat will be forever burned in my mind. A simple knife couldn’t have done this. His throat looked like it had been severed with a chainsaw.

Trying to maintain my composure and prevent a complete breakdown, I started scanning the inside of the car. Boz’s throat had been severed so violently, he had pieces of tissue and skin hanging down, his shirt covered with it. I immediately turned around and found Kincaid behind me.

“Where did this happen at?” I asked, on the verge of hysterics.

“We don’t know yet,” she told me, “but probably here. I doubt the suspect or suspects would have driven him down here like this. The crime lab is on the way to process the scene.”

I had to instantly switch gears to keep from losing my cool.

“He wasn’t killed inside the car.” I was certain.

“What do you mean? How do you know?”

“Look here,” I said, putting on my latex gloves and opening the driver’s door, “His neck literally looks like they were using a saw to cut it. The inside of this car would be covered with blood splatters and there’s nothing except on him. Plus, explain to me how he would just sit still like that while someone’s cutting away at his neck.”

“True,” she said thoughtfully. “But even if he wasn’t sitting in the car and he was standing, how is someone going to do that? Boz was a pretty strong guy.”

“I’m going to guess that when the autopsy is done they’ll find a head injury. He was probably clocked from behind. They did his throat when he was out cold and put him in his car like this to taunt us. I honestly hope that’s the case. I would hate to think he was conscious when someone was doing that to his throat. Has anyone walked the woods yet?”

“No, but I’ll get everyone started on it now,” she said, and headed back towards the other cops, which by this time included Bill and Sean.

I saw two of my uncles standing by all the marked cruisers, so I headed that way. I was fighting back tears and needed a friendly face.

“You okay, CeeCee?” Max asked softly as he gave me a squeeze.

“No, I’m not. I sent Boz down here to get a statement for me and this happened. I feel like I’m gonna get sick.”

“I saw you go in there,” Mike gestured with his hand in the direction of the crime scene, “to the car. What do you think?”

“He wasn’t killed in the car; he was ambushed somewhere. Kincaid’s rounding up people to start walking the woods. Did you guys call Dad?”

“I did,” Max nodded. “He’s pretty upset, but was mainly concerned about how you’re holding up. Why don’t you give him a call?”

“I will, shortly, but now I’m going to help in the woods first. Mike, could you call Eric and let him know what’s happening, and that I’ll be late getting home, obviously?”

“Consider it done,” he said.

I walked back to the clearing and saw a group of uniforms and detectives all standing together about 30 feet into the woods from Boz’s car. Kincaid, who was standing in the group, waved me over. I walked into the woods, and as I got nearer, I could see by the looks on their faces that they had found the primary crime scene, the spot where Boz had been killed. There was a circular pattern of blood approximately five feet wide on the ground. Not just a little, but a massive amount of blood, indicating that this is where Boz bled out.

“You were right, CeeCee,” Kincaid admitted. “Here it is. There’s no drag marks from here to the car, so someone carried him.”

“Whoever did this would’ve been saturated in blood if they carried him,” I pointed out. It was obvious to us all, but I went on. “It’s broad daylight. They certainly wouldn’t have gone to the park afterward, that’s for sure. They would’ve had to go somewhere close by to clean up unless they live around here.”

Then the crime lab techs pulled their van into the clearing to process the scene. I walked back to the street and headed towards Coop. I noticed uniforms were at every house on the street talking to residents, looking for witnesses. When I got to Coop, he was leaning against his car with his head down.

“Coop, you okay?” I said softly.

“No, are you?”

“I think I’m going to lose it any minute now.” I was trying to keep tears from coming out with the words.

“We need to keep our shit together so we can find out who did this. Kincaid assigned herself, me, Bill, and Sean as the primaries on this, but everyone’s going to help. The uniforms aren’t coming up with anything as far as witnesses or homeowners. All these people were either sitting on their lazy asses watching television or taking a nap in the middle of the afternoon. I can’t figure out why he was down here to begin with; he never told Communications what he was doing.”

I took a deep breath and swallowed. “He was here because he was getting a statement for my missing person’s case.”

“What?” Coop reacted with surprise.

I then filled Coop in on everything: the other missing girls, the drugs, the dirty cops, the alleged murders of the missing girls, and Andrea Dean. I added that I don’t know if Boz even made it to Andrea’s house or not, but that we needed to check immediately.