Mr. 8 Read online

  “You never mentioned an axe.”

  “I wasn’t sure about it at first.” Denton dodged a cloud of acrid cigar smoke the wind had blown his way.

  “Well, it certainly wasn’t in the van. Believe me if there had been any kind of blades or knives in there, we’d still be comparing them against all the tool marks the medical examiner documented from the victims.”

  Denton tried not to let his revulsion show in the brief silence that followed. An unwelcome image of hacked up, charred remains had burst into his head.

  Bill licked his fingertip and ran it along the edge of the cigar, to even out the burn. “They must have ditched it and the gasoline. They only got picked up about two hours after you called. There would have been plenty of opportunity to toss them.”

  “So you think they were getting rid of the evidence that night?”

  “Beats me. But there was nothing there. There was also nothing to indicate the victims had been in the vehicle either. Forensics was thorough.”

  “So why are you convinced they’re involved?”

  “Because, Dent, there was no evidence?”

  Denton came to a stop for a second while Bill’s words sank in. He jogged a few steps, until he was back beside him. “I know I’m not a police officer, but huh?”

  “The van—it was too clean. Nothing but the three boys’ fingerprints. We don’t have the DNA results back yet, but I bet it’s the same. Damn few samples, at any rate. I’ll wager it was scrubbed down—recently. Something must have happened to spook them.”

  They turned up Cypress Avenue, taking the long route back home. Denton relived the conversation in front of Radcliff’s House. I work with the police, he had told the boy.

  A careless step on a frozen patch of slush sent Denton staggering backward. Bill reached out a hand, but Denton waved it off and steadied himself on his own.

  When he recovered his balance, he asked, “So, one of them is Eddie, who are the others?”

  “I can’t tell you that, Dent. Radcliff’s lawyer is threatening to sue if we release their names. Claims it’ll irreparably damage their reputations. Got an injunction and everything.”

  “I’m not going to tell anyone.”

  “I can’t. Not on this one. The lieutenant is looking to hang anyone that leaks those names,” Bill said with finality.

  “So what happens next?”

  “We wait. If they’re involved, they’ll slip up eventually. In the meantime, we keep gathering evidence and building a case against them. You know, police work.”

  “What about the eights? The other victims, did they have the obsession too?”

  “Yeah,” Bill said, sounding strangely chipper about it. “Oddest thing. They all did. But we have a theory.”

  “What is it?” He didn’t like how pathetically eager his voice sounded.

  Bill stopped and looked around, as though he wanted to make sure they were completely alone.

  “You have to promise not to tell anyone.”

  “Who would I tell?”

  Bill pursed his lips, while he appeared to consider the question. “How much does Linda know?”

  “Only what’s been in the news. I haven’t said anything about the investigation to her.

  A puzzled look crossed over Bill’s face. “Alright, but this really has to stay between us. Swear?”

  “I swear.” Denton felt as if he were back in grade school.

  “We think it’s a drug.”

  “What?”

  “We believe that it’s some new designer drug. Substance abuse is the cause of their personality changes. The eights are a weird side effect or something. We think that Eddie Radcliff and his gang were dealing it. Something went sideways. And they started killing off the people who knew about it—their clients. They burned the bodies, so we wouldn’t find traces of the chemical in their systems.”

  “That doesn’t make any sense.” Denton’s voice was filled with open disbelief. “There’s nothing that could cause such a distinct preoccupation in all of its users. Psychotropic drugs interact with a person’s neurochemistry in such a way that—”

  Bill held up his hand. “Whoa. I don’t know the science behind it. The agents that came up from Quantico worked it out. They seem pretty convinced.”

  “But it’s impossible.”

  “Well, if you have a better theory, I’m all ears.” He didn’t sound open to hear alternative theories. He sounded annoyed and neither one of them said much after that.

  Denton had managed to get his boots and coat off and get all the way through to the kitchen, while telling Linda selective parts of the conversation. He poured out a quarter cup of dregs from the coffee pot, happy to have a hot drink in his hand to warm his fingers.

  “So that’s all he told you? They’re free but he thinks they did it.”

  “You know Bill,” he said. “He’s pretty tight-lipped. Especially, with that stuff.”

  “Did you ask him if they had people following them?”

  “No, I didn’t think of it. He did say that those kids were on their radar.”

  “On their radar, what the hell does that mean?”

  Denton didn’t want to admit that he didn’t know what it meant. Were the police watching them? Or were they just waiting for the next victim?

  Before Linda could say anything else, he said, “Oh, I almost forgot…”

  “What?” The question slipped from her lips quickly. It begged for the answer, as though Denton must surely be holding back some crucial piece of information.

  “He’d like us to get together for the holidays. He wanted to know if we could meet Helen and him for dinner at the Bee and Bonnet next Saturday.”

  Denton had walked over to the sink and was looking out the window, but he could feel the daggers coming out of her eyes. Their points grazed the back of his neck.

  After a long pause, she said, “Yeah, that’ll be fine.”

  He could hear her steps heading toward the back hall.

  “I’m going to go get some work done.” There was a small squeak, as she stopped and pivoted on the tile. “Oh, the radio’s come up with a name for our killers: Mister Eight.”

  “Mister Eight, why’s that?” Denton turned his head to look at her and hoped his voice hadn’t waivered.

  “Because there were eight bodies, I guess. Pretty stupid name, if you ask me, seeing that there’s three of them. And what will they call them after they kill again? Mister Nine?”

  Linda disappeared around the corner, leaving Denton standing there alone with the taste of acrid coffee grounds in his mouth.

  Chapter 16

  One Wrong Move

  SNOW CLUNG TO THE CUFFS of his pants and collected along the top of his boots at his ankles. It melted into freezing water that soaked his socks and numbed his feet. The leather boots were fine for town, but they weren’t made for a trek through the woods. They sank beneath the deep snow and slipped on the shallower patches.

  To prevent a tumble down an icy incline, Denton hugged the trees for support. At the bottom of the hill there was an empty gap, where he skidded through leaves and slush until he caught hold of a birch to stop his momentum.

  The cabin was getting closer, but it was of little relief to him. The closer he got, the more he wondered what exactly he was doing out there.

  After he left the house that morning, he went back to see Radcliff. Undeniably, it was a bad idea. He could hear Bill chastising him in his head. The boy could be a serial killer. He should just stay out of it and let the police handle it. But Denton couldn’t leave it alone. He felt if he could just see him again, he would pick up on whatever clue he had missed the first time. There was no chance that Eddie would let him into the house again. He just hoped that a few minutes at the door would reveal a telltale sign of the boy’s guilt or innocence.

&n
bsp; After ringing the bell and knocking several times, no one appeared to be home. Denton walked along the gallery peering in the windows. Heavy drapes hid most of the rooms from view. The only one he was able to get a look at was the formal living room. The antique furnishings sat there in their museum-like gloom.

  Following the side of the house, he trudged around to the backyard. The garden gate almost kept him out, but with some effort, he was able to shove it through the snow enough to squeeze past.

  The morning’s sun reflected off of the windows of the conservatory, forcing him to press his face up against the glass and shield it with his hands in order to see in. He stared up at the celestial paintings. Denton considered the subtle, almost hidden, figure eights in both images. What had been happening to the artist as she painted these? What was compelling her?

  When he pulled away, the position of his hands and his forehead were marked on the window with an outline of frost, formed from his breath. A quick rub with his coat sleeve wiped it clean.

  Back inside the comfort of his car, he lingered there, tasting his disappointment. He stared out at the empty street in front of him. There were a few cars parked in driveways, but no one was on the road. His eyes darted to the rear-view mirror. No one was back there either.

  The police weren’t watching the house.

  He brushed his hair back along his scalp. Why weren’t they monitoring Radcliff?

  Of course, Eddie was out, so perhaps the officers they put on him were tailing him, as he went about his business. But what business did he have so early on a Monday morning? He didn’t go to school—at least, not Milton. A search of the student directory had confirmed that. Could he have a job?

  Unlikely. There was an idleness about the boy. He was too young to have a career and too wealthy to be spending his time as a store clerk. Eddie kept a lawyer on speed dial and spent his time playing video games.

  If he were to predict the boy’s behavior, Denton would say he should be still home asleep. Or at least, he would be on any normal Monday. However, he had been picked up by the police two days ago and interrogated for multiple homicides. That could certainly be reason enough to change his routine.

  Denton started the Mercedes and took a long meandering route to campus, stopping and getting a coffee on the way. He needed to better understand Eddie Radcliff, but he didn’t have enough information. If only he had focused more on him at the time. If only he had spent another five minutes examining his bedroom.

  If the boy was guilty, why did he let him into the house that day? Because I told him I was with the police.

  No, because he had assumed I was the police. He had been waiting for a visit from law enforcement. That’s why he was so ready to believe Denton was a detective.

  But why not demand a warrant? To appear innocent.

  “Come on in. Look around. I have nothing to hide. You can poke around all you like. I’ll just go play a video game like everything is normal.”

  There must not be anything incriminating in the house, or he would have kept Denton out. It made sense. The police were investigating his mother’s death, if there was any evidence at the Radcliff home, they would have found it already.

  The smell of Agatha’s room came back to him: the sickly, flowery perfume barely masking the odor of antiseptic. What had Bill said? “They scrubbed the van down.” Had her room been scrubbed down too? Her body had been found out by Salem Creek Mill, but where was she killed?

  Even though Denton hadn’t found anything, his visit caused Eddie to worry that the police were on to him. So, he immediately decided to destroy the rest of the evidence.

  No. Next his accomplice showed up.

  The van pulled up only minutes after I left. Perhaps it wasn’t a coincidence.

  Eddie’s worst fears are realized when the police show up at his door. The moment the cop goes upstairs, and he’s alone, he calls up his friend. He freaks out on the phone. His friend tells him to relax. Play it cool. He’s on his way. Eddie turns on a video game and starts to play to keep from pacing and fidgeting. The friend hops in his van and races over. He parks up the street and waits for the police to leave. As soon as he sees the detective walk out and pull away in his car, he goes to check on Eddie to make sure he hasn’t done anything stupid and hung them all.

  Eddie’s hysterical. He’s certain it’s only a matter of time before they’re charged and taken to prison. They argue about what to do and finally decide to clean up the rest of the evidence. Then they head out to Federal Road, where they meet the third killer and gather up all the tools of their heinous trade.

  They dump them or destroy them or hide them somewhere else. But then they’re picked up by the real police. The three of them are questioned. The police put them into separate rooms hoping one will rat out the others. But the lawyer shows up and gets them released before that can happen.

  Then what does Eddie do? Go home and pretend nothing has happened?

  Denton was still considering this question when he pulled into the Milton parking lot and headed to his usual spot in the back.

  If he were Eddie, he’d leave—get out of town—avoid trouble. On TV, the police always say to the suspect, “Don’t leave town.” But do they say that in real life? Is there any way to enforce it? What would stop him? It wasn’t as if there were roadblocks around Bexhill.

  Denton checked the time. The morning was slipping away. The first exam had already started.

  He rushed across campus. There were proctors, so he wasn’t needed, but Denton always felt duty bound to be there. Two of his undergrad classes were sitting it that day. The other two would take it on Tuesday.

  He arrived flushed and slightly sweaty. Glancing in, he saw the hushed room. The only noise came from the sound of pen on paper and the occasional cough or squeak of a chair. He removed his coat and draped it over an empty desk. He then carefully folded his scarf. Deep burgundy with a paisley print, it had been a gift from Linda. He placed it on top of his coat and meandered down the long rows. A few students looked up at him from their essays. He smiled and nodded back. After two complete tours, he headed back to the door and gathered his things.

  On his way out, he went up to Monica Rainville. She was leaning against the wall with her arms folded and a stern look on her face. Her eyes passed from one desk to the next, with fierce concentration. Denton asked her in a low whisper, “I didn’t see Kaling. Did you hear from him?”

  “No,” she said. “He hasn’t been at the last couple of conferences either.”

  Denton nodded. “I’ll be in my office. Call me if there are any problems.” There wouldn’t be. There never was.

  Kaling hadn’t been in class since Maggie Biscamp’s abduction. He had taken it hard. The last time Denton had seen him, it was in Market Square at the vigil. The teary eyed young man was at the head of the procession beside the girl’s parents.

  News of her death must have devastated him.

  When Denton got to his desk, he carefully started re-reading all the notes he had taken since the murders of Mr. 8 first came to his attention. With his left hand, he flipped through the pages of his notebook. With his right, he scrawled down points on a fresh sheet of lined paper.

  The odd assortment of facts and observations told a grim story of what a dark and fearful place Bexhill had become. It was a tale about a secret killer that stalked the town and mysterious disappearances that haunted the residents. It was about how the disappeared turned into the dead, because of the curiosity of a dog. And how news broke over the town and filled it with grief and terror.

  Denton was just starting to go through his notes on Agatha Radcliff, when someone knocked on the frame of his open door.

  “Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you,” Lorraine said, while he recovered his composure.

  “My own fault.” Denton adjusted his glasses on the bridge of his nose. “Too much coff
ee this morning.”

  Lorraine was the new administrative assistant for Psychology. When the previous assistant retired in June, she’d transferred from the Chemistry Department for slightly more pay. The raise almost certainly failed to compensate for working directly with Simon Foley on a daily basis.

  “Still at it?” she asked.

  “Yeah, I’m stuck here until 2:30 or so. You?”

  “I’m out of here. We’re shuffling off to Buffalo this afternoon.”

  Denton smiled politely at her joke. He hadn’t found it funny the first two times he’d heard it either. Her husband’s family was from Buffalo, New York, and they took the kids to visit them just about every chance they got.

  “Just wanted to bring you this. Merry Christmas.” She held out a gift bag with red and green tissue paper fluffed out of the top.

  “Geez Lorraine, you didn’t have to do that.” He got up and stepped around the desk to take the bag from her.

  “It’s just a little something. I’m not going to be here for the potluck, so I wanted to give it to you now. Your one of the only profs that doesn’t make my life hell around here.”

  He pulled out a bottle of scotch. “Thank you, Lorraine. This is fantastic. I’ll be sure to think of you when I’m drinking it. Merry Christmas.”

  He tried to strike a balance of sounding truly appreciative but not so thankful that it sounded phony. The bottle was bottom shelf stuff, far inferior to anything he’d ever buy himself. Maybe he could use it for cooking.

  “Hang on. I have something here for you.” He went back and fished out a box of chocolates from his desk drawer. He felt sheepish giving it to her. The scotch for all its faults was a generous gift considering they barely knew each other. The candy he’d gotten her had been on sale at the drug store.

  “Sorry, I didn’t wrap it. I didn’t realize you would be leaving today.”

  She thanked him and tucked it under her arm. There was something in the gesture that said, I’ll go put it with the others.

  Anxious to change the subject, he asked, “Your folks don’t mind you spending the holidays with Ted’s people.”