The Murder of Janessa Hennley (19 page)

52

Mickey stood in front of the home. The place it had all started. Behind it arose the mountain where Suzan had taken him and they’d found one of David’s knives. His gaze circled around and came back to rest on the roof with the white trim. No “For Sale” sign hung in the yard, which meant the relatives hadn’t come to pick through the belongings.

Mickey
, still trying to get used to his cane, hobbled to the front door. He stood in front of it, gazing down at the doorknob before he tried it. It was open.

The Hennleys
’ home remained mostly untouched. He didn’t check any of the closets or bedrooms. Instead, he went straight for the door leading to the basement. He took the stairs carefully, using his cane to push on each new step.

Before he even reached the middle of the stairs,
the distinct smell, something between rotting meat and wet, moldy carpet, alerted him to the presence of dead bodies. He didn’t smell them when he was here before. David must have moved them in after Mickey was there.

He glanced into the laundry room.
A man with severe stab wounds all over his torso lay there. Mickey bent down and checked his pulse, but the gray face and the blue lividity in his arms where the blood had pooled told Mickey he was long gone.

Movement. A scratching sound. Mickey switched hands with his cane and pulled out his weapon. His heart
thumped in his ears, but he didn’t have the strength to fight. Not again, not this soon.

He
looked around the corner and saw Suzan Clay.

She was emaciated
and gray, her lips cracked and bleeding. Plastic ties bound her wrists, and she lay limply on her side. Mickey hobbled over to her, and she groaned.

“I’m here,” he said. “I’m here.”

He opened a tool kit with several hacksaws inside on a workbench. He sawed as carefully as he could through the ties. He caught her skin once, and she groaned again before the ties slipped off.

“I’m here, Suzan. I’m here.”
He called 911 and told them where he was. Someone would be there in less than five minutes.

“Mickey,” she rasped.

“Don’t move.
An ambulance is on its way.” Lack of circulation had turned her hands completely black.

He’d seen hands like that before
. They had to be removed.

“I’m here, Suzan… I’m here.
”

53

Mickey sat in the waiting room of Alaska Regional.
The hospital allowed him to see Suzan only during visiting hours since he was neither family nor spouse. She drifted in and out of consciousness. The ER doctor informed him that she was nearly dead from dehydration when he’d brought her in. It’d been twenty hours now. The doctor felt he could predict that she would survive, though with rather extensive kidney damage from a lack of fluids. He didn’t know if they would be able to do anything about her hands but assured Mickey that the best orthopedic surgeon in Alaska practiced in their hospital, and he would do everything to save them.

V
isiting hours started in five minutes. Mickey didn’t see anyone, so he sneaked into the room.

She was hooked up to IVs and a heart monitor. The doctors said the only thing that saved her life wa
s that it had been cool and damp in the basement. If she had been on the upper floor, she likely would’ve died from the seizures caustic dehydration produced. 

He pulled
up a chair and sat next to her, then placed his hand over hers. Clouds floated by the single window in the room. Snow-capped mountains, jagged and blue, dominated the horizon.

His phone buzzed
. “What can I do for you, Kyle?”

“Mickey. I just got the info. How’s the sheriff holding up?”

“She’s stable. She’s going to survive.”

“That’s great news. Maybe we can fly her out here for
her own medal when you come out. Some sort of honorary something or other.”

“You can fly her out if you like, but I won’t be there.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean I’m not coming back
, Kyle. I’m going to have a moving company pack everything up and bring it here.”

“Where? Alaska? You gotta be shitting me.”

“I wasn’t going to last much longer there, anyway. And you can always find someone to sit in the basement.”

A shuffling sound as Mickey heard him whisper something to someone in the room with him.
“I understand. Good luck.”

“Thanks.”

“Mickey, one thing.”

“Yeah?”

“The Ricks shooting. Between me and you, was that a good shoot?”

Suzan
’s head had tilted slightly to the side, revealing a perfect profile, though her skin lacked elasticity from the dehydration. Her lips were peeling. He took some water out of a cup and lightly dabbed them with his finger. “He was dying of cancer and in pain every day. He told me he wanted to die but didn’t have the strength to kill himself. He hoped I would kill him.”

“And you did.”

“Yeah, I did. I can relate to that feeling. Not having any way out, with darkness closing in around you. I can relate to that in a way he knew I could. But I don’t know if I killed him because I actually thought he would kill me, or because I knew he wanted it. I can’t answer that question honestly, Kyle.”

“I see. Well, if this is what you want, I’m not going to stop you.”

“I appreciate that. Thanks for everything.”

“You’re welcome. Take care of yourself
, Mickey.”

“You too.”

He hung up the phone and turned back to the window. As he gazed at the clouds, a small, hoarse voice said, “I’m glad you stayed.”

He
bent down and kissed her forehead. “I’m glad, too.”

Bonus Material (As a Thank You from the Author)

CAKE BOX

A Mickey Parsons Short Story

1

The wheat field in Iowa, rather than absorb the day’s unbearable heat, bounced it back to cook anyone unlucky enough to be outside. Only one road wound through the desolate field. The nearest town was fifteen miles away, the nearest gas station eight.

The body had decomposed beyond recognition, mostly because the isolated dumping site precluded anyone from finding it right away.
The body had that smell already, the smell of death, to which Mickey Parsons had grown accustomed. But his partner, an agent only three months out of the academy named Angela Listz, wasn’t used to it yet. She tried to pretend as if it didn’t bother her, but when she thought Mickey wasn’t watching, she took out some chapstick and rubbed it underneath her nostrils.

“What do you think,
Angela?” Mickey said as the Medical Examiner’s people waited to cart off the body as soon as they were done.

Angela slipped on latex gloves and knelt over the body. Nude and rotting, portions of the
bloated back had split open, and a thin, black fluid seeped out.

“Female,” she said. “Probably early twenties. She’s got upper ear piercings and tattoos. That doesn’t seem like the small towns around here. Tattoo on the upper right shoulder…
Looks like a name. Can’t really make it out. The first name might be Tim or Tom.”

“I can see that from a photo. Tell me about
him
.”

She stared at the body a long time. She walked around it, bent over it,
stared at it like a painting. But after a good ten minutes she finally said, “Caucasian, loner with a house or shed somewhere.”

“Why?”

“Serial killers tend to kill their own race. He would need a house or a shed to torture someone like this. No neighbors nearby.”

“That’s a pretty big assumption, that he’s a serial killer. This could be just a random body.”

“I don’t think so. There’s some real damage to the musculature and dermis. That means torture. A sexual sadist.”

“There’s no evidence of anything sexual yet.”

She smirked. “With men, everything is sexual.”

Someone from the ME’s Office walked over and asked if he could have a word with Mickey. “Log the time,” he said to Angela.

Angela pulled out a digital recorder from her pocket and flicked it on. “Fourteen hundred hours, May sixteen, two thousand eight. We’ve retrieved…”

Mickey followed the man away from the body
to a spot near the ME’s van. “Are you the one in charge?” the man asked.

“If anyone were in charge, I guess it would be me.”

“Well, I just wanted to let you know that the sheriff’s office doesn’t like people swooping in and taking their cases.”

“We only took this because it had similarities to another homicide in Nebraska. We think he’s crossing state lines.”

The man folded his arms. “I know. And I know that the sheriff was more than happy to give it to you, but the detectives don’t work like that. Just thought you should know you won’t be getting any help from them.”

“I appreciate the warning. But that’s pretty much the reaction everywhere. Nothing new.”

Mickey walked back to the body and put on latex gloves of his own. He signaled for the ME’s people to help him turn it over. The woman’s face was swollen to the size of a soccer ball, and one side was flat. Mickey ran his gaze down her body to her stomach.

“Look at this,” he said to Angela.

The stomach had split open, and the contents were pouring out. “He cut her open,” she said.

“No. That’s not a cut. And that food’s undigested.” He stood up
, his stare not leaving the stomach. “I think she burst.”

2

Mickey stood by their rental car as the
ME’s team bagged the body and placed it in the Medical Examiner’s van. He nodded to the man he’d spoken to as he climbed into the van and pulled away.

“Locals don’t seem too friendly,” Angela said, sipping her coffee.

“Get used to it. There’s some real fragile egos in law enforcement. You’ll get that reaction a lot.”

She sighed. “So
, what now?”

“Now you’re going to take everything we’ve gathered
, and you’re going to make your first murder book. It has to have everything about the case. The reports you write have to be as detailed as possible. Nothing left out. Make sure you get all the tox and crime scene reports from the other agencies, too.”

“You really think it’s the same guy? From Lincoln County?”

“The killings are similar, but the Nebraska victim looked a lot different. Brunette instead of blonde, chubby instead of skinny. I don’t remember what the contents of her stomach were. Find out, would you?”

“Sure.”

Mickey checked his watch. “I have a call to make from the hotel. Let’s head back.”

T
he air conditioner in the rental spewed out warm air. Mickey, steering with his knees, took off his jacket and loosened his tie. Angela looked over nervously but didn’t say anything.

“Where you from originally?” Mickey asked.

“Buffalo.”

“Yeah? Did you go to UB?”

“No, I went out of state. University of Michigan.”

“What’d you study?”

“Chemistry.”

“What would possibly make you want to do this for a living over a scientist?”

“You don’t believe in the nobility of the cause?”

“Nobody would choose this career. It chooses you. The people that last a long time are the ones that are in this because they can’t do anything else.”

“Well, maybe I’m one of those people?”

“No, I don’t think you are. You chose the FBI and Behavioral Science in particular. Why?”

“Let’s just say I wanted to make a difference.” She paused. “I think all life is worth fighting for, you know? The prostitute’s life is worth just as much as a billionaire. I see that here. We treat every homicide the same. I love that. We don’t fight for people, we fight for life.”

She averted h
er eyes and watched the passing fields out the window. She played absently with her ID card tethered to a University of Michigan lanyard.

He parked at the Marriot
and dropped her off.

“You coming in?”
she asked.

“No, I’m gonna grab something to eat after my phone call. You’re welcome to come.”

“Don’t think so. I’ve got some autopsy reports to get through, it looks like.”

“Stay on it. They’ll seem like Latin at first. But you’ll pick up the rhythm of the reports in no time.”

“All right, see you in a bit.”

Mickey waited until she was inside before pulling out and driving to the nearby diner. The place was one story, red, and appeared
as if it had been built in the ’50s. But they had the best omelets Mickey ever had. He sat quietly a few moments before dialing a Virginia number on his cell. The bad hold music on repeat at hospitals and doctor’s offices occupied the line. He’d listened to hours of it when his wife was in the cancer unit back in Virginia.

“Dry Creek Medical,” a receptionist answered.

“Yes, I’m a patient of Dr. Glenn’s. I’m waiting for some test results. Mickey Parsons.”

“One moment… Dr. G
lenn isn’t in right now, but I’m sure he’ll call you as soon as he knows, Mr. Parsons.”

“Thanks. Tell him any time is fine, day or night.”

“Of course. We’ll let you know.”

Mickey hung up and placed the phone into his breast pocket.
Inside the diner, he sat at a booth in the corner facing the parking lot. The waitress, a girl by the name of Debbie, poured him a cup of coffee.

“Two days in a row. People are gonna start talkin’ about us.”

“I can’t help it. I think you put drugs in your omelets.”

She grinned. “Just love. So, same?”

“Yes. And a side of fruit today, please. How’d your boy’s soccer game go yesterday?”

“Oh, you know, with five
-year-olds it’s not really a game. Just kids running from one end of the field to the other. But it was a lot of fun. They won, and he said he wants to be a professional soccer player.”

“Well
, don’t ever talk him out of it. Kids need to know they can be whatever they want to be.”

She shrugged. “Unless what they want to be is bad, I guess. Your food’ll be right out.”

Mickey sipped his coffee and opened the file on the body he’d observed all morning. Carrie Ann Belnap.

Twenty-one and a full time student at the University of Iowa. Next of kin
was an aunt notified of her death yesterday. The aunt had called in a missing persons report a week ago. Carrie Ann was last seen alive at a local bar near the school, drinking with friends and having pizza.

One of the friends, a boy named Seth Morgan, reported that he saw her speaking to a man in the parking lot after she had left
, but he couldn’t identify the man or give a decent description of him. He couldn’t remember the make or model of the vehicle either, other than it was a van.

Mickey flipped through
photos of the scene. There wasn’t much blood, a sign the perpetrator moved her from another location. Ligature marks on her wrists and ankles indicated duct tape or rope. Not a hard plastic bind.

The most unusual aspect
was the stomach contents. The photos showed nothing but a lumpy slosh, but an enormous amount of food had to be eaten to produce that amount. Much more than could comfortably be ingested.

He would have to wait for the autopsy results to find out exactly what was
consumed and in what quantity. But an unpleasant thought kept creeping into his mind. His best guess about the cause of death was that someone bound her and fed her until her stomach burst open. From there, she either bled to death or died of sepsis. 

He closed the file as the omelet
arrived. Mushroom, bacon, and sausage with extra cheese.

“You
’re nothing but skin and bones,” Debbie said. “I threw in a chocolate chip muffin for you.”

“Thanks, Debbie.”

“Lemme know if you need anything.”

The omelet melted with each bite
, and he couldn’t gobble it fast enough. He managed to eat half the muffin and drank two cups of coffee before the bill came. The tally was less than nine dollars. Mickey left a twenty-dollar tip.

Debbie
sat on the curb sipping a Red Bull. He took out a package of gum and placed a piece in his mouth before offering one to her.

“You’re here on that girl, ain’t ya?” she said.

“How could you tell?”

“I saw your FBI badge.” She
swallowed the rest of her drink. “How long you here for?”

“I don’t know yet.”

She looked out to the road as a car drove by. “I didn’t know her, but I know girls like her. She was just a child.”

“Twenty-one.”

“Who would do something like that?”

“Anyone. Don’t ever let anyone surprise you, Debbie. Everyone’s capable of evil when they think no one’s watching.”

“Are you?”

Before he could answer, his cell phone rang. It was Angela.
“Hey,” Mickey said.

“Hey, reread through the autopsy reports on the vic in Lincoln County.”

“And?”

“You’re not gonna believe it. A massive amount of food was found in the belly. We kinda skimmed over it because it wasn’t that unusual at the time. Guess what kind of food it was?”

“What?”

“Cake. Fucking cake, Mickey. How much you wanna bet cake is what’s in this vic’s stomach?”

He waved to Debbie as he walked away, and she waved back. He waited a beat to make sure she was out of earshot. “We need the autopsy done ASAP.”

“I don’t think they like us much out here. I doubt we’re a high priority.”

“Maybe not us, but I bet I know someone that can exert a little pressure.”