Wild Justice

CHAPTER 11

It looked as if Aldrich had shot himself in the left temple with his service revolver. The gun lay on the floor beneath his dangling left hand. In front of him, on the ottoman, was a website printout. I could read the headline even upside down.

“Local Teen Murdered, Local Man in Custody.”

Below was Amy’s school photo. Beside it was a picture of Drew Aldrich.

I remembered the first time I’d seen this article, digging it up because I had to know, had to see it. I remembered thinking how much Amy would have hated that photo, with her hair pulled back in little-girl barrettes, her Peter Pan collar buttoned tight, no trace of makeup. Amy’s annual “good girl” picture, a performance piece to please her mother, because she knew how much it meant to have a nice photo to send around at Christmas.

I remember, too, seeing the picture of Aldrich and wanting to take that article down to the paper, find the reporter, shove it in his face and say “How dare you?” How dare you put his picture beside hers. How dare you make his picture as big as hers. This was about her, about Amy, her life and her murder. Drew Aldrich shouldn’t rate more than a footnote, just enough to say “Drew Aldrich has been arrested for the crime.”

I reached down to touch the paper, then stopped myself. Even if I was wearing gloves, there was faint blood spray on its edge, and I couldn’t risk smearing that. I settled for crouching to get a better look at the page. It was hard to see, with only the glow of the TV for illumination. When I bent, though, I noticed a marker that had rolled partly under the page. And there was something written across the article.

I’m sorry.

This was Aldrich’s suicide note. He’d printed it out, scrawled his guilt and his remorse across it, and shot himself. I looked at that, and I looked at Aldrich, and then I turned to Jack.

“It’s staged,” I said. “He was murdered by the guy who came to visit.”

“Yeah.”

“You’d already figured that out?”

He shrugged. “Look at his hand.”

“If you mean because he shot himself in the left temple, that’s not a mistake. Aldrich was left-handed. Whoever killed him knew that.”

“Look closer. Hand. Sleeve.”

Now I saw what he meant. The white sleeve of Aldrich’s pullover was clean.

“No back spatter,” I said. “That’s a pretty good indication. It’s not foolproof, but it’s better than my explanation, which is just that there’s not a chance in hell he wrote that.” I pointed at the note. “Even if he’s changed, he’s not going to collapse with guilt after seeing me, kill himself, and admit to a crime he was acquitted of. When the friend left, he was talking, but I never heard Aldrich’s reply. The guy was faking a conversation in case a neighbor was listening in.”

I stepped back from the body and surveyed the scene. “Aldrich knew the guy. He’d called him after he saw me. He must know what Aldrich did and has a damn good reason to shut Aldrich up, fast. But why?”

“Not important. Gotta—”

I turned sharply. “Yes, it is important, Jack. If you’re in hiding, you don’t go telling new friends about your old identities, and you sure as hell don’t tell them about your past crimes. If this guy knew, then he—”

“Probably committed some crimes himself. Besides this.” Jack waved at the body. “Saying it’s not important now. Gotta finish searching. Then get out.”

“Place was already searched,” Jack said as we climbed to the second story. “I was coming to tell you that.”

“You mean because it’s a mess?” I shook my head. “I’ve met plenty of guys whose apartments always look like they were ransacked.”

“Not that.” He waved into the office. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” I said, peering in again. “I was here earlier. This room is actually the cleanest—” I stopped. “Right. That’s the problem people make when they break in. They tidy up after themselves. The trick is to leave it how you found it.”

“Yeah. Searched here. Bedroom, too.”

I followed him in. While the bedroom certainly couldn’t be called tidy—it looked like a laundry hamper exploded and dirty dishes were stacked on various surfaces—every drawer was closed, every book stacked neatly. Even the porn magazines had been straightened.

We still searched, but found nothing.

“Maybe after being caught a few times, Aldrich got rid of whatever souvenirs he had.”

Jack shook his head. “Guys like that? Take shit. Write it down. Something.”

Which was true, though I hardly expected it to be an area of expertise for Jack. I was the one who wanted to understand how criminals thought. When I commented, though, he just shrugged and said, “Read stuff.”

We messed up the areas that had been tidied, so when Aldrich’s body was found, there’d be nothing out of the ordinary. We took one last look around. I stopped in the middle of the hall.

“Do we know where he took his victims?” I asked.

“Hmmm?”

“He wouldn’t bring teen girls back here, even if they were with him consensually. So he must have had places. Was there anything about that in the other investigations?”

“Yeah. Never changed his MO. Liked cabins.” He looked back at the office. “Bet he has one. Maybe paperwork for it here?”

I shook my head. “If he’s following his old pattern, he’s not buying. He’s finding an abandoned or unused cabin. Which is probably where he kept any mementos. But if he didn’t own the place, we’ll never locate it.”

“Check the truck,” Jack said. “Maps. Gas receipts.”

I nodded and left.

Luckily, Aldrich had left his keys on the kitchen counter. I snuck out the rear door and around the side of the house then made an easy dash to Aldrich’s carport.

I crawled into the passenger seat, shut the door, and used a flashlight to illuminate the glove box. It was jam-packed with crap. I was adjusting my position when my foot got tangled in a cord. I looked down to find a portable GPS on the floor, hidden by fast food wrappers. It was connected to the lighter. I reeled it in and turned it on.

Aldrich didn’t seem to use the GPS very often. Of the four places in the memory, three were out of state and he hadn’t visited any of them this month. But he had gone to the fourth address—twice. A rural location about an hour east of Cleveland.

Before we left I went back downstairs for another look at Aldrich—or at the scene of his death. Would the police realize it wasn’t suicide? They wouldn’t know about his visitor and wouldn’t realize that Aldrich would never admit to Amy’s murder. It looked like a perfectly plausible scenario. He was an exonerated killer turned fake cop. That alone would keep the local police hopping.

The most damning evidence was the lack of back spatter on Aldrich’s gun hand, and presumably a corresponding lack of gunpowder residue. Yet despite what people see on CSI, there isn’t the time or the budget to test everything. If it looked like a clear case of motivated suicide, that’s what it would become.

The address in the GPS led us to a tidy farmhouse with a minivan in the drive and a barn around back. The house was surrounded by dense forest, with the nearest neighbor a mile away. We drove half that distance and found a rutted road leading into the woods. Another half mile down it and we had to stop as the road petered out. That’s when we started walking.

There was exactly one trail leading from that road. It branched after a hundred feet. The better-groomed section led to a small waterfall and pond, with a makeshift platform for swimmers and anglers. The second branch ended at a cabin, nearly hidden in the overgrown woods.

When I saw that cabin, my feet stutter-stepped and Jack plowed into me.

“Sorry,” I said. “It’s just—”

“I know.”

It looked like “the” cabin—the one Aldrich had taken us to. There was nothing meaningful in the similarity. Most simple cabins look like this—a wooden shack with no running water, no electricity, no amenities save a fireplace and an outhouse.

I steeled myself and started forward.

“Wait outside,” Jack said. “No reason—”

I glanced at him.

“You can keep giving me that look,” he said. “Won’t stop me from offering.”

“Which I appreciate—”

“Don’t want appreciation. You want to repay me? Take me up on it. Why go in there? Who are you trying to impress? Only one here is me.”

No, I was here, too, and I needed to follow this through because otherwise I’d feel like a coward.

“Jack, I’ve faced Aldrich. I’ve broken into his house. I’ve found his dead body. There’s not going to be anything in that cabin that makes things any worse.” I managed a wry smile. “Save the marker. I’m sure you’ll find something else you really don’t want me doing.”

He considered that, peering at me in the darkness. Then a snort and a wave. “Stay behind. Could be booby-trapped.”