Kurt
Back at the precinct, Kurt was leaning close to his computer screen.
“Don’t tell me you’re going blind too,” Lonnie quipped from his desk across the open room.
Kurt didn’t take the bait this time. He didn’t want to admit to his partner that he was, in fact, in need of bifocals. But Kurt had staunchly refused his optometrist’s recommendation, telling him he’d rather go blind than wear glasses. Plus, he was too busy concentrating on what was on his screen to exchange insults with Lonnie.
As soon as he’d arrived back at the precinct and entered Mollie’s diary into evidence, Kurt had shot over to his desk and immediately entered Julian McAllister’s name in the database. He would look at the diary later. Right now, he needed to identify her kidnapper.
In a matter of seconds, he’d found the investigation file regarding his so-called disappearance. It made Kurt’s insides twist into knots every time he thought about what Frankie had done. Though he never learned the details, he knew Julian McAllister had not simply vanished into thin air. He also knew his former best friend probably tortured the man before finishing him off and likely dumped his body in the river or somewhere no one would ever find him.
According to the file, which Kurt hadn’t read since he first joined the force, Julian Allan McAllister, age thirty-seven, had been reported missing by his wife Martha on March 27, 1979 when she woke up that morning to discover her husband hadn’t come home the night before. The detectives on the case had interviewed the employees at his gym, but they had no idea where their boss had gone. All they knew was he’d gone to take the trash out the previous night, but never returned. They’d assumed he’d gone home.
Canvasing of the neighborhood had turned up nothing, other than a few comments from people in the area that Julian was “a bit odd” and “kind of creepy.” One business colleague even mentioned his propensity for attractive girls half his age. The wife said he’d never stayed out all night in the five years they’d been together, and his vehicle had been found parked right in front of the gym where he’d left it. Though the detectives suspected foul play, there wasn’t enough information to figure out who took him and where and why.
Until the day an unmarked envelope was delivered without postage to the police headquarters, which laid out the truth about Julian McAllister. It claimed he was a sick, sociopathic pedophile, responsible for the kidnapping, rape, and murder of several young girls. The detectives on the missing person case apparently did some digging and were able to confirm the letter’s allegations. Soon thereafter, the case regarding Julian McAllister had been abandoned, though never officially closed.
Kurt already knew all this, so he continued his research. He eventually found tiny a newspaper article announcing the birth of one Collin Ray McAllister, born to Julian and Martha McAllister at Central Baptist Hospital on January 4, 1978. The article went on to say Martha and Julian had barely made it to the hospital in time, thanks to the infamous ’78 blizzard.
Kurt switched screens and entered “Collin Ray McAllister, Lexington, Kentucky,” into the Google search bar and waited for the department’s ancient dial-up internet to bring up a new page. When it finally came up, there were over two thousand results, but only the first five or six appeared to be the man he was looking for. The first result was on an alumni page for Lexington Catholic High School. Collin had apparently graduated in 1996, but Kurt could find no mention of the teenager on any sports rosters. His graduation photograph showed the face of a rather goofy looking kid with light-colored hair, glasses, and a reticent look on his face. Collin was obviously not a popular kid, and Kurt remembered boys like him when he was in school—shy, reserved loners. It was always the weird ones who turned out to be creeps, and Collin had been no exception.
Next, Kurt searched the DMV records for any vehicles registered in Collin’s name. To his surprise, none had been listed in over two years. The last one, a Mercury Cougar, had been registered to an apartment on Chinoe Road. Nothing at all since then. No census records, no tax records. There was literally nothing that showed a current address for Collin Ray McAllister. He had no criminal record, had never been so much as questioned by police, and had never called 911. Kurt checked the death records for the past three years, but nothing was registered there, either.
“Finding anything over there, partner?” Lonnie’s voice broke Kurt’s concentration.
“Nothing at all,” Kurt answered. “It’s like he’s a damn ghost. Just disappeared off the map about two years ago.”
“We’ll find him,” Lonnie said with no trace of sarcasm at all, which was a nice change of pace. “Just gotta keep digging.”
Kurt turned back to the computer. He drummed his fingers on his desk as he wracked his brain for ways to track down a psychopath with a thirst for revenge who had gone underground. How could someone kidnap any young girl, let alone seven, hold them for God only knew how long, and dispose of their bodies so there was not even a trace of their existence left? He had to have someplace quiet and secluded where he could play out his fantasies without nosy neighbors or police growing suspicious of his strange behavior. He’d had Mollie at the old grocery store on Delong, at least temporarily, and Kurt knew beyond the rundown store was not much more than miles and miles of undeveloped land and horse farms.
Maybe that was it. Maybe he had a horse farm or some sort of property in his name out in the county. That would explain his ability to hide his actions from anyone who might report suspicious behavior. Kurt opened the website for the Property Valuation Administrator, and when he found the “property search” field, he entered Collin’s last name. A few tense seconds later, a new screen popped up with a picture of a white farmhouse with a green tin roof. A large porch wrapped around the front, and black shutters adorned the windows. According to the details section, the house was listed under The Estate of Andrew McAllister—his grandfather, perhaps—upon his death in 2013. Kurt realized this was around the time Collin had dropped off the face of the earth. The house sat on forty-four acres of Fayette County real estate, and there was a picture of a red barn with a silo situated right behind the house.
This had to be it—a barn. The perfect place for Collin to hide young women and the evil things he did to them. Kurt knew the area where this farm was located. The houses were few and far between. And from the pictures, he could tell the farmhouse was set way back off the main road, and dozens of tall pine, sycamore, and maple trees provided additional cover from anyone who might be looking at the property from the roadway. Kurt had a feeling deep in his churning gut that he was looking at Collin McAllister’s house of horrors.
He scooted his chair back and nearly lunged from his desk. “Let’s go,” he said to Lonnie, who was scrolling through his Facebook feed on his cell phone.
Lonnie looked up at Kurt and arched his brow. “Where are we going?”
“I think I found him. We need to go. Now.”
Lonnie shoved his phone into his pocket, grabbed his jacket, and was at Kurt’s side in a split second. “Let’s go save Mollie.”