6
“We’re still doing all kinds of testing,” Dr. Theodore Loeb told Griffin. “But from what I’ve managed to ascertain so far, six of our victims were males, two were females. They have been in that wall for decades. Further testing will hopefully pinpoint a year, but I’m thinking that these murders took place back in the late 1800s.”
“How were the victims killed?” Griffin asked him.
“Again, we’re working with some bodies that have left little evidence behind. And, of course, this is speculation right now, but I believe the bodies in better shape were killed in winter and preservation began before they had time to rot.”
“Dr. Loeb, how were they killed?” Griffin asked.
“Oh, well, we are still working on that as well. They weren’t shot—no trace of bullets found—and don’t seem to have borne knife wounds of any kind, not discernible by the remains. There is visible trauma on a number of the skulls, but I don’t believe it was enough to have been a killing blow. Soft tissue is scarce, but it will be tested. At the moment, I believe they were either poisoned—a possibility—or they were simply smothered.”
“In the wall itself, or before they were put in the wall?”
“I’m not sure how. We’re still working on what was going on.”
They were at the office of the chief medical examiner on Albany Street. Dr. Loeb and his assistants had been given a special room dedicated to the historic corpses. According to their home office back in Northern Virginia, Dr. Loeb was one of the most respected forensic anthropologists in the world. He was an older man, almost as skeletal as some of their victims. He was dignified and yet energetic; Griffin believed that, if they were out there, Loeb would find the answers.
“But what a find, what a find. What a mystery!” the man said.
“An amazing find, yes. Especially since we found a kidnapped victim there,” Griffin said.
“Yes, yes, of course. Thank God! You found the woman alive. And how extraordinary! How could they have known? Of course, I’ve been reading about this case. I’m no Sherlock Holmes, but I’m thinking this Undertaker might have lucked upon the situation. You know, he may sit around thinking, just where do I leave my next victim? And once you’re out on the Boston Neck in the South End, you start looking for the right place,” Dr. Loeb said.
“Maybe,” Griffin told him. “Dr. Loeb, will you please keep me up on any information as you come across it?”
“Naturally, Special Agent Pryce,” Dr. Loeb told him.
As Griffin left the office, he received the call he’d been expecting from Jackson Crow.
“Anything from Dr. Loeb?” Jackson asked.
“He thinks we’re looking at the late 1800s, victims possibly disabled by conks on the head, and then poisoned or smothered.”
“Too similar, huh?”
“Maybe. What have you got?”
“Fiona West can tell us nothing. She was locking her car—she felt a searing pain in her head. The good thing is that she doesn’t even remember being bundled up and closed into a wall with a bunch of age-old corpses.”
“That’s good...for her,” Griffin murmured. “Struck getting out of her car. She didn’t see him—or them. Okay, so Angelina Gianni is certain that there are two criminals working together. I believe this is right—I always suspected two. Getting victims buried or into walls or boxes and Dumpsters and coal bins isn’t that easy on your own, and not when you’re trying to make sure you’re not seen. We go back to struck on the head. Here’s what scares me. The victims haven’t been able to tell us anything. I believe that the kidnappers/killers know that their victims thus far were knocked out cold—they have complete confidence that the victims aren’t going to be able to tell us anything. What frightens me is, what happens if they mess up before we find them? If they think that a victim can identify them, does that victim die right away?”
“We can’t speculate on that—we have to find an answer here somewhere before the Undertakers strike again,” Jackson said.
“I have an idea.”
“And what’s that?” Jackson asked.
“Bertram Aldridge.”
“He’s in prison—we’ve checked. And I’ve had Angela back at Krewe headquarters going through everything we can find in his prison correspondence and through his visitor list.”
“Yep. Still say we need to see him,” Griffin said.
“Well, it sure as hell can’t hurt.”
Griffin felt Jackson’s hesitation over the line before he spoke again.
“What about Vickie Preston?” Jackson asked.
Something in Griffin’s gut clenched. “What about Vickie? What do you mean?”
“Well, we have a situation here in which these people now seem to be going right for the jugular—her name in the clues. So, it’s possible they are simply fans of Bertram Aldridge, or maybe they’re on a payback mission for him.”
“Payback—I shot the man,” Griffin said. “Not Vickie.”
“Yes, you did. You shot him when he should have still been in the house—torturing Vickie Preston and Noah Ballantine. Maybe you’re not an easy target and maybe you are a target—they just haven’t begun plaguing you as yet. They got you here, right? This whole thing might have been studied. But then again, maybe it’s just Vickie they’re after. The one who got away.”
“So, copycats, of a form, who want revenge for Aldridge. But they’re on a spree here, so it seems. Nothing new sent to the media as of yet, right? No riddles or clues?” Griffin asked.
“No. A killing spree, so it seems, but...no, we haven’t heard about another victim yet. And right now, they’re probably thinking how clever they are. Somehow, they knew about bodies in the wall from murders a century ago. I’m sure they’re thinking they’re very clever.”
“It definitely points to killers from this area. I’d say someone who grew up here, who might have heard tales about the old Pine house—or maybe they broke in somewhere along the line and made the discovery themselves. Yeah, they’ve been ahead of us, all right. But they’ll make a mistake.”
“I believe they will, too. I agree that we need to see Aldridge,” Jackson said.
“Right.”
“But,” Jackson added, “I think we need to bring Vickie with us.”
* * *
Vickie was groggy getting up, and she couldn’t help but be afraid—who pounded on your door like that if something wasn’t the matter?
She grabbed a robe to slip over her pajamas and hurried to the door, her heart beating. She had to be all right; she knew that Griffin Pryce would never leave her door unguarded.
She looked through the peephole. And then she smiled.
Actually, this was a visitor she should have expected already.
It was Roxanne Greeley at her door.
They’d been best friends in high school, and even when they’d gone on to their separate colleges—Vickie in New York City and Roxanne down in Florida—they’d kept in touch constantly and managed to make sure they’d spent time during holidays together. No one had been more thrilled that Vickie had come back to Boston than Roxanne.
She was a visual artist who also worked with Grown Ups.
“Hey! Let me in, let me in. Before that cop comes back and decides I’m not an innocent character!” Roxanne called to her through the door.
Vickie opened it, smiling.
Roxanne rushed in and hugged her, holding her tightly.
“You! Go figure, how do you get into these things?” Roxanne demanded.
“What do you mean—”
“Don’t worry. You’re not in the news. I talked to my mom who talked to your mom who is very concerned and doesn’t understand why you don’t just come home and live with them. Oh, and she—your mom—believes the Ballantine family is going to ask if you want to stay with them until this is all over, and your mom is all torn, she’s your mom and wants you, but hey, the Ballantines do have more money and you might just be safer with them. Toss-up, huh?” Roxanne asked. Her initial enthusiasm seemed to go out of her as if a balloon had popped. “Are you okay?” she asked anxiously.
“I’m fine. Cop at the door—you saw him, right?” Vickie said. “Come on in. Hang tight for a minute, will you—I’m not even dressed.”
“I’ll make coffee. Pull on some clothes. You don’t have Grown Ups today, right?”
“Nope.”
“Will the cop come with us if we want to go to lunch?”
“Lunch?”
“It’s almost noon.”
“Okay. Yes, the nice policeman will follow us.”
“Then get ready. I’ll have a cup of coffee, and we can head out!”
Thirty minutes later, they were on their way out, walking along the street—followed by the nice man from the unmarked police car who was in plain clothing. Vickie had smiled and waved at him when they’d left the house; he’d smiled and waved back.
They chose to walk. Naturally, there were really great Italian restaurants in the neighborhood. They chose a family-run establishment that had been there since their school days. They decided to have a cup of Italian wedding soup each, and then split an antipasto and an order of ziti.
“And you’re all right, really?” Roxanne asked her. “You really should have called me right away—I mean, as soon as you could after that clue came to the papers and the FBI came to your house. I know they’re doing their best to keep your involvement hush-hush, but you can’t stop the press. The clues have come in. There’s speculation everywhere that Bertram Aldridge is somehow involved, but of course he’s locked away. Copycat—at least, kind of a copycat. Or an admirer of Aldridge!” She waved a hand in the air. “Anyway, today’s headline is all about Fiona West being found alive. With a ton of corpses, old murder victims. You were there, right? Your name was in the clue. What was that like? Horrible, of course, horrible. I shouldn’t be asking. Okay, I am asking. You’re my friend. I’m worried. Really worried. About you, naturally. Not physically—I mean, I can see the cop and I know the FBI is looking out for you. Can’t help it—you’re my best friend.”
“I was there—it was horrible. I’m fine. Fiona West is alive. There was nothing anyone could do about the other people who had been walled up—that happened decades ago.”
“Yeah.”
“I’m fine. Really.” If having nightmares about long-dead corpses coming at her was normal after such an evening, she really was perfectly fine. “Honestly, fine. And glad to be away, and out for lunch with you,” Vickie told her.
“Same menu as when we were kids,” Roxanne noted. She laughed softly. “Not that we’re that old. But sometimes, doesn’t it feel as if we were young—really young—like eons ago? I remember high school, when everyone thought you were just crazy and suffering from stress when you broke it off with Hank Fremont. He was such a hunk back then, cool sports guy, everyone was kind of afraid of him. But you were determined to get out of Boston and get to NYC as quickly as you could. You were not missing out on the college you wanted because of him—or any other guy.” Roxanne paused to take a sip of her iced tea. “He was out in Springfield, working for Sonia Camp’s dad at an amusement park. Nothing wrong with amusement parks or even working for someone’s dad, but...he’d have brought you down to not going to school at all, too, if you’d stayed with him. I think someone said he was back in Boston now—oh, yeah, I talked to Katie Austin the other day—Hank Fremont is back in Boston. Hey, well, there’s something. He might be doing some work with Grown Ups, too. Not sure what he’s going to teach the kids. What not to do when you’re super cool in high school and think it will last your whole life? How could you be so smart at eighteen? I made it through school, but I was so insane over Trent Larson at the time.” She laughed. “Oh, Lord. And Trent Larson is now doing time. But the point is, he broke up with me before heading to the south and beginning his life of crime. I’m lucky in life now despite myself.”
“Trent Larson was an idiot to leave you brokenhearted. You were always not just stunning, but bright and kind and all the right things,” Vickie assured her. And she meant it; Roxanne was a strawberry blonde with a sleek and athletic build, a smile like sunshine and an empathy for others that was contagious.
She laughed. “Ah, yes, but still. You were the leave-er. I was the left! Thank God, of course, with hindsight. I’m always a little in awe. You came through what happened—and you kept on course.”
Vickie shrugged. “You came through just fine, too. As for me? I guess we were just both lucky. There was something about NYU. Once my dad took me down to New York City to look at colleges there, I knew I really wanted to go to school there and spend some time living in that atmosphere.”
“I look at the kids we work with now and I think about how hard everything was at that age. I remember the ‘mean girls’ and peer pressure and the kids using drugs or alcohol already, and we can look back and see who was just goofing off, and who might have already been on a very bad track. I think how lucky we were because we had parents who cared. Every once in a while, I think about teenage angst—and wonder how the kids we work with will ever survive,” Roxanne said solemnly.
“We give them the best support we can, in our small way.”
“Ah, well. I can only imagine. I was out with a group when all the info came out about Barbara Marshall being found—and Chrissy Ballantine having gone missing right at the same time. One of my kids said the whole thing was stupid, that if you were going to kidnap and possibly kill someone, you ought to at the very least make some big bucks—ask for a ransom. His attitude gave me chills!” Roxanne said.
“Did you talk to the kid’s case worker about it?” Vickie asked.
“Of course.”
Roxanne nibbled on an olive. “We never do know what life will bring.” She seemed distracted for a minute, looking toward the door. “I was wondering, how much of what you do now and where you are do you think came about because of what happened? The whole bit with Bertram Aldridge and then the cop—now agent—Griffin Pryce?”
Vickie lowered her head to survey and spear a piece of cheese from the antipasto plate; she felt a rush of blood to her face and didn’t want Roxanne to see her flush.
She didn’t want to accept the feelings in herself that the question brought about.
“Why do you ask about him?” she murmured.
“Well, there was something about him. He was the kind who was all noble and honorable—friend to a scared young woman. There was some bond the situation seemed to cause between you.”
“Well, he saved my life. And it’s not that strange he’s back here—he’s with a special unit that was called in. He’s not with the behavioral sciences unit, but a different group that deal with...strange cases like this. It’s natural.”
“Ah,” Roxanne whispered knowingly. “Well, it’s good. Your mom, of course, is scared of him—scared of this situation. Scared of you being with him.”
“I’m not exactly with him.”
“You’re not?” Roxanne seemed to voice the question strangely.
“No, why?” Vickie asked.
Roxanne smiled, rising and waving as she said, “Because he’s walking into the restaurant right now, apparently telling the hostess that he’s going to join us.”
Vickie swung around. Griffin Pryce was weaving through the tables toward them. He saw Roxanne waving at him and waved back as he headed over.
Vickie didn’t have to initiate a greeting—Roxanne had that covered.
“Hi!” Roxanne said to Griffin, having no compulsion as she met him with a hug.
He returned it; if he was surprised or taken off guard, he didn’t show it.
Roxanne pulled away, looking at him anxiously. “You’re here for Vickie. I’m Roxanne. Roxanne Greeley. Do you remember me? I remember you? Well, of course, I remember you. We were all in shock and you were so right there when you needed to be there—and now you’re back. Here. Which is kind of like ‘there.’ Hmm. Okay, sorry. It is good to see you. I think, of course. I personally feel Vickie is a lot safer when you’re around.”
“Sit, please,” Griffin said, pulling back Roxanne’s chair and sliding into the seat across from Vickie that wasn’t occupied by their purses. “Of course, Roxanne, I remember you. Very well. You were a great friend. I see you still are. And you think it’s good I’m around.” He glanced at Vickie, a rather sad, grim smile somewhat curling his lips. “You okay?”
“Yes, sure,” she told him. Horrible nightmares about corpses, but...
She forced a smile. “I’m more than fine. I’m very happy to have had a part in finding these women and in finding them alive.”
He nodded, looking at her. “We’re grateful that you feel that way.”
Something else was coming.
Roxanne was leaned on an elbow, just staring at him. “Um, olive? Cappicola...cheese?” she asked. “It’s just a huge antipasto. Would you like something else?”
The waitress was actually hovering near their table.
“Coffee, please?” Griffin asked. The young woman nodded; he turned to Roxanne. “Thanks—that olive looks great.”
“Please, help yourself!” Roxanne said.
“Roxie, you can quit being quite so nice—he’s here for something,” Vickie said, staring at Griffin.
He didn’t deny it. He nodded slightly again.
“You are?” Roxanne asked.
Vickie sighed inwardly; she was looking at him much the way she had years ago, when they’d all had something of a schoolgirl crush on him.
“Vickie is key to this investigation,” he said quietly.
“She is? Oh! Oh, she is, of course. Her name in the clues, twice. Oh, my God! If he weren’t locked up, I’d say for sure that it was Aldridge. Out to get her—the one who got away. Vickie, you have to be so careful. I mean, I can see that you have people watching over Vickie—the cop in plain clothes was ready to shoot me, I swear!—but this is really, really scary. You have to watch over her, Special Agent Pryce. I mean—like a hawk. They’re out to get her.” Roxanne turned to look at Vickie. “Maybe you should go to Italy with your parents—the Undertaker might not have a passport. But then, if he did...wow. You wouldn’t be protected there. Your dad would kill for you, but he’s a professor. And what if...”
Vickie had thought Griffin might be impatient with Roxanne; but he picked up her train of thought.
“What if the killer or killers just stopped and waited for Vickie to eventually come back from Europe and start up all over again when the case has gone cold, and there isn’t as much law enforcement around?” he finished.
Chills shot through Vickie and she realized law enforcement had a very real theory she was somehow involved in the end game, that she might be the end game.
“We do need to talk,” Griffin said quietly.
Roxanne stood; Griffin stood politely as well.
“I’ve got my kids today. I’m with Grown Ups, too. We’re going to sketch at the aquarium. Vickie, call me. Griffin—no matter what anyone else says, it’s really nice to see you again.”
“Thank you,” he told her gravely.
“I’ll see you soon,” Vickie promised.
Roxanne waved, grabbed her bag, and was quickly out of the restaurant.
“I’m sorry. I really didn’t mean to ruin your lunch,” Griffin told her.
She waved a hand in the air. “We were really finished. High school rehashed, food almost eaten...we’ve just skipped the cannoli and cappuccino part.”
She felt unnerved and off; her heart was thundering a million miles an hour and she was ridiculously glad to see him, even though that was stupid and dangerous. They couldn’t be involved; he was at once tasked with the assignment of catching a criminal and, apparently, keeping her alive.
“So, you don’t think me being around is just fun for these guys, part of their remarkable clue-giving method and madness. You think I really might be the main target?”
For a moment, he looked frustrated, and she was oddly gratified to see it—not the police, not the FBI, not his special unit, no one, as yet, seemed to have the answer. She wasn’t the only one lost and in the dark.
“I don’t know,” he admitted. “I just don’t know. Here’s what I think I know—we’re looking at someone native to the area, or who grew up here. Someone who either knows Bertram Aldridge, or is a massive fan of his work. This is a different type of kidnapper and killer—and still a sadist. Aldridge went to prison for butchering women with a knife. Maybe these people—and it is people, two of them, I’m certain, Angelina Gianni heard two voices during her ordeal—are just as sadistic, but they like the torture of knocking their victims out and then allowing them to suffocate, boxed in, buried. Somehow, they knew about eight victims—six men, two women—murdered and walled up in an old house, sometime during the late 1800s, according to the ME. They know about you. They know you survived when Bertram Aldridge broke into the Ballantine home. What they know may be just what anyone can pick up from social media and public records—but I do think that you’ve been studied.”
Vickie leaned back, looking at him. “Why me? I was a scared kid who just ran. You shot Bertram Aldridge.”
“Yes, but Vickie, you’re the one who got away.”
She felt sick suddenly, chilled to the bone, terrified on a base and primal level. Mentally, her defense mechanisms kicked in; she was protected. The FBI was watching her, the police were watching her...
But if these people really wanted her dead—wasn’t she as good as dead? Eventually, someone would slip up, time would go by, and she would have to live in fear forever...
No, she wouldn’t.
She stared back at Griffin Pryce. “Well, then. You really have to catch these bastards, huh?”
He smiled. “Yes. You want to help?”
“You bet. So what do you need me to do? Is there a new clue that’s arrived at the paper? Is there any evidence? Is there any way I can figure out who these people might be?”
He leaned closer to her as well. They might have appeared to be enjoying a romantic tête-à-tête, their attention on one another was so determined.
“Everything right now seems to be a fifty-fifty. Either the killers know Bertram, or they don’t. They’re disciples, or they’re fans. He knows and has instigated what is going on—or he has no clue and is just gleefully watching,” Griffin said. “What’s known is they’re smart—but maybe smart in that they’ve watched a dozen TV series about crimes and evidence, or they have been petty crooks before, learning the ropes by watching people, watching alarms and getting away with what they want. I believe they will slip up, but when...that’s what’s worrisome, and who will suffer and who will die while we’re waiting for them to slip up is a very scary contemplation. We’ve naturally scoured Bertram Aldridge’s prison correspondence. He’s in maximum security, but even so, he gets a couple of calls a week. He is also allowed to write and receive letters, though they are read by prison authorities. We haven’t found anything damning—but we have discovered that when he first went in, he didn’t have much correspondence. Over the past few years, he’s had a number of calls that, when traced, go to pay-as-you-go cell phones, discarded after two calls. So, it is highly likely he’s been talking to someone.”
“What about his family? I remember that when he escaped all those years ago, authorities—on the news, anyway—thought that he’d be in the area because he had family around here.”
“Bertram Aldridge is a native Bostonian,” Griffin told Vickie. “His parents died when he was young. He grew up with a grandmother who lived on the south side. She’s been dead three years now. The house has been sold three times since and now belongs to a corporation—completely renovated and redone. I don’t know if you really remember him—he was capable of being articulate and very charming. When he was committing his knife crimes, he lured his victims with a smile easily enough. The first go-round—fifteen years ago—he was finally brought down by an undercover Boston policeman in drag—the guy was so good he could make a stunning woman, and when Aldridge tried to seduce him out to the kill, he turned the tables and the plainclothes officers on the stakeout along with him were able to hone in and they arrested Aldridge.”
“I’d think the cop who brought him down would be on his radar, too.”
“He’ll never know who it was—the information was never made public.”
“People talk.”
“I’m sure he’d like to kill lots of policemen. But cops aren’t usually easy targets. Average citizens just going about their lives—unaware that they’re being stalked—can be taken by surprise.” He hesitated. “They’ve gone for easy prey.”
“And you’re suggesting I’m easy prey.”
“Maybe. Maybe not. Because they’re making it pretty obvious they know you. You’ve had a police guard on you.”
“But by myself, I’m easy prey.”
“We can all be easy prey.”
“You don’t need to be diplomatic. I don’t know how to use a gun. I’ve never taken a martial arts course. I can play chopsticks on a piano, run pretty decently, which just might come in handy, and I’m all right with a computer. But...yeah. I guess I’m pretty pathetic when it comes to the possibility of being prey.”
Again, he hesitated. Then he smiled. “Massachusetts is a ‘may issue’ state, meaning authorities are not compelled to issue concealed carry licenses even if you meet the requirements. We could get around that—except I wouldn’t. Not unless you’re willing to go through training.”
“I’m willing.”
She was willing? She hated guns.
But she hated the concept of dying more.
“All right,” he said slowly. “Here’s the thing. If you don’t know what you’re doing, you’re just as likely to shoot yourself or someone you love as you are to shoot a criminal. So, you really do have to get serious. Here’s the other thing. The women who have been taken have all been victims of very sly attacks—they had no clue they were being stalked until they were struck on the head. If you’re in your own home making tea, it’s unlikely the gun will be in your hand. If you’re walking down the street with groceries, you’re unlikely to be ready for the guy who is after you. So, there’s a lot more to this than just becoming savvy with a firearm. Over the years, I’ve seen good cops and good agents go down, because we’re all off guard sometimes and a blitz attack doesn’t give anyone the chance to be prepared.”
“We’re back to the fact these Undertakers have to be caught,” Vickie said. “And I don’t believe you came to see me today about becoming gun savvy or to make me feel better about the fact anyone can be taken by surprise.”
“No.”
“Then what?”
“I want you to come with Jackson and me to see Bertram Aldridge.”