Fear the Dark Read online

  Coop said, ‘Who found them?’

  ‘I did,’ Williams said. ‘Downes’s secretary, a woman named Sally Kelly, called the station this morning. Downes didn’t show up for work yesterday, didn’t call her or send an email. When she still hadn’t heard back from him this morning, she asked if we could send someone over. Said she tried calling Downes at home and on his cell – even tried the wife’s cell. I was at the station there when the call came in, so I decided to swing by to check it out. Found both cars parked in the garage and the front door unlocked. No tool marks or forced entry, but there’s a hole cut in the sliding glass door off the living-room.

  ‘I got about halfway up the stairs when I smelled them. They’re all in the main bedroom. Go to the top of the stairs and hook a left. I didn’t enter either bedroom and I stayed away from the main traffic areas – not that I think we’re going to find any footwear impressions. This guy is too slick. My notes are here if you want ’em, underneath the sign-in sheet.’ Williams held up his clipboard and then placed it by the door. ‘Until this place has been worked over, I don’t want anyone in here besides the three of us.’

  Darby said, ‘I noticed there aren’t any patrol cars here.’

  ‘A couple of units are on their way here to secure the perimeter, but I doubt this place is gonna turn into a sideshow.’

  ‘What I meant was, why don’t you have people doing door to door, talking to the neighbours?’

  ‘There aren’t any. You’re standing in the only house on the street that’s currently occupied. Rest of ’em are vacant – have been for quite a while.’

  Coop said, ‘Brewster’s sheriff’s office getting involved?’

  ‘I haven’t notified them. Don’t plan to either.’ Williams let his words linger in the air for a moment. ‘Hoder told me he’s sending up some sort of mobile lab. Said you guys could handle the forensics stuff, which is what I’d prefer anyway. State lab’s backed up like a toilet. We wouldn’t get test results for weeks.’

  Then Williams turned to Darby and said, ‘Coop tell you about the incorporation?’

  Darby nodded.

  ‘The guy in charge of Brewster’s sheriff office, Teddy Lancaster, is of the belief that me and my people, what few of ’em I’ve got left, are incapable of finding the Red Hill Ripper ourselves – if we had any talent, he said, we would’ve found the son of a bitch by now. Ted’s been heavily lobbying the pencil-pushers with a view to getting the cases pulled from us.’

  ‘Is he conducting his own investigation?’

  ‘Oh, I’m sure he is. He’s got access to all the case files – I’m required to forward copies of everything to him. But I’m not required to call him about what happened here, and since this is still my case there’s no reason for him to participate. I want to keep it that way as long as possible. I don’t know if Coop told you, but if Lancaster finds the Ripper before me and my people do, it’ll pretty much seal the argument that none of us Red Hill folk will be needed in the new regime. And the state will jump on it because it’ll save them a good chuck of dough. They’ll pass some of the savings Teddy’s way, so he can promote his people, maybe build a new deck on his house, or whatever.’

  ‘How many homicide detectives does your department have?’ Darby asked.

  ‘You’re looking at him. I’ve got to call the ME. Anything you guys need, ask. I could really use a win here.’

  Williams left, shutting the door softly behind him.

  ‘No pressure or anything,’ Coop said, slipping out of his coat.

  Darby pulled her hair behind her hand and secured it with a rubber band as she looked up the stairs. She didn’t want to meet the wide-eyed dead just yet. First, she wanted to get a sense of how the family had lived.

  5

  Dressed head to toe in a white Tyvek ‘bunny’ suit and wearing a facemask and clear goggles, Darby gripped a clipboard in one hand, the ALS unit in the other, and moved across the hall and into a small kitchen with a cream-coloured tiled floor and white appliances set against cherry cabinets. Clean dishes and glasses were stacked in a plastic drying rack on a black-and-brown-speckled granite countertop, and a glass coffeepot was full.

  It must have been set to an automatic timer the night before, Darby thought, her gaze cutting to the edge of the kitchen counter, where she found a prepaid Netflix envelope with an empty DVD sleeve on top of it. It was for the first season of Game of Thrones. The disk was probably still in the player. The mother probably left the sleeve here so it would be in her line of sight when she came into the kitchen in the morning. So she wouldn’t forget to collect the disk from the player and then mail it back.

  Three hardwood steps led down into a family-room with soft, buttery-yellow walls adorned with framed oil pictures of seascapes. A soapstone fireplace took up the far wall, the charred remains of a fire still visible in the hearth.

  Pictures of the family were scattered around the kitchen and family-room. David Downes was a thin, bald man with a slight overbite and nerdy appearance – a man who probably wore socks with his sandals. His wife, Laura, was a homely woman with curly brown hair and a bright smile. She tried to hide her ample figure with oversized tees and sweaters, all of which gave her a tent-like appearance. Samantha seemed to be their sole child, as she was the only one who featured prominently in the photos.

  A big, L-shaped couch faced a flat-screen TV. Darby imagined the family on the brown sofa with its soft, deep cushions, everyone watching TV as a fire popped and hissed, the trio oblivious to the horror that awaited them one night after they went to bed.

  Located ten or so feet behind the sofa was a sliding glass door. Wind blew through a rectangular-shaped hole that had been cut into the glass.

  In her mind’s eye Darby saw a gloved hand reaching through the hole and clicking back the lock. Pictured the faceless intruder carefully sliding open the door and then stepping into the living-room … and then what? What did you do first?

  We know you brought a glass-cutter, zip ties, duct tape and bags. You wouldn’t have carried those things in your pockets – at least not in the beginning. You would have stored them in something, wouldn’t you?

  Darby imagined him setting a backpack on the floor, then pulling out the items he needed and sticking them in his pockets. After that, he would head to Samantha’s room: grab the daughter and the parents would co-operate.

  Darby was sure the killer had a gun. Even a small revolver would enforce immediate group compliance. People played hero all the time with knives. They took risks. That wasn’t the case with guns.

  Darby moved back to the kitchen and down a short hall that led to a dark bedroom. The door was open. Samantha’s bedroom. It had a hardwood floor, and the blinds were drawn so there was no need to turn off any lights.

  Coop moved next to her, a DSLR camera gripped in his hands, as she knelt and plugged the ALS unit into a socket. She turned on the unit, its fan whirring and a small motor throbbing, and picked up the attached wand. She held the wand at a very sharp, low angle just above the threshold, turning the beam of intensely bright white light to the right side of the neatly made bed.

  Visible in the dust were several footwear impressions.

  Coop carefully entered the bedroom, evidence markers in his hand. ‘No tread marks,’ he said. ‘He must’ve been wearing cloth booties over his sneakers or whatever was on his feet.’

  ‘He was wearing something with a soft sole. He wouldn’t want to make any noise.’

  Darby shut off the unit. Disappointment growling in her stomach, she used her pen to flick the bedroom light switch.

  6

  Underneath a ceiling light that, oddly, resembled a large breast with a big metallic nipple, Darby saw a framed Les Misérables print hanging on a wall above a poster bed adorned with bright cushions to bring out the colours in the old Americana quilt.

  The bed was neatly made. Everything in her line of vision appeared orderly and clean, as though Samantha had tidied up before leaving for the day
.

  Darby entered the bedroom. The corner shelving installed between the closet and the window held stuffed animals, makeup and back issues of Vogue and Cosmo, and an iPad with one of those foldable covers that doubled as a stand. Darby saw her reflection in the screen.

  While Coop took general photos – used to give an idea of the overall condition and layout of the scene – Darby sketched and mapped the area, taking detailed notes. She noticed that there weren’t any personal pictures on the walls, bureau or desk. She didn’t find any inside the desk either – which wasn’t necessarily odd, as Samantha Downes had been raised in the digital age, when every movement and thought, no matter how inane, was documented and captured by a smartphone or tablet and posted on Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, tumblr. – the list of social media sites was endless.

  Darby finished her notes and sketch. ‘I’m going to check the area in front of the sliding glass door,’ she said, unplugging the ALS unit.

  Past the glass door she saw a deck made of pressure-treated wood, the floor damp from the melting blocks of ice clogging the gutters. There was more snow in the backyard. Had the killer walked through there and left footprints, or had he simply walked up the driveway and up the back porch?

  There was no question he had stood on the back deck while he worked on cutting the glass. If the wood were wet or damp that night, when he stepped inside the house he would have left a footwear impression on the living-room’s hardwood floor.

  The words meticulous and careful echoed in the back of her mind as she turned on the unit, holding the wand at different angles against the floor, hoping the oblique lighting source would find an impression.

  There weren’t any. And there wasn’t any dust.

  Coop entered the living-room. ‘Anything?’

  ‘No. He definitely wiped down this area here before leaving.’

  ‘Told you we’re dealing with a new strain of pervert.’

  Darby pictured the killer kneeling on the deck, the upper half of his body leaning inside as his gloved hand rubbed a cloth or towel over the hardwood. Did he bring his own cloth or towel with him? Or had he used one from inside the house? And where did you dump the cloth or towel and the cut section of glass? She made a note on her clipboard to check the trash cans.

  Darby removed her facemask and leaned her face close to the floor.

  ‘Don’t smell bleach or any other cleaning product,’ she said.

  ‘We’ll check later just to be sure,’ Coop replied, placing an evidence marker on the floor. They’d use luminol or, more preferably, BlueStar, a more chemically potent reagent, to check for blood and bleach, both of which reacted to the chemical. Smart killers – and there was no question in her mind the Red Hill Ripper belonged in this category – used bleach to destroy DNA evidence. She wondered what else he might’ve cleaned up in here as she stood and moved to the window above the kitchen sink.

  The rolling hills of backyard snow were pristine. Undisturbed.

  Darby returned to the living-room, where Coop was busy taking general photographs.

  ‘Don’t see any footprints out back,’ she said.

  Coop spoke as he angled the camera lens. ‘He probably parked at one of the nearby vacant houses. Walked straight up the driveway and right up the back deck. I didn’t see any sensor lights on the garage or along the side of the house.’

  ‘I wonder if that’s part of his selection methodology – choosing victims who live in remote areas in order to decrease his chances of being spotted by a witness. The other families – did they live in remote or secluded areas?’

  ‘Everyone here lives in a remote and secluded area. This isn’t like where we grew up, with houses practically sitting next to each other. A town like this is a perfect hunting ground.’

  Then Coop moved the camera away from his face and walked to the right of the sliding glass door. ‘Check this out,’ he said, pointing to the cut, square-shaped hole.

  Darby moved in front of Coop and looked at the exterior glass. It was covered in dirt and grime – except for the area around the hole, which had clearly been wiped down. There was also some sort of film on the glass.

  ‘What do you think it is?’ Coop asked.

  ‘Might be kerosene.’

  ‘Kerosene?’

  ‘It ensures a smoother, crack-free cut.’ Darby left the room and came back with a pair of orange goggles. She slipped them on and then she moved the handheld forensic light-source device that had been tucked in her pocket around and around the film.

  ‘It’s not kerosene,’ she said. ‘If it was, it would fluoresce a light blue.’

  ‘What do you think it is – some sort of cleaner?’

  ‘Maybe. The film, though, looks like it has an oily residue. Could be cutting oil. If you can isolate the chemical components in your lab, we might be able to pin down a particular brand. Cutting oils are usually specialty items sold in stained-glass stores.’

  Darby made a note on her clipboard.

  When they finished taking pictures and making notes and sketches and measurements, they moved upstairs to meet the dead.

  7

  Darby entered the bedroom and stood stock still, an almost electric charge humming through her blood. She ignored the carnage at the foot of the bed and took in the cold, square-shaped room of white walls and blond-hardwood flooring.

  Three windows in here: the one next to an ivory leather armchair was cracked wide open and none of the shades were drawn. She could see and hear the trees swaying and rustling in the wind.

  To her left was the door to a small walk-in closet. A silver-framed charcoal-pencil drawing of the daughter, Samantha, done when she was a toddler, hung on the wall next to a built-in bookcase, the white-painted shelves stocked with books on art and on country decorating. She also found popular mystery and thriller novels by Dan Brown, Michael Connelly and Gregg Hurwitz.

  The nightstand on the left side of the queen-sized bed held an alarm clock and a pile of cooking magazines, the top one an old copy of Gourmet. Everything – the white ruffled comforter and blood-red decorative throw pillows – like the daughter’s bedroom downstairs, was perfectly in place.

  Was it possible the killer suffered from some sort of obsessive-compulsive disorder, or that the act of making the beds was a bizarre ritual that he felt compelled to perform? Sure. But she didn’t put much stock in it: Darby believed the act of making the beds contained no significance other than that the killer wanted to screw with their heads, maybe to throw them off the scent.

  On the right side of the bed and set against the wall was a bureau made of dark cherrywood. On top, three more framed pictures: Samantha as a toddler, wearing a diaper and standing in a paddling pool; Samantha on a swing, her bony kneecaps covered in Band-Aids; Samantha standing on the grass and looking in surprise at something out of shot. The nightstand on the right – the husband’s – held a first-generation Kindle and an iPad, the latter’s smartcover, which doubled as a stand, holding the device upright.

  Darby made detailed notes, sketched the crime scene and took preliminary measurements, while Coop began the laborious process of taking establishing photographs of the bedroom.

  Finished, she moved to the foot of the bed and met the Downes family.

  Daughter, mother and father were bound to the dining-room chairs with plastic zip ties. Samantha, barefoot and wearing a pair of old blue sweatpants and a white baby doll T-shirt, was seated across from her parents. The tee had been pulled down to expose her breasts.

  The parents were also dressed in their nightclothes – Laura in a heavy red and black flannel nightgown, David in boxers and a dingy white undershirt with perspiration stains under the arms.

  Both the mother and daughter had been strangled; their faces had a bluish pallor from oxygenated blood. Darby couldn’t see the father’s face; it was hidden behind a black garbage bag that was tied around his neck.

  Like her father, Samantha had been bound to one of the dining-table’s carver chairs,
their forearms secured against the wood of the armrests. The zip ties, three pairs used on each arm, had cut through the skin, the result of the victims’ violent struggle against their restraints. The zip ties used to secure their ankles to the chair-legs had also cut through their skin. One thing was clear: David Downes had struggled rabidly against his restraints. The zip ties along his forearms and ankles had cut deeply through skin and muscle, with drops and tiny pools of blood collecting around his limp hands and bare feet.

  At one point during the struggle the chair had toppled backwards. On the carpet she found a clear pair of smeared, bloody handprints. They overlapped each other, and between them was a crusted, amœba-shaped smear, which suggested the killer had lifted the chair back up rather quickly. Why? Why not leave the husband thrashing about on the floor?

  The mother was tied down to a side chair: because it lacked armrests, her wrists had been bound behind her back and secured to the chair’s rear legs with zip ties. As with her daughter, a strip of duct tape had been strapped across her mouth. But there was a difference: here, the tape hadn’t been removed during the course of the torture. Darby had seen slight abrasion marks on Samantha’s cheeks, a clear result of the tape having been yanked off. The killer had replaced the tape crookedly, all of which suggested that he had wanted the parents to hear their child screaming for help, screaming for the pain to stop. Then, most likely after Samantha was dead, the killer had replaced the tape over her mouth.

  Darby thought about the order of the murders.

  Sexual sadists usually focused their attention on their female victims. Darby suspected the killer tied the bag around David Downes first and then went to work on Samantha and Laura, most likely saving the daughter for last. Samantha was younger. Prettier.

  Darby glanced to her left. On the wall near the doorway to the master bathroom was a dual digital thermostat. The heat for the second floor was on, set at 70°F. The second temperature, the actual one for the room, read 58°. The parents must’ve forgotten to shut the heat off before they turned in for the night, she thought, and poked her head into the master bathroom. It had white tiles and white walls and two windows set over a small jacuzzi. Everything in there looked neat and orderly and clean.