Never Coming Home

  * * *

  Nothing was better at settling his nerves than alcohol.

  Lincoln held the stem of the martini and watched the last scraps of ice melt away on the surface. It was never a good sign when there were ice chips in a martini. It meant the bartender had shaken it, or stirred it too hard. However, the familiar aroma of gin, with its crisp hint of juniper, stilled his concern.

  It always did.

  That first sip of a martini, potent and cold, the flavors and alcohol dancing their way down his throat, was worth the trials any day held. He savored it with his eyes closed, which helped him escape the environment. It helped him escape everything.

  It always did.

  He’d once heard someone say that martinis tasted like sophistication, which was as accurate a description as he could imagine. He started drinking martinis when he was young because he thought it was a drink that came packaged with distinction. No need for sugary additions or artificial flavors, just dry vermouth, gin, and a couple olives. Early on he’d insisted on vodka martinis, shaken instead of stirred, because he assumed James Bond had it right. It wasn’t until much later that he discovered the subtle flavor of a good gin and a gentle stir.

  “Sorry I’m late,” said Bentley when he arrived carrying a bookbag and wearing comfortable clothes. He looked like a college kid fresh from class.

  “What happened to your suit?”

  “It’s after hours,” said Bentley as if surprised Lincoln had asked.

  “It’s never after hours if you’re putting your best foot forward.”

  Bentley sat down at the round table and opened his bag to start pulling out stacks of paper. “I’ve never been comfortable in a suit. It’s not my style.”

  “No one’s comfortable in a suit. That’s not why you wear them.”

  Bentley hadn’t expected a scolding, and wasn’t sure how to respond. “I’m not worried about impressing anyone tonight.”

  “You should always be worried about impressing people.”

  “Well, I’m not.” It was clear that Bentley wasn’t interested in continuing to talk about how he was dressed.

  “That’s your problem,” said Lincoln. “You’re not taking yourself seriously.”

  Bentley shrugged and said, “Maybe worrying about impressing people all the time is your problem.” He glanced wryly across the table.

  Lincoln was about to respond snidely, but then he simply smirked, raised his glass, and said, “Touché.”

  “I read through Frank Harcourt’s interview. It’s actually pretty shocking how feeble his alibi is.”

  “Really?” Lincoln moved aside his martini to make room for the case work.

  “He was working as an IT manager at a brokerage in Denver, and he was clocked in the day Betty and Devin went missing. But he always kept the door of his office closed, and there weren’t any coworkers who could confirm he was there that day. Which is weird, right? I mean, you’ve got to figure the dude leaves his office from time to time to go to the bathroom or something – maybe stop for a chat at the water cooler. But when the police tried to get someone to back up the fact that he was at work, no one could do it. They’d seen him that morning, but no one would testify that they saw him after lunch. Harcourt had to provide them with his computer logs from that day, which detailed everything he did.”

  “And did he give them the logs?”

  “Yeah,” said Bentley. “But here’s the weird thing.” Bentley started to shuffle through the multitude of papers on the table, but couldn’t find what he was looking for. He opened up his bookbag again and pulled out a clipboard that he handed over. “Back when the case started to get attention again after Grant got busted, there was an online forum set up for a benefit concert.”

  “I remember it,” said Lincoln. “That’s the concert Darcy’s band played in.”

  “One of the forum members claimed to be a coworker of Frank’s, and that they would use a bot to create the logins so they could get out of work. Those faked logs could be what Frank showed the police.”

  “A bot?” asked Lincoln.

  “Yeah, it’s a computer thing. You can create programs to perform coding work automatically, and to anyone not computer savvy it can be passed off as proof that he was really there working. I asked Hector and he said something like that was possible. He’s going to try and find out if he can get the information that Harcourt gave to police, but I’m not sure if it still exists.”

  “If anyone would know about getting out of work, it’s Hector. So then we’ve got to put Devin’s dad in the suspect pile,” said Lincoln. “What about his mom?”

  “Angel Harcourt,” said Bentley as he produced a new sheet of paper with details about Devin’s mother. “She worked at Longmont United, but was off the day of the disappearances. She’s the one who called the cops after Devin never made it home.”

  Lincoln took the page and read through some of the details. “Not exactly the sort of thing a killer would do.”

  “Mom’s do kill their kids from time to time,” said Bentley. “But I don’t get the sense Angel was that sort of person. By all accounts, she helped the police as much as possible, and she spent every waking hour hanging up posters and searching the area for her son.”

  “Was Devin an only child?”

  “Yes,” said Bentley. “Angel lost a premature baby right after her and Frank got married. That was when they were young. I’m guessing they got married because she was pregnant. Her family was pretty religious. Devin didn’t come around until several years later.”

  “I hope I never know what it’s like to lose a child. And if he was her only kid…” Lincoln grimaced and shook his head. “What about the Klines?”

  “They were supportive of the cops too, up until the investigation turned to their son. That’s when they got an attorney and clammed up. The police got ahold of Trent’s journals, which kicked off the media circus.”

  “Did Betty’s parents have alibis?”

  “Yes,” said Bentley. “Rock solid, from what I can tell. They owned a bakery, and were there at the time. Apparently they had security cameras in the store that proved they were there until they got a call from Angel Harcourt.”

  “Why did she call them?”

  “To see if they knew where Devin was at. I guess Betty and Devin walked home from school together a lot.”

  “Oh.” Lincoln was reviewing the papers as Bentley continued.

  “That’s when Deborah Kline left the bakery to go help look for the kids. Her husband closed up the shop a little later and headed out to help his wife.”

  “Hopefully they’ll be open to an interview,” said Lincoln.

  “I thought they’d be open to it, but now I’m not so sure. After Trent got convicted, they were all over the media trying to prove he was innocent. Like Grant said, they even hired private investigators to look into the case. But they ran into some financial trouble, and after that they shut down their bakery. I’m not sure what’s up with that, but from what I’ve seen they even started refusing to conduct interviews about the crime. They must’ve figured things out, though. Eventually they opened their bakery back up. I was thinking of going by there to check it out.”

  “What about the other family?” asked Lincoln.

  “I think we’re going to have an even tougher time getting the Harcourts to work with us. Both of them were convinced Trent was guilty. They hated the fact that so many people were trying to prove he was innocent. That’s why most of the artwork for that concert featured pictures of Betty instead of Devin. His parents insisted they leave him out of it. And then there’s the fact that no one knows where Frank Harcourt’s at.”

  “Mr. Harcourt’s becoming more and more suspicious every second,” said Lincoln. “Maybe Grant was onto something.”

  “It’ll be interesting to talk to him,” said Bentley as a waitress came over to ask him if he wanted anything to drink.

  The waitress was young, short, and thin, with jet black ha
ir and red lipstick. She was cute, and Lincoln noticed immediately that she was trying to flirt with Bentley, something the young man seemed oblivious to.

  Bentley ordered an IPA on tap, and didn’t pay any attention to the girl as she mused about how he’d made a good pick, and that it was her favorite beer. Bentley was cordial, but disinterested in small talk.

  After the waitress left, Lincoln leaned in closer and said, “I think she’s into you.”

  “The waitress?” Bentley glanced over at the young woman and then shook his head. “You’re crazy.”

  Bentley wasn’t a bad looking kid. He was tall and thick, with a barrel chest and wide shoulders, but he was trim where it counted. Lincoln knew he’d have to convince Bentley to shave off the patchy beard, which made him look ten years older than he was, and to get his hair cut, but with a little work the kid could be a lady-killer.

  “One thing life’s taught me,” said Lincoln, and he took a drink before finishing the thought, “a man’s better with a good woman by his side.”

  “Can’t argue with that.” Bentley moved on quickly, revealing his eagerness to avoid the topic. “When do you think we should try to call everyone for interviews?”

  “Let’s go after the Klines first. I’d like to see what the other P.I.s they hired were able to find.”

  “Good idea,” said Bentley. “What about after…”

  “Let’s focus on one step at a time,” said Lincoln, deflating Bentley’s enthusiasm. “Tomorrow we can meet with Grant, and then try to contact the Klines. That’s enough for now.”

  “Okay,” said Bentley as he started to leaf through the mound of pages he’d spread out over the small table between them. “Do you want me to find Grant’s testimony?”

  “Sure that’d be great, but I don’t need it just yet. For now, I want to get to know you a bit.”

  “Me? Why?”

  “Because I’m being forced to work with you. I might as well learn to like you. Tell me a little about yourself.”

  “There’s not much to tell,” said Bentley, bashful as he focused on the paperwork.

  “Bullshit. Everyone’s got a story to tell, and I’d wager you’ve got a better one than most. With an uncle like Daniel Barr, I’m sure you’ve got a few interesting anecdotes.”

  “Not really.”

  “The scars on your knuckles tell a different story.”

  Bentley glanced self-consciously down at his hands. There were a myriad of scars crisscrossing his knuckles, and some of his fingers were bent oddly, indicative of breaks that never set quite right. “Old demons.”

  “Demons tell better stories than saints. Were you one of your uncle’s enforcers out on the street?”

  “I didn’t work with Uncle Danny until recently.”

  “Then who were you beating the crap out of to get scars like those?”

  “These didn’t come from a fight.”

  Lincoln was annoyed that he had to pry, but he wanted to know more about the young man he was being asked to mentor. “Okay then, where’d they come from?”

  Bentley made a fist, and then relaxed his hand as he examined the way the color of the scars changed. “I did it to myself, punching a wall.”

  Lincoln teased him, “Well that’s smart. Do you have yourself a bit of a rage issue?”

  “No. Just a few bad months. I lost someone important to me.”

  Lincoln ceased his chiding tone, and offered a sincere apology. “Sorry to hear that. Do you mind if I ask who?”

  Bentley hesitated, and then reached up to his neck to retrieve a gold chain. He took it out from beneath his shirt, revealing a wedding band dangling from it. “My wife died in a car accident.”

  Lincoln was at a rare loss for words.

  “I was a mess for a while,” said Bentley. “But you know what they say, time heals all wounds. Right?”

  “That’s what they say,” said Lincoln.

  “You don’t sound convinced,” said Bentley with the sort of smile that people wear to feign normalcy. “Me neither.”

  “I’m gutted to hear you lost someone so close to you,” said Lincoln. “Honestly. A kid your age… You don’t deserve to go through that sort of thing.”

  “No one does. Least of all her.” Bentley was looking down at the ring, turning it around between his fingers before tucking it back under his shirt. “She was in the hospital for two months. For a while there we thought she was going to make it. We even set up a rehab schedule to help her walk again. Uncle Danny paid for a ramp to be built at my dad’s house, and we were going to move in there after she got out of the hospital. Dad didn’t want us to have to worry about bills. He and Uncle Danny were going to take care of everything. But then…” He paused as an unexpected pang of hurtful memory stole his breath. “She got… uh…” He took a deep breath and motioned towards his chest, gesticulating as he tried to recount the story. “Her lungs filled up with fluid. She got pneumonia. It happened all of the sudden. I was laughing with her one day, and the next the doctor was telling me she… uh.” He cleared his throat and then spoke in a near whisper, “She might not wake up again.”

  The waitress showed up and asked if they needed anything. Lincoln ordered a martini and then tried to convince Bentley to have another beer, but the widower refused.

  “I should probably be going,” said Bentley. “I have a feeling tomorrow’s going to be a busy day for us.”

  Lincoln didn’t try to stop him from leaving. Bentley gathered his things, and left a few pages behind for Lincoln to look over. Bentley left in a hurry, fighting demons he didn’t feel like sharing.

  Lincoln sat alone through his next few martinis, ruminating on what the young man had revealed. It never ceased to surprise him just what sort of skeletons were hiding in peoples’ closets. Bentley’s revelation was another reminder of how tough life could be, and how it’s a fool’s game to guess what trials plague a person. You never know how deep the devil treads.

  Arthur

  “I’m here to pick up a package,” said Arthur to the overworked clerk at the post office. It was early. He’d hoped to avoid a crowd, but the building was still packed. When Arthur arrived and saw the line, he debated turning around and leaving, but he needed to get the Morning Glory seeds that’d been sent here.

  The woman behind the counter was short and middle-aged, with a bowl haircut that would’ve looked bad on a schoolboy and managed to look even worse on her. She barely even looked up at Arthur as she shuffled through the stacks of letters the customer before him had left behind.

  “What’s the name?” she asked.

  “It’s not under a name,” said Arthur, feeling suddenly exposed as the crowd loomed around him. He scratched nervously at his salt-and-pepper beard. The line stretched around a center desk behind him and out into the adjoining room. The customers were all annoyed at how long their trip to the post office had already taken, and he knew they were staring daggers at him. He’d covered up as much as possible, with a baseball cap pulled down low and his collar up, but he still felt awfully exposed.

  The clerk glanced up at him, as intrigued as she was confused, “Then what’s it under?”

  “The package is for the holder of a specific Federal Note,” said Arthur as he pulled a two-dollar bill out of his pocket and set it on the counter. The bill’s integrity suffered from being folded numerous times, and the edges curled up. He flattened it and turned the bill around before pointing at the number that made this bill unique.

  F 54078600 A

  “You’ve got a first class package here that can only be picked up by the bearer of this note.” He tried to sound calm and confident, but the crowd behind him rattled his nerves.

  “I still need an ID.”

  “No you don’t,” said Arthur, hissing a little as he whispered to her. He was worried about attracting attention. “You have to give me the package. That’s the law.”

  The clerk was visibly perturbed, and she said, “Let me check on this. I’ll be right bac
k.”

  Arthur hung his head low, hoping to avoid suspicion as the clerk left to go speak with a manager. He wanted to remain as inconspicuous as possible.

  The post office had two other clerks serving customers. Arthur was at the desk on the furthest side, and the customer beside him finished his transaction, prompting the clerk to call for whoever was next. A spritely young woman came forward, with red hair that was tied in a ponytail and diamond studs in her cheeks. She was wearing a plaid skirt and fishnet stockings, and could’ve passed for a punk from the 1970’s.

  “Hi,” said the cute young woman who was now standing mere feet from Arthur. “I’m here to pick up my mail. It got delivered to my parent’s house instead of my apartment, and they weren’t home.” She produced a slip of paper and said, “The mailman left this on the door.”

  “What’s your name?” asked the clerk.

  “Becky Kyle.”

  Arthur perked up at the mention of the name, and he regarded the girl with new interest. Becky Kyle, alliterative to Betty Kline. She was young and pretty, and the studs in her cheeks reminded him of Betty’s dimples.

  The clerk serving him returned, as dour as before, with a large box that she set on the counter between them. “You’re going to have to sign for this.” She slid across a piece of paper and pointed at the line on the bottom. He picked up a pen that was chained to the counter and signed ‘X’ before pushing the paper back over to her.

  “Are we done here?” asked Arthur.

  “Don’t forget this,” said the clerk as she pointed at the two-dollar bill.

  He took the money and his package, and quickly left the Post Office. He got to his car, but he didn’t drive away just yet. He waited for Becky Kyle to come out. He watched as she went over to her car, and then he followed behind her as she headed home. He tailed her to an apartment building on the edge of town, and then saw which building she headed into. After circling the block, the entire time debating whether or not he should just head home, he returned to the apartment and parked in the lot.

  Arthur tried to act casual as he jogged over to the building, inspected the list of apartments and last names, and found the buzzer belonging to the name ‘Kyle.’ Becky lived in 3-B. He looked up at the top floor of the apartments and wondered which one was hers.

  Until recently Arthur had considered the idea of hunting women in the wild too dangerous. The prostitution method worked well enough, but it presented problems. He took great care to keep his dealings with the prostitutes hidden, but if he killed enough of them then word would spread through that community. It wouldn’t be long before the internet boards lit up with questions about the missing girls, which would lead to increased precaution. Also, the quality of the women who participated in the dark web’s sadomasochism rings were of a lower quality than he preferred.

  Out in the wild he could have his pick.

  Arthur was getting excited. He wanted to run up to her apartment right that instant. He began to imagine the scenario.

  He thought about pretending to deliver a package, but then discounted that idea. Most delivery companies left packages for apartments like this at the front office, and he’d just seen Becky picking up a package that’d been delivered to her parent’s house. What if she had all her mail delivered there? No, he’d have to be smarter than that. What sort of person is granted unfettered access to a person’s apartment?

  Repairmen.

  Arthur could get an appropriate outfit and tools, and then call Becky with a request to come inspect her plumbing. He’d explain that one of the other tenets in her building was experiencing issues, and that he needed to speak with her. That would be believable enough.

  As he contemplated the murder, he reached into his glove box and took out a resistance exercise glove. It was fitted with loops for his fingers that were connected to what looked like five miniature pistons. The glove was designed to help strengthen a person’s forearm and grip, and Arthur used it whenever he imagined choking a victim.

  All she had to do was let him in. If he got into her apartment, and was alone with her, then he could choke her into unconsciousness in less than a minute. He squeezed his hand, letting the exercise glove heighten the sense of realism as he imagined her in his grip, struggling to get free. He would compress the arteries, starve her brain of blood enough that she lost consciousness, and then he would put his thumbs over her windpipe. He’d linger, allowing the excitement to build.

  He was getting an erection.

  After she was dead, he would leave her there. He wouldn’t worry about cutting her up. That wasn’t part of the process that he enjoyed. He would masturbate over her, but he couldn’t risk leaving any semen. He’d have to use protection, even if he didn’t want to. For a moment he debated if that was necessary, but then he sternly admonished himself for considering risky behavior. He could masturbate after she was dead, but he had to use a condom or something else to collect the semen. He couldn’t leave any trace behind.

  This was exciting, and he wanted to move ahead with his plan, but then a sobering realism hit him. He remembered the alert last night about the new investigation into the disappearances ten years ago. How could he consider another murder after learning that his past exploits were still gathering attention? No. That would be sloppy.

  As much as he wanted to feel Becky Kyle’s life slip away in his grasp, he had to deal with this new problem first. After he was certain that the new investigation was over, he could reward himself with Becky.