The Devil's Closet (14 page)

Michael and I looked at each other before heading back to my office so I could call the sheriff. Michael got on his cell phone with Supervisory Agent Howard to get the details. After we had both finished, Michael told me he was ordered to oversee the interview. The sheriff ordered me to observe the interview.

It seems that Albert Whitfield turned himself in at the jail after seeing the news. This confirmed, to me, that he was not our killer. Our killer didn’t go through the hype and creativity of the box of bones only to give himself up the next day. I couldn’t believe the FBI’s ignorance. I grabbed some coffee and walked into the observation room on the other side of the mirror that faced the interview room. Michael’s boss, the sheriff, and others would be watching the interview on closed-circuit television.

Albert Whitfield, seated at the table, looked deeply frightened. He didn’t have the confidence and arrogance shown by the killer. Two senior FBI agents entered the interview room and began.

Like everything else leading up to this point with the FBI, the interview was nothing but a low-grade comedy act. The agents’ interview skills were some of the worst I’ve seen. I’ve actually witnessed first-or second-year uniform patrolmen do a better job of talking to a suspect. Michael knew this; he shook his head in disgust. The agent doing the primary interview was a tired-looking runt of a man who did nothing but yell in Albert’s face, terrifying him even more.

While he did this, the other agent walked back and forth behind Albert, laughing. Albert kept saying repeatedly he didn’t kill any children. This was his only response to the agent screaming “Whose bones are in the box?”

He was almost paralyzed and at the point of tears when I couldn’t keep my mouth shut any longer. I was just about to tell Michael to do something when he beat me to it by leaving me and entering the interview room. He motioned for both agents to leave. They looked at each other in confusion before Michael raised his voice and ordered them out immediately.

It took Michael at least twenty minutes to establish a rapport with Albert and calm him down. Over the next two hours, Michael asked the right questions and received the appropriate answers.

When it was all said and done, Albert Whitfield had admitted to molesting five neighborhood boys and gave a written confession regarding the same. He vehemently denied any part in the murders of Hanna Parker, Ashley Sanders, and Emily Yoder. He came right out and said what I already knew: that he wasn’t attracted to girls.

During Michael’s interview, Albert insisted he was applying for unemployment at the time Ashley Sanders was taken. I confirmed that alibi myself. When the interview was officially completed, Albert Whitfield was taken to the county jail and charged with three counts of rape and two counts of gross sexual imposition, for starters.

As I watched the corrections officers lead Albert away, Michael came back into the observation room, looking exhausted. I know all too well from experience how mentally demanding an interview like that can be.

“Well? What do you think?”

“I think you saved the day, Agent. I was about to go in there myself after watching those two morons. We may not have our killer yet, but we got a child molester off the street. There’s nothing wrong with that at all.”

Michael sat down and let out a loud sigh, rubbing his eyes with one hand. I stood behind him and began massaging his shoulders when I heard the door open. I jumped back about four feet. The last thing I needed was someone to see me giving the FBI agent in charge a massage. It was Sheriff Stephens.

“Excellent job, Michael. Definitely a guy who needs to be off the streets.”

“Thank you, Sheriff.”

“Well, CeeCee, you know what’s coming next. Agent Howard is upstairs waiting. Let’s go get this over with.”

The sheriff looked as thrilled as I was to be a part of this meeting. Agent Howard was seated at the conference table when we walked in. Idiot one and idiot two from the Albert Whitfield interview were on either side of him. I chose a seat on the far side of the table, and the sheriff and the chief sat next to me. Michael sat closer to his boss. Agent Howard opened the meeting.

“Well, it looks like Albert Whitfield isn’t our killer after all.”

“You don’t say,” I answered, garnering a horrific look from Michael. As well as one telling me to shut up and not say another word.

“Detective Gallagher, your reputation precedes you, I’m sure, but there’s no need for rudeness in this room.”

I didn’t like being spoken to as a child, and if Michael hadn’t been there, I might not have been responsible for what would have come out of my mouth. “Agent Howard, you called this meeting. Why don’t you get to your point?”

I was making him angry. It was very obvious. Michael leaned back and just stared at the wall, arms tightly crossed in front of him. I would hear it from him later, no doubt about it. Right now, I didn’t care.

“My point is, Detective, we have a man killing children, and he seems to be fixated on you. I see that as a problem—a major problem—and I think you can enlighten me. Is there something you aren’t telling us, Detective Gallagher, about this case? Possibly an old boyfriend of yours?” He hesitated. “Or girlfriend, maybe?”

I stood up ready to blast the agent with everything I had, but the sheriff beat me to it.

“That is quite enough, Agent Howard! I am still the county sheriff, and I will not allow you to talk to one of my officers like that! It seems to me that Detective Gallagher told you from the beginning you had the wrong guy, but none of you wanted to listen. Now, let’s get to the point here. Are you going to name CeeCee as the lead on this or not?”

“No.”

“Fine. The next child who dies will be on
your
hands, and I
will
let everyone in the media know.”

The sheriff walked out of the room, though I wished he hadn’t. Agent Howard sat in his chair smiling and began to talk again and, this time, much worse. The meeting was deteriorating rapidly.

“Detective, it seems you know something you’re not telling us. Therefore, you are obstructing a federal investigation and could be criminally charged.”

That was it. “Agent Howard, don’t you
ever
threaten me, understand? If you would like to charge me with a crime, then arrest me now or sit there and shut the
fuck
up!”

I stormed out, knocking my chair down along the way. I was finished with this case. I was going to go home, pack my things, and go to North Carolina to be with my kids. My contempt for Agent Howard was such that I had nearly reached across the table to rip his eyes out. He was playing a deadly game with children’s lives and didn’t seem to care. All he cared about was being in charge and making the FBI look good. I wondered if he had children. I doubted it.

I went directly out to my car. After I pulled out of the parking lot, my cell phone started ringing like mad. I shut it off.

During the drive to my house I found myself fuming, thinking back to the meeting and how Michael just sat there and said nothing. Had the roles been reversed, I would’ve never allowed someone to talk to him like that. I don’t care if it was my boss or not.

When I got home, I started tossing my beachwear into a suitcase: shorts, tank tops, and my bathing suit. When I was satisfied I had everything, I walked out the front door and ran smack into Michael.

He was out of breath, and I actually looked to see if his car was there of if he had just run the whole way.

“Where are you going?”

“To the beach with the girls.” I stepped around him and headed for my personal SUV parked in the driveway.

“No, you’re not.” He tried to grab my suitcase, which I promptly yanked away from him and flung into the hatch of the SUV. Somehow, when I got into my car, he was already sitting in the passenger seat.

“Get out, Michael. You can’t go to the beach with me,” I said sarcastically.

“I’m not going,” he said with a smile, “and neither are you.”

I was getting angrier, if that was possible, and told him again to move his ass. It was five more minutes of us arguing like teenagers before I finally relented and told him to spit out what he had to say.

Turns out, when the sheriff left the meeting, it wasn’t to abandon me. He called the governor’s office. I knew the two men were good friends. The sheriff had been the county Republican representative during the election, and he played golf with the governor frequently. The governor’s brother also happened to be a United States senator who had quite a bit of pull in Washington.

Then, when Michael left the room, the sheriff pulled him aside and told him he had called the governor, who was working to get things situated, including putting me in charge. It might take some time. Agent Howard was high on the FBI totem pole, so a lot of favors were getting called in.

I turned the car off. “Why didn’t you say anything in there?”

“I did, after you left. I told him he was out of line and disrespectful. Then he accused me of protecting my ‘
bed partner
.’ He’s heard the rumors. I’ll be lucky if I have a job tomorrow. At this point, I don’t care.”

“It’s my fault. I got you into this.”

I didn’t know what else to say. I should’ve acted more professional, there’s no question there, but we were talking about children. And when it came to children, I had no patience for politics and games.

All this bullshit had taken away valuable time, and I thought about the six o’clock deadline the killer had given us. I expressed my concerns to Michael.

“He just said he’ll be watching the news, that’s all,” Michael said.

“No, he meant that if he doesn’t hear what he wants to hear at six, he
will
take another child and I believe him wholeheartedly. We have to do something. We can’t just sit here.”

“I believe we should do the only thing we
can
do right now. We wait.”

When we walked into the detective bureau, Kincaid told us the bones from the box had been identified through dental records.

“Her name was Anna Kovinski. She was kidnapped in September of 1985 while walking her dog in Harrisburg, Pennsylvania. The FBI’s in the process of getting the case file from them.”

“1985!” I was incredulous. “I can’t even begin to imagine what her parents have gone through for the last twenty-one years.”

“Do you know if they told her parents yet?” Michael asked.

“From what I gathered, the father died several years ago of cancer. The mother never recovered from the kidnapping and has had severe mental health issues ever since.”

I’ll bet she has. I’d consider myself fortunate if I could continue breathing, let alone functioning, if something happened to one of my children. I couldn’t imagine living for twenty-one years always wondering what had happened to my daughter. The thought sent a stampede of chills through my body. Kincaid and Michael sat quietly, probably thinking the same. Even though Kincaid didn’t have children, anyone with a heart could imagine how awful it would be to lose one.

Michael excused himself, leaving Naomi and me alone. Technically, he was still in charge. He went into the hallway to call the agents who could fill him in on the identification. This was a wonderful opportunity to change the subject to lighter issues.

“You seem quite a bit better lately, Naomi. Things going good?”

She smiled and sat down. “Actually, they’re not exactly
good
just yet, but definitely better. How about you?”

I told her about my impending divorce and even went so far as to tell her about Jordan. She looked at me with concern.

“I’d heard the rumors, but I figured if I mentioned something to you, you’d have bitten my head off.”

I laughed and agreed. “I have no idea what’s going to happen as far as Michael is concerned. I’m just taking it one day at a time.”

“My ears are burning.”

We both saw that Michael had returned. Naomi smiled as she left my office. Michael took the seat she had vacated.

“One day at a time, huh?”

I wadded a piece of paper and threw it at him, then opened my desk drawer and took out the item I’d been desperate to look at since I read the killer’s letter. It was my Bible. I always kept one handy in case there was a day I needed divine intervention, which realistically was about 364 out of 365 days a year.

“Are we having a prayer meeting?”

“No, I want to look up that passage in the Book of Daniel, smartass. But if you want to, we can. I’m sure your soul needs a little saving, and I know damn well mine does.” Michael merely laughed, and I lit a cigarette.

“You know those things will kill you, Cee.”

“If they don’t, this job will.”

I found the appropriate section. I was right. There were no words in Daniel 6:16 that said “Daniel fell.” I still didn’t understand what he meant by that. Was it that Albert got caught anyway since, I assumed, the killer meant Albert Whitfield was Daniel? I wasn’t supposed to do any investigation of this case anymore, according to Agent Howard and the FBI, but I knew I was on to something. Just what, it was too soon to say.

I wasn’t sure what to tell Michael yet, because I hadn’t fully checked into Jim Carlson. Then I remembered something. I had forgotten about the bag of garbage in the trunk of my car. Michael clued in.

“Uh-oh, I know that look. CeeCee got a brainstorm.”

“I have to go.” I stood, slammed the Bible shut, and grabbed my purse and keys.

“Whoa, wait just a minute. Where to now?”

“Just something I forgot to do.” I was out the door before he could argue.

I needed to go somewhere by a Dumpster so I could toss out any unnecessary items. I also needed to be careful about anyone spotting me. I could just hear the calls going to the department about a woman digging through garbage.

I found an old abandoned warehouse near downtown and drove around to the back. There were two large, green Dumpsters in the lot. Whether anyone regularly checked them for garbage was anyone’s guess, but I didn’t plan on leaving anything consequential in them anyway.

I took the bag and a blanket out of my trunk. I laid the blanket out and set the bag on top of it. After putting on my latex gloves, I opened the bag. I wasn’t overcome by any noxious odor, so I assumed there wasn’t any food in there.

I tore the bag along one side to open it up and leave the garbage on the plastic. There wasn’t much. It looked like someone was putting new wallpaper up. There were remnants of wallpaper, some that apparently didn’t fit right after they were cut. The pattern was a gaudy, purple paisley design that I wouldn’t even use in my attic. There was an old paintbrush hardened by wallpaper paste, rolled-up plastic, and newspapers.

Underneath the pile of wallpaper junk, I found an item that captured my interest, and I set it aside. I sorted through small pieces of carpet remnants and located another item. I placed that one with the other.

It was clear whoever lived there was remodeling. Maybe when Jim Carlson moved out, he’d left the place in a shambles and Carl Malone had to do some touch-ups.

I located several other interesting items before grabbing the corners of the bag, gathering the garbage, and throwing it in the Dumpster. Then I removed several evidence bags from my trunk and placed the intriguing items inside. I put all the bags at the bottom of a box, put the blanket on top, and shut the trunk.

Each of the items alone didn’t prove much, but together they definitely said something. It was the totality of the evidence.

I was still debating whether to tell Michael about my private investigation when I pulled into the parking lot. Standing before me, next to Michael’s car, were him and Jordan.

Michael was leaning back against his hood while Jordan pranced around, flipped her hair and flashed her million-dollar smile. Every nerve ending in my body came alive, and I began to feel my blood boil.

I swung my car into the space next to Michael’s and was almost out of the vehicle before it had stopped. Michael instantly saw the state I was in. It couldn’t have been hard for him to guess why. Jordan followed Michael’s eyes and stopped smiling.

I headed right for her, and Michael stepped in front of me. He must’ve thought I was going to smash her face in. Though I would’ve liked to, that wasn’t my intention. At least for the moment.

“Move, Michael.” I was seething.

“CeeCee, think before you do anything you’ll regret.”

I walked to his side and stepped in front of Jordan before she had a chance to leave. She tried walking around me, but I placed my hand on her chest, and pushed her back against the car, pinning her down. I didn’t weigh much more than she did, but I was taller and stronger.

“All right, CeeCee, that’s enough,” Michael said sternly.

“I would like to talk only to Jordan, if you don’t mind.” I nodded for him to back away, then turned back to her.

“Now then.” I was amazed at how calm my voice sounded. “I think you and I need to have a discussion. Did anyone ever tell you that fucking your training officer is a good way to get yourself fired?” I smiled.

She glared at me and started to say something, but chose to remain silent; a wise move on her part.

“Tell me, Jordan, how old are you?”

“Thirty.”

I was taken aback. Sinclair had previously told me that she was twenty-four or twenty-five. She was only four years younger than I was, but didn’t look a day over twenty-one. Regardless, she had been sleeping with my husband and now had the audacity to come on to Michael. Stupidly, she no longer remained quiet.

“Take your hand off me. I need to go.” She fumed.

“You had the boldness to stand in that locker room the first day I met you and ramble on about me. All the while, you were sleeping with my husband.” My voice was still calm.

She exploded, which I didn’t expect. “That’s right, CeeCee! I was sleeping with your husband! But it doesn’t matter now, does it? He’ll still chase you around even when he knows you don’t want him, but that’s what you want, right? You don’t want him, but you don’t want anyone else to have him either. When our child is born I fully intend to find a new job, you bitch!” She started to cry.

I felt the blood drain from my face and a punch hit me square in the gut at the same time.

“How far along?” I heard the quiet, scratchy words come out of my mouth, but didn’t feel as if I were actually saying them.

“Eleven weeks.”

Sucker punch number two. My mind was scrambling. Eric had only been training her a little over ten weeks. It finally hit me. Eric was an instructor at the police academy. He must have started seeing Jordan there. The academy lasts four months and if I did the math, they could’ve been seeing each other for as long as six months. When Eric referred to three months the night I overheard them talking, he was merely talking about how long it had been since she started in the department. Realizing she had me, Jordan laughed.

“What? You think it was an accident that Eric was training me? Wake up, CeeCee.”

“Does Eric know?” There was the same scratchy, hoarse voice again.

“No, thanks to you! He left and said he needed time. Of course that could be since you guys slept together the other morning, too. I had planned on waiting until my first trimester was over, so I knew everything was okay before I told him, and get through my training. But then
he
came back”—she nodded at Michael—“and Eric became obsessed about it. I got scared about how he would take it.” Her arrogant tone changed, and she began to beg. “Please, CeeCee! You don’t want him! Quit being so goddamn selfish and just let him go. He’s been miserable for the last year, and he deserves to be happy!”

She shoved my hand aside and took off, half running toward the department. I stood facing the car, absorbing the bombshell she just dropped. I wasn’t taking it in all that well. I began to have a hard time catching my breath. My chest was heaving. I leaned on the hood for balance because I was getting rather dizzy. Michael was there instantly, but I pushed him away.

“I-I just need some air,” I said breathlessly, and took in a deep lung full. It didn’t seem to make a difference.

During incomprehensible situations, one’s mind plays tricks. Now, for reasons unknown, I began to laugh. I laughed so hysterically, I was convinced I was having a good, old-fashioned nervous breakdown. Still not able to catch my breath, I squatted down and put my face between my knees. That didn’t help. All it did was constrict my diaphragm even more.

She was pregnant. How would I explain that to my daughters? How could I tell them they would have a new brother or sister and that he or she had a different mother? I felt so betrayed to find out that all these months he was being unfaithful, and it was almost too much to bear. He could never, ever use Michael as an excuse. I never lied to Eric about Michael, and I hadn’t slept with him when we first met.

I was shaking and sweating profusely. Michael picked me up off the ground.

“CeeCee, you need to calm down.”

“I’m fine, Michael. Just let me walk.” I headed for God knows where and he followed, looking like he wanted to take care of me, but also afraid of my increasingly irrational state.

Breathing was easier, but I didn’t feel that much better. I walked toward a picnic table on the outer grassy area of the parking lot under a large maple tree. The closer I got, the more I felt myself begin to dissolve. Jordan’s news was simply way too much to absorb on top of everything else.

I sat on the table, out of control yet numb, and just let Michael stand and hold me. I knew it was an unusual position for him to be in, but he handled it well. Eventually, I felt able to breathe and speak rationally. Now it was time to vent.

“I can’t believe this lie after lie after lie from Eric. The day you two had your fight, he was begging me to go to North Carolina with him, alone, to work it out!”

“I’m sure he meant every word at the time, Cee.”

“I’m so angry! I’m angry and hurt and confused. I mean, I remember three or four months ago when he would come home from work and everything seemed normal. Even the night I told him you were coming he seemed fine, for crying out loud. But now I find out it was all bullshit? And then, all the months I pushed you out of my head because I didn’t want to dishonor and betray my husband? Ha! That’s a laugh!” I started crying again.

Michael handed me a tissue (I have no idea where he got it, but lately the need for tissues has been continual) and kissed the top of my head.

“You need to call him.”

I had every intention of doing so when I got my act together. I’d call to congratulate him on his impending fatherhood. I’d let him figure out how to tell our daughters what was happening with their parents and why.

As angry as I was at Eric right then, there was a part of me that felt bad for Jordan. She obviously loved Eric, was looking ahead to, possibly, single motherhood, and it seemed to me she was all alone.