(2011) The Gift of Death (35 page)

I cannot imagine your suffering. They say it lessens with time, but I’m not so sure about that. In some circumstances, the pain increases until it consumes your whole life. I don’t know how you are coping, but if this is how you feel I can totally sympathise with you.

Often the best way to try and ease the suffering is to address it honestly. There is no point trying to bury it away for it to fester and distort. That can be destructive to one’s self and one’s nearest and dearest. Of course I cannot direct you – each of us is, after all, the sum of our genetic inheritance, parental influences, infantile perceptions, and psychological profile – but I would advise you to try and express your grief. To let it flow out of you just as an old-fashioned medic would use a leech to draw out the poison from your blood.

The information that has come into my possession relates to the person who took Sara-Jane from you. In short, I know who her killer was. I don’t want anything for this information. No money. No payback. Nothing at all from you. I only ask you to use the information as you see fit.

Whether you want to go to the cops with the name of the individual concerned is up to you. I would not caution you against it, but I do have one caveat in this respect. Of course, the law authorities would do their job. No doubt they would hunt down the killer and it is likely the murderer would go to prison. Even though this state has the death penalty, you know the length of the appeals procedure, and how some killers die from natural causes while on death row rather than from the injection. As a result, the man who killed your daughter would most likely spend the rest of his life in San Quentin. Although he would be locked up, still he would be free to savour and enjoy each day, something your little daughter is unable to do. She does not have that privilege. Her killer took that right from her. He robbed her of her life.

I don’t want to get all philosophical about it, but all I want to say is that personally I would not blame you if you took the law into your own hands. Your actions would be interpreted as a simple case of
lex talionis
, an appropriate punishment for such a barbaric act as that suffered by poor Sara-Jane and you, her parents, who continue to suffer every waking moment of every day.

Your other concern may be whether I am playing some kind of cruel hoax. Such an action would be unforgivable. But of course the thought will no doubt cross your minds. That is completely natural. But I can reassure you I am telling the truth in this respect. How do I know this information, you may well ask yourselves. And why do I not go to the police with it? Two good questions. To the first, I can only tell you that I came across the information during the course of my job. And to the second? Well, let’s just say that I no longer believe in the moral accountability of our state’s correctional facilities.

As I said the information is here for you to do with it what you will. I hope it might help you gain some respite from your sufferings. God bless you.

Yours,

A well-wisher.

Information on the killer of Sara-Jane Gable

Name
: Carl Reckard

Age
: 36

Address
: 20941 Itasca St, Chatsworth, 91311, LA.

Appearance
: Dark hair, thinning. Brown/black eyes. Square-jaw. High forehead. Photograph attached

He re-read the letter, pressed the print button on the keyboard and waited for the paper to spool of the printer. He clipped the photograph to the sheet, sealed it and addressed the envelope to Joe and Susan Gable. He then made himself a fresh carrot and apple juice, adding a few sprigs of celery for an additional spot of internal cleansing, and then drafted the other letters. There was one to Paul Taylor, the boyfriend of Alison Lowrie, the girl found on the dunes near Guerrero Negro. And one to Jackson Weeks, the man whose tongue had been ripped from his mouth who was now living in some hostel for the homeless. He didn’t know whether Weeks could read or not and so he kept that one short and to the point. There was no point getting all philosophical with him.

He didn’t know what response he might have. Maybe nothing would happen. But it was worth a try. What was the phrase? Whatsoever a man soweth, that shall he also reap. Galatians 6:7, if he wasn’t mistaken.

He had always been looking for a suitable disciple and now, perhaps, he might find one.

He’d almost forgotten. There was one more thing to be done. An email to Cynthia Ross. He created an untraceable email address, and sent her the same details regarding Carl Reckard. He was looking forward to seeing whether her curiosity would be rewarded. He sincerely hoped so.

52

‘
So what have we got?’ asked Harper.

‘
I’ve got the report on Ryan’s death,’ said Lansing. ‘According to this, he drove his pick-up over the edge of the cliffs near Moreno Valley and Banning. Fell down into the badlands below. Must have gone up like a fireball as the body was burnt beyond recognition.’

‘
Were there any witnesses?’

Lansing scrolled down the screen of his computer.

‘
No, doesn’t seem like it,’ he said. ‘Oh – just a couple of 911 calls from local residents who said they heard an explosion or saw smoke.’

‘
So there was no-one who actually saw Ryan get in that car and drive over the edge?’

‘
No, no there wasn’t.’

‘
And what about reports of men missing.’

‘
I’m sending you the list of names now based on data from the North American Missing Persons Network,’ said Lansing. ‘I presume you want national and not just state?’

‘
Yeah, the whole lot, if you can.’

Harper opened the file on his computer. First of all he scrolled through the names of men who had reported missing between April and June of 2004. There was Robert Monroe Collins, missing since April 4 from Temphis, Tennessee. There was David Milton Crawley III missing since April 5 from Marianna, Florida. Robert C. Heissenberger missing since April 8 from Las Vegas, Nevada. Randy Garcia, missing since April 11 from Salt Lake City, Utah. And so the list went on. A record of absences. A litany of erased lives.

Harper examined each of the files, scanning the biographies for anything that would link them to either Robert or Ryan Gleason. Nothing. Then he checked the July to September file. There was Vernon Bernard Whicker, missing since July 1 from Bakesfield, California. Rodney Allen McIntyre, missing since July 3 from Jacksonville Beach, Florida. Christopher Hansen missing since July 4 from Martin, Allegan County, Michigan. Each of the vanished had a story to tell – family problems such as violence or sexual molestation, mental health issues, drugs and alcohol abuse, terminal illness. He knew that the majority of the missing were probably already dead. But without a body to grieve over many families were left in a state of not knowing, a limbo that ate away at the soul.

He tried to think himself into the mindset of a man who wanted to disappear. What would he do? The most obvious thing would be to fake his own death. Ryan Gleason could have set the whole thing up. Taken his truck up to the deserted stretch of road and set fire to it before driving it over the cliff. But if the body found in the car was not Ryan’s then whose was it? Ryan could have taken over the identity of any one of the hundreds of men who are reported missing each year. But which one?

He sent an email to Lansing, Curtis, and Holt asking them to divide the list between them. There was no other option than simple, old-fashioned detective work. Sure, it was plodding, it was boring. Sometimes it didn’t even offer up any clues whatsoever. It was one of those aspects of his job that hadn’t yet been taken over by the technical department. There was no computer program that could do this.

A split second later he got a call from Holt.

‘
You mean we’ve got to ring every single family member and interview them?’

‘
Yes, that’s right.’

‘
But that could take weeks - months even.’

‘
I know, and I’m sorry. And I’m going to work on a section of the list myself. If we all share the burden it shouldn’t take that long.’

‘
But –‘

And he thought that Helen wanted to keep herself busy.

‘
No buts – it’s the only way. The only thing we’ve got to go on.’

‘
But what if we draw a blank?’

‘
Then we draw a blank – and move on to the next thing.’

‘
Which is?’

‘
Holt,’ he snapped. ‘Just get on with your job.’ Immediately he felt guilty and so softened his voice. ‘Have you managed to get hold of Roberta Gleason?’

‘
She’s here and ready for questioning.’

‘
Great. I’ll go and talk to her now.’

Harper’s phone rang. It was from the duty desk downstairs. They had just taken a call from a Paul Taylor – the boyfriend of Alison Lowrie, the girl whose fingertips had been cut off and sent to Cassie Veringer - who had wanted to speak to Harper.

‘
What about?’ he asked.

‘
Something relating to the investigation into the murder of Alison Lowrie.’

‘
Did he leave a number?’

‘
Yeah, a cell – 619 312 8876.’

‘
Thanks,’ he said, cutting the line and immediately dialling again.

‘
Hello?’ The voice was soft, sad.

Harper put the call on loud speaker so his team could hear.

‘
Hello – it’s Detective Josh Harper here. I believe you rang and left a message for me today. You said you had something relating to the murder of Alison Lowrie?’

Taylor cleared his throat, as if he were trying to choke back tears.

‘
Yeah – I’ve received a letter. Thought it was a prank at first, y’know. But –‘

‘
What does the letter say?’

‘
It – it gives the name of Alison’s killer. The sender – it was signed from a well-wisher – wanted me to enact some sort of revenge. God it was tempting – he even gave me an address and photograph – but, I just thought –‘

‘
Do you have the letter in front of you?’

‘
Yes, yes sir, I do.’

‘
Can you give me name and any other relevant details.’

‘
Sure – but you don’t think it’s some kind of hoax?’

‘
No, I don’t think so.’

‘
Okay,’ he said, clearing his throat once more. ‘It says the name of Alison’s killer was – was Carl Reckard, and his address is 20941 Itasca St, Chatsworth, 91311, LA.. It describes him being 36 years old, with thinning, dark hair and –‘

Harper knew what was coming next.

‘
And with a high forehead and square jaw.’

It was Ryan Gleason. But what was he playing at? Did he want to get caught?

‘
We’ll need to test the letter for forensics. Have you touched it?’

‘
Well yes, I didn’t think –‘

‘
Please don’t handle it any more. It may offer some valuable clues. Where are you?’

‘
In Guerrero Negro, Baja.’

‘
Great – stay there and I’ll get someone over within the next couple of hours.’

‘
Okay.’

‘
And thanks for getting in touch with me. I know some guys would have wanted to take the law into their own hands and –‘

‘
Well, yeah. I did think about it – for a minute or so before turning chicken. Guess I’m too much of a coward.’

‘
Not at all, Paul. Not at all.’

As Harper cut the line a new sense of urgency filled the investigations room. It could be nothing – like Taylor said, nothing more than a cruel hoax – but Harper sensed that this was the one clue they had been waiting for. He still didn’t understand what the fuck was going on. The truth seemed to hover like a black shadow at the edge of his brain. Each time he tried to bring the dark shape closer it disappeared, leaving him with an all-consuming sense of dread. Soon he would have to face the blackness, he knew, but would he have the courage to acknowledge it?

The voice of Curtis broke his train of thought.

‘
Okay, this is what we’ve got on Carl Reckard,’ she said, standing up from her computer. ‘Born 1971 in Kansas. Mother died when he was seven. Grew up with his father on a farm outside of Russell, in the northwest. Seems to have suffered from mental health problems as an adolescent. Ran away from home at the age of 15, but father never reported him as missing. Lived at various addresses in the Los Angeles area, where he was being treated for paranoid schizophrenia. Last known address is Irondale Avenue, Chatsworth – which is, wait for this – just around the block from the address mentioned in Taylor’s letter.’