Dreamscape (2 page)

“Okay, Warren, what have we got here?” Thorpe asked. He reached into his back pocket and pulled out a pair of latex gloves.

Officer Warren Dowling looked down at his pad. “It’s bad, Chief. We think it’s a missing girl we got a call about last night.”

Thorpe walked over to the body and studied the scene. Water had receded back into the ocean, leaving a water line not far from where the body lay. A beach chair had blown back away from the body. He squinted. A reflection from the sun shimmered on something glittery in the sand. He bent down. Trinkets of some sort.

“There are a few of those that look like they might have surrounded the victim. Looks like a bracelet, necklace. I was the first responder. Haven’t touched anything,” Warren said. He positioned himself to the side. “My God, Chief. I’ve never seen anything like this.”

“Neither have I, not like this,” Thorpe said. He stood up. “Officially close down the beach and the road. Rope off all the area.”

“Morris has already started,” Warren said, hesitating a moment. Movement caught his attention.

Thorpe looked back over his shoulder. Blue lights flashed. The Massachusetts State Police had made their appearance. The sight didn’t make him happy. Thorpe had understood the moment he heard about the body that the oldest state-wide police agency in the United States would manifest itself. Boston and Springfield were the only two police departments designated with homicide units. District Attorneys had control of the investigation outside the two cities, which in turn meant the investigative services of the state police.

No, the sight that made Thorpe unhappy laid with the emergence from the car of a stocky, ruddy-face man. Thorpe knew him well enough. “Jesus,” he muttered to himself. “If it isn’t Ned Cappelli. I thought he’d transferred out a year ago.”

“Heard it didn’t work out,” Warren replied. He turned his back to the Massachusetts State police detective.

Cappelli made his way straight toward Thorpe. Thorpe had worked with the guy a few times over the years. The first time had come shortly after he’d accepted the job of police chief in Lewiston, investigating the disappearance of a young girl. Enough to say his feelings toward Cappelli were mutual. Thorpe prepared himself to be bogged down with legal mandates and regulations. Nothing like fostering a relationship between law enforcement offices.

Thorpe took a deep breath, shook his head. He had enough to worry about today. He turned back to the body in front of him, fitted his hands to his pair of latex gloves and leaned over. The nude body of the young woman lay face down in the sand. Sand stuck to the body, and her long, dark hair splayed damp and matted.

The sun reflected off the bracelet. Thorpe picked it up, a charm bracelet with children’s faces. He thought it odd. Didn’t seem to be a piece of jewelry a girl this young would have. The other items laid out—a child’s cross necklace, a Chieftain’s match book, designer glasses—didn’t add together. The years of having been a Boston homicide police detective began to kick back in.

Thorpe reached over and pulled the girl’s body over. Rigor mortis had already set in; her fingers stiff and non-pliable. Momentarily frozen, he could only stare. The girl’s face, or what was left of it, was slashed beyond recognition, and from what Thorpe could access, she didn’t seem to have a drop of blood left in her body.

* * * *

With the state troopers making their expected appearance, they proceeded to ignore the local law enforcement. The state’s crime techs scrutinized the area, combed the beach from end to end. Thorpe’s men had been delegated to canvassing the area. Ned Cappelli felt the need to correlate the initial interviews, not that they had much in evidence, much less witnesses to interview.

Thorpe chose not to cause a scene, instead quietly laying the foundation for his investigation. The consensus of most of the residents they’d interviewed so far was that no one heard or saw anything suspicious. Thorpe stepped back with Warren.

“Do me a favor, Warren. Go get my digital camera out of my car after we talk with this couple. It’s in the compartment. Take pictures of the scene, crowd, neighborhood,” Thorpe said. He made his way down a path opposite the public parking, leading into the beach housing. “I want to talk with the guy who found the body.”

“Sure thing, Chief.” Warren looked like he wanted to say more, but decided against it. “It’s a couple at the corner. They’re waiting on the deck in the back of their rented house. This way.”

They walked along the dirt road. Shingled houses nestled together, crowded the dirt roads surrounding the beach. Warren strode over dry brown grass to where two people sat. He stopped at the foot of the step up to the deck. Cappelli sat with the couple. Warren and Thorpe exchanged glances.

Warren nodded to Thorpe. “Think I’ll go get the camera.”

Thorpe sighed. He would wait for his opportunity. He had no desire to interrupt; only had a couple of questions. The couple, Harold and Cecilia Seales from New York down on vacation, came every year, but Thorpe rolled his eyes when Cappelli asked if the couple thought it could be any of their fellow vacationers in their neighborhood. My God, the wife already looked like she was in shock. She shook, unable to control her tremors. The hope of getting anything out of her diminished.

The coroner had pulled up. Cappelli hastily pulled out his card, handing it to the husband. “Don’t hesitate to call if you remember anything else.” He stepped down off the deck. Thorpe didn’t move. “You coming, Thorpe?”

Harold Seale nodded and pointed to the first beach cottage before the private entrance to the residence of the area. “We noticed the girl immediately after we walked around the sailboats. Couldn’t get a full view of the beach until then. She was just sitting there in the middle of the beach in a beach chair. Her head hung down. She didn’t look right. Cecilia thought she might be drugged out or something. Wanted me to check on her.”

Cecilia spoke up. In almost a whisper she said, “She didn’t respond to our asking if she was all right. It was as if she was ignoring us or couldn’t hear us. I just wanted Harold to check her, make sure she was okay, but she wasn’t.” Her voice trailed off.

“I went up to the girl,” Harold said. “All I did was touch her shoulder, barely tapping it, and she fell into the position you found her in. I didn’t touch her after that. Didn’t have to to know she was dead. She was so cold. I’ve never touched anything so cold.” Harold’s gaze never left his wife. Her look seemed distant.

Thorpe glanced back over his shoulder to get the bearing of the area then back to the couple. “Did you notice anything out of the ordinary before you got to the beach? Did you hear anything? Last night? Anything?”

“Nothing too much. I remember seeing a patrol car come by around eleven, I believe. College kids got loud, but nothing after. And I sleep with the windows open.” Harold Seale gulped.

“And all you did was tap her shoulder. You didn’t touch anything else?” Thorpe continued.

“No, nothing.”

“No problem. We have your numbers, right?” Thorpe looked over at Warren rounding the corner. He turned back to the couple with a thank you.

Thorpe walked toward Warren. A crowd had formed, but one of them, a particular woman, caught his interest. Without saying a word, he gestured to Warren to take pictures. She stood apart from the group, not huddled with anyone, nor did she seem connected to a house. She walked back toward a car, a black Toyota Rav 4, with a slight limp. Not paying attention to her surroundings, she bumped into a man deep in conversation with another onlooker. He looked at her with irritation. She didn’t even seem to notice. She stared into space.

A pretty thing, small, petite, dark hair pulled back into a pony tail. Thorpe walked up to her. On closer evaluation, she appeared visibly upset, her eyes red, swollen.

“Can I help you with anything?” he asked. He towered over her a good foot, approaching her from the driver’s side of her car. The question startled her. She looked up at him, took a moment to respond, to focus her awareness.

“No, no,” she answered. Her face tensed upon looking at him. Thorpe immediately realized she recognized him. Instinctually, she backed up against her car.

“Have we met?” he asked.

She regained her composure quickly and shook her head. “I don’t believe we have ever met, no.”

“Then you won’t mind if I see your license and registration,” he said abruptly. He had no tolerance for anyone dancing around his questions today.

She gave him a look, but unlocked her door and reached over into her glove compartment. Reluctant, she handed the papers to Thorpe. He glanced over them quickly. Ramona Damsun, Marshfield. He studied her for a moment. His feelings converted to irritation, and he didn’t care to hide it.

“Your purpose here today?”

“A day on the beach,” she replied, cool and undaunted.

“Funny, you don’t look like you’re out for a day on the beach. You look upset,” he said stoically. Warren walked into the conversation. Thorpe handed the papers over to him. “Run the plates. Let me know.”

* * * *

A little after 7:30 p.m., Thorpe paused in the middle of a pile of paper work. He’d gotten off the phone with Cindy and didn’t know when he’d be able to get home. Was that relief in her voice? What had his therapist said? Give it time. A month had almost passed since Thorpe moved back in with Cindy and the kids; a month of counseling, a month of walking on eggshells around the house, a month of avoiding Cindy’s questioning eyes. He didn’t have any answers for her—didn’t have any answers for himself.

Seven years Thorpe had served as Chief of Police, leaving behind a job he’d been born into. His uncle, Joseph O’Donnell, finest Boston police officer that had ever donned the uniform, in Thorpe’s opinion, had told him, “Some people have a knack for figuring things out, like putting together pieces of a puzzle. Instinct. You’re one of those people. It’s in your blood.”

Time was supposed to ease the pain, but it never went away. Eight years ago—eight years. He couldn’t believe it had been that long. Memory of receiving the call that an officer had been stabbed—his own cousin, no, a brother—haunted him. In turn, he lost his uncle, his mentor, succumbing to a heart attack a few days later. His world had been turned upside down. Seven years ago the time had seemed right to make a move. Cindy desperately wanted out of Boston and down on the Cape with her family. The job itself had changed. After the deaths of his uncle and cousin, he sought some meaning to their senseless demises. At times, nothing made sense. Reminders of uncle and cousin surrounded him in Boston. Reminders that nothing would ever be the same and nothing he could do could ever remedy the circumstances.

He rubbed his forehead, his concentration focused upon his only concern at the moment: the case in front of him. Everything had been seen to. The coroner had taken the body; the residents around the area, interviewed. His head pounded from one briefing to another. The press conference had gone with relative ease considering the situation, brief and to the point. Understandable concern for the safety of the community was expressed. Thorpe’s response? Too early in the investigation. He’d closed with the standard answer, “Everything is being done to secure the safety of the area’s citizens.”

If he went with his instincts, which had never let him down, this one had the markings of a serial killer. Too clean, no evidence, no witnesses, methodical. The killer hadn’t rushed, seemly accomplishing his objective. The guy took the time to set a stage.

And if Thorpe wanted confirmation, he got it quickly after the press conference. FBI Special Agent Marcus Collins met for a briefing with Lewiston police and the Massachusetts State police, Cappelli along with another detective, Phil Morelli, a decent sort, level headed. Agent Collins sat across from Thorpe in his black suit, white shirt and tie, typical of the stereotype. All business and straight to the point. Cappelli leaned against Thorpe’s table in the back of his office, a smug look of satisfaction on his face.

But that look soon vanished.

Agent Collins didn’t waste time. “This case has presented similarities to a few cases we’re investigating at the moment. We have to wait for the autopsy, of course, but if it comes back as we suspect, then we surmise that all information will connect to what we’ve dubbed The Beach Front Killer.”

Thorpe raised his eyebrow slightly. “I can’t say much about your other victims, but this one has the feel that the killer has done this before. Evident with a few facts, I find. He obviously has knowledge of the area. I believe he knew the schedule of the couple who discovered the body. After my initial observations, I’d be surprised to find any forensic evidence. Then you have the arranged scene. It’s as if he’s laughing at us.”