Sleeping Beauty (8 page)

A window looked out at the river. In front of the window was a desk dominated by a computer monitor. Beside the monitor was another stack of paper covered in type. Marx smiled when he saw where Birch was looking. He handed his partner a pair of latex gloves like the ones he was wearing. Birch picked up the top page and started to read.

Birch looked up. “What is this, Tony?”

Marx's smile widened. “A novel Maxfield was writing. He was kind enough to put his name at the top of each page so we wouldn't think that another psycho killer wrote it. He's only about one hundred and seventy pages in but there's enough there to hang him.” Marx threw a thumb over his shoulder that pointed at the manuscript on the table by the armchair. “That's more of the same. Probably an earlier draft, because it doesn't have his name on it. But I spotted several similar scenes.”

“Didn't you say that this is a novel?”

“Yeah.”

“The DA can't use this. Maxfield's lawyer will argue it's make-believe.”

Marx grinned. He looked like a child who had just been given a really great toy for Christmas.

“I didn't give you the good part. Take a gander at this scene.”

Birch took the new pages. At first he didn't get it. The scene was pretty gruesome but it was still only a scene in a novel. When the murderer tied up the parents and the teenage daughter with duct tape, Birch
got a funny feeling in his gut. Then he reached the part where the serial killer went to the kitchen. When the killer selected a piece of pie and a glass of milk to ease his hunger, Birch stopped reading.

“We've got him,” Birch said. Involuntarily, his lips began to mimic his partner's triumphant smile. Then he remembered Ashley Spencer and the smile faded, and his features hardened into a look of grim determination.

A
shley was awake but lightly medicated when the door to her room opened. Detective Birch stepped aside and an old man limped to Ashley's bed with the aid of a stout walking stick. He was over six feet tall, with thick, stooped shoulders. Behind him was a male version of Casey Van Meter, dressed in a rumpled suit with his tie askew.

“Ashley,” the detective said, “this is Henry Van Meter, Dean Van Meter's father.”

Henry Van Meter was rarely seen anymore except at official functions or on occasional walks around the Academy grounds when the weather was warm. He had been a vigorous man until he suffered a stroke that almost killed him. Ashley had seen him a few times from a distance, strolling slowly through the campus, leaning heavily on his walking stick.

Van Meter's sad blue eyes peered at her through the thick lenses in a pair of old-fashioned, wire-rimmed glasses. His hair was snowy white. His skin was sallow and sagged at the jowls. He wore brown corduroy pants and a bulky wool sweater, even though the outside temperature was in the mid-eighties.

“And this,” the detective said, pointing to the younger man, “is Miles Van Meter, Dean Van Meter's brother. He's just arrived from New York.”

Miles nodded. He looked terrible.

“They came here directly from the hospital after visiting the dean,” Birch said. “They insisted on seeing you.”

There was no reaction from Ashley. Birch felt awful. The doctor told him that she had been talking about wanting to die. He prayed that she would put those thoughts behind her, and he was furious that a sweet kid like Ashley would ever have to feel that way.

“We want you to know how sorry we are about your tragedy,” Henry Van Meter said. His speech was slurred because of his stroke.

Ashley turned her head away so they wouldn't see her cry.

“My sister means the world to me, just like your folks meant the world to you. Casey isn't dead but she might as well be.” Miles's voice sounded hoarse and on the edge of a sob. “The doctors say that she may never come out of her coma. So we've both lost people dear to us in the same insane act.”

Miles stopped, unable to go on.

“We will do everything we can for you,” Henry said. “You must tell us if there is something you want, something that will help you survive this terrible ordeal.”

“Thank you,” Ashley mumbled. She knew they meant well but she wanted these people out of her room.

Birch saw Ashley's distress and touched Henry Van Meter on the arm.

“The doctor said we shouldn't exhaust Ashley.”

“Yes,” Henry agreed. “We'll leave you. But we are very sincere. We want to help you.”

“God bless you,” Miles said as he followed his father into the corridor.

Birch waited until the door closed before pulling a chair next to Ashley's bed.

“Doctor Boston told me that you were talking about killing yourself.”

Ashley looked away but she didn't answer.

“I'm a homicide detective, Ashley. Do you want to know the worst part of my job?” Birch waited a heartbeat to see if Ashley would answer. “It's not the bodies or the bad guys, it's dealing with the people who are left behind. So many of them feel like you do, like there's no reason to go on anymore. I've never felt that way but I've talked to so many people who have that I think I have some understanding of the way you feel.
They tell me it's like being a living dead person—you're walking around but there's no feeling inside. They say they feel like they're empty and they'll never get filled up again.” Ashley turned her head toward him. “Before the murder they had all these good feelings. They loved and they were loved. And then the person who loved them disappears and it's like those feelings are sucked out of them and they can't get the person or the feelings back. If you give into that kind of despair you're rewarding Maxfield. He lives to make people suffer, he feeds on suffering.”

“I don't care about Joshua Maxfield,” Ashley whispered.

“You have to, Ashley. You have to hate him for what he did. You have to make yourself feel something, anything. You can't give in to the sadness. You're too good a person. You're the kind of person who makes a difference. Look at how much you've done already. There are your soccer accomplishments and your grades in school.”

“That doesn't mean anything now.”

Ashley started to cry. Her body shook. Birch touched her on the shoulder.

“You are special, Ashley. You are unique. Your parents were so proud of you. Don't do this to them. Don't let them down.”

Birch watched her cry. He didn't know what else to do. He'd wanted to bring her back and he'd failed. He stood up, utterly defeated.

“We'll catch Maxfield,” Birch whispered. “I will bring him to justice.”

Ashley turned her tearstained face toward the detective. “What good will that do? My parents are dead. Catching him won't bring them back.”

 

Larry Birch felt horrible when he left Ashley. He had a daughter. She was much younger than Ashley Spencer but he could imagine how she would feel if her parents were taken from her in such a horrible way, one after the other. Birch killed the sick feeling inside him by smothering it with anger. He knew that it was unprofessional to take a case personally but he hated Maxfield and wanted him dead. The detective liked Ashley. She was so decent, so innocent. Maxfield had murdered her too, just as surely as he'd murdered Norman and Terri Spencer. Maxfield had cut out Ashley's heart and trampled her spirit to dust, and Birch swore that he'd make Maxfield pay for that.

But why had he murdered Tanya Jones and the Spencers, and beaten Casey Van Meter into a coma? Birch's partner, Tony Marx, opted for the simplest explanation. He believed that there was no rational explanation for Maxfield's crimes. He saw Maxfield as a psychopath whose motives made sense only in the killer's twisted mind.

At first, Birch thought that Marx was probably right. Then, shortly after returning to the Justice Center, he received a call that led him to believe there was a rational motive for the crimes Maxfield had committed in the boathouse.

“This is Detective Birch.”

“Are you the detective who's investigating the attacks on Dean Van Meter and Terri Spencer?” a woman asked.

“Yes, ma'am.”

“I'm Cora Young, Dean Van Meter's secretary.”

“What can I do for you?”

“I only found out about what happened at the school this morning. I would have called sooner but it was such a shock. I wasn't thinking clearly.”

“Do you have some information that will aid the investigation?”

“I'm not sure, but yesterday afternoon, around four, Mrs. Spencer met with the dean at the school.”

“Do you know why?”

“No, but she seemed tense when she was waiting for the dean. I thought you should know.”

“Thank you. It might be important.”

“There's something else. Joshua Maxfield had permission to use one of our classrooms for a writing group he was teaching. The class had nothing to do with the school. It was for adults. Terri Spencer was one of his students. They had their first meeting the night before Mrs. Spencer met with the dean.”

“Bingo!” Birch thought. The secretary had provided a connection between Maxfield and Terri Spencer, and Spencer and the dean.

 

“Am I speaking to Lori Ryan?” Birch asked after dialing the first name on the list of the writing students Cora Young had given him.

“Yes?”

“I'm Larry Birch, a detective with the Portland Police Bureau. I'd like to talk to you about Terri Spencer.”

“I'm so glad you called. Actually, I was going to call you. I read about the murder in the morning paper. Do you think Joshua Maxfield killed Terri?”

“He's a suspect.”

“Did he really run away?”

“Yes, ma'am.”

“It's…well, unbelievable. I knew both of them. We were together in the same room, just the other day.”

“That's why I'm calling. I wanted to learn a little about Joshua Maxfield's writing class. What exactly was the class for?”

“To help unpublished writers with their work.”

“I understand that there were six students?”

“Yes. We all had books we were writing. Mindy Krauss and I took the class together because we're working on a murder mystery. I don't know what Terri's book was about.”

“And Maxfield helped you with your books?”

“Yes. We gave him our manuscripts and he read parts of them to the class. Then we critiqued what he read. That's why I was going to call you. I thought that you should know about something that happened during the first class that upset some of the students, including Terri.”

Ryan told Birch about the chapter that Maxfield had read at the first meeting. He recognized it as one of the chapters in Maxfield's manuscript that he had read at the cottage.

“I was sitting across from Terri when Maxfield read the part where the killer tortures those people. She looked terrible. I thought she might pass out. After I read the paper this morning it all made sense. The scene was so similar to what happened at her house.

“Terri was looking at Mr. Maxfield in a very peculiar way all the time he was reading. After the class, she questioned Mindy and me to find out if we'd written the chapter, and I think she asked one of the men in the class about it, too. I'm sure she suspected Maxfield of writing the piece and was eliminating the rest of us. I think she suspected Maxfield of writing about something he'd done.”

Birch talked to Lori Ryan a little longer before phoning the next person on the list. He got through to two of the other members of the writing class. They didn't add anything to what Lori Ryan had told him but they confirmed her observation that Maxfield's reading had disturbed Terri Spencer.

Birch was certain that he knew what had happened between the class and the attacks in the boathouse. Maxfield's story raised a red flag for Terri. She'd come to see him to find out if the information about the snack had been released to the public. Once she discovered that it had not, she would have continued investigating Maxfield. Terri was a trained reporter. Talking to Maxfield's employer would be a natural step. Casey Van Meter's phone records revealed a call from the dean to Mrs. Spencer after their meeting. That's when they would have arranged to meet at the boathouse. Maxfield must have discovered why they were meeting and attacked Spencer and Van Meter to keep them from telling the police about Terri Spencer's suspicions.

“Larry.” Birch looked up and saw Tony Marx standing in the entrance to his cubicle.

Marx sat down. “I spent all morning reading Maxfield's book and making notes on the different murders he describes. Then I called the FBI and read the descriptions of the murders in Maxfield's novel. Remember how the killing in the novel is different from the killing in the Spencer house but there's the snack and the duct tape?”

“Go on.”

“Well, the murders in the book don't match any of the real murders that the Feds have linked to this guy, but they do contain details from the real murders, like the snack, that were never released to the public.”

Marx leaned forward. Birch could see the excitement in his eyes. “He can claim that the details are a coincidence, that he made them up. Maybe his lawyer would get away with that if there were only one, but we've got three gems, Larry. We're gonna nail him. Joshua Maxfield is going to go down.”

T
hree days after her mother's murder, sunlight streamed through the window in the Academy dormitory and woke up Ashley. She lay still, listening. Something was different. There was no noise—no early-morning hustle and bustle as there had been during the soccer clinic. Everyone connected with the clinic had gone home. Ashley was still in the dorm because no one could figure out where she should stay. Her house was out, because Joshua Maxfield was still at large. She didn't want to stay there anyway. It would be a terrible place to be by herself. Too many ghosts, too many empty rooms.

Detective Birch had asked about relatives who might take her in but Terri and Norman were only children whose parents had passed away. Detective Birch had mentioned a foster home. That had made Ashley hysterical. Then Henry Van Meter stepped in. He said Ashley could stay in the dorm or move to his mansion. Either way, she was to consider the Academy her home until she decided what she wanted to do.

Ashley sat up and rubbed the sleep from her eyes. Straight ahead, taped to the wall, was Sally's poster of Brandi Chastain ripping off her shirt after scoring the winning goal against China in the World Cup. Sally had left that poster and another of Mia Hamm, Ashley's favorite soccer player. Sally wanted to stay with Ashley in the dorm, but her
parents had taken her away. Sally called every day, but it wasn't the same as having her friend with her.

Ashley studied the poster of Brandi Chastain. Chastain looked so powerful, so invincible. Ashley had felt like that on occasion. She remembered last year's game against Wilson for the Portland Inter-scholastic League championship. It had been tied up with a minute to go when she had raced downfield with the ball, ready to set up the winning goal. Everything had been perfect until she slipped. When she saw her go down, the Wilson goalie stopped dead and straightened up, thinking that the threat was over.

When Ashley felt her legs go out from under her she'd kicked the ball into the air. Her back had slammed into the ground but she'd tucked her chin. Her eyes had stared forward and she watched the ball fall. To this day Ashley had no idea how she'd had the presence of mind to turn on her hip and kick the awkward shot that had skipped past Wilson's stunned goalie. In her room in the Academy dormitory, she re-experienced that feeling of pure joy and she smiled—her first smile since her mother's death. A second later, she sobered, but something had changed inside her. She was still sad but she knew she didn't want to die. She was tired of feeling sorry for herself, and there were things she had to do, like taking care of her mother's funeral. The thought made her tear up. She knew she could break down if she didn't fight, so she took a deep breath and inhaled the rancid odor of days-old sweat.

Ashley's nose wrinkled. Her body odor hadn't bothered her before. She had not had the energy or will to bathe anyway. But this morning the smell repelled her. Ashley stared at herself in the mirror over her dresser. She looked awful. Her hair was tangled and unkempt, she'd lost weight, there were dark shadows under her eyes.

The shower was in a communal women's bathroom near the stairs. Ashley remembered the police guard. She put on her sweats, grabbed her toiletries, said hello to the guard, and shuffled down the hall.

The hot shower helped. It was short because she did not feel right luxuriating in it with her mother and father dead. Guilt would keep her from enjoying a lot of things for a while. But she could not avoid the pleasant feeling of being clean and having smooth, untangled hair.

Ashley returned to her room. She had just dressed in a fresh Eisenhower High T-shirt and shorts when the police guard knocked on her door. The knock was tentative. Everyone was still walking on eggs around her.

“Miss Spencer?”

“Yes?”

The door opened a crack and the policeman stuck his head in. “There's a Mr. Philips here to see you. He says he's your lawyer.”

Ashley didn't know anyone named Philips and she was certain that she did not have a lawyer, but she welcomed the novelty of a visitor. The policeman stepped back and a young man slipped past him. He was about Ashley's height and slender, with pale blue eyes and shaggy light brown hair. The lawyer was wearing a business suit, white shirt, and tie, but Ashley thought he could still pass for someone in high school.

“Miss Spencer, I'm Jerry Philips. I'm an attorney.”

Philips held out a business card. Ashley hesitated before crossing the room to take it. The lawyer gestured toward a chair. “May I?”

“Sure, okay.”

Ashley sat on the bed and examined the business card. Jerry Philips sat down and balanced his briefcase on his knees.

“I want you to know how sorry I am about your folks.” The young lawyer looked down and Ashley saw him swallow. “My mother died a few years ago and my father died shortly before your father…passed away. So I have an idea of what you're going through.”

Now it was Ashley's turn to feel uncomfortable. “I'm sorry,” she mumbled.

Philips smiled sadly. “That seems to be the opening line for a lot of people I've met since Dad passed away. I'm sure you've heard it a lot, too.” He laughed self-consciously. “I just said ‘I'm sorry,' didn't I?”

Ashley was growing impatient. The lawyer seemed like a nice person but she didn't want to discuss the death of her parents or hear about his tragedy.

“Mr. Philips, why are you here?”

“Right. I should come to the point. Did your mother or father ever mention my father, Ken Philips?”

“I don't think so.”

“He was a lawyer, too. He was partially retired and living in Boulder Creek in central Oregon. Your mother and father were two of the clients he was still handling. Dad wrote their wills.”

“Oh.”

“I thought you'd like to know how you stand financially.”

Ashley suddenly realized that she had no idea how she would feed herself or whether she could afford a place to stay once she left the Academy. While her parents were alive, Ashley had the luxury of going to school, playing soccer, and having a good time without worrying how to pay for anything. All that had changed.

“Another thing.” Philips looked uncomfortable again. “I talked to Detective Birch. He said you could bury your mother now.” Philips didn't tell Ashley that there had been an autopsy. He didn't want her thinking about her mother lying on cold steel as a stranger made incisions in her flesh and unemotionally dictated findings about cause of death. “I can arrange the funeral, if you want me to.”

“Yes, if you could,” Ashley answered, relieved that someone would take the burden of organizing the funeral from her shoulders.

“Okay.” Philips took out a yellow pad and made a note. Then he took out some papers.

“We don't have to get into details today. We can do that at your convenience. I can tell you that you're going to be okay financially if you watch yourself. You'll inherit some money and both of your parents had good life insurance policies. The money will probably last a while if you're careful. I can suggest a financial adviser when we get together.”

Ashley wanted to know how much money she would inherit but she could not bring herself to ask. She didn't want Philips to think that she was greedy, and it felt wrong to think that she had profited from her parents' deaths.

“You should also think about selling your house,” Philips continued.

Ashley took an involuntary breath.

“It's hard, I know. I sold my dad's place and it broke my heart. It's where I grew up.”

“I know I'll have to let it go.”

“The market is good now. With the life insurance, what you'll get for the house, and the other money, you should be fine.”

Ashley wiped a tear from her eye. Philips stood up and handed her a handkerchief. He spotted a glass on her night table.

“Do you want some water?”

“I'll be okay. It's just so hard to….”

Ashley bit her lip. Philips looked down. “Anyway,” he continued self-consciously, “I'll take care of the funeral arrangements. Do you want to set a time to meet so we can go over all of the financial stuff?”

“Anytime is okay,” Ashley said sadly. “I don't have anything else except the funeral.”

“Do you have any questions?” Philips asked.

“Not now. I'll call you about the meeting. And thank you for coming to see me.”

“It's my job,” Philips answered with a kind smile. He stood. “See ya.”

“See ya,” she answered.

 

As soon as Jerry Philips left, Ashley realized that she was famished. She had barely eaten anything in the past few days. Someone had brought meals to her room while the school cafeteria was open for the soccer clinic but she only picked at them, leaving most of the food. Laura Rice's duties as dorm proctor had ended with the soccer clinic. After she packed, Laura visited Ashley to say good-bye and to deliver a message from Henry Van Meter, who had invited Ashley to take her meals in the Van Meter mansion.

Ashley pulled on a pair of sneakers and cut across the campus toward the mansion. Her bodyguard followed her at a discreet distance. The morning was spectacular. The sky was bright blue and decorated by fluffy white clouds, the air was fresh with the smell of pine and roses and birdsong filled the air. The very perfection of the morning was pure torture for Ashley. Every bird that sang, every heavenly scent, and every multicolored flower garden made her remember what she had lost.

Ashley heard the hum of a lawnmower, and the mansion came into view. A crew of gardeners was mowing the grass, edging the bushes,
and tending the flower gardens. To get to the kitchen Ashley walked between a pool and a large flagstone patio furnished with lounge chairs and glass-topped tables shaded by sturdy umbrellas. Ashley caught a glimpse of the main dining room through a leaded-glass window. It was paneled in dark woods, and a crystal chandelier hung over a polished oak table that looked as if it could seat her soccer team.

Ashley knocked on the kitchen door, and a woman dressed in a short-sleeved check shirt, khaki slacks, and an apron let her in. The woman was in her forties and her brown hair was starting to streak with gray.

“I'm Mandy O'Connor. I cook for Mr. Van Meter. You must be Ashley. Come in.”

“Thank you.”

The kitchen was huge and dominated by a cooking island over which hung racks of copper pots and pans and cooking utensils. To one side was a table already set for two.

“Sit down while I fix you something. I can whip up oatmeal, a batch of pancakes, or bacon and eggs with some toast. What would you like?”

Ashley was ravenous and just the mention of the food made her mouth water.

“Bacon, scrambled eggs, and toast sounds great.”

“Milk, coffee, orange juice, tea?”

“Orange juice and milk, please.”

Ashley sat at the table, where she found a copy of the morning paper. The headline was about a crisis in the Middle East, but there was a story about the manhunt for Joshua Maxfield below the fold. Ashley turned over the paper so she couldn't see that story and searched for sports. In the back was an article about a summer league soccer playoff. Ashley had been on the winning team last year. She could only read part of it before she had to stop.

The door connecting the kitchen to the interior of the house opened and Henry Van Meter shuffled in. He was not using his cane, and each step looked tortured. He spotted Ashley and smiled.

“Miss Spencer, welcome,” he said, his speech slurring slightly. “You are joining me for breakfast?”

Ashley stood. “This is very kind of you, Mr. Van Meter. Thank you for thinking of me.”

“You have been in my thoughts constantly for the past few days.”

It seemed to take an eternity for Henry to reach the table. Ashley pulled out his chair and he sat down slowly, with a great effort.

“My usual, Mandy,” Van Meter said. Then he looked at the page in the sports section that Ashley had been reading.

“You would be playing today, no?”

Ashley was surprised that he knew that. She nodded. He patted the back of her hand. His touch was cold.

“You will play again. You are young, so this tragedy consumes you, you believe that you will be as sad for the rest of your life as you are now, but time will make your pain fade. Trust me. I have suffered tragedies and outlived the pain. Nietzsche said, that which does not kill us makes us strong. I have lived the truth of that philosophy. The strong survive and you are strong.”

“How can you know that?” she asked.

“There is one unalterable fact. Life goes on whether we wish it or not. I was wounded in the war, in my leg. Badly wounded. The doctors amputated it.”

Ashley's lips parted, her eyes widened. Henry laughed.

“You are shocked. It's the right leg below the knee. They do wonderful things with prosthetics nowadays. But back then….” Henry shook his head.

“Can you imagine, twenty-two years old and looking at life as a young man with one leg? What girl would have me? I would be a cripple, the subject of pity. But I woke up one morning and accepted the fact that I was a man with one leg. Some people had bad eyesight, others were uncoordinated or stupid—I had one leg. So be it. I never let my grief overwhelm me again. I rejected self-pity. When I returned home I courted and married the most beautiful and talented woman in Portland society, I improved the business that my father started, I traveled to far-off places instead of sitting in the dark, brooding.” Henry tapped his temple. “It is force of will. You must make your will like iron. It is the only way to conquer life, which can be unremittingly cruel at times.”

Henry's words stirred Ashley. She remembered how different she'd felt this morning when she made her decision to get out of the bed in which she had been hiding and do something as simple as taking a shower.