The Last Victim (26 page)

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Authors: Kevin O'Brien

BOOK: The Last Victim
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Zach stared at her. “What do you mean you
owe
her?”
Bridget cleared her throat and quickly shook her head again. “Um, nothing. I just mean, I feel bad for her, that’s all. Do you still want to go to the sheriff’s office?”
Zach squinted at her. “Are you okay?”
“Yes, I’m fine,” she said. But she couldn’t look at him.
Bridget felt him staring at her for another moment. Then he finally started up the car.
At the sheriff’s office, Bridget and Zach studied Mallory’s missing person report. The sheriff, Bill Miller, who had been a deputy back in 1985, explained that he’d gone the extra mile to determine what might have happened to Mallory. He’d heard that she used to go “meditate” by the ocean—in Seaview. So a week after her disappearance, he’d driven to the coastal city to talk to the locals. Some regulars and a couple of waitresses at the Tides Inn Restaurant had remembered her. Apparently, Mallory always ordered the same thing there: a bacon omelet, coffee, and milk. Then she would sit in a booth, writing in her journal for hours. They all remembered the strange girl who claimed she was penning a potential best seller. But no one had seen her that August weekend she’d disappeared.
The Volare was never found. The sheriff figured Mallory’d been the victim of a carjacking, or perhaps a drifter had abducted her at a truck stop somewhere outside McLaren, then later killed her and stolen the car.
Sheriff Miller pointed out that there were seventeen other still-unsolved missing persons cases in Cowlitz County from that same year. Considering how very private and eccentric Mallory Meehan had been—to the point of creating a secret code to write in her journal—it was understandable that her disappearance had remained a mystery all these years.
In Zach’s car, on the way back to Portland, Bridget suggested—once again—that a newspaper feature story about Mallory Meehan’s disappearance might not be a good idea. “It looks like kind of a dead end,” she said. “You heard the sheriff. There are dozens of stories just like Mallory’s. And I doubt people are going to be interested just because
I
tried to be her friend for a short while. Besides, I really can’t tell you much about her, Zach. Maybe I can help you with another type of feature story. Maybe I can give you some kind of exclusive—that is, if you really think people want to read about me.”
Zach was watching the road. “Thanks, Bridget, that’s really nice,” he said. “But you know, for now, I think I’ll keep looking into this Mallory thing.”
After that, Zach didn’t say much. For Bridget, the drive back to Portland seemed to take forever.
“Gerry? Leslie? This is Bridget. I’m in the car with the boys. We’re about five minutes away. Are you there? Can you pick up? Okay, here’s hoping you’re home. See you in a bit. Bye.”
She clicked off her cell phone.
“They’re not home?” David asked, incredulous. He was in the front passenger seat. Eric was behind him, lightly kicking the back of his seat. “He forgot?” David went on. “I can’t believe this. He knew we were coming over tonight. How could he totally blow us off like that?”
“I’m sure one of them is on the phone, that’s all.” Eyes on the road, Bridget handed her cellular to him. “Here. Could you put this in my purse for me, please?”
David took her small beaded black purse, opened it, then crammed the phone inside.
It was 6:40, and Bridget was running late. If she didn’t hit too many red lights on the way, she had an outside chance of making it to the Northwest Children’s Center raffle on time.
She’d returned from McLaren with Zach in plenty of time. But David’s intramural basketball game had run longer than expected, and they didn’t get home until six. On the answering machine was a message from Zach, thanking her for accompanying him to McLaren. He also asked her out to dinner next week: “Maybe some place where the meals don’t come on trays and the utensils aren’t plastic. And we won’t talk about the election, or the newspaper, or Mallory Meehan. It’ll be something resembling a date. How about it?”
As she got dressed for the raffle, Bridget thought about Zach. Even if she wanted to avoid him, she couldn’t. She had to stay close to him, and make sure he didn’t discover what had really happened to Mallory Meehan. “Keep your friends close, and your enemies closer.” But she was the bad guy here. She was the one working a cover-up angle. And she hated herself for it.
Bridget’s outfit—a floor-length, black satin skirt with a rust-colored, sleeveless beaded top and black satin stole—wasn’t very comfortable for driving, and in a minivan no less.
“I bet you anything he forgot,” David said, sticking her purse in the cup caddie between them. “Either that or something
more important
came up. This really, really sucks.” He swiveled around toward his little brother in back. “If you kick my seat one more time, I’m gonna rip your leg off and beat you with the bloody limb!”
“Okay, that’s enough!” Bridget hissed, clutching the steering wheel. She turned the corner and headed down Gerry’s block. “Cool it, the two of you. David, turn around. Eric, stop kicking.”
With her eyes on the road, she sighed and muttered under her breath—only in Spanish: “The son of a bitch better be home, that’s all I can say.”
“
Te digo, el hijo de puta no está alli
,” David grumbled, which roughly translated to:
“And I’m telling you, the son of a bitch isn’t there.”
Bridget glanced at him and shook her head. “Why did I ever teach you Spanish?”
“You didn’t teach me
‘hijo de puta.’
I picked that up on my own.”
“He’s home,” Bridget said, seeing the house in the distance. The outside lights were on. “See? Your father’s car is in the driveway. I bet they were phoning us when I was calling them. We’re late. They were probably wondering where we were.”
As she pulled up behind Gerry’s merlot Mercedes in the driveway, Bridget kept reassuring the boys—and herself—that their father hadn’t forgotten about them.
She told them to behave themselves, and be nice to Leslie. Both Eric and David gave her cheek a kiss before they climbed out of the car. “By the way,” David told her, “you look really pretty, Mom.”
Before she could thank him, he closed the car door, then hurried to catch up with Eric. They both trotted up to the front gate.
Bridget checked her face in the rearview mirror. She looked at David and Eric, patiently standing at the atrium gate with their fall jackets on, and their backpacks full of schoolbooks. David jabbed at the bell again. After a few moments, he turned and glanced back at her.
Bridget put the car in park and shut off the engine. “The son of a bitch,” she growled. “¡
Hijo de puta
! I can’t believe he’s doing this.” She grabbed her beaded purse, climbed out of the minivan, and readjusted the satin stole around her shoulders.
Making her way to the gate, Bridget tried to think of a backup plan for tonight. She’d bring the boys with her to the event. Maybe the Hilton could provide a hospitality room—or she could leave them in a game room or minigym, some place with a TV so they wouldn’t be bored to smithereens for three hours.
Damn Gerry for doing this to them
.
“What’s wrong? No answer?” she called to the boys.
“I betcha they’re in the backyard!” Eric exclaimed, running around the side of the house.
David frowned at her. Bridget glanced past the wrought-iron gate at the atrium. The lights were on in the garden, but the living room drapes were closed. Bridget glanced at the mailbox beside the gate. There was a Nordstrom catalogue sticking out of the box. She pushed the lid back and noticed some letters in there too. They hadn’t picked up their mail yet.
“Unbelievable,” David grumbled. “The asshole totally blew us off.”
Bridget pulled out her cell phone. “That’s enough, David,” she said steadily. “Just do me a favor, please. Round up your brother and get back in the car.”
She needed to leave another message on Gerry and Leslie’s machine, and didn’t want David overhearing it. She was almost tempted to let David leave the message—so Gerry could hear his disappointment. She switched on her cellular and watched David head toward the back of the house.
“Mom!”
Eric called.
“Mom? You guys?”
“What is it, honey?” Bridget called back. She clicked off the phone and scurried across the side lawn—a little wobbly in her high heels. David ran ahead of her, disappearing behind the house.
The lights weren’t on in the back, and Bridget slowed down to navigate her way. The boys knew the setup better than she did. She turned the corner to the backyard and passed a hot tub with a cover on it. Ahead, David was running toward his little brother, who stood in front of a sliding glass door.
Eric knocked on the glass. “Hello?” he called. “Dad?” He peeked past the door, which was open a few inches.
David reached him first. As he stepped toward the door opening, he balked, then looked under his foot at something.
Even before Bridget reached them, she could see something was wrong. “Wait just a second, you guys,” she said. “Wait . . .”
Eric stopped knocking and glanced over his shoulder at her.
The door handle was broken. David had stepped on a piece of what looked like the lock mechanism. Just past the door’s narrow opening, the sheer organdy drape inside billowed slightly.
Bridget felt a chill race through her. “David, Eric, go back to the car.”
“I hear something!” Eric declared. Before Bridget could stop him, her younger son pushed the sliding glass door farther open and slipped inside the house.
“No, wait, don’t!” she whispered urgently. “Eric!” She hurried in after him.
The room was dark, but Bridget could make out a desk and sofa, and a shelf full of books against one wall. Eric stood in the study doorway. A light came from some other part of the house, and all Bridget could see was her son’s four-foot silhouette. He hesitated before taking another step.
“Sounds like water,” he whispered.
She could hear it too. Maybe it was a tub overflowing. “Come here,” Bridget hissed. “This instant, Eric.”
David was at her side. He might have run ahead of her, only Bridget had a tight grip on his arm. She pulled him behind her. “Just stay put,” she murmured, leaving him by his father’s desk.
Eric backed out of the doorway, and Bridget grabbed his shoulder and led him toward the desk. “Stay right there—both of you.”
She crept to the doorway. Bridget still had her cell phone in her hand. She listened to the water running, and a strange mechanical hum. Glancing over her shoulder, she saw David stepping toward her. He clutched a letter opener from his father’s desk. Bridget held up her hand, indicating he should stay where he was. Then she took a step into the family room and kitchen area.
The lights were on. She didn’t see anything unusual—except a drink left on the kitchen counter bar. Then she noticed the floor was wet. The water seemed to be coming from the front hallway. Bridget hiked up her dress a bit, then carefully tiptoed toward the hallway. She stopped near the threshold, where the kitchen’s black and white tile ended, and the hallway’s stone tile began.
The water on the floor there was pink.
Bridget swallowed hard, then continued on. She realized the splashing sound and that strange humming noise came from the pond and the waterfall wall. She gazed up at the sweeping front stairway. No one.
But when Bridget looked down again, she noticed a couple of dead goldfish on the hallway floor. They were from the lighted pond under the steps, now overflowing with pink water. Something blocked the filter in the far corner, causing that mechanical drone.
Bridget didn’t see it until she was halfway to the front door.
Her husband’s corpse floated in the shallow water. His hands were taped behind his back, and all around his neck the water swirled red. Someone had cut his throat.
Bridget opened her mouth to scream, but no sound came out.
She swiveled around and saw Leslie’s naked body, curled up in a ball on the living room floor.
“Mom?”
She turned again—to see David paused in the kitchen doorway.
“No!” she cried. Tears brimmed in her eyes. “Don’t! Get out of here! Get out!”
She raced toward him, almost slipping in the blood-tinged water. David backed away. He bumped into Eric behind him. He was still holding the letter opener in his hand. “Mom? What’s wrong?”
“Get out of here!” she repeated, quickly leading them back toward the study—and the open sliding glass door. She had no idea if the killer was still in the house. The only thing on her mind was getting her sons out of there. She didn’t want them to see what had happened.
She didn’t want them having to remember their father like that.
“Wednesday night’s brutal murders of Gerard Hilliard and his girlfriend, Leslie Ackerman, may have been drug related,” said the handsome, gray-haired anchorman. Behind him, over his left shoulder, were photos of Gerry and Leslie. “KBCQ Channel Eight News’ Vita Matthews has the story.”
The picture switched to a pretty reporter with short-cropped hair and light-coffee-colored skin. She wore a gray suit and a somber expression as she stood in front of Gerry and Leslie’s house with her handheld microphone. Yellow police tape blocked off the front of the house.
“Thank you, Don,” she said. “Portland police are now telling us that drugs could be the reason behind the heinous murders of Bridget Corrigan’s estranged husband, Gerard Hilliard, and his companion, Leslie Ackerman. Early reports indicate the couple had been dead approximately twenty-four hours before their bodies were discovered here in their Portland home by Bridget Corrigan on Thursday night. Corrigan, the twin sister of senatorial candidate Brad Corrigan, had come by the house to drop off her two young sons.” The reporter took a dramatic pause. “The boys were supposed to spend the evening with their father.”
There was a shot of the sliding glass doors—with fingerprint dust around the broken lock. “Police believe the killers entered through this door in the back of the house.”
The picture switched to a close-up of a policeman, with a caption beneath him:
SGT. STEVE MOWERY, PORTLAND POLICE
. “Both victims had their hands tied behind their backs,” the policeman said. “Hilliard had been beaten and his throat was cut. Ms. Ackerman had been strangled. This appears to have been the work of two men. The upstairs bedroom had been ransacked, and traces of cocaine were found in the bedroom closet. It’s impossible to tell at this point just how much cocaine had been there.”
“Do police believe any other drugs were taken from the scene?” the reporter asked, off camera. “Any traces of heroin?”
The policeman shook his head. “I’m not at liberty to say right now.”
In the next shot, the reporter was sitting in a chair—across from another woman, seated on a sofa. The interviewee was in the shadows with her back to the camera. “I spoke with a friend of Leslie Ackerman’s, who has asked to remain anonymous,” the reporter explained in voice-over.
“Leslie liked to party, yeah,” said the woman in the shadows. “And Leslie liked her coke. She and Gerry had a few private little parties at their place. They were good hosts.”
“Was cocaine used at these gatherings?” the reporter asked.
“Oh yeah.”
“And heroin?”
The woman nodded. “Sure, sometimes.”
“Do you know if they actually kept drugs in the house?”
Again, the interviewee nodded. “Like I say, they were good hosts. Leslie and Gerry always kept a bottle of champagne in the refrigerator too. They were always prepared for unexpected guests.”
The picture switched back to the pretty reporter, standing in front of Leslie and Gerry’s house with her handheld mike. “But it appears Gerard Hilliard and Leslie Ackerman weren’t prepared for two unexpected guests on Wednesday night. Police believe they now have a motive for the double homicide. But they still have no suspects. This is Vita Matthews reporting. Back to you, Don.”
The gray-haired anchorman returned to the TV screen. There was a photo of Bridget—not smiling—over his left shoulder. “Gerard Hilliard and Bridget Corrigan had been married for fifteen years before their separation in May,” he announced. “Bridget Corrigan was not available for comment today.”
“That’s because the only thing Bridget Corrigan can say right now is, ‘Oh, shit,’ ” Bridget muttered.
She sat in her den, numbly gazing at the TV. She wore a sweatshirt and jeans, and her hair was pulled back in a ponytail. She had a half-full glass of Chardonnay on the coffee table in front of her.
It was a little after eleven o’clock on Friday night, and the boys were upstairs in bed.
Brad paced around the den with his hands crammed into the pockets of his jeans. Both of them had canceled their scheduled appearances for the day. Brad had hired someone to go through Bridget’s house this morning, inspecting the locks—and checking the place for any kind of surveillance devices as well. The house was well secured and bug-free.
Brad had used his influence with the police force to have a patrol car parked in front of Bridget’s house all day—and night. They were working in shifts. It was actually a welcome distraction for David and Eric, who took turns bringing their police guard snacks, coffee, or soda.
“In other news,” the TV anchorman announced, “a five-car pileup on 205 left rush-hour commuters stranded for over two hours—”
Bridget grabbed the remote and shut off the TV. Then she picked up the other remote and switched off the VCR.
“Why were you recording that?” Brad asked.
“I’m watching it again tomorrow—with the boys,” she said, staring at the blank TV screen. “Some of their classmates will have seen the same newscast. I don’t want them hearing about this at school. They should see it with me, and if they have any questions, they can ask.” She shrugged. “I don’t know any other way to handle it.”
The boys had been fairly lucky up until now. Except for a few isolated incidents like the National Anthem episode at David’s Little League game, they’d managed to maintain a low profile during the Corrigan-for-Oregon campaign. Their last name was Hilliard, and in some degree, that had protected them from the election craziness. Not anymore. Some of their classmates knew who their mother was. But by Monday,
all
of the kids would know who David and Eric’s parents were. And they would be talking about them. Bridget had to prepare her sons for what might be said.
She had more or less lost Gerry months ago. While she mourned him for a second time, and tried to get over her shock, Bridget’s biggest concern right now was her sons.
Every time she stopped to think that her boys were at Gerry’s house just an hour or so before those killers broke in, Bridget would start weeping. It scared the hell out of her, realizing how close she’d come to losing them.
The boys had had their share of crying jags too. She’d told David about a possible drug connection to the murders after the six o’clock news had carried the story. He seemed to accept his father’s alleged cocaine use as a bitter fact, just one more thing his dad had done to screw up the works for everybody.
Bridget hadn’t yet told Eric about the drug-robbery angle. He was already confused enough. She would try to explain it to him tomorrow.
Brad had his usual calming effect on both boys. Thank God. He’d spent most of his day driving back and forth from his house to Bridget’s. Their father was still recuperating at Brad and Janice’s place, and he took the news of Gerry’s murder in his stride. He’d phoned Bridget twice today, and had talked to the boys as well.
This was Brad’s third visit to Bridget’s place—and the timing was perfect. The boys could go to sleep, knowing that Uncle Brad was there.
Earlier, he’d dropped off a chicken casserole Janice had made for them. Apparently, he’d had a talk with her on Thursday night. According to Janice, she hadn’t told anyone about switching doctors, because she thought Bridget’s feelings would be hurt. “After all, you recommended Dr. Reece,” Brad had explained. “She knows how much you liked him. She wanted to like Reece too, but it just wasn’t working out. She’s much happier with this holistic doctor she’s seeing now. And the pills she took aren’t really Valium. It’s a calming herb—used in teas. It’s perfectly natural.”
Bridget wanted to say that hemlock was a perfectly natural herb too, but she wasn’t about to ingest it. She also wondered about her sister-in-law’s drinking. Brad probably hadn’t broached the subject with her. Well, that was Brad’s business now. She wasn’t going to meddle anymore. She had her own problems with spouse substance abuse.
“Do you think Gerry’s cocaine habit is the ‘dirt’ Foley had on us?” Bridget asked, watching her brother pace around the den.
He just shrugged, and kept pacing.
“You’ve been very—selfless not to mention it yet, but what kind of political damage do you—and Jay—expect from this?”
“I think people will be sympathetic toward you. After all, you were separated from him—and the lifestyle he had with Leslie.”
“Yeah, but I look like an idiot, dropping off my sons to stay with a couple of cokeheads.” At this point, she didn’t much care what people thought, but Brad couldn’t afford that luxury.
“For Christ’s sake, how were you supposed to know? I don’t think you should worry about how it looks to people, Brigg.”
“You’re right,” she murmured, staring down at the floor. “Thanks.”
He sighed. “By the way, I really don’t believe there’s a connection here.”
She gazed up at him. “What are you talking about?”
“You know what I’m talking about,” he said. “Gerry and Leslie weren’t at Gorman’s Creek. You just heard them on the news. This is a drug-related killing.”
“I know that,” she said, reaching for her wineglass.
“Still, it’s on your mind,” Brad replied. “These murders don’t fit the pattern—if there even is one. And I don’t think there is. You told me Cheryl’s fine. She’s not being threatened—or
stalked
. If someone is making us pay for what happened to Mallory, why would they kill Gerry and Leslie—and leave Cheryl alone? Doesn’t make sense.”
Bridget just nodded in agreement.
“Anyway, I don’t think anyone’s out to get us. Besides, you and the boys are under police protection. I’ll get them to keep a patrolman here tomorrow too.”
Bridget managed to smile. “Thanks.”
“Are you going to be okay?” Brad asked, his brow wrinkled. “Maybe I should have brought along a couple of Janice’s herbal pills for you.”
“Oh, I’m all right. I was just thinking about the memorial service on Monday,” she lied. “I—I’m wondering if the press will go crazy on us there.”
Brad sighed. “I’m afraid you can count on it.”
To Bridget’s utter amazement, the reporters and cameramen were respectful. They gathered outside the Portland funeral parlor. Although they took pictures of her and the boys walking into the front entrance, no one shoved a microphone in their faces and asked for a statement. Brad had come earlier, made a statement of his own, asking them to use some restraint.
Brad had been right about the public’s sympathy for her and the boys. The funeral parlor was so crowded with flower arrangements—dozens sent by total strangers—that a couple of vanfuls were taken to Portland General for the patients there. Many people sending flowers and condolences were from different parts of the country. The bizarre murder of a senatorial candidate’s brother-in-law had made national news.
Not all of the reporters remained outside. One journalist who came into the funeral parlor was Zach Matthias. “Is it okay that I’m here?” he asked, shyly approaching her. He reached out to shake her hand.
“Yes.” She took his hand and held on to it for a moment. “Still, you know, we’ve been seeing each other at too many funerals lately.”
It was a strange crowd. Bridget stood a few feet away from Gerry’s closed casket, shaking hands and receiving awkward hugs. She hadn’t seen Gerry’s parents or his two sisters since the breakup. They’d always liked her, and now they seemed embarrassed and apologetic—as well as devastated. They seemed more at ease making a fuss over David and Eric, who looked uncomfortable in their suit coats and ties.
Old friends—who had stayed close to Gerry and written her off—now seemed rather humiliated. Gerry’s new friends with Leslie had shown up too, people Bridget didn’t know at all. Like the others, they seemed to have difficulty facing her.
So she was relieved to see Zach, looking so handsome in his tie and dark blue blazer. She let down her guard a little. “I’m really glad you showed up, Zach,” she admitted, squeezing his hand.
But he had that same slightly uncomfortable look so many others had tonight. “Thanks, Bridget,” he muttered. “I’m sorry. I—don’t know if I should tell you this now. But it’s not good news.”
“What are you talking about?” she asked.
“Foley’s on the warpath,” he whispered. “I just came back from this rally in Springfield an hour ago. He’s on the attack. It’ll be on the six o’clock news.”

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