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  Christopher saw Jeffery approaching the register and recognized him immediately. Although tensing up on the inside, Christopher looked very relaxed as Jerry reached out to shake his hand, saying, “Christopher. I thought it was you standing over here. How have you been? It’s been a hell of long time since we took that firearms course.”

  “Jerry. Yeah, right. It’s Jerry?” he said, seeming to search for positive identification.

  “Sure. Remember we took the firearms course in Worcester?”

  “Oh. Yeah. Yeah. Now I remember. I’m so sorry for not remembering right away. How the Sam Hill are you? Do you still keep your license active?

  “Yeah, I almost forgot to renew it a year ago. Got it renewed just before it expired. I wouldn’t want to spend another three days at the police station sitting through those classes.”

  “That’s for sure. What brings you to Joe’s diner? I didn’t think you lived in Milford.”

  “Well, I’m working with Doc Cavanaugh on the examinations being done on the young girls they found out at Meadow Pond. You probably heard about them on the newsover the last couple of days.”

  “Yes. I did hear something about that, but I’m so busy, I have not spent much time in front of the T.V. lately. Any ideas as to what actually happened to these poor girls?”

  “I really can’t speak too much about it right now. Most of the information is hush, hush and filtered through the police department first. Just the way these cases run. I will say these young women did not deserve to die this way. I’d like to beat the life out of the monster who did this.”

  “It’s a shame Jerry. I feel for their families. One can only imagine what kind of torment they must be feeling.”

  As Jerry was about to respond to Christopher’s remark, the waitress came over to the register with Christopher’s order. “Here you go Mr. Bradford.” she said, handing him the bill at the same time. “Two orders of fish and chips with extra tartar sauce.” Christopher took out his wallet and, at the same time looked over at Jerry. “It was nice to run into you, Jerry. Thanks for taking the time to come over and say hello. Perhaps we will run into one another again.” Christopher reached out and shook Jerry’s hand once more, picking up the orders of fish and chips before turning towards the door.

  “Christopher.” Jerry said. “How about we make a plan to go the range for some practice one of these days?” We could spend an afternoon comparing notes and firing off a couple hundred rounds or so. What do you think?”

  Christopher froze in his tracks just for an instant. But, it was an instant that went unnoticed by Jerry who stood waiting for a reply.

  “You know; Jerry, that’s a great idea. I haven’t done any shooting in a long time. Listen, write down your cell phone number, and I will give you a call in a few days to set something up. We could go over to the Rod and Gun club right here in town.”

  Jerry reached over the counter, took a napkin out of the holder and wrote his cell phone number down for Christopher, gave him the napkin and shook his hand one more time.

  “Make sure you call me, Christopher. I think we would have a great time. It was nice to run into you.”

  Christopher nodded his head in agreement, folded the napkin with Jerry’s phone number, but instead of putting it into his pocket, he threw it in the trash barrel just outside the diner as he walked down the steps to the parking lot. There was no way in hell he was going shooting with Jerry Bickford! He had only tolerated him for the three days of the firearms course. What shit luck to run into him while stopping to pick up some food on the way back to Marty after giving a massage in Milford near the hospital. At least he knew that he was safe at this point. If they had found any evidence at all implicating him in these murders, he would not be getting into his van to go home and, Jerry Bickford would not have come over to talk with him.

  Jerry watched Christopher’s van pull away from the diner onto route 16 and head west toward Sutton then took his seat across from Doc Cavanaugh again. “A chance meeting?” he thought. No. There was something else happening. An odd feeling began to invade Jerry’s mind. He really was not quite sure what it was, but, it did make him feel odd. Jerry took another fork full of the baked haddock, listening as Doc picked up their conversation without skipping a beat. Giving the departing van one quick glance, Jerry put the encounter out of his thoughts and enjoyed the rest of his meal.

  31

  “Get your ass in here right now! Bring the skin cream with you. It’s under the bathroom cabinet. Don’t take all god-damned day either. My back is killing me!”

  He listened to the high pitched screaming from her bedroom. She sounded like she had dirt in her larynx giving her a gravely, raspy voice with a soprano pitch. It was a voice that pierced every nerve in his body as it raced through his ear drums and pounded the inside of his skull. Stooping over to open the bottom cabinet door, he knew what bringing the skin cream into her room would lead to. He knew just what she wanted. Every breath he exhaled was louder and deeper than the one before as the tension mounted within his body. Each step toward that bedroom made him feel more disgusted and nauseated. Out of all the different games she played with him, this one was absolutely the most demeaning and humiliating of them all.

  Entering her bedroom he saw her propped up by six pillows, naked, lying on the bottom sheet with the blankets and bedspread pulled down by the footboard. Although in her mid-fifties, her body was amazingly beautiful. Two perfectly rounded breasts above a slim waist that most women would kill to have. Slender dancing legs added to the woman who, by most standards, would be any man’s dream. Although not the most facially beautiful woman in the world, she was far from being unattractive. Any other sixteen year old male would have given anything to be in his shoes right now: looking at a naked woman, wanting his hands all over her, rubbing body cream into places most boys don’t see until they are men.

  “The towel is on the chair over by the window. Pick it up and bring it over here with you.” As she barked out orders, she rolled onto her stomach and instructed him to massage the cream into her back muscles. Not too hard, yet not too soft. She wanted it just right. Wanted it PERFECT EVERY TIME!

  “You’re rubbing too hard. Rub softer and use more cream. Move those hands down to the small of my back and back up to the top of my shoulders. Jesus! You have done this a hundred times. You shouldn’t need me to tell you what to do. You take all the pleasure out of it. What the fuck, are you some kind of idiot? You’re sixteen for Christ’s sake. Most boys your age would have a hard on, but not you - Mr. Limp Dick himself!”

  He began rubbing a little softer and she began to quiet down and enjoy her massage. After fifteen minutes, she turned her face and looked up at him standing beside the bed. She opened up her legs exposing herself, looking at him intently, not saying a word. She stared letting her eyes bore into his eyes. He put his fingers into the jar of cream and then placed his hand between her legs. When he was done massaging her legs, she rolled over onto her back putting both arms down by her sides on the sheet. He hesitated for a few seconds frozen in place, looking down. Knowing what was expected of him next.

  Sensing his discomfort and enjoying the fact that she was in total control, she asked: “Well?”

  “Oh! That is so relaxing,” she said as he continued rubbing and massaging the cream into her skin. The massage continued until every muscle in her body and every joint in her arms and legs felt relaxed and tension free.

  “You know what I want now, don’t you?” she asked. He looked away from her toward the floor trying to hide the revulsion surging up in his throat. “Yes. You know exactly what I want and just how I want you to do it. Come on! Up you go now. Be careful. Don’t get clumsy and ruin it. This is the best part. Come to mama.”

  He positioned himself between her legs, lying on his stomach - the only sound, her slow, guttural moans.

  This would be one of the last times his
adoptive mother would abuse him. Over the last two years, he had been secretly hiding money he stole from her pocketbook while she slept. He did odd jobs for their neighbors, who paid him for cutting the grass, weeding the flower gardens, and other small projects. He had over five hundred dollars hidden in his bedroom waiting for the day he would leave this house and this bitch forever. That day was fast approaching, and when it came time, he would pay her back for all the years of degradation and humiliation suffered. Standing in the bathroom washing his face for the fifth time, the last thing in the world he ever wanted to do was be sexually intimate with another woman.

  Christopher found himself standing beside his van in the garage at the rear of the Baker Building. The garage door was open and he hurried to close it concerned someone might have seen him standing in a trance, staring away into space unaware of his ramblings.

  “What the hell is going on?” he thought out loud – hearing his words fill the garage as he continued regaining his composure. “Jesus Christ! This is starting to happen way too often! I can’t go a full day without reliving what that son-of-a-bitch did to me all those years. I don’t even remember parking or getting out of the fucking van to open the garage door! She’s been dead for years and, she’s still controlling my life!”

  Standing in the garage, Christopher recalled the day he finally reached his breaking point:

  Six months after the last massage and “sexual favors” event, Christopher came home from school one afternoon to find his adoptive mother waiting for him at the kitchen table. She said she just wanted to talk with him, but he sensed from years of abuses suffered at her hands that there was more to her request than met the eye. She asked him politely – something she never did – if he would please bring a cold drink up to her bedroom and, that she would talk with him there. The nausea was immediate and intense. Panicking, he paced back and forth in the kitchen listening to her footsteps reach the top of the stairs, then the closing of the bedroom door. Back and forth, back and forth, he paced again and again not knowing what to do. He knew he would not let her do those things to him again. Not today. Not any day. She had to stop! He had to stop her!

  Suddenly, the shaking stopped. There were no tremors in his arms or legs. The nausea in his stomach disappeared and the cold sweat escaping from his pores was gone. It was as if someone injected him with a gallon of self-confidence. The calmness and control he felt was surreal. Without any cogitation, Christopher moved over to the pantry, found the plastic bottle of liquid drain cleaner and, filling a tall glass, thought: “This will really clean her pipes!” Adding a few ice cubes, he looked at the glass thinking how much it looked like a tall, cool glass of water. It was crystal clear and he hoped, as he climbed the stairs that the ice would not melt too quickly.

  She actually looked pleased to see him as he opened the door and entered her bedroom. Seeing the glass of “ice water,” she reached out and took it from him without taking her eyes off of his face. Christopher watched with absolute joy as she brought the glass to her lips and took two giant swallows. Christopher did not notice that he was instinctively backing away from her bed as the corrosive chemicals burned their way down her esophagus into her stomach. The caustic mixture tore away at the flesh in her mouth; burning her throat with corrosive fire. Her abdomen was dissolving from the inside out before the first attempt at a scream tried to make its way out of her dissolving voice box. Only a horrific, fear-filled gurgling sound managed to exit her distorted mouth as she ran from the bedroom, down the hallway, toward the stairs – her voice box a melted piece of flesh.

  Christopher followed behind her. As she approached the stair railing at the top of the staircase, Christopher lunged, pushing his adoptive mother over the railing and watched spellbound as she fell onto the hardwood flooring below. The gurgling sound stopped on impact: her face and chest slamming onto the polished, oak slats. Standing at the top of the stairs, Christopher knew he was free –at last. He knew that the rest of his life belonged only to him.

  Disposing of the body was even easier than Christopher thought it would be. First, he dismantled her body into segments, appendage by appendage, joint by joint. It amazed him just how small the human body could be once taken apart and put into plastic freezer bags. He then ran each part through an old meat grinder stored in the pantry. After the grinding was completed, each piece of the grinder was cleaned and soaked in scalding hot water for two hours, removing any traces of its last use. Her flesh and bone, now the consistency of ground beef, was then boiled, packaged and put into the refrigerator until nightfall.

  Christopher left the house that night around 10PM. Riding his bike with the plastic bags inside his back pack. He rode to the outskirts of the town, entered the woods, and hiding his bike, walked far into the woods spreading the remains of his dead tormentor on the ground for the animals to eat. Even if someone were to come upon uneaten remains, they would never know who it was in this condition! He was rid of the bitch who tortured him. He would tell the authorities she just didn’t come home, simply walked away. With that thought, a wide smile sprouted on his lips. He was, after all, quite a planner and thinker.

  Smiling once again because the memory of revenge was so sweet, Christopher shut the lights off in the garage and walked up the stairs to his apartment. He would bring Marty her fish and chips. Jerry Bickford was already a distant memory – for the moment!

  32

  I stood on the front step of the McMasters’ home, looking across their yard at the surrounding neighborhood. Upper middle class homes lined each side of the street with two-car garages and variously colored SUVs parked in driveways waiting for their next trip to the corner store. This was not the type of affluent neighborhood from which a kidnapper would choose to abduct a young girl and ask for a large ransom. These were not the homes of doctors or lawyers, of business owners or financial wizards. These were the homes of blue collar, work long hours, middle class Americans who struggled to keep their heads above the flood waters of a weakened economy.

  Kim stood directly behind me on the walkway as we waited for the door to open. “Do you think they heard the bell?” she asked, just as the door made the sound of wood rubbing against wood while opening into the house. The wood was obviously swollen from winter snow melting on the threshold causing the door to swell and jam.

  “You must be Chief Kosciak,” the man said as the door opened wide enough for us to enter.

  “Yes, Mr. McMaster, my name is Ron Kosciak and this is Kim LaFleur, one of my investigative officers.”

  “Please, call me Mike, Chief.” He replied, motioning us to follow him down a hallway to a room in the back of the house - pushing hard to close the front door all the way. No one spoke until we entered a sitting room with a crackling fireplace, where a small-framed, middle-aged woman sat with her legs tucked up on a sofa, watching the flames as though she were hypnotized by their rhythmic motion.

  “Hon, this is Chief Kosciak and his assistant, Kim LaFleur.”

  “Chief Kosciak, Officer, thank you for coming so quickly.” She said softly continuing before I could reply. “We are extremely concerned about our daughter, Marty. You probably already know she never arrived at school yesterday, nor did she go to her girlfriend’s house last night as planned. We have talked with Kelsey Hebert and her parents, but Kelsey has no idea what might have happened to her. Kelsey tried calling her on her cell phone a number of times, but the phone went directly to voice mail. Kelsey thought Marty was probably sick and just took the day to stay in bed. She is beside herself for not calling us to ask why Marty had not gone to school.”

  “Mrs. McMaster,” Kim began. In situations like this, we always try to review any situation that might contribute to, or lead to a person’s disappearance. We need to ask you both a few questions to help us get going in the right direction. We do have the information you have shared with us from your phone call to the station. Please do not take any offense to th
e questions we are about to ask you. They are very standard questions asked in order to eliminate some possibilities and help us to focus on others.”

  Mike McMaster already knew what type of questions we needed to ask and sat next to his wife while signaling with his hand for us to sit in two adjacent chairs.

  “Does Marty have any history of drug or alcohol abuse?” Kim asked looking at the McMasters watching their response and listening for their reply.

  “No. Not that we are aware of.” Mike responded. “She is an honor student, and we never even smelled cigarette smoke on her breath. She may have tried smoking pot, but we don’t believe she is smoking it right now. Marty has a few beers or a drink or two when she goes to college parties. But, she has never come home drunk or even tipsy. To us, she’s a parent’s dream.”

  “Does Marty have a boyfriend?” was Kim’s next question.

  “No. She does date occasionally, but does not have a steady boyfriend.” Mrs. McMasters said. “I know my daughter very well Officer. My maternal instincts would know, or at least, I hope they would know if Marty was in a deep relationship with anyone or sneaking around with someone she knew we wouldn’t like. She has been very focused on what she wants to do with her life and very focused on her education. We have been fortunate she thinks the way she does and prioritizes her life by setting healthy goals.”

  “By the sound of what you are saying and listening to your sincerity, you both have been very blessed. But, I think Marty has also been blessed by having you both as her parents.” Kim followed.

  I sat in the chair listening to the conversation and thanking God that Kim was so sensitive and caring. She did know how to conduct an interview, but also knew how to keep the interview very human and respectful.