Adoption Read online

  After taking another long shower, I very cautiously and quietly slipped into bed next to Peggy trying not to wake her. Pulling the blankets and bedspread up ever so….o slowly, positioning my head on the pillow precisely in the right spot so I would not have to move again and, thinking I had not disturbed her sleep, Peggy’s voice filtered through the darkness sarcastically saying, “So, crash, what brings you to bed this time of night? You know I won’t be able to fall back to sleep. You also know that I will hold this against you forever and ever!”

  “Sorry, baby, I tried to be quiet and not wake you up.”

  “Well, my dearly NOT so beloved, I would say on a scale of one to ten, ten being the greatest level of failure, you have earned an eleven!”

  “Baby, I’m really sorry. We found Christopher Bradford dead over at the Baker Building tonight. Looks like you were right. Christopher probably was responsible for the murders and the abduction of Marty McMaster. It took us a while to process the crime scene and get Bradford’s body removed.”

  “Holy, shit! Ugh! My skin is beginning to crawl. That freak had his dead hands all over me the other day! Holy, holy shit!” she repeated getting out of bed while pulling off her winter pajamas.

  “What the hell are you doing?” I asked picking my head up off of pillow trying to focus in the dim, night light.

  “I’ve got to take a shower!” she replied still racing to get her clothing off. “I feel dirty and disgusting, honey! He had those friggin, cold paws on me! I’m DISGUSTED!”

  As Peggy ran out of the room to the shower, I thought about our rolls being reversed and what I would feel like if I were in her shoes. I kind of understood where she was coming from but, could not stay awake long enough to contemplate the psychology of the incident. Within a couple of minutes I was fast asleep. Before letting go of my last thought of the day, I wondered how many of Bradford’s other clients would be running to the shower once they found out who this guy really was and what he really did. I drifted off to sleep no longer worrying about who Christopher Bradford was; his death; the abduction of Marty McMaster or Peggy’s frantic shower. Sleep has a way of removing one from life’s situations, and, right now I was very thankful to be removed!

  The morning’s sunlight shining in my eyes woke me once again to the smells and aromas floating up the stairs out of the kitchen. “Peggy: cooking omelets?” I thought. This time I was not going to wait for my cell phone to ring cancelling breakfast. I was starving! Rolling my over aged butt out of bed, attempting to slip my feet into my wool lined slippers - which always point the wrong way – I cursed when one of them disappeared under the bed. Again! Bending down, I blindly felt under the bed for the lost slipper. The slipper finally rescued, I was on my way down the stairs to find out what mystery ingredients Peggy was adding to the omelet before she folded it over on the griddle.

  To my culinary surprise, Peggy was cooking her Dad’s version of French toast, which, in my book, was the best French toast I had ever eaten. Her dad may be a crotchety ole bastard with a liturgy of cuss words dating back to Paleolithic times, but he was one hell of a cook. He also makes the best apple pies in the world. It may seem a bit exaggerated, but, I can assure you, it is not far from the truth. Sitting at the kitchen table, I was preparing myself for a chow down, my eyes focusing on the griddle, my stomach growling in anticipation, thankful for Peggy and thankful for my life.

  “Hey, you, about time you got your butt out of bed. I figured the smell of these babies frying in the pan would get your attention. How many do you want? By the way, the coffee is ready too. Pour us both a cup.”

  Walking over to the coffee pot, I began pouring us both a cup of steaming hot coffee as Peggy continued. “Sorry about bolting out of bed like that last night. I was totally freaked out.”

  “I understand hon, not a problem with me. I’m good with it. You did what you needed to do for yourself. I’m sorry I was not able to keep my eyes open until you got back from your shower. I was dog ass tired and just could not stay awake.”

  Changing the subject Peggy asked, “What’s the status with Marty? Do you guys have any ideas at all?”

  “The only part of the investigation going right now that might shed some light on Christopher Bradford is an investigation into his personal history. We’ve got to turn something up somewhere or Marty’s chances are slim to none! These guys just don’t leave any clues behind. They ARE that good at what they do. It pisses me off to feel this helpless, but there is nothing I can do.” I replied lowering my head while I stood next to the coffee percolator listening to its blurp, blurp, blurp. I knew if something did not materialize and materialize soon, Marty McMaster’s chances of surviving this ordeal were minimal if not non-existent. I honestly believed in my heart Marty was still alive when she left the Baker Building, I just did not know how much longer that belief would be true.

  Two serial killers working together; almost unheard of anywhere in the history of serial killings and, of course, I had to be the one smack in the middle of the exception to the rule.

  55

  There was nothing in the room Marty could use as a weapon or device to help her escape. She knew instinctively this person had covered all of the bases. The Army bed was in perfect shape. Her attempts to dislodge or remove any of the metal links that interconnected the platform were futile. The metal handle for the pee bucket was removed as well and Marty had never heard of killing anyone with a plastic water bottle or a package of peanut butter crackers. She was at a loss sitting on the bed looking at her drab, isolated surroundings.

  Shaking out the remaining fog from her brain, Marty knew her present situation with this individual was much more unpredictable than when she was being held captive by Christopher. She had at least been able to start a dialogue with Christopher, something not possible in her present situation. A feeling of hopelessness began to overtake her as she sat listening to the air vent push new oxygen into her cinder block prison. Wondering if this idiot, like Christopher, was watching her right now sent a chill racing through her extremities making her shudder on the bed. Marty was correct in her assumption. There was a camera lens positioned overhead inside the air duct hidden from her view watching every move she made. What she did not know: there was an audio microphone hidden there as well, an item Christopher overlooked when installing the system in the Baker Building.

  “I have used up every card I have in the deck,” Marty thought to herself. “The only cards left are the two Jokers, and whoever this joker is, he knows he is holding all of the other cards.” Marty was felt defeated and exhausted from days of captivity and uncertainty. Not knowing from second to second if she was going to live or die was taking its toll.

  “There must have been two of them working together all along.” She thought. “There is no other explanation. Whoever this person is, he or she must have been there when Christopher was bringing me upstairs. But if that is the case, what was Christopher bringing me upstairs for? Those jars on the desk full of eyes and stuff were not just decorations! They must have come from real people: people like me! You don’t keep jars filled with fucking eyeballs and stuff lying around a friggin’ room for the fun of it! Well, not if you are normal. Were they going to do the same thing to me? Is that what this asshole is planning to do to me? Christ! This nut case is going to have a fight on his hands. I’ll go out screaming and kicking ass until my last breath!” she spoke these words defiantly, allowing them to linger in the air as renewed energy began to fill her spirit. Marty would need all of the energy she could muster if she were going to survive.

  Marty’s abductor watched and listened processing similar thoughts about her mortality. Sitting in his chair, the unrelenting restlessness began once again to take control of him. He would not try to fight it or prevent it from engulfing him. He relished its power and precision. There was no second guessing. There were no “maybe’s” in its cunning and execution. It was black and white.
You live or you die. There was not and never would be any in between. It would not happen today, but in the very near future Marty McMaster would join the rest of the children and be part of the family which now took up residence here in their new subterranean home. Soon the excitement, the rush, the power of being completely in control would be the only emotion he would feel. It would infiltrate every cell, every muscle and every bone, obliterating any simplistic thoughts of forgiveness or redemption. It had nothing to do with Heaven or Hell. It only had to do with him and the absolute power of adoption.

  “Control !” he thought. The madness escaped him in the form of a twisted grin.

  56

  I spent most of the day reviewing new information sent by other police departments and state agencies regarding the murdered girls. No pertinent information was discovered concerning our killer or his victims. I was purposely holding off contacting any of the victim’s families to inform them of Bradford’s death and involvement in the murders of their daughters. I was hoping Todd and the Staties would find a solid piece of information leading us to killer number two. The information I was about to receive as my phone began ringing would cheer me up exponentially.

  “Chief Kosciak,” I said even before the receiver was in position next to my ear.

  “Good morning, Chief. My name is Jenna Fitzpatrick. I’m an ICU nurse over here in Milford.”

  “Good morning Nurse Fitzpatrick. I hope you have some good news for me about Doc.” I said with an edge of foreboding.

  “Chief, I wanted to personally call you and let you know Doc is going to make it. He rallied early this morning and his vital signs are as strong as any thirty year old. We think he might be out of ICU sometime later today or early tomorrow morning if he continues to improve.”

  “Nurse Jenna Fitzpatrick, I want to thank you very much for your call! I’ve been knee deep in a swamp of sh…it! Ah! Sorry, Jenna. What I meant to say was…”

  “Chief, for Christ’s sake, you don’t have to apologize to me! You don’t think we have swamps of shit over here too? I’m so deep in shit over here sometimes, I need scuba gear to keep breathing and find my way around! Chief, you say all the shits you want. Doc is going to make it and that is all that matters right now.”

  “Thanks for letting me off the hook, Jenna. You’re gracious as well as a hot shit. No pun intended,” I said with a laugh. “You make sure you give Doc a big hug for me. I know he’ll cringe when you tell him the hug is from me. Tell him I’d send along a kiss too, but I’m afraid he would relapse and kick off on us!”

  “Aren’t you the hugsy well-wisher,” she said with a chuckle as she hung up the phone.

  “I will make it one of my top priorities to meet you nurse Jenna, Fitzpatrick to deliver a personal thank you. After all, you are a hot shit,” I thought, hanging up my phone, already dialing Ken Garber’s number over in Auburn.

  Ken did not answering his phone. As I was leaving him a message, my cell phone began to ring. It was Ken calling me.

  “Hey, Ken, I was just leaving you a message on your office phone. What’s up?”

  “Ron. I think we may have found something out about Bradford that will give us a place to start looking. Can you get over here quick? I think it would be better if you took a look at this in person instead of me trying to explain it over the phone.”

  “Yeah, sure Ken. I’m out the door as we speak. See you in a few.”

  Driving over to Auburn, my thoughts once again turned to Marty McMaster. I was feeling personally responsible for her welfare. Everybody and their brother could tell me it wasn’t my fault, but in my heart I could not let the feeling of responsibility go. If we had arrived just a few minutes earlier last night at the Baker Building, Marty might well be alive and at home with her parents, and I would be writing a police report describing the capture or death of both killers. But the reality was that the weight of this responsibility resided in my soul. No matter how hard I tried to relinquish this burden, it would be futile. The guilt was mine to keep until this all played out one way or the other.

  I looked in my rear view mirror as I took a right turn on Route 20 toward the State Police facility in Auburn. A white van followed a few vehicles behind my Explorer as I continued through my turn. Watching the van, it took the same right turn maintaining the same distance from my cruiser. My blood began to rush a little faster as I turned right into a small strip mall pulling my Explorer in front of a bridal shop.

  “Won’t this be a tip off if the guy is actually following me?” I thought feeling a little less masculine sitting behind the steering wheel.

  The van proceeded past the strip mall continuing up the street. Backing out of the parking space, I pulled the Explorer back onto the roadway watching for the white van up ahead. Half a mile up the street I spotted the van parked at a 24-hour convenience store. The driver was inside the store talking to the cashier. I pulled in to check the van and driver out. Pulling up behind the van, I parked so that my Explorer was out of the driver’s line of sight, but in such a way he would not be able to move his van if he decided to run. Stepping down out of the Explorer, unclipping the clasp on my holster, I proceeded very cautiously beside the passenger’ door of the van. I pulled out my Glock. There were no side windows in the van. A black partition separated the back of the van from the driver’s compartment. One small peep hole allowed the driver to look from the cab into the back of the van. The van certainly fit an abductor’s needs for committing a kidnapping. Every sense was telling me to be on my toes and to be prepared for anything.

  There was nothing in the cab of the van to indicate that it was anything but a delivery vehicle. A few papers were on the passenger’s seat and a yellow pencil protruded from the open, unused ashtray. Other than these two items, the cab was clean. But, clean, thus far, was their way of doing business.

  Watching the two men through the store window, it appeared to me the two men were arguing. As I entered the store, both men stopped talking and looked in my direction. Continuing to walk past them, I walked toward the wall coolers containing bottled water and soft drinks at the back of the store. My heart was racing even faster than before as I tried listening to what they were saying to one another. Opening one of the coolers, I reached in for a bottle of apple juice, continuing to keep my other hand closed on the handle of my Glock. It was difficult to distinguish their heated words, but I thought I heard the cashier telling the driver that even though a dozen bags of his “Hot Tamale” chips were stolen off of the rack last night, it was not the stores responsibility to reimburse him for his loss. I breathed a quiet sigh of relief, calmly walking up the cash register to pay for my drink. The driver, never giving me a second look, went right back to tearing the cashier a new ass as I walked back to my Explorer and drove away.

  I was only five minutes from the State Police facility, and was relieved to know my paranoia seemed to be coming from my over active imagination. Driving away from the bridal shop, I missed spotting the second white van which was pulled over watching me play policeman at the convenience store.

  57

  Jarred “Gabby” Henderson, as he was known ten years ago when he directed the “Angels of Mercy” orphanage in upper state New York, wondered why the Massachusetts State Police were attempting to get in touch with him. Today, as the CEO of a medical supply company distributing sleep disorder products all over the country, he could only guess what they needed to talk with him about. Jarred hadn’t been to Massachusetts for six years and was never issued any moving violations when he did travel within the state.

  As jarred reviewed the throughput spreadsheets for the last quarter, he was smiling because of the increased sales output and revenue his team had produced. Looking at the drop in operating expenses for the same period, Jarred was even more impressed as his secretary broke in over the intercom.

  “Mr. Henderson, it’s Captain Garber from the Massachusetts State Police
again. Do you want me to put him through?” Jarred’s secretary asked as if not connecting the call to Henderson would keep the police out of his office.

  “Of course, Caroline, put him through. We don’t have anything to be afraid of. Don’t worry, they aren’t going to cart me off in cuffs and put me in jail,” he responded, thinking what a great experience that might actually be.

  “Captain Garber. Jarred Henderson here, how may I help you this afternoon?”

  “Mr. Henderson, we are currently in the middle of an investigation regarding the murder and mutilation of five young women from our area out here in Auburn, Mass. There is a sixth girl missing and we presume she is being held by one of the killers.”

  “One of the killers? You have more than one?”

  “The first killer was found dead yesterday, and we believe there is a second killer currently holding a young girl who has been missing for the last three days. Mr. Henderson, we need to talk with you concerning the “Angels of Mercy” orphanage you directed a number of years ago. Our investigators found some information regarding one of the killers having been adopted during the time that you were there. We have not been able to find anyone who knows where the records for the orphanage are located since its closure. Your name is listed as having been the director, and that is why we are contacting you. We are looking for any information you might have regarding a man named Christopher Bradford.”

  The name Christopher Bradford hit Henderson right between the eyes like a line drive in a fast pitch softball game. He actually fell back in his chair at the mention of the boy’s name.