CRIMINAL CHRISTMAS: A Set of 8 Holiday Suspense Stories, page 61
“Really?” Andrea sounded a little dubious. “What did she prescribe?”
“Oh, for Chrissake! I’m not having this conversation with you right now.”
“Look, I worry, darling. It wasn’t so long ago that I thought you might top yourself.”
“I’m not going to kill myself,” I said, and it was probably true. However, a month’s worth of sleeping pills still sat on my nightstand since the evening Andrea alluded to. They belonged in the medicine cabinet. “It was just a case of the blues. I’m fine. Just settle down.”
Andrea let out a heavy sigh. “Well anyway, I know this isn’t the norm, but I have a project for you, something I think you’ll be good at given your background with thrillers. I loved what you did with the psychopath in your first book.” Making mention of my past glory, a nice touch. “In this case, you’d get to write about a real one instead of having to dream one into existence, far less taxing on your creative energy. How would you like to write a book about Thomas Eisenbrey, aka the Hunter?”
“Eisenbrey…the serial killer?” My voice wavered. The unwelcome, long banished memory tried to force its way back in, but I pushed it away—an ongoing struggle my friend was blissfully unaware of. “Why do you want a book about him?” I asked.
“Because it sells. People are fascinated with psychopaths.” She cleared her throat. “It was Jason’s idea. You remember him—that publisher you met at Toni’s apartment last fall?”
“Yeah, I remember.”
“Well, he and I were talking about Eisenbrey at the party, and it turns out that he pitched the idea. He called me early this morning to tell me we have a contract, and here’s what sold the idea—I have a friend that works at the prison where Eisenbrey is kept.”
“So he hired you, and whatever writer you choose?”
“No. He wants you to do this. He likes your work. He wants someone with a background in fiction for this project—someone who understands plot, suspense, and intrigue. And lord knows it’s time for you to get back to work. You haven’t seemed right since your last book. I don’t want you to go all peculiar on me.”
That ship had sailed. Two nights ago I drank so much that I had hallucinated, seeing an ethereal presence of some kind that warned me to beware. That strange experience had left me shaken, unsure of my own mental stability. I’d never lost it like that before, and I vowed not to touch any more whiskey for a while. A vow forgotten the next morning, but those things were none of Andrea’s business.
“I’ve never written a biography before,” I protested. I felt that if I tried hard enough, I could come up with a real reason why I wasn’t qualified for Andrea’s project. The simple truth was, I just didn’t feel like I could write a biography, especially not one about an inhuman bastard that thrived on destroying other people’s lives.
“You can’t afford to turn me down,” she said. Then her tone softened. “You need to write something, anything. And then you need to write some more. Just work on this non-fiction assignment for me and I know your muse will return. You’ll be creating again in no time. Go on, it’ll be good for both of our bank accounts as well. That couldn’t hurt.”
No, that wouldn’t hurt. She was spot on about that. My book sales had been steadily declining since the release of the last book. The bad reviews seemed to have put people off purchasing my first two books. “I hear that.”
“Good. How much do you know about him?” she asked.
“Not much. I still lived in San Jose when he was caught.”
“I’ve already done a little of the legwork for you. My friend’s name is Ralph Barnett. He’s a captain at the prison, in charge of approving visits with the prisoners. He spoke with Eisenbrey for us and got his consent to be interviewed. You’ll be allowed plenty of time with him, and you won’t have to use the visitation rooms. All you need to do is call, set up a time with them, and then get in your fucking car and drive out to Walla Walla.”
“Walla Walla? Crap! Isn’t that in Eastern Washington? I don’t like long drives.” I had to hand it to myself, I wasn’t going to make it easy for Andrea to help me out of my current dilemma.
“And sober up before you drive out there. Yes, I can tell. Don’t deny it,” she said.
I hesitated for a moment, but then realized it would be just as foolish for me to refuse this assignment as it would for a starving person in the desert to refuse manna from heaven. It was a very generous offer from someone who apparently still believed in me, and she might not offer twice. “Okay. You’re right. I’ll do it.”
“Excellent. I’ve sent you an email with Ralph’s number, and I’ve attached some forms you need to fill out for the criminal background check they do prior to the visits. Ralph said he would expedite it, so get those to him today. You can get started this morning.”
“Okay, Andrea. I’ll get on it right away. And…thank you, I appreciate the push.” That wasn’t true, but I figured she deserved a modicum of gratitude. Also, I had discovered over the years that saying the lines and going through the motions helped me get back on the right track.
“Anytime, my dear. We all need the occasional kick up the arse.” She hesitated, then added, “Are you nervous about getting back to work?”
“Yes,” I admitted. “And apparently it shows.”
“Don’t worry. You’ll do fine. Interview him a couple times and then send me something to read—your first chapter or whatever you’ve got.”
I sighed. “You want to check up on me.”
“I want to help. I know how difficult it’s been for you since Epitaph was released. Show me what you have after a week so I can help you get off to a good, healthy start.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. I won’t have anything for you in a week.”
“Rebecca, I know you. I know how you operate, and I’ve seen how fast you are when you feel enthusiastic about a project. You’ll have loads to send me in a week.”
“Well.” She was right. “Ten days,” I told her.
“You have yourself a deal, my dear. Email me if you have any questions. I’m going to be in meetings most of the day.”
“Will do.”
“Ta-ta,” she said, and the call disconnected.
Chapter 2
After draining the last bit of coffee from my mug, I still wasn’t entirely sober but felt a little more clearheaded. The thought of writing another book so soon, not to mention on a person I knew almost nothing about, felt daunting. And then there was the subject matter. Perhaps this wasn’t wise. Perhaps I should have declined.
Why am I being such a pussy about this? It wasn’t as though I had never written about a killer. Despite my past, I had been okay when I allowed my mind to go there, to create a completely warped murderer for one of my novels. In fact, I seemed to thrive on it. So what is my problem now? It was real. This one was made of flesh and blood; knowing we would meet in person unnerved me.
No. That’s not who I am. Rebecca Reis jumps in with both feet and gets the job done. I turned on my laptop, read my email, and printed out hard copies of the information Andrea had sent me, giving it a cursory peek. I filled out the forms for the criminal background check and faxed them to Barnett. Then I went on the Internet and began to compile all of the information I could find on my subject from various news archives.
In the first article, three hunters were found in the forest near Eisenbrey’s hometown, Carnation, Washington back in 1983: Burt Nolan, Kevin Nolan, and Stephen Wilcox. The men had all been bound and had their throats slit. There was also mention of mutilation, but no details. The article was dated December 13, 2001—when Eisenbrey was arrested and charged —a remarkable eighteen years after the murders.
I skimmed another article dated December 14, 2001. Eisenbrey had been charged with two more murders that took place in October of 1998—hunters found in the Idaho forest near British Columbia. Both men had been tied up and had their throats slit. He was also charged with the murder of Special Agent Peter Johannson who died in the line of duty.
I sifted through a couple dozen more articles and found five other incidents of small hunting groups found dead in the forests of Canada, Washington, and Idaho, and two other parties that went missing. The authorities acknowledged that some, or all, may have been the work of the Hunter, but could not confirm it. I found most of the articles barren of details other than the victim’s names, dates, and places where they had located the bodies. I imagined the police thought it unwise to release more information to the public back when the investigations were still open, but now that Eisenbrey was in prison and awaiting execution, I should be able to get some additional details about the crime scenes from the detective.
So the Hunter wasn’t a shooter but a slasher, this was way worse, and much more up-close and personal. Perhaps I’d assumed that he used a rifle because of the special little nickname the press had given him. One could have a certain amount of detachment with a firearm, but a knife required a colder mentality. And torture was the mark of a truly twisted mind.
Goddamn. He was a sick bastard. What the hell was I doing? Why had I said yes to this messed up, morbid project? I took in a deep breath and let it out slowly, then leaned back in my chair away from the computer. I needed more distance from the damned thing before the dead from my own past found their way back inside my thoughts. I would not let them in, not today.
I wandered into the kitchen, filled the electric kettle with tap water and set it to boil. Tea was my aunt Susan’s answer to everything except for those particularly bad situations that required home-baked cookies.
I felt a pang of regret as I realized I hadn’t called her or my uncle Harry for a few months now. It was a very long time for us to go without talking, and I missed them terribly. But I had been living under a black cloud, and I hadn’t wanted to dump my rain all over them. They were always so good to me. It was enough that I was soaked.
Bringing the cup of tea back to the desk, I typed up what I had then started making a list of questions for my interviews with the detective and Eisenbrey.
Ralph Barnett told me over the phone the prison didn’t allow visiting Tuesday through Thursday, and weekends were busy, so mine would take place every Monday and Friday from noon to 2:00 p.m. He scheduled my first visit that Friday. He seemed sure he could finish vetting me by then. That left me two days to kill.
Then I called Detective Scanlon of the King County Sheriff’s Homicide Unit. I gave him my name and explained who I was writing about. “I’ve been told you’re the expert on this guy. I’d like to meet with you if you have time.”
“Sure. What kind of information do you need?”
“Everything I can get. I just started collecting information on Eisenbrey this morning, so I don’t have much yet.”
“Well, why don’t you come out to my office, and I’ll see what I can do to enlighten you. I’ve got some time around 3:00 p.m. today.” He gave me his address, and I jotted it down on a notepad. Sammamish wasn’t far. I could leave my house about thirty minutes before our meeting.
“That sounds great. I’ll see you then.”
Chapter 3
I took a few minutes to freshen up, changing into a new pair of jeans and some ankle boots with a three-inch heel. At 5’4”, a few extra inches never hurt, and made it easier to look other people in the eye. I took my long, brown hair out of the ponytail, and it fell down past my shoulders. Then I touched up my eyeliner. All in all, I cleaned up pretty well. I felt it was important to look nice when meeting someone for the first time. I grabbed my leather jacket and headed out to my car.
I plugged Scanlon’s address into my GPS and allowed it to direct me, via some winding roads, through a sprawling residential area. Having been developed more recently than Bellevue, everything looked newer in Sammamish including Detective Scanlon’s workplace, the Sammamish Police Department, which was a new building. It stood two stories high with flat, slanted rooftops. The outside was comprised of red brick and wood paneling. A solid line of windows ran down the length of the building on both floors.
A police officer directed me to the second floor, and I found Scanlon’s space in a large room with several other desks. The openness of the work area seemed designed for better communication between the staff. He rose when he saw me and gave me a smile that illuminated his features.
I have heard that when a person looks at something they find appealing their pupils dilate to take more of it in. This was the first time I’d seen it happen, the light golden-brown of Scanlon’s irises being the perfect background to emphasize the change. “Hello,” he said, giving my hand a comfortable squeeze, his gaze fixed on me. “Ms. Reis.”
He held my hand much longer than was customary. I would be lying if I said it wasn’t flattering. “That’s me.”
“I know. I Googled you after we talked. The photo on your website doesn’t do you justice. This must be my lucky day,” he murmured.
Scanlon stood about six feet tall, was physically fit, and radiated enthusiastic energy. I could picture the guy eating a 3,000 calorie meal and then running it off.
He offered me a seat in front of his desk and sat down. “So—Eisenbrey,” he said. Then he picked up a stack of papers and held them out to me. “I can’t give you a copy of my entire file, but I copied some of the reports and other info that I thought you would find useful.”
“Thanks. I really appreciate this. Firsthand information is extremely valuable.”
“That covers most of what Johannson and I found, minus any investigations that are still open.”
“Oh, I was going to ask about that. There seem to be quite a few news articles about other killings in the Northwest attributed to the Hunter that Eisenbrey hasn’t been convicted of.”
“That’s true,” he said, nodding. “He was convicted of eight murders prior to his stay at Walla Walla, and then one more after his incarceration.”
“Is there any way I could find out more about the scenes of those other murders, the ones with no convictions?”
“Not from me.” He broke into a big grin. “I’m sorry. You’re very pretty. I wish I could give you all of my information, but rules are rules, and those are still open cases. We weren’t able to nail him for everything, but it was enough to get him the death penalty. That’s not bad.”
My face felt warmer, and I realized that Scanlon’s compliment had caused me to blush. I came at him from another angle. “You don’t think there’s any chance that there could be a second killer out there, do you? Someone else responsible for the unsolved murders?”
“Hmm, do I get to say something off the record, Ms. Reis? Something to make you sleep better at night? I don’t want it to show up as a quote from me in your book.”
“Sure,” I said and shrugged.
“All of those murders involving hunting parties that our local papers pinned on the Hunter were committed by Eisenbrey. There is no doubt in my mind. We just didn’t have the evidence to prove it. I cannot divulge any specific details from those crimes, but I will say, off the record, that they all bore the evidence of his ritualistic behavior.”
That caused me to lean forward. “Ritualistic? What do you mean?”
Scanlon slid his chair around to my side of the desk and scooped the papers out of my hand. He found what he looked for and handed several of the pages back to me. These were police reports. Then he laid a document on top entitled: Serial Murder Victim List. “Here, we can talk about the triple murder near Carnation in 1983. Eisenbrey was sixteen years old; the three victims were all guys from his hometown in their mid-twenties.” Scanlon leaned back in his chair and flopped his feet up on his desk. At first I wondered if he expected me to sit there and read through the stack of documents, but then I realized he was just taking a moment to collect his thoughts. As it turned out, he was able to recite all of the details of the crime without referring to any papers.
“Those murders are believed to have happened in the early hours of the morning on October 20, 1983. The men had gone into the forest for a hunting trip. They found no evidence linking these murders to Eisenbrey at the time; however, in 2001, items collected from the scene back in ’83 were DNA tested and matched to Eisenbrey. The first victim on that list is Burt Nolan. His body was found in the forest near Carnation. He was secured to a tree with duct tape—Eisenbrey loved his fucking duct tape—then he tortured the poor guy prior to slitting his throat with a knife. The second victim was Burt’s brother, Kevin Nolan. He was also found taped to a tree and was tortured prior to his death. In addition, Kevin’s body had seventeen postmortem stab wounds to the torso, and his head had been removed and placed on the ground facing Burt. The third victim was Stephen Wilcox. His hands were duct taped behind his back, and his throat was slit. But for whatever reason, he didn’t receive the same level of attention from Eisenbrey that the Nolan brothers did.”
“They weren’t shot?”
“No.”
“I don’t understand. How did he capture three armed men and secure them with duct tape without shooting them?”
“Precisely,” Scanlon said with a nod. “And, oh, how I wish I had a definitive answer. He must have administered something to make them lose consciousness, like chloroform, or better yet some kind of gas that could knock them all out at once, but forensics wasn’t able to find evidence of that. Each time we found one of these crime scenes, they were already a few days old. Rain, decomposition, and other factors made our investigations difficult.”
“So no one knew these men had died because they were out in the wilderness?”
“Yes. They’d planned to be gone for several days, so their families didn’t report them missing until after they were expected home. Steve and the Nolan brothers had probably been dead four days by the time the search even began. But that was a long time ago. Nowadays, most of these guys bring a cellphone. If we think they need assistance we can ping their phones for a location, sometimes even if they’re in an area with no service. It’s easier than it used to be.”
