Silent House, page 12
"It's okay," Sheila said. "Thanks for sharing that with me."
He paused, pursing his lips. "I want you to know, even though it's still a temptation, it's been six months since I last had a drink. What I mean to say is...you can count on me, alright? Don't write me off just because I made some mistakes."
"I won't," Sheila said, feeling a surge of pride for her partner.
He tucked his necklace back into his shirt. "What about you? Ever struggled with anything like that?"
"Not drinking, no, but I've had other obsessions."
"Such as?"
"Kickboxing. I know it's not the same, but being hyper-focused on your profession to the exclusion of all else can damage your life and relationships, too."
"Were you really that driven?"
"I was obsessed, spent every waking moment either training or thinking about training." Her voice held a tinge of sadness as she continued. "In a way, it was destructive for me, too. I lost friendships, missed out on experiences, and when I didn't win the Olympics, it nearly broke me."
Finn looked at her with genuine curiosity, his earlier guardedness beginning to fade. "How did you manage to pull yourself out of that?"
"It's a work in progress. I'm hoping law enforcement will help—give me a sense of purpose, you know, a cause higher than myself." Sheila offered him a small smile, feeling a connection forming between them.
He nodded, his gaze thoughtful. "This job can be very rewarding. It can be very stressful, too, though, so just make sure you have a healthy outlet for when the shit hits the fan. It's convenient to see life in black-and-white – this person's a victim, that person's a bad guy – but there's a lot of gray in the world."
His words sparked a sudden realization. "Wait a second," Sheila said, her eyes widening.
"What?" he asked.
"Sorry—your words just helped me make a connection about the case. Instead of trying to find the killer, maybe we should look for their next potential victim. We could focus on those who moved away from Mildred Heights and then returned."
Finn nodded. "That's a good idea. Shouldn't be a long list."
They quickly pulled out their phones and began cross-referencing the names from the yearbooks with online records. Sheila found a local news article that mentioned a recent high school reunion for the class of '97, which provided a helpful starting point.
"Check this out," Finn said, pointing to his phone screen. "Matt Barker moved away after graduation and just came back within the past few months."
"Interesting," Sheila replied, making a note of his name. "I've got another name: Clive Waiters. He moved away for college, but he's been back for about a year now."
While Finn read up on Matt Barker, Sheila delved into Clive Waiters' life. He'd attended a prestigious university on the East Coast but had returned home after struggling with mental health issues.
"Matt seems to have had a pretty stable life until his divorce," Finn said, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. "He's started up a small business since returning. Fashion clothes, looks like."
"What about his family?"
"A few cousins in the area, but that's about it. He lives with his grandparents—looks like their health has been going downhill."
"Doesn't sound like he fits the profile of the other victims," Sheila murmured. "They were both married with teenage children."
"What about your guy? Any family?"
She shook her head. "Lives alone. Not much of an online presence, either. Looks like he was hospitalized at one point for depression and anxiety."
They both fell silent. Then Sheila had another idea.
"Here's a thought," she said. "What if we look up both of them in the database, see if either one has a criminal record?"
Finn cocked his head at her. "I thought we were looking for victims, not suspects."
"Wouldn't hurt to do both, would it?"
He shrugged and began tapping away at his phone. Sheila joined him, looking over his shoulder.
"Nothing on Barker," Finn said. "Squeaky clean. Let's check out your guy."
As the search results loaded, Sheila's heartbeat quickened—Clive Waiters did indeed have a criminal record. There were multiple charges of breaking and entering, domestic abuse, and even a stint in prison for arson. Her eyes widened as she read the details of his most recent conviction: trying to burn down an apartment building with a family still inside.
"He barricaded the exits so the tenants couldn't escape," Finn said, reading the report about the arson. "The fire department barely managed to get everyone out before the whole place went up in flames."
"There were children inside, Finn," Sheila added, aghast.
"Damn," Finn muttered, his expression darkening. "What kind of monster does something like that?"
Sheila went back to her own phone, trying to find anything she could about Clive. She navigated to the page of a high school paper, the Mildred Heights Chronicle, and searched for Clive's name.
She got one hit. She opened the article and started reading. The article was about an anti-bullying petition that had been signed by a number of parents, aimed at better training for the teachers and stricter enforcement of consequences for bullying. Halfway down the page was a quote from Clive, who claimed that bullying was a "daily reality" for him.
The teachers just look the other way, he was quoted as saying. They don't care what happens to us. I get treated like trash by all the so-called cool kids, and I'm sick of it.
"Finn," Sheila said, "take a look at this." She showed him the article. His eyebrows pulled together as he read, and she watched his eyes move back and forth, ping-ponging down the screen.
"He was probably already fantasizing about doing something," Sheila said.
Finn nodded, his face grave. "And from there, it was only a matter of time before the fantasy became reality."
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Mildred Heights loomed ominously in the darkness as Sheila knocked on the door, the school's shadow casting an eerie blanket over her and Finn. The wind whipped around them, carrying with it a chill that seemed to seep into their bones.
As she looked around, Sheila wondered if this was where the killer first laid eyes on his victims. She felt her stomach churn at the thought of a list of students from this school targeted for murder, and just how long that list might be.
Clive Waiters' apartment had been empty, and none of his neighbors had had any idea where he might be. They'd put out an APB on Clive, but in the meantime, they'd decided to go to his old school to learn anything they could about him. They'd called the school and, despite the hour, managed to reach a teacher who was working late, and she'd agreed to let them in.
Now, however, Sheila found herself wondering where the teacher might be.
"Why does it have to be so creepy?" Sheila muttered under her breath, her skin prickling with unease as they waited for someone to answer their knock. A few lights were on inside the school, but otherwise the place looked deserted.
"Adds to the charm, doesn't it?" Finn replied, trying to lighten the mood. He adjusted his jacket collar against the chilly night air.
Sheila's eyes scanned the building, searching for any signs of movement. "This place gives me the creeps. I can't shake the feeling that we're being watched."
"Probably just your nerves," Finn said, though his eyes continued to dart around the school grounds as well.
The door finally creaked open, revealing a gray-haired woman who leaned out, peering at them through thick glasses. She had to be Mrs. Brigg, the teacher they had spoken to earlier on the phone. Her lined face and sagging jowls gave her an air of exhaustion, as if she had spent decades battling against the hardships of life.
"Are you the ones who called?" she asked, her voice thin and reedy.
"That's us," Sheila said, offering a reassuring smile. "Thank you for agreeing to meet with us, Mrs. Brigg."
"Of course, dear," she said, opening the door wider. "Please, come in."
"I didn't expect anyone to still be here at this hour," Sheila remarked as she and Finn entered the building.
"Ah, well, I've been staying late to catch up on grading," Mrs. Brigg said. "You see, my daughter was in a car accident earlier this week. She's fine now, thank God, but it's been quite the ordeal."
Sheila nodded, her expression softening. "That must have been terrifying. I'm glad she's okay."
"Thank you, dear," Mrs. Brigg replied with a tired smile.
As they continued down the hallway, Finn remained silent, his eyes scanning their surroundings. He seemed to be searching for any signs of danger or hidden secrets that might help them uncover the truth about Clive Waiters and the murders.
Finally, they reached Mrs. Brigg's office. The room was small and cluttered, with stacks of papers, textbooks, and school supplies occupying every available surface. A single desk lamp cast a warm glow over the chaos, illuminating the relentless stream of work that faced the weary teacher. It was clear that Mrs. Brigg was dedicated to her job, perhaps even to the point of sacrificing her own well-being.
"Please, have a seat." Mrs. Brigg gestured to two mismatched chairs in front of her desk.
"Thank you," Sheila said, settling into one of the chairs. She glanced at the stack of papers Mrs. Brigg had been grading—English essays, by the looks of it. Alongside the red pen marks, there were thoughtful comments and words of encouragement, evidence of Mrs. Brigg's genuine care for her students.
"Your office is very...cozy," Finn offered diplomatically, taking the other chair and looking around the cramped space.
"Ha! Cozy is one way to put it." Mrs. Brigg chuckled, her eyes crinkling at the corners. "But I like to think of it as my little sanctuary. It's where I can make a difference for these kids, even if it's just in the smallest of ways."
Sheila could see that beneath the exhaustion and stress, there was a spark of passion in Mrs. Brigg's eyes—a fierce determination to help her students succeed, no matter the obstacles they faced. That same drive resonated within Sheila herself, fueling her own relentless pursuit for justice and truth.
"Alright." Mrs. Brigg sighed, settling into her chair behind the cluttered desk. "You mentioned an investigation on the phone. How can I help?"
Finn leaned forward in his seat, taking a deep breath before he began. "We're looking for information about a former student named Clive Waiters. He would've been here about twenty years ago."
"Twenty years?" Mrs. Brigg's eyebrows shot up in surprise. "That's quite a long time. I can't say I remember every student who's passed through these halls."
"Maybe this will help," Finn said, pulling out a worn photograph of a younger Clive Waiters and handing it to Mrs. Brigg.
As the gray-haired woman studied the picture, her gaze sharpened, and something akin to recognition flickered across her face. "Yes, I do remember him now," she admitted. "Clive was a quiet boy, kept to himself mostly."
"Mrs. Brigg, do you recall any incidents involving Clive and other students?" Sheila asked.
For a moment, the older woman hesitated, her eyes clouding with a distant memory. "There was one incident that stands out in particular," she began slowly. "It happened in the gymnasium during a school assembly. Some of the popular kids decided to make Clive their target. They cornered him, pushed him around, and took his belongings."
"Can you describe what happened next?" Finn asked, his fingers tapping lightly on the arm of his chair, betraying his impatience.
"Those kids were merciless," Mrs. Brigg continued, her voice thick with anger. "They taunted Clive, calling him names, even pouring soda on his head. He tried to fight back, but there were too many of them. The poor boy was humiliated and broken."
She paused, looking from Finn to Sheila. "Is he in some sort of trouble now?" she asked, concern etched on her face.
"We're not sure," Finn replied, his voice carefully neutral. "We just need to ask him some questions and see what he knows."
Sheila shifted in her chair, her mind racing with questions as she considered the implications of Mrs. Brigg's story. The gymnasium had been a place where Sheila herself had felt most alive and empowered. For Clive Waiters, though, it must have been a living hell.
Her eyes locked on Mrs. Brigg's, seeking answers. "Did Clive ever fight back or retaliate against the bullies?"
Mrs. Brigg shook her head, her gray curls bobbing gently. "No, he just kept to himself mostly. You know, we had a program here at Mildred Heights for helping troubled students. I personally worked with many of them, even the janitor's son, despite the fact that he wasn't officially enrolled." She sighed, her gaze distant. "I tried to get Clive into the program, but his father wouldn't allow it. He believed that Clive needed to toughen up and learn to deal with things on his own."
Sheila clenched her fists, frustrated by the thought of a parent standing in the way of their child getting help. She knew better than most the value of support and teamwork, something Clive had been cruelly denied.
"Clive didn't last much longer after that incident in the gym," Mrs. Brigg continued, her voice tinged with regret. "He dropped out of school and quickly fell off my radar. I wanted to follow up with him, but there were so many other students who needed help. Still, I feel guilty about not doing more for him."
"Mrs. Brigg, you've done more for your students than most teachers would," Finn reassured her, placing a comforting hand on her shoulder. "You can't blame yourself for what happened to Clive."
"Thank you, officer, but I still can't help feeling responsible," she said, looking down at her hands folded in her lap.
"Mrs. Brigg," Sheila said softly, "you did what you could. As a teacher, your job is to guide your students, but ultimately, their paths are their own to choose. Clive's life took a turn that no one could have predicted."
Mrs. Brigg looked up at Sheila, tears glistening in her eyes. "I just wish I could've helped him more."
"Your dedication to your students is admirable," Sheila said, reaching out to grasp Mrs. Brigg's hand. "But even the best of intentions can't always change the course of someone's life. Now, we need to focus on finding Clive and getting answers. Do you have any idea where he might be now? We went to his home, but he wasn't there."
Mrs. Brigg frowned in thought, her eyes scanning the office as if searching for an answer. "I'm not sure," she admitted, shaking her head. "It's been so many years... But back when he was still a student here, there was a bridge he would sometimes go to when he needed to escape from the other kids. It's called Hartnell Bridge. I don't know if he would still go there after all this time, but it's something, I suppose."
"Thank you, Mrs. Brigg," Sheila said, exchanging a glance with Finn. They would have to check out the bridge as soon as possible.
As they gathered their things and prepared to leave, Mrs. Brigg looked at them with a somber expression. "I always worried about Clive," she confessed, her voice barely more than a whisper. "He was like a pressure cooker, you know? All that anger and pain boiling inside him... I knew that sooner or later, he was going to explode. I just hoped nobody else would get hurt."
CHAPTER TWENTY
Sheila eased off the accelerator as Hartnell Bridge loomed in the distance, its silhouette a dark, hulking shape against the inky night sky.
As they approached the bridge, Sheila spotted another vehicle parked near the entrance—an old, dented pickup truck. The paint had long since faded, and rust clung to the edges of the wheel wells. The windows were fogged up from the cold air, making it impossible to see inside.
Sheila pulled the car to a stop just a few feet away from the truck, headlights illuminating its empty interior.
"Think he's inside?" she asked.
"If he is," Finn answered, "I'm guessing he's been there for a while, given the amount of condensation on the windows."
Just then, Sheila caught sight of a shadowy figure standing on the bridge, partially obscured by the railings. With only the dim glow of moonlight to guide her, it was difficult to see much beyond the person's general outline.
"I think I just found him," she said, pointing as her heart pounded a little faster.
Finn nodded and drew his weapon. He ejected the magazine, checked it, then slammed it home again.
"Stay close," he said, opening his door. Sheila followed him out a moment later.
The chilling wind whipped around them, causing Sheila to shiver involuntarily. They approached the bridge on foot, Finn's weapon drawn and ready, their breaths visible in the cold air. Each step felt heavier than the last, the tension thickening like fog, making it difficult for Sheila to breathe.
There was a sudden movement as the figure tossed something small over the bridge.
"Stop!" Sheila shouted, worried that the figure might be disposing of evidence. Her heart pounded in her chest, her mind racing.
"Raise your hands!" Finn ordered, his voice authoritative and unwavering. The man froze, keeping his face turned away from them, his hands buried in his pockets.
The scene was eerily quiet except for the howling wind and the distant sound of water rushing below. Sheila could feel the tight knot of fear in her stomach as she tried to assess the situation. Finn's grip tightened on his weapon, his body tensed and ready for action.
"Slowly pull your hands out of your pockets," Finn commanded, his voice stern and unyielding. But the man didn't respond, only standing there, rigid and uncooperative.
Finn's jaw clenched in frustration. "I'm gonna need backup on Hartnell Bridge," he said into his radio.
Sheila watched the stranger closely, trying to gauge his intentions. Taking a cautious step closer, she addressed the man with a calm, even tone. "Hey, we just want to talk to you. What's going on?"
For a moment, the wind seemed to carry her words away, leaving only silence in its wake. Then, the man finally turned his head slightly, acknowledging her presence. When the man spoke, his voice was slurred and heavy with the weight of inebriation.
"I just want to be left alone," he muttered, his words barely audible over the wind.
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