I sat in the back of the van, the search warrant tucked tightly under my fingers, Rivera at my side, along with the team of police who were going to help me infiltrate Little’s home in Watertown. In order for this piece of paper to be in my grasp, I needed a motive.
My visit to Little’s house yesterday had given us that.
When Rivera and I had gone to his home, I’d told Little we were there to conduct a follow-up interview regarding the bombers’ case. With his residence being only a few doors down from where the brothers had been captured, asking additional questions to help connect evidence seemed like a justifiable reason for a visit. Reluctantly, he let Rivera and me inside. While I was keeping Little busy with the interrogation, Rivera took pictures of the room with a hidden camera he had clipped to his tie, specifically of the framed photographs that were by the TV and side of the couch.
Most of the photos were too dark and grainy to make out, but forensics were able to match one of the pictures with several we had on file of Mills, the girl who had been taken from Dorchester, who had been missing a few days shy of six months.
Rivera also took several pictures of Little, and we presented those to Mills’s mother to see if she could identify him as someone who’d had a relationship with her daughter. The mother had had no knowledge of him or their relationship or a reason why he would have multiple photos of her daughter in his home.
We were back to get that answer.
Before we’d gotten in the van this evening, we’d done our homework. We researched his accounting firm and the hours he spent there and the ones he was at home. We pulled registration on the two vehicles he had in his driveway, and we knew he had made his final mortgage payment almost a year ago. He paid his taxes, had voted in the last four elections, had graduated from Wentworth and UMass.
After speaking to the detective who had been on the second story of Little’s home the night we captured the brothers, I now knew Little had a secret fetish. An affinity for dolls—life-sized, petite, and every length in between. The detective had told me they were in Little’s bed, on every surface upstairs. One guest room was a dedicated space for crafting these dolls, another for fucking them.
The man certainly had kinks, but what didn’t make sense was why this fifty-two-year-old guy had multiple photographs of Mills in his home.
While the team waited a block away in the van, listening through hidden microphones, Rivera and I knocked on Little’s door.
As soon as Little opened it and saw us on his front steps, his stare narrowed, and he snapped, “I told you everything yesterday. I know nothing more. This is harassment.”
I raised a photo of the missing girl, observing Little’s face as I said, “We’re here to question you about Kerry Mills.” I showed him the piece of paper I had in my other hand. “And this allows us inside to ask you anything we’d like.”
A tic quivered through his chin as his eyes moved from the photo to me. “I don’t know where she is.”
I hadn’t asked him that.
In fact, I hadn’t said a word about her disappearance.
“Let us in, Little. Or we’ll let ourselves in.”
His chest rose, nostrils flaring, as he took several deep breaths, gradually stepping aside.
Remembering the space well, I pointed at the couch. “Why don’t you take a seat over there?”
I waited for his ass to plant before I walked over to the closest framed photo, holding it in my hands. Easily identifying the girl, I pointed the picture toward him while Rivera scouted the rest of the room, and I asked Little, “You obviously know Kerry Mills has been missing for six months, so why don’t you tell me why you have photographs of her in your home?”
He shrugged. “She’s someone I knew.”
“How?”
“I took a few classes at Northeastern. Kerry was in one. We hung out a few times.”
We knew Mills was a part-time student. If Little had taken classes at Northeastern, we would have found that information, and it would have been flagged.
“We have no record of you enrolled in any class at Northeastern.”
“And that’s my problem?”
There was something so smug about this asshole, and I wanted to punch the look right off his fucking face.
“I’m asking why you’re not registered in their system.”
While I waited for him to respond, I took my time in studying the photo. Mills was on her knees with her hands behind her back. A white dress covered her body that almost resembled a maid’s costume. Behind her was mostly darkness, beneath her a dirty, bare mattress.
“I don’t know why I’m not,” he answered.
I didn’t believe that.
I met his eyes again and said, “How many classes have you taken there?”
“Just the one we were in together.”
His story was already changing.
In my earpiece, one of the guys in the van said, “I’m digging into the school’s system right now. Give me thirty seconds.”
I turned the framed photo toward Little and said, “Explain this picture.”
“What’s there to say?”
I walked closer to where he was sitting and dropped the photo on the table in front of him. “Don’t play fucking games with me. When I ask a question, you answer.” I pointed at the frame. “Why are her hands behind her back? Why is she in a dress that’s unlike any style we saw in her closet at home? Where was this picture taken?”
He sighed, like I was wasting his goddamn time. “She liked to be dominated. She wore that outfit, and it was a little game we used to play.”
A team member said in my ear, “We’re reaching out to her mother right now to see if she can locate the dress in Mills’s room.”
“How long were you two intimate?” Rivera asked him.
“Couple of months.”
“Did she bring you home? Did you meet her family?”
He laughed, and even though his glasses didn’t fall, he pushed them high against the bridge of his nose. “I’m thirty years older than her. I’m not the guy you bring home to mama.”
“Then, what kind of guy are you, Mr. Little?”
He tilted his head, almost like a dog. “The one who likes to fuck after the bell rings and not speak again until the next class.”
“There’s zero record of Ronald Little at Northeastern,” my team member said in my ear. “We’ve tried running his address, phone number, work line, and Social Security number. He doesn’t exist in their system.”
I glanced at Rivera, who had just heard the same information in his earpiece, and then looked back at Little. “When was the last time you saw Mills?”
He crossed his legs, his hands folding in the center. “I’m not positive, but it was before tax season. She stopped coming to class, and I never saw her again.”
“Did you try to call her?”
“I didn’t have her number.”
“Did you stop by her house to see if she was all right?” Rivera inquired.
My thoughts were interrupted again as a team member came through my ear and said, “The mother has never seen that white dress before, and it’s not in Mills’s closet.”
“I didn’t have her address.” Little scratched his bald scalp. “Like I told you, we were fuck buddies, nothing more.”
“Tell me how someone—a business owner, a homeowner, a man who, on paper, seems to follow all the rules—attends class at a university, and the school has absolutely no record of him being there.”
He stared at me for several seconds before replying, “The school needs to take better records.”
He was lying.
Rivera knew that; the team listening to this conversation knew that.
A stranger off the fucking street would know that.
Little could have used an alias, so nothing could be traced back to him, or he’d never attended the class in the first place.
“Mr. Little, what class was it that you took with Miss Mills?”
There was another pause and then, “A business course.”
“Mills was enrolled in Communications II and Basic Algebra,” the team member said in my ear.
Now, I knew this entire story was a facade.
While Rivera began another trip around the living room, I asked, “Where was that photo taken?”
Little scratched his arm, his stare on Rivera, eventually saying, “Some house she took me to in Dorchester. I don’t know where it was.”
“So, your relationship extended beyond sex?”
“We went there to fuck. So, no, it was just sex.”
Rivera stood next to the end table, only a foot from Little, and said, “Where were you on the evening of September twenty-seventh?”
Little laughed, his head falling back against the pillow, the movement causing his glasses to slip toward the tip of his nose. Interestingly, he didn’t lift them. “You honestly want me to remember that? I can hardly recall yesterday. I certainly can’t remember a date that long ago.”
There was something about this man that rubbed me the wrong way, like the needle of a mosquito inserting into your skin. It wasn’t just his voice. It was his entire demeanor. I had this throbbing feeling that every word that came out of his mouth was a goddamn lie.
But I knew from experience, if we just kept him talking, those lies would eventually unravel.
Men like him could only hide in the dark for so long before the sun revealed their integrity.
That was what Rivera, my team, and myself were today.
The fucking sun.
“So, you don’t know where you were on the evening of September twenty-seventh,” I began, feeding his dishonesty. “How about we ask you something simpler, like, are you enrolled in any classes this semester?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“I’m taking the semester off. Work has become extremely busy, and I want to relax at night.”
“You mean … to redecorate?” Rivera said, now standing by the wall that lined the staircase to the second floor.
“Excuse me?” Little inquired.
Rivera knelt down, looking around the bookcase that was against the wall. “Do you move your furniture around a lot?” He looked at me and then to Little. “You know, move the couch here”—he pointed at the wall on the right side of us—“and switch the bookcase to over there.” He used his finger to aim at the spot where the couch was presently placed.
I had no idea where Rivera was going with this, so my gaze was focused on Little.
“No. I don’t move anything.”
“Your hardwood floor says otherwise,” Rivera said. “In fact, it appears that this bookcase has been moved quite frequently from the amount of wear you have underneath.”
Little’s foot started to bounce. The heel that was on the floor now making a noise. Once he noticed, he stopped. But his breathing still increased, his chest rising and falling.
The same floor was throughout the entire room, and I reached down to feel its texture. The material was quality, durable. It would certainly hold up unless there was a constant grinding or movement, like Rivera had suggested.
“These scratches are significant, Mr. Little,” Rivera continued. “And I see that this bookcase is on wheels, which is an odd addition to a piece of furniture like this.”
Rivera gave a slight push against the side of the shelves, and the bookcase rolled forward, slowly revealing a metal door behind it.
One that was large enough to fit through and was deadbolted shut with three padlocks hanging from the side.
“Sit the fuck back down!” I shouted at Little as he stood and tried to take a step, my gun out of its holster and pointed at him. “Put your fucking hands in the air.”
“We’re on our way in,” the team member said in my ear.
Little returned his ass to the couch, his hands raised.
“Where does the door lead to?” I pressed him.
The team came charging inside, guns pointed at Little.
“Answer the question,” I barked.
He was quiet, looking at every person in the room.
All of us waiting for an answer.
“The county records show this home has no basement, that your house is sitting on solid dirt,” I said. “So, for the third time, tell us where the door leads to, Mr. Little.”
He took several breaths, his eyes darting from the front door to the metal one, like any of us in here was stupid enough to let him escape. “I want my lawyer.”
The words every guilty motherfucker declared the moment they were caught.
I looked at the team and shouted, “Get him cuffed and get him out of here, and let’s get that metal door open!”
While one of the team members put handcuffs on Little and brought him outside, the others were working on the metal locks. Cutters eventually snapped them off one at a time, and Rivera was standing in front of the door when it was opened.
“What’s down there?” I asked from behind him.
“I can’t see anything aside from a set of wooden stairs.” He shifted a few inches to the side, handing me a flashlight. “You do the honors, Flynn.”
I shone the light into the hole and crouched through the small opening. I was careful when I stepped down, not sure of the stability of the steps. Something told me Little had used his engineering background to construct this staircase along with whatever was below. That meant, I didn’t trust it. There could be traps, false stairs—anything was possible.
I slowly descended, checking the stability of each stair, and halfway down was when I saw the shape of a woman, huddled in a corner, making it difficult to distinguish more than just the outline of her body.
“Someone is down here,” I yelled up.
Rivera was already on the top step, using the same speed as me, an officer behind him waiting to climb down as well.
Still cautious about the remaining stairs, I finally reached the bottom and did a quick scan of the small space. Slightly larger than a typical dorm room, there were no windows, a single bulb dangling from the ceiling providing the only light.
The girl’s knees were tucked against her chest, face buried beneath her arms. Her eyes, the single part of her that showed, were glued to me.
“Kerry Mills?” I asked as I took a few steps closer.
As her arms loosened, a doll appeared that she’d been hugging to her chest.
Her forearms dropped even lower, her whole face now revealed. Even though there was dirt and muck on her cheeks, her body much frailer than her photos, there was no question who I was looking at.
“Yes,” she whispered, her voice hoarse. “That’s me.”
I took out my wallet, showing her my badge, hoping that would give her a piece of comfort. “I’m Detective Flynn.” I turned, pointing to my partner, who had just reached the bottom of the stairs. “That’s Detective Rivera. Kerry, we’re here to take you home.”
“Home.” It sounded more like a breath, and once the single syllable was out, tears began to roll down her cheeks. She gripped the doll, like I was going to yank it from her. “You’re really going to t-take me home?” Spit pooled on her lips as the tears fell faster.
“Yes.”
“Oh God. Oh God.” She put her hands over her face, the doll now lying across her legs. “It’s o-over. Dear God, it’s over-r.”
I made sure to make plenty of noise as I came closer.
In situations where victims were held in captivity, it couldn’t be determined how they were going to react to anything; what trauma they had faced could cause them to process everything differently. It was important she knew my location at all times; surprising her in any capacity would be extremely detrimental.
“Kerry,” I said, kneeling a few feet away, “once we get you outside, we’re immediately going to take you to the hospital and get you the medical care you need.” Her fingers dropped from her face as I added, “We’ll call your mom on the way and make sure she meets us there, okay?”
She nodded. Slow at first and then harder. “My mom-m.” More tears dripped. “I miss-s her so-o much.”
“You’re going to see her really soon.”
Her head dropped, shoulders sagging, hands holding the doll so tightly. “I’m free.” Her voice was still no louder than a murmur.
“The man who was keeping you down here—Ronald Little—he’s now in custody, and he’ll never be able to hurt you again.”
Long, dirty pieces of hair stuck to her face. “Lock him up.”
I was getting the sense that she couldn’t physically speak any louder or she’d been trained not to.
She held the doll to her chin, adding, “And throw away the fucking key.”
“An ambulance just arrived,” a team member said in my earpiece. “They’ve been briefed, and they’re on standby to take Mills to the hospital.”
I looked around again, seeing that there was absolutely nothing down here aside from a book and a bucket. With the stench of urine so strong in the air, I knew exactly what that bucket had been used for.
My heart broke for this innocent girl.
“Would you like to get out of here now?” When she nodded, I held out my hands to show her I had nothing in them. “I would like to carry you if that’s all right?” Before she could respond, I continued, “I will not hurt you, Kerry. Neither will Rivera. We just want to help you, and we’re asking you to trust us. Can you do that?”
Her response was delayed. “Yes-s.”
She wasn’t sobbing, like when a victim was pulled from a car wreck and the person they loved was sitting dead next to them. These tears were like a sickness that she was finally healing from.
The feeling looked far deeper than relief.
“I’m going to lift you up,” I said.
When she gave me the approval, I gradually closed the gap between us. With no space left, I very gently slid my arm under her legs and another behind her back, holding her against me as I stood.
She felt weightless.
The smell of the basement permeated from the filthy clothes she wore.
“Once I get you outside and into the ambulance, the paramedics are going to drive you to the hospital.”
I wanted her to know each step, and I repeated them, so she felt comfortable. In this scenario, there was no such thing as too much communication. The last thing I wanted was to cause more anxiety than what she was already feeling.
I moved only a few inches and asked, “Are you all right?”
“Yes-s.” Her arm wrapped around my neck, the doll resting against her stomach—an accessory she wasn’t ready to part with.
Rivera led us to the bottom of the stairs, and just as I was about to start climbing, her fingers bit down on my shoulder, stopping me from moving any farther. Her face leaned into my ear, lips pressed close to it.
She whispered.
And the words that I registered sent a chill through my entire fucking body.