The days are short, and darkness comes early to the Pacific Northwest in winter. When the four Clallam County police utility vehicles, or PUVs, turn off the logging road and bump their way along the rutted path toward the cabin, it’s their headlights that herald their arrival.
The vehicles come to a stop just short of the cabin and all the doors open at once, giving the column the odd appearance of some sort of mechanical land beast with gills. Four deputies step from their respective driver’s seats, while the eleven-member Evidence Response Team from the FBI’s Seattle field office pours out and begins unloading equipment from the back.
They made good time from Seattle.
Jimmy placed the call just four hours ago, and the first two of that would have been spent pulling the team together and getting ready for deployment. The rest of the transit time was spent driving to Seattle-Tacoma International Airport, where they hopped onto Betsy—courtesy of the Special Tracking Unit—and flew to Port Angeles. From there it was easy: the impromptu Clallam County convoy picked them up, and they made short work of the drive to the cabin, even without the benefit of lights and sirens.
Emerging from the front passenger seat of the lead vehicle, Special Agent Darren Rossiter stretches his arms out and then twists at the waist, working the miles out of his body. Spotting Jimmy, he smiles broadly and begins to saunter over. Jimmy meets him halfway and they greet each other with a warm handshake and comfortable familiarity.
In addition to the seven lab technicians and forensic scientists on the team, there are four special agents, with Darren serving as the special agent in charge. In his mind this doesn’t mean much, and he often refers to himself as the chief cat herder.
Years ago, several of his good-humored teammates started calling him cowboy—on account of the herding reference—until someone decided that he looked more like a shepherd. It’s doubtful any of them had ever seen an actual shepherd, but the reference stuck and quickly became a nickname. These days it’s no longer Special Agent Darren Rossiter, it’s just Shepherd, or sometimes just Shep. Even his no-nonsense boss compromises and calls him Special Agent Shepherd, making sure to include his full title.
Turning my way, Shepherd says, “Nice to see you, Steps.” He takes my outstretched hand and claps me on the shoulder.
Jimmy introduces Jason and Nate, and then Detectives Tony Halsted and Mike Hopkins, who joined us earlier in the afternoon and brought along three Clallam County deputies who they borrowed from day shift. Two of the deputies are cross-trained as crime scene investigators. They’ll be needed in the hours ahead. Even if they hadn’t been invited, it would have been hard to keep them away.
Counting the eleven-member Evidence Response Team, and the four additional deputies who picked them up at the airport and drove them here, we now have twenty-two law enforcement professionals to work the two crime scenes. Their depth of knowledge may vary, but they’re all well versed in evidence preservation.
The plan is to have the four detectives, the two CSI-trained deputies, and the members of the Evidence Response Team split into two groups, one for the disposal site in the woods, and a larger element for the cabin, which deputies have already dubbed “Murphy’s Misery.”
I’ve always suspected that those in law enforcement are a bit more imaginative than the average person. After all, they see more, are challenged to believe more, and often have to put their imagination to work when trying to figure out a crime.
Imagination is like any other skill: the more you practice, the better you get. Still, much as I’d like to give credit to the first deputies on scene, Murphy’s Misery was not conceived during a moment of imaginative eureka. Rather, it was so named because the only book in the shack happens to be a copy of Stephen King’s Misery. The much-used paperback was found at the foot of the mattress in the bedroom to the left, next to one of the occupants.
A bookmark juts from here.
That a book about a guy confined to bed in a remote cabin in the woods should be found next to, well, next to the occupant of a bed in a remote cabin in the woods is … ironic. That both cabins are ruled over by raging psychotics is downright alarming. Whether Murphy is sending a message with the book, having a little fun, or completely oblivious to the parallels of the story and the reality he created is anyone’s guess. I’m hoping he’s oblivious, because any other possibility is truly frightening.
There’s no book at the disposal area in the woods, so it’s simply called site two.
While the ERT, CSIs, and detectives work Murphy’s Misery and site two, the remaining deputies will be handed the thankless but necessary task of providing site security. This includes not just the two crime scenes, but also the command vehicle, which is parked on the logging road next to a large fifth-wheel trailer that Detective Halsted brought with him.
After hearing what we’d discovered, Tony correctly figured this was going to be an all-nighter—possibly even a multiday evidence recovery. He thought it would be nice to have a place where team members can rack out for a few hours, if needed. And while the command vehicle has a small bathroom and a mini-fridge, Halsted’s luxury fifth-wheel sleeps eight, has a full kitchenette, a living room, and a respectable bathroom with a massage shower—which hopefully won’t be needed.
All in all, it’s a pretty sweet setup.
The two CSI deputies will be split between the sites and answer directly to the Evidence Response Team. They can learn a great deal working with the best the FBI has to offer, and the skills they’ll learn and practice in the coming hours will pay dividends for years to come.
Big-city homicide detectives may work dozens upon dozens of murders a year, but in most of the United States the homicide rate is low, and a police department or sheriff’s office might see a single case every year or two. This is good for the general public but does little to hone the skills of investigators tasked with solving those crimes.
Lights from the command vehicle illuminate a wide area around the logging road, and the extension cords running off the outside outlets funnel power to four lights dispersed along the path between the road and the cabin.
Once their gear is unpacked, Jimmy leads the ERT to the small clearing at the front of Murphy’s Misery. The low hum of a generator grows louder as they draw near. The portable power unit is necessary because even the industrial extension cords from the command vehicle won’t reach this far. A red-and-black five-thousand-watt generator sits to the side of the cabin with enough extension cords sprouting from it to send a fire marshal into cardiac arrest.
Its twin, equally festooned, is at site two.
A circular array of lights is set back from the crime scene, illuminating it from seven different elevated positions. The practiced placement of the array diffuses the light so that it’s not blinding—unless you look right at one—yet it covers the area in an overlapping pattern that diminishes shadow and presents an almost pleasant work environment.
Additional lights have been set up inside Murphy’s Misery, covering the two small bedrooms, the living room, the pretend kitchen, and the macabre room now known as Sweeney Todd’s.
Another nickname coined by deputies—on account of the barber chair.
Introductions are made all around, no small task considering the number of investigators on scene. Despite the small crowd, Detective Sergeant Jason Sturman handles the meet and greet like a pro and seems to commit every name to memory with flawless precision.
Once again, my inability to remember names returns to haunt me. Of the eleven members on the Evidence Response Team, I manage to recall that one is named something Chatman, and another is something Jenkins. I manage this stupendous feat only because I’ve worked with Chatman and Jenkins in the past.
“Special Agent Jimmy Donovan is going to take a few minutes and provide a rundown on the case to this point,” Jason says when the introductions are complete. “If you have questions, please wait until he’s done, that way we can get through this quickly and get to work. I don’t have to tell you it’s going to be a long night.” Nodding to Jimmy, he says, “They’re all yours.”
If anyone had asked me what the “rundown” on the case was, my answer would have dripped with pessimism, perhaps even dismay. Jimmy says I can be overly dramatic, but that’s because my emotional range is broader than his.
With everyone gathered around, some crouching, some standing, and others sitting on equipment cases, Jimmy spends the next ten minutes bringing them up to speed, starting with the vehicle chase yesterday morning with state patrol, the pursuit of Murphy Cotton, the revelations about the Onion King, and, finally, our discovery of the macabre cabin and the grisly secrets it implies.
“Any questions?” Jimmy asks when he’s done.
There are.
Despite their eagerness to get started, nearly every team member has at least one question, and between Jimmy, Jason, Nate, and I, we answer each one in turn. As this process finally draws down, the mood seems to shift. The air suddenly feels electric, as if the stored static of an impending lightning strike had been captured and contained in the area around the cabin.
It’s about to get real.
Waving me out front and center, Jimmy says, “I’ve asked my partner, Steps, to explain what we found in the cabin and in the woods nearby.” He gives me a nod, and I feel the sudden heat of all those eyes upon me.
It would be an understatement to say that I don’t like being the center of attention, so the “hi” that escapes my mouth is exceeded in its brilliance only by the awkward half wave I give with my right hand.
“Uh, so—” I swallow hard and brace up, reminding myself that I’m the expert. Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn’t. “Detective Sergeant Sturman and Special Agent Donovan made initial entry through the front door,” I say, “which opens into the living room on the left and a kitchen area on the right. In the living room, they observed what they initially mistook for three unknown subjects. One was seated on a love seat, another was on an extremely old exercise bike, and the third was in a broken lounge chair with a blanket over her lap.”
One of the techs raises her hand and I immediately acknowledge her.
“You said you mistook them for unknown subjects,” she says, “so does that mean they were known?”
“No, it means they weren’t subjects at all … they were mannequins.” I let that settle in for a moment before continuing. “We found two more in the kitchen, and one in each bedroom, for a total of seven. They were all posed, as if we’d walked in on their daily routine. Since we had information from Murphy Cotton that there were seven victims—or patients, as he calls them—this discovery was, well, disturbing.”
An agreeable murmur courses through the group.
“The mannequins are dressed in clothing that I believe comes from the victims. Several of them wear coordinated outfits, and two of them are in workout gear with matching tops and bottoms. Obviously, without knowing who the victims are, we can’t compare this against missing person reports to find out what they were last wearing.”
Chatman starts to raise her hand, but then forgoes the gesture and says, “He could have picked the clothes up at a yard sale, or Goodwill, for that matter.” Her words are steeped in skepticism. “What makes you think they came from the victims? For that matter, how do you know there are victims? All you have is the statements of this Murphy Cotton, who, for all we know, is talking about the mannequins. Maybe he thinks they’re people.”
“Oh, trust me,” I say, “the victims are real.” The words come out cold and flat, and Chatman seems to recoil apprehensively as I speak them. That was not my intent. Forcing a deep breath, I say, “It’s an educated guess. We found … well, we found something else.” I shake my head, as if even I can’t believe what’s about to be revealed.
“Rather than explaining it to you, why don’t you all follow me inside and you can see for yourself? It’ll probably be a little crowded, but it can’t be helped.”
Their curiosity is palpable as they surge forward, and I have to pause and caution them about the sketchy pallet-porch. The last thing we need out here is a broken ankle.
As the first member of the ERT steps through the front door behind me, she gasps and nearly backs out again before being jostled forward by those coming behind her. There are more gasps, murmurs, and exclamations, and in a few cases utter silence and bewilderment as the entire team makes its way inside.
“As you can see,” I continue, “the mannequins are wearing inch-thick masks cast in plaster.” I approach the mannequin sitting at the bar and use my pen to point out the hole on the right side of the mask. “Two holes have been drilled into each mask, one on each side. Through these, Murphy has tied two lengths of ribbon, which he used to secure the mask in place, almost like a cheap Halloween costume. We’re confident the mask material is plaster because of the color, and because we found an open bag in the next room.”
I hesitate, but the words finally come: “These are death masks.”
Murmurs and puzzled looks once more sweep through the team, and a young male tech who looks like he should be in high school says, “Are you sure? Just because he made impressions of their faces doesn’t mean they’re dead, right?”
Their shine is flat, I don’t say. There’s no energy left in their mortal residue, I want to explain to the young technician … but I don’t. Even if I just didn’t care anymore and decided to reveal the phenomenon of shine, these are mostly scientists standing before me. Not one of them would believe a word of it because it would challenge other elements of their lockstep dogma. These days, the truth of science seems to depend on either consensus or where the grant money comes from.
Galileo had it easy by comparison.
“I’m sorry, what was your name again?”
“George.”
I wave him forward fifteen paces and point to the barber chair in the corner of the house behind the kitchen. “Do you have a barber chair in your house, George?”
“No.”
“Me either, which is why I found it a bit odd that Murphy would drag this thing all the way out here to the middle of nowhere. It’s not like he was sitting in it and watching TV, right?” It’s a rhetorical question, so I forgo the pause. “Notice all the footprints around the chair?” I ask, pointing for emphasis. “It seems when you mix plaster it gets dust all over the place, and Murphy wasn’t much of a housekeeper. These prints around the chair are all his; when we came through here during our sweep, we were careful to limit our tracks to the edges.” Looking at George, I ask, “Notice anything about the prints?”
It only takes him a moment.
“They’re mostly around the head of the chair.”
“Exactly! I’m guessing this is where he made the molds.”
It’s a solid statement, but leaves some room for doubt, meaning it’s still an open question. The seven distinct shines on the chair tell me everything I need to know, but I’ve found that it’s sometimes better to present an investigator with a possibility they can prove, rather than a fact they can only support.
“There are three boxes there on the floor,” I say, pointing to the cardboard legal boxes. “Inside, you’ll find the original mold for each victim.” George takes this in, as do the others, who are hanging on every word of our exchange. “Do you have gloves?”
George holds up a pair of blue latex gloves and then snaps them on. He knows exactly what I want. Opening the nearest box, he gingerly removes one of the molds and holds it up high, so everyone can get a look. The back side of the mold is rough and undefined, but as he turns it around, the concave impression of a woman’s face presents itself. The detail is breathtaking; a moment frozen in time with such precision that even her eyebrows show definition.
“You asked how I know they’re dead,” I say to George in a sobering tone. Tipping my head toward the mold, I ask, “Do you see any holes for the mouth or nose?”
This realization and its meaning sends a shudder through the room. There’s a long moment of quiet. At length, George kneels and places the mold back into the box, as if afraid to hold it any longer. He composes himself quickly and asks, “What type of material is that?”
“We think it’s an alginate impression material used by dentists, something called Mirror Image. It’s the stuff they use to make a mold of your tooth when they’re preparing a crown or a replacement. It’s also popular with crafters because it captures every detail. There was an unopened container of it in Murphy’s backpack when we captured him yesterday. At the time, we had no idea what he was using it for.” I glance around the interior of the room. “Now we do.” Gesturing toward the kitchen, I add, “There’s an empty package in the sink that I flagged.”
“If the masks are plaster, why not make the molds of the same material?” someone asks from the back of the group. “Wouldn’t that be easier?”
“You’re looking for logical actions from an illogical mind,” Jimmy explains. “Murphy believes he found some way of saving broken women; he told us as much. Maybe the type of mold-making material is important to that process, we just don’t know. But I guarantee you this, these masks and the mannequins on which they’re displayed are all part of it. They all play a role, at least in Murphy’s distorted reality.”
“How messed up is this guy?” another voice interjects.
Jimmy gives a resigned nod. “He’s a barely functioning psychotic.”
Glancing at the older woman who asked the question, then at the others, he adds, “We plan on having another talk with Murphy Cotton first thing tomorrow morning. It’ll be interesting to hear his explanation for all this.” He waves his hand around the room, as if to encompass it.
When Jimmy steps back a single pace, I take it as my cue to continue.
“Obviously, there are parallels between these death masks and those found on the rats Jimmy mentioned earlier, the ones in Murphy’s fifth-wheel,” I say. “In his mind, he probably perfected his system experimenting on the rats, and then applied it to the victims. How much of this was influenced or directed by the Onion King is speculation. He’s the wild card in all this.”
Walking slowly through the living room, I pause near the front door. “Now we’re going to take a short walk through the woods,” I say, “to the … to the place.…”
I don’t know how it happens or why, but the words escape me. It’s not like I haven’t seen my share of nastiness during my time with the Special Tracking Unit. I’ve been witness to every manner of horror the human mind can conjure, the images of which still come to me in nightmares.
Yet this is different.
It’s downright sterile in comparison. Perhaps that’s why it bothers me to my core. Murphy’s victims haven’t just been killed, they’ve been erased.
“Let me show you something,” I finish in a quiet voice.