Chris Mooney - The Killing House

‘This business of making ammo using human ashes, what do you think that’s about? Why does she — or he — do it?’

‘Part of their revenge fantasy, I suspect. Does the funeral home’s website contain the names of the owner or owners? Photographs?’

‘I’m looking right now… No. There’s nothing listed under the contact page, no names or personal photographs. There are, however, pictures of the facility. It’s set in a wooded area, has its own adjoining cemetery.’ Karim looked away from the screen and said, ‘What if the other victims are somewhere on the grounds, maybe even in the funeral home itself?’

‘We won’t know until we perform a search.’

Karim glanced at his wristwatch.

‘Have your Baltimore contact do it,’ Fletcher said. ‘If these people are shutting down their operation, we can’t afford to waste any time.’

Karim nodded in agreement and reached for his phone. While he conducted his conversation, Fletcher ruminated on the bedroom closet containing the killing shrine.

Eleven garment bags and eleven sets of cremated remains tucked in bags behind the footwear. The highball glass contained a small trace of ash — human, not cigarette, ash. The closet did not smell of cigarette smoke. The woman in the fur coat sprinkled cremated remains in her bourbon and ingested her former victims as she sat in her chair, staring at the clothing and reliving… what? The kidnapping of the parent? She had also used the ashes to place three separate orders with a company that specialized in adding cremated remains to gun ammunition. She didn’t keep the ammo inside the closet. And what was the reasoning behind the custom-made ammunition? What purpose did it serve?

Fletcher didn’t have an answer, just an idea that led back to his original theory that all the victims were connected. One thing was clear: the woman in the fur coat and, possibly, her male partner were motivated by revenge.

And the children… after you harvested their organs you cremated their remains, didn’t you? But what did you do with their ashes?

Karim hung up the phone. ‘My contact is going to look into the funeral home,’ he said. ‘Now let me tell you what I found on Gary Corrigan. He has a record. After he graduated from the University of Maryland School of Medicine, he completed his residency at Saint Agnes, also in Baltimore. He stayed on and worked there as a cardiac surgeon until early 2000, when a routine audit showed he was shorting patients their medications, most notably Valium.’

‘He must have been using Valium to treat his hand tremors or surgical anxiety. Or both.’

‘You said he was using a beta-blocker and that other drug.’

‘Propranolol,’ Fletcher said. ‘The medical cocktail is relatively new.’

‘So he tried self-medicating with Valium and got caught. Why not just seek treatment?’

‘Because the hospital would have to disclose it or face possible lawsuits. And would you want a surgeon who suffered from hand tremors?’

‘Good point,’ Karim said. ‘In any event, the hospital didn’t sweep the matter under the rug. Saint Agnes brought Corrigan up on charges. After his arrest, the medical board revoked his licence to practice. Judge didn’t give him any jail time, just fined and ordered mandatory drug counselling. Corrigan entered a rehabilitation unit in Maryland that specializes in addiction within the medical community — drug addiction, from my understanding, is a common and widespread problem. Three months later, he was released.’

‘His current occupation?’

‘Corrigan worked a variety of odd jobs until early 2001. There’s nothing listed after that year. That’s when he also stopped paying taxes. IRS never caught up with him.’

‘Background?’

‘Married in ’93, divorced a year later. No kids. Never remarried. Parents are deceased. No siblings. No debt either. House paid in full. That’s all I have on him at the moment.’ Karim picked up a small remote from his desk and said, ‘Now let’s see if we can find this Jenner bloke.’

Karim pointed the remote at the windows. The light-blocking shades began to lower and the office grew dark.

But not the walls. Made of high-tech plasma screens, they glowed a bright white.

‘I found twenty-three men living in Maryland with either the first or last name of Jenner,’ Karim said.

Fletcher got to his feet. ‘I’m interested in a white male, late forties to early sixties.’

Karim clicked away on his keyboard.

Minutes later, the brightness dissolved away in a series of pixels. Digital pictures started to fill the blackness — three rows of Maryland driver’s licences, fifteen in total.

Fletcher found him in the middle of the third row: there was the man he’d seen leave the home in Dickeyville and enter the back of the Lincoln.

Fletcher tapped the licence. Karim enlarged it and the others disappeared.

William S. Jenner was fifty-eight, five foot ten and 220 pounds. He lived in Baltimore, at No. 922 Black Oak Road.

Karim went back to typing and clicking, using the number printed on the Baltimore driver’s licence to unlock William Jenner’s social-security number, the master key in the digital kingdom. Fletcher entered the anteroom and helped himself to a bowl of fruit set up on the wet bar’s polished countertop.

His thoughts turned to Nathan Santiago. Abducted at seventeen and found eight years later, a 25-year-old man with a bony frame and malnourished skin bruised with needle marks, and with a raw and infected horse-shaped incision from a kidney removal.

Eight years.

Fletcher recalled the moment when he had pulled back on to the highway, on his way to Karim’s home in Cape May. Santiago had collapsed into himself, wailing, refusing to speak. Did he know his mother had also been abducted? Had she been imprisoned with him?

The child is taken first, Fletcher thought. Years pass as the parents live moment to moment on a bridge suspended between hope and reality — hope that their child might yet still be found alive, while the overwhelming reality suggests that their son or daughter is most likely dead, never to come home.

Why take the child first?

Psychological torture.

Years pass and then a single parent is abducted, the spouse killed. Why?

Payback.

Revenge.

And what happened to the abducted parent? Was he or she brought to the place where their missing child was being held?

Santiago had been found tied to a bed. He had been washed and in clean clothing. Why? Was he on display for the dinner guests, the people who had flown in to collect organs? Had Nathan Santiago been scheduled for the operating slab?

Fletcher saw the closet again, with its garment bags and human ashes tucked behind the footwear. The woman in the fur coat and her male partner had erected a private sanctuary inside their killing house. They had collected — so far — eleven garment bags for eleven victims. Eleven adults, and each one had a child who had been abducted. Each child had been missing for years and then a parent was abducted.

Fletcher marvelled at the predation at work here, the cunning sophistication and ruthless patience required to pull off such a feat. The feeling didn’t repulse him. As a profiler, he had learned to view deplorable acts as works of art. It was the only way to decipher the meaning behind the brushstrokes.

Karim called for him. Fletcher returned to the office.

‘Here’s what I found during my initial pass,’ Karim said. ‘William Jenner worked as a patrolman for the city of Baltimore until early ’98, when he and his partner, Marcus De Luca, responded to a 911 call from a woman who said her ex-boyfriend had come to her house and threatened to kill her. The woman later claimed that both cops had raped her.’