Phillip Margolin - Sleeping Beauty

A policeman was waiting in the lobby with a summons from Tony Marx, Birch’s partner. He escorted the detective along a path that led down to the river. The klieg lights that had been set up around the boathouse turned the night into day. Birch had been in the boathouse earlier. It had been a grim scene. Ashley’s mother had been the victim of a savage attack. Birch would have to wait for the autopsy report to find out how many times Terri Spencer had been stabbed. There had been too many wounds for him to count.

Casey Van Meter had not been stabbed at all. Birch believed that Ashley had saved her life. She had been struck forcefully on the jaw. The blow had driven the back of her head against the roof support, and she would have been unconscious when Ashley distracted Maxfield and forced him to flee. Attempts to revive Casey had been unsuccessful, and she’d been rushed to the hospital.

Birch’s escort led the detective past the boathouse. A minute later they arrived at a stone cottage. The path was close to the river, and Birch could see a narrow deck in the back. The setting was idyllic. The detective imagined himself sitting peacefully on the deck at dusk with a glass of scotch, watching the sunset. Maxfield wouldn’t be doing much of that anymore after they caught him.

The inside of the cottage looked lived-in but tidy. There was no television in the front room, but there were many books lying about. Birch glanced at some of the titles. He recognized a few from his college literature courses. There were also several books about creative writing. A shout distracted Birch.

Tony Marx was a chubby African-American with salt-and-pepper hair, ten years older than Birch. Marx had seen it all during his career, so Birch was surprised by how excited his partner seemed.

“Larry, you’ve got to see this,” Marx said as he grabbed his partner’s arm and dragged him into a room that opened off a narrow hall. It was obvious that this was where Maxfield wrote. A comfortable armchair was stuck in a corner of the room. A lamp stood behind the chair, next to an end table. On the table was a pen, some Post-its, a steno pad, and a stack of paper that looked like a manuscript.

A window looked out at the river. In front of the window was a desk dominated by a computer monitor. Beside the monitor was another stack of paper covered in type. Marx smiled when he saw where Birch was looking. He handed his partner a pair of latex gloves like the ones he was wearing. Birch picked up the top page and started to read.

“I smiled when Martha screamed. Her pain was a symphony more beautiful than any Beethoven had ever composed. I held her ear by the edge and began to slice slowly to prolong her agony…”

Birch looked up. “What is this, Tony?”

Marx’s smile widened. “A novel Maxfield was writing. He was kind enough to put his name at the top of each page so we wouldn’t think that another psycho killer wrote it. He’s only about one hundred and seventy pages in but there’s enough there to hang him.” Marx threw a thumb over his shoulder that pointed at the manuscript on the table by the armchair. “That’s more of the same. Probably an earlier draft, because it doesn’t have his name on it. But I spotted several similar scenes.”

“Didn’t you say that this is a novel?”

“Yeah.”

“The DA can’t use this. Maxfield’s lawyer will argue it’s make-believe.”

Marx grinned. He looked like a child who had just been given a really great toy for Christmas.

“I didn’t give you the good part. Take a gander at this scene.”

Birch took the new pages. At first he didn’t get it. The scene was pretty gruesome but it was still only a scene in a novel. When the murderer tied up the parents and the teenage daughter with duct tape, Birch got a funny feeling in his gut. Then he reached the part where the serial killer went to the kitchen. When the killer selected a piece of pie and a glass of milk to ease his hunger, Birch stopped reading.

“We’ve got him,” Birch said. Involuntarily, his lips began to mimic his partner’s triumphant smile. Then he remembered Ashley Spencer and the smile faded, and his features hardened into a look of grim determination.

Ashley was awake but lightly medicated when the door to her room opened. Detective Birch stepped aside and an old man limped to Ashley’s bed with the aid of a stout walking stick. He was over six feet tall, with thick, stooped shoulders. Behind him was a male version of Casey Van Meter, dressed in a rumpled suit with his tie askew.

“Ashley,” the detective said, “this is Henry Van Meter, Dean Van Meter’s father.”

Henry Van Meter was rarely seen anymore except at official functions or on occasional walks around the Academy grounds when the weather was warm. He had been a vigorous man until he suffered a stroke that almost killed him. Ashley had seen him a few times from a distance, strolling slowly through the campus, leaning heavily on his walking stick.

Van Meter’s sad blue eyes peered at her through the thick lenses in a pair of old-fashioned, wire-rimmed glasses. His hair was snowy white. His skin was sallow and sagged at the jowls. He wore brown corduroy pants and a bulky wool sweater, even though the outside temperature was in the mid-eighties.

“And this,” the detective said, pointing to the younger man, “is Miles Van Meter, Dean Van Meter’s brother. He’s just arrived from New York.”

Miles nodded. He looked terrible.

“They came here directly from the hospital after visiting the dean,” Birch said. “They insisted on seeing you.”

There was no reaction from Ashley. Birch felt awful. The doctor told him that she had been talking about wanting to die. He prayed that she would put those thoughts behind her, and he was furious that a sweet kid like Ashley would ever have to feel that way.

“We want you to know how sorry we are about your tragedy,” Henry Van Meter said. His speech was slurred because of his stroke.

Ashley turned her head away so they wouldn’t see her cry.

“My sister means the world to me, just like your folks meant the world to you. Casey isn’t dead but she might as well be.” Miles’s voice sounded hoarse and on the edge of a sob. “The doctors say that she may never come out of her coma. So we’ve both lost people dear to us in the same insane act.”

Miles stopped, unable to go on.

“We will do everything we can for you,” Henry said. “You must tell us if there is something you want, something that will help you survive this terrible ordeal.”

“Thank you,” Ashley mumbled. She knew they meant well but she wanted these people out of her room.

Birch saw Ashley’s distress and touched Henry Van Meter on the arm.

“The doctor said we shouldn’t exhaust Ashley.”

“Yes,” Henry agreed. “We’ll leave you. But we are very sincere. We want to help you.”

“God bless you,” Miles said as he followed his father into the corridor.

Birch waited until the door closed before pulling a chair next to Ashley’s bed.

“Doctor Boston told me that you were talking about killing yourself.”

Ashley looked away but she didn’t answer.

“I’m a homicide detective, Ashley. Do you want to know the worst part of my job?” Birch waited a heartbeat to see if Ashley would answer. “It’s not the bodies or the bad guys, it’s dealing with the people who are left behind. So many of them feel like you do, like there’s no reason to go on anymore. I’ve never felt that way but I’ve talked to so many people who have that I think I have some understanding of the way you feel. They tell me it’s like being a living dead person-you’re walking around but there’s no feeling inside. They say they feel like they’re empty and they’ll never get filled up again.” Ashley turned her head toward him. “Before the murder they had all these good feelings. They loved and they were loved. And then the person who loved them disappears and it’s like those feelings are sucked out of them and they can’t get the person or the feelings back. If you give into that kind of despair you’re rewarding Maxfield. He lives to make people suffer, he feeds on suffering.”