Page 50 of M for Murder

It was hard to believe that night had been almost two years ago, but just like the night when his daddy had been killed, it would always be with him in clear and colourful detail.

His mother had survived her suicide attempt, but never returned home. The doctors declared her mentally unstable and she was allowed to see the three of them one more time before she was taken to the nursing institution where, it was claimed, she would be made well again. But in truth she still resided there to this very day.

As they had no other family and were too young to fend for themselves, Rodney and his brothers had been brought to Wyefield, the nearest city to San Palimo, and placed in the Wyefield Children’s Home to await adoption. Rodney recalled the day they had arrived and how after settling in they had spoken to social workers, who promised that the three of them would remain together.

He had clung to that promise every time the prospective parents had come to visit, looking for a child to make their family complete, always drawn to the youngest brother, often prepared to make room for eight-year-old Clifford, but never wanting to take on the responsibility of a thirteen-year-old boy.

Eventually the day came when the home gave up trying to place the three of them together and it was decided that they would have to go separately.

Although nobody actually ever spoke the words aloud, Rodney could read the vibes well enough to know that he would likely spend the rest of his childhood in the home.

As everyone expected, the youngest was the first to go, taken on by the doting parents of three girls who wanted a boy to make their family complete, and it was less than a month after he had gone that the news came that Rodney had been dreading.

A home had also been found for Clifford.

Although he had already lost his mother, his daddy and one brother, Rodney found the idea of losing Clifford almost unbearable. His brother had been his one ally since his daddy had died and together they had looked after each other. Without Clifford, Rodney wasn’t sure he could go on.

Of course he somehow managed to, forcing himself to face each day, knowing that nobody wanted him and living for the promise that his brother had made him during their last conversation before they had said goodbye, that no matter where he was or what happened in the future, he would one day come back to find him.

Sitting on the large window ledge in his room at the home, watching the traffic passing by on the busy road two floors below, Rodney remembered Clifford’s promise and knew that he could trust him to keep it. Almost a year had passed since the two of them had seen each other, but not a day went by when he didn’t think of his brother, wondering what he was up to and wanting to know how he was getting on with his new family.

He stared thoughtfully at the worn brown suitcase sitting on the floor, packed with his meagre possessions. Being alone had changed him in many ways. It had made him grow up and realise that if he was going to get on in life he would have to become a survivor. He had learned to channel the emotions running free inside him, quashing down any feelings of love and joy he experienced, and releasing them instead through acts of fear and pain. He wondered if it was because of these necessary changes that the Boones had picked him.

As they sat and studied him intently during their first meeting, Cedric and Phillipa Boone must have sensed his new inner strength and known he would grow into a son they could be proud of.

Seeing their car pulling up outside the main door, ready to collect him and take him away to his new home, Rodney climbed down from the ledge and collected his case, determined that he would not let them down.

19

JUNIPER, OREGON. TUESDAY 29TH APRIL 1997

E mma Keeley had been found. The body of the beautiful, raven-haired pianist had washed up on the banks of the river down by the old bridge and had been discovered early Tuesday morning by two joggers.

Like the others, she was naked, and the back of her neck had been carved.

Joel Hickok and Max Sutton, together with the local pathologist and a team of officers, hurried to the scene, and the whole section of river was immediately sealed off.

The pathologist, Greg Withers, a burly man in his fifties who like fine wine had aged well with few wrinkles and just a hint of silver in his thick red hair, was already known to both agents, having been responsible for the reports on Scott Jagger and Rufus Lind. As he worked, the three of them discussed different aspects of the case, in particular the area in which Emma’s body had been found.

So far, the killer had copied Boone, dumping his victims in the sewer each time. Was there a reason he had now decided to change location?

As they talked, a small crowd of morbid sightseers began to gather behind the police tape, along with the photographers and reporters who had been first on the scene. Max rolled his eyes when he saw them.

‘Sick fucks. I can’t believe that people get off on seeing this shit.’

Joel gave a twisted smile. ‘Who wants to pay for TV when you get the real deal for free?’ ‘You know what this means, don’t you?’

‘We get to be celebrities?’

‘You wish, pal.’ Max let out a sour laugh. ‘We get to do a press conference and let everyone know what’s going on here.’

Joel shrugged. ‘And you’re cut up about that? It was inevitable that people were gonna find out sooner or later.’

‘Yeah, well I’d kind of hoped for later. Once the press start blowing things out of proportion there’s gonna be a whole lot of pressure on us from head office to get things wrapped up, and that’s not good seeing as we currently have jack shit.’

Joel nodded thoughtfully. ‘You know, we don’t have to tell them everything.’

Max looked at his partner. ‘You want to hold something back?’