Chasing the Boogeyman Page 8

  Detective Harper shuffled the papers from which he was reading and cleared his throat once more.

  “Evidence found on and around Kacey Robinson’s body, including bite marks, scratches, swelling, and bruising, indicate that she’d been sexually assaulted before her death. This is a marked difference from the case of Natasha Gallagher.”

  One of the reporters standing up front shouted a question, but Detective Harper ignored it.

  “We are unable at the present time to determine if there is a single individual responsible for both of these crimes or if it’s the work of multiple perpetrators. In that regard, I’d like to caution both the media and the public when it comes to the use of buzz-friendly monikers such as ‘serial killer’ or ‘boogeyman.’ Local law enforcement is relying on the public to remain calm and vigilant so that we will be able to properly conduct our investigation. In closing, we encourage all residents of Edgewood to be cautious, to be safe, and to notify us immediately if they see or hear anything out of the ordinary. Thank you, and I promise we’ll have more information available soon.”

  8

  That night at the dinner table, the subject of Detective Harper’s press conference came up. My father felt the detective had made a strong first impression, doing a fine job projecting a balance of confidence and authority. He thought we were in good hands. To my surprise, my mother seriously disagreed and launched into a five-minute tirade wherein she criticized everything from the way the detective was dressed to the way he swayed back and forth as he spoke to his disclosure of the fact that Kacey Robinson had been sexually assaulted. “Just imagine how that poor family must’ve felt hearing those terrible things being broadcast to the entire world. What’s the point of doing such a thing?”

  I was tempted to explain that the public had a right to such knowledge, especially when people were afraid and vulnerable and looking for answers, but I was smarter than that and kept my mouth shut. It wasn’t an argument my father or I—or anyone else, for that matter—was going to win.

  As we were clearing our dirty dishes from the table, the kitchen telephone rang. Neither of my parents made a move to answer it, and I noticed a strange look pass between them.

  “What?” I said, looking back and forth. “Fine, I’ll get it.” I slid my plate onto the counter and grabbed the receiver off the hook. “Hello?”

  There was no response.

  “Hello?”

  Again, only silence. I hung up and looked at my parents. “Nobody there.”

  “Again with that,” my father said. “Your mom had a couple of hang-ups earlier. It kind of creeped her out.”

  She shivered and hugged herself. “I could hear someone breathing on the other end, but they wouldn’t say anything.”

  “Probably kids playing a prank,” I said, shrugging.

  My father nodded. “That’s what I said.”

  “It was unsettling,” my mother replied. “Three times now. No telling who it could be.”

  “Who do you think it is, Mom?” I asked, trying not to smile. “The boogeyman?”

  My mother swatted me on the shoulder with a dishrag. “That’s not funny.”

  “Owww.” I put up my hands, still trying not to smile. “I’m sorry, okay? I was just kidding.”

  “Well, I’m not laughing. It’s terrible what’s been happening. And you”—she pointed at me—“with all those people calling the house to talk to you about it, and those awful books piled up on your desk. The Encyclopedia of Serial Killers? Sweet Jesus, you’re lucky I didn’t toss it in the trash.”

  I leaned over then and hugged my mom, all four feet ten inches of her. “Now you sound like Mary. She called me a ghoul the other night.”

  Her eyes widened. “She called you what? Wait until I talk to that girl.”

  I kissed her on the cheek and glanced at my father. He was smiling and shaking his head.

  9

  Later that night, my father knocked on my bedroom door and poked his head into the room. “You busy?”

  I looked up from my computer screen. “Just rereading an old story. What’s up?”

  He walked in and sat on the edge of the bed. “Do me a favor?”

  “Sure. What do you need?”

  “For you to be careful.”

  “Careful with what?” I asked, genuinely confused.

  “For starters, with all those questions you’ve been asking around town.”

  I started to protest, but he stopped me.

  “I know you’re interested in… this sort of thing, and that’s fine. Your mom makes a lot of noise about it, but she’s okay with it too. Mainly because she knows you have a good head on your shoulders. She also knows how much you love this stuff”… he gestured to the ’Salem’s Lot poster hanging above my bed—“but we just want you to be cautious. This is real life, Rich, and it’s obviously a sensitive subject, and some people might not like you asking those kinds of questions.”

  “You talking about whoever’s calling the house and hanging up?”

  He looked at me and shrugged his shoulders.

  “Okay. I promise I’ll be careful. Tell Mom to stop worrying.”

  He gave me a look. “That’s never gonna happen, and you know it.” We both laughed.

  He stood up from the bed, glancing at the ’Salem’s Lot poster again. “I don’t know how you can sleep with that thing in here. That is one nasty-looking zombie.”

  “Jesus, Dad,” I said, feigning outrage. “That’s a vampire.”

  He took another look. “Umm, yeah, that’s what I meant. One nasty-looking vampire.”

  “Good niiight,” I said, starting to laugh again.

  “ ’Night, son.” And he closed the door behind him.

  10

  I knew my father was right. I had to be careful. I mean, what was I even doing? Brand-new degree or not, I wasn’t a journalist. I didn’t work for a newspaper. I didn’t have a book deal. As I’d explained earlier to Carly, I was simply… curious.

  Which is why I soon found myself driving by the playground almost every afternoon. Cedar Drive was along my direct route to the post office—it pretty much marked the halfway point—so it was only natural that I would. Right?

  The temporary barricades had been removed and the playground was once again open to the public. But I never saw more than a handful of kids playing there, and always with at least one watchful adult standing close by. I guessed it would take a long time for things to return to normal, if they ever did.

  At the bottom of the sliding board where Kacey Robinson had been found was a shrine of fresh flowers and stuffed animals and homemade signs. Candles had been burned there at some point, a scattering of waxy nubs forming a loose ring around the makeshift memorial. Several times I was tempted to park my car and take a closer look, but I never did.

  11

  The Wednesday before the Fourth of July, Carly stopped by the house and we sat on the front porch with glasses of iced tea. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky, and the hot sun shined down without a hint of mercy. Carly made sure the door was closed behind us, and then she once again made me swear to keep what she was about to tell me a secret. I swore and swore again, and she finally told me:

  Just as the police had asked the media to withhold from the general public the existence of the hopscotch grid they’d found on the sidewalk in front of the Gallaghers’ house, they’d also asked them to hold something back about the Robinson case.

  Attached to a telephone pole directly across the street from the Robinsons’ house was a square white cardboard sign featuring a small photo of what looked like an adult poodle. HAVE YOU SEEN THIS DOG? was printed above the photo. A phone number was listed below: 671-4444.

  Neither the Robinsons nor the Perkinses, who lived across the street, had ever seen such a dog, nor did they have any idea who posted the sign. In fact, no one else living on Cherry Road had, either. Detectives canvassed the surrounding neighborhood and were unable to locate any additional signs. Soon after,
someone tried calling the number at the bottom of the sign, but there was no dial tone—just dead air. At that point they checked with the phone company, and, in short order, a representative confirmed that no such number existed.

  12

  Something else the police hadn’t made public—and with good reason—was their increasing frustration due to the complete lack of evidence present at either crime scene. It was extremely unusual for this type of violent crime to be committed with such uncanny precision and self-preservation. “It’s like the guy sliced open a hole in the night,” one state trooper complained off the record, “and disappeared back into it.”

  Not a single fingerprint that didn’t belong to Natasha Gallagher or an immediate family member was found in her bedroom or on the glass panes or wooden frame of her window. As suspected, the blood trace on the windowsill belonged to Natasha. Because of recent high temperatures, the ground below her window was dry and hard. No footprints or disturbances were found in the grass. No one in the neighborhood saw anything unusual the night Natasha was taken. No strange cars cruising the streets or parked in out-of-the-way spots. No one lurking in the shadows or even walking a dog along the sidewalk near the Gallaghers’ residence. As for Natasha Gallagher’s body, despite the personal nature and ferocity of the attack, not even a sliver of evidence—no hair or fiber samples, no traces of the killer’s blood, saliva, or DNA—was discovered.

  The Kacey Robinson case was proving every bit as difficult. A Bayberry Drive resident claimed to have heard a revving car engine around the time of Kacey’s disappearance, but by the time she got to the window, the street was empty. None of the other neighbors heard or saw a thing. In addition, nothing of interest was found on the Chuck Taylor sneaker that Mr. Robinson discovered in the roadway, and the missing right shoe had yet to be located. Crime scene technicians lifted more than a dozen usable unique prints from the playground sliding board, but most were those of small children. Nothing else unusual or useful was found on the sliding board itself or the surrounding grounds. Kacey Robinson was sexually assaulted a short time before her death, but the killer almost certainly wore a condom. No semen or saliva had been present. Even the bite mark had been wiped clean.

  And then there was the apparent lack of any significant connections between the two victims. Both girls were fifteen years of age, Caucasian, came from solid, two-parent families, had at least one sibling, and lived in relatively close proximity to each other. Both were attractive and bright and had long hair. But that’s pretty much where the common ground ended. Edgewood was a small town, so the two girls knew each other through school and shared a handful of mutual friends, but had rarely socialized or spent time together—either by themselves or within a group. They had never spoken on the telephone or attended each other’s birthday parties. Neither had ever dated or admitted to a crush on the same boy. Natasha Gallagher was a cheerleader; Kacey Robinson was the president of the Math Club. Detectives were actively searching for the slightest hint of any additional connective threads, anything that might tie the two girls together in some other way, but thus far had come up empty.

  The police and sheriff’s department were also starting to feel pressure from the media. Following the death of Kacey Robinson, the small town of Edgewood was no longer just a local story. CNN and the Associated Press now had teams in place and were reporting daily on the situation. Out-of-state news crews taking footage on neighborhood streets had become a common sight around town.

  Fortunately, the “Van Gogh Killer” nickname that had first made an appearance in a Baltimore Sun headline failed to achieve any level of traction among the public. But “The Boogeyman” was a different story—by the end of June, most members of the media and the vast majority of interested viewers (especially those under the age of thirty) were referring to Edgewood’s unknown slayer as exactly that. The police loathed the moniker. They felt it was sensationalistic and in poor taste. And although they were warned by their superiors on a near daily basis not to use it publicly, the police had their own secret nickname for the killer: “The Ghost.”

  Best friends Kacey Robinson and Riley Holt in Ocean City, Maryland (Photo courtesy of Rebecca Holt)

  Kacey Robinson (Photo courtesy of Robert Robinson)

  The sidewalk location where Riley Holt last saw Kacey Robinson (Photo courtesy of the author)

  Cedar Drive playground crime scene (Photo courtesy of The Baltimore Sun)

  Channel 11 reporter at crime scene (Photo courtesy of Logan Reynolds)

  four Suspicion Mounts

  “Because it makes for a better story…”

  1

  As the month of June came to a sweltering end—and good riddance to it—and the Fourth of July weekend approached, Kara finally got a break from school and we were able to spend some time together. Ever since summer classes had begun, she’d been like a phantom in my life. A tired voice on the other end of a telephone. I missed her.

  On Friday, July 1, we got takeout from the Venetian Palace on Route 40—on the way out of the parking lot, I noticed someone had spray-painted THE BOOGEYMAN LIVES on the side of the restaurant’s dumpster—and ate dinner at the picnic table in Kara’s backyard. There was a nice breeze coming off the river, and for the first time in almost a month, the evening was mild and pleasant. We discussed going to a late movie but decided to save that for another night. We were both tired after a long week. Instead, we drove to the Harford Mall, stood in line at Friendly’s for double-dip ice cream cones, and window-shopped while we ate.

  Until then, we’d managed to avoid talking about the girls’ murders. There’d been plenty of other subjects to catch up on, including ongoing preparations for our January wedding. But as we made our way through the mall, bumping into occasional friends and neighbors, overhearing snippets of strangers’ conversations, it became impossible to ignore any longer.

  “Everything feels different, doesn’t it?” Kara remarked.

  I nodded. “Everything is different.”

  “Look around. Hardly anyone’s smiling or laughing.”

  I glanced at a group of teenagers milling about outside the food court—she was right. The kids looked tense and preoccupied. One girl—a thin brunette with long, curly hair—looked like she’d recently been crying. Her boyfriend was holding her close, trying to console her.

  “Everyone’s talking about it at school,” Kara said. “My lab partner asked if I lived in Haddonfield, the town from Halloween.”

  I cracked a smile. I couldn’t help it.

  “It’s not funny, Rich.”

  “Not funny,” I agreed, swallowing my grin as fast as I could. “But kind of clever.”

  “You heard they canceled the carnival?”

  “What about the parade?”

  “Last I heard it was still on, although it probably shouldn’t be. The Fourth will be the two-week anniversary of Kacey Robinson’s murder.”

  I quickly calculated the dates in my head, confirming her timeline. With the onslaught of recent media attention, it felt like the murder had occurred two months ago instead of mere days.

  “It doesn’t seem long enough,” she continued. “Almost feels disrespectful. And what if something else happens because so many people are out celebrating? Half of them drunk and clueless to begin with.”

  “The sheriff said there’ll be extra patrols the entire holiday weekend.”

  “You know who I thought of when I saw him say that on TV?”

  “Who?”

  “The stupid mayor from Jaws.” In a poor imitation of a man’s voice: “ ‘… a large predator that supposedly killed some bathers. But, as you can see, it’s a beautiful day, the beaches are open, and people are having a wonderful time.’ ”

  I smiled at that. Once Kara got going, there was no stopping her.

  “I’m just glad we’ll be out on the bay for a couple days,” she said, sighing. “Far away from all this.”

  “Me too.” I reached for her hand. After a long week o
f writing, I was looking forward to spending time with Kara and her family, fishing and waterskiing and camping out on the beach.

  Walking back to the car, we spotted a Channel 13 news crew interviewing an older couple in the parking lot and steered clear. No need to go any further down that rabbit hole. The daily news programs were filled with interviews featuring wide-eyed locals, all of them answering the same handful of questions: Do you believe there’s a serial killer in Edgewood? Do you feel safe in your community? Did you know either of the victims or anyone in the families?

  Although there’d been two more televised press conferences following Kacey Robinson’s murder, as well as numerous on-air interviews with police officials, very few additional details had been released. A local bank chain had established a $10,000 reward for any information leading to the killer’s arrest, and the Harford County Sheriff’s Department had set up an anonymous tip-line for residents to call. Police also addressed recent news of the formation of an Edgewood neighborhood watch program, which I worried could lead to real trouble of a different kind.

  “While we certainly appreciate any help the public can provide in this investigation,” Detective Harper had said in a prepared statement, “we also need to caution residents to follow several basic rules of conduct. First, absolutely no firearms of any type will be permitted on patrol. No exceptions will be made, and we will prosecute to the fullest extent of the law anyone who disobeys this order. Secondly, and of equal importance, no members of the neighborhood watch should, under any circumstances, act on observed suspicious activity. Their only job at that point is to immediately and safely contact police. Third, if any items of interest are discovered, they should not, under any circumstances, remove or touch the item…”