“Wait till you meet my family,” Cameron said. “Your grandma has nothing on my Uncle Wames. Don’t worry about that stuff, okay?”
Cameron reached up and touched her chin gently.
“Okay,” she said, smiling. “I won’t worry.”
19
Officer Hawkins stood in the doorway of the Ladies’ Lounge restroom of the Stallion Service Station, studying the crime scene with the coroner while a photographer documented everything. Rather, one of the crime scenes. So far, they’d found bodies in three separate areas of the service center. It was a frigging crime-scene tableau. Righetti, an eager-to-please rookie, unspooled a roll of crime-scene tape around the entire service center, from the office and garage down to the entrance and exit ramps. Paperwork in the glove compartment of the rental car indicated that one Aaron Joseph-Korey had leased it.
Sheriff Barker had worried about Haddonfield turning into a circus—or maybe just that the sheriff’s department would look like a bunch of clowns—with the escape of Michael Myers. Well, he might want to start selling tickets, Hawkins thought with gallows humor, because the opening act in Haddonfield—not even counting the carnage at the transport bus site—is a doozy, and a crowd is already gathering to see the show.
He’d tasked Righetti with keeping everyone on the civilian side of the police tape, far enough away they’d have no chance of seeing any of the four victims, while Hawkins figured out what the hell had happened.
Hawkins observed from the doorway while the crime-scene photographer worked because being on the other end of the flash never failed to give him a damn headache. And this crime scene had the makings of a long day filled with exhaustive reports and gruesome photographic evidence of murderous depravity. He noted the shattered mirror, walls covered in blood. Ducking inside, he found more blood on the second stall door. One vic—approximately forty, long gray wool coat over khaki slacks and gray tennis shoes, light-brown hair and a sparse beard—lay dead in the far corner, his face streaked with blood. Hawkins guessed he came to the aid of the other victim, a redheaded woman, a few years younger than her would-be savior, lying on the floor of the second stall, dressed conservatively in a long-sleeved blouse with a gray sweater vest over black slacks and boots. Human teeth lay scattered near her body, though they belonged to neither victim. The coroner confirmed what he’d already expected judging by the visible trauma to her throat. She’d been strangled to death.
When he checked their IDs, he confirmed that Aaron Joseph-Korey would not be returning his rental car. The other victim, Dana Haines, had apparently been working with Korey on a story about Michael Myers. Inside the car, they found a laminated storage box with a thick binder filled with information about Myers and Smith’s Grove. Hawkins assumed it was a TV documentary project until Richards informed him they’d been gathering audio material for a podcast. Apparently, the two Brits had something of a following for their true-crime investigations.
That the two had crossed paths with Myers at Smith’s Grove within a day of his escape and had subsequently been killed by him raised all sorts of red flags in Hawkins’ mind, but sometimes a coincidence was just that. The Brits had apparently requested a meeting before Myers’ imminent transfer, which explained the first coincidence. That they had then traveled to Haddonfield as part of their research into the Babysitter Murders also made sense. That Myers headed to Haddonfield after his escape was as simple as a criminal returning to the scene of his crime—no matter that the crime was forty years old.
What strained credulity a bit was that Haines and Korey ended up as his victims so soon after attempting to interview him. But who knew how Myers’ mind worked? He may have sought them out once he came to town. Or they may have spotted him in town and he decided to silence them before they could notify authorities. Myers had no problem killing strangers. Killing a pair of investigators who presented an actual threat to his freedom would have been a no-brainer for the psychopath.
Exiting the restroom, Hawkins circled around to the front of the service center, where more blue-and-white Warren County Sheriff’s Department police cars and a few ambulances had gathered, lights flashing. Richards helped Righetti with crowd control, but mostly people wanted to gawk, recording cellphone footage from a safe distance. Of course, there were always exceptions, and that’s what you had to guard against. Richards broke away to brief some of the new arrivals. The ambulances leaving this crime scene wouldn’t need to use sirens.
Hawkins entered the service center’s office where the owner of the missing teeth lay sprawled over the counter, his jaw nearly separated from his head, a particularly painful and gruesome death. Later that day, the crime-scene photos taken here would enter an evidence folder, recapturing this moment, and join other murderous fodder for his nightmares. After almost forty years on the force, he’d accumulated a lot of grist for that nocturnal mill. And yet, over the years, surprisingly, the nightmares had decreased. Sometimes he thought that was more concerning.
Two detectives worked the room, dusting for prints, one kneeling by the open door that passed through to the garage, the other standing behind the seated corpse, examining the cash register, radio, and countertop. Leaving them to their work, Hawkins stepped back out of the office.
He’d always thought when the day came that the heinous stuff no longer bothered him it would be a psychological warning sign to get the hell out, to retire already. That he would have become damaged goods. Unfortunately, that day had long passed. Sometimes once was enough—or too much. Because some things you couldn’t unsee.
Finally, he left the office to make sure Righetti and Richards had everything under control before he examined the final victim, the mechanic in the garage bay. Pausing, he noticed a familiar woman’s face amongst the onlookers gathering at the edge of the police tape.
Hawkins nodded toward her and asked Richards, “Is that who I think it is?”
“Yeah,” Richards said. “She calls the station at least twice a month. She’s a paranoid pain in the ass.”
“Tell her to go home. Tell her I said so.”
Shrugging, Richards walked across the lot to where Laurie Strode stood behind the yellow police tape. After Richards spoke, looking over his shoulder at Hawkins, Laurie looked up and caught Hawkins’ gaze with a look of recognition. He nodded, but as she started to work her way along the crowd toward him, he turned away.
Some people have good reason for paranoia, he thought, not sure what comfort he could offer her. Only excuses, and they weren’t even his excuses. The Warren County Sheriff’s Department had had no advance warning about the prisoner transfer. But we’re expected to clean up the mess, he thought. And the mess kept spreading. At least five killed after the prisoner bus escape. Now four more at the service station.
“Hawkins!” Sheriff Barker called from inside the garage bay. “Look at this.”
Hawkins followed Barker into the garage, past a pickup truck with a raised hood and a bloodstained engine block, and a mobile tool chest. The mechanic’s corpse lay face down, bare legs protruding from under storage shelves. Crouching beside the body, which had been stripped down to a dingy white t-shirt and briefs, he noted the bloody hammer and the back of the man’s crushed skull.
“Face isn’t much better,” Barker said.
“Don’t suppose he came to work in his skivvies,” Hawkins said.
“That’s why I called you in,” Barker said, waving to a detective standing a few feet away wearing latex gloves while holding an evidence bag.