Next breath, p.9
NEXT BREATH, page 9
"We'll never know that," Meg admitted, but she had to concede that Alex had a point. Systems back then weren't as robust as they were today in terms of capacity. Imagine if Axon had tried his best to help and had only ended up complicating the situation?
They waited outside the house for a few more minutes while the car warmed up and the snow intensified. There was no movement from inside, making Meg even surer that Axel had, in fact, gone back to work.
She was about to suggest that they take a drive around some of the nearby parks to see if any suspicious vehicles were parked there when her phone started ringing.
It was Gabe calling, and Meg picked up fast, hoping that he’d have some news.
He sounded stressed. That was par for the course.
“Meg,” he said, “we’re tied up here trying to get as many patrols out as possible. We’ve got some civilians and reservists helping us, but even so, we’re short on manpower. I wonder if you have time to do us a favor.”
“Sure,” Meg said. “What do you need done?”
“We had a tip-off come through to the hotline involving a local author, Robert Herron. He writes true crime books, and someone flagged him on the hotline, saying that he’s been stalking women for years, and that at one stage in the past, he bragged to her that he was the Snowman Killer himself.”
“Who is the person who flagged him?”
“She’s an ex-girlfriend. I know there might be more to it, and there’s a chance her version might not be true, but she could also have been abused or threatened and stayed silent about it until now. I know I should go myself, but we can’t spare an officer, and I’d like this lead checked out.”
“We’re in the car, and we can get there as soon as possible, weather allowing,” Meg said. “Send Herron’s address, and we’ll check him out.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Meg thought they might just have their strongest lead yet in the possible stalker, Robert Herron, who'd supposedly bragged about the crime. The only impediment to their investigation was the worsening snow. With every drift that blew across the car's windshield, Meg felt the coil of worry in her stomach tighten.
This was the ideal weather for the killer to strike again. And if they found Herron at home, she acknowledged there was a chance he might already have done the deed. Snow was building up on the sidewalks fast, and she knew some minor roads would already be impassable, clogged with snow.
The main roads were clogging up with traffic. As her wiper blades flew back and forth, the row of taillights on the road ahead cleared, before the snow blurred them again.
“Come on, traffic,” Alex said through gritted teeth, sounding the way Meg felt inside.
“We’ll get there,” Meg replied calmly.
“My stomach is in knots.” Alex took a water bottle from her purse and offered Meg a sip before gulping some down herself. “I feel like time is running out.”
This wasn’t a conversation that Meg could afford to participate in. Right now, Alex was struggling, her anxiety surging, and Meg needed to provide a calm alternative so that she had someone to lean on.
This happened during cases. Everyone had a low point.
Even Morrison – or perhaps, especially Morrison.
Trying not to add to the sense of impatience that was filling the car, Meg finally managed to get her foot on the gas again as the line of cars eased up. She checked the map. Only one more mile to go.
Alex had her phone open and was alternately scrolling through the news and social media for the area, looking out for any alerts or mentions of a scene that could be the fifth murder.
But by the time they turned onto the quiet side road, there were no alerts as yet. Of course, as they drove through the winding hills, tires skidding occasionally in the snow, Meg started to wonder if the killer might have decided to skip a day. The optimistic voice in her mind started offering alternate scenarios. Perhaps the snowstorm was too violent, perhaps the killer had only wanted to commit one murder this time, or it might even be a copycat crime, with this new killer not as hell bent on maintaining the rhythm as the first killer had been.
“He lives quite a way out of town,” Meg said.
“Yes. He does.” Picking up on her calmness, just like Meg had hoped she would, Alex sounded more settled now.
They were driving in between hills dotted with pine and maple trees, their branches already covered in a thin layer of snow. The tires skidded again, and Meg gritted her teeth as she steered out of the skid. Getting back into town was going to be challenging at best, and if they cleared the author, they’d need to get back as soon as possible. Meg wanted to help with the patrols. If other reservists and civilians were participating, then so could she.
"I think this is his house, up on the hill," Meg said. Luckily, there wasn't much further to go. Her nerves felt shredded after the snow-filled drive. But ahead of them, through the trees, they could now see the glowing lights of a double story house with a steep roof, set on a slope overlooking the forest.
The lights were on. Did that mean Herron was home? Meg knew they didn't yet have enough information on him. They didn't know if he was married or lived alone, and didn't even know what vehicle he drove. Meg was also interested in what he'd been driving fifteen years ago.
Gabe hadn’t had the time to give them any of that information.
Hopefully, none of that would matter, because if they came face to face with Herron himself, he could tell them.
She climbed out of the car, and they hustled to the house, with a gust of snow catching Meg in the face and making her flinch. She was gasping by the time she reached the door. They might end up stranded here if the storm grew any worse.
The door knocker was brass, and it was in the shape of a gnarled hand. Meg did a double take when she saw it, before she picked it up and knocked firmly.
She waited, wondering if Herron was in, and if he wasn’t in, then she wondered if they were already too late. Her skin was prickling from the cold, and her ears were straining to hear any sounds from inside over the rush of wind that was distressing the pine branches around them.
The door opened so suddenly that Meg jumped.
She found herself facing a man who was tall, craggy-faced, and with a sharp downturn to his mouth that made him look not just humorless but cruel.
He stared at them through deep brown eyes as Meg quickly introduced them.
“Meg Thorne and Alex Chan. We’re assisting the police with research into the Snowman murders. Are you Mr. Herron?”
“Come in, come in,” he said. “I am.”
There was nothing wrong with the words themselves, but the tone got Meg’s instincts prickling as strongly as her spine had done. There was something very strange about this man. With her long decades of boots on the ground experience, Meg wasn’t one to be fanciful, but as the door closed behind them, she had the uneasy feeling that they were walking into a trap.
“This way,” Herron said.
The entrance hall was surprisingly dark with the door closed. The carpet was deep, rusty red, the color of dried blood. The walls, painted taupe, displayed large wooden masks that were set in grimaces ranging from gleeful to tragic. All of them looked creepy.
The living room was better lit, at least, with a stark white rug on the floor, surrounded by solid black furniture.
“Please, sit, ladies,” he said.
Meg noticed a bookshelf in the corner of the room, well stacked with titles. She wondered if his books were among them, and what he’d written about the Snowman killer.
“Mr. Herron,” she said, “I believe you wrote a true-crime book about the Snowman murders.”
He sat down on a wingback chair in a slow and deliberate way, with his wrists on his knees and his long-fingered hands clasped in front of him.
“Correct,” he said. “My book explored the crimes in detail, and I also delved into the killer’s mind. That’s what I do. It’s my obsession, you could say.”
“And what conclusions did you draw?”
Meg hadn’t got a handle on him yet and decided that there was no harm in continuing the conversation for a while before getting to the tough topics. She had no doubt that Herron was prepared for those tough topics and that he knew that they were here to address them.
Why had he bragged about being the Snowman? Had it been a moment of sincerity or an evil brag?
“Conclusions about the Snowman? He’s a very intelligent person.” His eyes gleamed as he stared from Meg to Alex and back again, and then he raised his gaze briefly to the black wooden beams overhead. “I explored his mindset in detail while I wrote my book, a year after the killings. I spoke to a few people who shared their thoughts with me on condition that they remained confidential.”
“Did these people share their thoughts with the police as well?” Meg asked.
There was something strangely hypnotic about Herron’s voice, which had a dry, husky timbre to it and a monotonous delivery.
“That, I cannot say,” he said. “All I know is what I was told. Everyone had their own theory.”
“Are your books in that bookcase? I’d like to see them,” Meg asked. This conversation was getting stranger and stranger, and she was now starting to question whether Herron was entirely mentally stable.
However, she had to admit that he fit the profile Hayward had created in one way – the room was obsessively tidy. She couldn’t see anything out of place or misaligned, not as much as a dirty cup on the coffee table, where coasters were placed exactly parallel to the sides.
“Don’t you know it’s rude to ask to read a writer’s book without buying it,” he chided her in a mocking tone of voice, even though she hadn’t asked to read them, but merely to see them. But he got up and headed to the bookcase – where, Meg saw, all the books were perfectly aligned. He removed one and brought it back and handed it to her.
Meg thanked him as she took it, opening it and paging through to get an idea of what he’d written, while he returned to his chair.
It had a hardcover, with a snow-filled landscape and an actual snowman – awkwardly made and creepy looking – on the jacket. That Snowman was attention grabbing, but it was nothing like the sculptures the killer had created.
Meg wasn't a speed reader, but as she flipped through the book, her feeling was that it had been based more on conjecture than fact. She picked up the words 'I think', 'I feel', 'theoretically', and 'it is said' multiple times as she scanned the pages. Herron might have done nothing more than rehash what was already known in book form. She hadn't known about the book, and she was sure that if it had made a big impact on the literary scene, or produced any new information about the Snowman killer, then it would have come to the attention of the police.
However, she was willing to admit that the book itself could have been a big red herring, designed to deflect attention away from the fact that Herron himself was the killer.
“Have you ever claimed to be the Snowman killer?” Meg asked Herron.
"Have I? What a strange question to ask. Why would you ask something like that?" Herron said. His gaze intensified. "You've been rude twice now. Once, when you asked to see my book without offering to buy it, and again now, where you've accused me of something without any proof."
“Not accusing.” Alex spoke up now, and Meg could see that she was holding her anger in check. “We’re not accusing you at all. We simply asked you a question, and the fact that you considered it to be an accusation is telling.”
Meg hoped that he wouldn’t hunt the ex-girlfriend down and get payback for what she’d done, because that seemed like the kind of thing he would do.
He chuckled, seemingly unperturbed by her comment.
“Are you ready to play word games with me? Because if so, I’ll show you something to back up my claims. I know who made them. The woman who spoke of me that way is a liar and a fraud, someone who craves attention and will do anything to get it. What I meant when I said that to her was that I might as well be the Snowman because I have such detailed knowledge of his methods and his mindset. In fact, I believe that when he heard about my book, he made a confession to me, because I received an anonymous letter in my mailbox a few months after publication.”
“What did that letter say?” Meg was battling once again to assess whether this man was lying or telling the truth.
“It said that I had gotten into the mind of a killer perfectly, and that he appreciated the fact that I’d left a sense of mystery surrounding him. The letter told me that I should keep his secrets. He said that I was the second person to know his true identity and that there would never be a third.”
“Where is this letter?”
Meg didn’t know if she believed in its existence. Was he simply making things up as he went along? Meg knew she needed to look at all aspects here. He might not be lying about this.
The problem was that sending a letter like this was typical behavior for a serial killer. They were known to brag about their achievements. It was a notable trait in psychopathic murderers. And, if the killer had learned about this book, then he might well have reached out to Herron, instinctively grasping that he was a like-minded person who would feel flattered by the communication.
“I never handed it over to the police,” Herron said. “Why would I do such a thing when the letter expressly asked me to keep it confidential?”
Meg closed her mouth. There was no point in telling Herron handing the letter over to the police could have helped them catch the killer. He obviously knew that already and had chosen not to help, which aligned entirely with Meg’s impression of him so far. This was who he was.
“What happened to the letter? Do you still have it?” Alex asked in sweetly enthusiastic tones.
He put his chin on his knuckles in a theatrical gesture of thought.
“It’s been so long since I thought about it. I’ve moved on, you know. Other projects, other passions. I might have put it with the rest of my research materials upstairs. I have my own records, providing me with proof of everything I wrote in the book. Perhaps you’d like to see them?”
Abruptly he stood up, leaving Meg startled by the suddenness of his offer.
“Sure,” Alex said, her quick response pre-empting Meg, who would have preferred for him to bring the proof downstairs.
Still, maybe Alex had finally gotten him to cooperate, and Meg simply needed to go along with it.
Did he have proof somewhere? What had his research methodology consisted of? Although Meg felt dubious, she wanted to see what he had.
However, she didn’t trust him, and she felt that somewhere down the line, he might have had a psychotic break. He didn’t seem to be operating according to society’s norms. She hadn’t yet asked him about the stalking, though, that would be her next question.
Herron strode out of the living room, and they followed him through the entrance hall. At the back of the hall, a staircase made from dark wood wound its way up to the second floor. Feeling more and more curious, and with her doubts surging, Meg followed. She didn’t understand his sudden change of heart and felt worried that he was going to waste their time.
“In here.” He gestured to a wooden door ahead, and Meg headed in, followed by Alex.
The next moment, before she’d even had the chance to take in what lay inside the room, she jumped as the door slammed behind them with an ear-splitting bang.
Laughter resounded from outside – a high, unpleasant noise.
“Ladies, since you came into my house and wasted my time, you can stay a little longer. I’ll let you out when you’ve had a chance to reflect on the error of your ways.
Meg lunged for the door, flinging herself against it, but he'd already managed to lock it. She picked up his retreating footsteps and a final, jeering laugh.
The next sound she heard was even worse. It was the noise of a car engine starting up.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
With her shoulder flaring from the impact with the door, Meg spun around, adrenaline surging inside her as she assessed the situation.
The room wasn’t a study or an office. It was a spare bedroom. A double bed with stark white bedding, a bookcase with a variety of books, and a writing desk. There was no sign of any research materials. They’d been cleverly trapped in here. Perhaps that letter had existed, or perhaps it was simply a figment of his imagination, dreamed up so that Herron could make his escape in time to kill again.
“That was my fault!” Alex’s voice was high and shaky. She punched the door hard, shaking her hand and grimacing with pain. “Meg, I was an idiot. I should never have taken him up on that offer. Now look where it’s gotten us? What an utterly stupid and self-defeating decision.”
“It’s okay.”
Meg peered through the window. Through the snow, she could see the distant gleam of taillights as he left the property, turning in the direction of the main road. Visibility was so poor, and the car at such a bad angle, that she had no hope of picking up the license plate, and couldn't even see what make of car it was. But it was big and boxy – an SUV for sure, dark in color.
“We’ve got our phones on us.”
She made the call immediately, not calling Gabe, but instead contacting the emergency hotline, because she knew that would give them a faster police response.
As soon as it was picked up, Meg gave a swift outline of their predicament.
“Meg Thorne here. A friend and I were following up a suspect. His name is Herron, and here’s his address.” She read it out. “He’s locked us in an upstairs room, and he’s left the property in his vehicle after making some suspicious-sounding claims about the murders. He’s driving a big, dark SUV. No plate, unfortunately.”
“Thanks, Ms. Thorne. We’ll alert police in the area and see if we can track down a license plate from his registered vehicle,” the police officer on the other end said.
Meg knew that with this weather and with police resources concentrated around the parks, the likelihood that they'd find Herron was slim.
