Cemetery Lake

CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

It’s about as official as it can get. The dead girls are Father Julian’s daughters. Their killer is Father Julian’s son. I look down at the photographs of Jeremy and Simon and Bruce. Then I look at the photograph of the fifth girl, Deborah. Could be she is dead already, dead and buried and never found, or it could be she is living in another city in another part of the world, oceans and landscapes away from all of this.

Father Julian’s logs show who he was recording and blackmailing, but they don’t show how many children he had. The bank statements don’t show that either. There aren’t any Aldermans in these statements for a start. There isn’t enough information to know how many women Father Julian used his position to take advantage of.

There are seven names on the bank statements. Four of them belong to the families of the dead girls. Of the three left, two might be for Simon and Jeremy, and one might be for Deborah, or it could be for different children I don’t know about. All I can do is hope the photographs match up with the bank statements.

I have three first names-Jeremy, Simon, and Deborah-and three last names from the bank statements. I grab a phone book and start matching the names up, hoping for a hit, and when the first one comes I end up speaking to Mrs. Leigh Carmel. I identify myself and she quickly asks what it’s about, and there is a hesitancy in her voice that suggests she thinks I’m about to try and sell her something. I tell her I’m trying to track down her son, figuring I have a two-to-one chance it’s a son rather than a daughter, and I’m correct.

“What’s he done now?” she asks.

“I just need to talk to him. It’s important.”

“He’s always done something,” she says. “That’s always been the problem with Jeremy. Why don’t you speak to his probation officer? They seem to have a closer relationship than we’ve ever had.”

She gives me the number, and I hang up and call the probation officer straightaway, a guy by the name of Austin Bracken. Bracken doesn’t sound thrilled to hear from me.

“You know that ain’t the kind of information I can give out over the phone,” he says. “Not to a private investigator.”

“How about I give you my number and he can call me?”

“We’re not in this business to forward messages,” he says.

“Okay, okay, let me think a minute. Right, can you tell me where he was two years ago? Was he in jail?”

“Two years ago? Yeah. He was in jail then. He’s been in for a four-year stretch. Got let out two months ago,” he says, which means Carmel was in jail when Rachel Tyler was killed.

“What’d he do?”

“It’s public record,” he says. “Look it up.”

I thank him for his time and cross Jeremy Carmel off my list. It leaves me with two first names and two last names that could match up either way.

My next hit comes a few calls later, when a woman answers the phone and I ask for Simon.

“Who?”

“Sorry, I mean Deborah. I’m trying to get hold of her.”

“Well, so are we. We haven’t seen her since yesterday. Can I ask who’s calling?”

Her words make me tighten my grip on the phone. I tell her who I am and that I’m a private investigator.

“Investigating what?” she asks. “Has something happened to Deborah? Is she in trouble? Is that why we haven’t heard from her?”

“No, it’s nothing like that,” I say, hoping my words are true.

“Then what?”

“I just need to get hold of her. It’s important.”

“I don’t like the way you sound,” she says, and I realize my grip is so tight on the phone my knuckles have turned white. “You make it sound like she’s in danger.”

I decide to go with the truth. “She might be. Please, you have to help me out here, I need to-”

“What kind of danger? Tell me! What’s happened to my daughter?”

I ignore her question and push on. It’s the only way, otherwise I could end up spending two hours on the phone with her. “Do you know if she was seeing anybody?”

“Is this some kind of joke? Has somebody put you up to this? I’m calling the police.”

“Wait, wait just a second. Does Deborah know who her real father is?”

The woman says nothing, and I don’t jab her with another question, just ride the silence out, knowing her shock at the question may turn to anger or denial.

“Who are you?” she asks.

“I’ve already told you,” I answer.

“What is it you’re trying to ask? Tell me.”

“Is her real father Stewart Julian?”

Again a pause. “Where’s my daughter? What aren’t you telling me?”

“Please, is Father Julian Deborah’s real father?”

“How is this important?” she asks.

“It’s important because it will help me find Deborah.”

“I’m phoning the police.”

“Good, I want you to, but first tell me. Father Julian was murdered because he was protecting secrets. They were his own secrets. Was he Deborah’s father?”

I realize I’m overloading her with way too much information. At any second she might shut down. She doesn’t answer. “Was he-”

“Yes,” she says. “He was.”

“Did he have any other children?”

“Other children? I. . I guess I’ve never really thought about it. I suppose it’s possible, just like anything is possible. But I doubt it.”

“Okay, I’m going to look for Deborah. I want you to call the police and tell them she’s missing. But first I want you to tell me where she lives and give me her number.”

I write the details down, and try calling Deborah immediately after I’ve hung up. She doesn’t answer. I leave a message.

That leaves me with Simon Nichols. He is the last person in the photos, the last person to be paid for in the bank statements. I think about what that means, and decide it stacks the odds in favor of him being the killer. I suck in a few deep breaths. I never would have thought when I woke up this morning that by the end of the day I would have the name of the man who killed those poor girls.

There are a few people with that name and initials in the phone book. I call them all, but get nowhere, which I find frustrating-I’m so close now. But then I’m able to track down his mother, who answers on the tenth ring, just before I hang up.

“I’m trying to get hold of Simon,” I say.

“Simon?” she says. “Um, can I ask who’s calling?”

“My name is Theodore Tate. I’m a private investigator.”

“What is this about?”

It’s about Simon being a serial killer. It’s about Simon being a monster. It’s about Simon killing his father then trying to frame me for murder. I don’t say any of this. Instead I say what I already had scripted in my mind. “I just have a few questions for him, just some routine stuff that might really help me out on a case.”

She doesn’t answer at first, then there are some soft sounds and I get the idea she is crying. Before she can say anything, I get another idea-I know what she’s about to tell me.

“You’re about a year too late,” she says, and suddenly I know that not only is her son dead, that he was murdered. I just know it.

And I’m right.

“It was about a year ago,” she says, then tells me that Simon was stabbed to death in his own home. “The police haven’t caught the. . the guy, not. .” She can’t finish.

Her sobs remind me of how Julian sounded when he was listening to the confessions of his daughters’ killer. I hear her cries, but all I can do is think about how empty my suspect pool is, and I now have absolutely no idea how to find the other brother who has killed so many.