Behind the Fire: A Dark Thriller (22 page)

O’Grady didn’t envy the coroner’s job. At least his conclusion wouldn’t be 
cause of death: unknown
. This was an open and shut case. 
Death by lunatic.

You caught one of these cases rarely. If you were lucky—or unlucky, depending on your viewpoint—it could be considered a bonus. Another type of personality might dine out for a lifetime on a case like this. There might even be accolades or a promotion for closing it swiftly and putting the public’s collective mind at rest.

O’Grady preferred to keep a low profile. He didn’t like tributes. He didn’t talk about his job. He was haunted enough by past events without rehashing the unsettling violent aspects of his career. Those memories he compartmentalized for his own sanity, only bringing them out if a case required it of him.

In this case, where he and Trip were there to simply mop up evidence and do the paperwork, “tying bows” was all he would focus on. Let the profilers sift through the life of Toby Benson and come up with the reasons, to give everyone a better night’s sleep.

He glanced at another pool of blood near the boy’s. The chef, a hefty man, bled out quickly. For him, at least, death was quick. O’Grady stared at the mottled dried stains of sticky, rust-brown, clotted with black globules. Of all the “make you, break you” cases he could snag, this one he’d have happily missed. Even with his mantra of leaving work at work, he didn’t think the images would leave him for a long while. Italian was off the menu for the near future, too.

When he closed his eyes tonight, exhausted, he knew his mind would continue to circle one question: 
what would possess someone to massacre these people?
 If you wanted to make a case for evil, there was the confirmation, pooled in vivid red on this kitchen floor.

KENDALL HAD NEVER AMBUSHED SOMEONE for a story. She wasn’t one of those hard-nosed journalists who ran down the street after people shouting, “What do you have to say about ripping off old people?” Anyway, she probably wasn’t fast enough to pursue anyone more than ten feet while holding a microphone. What she did have was a natural curiosity and, after all these years, a good instinct for people and stories.

She stood on Beverley Sanderson’s doorstep wondering if her knock would bring anyone to the door, forcing herself to breathe deeply to calm her nerves. She’d managed only about two breaths before the sound of footsteps inside sent her heart racing.

The door swung open, revealing a woman in her mid-forties, her blonde hair held back by a bright purple scarf. She wore an unnaturally white smile. Kendall thought at first she must have the wrong address.

“Yes?”

“Beverley Sanderson?”

“Yes.”

“My name is Kendall Jennings, and I’m working on an article for 
Healthy, Wealthy and Wisdom
 magazine.”

The woman stared at her. In her nervousness, Kendall continued to talk, uncertain whether she was seconds away from the door being slammed in her face.

“Perhaps you’ve heard of it? They’re sold in all the supermarkets. Very popular. Over three hundred thousand copies sold.”

Still the woman stared.

“I thought you might speak to me about your experience at Café Amaretto last night.”

Beverley Sanderson continued to hold the edge of the door. Her stare revealed nothing. Kendall imagined 
it
 coming any moment: the get-off-my-property-scum-newsperson retort. It surprised her the woman had even come to the door. Surely, she’d already had approaches by dozens of news outlets vying for her story.

Well, nothing ventured, nothing gained. Kendall smiled her biggest, brightest, you-can-trust-me smile.

“A lot of people want to know what it’s like to survive what you went through …” Still nothing from the woman. She quickly added, “And Jennifer Aniston was on last month’s cover.”

Beverley Sanderson’s face suddenly came to life. Her countenance lit up as though a spotlight was focused on her for a close-up. “Oh, you want to interview me? Is that what you mean?”

“Ah … 
yes
 … if you have time. It’s just a few questions.”

“Yes, yes. I’m fine. Come in. Jennifer Aniston. Wow!”

Beverley pulled the door further open, then stood back to allow Kendall to move past her into a mid-seventies style living room, complete with dark brown leather couches and orange flock wallpaper. Most extraordinary were the china dogs. They were everywhere. On every surface, they sat, lounged, heeled, and lay on their stomachs. Bookshelves, on top of the coffee table, and on several purpose-built ledges dotted along the room’s walls.

“You like dogs, Beverley?”

“I love dogs. But I can’t have a dog. Allergies. I’ve tried all types of dogs and medications. I just sneeze and sneeze. This is the next best thing.”

Standing this close to Beverley, Kendall realized the woman was older than she looked in the newspaper picture. She was mid-fifties, and even at ten in the morning her face was plastered with a full complement of makeup. Her hot-pink lipstick combined with dark red lip liner gave her a clown-like appearance. The hair poking out from beneath her scarf was teased to a bushy bouffant.

“Coffee, Kelsey?”

She didn’t bother correcting Beverley’s mistake with her name. Something told her no matter how many times she corrected her, Beverley would never get it right.

“Fantastic, thanks.”

Kendall glanced around the room, taking care to show an interest in the dogs.

It surprised her how together the woman was—hardly what she expected after what Beverley had witnessed the previous night. Most people would be distressed for days, even months. If they were like Kendall, years.

She couldn’t decide if Beverley’s stoic behavior was oddball or admirable. Although, now Kendall thought about it, the woman’s calm perspective would certainly provide great counterbalance to other eyewitnesses—if she could get interviews with them—who 
weren’t
 dealing well with the horrific event.

“I won’t be a moment. I’ve just boiled the kettle.”

Beverley bounced out of the room. Now alone, Kendall walked slowly around the cluttered space, checking for further insights into the woman. Alongside the dogs were scattered faded photos of children wearing clothes dating them as growing up in the eighties. On the wall behind the three-seater lounge hung a large frame containing variously sized professional portraits of a still overly made-up younger version of Beverley. In her youth she’d been quite striking. Beverley and her husband obviously liked to cruise; many other photos depicted the pair aboard a liner or posing on exotic beaches, a cruise boat in the background.

“Here we go,” Beverley announced, as she walked back into the room carrying a tray with two mugs, a gilt coffee pot, a matching milk jug and a plate of cream cookies. She fussed over the coffee, pouring two cups and held out the cookies to Kendall with “Have one. I baked them this morning.”

She smiled at Kendall as though she were a long lost relative and they were about to catch up on lost years. Her demeanor was bizarrely congenial, considering what they were to discuss. In her mind, Kendall began crafting the opening to her article.

“Sometimes survivors carry on without a hitch.”

No, that didn’t work.

“Everybody deals with death differently.”

Yes, better.

“Some survivors cope, carrying on as if nothing ever happened.”

Yes, that would fly.

Then, add a quote from a therapist and another professional who specialized in trauma. Oh, yes, and then thinking of trauma, she could speak to a psychologist who dealt in returning soldiers of war and add something about post-traumatic stress disorder.

Kendall 
had
 imagined she would need to console the woman, play the role of a confessor, but Kendall’s confidence now grew by the second. This could turn out to be no more difficult than her usual stories.

There was an air of affectation about Beverley’s movements as she positioned herself on the couch, her coffee cup held carefully in her lap. Clearly she enjoyed the attention.

Beverley lifted the hot drink to her mouth and took a long sip before returning it to her lap and wrapping both hands around the mug.

“Now, what did you want to know? It’s all very exciting, isn’t it? How long before you print the interview? What magazine is it again? I read 
Cosmopolitan
 every month. Have done since I was sixteen.”

“No, it’s not 
Cosmopolitan
. It’s for 
Healthy, Wealthy and Wisdom
. I’m not sure how long. They’ve given me a tight deadline on the story, so I imagine it will be in the next issue out next Friday.”

Beverley’s brow creased. ““Hmm, I haven’t heard of that one.” Her frown then turned to a wide smile. “But it’s all very exciting, isn’t it?”

The woman suddenly glowed as though she’d won the lottery. Kendall gave an acknowledging smile to convey she agreed that it was 
all very exciting
, though she failed to comprehend Beverley’s enthusiasm.

Kendall held up her iPhone. “Is it okay if I record our interview?”

“Oh, yes.” Beverley vigorously nodded her head. “What a good idea. Record away.”

Kendall opened and pressed the button of the recording app, then placed the phone on the coffee table between a border collie and a particularly ugly Chihuahua. (To her, a non-animal lover, they weren’t good looking dogs in life, and even less so in china.)

“So, you and your husband were at Café Amaretto last night just enjoying an evening out, right? How long had you been there before 
he
 arrived and 
it
 all began?”

Kendall didn’t want to call 
it
 what it was, a massacre. She, also didn’t want to call Toby Benson what 
he
 was—a murderer, a killer, a psychopath. Despite Beverley’s non-plussed demeanor, Kendall was uncertain of her interviewee’s reaction if it suddenly dawned on her what she’d actually experienced. That the murders weren’t a scene from a TV show or whatever thought process she used as a coping mechanism. If she could avoid it, Kendall preferred not to sit here with a hysterical woman.

“Now, let me see. We were up to dessert. I’d just asked Roy—that’s my husband—
how long does it take to cut a piece of cake?
 It was getting near nine-thirty. We like to be in bed by ten these days.”

Beverley smiled a crow’s-foot smile, though her forehead remained unnaturally smooth.

“Then we heard the sound of glasses and plates breaking. Oh my! It was a dreadful racket. So loud. At first—and I said this to Roy—I thought the waitress—and she was actually our waitress, by the way—had slipped and dropped a tray in there, in the kitchen. She was the girl, you know, the one in the paper, the waitress that died. Young thing, too. Quite pretty. Just breaks your heart.”

Beverley tilted her head to the side and looked toward the ceiling as though she were reexamining the memory for the finer details. Kendall leaned in toward her, putting her untouched beverage back on the coffee table as a subtle message to keep talking.

Beverley tut-tutted before continuing.

“Yes, terrible thing. She’d served us all night. We had the ravioli. They do a great mushroom ravioli.”

Kendall was about to suggest Beverley focus on what had 
actually
 happened on the night, when she looked back at Kendall, her lips tight, the fond-memory look she’d worn moments before gone.

“Then we heard such a strange noise, I couldn’t understand what I was hearing. Oh, my God, it was terrible. I actually heard the sound of the axe as it chopped into one of them. From another room, would you believe? That’s how loud it was. Of course, I didn’t know what the sound was—he killed a young boy in there, too. Seventeen. God, seventeen! When I heard that thumping, I just knew something was wrong. Really wrong. That’s not a sound you hear from a kitchen.”

She paused, raising her cup to her lips, then immediately lowered it to her lap again and continued.

“I don’t know how I knew, but I said to Roy, ‘I don’t like this. I think we should forget dessert.’ So we were up and standing at the register near the exit when 
he
 came through the door from the kitchen.”

“That must have been terrifying, Beverley. Lucky you moved. What did he look like?”

Beverly straightened her back, placed her coffee cup on the table with a flourish, and raised her chin as though she were about to give a speech on molecular biology.

“That was the strange, 
strange
 thing. I said this to the policeman after. If he didn’t have that axe, and if he weren’t covered in blood, you would think he was just a nice, run-of-the-mill, everyday young man. Someone who’d carry your groceries from your car to the door. He didn’t look like a murderer. He had nicely styled neat hair. In fact, I told Roy later, I thought he was quite handsome.”

“Did he look like he knew someone in the room? Like he was after someone in particular? Revenge maybe?”

“No. He just stood in the kitchen doorway and looked around the room as if he was looking for a table. Like he was joining friends. That’s why some of those people didn’t move.
That’s
 how he got them. He looked so ordinary people didn’t give him a second look. Mind you, on second look the blood on him should have rung bells. Then he went for the nearest table. I couldn’t believe how quick he was with that axe. They didn’t stand a chance. Within seconds, it was a mess. Blood everywhere. A man. A woman. Then another man. He smashed into them as if they were pieces of wood.”