What Doesn’t Kill Her (7 page)

A year and a half ago, a family had been killed in O’Fallon, Missouri. Again, similarities—family murdered, one survivor, a son this time. Like the Riveras, Frank and Carol Northcutt had been stabbed to death, and as in the Elkins killings, the pair had been slashed postmortem. But no shootings, and the surviving son, Lyle, was in his twenties and hadn’t lived with his parents for several years.

But that surviving son was why the case had attracted Internet notoriety—Lyle Northcutt, “Buck Knife” to his friends and fans, was bass player in a cult-favorite metal band, Throbbing Meat Whistle.

Speculation ran high that Buck Knife’s music had played a major role in the slaughter of the musician’s parents. Long before the killings, such songs by the band as “Fuck ’Em All” and “Kill the Bastards” had inflamed the debate about metal music, and post-tragedy, brought out self-appointed arbiters of popular culture who insisted that Buck Knife had no one to blame but himself for the deaths of his parents.

Internet stories provided a look into the musician’s parents, who apparently were white bread, All-American, churchgoing. Their only sin, their only break from Middle American conformity, was their pride in their son’s music and success.

Even Lyle had been a normal kid. Frank had coached Lyle’s Little League team and Carol had run the concession stand at those games. Members of the PTA, Frank and Carol helped organize the Planned Parenthood book sale every year and volunteered weekly at the local food bank.

Unlike the Elkinses and Riveras, who were very well off, the Northcutts had been firmly entrenched in the lower regions of the middle class—they were both retired teachers.

The Northcutts of Missouri, along with half a dozen other families scattered across the United States, had made it into Mark’s growing printout folder and expanding computer files.

Funny, or perhaps odd or even ironic, but the name
Lyle
summoned a memory of an event that had been minor in the great scheme of things but had a major impact on Mark’s formative years.

Elementary school bully Kyle Underwood, a mean-hearted little son of a biscuit, was responsible for Mark’s enduring aversion to swearing. The kid had sworn like a fourth-grade sailor himself, and maybe that’s where Mark had heard the words. He sure hadn’t heard them at home.

Bully-boy Kyle had prodded and picked on Mark, day after day, making a habit out of stealing the boy’s lunch money, and that of many of his friends. One day, after school, Mark had simply snapped.

Balling up his fists, he stood up to the bully and snarled, “Fuck you, Kyle! I’m not taking your shit anymore!”

But instead of fighting, Kyle had simply started laughing and pointing. When Mark turned, his father had been standing there. Usually Mom picked him up, and she always waited in the car. But here Dad was, frowning.

“That’ll be enough, boys,” Dad had said, and dragged Mark off.

Kyle Underwood would get his comeuppance another day, at the hands of another kid. This day was a black one in Mark’s memory. He thought maybe his dad would understand, even compliment him, for standing up to injustice. But all Dad did was ground him for a month, accepting no explanations or excuses, making Mark swear to never swear again.

For some reason, that took… and Mark got a lot of kidding over the years, even to this day, for having such a goody-two-shoes vocabulary. Had he learned anything from the experience? Maybe that fighting injustice wasn’t a license to otherwise break the rules. Or maybe he had just been so ashamed at disappointing his dad that he was still trying to make up for it.

Even though Dad had been gone, for how many years?

The houses around Mark now were part of the suburb of Strongsville. He knew little about the Sully family, who had lived in a nice white house on Cypress Avenue, just west of I-71 and the Mill Stream Run Reservation.

As he pulled to a stop in front of the Sully residence, Mark noted the police tape still X-ed across the front door. He got out of the car, trying to get
a feel for the neighborhood. At dusk, the lights were on in neighboring homes, a breeze promising a cool night, with not another soul on the street except for a middle-aged woman walking her corgi two houses down on the other side.

A predominantly white neighborhood, where everybody on the block knew everybody else, yet a killer had managed to infiltrate, murder the Sullys, and take his leave. And all the while, no one heard or saw a blessed thing.

Why this house, when they all looked so much alike?

Why this family?

Why this street?

Why, why, why?

Mark asked himself those and a thousand other questions, not getting one g.d. answer.

Jordan sat barefoot in the lotus position on the hardwood floor in the middle of her studio apartment. Wearing a plain white T-shirt and gray sweatpants, black hair ponytailed back, eyes shut against the sun filtering through the venetian blinds, she endeavored to clear her mind.

The past two weeks had blurred by, leaving the young woman exhausted, and not just physically. So much had been heaped upon her since seeing that news broadcast in the Dimpna dayroom that she had been able to do little more than simply cope.

Dr. Hurst had been a big help, especially those first few days, going well beyond doctor/patient counseling and group therapy—no denying that—even driving Jordan to see her parents’ attorney.

Family friend Stephen Terrell might have been intimidating with his barrel chest, Brooks Brothers suit, and severe gray-framed glasses. But the warmth of his smile and that sprinkling of salt in his pepper-colored hair made him at once accessible. Of course Jordan remembered him younger, though the twinkle in his brown eyes made him seem like your favorite uncle.

When Jordan had first entered St. Dimpna’s, Terrell had visited frequently, but that trailed off due to her lack of communication. His last visit had been probably eight years ago. Now, as his secretary opened the door for Jordan and gestured her in (Dr. Hurst waiting in the outer office), the attorney beamed in a manner usually reserved for long-separated family members.

It touched Jordan so much that she actually smiled at him.

But when he came around the desk with his arms extended for a hug, she backed away, smile vanishing. The attorney clumsily held out a hand for her
to shake, as an alternative, and when she didn’t take it, he clasped his hands at his chest and bowed slightly. Such a big Buddha of man, making that little awkward gesture, made her smile again. Briefly.

“Jordan, wonderful to see you,” he said, as he nodded toward one of his two client chairs. “I think of your folks every single day.” He got himself seated behind his big mahogany desk. “It’s a tragedy that none of us will ever get over.”

What could she say to that?

“But I was thrilled to learn,” he went on, “that you’re out under God’s blue sky again, ready to meet whatever life brings.”

That had a rehearsed sound and she couldn’t compete with it. So she just gave him a curt nod.

He raised his eyebrows, and his smile asserted itself for just a moment before disappearing, as if to say,
So much for small talk. Down to business.

Flipping open a waiting folder, he said, “I don’t have to tell you that your parents were good people.”

Then don’t.

“But more than that,” he said, “they were
conscientious
people. Jordan, you should be proud—your mom and dad, they provided very well for you.”

She said nothing. This was his show.

The attorney’s forehead frowned while his mouth smiled. “Jordan, what I’m trying to say is… you’re a very wealthy young woman.”

Her eyes tensed. “My parents were doing all right, Mr. Terrell. But we sure weren’t rich.”

“Jordan, your father carried extensive life insurance policies on himself, your mother, and both of you kids.”

“News to me.”

“It’s not something he would have talked to you about, not until you were a little older.”

“I was in high school.”

“Your grandfather on your dad’s side died of heart disease in his early sixties. And your grandmother, your dad’s mother, died at fifty-seven of breast
cancer. That family history made your father, an insurance man himself, cautious.”

She said nothing.

He plowed on. “With the payouts for your parents and your brother, the interest accrued over the last decade, and the sale of the house—”

She sat forward and sharpness entered her tone. “Our house was sold?”

He swallowed and nodded. “With you in St. Dimpna’s, in a state of mental health that precluded your participation, I—as executor of your parents’ estate—had to act in your best interests. I had no way of knowing when… or even,
if
… you would ever get out of that hospital.”

“So you sold our house?”

“Maintaining the place was a financial burden you didn’t need. Indicators were that housing values were going down, so I acted while you could still benefit from a relatively friendly marketplace.”

“You sold it.”

He nodded. “At almost twice what your father bought it for. And the mortgage had already been paid off. Your dad had a windfall about fifteen years ago—”

“I can’t go back to my room.”

Do I want to?

“With taxes and insurance, and utilities, Jordan, it was a financial drain. I discussed this with Dr. Hurst and she agreed that the money could be better used for your future, whether in St. Dimpna’s, or… out in the world. And, frankly, I didn’t imagine you would
want
to go back there.”

“It was our home.”

The intruder had taken their lives. Now added to that was their home.

Terrell looked decidedly uncomfortable. “I apologize if I have done anything that contradicts your wishes. But, frankly… and I mean in no way to be unkind, Jordan… but for two years I came to visit you, and you never made eye contact with me, let alone expressed yourself in words. As someone entrusted, by your father and mother, with your welfare, I had to use my own best judgment.”

Tears were flowing, warm and wet on her cheeks.
Damnit!

Terrell opened a drawer, produced a tissue, and half rose to hand it across the expanse of the desk.

“Thank you,” Jordan said, dabbing her cheeks.

“I know this is difficult,” Terrell said. “It’s difficult for me, too. Is it all right to discuss the specifics of your financial situation?”

Jordan nodded.

She had never really thought about having a “financial situation.” Never even wondered who had paid the freight at St. Dimpna’s—the state, she supposed. Now she realized it was more like her parents’ estate.

The attorney, who looked as shaken as she felt, was saying, “Your parents left you in a very comfortable position, monetarily speaking.”

Not really caring, wanting to hurry this up so she could get out of this office and be anywhere else, she asked, “How so?”

“Well,” Terrell said, “your net worth is not quite three million dollars.”

“… What?”

“You heard right, young lady.”

“But how?”

“Mostly insurance,” Terrell said, glancing at the folder on his desk. “A million-dollar policy on your father, half a million on your mother, plus another hundred thousand on James. Just under four hundred thousand, after closing and various other costs, on the sale of the house. The rest is from interest and dividends from existing investments. With no other relatives, it’s all yours now.”

Jordan shook her head slowly. Though the money meant nothing to her—she would gladly trade it to have any one of them back, Dad, Mom, Jimmy—the size of the sum was staggering.

“I would not blame you,” Terrell said, “if you considered me negligent for not maximizing these funds. I am not a financial planner, and your parents obviously could not have anticipated a situation where they would be gone, and you would be hospitalized and out of communication for a decade.”

She stopped listening. He was saying something about having put the funds into CDs at an unfortunately low rate, and how after all this time, her
father’s investments would need a hard look from a financial advisor for updating, and that he hadn’t felt he had a right to gamble with her money without her input, and so on and so forth.

“I know it’s a lot to digest,” Terrell said, wrapping up.

“No shit,” she said.

The attorney’s eyes widened. “Ah… a very understandable reaction. I have all the materials here, bank books, stock certificates, everything…” He handed a packet across to her. “… We can go over that now, or—”

“Or later,” she said, getting up. She nodded at him. “Thanks, Mr. Terrell. I’ll do some digesting.”

And try not to choke on the way down.

“Good, Jordan. Thank you. Really glad to see you looking so well. So fine. A regular young woman.”

She
was
a young woman—that much she knew. Not a girl anymore. Not a high school girl with hopes and dreams, but a woman, a young woman.

Just not a regular one.

Now, still in the lotus position, as she opened her eyes to look around her efficiency apartment, she knew she could live in a condo or a house at least as nice as their old one, but what good would it do? Funny thing was, when she began thinking about the possibilities of a new, nicer, much bigger place, right away she knew that Jimmy would be the perfect guy to help her pick things out and really decorate the place.