“I’m relatively certain we’re alone, Ben,” Fritz offered, obviously puzzled at the covert behavior. “The only light on in the whole building is yours. I let myself in.” He patted the ring of keys on his belt. “We can speak freely.”
Fritz would understand when he’d heard what Ben had to say.
Dropping into his chair once more, Ben studied his lifelong friend before saying what would change everything for him as well as the citizens of Youngstown.
“You’re making me more than a little nervous.”
Ben dragged in a heavy breath. “This is not like twenty years ago, Fritz. For more reasons than we already knew.”
The mayor’s eyes narrowed. “What do you mean?”
Those two young women had been murdered in a manner every bit as heinous as Valerie Gerard. Ben had made the initial discovery at the chapel that cold January morning two decades ago. But he’d never told anyone. Not a single soul. Not even Fritz. If he had, how on earth would he have explained going out to the chapel at that hour of the morning?
If he’d known then . . .
Guilt congealed in his gut. But then, there were some things he couldn’t make himself regret.
He’d told William Boggus, the chief at the time, that he’d gotten an anonymous tip on his ham radio at home. Back then there hadn’t been any way to trace that kind of thing. At least none a small village like Youngstown knew about.
Not unlike the morning he and Conner had trekked up to that chapel, and what Ben found had shaken him to the core. For months afterward he couldn’t close his eyes without seeing that horrific scene. Those poor girls ...
“Ben.”
Fritz’s urgent tone snapped him back to the present. “Sorry. I was thinking about ... last time.”
“What’s going on, Ben?” Worry furrowed his friend’s brow. “You said yourself that sometimes a killer changes his MO.”
“We can only stretch that theory so far. This is ... more personal. When Carl Saxon performed the autopsy on Valerie Gerard, he found something ...”
Fritz sat up a little straighter. “Why am I only hearing about this now? The autopsy was concluded yesterday.”
Ben nodded as a new layer of guilt descended. “Just hear me out, Fritz.” He should have told Fritz earlier, should have gotten this part over with. “There was a foreign object lodged in her throat.”
“Good Lord, man. What sort of object?”
“At first Carl wasn’t sure.” Ben heaved a weary sigh. “I asked him not to divulge this information to anyone until he could determine exactly what we had.”
Fritz gestured for him to get to the point.
“The object was round, like a large coin. There appeared to have been a cloth necklace attached to it. The medal was inscribed, but the acid in the esophagus had made it difficult to make out. I wanted the state forensics lab to try and salvage the inscription if possible. The tech from the lab made the call a couple of hours ago.” Ben felt sick at the thought of what had been crammed in that poor girl’s throat before her mouth was sewn shut like a rag doll’s. No telling how long after that before she surrendered to death. Long minutes of merciless suffering.
How could ...? Jesus, he didn’t want to think about how anyone could do that. To go that far ...
Ben cleared his throat. “It’s a ten-year-old medal from a spelling bee. The year was engraved on the damned thing.”
Fritz sat forward, his face arranged in bewilderment. “Did you say a medal?”
“Yeah.” Ben scrubbed a hand over his face and met his friend’s expectant gaze. “There’s more.”
Fritz Patterson had been Youngstown’s mayor for five years. He’d done great things. Most considered him the best and the most popular mayor in the village’s history. Before seeking political office, he had served as the principal at Youngstown High School. He loved this community. Loved the kids. This next part was going to be especially hard for him to accept. Ben regretted being the one who had to tell him, but it was essential.
“The medal was presented by a fourth-grade teacher from Youngstown Elementary.”
Realization of exactly what that meant sent a kaleidoscope of emotions across the other man’s face.
Fritz shook his head. “That can’t be right.”
“I’ve considered this six ways to Sunday, Fritz, and it comes out the same every time.”
