The Devil's Closet (16 page)

“Oh, no,” I muttered.

“Who is it?”

“The Richland County commissioner’s daughter, Brooklyn Phillips.”

“A county commissioner’s daughter? That’s really pushing it. The killer definitely made a statement, didn’t he?” Michael started to drive even faster.

“Yes, he did. I’d like to see Howard explain himself out of this one. The killer flat out told him he’d take another child unless I was put in charge.”

As I’d expected, the Phillipses’ house was complete chaos. Michael and I could barely get across the front yard. Neighbors and family members were screaming at the top of their lungs, and FBI agents and cops were swarming everywhere; there was no sense of order whatsoever. I assumed nothing vital to the crime had happened in the front yard since everyone was traipsing around so much.

Inside the house, the two idiots from the FBI were standing near Commissioner Alex Phillips and his wife, Jean. Some lady held a bucket in front of Jean, who was vomiting into it. The commissioner was rubbing her back and trying to soothe her, though he didn’t look too good himself.

I’d always gotten along with him, and he maintained his position as one of the top supporters of our police department. This was a great benefit to us since he held the purse strings.

I saw good old Supervisory Agent Earl Howard come into the room from the kitchen. I just leaned back against the wall, crossed my arms, and said nothing. He went directly to Michael, glowering at me along the way. I happily returned the same. He spoke to Michael for about five minutes before returning to the kitchen.

Michael filled me in on some of the details. Brooklyn had gone through her nightly routine of taking a bath, eating a snack, and going to bed. Alex and Jean, after tucking Brooklyn in, stayed downstairs and watched television before they decided to turn in.

When Jean checked on Brooklyn later, her bedroom window was open, the screen had been cut, and Brooklyn was gone. The house only had one floor, and the couple had been in the family room about a good hour before checking on their only daughter. An entire hour for the killer to get away. They never heard a sound.

My attention was torn away from Michael by the shouts of Alex Phillips. Agent Howard had come back into the room.

“What are you going to do? You don’t have a fucking thing, do you? So help me God, if something happens to her, I’ll hold every one of you people responsible!”

Of course, Agent Howard gushed about how they were doing everything they could and were following up on some good leads.

“That’s a lie, and you know it,” I said loudly. Gauntlet thrown down.

Both men turned to look at me. I stayed in position, straight-faced and staring down Agent Howard.

“Detective Gallagher? CeeCee.” Alex stood up. “What’s going on? What do you mean?”

“Commissioner, I’m so very sorry about Brooklyn. I strongly suggest you find Sheriff Stephens immediately to find out what the FBI is doing to find your daughter, and he’ll tell you. Not a goddamn thing. And find out how much they’ve already botched this entire case.”

Michael grabbed my arm. “CeeCee, don’t,” he whispered in my ear.

I jerked away to find Agent Howard less than an inch from my face. “Detective Gallagher,” he said, his voice low and menacing, “you’re treading on very dangerous ground here. At this rate, you’ll be lucky if you’re out of federal prison by the time you’re eighty, if I have anything to say about it.”

“Then I guess it’s a good thing you don’t have anything to say about it, Agent.” The sheriff, who had come in and heard every word, stood behind Agent Howard.

“Sheriff, with all due respect, this is federal jurisdiction….”

“Right, it is. Agent Hagerman is still the lead agent. However, as of right now, Detective Gallagher will be named before the media as the lead investigator. You, sir, are no longer needed, and if you call your boss—he’s expecting your call, by the way—you’ll find you’re on the next plane out of here. Those orders are directly out of Washington.”

I guess the governor and his brother came through. A little late, but it was better than nothing. Agent Howard turned, saw the smile on my face, and looked back at the sheriff. As if the sheriff’s word wasn’t enough, Agent Howard called his boss in front of all of us.

Seeing his face pale told me the person on the other end wasn’t too thrilled with him either. Agent Howard slammed his phone shut and walked out the front door without saying a word.

“Sorry it took so long, CeeCee. All of this could have been prevented.”

Alex Phillips demanded to know what was going on, and the sheriff told him the truth. He told him about the letter, the threat the killer made, and how Agent Howard had ignored it. Alex looked devastated.

“CeeCee, you know I trust you. I can’t take this. I really can’t. Please, find my little girl.” He began to cry.

I felt my own eyes well up. It was difficult to speak. “Alex, you know I’ll do everything I can.”

He nodded slightly, then went back to tend to his wife. It was a quiet few seconds before the sheriff took charge.

“CeeCee, it’s your show now. You and Michael. Technically, it’s still an FBI case, but I’m going out right now to announce to the media that you’re in charge. Hopefully, our psychopath will see it soon and not take another child and, God willing, release Brooklyn Phillips.”

It was evident Michael had relaxed considerably since the departure of Agent Earl Howard. He immediately took the reins, ordering agents to clear the front lawn and get everyone who didn’t belong out of the house. Anyone without a specific job to do there was to be out looking for the child. Suddenly everything felt under control.

It was time for me to leave. All the bases were being covered and I had to finally take care of the most important part of this case, finding out more about Jim Carlson. I motioned to Michael, letting him know I needed to leave.

“What do you mean you have to go? Oh no, if this is what you were telling me back at the room—forget it! You’re not going anywhere until you tell me first.”

“You said you trust me, now prove it. I’ll be fine. This is extremely important and it can’t be done any other way. We don’t have time.”

“You promise me that if something goes wrong, even in the slightest, you get your ass back here, or call me. And I want to hear from you in exactly one hour. If I don’t, I’ll assume something’s wrong and act accordingly. Agreed?”

“I promise. One hour.”

To get a look at Jim Carlson’s house, I had to drive around the block a few times. It was totally dark, and the black pickup truck his neighbor described wasn’t in the driveway. I parked on the next street over and waited a few minutes to see if anyone turned on a porch light or was sitting outside. It was a warm night and people might stay up later. I also needed to listen for dogs, people sneezing, coughing, talking, chains rattling, anything that would indicate a witness could be around.

Once I was satisfied I was alone, I grabbed my bag of tools off the front seat and slowly got out of the car. I hadn’t had time to get one out of the impound lot, but it didn’t matter. All I had to do was say I was watching the house if anyone saw my car.

I put in the earpiece attached to the portable radio on my belt. I needed to hear if anyone called the police department about a suspicious person or car on this street. The radio was pretty quiet, so I felt safe to begin my adventure.

I darted through two backyards to get to the back of Jim Carlson’s house. By this time, I was sweating and breathing hard, so I took a moment to settle down a little before entering the house. I approached the back door, took out my lock-picking set, and went to work. Surprisingly, the door was already unlocked. I took my bag and ran back to the first yard I crossed, the place where I had noticed an old wheelbarrow lying upside down behind a shed, alongside some other thrown-away gardening items.

I placed my bag underneath the wheelbarrow since it didn’t look like an item the homeowner would check daily. I left the bag there in case I had to quickly get out of the house. If I had to move quickly, who knows if I would remember to grab it. This way, I could always come back later and retrieve it.

Now, with my radio, turned-off cell phone, gun on my belt, and flashlight in hand, I returned to Jim Carlson’s back door.

The doorknob squeaked when I turned it. Noises always seemed to be magnified a thousand times when you’re doing something illegal. I looked around yet again, then went in, quietly closing the door behind me. My eyes soon adjusted to the dark.

I was in the kitchen. There was an aluminum table and two folding chairs substituting as a dinette set. The countertops were bare; no toaster, microwave, or utensils. It was horribly hot, and my heart rate was raising my own body heat, making me utterly miserable. Plus, I was nervous. Something just didn’t feel right.

I stood in the same spot in the kitchen for several minutes, listening to the crickets chirping outside along with the sound of my own labored breathing.

I finally mustered the courage to open the refrigerator. It was completely bare. Maybe Michael was right. Maybe I shouldn’t have come here.

This was nothing like when I’d been in Carl Malone’s house. I should’ve been more nervous there since I knew for a fact it was occupied. Here, it was anyone’s guess whether someone lived in this house. The atmosphere seemed very wrong.

I waved my instincts off as overactive imagination and ventured through the kitchen doorway, slowly poking my head around the corner in the dimness. I was hesitant to use my flashlight in an open room with uncovered windows because someone outside might see me.

The room adjoining the kitchen was bare. It looked like it should’ve been a living room, but there was no furniture to indicate that. There was no wallpaper. When I ran my hand down the nearest wall, paint flakes began to chip off. I stood in that spot for several minutes listening like I did in the kitchen.

For some reason, the thought of walking across the dark open room terrified me. But thinking of Brooklyn Phillips, I grabbed my gun out of its holster and slowly began the trek across the room. I was heading for a staircase at the other end, and it seemed like hours before I got to it.

At the bottom of the staircase I leaned against the wall. I had to stop to breathe. This was ridiculous. I worked uniform patrol for seven years before going into the detective bureau. I always cleared houses, buildings, businesses, barns—any type of structure possible—even catching burglars inside, and I was never this tense and nervous. I honestly didn’t think I would be able to bring myself to go upstairs. Now, on top of sweating and a heart that was beating like a newborn hummingbird, I was shaking like a leaf.

I felt nervous laughter begin to erupt, but did my best to quell it. This actually eased some of my nerves, so I was able to slowly start walking up the steps. My handgun pointed toward the top of the steps, and I was reminded how much I hated climbing staircases. It was a bona fide kill zone. If someone were to peer around the top and fire at me, I would have nowhere to go.

The stairs squeaked, which made it worse, and when I got to the second-to-top step, I stopped. I didn’t know the layout of the house from there and got to my knees before looking around the corner. This time, I quickly flashed my light twice. It felt safe to do so since there weren’t any windows. When I decided all looked clear, I went forward.

There were three doors. Knowing I had to check every room, I moved to the first door. By now, I could see the tip of my gun bobbing up and down from the tremors in my hand. I wished Michael were there. I’d bet he did too. I hadn’t bothered to look at my watch, but I knew I was well over an hour by now, probably going on two.

I got the first two, completely empty, rooms cleared without any restless souls jumping out at me or a barrage of gunfire erupting. Then I got to the third. There was a paint smell coming from this room. I looked in and didn’t see any windows, so it was clear to use the flashlight. Shining the beam into the room, I sucked in my breath and stood still.

This room had a bed, a neatly made twin bed with a flowery blue comforter and white pillow at the headboard. It was at the farthest wall away from me and had a small nightstand next to it. On the nightstand was a white antique lamp. I took my chances and felt for a light switch next to me.

I flipped it on, and the room became illuminated in a dim, soft light. I was completely overcome. I could see the entire room as plain as day.

The room had windows, but they were covered with pictures, newspapers, and magazine pages. However, it wasn’t just the windows that were covered. Every wall in the room was plastered with them, and half of the ceiling. There wasn’t a centimeter of wall exposed.

It wasn’t the wall being covered that disturbed me so much; it was what covered them that was so unspeakably macabre. Every newspaper, magazine page, and picture contained little girls. There were pictures of child actresses, sports stars, pages from children’s clothing catalogs with girls who looked about five, and the newspapers all had pictures of little girls walking their dogs, playing in the park, or with their parents.

As I walked along each wall, scanning every horrific page, I realized I had walked into the room of our killer. It wasn’t that each picture terrified me. It was everything put together and how neatly it was done. All the pages fit together, cut just right and glued onto the wall, one piece nestled against another.

My attention was drawn to a small box under the bed, a corner of its red lid sticking out. I didn’t know if I was able to handle another surprise, but I grabbed the box anyway and opened the lid. It was full of news articles on the recent kidnappings.

The article on top was dated yesterday. The deeper I delved into the box, the worse it got.

At the very bottom was an entire stack of articles about me and the Murder Mountain case. My interviews, photos, personal information. Everything. There were photos of Michael and me as far back as last year at the trial. There were photos of us at the hotel, eating at the diner, walking out of the department, and standing at the crime scenes of the dead children. The killer had been watching us every minute from the very beginning.

My hands were shaking so badly I almost couldn’t get everything back into the box the way I’d found it. Before I shoved it back under the bed, I took the lid off again, grabbed the picture of Michael and me at the hotel, and put it in my pocket.

Kneeling in the middle of floor, I looked around and above me at the crude shrine, then focused on the closet door. I hadn’t noticed it before because it was covered with paper as well and blended in with the walls. I didn’t know if I could open it without tearing the pictures until I saw the exposed seam running up the wall.

I opened the door and looked into the darkness of the closet, the dim light of the room too weak to do any good. I turned my flashlight on, but it was dead. I opened the door wider, hoping to catch some of the light from the lamp behind me.

When I looked back into the closet, I found myself screaming so loud it sounded like someone else. I flew backward, hitting the door, falling to my knees. My hands covered my mouth so tightly I thought I would suffocate.

There were children in there, at least fifteen of them. I could see them standing in rows, their eyes shining out at me in the light. I didn’t think I would be able to compose myself, enough to get out of the house for help, until my eyes adjusted to the dark and I saw the children were actually My Size dolls.

There was no quelling the nervous laughter that erupted. I bent over and held my stomach. When I finally stood and walked back to the open door, I could see a white string hanging from the ceiling of the closet. I pulled the string, and the closet exploded in bright white light. There was no laughing now. I was horrified.

Each doll was different; its hair color, eyes, clothing, and shoes. They were meticulously lined up in four rows of four dolls each. The size of the closet was, at first glance, deceiving. In truth, it was absolutely enormous. The walls had been pushed back so they extended an extra six to seven feet, at least, in every direction. Most of the walls had been drywalled and wallpapered with the tacky purple paper I’d found in the garbage bag, but the wall in the back was not finished. Loose insulation hung from it; some pieces lay on the floor in front of it.

The first bedroom I came to in the hallway had to have been downsized to absorb this monstrosity. Probably a new wall had been built.

There were three dressers along the finished walls of the closet. Each one was four drawers high, finished in a deep, glossy stained wood. Above each of the dressers were clothing rods filled with girls’ clothes. These were not doll clothes. They were very expensive clothes from high-end children’s stores. There were dresses, frilly and casual; small pantsuits; skirts, silk tops; and jumpers all in various colors. The dolls themselves wore these clothes.

I opened the drawers and saw underwear neatly folded, socks sorted by colors, and T-shirts folded so neatly they looked like they had just come out of a package. Children’s books were stacked on top of each dresser.

Then there were the ribbons and shoes. One dresser held two drawers full of red ribbons, and the other two drawers held My Size shoes in assorted colors. I grabbed a few ribbons and one shoe and stuffed them in my pocket, along with a piece of insulation.

I kept looking at one doll in the middle of the front row. It wasn’t like the others. It was scary and disturbing. It was dressed in all black, with a long black wig, black fingernail polish, and dark makeup painted on its face. It was gothic. There was something else different about this doll, and I picked it up to examine it closer.

Feeling the objects under the doll’s black shirt told me everything before I even pulled the shirt up and looked. The doll was modified with breasts. Crude circles of flesh-colored plastic had been glued onto the chest area. Pink cone-shaped pieces of plastic had been glued onto those, giving them the appearance of nipples. Not even able to imagine what was down below, I pulled the pants of the doll down. In the genital area, a yellow sponge cut into a triangle shape was glued to the doll. What looked like black hair netting was glued to the sponge to give the appearance of pubic hair.

I checked the other dolls. The gothic doll was the only one with modifications. There wasn’t a doubt in my mind that this was his favorite doll, so I was going to take it.

Getting ready to leave—I had been gone well over three hours, so Michael probably had the National Guard out looking for me—I saw a small hole I hadn’t noticed before back by the unfinished wall. As I bent over to peer inside, I heard the door slam downstairs. My nerves went into high alert.

I ran as quietly as I could back into the room and shut off the light. Someone was coming up the steps, so all I could do was go into the closet. I was shaking again and sweating. On the verge of hysterics, I pulled the string in the closet to turn off the light. I started to back up, but kept knocking over dolls, so I finally inched along the wall to the crawlspace I’d seen. I backed into it as far as I could go.

I put my hand down into something wet. I had taken my gloves off when I inspected the gruesome doll, an action I now regretted. By instinct, I raised my hand to my nose to smell it and started to gag. It was old urine. Through the crack in the door, I saw the light in the room go on. I used my clean hand to cover my mouth, trying to keep from breathing hard. When I tried to back up farther, my right hand brushed the cell phone attached to my belt.