The Murder of Janessa Hennley Read online

  Vanessa wore a sundress that exposed her thighs. She was Brazilian, and he’d heard that once she got some pot or booze in her, she was wild.

  “Can’t we just go back to your place?” she said.

  “My folks are home. What about yours?”

  “No, mine too.”

  “This isn’t so bad, I promise.”

  They walked down a slope among the graves, illuminated by the street lamps on the paved road that snaked around the property. Just off in the distance, maybe five hundred feet, cypress trees surrounded a circle of headstones. From almost anywhere in the cemetery, nobody could see you there.

  Beer bottles and spent roaches littered the circle. Almost everyone from Kodiak Basin High School used this spot when they couldn’t find anywhere else to party. He kicked aside a few bottles and leaned against one of the headstones. Vanessa folded her arms.

  “I’m cold.”

  “Here,” he said. He slipped out the pipe and weed then took off his jacket and put it around her shoulders.

  He lit up and took a few puffs before passing it to her. She did the same and almost instantly seemed to relax. The cemetery really wasn’t that bad after all. The way the breeze blew the leaves underneath the street lamps was actually kind of pretty, and he was surprised he never noticed it before.

  “You come here a lot?” she asked, handing the pipe back.

  “I used to. No one bothers you here.”

  “I can’t wait to get my own place.”

  “When’s that happening?” he said, holding in his puff and letting it out slowly through his nose.

  “Next year. I wanna go to UCLA, but I don’t know if I can afford it.”

  “I thought your old man was loaded?”

  “He is,” she said, taking the pipe back, “but he has this bullshit about paying your own way. I think I can get him to loan me the money, though. Fucker’ll probably charge me interest.”

  As she put the pipe to her lips, she screamed.

  A man stood before them, his face darkened with the streetlights at his back.

  “Hey man, you scared the shit outta her.”

  The figure didn’t move.

  “You want somethin’, brother?”

  The man stood perfectly still, but the outline of his face in the light revealed why Vanessa had screamed. His skin looked like it was rotting, and deep, black circles clung to his eyes.

  “Hey, man, if you don’t need nothin’, why don’t you just get the fuck outta here?” Mark stepped out from the circle and faced the man squarely. The man was older and taller, but Mark had a good twenty pounds on him.

  “Yo, maybe you didn’t hear me?”

  “Mark, let’s just go.”

  “No, why should we leave? Hey, I’m talkin’ to you, asshole. You speak English?”

  The man neither moved nor spoke. He didn’t even blink, and his eyes passively held Mark in their gaze. Mark shook his head. “Fuck this guy, let’s go.”

  As he turned away, he felt a hand on his shoulder. He looked back, and the knife slashed across his throat. The more he tried to suck in air, the less he got. Vanessa screamed and ran.

  Another swipe of the knife, and another and another. Mark’s head came off from the neck, strands of wet cords and nerves dangling beneath it. The man tossed it into the road and raised his eyes to Vanessa.

  Vanessa screamed all the way down the hill. She spotted a shack across the cemetery, probably where the groundskeeper lived. A light shone from inside.

  She ran as fast as she could but tripped on the curb and hit the ground hard. Gravel cut up her hands and knees, but she picked herself up and darted forward.

  The shack door was open. She bolted inside and locked the door behind her, then backed away, sobbing, until she hit the opposite side of the shack. Shovels, hoes, and rakes hung from the walls. She took out her cell phone and dialed 911.

  Legs poked out from the door in the back. Cautiously, she stepped over to a pool of congealed blood on the dirty floor. The groundskeeper’s face was ripped all the way off, exposing red, stringy muscle underneath.

  She screamed again as the window shattered and a hand closed around her throat. Jagged glass burned into her as she clawed and kicked, trying to pull the hand off her neck. It dragged her outside, and the phone dropped from her hand.

  38

  Martin Boyack closed the window in the front room and looked out at his neighbor’s home. She was a single mother of two, with blonde hair to her shoulders. Sometimes she undressed in the bedroom and didn’t realize she’d left the blinds open. He felt bad watching her but figured he was only human.

  No neighbor tonight. He closed the blinds and went to his desk in the office he’d set apart from the rest of the house. Meant to be a house that held a family, it contained five bedrooms, an office, and a pool. When he bought the house, he anticipated marriage by the age of thirty-seven; he was thirty-five now. No marriage prospects were on the horizon, and buyer’s remorse had settled in, considering how much he’d actually spent on this place.

  He sat at his computer and began to read the medical journal archives online. He sipped at a cup of tea and swore after burning his tongue slightly. After getting some ice, he continued reading.

  A French neurologist named Jules Cotard had identified Cotard’s syndrome as early as 1880. Though he didn’t call it such, of course. He called it “Negation Syndrome,” as a patient would negate some part of their existence.

  Cotard laid out three distinct steps of the disease: the first was germination, in which the patient had a psychotic break and displayed an unbelievable, crushing depression. The blooming stage then followed, where the patient believed a certain part of them no longer existed. The case histories noted that commonly a patient would believe an appendage didn’t exist. No amount of showing them that it did would change their minds.

  The third and chronic stage was a full-blown surrender to the syndrome. At this point, patients may completely negate themselves. In a word, Cotard surmised, the patient believed they were dead.

  He thought that would explain the obsession with cemeteries in those patients that had crossed into the third stage. If you supposed you were dead, where else would you go?

  The pathophysiology was just as interesting, and a line in the Journal of Psychiatric Studies struck him: “Patient’s PET scans may resemble those of patients under anesthesia.” That was exactly what Boyack saw when he looked at David Shyam’s brain scans. Someone who should be unconscious, not walking around.

  It was thought that Cotard’s might have been related to Capgras delusion, in which a patient believed that a close family member or friend had been replaced by an identical double. Both Cotard’s and Capgras sufferers possessed an interesting inability to recognize faces. Boyack wondered that if he were to look in a mirror and not see anyone looking back at him, would he imagine he was dead, too?

  He read several more journals late into the night and then a few case studies before taking a quick, hot shower. Excitement tingled in his belly, and he couldn’t wait for his next session with David. Cotard’s was rare enough that simply treating a sufferer, particularly one that had crossed into stage three and believed they were a walking corpse, was enough for him to get publication in one of the more prestigious journals. But he had bigger things planned.

  No one with Cotard’s this severe had been thoroughly studied. If Boyack could convince the parents to commit him, he could become his treating physician and build an entire case study around him. The possibilities were endless.

  As he drifted off to sleep, he wondered what considering yourself to be dead and an inability to see faces would do to you psychologically. What would it lead you to do if you did happen to recognize someone’s face?

  39

  Suzan reached over and felt nothing but a cool pillow. She opened her eyes and stared at the empty place next to her. Her brain told her to get up and search the house, that there was a possibility he was just out on the pa
tio or in the bathroom, or having a snack in the kitchen.

  But she knew that wasn’t true.

  She even knew why. He thought he was sparing her a lifetime of slowly watching him die. Typical male reaction. He didn’t give her the credit to understand that she was an adult and could decide for herself what she could and couldn’t handle. She checked the clock on the stand. It was past midnight. She exhaled loudly and rose to have a hot bath.

  Suzan sat on the corner of the tub as it filled with hot water. She sprinkled in some bath salts and then stripped nude. As she leaned back in the tub, the water washing over her body, all the tension tied up in her muscles slowly began to give way. She dipped a cloth in the hot water and placed it over her eyes.

  A thought crossed her mind to call Mickey and yell at him. How dare he presume to know what was best for her? But another thought came, that maybe she should let him go. An intense desire had developed within her the past couple of years to have a child. That would be impossible with Mickey.

  Something crashed to the floor, startling her.

  She removed the cloth and looked out the door, as if she could hear with her eyes. Maybe he was still here after all.

  “Mickey, is that you?”

  Silence, but she’d heard something. Feet on her hardwood floors or something dropping. The hairs on the back of her neck stirred. She got out of the tub, wrapped a robe around herself, and walked into the hall.

  “Mickey?”

  She suddenly felt anxious without her sidearm. She contemplated grabbing it from the bedroom, but the kitchen was just a few paces ahead of her. She flipped on the light and saw nothing but a chair that wasn’t tucked underneath the table.

  The man put his hand over her mouth.

  Suzan screamed and swung with her fists as fast as she could, connecting twice with his face. When she hit him in the eye, he let go and stumbled back as she turned and sprinted for the backdoor. An arm slammed across her throat, choking her, pressing the life out of her. It lifted her up off the ground, and she couldn’t draw in breath.

  She thrust her head back into his face. The blow must’ve caught his nose, because he dropped her. She darted for the basement stairs and took them so fast she almost fell. Suzan ran across the cellar and jumped into the laundry room, then climbed into the cupboards underneath the counter.

  Inside the large cabinet, she didn’t feel too uncomfortable except for the bottles of detergent poking into her back. Breathing hard, she tried to calm herself and listen. Footsteps crept down the stairs.

  This was a mistake. She had panicked. She should have gone for her gun.

  Opening the cupboard a little, she could see out into the main area of the basement. A figure lingered there, scanning the room. She bit her lip and softly closed the cupboard. An annoying bottle behind her tipped toward her, jabbing into her kidneys. She closed her eyes and said a prayer, and then slowly reached behind her.

  She could tell from its shape that the bottle was bleach. She gently pulled it away from her, straightening it out. It leaned against the back of the cupboard.

  Relief washed over her, and she opened the cupboard again. No one stood in the basement any longer. He was probably searching the house. She would crawl out and get to a phone in the morning.

  As she closed the cupboard, a pair of yellow eyes stared down at her. She shrieked as hands closed around her body and dragged her out screaming.

  40

  Mickey had slept almost twelve hours, and he still felt exhausted. He took his medication with warm water out of the tap and then lay back down in bed. His muscles felt like he’d just raced the Tour de France, though he’d done nothing more than drive and walk short distances.

  Before he knew it, sunlight coming through the windows woke him again. He’d slept another two and a half hours. Nearly the entire day had been spent in bed.

  He stretched and then brushed his teeth. He’d catch the next flight out, maybe stop in L.A. for some time on the beach before heading back to Washington and Virginia. After examining the room for anything he might have left behind, he went to the front desk to check out. As he was leaving, a woman was walking in with her two kids. She wasn’t looking where she was going and bumped into him.

  “Excuse me,” he said.

  “Asshole,” she muttered under her breath.

  He got into his rented truck and headed to the airport. Only five minutes into the drive, he received a call from a number he didn’t recognize.

  “This is Parsons.”

  “Yeah, Agent Parsons? This is Deputy Andrew Woody from the Sheriff’s Office. Um, up here in Kodiak Basin.”

  “Yeah, Andrew, what can I do for you?”

  “Well, I was just wondering if you’d seen the sheriff?”

  “Seen her when?”

  “Today. She wasn’t answerin’ any of her calls, so I went over to her house. The door was open, but no one was there.”

  “Was her car in the driveway?”

  “Sure was.”

  He was silent a moment. “I’m gonna head over there now. I’m sure she just went out to the store or something.”

  “Yeah, you’re probably right. Only she always answers her phone.”

  “I’ll let you know if she’s over there now.”

  “Thanks. You got my number?”

  “Yeah, it’s on the ID here.”

  “Okay, thanks.”

  Mickey hung up and placed the phone on the passenger seat. He flipped the truck around and sped back toward Kodiak Basin.

  The Tahoe remained in the driveway where it had been yesterday when Mickey left. The driver and passenger doors were locked. He walked up the porch steps and looked through the living room windows before trying the door. It was locked. But the patio door was open and he went in.

  The house didn’t look messy in any way. No dirty shoeprints on the floors, no blood, no torn up curtains or clothing. All things he pictured he would see as he drove over. Mickey always considered the worst possibilities first.

  As he was about to head to the bedroom, he noticed the bathtub was full. He stuck his hand in. The water was cold.

  Mickey pulled out his sidearm and began searching the rest of the house. He started in the bedroom and checked underneath the bed and in the closet. Next, he cautiously stepped across the living room. A plant he had enjoyed when he sat there had died. It looked like it could crumble to dust any second. Maybe Suzan was just too busy to tend to it properly.

  He stared at the dead plant longer than he should have, then continued through the house. The attic was little more than an empty space the size of a large closet, but he checked it anyway. Then he slowly walked to the door leading to the basement.

  He reached the bottom with his heart thumping loudly in his ears. Two windows adorned the walls and allowed in enough sunlight that he could see. Dust particles swirled furiously in the sunbeams. He thought of the Hennleys’ house and the lack of dust particles there.

  Mickey searched the entire basement before realizing he hadn’t called it in. He hit redial on his phone and told Deputy Wood to send a forensics team to the sheriff’s house right away.

  “What for? You think something’s wrong?”

  “Yeah,” Mickey said, “something’s wrong. Just get ’em down here.”

  “Ten-four.”

  Mickey replaced his weapon and the phone and flipped on the light in the laundry room. The cupboards underneath a granite counter were open, and several bottles lay on the linoleum. He bent down to study the bottles and then the cupboard. The space was big, easily large enough to fit a person. And on the outside of the cupboard was a slimy, green-yellow film smeared like a handprint. The same substance caked on the Hennleys’ basement window.

  41

  Suzan Clay felt burning pain.

  Her head pounded, and she was coughing. In the dark, she couldn’t tell if she was lying down, sitting, or standing. Once she fully awoke, however, she knew she was lying on her side. Her legs were scrunch
ed up with her knees touching her belly. And she felt a rocking sensation, then a bump and movement the other way. She was in a car.

  She tried to reach her hands up, but they were tied behind her back. A sack or bag over her head blocked out all the light and made it difficult to breathe. An overwhelming, obtuse panic spread through her body as she thought she might suffocate. She closed her eyes and imagined herself lying in her own bed in the dark, the patio doors open and letting in a cool spring breeze.

  It calmed her enough that she moved her head down in the sack. Pressing her face to the seat, she slowly slid her head out of the sack’s opening. She couldn’t see much, just a couple of inches with her left eye, but it was enough to confirm she was in a car. The passenger seat was empty, and she saw the arm of whoever was driving, though she couldn’t see high enough to capture a face.

  The landscape passed by too quickly to tell where she was, but there were many trees and a sunny sky beyond. Their speed and the lack of traffic lights meant they were on the freeway. She squirmed out of the sack some more. She lay in the backseat of a sedan. The car was clean and empty but had a sour smell to it, like a wet dog.

  She guessed the binds on her wrists were some sort of plastic. Tightly bound, they were cutting off circulation to her hands. She tried to loosen them but couldn’t. Her feet were unbound. If she could sit up and reach the door handle, if the doors were unlocked, she could tumble out. But they were going so fast that she might just crack her head open, especially with her hands behind her.

  As she tried to pull the sack further off, the seat underneath rubbed against her hands. The driver looked back, and she could see his neck but not his face.

  “Who are you? What do you want?”

  The driver picked up a hammer from the passenger seat, and she screamed as he bashed her head with it.