The Dollmake (The Forgotten Files 2)
He came beside her and took her left hand in his. Gently, he raised it to his lips and kissed her fingertips. “I don’t want you to worry about what happened. Just know you’re going to be fine. I’ll see to it. I swear.”
Her battered body and fogged mind succumbed to trusting him. He didn’t look deranged. He sounded kind. His touch was gentle. “I can’t remember anything.”
“I know, sweetie. I know. It’s the drugs. They often wipe the memory. Which in your case is for the best. Transitions aren’t easy, and some experiences are best not remembered.”
“Transition? Have I changed?”
He patted her hand. “You’re fretting, and there’s no need for it. I’m here. Let me feed you some of this soup. I made it just for you.”
Despite the tug to trust, a dark fear curled in the pit of her stomach. Cradling the soup bowl, he ladled a spoon. “Be a good girl and open wide.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Sunday, October 9, 1:00 p.m.
It took Andrews an hour in traffic to drive out to Douglas Knox’s house located in the small town where Roger Benson had lived. This time of year, the tree-lined roads were exploding with yellow and orange, making this some of the prettiest country he’d seen in years.
He drove past million-dollar homes in gated communities sporting massive windows that took full advantage of the crystal waters of the lake.
Douglas Knox, former police chief and investigator on the Kara Benson case, had retired to a small brick rancher in an old lakefront neighborhood close to where Kara Benson’s body had been found twelve years ago.
Andrews parked his Jeep behind an old red truck and took a moment to survey his surroundings before getting out of the car. He moved past the truck, noting the front seat was filled with a dozen fast-food wrappers and discarded paper coffee cups.
He made his way along an overgrown path to Knox’s front door. The once-white paint trimming the windows had grayed and was peeling and popping in several places. He pressed the doorbell, but there was no chime or the approaching thud of footsteps. He then knocked on the door. From inside the house a television blared. He knocked again.
Finally, he heard footsteps and what sounded like a plate hitting the floor and a burst of curses. The door creaked open to a man well into his sixties. Thinning white hair hung over a rumpled plaid collar and framed a wan face. Stained pants and old athletic shoes finished off the look.
Andrews pulled off his sunglasses. “Douglas Knox?”
“That’s right.”
“I’m Garrett Andrews. I’m looking into the Kara Benson case for Agent Sharp.”
The mention of the girl’s name made the old man cringe. His right hand trembled as he raised it to rub his chin. “I gave the files to Sharp, hoping I could make it to my grave without hearing her name again.”
“Why’s that? I’d think you’d be willing to talk about the case and help us solve it.”
He shook his head, his gaze growing distant. “I spent more hours than I want to remember thinking about that poor girl.”
“I’ve read the files you gave Agent Sharp, and he has unearthed new details. Do you have a moment to discuss them?”
Knox curled arthritic fingers into a fist. Bloodshot eyes and the heavy scent of whiskey suggested the man had already had a few. “That case consumed me. I put everything I know in those files. You have the files, so you know what I do. I can’t help you.”
“Don’t be so sure about that. I have questions. Let me ask them, and we’ll see what you know.”
Knox shook his head. “I’m tired of talking. And I don’t see what good it’ll do.”
“You wouldn’t have given the files to Agent Sharp unless you wanted the case solved.”
“My memory isn’t any good.”
Deflecting the excuse, Andrews said, “I’ve spent the last couple of days going through every page in the boxes you provided, so I’m very familiar with the facts. I can jog your memory.”
“All I know is in those files,” Knox said as he wrapped gnarled hands around the doorknob and moved to close the door.
Andrews easily blocked the door with his foot. “I’m sure you can spare a little time.” He attempted a smile, knowing there wasn’t anything really friendly about it. “You did a hell of a job with all those notes. Don’t quit on Kara Benson now.”
Old eyes narrowed. “Who are you?”
“Garrett Andrews,” he repeated. “I work for Shield Security.”
A frown deepened the lines on Knox’s face, but finally his shoulders slumped. He turned and moved into the house.
Andrews followed. The house was dimly lit. The center hallway dividing the long house in two was crammed with magazines and newspapers piled almost to the ceiling. Off the hallway was a larger room decorated in mauves and grays. A strong scent of mold permeated the room. The house would have been a total loss except for a large set of sliding glass doors that looked out onto a deck overlooking the lake. Andrews noticed the old man’s recliner faced away from the view and toward a television.
Knox sat in the recliner and lowered the volume with a remote he clutched close to his chest. “Hurry up and ask your questions, young man. I got my television shows to get back to.”
Andrews understood the psychology of interviewing. He knew he should sit. Try to build a rapport with Knox. But he’d never cared about playing nice. “Sharp said you attended Roger Benson’s funeral on Monday.”
Knox twisted a button on his shirt. “Seemed the least I could do.”
“You two were friends before she died?”
“We knew each other well enough to say hello on the street. But that was about it.”
“And yet you spent years helping him with her case.”
“Benson was devastated after Kara’s death. Heartbreaking to see the tall and mighty brought to their knees.”
Andrews pulled up a chair covered in magazines, which he set on the floor. He positioned the chair in front of Knox so they’d be eye level. He wanted to see the man’s facial expression clearly. Ninety percent of communication was nonverbal. “You were one of the first officers at Kara’s crime scene, correct?”
“Yeah. I was on duty. The scene still gives me nightmares.”
“Was Kara Benson wearing makeup when you found her?”
The old man did a double take. “What?”
“Makeup.”
“Why would you ask a question like that? Her crime scene pictures are in the files. What did you see?”
“The images are inconclusive. The photos are either out of focus or her face is turned. There is no clear view of her face.”
“I never claimed to be a great photographer.”
“So you took the pictures.”
“Yeah, sure. Of all things, why care about the makeup?”
“Pictures were taken of her at the medical examiner’s office. There are traces of heavy makeup on her hairline and on her lips and eyes.”
“So?”
“According to the files, you were the first officer on scene. Is that true?”
“Yeah.”
He watched the old man carefully. “Did you wipe the makeup from her face, Chief Knox?”
“Why would I do that?”
“You tell me. Why would you destroy evidence?”
He rubbed his chin covered in gray stubble. “Maybe I didn’t want it getting around what she looked like. I knew more police were coming, and I’d hated the idea that it would get back to Roger and Adeline that their little girl died looking like a freak doll.”
“Her face was made up to look like a doll?”
“Yeah, I guess that was what her face was supposed to look like. Nothing a parent needed to see.”
Andrews sat back in the chair. “Do you remember talking to Diane Emery? She was a close friend of Kara’s.”
“If she was a friend, then I talked to her.”
“She was found murdered days ago and dressed to look like a doll.”
The
old man’s frown deepened, and his gaze dropped to his bent hands. For a long moment, he said nothing. “What are you saying?”
“That maybe you know a lot more about what happened to Kara Benson, but for whatever reason, you’re hiding the truth.”
Watery gray eyes met his. “Why would I do that? I spent years trying to find her killer.”
“Or you spent years making sure no one else did.” Andrews dangled the words as he would bait on a line. Never knew what you could catch with a statement or comment.
“That’s a shitty thing to say. I worked for years on that case.” He drained what remained in the cup by his chair. His brow knotted as he stared into the cup.
“The crime scene work was substandard.”
“The day we found her, we were spread real thin. There’d been an arson fire in town, and one of my officers was burned trying to put it out. He ended up in the hospital with bad wounds. I wasn’t really equipped to collect forensic evidence, but I was all we had. If any evidence was lost, misfiled, or compromised, you can lay it at my feet.”
Andrews switched tactics. “Forgetting the evidence for a moment, what do you think happened to Kara Benson?”
Knox stared back into the empty mug. “Doesn’t really matter what I think. It’s what I could prove, and I couldn’t pin the case on anyone.”
“What are your theories?” He leaned in a fraction. “Every cop has theories. Whatever you say will remain confidential.”
Knox pinched the bridge of his nose. “I’m all out of theories.”
“You must have suspected someone, otherwise why would you give the files to Sharp?”
“He was the last in the family. Seemed fitting.” The old man rose, stepped, stumbled, and then straightened himself. “Best you leave now, son. I’m not feeling so good.”
“What are you hiding, Mr. Knox?”
“Not a damn thing.”