The McCraes
I SNAKE OUR WAY through the myriad of flashing police cruisers, news vehicles, unmarked cars, and Sheriff vans all parked on the edge of the street. A slew of people line the perimeter of the crime scene tape which borders the front yard. A leaning mailbox has McCrae written along the side and it’s wrapped twice with the yellow ribbon. The tape wrinkles in the breeze. The on-looker’s gawk at the haggard home as they’re pushed back by the officers standing next to a lady news reporter.
“Boy is this going to cause a stir,” Collins says as he shakes out a toothpick from his wooden container which has San Diego swirled with palm trees on both sides of the words. He places the toothpick in his mouth and returns the pinky size container back to his pocket. A strong wintergreen aroma fills the air.
“Looks like it already has.”
I pull the suburban into the driveway, and my tires crunch over pebbles as I do. I park next to the van belonging to Cumberland County’s Chief Medical Examiner, Glenn Giles.
I can hear a news chopper or two overhead.
I retrieve a pair of black latex gloves from my coat pocket and stretch them on. I notice moving bodies next to numerous CSI vans parked around the side of the house.
“I’ve been worried this day would come. I knew sooner or later he’d reemerge,” I say as I gaze toward the commotion of workers.
Collins curses beneath his breath and pinches his nose with two fingers between the eyes.
“Let’s start with the body.”
He nods and the toothpick bobs up and down between his teeth.
I take a deep breath and open my door.
A horrific odor, which I’m all too familiar with, confronts us.
Death.
A plethora of voices fill the air as reporters call my name. Begging me with their questions from the border of yellow tape. Chaos. Curiosity.
Yes, this is the scene of a homicide. A murder has been committed and everyone wants to know who, what, and why. So do I.
If it wasn’t for the connections to Morty, Glenn would have already taken the body to the morgue. It’s only in violent homicide cases such as this or in other suspicious circumstances that the Medical Examiner will leave the deceased behind for the detectives to see. So, anytime I get a call from an officer or Glenn, who is requesting I see a body on site, I immediately know why.
Standing outside my car door, I begin to take in the home and yard. A home can tell a lot about a person. My job is not only to find who did this, but to get to know the victims as well. The more I know about the victims, the more I’ll learn about their killer. The house is two stories with white siding and black shutters. The front door is the color of blood, and two small white columns support an aging overhang. The yard wears high grass with scattered Miller Lite cans, brown Burger King bags, blonde headed barbie dolls, and a small trampoline with the safety net around it.
Was the husband an alcoholic? Was he abusive? Were drugs involved? Might explain why the home and yard are so unkept. If so, this wouldn’t make for a good environment for a child to develop in. Which would make the McCrae’s a prime target for Morty. I’ve yet to investigate a scene of Morty’s where the parents were of good standing with their children or spouses. Every home so far has been unfit for a child and every family has been dysfunctional. His victims all match a similar profile. Bad parents. Abusive. Irresponsible. I have the feeling that the McCrae’s will be no different than the rest. I’m not saying that every family with a trashy yard and beer cans scattered across it fit into this category, but knowing Morty, he wouldn’t have picked the McCrae’s if they didn’t fit the profile. It just wouldn’t match his taste.
He considers himself the “Angel of Death,” or “God’s Reaper.” He’s often left notes claiming to be called by God to render justice. I like to think maybe I have been too, though not in the same way. Now, I’m no theologian, but I think it’s safe to say Morty’s theology may be a bit twisted. If there is a god up there, I choose to believe he’s a lot more gracious than some people give him credit for. I’m not saying everyone gets a free pass, because I do believe in a heaven and hell, and after seeing the things I have . . . I certainly hope there’s a hell waiting for the monster’s I’ve encountered over the years. I try to love people the best I can, give justice to those who’ve been wronged, and I leave the rest up to God. Afterall, who would want to live for a god who is always looking for a reason to deal out a lashing? If that’s the way God is, then I guess you could consider me an unbeliever. Isn’t he supposed to be like our father? A good father? Anyhow, enough with the theology, I have a case to solve.
A rumble of thunder sounds overhead. The rain has now slowed to a steady drizzle. I shut my car door, slip on my black rain jacket, and pull the hood over my head.
Officer Chris Williams stands next to the front door where a line of crime tape blocks the entrance. He nods when we lock eyes.
A brown dog with black streaks, who looks to be mixed with a Pit Bull, strides from behind the home. Another dog, who looks more Chow than Pit and years older, follows close behind with a bad limp. They make their way towards us with wagging tails. The sight gives a welcomed warmth in my heart. A nice primer before I’d be introduced to the dead.
I turn to Collins and ask, “They don’t look mean, do they?”
He takes a moment to answer as he gives the dogs one last scan. “Doesn’t appear so. Though they’re likely hungry with it being two days since anyone heard from the family.”
“Yeah, if it wasn’t for the lady up the road there’s no telling when he would’ve been found.”
“Don’t worry, they won’t bother you,” says Officer Williams.
“Good,” I answer with a grin.
The dogs reach us, and the younger one is quick to lick and whine, while the older one does the same. I give them both some attention and raise my vision to the red front door.
Officer Williams catches my glare and holds out a closed fist by his side to signal the home is void of any dead bodies.
I nod at his gesture.
A bright light flashes against the windowpane of the door. It’s followed by a loud hum. It’s Glenn Giles hard at work, and being the old soul that he is, he denies the use of modern technology unless it’s necessary. Rather, he chooses to use his camera from the good ole days instead. The kind that goes shutter, flash, hum. Yeah, that kind.
“Thanks, Chris. We’ll give Glenn some time and start around back.”
“Take your time. He’s just taking pics of the blood spatter so he’ll have it in his records.”
“Okay, well be sure he doesn’t leave without seeing me.”
Williams gives a salute and says, “Will do.”
If Morty did this, he would have spent a lot of time watching and observing them. And just with a quick glance, I can see that there would have been plenty of places for him to hide out here. The woods. The cornfield. He likely observed them long enough to learn their habits and routines. He also likely chose to strike at night, so the shadows could conceal him. He may have parked down the road for a quick getaway and chose to walk through the woods. There’s no forced entry, which means the victims either knew their killer or he was silent enough to enter their home without them knowing. Another reason I believe he would have struck late in the night. Anything to make things easier for himself. His modus operandi. The pattern that aids in his success. The MO if you will.
Some may find it shocking to know that despite all the movies, shows, and books about serial killers, they’re quite rare to tell you the truth. And thank God they are. I’ve served as the lead Homicide Detective of Portland for almost two decades now and Morty is only the third serial killer I’ve been cursed to deal with. To my knowledge he’s only the fourth to reside along the New England Coast since the 70’s.
Doesn’t mean they don’t exist, just means they’re a lot less common than some people may tend to believe. The worst part though is they’re all different. There’s no cookie cutter formula for how to track these deranged individuals down. Each case brings about a unique set of circumstances. Which requires myself, my team at Portland Homicide, and our friends at Quantico to see each case with fresh eyes, void of any assumptions from those previous.
Having a Ph.D. in Psychology, the one thing I learned from my study and the thing that remains the same case after case, is this . . . pride. It’s every killer’s kryptonite. Sooner or later, their pride will demand they get the attention they desire, and they’ll underestimate our task force. They’ll leave behind a clue that gives just enough information to lead us into the devil’s lair.
At least that’s the common end, but with Morty it’s been a bit different. Does he leave behind clues? Of course. But their vagueness eats at my psyche each time I discover them. They scratch upon the doors in the deep chambers of my mind, begging me to find their meaning. Lingering late into the night, repeating his blood scribbled words, over and over again.
When I’m thrust into these types of cases, no matter how hard I try to suppress it, my sister’s voice always finds a way to flood my mind. I do my best to push away the memories from the night of her disappearance. It happens each time I stand before this type of crime scene. The sights and sounds from that night will slowly begin to appear in ghostly images and whispers. It’s here I must feel my feet planted in the soil and be one with the breath entering my lungs. Otherwise, my mind will be too fogged to see past my scars and into the enigma lurking within the shadows of the scene.
A crime scene is never silent. It always speaks. The blood of the victims always cries out and begs for justice. You must be wise enough to listen and learn how to decipher the language.
I sigh out a breath and look to Collins, “Well . . . c’mon, let’s head around back and see what we have.”
Collins removes his toothpick and spits to the ground. “So, he left the body like the others, huh?”
“That’s what I’ve been told.”
“Oh boy.”