THURSDAY, APRIL 25, 2013 AT 12:45 PM | SUSSEX COUNTY SHERIFF'S OFFICE
Not long before Spencer returned from the bookstore, Dr Bates, the Forensic Anthropologist, had sent the Sheriff's Office and Penelope his team's preliminary findings based on the remains of Victim B.
Victim B was between five feet eight to five feet ten inches, and based on epiphyseal fusion, his age was determined to be between thirty and 35. He suffered minor bone trauma in three areas that healed many years ago; databases, however, did not reveal any missing person with these specific injuries.
His hyoid bone was fractured, indicating that he had also suffered strangulation. Regarding his missing hands, the forensic team was able to determine that his hands were removed by a sharpened blade—such as an axe—in one blow to each limb, which corroborated with the bone trauma of Victim A.
Derek's voice drifted through the phone that sat on the conference table. "He's missing seven teeth, so dental records aren't gonna help."
"No, they won't," David answered, standing at the info board.
His right knee at the proximal tibia was shattered, as Alex had posited the other day when looking at him in the morgue. His right ankle bore another fracture which seemed to have healed incorrectly. Whatever remained of his flesh and organs had been dealt with for further study.
"Garcia, if you could relay to them that any samples remaining can be sent to our local Bureau lab for quicker results, that'd be great," Aaron said.
"Will do, sir!"
Based on the depth of burial, the limited insect activity, and the general weather and temperature of this area, it was possible that Victim B's approximate date of death was about six months ago. Adipocere formation often made it difficult to determine more concrete times of death, but not all of his body was consumed with it. It was noted that there were abnormalities in his anal and rectal area, which were indicative of sexual violence, but they would be looking at these things more for better assessment.
Yesterday evening, after he was macerated following tissue and organ removal, they had sent a CT scan of the cleaned skull to a trusted facility that excelled in facial reconstruction. That facility would make a 3D print of the scan and they would create a physical facial reconstruction. This was a set of processes that might take four to six days to complete. The final facial reconstruction would be an approximation, but that might help them anyway.
Victim C had arrived at the lab yesterday evening after Dr Bates and his team oversaw the excavation. The body was examined, and—having less to work with—would also be macerated. The full set of findings on the bones would be shared with the team, by Monday or Tuesday by noon at the latest. The forensics team was all-hands-on-deck, working around the clock to get them information in a timely manner.
However, there were a few significant things that they were able to share with the behavioral analysis unit: Victim C's hands were confirmed as missing, as were some teeth; he may be in his twenties or thirties; and he seemed dead for over a year.
"Well, now we have a bit of a timeline to work with," Alex said. "Assuming the unsub kept one victim at a time, he's been at this for some time."
"Mm. And that gives him more and more experience to perfect what he does with each new victim," Jennifer added. "If there were more victims, they either fit within the loose timeframe of these murders, or outside of it."
"Unfortunately," Aaron started, "until we establish the identities of these victims, we can't determine anything—when they were abducted, how long they were kept, and if their abductions overlapped with each other or if the unsub initiates a predation cessation."
Additional information continued to trickle in throughout the day, spreading to each team member while they were performing different tasks. Spencer, putting the large load of books he'd bought to the back burner, looked at the information they received with Jennifer, reading the preliminary reports carefully.
An hour and a half later, Derek and Alex returned with food for everyone, and the team began discussing everything they'd gathered so far, beginning with the search of the local haunts in the area, to the people who had come to the precinct to discuss their missing loved ones.
"Victim B's fractured sternum and sixth and seventh left ribs are highly indicative of severe chest compression injuries," Aaron noted. "So, the unsub had performed CPR on the victim at some point, desperate enough to keep him alive to the point of snapping the bones under his hands. It's further proof that the unsub wants to exert ultimate control over his victims—in this case, the circumstances of his captives' deaths."
The comment jolted Spencer, and he went to the books he purchased and started looking through them. He didn't want to take up any space at the table, so he found a corner in the room and sat on the floor.
"What're you lookin' at those for, kid?" Derek asked. He loomed over Spencer, staring at the books that he was going through.
Spencer didn't lift his head, concentrating on the task at hand and flipping through page after page. "Researching the deciduous flora found in this area, as well as looking over various symbolism found in horticulture."
"Why? What're you thinking? That there's some symbolic meaning to the burials?"
Spencer looked up at Derek. "I think so," he confirmed. "Alex said yesterday that the area we were in might be hallowed ground to the unsub. It got me thinking that these flowers"—he held up one of the photographs from the burial site—"might hold some sort of meaning. Even other plants and trees in the area as well. I'm unsure yet if it all comes together in a skein or if this is useless information."
"Mm-hmm ," Derek responded. He nudged Spencer in the shoulder playfully, giving his hair a little ruffle, and said, "M'yeah . . . you can enjoy that, kid. You and your puzzles."
Spencer puffed out a nasal breath and continued.
—
"Reid," Alex started.
Spencer was still in the corner, looking through all the pertinent books with rapt attention, fingers gliding over the pages.
"Mm?"
"With all of the complications you mentioned regarding the repeated asphyxiation. I was thinking about that," Alex continued, mug in hand. Her fingers clinked, and she pursed her lips while squinting. Tilting her head, she continued, "Say the victim suffered some of the graver after effects of the strangulation. Given the condition of the gums, our unsub is showing some level of care for his victims, right?"
Spencer nodded. "I'd say so, yeah."
"If you're the unsub and you have someone in your captivity, it'd be an inconvenience to deal with a disposable captive who suffers incontinence or vomiting, wouldn't you agree?"
Derek, sitting on the table, glanced down at Alex before looking at the board, eyes skimming over the pictures. "You're thinkin'," he started, "that this unsub might take care of his victims."
"Something like that, yeah," Alex drawled. "You don't care for someone that's disposable to you."
—
As the day wore on, more friends, parents, or spouses continued to pour in. Some missing met their criteria. Aaron and David met with several people, splitting their time between talking to them and going over and discussing the reports and photographs. As they expected, some people asked if they were sure the victims were male and some asked if they were sure they weren't looking for any missing boys or much older men. For those that fell in the victim pool, they sent these missing names to Penelope to see about their backgrounds and compared them to missing files in the precinct.
At six o'clock, two officers headed to Morris Plains to drop off the gathered items that people dropped off for DNA analysis.
Then, around half after seven, another theory was passed among the team as they were thinking of wrapping things up before returning the next day.
"Okay, let's go over this again," David said as he stood up from his seat, sauntering to the board that displayed all the information they'd gathered so far. "Our unsub has the means to keep these men captive for about two weeks, given the bruising. He takes multiple countermeasures to assure that these victims cannot be identified right away, but not to the extent that he disfigures them, judging by our latest victim, so facial recognition isn't out of question. What does that show?"
Derek furled his eyebrows and sat back in his seat, tilting his head. Elbow propped on the armrest, he gave his chin a gentle rap with his fist, thinking. Coming to a conclusion, he said, "He doesn't care that his victims will be recognized."
David pointed at him as a sign of acknowledgement of the answer, but then tilted his head again left and right and drawled out a Yes, but, features displaying there was something else missing, something at the tip of his brain.
"It could be more about the burial area itself than the victims. He has the confidence that no one will find his burial site, so why overly disfigure the victims," Jennifer spoke.
David then pointed at her and agreed, "Closer."
Jennifer turned to Derek and mouthed Boom!, and he pointed at her, expression a mix of stern and light.
David continued. "But that begs the question: If our unsub is so confident that his site wouldn't have been discovered, why pull out the teeth? Or why take the hands?"
"Because identifying the victims may make it easy for us to identify the unsub," Aaron answered. "Whether it's that these victims may know each other in some capacity, or they may recognize or personally know their abductor, or the last place they were seen more quickly leads authorities to their abductor, it's an evasive measure." Aaron had a prickling sensation that he knew where David was going with this. "We definitely need to dig deeper into the forest and campground staff." Hand at his pocket, he was ready to call Penelope.
"This staff-as-unsub speculation could possibly pan out," Spencer rumbled from the corner of the room, voice dry and cracked from disuse. He was still sitting on the floor, legs crossed over each other. The team looked over at him as he stood, picking up two separate books and bringing them over to the table and placing them above all the papers and folders spread before everyone. One book was opened to a photograph of a lady fern. The other book was opened to illustrations of plants, each type separated to its own grid with descriptions of the plants, and additional text.
"It's kind of a long explanation, so bear with me. When Pheidippides ran a marathon, he had faith."
Aaron countered the words. "He also died. Go on."
Spencer looked up in thought. "True," he stated, smiling. But on he went, pointing to the illustration of the same plant as shown in the photograph. "This is a lady fern, or the common fern. We see these all the time. The forest floor—on the way to and surrounding the burial site—is covered in this." Both his hands were spread out before him, bouncing up and down, fingers wide like the branches of a gnarled, old tree. "In the middle ages, ferns were thought to flower and produce seed only once a year—at midnight on St John's Eve, which is June 23, prior to Midsummer's Day." He tilted his head to the left, interrupting his own thoughts. "Of course, we know today, scientifically, that instead of growing from seeds like most flowering plants, ferns come from a single spore."
Spencer shook his head, as if erasing from his mind the desire to speak any further on the actual growth process of ferns. It was fascinating. "St John's Eve was traditionally a celebration accompanying the summer solstice. Since the seeds couldn't be seen, they were believed to be invisible. According to lore, the possessor of these so-called seeds that were only found on this special eve could"—he raised his shoulders, and each finger pointed out as he listed—"understand the language of birds, find buried treasure, and have the strength of many men. Along with this folklore was the belief that on the following day, Midsummer Day , bathing in the dew on this morning was said to bring youthful glow and healing. It was all interconnected."
They were all staring at him blankly, trying to see where he was going with this. But they were patient because the past always proved that when Spencer Reid had a left field theory, there was credibility to it, whether it led them to their perpetrators or not.
Aaron's head gave a little tilt, listening with rapt attention.
"This all trickled down to the fern coming to symbolize luck, eternal youth"—he spread his hand out to the evidence board to the buried remains of the young men—"and in some countries, bonds of familial or romantic love, new life or new beginnings, and humility or sincerity."
"So, what does this all mean?" David asked. "How does it connect?"
He spread out his hands toward David. "Work with me here; there's more. Coupling this with these flowers here . . ." Spencer then bent forward and flipped the pages to where he had a yellow post-it note sticking to another photograph of a delicate looking, three-petalled white flower. He went back to the corner and grabbed another book that also had illustrations of flowers with descriptions underneath each. He flipped open to another marked page and opened it to an illustration.
Pointing, Spencer continued. "These flowers are called trillium. These ones, though, were found only near the burial site; I don't recall seeing any as we went to the site. The symbolism behind trillium flowers is also varied. Usually, this flower symbolizes spiritual embodiment and a sense of conscientiousness. Some say it can point to precision, elegance, and grace. Others, that it represents fertility. In fact, in history, it was considered a sacred female herb that facilitated childbirth and cured infertility. Another thing? White trilliums"—he once again pointed a spread hand to the photograph of the burial site, sprinkled with the white flowers—"are used to symbolize the Christian Trinity because of the three petals. In that same vein, white trillium can also symbolize—get this—beauty, purity, and recovery."
Spencer then turned the page of the book with the photographs to another post-it note. He pointed to the birch trees. "Lastly, the birch tree." Going to the first book with the symbolism, he opened another page. "It's the symbol of new beginnings, regeneration, rebirth, hope, new dawns, et cetera. The tree carries ancient wisdom and yet appears forever young. It's almost always one of the first species to regrow in places of tragedy, such as a forest fire."
Finished, Spencer was looking upon all of their faces, and they stared back at him, silent. His tongue flickered out to lick his dry lips and he pushed his hair behind his ears while he awaited them to come to the same understanding as he.
David wriggled in his seat a little, sitting more upright. "My question bears repeating," he said with waning patience. "What does this all mean? What's your theory, kid?"
It was obvious to him, but Spencer had to elucidate. "I think the main aspects to look at here are: eternal youth, purity, and new life or beginnings or regeneration and rebirth or recovery."
Alex, catching on, murmured, "He's releasing them to the forest." In a contemplative tone, she continued, "Giving them new life, a new beginning."
Spencer nodded multiple times in quick succession, hand extended to Alex in agreement. "Right! Exactly! They're here to thrive and grow. Their bodies are like—like seeds. It might seem counter to the physical evidence, but this is motivated, not just by remorse, but by some misguided form of love. Blake, you even posed a few hours earlier that there might be some semblance of care involved with the captivities."
Derek removed his hand from his chin. "With the flowers, you mentioned a Christian symbolic meaning. Do you think that there might be a religious undertone to this? The beatings—these could . . . be a form of flagellation that he's enforcing upon the victims to make them pious? That there's a reincarnation or an idea of being born again?"
Spencer, eyebrows furrowed, looked down at the open pages of the books and at the pictures of the burial sites. He worried the pad of his thumb against his bottom lip, rubbing imperceptibly and feeling his teeth underneath the skin.
"I hadn't thought about that," he responded before he looked at Derek. "But"—a quick series of nods—"yeah, that could definitely be a possibility."
"Okay, but then again," Derek started, sitting up, "the only thing is that it could suggest a highly delusional psychopathy. You don't find such organization with a person this delusional."
"So, either the Christian undertone doesn't pan out, or . . ." Aaron began hesitantly.
Spencer, understanding where Aaron was going, continued: "Or we're looking at someone who experiences dissociative identity disorder, where one of the personalities shows extreme organization. Someone like Tobias Hankel or Adam Jackson."[1]
None of them liked when cases boiled down to such-like unsubs—least of all Spencer, who often had difficulty not feeling some type of affinity toward them.
These kinds of unsubs had the tendency to come from traumatic pasts wherein they were abused. The dissociation was a defense mechanism used to help them cope with and survive their trauma.
"And how would this connect to the rangers?" asked Jennifer, trying to steer the conversation.
"Because we need someone who has a close intimacy with these forests, someone who would know to find these flowers and plants and trees here, specifically," Derek answered, pointing twice with two fingers to a photograph of the burial site, the fingers thumping against the tabletop.
"And?" Spencer began, pointing his finger upwards as his voice rose in intonation. "To top it all off? The trillium flower is so delicate and difficult to grow that it is considered protected by the state of New Jersey, as well as in some other states and in Canada. People aren't allowed to uproot it." He pointed to the picture that had the wide view of the gully. "Look at the actual burial sites."
None of the sites were near where any of the trillium were growing in patches. They were many feet away.
"Sounds like something a forest ranger or a volunteer would definitely know," David said with the nod of his head.
Just then, Aaron's phone rang, and he pulled it out of his pocket, viewing the contact name. He put it on the tabletop. "Garcia, what have you got for us? You're on speaker." The team turned to him more attentively.
"Hey, is everyone there?" Penelope asked, the timbre of her voice lowered.
"We're all here. Whatcha got for us, precious?" Derek answered.
"Phew, are you guys going to love . . . me. I just got a hit on Victim A."
The energy in the room seemed to sizzle, and they all perked up in their seats. Spencer walked over to his map in preparation, and David stood in front of the evidence board. No doubt, this would drive them closer to a conclusion.
"Dr Dale sent me the x-ray and description of his broken bone yesterday, so I was running a separate search throughout the day along with his picture. I had to widen the search parameters beyond Jersey borders. He lives just out of the state, so that definitely makes this federal, yeah? Our mystery boy is Noah Turner of Port Jervis, New York, age twenty-seven. And this boy?" She paused and made a doleful sound, clicking her tongue. "Makes me very sad because eight years ago his twin sister and his father were involved in a fatal boating accident, so it was just him and his mom living together."
"When was he reported missing?" David asked.
"Good evening to you, David Rossi, sir; a missing report was submitted on Sunday, January 6th, so he's been missing—what?—three and a half months," she said all in one breath. "Here's a picture from his license and also one that was taken of him and his friends the night of his abduction, and brace yourselves, 'cause I think this changes a whole lotta stuff and says weird, creepy things about our unsub. Does it say something? I feel like it does."
David and Aaron exchanged a knowing look with each other. When the image of Noah Turner, along with his friends, popped up onto their tablets, everyone gave pause.
The young man in the two pictures, while recognizable, looked different from the John Doe lying on the slab in a morgue miles away. Noah Turner was about fifteen to twenty pounds heavier with more musculature.
Most notably, there were no blonds among the four men in the picture.
Of the four shown, only two were white, one with auburn hair, and the other—Noah—with jet black hair. Noah's hair was shoulder length and wavy. He had facial stubble and a one-o'clock shadow in the picture. At his time of death, however, his hair was blond, trimmed to a shorter coif, short enough that the tresses were curling, and he was clean shaven. Even his eyebrows were blond.
"The unsub is fulfilling a fantasy," Spencer observed, cutting through the quiet.
Jennifer spoke up, "And clearly being blond is not a prerequisite in the unsub's selection."
It was one of those setbacks that spurred further observations.
"Cuh-reepy stuff, right?" Penelope asked. "Like I was lookin' at my boy's hair from the autopsy photo and his roots aren't even showing? So Mr Unsub gave him a dye job like three weeks ago at most." She then cleared her throat. "Not that I know anything about how long it takes for roots to grow out. Natural blond here," she asserted.
"Sure you are, baby girl."
"I'm ignoring that rude statement. So, get this," Penelope began in an evasive manner.
Derek snorted.
"The night Noah Turner went missing , he and his friends were actually carousing 'cause he'd proposed to his girl a few days before. So sweet and so sad. They took a circuitous route to go bar hopping from East Pennsylvania to New Jersey, all around Sussex County, got plastered, and after they crossed back into New York , Noah got sick, so they pulled into the Route 84 rest stop here." She brought up a picture of the rest stop, and under it was the coordinates of the area.
Spencer added a pin to his map, grateful for a new scrap of geological information to analyze. Already, he could see that the unsub had a large comfort zone.
"Why all the way up there?" Jennifer asked. "He lives in Port Jervis just outside of the Jersey border. What were they doing that much further east down the highway?"
"Oh, oh, so I'm guessing the officer asked the same thing, 'cause the answer is actually in the report. So, though he and the designated driver both live in Port Jervis, two of his friends are from Scotchtown, so they were going to be dropped off first."
"Ah."
"So anyway, Noah went to the bathroom but never made it back to the car. The three other guys conked out for a while where they were parked, and when the driver, Javier, woke back up and saw how long Noah had been gone and how long he'd slept, he decided to check the bathroom, realized Noah wasn't there, and woke up his other two friends. They search high and low, they drive around, yada yada yada, and they finally call the police another thirty or so minutes later after they can't find him."
"So, the unsub essentially had way over half an hour to make his getaway. Off a highway of all places," Derek murmured.
Spencer looked at the mile-marker near the rest stop in the picture, then he calculated the approximate distance between the abduction site and the burial site. "That's nearly 24 miles apart, specifically 23 point . . . 996 miles," he said, more to himself than to his team, already trying to work out the comfort zone. "That's an area of . . . 1808 point . . . 95 square miles, give or take."
"And none of them saw or heard anything?" Alex asked, unable to contain her disbelief.
"Mm-mm; nope," Penelope answered. "When they gave their police report, the police also checked their blood-alcohol levels. Javier was the only sober one—and I'm being generous when I say sober, because at 152 pounds his blood alcohol level was at 0.06%—and he saw nothing. The others were sloshed, drunk skunks, and apparently Noah had been as well."
"According to this report, the police questioned them on suspicion of foul play, but eventually acquitted them of any suspicion," Alex mumbled, looking over the police report that Penelope had sent to the tablets.
"Mm. It also seems that it was against Noah's nature to just pick up and leave, so they were right to think that something had happened to him," Derek added.
"So, we need to figure out if the unsub targeted him because of something he did, if he was just in the wrong place at the wrong time, or if he was stalked," David posed.
"Garcia, I want you to find out everything we can on Turner: his haunts, his lifestyle, social media, card transactions, the works," Aaron said quickly. "And when I say dig, go deep and uncover anything. We need to assess if he was low- or high-risk, if he followed a daily pattern, if he'd made any enemies, anything. The sooner we can reasonably conclude if this was a random act or if he was stalked, we can build that information into our victimology."
"Will do, sir."
"But call it a night for now and get back to us early tomorrow with the results."
"On it, Cap. I'll look into every nook and every cranny and get back to you guys later. Also no offense, sir? Go deep? It's kinda weird to hear you talkin' dirty. That's best left to Derek."
Aaron allowed for a brief quirk of the lip while Derek gloated in the background and Jennifer pressed a hand to her forehead in mock long-suffering.
David spoke up. "While you're on that, Garcia, put in a new search, would you?"
"Give me your riddle to solve, sir!" she responded.
"Gather information on the staff that works at or volunteers for Stokes State Forest. Concentrate mainly on records that go up for about thirty-five years."
"Too easy a challenge, sir! I gotcha."
Aaron spoke up. "See if any of your findings from your search yesterday—the one that included vehicle types—overlap with this search that Dave has given you, Garcia. Rangers, volunteer workers, groundskeepers, camp counselors, anyone who might have access to the forest in an authoritative capacity that meets the previous criteria. And humor me, Garcia; widen your search to include men that have access to cleaning materials, such as a janitor."
"Ooh, yes, sir; much better! Gotcha!" Penelope responded.
"And lastly, Garcia, first thing tomorrow morning, contact the precinct that filed the missing report on Noah Turner. Let them know that we'll need to get them to contact the three friends for interviews, which we can have at their facility. We'd like to have one of them—preferably the officer that arrived to open the incident report—with us when viewing the grounds of the rest stop."
"Sure. What time, sir?"
"Make it nine thirty."
"You got it! To all of these tasks I shall rise"—Penelope's voice raised and swelled—"and come out triumphant! Is that it?"
"Yep," Aaron answered.
"Then goodnight, my doves, and we shall speak in the morning!"
The phone clicked off and Aaron pocketed it. He furrowed his brows, continuing to skim over the detailed police report, with photographs of the rest stop grounds. "Our unsub kidnapped him that night in January and he held onto him for three and a half months; we have to revisit the timeline and the profile."
"Mm-hmm. We need to figure out why Noah was captive for that long, and why—after all that time—he became disposable to our unsub," Alex spoke up, tilting her head.
Aaron nodded gravely. "Alright, Morgan and JJ, you two will head up to Port Jervis tomorrow morning," he said, looking up. "You're going to talk to Noah Turner's mother. Afterwards, pending what information Garcia digs up, you'll be going to his workplace and local usual haunts. Rossi, you and I are going to head up to the abduction site, then head to the precinct where the report was filed. We're going to have his friends come in for further questioning and conduct individual interviews. Blake, once Reid is done assessing the geographic profile, you two will go to visit the four locations they went to before they headed back home. Interview the staff and see if they have any surveillance from that night.
"Let's head out, pick up some food, and get rested early. Tomorrow is going to be a long day and a huge undertaking. I have a feeling we'll be logging quite a few miles during this case. We might be spending the weekend up here."
Everyone accepted their assignments readily, and before leaving the precinct, Aaron spoke to Sheriff Reiner, updating him on the progress of the case.
SATURDAY, JANUARY 5, 2013 AT 11:20 PM | THE CELLAR
The team they'd been rooting for scored, with just half a second left on the buzzer and breaking a tie with an amazing three-pointer. They whooped and hollered along with half of the other patrons in the bar, then resumed their conversation as things died down.
Noah's eyes lingered on the screen for a while, where one of the celebrating players ran up to his spouse and planted a kiss on her, squishing the excited toddler she was holding between them. He grinned.
"Whatcha lookin' at?" Terry asked Noah, clapping him on his shoulder. "Wishin' Sonja looked like her?"
Noah took a swig of his drink, hiding a smile. "I'm not like you, Terry. My girl's perfect, okay?" he asserted. "You and Ali can mess around all you guys want with other people, or whatever it is that you guys do, but I'm putting a ring on Sunni."
"Baw, lookit that lover boy," Nate said, finger pointing at his friend's flush cheeks. "Nothin' like a good ball and chain to break this"—he gestured to the table—"all up."
"It won't be like that," Noah slurred. "You know it won't. I hate when people say that about marriage. It's outdated. Sunni is chill hangin' out with us or just letting us guys do our own thing. But no, I was lookin' at . . ." He looked back up at the screen and it was showing other celebrants running around the court. He sighed. "I was lookin' at Rowland's kid," he finished.
"Er, why?" Javier asked. His face had morphed into one of perturbation.
Noah just grinned, then took another sip of his drink. They waited.
"Guys, I think Sonja's pregnant."
"You're kidding!"
"I kid you not. I was over at her place the other night and she didn't wanna drink, for one thing. That ain't Sunni. Then I woke up the next morning hearing her gettin' sick in the bathroom."
"Aw, damn," Javier said, clapping his friend on the arm. "Not just Mr and Mrs Turner, but Papi Turner, too?"
"I'm duly fucked," Noah said, running his hand through his hair and leaving it atop his head as he covered his eye with the heel of his palm.
"You feel ready for it?" Javier asked with a grin, his eyes glimmering. "Noah Turner, the family man?"
"No," Noah admitted. "It took me over five years to pop the question to Sunni. But . . ."
"But?"
"Maybe I am. I dunno. Havin' a kid could be exciting. I mean, first of all, my child will be internet famous, okay? Memes will abound from my progeny."
They laughed.
"I'm trying to imagine your fuck-ups. I can't wait. Vine and Snapchat that shit."
"Hell yeah. But also, you know, I want my kid to be smart. Like, Mensa smart, okay? I'm gonna make sure that they can speak at one and know how to read at three and can do calculus and shit like that by the time they're thirteen."
"Kids can't speak at one, you ass," Nate whooped.
"Well, no, not verbally. But you can teach them how to say things like Mom or Dad or potty or hungry ," Noah said. "Stuff like that. The rest would come later. It's basic stuff these days."
''I guess, man," Javier said. "It's gonna be a little tough."
"Yo, not just a little," Terry agreed. "And your kid will be able to give you sass and say that ass-brass thing to you like Sonja says it. How does she say it again?"
They laughed, and Noah grinned.
"You butchered that," Nate hollered. He leaned over the table.
Noah cleared his throat, sat straight, and began emulating his fiancée, voice in a higher pitch, eyes rolling and head snaking from left to right.
They all erupted into gales of laughter, imagining a little child repeating what he said.
Less than an hour later, they left the pub. As they crossed into the New York border, though, Noah began to complain of feeling sick.
"My guy," Javier said, shaking his head. "I cannot have you throwing up in my car. I just got it detailed like two weeks ago. No no no."
"Can we pull over somewhere?" Noah asked, head laid back, eyes closed, skin wan. "We gotta pull over."
"Let's get to this rest area coming up. You think you can wait?"
"Ugh. Yes. Yeah, yeah," Noah murmured. "I forget I'm not in college anymore. Fuck. I can't get this drunk anymore; this blows." He drawled the last word for longer than necessary and erupted in another fit of laughter.
Javier grinned. Within a couple of minutes, the sign for the upcoming rest and truck inspection area came up. He slowed as he turned on his signal. They pulled in, and Noah struggled to get his belt off before opening the door and stumbling towards the bathroom.
Javier drove the car to the nearest available spot. "You assholes in the back; sleeping off your free ride." They didn't answer. Soon, his eyes began to droop, too, as time dragged. "Ugh. Couple 'o minutes."
—
Noah let the bathroom door close behind him before heading to the nearest stall. He got on his knees and vomited over the rank smelling toilet, moaning in agony, regretting his earlier binge drinking. He and his friends drank on the weekends on occasion, but it was rare for them to get this sloshed. He felt like garbage every time, but he couldn't resist their bar hopping trips.
After an agonizing few minutes where the throwing up and moaning process was repeated, he felt that he had this all out of his system. He left the stall and washed his mouth and his hands, looking at his wan face in the mirror. He decided to wash it, too. When he was done, he headed to the door, pulled on it weightily, and nearly fell backwards when it didn't swing open with the force of his pull.
"The hell . . ." he murmured. It was locked. He couldn't remember doing that, but it could have been him just doing so out of habit. There was a shuffling sound behind him, and before he could even react to it and turn around, the light flickered off. He looked up in alarm before he chuckled.
Grinning, he began to turn. "Which one of you asshats is messing with me?"
Before he could finish his rotation, something—an arm—reached into his periphery, tightened around his neck, and he was hefted up. His struggles were feeble, his limbs uncooperative in his drunken state. Back, back his feet pedaled as his attacker shuffled further from the door. They were pressed against the corner, and the arm stayed.
Terror thrummed through Noah, a pinching in his gut that petered throughout his limbs. He flailed and his aborted breaths caught in his tightening chest. The pounding in his head made his eyes pulse, made them heat up, and tears pricked at the corner of his eyes. His hands pummeled at his attacker as the darkened room grew darker, the sounds dimmer, and everything began to fade from his periphery. If he could get but just one breath, he—
—it felt nice—
Just before the euphoric sensation overtook him, Noah was wrestled to the floor, and the shadow of a man loomed over him as he rasped in a gasp. He was sat upon, and his hands began to strike again, uncontrolled panic dictating his movements. There was a semblance of control—a one-two, one-two-three that his sluggish mind forced unruly hands to recall. Hands locked around his neck, pinning him down, and he sputtered as they squeezed. He scratched, and his legs kicked out, sneakers squeak squeak squeaking against the smooth tile as they slid beneath him in his attempt to get leverage against his attacker.
The dark haze washed over him, his gaze went upwards, his lashes fluttered, and his eyes slipped closed. Every muscle slackened.
His attacker produced a sealed Ziploc bag, within it a capped syringe. He uncapped it and without hesitation punched it into his victim's thigh before plunging its contents into the flesh.
It would be enough to ensure that this victim would be out for a few hours—just enough time to begin setting things in motion. He was lifted, dragged, and set against the wall. There was much left to do still, and he set about to the tasks by walking back to the stall he'd stood in.
It was nine minutes and twenty-two seconds ago when Noah was dropped off by his friend, Javier, in front of the rest area building.
That was the last that Noah Turner would be seen alive.
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In reference to the footnote [1] in this chapter, you can find additional information on my tumblr.
