Death at the Notch

By Alex Ashe

Twelve years after the murder of a family friend, Chief Cunningham starts to put the pieces together and wants to take a look a closer look at the investigation. He turns to his trusted colleague, Mena Young, who is fresh off her latest investigation. Mena travels to northern New Hampshire and uncovers old wounds and hidden secrets in one of New Hampshire's oldest towns. Can Mena uncover the evidence needed to connect the crimes before another victim disappears?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Alex Ashe
• Release date: Sep 6, 2014
• ISBN: 9780989083010

Alex Ashe

Alex Ashe writes novels from her home in New Hampshire where the environment and natural beauty inspire plot lines, characters and settings.New England offers a variety of historic sites, legends and landscapes that influence Alex's work. The close knit communities, architecture and Yankee mentality help to fuel plot lines and create rich characters.As the author explains, it is time female private detectives stole the limelight.“There are thousands of private detective stories out there, but ninety nine percent focus on the work of men. I wanted to show that females can be equally as cunning,” says Ashe.Continuing, “My upcoming series of novels will feature Mena Young as the protagonist, along with a series of mysteries that would certainly leave her male counterparts scratching their heads.”Since its launch, the book has garnered a consistent string of rave reviews.“A shocking murder mystery filled with intrigue! A very interesting read and fantastic start to the series! I cannot wait for book 2!” says Ashley, who reviewed the novel on Amazon.Another reader, Nika, was equally as impressed. She said that, “This was a terrific book. I love murder mysteries, and this one was gripping! Anyone who likes a murder with a twist, beware, you will be addicted!”With so much success on her hands, Ashe refuses to lose sight of what is really important.“Readers crave a private detective novel that is laced with mystery, suspense and a chaotic series of twists and turns. There are many wild and wonderful scenarios up my sleeve, all of which will be making it into my future books,” she concludes.Alex's first book Death of a Player takes place in a small New Hampshire town and is available for Kindle, Nook and iBooks. Her second book Death at the Notch will be released in mid 2013 and is set in northern New Hampshire.

Book preview

Chapter 1

I reread my statement at the Lake Pleasant Police Station, looking for any spelling errors or missed words. As a private investigator, I consult with police departments across New Hampshire and Maine. Most of my jobs are within a three hour radius of my home in Lake Pleasant, which is located in central New Hampshire.

The last case I investigated was a murder that took place at a local tennis club. After working with the police and state lab, we discovered the person responsible for the crime as well as some unexpected social circles that exist in our small town. My involvement in the investigation was intense, but I worked as part of a team to solve the crime. The investigation was led by Chief Dean Cunningham of the Lake Pleasant Police Department. I worked closely with him and Sergeant Joe McCarthy. We’ve worked many cases together and I know them as dear friends. The last case was unusual for Lake Pleasant as violent crimes rarely happen so close to home.

My final duty in the investigation was to provide a sworn statement of my factual account of the events that unfolded that evening. This was standard procedure in any case, but absolutely required in cases that involve a shooting. My statement was very therapeutic for me as it gave me a chance to acknowledge my decisions. It was a chance for me to put my actions into words and help create an emotional distance from what happened. At the time of the incident, I was forced to make a split second decision to fire my weapon. Ultimately, one life was saved, along with my own, but the offender was killed after charging at me in a violent explosion of rage and hatred. Preparing my statement gave me time to report what happened with a focus that caused me to relive the shooting.

My thoughts went back to the aftermath of the shooting. It was a commotion of activity, with police and rescue workers struggling to contain the scene. It was both laborious and frustrating for me because I was deafened by the discharge of my .45 caliber pistol in close quarters and strained to communicate with those around me. I submitted my weapon and was allowed to go home.

My husband Luther drove to the crime scene to take me home. He met me in the lobby and said, Let’s take you home. I’ll start a fire in the stove and make you some dinner. Like he always does, he took care of me. He held me when I broke down and patiently waited for me to return to our normal life.

I was jolted back to reality with Chief Cunningham’s voice, Mena. I’ll pick you up at 4:00 this afternoon, but you have an appointment with Dr. Harrison today at 12:30. Susan Harrison is the therapist that will help me deal with the shooting. I’ve known Susan since I was a teenager and I knew that she would recommend additional sessions to come to terms with what happened. It was common practice in law enforcement to attend counseling sessions after a traumatic event, like a shooting or other deadly situation. While I wasn’t a police officer, I was working for the police and Chief Cunningham required it of all his employees.

Thanks for setting that up, I acknowledged. While I knew the importance of meeting with the counselor, I was a bit distracted by the latest investigation that the chief and I were planning to embark on. He hadn’t given me any information, except to explain that we were heading to the northern part of New Hampshire. I also knew that he was unusually irritable and I guessed it had to do with the case.

I have to go, he said, and briskly walked away. This was atypical as the chief was normally warm and personable. I knew something was bothering him and dismissed his curtness and left the station, going about my appointments for the day.

After I met with Dr. Harrison, I got in my car and checked my phone for messages. There was a brief one from the chief, but he still didn’t give me any explanation or hint of what was to come.

Chief Cunningham is an upstanding man and devoted officer. He’s respected in professional circles by his officers as well as the townspeople he serves. Chief Cunningham began his police career working many difficult and sensitive cases involving domestic disputes and child endangerment. I met him as a child, when he rescued me from such a situation. This changed the course, and I believe the length, of my life. Through the years he advanced to Police Chief and assembled a department filled with able bodied officers, investigators, and administrators who were proficient and effective at their tasks. The characteristics of his staff mirrored his own traits; hardworking, determined, and considerate. Because of his discerning nature, he had one of the lowest employee turnover rates in the state.

He expected his officers to understand the sensitivities of the small Lake Pleasant community as well as the demographics. Lake Pleasant is made up of part-time residents who view the town as idyllic and quaint. They are a wealthy, aging population and an affluent group of full-time residents, most of whom work for the hospital, town government, or the local college. There is also a respectable population of self-employed residents. The police are seen as a helpful presence, assisting disoriented elderly or spending time at the elementary school during schooldays. The police check houses for families vacationing in warmer climates or during storms to check on the safety of the residents. Despite the quantity of innocent calls, the police are also prepared for more serious crimes. Officers are trained in proper police procedure for dealing with drug dealers, thieves, and hustlers who prey on the wealthy community. The officers walk a fine line between policing the town and politely serving its residents. The chief models this balance graciously. In return, residents work with the Lake Pleasant Police, reporting suspicious behavior and looking out for their neighbors. Residents look at the force warmly and they have a cooperative relationship together.

I dialed the chief’s number and he picked up immediately. Mena, good. I wanted to talk to you about our trip. The chief sounded serious and there was no warmth in his voice. When I didn’t respond right way, he said, This is not like our usual cases. It’s not local. A body had been found in the North Country and I was asked to informally assist. The body was found out of my jurisdiction, but it’s personal. I have two days off and I’m making the trip north. Thank you for agreeing to come with me, he sounded defeated.

As a private investigator, I have the luxury of declining or accepting the cases I investigate. Realizing that this was important to the chief, I had agreed to take the case.

I zipped shut my second suitcase and I remembered that I hadn’t packed my phone or computer chargers. I unplugged them from the wall and pushed them into a side pocket. I placed my spare pistol, a 9 mm Sig Sauer P229 Elite, in my purse along with a loaded spare magazine, since I had already packed the shoulder holster in one of my bags. I regretted that I couldn’t have my favorite pistol, since it was still in the possession of the Lake Pleasant Police Department. Chief Cunningham promised it would be returned to me in a week’s time, but it would be too late for this trip.

The North Country is not a city or town, but rather an informal name for an area in northern New Hampshire. The North Country refers to the northeastern section of Coos County, New Hampshire’s northernmost county. There are ten counties in the state, and even though Coos is the largest, it is the least populated with only 33,000 people in 1,800 square miles of land.

Coos County, like many New Hampshire rivers and towns, has a Native American name. Coos is actually two syllables, pronounced Ko-oss. The name Coos translates from Abnaki to pines, a reference to the large amount of forest in the area.

Berlin is the sole city in Coos County, with the remainder of the area composed of nineteen towns and even more incorporated areas, such as townships, locations, grants, and purchases. These areas are not part of any town or city, but are mostly uninhabited and have limited or no self-government. Yet, despite taking up twenty percent of the state’s land, there are only three population centers up north: the city of Berlin and the towns of Dryden and Lancaster. Much of the land is national forest, wilderness, or state parks. The famous White Mountains are included in its boundaries as well as Mount Washington, which claims the title of the tallest peak in the northeastern United States.

The two major industries in the area are tourism and manufacturing. Lumber and paper mills which historically hired much of the population now struggle to keep afloat. Residents not employed by the mills or retail industries work in banking, construction, trucking, education, and health services. The North Country encompasses only a portion of Coos County, yet many from the southern part of the state use the term to refer to anywhere in Coos.

I’ve visited Coos County many times in my life, but always for recreation. For years, Luther and I spent the last week in July visiting The Metallak, one of New Hampshire’s old grand resorts. Late July marks our anniversary and we used to celebrate it up north free from distractions. The Metallak was named after the last surviving Native American who inhabited the area on the northern borders of Maine and New Hampshire. The Metallak was a sprawling hotel built into hilly terrain in Dixville Notch, but it shut its doors a few years ago. It had been luxurious, with an in-ground pool, tennis courts, private golf course, and five star dining. Guest rooms were suites complete with reading rooms, dressing tables, and four poster beds. Each room was refined and spacious and most gave a view of the lake and sunrises that warmed the resort. It was old time elegance with no television and limited wi-fi access. Guests came to the resort knowing that there were numerous activities: hiking, skiing, swimming, golf, tennis, moose sighting, picnicking, exploring, and in the winter; skiing: skating and snowshoeing. There were plenty of places to relax inside the resort where guests could sit and read a book, play billiards, or board games. Some guests even practiced their musical instruments or took dance classes in the ballroom by day. In the evening, it was transformed into a night club and dance hall.

The Metallak was nestled in the woods and gave a feeling of seclusion and privacy that was romantic and relaxing. Luther and I spent our days rowing on Lake Pial, named after Metallak’s father, hiking the many trails near the resort, and sighting moose early in the morning. The Metallak kitchen staff would pack a picnic basket for our hikes. We would return to the resort in time to get dressed for an elegant dinner. After we ate, we would shoot pool or play croquet until dark and then walk by the moonlit lake.

Unlike the elegance of the resort that I enjoyed as an adult, I saw a more rustic side of the North Country as a teenager.

When I was thirteen, I was removed from my mother’s house and my seventy-year-old uncle was declared my legal guardian. I lived with him until his death when I was eighteen years old. He was an older man who raised me as he did with his two grown sons. He took me deer hunting in the large town of Pittsburg which bordered Quebec, Vermont, and Maine. Uncle Lucky and I would spend nine days at his friend’s primitive log cabin during the winter. When we arrived at the cabin, it was my job to hang our hunting clothes on a tree for the night while Uncle Lucky unpacked the car. We wanted the clothes to take on the smell of the woods so our scent would be masked while we hunted. The cabin had running water, but the only form of heat was a giant wood stove that we used to cook our food. We would stock the fire throughout our stay, empty the ash in the mornings, and take very brief, frigid showers. We read by kerosene lamp and we slept on cots that pulled down from the wall and smelled of cedar and wool blankets. The cabin was simple and sparse; the real treat was two snowmobiles stored in a shed. During November and December, snow would blanket the trails. We would take the snowmobiles out, sometimes riding for hours in the cold night air. The stillness of the moon and the peacefulness I felt can only be found in the isolated woods of New Hampshire. I remember how tired I was of sitting near a tree waiting for deer and how my rifle seemed so heavy by the end of our day. I realized later that those trips to the cabin were for my benefit, as Uncle Lucky never shot a deer of his own. He advised me when to take aim and when to let the deer go. He taught me about selection, patience, and preparedness. After a few days of hunting, or the one year that we tagged a buck on the first day, we would put away the rifles and spend our time snowmobiling the trails, playing cribbage, or reading the Agatha Christie novels that lined the bookshelves in the cabin. I was Uncle Lucky’s first and only foray into raising a girl. It was a challenge for him, but ultimately he decided to raise me like he did his sons yet still be sensitive that I was a girl. My uncle was strict but fair, and fostered a respect for nature and strong sense of discipline in me. He influenced my life in ways that were unknown to me at the time, but valuable through the years. I remember my time with Uncle Lucky with warm feelings, but also with the struggle of lessons learned at the time. My memories of the North Country are as different as the chapters of my life, but both involved spending time with two men I loved in a beautiful environment.

The chief and I planned to drive up this afternoon when his shift was over. He told me to pack enough clothes for a few nights as well as outdoor clothing. The temperatures are much colder in the North Country and I know that it’s common to see frost in late September. When we first spoke, he prepared me to stay a week at most. Later that evening, he sent an email explaining that he could only stay for 2 nights, but that I should remain as long as needed. I set aside winter clothes and boots as well as a few sweaters, hats, and gloves. I brought a small backpack, evidence bags, disposable gloves, my camera, spare battery, and an extra flashlight.

The email only mentioned that we would be heading to Dryden, but I expected that he would fill me in on the investigation and the role he wanted to play in it. I wasn’t concerned about the lack of information at this point, after all we had more than a three hour drive ahead of us.

Luther and I discussed the trip and my stay up north. He would be leaving shortly for a weeklong business trip of his own and we promised to email and text to keep in touch. He expected to be back in nine days and I thought I would be home long before he was.

I moved my bags to the doorway and jotted down a note for Luther. I left it on the counter for him to find when he returned from work.

I heard the growl of an automobile and was surprised to see Chief Cunningham driving an older model pickup. I waved from the window when he came to a stop and he nodded and turned the truck around. He got out and met me at the door.

I’m surprised to see you in a truck, I expected you to pull up in the cruiser, I said with a grin.

Not today. We’re trying to keep a low profile and blend in with the locals. The chief responded without his normal humorous tone. I didn’t want to leave Joannie with the truck. I’d rather her drive the Subaru while I am away; it’s more reliable. Joannie was the chief’s wife, a hard working and patient nurse whose support and encouragement brought the chief comfort and assistance in his career. Joannie was used to the chief’s long hours and aided him by bringing his meals and taking on most of the household responsibilities. Together they raised two children, now adults, but Joannie had been the parent who attended concerts, soccer games, and school meetings. The chief attended as many as his schedule permitted, but Joannie never complained or showed that she was frustrated by her solo duties. Instead, she kept him apprised of what happened with the kids each day and did the same with the children, sharing their father’s triumphs and daily activities. The children knew they were loved by both parents, and as they matured, they realized that Joannie’s dedication to their father kept the family unified and connected.

Joannie is the chief’s closest confidant, and listens patiently to the stressors of his day and the horrors that he faces. She supports him the only way she knows how, by making their home life peaceful and unruffled so that when the family is together, their time is in the present, not mourning lost moments or missed activities. The chief appreciates Joannie’s role as family administrator along with wife and mother, and knows that he married someone patient and loving. Many times he has spoken about being the lucky one in their relationship, but no one doubts that Joannie feels the same.

Mena, are you ready to go? he asked me.

Yes, I just have to get my bags, I replied, and backed into the house with the chief behind me.

I’ll take them, he offered and walked over to my bags.

I slid my iPad and laptop into a slim computer tote bag, picked up my heavy purse, and followed the chief to the truck, locking the door behind me.

The chief loaded the suitcases in the second row of seats and I placed my computer bag on the floor safely behind the passenger’s seat.

The chief got in and started the truck.

It’s been a long day, Mena. He said as I adjusted my seat. He sounded exhausted.

He pointed to the dashboard and said, You can adjust the heater if you like. The truck was still cold despite his drive over to my house.

I altered the settings and soon warm air was blowing out the vents.

The chief sighed.

You don’t seem yourself today. Is it this case or something else? I asked curiously. This question was personal and prying, but I felt comfortable asking him about his mood.

Mena, this case is ugly. I am sorry to ask you to take part in this so soon after we got done with the murder at Hidden Pines. If I didn’t think you were up to it, I wouldn’t have asked. And this is important to me. He confessed quietly.

I knew that this case had to be of great concern to him, but I still didn’t know any details and had no information. I had checked the online newspaper and the Manchester TV station, but nothing jumped out at me. His concern alarmed me. I had known the chief for many years and had seen him deal with many frightening situations. He was always calm and compassionate. He called me in on cases that were of a sensitive nature; domestic issues, child abuse, homicides, sexual assaults, runaways, and prostitution. I knew that this case would be one of those. We worked together on many of these and developed a working relationship that was cooperative and thoughtful. Today he seemed defeated instead of determined.

We have a lot of driving ahead of us, mostly on back roads and two lane highways, he said quietly. We have over two hours until we get to Lancaster, where we’ll stop for food. After dinner we’ll have another hour until we get to Dryden. That should give us enough time for me to fill you in. Are you ready? he questioned reluctantly.

A feeling of dread washed over me. Go ahead, I said, soon wishing I hadn’t.

Chapter 2

The chief took a deep breath, I don’t know how these events are related, but I’m sure they are. I’ll start from present day and work my way back. Three days ago, two hikers went off a trail at the notch and made an interesting discovery. They found a partial bone and brought it to the Dryden Police. Yesterday, the lab confirmed it was human.

I was familiar with the northern town of Dryden and how that part of the state was mostly forest and woods. Deer, bear, elk, and moose were common and it wasn’t unusual to find roadkill. Animal bones were found in the woods along hiking trails or washed up on riverbanks. Unless the bone was obviously human, like a skull, it was unusual for someone to think it was cause for concern. I nodded. What was it about the bone that made them bring it to the police?

It wasn’t the bone that worried them, it was what they found near the bone. There was a torn backpack, wallet, and jacket buried within fifteen feet of the bone. The clothing was half buried, and when they pulled it out the rest of the stuff came with it. Someone buried it and covered it with rocks, but it wasn’t enough to keep it hidden. Between the snow melt in the spring and all the rain we had this summer, it was exposed.

All right, I said, waiting for the chief to continue.

The wallet belonged to Lauren Standish, a twenty-two-year-old reported missing last year. Lauren was a waitress at a restaurant in Dryden. She was reported missing when she didn’t show up to work.

Who reported her missing? I questioned.

Her boss. He’s friends with Rick, the chief of police for Dryden and the four surrounding incorporated areas, including Dixville Notch, where the bone was found. The chief said solemnly.

Does she have family in Dryden? I quizzed.

No family that we know of. She lived in an apartment above the camera shop on Main Street, just about a mile from the restaurant and about ten miles from where her belongings were found. The address on her license was Main Street in Dryden and according to her landlord, Carol Hatten, she lived there for nine months before she went missing.

When was the last time she was seen? I asked.

That’s not so clear. Rick got the call about the missing person on a Friday afternoon. Her last day at work was the previous Wednesday night. We have no sightings after that. Thursday was her day off and she was reported missing Friday afternoon.

Did anyone conduct a search? I pressed.

The Dryden Police were alerted and they contacted other towns to see if Lauren had been seen anywhere else. They did a preliminary search and checked with her neighbors and landlord, but no one reported seeing her, he answered.

What about her apartment? Was that searched? I questioned.

Yes, but nothing turned up. She didn’t have much and the apartment came furnished. There was no sign of a struggle and no one reported any suspicious behavior. They didn’t find a purse and assumed that she had it in her possession and left town. The chief said with a bit of disbelief in his voice.

You don’t believe that she left town or you don’t believe the police? I challenged.

No, it’s not that I am doubting anyone. I think it’s a shame that a young girl goes missing and no one seems to notice. The chief was sensitive to these types of cases. He investigated many crimes of abuse and battery, but was also personally involved when his daughter was kidnapped years ago when she was in college. The chief was unable to work the case because of his connection to the victim, but used his contacts to get as much information about the investigation as possible. I worked with the state police and after hours of searches and interviews I followed a hunch and found her in an abandoned warehouse in Portsmouth.

I vividly remember that day. Once I found her, I called for back up. She was in shock, raggedy and bruised, but unlike the other young woman in the warehouse, Sam Cunningham was alive. I untied Sam and leaned her across my shoulders to walk her outside, but the perpetrator was waiting for us to leave the basement. He jumped out and struck at me with a wooden bat. He struck at my head, but I blocked his swing with my arm and shoulder. I managed to fight him off and get in a few kicks to his knee and groin. My unexpected offense startled him and I heard a crack. This caused him to stumble away, dragging his one leg that could no longer support his weight. He fled the scene only to get hit by a passing car. He died in the ambulance on his way to the hospital.

Sam was traumatized by what happened and was unable to return to the university in Durham. She moved back in with her parents and after a few months she slowly began to pull herself together. After taking day classes at the local college, she finished her nursing degree. She interned at the Lake Pleasant Hospital, where her mother also worked, and was offered a nursing position after her graduation. She took the job and soon moved into an apartment that she shared with a colleague. Despite working at the same hospital as Joannie, Sam saw her mother infrequently at work. Both women made a point to meet in the cafeteria during breaks at least once a day. It was a slow road to recovery, but one that Sam traveled with the help of her parents. She married a man she met at the hospital and gave their daughter the middle name Mena.

At the time when Sam went missing, the chief did everything he could professionally. He took an emergency leave of absence from the Lake Pleasant Police Department and did his own searches. Many of the officers involved in the investigation knew the chief and assured him that they were doing everything they could to find Sam. The chief understood that, but couldn’t sit by and do nothing. He persuaded the lead investigator to allow me to sit in on briefings and to share information. I worked alongside the State Police as well as officers from Dover, Newington, and Portsmouth. Countless hours had been spent following various leads; many were fruitless, but the most frustrating experience was for the chief, who had to sit back and wait. He later told me that waiting to find out if his daughter was found was the most daunting time in his life.

The news of the missing woman, Lauren Standish, reminded him of his daughter’s disappearance and kidnapping.

You believe the bone belongs to Lauren? I guessed.

After the hikers brought the bone to the police, they returned to the site with a couple of officers. The trail is straight up Dixville Notch and I mean straight up. The officers followed the hiking trail, and it was so steep that for part of it they climbed on their hands and knees. They couldn’t get close to the site with a car or four wheeler, so they had to carry everything up and down the trail. The police found more bones scattered within a twenty foot radius. They collected them and sent them to the lab. I remembered the Table Rock Trail that Luther and I used to hike. It fit the chief’s description and there was no way to get a vehicle up that terrain. Could it be same trail where the bones were found? I knew there were other trails in Dixville Notch, but couldn’t remember any that technical.

Do you have the police reports? I quizzed.

I brought you a file with all the paperwork from this case and the others, he answered plainly.

Others? I repeated.

Yes, that is what I need to talk to you about, he replied cautiously. There have been more reports of missing women. The first missing person was reported twelve years ago.

All in the Dryden area? I was surprised that this was the first I heard of these crimes.

Within twenty miles of Dryden. Lauren Standish is the third one in the Dryden area, though.

I haven’t heard of these. I confessed.

Sure you have. Remember the nineteen-year-old found in the Connecticut River? he reminded me.

The Connecticut River bordered Dryden, in between Routes 3 and 102. The river was the boundary line between Vermont and New Hampshire, with Route 102 falling on the Vermont side. The river squiggled between the two routes, abutting each of them at times and making loops and pockets on the borders.

Yes, I do remember hearing about that in the news years ago. I didn’t know that it was a criminal matter. I said, recalling that Selene Chase was reported missing by her mother, Susan Chase, early on a Saturday morning and that the story headlined the Sunday papers. The woman was nineteen-years-old and mentally challenged. There was a manhunt in northern New Hampshire to find her. The photograph that was used to identify her showed an attractive, smiling young woman. She had clear skin, dark shiny hair, and large brown eyes. The photo gave no indication that Selene functioned at a fourth grade level. Her mother pleaded for help finding her daughter on the sole New Hampshire television station. Search teams scoured the hillsides and woods near her home, where her mother said she liked to walk, but she was not found. A week later, her body was found by fishermen on the shore of the Connecticut River. The headlines reported news of her death and photos showed her mother grieving and thanking rescue workers and volunteers for their help.

Selene’s body was found in a river six miles from her home. She had been in the water so long that she had to be identified by dental records. Her body was unrecognizable, even to her own mother.

I thought that her death was an accident, that she was unsupervised and stumbled into the river. Was there indication of foul play? I pried.

Yes and no. The body was in such bad shape that it was impossible to find evidence, the chief said curtly. He took a deep breath and he raised his voice slightly, Selene’s home was six miles downstream from where she was found. It doesn’t add up to me. Selene’s mother kept a close watch on her and had a hospice nurse come to the house twice a day on weekends. How did Selene get to the river? She didn’t drive and there is no public transportation in Dryden. Someone had to have given her a ride or else she walked six miles at night without being seen by anyone. No one has come forward with any information.

When was the last time she was seen? I quizzed.

The night before she went missing. Her mother thought she had gone to bed for the night. The next morning when Selene didn’t come out of her room, Susan went in to wake her, but the room was empty and the bed was made from the day before. Susan called the police immediately and search teams started right away.

Was anything found during the search? I questioned.

"A hoodie was found in the woods a half mile from the Chase house, but her mother didn’t recognize it as belonging to Selene. Susan bought all of Selene’s clothes and was sure that she never bought the North Face hoodie because she couldn’t afford that brand."

Was the hoodie the proper size for Selene? I asked.

I think it was a small, it says so in the file. We would have to ask someone about that, but I think it would fit Selene. The chief responded with a little more excitement.

Chief, do you think there is a possibility that the deaths of Lauren Standish and Selene Chase are related? I quizzed.

I think they are and I don’t think they are the only ones. He said definitively.

What can you tell me about the first case, the one that occurred twelve years ago? I pried.

The chief’s body language changed. He leaned forward in his seat and clutched the steering wheel. Jaclyn Myles, twenty-three, was the first victim. She was reported missing on October 1, 2000, and her body was found the next day in the woods, bruised and beaten. The chief looked down in disgust and sadness. Animals got to her body. She was identified from a birthmark on her ankle as well as the ID in her purse.

Do you have the location where the body was found? I questioned.

It’s in the file, he nodded.

All right. Where do we go from here? I asked.

Let’s talk about it over dinner. The chief said as the car came to a halt in a parking space on Main Street in Lancaster. He pointed to the diner that was situated on a very quaint Main Street peppered with various shops. It was dark, but you couldn’t tell thanks to the streetlights which were bright orbs that fell like an open umbrella every twenty feet down the avenue.

The diner was a no frills joint that served food on paper plates and drinks in giant Styrofoam cups. The sign above the door in neon cursive read "Take It or Leaf It Diner" with a giant oak leaf silhouette. We walked into an old building which was in desperate need of a makeover. The wallpaper was peeling, the booths were upholstered in torn vinyl, and the Formica tables were chipped, scratched, and worn.

Seat yourself, Hun, a voice yelled to the chief.

We took our seats in a booth furthest from the door, searching for a little bit of privacy so we could discuss the case.

No sooner had we sat down than a waitress appeared with sticky single page laminated menus with dog-eared corners and faded writing. What can I bring you all? the waitress asked with unexpected enthusiasm.

I’ll have a black and white frappe, the chief requested.

The waitress nodded and looked towards me.

I’ll have an unsweetened iced tea, please, I ordered.

The waitress smiled and disappeared to get our drinks.

The chief reviewed his menu. Let’s not mention the frappe to Joannie, OK? he pleaded, not looking from his menu. I smiled, knowing that Joannie knew all about his sweet tooth, but did her best to get him to eat better.

The door to the diner opened and a group of teenagers strolled in. They looked in our direction and took a booth just a table away from us. The chief gave them a long look and picked up his menu. The burgers are good here and so are the clam rolls, he said, scanning up and down the menu.

Clam rolls for me, I requested.

The waitress returned with our drinks.

Can you bring us two clam rolls, with extra tartar sauce? the chief smiled.

Sure thing. Fries or onion rings? she offered.

Onion rings for me, I said.

Can I get a salad with vinegar on the side instead? the chief ordered.

Sure thing, the waitress repeated and disappeared again.

I’m guessing it’s all right if I mention the side salad to Joannie? I teased.

Please do, the chief responded with a grin that soon faded. I was hoping we could talk during dinner, but I think we should wait until we are in the truck.

I nodded in understanding his need for discretion. So, tell me, what’s your connection to the North Country? I asked. We both lived in Lake Pleasant, which was in central New Hampshire. While New Hampshire wasn’t a large state, the North Country was over three hours from our homes.

My grandfather lived there, born and raised. He had a cabin and my brothers and I would visit him every winter. Rick moved there right out of the academy and got a job as an officer in Berlin before he moved to Dryden. The chief explained.

Rick, as in the Dryden Police Chief? I asked, recognizing the name from earlier.

Yep. Rick’s been the chief there for the past twelve years and the Jackie Myles investigation was one of his earliest cases. Chief Cunningham explained.

Does he think that that the Selene Chase and Lauren Standish cases are related? I questioned. The chief’s answer was crucial to the investigation. I didn’t know Rick Cunningham, but I knew jurisdiction and police cooperation were sticky issues for many officers. I wanted to know if we would be welcomed or seen as a nuisance from the investigating officers.

The chief chose his words carefully, Officially, there is no evidence to connect the cases. He sat quietly.

Concerned by his words, I asked, Unofficially?

He believes that it warrants further investigation, but doesn’t have the personnel or resources to go any further.

I sat quietly, mulling over what he had said.

Don’t worry, I know what you are thinking. Rick will welcome the help, the chief said, as if reading my mind.

I hope this is a silly question, but does he know that we are coming? I asked.