Where Bodies Lie: Killers Club, #1

By D.K. Greene

Uncover the chilling secrets of a serial killer's son in this gripping psychological thriller.

 

Hiding in the shadows of Portland, Oregon, Peter Wilson has finally built the life he's always wanted. Living under an assumed identity, he is finally free from the stalkers, writers, and reporters who have plagued him all his life. But all that changes when the FBI comes calling.

 

The FBI asks Peter to help solve a case that may involve his own father, a notorious serial killer. But his decision to help them thrusts Peter back into his father's mind-twisting manipulations, and a dangerous game he thought he'd escaped as a child. As Peter delves deeper into the case, he uncovers a shocking family betrayal and dark truths about himself that could cost him everything - including his own life.

 

Get ready for a thrilling ride as you read this captivating story of family, lies, and betrayal that will keep you on the edge of your seat until the very last page.

• Language: English
• Publisher: D.K. Greene
• Release date: Sep 1, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393884835

D.K. Greene

D.K. Greene writes at a small folding table below a tiny window overlooking a narrow street. While her work area is small, she has an overwhelmingly large imagination. It all comes out in strings of stories about family, fraud, and fatal events. Readers can get an insider's look at her upcoming projects, promotions and free stories by going to https://www.subscribepage.com/dkgreene

Book preview

Thanks go to...

Ispend most of my work life sitting in a quiet corner, isolated from the world. Since I don’t get out to award banquets too often, here’s my award speech.

The author raises a trophy / plaque and tips it toward the crowd.

Thank you to everyone who’s supported Where Bodies Lie. This novel wouldn’t be what it is today without the advice, support, and guidance of amazing people.

First, I thank my wife, Kelly, who is the best partner in crime I could ever hope for. She supported my writing through some very terrible and trying years. She forced me to keep going every time I was ready to give up, and has celebrated each milestone with me, no matter how small.

Next, I’m indebted to my circle of friends. I’m not sure how I got lucky enough to meet Sara, Corie, Elise, Sarah (I collect them), Jen, and Sarah (see? I told you). These amazing people have survived a litany of early drafts, provided a river of caffeine, and listened to all the woes and worry associated with my life as a writer.

I have so much gratitude for my editor, Cora Corrigall. She’s been my reader and friend through many stories, and I am honored to have her move my commas and cross out inappropriate uses of words like extirpate, resect, and bowdlerize.

Grateful adoration goes to all the people who allowed me to ignore them during the writing, editing, proofing, printing, and distribution of this book. Especially Robert, who taught himself to use the toaster and microwave so he wouldn’t starve while I lost myself in another world.

Last, but not least, thank you for reading. If you hadn’t turned to this page, I’d be saying my acceptance speech to myself, and that’d be weird.

One

He sees his name printed on the desk calendar, circled twice in bold, red strokes. He’s been Peter Samuel Wilson longer than either he or his caseworker expected. His last three identities ended in abrupt chaos. The repeating string of stalkers, concerned neighbors, and paparazzi appear to have finally ended. Two decades in hiding, and it seems the world has finally forgotten him.

This time, he’s maintained an identity long enough to get a degree, land a decent mid-level engineering job, and even celebrate an anniversary with a girlfriend. He finally has the average American life he’s always wanted.

Almost.

If life were normal, Peter wouldn’t be in a therapy session with a woman who doesn’t know his true name. He can see how their future appointments will play out. She’ll spend weeks trying to solve the puzzle of his anxiety and crippling fear of abandonment. They’ll analyze the supposed meaning behind clips of nightmares and a muted version of his flashbacks. Peter already knows why he’s suffering, but he can’t tell her that. Maybe she’ll figure it out before he has to quit again.

If anyone knew he was in therapy, without being able to tell the therapist why he needs to see her, they might tell him he’s wasting his time. And maybe he is. But it makes Peter feel better to talk about the contrast of the chaos in his head and the banality of his twisted version of a normal man’s problems. Since he doesn’t have friends, his only option is to pay someone to listen.

He scans the room. The therapist has a smattering of photos propped on her desk and crowding books on nearby shelves. They depict her with a close friend, or perhaps, her sister. Their arms interlock in some. In others, they gaze at the camera cheek-to-cheek. They look solid together. He wonders what it would be like to have a relationship like that.

Peter? Doctor Richards uncrosses her legs and leans forward. As her soft bronze skin scoots against the leather chair her knee-length skirt raises up her thigh an inch.

Yes? Peter realizes his gaze has lingered a moment too long when her hand tugs the fabric down to the top of her knee. He snaps his focus to her eyes.

We’re about halfway through your session. You haven’t said much. Is there anything you’d like to talk about today?

I’m sorry, Doctor. I’ve never done this before. I guess I’m not sure what to say. Peter tightens the skin on his forehead, drawing his eyebrows together. He lifts his shoulders, attempting to look unsure of himself. It’s a lie. This is his sixth attempt at therapy since leaving foster care. Now solidly in his thirties, he has to ignore the pursuits that came before Peter Wilson was breathed into reality. It’s easy to pretend it’s all new. Makes for a simple excuse to explain away all the things he can’t say.

Please, call me Jeanne. She turns crimson lips into a practiced smile designed to break down barriers and open a client up. Police interviewers and social workers do the same thing when they talk to kids. Let’s start with why you came in today.

Okay, Jeanne. Peter looks down at the hands folded in his lap. One of his thumbs twitches involuntarily. It’s been an embarrassment since middle school. No matter what combination of medications, physical conditioning, or behavioral intervention he’s tried, he’s never been able to shake it. Well, I guess I just wanted someone to talk to.

She nods. Do you have many friends?

No, Peter admits. His throat is dry, and he wishes the water tank in the front office hadn’t been empty when he’d come in. He’d kill for a glass of water.

What about family? Jeanne reaches for a pad of paper on the small table beside her and scribbles a note.

My mom died when I was twelve. Peter tries to appear sad, the way someone who lost a parent should. The funny thing is, despite the lies he’ll tell Jeanne over the coming weeks, this story is true. But after so many years without her, he’s not torn up about it anymore.

Jeanne’s face takes on the same practiced sadness Peter’s expressing. And your father?

We don’t talk. Peter fidgets in his chair, unsure of whether to say more. His thumb twitches more noticeably now, and he clamps his other hand over it to keep it from jumping around his lap. The words he wants to say wrestle on his tongue. Eventually, he blurts out, He’s incarcerated.

Jeanne takes the information in stride. It must be strange to spend every day talking to people with crazy families. Peter imagines someone in Jeanne’s profession eventually reaches a point where nothing is shocking anymore. It must be lonely without friends or family to talk to.

Peter’s nodding his agreement before he realizes it. It is lonely being the only one who knows who he is. Who he was before. I have a girlfriend.

What’s her name? The pen in Jeanne’s hand becomes still, poised over the paper in preparation of cataloguing his relationship status for future reference.

Elsie Baker.

Jeanne smiles. He sees her recognition that she’s found a topic to get Peter talking. He wonders if she’s looking forward to the rest of the session passing by without the pair of them staring at one another like the awkward strangers they are. How did you meet?

We met at a cemetery. Peter looks toward her pad as it fills up with scribbles and wonders how much truth he wants to tell her. He waits for Jeanne to comment on how a cemetery is a strange place to find love, but she’s better than that.

Did someone you know die? Jeanne turns her mouth down in another sympathetic frown.

An acquaintance. I didn’t really know him. My dad did. Peter stops short of telling Jeanne that he’d only known the man as Victim 32 until the day before the memorial service. There’d been a full page spread in the paper. A surveyor measuring plots for a new housing development had stumbled across what little was left of him a decade after his disappearance. His bones rested among a collection of unidentified bodies for years, until somebody working cold-cases had the time and technology to identify him.

That’s how it usually went. Where Oliver’s victims were concerned, law enforcement were rarely the ones to find them. It was usually a hiker who’d lost the trail, a farmer ploughing a fallow field, or campers intent on avoiding developed campgrounds and their fees.

Peter hadn’t been brave enough to go when they laid his remains to rest. A few days later, he’d gone to tell the man’s headstone he was sorry for what his dad had done. He was Elsie’s father. It was kind of funny. We both visited his grave on the same day. It wasn’t even a holiday or anything.

Jeanne smiles with him. It’s interesting how things work out sometimes, isn’t it?

Yeah. Although, sometimes I wonder if meeting me was really the best thing for her. Peter doesn’t enjoy thinking about how he met Elsie. Most of the time he can push it into a dark corner in his mind. That’s probably why their relationship is so easy, though. They both lost their fathers and had to navigate life without them. And neither of them wants to talk about it.

Do you not feel worthy of Elsie? Jeanne’s head tilts curiously. She reaches a hand across the space between them and places it on Peter’s knee. He can feel the warmth of her palm through his jeans. Her fingers rest around his kneecap and squeeze slightly when he tries to shift away from them. Many people feel unworthy of love when they lose their parents as children. That doesn’t make it true.

Peter feels the tears well up behind his eyes. He hates this part of therapy... the part that’s real. He tries to push the tears back, but it’s a losing battle. Suddenly, Jeanne’s hand disappears from his knee. It’s replaced by a small cardboard box. He pulls a stiff tissue out and hides his eyes in it for a second.

When he pulls it away, he can see through Jeanne’s sympathetic facade. She looks so sincere, but deep down, Peter is sure she’s proud of striking a nerve. Her hollow empathy reminds him therapy is nothing more than a manipulation of character. Jeanne’s job is to uncover people’s secrets.

For twenty years, Peter’s job has been to hide from a man famous for burying them.

This would make for a complicated relationship.

Love doesn’t exist. Peter’s throat clenches as he chokes on the words.

Jeanne scribbles another note. How long have you and Elsie been together?

A year.

That’s a long time to be with someone if you don’t believe in love. Jeanne doesn’t look at Peter as she speaks. She’s distracted by writing another note, and it makes Peter uneasy.

He feels an overwhelming urge to demand her full attention. Peter wrings his hands together to keep from grabbing the therapist’s face, forcing her to look at him. It seems to work out well enough just liking her.

Does Elsie know you don’t love her? Jeanne looks back at him. Instantly, Peter feels the tension melt away.

I don’t know, Peter admits.

As Jeanne shifts in her seat, her skirt rises along the edge of the chair again. This time he vows not to stare at her thighs, revealed under the wandering hem. Have you ever told Elsie you love her?

Yes. Peter leans forward, drawn toward her deep brown eyes and waves of ebony hair. Jeanne smells nice. Like plump strawberries floating in a bowl of cream.

You don’t feel bad when you lie about your feelings? Jeanne’s eyelashes flutter as she frowns.

Sometimes. As they inch closer together to discuss the issue intimately, Peter feels like kissing her. The thought of cheating on Elsie makes his stomach clamp down on itself. It drenches his mouth in a bath of acid. He leans back in his seat, pressing into the faux leather until it squelches around him, complaining at his cowardice. He fights to force the horrid burn of stomach acid down.

Peter, are you okay? Jeanne pushes the box of tissues farther up his lap.

He swallows hard. He sucks a few deep breaths, gulping air, trying to stop the muscles constricting his stomach. The urge to vomit passes and he mutters, Yeah. I think so.

What happened? You looked ill just then. Jeanne’s eyes show genuine concern, now. Peter wonders if she’s worried she’ll have to clean her carpet after he leaves.

He searches his mind for an appropriate response. He can’t tell her how beautiful she is. If he does, he won’t be able to come back. I was thinking about what you said about lying to Elsie. She’d feel awful if she found out the truth. Peter nods, relieved when Jeanne copies his movements.

Maybe you care more about Elsie than you realize. Jeanne touches Peter’s knee again. The warmth of her hand makes his skin tingle beneath the thick denim.

Peter takes in another large, nervous gulp of air. He reminds himself he can’t risk losing Jeanne over the admission of an attraction to her and vows he won’t tell Elsie about his new crush. Maybe I do.

Two

Elsie is waiting for Peter when he returns to his apartment. She’s parked in the space out front. Her laptop is open, and she’s surrounded by books in the backseat of her car. Peter taps on the window and music screams at him when she rolls it down.

Hi! Elsie shouts over the wailing radio. She picks up a remote from the pile to her right and shuts the music off before Peter has to ask. Elsie is always using the remote like it’s the hippest accessory, even though she could just lean over and press the buttons on the dashboard like everyone else. I was wondering when you’d show up.

Homework? Peter gestures to the mess.

Morin has us doing research on singular organisms. She snaps the laptop shut and somehow exits the car without spilling books onto the pavement. Did you know there’s a forest in Utah made up of one tree? It shoots roots out and sprouts more tree trunks, but they all stay connected to the same ginormous root system.

Elsie shuts the car door with her hip as she reaches up to peck Peter on the cheek. She turns and begins walking toward Peter’s apartment. Without turning back to the car, she pushes another button on the remote. The windows roll up and the car doors lock themselves. Peter rolls his eyes, bothered by her elitism, and follows her to his front door.

Sounds interesting. How long have you been out here? Peter becomes frustrated as he struggles to get his keys out of his pocket. By the time he wrestles them out and points the correct key at the lock, Elsie is watching him with an impatient glare.

About an hour. I need the bathroom. Where were you?

Peter turns the key in the lock and Elsie pushes by him before the door is fully open. She rushes down the hall without waiting for him to answer. Peter shoves aside the odd guilt he feels for leaving work early. Ignores the lingering electricity of Jeanne touching his knee in their session.

Instead, he focuses on trying to remember if he’s left any weird man paraphernalia out on the counter. Elsie has shut herself in the bathroom before the image of Peter’s nose-hair clipper sitting by the sink pops into his mind. He shrugs his jacket off and is hanging it in the closet when Elsie bursts out of the bathroom.

She explodes into and out of things everywhere she goes. Peter used to joke that she’d never be able to sneak up and murder anyone like that, but she didn’t like it. Regardless, he doesn’t think anyone taught her how to tiptoe as a kid.

Elsie grabs Peter’s face in her hands and looks up his nose. You missed a hair.

Peter feels his skin catch fire with embarrassment when she laughs. He realizes it’s a joke and pretends to laugh with her. Sorry, I didn’t mean to leave that thing out.

Don’t apologize, she chastises. It’s your apartment. You’re allowed to keep whatever bizzaro crap in here you want.

Elsie hugs him, lopsided, reaching behind him with one hand while she still cups his face with the other. She pulls Peter’s coat back off its hanger and races across the apartment with it. "Except this. This thing is awful! What kind of fabric is this, anyway? Tweed? Come on, Peter, could you possibly wear anything more boring?"

The woman at the store said it looked nice. Dignified, I think, was the word she used. Peter sits down on the sofa. He knows Elsie won’t give the coat back. There’s no use in chasing after her.

This woman you speak of... Was she the same woman who sold you the jacket? Elsie raises a suspicious eyebrow. Peter nods, and a tidal wave of Elsie’s laughter crashes against him.

You’re so naïve, Peter. He watches as the brown and gray cloth flutters across the living room. Elsie waves it like a flag as she skips toward the garbage can. She steps on the bin’s silver pedal, drops the coat in the plastic-lined cylinder, then reaches for the day-old pot of coffee on the kitchen counter. She pours its contents over the jacket.

A flash of anger consumes Peter for a second. He bites the inside of his cheek and pushes the feeling aside. He knows there’s no use yelling. Elsie will just throw his outburst back at him tenfold and fly out of the apartment. If that happens, she won’t come around again until she’s sure her transgression has blown over and she’s ready for Peter to apologize.

After his appointment with Jeanne, Peter doesn’t want to be alone. Instead of fighting with Elsie, he leans back against the couch cushion, determined to make light of the situation. At least she didn’t charge me full price.

Thank God, she says with a skittering laugh. She lets her foot slide off the garbage pail’s pedal and the lid snaps shut. Elsie looks over at Peter and flutters her eyelashes. So, did you save enough money on that jacket to take me out to dinner?

Of course, Peter answers.

Good. She smiles. Let’s go somewhere expensive.

Three

Arhythmic knock pounds through the front door. Elsie took off hours ago to meet with one of her study groups. Peter doesn’t bring other people to his apartment. He leaves the TV on but is otherwise silent as he waits for the visitors to announce themselves, or leave. Peter jumps when the rapping resumes.

Just a minute! Peter calls. He searches for something heavy enough to protect himself with in case the person slamming their fist against his door is a robber, or worse, some religious fanatic come to save him.

His gaze settles on the dusty family Bible on the bookshelf near the door. It’s oversized and bound in leather. Whether he needs to knock the offender out or start proclaiming he’s ready to smite the world, it will serve its purpose.

Peter tiptoes towards the door, arms already feeling like lead as he cradles the giant book. He looks through the peephole and finds the funhouse image of a man standing too close. The glass warps his forehead into the shape of a kid’s swimming pool. Arms and legs dangle from his chin like waves of crepe paper on a badly constructed piñata.

Behind him stands a woman wearing a hat and a cream-colored coat. Her frame bows at the waist, comically thin in the peephole. She looks something like an animated harp. Peter moves the Bible to his hip, cradling it in one arm as he opens his door the few inches the fastened chain lock allows.

Henry? The man no longer looks like he belongs in the circus. He looks prepared for a funeral. He leans into the open crack, trying to get a look inside the apartment. Henry Roberts?

Peter freezes. He tries to sort out who could know his real name. The man is older, perhaps in his early sixties, and looks tired in a way that implies he hasn’t slept in years. He’s wearing a black suit that reminds Peter of classic detective films and holds a binder in one hand as he passes the other over his retreating hairline. Peter shakes his head. Sorry. No one by that name here.

Oh. The suited intruder blinks a few times as he stares at Peter.

The woman takes the binder from her friend. She opens the cover and bows her head. A grey felt fedora shields her eyes as she searches the page. She looks over the suit’s shoulder. It’s Peter now, right?

Peter takes a step away from the door, gripping his grandmother’s Bible, preparing to strike if the strangers bust through the flimsy chain. Who are you?

The man smiles and shifts uncomfortably on his feet. He wipes his brow with his sleeve, absorbing a bead of sweat. It’s been a long time. Maybe you don’t remember me. I don’t think we’ve seen one another since you were — what — eighteen? You went by James then. Or was it Jamie? I never can keep track of these things.

No James here either. Sorry. Peter’s heart pounds against his ribcage. The man on his doorstep carries a haunting familiarity that makes his stomach clamp down on his dinner. He moves to close the door. He’s told no one about his past identities. It shouldn’t be possible for this person to know who he is.

Then it clicks.

The suited man and well-dressed woman look like journalists. The vultures track him down from time to time, desperate for details about his childhood. Everyone wants to know about what it’s like to grow up under the same roof as a serial killer.

No reporters! Peter shouts as he pushes the door. The male intruder shoves the thick sole of his shoe in the narrowing crack, preventing it from closing.

I’m not a reporter. It’s me, Henry. Inspector Richard Douglas. He forces the words through the crack, jogging Peter’s memory. I helped on your dad’s—

You helped my dad? Peter cuts him off and takes another look at the flustered stranger. If he imagines the man thirty pounds lighter, with healthier skin and twice as much hair, he can almost make out the familiar face of the F.B.I. agent he’d known as a kid. I called you Dougy.

That’s right! Special Agent Dougy. Man, that got under my skin after a while. He gives a slightly irritated chuckle. You were stubborn back then. Just like your old man.

Peter stares through the crack. Time has not been kind to Dougy. Not only is his waist larger and hair thinner, but the messy tufts he drags his fingers through are gray with thin flecks of brown when it had been the other way around. Peter thinks back on the last time he saw him. He’d worn a biker jacket and beard then, looking like some Hollywood rendition of an undercover cop. Now, he’s clean shaven and wears a suit that looks too big for him. Peter wonders whether he’s losing weight, or if he’s in the habit of buying clothes one size too large in case his waistline expands. I’m nothing like my father.

Right. I didn’t mean to imply you have the same hobbies, or anything like that. It’s just on the way over I was telling my partner you both knew how to push my buttons. Inspector Douglas gestures at the woman, who nods once.

You never had a partner before, Peter says. He looks warily at the woman. While Dougy’s suit hangs and bunches on his frame in awkward places, everything she wears looks tailor made.

Inspector Douglas stands a little straighter. His shoulders broaden and he takes a bullish stance. Well, I’m not an agent anymore. I’m an inspector. That’s what they do to you when they see you’re getting close to cashing in your pension. Special Agent Jones will take over for me when I retire.

Which should have happened six months ago, Special Agent Jones comments in a tone that says this isn’t the first time she’s reminded him.

The work’s not over ‘till it’s over. Inspector Douglas rolls his eyes dramatically before they return to rest on Peter. Will you let us in?

Peter slides the chain off and opens the door wide so his unwanted visitors can enter. They stop in the middle of the living room and Inspector Douglas turns in a slow circle while he takes it all in. Wow, Henry. You’ve got a nice place.

Thanks. But please, call me Peter. He closes the door but leaves it unlocked in case anyone needs to make a hasty exit. He moves to set the Bible down on