The Thirteenth Cabin: A Raegan O'Rourke Mystery

By Brenda Lyne

Raegan O'Rourke is a talented investigative reporter with a knack for uncovering the truth. The real truth. You see

• Language: English
• Publisher: Brenda Lyne
• Release date: Sep 13, 2022
• ISBN: 9781737613350

Brenda Lyne

Brenda Lyne is the pseudonym of author Jennifer DeVries. Jennifer lives just outside Minneapolis, Minnesota. Angel Baby is her fourth novel.

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"Brenda Lyne’s storytelling is strong and captivating. Many of the characters were fascinating and I found The Thirteenth Cabin unputdownable. The Raegan O’Rourke Mystery series is now on my reading list."

Michelle Stanley for Readers’ Favorite

"The Thirteenth Cabin is a rollercoaster of a thriller with

twists and turns to excite readers and a paranormal element that robustly hooks readers with its fascinating implications and mysterious origins."

K.C. Finn for Readers’ Favorite

"The Thirteenth Cabin is quite a promising start to what I hope will be an enchanting series."

Shrabastee Chakraborty for Readers’ Favorite

This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

COPYRIGHT ©2022 BY Jennifer DeVries

Writing as Brenda Lyne

All rights reserved.

Cover design by [e-mail]

Book design by Jennifer DeVries

Published in the United States by Brenda Lyne Books

Printed in the United States

ISBN: 978-1-7376133-5-0

First edition: September 2022

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No part of this work may be reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embedded in critical articles and reviews. For more information, visit brendalyne.com.

DEDICATION

This one’s for you, Krista. Your unwavering friendship and support mean the world to me.

PART 1: THE AINSLEYS & THE FAUSTS

Monday, July 5, 2021

Chapter 1

God, I loved press conferences.

Making powerful people squirm has always been my favorite part of my job. And this opportunity promised to be extra juicy.

I took my usual seat in the front row – where only my back would be visible in any camera footage – and glanced over my shoulder at the wary eyes that had been following me since I entered the press room at Minneapolis City Hall. Alyssa Potter, a gorgeous young thing and KTCO-TV’s latest effort to take a bite out of my popularity in the Twin Cities, sat in the back row and nervously ran her fingers through her hair. That’ll be tough to fix before she gets in front of the camera, I thought. I faced front again and tugged my flesh-colored lambskin gloves more tightly on my hands.

Minneapolis Police Chief Brent Henke stood at the podium, reading slowly and clearly from the typed sheet of paper in front of him. His voice carried easily over the clicks and whirs of the cameras. He was less than a year into the job, a transplant from Los Angeles, and he favored crisp linen suits over the standard police uniform. The suit he wore today matched his slicked-back silver hair almost perfectly. This was his first press conference; he typically left this task to his direct underlings for lower-profile cases. He appeared to be supremely confident in himself and the message he was here to deliver.

To Henke’s right and slightly behind him was Hennepin County Attorney James Litchfield, a dinosaur in Twin Cities law enforcement who, with his rumpled brown suit, unruly hair, and crooked mustache, stood in stark contrast to the polished police chief. He was annoyed at being here. It was all over his face.

Only in Minneapolis does the police chief look more press-ready than the county attorney, I thought. Usually it’s the other way around. But I knew that Litchfield’s disheveled appearance belied a bulldog of a prosecutor with an impressive conviction rate. Henke’s appearance belied nothing; his own reputation was his primary concern.

I turned on my digital recording device and waited patiently while Henke introduced himself and then laid out the supposed facts of the case.

As you’ll recall, a twenty-five-year-old woman accused patrol officer Lucas Handler – that’s H-A-N-D-L-E-R – of sexually assaulting her at the Parlor Bar in Southeast Minneapolis on the night of Friday, April seventeenth.

I rolled my eyes. Sexual assault was not nearly a strong enough term to describe the events of that night. Henke didn’t know it yet, but I knew exactly what had happened to Leisa Collins. And it was brutal.

Since then, the Minneapolis Police Department’s internal affairs unit, with the assistance of the Hennepin County Attorney’s office, has conducted a diligent and thorough investigation, which found no evidence to support the alleged victim’s story.

Alarm bells went off in my head. Internal affairs? This case should have been handed over to another county immediately. Why was MPD investigating its own? I wanted to jump up and interrupt with a very pointed question, but I forced myself to sit still and listen.

Henke stepped back and Litchfield moved to the podium. After a brief introduction he said, Chief Henke and his team put together a solid case, and after careful review, I have determined that there is simply no basis in law for charging Officer Handler with a crime.

The entire room fell silent. We all knew the allegations: that Handler had slipped rohypnol, the so-called date rape drug, into Leisa Collins’ cocktail, then brutally raped her in a basement storeroom. The available evidence directly contradicted Litchfield’s claim that Handler had not committed a crime: Leisa’s blood test results showed traces of rohypnol in her system hours after the attack; she had sustained horrific internal and external injuries; a semen stain on her skirt matched Handler’s blood type. But last I’d heard, DNA test results weren’t back yet; it was entirely too soon to exclude Lucas Handler as a suspect in Leisa’s rape.

All of which meant Jim Litchfield was lying. Right through his crooked coffee-stained teeth. Not today, gentlemen, I thought and raised my hand. Excuse me, Mr. Litchfield?

Litchfield turned to me, and the look on his face subtly changed from mild surprise to tired irritation. Yes. Ms. O’Rourke.

Thank you, sir, I said, and gave him my sweetest Irish girl smile. I never needed introduction at a Minneapolis press conference; everyone knew Raegan O’Rourke. Appreciate it. My sources tell me that DNA results on the physical evidence recovered from the victim have not yet been returned. How were you able to exclude Officer Handler as a suspect?

Litchfield gave me a long, level look, which I returned with interest. Ms. O’Rourke, Officer Handler was never a suspect because no crime was committed. Our investigation determined that what happened between Officer Handler and Ms. Collins—

A collective gasp erupted from the gallery, followed by shouted questions and background chatter. The names of rape victims were usually not publicly disclosed; by dropping Leisa’s name, Litchfield signaled that they were doubling down on this attempt to cover up an officer’s bad behavior. The prosecutor waved his hands in an effort to calm the room, then leaned closer to the microphone. We’ve determined, he said, his amplified voice echoing in the cavernous room, that what happened between Officer Handler and Ms. Collins was a consensual act. It would seem the other party had a change of heart afterward.

It was time to play my hand. Bolts of adrenaline shot through my body and my heart skipped a beat. These were the moments I relished; I was about to unleash the magic that made Minneapolis’ flagship newspaper, the Daily News & Review, the darling of the industry with circulation numbers that rivaled papers in much larger markets like Los Angeles, Chicago, Houston, and New York. We even gave the TV stations in town a run for their money, capturing more eyeballs than any of the major network affiliates. And all because of moments like this one.

Then how do you explain the fact that Leisa Collins required surgery to reattach her bottom lip to her face? I stared at Litchfield with wide-eyed fake innocence.

The prosecutor’s lips fluttered under his bushy mustache, but no words came out. I bet that never happens in the courtroom, I thought.

That detail was supposed to be withheld! Chief Henke shouted from behind Litchfield. His confidence had crumbled like a stale cookie and he had apparently forgotten that he was surrounded by recorders and running cameras. He pushed Litchfield aside. How did you know that? he barked into the microphone. He’d been busted, and he was pissed.

Now Chief, you know I can’t tell you that, I said, smiling sweetly again. However, I’m wondering if you can provide a bit more detail around how you and your team were able to look at that horrific injury and conclude that this was a consensual act. I shrugged, held my hands out to my sides in an I don’t know gesture. I mean, I can’t speak for my colleagues, but that’s not how I would expect a partner to behave during a consensual encounter. I sensed more than saw everyone, including Alyssa Potter, nod in silent agreement. I grinned at Henke and asked, So tell me, Chief – would you have gotten away with this blatant coverup in Los Angeles? 

Litchfield shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot, probably thinking it was about time to finally turn in those retirement papers.

Henke’s face flushed a dark, ugly red, and he looked ready to come around the podium and rush me. If he’d been wearing his police uniform, he might have even drawn his weapon. I stood my ground and watched him defiantly, but my heart was pounding in my throat. In all my time on the crime beat for the News & Review, I’d seen plenty of angry government officials – but this was the first time I thought one might be capable of hurting me.

Before Henke could move or speak, Litchfield took hold of his upper arm and forced him backward, away from the podium. That’ll be all for now, folks, he said lamely. No questions. Then he, Henke, and their entourage disappeared through a door stage right.

I pulled my gloves more tightly onto my hands again, then picked up my purse and made my way to the door. None of the other reporters talked to me, but I could feel the weight of their stares on my back. I knew they were perplexed that I had details about this case that they did not, and I knew they wondered how. Every news outlet in town would run this story tonight, but the photo and video footage from the press conference would not show their own reporter challenging Litchfield. It would show the faceless News & Review crime reporter with long, curly red hair holding yet another government official to account for lying in a spectacular way. If they ran it at all.

The Twin Cities was a competitive news market, boasting two major newspapers, four major television network affiliates, and one public television station – and they all understood the unfortunate reality of investigative reporting in this town: there simply was no competing with Raegan O’Rourke. 

Chapter 2

Iwalked quickly out of City Hall and through the underground tunnel that connected the old Richardsonian Romanesque building to the 1970s monstrosity that was Hennepin County Government Center. I had to go back to the office and write my story for the online edition and tomorrow’s print edition. I crossed Third Avenue via the enclosed footbridge that connected the Government Center to a shiny downtown Minneapolis skyscraper. Nearly ten miles of these so-called skyways enabled people like me to walk around downtown in climate-controlled comfort year-round. I walked quickly, bypassing coffee shops, fast-food chains, and convenience stores, to get to the next skyway and the News & Review ’s offices in the next building. The skyway level was relatively quiet; it was past the lunch hour, and most of the office workers had returned to their desks and conference rooms.

How are you doing it, Raegan?

I glanced to my left and saw Alyssa Potter standing under an enormous floating staircase. The Twin Cities news community is small and well-connected, and I’d heard that Alyssa had been struggling at TCO since she arrived in the Twin Cities just over a year ago. The stress had clearly caught up to her, and in this moment she looked exactly like what she was: a North Dakota farm girl. Her long, carefully highlighted dark blonde hair was pulled into a messy bun on top of her head. She had chewed off her red lipstick, and her big blue eyes were red-rimmed and puffy. She stood with her arms crossed over her chest and glared at me.

How am I doing what? I asked, taking a step closer to her and out of the way of the sparse foot traffic.

How did you know Litchfield was lying?

I shrugged. Just had a hunch.

Don’t bullshit me! she suddenly shouted. Her voice echoed in the building’s massive atrium, and a few people glanced over at us. "That was no hunch. That’s the kind of information that comes from the inside. So how are you doing it? Who are you fucking?"

This was not the first time I’d been accused of sleeping with someone in law enforcement, and it was still funny. I managed not to laugh right in her face, but it wasn’t easy. Excuse me?

She looked at me defiantly. Information is valuable, and sex is currency. So who is it?

That was the first time I’d heard that one. A surprised laugh escaped me and I held my hands up at shoulder height in an I come in peace gesture. You’ve got it all wro–

Before I quite realized what was happening, Alyssa stepped forward and seized my left wrist. My glove only partially blocked her hand from touching my skin; I stood frozen and unseeing as a scene popped up in my mind’s eye.

I was in what appeared to be the very cluttered office of a TV station’s news director. It wasn’t unlike the office of Todd Waterman, the editor-in-chief of the News & Review: papers and old coffee cups strewn across every surface, pens all over the desk and the floor, lights blinking on the phone, a headset hanging over the corner of a computer monitor on the desk, and several TVs on the wall showing news segments from various local and cable networks.

Alyssa sat, nervous and teary-eyed, in a chair. A tall, grizzled man with greasy slicked-back curly hair paced angrily around the room, talking and gesturing widely. This was Luther Pulp, KTCO’s news director, and it was clear that he was offering his opinion of Alyssa’s job performance since she arrived in the Twin Cities: not good.

I wrenched my wrist out of Alyssa’s hand and stepped back; the image vanished and I was looking at Alyssa’s flushed face again. Please keep your hands off me, I said pointedly.

Do you have any idea what it’s like?

I looked at her stupidly. What?

The pressure! She was shouting again, drawing the attention of two women wearing skirtsuits and tennis shoes out for a midafternoon walk in the skyway. I was a rockstar in Fargo, you know? Top of the market. Then TCO recruited me to be their answer to Raegan O’Rourke. She paused, breathing heavily. "Imagine my surprise when I learned that you were a fucking newspaper reporter."

I very nearly blurted that I would have been a TV reporter just like her if things had been different for me. I held my tongue and let her rant.

Turns out I had no idea what I was getting into. I don’t know how you’re doing it, but you are untouchable and now Luther is going to send me back to Fargo with my fucking tail between my legs. Alyssa blinked back tears.

I felt for her. I really did. I had an unfair advantage and I knew it. Look, Alyssa, I’m really sorry to hear that. But I –

Is it Henke? Is that who you’re fucking?

Another surprised laugh burst out of my mouth. "If I were sleeping with someone, and I assure you I am not, it sure as hell wouldn’t be that guy." I laughed again, long and loud. I couldn’t help myself. The sound carried across the skyway level, prompting curious glances from two people waiting for their afternoon lattes at the nearby coffee shop. At the same time, the thought of having sex with the slimeball police chief in exchange for inside information sort of made me nauseous.

An injured scowl stole across Alyssa’s otherwise wrinkle-free forehead and tears welled in her eyes. You are a heartless bitch, Raegan. She blinked and the tears fell, leaving a wet path on each cheek.

Look, Alyssa, I said. I get that you’re having a tough time right now, but guess what: news is a tough game. I pulled my phone out of my purse. Let me give you a dime’s worth of free advice: either grow a thicker skin, or take Luther up on his offer and go back to Fargo. I glanced at the time. Shit. I gotta go. I have a deadline.

I walked away, but not before I saw Alyssa’s face crumple like a napkin. But I didn’t dwell; I had bigger fish to fry than Alyssa Potter. I had a huge story to do.

Chapter 3

Ihad a reputation in the Twin Cities as a reporter with a knack for unearthing the truth. To be fair, that was the goal of every investigative reporter; I was just much better at it than anyone else. Because I had a closely-guarded secret.

When I was eight years old I discovered that I could touch things and see visions of events that had happened in the past. As I grew older, this ability – which my grandmother called my touch –  became so strong that I couldn’t touch anything with my bare skin without being bombarded by visions. I finally had to resort to wearing thin leather marksman gloves – flesh-colored in the hopes they might attract less attention – all the time just so I could make it through a day without becoming utterly overwhelmed by the mundanity of humanity.

I knew that Leisa Collins was a rape victim because two days after the incident I visited the Parlor Bar and took off my gloves.

HOUSED ON THE GROUND level of a two-story multipurpose brick building built in 1900, the Parlor Bar was a favorite hangout of the people who lived around and above it, the blue-collar folks working in nearby factories, and people who came in from all over the Twin Cities for its famous lobster mac and cheese. On this Tuesday midafternoon, however, the barroom was nearly deserted; every stool was empty, and the only person in the place was a young white female bartender with impossibly long green dreadlocks and piercings all over her face.

I took a stool at the bar and stared at the short but impressive wine list, wanting a glass of chardonnay in the worst way. After some intense internal debate, I reluctantly decided having one would be a bad idea. For me it was never just one glass of wine, and I needed my wits about me. I reluctantly gave the laminated piece of paper back to the bartender and asked for a glass of water. Then I removed my gloves, laid my bare fingertips on the bar’s brass rail, and closed my eyes.

A barrage of visions popped up behind my eyelids, playing over each other like a jumble of soundless home movies. I tried to scan faces looking for Leisa or Lucas, but it was too much. I would need to expend more of my own energy to filter out the irrelevant visions.

Eyes still closed, I frowned and focused tightly on Leisa Collins. Gradually the visions of events that didn’t involve Leisa grayed out and fluttered away like ashes on the breeze, leaving only one. But it was the one I needed.

Leisa occupied the stool next to mine, nursing a rum and soda. She wore a navy blue tie-dyed sundress with horizontal white lines and white cork-soled platform sandals. Her long blonde hair cascaded down her back in loose curls. She sipped her drink and occasionally glanced at her phone, as if she were waiting for someone.

Within a few minutes a tall, well-built man with blonde hair cut military-style and big blue eyes walked up behind Leisa and laid a hand in the middle of her back. She startled, then turned and hugged him around the neck. The man, off-duty Minneapolis police officer Lucas Handler, grinned and hugged her back.

I watched as he took the stool on the other side of Leisa and ordered a beer. They fell into easy conversation, laughing and clearly enjoying each other’s company. I wished I could hear what they were talking about. Were they already familiar with each other? Did she have any inkling of what was about to happen to her? I couldn’t tell for sure, but I didn’t think so.

They each ordered another drink, and then Leisa stood up, lifted her purse from the back of her barstool, gestured to Lucas that she would be right back, then walked toward the restrooms at the back of the building.

Dread bloomed in my stomach.

The bartender set a fresh cocktail in front of Leisa’s seat and a cold bottle of beer in front of Lucas, who gave her a twenty-dollar bill. The bartender turned her back to ring up the purchase at the cash register behind the bar. Lucas wasted no time; he quickly pulled a small folded wad of paper out of his jeans pocket, thumbed it open just enough, and shook a white powder into Leisa’s drink. I watched in horror as the miniscule white granules slowly sank to the bottom of the lowball glass and disappeared.

Lucas gave the drink a quick stir with the tiny plastic straw and stuffed the little paper packet back in his pocket. He glanced around him nervously, then sat back in his barstool and took a casual swig of his beer. The bartender laid a pile of bills and coins on the bar in front of him, then moved on to the next customer.

Leisa returned from the restroom, all smiles, and took her seat. She lifted her glass in a toast; Lucas clinked his bottle against the glass, and they both drank heartily. Leisa’s fresh cocktail was more than half gone by the time she set her glass back down on the bar.

Their conversation resumed, and it only took a few minutes for Leisa to start exhibiting the effects of the rohypnol. Her eyelids became heavier and heavier, and she swayed alarmingly on her barstool. Lucas reflexively reached out and grabbed her glass from her hand before she dropped it on the scarred linoleum floor.

As Leisa’s behavior changed, so too did the look on Lucas’ face – from jovial to that of a