Mounted Page 23

  William reached over the camera and clicked off the recording.

  “I don’t even know what to call whatever that was I just watched,” Beth said.

  Aaron reached for the phone and lifted it back up. “Ah, when did this go up? Do we know?”

  “An hour ago. Right around there,” Duffield said.

  “It’s been viewed almost eight thousand times already,” Aaron said. He clicked a couple more buttons on the phone. “It actually looks like this wasn’t the only place he uploaded this to. I have five or six video-sharing sites in the recent memory here.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  We’d spent another two days at the Louisville Bureau field office—the Thursday had been filled with three separate press conferences and, between those, sorting through everything that had been found at the house. William David had not only uploaded the disturbing video of him anchoring sports with the mounted head, which we confirmed to be Erin Cooper-Connelly, but he’d also e-mailed countless digital photos of his acts to just about every national media outlet one could think of. Contained in the files included in his e-mails was the scan of another letter, which we’d found inside his home printer and scanner. The letter was short, and the basic idea of it was that he would become the best-known sports anchor of all time. Considering the amount of press he was generating, I didn’t much doubt the claim.

  We’d put in calls to each video-sharing website, trying to get the videos pulled, all of which agreed and took them down immediately. By the time they’d been removed, the clips had generated over a hundred thousand views. As Aaron from the tech department explained it, the videos were out there and had undoubtedly been copied and renamed countless times. He said that the companies would pull them upon them being reported or found, but basically if someone wanted to find the clip of William David coanchoring with a mounted head and watch it, they’d be able to somewhere without too much trouble.

  Our Friday in Louisville was filled, morning until night, with compiling all our paperwork from the investigation and waiting on more things to trickle in. We had William David’s bank records and found a flight to California along with numerous stops at gas stations that created a path back to Louisville. Videos were beginning to come back to us from local FBI field offices that were making trips out to the gas stations. Security videos showed William David in the Chevy Impala with a female locked in the back. The bodies from the freezers had thawed, and the forensics team was matching them via saw marks to the hands and spines at the points where the body parts were removed. While we were still waiting on confirmation for two of the women, April Backer and Jennifer Pasco, we had two bodies, two skulls, and four hands that remained—I imagined they would match up, and all of our women, as well as body parts, would be accounted for. The only thing we were really left wondering was if David was the person behind her husband’s reported suicide. I was about ninety-nine percent sure that he was, but I’d placed a number of calls out to California to try to get more information on the subject and wasn’t really coming up with anything new. I hoped more information would come in.

  I sat at my dining-room table, looking over the Sunday newspaper while being sure to avoid the paper’s coverage of the murders, investigation, and details from the house, which were located on the front page, as well as continuing on multiple pages inside. I flipped another page of the newspaper, to the sports section, and folded the paper closed when I saw William David’s face. I looked down at Porkchop, seated at my foot—more on my foot than at it.

  I gave him a pat on the head. “I don’t have any food for you, dummy.”

  “He thinks you do,” Karen said.

  I glanced over to the stairwell to see her putting on earrings and walking down toward me.

  Her high heels hit the hardwood with a clack. Karen wore a gray blouse and long skirt, and her hair was pulled back in a ponytail. “Are you almost ready?”

  I took a drink from my coffee and let out a breath. “Ready as I’ll get, I guess.”

  She walked behind me, put her hands on my shoulders, and gave them a rub. “I’m telling you it’s fate.”

  I craned my neck to look up at her. “Or just bad credit from the people who originally put in the offer,” I said.

  “Well, whatever the hell it is, we’re getting another shot at the place.”

  “I want to give it a good look over again before making any decisions.”

  “I thought we had decided,” Karen said.

  “Actually, I said that I liked the place the last time we looked at it, and then you decided while I was gone at work. I mean, if you want to get all technical about it.”

  “I’m telling you, Hank. It’s the one. Margie doesn’t think it’s going to last long. Lots of interest, she said.”

  “Mmm hmm. Isn’t that Sales 101? Fear of loss? And ‘Margie’? You’re on a first name basis with the realtor that we’ve seen once and apparently you only communicated with via e-mail after that?”

  “I may have gone and looked at it again this week,” Karen said. “Twice.”

  I held up my palms. “You couldn’t wait for me?”

  “I’m sorry. I was excited. The place looks huge without all the previous owner’s furniture in there. And it was actually three times I went and looked, but the last time, Margie wasn’t there, and I just kind of parked and walked up and peeked into the windows.”

  I shook my head. “That’s called trespassing. Or peeping. One of the two.”

  “She says it’s a great buy,” Karen said.

  “Margie, I assume?”

  “Yeah.”

  “The realtor thinks it’s a great buy?” I asked sarcastically. “No shit.”

  “Okay, okay, she’s probably not that impartial of a party. But it is appraised for higher than the asking price,” Karen said.

  “So I’ve been told.”

  “Why are you grumpy? This is supposed to be fun.”

  “I’m not grumpy,” I said. “I just get a little antsy when the thought of spending hundreds of thousands of dollars comes up.”

  “I know, but we have to do something. We only have a few months left on the lease here. I think it’s time we get a place. Especially after the news of being accepted as an adoption family.” Karen smiled. “Being settled into a nice house and welcoming in a child is kind of what we want, isn’t it? Just think about it. A beautiful house, big yard, maybe a tire swing in the tree out front. The pitter patter of little feet.”

  “Now you’re really laying it on thick. What time do we have to be there?”

  “Noon. So if you want to stop and grab breakfast before, we should get our asses moving.”

  “Ten four,” I said.

  I grabbed my coffee, put the remaining half of a cup down in a big chug, and stood.

  “Your Jeep or my truck?” Karen asked.

  “You drive.”

  Karen scooped her keys from the breakfast bar separating the dining room and the kitchen and headed for the door. I followed her after I tossed Porkchop a treat from the container on the shelf and told him to be good. Karen drove us to a little diner down the street from our townhouse, and we shoveled down a quick breakfast. Twenty minutes, two coffees, and a giant bacon-egg-and-cheese sandwich that we split later, we were back on the road.

  The house Karen was set on was located in Alexandria, fifteen minutes from our townhouse. The distance wouldn’t really affect either of our commutes to work. Karen pointed out things that were cute and convenient around the neighborhood as we approached, casually putting a lot of effort into selling me. I didn’t protest too much. We made a left on Leaf Lane and drove toward the address that, if I remembered correctly, would be approaching on our right after a small bend in the road. I looked left and right at the homes on the block. All looked ten to twenty years old, with mature trees and nice enough cars in the driveways. A guy going for his mailbox must have seen me staring at him, and he threw me a wave. I waved back.

  “See how friendly they
are around here?” Karen asked.

  “Yeah, yeah.”

  “There it is.” Karen bounced around in her seat. “It looks like Margie is already here.”

  The woman was standing at the end of the driveway waving at us.

  Karen pulled to the side of the road, and we stepped out. I swung the passenger side door closed and watched Karen round the front of the truck and walk straight to the realtor. I stood at the edge of the driveway briefly while Karen and the realtor spoke—I heard the realtor woman make a joke about what time our moving truck was arriving.

  I stared past a big tree in the front yard at the white two-story colonial. The place was exceptionally nice and a bit undervalued. The tree out front would definitely hold a swinging bench or tire swing—Karen’s daydream. I went through a quick bit of rationalizing the cost and grumbled to myself. Karen was set on the place—really, really, set on it—and I’d be fine with calling it home.

  “What the hell,” I said. “May as well get this over with.” I walked toward Karen and the realtor.

  The End

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