Northern Virginia
June 17, 2004
Charlotte

Charlotte watched Baldwin leave with the Fairfax County folks, then started her own walk through Harold Arlen’s house. She was deeply unsettled by the whole incident. Arlen really had seemed sincere when he claimed he wasn’t responsible, that the photos on his computer were planted there. He admitted to looking at some porn now and again, but just looking. My God, he couldn’t have done anything, the shots took care of that. Where was the fun in that? He couldn’t explain how photos of the dead girls got on his computer—was in tears by the time they carted him off.

She could hear the storm getting closer, the thunder booming. There was a sense of urgency to everyone’s movements; dragging evidence through the wind and rain was the last thing they wanted. She could hear the muffled shouts of people trying to set up some sort of shelter between the crime-scene vans and the front door. Arlen was being transported—for the time being, she felt like she was practically alone with the man’s thoughts.

She went through his bedroom carefully. He was organized, methodical. Shirts in the closet were arranged according to color, and he only had white and blue long-sleeved button-downs. There were five pairs of chinos plus one empty hanger, three pairs of brown loafers. His bathrobe had been securely hung on the back of the bathroom door. His medicine cabinet had inconsequential items—shaving cream, aspirin, all the same brand, Kirkland. He did his shopping at Costco. The shower was clean, not a surprise. His house bespoke the worst about him—controlled, and controlling. Everything in its place. Another check mark on the profile.

Charlotte trailed through the house, looking at everything. The preternatural organization was evident in every room. Finding physical evidence was going to be tough—he was meticulous. And they needed the physical evidence to tie Arlen to the Clockwork Killer case. Somewhere in this house, there was a knife with a ten-inch blade, and ligatures, and some sort of bat or bar used to break the girls’ legs. The medical examiner had been relatively sure the girls had been lying down when their legs were broken, a rounded instrument used to crack their tibias and fibulas cleanly.

So where would he have done it? A bed? The floor? Some sort of table? Charlotte tried to get into Arlen’s mind. What would she do if she needed to restrain a young girl?

She shut her eyes and let the terror overwhelm her.

She would put her somewhere scary. In the dark. Away from any sort of light. With creepy, crawly things, rats and spiders and the cold, dark, dank air that signaled you were underground.

A memory rose unbidden to the surface. Her father, a tyrant on the best of days, locking her in the wine cellar below their house, punishment for some perceived transgression.

She shuddered at the thought, then went looking for Arlen’s basement.