Reading the Dead: The Sarah Milton Chronicles

READING THE DEAD

THE SARAH MILTON CHRONICLES

Cameron Jon Bernhard

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, events, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons (living, dead, or otherwise), events, locales, etc. are entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2011 by Cameron Jon Bernhard. All rights reserved.

Smashwords Edition

ISBN: 9781310256806

TABLE OF CONTENTS

ANNA... THEN

ANNA... NOW

RAITHE

Anna... Then

1

As I cracked open the tin box under my bed, the one with the picture of my hometown of Tilford, Maryland on the lid, a familiar chill raced through my body. Death was no stranger to me – quite the opposite, in fact. Perusing the photos and files on my mother's murder always struck me akin to peeking into her coffin, but like a ghoul, I kept returning for more.

This container of restless ghosts held more significance for me than my mother's gravesite, thousands of miles away. It housed not only my memories of her, but also of the person I once was. Over the years, I learned to be careful when accessing its contents. Some of those memories still had teeth.

I upturned the box over my bed, spilling out old photos and yellowing police reports in a torrent. Bosco, my four-year-old Yorkie Terrier, uttered a soft whine in protest. He knew how maudlin I could be when a few glasses of chardonnay led me to thoughts of yesterday. I ignored him. The exercise helped me forget the sad fact that I ended my thirtieth birthday in an empty bed just days before.

The loneliness never used to bother me, but then again, for much of my life, I was never truly alone. I always had Anna. Anna Nigma.

Anna was a precocious child of twelve or thirteen when I first met her at the tender age of six, and so she remained for the rest of my natural life. She resembled a child movie star from the 1930's, with her long, blonde tresses curled in an almost anachronistic fashion. Her clothing always remained constant: the same pretty, red summer dress with white bobby socks, even during our chilly Maryland winters. The cold, like everything else, could not touch her incorporeal form.

Even back then, a part of me understood that Anna wasn't real. That she was anything other than a figment of my imagination wasn't something that I would come to discover until very much later in life.

Since she had no memory of her own name, I christened her after Anna Sewell. Back then, I was going through my horse phase, and Black Beauty was a title that never strayed far from my hands. I eventually outgrew my passion for equestrian pursuits, but not for literature. My appetite in that regard only became more voracious as time went on.

She was a welcome addition to the family, despite her presence forming an icy wedge between my father and me. Though he would never admit it, I'm certain that I was a constant source of embarrassment to the man. William H. Milton, then the mayor of Tilford, held aspirations of one day resting his feet under the desk in the Oval Office. Failing to be a son who he could mold in his image was only the first of many disappointments he likely heaped at my feet.

It's perhaps not surprising then that Anna and my mother, Emily Milton, became my entire world growing up. She split her time between her volunteer work and showering her only child with love. She was the first to acknowledge and accept my invisible companion's presence in my life, no matter how troubling it must have been for her. Were it not for her, I believe psychiatric care would have played a far greater role in my defining years.

Too late, I learned the value of guarding my relationship with Anna. My reputation as a mental case always preceded me in Tilford, even after skipping ahead two grades in school. I discovered the hard way that the cruelty of children could be as vast as the ocean. To survive, I eventually learned to mimic her knack for blending into the background. My surrogate sister was always at my side to lift my spirits, while the world branded me a freak. We grew up together, us against the world, though she herself never aged a day.

As the years flew by, our roles in our relationship changed like the seasons. My big sister became my best friend, who became my little sister as puberty took hold of me in the autumn of my youth. I could feel the glue between us weakening as I turned thought to the world outside of Tilford. I was fifteen and already a senior in high school. My mind was on other things besides the company of a child, yet Anna remained always by my side.

Though I had no one else with whom to share my time, I grew to resent the shackles that chained her company to mine. I had changed, where she never could. She lovingly bore my blame for my isolated existence upon her slender shoulders. I took up running as a means of escaping her presence for even a little while. Those fleeting moments of seclusion only sweetened my taste for more.

I cruelly wished that I could leave Tilford and go somewhere far away, where nobody knew Schizo Sarah Milton and her hidden passenger. I would start over fresh, and join the rest of the world as an equal, without fear of judgment or condemnation. Without Anna.

It was a vain hope, I knew. Nothing short of death would separate her grip from mine.

2

When I think back on that time, I always remember lilies. I can smell them yet: a gagging, sweet scent forever reminding me of decay. To this day, I still can't bring myself to go near a florist shop.

Somebody, perhaps my Aunt Joan, had a bouquet of fresh lilies delivered to the house. As I sat on the sofa by myself, dressed in my best black dress, their fragrance assaulted my senses from under the large photograph we erected of my mother. Despite the other bouquets present, the lilies were what bothered me most. They were always mom's favorite. Breathing in the sickly aroma of those flowers remains my clearest memory of her funeral.

My father circulated throughout the room, speaking in hushed voices to the other mourners. He would shake hands or offer a hug to family members, always in that practiced politician's fashion. William Milton was a born elected official. He capably showed both his grief and strength in just the right proportions.

I know because I watched him the entire time. He barely noticed me. Neither did anyone else. It was the most alone I ever felt in a crowd.

****

I can remember the event as if it happened yesterday, though much that followed after has faded like an old photograph. My evening was much the same as the one before it and the one before that. I was home alone, as usual. Anna was with me, also as usual.

My parents knew better than to worry about me. I was fifteen going on eighty. The only excitement I craved existed in the pages of whatever book I'd find to bury my face in after finishing my schoolwork.

I didn't mind being alone. I felt more alone around people than I did by myself. Besides, if it was affirmation of another's presence that I sought, I only needed to lower my eyes. Anna grew roots in front of our TV.

Though drilled on the perils of opening doors to strangers, I figured my mother wouldn't fault me for believing the police officer ringing our doorbell was a notable exception. As I threw open the door, he stripped off his cap and regarded me with an expression far too grim for a face as young as his.

Is this the Milton residence? he asked without smiling.

Yes.

Hey! What happened to..? I heard Anna cry. I thought nothing of the fact that our TV had gone silent. Though Anna held a deep fascination for moving pictures, it was mostly background noise to me.

Is your father home? May I speak with him?

His questioning filled me with unease. I began to wonder if allowing even a uniformed stranger access was a wise decision.

No. He's not here.

Anna sounded strange. Sarah...

The police officer looked off with uncertainty. I noticed the name on his badge was Best. Officer Best. I stifled a smirk. I debated whether that was actually his name or some kind of merit badge.

Is there a white Chrysler Sebring registered to this address? License plate... He fished out a small notepad from his pocket. The tiny hairs on the back of my neck stood at attention as he read out the license. ...AAK 67J?

"Sarah, something's wrong with the TV! I'm missing Friends!" Anna called out from the next room, oblivious to the drama occurring on the other side of her idiot box.

That's my mom's car. What's going on? Terror crept unbidden into my voice.

Officer Best shuffled his eyes from me to our living room. Is there someone else here with you that I might speak to? An adult, perhaps?

Ignoring him, I screamed, Where's my mother? What happened to her? He had me so worried that I was nearly in tears.

Miss, please calm down. We don't know what happened to your mother. We found her car abandoned on the side of the road near Massey Bridge. The driver's side door was open and the keys were still in the ignition. There was no sign of your mother anywhere.

What? What does that mean? Is she all right?

We don't know. That's the truth. We're looking for her now. I was sent over here to check in the event that she might have called home.

At that moment, Anna came rushing out. Sarah? The TV... She froze on the spot, gaping at the scene unraveling before her eyes.

No. I haven't heard from her. Oh, God!

Please try to remain calm. What I need you to do right now is to try to get in touch with your father. Can you do that for me? It's important that I speak with him. May I come in?

Uh? Yeah. Yes. Come in. I have... My father left the number of the hotel they're staying at in Baltimore. I-I'll get it.

I passed by Anna on the way to the kitchen. She saw the torment in my face and her eyes opened wide in confusion. What happened? she asked me.

I couldn't bring myself to answer her, even if there wasn't another set of ears present in the room. I was too busy just trying to remember how to breathe.

Crossing the kitchen was like wading through soup. I kept waiting for my brain to switch off or my legs to give out. Fastened to the refrigerator with a magnetic butterfly was the number of the Baltimore Sovereign Hotel. As I plucked the slip of paper from the fridge, the magnet lost its grip and tumbled to the floor. I gazed at the flightless, winged thing lying still upon the tile for untold minutes. I think it might have been in that moment that I knew my mother was never coming home again.

When at last I returned to the hall, paper in hand, I found Officer Best still patiently awaiting my return. Anna had departed back into the room. Within, I could hear her speaking in a subdued voice.

I promise, was all that I caught of her conversation.

I threw her a glance as I passed over my father's contact information to the police. She stood in front of the TV, her face turned away from me.

Looks like your cable's out, Officer Best noted, nodding at the static-filled screen.

I guess so. Here's the number where my father can be reached.

That's good. Thank you! Um, would you mind?

The phone's in the kitchen. Right through there.

Thank you.

Officer Best headed for the kitchen to break the disturbing news to my father. I ambled into the living room and sat on the couch. Every part of me felt numb.

Are you all right? Anna inquired nervously. I was unable to bring myself to respond.

Behind her, the television suddenly sputtered to life. Anna's sitcom resumed in gales of fake laughter. I gazed at the screen without really seeing it. I could feel the world sliding sickeningly beneath my feet.

Anna sat next to me in silence. We remained there until my father returned home several hours later. I don't recall either of us saying a word all evening.

I never thought to ask her about the promise, or to whom she made it. If I had, maybe everything would have turned out differently in my life. However, with all that took place over the next few days, it completely slipped my mind.

She never volunteered the information, either. In the days remaining before disappearing from my life completely, she hardly uttered a word.

3

I lost myself in my mother's murder file for what must be the thousandth time. By now, I could practically recite each word from memory. My only reward for hours spent slaving over every inch of grainy evidence photos, scene descriptions, and interviews were headaches and eyestrain. I was either too stubborn or too stupid to accept that the investigation into her death was a jigsaw puzzle with many missing pieces.

The trail of the person who brutally stabbed her multiple times late one evening, before callously tossing her remains to wash up on the banks of the Susquehanna River, went glacial shortly after I graduated from Tilford High. For all anyone knew, she might have met her end in Pennsylvania.

Highway patrol found her phone discarded inside her abandoned car, days before search teams discovered her body. Lacking any physical evidence to suggest a passenger, and finding no problems with the engine, police pursued the investigation on the assumption that her killer forced her off the road and hauled her into another vehicle. For months, they investigated the backgrounds of anyone who might have followed her from home that evening. Despite casting a wide net, they couldn't find a single suspect. Almost as sudden as her disappearance, the case into Emily Milton's murder abruptly ended in failure.

At least, theirs did – mine was still a work in progress.

****

I once prayed for the chance to reinvent myself, to be free of the secrets and fears that shackled me my entire life. Never would I have imagined that I would one day find myself reborn under a California sun. Of the Sarah Milton who grew up in a small town in Maryland, I retained only a passion for reading and running. Everything else was a clean slate.

Anna's mysterious and unexpected disappearance on the eve of my mother's funeral almost destroyed me. After sobbing for weeks, I scoured the library for anything I could find on the topic of imaginary friends, in a desperate hunt for answers. After months of fruitless searching, all I found was a burgeoning fascination with the workings of the human mind.

My sixteenth year was a time of fresh discoveries for me. With the help of our new housekeeper, Melody Chaparelle, I began to cultivate the skills for my independence. I grew bolder in my dealings with others, though it was already too late to undo my damaged reputation in Tilford. My father called me a changed person, but Melody simply said it was my time to shine.

The school year was winding down. Thanks to my excellent grades and newfound courage, a scholarship to the school of my choice awaited me after graduation. My father was keen for me to attend an Ivy League school on the east coast. I think he finally deemed me worthy of grooming into a life of politics. However, I had other plans.

My mother's murder was a wound that wouldn't heal. Each day that passed only intensified my urge to hunt down her killer. Where once I drew fascination from the processes of the mind that gave birth to an imaginary companion, my passions had since matured. I found myself intrigued by the workings of the criminal mind, particularly one capable of committing so heinous an act as was perpetrated upon my own flesh and blood.

I knew that the best way to catch an animal was to understand how it thinks.

Years later, with my Doctorate in criminal psychology from UC Irvine in hand, I finally revealed my true career intentions to my father. After many years of protest, he finally resigned himself to the notion that I might eke out a living as a college professor with my chosen degree. When I informed him of my accepted application to the LAPD, he wouldn't talk to me for months. Given our reticent past, I hardly noticed.

I knew that finding my mother's killer after all these years wouldn't be easy. However, if there was one thing that I inherited from her, it was her determination. I was committed to delivering justice to her restless spirit.

At the end of a training regimen that made my time at university seem like a trip to Disneyland, I came out of the police academy with a newfound confidence in my strength and abilities. I was reborn. My hard work provided me with the training and the means to do what I always intended. Finally, I was ready to start my hunt.

However, it seemed that Fate had one more trick to play on me: Anna Nigma. On the other side of my life, it turned out that our paths were destined to cross again. Like links in a chain, our souls seemed forever bound, even beyond the constraints of death itself.

Anna... Now

Chapter 1

1

Early the next morning, I awoke to the clamor of a ringing phone and a stinging headache from too much liquid indulgence. As a homicide detective with the recently formed LAPD Violent Crimes Unit, I was accustomed to working odd hours. That's why I kept my cell handy at all times. As important as it was, I loved it when it never rang. Not because of having to wake up in the wee hours of the morning, but because a ringing phone meant that someone else out there would no longer be doing the same.

The cell phone on my night table rang a second time. My co-worker, Chelsea, programmed in the ringtone for me. I think it was called Darth Vader March. It was Mason Childs, my boss.

Bosco yawned and stretched at the foot of my bed. He heard the music and took that as his cue to start with the yapping, just in case the phone wasn't jarring enough for me.

Ugh, Bosco! Quit it, I moaned, half-asleep, and rolled over. The digital clock on my stand read 5:57 AM.

The numbers on the display were extra-large. At night, they were bright enough to cast a soft, green glow in my room. Vices usually come with a price. In my case, my persistent love of reading over the years resulted in a need for bifocals when viewing objects up close. I tried contacts once, but I have this phobia about foreign objects scratching my retina. Fortunately, my old maid glasses never really put much of a damper on my otherwise nonexistent romantic life. I guess not all of my former baggage decided to remain in Tilford.

Bosco, now fully awake, started to jump up and down while barking. It was unfortunate that the pet store didn't take trade-ins. I'm sure that I asked the clerk for a puppy, not a furry demon.

My neighbor from the apartment next door gave the wall between us a couple of lazy slams with his fist. Shut that damn dog up, Milton! he howled into his pillow. He was a nice enough guy when you got to know him. He just wasn't much of a dog lover at the crack of dawn.

Sorry, Everett! I called out.

I rubbed the sleep from my eyes and sighed. Bosco's yapping was giving me a headache. Hey! Are you trying to get us thrown out onto the street? Be quiet!

He settled down a bit, but it was clear from his mannerisms that if I didn't answer that phone soon, he intended to let me know about it.

The phone showed no signs of quieting down, either. Darth Vader was persistent this morning. That was never a good sign.

I fumbled blindly until my probing fingers traced the outline of the phone. My wrist jostled a mostly full glass of water on the table as I retrieved the noisemaker. The telltale clink of overturned glass and pouring water startled me awake.

Damn it! Aw, jeez!

I quickly recovered my book from the night table before it became a casualty of my clumsiness. Feeling no trace of dampness under my fingers, I thoroughly checked the pages for signs of water damage, juggling my phone between my hands and accidentally bumping the ANSWER button in the process. Lucky for me, my novel appeared to have escaped a soaking. It wasn't particularly valuable, but I was just getting to the good part and would've hated to—

Sarah? Mason's voice echoed on the line. Hearing the man's voice, Bosco uttered another sharp bark.

Shut it! I warned him, threatening the little fur ball with my book.

Excuse me?

I stuck my phone to my ear, suddenly realizing my mistake. Sorry, sir! Not you. It was... I was just... I set the book down on my bed and took a deep breath. What's up?

Bosco hopped down off the bed and decided to help himself to a drink from the water trickling down my nightstand and forming a puddle on the floor.

We have a situation. Raithe struck again. This time, it's out in the suburbs. 324 Palmetto Lane. As an afterthought, he added, It's bad, Sarah. You may want to skip breakfast.

Okay. I'll be right there. Let me just write down that address.

I reached over to turn on my reading lamp. A loud crackle of electricity arced from the light and shot up my arm. I yanked my hand back with a hiss and sat bolt upright in bed. Who would have guessed that electric shock was such an eye opener?

I don't know if the sparks flying off me startled him or if he got a shot of it too, but Bosco suddenly snapped up and raced out the door. I watched him tear out of the bedroom with a groan. It wasn't as though coaxing him into the bath was a breeze before this trauma.

Never mind. I'm pretty sure I'll remember it.

We'll be waiting, Mason replied, and hung up.

I hit the button to hang up and stared at the smoking remains of my reading lamp.

Raithe. That was really not how I wanted to start my day.

I gazed at a front-page newspaper article framed on my bedroom wall, illuminated in the ghostly light of my miraculously undamaged alarm clock. The headline, Fancy Dress Killer Exposed and its subheading, LAPD make arrest in brutal serial killer case, brought back memories of my first exposure to the mind of a psychopathic serial killer. Harry Sands was a necrophiliac who murdered beautiful women just so he could dress them up post-mortem, like dolls, and photograph them in different poses. It was the highlight of my career. It was also one of the darkest chapters of my life.

That is, until Raithe started committing murders in the streets of Los Angeles.

2

Serial killers typically follow a pattern based on motivation hardwired into their personalities, which is why the field of criminal psychology has had some success in tracking down these people and bringing them to justice. It's by detecting and following patterns in their behavior that police eventually manage to track down their identities. A killer's choice of victims, their method of killing, their means of disposal or arrangement of the bodies, how invested they become in their own manhunt; investigators take every element of their crimes into account when piecing together a psychological profile of the killer. This often provides alternate leads that, in some cases, may result in an arrest.

From the very start, Raithe proved to be different. Over the span of eight months, he murdered nine people. In each case, everything about the murders was utterly different. Rather than sticking to a particular demographic, his victims were from all walks of life, from a college professor to a young couple, a social worker, a street thug, even a homeless man. The methods he used to kill them were entirely random, including stabbing, strangulation, and bludgeoning. In one case, he even force-fed heart medication down a banker's throat until he choked to death on the pills.

For someone in my position, Raithe was my worst nightmare: a serial killer who knew how to take lives without leaving behind any clues or patterns of any kind. The only element each murder had in common was his signature left at the scene of each crime, taunting us:

Sometimes it was hand-written. Other times, pasted together from letters from old newsprint. Once, he even carved it into his victim's chest. Always in uppercase. Always spelled the same way. Always left at the scene, post-mortem.

It was the only common thread in this latest murder that I expected to see when I arrived. Everything else was apt to be a complete surprise.

I hate surprises.

3

I splashed water on my face in the bathroom sink and toweled myself off. The reflection that greeted me in the sharp lights of my mirror was that of a woman bearing the telltale signs of a spent youth.

Thirty. I still could hardly believe it. It seemed like my life had only recently started. I guess in a way it did. I remembered very little about my childhood in Tilford. Not that there was much of great significance to recall anyway. In many ways, it felt as insubstantial to me as a dream. This was who I was now. That other Sarah Milton who used to hide from the world around her wasn't even a person I might recognize.

I had my mother's eyes. I never actually noticed it before. They were dark and a little cold looking, just like hers. They looked a little out of place on my pleasant, if not necessarily attractive, face. I wondered, did they always look like that, or were they now a reflection of the pain and death they witnessed over the past six years on the force?

Over the years, I kept returning to my investigation into her murder, gnawing away at the edges in the hopes of one day revealing its core. I took up where the original investigators left off, and even managed to pick up a few threads along the way. Nothing fruitful. Just a couple of leads that sounded more promising than they really were.