Never Knowing

The rest of the phone call he asked more questions along those lines: What was my favorite soda? What kind of cookies, chocolate with peanut butter or plain? The questions were so rapid-fire I didn’t have a chance to think up lies. I was getting the feeling that he was a serious junk-food hound. But the only specific thing he revealed about himself was that he loved McDonald’s — Big Macs, mainly. I wondered if that little detail would make Sandy happy or if she’d just be frustrated she couldn’t stake out every McDonald’s herself.

We’d only been on the phone for ten minutes, but I was exhausted, drained from his questions and the effort to gauge his reaction to every answer. Forcing myself to sound polite so I didn’t lose any ground I’d just gained, I said, “John, it’s been great talking to you, but I really have to go to bed.” He sighed. “Get some rest, we’ll talk soon.”

Billy called a few minutes later to tell me John was traveling south on the Yellowhead Highway. They think he was in McBride, a small town between the Rockies and the Cariboo Mountains. The population is under a thousand, but no one noticed anyone who fit John’s description. The police were starting to wonder if he’d frequented these areas before. He might not be turning up on anyone’s radar as a stranger because they know him. Hoping he’d continue south on the same highway, they were making sure all gas stations, truck stops, and stores had his description. When we finally hung up I went straight to bed, but I didn’t sleep. I just stared at the ceiling, wondering if John was on the highway right now, if he was getting closer with every minute that ticked by.

The next day another box arrived. This time I called Sandy and Billy right away. I thought they’d just grab it and go, but they opened it with me there so if John called I’d know what was inside.

This doll was blond.

I wanted to cry at the silken curls, at the little polka-dot tank top and white shorts, wondering which woman’s hair it was, wondering if it had been her pride and joy.

They thought he’d sent the package from Prince George and were going to check all the depots in the area, but I already knew he was smart enough to wear a disguise. After Sandy and Billy left, I went upstairs and checked out the Campsite Killer’s Web site again. The pictures of his first victim showed a woman with black hair. Then I pulled up the photos of his next one. Suzanne Atkinson had straight brown hair — parted in the middle. His third, the woman he killed after Julia escaped, Heather Dawson, smiled broadly in her photo, her heart-shaped face framed by lustrous blond curls. She’d been proud of them.

She was last seen wearing a polka-dot blouse.

I called Billy right away. “You knew he took pieces of their clothing and hair.”

He was quiet for a moment, then said, “We knew, but we didn’t know what he did with them.”

“What else are you holding back?”

“We try to fill you in as much as possible without jeopardizing the investigation.”

“What about jeopardizing me? Shouldn’t I—”

“We’re protecting you, Sara. This is a man who can read people really well. The less you know, the better. If you inadvertently reveal something that only the police would know, we could lose him — or worse.” I took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Like it or not, I could see some of the sense in what he was saying.

“I hate being left in the dark. Hate it.”

He laughed. “I don’t blame you one bit. I promise to tell you everything you need to know, when we know it. All right?”

“Can you tell me why he leaves their faces blank?”

“My guess is he’s depersonalizing them. Same reason he puts the victim’s shirt over her head — he can’t look them in the face.”

“That’s what I thought too. Do you think he feels shame?”

“If you ask him, he’d say yes. He’s a psychopath — he knows how to mimic emotions. But I don’t believe he truly feels them for one minute.”

John called again that night and I managed to thank him for the doll. But this time I said, “Can you tell me about the girl?”

“Why?” So he wasn’t going to deny it was from one of his victims.

“I don’t know, I just wondered about her. What she was like?”

“She had a pretty smile.” Her picture flashed in my mind. I thought of John touching her. I thought of her pretty mouth begging him to stop. I closed my eyes.

“Is that why you killed her?”

He didn’t answer. I held my breath.

After a moment he said, “I killed her because I had to. I told you, Sara. I’m not bad.”

“I know, but that’s why I don’t understand why you had to kill her.”

He sounded frustrated as he said, “I can’t tell you yet.”

“Can you tell me why you made a doll with her clothes? I’m really interested in your…” What should I call it? “In your process.”

“Then she stays with me longer.”

“And that’s important? That she stays with you?”

“It helps.”

“What does it help with?”

“It just helps, okay? We’ll talk more about it another time. Did you know pine beetles make blue wood?”

I didn’t get the feeling he changed the subject to avoid anything. More like another thought occurred to him so he went with it. I hated how much he reminded me of myself.

“I’ve read about it, but I’ve never worked with any of it.”

“It’s not the beetle that kills the trees, you know. It’s the fungus they carry.” He paused, but I didn’t know what to say and he went on. “I’ve been reading about different woods and tools so we can have things to talk about. I want to know everything about you.” I shuddered. “Me too. So what about you? Do you make things other than the dolls?”

“I like working with different materials.”

“But you’re obviously talented with metal. Are you a welder?”

“I can do lots of things.” It wasn’t a direct answer, so I was about to repeat the question when he said, “I have to get going, but I’ve got a question for you.”

“Okay. Sure.”

“What do you call a grizzly with no fur?”

“Um … I don’t know.”

“A bare bear!”

He’d called from Kamloops, one of the major cities in the Interior, and about five hours from his last location. But the fact that he was in a more populated area wasn’t working to our advantage — there was a three-day rodeo and he called from somewhere in the middle of it. Billy sounded confident when he told me they were searching the crowd, but I could read anger in his clipped tone, his short sentences.

John called three times the next morning. The first thing he asked was where the dolls were and what I was doing with them. His voice was tight, so I quickly said, “I made a special shelf in my shop for them — that’s where I spend most of my time.” “Okay, that’s good.” But then he said, “Are you sure they’re safe there? What about sawdust? Or chemicals? Do you work with chemicals?”

I grasped at the first thing that came to mind. “It’s a locked display case, so they’re protected by glass.” John didn’t say anything, but I heard traffic. I said, “Would you like them back? I understand if you—”

“No. I have to go.”