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You Can Save Me by R.L. Merrill
Carnival of Mysteries Series
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“Today marks the fortieth anniversary of the disappearance of folk rock singer Dane Donovan, who went missing from a rest stop off of I-5 in Kern County. Kern County Sheriff Wade Nelson had this to say…”
“Mr. Donovan’s disappearance, sadly, remains unsolved. Detectives continue to monitor the tip line and are in communication with Mr. Donovan’s mother. There have been no new leads, but we hope that by presenting the facts of the case to the media, along with the last-known photograph of the young singer and an age-progressed image, someone may come forward. There is a reward of one hundred thousand dollars, offered by Mrs. Donovan, for any solid information that leads law enforcement to finding her son.”
“Dane Donovan was a member of the Laurel Canyon folk rock music community. Growing up, he lived with his mother, artist Diane Donovan, in a bungalow not far from the homes of famous folk singers like Tess Miller, Cass Elliot, Joni Mitchell, members of Crosby, Stills, and Nash, and more. He was surrounded by the who’s who of the music business. Donovan spent his teens learning the art of songwriting from Tess Miller and others in the scene, making his solo performance debut in 1970, but protests at college campuses over the Vietnam War overshadowed his tour. Donovan eventually joined Tess Miller’s band, and performed as an opener for artists like Crosby, Stills, and Nash, and Jackson Browne. He never quite reached the level of stardom as his fellow Laurel Canyon neighbors, but he contributed several hit songs to the soundtrack of that era.
“Donovan was traveling in a van with members of Miller’s band and crew, on their way back to LA after a series of shows in the Bay Area, when they stopped to use the facilities at the rest area. He never returned to the van. Authorities searched the area for weeks, but Donovan seemed to vanish into thin air. He was twenty-seven years old.
“If you have any information about Dane Donovan’s disappearance, please contact the Kern County Sheriff’s Department.”
“Guess what we’ll be doing for the next week,” Detective Gene Ochoa, my best friend in the world, groused over his third beer as he sneered at the TV over the bar. I was glad our chaperone, twice-divorced former Marine turned Detective Denny Hamilton, had driven him over, otherwise it would be a fight for his keys.
“Answering phones like we’re the damned Jerry Lewis Telethon volunteers,” said Denny. He was the only detective who was older than me. He was mere months away from hitting fifty, which was the magic number for our pension. I figured him for a lifer though. He’d been resisting all calls to retire. “What the fuck else am I going to do?” he’d say. “Besides, who’s gonna babysit your asses? I can still outshoot all of you and my case closure rate is second only to Junior’s.”
Dax Brown, Gene Ochoa, and Denny Hamilton were my closest friends. Hearing them talk, one might think they were jaded, grumpy cops, but they were some of the best law enforcement officers working today. We all had our roles to play: I was the go-getter, the doggedly stubborn and determined detective who never gave up. Gene was the class clown, but he paid attention to detail and was a great spokesperson for the sheriff’s department. We all anticipated that he was next in line to be elected to the big seat.
Dax was the youngest, eager, always willing to learn and put in the extra work, and, naturally, a frequent victim of harassment from the rest of us. Denny was the most knowledgeable and experienced cop among us. After serving eight years in the Marines, he’d been a cop for twenty-three years, and he still showed up with his full attention, endless empathy, and wisdom that came with all the cases he’d worked over the years.
Denny was also the big brother I’d never had, and as much as I wanted him to be happy, I wasn’t looking forward to the day when I’d be doing this job without him.
“He’s gotta be dead, don’t you think?” Jasmine, our favorite bartender, asked me in a low voice. “He’d be, what, sixty-seven by now?”
“Yep.” I’d been nursing a dark fruit cider for the last hour, and the combination of the tangy aftertaste and the news story was starting to sour my stomach.
“If he is alive, you’d think somebody would have reported it,” Gene said. “A hundred grand is a lot of cash.”
“If he’s not,” I said, “his poor mother deserves to put him to rest before she goes. She’s in her late eighties now. Still active, but slowing down.”
“How was she today?” Gene asked with a gentle voice. The guys knew me better than anyone, and knew my history with this case and Mrs. Donovan.
“Arthritis is bothering her. She’s got an assistant with her all the time now, nice woman named Barbara.” I blew out a breath. “I didn’t tell her about this morning, of course. I hope the message on the can and the similarities to Dane’s case don’t make it into the news.” I downed the rest of my cider and looked to Dax. Gene had joined him after I left and they worked the scene together. I hoped they had some information for me.
“Similarities.” Gene exhaled through his nose and kept his voice low. There were a few patrons at the tables along the far wall, but only one other guy up at the bar. Jasmine was down at the other end taking care of him. “Clothes were folded, same as your vic’s in seventy-nine, and this kid had a similar appearance. Long hair, light brown or dark blond. But this boy was strangled and had cuts to femoral arteries leading to catastrophic blood loss. Since we have no body for the Donovan case,” Gene gave me a sympathetic look, “we don’t know his cause of death or the condition he was in, so it’s difficult to make further connections. There were a few shoe prints around the body, but so many people have walked around there, who knows?”
“The likelihood is that we’re not dealing with the same killer,” Dax said. “It’s been forty years, the suspect would be at least in his sixties, and how many men nearing seventy are physically capable of overpowering a much younger man? Unless he had a gun or an accomplice.”
“You’d be surprised, actually,” Denny said. “Both Donovan and this vic had slight builds.”
“And why would he have stopped all these years?” Dax asked.
Gene shrugged. “The Golden State Killer was married, had a niece living with him at one point, and during that time he went dormant for years. Could be a lot of things.”
“Could have been locked up,” Denny said. “If he survived forty years locked up, he’s probably in good physical shape.”
“So we check recent parolees,” I said. “We go back over the list of suspects. But we also look at the fact this crime could be unrelated.”
The guys all nodded and grumbled as they went back to their drinks.
Jasmine came over to check on us. “Can I get you anything else?”
“I’ll take a Diet Coke, thanks.” It had been a long day of driving, and my brain was still working overtime.
“Let’s consider one other possibility,” Dax said. “Walt… what if he’s the killer? What if he went into hiding, faked his death, and now he’s back?”
I shook my head. “There’s nothing in his background that even hints at that sort of behavior. I’ve interviewed everyone who ever knew him, and I didn’t find anything to indicate he might have had violent tendencies. I’m not disagreeing that he could have faked his death and walked away, but how does anyone stay gone so long? And how would he have stayed hidden all these years?”
“What about the guys in the truck?” Dax asked. “They called it in. The one guy touched our vic to see if he was really dead. I got their info from CHP. Think I should get a DNA sample from the guy?”
“Stranger things have happened,” I said. “But I don’t think they would have called and stuck around for CHP to get there if they did it. Don’t rule it out, but doesn’t sound likely to me.”
Gene pulled out his phone. “I’ve got the report here. Truck belongs to a Ryan Wells, twenty-nine years old, former singer of metal band Backdrop Silhouette. Did time for DUI, reckless driving with bodily injury. Released from parole in January of this year. The other guys were Kallos Alexandrou—apparently he and Wells just got married—and the third guy didn’t have ID, said his wallet was stolen at work. He and Kallos worked at a carnival together outside of Vegas? Said his name was Dee Dee Miller. Worth keeping an eye on them.”
That name piqued my interest. Dee Dee, could be initials? And Miller… Like Tess Miller? A relative? Seemed too coincidental.
“How in the hell does a rock star connect with a carny?” Denny asked. “None of these guys were even born when Donovan disappeared, but there’s been enough bullshit podcasts about this kind of fuckery. Jesus, such a peculiar case. It’s like Donovan vanished into thin air.”
Unless you believed my father, which no one did.
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About the Author:
R.L. Merrill loves creating compelling stories that will stay with readers long after. Ro writes inclusive contemporary romance, paranormal, and horror-inspired music reviews. A mom, wife, daughter, former educator, and advocate for social and reproductive justice, you can currently find cruising in her Bronco with Great Dane pup Velma, being terrorized by feline twins Dracula and Frankenstein, or headbanging at a rock show near her home in the San Francisco Bay Area! Stay Tuned for more…
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