Scar House

When I was a kid, I thought Scar House was a colossal place for two people to live. In my young mind, it was not only the grandest house in Cape Argo but also in Cedar Ridge County. Scar House was a testament to old American luxury. The hallway was spacious and welcomed visitors with warm, ambient lighting and sleek, polished floors. Each of the four bedrooms was a sanctuary of comfort, featuring large windows that bathed the room in natural light and bespoke wardrobes that added to the bygone opulent American luxury.

The heart of Scar House was undoubtedly my Dad’s library. It was a haven for any book lover, with towering, meticulously crafted shelves housing a world of books on Ancient Egypt, Greece, and Rome, as well as philosophy, physics, and psychology. My Dad’s study was a quiet, sophisticated space with an antique writing desk and no state-of-the-art technology in sight. He found it the perfect setting for his creative ways to flourish.

Scar House boasted two bathrooms (one for me and one for Dad), each with a deep soaking tub and fine marble finishes. The house also had a basement, which had been left empty long before I was born. As a teenager, I had asked Dad on many occasions to transform the basement into some kind of games room or movie den. But he adamantly refused each time, giving no formal reasoning for his decision. On my final attempt to persuade him, he warned me that he would lock the basement and throw away the key so I could never ask him the same mundane question again.

As I stand before Scar House, the mirage of my youth has clearly faded. It’s just a regular, all-American house built towards the end of the 1920s. Well, I’m probably doing my old house a disservice by saying that. It’s slightly larger and grander than most houses in Cape Argo, not by much compared to the newer, modern houses that have been built over the last fifty years or so. But it is a special house, at least for me, and I admit I’m biased. It’s the house where my Dad lived until he passed away. It was also the house that shaped me into the man I am today.

This is the first time I’ve been back to Scar House since Dad’s funeral six months ago. Dad passed away after two years battling prostate cancer. Towards the end of his life, I didn’t recognise the eminent and fiercely proud Professor of Classics and Ancient History and Culture, Walter Grant. All that was left was a husk of a man who was embarrassed by his illness and wanted nothing more than to die. But in several teary rages over the phone and in person, Dad confessed that he was too much of a coward to end his own life. Behind his feeble eyes, I knew he was asking for help to end it all. But like father, like son, I too was a coward who couldn’t bring myself to help my Dad sever the mortal coil that caused him so much pain.

My heart skipped a beat as the door to Scar House opened. I had hoped to see my Dad emerge in his usual attire: a white shirt, colourful cardigan, brown slacks, and a pipe in hand. “Is this the FBI’s high-flying Criminal Profiler I see before me?” he would often quip. “Does the Behavioural Analysis Unit forbid their workhorses from phoning home once in a while?”

“I could say the same for the parents of high-flying Criminal Profilers,” I often retorted. “The phone works both ways, you know, Dad.” At that point, sensing he was as much in the wrong as I was, he would turn on his heels and beckon me inside my childhood home.

But it wasn’t my Dad who stood on the porch (being six months dead was mainly the problem); it was Mallory Knox of Fortworth and Rush, an estate sale company I had hired to clear Scar House of its contents and put it on the market. After Dad’s death, I had taken all the sentimental items I needed (which only amounted to three boxes), and I instructed Mallory to ensure the rest of Dad’s belongings went to charity. The books in Dad’s library had been distributed among a few universities and museums across several states. Some of the books were quite rare. Dad was proud of my achievements, but he did have one hang-up: my lack of interest in reading. Books just didn’t do it for me. I preferred films and TV shows.

“Andy,” Mallory greeted me, her curly blond locks, shocking pink lipstick, and tight-fitting grey pantsuit standing out. “I didn’t hear your car.”

“I parked down the street,” I said. “One last walk down memory lane, if you will.”

Mallory nodded in sympathy. “Is Mark not with you?”

“Work.” My husband Mark was a paediatric cardio-thoracic surgeon at the Wishing Star Charity Hospital in Washington.

“He’s a good one, that man of yours,” Mallory said. “Hold on to him.”

“I do try, but those pesky kids keep prying him away.” I winced at my joke; it was in poor taste, and Mallory humoured me by smiling weakly. “So I guess this is it then. One last look around the place, sign some papers, and off into the sunset I go.”

“Considerably richer, too,” Mallory teased.

“Yeah, there’s that too.” Reaping financial gains from my Dad’s death made me uncomfortable. It was a lot of money I inherited from the sale of the house and some of his more valuable belongings.

“I do have a surprise for you, Andy.”

“You didn’t find a dead body in the basement, did you?”

“No, should I have?” she replied.

“I’m joking, Mallory,” I said as I made my way up the ten stone steps to the porch. “Dad hated the basement with a passion. I pestered him for years to convert it.”

“That definitely would have added more value to the house,” Mallory’s voice brightened at the thought of earning more commission on Dad’s house. “Crying shame he didn’t renovate. He must have had his reasons.”

“Dad always had his reasons,” I said. “He just never indulged me in them. So, what’s this surprise you’ve got for me?”

“One of the removal men, Ronnie, took a keen interest in Professor Grant’s writing desk,” Mallory explained eagerly. “He’s an amateur carpenter and loves historical furniture, especially puzzle desks.”

“Puzzle desk?” I said, confused. “Dad’s writing desk was just an old-fashioned writing desk. I think he bought it from an antique shop in Paris when he was a student and shipped it back to the States. He never told me it was a… puzzle desk.”

Mallory held up her hands in mock surrender. “I’m only telling you what Ronnie said.”

“What’s this surprise you’ve got for me?”

“A laptop.”

“A laptop?” I said, less than convinced. “Dad hated technology. He was the definition of a technophobe, Mallory. You knew him.”

“Yeah, Professor Grant sure hated the modern age,” Mallory conceded. “I think he said it was the scourge of modern living and the downfall of man. Something along those lines, anyway.”

“Sounds like Dad.” I pondered Mallory’s words for a while as I stood on Scar House’s porch. “How did Ronnie know Dad’s writing desk was one of these puzzle desks?”

“He’s seen them in books and one in a museum, I think,” Mallory shrugged. “As he and the other removal guy were moving the desk, he decided to look underneath the desk. He fiddled with the drawers and the lip of the desk for a few moments. I’m not quite sure about the finer details, if I’m honest. All I can say is that you’re now in possession of Professor Grant’s laptop.”

“How old is it?”

“Oh, it’s an old boy, alright. None of these modern slim things you get.”

“Does it even work?”

“It does. It’s password-protected, though.”

“I suppose I’ll have one last look around, sign the papers, and then ride off into the sunset with my Dad’s old laptop.”

“Don’t forget the money, Andy.”

“Yeah, how could I forget the money.”

It’s been nearly four months since Mallory Knox handed me Dad’s old laptop, and she was right about one thing: It definitely wasn’t a modern, slim laptop like the ones Mark and I use. Dad’s was a clunky and chunky 1999 Raytheon Chameleon with an Intel Pentium II processor and 128MB of RAM, running an early version of Windows 2000.

The laptop had become a bit of an enigma for me. Its password-protected puzzle was something I just couldn’t crack. I tried all combinations: birthdays, family names, pet names, and important historical events and their dates that Dad had been interested in. I tried an amalgamation of all of them, and nothing worked. The worst of my problems is that the laptop now taunted me by saying I had one last chance to type in the correct password. If I didn’t, I would be locked out until the administrator entered a special key code. And with Dad being the administrator and dead, I was screwed either way. I got the feeling Dad really didn’t want anyone looking at his laptop. I still couldn’t fathom why he had hidden the laptop in his writing desk in the first place.

“The more you look at it,” Mark said as he read one of his many weekly medical journals, “the more the damn thing will continue to taunt you. Can’t you put it somewhere else? It’s making the room look untidy. Maybe put it in a box in the wardrobe, or better yet, take it to a tech museum or something.”

“I won’t let it beat me,” I snapped. “And I’m not taking it to a museum either, Mark. It’s not just any old laptop. It’s my Dad’s.”

“The old beast is driving you mad, Andy,” Mark laid the medical journal flat in his lap. “You look haggard and worn out.”

“Keep the compliments flowing, darling,” I said sarcastically. But Mark was right. The desire to unlock my Dad’s laptop had become almost an obsession. “Yeah, you’re right. I need to take a break from it.”

“You work for the FBI. I’m surprised you haven’t got one of your tech nerds to break it open for you.”

“That would be breaking a lot of protocols,” I said. “Using government assets to fulfill a personal desire is a sackable offence.”

“Calm down, Mr. Goody-Two-Shoes. I was only trying to help. Surely there’s someone in the technical department who could help you. Someone… I don’t know… that might owe you a favour.”

“If you’re referring to Emilio,” I said, “Yes, he still works there.”

“Then flutter your eyelashes at him and get him to open that damn laptop, Andy.”

“You are talking about my ex, Mark.”

“I’m not saying have sex with him. Just be overly nice to him and get him to open the laptop.” Mark picked up his medical journal and continued to read. “If he can’t do it, I’m throwing the monstrosity in the bin.”

Emilio’s parting remark echoed in my ears as I examined the individually numbered folders on my dad’s laptop. “The apple didn’t fall far from the tree, did it? Your dad definitely had an unhealthy obsession with serial killers…”

I wanted to say that my Dad had never shown any interest in serial killers. He never inquired about my line of work nor what I did. He upheld a distinct separation between work life and home life. Whether we spoke on the phone, I visited him at home, or he came to Washington to see me and Mark, I was his son, not an FBI Criminal Profiler. He absolutely had no fascination with serial killers.

Ignoring Emilio’s quip, I thanked him for his help and headed straight home. I opened a bottle of white wine, sat at the kitchen table with a wine glass in hand, and began delving into Dad’s laptop.

The laptop contained twelve individually marked folders. As I navigated through them, I discovered in-depth journal entries, numerous grainy photos, and assorted news clippings.

Folder #1 contained information about Elaine Bright.

Folder #2 Franz Platz.

Folder #3 Sharon Lee.

All three were would-be actors attempting to make their mark in Hollywood in 1981. Each was found strangled to death in their apartments. The murders remained unresolved, and the press had dubbed the killer ‘The Hollywood Strangler.’

Folder #4 contained information about Carrie Womack.

Folder #5 David Edgars.

Folder #6 Priscilla Jackson.

Folder #7 Travis Cooper.

Folder #8 Elizabeth Bell.

These five were prostitutes working around the North Beach and Broadway areas of San Francisco from 1984 to 1986. Each was discovered in an alleyway, their throats slit and bodies severely mutilated. Again the killer was never apprehended, the media named them ‘The Frisco Freak.’

Folder #9 contained information about Clare McDonna.

Folder #10 William Wilson.

Folder #11 Stephanie Ruberwitz.

This trio were medical students residing in Pittsburgh’s Strip District in 1987. Found in their beds, hands and feet bound with barbed wire, they had died from gunshot wounds to both eyes. The killer once more eluded police capture, earning the moniker ‘Pittsburgh Pete’ from the media.

Folded #12 contained information about Mary-Anne Shell.

That folder made my world crumble. I felt the air leave my lungs, my heart stopped beating for a few moments. The walls of the kitchen closed in on me as the weight of everything I had ever known came crashing down upon me. I looked at the photo of a beaming sixteen-year-old high school cheerleader, Mary-Anne Shell. But my mind couldn’t comprehend that name. The exact same photo of the girl I was looking at stood pride of place in a golden photo frame on my bookcase. But I knew that girl as my mother, Ellen Grant, not Mary-Anne Shell.

There wasn’t much to read in Folder #12 compared to the rest of the folders. Just the one photo and several press clippings. They revealed that Mary-Anne Shell lived in Waxburg, Cedar Ridge County (sixty miles east of Cape Argo) with her mom, dad, and six siblings. Mary-Anne was the oldest of them all and also the only girl. She disappeared on June 16, 1988, as she walked home from school. Mary-Anne’s body was found in woodland near her home almost two years later, on July 9, 1990. She had died from an abdominal wound. A baby had been torn from her stomach. My body shuddered as I read the date again. And again. That was my birthday. I was born on July 9, 1990.

My hand trembled with shock as I placed the wine glass on the table. My head ached with trauma at what I had just read. My Dad, Professor Walter Grant, the man whom I adored, the man who had raised me as a single parent, a man who embraced my homosexuality, a man who encouraged me to be a criminal profiler yet wouldn’t discuss any part of my job, was a monster. He was the Hollywood Strangler, the Frisco Freak, and Pittsburgh Pete. And, crucially and cruelly, he kidnapped my mom, kept her prisoner (more than likely in the basement that I begged him to renovate for me), then raped her, and finally tore me from her womb when I was ready to be born.

“Hello lover boy! Mark proclaimed as returned from his shift at the hospital. “I’m home.”

Before I even realised it I selected all twelve folders and deleted them from the desktop. I then deleted them from the recycle bin. They were gone forever. “Emilio cracked the old bitch open then.”

“Yeah, he did,” I replied as Mark kissed me on the lips. 

“Did the great Professor Walter Grant have any dirty little secrets then?”

I closed the laptop lid. “No, there’s nothing on it.”

“It clean?”

“Pristine.” I forced a smile.

“You okay? You look like you’re going to hurl.”

“I’m fine.”

Mark poured himself a glass of wine. “The question is why would your dad leave an old blank laptop in a secret compartment his writing desk.”

“I guess Dad’s secrets died with him.” I looked at the laptop intently. “It’s probably better that way.”

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