Page 37 of The Catcher (High Peaks Murder, Mystery and Crime Thrillers #5)
N oah kicked wide the front door after getting no response to knocks.
Slivers of wood burst inward. “State Police! Joshua Anderson, make yourself known,” he barked, his heart pounding as he held his service weapon at the ready.
The light danced off the walls as he worked his way into the home.
He could hear something, but it was muffled.
He nodded to Callie, signaling her to clear the living room while he proceeded through the kitchen and into a study.
“Speak to me, Callie,” he called out as he scanned the room, his senses on high alert for any sign of danger.
“All clear,” Callie’s voice echoed from the living room, the tension palpable in her tone.
They worked their way upstairs, Noah leading the way while Callie watched his six, her weapon drawn and ready. “You hear that?” Noah asked, pausing on the staircase to listen. She nodded, her expression grim as the muffled voices they heard when they entered grew clearer. It sounded like teens.
At the top of the staircase, Noah glanced to his left at an open door leading into a bathroom. “Joshua Anderson! State Police,” he called out again. But there was no response.
Noah pushed open a door into a bedroom, flipping on a light switch to bring the room to life.
The main bedroom was neat, with no sign of anyone inside.
“Noah,” Callie called out from down the hall, drawing his attention.
He exited the room and went down the short hallway to a second bedroom where Callie stood.
Although the light was off, a projector played a movie on the wall. Teens laughed and jeered, their voices echoing in the dimly lit room. The footage looked like it had been filmed inside a high school washroom.
“Go on, Mischa. Slap her. Give her some!” one voice shouted, while another urged, “You want more of that bitch!?”
“Flush her head down the toilet,” came another cruel suggestion.
“Leave her alone!” a male voice suddenly interjected. The camera turned, and a light illuminated the face of Nicholas Wilson, who Tyler Ashford was holding back.
The camera turned again, revealing Pete Landry laughing and goading, “Go on, Hailey, give her a kicking. She’s lying. I never slept with that skank.”
Pete then turned to Colt Banning, sharing a sinister wink as they reveled in the torment. “Addison, hold her legs,” someone else commanded .
“She keeps moving,” another voice complained.
“Let me help,” Colt said, handing his cigarette to Pete before rushing into the stall and kicking Elizabeth in the back. He struck her so hard that her head bounced off the toilet. More laughter followed.
As they watched, Noah’s heart sank with a heavy dread, realizing the true horror of what he was witnessing. It was the systematic and brutal bullying of Elizabeth Anderson, captured on film and played out for their entertainment.
“Turn it off,” Noah said, his voice strained with anger and disgust. The room fell into an uneasy silence, the weight of the footage hanging heavy in his chest. He flipped on the light switch, and the room was bathed in a soft glow, revealing a teenager’s room — untouched — perhaps the way it had been two years ago.
In the soft glow of the room’s light, Noah’s eyes scanned the space, taking in the familiar surroundings of a teenager’s haven.
The neatly made single bed stood against one wall, adorned with a colorful quilt that hinted at a young girl’s taste.
Posters of bands and movies adorned the walls, capturing moments frozen in time and reflecting the music preferences of the room’s occupant.
He picked up a framed photo. It showed Elizabeth and Nicholas together, her arm slung around his shoulders. Both of them looked blissfully happy.
“He was her friend.”
“And she was his only friend,” Callie replied.
A vintage record player sat atop a small wooden table, its sleek design a nod to the past. It was surrounded by a collection of vinyl records showcasing a diverse range of genres.
The shelves lining the walls were filled with books, their spines worn from countless readings, hinting at intellectual curiosity.
On the desk, a laptop sat alongside a vintage typewriter and a stack of journals, each a repository of thoughts, dreams, and musings captured in ink. The desk was cluttered with trinkets and keepsakes, each holding its own story and memory.
Callie thumbed through one of the journals. Her head began to shake. “The bullying went on for months. She never told anyone,” she said, flipping the pages and reaching for another.
As she was reading, something on the wall caught his eye.
It reminded him of a vision board his daughter had created, full of cut-out pieces of magazines and art, all fragments of hopes and dreams. Except this wasn’t that.
These were all photos of Elizabeth and her father taken at locations around High Peaks.
“Callie,” he said.
She cast a glance over her shoulder. Noah pointed to each of the photos.
“Hiking through High Peaks Wilderness, standing at the top of Whiteface Summit, swimming at the high school, eating ice cream in front of the telephone box, attending camp at Lake Colby, visiting John Brown’s Farm, touring the Olympic Museum, and…
” As Noah’s gaze fell upon the last photo, it all began to make sense.
Noah’s gaze drifted to a poster on the wall, the typewriter on the table, and a worn-out copy of The Catcher in the Rye by J.D.
Salinger on her bed. Noah picked up the book and noted that various pages had been tabbed in five chapters.
He flipped it open and noticed the underlined text.
He lifted his eyes and glanced at the front cover, then the final photo of Elizabeth and her father on the wall.
“Of course. Of course! They’ve got the wrong location,” he said, hurrying out of the room and placing a call to McKenzie.