The Acadia Killer

Chapter 24

The drive to Massachusetts had been long and dreary. The weather was unfavorable for a road trip, especially with the heavy rain I'd encountered in New Hampshire, but I was bound and determined to make this day as productive as possible. I needed desperately to get the answers – the truth – from David MacAfee about Michael Henry. I fully intended to ask him point blank questions with no sugarcoating. I needed answers and I needed them now.
Besides that, Krista Hall had yet to respond to my email from the night before, and I was starting to worry that I had done something wrong writing my article the way I had, or maybe she hadn't been a fan of the idea of a multi article story. Either way, I was sure once she did respond, she was going to have bad news for me. At this point, I was letting it roll off my back and telling myself that it wasn't worth it anyway, whether I believed that or not. The goal now was to get the truth and identify a murderer once and for all.
As I went through the motions of showing my identification, going through a security checkpoint, being screened about my intentions with the inmate, and then being sent to a barred room to wait on his entry, I had started out confident and quickly figured out I may have gotten in over my head.
While I waited, I could feel my nerves tightening up. I needed some water or some colder air conditioning. Anything to ward off the cold sweat that was beginning to drip down my back in anticipation of this interview. The apprehension was beginning to eat me alive as each second ticked by agonizingly slowly.
When I heard the door open, I stood to recognize the inmate I'd been waiting to see. David MacAfee looked like he'd been through hell and back multiple times. He was a scrawny man with not a lot of hair left. You could see the pain in his eyes – the pain you would recognize from someone who was being punished for something they didn't do. I spotted it right away, having experienced the same thing myself once. I knew what that looked like. I knew what it felt like. I knew from the moment I laid eyes on David MacAfee that he was an innocent man, and I intended to prove it.
"Who are you?" His voice was gruff, like years of pain had aged his vocal cords. "Why do you want to talk to me?"
I extended my hand to him, and he eyed me questioningly before shaking it gently.
"My name is Mackenzie Vega," I began, sitting back down across from him. "I'm a photographer foremost, but I've gotten roped into writing an article-"
"A reporter?" he groaned, beginning to stand back up. "No. We're done here. I've had enough of reporters, Miss Vega. You'll have to write your story by yourself."
I was watching my one chance walking away. I had to do something.
"Mr. MacAfee, I believe you're innocent," I called after him, stopping him in his tracks.
As he turned to look back at me, something changed in his body language. Suddenly, he wasn't so tough. His eyes softened and his expression, though rather glum, seemed to brighten in just the slightest noticeable way. He knew I knew.
"You do?" His words were more confusion than happiness, and it pained me to know that.
"I know about Michael Henry," I told him. "I know everything. I know you took the fall for what he did. But what I need to know is how to prove it. I need your help, David."
He raised an unsure brow, turning all the way back to face me again. "And you're going to write a story about my innocence?"
I shook my head. "Initially, that was what I was supposed to do, but an article doesn't matter if it doesn't get you out of here. I don't know if you get any news of the outside world in here, but there's a serial killer on the loose in Maine. I believe wholeheartedly that it's Michael Henry. I need your help to prove it."
He shook his head and furrowed his brows. "Michael Henry is in prison."
"He was," I corrected. "He got out on parole in July. All the signs point to him. His own son is convinced it's him. He's killed several innocent women already. I have to stop him before he kills again. Please help me find some answers."
David returned to where he'd sat across from me, folding his hands on the cold metal table between us and squinting as he stared deeply into my eyes like he was trying to read me.
"And you're telling me I'm the key to finding out all this shit?"
"If I can start by proving you didn't kill your wife, and that Michael Henry did, I can at least get him apprehended for this crime so he can't be out on the loose killing more people," I explained. "Best case scenario is that we prove your innocence and prove that he's the Acadia Killer."
He pursed his lips in thought, his eyes drifting away from me momentarily while he thought it over. "What do you need from me?"
"The entire story."
David looked like he was going to start telling me the story, but then paused again. "I'm pretty sure my attorney wouldn't want me doing this. How do I know you're not some rogue cop trying to trap me into confessing to something else so you can add on to my sentence?"
I shook my head with a groan and rested my forehead in my palm. "David, I truly, honestly don't want anything else to happen to you. I believe you've had a hard enough life without anyone else causing more trouble. I'm telling you the truth about who I am and why I'm here. I'm trying to catch a murderer. I need your help. Please help me catch this bastard. You're probably my only hope, David."
I knew in that moment that if my words didn't sink in to David, he was going to walk away and take the real story with him, leaving me to likely never know what truly happened that night. I wasn't above getting on my knees and begging him to talk to me at this rate. I needed his help more than words could have stressed in the moment. I only hoped he could see that.
David ran a shaky hand through what was left of his hair, the years of anguish suddenly much more evident in his eyes than moments before. I knew then that he believed me.
"Miss Vega, I don't know what I can tell you that I haven't already told the police and the district attorney's office," he began.
"But they didn't believe you, did they?" I said as more of a statement than a question. "They tricked you into a confession, didn't they, David? That detective manipulated you until you didn't have another choice."
He nodded, staring a hole through the metal table we were sitting at. "She told me they had all the evidence that I did it. DNA... fingerprints... you name it. She said if I didn't confess, my sentence would be much longer for making it harder on the police and the D.A. I was stupid enough to believe her," he explained. "I didn't know she was lying. They didn't have anything on me. But I didn't know any of that until after I'd agreed to the plea deal and then my public defender told me I'd agreed to a prison sentence for no reason. Maybe I would've been convicted by a jury. The husband is always guilty, right? I could understand if it went that way. But once I knew they had zero evidence against me for a trial... I realized I'd thrown my life away because a cop lied."
The pain in his voice and the anger in his eyes made me feel so much hurt for the man in front of me. To go through what he'd experienced, and for no damn good reason, just killed me inside.
"David, I'm so sorry."
He shook his head. "You know, I served my country honorably in the Air Force. Twenty years I served. Twenty goddamn years, Miss Vega. I was a good person. I loved my wife. She supported me no matter how many deployments I went out on. She supported me no matter how many times I reenlisted. She was a good woman, and I loved her so much. She was my dearest friend. And even though she cheated on me... with him... I know she didn't mean to. I know it was just the distance. I was discharging that month when she was killed. I was angry when I found out, of course. Who wouldn't be? But I knew it was the distance that was eating her up. She needed someone, and when I wasn't around, she found whatever she needed in Michael. I didn't know about it until the day before she was killed. That's why the detective said I was guilty – because I found out the day before. She confessed to me. But I didn't kill her. I didn't kill her! I loved my wife so much, Miss Vega. You have to believe me. I didn't kill her."
"I do believe you, David," I insisted, feeling like I was about to cry for this man's pain. "I do believe you. I know you didn't kill your wife. But I need to know why Michael Henry would. What prompted him to do that if he'd never killed before?"
David cleared his throat, his eyes glossy with regret. "We had a fight the night before she died. She told me who she was seeing. Michael was a family friend – a neighbor for several years. I remember he had a son. I can't recall his name. He was a sweet boy. He used to come over and rake our leaves when he was real young. I never believed something so good could come from such a shitty human being like Michael, but I suppose even Satan does something right on occasion. Anyway, that night – the night before she died – I confronted Michael and we had a fight in the driveway of his house. Some of the neighbors came out to see it. One called the cops who broke it up. Neither of us pressed charges, but the police had it on their report that we'd been fist fighting in the front yard over a woman. I guessed that's what sparked the whole thing where they started painting me as the bad guy. I don't know why Michael would kill her though. I don't know if something else may have happened between them that I didn't know about maybe. I just don't know."
"What's interesting to me, David, is you mentioned the police told you they had DNA evidence against you," I began.
"That's right."
"You and I both know that's a lie, but I'm curious if there actually was any DNA left behind. Surely, there wasn't, and because of that, they looked to the most likely suspect – the scorned husband. But the reason I say there probably wasn't DNA left behind is that in all of these murders in Maine, there's been no DNA or any identifying factors left behind at any of the scenes. It's like the guy is perfect at hiding who he is. He doesn't drop a single hair or anything. There's no skin cells under the victims' nails. It's pretty incredible how this guy gets away with it. I just wonder if that's how he got away with killing your wife, too."
"How were the others killed?" David asked.
"Strangled and stabbed."
"That's exactly how my wife was murdered," he said with shock on his face.
I nodded. "I know. It's Michael Henry's favorite way to kill, obviously. But what I don't understand is why. Strangulation and stabbing are both such personal ways to kill someone. Forgive me for saying this, but it makes some sense in your case. But it doesn't make sense in these other victims' cases. We can't connect any dots to say they're anything more than random hikers and vacationers in the wrong place at the wrong time. Why kill in such a personal way?"
"Michael Henry doesn't do anything impersonal."
My brows drew inward at his verbiage. "What do you mean by that?"
"He's a sociopath. Diagnosed and everything. Whatever his thought process is, it's not normal. He has his reasons, however bizarre and unfounded they may be."
"How do you know he's been diagnosed a sociopath?" I asked, folding my hands on the table.
"Let me go back to my cell and I'll find the letter for you."
"Letter?"
David nodded. "The bastard wrote me a letter a few years ago as if we were prison pen pals or something. He told me all about it, how a prison psychiatrist diagnosed him. He was angry about it. I still have the letter. It's yours if you want it."