The uniform drove, the other cars followed.
They stopped in the clearing and climbed from the cruiser. Hank told Jake and Annie they should stand back from the immediate area, and in a few minutes, the clearing was buzzing. One cop was stretching yellow crime scene tape, others were milling around, one taking pictures, one on the phone, and Hank bending over the partially uncovered corpse.
Richmond Hill didn’t have a large robbery/homicide division. When Hank joined the force here, there hadn’t been a murder for years, and few since. His training and experience took over now.
Officer Spiegle was there. He bent curiously over the grave.
“Don’t touch anything,” Hank warned. “The M.E. is on his way. Get back over there.” He looked up at the cop. “Spiegle, make yourself useful. Go out to the road there and make sure she finds us all right.”
“Who?”
“The M.E.,” Hank said. “Who else?”
Spiegle wandered away. It sounded like an easy task.
Hank watched him and shook his head.
Jake and Annie were sitting down, leaning against a tree. Annie followed Jake as he got up and approached Spiegle. He held out his hand. “Hi, Yappy,” he said.
Jake knew Officer Spiegle. A little bit. He didn’t think much of him, but he liked to keep a cordial relationship with everybody. Especially cops.
Yappy shook Jake’s hand limply. “Hey Jake,” he said.
“I want to ask you a little bit about that car you chased the other day. The one that drove into the bushes.”
“Yeah.”
“The guy that was driving it. I know you reported he was fifty or sixty.”
“Yeah.”
“Can you tell me anything else about him?”
Spiegle looked up at the treetops, and then back. “Maybe he was drunk,” he said.
“Drunk? How do you know?”
“Don’t know really, I just think he was. He looked like a bum too. Had on this old overcoat. He ran fast though. I wasn’t that close and he was gone before I had a chance to catch him.”
Jake squinted at Yappy, and asked thoughtfully, “Do you think he was just out for a joyride?”
“Yeah, probably. Anyway, it wasn’t his car.” Yappy looked over toward Hank. “I gotta go,” he said.
“Thanks Yappy. You’ve been a big help.”
Spiegle waved it off. “Don’t mention it.” He walked toward the road.
Jake looked at Annie. “I lied,” he said.
Annie cocked her head at him.
“He was no help at all.”
Friday, August 12th, 1:33 PM
THE SUNLIGHT seeped through cracks between the boards, casting long strips of white, diagonally across the heavy plank floor of the vast storage area. The air inside the barn was warm, but not uncomfortable, as the tin-covered roof high above the hayloft deflected most of the heat. An old tractor, unused for years, sat decaying beside the large double doors. Other forgotten farm implements were scattered about.
Jenny had worked at the thick leather collar until her neck was sore and raw. The chain holding her allowed a few feet of freedom, and she had searched as far as she could reach for something sharp, anything at all that might cut into the leather band. She had found nothing.
She picked away at the peanut butter sandwich Jeremy had left her that morning. A half-eaten apple lay on the plate. She didn’t feel much like eating.
She had slept little the night before, and any attempts to sleep now were useless, though she had tried.
She used the pail he had left her for a toilet. There was no tissue. She had to use straw. She felt dirty.
He had left her with a good supply of drinking water. There were several bottles of spring water in a small cardboard box. Removing her tee shirt and bra, she emptied one at an attempt to wash, dumping it over her head. She dried herself on the tattered horse blanket, and dressed again.
He had been to see her that morning, and said he couldn’t stay long. He had to get to work. She didn’t care. She didn’t want him to stay. Or did she? Maybe a bit. She was lonely.
She touched her right eye. The swelling around it seemed to have gone, and the pain from the beating she had received the day before had subsided.
Her hair felt like the straw surrounding her. She wanted a comb. She wanted a toothbrush. She wanted to see her mother again.
Thoughts of her mother made her wonder. Surely, they would be looking for her. She was thankful at least she had been able to contact her. She wondered whether the call could be traced. Probably not. It was too short.
In a fit of desperation, she tugged violently at the chain holding her to the post. The sudden frenzy caused her face to contort, and she grit her teeth. Emitting a low throaty scream, she thrashed the chain back and forth, up and down. It rattled and sang, as if mocking her. Then she collapsed on the straw, the dust settling around her.
Chained up like a mad dog. She had no tears left.
Friday, August 12th, 2:11 PM
THERE WAS MORE traffic on County Road 12 than it had seen in a month. Channel 7 Action News had arrived at the scene, no doubt picking up the report on their police scanner. It was the biggest news in a decade and they wanted some of it. Other news stations and local newspapers were represented as well. Reporters and camera operators were busy milling around outside the taped off area, cameras humming, trying to shove microphones in faces.
Hank made a brief statement and informed them there would be a press conference later. The cameras kept humming. The reporters kept milling.
The M.E. was there as well. The soil was painstakingly swept from around the body, which was then hoisted from the hole, and onto a gurney. A bloody blanket was found, and carefully removed from the grave.
Hank peered at the corpse. The face was a mess. What appeared to be a bullet hole was visible just below the nose. He found a wallet in the back pocket of the victim. Flipping it open, he dug through the papers inside.
“Chad Bronson,” he read. By the picture of Bronson he had seen, even by what was left of his face, he could tell clearly this was indeed Bronson.
He flipped the wallet closed, and then bagged and tagged it, slipping it into his pocket. With the big mouths around here, he knew enough to keep the information private until Bronson’s mother could be told, and the M.E. could make a positive identification. He didn’t want her to have to hear about this on the news.
Bronson’s body was covered with a snow-white sheet, and placed into the waiting ambulance. The ambulance drove away, red lights flashing.
Hank walked over to where Jake and Annie were watching. A camera followed him. He turned and glared, and the camera operator went to bother somebody else.
He turned back to Jake and Annie. “It’s Bronson,” he said quietly. “Shot through the head.”
Hank turned again, annoyed, as a brave reporter shoved a microphone at him.
“No more comment right now.” He frowned and turned back. “I’m done here. Forensics can finish up. Meanwhile, let’s go somewhere where we can talk without being bothered by reporters.”
He beckoned to a uniform officer. “Charlie, let’s go.”
They walked out to the road.
“I’ll be there in a minute,” he said to the uniform.
The cop leaned against his vehicle and lit up a smoke, while Jake, Annie, and Hank went and stood behind Jake’s car.
Annie spoke. “So now there’s more than just Jenny and Bronson involved here. Somebody killed Bronson, and now we have a murderer out there somewhere, and Jenny is still missing.”
“It seems doubtful if Bronson had anything to do with Jenny’s disappearance,” Hank said.
Jake added, “Unless Bronson stashed her somewhere first, and then somebody killed him.”
“Maybe, but I can’t see that happening,” Annie said. “It seems more like somebody killed Bronson, and then grabbed Jenny.”
“I think you’re probably right, Annie,” Hank said.
“Or... what about a kidnapping?” Jake suggested. “Perhaps Bronson had a partner, and they kidnapped Jenny for ransom. Then something went wrong. There was an argument. Bronson’s partner killed him, then held on to Jenny. Perhaps Bronson was the brains behind it, and now he’s dead, the partner doesn’t know what to do with Jenny.”
Annie frowned. “It seems likely to me if Bronson had a partner who was cold-blooded enough to kill him, then why wouldn’t he just kill Jenny as well? Instead of holding on to her?”
“I’m no expert,” Hank said, “but it looks like Bronson has been dead about a week. So yeah, Annie, I think you’re right. If it was a kidnapping for ransom gone wrong, that means the partner has been holding Jenny for a week. That seems doubtful.”
Annie said. “Maybe the original intent was for our killer to grab Jenny, Bronson was just in the way, and got himself killed.”
Jake looked thoughtful, and then spoke slowly. “So that brings us back to where we started. What’s the kidnapper’s motive?”
“A sex slave?” Hank said.
“Let’s hope not,” Annie said.
Friday, August 12th, 2:48 PM
JEREMY WAS taking a break. He had been hard at work, stacking stuff up, restocking, running around doing all the crap his boss had demanded, and now it was break time.
He sat back and propped his stubby legs up on the table in front of him. He munched slowly on his peanut butter and tomato sandwich, and looked at the tiny television, which was mounted on the wall in front of him.
He thought about how much he hated his job.
He thought about that old woman he had had to punish that morning.
He thought about how boring TV was during the day.
A reporter came on the television. Jeremy sat up straight. He recognized the spot where the reporter was standing. He opened his mouth and stared, his sandwich falling to the table.
“A body has just been discovered buried in a wooded area off of County Road 12.
“The victim hasn’t been identified yet, but it appears to be the body of a man, possibly in his early twenties.
“I spoke to the detective in charge briefly, but he declined to comment.
“We will bring you breaking news as it happens. In an exclusive report, I’m Lisa Krunk, live for Channel 7 Action News.”
Jeremy’s mind was buzzing at a thousand miles an hour, his mouth still hanging open. Abruptly, he leaned back again and relaxed. He put his feet back up on the table and nibbled at his sandwich.
That’s ok, he thought. They don’t know who did it. They will never know. How could they know?
He looked at his watch. Break’s over. He packed up the rest of his snack in a brown paper bag, put the bag in a small locker by the wall, yawned, and trotted back out to his boring job.
On the way from the break room, his boss, Mr. MacKay, stopped him. “Jeremy, you have blood on your shirt.” He pointed and frowned.
Jeremy looked down at his shirt. There was a patch of blood on one side. Oops. He should have been more cautious. Now what could he do? Don’t panic! Just don’t panic!
The boss continued, “I told you to be more careful around the meat. You know the packages leak sometimes. Now go and change your shirt.”
Jeremy looked meek. “Sorry, Mr. MacKay,” he said, and then turned and smiled.
He went and changed his shirt.
Chapter 16
Friday, August 12th, 3:00 PM
ANNIE KNEW she would have to fill out a police report, detailing how she had found the body, and the events leading up to it.
She looked at her watch. Matty would be coming home soon. She didn’t have time to get to the precinct, fill out the report, and get home before Matty arrived.
She had instructed him in the past, when he got home, if nobody was there, he should go next door to the Pascuals. Her friend Chrissy was almost always there this time of day, but she wanted to be sure.
She dialed Chrissy’s number, and explained she would be late, and could she please cover for her?
“No problem,” Chrissy said cheerfully. “I’ll watch for him.”
Annie thanked her and hung up.
She looked towards the woods. They were still busy there. It may be a while longer.
She climbed into her car, steering carefully around a cruiser protruding greedily into the roadway. She drove towards town, heading for the precinct.
Friday, August 12th, 3:10 PM
JAKE PARKED his Firebird in a vacant slot adjoining the apartment complex on Canderline Street.
Hank looked at Jake from the passenger’s seat. “This is the worst part of the job,” he said. “Informing the victim’s family their loved one is dead.”
Jake nodded. “ I don’t envy you.”
Hank climbed wearily from the vehicle. “Well, let’s get it over with.”
They took the elevator to the third floor and stopped in front of 3B. The door opened a crack at Hank’s knock. Mrs. Bronson recognized them as she peeked around the chain. The door closed, a rattle, and the door swung back. She was wearing the same faded housecoat. She pulled the belt tighter and ogled them.
“Yeah?”
“Mrs. Bronson, I’m Detective...”
“Yeah, I remember you.”
“May we come in a moment, ma’am?”
She sniffed. “I’m not a ma’am.” She said the last word with a note of distaste. “But come in. Watch the floor. Don’t trip over the rug.”
Hank avoided the bulging rug as he stepped inside. Jake followed him.
“Well, what is it this time? I told you, I don’t know where Chad is at.”
“May we sit down, Mrs. Bronson?”
She frowned, and turned and walked into the small kitchen beside the hallway, and sat at the table. Jake saw a plate with an unfinished meal on it. It appeared to be eggs or something. A cigarette butt protruded from a piece of toast, with ashes decorating the rest of the plate. She pushed it aside and propped her elbows on the table, staring at them.
Jake pulled a chair back and sat down carefully. The air smelled of something stale. Maybe rotting food as well. He tried to avoid the odor as he watched Hank sit and pull his chair into the table.
She lit a cigarette and blew smoke at them. “Did you find Chad?”
Hank looked at her. “Mrs. Bronson,” he began, and hesitated, covering her hand with his before continuing, “I’m sorry I have to inform you, your son has been killed.”
There it was. The thing he hated doing so much. He waited for her reaction. It was always the same.
She looked at him in disbelief. “Are you sure?” she asked.
“Yes, Mrs. Bronson. We’re sure.”
She continued to stare at him. Finally, the reality hit her. Her eyes moistened and a tear rolled free. She jammed the unfinished cigarette into the toast.
“How?”
“I’m sorry Mrs. Bronson, but it appears to be homicide.”
She cocked her head at him. “What’s that?” she asked.
“He was murdered, Mrs. Bronson.”
Again, she was silent, and only stared, unseeing, and vacant. Hank watched as the second revelation finally hit her.
He spoke again, “I’m sorry, Mrs. Bronson.” His voice was low, soft, and sympathetic.
“Who done it?” she whispered, hoarsely.
“We don’t know yet, but we’re doing everything we can to find out.”
She was crying freely now. “Can I see him? He’s my only boy,” she sobbed, as she pulled a well-worn tissue from the pocket of her housecoat.
“Yes, you can. We need you to identify the... him, just for the record.”
“Ok,” she managed.
Hank leaned back and looked at Jake. Jake was looking at the floor, and then the walls, and then around the room. His eyes were moist and didn’t appear to be focusing.
They made arrangements for an officer to pick her up later that day, and take her to the morgue to identify her son’s body.
As they were about to leave, Hank said, “We’ll let you know as soon as we find out anything, Mrs. Bronson.”
She thanked them as she let them out.
As Jake pulled the car onto the street, Hank looked over. “Are you getting a cold?” he asked. “I thought I heard you sniffing in there.”
Jake laughed. “Must be contagious. I think I heard you sniffing too.”
Friday, August 12th, 3:25 PM
BASIL JOHNSON trudged up the two flights of stairs to where his apartment was located. A small brown terrier scampered around his feet, up one step, and then back, as if trying to hurry his master up. His nose was on the floor, constantly sniffing, and he yipped a small dog yip, tugging and testing the length of the chain.
Basil had been for a long walk that morning. It was a beautiful day, so later, he sat in the park for quite some time, munching a small lunch he had brought with him. He had watched the kids try to injure themselves on those infernal things they climbed around on. Oh, to be a kid again. He fed some pigeons from his lunch, scooped up dog poo, and had a wonderful time.
But he was tired now. He needed a cup of tea, and a quick afternoon nap. Then he would feel better. But first, he had to get up these dern stairs. They need to fix the dern elevator some day.
He finally reached the top of the steps, and opened the door to the hallway. The dog dashed through, yanking on the chain, and still yipping away.
He passed doors with dumb homemade signs on them, like, ‘Home Sweet Home’, and ‘Welcome to My Humble Abode’. Mostly made out of wood or leftover stuff lying around. One said, ‘Please Use Other Door’, and pointed to the neighbor. Basil enjoyed knocking on that door some times as he passed, just because it was such a stupid sign.
But today he kept on walking.
Blood and Justice Page 9