Muller nodded. His shoulders rose and fell as if laden with concrete blocks. ‘Ms Merlot, you’ll find me an open book where my son is concerned. Ask away.’
‘Thank you. And please, do call me Sydney. Syd will do. I’m fine with either. So, you and Kevin lived alone out here for how long?’
‘My wife Sophie and I had only the one child. Kevin never knew her, not in any way he remembered or counted for much. She left us both when our boy was less than a year old. She was depressed after Kevin was born. I tried to get her to see somebody about it, but she rejected the idea. I once went as far as bringing our doctor out here to the house, but Sophie shut herself away in the bedroom and refused to talk to him. She moved back east to be with her family. Some place in Philly.’
‘That must have made life even more difficult, having to raise Kevin on your own.’
‘The other difficult part being Kevin’s disabilities, you mean?’
Sydney winced. ‘I’m sorry. That was crass of me. I didn’t mean it that way. It couldn’t have helped is all I’m saying.’
‘That’s okay. Kevin had his issues, no denying that. His brain was starved of oxygen during what proved to be a difficult birth. Perhaps that was another reason why Sophie never took to him. And sure, it was a challenge raising him on my own. But I don’t believe the boy suffered for not having a mother around him. Especially not a mother who didn’t care enough to stick by us when things didn’t turn out quite the way we planned. He had plenty of negativity in his life to cope with as it was.’
‘Did your wife return for the funeral, Dexter?’
‘She’s my ex-wife and has been for a long time. And no, she did not.’
Sydney decided to let it go, moving on to queries relating to more recent events. ‘Okay, so you told me Kevin had no interest in guns. Is that completely accurate, or is it more like he had little interest?’
Muller thought about that before responding.
‘I suppose it would be true to say he had a young man’s general fascination, but that’s all it ever was.’
‘You don’t own one yourself?’
‘No.’
‘Have you ever?’
‘No.’
‘And as far as you are aware, Kevin never visited a gun range with friends? Did he ever go hunting, or do some target shooting in the woods?’
‘Not that I ever heard about. And I think I would have.’
‘So, he would have no reason to attend a gun sales show, nor any such event where firearms were readily available?’
‘Like I told you, Kevin wasn’t into that whole thing.’
Sydney paused to sip from her mug, the coffee slightly too weak for her liking. She wasn’t a parent herself, but could easily recall the number of things she had kept secret from her own father. ‘Okay. Well, then that’s all positive, because if we get to take this further, I will ask the authorities to provide some explanation for how your son was supposed to have acquired all the guns and ammunition used in the shooting that day.’
Muller shook his head vehemently. ‘There’s no way.’
‘Then we may be able to use that argument to prise open a chink in their defences. See, they’ve never had to adequately defend their actions, because they’ve not had to build a case in the same way as they would have had Kevin survived. Dexter, did your son have his own computer?’
‘Sure. Sonora PD seized his laptop the day after the shooting. Far as I know they still have it. Why d’you ask?’
‘I would like to have checked out his online history, that sort of thing. That’s why they took it, and if they find anything of consequence, it’ll get documented. But I’d like to take a look for myself. You can make a request to get that item back in order to have your own expert investigate it forensically. Which reminds me of something; I forgot to ask, have you retained the services of a lawyer?’
‘Not yet I haven’t. I doubt I would find many in these parts willing to take the case on, and those who did will probably only tell me what the sheriff told me.’
‘Which is?’
‘That I don’t have a case to bring.’
Sydney nodded. ‘I can see that. From their perspective. And yes, it’s true that you’d find it hard to obtain the services of a decent local lawyer at the moment who would fight for Kevin’s innocence. More likely they would bill you for their time and tell you what you already know. You may have to consider looking further afield if it comes to that. Still, the more we can find in your son’s favour, the better argument you can present.’
Dexter fixed her with a hard, narrow stare. ‘You think that’s likely, Sydney?’
‘I wouldn’t like to say how likely it is, but I do believe we have a chance of bringing it around to being a possibility. Which is a healthier place than where we started from.’
‘It sure is. And I appreciate you doing what you’re doing. Can’t be easy for you. But to turn things about face in the way you’re suggesting, what more do we need to do?’
Sydney was prepared for that question. ‘We’re beginning to bring together a foundation which we would hope to shore up. To begin with, there’s your own theory as to what happened that day. Frankly, it’s also the only alternative theory that makes sense. Then you have Kevin’s lack of involvement or history with handguns. Plus there are one or two of his teachers who do not believe your son can be guilty. In fact, Duncan Baxter is convinced of it.’
‘Yeah, I’m aware of Mr Baxter’s views. He wasn’t afraid to talk about it afterwards, either. Newspapers only wanted to focus on those who spoke ill of my boy, but I received some welcome personal messages of support. I’m guessing you know the school imposed a blanket ban on staff discussing the incident?’
‘I do. I understand their decision in respect of them responding to the media, but banning them from talking to you is disgraceful. Even so, I don’t regard it as a fight worth having.’
‘I hear you. But there are other teachers there who thought the same way Baxter does. Mrs Wade for sure. She treated Kevin with respect, and my boy liked her back.’
‘Mrs Wade certainly spoke well of Kevin when she and I chatted. That said, the ruling from her superiors hangs over her head. Unless we can somehow get their decision overturned, I’m not sure how much help Mrs Wade will be.’
‘But you think Mr Baxter might be of use?’
Sydney nodded with some enthusiasm. ‘Baxter is certainly a good man to have in our corner. He worked with your son, and probably knew him as well as anyone outside of Wade herself. As both a witness to Kevin’s character, and in respect of outlining his inability to have both devised and executed this terrible crime, an ex-teacher is a definite bonus for us.’
Muller raised a feeble smile. To Sydney he looked undernourished and fragile, but their conversation had definitely uplifted him. When he spoke, he did so with renewed enthusiasm.
‘I’m very pleased to hear that. Baxter is as ornery as they come at times, but he was also very well respected by his colleagues and parents alike.’
‘That’s good to know. So far he’s not agreed to help me, but I don’t believe he’ll take much persuading. Even so, to effectively turn things around, I’d say we have to come up with a credible alternative.’
‘Haven’t I already done that?’
Sydney nodded, spreading out her hands. ‘Sure, but on its own, your theory of how it all went down differently, is not enough, Dexter. I mean, we may need to produce a viable alternate suspect. And that’s where I’m going with this next.’
Seventeen
As she pulled away from Dexter Muller’s home, Sydney’s mind was twisting and sucking all kinds of issues into its core. She wanted to speak with Duncan Baxter again. Unlike Rebecca Wade, who continued to teach at the high school, Baxter was free of the shackles binding him to a salary in exchange for his silence. His attitude on the phone bordered on anarchic, and Sydney tried to think of a way to use that kind of intelligent cynicism to her advantage when planning how and
where to approach the three students named by him. But when she took out her notebook to study its contents, in bold capitals and underlined right at the top of the first page was a name she could no longer ignore.
Before she was able to focus fully on any of the investigations she was currently looking into, Sydney had the small matter of her father’s company finances to attend to. Beyond the railway crossing and school on fifth Street in Jamestown was the complex that had been home to the accountancy company with whom Sydney’s father had done business for more than a decade. The building’s brick and timber exterior was fairly ordinary, but inside the suite of offices she found all the trappings of a healthy organisation, with a corporate theme that spoke of competence combined with style and elegance. Sydney arrived early for her appointment, but was delighted to find Russ Deerfield free to meet with her.
A pleasant and well-dressed man who wore too much cologne for Sydney’s taste, Deerfield first offered his condolences and then took her through the business account using layman’s terms she was able to understand. Essentially, the agency was in a healthy financial situation. The leasing arrangement on the office space had three more years to run, with a fixed monthly payment. The SUV had also been leased to the company. Other than the usual business outgoings and infrequent payments to Hank Stevensen for miscellaneous services, the annual outlay was moderate. Income appeared to be steady, and the most recent figures suggested there was over a hundred thousand dollars spread between various accounts which were part of the overall estate.
Satisfied that she was in safe hands, Sydney negotiated a monthly arrangement to continue for as long as it took her to either sell the business as a going concern, or wind it up completely. Deerfield, a Native American resident of Jamestown, provided her with a list of services he thought she would benefit from when dealing with buyers. Before ending the meeting, Sydney signed a waiver allowing the accountant to provide authorised potential purchasers with a copy of the accounts for the past five years.
Feeling less burdened after the exchange, Sydney thanked the account manager for his time and flexibility, and as she went back outside to the truck she did so with a clear head. As she climbed in and settled behind the wheel, her phone rang, a number she did not recognise coming up on the screen. She answered it anyway. The male caller announced himself as officer Loom, one of the Modesto crash investigators responsible for looking into her father’s accident.
‘Thanks for getting back to me,’ Sydney said, surprised by the call. ‘I won’t keep you long, but I did want to ask you a few questions about the investigation.’
‘You’re the victim’s daughter, is that right?’
‘I am, yes. Is that a problem for you?’
‘Nope. And you’re also in the job?’
‘The Bureau. Although I was also once a cop in your neck of the woods.’
‘Okay, that’s more than enough for me. Fire away.’
Sydney thought she detected a Canadian lilt to the man’s accent, though it was often hard to tell. ‘Thanks. I appreciate it. First of all, I know from my own experience that what finds its way into the official record isn’t always the whole deal. You have to stick to what you know and can prove and have evidence for rather than what you feel. What I’d like to know is whether you had any feelings about this accident that never made it into the final report.’
‘Hmm. I see. Such as?’
‘Such as, was there any doubt in your mind that it was an accident?’
‘Ah. I got you. You’ll know as well as I do that when the other vehicle fails to stop and the driver also neglects to call 911 afterwards, you’re automatically suspicious. You try not to be swayed by that knowledge, but it’s easier said than done. Anyhow, to answer your question, Ms Merlot, it was impossible to gauge intent from the wreckage itself. That said, what we found back up on the road above the gully gave us pause.’
‘And that was?’
‘Well, I guess it’s more a case of what wasn’t there. We found only one set of clear tyre marks suggestive of hard braking. Thing is, they were discovered yards beyond the initial impact point suggested by the debris. To us it looked as if the SUV had been struck from behind without its driver reacting until immediately after the first contact was made. Then came the second collision, which sent it off the side of the road. As far as we were able to determine, the other vehicle never even touched its brakes.’
Sydney was momentarily breathless, as if all the air had been sucked out of the truck’s cab. This was news to her, and she put a hand to her mouth while she considered the impact of what she had been told. ‘So, you’re saying somebody deliberately rammed my father’s car.’
‘No. I’m saying that is one possible interpretation of the evidence. The other is that it was a drunk who simply didn’t see your father’s vehicle until it was too late to react. The problem being there was no way of being certain if it was deliberate or not. Without a witness, the facts alone in this case tell us a story, but not as much of it as we would have liked.’
She understood. The accident investigation report did not declare the collision to be a considered act, because the intention of the other driver was unclear. How the investigators perceived it was an irrelevance; something they would discuss between them but not officially record. Sydney thanked officer Murray for his candour and disconnected.
This fresh information provided no evidence to either implicate further or clear Gerry Kasper, but at least she had confidence in the merit of her own notion of non-accidental death in her father’s case. And only Kasper had crossed her radar up until this point. His was a tenuous connection at best, but she literally had nothing else to go on. Generally speaking, Sydney shied away from thinking of such things as a hunch, but experience certainly lent credence to an investigator’s instincts.
And this was one she acted upon.
Located on an industrial estate off Tuolumne Road a mile or so beyond the Junction Shopping Mall on the eastern edge of Sonora, Sydney found Triple-A Tow & Salvage. The company site was situated off the main drag, surrounded by many similar rectangular sections of land three times as long as they were wide. The yard gate yawned open as Sydney drove by, but there was no sign of activity behind the chain-link fencing, and neither was the tow truck in view. A hardware store directly opposite offered a small lot for its patrons, so Sydney parked up and waited inside the truck for Kasper’s return.
Somebody, most likely the owner, had separated the parcel of land occupied by the towing and salvage business into three distinct sections. At the far end there was a neglected office building in various stages of disrepair, with cracked walls missing chunks of stucco exposing the concrete block shell beneath. Over to the right stood a covered bay that looked as if minor repairs were carried out inside it, the leaning shelter consisting of corrugated plastic sheeting and four by four pieces of lumber. Alongside the bay there was a large forklift, hooked up to a charging post. To the left of the entrance sat a number of salvaged vehicles, laid out either in rows with price stickers on them, or partially crushed and arranged in hulking metal towers. Sydney wondered how many ghosts rode the moonlight and haunted the yard at night.
Shortly before noon, a tow truck approached and Sydney jolted upright in excitement when it hung a right and bumped up the dropped curb into the yard. It pulled up at the bay, a crumpled vehicle sitting on its flatbed behind the cab. From where she sat, Sydney was unable to see the driver’s side of the truck, but she heard the door squeal open and a moment later the on-board hoist wheezed itself into life and raised the salvaged car off the bed, before swivelling around with a tortured metallic shriek and lowering it to the ground. The driver moved into view as he reached the hoist and began to unstrap it from the wreck.
Sydney blew out a long breath, leaning forward to peer through her truck’s windscreen. She couldn’t make out the finer details of the man’s face, but saw enough to compare it against the photo his wife, Sonia, had provided. The driver was Gerry Kasp
er.
When he was finished removing the securing straps, Kasper used the forklift to compress the vehicle from the roof down. During the flattening process, the yard echoed to the sound of tiny explosions of glass being squeezed until it popped and disintegrated. Then he scooped up the wreckage with the pneumatic forks, trundled over to the smallest and closest tower, onto which he deposited the car. Kasper tidied up after himself, swept up the nuggets of glass, and climbed back into the truck’s cab. Moments later, Sydney heard its engine spring to life.
Which was the point at which she decided to follow it. Doing so had not been her original intention, but it felt like too good an opportunity to waste.
The tow truck stuck to minor roads on its way past the boundary of the industrial area and then headed north where it joined CA-108. Sydney guessed Kasper was driving up to his home in Twain Harte, but continued onto the highway and remained two vehicles behind the truck. Thinking about the road ahead, she realised the Outpost diner at the Soulsbryville junction had a dedicated parking lot large enough to accept trucks. When Kasper took the turnoff and the heavy vehicle chugged past the gas station pumps and on into the restaurant lot, Sydney smiled to herself. She would never get a better opportunity than this.
Kasper steered into a space between another truck and a sizeable panel van, then a moment or two later Sydney saw him walk across to the diner and disappear inside. Sydney assumed he was taking his lunch break. If he opted to eat at a table, she figured that gave her around thirty minutes. Even if he ordered to go, she’d bank on him being away from his vehicle for ten or fifteen.
More than enough time.
Fifteen Coffins Page 11