Final Scream

by Lisa Jackson

  He followed the man who had introduced himself as Detective Wilson to a windowless room with a table and chairs. On the dark wooden table was a file folder filled with papers. Willie began to sweat and fidget. This wasn’t good. He was supposed to be let go. Where was Rex?

  “Have a seat,” the detective said, motioning to one of the metal chairs. “And tell me everything you know about this.” He dropped the wallet on the table, and Willie averted his eyes. He didn’t want to look at the burned leather. It reminded him of the fires. Both of them. He licked his lips.

  “Were you at the mill the night of the fire?”

  Willie bit his lip. Don’t lie.

  “Do you know who owns this?” Wilson pushed the wallet closer and Willie recoiled. He heard his heart pounding in his head.

  “It’s not yours, is it?”

  Don’t lie.

  “Where’d you get it? Did you find it somewhere? Or take it off some guy or—”

  “I didn’t steal it! I don’t steal!” he suddenly blurted and the hard lines of Detective Wilson’s face softened into a smile.

  “I believe you, Willie. So how did you get it?”

  “All the money’s in there! I didn’t take it.” Willie sniffed and wiped the back of his hand under his nose. His whole hand was shaking.

  “No one’s saying that you did, boy. But the wallet’s not yours, is it?”

  Frowning, so scared he wanted to cry, Willie shook his head. “No.”

  “Well, then, I’m just asking if you know the man who it belongs to.”

  Willie’s voice worked, but he didn’t say anything. Sweat dripped down the sides of his face. It was so hot. So close. And Detective Wilson didn’t believe him. He’d put him back in jail. For a long time. Willie’s heart was pumping so hard he breathed in short little gasps.

  “He’s hyperventilating,” Gonzales warned.

  “Just calm down, Willie.” Wilson picked up the file and opened it.

  Willie didn’t know why, but he felt an overwhelming sense of dread, the same way he felt whenever he was alone with Derrick. Nervously, he rubbed his arm, the one Derrick had burned with a cigarette years ago.

  “Now, Willie, this here’s your file,” Wilson said. “Notice how thick it is. You got yourself quite a few little misdemeanors in here, son. Good thing Rex Buchanan and his team of lawyers always found a way to bail you out. Let’s see what have we got? Drunk and disorderly. Driving without a license. Uh-oh, now I don’t like the looks of this—some little girl complained that you were following her and looking into her windows, but the charges were dropped. You remember that? Her name was Tammi Nichols? You remember her?” The smile again. “What were you doin’, Willie? Tryin’ to get a free peek up her skirt?”

  “No.” Willie shook his head frantically.

  “You like to see girls naked?”

  A dull roar filled his head. His Adam’s apple bobbed nervously. This was no good. Don’t lie. Don’t lie.

  “Well, hell, Willie, we all do. It ain’t a crime. Unless you’re peekin’ where you’re not s’posed to be.” He settled back in his chair, rocking it back on its hind legs as he popped his gum. “I think you like to see naked girls. Don’t really blame you but…” He flipped the page and Willie’s stomach twisted in fear. “Uh-oh again. Lookie here. Another girl. Mary Beth Spears. She thought you were starin’ through her window while she was just dressed in her bra and panties.” He clucked his tongue. “That bothered her a lot, you see, her bein’ the reverend’s daughter and all.” Wilson’s eyebrows arched. “You look at her tits, Willie?”

  The edges of Willie’s vision grew dark, and he had to hold onto the table to keep from sliding down in his chair.

  “That ain’t nice. The reverend, I bet he wanted to skin you alive.”

  The room spun.

  “Now these charges, all dropped or taken care of one way or another, don’t really mean much.” The detective closed the file and shoved it aside. “But if there were more charges filed, say something more serious like withholding evidence in a crime, or obstructing justice, or maybe even participating in the crime itself, well, all of Rex Buchanan’s money won’t buy you out of it. No siree. His entire team of lawyers won’t be able to keep you out of jail.”

  Sweat slid down Willie’s nose and dripped onto the table. He was so scared his insides felt all jumbled together, like he might pee his pants. He didn’t move, just clung to the table so he wouldn’t pass out.

  “But on the other hand, if you were to cooperate with us, you know, fill us in on what you know, well, I’d say the chances of you going free were pretty high. Wouldn’t you say so, Gonzales?”

  “Real high,” the skinny man agreed.

  “Do you understand?”

  Willie didn’t move.

  “Okay, here’s the deal.” The front legs of his chair hit the floor, and Wilson leaned forward on his elbows. “You tell us the truth, and you get to walk out of here. You bullshit me or keep your mouth shut, and we’ll have to put you back in your cell next to Ben. I hate bullshit, Willie. Don’t you hate bullshit, Gonzales?”

  “Hate it.”

  “So we can’t have none. You got to be straight with us, Willie. Honest as hell and you can probably get yourself out of this mess.”

  Willie swallowed hard. Spit collected in his mouth. Where was Rex? Why was he letting these men shoot ugly questions at him?

  The detective picked up the wallet and wagged it under Willie’s nose. “Come on, boy. It’ll be all right. All you got to do is just tell me how you ended up with this tucked in your back pocket.”

  “Cassidy Buchanan’s here to see you.”

  T. John Wilson let the words echo through his little office, savoring each and every one. He knew she’d be back; in fact, he’d expected her a couple of hours ago. She was with the press, and already word on the street was that the John Doe was about to be identified. Wilson wished he knew how the hell the damned reporters knew things before he did, but so far, he hadn’t been able to find or plug the leak in his department.

  The door opened and Cassidy marched in. She’d pulled herself together since he’d last talked with her and now, with her auburn hair framing her flushed face, her brandy-colored eyes snapping with fury, she was downright gorgeous. Everyone in town had called her the plain sister—a girl who couldn’t hold a candle to Angie Buchanan. T. John couldn’t imagine it. He climbed to his feet—a polite habit he’d learned from his Virginia-bred mother.

  “You know who the man in the hospital is?” she demanded.

  “And ‘good afternoon’ to you, too.” Waving her into a chair on the opposite side of the desk, he took a seat again. “Not yet, but we will soon.”

  “And you didn’t tell me?”

  “Why would I?”

  “Because I’m—I’m involved; Chase’s wife.”

  “But you’re not related to the John Doe. You didn’t recognize him.”

  “My father’s mill burned down!”

  “So?” He set the heel of his boot on the edge of his desk and leaned back in his chair. “Look, Mrs. Mckenzie. I brought you in for questioning. I went to the hospital with you. I hoped you would help our investigation—that you would cooperate—but I don’t see that I have any reason to tell you anything else. Besides, you’re a reporter. I make statements to the press every day—”

  “I’m not interested in a press release, Detective. This isn’t about a story. I just want to find out who burned down the sawmill and nearly killed my husband.”

  “That’s what we’re trying to determine.”

  “Who is he?”

  “We’re not sure,” he said. “Just calm down, sit in that chair over there and I’ll get you a cup of coffee.”

  “Don’t bother; just tell me the ID of the John Doe.” She looked desperate, more desperate than she should, given the circumstances.

  “As I said, we don’t know yet, but I’ll tell you this, we found key information and it looks like ol’ John will
be identified. It might take a while, but we’ll find out.” He smiled, content with himself. Things were going better than he’d hoped. Whereas a few days ago he was faced with dead ends, today he had the wallet, information about the dying man and a whole new perspective on the case. Yep, things were looking up, and if Floyd Dodds didn’t watch out, T. John was going to steal the election from him and become the next sheriff.

  “Why don’t you tell me what happened,” Cassidy said, calming a little and settling back in her chair. She crossed one leg over the other, and T. John tried not to notice the length of calf.

  “Once we ID the guy, check him out and contact his relatives, I’ll release his name. Until then, he’s just John Doe.”

  Cassidy tented her hands thoughtfully, her gaze centering squarely on T. John’s face. “Have you spoken to my husband?”

  “Last I heard, he’s not talking.”

  “He talked to me.”

  The muscles in the back of T. John’s neck tightened. “When?”

  “The other day.”

  “And you didn’t tell me?”

  “I’m telling you now. He only spoke to me once.”

  His eyes narrowed. “What’d he have to say?”

  “Not much except that he wants out of the hospital.”

  “In his condition?” T. John nearly laughed. Chase McKenzie had a reputation for being bullheaded. “Did you ask him about the identity of the man?”

  “He denies knowing of or talking with him.”

  “You think he’s telling the truth?”

  “I don’t know, but I trust Chase. Since I stopped by, he hasn’t spoken a word, not to my parents who visited him, not to the doctors or nurses who have been caring for him. I’m not sure they believe he can talk.”

  He was ahead of her—way ahead. “So you think that if we gave you information and you took it to him, he might respond; but that he won’t speak to us.”

  “Could be.”

  His boot clattered to the floor. “I might point out that you’re not an officer of the law.”

  “I don’t think he’ll talk to one.”

  “Then he’ll be charged with hindering an investigation.”

  “Do you really think he’ll care? He’s stuck in a hospital bed, his leg and arm broken, his face wired together, maybe blind in one eye. I don’t think he’s afraid of jail at this point.”

  “He might be smarter than you think.”

  “No, he might be smarter than you think.” Her lips pursed together in fury. “You try and accuse him of a crime and he’ll hire a team of lawyers who will find physicians who swear he can’t talk, that his throat and voice were affected by the smoke or trauma or something; then they’ll point out that he was sedated and on painkillers, that even if he did speak, he wouldn’t be lucid. They’ll parade a dozen experts in who’ll cite instances where a patient was too traumatized to speak, too out of it to talk rationally. Since he’s only spoken to me, it’ll be my word against his, and I won’t have to testify against him because he’s my husband.”

  T. John forced a smile he didn’t feel. “You’re trying to tell me that if I want to question your husband, I’ll have to go through you, is that it?”

  “I don’t even know if he’ll speak to me again.”

  Frustration seared a hole in his gut. He could push the issue if he wanted to. He was certain he could convince Chase to talk to him without her help, but it might work to his advantage to follow her lead and watch how she and her husband got along. He still didn’t understand their relationship, but something wasn’t right.

  “I’m taking his mother to visit him this afternoon,” she said, seeming nervous.

  “You won’t mind if I tag along?”

  “Of course I’d mind. You can’t come in while he’s with Sunny. But afterward would be okay.”

  “You know, Mrs. McKenzie, no matter what you may think, you’re not calling the shots on this investigation.”

  “You don’t get it, do you?” she said, her lips barely moving, anger burning bright in the patches of color on her cheeks. “I’m not interested in some power play. I’m just giving you the facts, and I’m hoping that for my efforts, you’ll be honest with me.” She leaned forward, planting her palms firmly on the edge of the desk as she stood. “I’d like to know who the man in CCU is, and I give you my word that I won’t take his name to my paper.”

  He didn’t trust her, but he couldn’t help asking, “Why is it so important?”

  Something flickered in her eyes, a private pain he didn’t understand, before she said, “Isn’t it obvious? He could be the man who tried to kill my husband.” Swinging her purse over her shoulder, she left. As quickly as she’d burst into his office, she was gone, the door slamming shut behind her.

  “Son of a bitch.” T. John opened the top drawer of his desk and reached for his bottle of antacid pills. Some of the confidence he’d felt earlier seeped away.

  Cassidy McKenzie wasn’t just an attractive irritation, he thought as he poured four white tablets into his hand and tossed them into his mouth. She was going to try and roadblock him every step of the way.

  Why?

  He crushed the tablets in his teeth and washed them down with a swallow of cold, stale coffee. Climbing to his feet, he walked to the window and stared out at the parking lot, where Cassidy, hair turning to fire in the sun, unlocked her Jeep and settled behind the wheel. She knew something, he guessed, but he couldn’t figure what. Maybe she did know the ID of the John Doe, or maybe her husband had told her what he was doing at the sawmill that night. If the guy was talking. Just because she said so didn’t make it a fact. He swirled the dregs in his cup. She definitely knew more than she was telling, and he didn’t think it was because she hoped to scoop the other papers. No, this was personal to her. Real personal.

  He wondered if she’d hired the man herself in hopes of burning the mill, killing her husband and collecting a little insurance to boot. According to everyone he’d talked to who’d known the McKenzies as a couple, their marriage was on the skids—only a step away from divorce.

  Wilson polished his teeth with his tongue as he thought. Was it just coincidence that the arson device was similar to the one used in the fire that killed Angie Buchanan and Jed Baker? Or was this man the culprit both times? Or…was the man an innocent victim, someone who had either been meeting with Chase McKenzie or prowling around the sawmill for other reasons? One of the workers? A disgruntled employee? Someone who wanted papers in the office where the bookkeeper worked along with Chase, Derrick or his wife Felicity occasionally? Or a drifter—the same arsonist that sauntered through town seventeen years before?

  T. John squinted and bit at his lower lip, watching as the Jeep roared out of the parking lot. Maybe Chase McKenzie had set the blaze to try and hide something or to collect the insurance or to kill the other guy. Maybe he was interrupted and caught in his own fiery trap. Or maybe the missus was involved; she could have wanted Chase dead rather than divorce him. It would cost her less money. Or hell, the whole damned fire could be an accident and the two poor bastards caught in the blaze just two stupid-ass guys whose luck had run out. T. John didn’t believe it for a minute.

  Too bad Rex Buchanan had picked up Willie Ventura before he’d cracked. Willie knew more than he was saying and he’d been at the first fire as well. Another coincidence? Or was Willie a firebug?

  He’d have to question Willie again—that much was certain—and as for Mrs. McKenzie, well, it might not hurt to have her tailed. Willie couldn’t remember where he’d been during the fire.

  Sure.

  And Cassidy McKenzie had been home. Alone.

  Right. And I’m one stupid son of a bitch.

  He set his empty cup on a battered old file cabinet and returned to his desk. Lowering himself into his squeaking chair, he opened a bottom drawer and pulled out two files, one so thick it had to be held together with a rubber band, the other barely started. The first was filled with yellowed papers and
notes, reports that had been kept in the archives for years, the unsolved murder cases of Angie Buchanan, her baby and Jed Baker. The second was a new file, with crisp white paper, notes and computer printouts on the fire at Buchanan Sawmill.

  His instincts told him the fires were related and there were a lot of people in town now who were potential suspects in the first investigation. He tugged on his lower lip. Too bad the first case was never solved and the bad-ass McKenzie boy had taken off before he could be questioned. From all accounts Brig was one helluva bad seed, always in trouble. It would have helped to know how he was involved in the first fire.

  But he wasn’t around. Probably dead or in prison somewhere far away.

  Squinting at the file again, his heartbeat nudged up a notch when he considered the John Doe’s driver’s license. Alaska. Pretty damned far away. Still a frontier in the seventies. A man could get lost in that wilderness…Could all just be a damned coincidence. Or was it?

  He reached for the intercom button and barked out a request. Within minutes Gonzales sauntered through the door. “Any luck with the McKenzie woman?” he asked.

  T. John shook his head. “Not yet, but I want her followed.”

  Gonzales’s dark eyes flared. “You got something?”

  “Probably not, but Chase McKenzie is talking. At least she says he’s talking, but get this, only to her.”

  Gonzales snorted in disgust.

  “Yeah, I think it’s bullshit. But we’ll check it out. Then I want to talk to Willie Ventura again, and he can bring in a whole army of lawyers for all I care. They can try to block me up one side and down the other, but I want to talk to him.”

  Gonzales shrugged. “I’ll round him up.”

  “Then—this is a long shot—but check with the Alaska DMV, see if they’ve got anyone named Brig McKenzie—well, make that any white male around thirty named McKenzie. Check accident reports and titles of cars through whatever agency they’ve got up there.”

  “Could be quite a list. McKenzie’s a common name.”

  “I know, I know, but humor me, would you?”

  “You think the John Doe is McKenzie?” Gonzales clearly didn’t believe it.