by Adam Carter
“A man inside?”
“He’d been tied to a stake and the stake had been shoved into the ground. Then someone had … well, built a snowman around him to hide the body.”
That was actually quite clever, although Stoker did not say such aloud. The ingenuity of criminals always impressed him, especially since most of the ones he had dealt with had either been opportunists or had not known how to properly cover their tracks.
“Have you spoken with Old MacDonald?” Stoker asked.
“He won’t want to see me.”
“You’re the police and you’ve found a body on his field. He doesn’t have much of a choice.”
She was staring into her mug. “I know.”
Stoker shifted slightly in his chair. He knew Hart must have been going through a terrible time over this. It was the first truly bad crime she had ever had to deal with and if she was not careful she would fall apart. Hart was a well-liked woman about the village, but that would not help her at all when she was talking to people about their possible criminal activities. Standing in the stocks at the summer fete was a far cry from knocking on someone’s door and asking them to prove where they were the night before.
And then there was Old MacDonald. His real name was Donald Truman, but the nickname had been around long before Stoker had come to the village – likely before Hart was even born – and it was what everyone called him. Stoker had only met Truman twice and had found him to be an aged, abusive ogre who could have done with bathing a little more often. Still, if the body had been found on his field, Hart needed to talk to him.
“I was kind of hoping,” Hart said, as though reading his mind, “you might come with me?” She looked him in the eye then and Stoker wished she hadn’t. She had such a sweet innocence to her that Stoker had never been able to say no to her in anything.
“I’m retired,” he said. “I’m not allowed to question suspects with you.”
“This isn’t the city, John. Around here you can help as much as you like. I can conscript you, if you like.”
Stoker laughed. No, he would not like to be conscripted. “Why don’t you just talk with Truman and tell me what you find out? I can help you sort through the evidence and statements, but I’m not getting involved in the actual investigation.”
Hart was back to not looking at him, but this time she was staring into the roaring flames of the fireplace. “I can’t do this, John,” she said in a small voice.
“Can’t do what?”
“This is a murder, an actual murder.”
“And it’s what you’ve trained for.”
“You didn’t see the body, John.” She was looking back at him now and her eyes were trembling more fiercely with fear than her body was from the cold. “I’ve never seen a dead body before, I’ve …” She closed her eyes and controlled herself. When she opened them again, there was a semblance of calm to her, but not much. “This wasn’t just a fight that got out of hand. I’ve dealt with fights, I’ve dealt with broken bones and brawls over other people’s wives. This was murder, John. Someone killed this guy, bashed his head in, then made the conscious decision to stake him in a field and cover him with snow. They even gave him a carrot nose and a stone smile. I didn’t train for this, John, and I don’t know what to do.” She looked into her mug and barely above a whisper said, “I’m terrified I’m going to screw this up.”
Sometimes Stoker wished Hart would not be so honest with him. But she was also correct. He had seen some pretty disturbing crimes in the past, had seen Hart deal with despicable crimes herself, but this was a well-planned murder and that was something she could not handle. If she fought this alone she would fail, and the murderer would walk free.
“I shouldn’t get involved,” Stoker said. “I really shouldn’t.”
“But will you? For old time’s sake?”
“No, Liz. But I’ll do it for you.” The words were spoken and could not now be taken back, even if he had wanted to. “Besides which, I owe you for clearing my front porch of snow. If not for you, I’d be stuck in the house.”
“Thank you, John,” she said, not getting excited. She was still nervous, but not nearly so afraid of her failure. Rising, she set her mug to one side. “Thanks for the tea. I’d best get things together so we can go talk to Truman.”
Stoker could think of nothing to say, so did not say anything. He took Hart to the door and helped her on with her coat, telling her he would meet up with her so they could talk to the crotchety old farmer together. Then he had the unpleasant task of informing Brenda.
He found his wife standing at the door to the kitchen. She did not say anything; her expression was bland, but he could see the fear to her face.
“It’ll be all right, Brenda,” Stoker said. “I’ll just help Liz with this one case, then we’ll get back to normal. Maybe I’ll even untangle that set of plastic bells, eh?”
Brenda turned away and headed back into the kitchen, leaving Stoker alone with his memories and fears. She had every right to worry, had every right to be disappointed in him. There was a reason they had left the city, a reason they had abandoned their old life. Now it seemed it had followed them to Barrowville.
By the end of the investigation, they both knew they could well lose everything all over again.
CHAPTER THREE
There was a massive fence around the house and Stoker knew they would not be getting inside. The fields belonging to Donald Truman were clearly not being used by him during the bad weather and the old man had likely holed himself up in his house like everyone else. Thankfully, the snowfall had decreased to a mild flurry and Stoker was able to walk around without much difficulty. It was a fair-sized house encircled by a high metal fence to deter visitors. About the property there stood a guard of trees, heavy with snow and casting deep shadows across the property. The land about the house was thick with vegetation which led into the nearby woodland. Beneath the snow underfoot there was likely a dirt trail through which Truman could bring his vehicles. The farmer’s fields were nowhere in sight, but that was one of the first assumptions Stoker had abandoned when first coming to live in the small, rural community.
As he stood at the fence, peering into Truman’s property, Stoker tried to work out how much use the old man might be. He had a reputation as being an abusive recluse, but that did not make him a sick enough man to stake an intruder in his field like a scarecrow. Through the fence he could see a messy storage area, boxes and containers strewn around. There was little snow beyond the fence, as though it was afraid to fall upon Truman’s property. Or that he had cleared it with a snow shovel, Stoker corrected himself seriously. He could see several tools now, leaning against a wall, and indeed there were spades among them. He would not get anywhere in solving this case if he began to think in a flowery fashion.
“Anything?” Hart asked, coming to join him. Stoker had gone on ahead to see whether he could get Truman’s attention, although so far all he could see was the man’s front yard. The house itself stood silent and still. There was no sign of Christmas decorations, but then somehow Stoker had not expected any.
“Nothing,” Stoker said. “Did you bring everything you need from the station?”
“All I need is my badge, and even Old MacDonald knows me, so I don’t think I’ll need even that.”
“I should probably have taken a look at the crime scene,” Stoker reflected.
“It’s still there. So’s the body.”
“At the crime scene?”
“No, the body’s in the morgue. I just meant neither of them is going anywhere.”
Stoker could see she was still shaken by what had happened. He was willing to give her a lot of leeway on this assignment, but the fact was she was the officer in charge of the investigation and she needed to suck up her gut and just get on with it.
They had not, however, quite reached the point where he needed to tell her that.
“We need to get Truman’s attention somehow,” Stoker said. “I
don’t suppose he has a bell on his fence or something?”
“I’ve never been out here, actually,” Hart said. “Truman likes to keep to himself and that’s fine with me.”
Stoker heard movement then and hoped it meant someone was coming to the fence. Then he saw two massive forms bounding towards him and he recoiled as the beasts slammed into the metal railings, shuddering the entire thing as it fought to resist them. Stoker had seen a lot of different types of dog when he had been a detective, but Dobermanns had always scared him. They were too big and too fierce to be reasoned with, and as they slammed themselves repeatedly against the bars he could see murder in their eyes. The entire area shuddered at their barking while snow fell from trees in fright.
Even though they were on the other side of the fence, Stoker shivered. “I can see how he keeps nosy visitors away.”
“It doesn’t mean he kills them, though.”
“Maybe the noise will get his attention.”
“What do you want?”
The voice was old and craggy and seemed to come from nowhere. Momentary fear shot through Hart’s face, although thankfully she did not betray her emotions vocally. They turned to find Truman standing only ten metres behind them. He was aged probably somewhere in his eighties and walked with the aid of a gnarled cane. His clothes were not ragged, but they looked highly patched, as though the man did not earn enough to ever buy new ones. He wore a thin coat, but Stoker could not believe it was enough to protect him from the cold; especially since he was wearing neither gloves nor hat. His face was carved of strong, determined lines, mostly hidden by a thick white beard, the hair atop his head frail and wispy. His eyes were burning with something, but Stoker was not certain it was hatred. From his few earlier encounters with Truman, Stoker felt the man just wanted to be left alone.
“Detective Hart,” Hart said, recovering quickly.
“I know who you are. What do you want?”
“Mr Truman,” she continued, “have you been to your fields recently?”
“No.”
“When was the last time you were in one of them?”
“It’s snowing, Miss Hart. Why would I go to my fields?” He made a strange sound which was half grunt, half laugh. There was a twinkle to his eye which indicated questions like these were among the reasons he didn’t like talking to people.
“I did notice it was snowing, yes,” Hart said. “When was the last time you went to the north field by the river?”
Truman seemed about ready to make another sarcastic comment, but probably realised the best way to get rid of these people was to answer their questions. “About a month ago. Before the really bad snow settled. Just walking around to check my property. Am I under arrest?”
“Some kids were playing in that field yesterday.”
“If they hurt themselves they’ve only got themselves to blame. They trespass on my property, they don’t have a leg to stand on.”
“The kids are fine, thanks for your concern. But they found something.”
“An unexploded World War II bomb?”
“They … What? No.”
“Shame. Always fancied finding one of those.”
“They found a body.”
“Fox?”
“A human body.”
“You mean another trespasser?”
“Mr Truman,” Stoker said calmly. “A man has been murdered on your property. Do you know anything about it?”
That instantly sobered him and Stoker could see it also came as a surprise. Truman was a man who did not care for other people, but that was when he had believed the death to be attributed solely to the cold. An actual murder did seem to disturb him, which raised Stoker’s opinion of him.
“So my field,” Truman said, “is going to be swarming with media? I’m going to have cameras shoved in my face? They’ll accuse me because I’m a cranky old hermit? What can I do to help?”
It was not the reason Stoker would have liked, but it would do nicely. Stoker smiled at Hart, silently indicating she could now ask her questions.
“The body was frozen,” she said, “but initial reports suggest it’s been there for about a week. Have you noticed anything strange in the past week? Anyone building a snowman in your field, perhaps?”
“A snowman? No. But I did chase some kids off my property a while back. Might have been a week ago, I don’t remember.”
“Are we talking about the same field?”
“No. That was the south field. But they were coming from the direction of the river, so they could have murdered this guy and were on their way out when I caught them.”
“Guy? I never said the body was male.”
“No,” Truman said, pointing at Stoker. “He did.”
Stoker thought back and could not remember whether he had. He had not realised Hart had been intentionally not revealing that fact and wished he had asked her beforehand how she wanted to play this.
“Am I a suspect?” Truman asked.
“Everyone’s a suspect,” Hart said. “How many people did you chase off?”
“Three, I think.”
“What did they look like?”
“People.”
“Anything more specific?”
“Men.”
“Were they white, Asian?”
“White. One had a beard. I really don’t remember what they looked like. But they had a dog. Little terrier, brown fur and big eyes. Ran with a limp, but it didn’t have a broken foot. Probably hit it on something. The snow wasn’t as thick on the ground back then, so the dog wasn’t swallowed whole by it. I think the worst of the snowstorm hit that night, because I remember wondering how the terrier was going to get around in the thick snow.”
Hart hesitated. “You don’t remember the people, but you remember everything about the dog?”
“I like dogs, Miss Hart.”
“Do you think you’d be able to recognise the dog again?”
“Sure.”
“Then we might call on you again. Thank you for your time.”
Truman grunted and moved towards his fence. There would be a gate somewhere, although Stoker had not been able to find it. Perhaps Truman hid the thing to deter all but the most intrusive prowlers.
As they strolled back through the snow, Stoker tried to piece together everything they had learned. It was not an incredible amount, but the investigation had only just begun, so everything was relevant at that moment. Stoker had always loved the beginning of investigations because every small thing could mean something. It was as the investigation drew on that it always became more complicated; and that was when things could go sour.
“Thanks for jumping in at last,” Hart said. “I was floundering there.”
“It’s your case, Liz. Besides, you were doing fine.”
Hart said nothing to that. She clearly did not believe him, but that was her prerogative.
“So,” she said, “what did you think of him?”
“He’s innocent.”
“How can you tell?”
“Because he wasn’t guilty.” Stoker realised Hart really had not seen that. She had spent her entire career being able to read people, but her fear of Truman was overshadowing her sense of reason. “Truman doesn’t like people,” Stoker explained. “He doesn’t want attention. You saw how he reacted when he thought the media might come down on him. If he was going to kill a trespasser, I can’t see him staking the guy inside a snowman. He’d know it would thaw eventually.”
“Maybe it was a cover.”
“You don’t believe that.”
“No. I don’t. But I don’t have any other suspects.”
“There are the three men he saw. And their dog.”
“Great.”
“It’s a place to start.” Stoker had never understood despondency following an initial interview. They had gained far more from Truman than some of the other people Stoker had questioned in his time. The thing which was getting to him most was the whole snowman thing. The cu
rrent storm was a bad one, but every snowstorm ended. The body was bound to have come to light eventually.
“I just hope we don’t have to talk to him again,” Hart said, shuddering.
“Truman?” Stoker looked her over and was surprised by her level of disdain, even hostility. “He’s harmless.”
“How do you figure that?”
“For one thing, he has angry dogs. That’s a sure sign of a man who doesn’t want to be bothered. That and the fence. He’s also savvy, which is a sad thing really.”
“How do you mean?”
“He knows as soon as the media get wind of the murder, they’ll focus on him. Weird old guy who doesn’t talk to people? They’ll plaster his face all over the papers and demand his arrest. Maybe you’ll even have to bring him in just to please public opinion. This could ruin his life, you know.”
“That wouldn’t happen here.”
“It’s happens everywhere. Barrowville’s a small community, Liz. It adds a good backdrop for the papers to work their story. And the name will give the journalists a field-day with their headlines.”
He could see she was thinking about it and was glad she seemed to be accepting what he was saying.
“So we investigate these people he saw. He said they were men, but he also said they were kids. He didn’t seem to remember anything about them except a beard, but I’m assuming they were in their late teens, early twenties.”
“They could have been anything. To a man in his eighties, ‘kids’ could mean anything below forty.”
Hart grew only more despondent over this. “So we round up every male in the village and question them all?”
“I don’t know,” Stoker admitted. “Something about this doesn’t sit right with me.”
“You mean apart from the sick snowman thing?”
“I’m not so sure it was sick.”
“Come again.”
“I have a theory on why someone would bury a corpse inside a snowman.”
“What is it, then?”
But Stoker shook his head. “I think first I should see the crime scene.”