The Jake Boulder Series: books 1 - 3

by Graham Smith

  I believe him and can see Chief Watson does too. These days, everyone is tuned in to their cells or tablets as if they are a magical gateway to a better world.

  It’s all a nonsense – what’s happening is the erosion of societal manners and consideration for others. Just last week I saw a guy in his late twenties so engrossed with his cell he walked into a busy intersection without noticing. When confronted by angry drivers blaring their horns, he’d flipped them the bird as though they were the ones at fault, before continuing to the nearest sidewalk with his cell still held in front of him.

  If just one of those cars hadn’t screeched to a halt, I’d have witnessed Darwinian selection first hand.

  ‘So you think they should be eliminated from our thoughts?’

  ‘Yeah. After doing that, I started to look into the other two victim’s finances.’

  Score one for Alfonse. ‘I was hoping you would. What did you find?’ I keep my voice matter of fact, not wanting the chief to realise I hadn’t considered it until after it was done.

  He addresses the chief rather than me. ‘Paul Johnson lived a pauper’s life only one large bill away from disaster. He had no secret accounts or hidden stash. Unless it was cash stuffed into his mattress.’

  The chief shakes his head. ‘We didn’t find anything like that when we searched his house. I saw where his money was going for myself when I looked through his statements. You would too, Boulder. What about, Evie Starr?’

  ‘She had some money, but not what you’d call a lot. Ten grand and change in a savings account, plus a pension which paid enough to cover living expenses so she could use the savings for luxuries.’

  ‘Where’s the pension from?’ I’m wondering if a small businessman is cutting off bad payers and trimming outgoings from the firm’s pension fund.

  ‘One of the oil companies.’

  His words nix that particular theory. It is enough of a stretch a local firm was protecting their pension fund, but the global companies involved in the oilfields wouldn’t care about such trivial amounts.

  ‘Did you find any common purchases? Had they all had building work done by the same firm or something like that?’

  I’m pleased the chief and I are on the same wavelength. Not only does it validate my own thoughts, but it’s good to see he is smart and capable of independent thought.

  His predecessor had been rooted in the old ways and had all but condoned the lacklustre efforts of Farrage and his buddies. With Victor Watson, Casperton, for the first time in many years, has an intelligent and decent man as chief of police.

  Alfonse pulls three sheets of paper from the leather document folder he brought with him. ‘I haven’t had time to cross-reference them yet but these are the last six- month’s-worth of purchases for each of the three victims.’

  He hands me a sheet and another to Chief Watson. ‘I’ve put them in alphabetical rather than date order.’

  Five minutes later we’ve finished checking the lists. Only four businesses feature on all three: Casperton Auto Repairs, a fuel stop in the centre of town, the 7-Eleven and Sherri’s.

  Almost everyone in Casperton uses the 7-Eleven, Sherri’s and the fuel stop. Their inclusion was a given for any local. I use them myself, as does Alfonse.

  Johnson had visited Sherri’s just once, and by the time of the transaction and amount paid, I’d guess his daughter was home for the weekend.

  Which means the one common business used by each of the three victims was Casperton Autos. This brings us back to Lunk.

  Again, a lot of people use Casperton Autos. Whatever else he may be, Lunk is a fine mechanic and his rates are way more reasonable than the dealerships on the edge of town.

  ‘Did you have a chance to look at the accounts of Casperton Autos?’

  Alfonse and I exchange knowing glances at the chief’s question. Like everything else about Lunk, his accounts will be a mess. It would surprise me if his accounts are on paper let alone a computer.

  Any bill I’ve ever had from him was handwritten on cheap paper headed with nothing more than a variety of oily fingerprints. For minor jobs like new tyres or an exhaust, he’d pull a number out of his head and I’d pay cash without ever seeing a check. I’m sure the IRS are long overdue an investigation into his accounts, but that, quite literally, is his business.

  ‘What about you, Boulder? What have you learned today?’

  I tell them of my day, the visits to the grieving families and the hour I spent with Dr Edwards.

  He listens without interrupting, the pen in his hand scratching out notes onto the cluttered desk pad. His scrawled handwriting follows no logical pattern or direction. Notes are jotted at random points of the compass, the text assuming whichever direction his hand finds easiest. How he makes sense of it is beyond me, but it must work for him – he’s too experienced not to have learned the best way to work.

  When I finish he lays down his pen with a heavy sigh. ‘I’ve learned more from you two than I have from any four of my detectives.’

  There’s nothing we can say to this so we stay quiet waiting for him to continue.

  ‘You mentioned Evie Starr’s family were adamant she was loved by all who knew her. It’s a cliché, I know, but did you get any feeling they were looking through rose-tinted glasses?’

  ‘Not at all.’ I shake my head. ‘I spoke to one of her neighbours as well. She was always the first to contribute to bake sales or to help others whenever they needed it. She was so popular the kids in the neighbourhood called her Auntie Evie.’

  The chief kneads both temples at once.

  Now we’ve given him his information, it’s time for him to reciprocate. ‘Have you heard anything from the CSI team?’

  He nods and consults the mess of scribbles on his desk pad. ‘They found everything we expected them to and nothing we didn’t.’

  I know what he means. What had happened in her house was pretty obvious, but still we’d had an idea or two, which may help the CSI team get us a suspect, our best theory being the killer may have removed his gloves to wash the blood off her body.

  ‘Did they find any fingerprints in the shower?’

  ‘Only hers. The shower controls all had partial prints, which had been smudged. Piers, who was the lead investigator, said it’s typical of what happens when someone wearing gloves touches something.’

  The fact I was expecting this news doesn’t make it any easier to accept.

  ‘What else did they find?’

  Again the chief’s fingers reach for his temples. ‘Nothing that tells us anything new. Everything they told me just confirms what we suspected.’

  ‘What about how he got her from the house to the reservoir?’

  ‘There were no tyre tracks in her driveway other than the ones from her own car. A shed at the back of the house was found to have its lock broken.’

  A thought hits me. ‘Did you find the keys for her car?’

  ‘I didn’t know we were supposed to look for them.’

  ‘A dime says you don’t find them anywhere you’d expect them to be.’ The chief scowls so I keep going. ‘I’m guessing he used her car to drive to the reservoir. The broken lock on the shed is too coincidental not to be connected. Therefore, I figure he stole a wheelbarrow from the shed to carry her from the car to the bench. Once she is in place he takes the car back and walks away.’

  ‘Goddamn it, I think you’re on to something. If you’re right it explains why the neighbours didn’t see any strange vehicles in the area.’ He points at me. ‘You’ve been at the house – you’ve seen how easy it would be to approach from the back without being seen.’

  He reaches for the telephone on his desk. Dialling a number from memory, he waits for an answer then barks out a series of instructions. Whoever is on the other end of the line is left in little doubt of how quick the chief wants them to act.

  Ending the call, he turns to me. ‘That tyre print you found. I’ll bet a week’s salary it was the killer dumping the whee
lbarrow into the reservoir.’

  I’ve had the same thought. ‘Do you know anyone with diving equipment who can find out for you?’

  A malicious gleam twinkles in his eye. ‘Lieutenant Farrage is always talking about pool parties. I’m sure he’ll be able to swim down a few feet and find out if we’re right.’

  As much as I hold Farrage in the contempt he deserves, I don’t envy him the task of having to swim into the cold depths of the reservoir. Down below the surface in the shade of the trees there will be murky blackness, indistinct shapes and the pressure of the water squeezing his body.

  The water will push at his closed mouth, trying to force a way into his lungs. If it finds no entry there, it will refocus its attention on his nostrils. Whatever other faults he may have, Farrage will earn my respect if he can propel himself into the depths and find the wheelbarrow.

  ‘Here.’ The chief passes a folder to me and one to Alfonse. ‘I got these reports just before you arrived. I haven’t had time read them myself yet.’

  All three of us read in silence. It doesn’t take long to go through the pages. Not only are there few details to consider, but the detectives have shown their laziness by only recording the barest information in the briefest way possible.

  I expect their training will have taught them to record only the pertinent facts using the fewest words possible, but their idleness has progressed to new levels, thereby robbing the reports of any character. Not once is a theory offered forward, there’s just fact after fact delivered as a series of bullet points.

  There are statements from the young couple who found Evie Starr and the report from the CSI team who’d examined the dump site.

  Nothing my eyes land on does anything more than confirm what I already know or suspect.

  The chief slaps his papers onto the desk and glares at us. ‘Nothing. That’s what I get from these – absolutely nothing. Tell me you’ve got something.’

  Alfonse shakes his head while I remain still and silent.

  ‘You found something, Boulder?’

  ‘I don’t know. There’s something nagging at me, but I can’t figure out what it is.’

  ‘Figure quickly.’ Yet again the chief’s hands stray to his temples. ‘I want you to focus on the two women. The more I think about it, the less I believe Johnson’s murder is connected to the others.’

  I disagree with his way of thinking, but I’m aware he has more experience than me when it comes to hunting killers. Besides, unlike Farrage and his cronies, I don’t have to follow his every order.

  The chief looks at his watch. ‘We’ll meet here at noon unless something breaks through the night. If you think of anything, call me, regardless of the time.’

  44

  I get home and settle into my recliner with the reports. The thought nagging at me hasn’t come into bloom yet, but I intend to read them as often as necessary until it steps forward and identifies itself.

  Finding a rhythm, I pour over page after page until I’ve read every report twice.

  Inspiration eludes me as I try to reshape my questions to fit the knowledge accumulated so far.

  I make some notes which I score out when I realise other facts refute their validity.

  No matter which way I approach the problem it stays resolute, defiant of my attempts to solve it.

  I pick up the remaining few pages of Kira’s journal. Perhaps a change of focus will freshen my tired mind.

  As is always the way, it’s one of the last pages that gives me the breakthrough. There, among her ramblings about me, is a passage that makes my heart beat faster as the jigsaw in my mind begins to form a clear picture.

  If I’m right, there’s a serial killer targeting Casperton with a bizarre way of selecting his next victim.

  I grab my iPad and begin to seek out the registries Alfonse has shown me. I type in the hacked password he gave me and start my search.

  First I look at the local births and marriages register, tracing back the family tree of Evie Starr. Knowing she had two daughters and a son helps and it doesn’t take long to pinpoint their dates of birth.

  Finding the son’s children is easy as they will have the family name. He is the proud father of two sons. Both are unmarried so I can strike them from my thoughts.

  I cross-reference the dates of birth of the two daughters against the register of marriages. Using their married names, I return to the dates of birth and check for any children. One has two daughters but neither carries the name I’m looking for.

  Next I look at the second daughter and learn she’s been married twice. I’ve been looking for children from her second marriage. The first one only lasted two years but she’d produced a pair of twins.

  There in a small font is the name I am looking for. To be certain I have the right person, I enter her name into the search box. It comes back with one entry. Hers.

  I realise with a jolt I’ve gone about this the long way. If I’d started with her name and traced backwards I would have gotten the same verification of my theory two or three hours ago.

  I call Chief Watson. He doesn’t answer so I leave a message and call Alfonse.

  He listens as I tell him my theory and the research I’ve done. He agrees with my logic and promises the information I need within five minutes.

  Feeling adrenaline pulse through me, I try the chief again. He answers with a gruff voice laden with the nuances of the recently awoken.

  45

  The chief looks extra stressed as I stride into his office. One hand appears to be fixed to his temple as he speaks into the phone. The fact he’s not getting any joy with his requests for help shows on every crease of his face.

  The phone slams down and he glares at me as if it’s my fault. ‘Are you positive about this, Boulder?’

  ‘I wouldn’t have told you if I wasn’t.’ I pass across the printouts I’ve brought with me and hope he notices the needle in my voice. He can treat his subordinates however he likes, but I don’t take insults from anyone.

  He scans the pages and gives a terse nod. ‘You’re right. They are connected.’ He grabs a folder off his desk and waves at me to follow him as he moves towards the door.

  As we pass the front desk he leans over it, invading the desk sergeant’s personal space. ‘Get every officer you have the number for into this office in the next twenty minutes. I don’t care whether they’re traffic, detectives, off duty or retired. I want them here by the time I call you. Am I understood?’

  He doesn’t wait for an answer, so I match his pace as he hurries outside. I climb into his car without bothering to ask if he wants me along.

  The chief stands on the gas with vehemence. The tyres lay down a strip of rubber as the car shoots out of the parking lot with lights and sirens in full operation.

  ‘That’s a good call you made, Boulder.’ He sighs as his mind realigns itself from administration to action. ‘What put you onto it?’

  ‘I was reading Kira Niemeyer’s diary when I found out her cousin had discovered a person who’d hanged themselves. I remembered Kira’s body was found by Mrs Halliburton who is the sister of Paul Johnson. Two coincidences like that seemed a bit of a stretch, so I looked into the person that found Johnson’s body. She turned out to be Evie Starr’s granddaughter.’

  He negotiates a corner so fast the protest of tyres can be heard over the siren.

  Upon reaching our destination, the chief screeches to a halt on the wide road and jumps out. I’m a half pace behind him.

  He bangs on the door of a stereotypical house until the glass splinters. Still he bangs and hollers until a light comes on and a dark shape appears behind the glass.

  The door opens to reveal a man shaking off the effects of the sudden awakening. Stepping back, I can see other lights in the house turn on.

  ‘Mr Masterton, I’m Chief Watson and I need to talk to you at once. You are not in any trouble but members of your family may be in danger.’

  Masterton looks at me, then the chief
and back to me, his brain still too near sleep to process the information it is being given.

  I step forward and usher him backwards. ‘Your family are in danger. Get everybody in the house downstairs. Now!’

  My last word being shouted jolts something inside him. He stumbles up the stairs shouting names as he goes.

  Two minutes later his family are gathered in the lounge. There’s a son of college age, another in his mid-teens and a wife. All of them are sleep-tousled and the wife’s expression is that of a professional lemon taster. A cat stalks along the floor then leaps into the lap of the youngest son.

  The chief points at the elder son. ‘When Frederick here found the body of Evie Starr, we believe he was being watched.’

  ‘By whom?’ Even in her current state, the sour-faced woman gets her grammar correct.

  ‘The person who killed her and dumped her body there.’

  ‘I presume you’re connecting that lady with the two murders in the Gazette?’ Again it’s the woman who speaks. It doesn’t take much deduction to work out who rules this particular roost.

  The chief raises a hand towards his temple only to stop the movement at shoulder height. ‘Our intelligence leads us to think the killer watches to see who finds the bodies. Once he’s identified them he selects a member of their family as his next victim.’

  What little colour is in their faces drains away as the chief’s words sink in.

  ‘We need you to provide us with a list of your family members, their addresses and phone numbers.’

  ‘Beth. What about Beth? She was with me. Won’t she be at risk as well?’

  I turn to Frederick. ‘We’re going there next. Don’t worry, she’ll be fine.’

  Mrs Masterton takes control of the situation. ‘Frederick. Will you bring me a pen, some paper and my cell please? The sooner we do this, the sooner they can go and warn her.’