The Jake Boulder Series: books 1 - 3

by Graham Smith

  I knock on the right door and hear a TV being turned down. Norm’s face appears as the door opens. He looks as if he’s had less sleep than me.

  Seeing him in proper light for the first time I notice how gaunt and drawn his face is, that his belt shows wear on each of the holes. He must have lost weight recently, although his bare arms show tight knots of muscle.

  ‘Morning.’ I drop the good from the greeting on purpose. If we’re right about the body, there isn’t going to be anything good about today. ‘I’m sorry to trouble you, but there was a body found a couple of hours ago. It matches the description you gave us for Josie.’

  His hand flies to his mouth and he takes a few steps backwards until his legs collide with the bed. As he sits, springs creak. He raises his eyes to my face. ‘Are you sure it’s her?’

  ‘I’m afraid not. We’ll need someone to make a formal identification.’ I’m winging it, but to my ears the words sound like something a cop would say.

  I pull my cell out. ‘I have a picture of the victim on here. Do you think you could take a look and see if it’s Josie?’

  Norm doesn’t speak, but his arm extends in my direction. Handing over the cell, I watch to see his reaction.

  It’s a muted one. He looks at the image for a few seconds then passes the cell back. ‘It’s Josie. She looks so peaceful.’ His voice is a whisper.

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘How did she die? Will there need to be an autopsy?’

  ‘We’re not sure yet, but there will be an autopsy and it should tell us how she died.’ I’d like to tell him she didn’t suffer, but without knowing the details, I’m reluctant to say anything in case I’m wrong.

  ‘Will we be able to go home now?’

  I’m not sure if I have the authority to make this decision, but I make it anyway.

  ‘I don’t see why not.’

  I leave him with his thoughts and a promise someone will bring them more news as soon as we have it.

  Before climbing into my car, I call Alfonse and point him at Roger Ingerson. I want to know anything and everything he can dig up about the first victim, as I’m sure that’s where the key to the killer’s identity will lie.

  72

  Norm lies on his bed and savours the irony. His next victim asking him to identify the previous one is delicious. It’s more than enough to make up for having to spend the night in this crummy motel.

  He’d made sure to give Boulder a careful look over when acting shocked about Josie. The man was in good shape, his movements fluid despite an obvious discomfort at the news he was delivering.

  There had been a temptation to attack him there and then. A solid blow to the solar plexus followed by a sleeper hold would have done the trick nicely, but in doing so he would have unmasked himself as the killer.

  Plus, he wants the random selection of the method to throw up one of the delights he still has in store.

  When Boulder left, he’d noticed the bulge at the back of his waistband.

  There is no telling how proficient with a gun he is, but the information is collected and stored as he begins to plot ways to capture him.

  He gathers his jacket and leaves the room. Five paces along the hallway he knocks on the door of his parents’ room. Mom answers and lets him in. He feigns shock as he informs them of Josie’s death.

  They sit in silence for a time, then Norm leaves them to come to terms with the news.

  As he hands the room key back to the receptionist, he sees which other keys are missing from the row of pegs. He knows from a conversation with a cop the whole corridor was reserved by the police. The empty pegs tell him which rooms Boulder’s family have been allocated.

  Norm smiles as he realises the significance of just two keys being missing. Boulder’s sister and mother are here but the man himself isn’t staying to be guarded.

  Instead, Boulder is still active. If he’s active he’s vulnerable.

  The feds and local cops will be watching his back, but Boulder is unpredictable and will at some point do something that puts him at risk.

  He’ll be there, ready to kill him.

  Norm leaves the motel and decides to walk home. The fresh air and exercise will invigorate his body. He wants to be as energised as possible when he tackles Boulder.

  He passes a 7-Eleven but turns back and walks in. He buys a copy of the Casperton Gazette, scans the front-page headlines and skim reads the article by Ms Rosenberg outside the store. She’s covering the murder of Angus Oberton. What pleases him most is the nickname she’s given the killer.

  He loves being called ‘The Watcher’; it’s perfect as it’s exactly what he does. He watches. If he’s lucky it will stick. A good nickname will help secure his place in history.

  73

  I find the press camped out in the station’s reception area. Ms Rosenberg is at the head of their ranks as they clamour for more information about the two latest victims.

  Her eyes pick me out as I try to sneak into Chief Watson’s office. She approaches with a raptor-like expression. As usual she’s wearing enough foundation to support a skyscraper.

  ‘Are you any nearer to catching the Watcher? Have you any leads? How many more people must die before he’s stopped?’

  I keep my mouth shut. I’m not even prepared to say ‘no comment’. It’s the chief and Doenig’s place to speak to the press. Maybe the mayor’s too.

  Their moniker for him is apt though. ‘The Watcher’ is the perfect fit.

  When I enter the chief’s office, I find him and Doenig briefing one of the FBI agents.

  Doenig sees me enter and points at his colleague. ‘This is Agent Cuthbert. He’s going to be your bodyguard.’

  I flick my eyes at Cuthbert. He’s dressed in a sombre dark suit, has the necessary cropped hair and the stance of someone expecting trouble. The way his arms are held makes him look like a cross between a gunslinger and someone carrying two rolls of carpet.

  ‘No offence, but isn’t he a little obvious as a feebie?’

  Doenig scowls at me. ‘He’ll lose the suit and get some normal clothes. We do actually train for this type of situation in the FBI.’

  I mumble an apology and avoid his eye. I can feel colour filling my cheeks at my naivety.

  Cuthbert leaves the room so I use the distraction to ask the chief what he wants me to do next.

  ‘I want you to go over all the reports. The ones from the CSI teams, the coroner, the investigating officers. You’re looking for anything that can possibly be used to identify the killer. You need anything, ask Darla.’

  I understand he is both dismissing me and keeping me close.

  He doesn’t dare have me running around town where the Watcher can attack me. Therefore, he is using me to double check and reassess all the details in the safe environment of the police station. Cuthbert is sure to be the pedantic type who’ll never be more than six feet away.

  There is no way the Watcher will try anything when I am so well protected. He’ll either wait until the levels of security are lessened, or abandon his selection process and find another victim.

  I’ll need to find a way to persuade Cuthbert to give the Watcher enough space to feel confident he can attack me but not so much my life is at risk.

  After leaving the chief’s office, I ignore Ms Rosenberg again and speak to Darla. She promises to bring me the reports I’ve asked for.

  I choose to use the office Alfonse used yesterday. It’s hot and stuffy with the aroma of stale sweat and junk food, so I open the windows and take a seat where the breeze cools me while also taking the worst of the nasty smells away.

  ‘Here you are, sweetie.’ Darla dumps a stack of files onto the desk nearest me. ‘Good luck with that lot.’

  I know what she means. I’ve read most of these files already and I haven’t seen anything of note. Perhaps getting all their information into my brain in one pass will make the details more pertinent in relation to each other.

  When Cuthbert arrives ba
ck, I’m so engrossed with a report I don’t notice him until he’s at my side.

  ‘Are you serious? Are you trying to get yourself killed?’ His blank face is showing its first impression and it’s one of complete disgust and amazement. ‘You’re the target of a serial killer and you’re sitting by an open window. Not only that but you’re so wrapped up in what you’re doing, you’re not paying any attention to what’s going on around you.’

  As he’s berating me, he goes round the room closing windows and dropping blinds. I can understand his frustration and anger. In his position I’d be the same.

  Not only is he tasked with a dangerous duty, the person he’s protecting seems to have no idea about basic common sense precautions. For him, this is the type of assignment on which careers are made or broken. Anything bad happening to me will, for him, be the equivalent of writing a letter of resignation.

  Seeing the scale of his reaction, I realise there’s no way I’ll be able to persuade him to let me draw the killer out.

  I try to placate him by apologising then asking his opinion about the facts I’ve gleaned so far.

  The distraction works. There’s every chance it’s the first time he’s been asked to contribute on anything other than guard duty since arriving in Casperton.

  We settle into an uneasy truce and each pick up a file. The room becomes stuffy again, but Cuthbert ignores it and I think better of asking for an opened window.

  We’re reading the files in chronological order. From time to time, he’ll ask me a question. It’s usually something to do with local knowledge, but one or two of his points are good ones.

  After six hours with nothing more than coffee I call a halt and stand up. ‘C’mon. We need to eat and I want to speak to someone who’s doing research for me.’

  Cuthbert reaches for a phone. ‘We’ll order in.’

  ‘No we won’t. It’s the middle of the day and we’ll be eating in a crowded public place.’ He doesn’t put down the phone so I push harder. ‘Trust me, it’ll be fine. My treat.’

  He wavers so I walk towards the door forcing him to make a decision one way or the other. He puts down the phone and picks up his jacket.

  74

  Instead of my usual seat at the counter, he directs me to a booth at the back. I can see why he’s chosen the booth. From our seats we have a full view of the diner and can see both entrances and the doors to the bathrooms. Nobody can approach us unseen by his watchful eyes.

  He surprises me by foregoing the chilli burger I recommend and selects a vegetable and pasta bake. I’d pretty much assumed all FBI agents would be macho dudes who’d eat plenty of red meat and drink bourbon by the bucket.

  He doesn’t offer an explanation and I don’t ask for one. His diet is his own business.

  I ask about his family and where he’s from, but other than the barest details he doesn’t tell me anything.

  Giving up on the small talk, I concentrate on my burger, savouring the burn from the jalapenos and the spicy wedges accompanying it.

  As I’m eating, my mind is still leafing through the files. Checking and cross-checking details. After everything I’ve read this morning, I’m still no closer to making a decent connection.

  My only hope is Alfonse has something for me. The lack of contact from him suggests otherwise though.

  I pay the check as promised and leave Sherri’s with Cuthbert’s understated praise for the diner making me smile.

  The gun nestling in the small of my back is uncomfortable, but there’s no way I’m going to remove it.

  When we arrive at Alfonse’s, I reassure Cuthbert he can talk freely in front of my friend. The last thing we need is FBI reticence impounding on our conversation.

  His mouth and eyes give me two different replies.

  Alfonse is at his desk with his laptop open. He looks pissed and not just with his results.

  Cuthbert positions himself by the door and leaves us to talk.

  ‘What you got?’

  He pulls a face. ‘Little more than nothing. Ingerson was no saint, but his record is clean enough and the friends of his I spoke to said he was never one to start a fight.’

  ‘His wife intimated he finished a few.’

  ‘Sound like anyone we know?’ If his tone drips any more scorn he’ll have to wipe his chin. His eyes bore into mine. ‘By all accounts he’d do enough to stop them and leave it at that.’

  I give a half shrug. Big deal, Ingerson’s philosophy matches my own.

  Once you’ve knocked the fight out of someone, there’s little point in continuing to hit them. All you do is create room for grudges to develop. Hospitalising people comes with its own risks, namely incarceration and a heightened desire for violent revenge.

  ‘Did you speak to any of the guys he fought?’

  ‘Most of them. They all said they’d picked the fight for one reason or another and had their ass handed to them.’

  ‘What were the reasons they gave?’

  He spears me with another glower. ‘Flirting with their girlfriends mostly. The friends I spoke to said he was like that. He’d chat to women and flirt with them but would never follow it up.’

  Again it sounds familiar, but at least I try not to flirt with anyone who’s already dating.

  ‘Any other reasons?’

  ‘There was an accusation of him being a card sharp during a game of poker which turned into a fight.’

  I feel my pulse quicken; money is one of the main reasons for crime. ‘What happened?’

  ‘After a couple of punches were traded Ingerson showed the guy his cards.’ Alfonse grimaces. ‘A two, six, seven, jack and king spread across all four suits.’

  I wince. Even with what little I know about poker, I recognise it’s a poor hand.

  ‘Did any of the people you spoke to know of anyone with a grudge against him?’

  ‘None they’d admit to. Even the guys who’d lost to him said he could have pounded on them more but stopped as soon as they went down.’

  I get the picture. It’s an unwritten dude rule. When someone hands you your ass, but stops as soon as the fight is out of you, you accept the better fighter won and leave it there.

  It’s something I’ve seen many times at the Tree. Two guys will knock seven bells out of each other one night, then get drunk together and reminisce over the fight the next.

  ‘Is there anybody worth taking a closer look at?’ I’m thinking a couple of hours being grilled by the FBI will shake loose any details someone’s holding back on.

  ‘Nobody I’ve found yet.’ For the first time since I arrived, he looks at me without anger or fear. ‘I’m gonna keep digging in case I’ve missed something.’

  Cuthbert’s pronounced tones enter the conversation for the first time. ‘You sure Ingerson was the first of the Watcher’s victims?’

  ‘He’s the first as far as the chain is concerned. There may be others who don’t match the Watcher’s methods, but he’s definitely where the chain begins.’

  I have a thought. ‘Try looking at his family as well. Perhaps one of them has wronged the killer and he’s exacted a twisted kind of revenge.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘He’s targeting family members of those who find the bodies he’s left. Perhaps one of Ingerson’s family found out something about him.’

  Alfonse’s face lights up at my suggestion and Cuthbert nods his head. ‘Good idea. I like your train of thought.’

  From the taciturn agent, the two sentences are equivalent to a ticker tape parade.

  75

  Norm watches as the Mustang turns off Main Street and pulls into the police car park. The man with Boulder is a new face in town, but he pegs him as an FBI agent who’s been given bodyguard duty.

  The man has the institutionalised air of conformity about him. From the buzz cut to the square stance and expressionless face, he may as well be wearing a windbreaker with ‘FBI’ stencilled on the back in yellow letters. The clothes he wears still carry the
creases from where they’ve been folded into their sales packaging.

  The man has a bulge in his jacket where a left-handed person would carry a gun. There’s no sign of a shoulder holster but he knows it’ll be there. The lump in the jacket is as obvious to his trained eye as a signal flare.

  What he’s waiting for is that fraction of a second when their guard is down and he can make his move.

  One positive thing he’s learned from tailing them is Boulder’s unfamiliarity with the gun stuffed into the back of his waistband. Every minute or two he slips a hand round his back, either to check it’s there or to move it into a more comfortable position.

  The way his shirt hangs over it is no problem to a trained professional, but a panicking amateur is more likely to get his gun or hand tangled. He might free it in a second or two, but two seconds in a takedown situation is a long time.

  Add the element of fear and he’ll only have to worry about the feebie in the first five seconds. Fingering the Tasers in his pocket, he’s content with the time frame; all he needs to do is wait for the right opportunity.

  The draw he made earlier has thrown up the one method he’d been hoping not to get. He’d wanted something gorier and more painful for the man whose investigative prowess has caused so many problems. While enjoying the challenge, he’d hoped there would be more time wasted by the town’s detectives before the pattern was recognised.

  Boulder’s interference wasn’t something he’d expected, but the fact the FBI would become involved was anticipated.

  Whatever happens now, his place in history is cemented. All he has to do is keep going as long as possible. The higher the tally, the greater his legend.

  76

  I toss the last report onto the pile for Cuthbert and stand up. Arching my back, I go through a few stretches to try and remove the stiffness.