by Graham Smith
Once upright, the hands push him towards the watery sounds. A minute later he sees the narrow creek. At best it’s six feet wide and three deep.
A violent shove propels him forward until he’s at the edge of the water. Another sends him stumbling into the cold clear water. A gasp escapes his lips as he trips, and falls headlong into the water.
The shock of the cold water is enough to kick-start his body into a semblance of normality. His hands being tied make it hard work, but he manages to right himself and rise to his feet.
He sees them all now. The stranger, a bald man and a callow youth. Their faces are blank apart from looks of disdain. It’s as if they’d rather eat their own shit than look at him. It’s a look he’s used to. While he’d made the step of coming out at his retirement party, he’d never hid his sexuality. For a man of his generation it had meant stares, pointed fingers and a barrage of homophobic comments.
Twice in his life he’d endured physical assaults. He guesses today is going to be the third. The guys in front of him are stupid; they’re showing their faces. He uses his training to memorise the details – the shape of noses, eye and hair colour and everything else he can.
The stranger points at him and the bank of the creek. Pederson thinks about disobeying, but decides obedience is his best bet to minimise the forthcoming beating. Retaliation will do nothing but increase the levels of anger, therefore increasing the amount of punishment.
The idea of defending himself is discarded at once. Nothing will increase his suffering more than antagonising the men by hurting them. Three onto one is a tough proposition at the best of times, plus he’s bound, hung over and years older than his adversaries. Not even the most optimistic gambler would bet a red cent on him winning.
He feels a tremor in his limbs as the men lead him towards a spruce tree. Whatever beating he’s in for, will take place here. A rope hangs from a branch. He’s delighted to note the end isn’t tied into a noose.
The youth throws a punch into his stomach, doubling him over in pain. Before he can straighten up, the loose end of the rope is looped around the one binding his hands, pulled tight above his head and tied in a rough knot.
Pederson can move three or four feet in any direction before the rope prohibits him from travelling further.
The stranger approaches, malice written all over his face. ‘Leviticus; chapter twenty; verse thirteen; states: “if a man lie with mankind, as with womankind, both of them have committed abomination: they shall surely be put to death; their blood shall be upon them”.’ Pederson’s bowels empty as the stranger continues. ‘In accordance with God’s holy law, we, the Christian Knights of America, sentence you to death for the crime of lying with other men.’
Two of the men facing Pederson bend to the ground and pick up fist sized rocks. The youth holds a cell phone which Pederson recognises as his own.
The first rock misses. The second crashes into his left foot making him yelp as he hops on his one good foot.
57
I look around the waiting room and find nothing of any interest – there are bland pictures and out of date magazines just as there are in waiting rooms the world over. Ligotti being with a client has me kicking my heels until I can speak to him.
Before coming here I’d swung by Will Pederson’s place. It was deserted with no car on the drive. A peek through some of the windows had revealed nothing beyond a typical man’s home. Tidy and minimal with no soft furnishings or floral touches. Pederson might be gay, but he isn’t effeminate.
I’d tried a couple of Pederson’s neighbours. They’d known nothing of his movements, but had said it wasn’t unusual for him not to come home.
Whichever way up I stand it, Pederson is missing, but until we know whether he’s alley-catting as Granny called it, or has been abducted, there’s nothing we can do.
I’ve emailed Pederson’s cell number to Alfonse with a request he run a trace on it.
A secretary or paralegal walks in. ‘Mr Ligotti will see you now.’
Ligotti is pacing when I enter his office. Any thoughts that his last meeting is the source of his agitation are blown away when he opens his mouth. ‘What is it this time? We’re trying to run a business here and, as you well know, we’re now short-staffed.’
His sarcasm is aimed towards the wrong target at the wrong time. I only hit him once. A short dig to the underside of his ribs. Just hard enough to knock the breath from his body and double him over.
While he’s gasping for breath I explain some facts of life to him. Perhaps it’s harsh of me to have lashed out, but his priorities are in dire need of re-calibration.
‘Now that we’re on the same page, Mr Ligotti, I want you to understand that I, my colleague and the police will come here as often as is necessary. And if I should hear another complaint from you about being short-staffed because of Darryl’s murder, I will make a point of informing Ms Rosenberg, and all your staff, just what a callous piece of crap you are. Do you understand me?’
‘Yes, damn you. There was no need to hit me.’
I disagree. Unlike him, I’m not going to waste time arguing semantics. We’ve established I’m the alpha male in the room. ‘You bought some cigars. One was found on the trail leading to where Darryl and his family were found. Can you explain that, or should I call the police and have them arrest you?’
It’s not often you see a face pale when it’s gasping for breath. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about. There’s no way I was involved in what happened to him and his family.’
I sit in Ligotti’s chair and cross my feet on his desk. ‘I didn’t ask if you knew about it, I asked you to explain.’
‘I don’t smoke – cigarettes or cigars.’
‘Then why did you buy them?’
‘To use as gifts. From time to time we throw parties for our best clients. Sometimes I buy a box of cigars to hand out and other times I’ll get a few bottles of cognac or malt whisky.’
What he’s saying makes sense. He’s not someone I suspect, but it doesn’t hurt to make him think I do. ‘The cigars I’m interested in are Royal Jamaica Extrafinos No. 4s. Can you remember who you gave them to?’
‘Those are the ones I always buy.’ He looks at the ceiling as he thinks. ‘The Mayor, Eddy Hall, Darryl and—.’
I don’t hear any more names after Darryl’s. We know the killers help themselves to things from their victims’ houses. Noelle’s cell being grabbed has taught us as much. I’ve attended many parties where Darryl has been present. Cigars have been handed round and he’s never accepted any. I figure he didn’t want to refuse his boss’s generosity, Ligotti doesn’t seem like the kind of employer who’ll tolerate a subordinate refusing a gift.
Give Ligotti his due, he’s not just telling me who was at the party, he’s scribbling their names down on a legal pad. He passes the sheet across when he finishes writing. ‘I shudder to ask, but is there anything else I can help you with?’
Traces of sarcasm have returned, but he’s smart enough to stay out of reach. It wouldn’t be fair to hit him a second time just because a lead has turned into a dead end. He doesn’t need to know it though.
I stand and move towards him. ‘Next time I come here, you will drop whatever you’re doing and offer me full co-operation, won’t you?’
He gives a quick series of nods as he backs himself against a wall.
58
Dr Edwards greets me with a quizzical look when I walk into his office and take my usual seat.
‘Why is it that my receptionist gives you every free appointment I have?’
I don’t bother answering his question, instead, I throw one of my own at him. ‘Have you heard about the latest killing?’
‘The last one I heard about was the Asian woman who was impaled. Has there been another?’
I bring him up to speed with a few short sentences. He makes notes as I speak and twists his lips at the more graphic details.
‘You’re not here because they’ve
broken cover and escalated their profile. You’re smart enough to recognise that yourself. I’m guessing the FBI are now involved and they’ve cut you out. They’ll have their own psychologists and behavioural analysts who’ll be far better suited to making speculative guesses than me. So, Jake, why are you here?’
It’s a good question. One I’m not sure of the answer to. When Taylor had told me about the free appointment I’d jumped at it without thinking what I wanted to talk to the doctor about. Perhaps a latent part of my brain wants me to discuss the feelings I have for Taylor, or maybe I know I have to talk about the nightmares; a third option is John. It’s not every day your family tree grows a new branch.
A thought strikes me and I use it to get myself out of the hole. ‘I’m pretty sure that whoever is masterminding these crimes is a very intelligent man. He’s smart, organised and, now they’ve broken cover, it’s clear he knows how best to maximise their exposure. What’s your take on him?’
‘Like you say, he’s clever. I’d guess he’d be accepted into any Ivy League College he applied to. He’s also attuned to social media and is a manipulator.’ The edges of the doctor’s mouth twitch as he warms to his theme. ‘It’s a given that he or she is charismatic. To get others involved in homicides is one thing; to have them believe they can drive out what they deem as undesirable elements, with vicious executions, is another. There’s also the name they’ve given themselves; Christian Knights of America has Klan connotations.’
‘It’s grandiose isn’t it?’
‘That, and pretentious. It’s also a clarion call to the right wing elements of Klan memberships. In fact, it will appeal to racists and bigots worldwide.’
‘You mean like David Koresh?’
‘Similar, but his goals are more along the lines of ethnic cleansing than messianic. Think Hitler, not L. Ron Hubbard.’
It takes a conscious effort not to gape like an idiot. ‘Seriously, you’re comparing this guy to Hitler?’
‘Absolutely. From what you’ve told me, I’d have to say this guy is a charismatic megalomaniac, who sees murder as a way to dispose of the elements of society he doesn’t like. How have you been sleeping?’
His attempt to catch me off guard almost succeeds. ‘Not too bad. So how are we supposed to figure out who this guy is?’
‘You’re the one assuming the role of detective. That’s something I can’t help you with. You say you’re not sleeping too bad, would I be right in also interpreting that you’re not sleeping too good either?’
‘I killed a man. I wouldn’t be normal if I didn’t have the odd dream about it. Leaving the main man out of it for a while, what would his followers be like?’
‘Good question. They’ll be tough men who’ve had hard lives. They’ll be nothing like as smart as their leader is, but they won’t know it. He’ll show just enough of his intelligence for them to be compliant. If they feel he’s too smart, they’ll figure he’s using them. You say you lose the odd night’s sleep. Not just a few hours here and there. Do you worry about the nightmares before you go to sleep?’
I don’t know how to tell him that I’m terrified of my nightmares – I’m not even sure I want to. There’s no way I’m prepared to tell him I’m reluctant to go to sleep in case the nightmares come. The physical experience was bad enough without reliving it on a nightly basis. ‘What age will these men be?’
‘Your failing to answer my question means I’m going to assume you do worry about the nightmares coming.’ He adds another note to my file. ‘The killers could be of any age. Or gender. Are you taking anything to help you sleep?’
‘Nothing.’ I don’t mention the occasional gutful of alcohol. The less he knows about my drinking habits the better. ‘You think women might be involved? That sounds like a bit of a stretch to me.’
‘Perhaps, but look at the way sex is used as a sales tool. Sexual manipulation happens all the time. Who’s to say the brains behind these crimes is male or female? While males are more commonly associated with these kinds of crimes, there are many women who have committed despicable acts.’
There’s not a lot I can say to that, so I say nothing more than goodbye. I’ve learned a little and I’m sure he has too.
When I check my cell on the way out, I find an email from Alfonse telling me to get to his place as soon as I can.
There are no clues as to the reason, just a terse message.
He may still be pissed at me, but at least he’s communicating.
59
When I leave the office of Doctor Edwards, I find the ever pernicious Ms Rosenberg leaning against my car. A half dozen cigarette butts litter the ground at her feet.
She’s wearing her usual two-piece – today’s is grey with irregular flecks. Perhaps they’re not flecks but ash from the constant stream of cigarettes she devours.
As ever, her perfume reaches me before the cigarette smoke.
‘Morning.’
‘Yeah, yeah. Good morning and all that.’ She talks round the cigarette which dangles from her mouth. ‘You’ve got the inside track again, Boulder. Tell me, what’s going on?’
‘Bad people are killing good people in really bad ways.’
My flippant reply gets me a mouthful of second-hand smoke. ‘Don’t give me any sass, Boulder. I’m not in the mood.’
I’m not surprised. A whole media storm has erupted in her backyard and she wasn’t invited to the party. Her omission from the killers’ list of people to notify, will rankle on both a personal and professional level.
As a rule of thumb, major stories filter up from local to national level. The alteration to this status quo has left her floundering. The only way she can now compete with the big boys, is to use her local knowledge to get an inside scoop.
Having seen me with Chief Watson at two crime scenes, she’s now looking for me to be the one to reinstate her edge.
‘What do you want?’
‘I want to know what the police are doing to protect the local citizens; what the FBI are doing to catch these killers; and what you yourself are doing.’
‘I can’t help you. The police and the FBI are the ones you need to ask the question of. Surely they’ve arranged a press conference?’
‘Yeah. The director of the FBI is giving one right about now. In the J. Edgar Hoover building. In Washington.’
The way she’s fragmenting her sentences doubles the frustration in her tone. It’s no wonder she’s annoyed – the biggest story of the year is happening on her doorstep and she’s being kept inside.
‘What about Mayor Farrage, isn’t he going to say a few words, try and reassure the locals?’
‘Pah. Any cub-reporter can take down what he says and write up his statement. I’m after a story not a script. Why are you seeing Dr Edwards, are you consulting him?’
I don’t want her to know about my meetings with the doctor so I try a little deflection. ‘I went in to see Taylor, his receptionist. She’s the girl you saw me at dinner with the other night.’
‘I know who she is. I’ve been watching her through the glass door for half an hour. I never saw you until a few minutes ago. You spent no more than a minute or two with her before coming out here. Now, are you going to tell me the truth, or have I got to make up a story about how the heroic Jake Boulder is so traumatised by his exploits he’s now seeking counselling?’
‘Your threats won’t work on me.’ They would if I wasn’t so convinced they are an empty bluff. ‘You don’t want to write a speculative piece about something that’s now a historical event. You want to be in at the heart of the story that’s breaking. If it was any other way you wouldn’t be talking to me in the hope of getting a scoop or an angle.’
‘Touché.’ She gives what she thinks is a smile. It’s more of a pained grimace. ‘So, what angles are you investigating?’
If it wasn’t for the fact that my actions, since being chased off the investigation by Gaertner, have all been wrong, stupid or both, I’d give her something to work with. T
he last thing I need is for her to celebrate my involvement in print. Gaertner would use it as an excuse to imprison me for interfering in an FBI investigation.
‘None. The FBI are in charge now. This is too big for me, they have all the resources and training.’
‘You make a poor liar, Boulder. The family who were killed are related to your buddy. There’s no way you’re giving this one up. You just don’t want me knowing. Or perhaps more pertinently, you don’t want me mentioning it in print. Did the FBI toss you out on your ear and tell you to stay clear?’
I don’t answer her. She drops her cigarette and pulls another from a pack in her purse. She waits until a young mother loads her children into the car parked next to mine before continuing. ‘C’mon, Boulder, you’re bound to have something you can give me.’
I’m not sure I have anything of any use to her, but I do have an idea she may find useful. ‘You’ve railed on Lieutenant Farrage and his cronies often enough. Why not go the other way this time?’
‘I can’t praise them. Not after everything I’ve said in the past. I’d be contradicting myself.’
I shake my head. ‘You misunderstand me. I mean you should say the task is beyond them, but that’s okay, no small town police force is equipped or trained to deal with this kind of threat.’
‘Why should I give them an easy ride this time? Lots of other journalists will be writing the same kind of thing. What’ll make mine unique?’
‘Your local knowledge. Leave the eulogies to someone else and write about the effect this is having on Casperton. Only a local can gauge the mood with any accuracy. Every other journalist will be getting soundbites from those brassy enough to speak to them. You know yourself, those who speak out rarely give a true feel for a community’s mood. With your local knowledge and list of contacts, you can become both the barometer and voice of Casperton.’