by Graham Smith
I ignore his ire. I need to know what the police and FBI are doing so I don’t waste time doing the same thing.
Chief Watson snatches up his phone before the first ring finishes. ‘Yes?’
I watch his face as he listens to the caller. Whatever he’s being told, isn’t good news. The knuckles of his free hand are at their usual place, massaging his temple.
His end of the conversation doesn’t give much away, but I can guess the general topic.
As soon as he hangs up I speak. ‘Well?’
‘None of them were there except David and the women.’
‘Young David was there. Are they bringing him in?’
‘Not the young David, his grandfather. Gaertner is bringing them all in, but David Jones is denying all knowledge of the fight tonight, and says he’s never left the house. The women are all backing his story up. They’re lying of course, but at the moment it’s your word against his.’
‘I’ll take you up to where the fight was. Show you the blood.’
He raises a hand. ‘I believe you, Boulder. We just need to get proof they were there.’
‘What about Kevin and Connor, where does he say they are?’
‘He claims they had a falling out and he hasn’t seen them for two years. It’s bull and we all know it, but if he and those women all stick to the story there’s damn little we can do without proof.’
‘What about this Brian guy, did Gaertner ask Jones about him?’
‘He didn’t say. They’re bringing them back here and will sweat them, see if someone breaks rank.’ His head shakes. ‘If anyone does, it’ll be one of the women. Can’t see it myself though.’
I don’t like his assessment, but I have to agree with it. While people like the Jones and Augiers family aren’t what you’d call rednecks, they’re only a half-step away. They have a natural distrust of what they think of as city folks. Authority figures like the police and FBI are viewed with suspicion. Gaertner and his men will have a tough job breaking their resistance. Threats of jail won’t work. For people used to scratching a living from unforgiving territory, a vacation at the government’s expense holds no threat.
The other overriding factors will be their fear of Old Man Jones and Brian; plus the fact that any admission they make could mean life imprisonment, or Death Row, for their loved ones.
‘You say you saw this Brian guy?’
‘That’s right.’ I give him the best description I can. The distance between us and the horror of the knife fight prevented me from getting as good a look at him as I had wanted.
He opens a file and passes me a sheet of paper. It’s a computer generated picture of a man. It’s a fair approximation of Brian, but I’m too sketchy on the details to point out the flaws that prevent it from being a perfect likeness.
‘That’s him. Have you run him through your computers?’
‘Gaertner has. Says they didn’t get any hits.’
That’s telling in itself. If the guy isn’t on the FBI’s radar, or that of any other agency, there’s little chance of getting his real identity without one of the Jones family spilling their guts.
If Connor, Kevin and Young David aren’t at home, they must be with Brian. Which means they’re either acting out their next atrocity, or they’re planning it.
‘You heard news bulletins today, Boulder?’
‘No.’ My answer is hesitant as a growing feeling of dread envelops me. ‘Why?’
‘The copycats have started. There have been three stonings and one beheading. There’s also been a serious upsurge in Klan style activity all over the country.’
‘I take it there’s been an increased police presence in sensitive areas?’
‘Hell yeah. The national guard has been called out in a lot of places.’ He gives a scowl of annoyance. ‘Domestic shootings have doubled in black households because they’re so damned scared they’re shooting at the slightest noise and killing their own family. Wouldn’t be so bad if they were shooting burglars.’
When the wider media starts tracking back, and learns about the burning crosses and impalement, things will get worse in a hurry. I’m all for free speech and a free press, but there are times when they ought to display a better social conscience about what they publish. I’m not convinced their editors and shareholders will share my sentiments though.
He doesn’t mention the pressure of having the world’s eyes watching Casperton. He doesn’t need to, it’s evident on his face and in his every gesture. However he’s feeling, Gaertner will have it double or treble. It’s only a matter of time before the Special Agent in charge of Utah, or a bigwig from Washington, comes to take over from him. The second they arrive in Casperton, his career will be tarnished and he’ll be forever thought of as the man who failed.
I leave before Gaertner returns with the Jones family. He’ll want to bawl me out, and if Old Man Jones sees me he’ll want to issue whatever the hillbilly equivalent of a fatwah is.
74
Alfonse’s face shows concern when he sees mine. I wave away his worries and change the subject to the matter at hand.
He’s up to speed because, as soon as I’d finished speaking to Chief Watson on my frantic drive back to Casperton, I’d called him.
‘Those names I got from the bank, how’d you get on with them?’
He smiles. ‘Well. Working from your description of the guy calling himself Brian, I’ve pinned it down to three people.’
‘Who are they?’
‘Ian Lindstrom, Vern Tate and Penelope Anderson.’
‘What you got on them?’
He gives me three sheets of paper, and time to read them. As ever, Alfonse has provided a detailed report on each person.
Ian Lindstrom’s loan application was turned down because his business plan wasn’t considered to be viable. Since being refused by Sherrelle, he’s failed to secure funding elsewhere and his bakery store has closed.
To confound matters, his listed address has changed from an upscale location to an apartment in a block nicknamed the Lonely Hearts Club, due to the number of recently divorced people passing through its doors.
Alfonse’s notes state that his Facebook pictures are all images of delicacies from his bakery. Dr Edwards would suggest he’s living in the past. I’d agree with him.
It’s almost too pat, how his life has nosedived since Sherrelle rejected his loan. A nagging doubt pulls at the back of my mind.
‘Did you Google him, see what’s in the local news items?’
He pulls a face. ‘Nine out of ten times, doing that is a waste of time.’
‘Humour me.’
He blows a raspberry as he reaches for his laptop.
I read the report on Vern Tate next. It’s a similar tale with two key differences. Tate’s business has survived, although it’s only just breaking even. He’s also still with his wife. A picture gleaned from his Twitter account shows a family portrait of them and their daughter. Without being judgemental about his wife, it’s hard not to think Tate is punching above his weight.
‘Dammit. Strike Lindstrom from the list, he’s black.’
‘Why dammit? Surely it’s good to eliminate a suspect?’
He scowls at me. ‘Of course it is. I just had him as my favourite.’
I hide my smile from him – aware of how much he hates it when his hunches are proven wrong.
I change the subject. ‘What do you make of Tate?’
‘Not a lot. He’s not fared well since being turned down, but he’s still got his business and his family. He’s a possible. What about the woman?’
‘Brian is a man.’
‘Well duh. Read the report, Jake.’
For once in my life, I do as I’m told.
Penelope Anderson tried to borrow a hundred thousand bucks so she could open a health food shop. Her husband’s name is also on the application: Richard B. Anderson. At this minute, I’d bet every one of the sixty thousand dollars in my pocket that the B stands for Brian.
‘What else you got on them?’
He shrugs. ‘Nothing yet, but I’m working on it. I’ve programs running their details now.’
I’m about to call Chief Watson when Alfonse shakes his head. ‘I Googled their address along with the other ones. Their house burned down two years ago. I’ve been through the postal service trying to find a forwarding address for them but I’ve come up blank.’
‘We should still tell the chief. The FBI may know a way to find out where he lives now.’
‘They might. I doubt it, but they might.’
I’ve hurt his professional pride as a hacker. Tough. There are bigger issues at stake than his feelings. I try another tack. ‘Did you try the DMV to see if any vehicles are registered in his name?’
‘Of course.’ He’s sullen now. ‘He’s got a white panel van registered to the house that burned down.’
‘No other vehicles?’
‘She has a Ford Taurus registered in her name.’
She has a nice car and he has a van. The set-up is quite typical for families where the husband works with his hands rather than his head. ‘Do we know what the husband’s occupation is?’
‘It’s listed on the application as construction worker.’
Which could mean he’s anything between a manual labourer and a skilled tradesman with a decent income. If Brian is as clever as we think he is, my guess is he’s an electrical engineer, or something equally requiring of intelligence. As much as the desire to work with your hands may steer your career path, intelligent human beings also need to challenge their brains, otherwise they soon become bored.
It’s why I read so many crime novels. Working the door at the Tree doesn’t require a great amount of thinking, so I read mysteries to give my brain a workout.
While waiting for his programs to finish their sweep, Alfonse tells me how he traced a reposting of the first two videos to a library in Rock Springs, and the second two to Casperton’s library.
It’s a smart move by Brian. Libraries offer free internet, and because it isn’t sourced to his own address there’s no way to trace anything he does back to him.
He passes on some more details that are nothing but background information.
‘This is no use, Alfonse. We’re being reactive here. Instead of following the snake’s tail we should be trying to cut off its head. We need to find a way to find the man.’
‘How?’ Frustration adds a nasty layer to his tone. ‘We can only work with the facts we’ve got.’
‘We need to think about the ways those facts can be used proactively. Can you write a program you can lock onto any new videos posted, and have it notify you if they’re reposted along with the location?’
‘Yeah. It’ll take a few hours though.’
I stand and move towards his kitchen. ‘I’ll get you a coffee and then leave you to it. If your searchbots produce anything let me know.’
‘Gee, thanks buddy.’
I let his snarkiness wash over me. I’m going to head home and get some rest while he’ll be working through the night.
75
I groan at the stiffness in my body as I reach for my cell. For once my sleep has remained uninterrupted by nightmares of drowning. Instead it’s lone blasts from a shotgun that have disturbed my slumber.
I look at the screen before answering. See Alfonse’s name. ‘Yeah?’
The excitement I’d felt at the call disappears as I listen to what he tells me. By the time he’s finished speaking I have the shower running.
I spend five minutes longer than usual in the shower. I could kid myself I’m thinking about Ms Rosenberg’s disappearance. The truth is, I’m trying to ease the pain from muscles that are all but seized up.
When she hadn’t made a seven o’clock meeting with her editor he’d called her hotel. The member of staff who’d answered had refused to bother a guest, but he’d shown a journalist’s persistence and had gotten a manager. After a month’s free advertising had been discussed, the duty manager had used a passkey to check her room.
Her room was empty apart from a small case, her bag, two notepads and a dicta-phone. The bed was still made as per the hotel’s style. A check of the car park had found her car.
The clincher had been a discussion with a night porter who’d seen her making frequent short trips in and out of the hotel. He’d seen her exit around eleven-thirty but hadn’t noticed whether or not she’d returned due to dealing with other customers. The porter had figured he’d missed her and that she’d gone to bed.
Chief Watson has ignored the twenty-four hour rule and put out an APB on her.
I agree with his instinct. Her column, in a special late edition of the Gazette, was tantamount to a challenge. A beautifully eloquent piece of writing, it was laden with venomous barbs and even went so far as to question not just the motives, but the manhood of the person masterminding the killings.
It’s little surprise she’s been targeted – what makes less sense is the time frame. Brian had been out at the fight, as had Kevin and Connor. I don’t see how they could have left there, read the article and located Ms Rosenberg in such a short time.
I wonder if I’m wrong about his involvement. That I’m not just barking up the wrong tree, I’m in the wrong forest.
The one tiny positive from this situation, is that we have a chance of doing something proactive now that we have a confirmed disappearance.
More than anything else, the dicta-phone and notepads being left in her room tells me she didn’t run off after a story. Even when I’d seen her at dinner the other night, there had been notepads bulging from the bag slung over her shoulder.
I dismiss any ideas of a romantic tryst. She’s not the type to engender amorous feelings, let alone run off with someone new at the drop of a hat. According to Alfonse, when Chief Watson had asked the question of the editor he’d been laughed at.
76
Ms Rosenberg thrashes at her bindings for perhaps the hundredth time. Like the ninety-nine previous attempts she achieves nothing beyond chafed skin.
She has no idea where she is, other than the fact it’s dark, cold and the floor is made of unforgiving concrete.
She moves herself around her tiny cell as best she can with bound hands and feet. It’s about eight feet square. Not once does she feel anything that might be a door handle, a ladder or a trapdoor.
Unable to smoke in the hotel room, or open a window far enough to lean out, she’d gone downstairs every half hour to satisfy her craving. As a precaution against being seen, she’d exited a back door and smoked at the edge of the hotel’s car park.
On the eleven-thirty visit she’d been approached by a man whose face had never been on the winning side of a fight. He’d smiled at her and glanced at the cigarettes they both held. ‘Filthy habit.’
A scream had rang out from the other side of the car park. It had been a girl’s voice. The man had run towards the scream and she’d done the same. When she’d rounded a white panel van the man and a bald guy had grabbed her.
They’d bound, gagged and thrown her into the van in less than a minute. As they’d driven off with her lying on the van floor, the bald man had mocked her by replaying the scream from his cell phone.
She’s enough of a realist to know she’s going to die. Even at her youthful best she’d attracted few admirers, so it’s unlikely she’s been snatched by rapists. Besides, after the column she had published, there could only be one group who’d choose to abduct her.
All she can hope for is a quick, painless death. She doesn’t want to die but knows that, considering how many cigarettes she goes through, she’s already cheated the Grim Reaper by making it to her early sixties.
The fact she may have brought on her abduction and eventual murder by writing the article doesn’t worry her. Free speech always has a price. Over the years her articles have brought many threats of lawsuits and physical harm.
That one will be responsible for her demise is something she’s always known could happen. After all, she’s spent the last thirty-nine years hiding from the New York mob.
While she doesn’t expect to become a martyr, there will be a certain amount of backlash from the media at large when one of their own is targeted.
Nothing engenders communal feelings quite like a shared fear. She knows that, in death, she’ll be clasped to industry bosoms in a way quite opposite to how she was treated in life.
With nothing to do but think, she tries to divert her thoughts away from how she’ll be killed, to what she can do to assist in the catching of her killers.
Her hands are bound in front of her but she can still move her fingers. If she gets an opportunity, she plans to scratch any of her captors who come within reach. She doesn’t expect to hurt them, her aim is to get something under her nails for the coroner to find.
She runs her hands over the floor until she finds a pebble.
It’s not easy to write on a wall in the dark using a pebble, but she does what she can. Her words start off describing the two men who abducted her, before morphing into what will be her final article.
77
I call Chief Watson as I drive to Alfonse’s. He gives basic answers to my questions, making me suspect Gaertner is with him.
This is confirmed when the FBI man comes on the line. He gives me a hard time about the fight until I force a grudged admission from him that he at least now has some suspects to investigate.
He wants me to come in for a full debrief. I tell him that Chief Watson knows everything and hang up.
There’s no point in wasting time repeating myself when there’s a chance Ms Rosenberg may still be alive.
The coffee in Alfonse’s pot is stewed to the consistency of treacle but delivers a welcome hit. I pour him one. His bloodshot eyes are a sure indication he needs the caffeine even more than I do.