Devil's Pasture

by Richard Bannister

  Urgent. Lewis and Brickman looking for u. Where the hell are u?

  Focused on his phone and wondering what the meeting could portend, he collided with an acne-faced man with a mop of fair hair. Andrei Petrov looked much younger than his thirty-one years.

  "You need to go straight up to the sixth floor." The leader of the Networking and Infrastructure Group was white-faced.

  Whitehead uttered an expletive, thrusting his bulky Eddie Bauer jacket into Petrov's hands before re-boarding the elevator. He should have told management about the hack as soon as he knew about it. Now they'd found out, they would fire him on the spot. He spat on his hands and used them to smooth down his hair as he rode alone to the sixth floor. Anger burned in his chest at the unfairness of it all. If they fired him, he wouldn't go quietly. He could play at blackmail too. He had the power to bring the hospital to its knees.

  The Chief of Security, Brickman was a nasty, mean, and spiteful hulk of a man who enjoyed firing employees and marching them off the premises. Lewis was no better. Whitehead's feet were like lead as he walked into the assistant to the CEO's office. Beryl Masters was impossible to read as she announced his arrival over the intercom and nodded for him to go through the connecting door.

  Lewis's office was oak-paneled with wool carpeting. Original artwork of English landscapes hung on his walls. The CEO had close-cropped receding hair and sagging jowls. He was seated behind an oversized mahogany desk. Brickman, standing to his right, had a Zappa mustache, stubble beard, and shaved head. Neither man displayed any emotion as Whitehead entered. No chair was offered, so he stood in front of them, his hands clasped behind him, waiting for the inevitable.

  Lewis held a single sheet of paper. "Ah, Whitehead. Brickman has noticed a disturbing trend in your department. Specifically, in the, ahem, Networking and Infrastructure Group."

  Here it comes, Whitehead thought.

  "Apparently, starting nine days ago, all the members of this group, yourself included, have been working an excessive amount of overtime. As much as 300% of usual it says here. Do you care to enlighten us?"

  Whitehead was caught off guard and had to replay in his mind what the CEO had said. Was it a trick question? Did they already know the truth? And how had the Head of Security tracked his employee's work hours to this detail? His staff had yet to turn in timesheets for the period in question.

  When he didn't answer immediately, Brickman asked, "Is something going on?"

  Whitehead's mouth was dry as sandpaper. "Well sir," he stuttered. "Nine days ago, the patient records unexpectedly went off-line for ten minutes."

  "We're aware of that." Brickman's eyes focused on him like a pair of lasers. Whitehead considered for a moment whether the man was reading his thoughts.

  "We've been working on hardening the code, making it impossible for the problem to reoccur. If it were to happen again, and the interruption to go on longer, it could have a catastrophic effect on hospital scheduling. We should have it fixed soon."

  Would they buy the explanation?

  "That's it?" Brickman turned to Lewis, a puzzled look on his face.

  After a beat, Lewis addressed the Department Head, "This is a serious problem that could put the hospital's patients in danger. We have a responsibility to the board and our shareholders to balance cost with risk. You have my approval to continue for now. But I want frequent, no daily, progress reports on the situation, and a breakdown of the overtime worked by each person. I can't give you a blank check on this level of expenditure. Now get back to work."

  As he turned to leave, Whitehead saw Brickman and Lewis regard him with incredulous expressions. Whitehead could see they didn't buy a single word he'd said. For the time being, he'd dodged a bullet, but the fear it had induced only strengthened his resolve to take extreme measures once they found the culprit.

  "You can leave his door open," Beryl said, as he left Lewis's office, annunciating 'his' as if referring to a deity. As he turned to comply, he saw Brickman and Lewis standing with their heads together in animated conversation.

  .

  CHAPTER 7

  AT THE EXAMINER NEWSPAPER OFFICES, a uniformed guard showed us into a stuffy waiting room with no windows. Prentiss wore his trademark pale blue shirt, sleeves rolled to mid forearm, burgundy tie, and khaki pants. A head taller than me, he was at least six foot three.

  At five minute intervals, a distant voice announced, "Max Dixon to the visitor's lounge."

  Lounge was a gross exaggeration. The rows of hard plastic seats reminded me of school, and the place smelled of stale body odor. I pulled a copy of the morning edition from a pile on a coffee table. Oversized headlines screamed CRAZED KILLER ON THE LOOSE. The entire front page was devoted to the previous day's murders and included pictures of Beth and Ashley, looking much younger than when I saw them. Death will do that to you.

  After we'd waited a half hour, I was about to look for the security guard, when the door opened. A distinguished-looking man with close-cropped gray hair and attired in a suit entered the room. A shorter bald man wearing wire-rimmed spectacles, jeans, and a checked shirt joined him.

  "I'm Detective Megan Riley, and this is Detective Scott Prentiss." I proffered my hand, but neither man reciprocated. "We're investigating the death of Elizabeth Gervais who we believe was an employee here at The Examiner."

  The man in the suit spoke with a stony face. "I'm Andrew Schwartz, attorney for the Tribute Group of newspapers, owners of The Examiner, and this is Max Dixon The Examiner's editor."

  "We have questions about who Beth was in contact with and who her friends were." I looked from one man to the other, though it was clear Dixon was the organ grinder's monkey.

  "We were all deeply saddened to hear of the young lady's tragic death. Almost everyone has been sent home for the morning." Schwartz's voice was calm, measured as if reading from a script. "But I'm sure you understand that many, if not all of your questions may touch on her work product at The Examiner, which is protected by law."

  So that's the way it was going down—anything we wanted short of actual help.

  "Items recovered from her body lead us to believe she was working when she was killed. If her murder was tied to her work product, then it is no longer protected." I struggled to keep the tone of my voice from rising, sounding shrill.

  "You have no proof her death is connected to her work, and until you do, it remains privileged and protected. Any work items recovered from her person are the property of the Tribute Group. Mr. Dixon here asserts he did not see her on the day she was killed and has no knowledge of her private life. Moreover, we both believe her killing was more likely related to someone she may have mistakenly become involved with. She was known to be rather free with her acquaintances—men or women. If you've read The Examiner recently, you'll know the issues published in it are not matters of life and death."

  "We'd like a list of her coworkers." I didn't give a damn about their thoughts on the case.

  "No such list exists. I should remind you that if an employee discloses anything about Miss Gervais' work, it will open you and them to legal action."

  "Did she come into the office yesterday morning?" My fists had balled up at the apparent disregard for the deaths. The attorney was talking about the deceased as if she was a covert operative.

  "Access to the offices here is controlled using an electronic access key. Entrances and exits are logged, and we know Miss Gervais did not enter the offices anytime yesterday.

  "Surely you can answer the simple question of whether or not she was working at the time of her death."

  "I'll answer," Dixon said. "Your question isn't a simple one, Detective. None of our employees clock on and off, and we don't keep a record of where they are at any time of the day. They talk to people and get leads on stories that may in the end not pan out. They only inform me once they have a workable story. I could only answer your question with vague conjecture, so I'm choosing not to."

  "I find it impossible to bel
ieve an editor like yourself has no idea what one of your reporters was researching or planning to write."

  "If you will excuse us, we have other matters to attend to. Good day." The attorney ushered Dixon out of the room and was replaced by the security guard who was clearly assigned to see us off the premises.

  "HIS LEGAL THREATS do have a basis in law," Prentiss pronounced. We were in my car heading back to the station.

  "He gave us chicken shit answers to reasonable questions. It would be a public relations nightmare for him to test what he said in court." I slowed for pedestrians crossing the street.

  "Do you really want to threaten him with legal action? Townsend is very pro-business and would have a fit."

  "You spend too much time worrying about what the lieutenant will do or think. It's both our asses on the line if we don't solve the case, and we won't do it with one hand tied behind our backs. Dixon may have been telling the truth when he said he'd sent everyone home. I saw only two cars in the parking lot: an older Honda and a late model Beemer. They would match Dixon and his minder. Google the names of The Examiner's reporters. Let's see if one of them will talk to us."

  "Five people are listed as staff reporters like Gervais. The first one is Kayla Ellis. Her name sounds familiar."

  "See if you can find an address for her."

  Prentiss tapped on his phone. "293 Brockway Apartments."

  "You must have interviewed her yesterday, right? The apartment manager's last name was Ellis." My voice was strained. "Maybe Gervais was visiting her, although being kitted out with a recorder doesn't quite fit that idea."

  Prentiss pulled out his notebook and thumbed the pages. "There was no answer, so we left a card for her to call us. We did the same for about ten more people who were out. There may be others if anyone was squatting in the empty apartments, and there were plenty of those."

  "You mean a coworker is living in the building where Gervais was murdered, and we only found out today by accident. After we spent all yesterday wondering what she was doing there. You need to fix this screw-up fast before anyone finds out. Get some uniforms to canvass the people you missed. Right now."

  Fifteen minutes later we were climbing the stairs to Kayla Ellis' second-floor apartment. I leaned over the metal railing outside her door. Looking down, I could see the place where we'd found Beth's body.

  A slender woman opened the door to Prentiss's knock. She was a couple of inches shorter than me, and I'm only five feet five. Her jet-black shoulder-length hair and her face were striking and reflected a Southeast Asian descent. If Danny Ellis was her father, she must have gotten her looks from her mother.

  "Kayla Ellis?" I asked

  "Yes." She regarded us warily. Her eyes were red, her face somber.

  We showed our badges, and I gave our names. "May we come in?"

  "Yes, of course. I've been expecting you."

  Kayla showed us to an old but serviceable sofa. The room was tidy and uncluttered despite the thrift store furniture. She smoothed down the hem of her dress before sitting facing us on a bamboo swing chair suspended from the ceiling.

  "We're sorry for your loss. Were you and Beth close?"

  "I worked with Beth. She and Ashley were my two best friends. What happened to them is heartbreaking. I keep expecting them both to come through the door."

  "Were you home yesterday?"

  "I saw the cops as I was leaving for work. Stuff happens here all the time. I'd no idea it was anything to do with Beth. I know this sounds silly, but she wasn't someone you'd expect to be murdered." Kayla fought back tears.

  "When did you last see her?"

  "At work, the day before yesterday."

  "Do you have any idea what she was doing here? Could she have been on her way to see you?"

  "I've been asking myself the same question over and over. It makes no sense. We see each other at work all the time. Beth would have phoned me if she had a question. Although I don't know any reason why she would—we worked on different stories. Why would she traipse all the way over here when she could call me?"

  "We believe she was wearing a digital recorder."

  "Beth thought writing notes distracted the person she was interviewing. I have a pretty good memory, so I don't use a recorder unless it's a long interview. You say she was wearing it?"

  "Concealed under her clothing, we think. Her killer removed it."

  "It's odd she would hide it. When I use one, I set it out in the open."

  "Can you think of who she might have been meeting? Could it have been someone connected to a story she was working on?"

  "As I said, we work independently on stories, but Beth mentioned a couple of big ones she had in the pipeline."

  "What can you tell us about them?" Prentiss shot me a look for asking such a question.

  Kayla saw it too, and said, "I know management wouldn't be happy with me telling you, but Beth and Ashley meant the world to me. I need you to find their killer. Beth was looking into possible irregularities in a deal between Mayor Vicki Whitehead and local businessmen, Joey Sands and Buddy Olsen. Sands is the landlord here at Brockway."

  "And the other story?" I asked

  She said it would be explosive. Of course, reporters say that all the time, trying to sound positive when all they have is a missing dog story. But Beth didn't BS anyone, and certainly not me. It was a tip from her secret source, she said. But I've no idea who that was. We don't discuss our sources with one another. She was insistent I move out of Brockway because of what she'd found. There's a lot of violence and drugs here, but I don't know if it relates to Beth's story."

  "The attacker could be someone she met while doing research. Can you remember her talking about anyone else?"

  "Just the names I gave you. They are prominent fixtures in the community who certainly aren't murderers."

  "You've been a big help." Prentiss rose to his feet. "I can see you're tired."

  "Yeah, it keeps hitting me."

  It was my turn to shoot Prentiss an angry look.

  "Is Danny Ellis a relative?" I asked.

  "He's my dad. He said you spoke to him. I'm sorry if he wasn't polite. His illness makes him grumpy."

  We thanked Kayla for her time and offered more condolences. As we walked to my 4Runner, I said, "What the hell was that about?"

  "Dixon said they'd go after employees who gave us information."

  "Oh, right. Let's go back to the station and hope the killer calls us and confesses. If you have a problem asking difficult questions, you need to find another line of work. When I'm speaking with someone, never, ever, try to end the interview like that again. Are we clear?"

  We rode in silence until Prentiss took a call. He grunted acknowledgment a couple of times and disconnected. "A patrol answering a 911 found Gervais' car burned out. It was by the side of the road leading to the water treatment plant. The fire department had a job preventing it from spreading. Forensically, the car is a complete bust, Andrews says."

  CHAPTER 8

  THE OLD STONE CORRIDOR was cold and dimly lit. An odor of decay hung in the air. Dust was everywhere, cast off by the generations of people who had worked there. I was looking for Mayor Vicki Whitehead's office on the second floor of the Monroe Building. The overly ornate stone edifice was built one hundred and thirty years earlier to house the courtrooms and local government. The police department used to be in the basement before it moved to the current modern concrete and glass affair on Grove Street.

  I had earlier given Prentiss the task of collecting and reviewing the victims' bank statements. He looked as if the task was beneath him, but I left before he could debate me.

  The corridor opened into the rotunda, where I spotted a door with a small sign for the Mayor's and City Manager's offices. Entering, I found myself at a reception desk covered with vases of flowers and sympathy cards. The nameplate read Ashley Logan Assistant to the Mayor.

  Across the room, a tall woman in her forties rose from behind a desk to greet me
. Her eyes were red, and strands of her short black hair were falling over her face.

  "Detective Megan Riley." I flashed my badge.

  "Jill Harvey, City Manager. Are you here about poor Ashley? " The woman gave me her hand.

  "Can I ask you a few questions?"

  She led me through a door to a conference room. Jill sat across from me at a small round antique table.

  "I can't believe she's gone. Ashley was a good friend and always so full of life." Jill finger-combed the hair from her face.

  "You knew her outside of work?"

  "We used to meet for coffee. Sometimes on weekends, we'd see a movie together. Ashley was such a sweetheart. It's a terrible loss for all of us."

  "Did you also know Beth Gervais? Were they an item?"

  "For a long time, Ashley didn't let on she liked to date women as well as men. Then a couple of months ago, she broke up with Matt and came out. It shocked some of the men here—ruined their fantasies about her, I suppose. She'd dated plenty of boyfriends. But, as she confided in me, they all turned out to be disappointments in the end."

  I felt the same before I met Jake.

  "Who is Matt?" I asked, pulling my notebook from my pants pocket.

  "Matt Baker is something of a computer guy. A man-boy if you ask me. He didn't know what he had in Ashley. Spent too much time on video games, not enough time with her. He was in court recently for spray painting buildings, would you believe—tagging I think they call it. But the last straw for Ashley was when she found he was into drugs. I don't know why she stayed with him as long as she did." Harvey dabbed her eyes with a handkerchief.

  "Do you know where I can find him?"

  "He's probably scrubbing graffiti off walls. If not, he has a small apartment above the bar near the theater. What's it called? Um . . . The Spotted Owl. Don't ask me how I know where he lives—it was many years ago in another lifetime."

  "I just spoke to Kayla Ellis. Do you know her?"

  "Kayla is a lying bitch." Jill's eyes flashed. "She was always trying to ingratiate herself with Ashley, but she only ever looks out for herself. Beth had more to do with her than Ashley, I suppose because they worked together."