Devil's Pasture

by Richard Bannister

  "It would be better coming from you," James replied.

  "Ashley called late—we were just going up to bed when the phone rang. We retire earlier than we used to—"

  "Get to the point, Pat." James interrupted.

  "Okay, okay, I'm getting there. Ashley was mugged, and her purse taken. That's the long and the short of what happened. She'd just left the house on her way to work when a man viciously punched her; knocked her to the ground. He grabbed her purse and ran. It all happened so quickly she couldn't describe the thief. She said she was shaken more than hurt—just a few bruises, but she always made light of such things as a child."

  "Did she report the incident to the police?" I asked.

  "Oh, yes. She reported it to you lot, for all the good it did," Patrice said.

  "Do you know with whom she spoke?"

  "A couple of men in uniforms. I don't remember their names. But I do recall they had her speak to a Detective Turner. She took the whole day off work in the end."

  "We've spoken to her coworkers and friends. No one mentioned an assault."

  "I wouldn't be surprised if she didn't tell anyone. Ashley was embarrassed about what happened to her. She seemed to think it was her own fault for not watching her surroundings. But you should already know all this. Don't you lot talk to each other?"

  BY THE TIME I reached the squad room, I was out for Turner's blood. I found him at his desk, bent over The Examiner crossword. He wore a full beard, and his hair was slicked back in a tight man-bun. I pulled the newspaper from in front of him, sending the pencil flying across his desk.

  "What the fuck is wrong with you, Riley?" Turner intoned. "I could have you on a disciplinary."

  "We're investigating a double homicide, and you didn't bother to tell us you spoke to one of the victims five days earlier about an assault. It could well be the same person who killed her, you moron." I was in his face, yelling.

  "Keep your panties on. I've been out of town on personal business, and I only got back in this morning."

  "You stink of booze."

  "A couple of shots gives me the patience to deal with you."

  "You give assholes a bad name, Turner."

  "I know nothing about your case. What's the girl's name? I don't understand why they still let you work here, Riley."

  "Ashley Logan," I spat. Turner leafed through a stack of folders on his desk and pulled one out.

  "Here you go." He opened the folder, put on reading glasses, and peered at the documents inside. "Let's see. Ah, yes . . . the young lady had her purse snatched. Her keys were inside with her wallet. We canceled her credit cards, and put a hold on her bank account, but left her ATM card active so we could get a picture of anyone trying to withdraw money."

  Turner closed the folder and handed it to me.

  "Well, did anyone use the ATM card?" I asked.

  "Not last Thursday. I wouldn't know if anyone used it since then. I've been out of the office for a few days." He shook three antacids from a bargain-sized bottle and crunched them noisily.

  "Can you check now?" Frustrating as it was, only extreme patience with Turner ever got me any results.

  "Let's see." He typed into his computer with two fingers. After a long pause, he said. "Nope. No one attempted to withdraw cash."

  I snatched the folder from him and said. "It's my case now. Email me the bank details. Right now, Turner."

  After hitting the keys on his computer slowly and methodically for a couple of minutes, Turner retrieved his pencil, straightened his newspaper, and returned to the crossword.

  CHAPTER 13

  THE WATSON FAMILY had owned the Spotted Owl Building since it was built in 1892. Back then, it was known as the Western Hotel and boasted 40 rooms, two dining rooms, three bars, and an impressive frontage to the street. It had a reputation for being haunted—the piano was said to play a melody in the night, and some residents claimed to have heard a soft female voice whispering, "Don't leave."

  Everything changed in 1934 when a fire started in the basement kitchen and quickly spread up to the third floor. Guests had to evacuate, and because of the maze of hallways and staircases, some were forced to jump out of their window before being rescued. By the time firemen had extinguished the blaze, six people had lost their lives, and many more were seriously injured. All that remained of the once grand hotel was a wing housing a bar on the ground floor and the staff quarters above. The insurance coverage had been grossly inadequate, and the owners at the time, Jon and Grace Watson were unable to raise the capital required to rebuild. Instead, they settled for re-opening the one remaining bar and living in the spartan rooms above. Over time their fortunes improved, and they could afford to renovate the bar and turn their living quarters on the second and third floors into apartments.

  On the death of his uncle in 1997, the current owner, Brent Watson, inherited the Western Bar, as it was then known. The interior was dilapidated and in need of renovation. As a young man, Brent traveled extensively in England and renamed it the Spotted Owl in memory of a pub he'd frequented there. He had a house he considered adequate for his needs and rented out the two apartments. Fast forward twenty years and they were again looking shabby, with barely a coat of paint in the intervening years. Matt Baker moved into the second floor apartment, but the one on the third floor was vacant, awaiting repairs after a leak in the roof wasn't caught right away.

  Brent thought there was something 'not right' about Matt from the start when he said to tell anyone asking for him that he had moved away. Brent had asked whether he was worried about creditors or a jealous husband, but Matt said neither. He paid rent promptly, and for that, Brent could excuse minor eccentricities.

  I FOUND THE SPOTTED OWL dark and depressing. Three men who looked like regulars were lined up on well-worn stools. The air was stale, and dust bunnies hung from the green Tiffany shades overhanging the bar. The barman was balding, in his late fifties, with a protruding beer belly, and said his name was Brent. When I asked about Matt Baker, he spun me the 'moved away' line. I showed him my badge and recited the penalties for impeding a murder investigation, which right away changed his tune. He directed me to an alley outside the old building.

  Ashley Logan's coworkers at the Mayor's office had told me Matt was her boyfriend until she came out a few weeks ago and moved in with Beth. I had him pegged as the likely father of her twelve-week-old fetus.

  I walked down a passageway at the side of the Spotted Owl and found the door. It opened into a narrow hallway leading to a flight of stairs. I climbed to the second floor and knocked. After some scuffling noises, the door cracked open, revealing half a face.

  "Who the fuck are you?" His words were slurred, his pupils constricted.

  "I'm Detective Riley. If you are Matt Baker, I need to ask you some questions."

  The door opened wider revealing a slim man, thirty-something, with a patchy beard and long, slicked-back hair. "This is not a good time."

  "It's about the murders of Beth Gervais and Ashley Logan."

  After a moment's thought, Matt stepped back wordlessly and waved me in.

  He showed me into a living room. The walls were an unpleasant shade of yellow, and the flooring was simulated wood. A brown sofa with floral cushions faced an aging television in front of a bay window overlooking the street. Between the couch and a curtained closet, a string bean of a girl with blond hair sat on an unmade bed. She looked barely eighteen. She wore a too-short sundress and nothing else. A bra and a rumpled pair of panties lay on the floor nearby.

  Were they about to get into it when I showed up? What is it with grown men and young girls, I wondered?

  "You're Matt Baker, and Ashley used to be your girlfriend?" I asked.

  He nodded.

  I turned to the girl. "What is your name?"

  "That's none of your business," Matt snapped.

  "I'm Emily Bennett, and I am eighteen." She was trying too hard to annunciate clearly. The air smelled of pot, and they both looked h
igh. The name jogged something at the back of my mind, but I couldn't place her.

  I looked around the small apartment, to ensure no one else was there. The bathroom was filthy with towels and grooming products lying on the wet floor. In the only other room, I found an L-shaped desk with four large computer monitors. To its left was a rack of equipment with flashing lights. A rat's nest of cables connected it to several large tower computers. There was a stark contrast between the modern high-tech equipment and the tired estate-liquidation furniture in the living room.

  "Hey, come out of there. No touching or looking," Matt yelled. He stepped into the computer room and herded me out, slamming the door.

  "That's quite a setup. What do you use it for?"

  "I do research, and I play games, of course." Matt sat on the bed next to Emily, a part drunk beer bottle in his hand. He took several swigs, belched loudly, and passed it to her.

  I moved Emily's underwear aside so I could perch myself on a chair. "What kind of research?"

  Matt and Emily regarded me in silence.

  "Matt, you can answer my questions here, or I can take you down to the station and keep you there for a while."

  "Okay, ask away. I've got nothing to hide."

  Just a room full of equipment that didn't look right. "You might prefer to answer my questions in private." I eyed the girl.

  "You can ask me anything in front of Emily." He looked at the young woman, and she giggled. Drunk and high, I guessed.

  "Where were you Sunday night through Monday morning?"

  "I was here with Emily all night." Matt gave her a look. "In the morning, I left for work at 8.30. I do IT support for The Examiner. You can ask anyone there."

  I couldn't, but I'd have to find a way. I turned to Emily. "Can you confirm that?" I was just going through the motions asking her.

  "We were in bed all night. In the morning, we took a shower together, and he left at 8:30." She looked to Matt for approval. I should have interviewed them separately, though it would have given them time to rehearse.

  I regarded Matt's wimpy, underdeveloped muscles. It looked like the most exercise he'd indulged in was with the likes of Emily. I couldn't see him getting the jump on Beth, even with a stungun. The body I saw lying among the bushes near the Brockway Apartments was developed and gym-toned.

  Matt followed my eyes and said, "Are you checking me out?"

  I laughed out loud, thinking he would never have the stamina to keep up with me. I asked him:

  "What was your relationship with Ashley Logan?"

  "She was his bitch," Emily snickered. I gave her my best evil-eye stare.

  "She was my girlfriend before Emily. We broke it off about a month ago but stayed friends," Matt said as if speaking was an effort.

  "How about Beth Gervais, what was your relationship with her?

  "Beth was his dyke." Emily burst out laughing.

  "Shut it, Emily," I said. The girl was stupid and beginning to irritate me.

  Matt ignored her. "Beth and I were friends. I did research for her. Gathered data."

  "This was part of your job at The Examiner?"

  "Not really. I just maintain computers there. It was a private arrangement."

  "So, you were her go-to computer guy. Where did she back up the files she worked on at home?"

  "She saved all her stuff, personal, and work to The Examiner's server."

  And out of our reach.

  "What can you tell me about the articles she was working on," I asked.

  "I haven't done anything for Beth since her last article was published. Recycling gets trashed at the dump was the headline." The lies were compounding, and I wished I'd interviewed him on tape at the station.

  "Do you know anybody who'd want either of them dead?"

  "No!" Matt shouted, sounding edgy.

  It suddenly hit me. Emily was the daughter of the late Jack Bennett, the developer. He'd co-owned the Brockway Apartments with Joey Sands. His wife, Angie, had been a witness in a robbery case I investigated.

  I was watching Matt's reaction when I asked, "Did you know Ashley was pregnant?"

  "Really? No, I didn't." His face was a forced blank expression.

  "Could the child be yours?"

  "Ashley was a slut, so who knows," Matt spat. Was he just saying that for effect? I didn't remember Jill Harvey mentioning other partners.

  "Who else was she sleeping with?"

  "Well, it wasn't Beth who knocked her up." Emily giggled at her joke. What on earth did Matt see in someone so immature?

  "How would I know? I never asked," Matt said.

  "What do you know about her getting mugged last week?"

  "It happened as Ashley was leaving for work. She thought the guy who did it could have been Hispanic, but she didn't see his face. She was banged up, so the doc gave her pain pills. That's all I know." The mugger's ethnicity was new information. Strike two for Detective Turner.

  "We need to get a sample of your DNA, Matt, for elimination purposes. You should come to the station as soon as you can."

  "Yeah." A fleeting look of understanding crossed his face.

  "While you're there, you'll need to give a formal statement as you knew both victims."

  "Okay, but I'm done talking to you for now."

  I handed Matt a business card and gave the usual blurb about calling if they thought of anything else. His computer system had piqued my curiosity. I felt sure if we searched it, we'd find something relevant to the investigation. All we needed was probable cause. As I turned to go, Matt was staring at Emily's boobs. She was giggling again.

  CHAPTER 14

  REPORTER KAYLA ELLIS tilted her head back and allowed the pinpoints of shower water to rinse the shampoo from her jet-black hair. She lingered in the warm spray, wishing she could just as easily wash away the sickness lodged in her stomach since the death of her friends. She hadn't intended to be confrontational at the morning news conference. It was a mistake for her to go. The meeting had left her feeling unclean and in need of her third shower of the day. Her OCD had started after the death of her mother when she was twelve and plagued her teenage years. She finally got it under control in her early twenties, and hardly noticed it anymore—except in times of extreme stress.

  Like now.

  Since Beth and Ashley's deaths, just functioning had become a struggle. Sleeping, eating, bathing, and showing up for work all required an enormous effort. Kayla ran her fingers obsessively through her black mop long after the suds were gone, then roughly flanneled her entire body until her skin felt raw. She gave extra attention to the dream-catcher tattoo on the side of her ribcage.

  On a visit to New Orleans with Beth, they had both got the same tattoo—same position, same design. The trip was an experiment to explore their relationship, long before Beth and Ashley were an item. Away from the prying eyes of people who knew them, they could behave as they wished in public. Once back home, they talked about moving in together. Until Kayla remembered why settling down with anyone, male or female was not for her.

  The trip had been a long one-night stand, a pattern she'd followed throughout her adult life, and one she continued after breaking up with Beth. The only difference was Kayla now interspersed female partners with her male ones. For the most part, they were repeats—likeminded people who weren't interested in attachments. Beth was understanding about the breakup, and they'd remained close friends. Except now she was gone. What on earth would make anyone want to kill them?

  Kayla's tattooed skin was painful and raw. After she was done scrubbing herself, she sat in the tub, hugging her knees to her breasts until the water ran cold. When she could no longer stand the cold, Kayla shut off the icy stream and shivered as she toweled dry.

  The murders were the lead story on every news outlet. The media couldn't let the salacious details die. That Beth and Ashley were a gay couple living together seemed to give them license to imagine all manner of lurid reasons why they'd died. Kayla wondered if society had m
oved on from the nineteenth century. The brutal manner of their deaths distressed Kayla and her colleagues the most, and it fell to Max, the editor, to write The Examiner's stories.

  Kayla pulled on a fresh pair of panties, donned a long-sleeve cream shirt, and wriggled and danced herself into a pair of tight black jeans. At least the clothes chafing against her sore skin distracted Kayla from her more obsessive thoughts. She ought to try to eat something. Perhaps Matt would be up for lunch at the Bluebird Café. He and Ashley had been an item until recently. He wasn't the most expressive guy, but he had to be hurting too. Kayla's call went to Matt's voicemail, and she left him a message.

  She couldn't face seeing Beth's empty desk and decided to skip going to The Examiner's offices for a second day. It wasn't that unusual. Max was okay with her working at home provided she cranked out articles on time. After leaving him a message, she had the whole day to check out what Beth was working on. The detectives had questioned her about it, and it seemed a possible reason Beth was killed.

  Kayla powered up her laptop. It took several attempts before she was able to log into The Examiner's server using Beth's username and password. She needed to move from Brockway Apartments if only to get a better internet connection. As far as The Examiner's management was concerned, the reporters didn't have access to each other's work files. But Kayla and Beth had agreed to share passwords for emergencies, though neither ever imagined the current situation.

  After the hourglass had spun for ten seconds, the laptop's screen filled with yellow folders. Kayla clicked on an icon to view their details, then on another to sort them into date order with the newest at the top of the list. Beth's most recent folder, 'Mayor and Developers' was created over three weeks earlier. When Kayla opened it there were no files inside. She searched all of Beth's folders. The newest file she could find was from an article that went to press twenty days earlier.

  Kayla leaned back in her seat and considered the possibilities. Either someone had deleted Beth's files from the past few weeks, or she had become secretive to the point of not wanting her work on The Examiner's server. Neither seemed likely. If anything had been erased, Matt would know. She dialed his number again, and this time, he answered: