The Kindred Killers (Jake Boulder Book 2)

by Graham Smith

  Her eyes blink away the tears and find a focal point in the distance. She looks around and finds she’s on a deserted road.

  Her cell is four feet in front of her. She groans in pain as she crawls towards it.

  911 is the first number she calls. The need to get help for Oscar is an equal priority with summoning an ambulance for the baby.

  The voice at the other end of the line goes through the usual routine in calm, measured tones: identifies the caller, asks which service and wants to know what has happened.

  Noelle can’t answer the question about her location. Frantic, she looks around to try and find a landmark she recognises.

  As she turns to look along the road, she screams and drops the cell.

  44

  I’m sitting in Miss Oliver’s office. The atmosphere is, as my grandpa would say, ‘colder than a polar bear’s left bollock’. She’s not trying to be frosty, she just doesn’t know how to be anything else.

  Every question I’m putting to her is being deflected. It’s as if I’m prying into her personal life or asking for state secrets. I suppose to one as career-minded as her, it will seem as if I am.

  ‘I’m sorry, but I cannot disclose that information.’ She has the poor grace to look self-satisfied at her thwarting of my enquiry. ‘We pride ourselves on our client confidentiality.’

  ‘I’m sure you do. Perhaps it’d be better for all concerned if you wait for the FBI to arrive with a warrant.’

  Her eyes narrow at my bluff. I can see her trying to work out why I’m doing an about-turn. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Well, if you wait until the warrant comes you’ll be standing by the bank’s principles. I guess someone in your marketing team may even use a strapline such as – “your privacy means so much to us, we’ll obstruct homicide investigations”. Your head office and regional manager will be proud of you. I bet you’ll get a promotion out of this.’ I turn the screw a little tighter. ‘I’m certain Ms Rosenberg will give you a good write-up in the Gazette. Not sure how that’ll play out with the families of the deceased though. You may lose a few customers until the marketing bods get the new slogan out there.’

  ‘Why should I give this information to you rather than the police? You’re not even licensed as a detective.’

  We both know she’s going to cave and this is her last act of defiance. It’s one thing to protect your clients, another to hold up a major investigation. It would be career suicide.

  There’s no way she wants to attract the kind of public attention I’m suggesting she’ll get, not when the FBI will force her to give them the information I’m after. I’m just here a couple of days ahead of them with less to lose by making threats.

  ‘Any information you give me will only be shared with the police and my partner. I have no interest in breaching your bank’s ethics. I’m just trying to identify some possible suspects.’

  She’s too young to purse her lips, but she does it anyway. ‘It’ll take time to get the information you need. It’s not something I can do at the push of a button.’

  ‘Poppycock. You should be able to have that information within five minutes.’ I point to the computer on her desk. ‘Are you telling me that you can’t log in as Sherrelle and do a search for loan applications?’ She doesn’t answer me. Or meet my eye. ‘That you can’t segregate those approved and those denied? In this day and age I find that totally unbelievable.’

  She blusters for a moment or two but my patience has worn through. I stand and move towards the door. ‘Forget it. I’ll just call Ms Rosenberg. I’m sure she’ll be fascinated at the lack of functionality of the computer system in a bank that sells “digital banking for the digital age”.’

  My use of the bank’s current advertising slogan breaks her.

  ‘Sit down, Mr Boulder. I’ll get you your information.’

  Her face twists into a scowl as she stabs at the keyboard, muttering un-bank-manager-like curses under her breath, but she’s getting me what I want.

  Her printer spits out a sheaf of papers.

  She hands them to me without a smile. ‘This is everyone Sherrelle turned down in the last five years. They’re listed by the value of the loan request. It should make your search quicker.’

  She’s come through in spades so I resist adding, ‘it wasn’t that hard, was it?’ when I give her my thanks.

  45

  I pull into the lot and find a space to park. There’s a young couple holding hands as they push a buggy; a mother of three is yelling at her kids to watch where they’re going.

  Taylor rearranged my appointment with Dr Edwards when I called earlier. He agreed to hang back and see me after his last patient. Before I even get in there, I know he’s going to exact a heavy price for this favour. My being five minutes late will only raise the cost.

  As I stride in, Taylor is waiting for me. ‘Go right in. And mind what you say, he’s in a funny mood today.’

  His door is open so I enter and take my usual seat as I apologise for being late.

  He looks at me over steepled fingers. He has a way of looking at me that makes me feel like I’m a specimen in a lab.

  ‘Let’s not waste each other’s time. You want answers for the case you’re investigating and I want to know how you feel about killing a man. Shall we start with you telling me what you felt the moment you knew he was dead?’

  His directness is unusual. I know he’ll be expecting the same from me. I also know he’s wily enough to use it, and rapid-fire questions, as a way to unsettle me and get quick answers, rather than considered, more ambiguous ones.

  ‘I was glad I’d killed him. It was me or him and I didn’t want to die.’ I see no harm in giving him an honest answer. ‘There’s been a second murder and it’s got loads of racial symbolism attached to it too.’

  ‘Tell me more about this murder. Just the key facts though.’ I like that he uses my word for the deed and doesn’t correct me. I’ve been in Casperton a long time, but I often find myself still thinking in Scottish terms rather than American ones. What I don’t like is him limiting me to key facts. It’s his way of controlling the conversation.

  When I’m finished, he leans back in his chair and looks at the ceiling. It’s a new gesture.

  He sits back upright and scribbles a note or two onto his pad. ‘A message is being sent. Not only are they targeting black people, they’re attacking all non-whites. Their motives are unknown at this time, but I’d speculate they’re waging some kind of racial war based on the principles of terrorism.’

  ‘Why do you say terrorism when they’re racially motivated hate crimes?’ My thinking has been along clearly defined racial hatred lines.

  ‘Terrorism is defined as an unofficial or unauthorised use of violence and intimidation in the pursuit of political aims.’ He lays down his pen. ‘How do you think the black and other minority communities are feeling right now? It’s only a matter of time before they either start leaving town, or lashing out at those they deem responsible. These are the kind of things which instigate race-riots. You may have killed in self-defence, but now, weeks after the event in the cold light of day, how do you feel about the fact you took another man’s life?’

  ‘I’m comfortable with it for the reasons I already explained. He picked the fight with me. He lost. I’d rather not have sunk to his level but he took the decision out of my hands.’

  ‘Interesting that you use the word “sunk”. You’ve told me previously that you can’t swim, and are in fact afraid of water.’ Another note gets added to my file. ‘The message being sent out is that people of colour are unwelcome – that they should leave. The methods of execution are symbolic as well as barbaric. Everyone fears death to some degree. We all hope we’ll die in our old age after a long life. Most people’s preference is to slip away in the middle of the night in their own bed. You’ve faced death a lot more closely than most. What’s worse for you, is that you faced dying in an environment you feared. You’ve been there. Can you imag
ine the terror of the black community; they’ll all be worrying that they’ll be the next ones to be nailed to a cross and incinerated. How did you feel when you were dumped into the water and left to drown?’

  I take a moment to digest his words. I’m focussing on the statements rather than the question.

  ‘I’d be lying to you if I said I wasn’t scared. There’s no shame in that. Anyone would have been scared in that situation. What do you think is next for this group of killers?’

  ‘I don’t know what they’ll do next, I suspect it’ll be bad though. Whether they attack a different ethnic group or revisit one of those already targeted, I think their next strike will come soon. The chief of police will be calling in the FBI and will, I’m sure, be reassuring a scared public while also giving them advice on how to stay safe. Their mission will become harder with every passing day. It’s also a basic principle of terrorism to keep the pressure on. As you say, there’s no shame in being scared. I’m sure drowning was the subject of your worst nightmares. I would imagine you were angry as well. Am I right?’

  ‘Yeah. I was angry. Furious in fact. With him, with myself for being captured. I used that anger to survive. To do what needed to be done.’

  Fingers get steepled. The ceiling gets another examination. ‘Tell me, Jake, how are you sleeping?’

  He’s done it again. He’s steered me one way with his answer only to ambush me with a perceptive question. This is the one I’ve been dreading. I know how much emphasis psychologists and their ilk place on the power of dreams. My options are either lying, or admitting I suffer from terror-inducing nightmares. I choose to do both.

  ‘I have the odd bad dream, that’s all. I expect it’s to be expected really.’ His face remains blank at my blasé response. ‘Can you give me any pointers towards identifying these killers?’

  ‘I’ve told you before, Jake. I’m not a criminal psychologist. I’m an everyday psychologist. I can only give you guesses based on the information you give me.’

  ‘Then guess.’ The desperate anger in my voice catches us both by surprise.

  ‘Okay then.’ There’s no resentment in his voice. ‘My best guess is that they are a tightly knit group – family or co-workers kind of thing. Their education levels will not be as high as ours. They’ll have police records for violence and petty thefts. Most will be single men.’

  He doesn’t know it but he’s describing the Augiers. Or at least people like them.

  ‘Thank you, Doctor. You’ve been very helpful.’

  I stand to leave, but as always Dr Edwards has a cautionary word for me. ‘You may try and pass them off as bad dreams, Jake. We both know they’re more than that. Next time we speak, I want to discuss them further.’

  We both know he means I have to tell him everything about the dreams. I thought I was tenacious until I met him.

  46

  I’m a quarter of a mile from Alfonse’s place when my cell rings. I answer it without looking, only to be met by the gruff tones of Chief Watson. From the stress in his voice I get a mental picture him of kneading his temples.

  He tells me about a call that came in via 911. A woman had been dumped on a back road off the 191. They’d lost the connection with her but had put a trace on her cell as a matter of routine. The responding patrolman had found her.

  Before getting the woman into the patrol car, she’d led the patrolman off the road and into the scrub. Had shown him a tortoise with a human head attached to the top of its shell.

  I ask who the woman was; if the patrolman recognised either her or the head.

  The chief says no to both questions and tells me to get my ass to the station as quick as I can.

  I call Alfonse. ‘Put your shoes on and meet me on the sidewalk.’ I hang up before he has time to ask questions.

  As I turn the corner he’s locking his door.

  I’m at the sidewalk a second before he is. Two seconds later I’m accelerating away.

  He tells me of his day in six succinct words. ‘I got nothing. Waste of time.’

  I tell him about my day and the latest developments. He gasps as I tell him about the tortoise with the head on its shell.

  ‘That’s from Breaking Bad. A Mexican drug runner had his head fixed to the back of a tortoise.’ He throws me a sidelong glance as he starts a new battle in the long war between us. ‘You really should get a TV, man. You don’t know what you’re missing.’

  The whole scenario echoes the words of the doctor. Another statement.

  It’s also another different racial group to be targeted. A new section of the community struck with terror.

  Casperton is set to become famous for all the wrong reasons. It’s nothing more than a matter of time before the news of these killings goes national, or global. I might not own a TV, but I know Breaking Bad was a hugely popular show when it aired. The killers aping a scene from it is going to set alight every news media that hears of it. Social media sites will throb and hum as the public have their say. I just hope things don’t get so bad that it’s discussed in congress.

  As a tactic to raise the profile of the killings, it’s a brilliant one. The more I think about it, the better it seems.

  I don’t envy the chief his job at the best of times. Now it must be a torturous world of high stress and higher stakes.

  The FBI coming to take over will ease a lot of the burden. Fingers will still be pointed at the chief though. Columnists with vitriol-filled pens and empty heads will file copy laden with criticism of a man who deserves better.

  When we enter the station, Farrage is leading three of his sidekicks from the chief’s office. To say they look chastened would be an understatement. Each carries an air of humble determination.

  I poke my head around the chief’s door. He’s got the phone to his ear but he waves us in.

  Alfonse and I sit in silence, like obedient children, until the chief crashes the phone into its cradle.

  ‘You got the drift of this?’ The chief’s words come out as a scowl.

  The pressure is taking its toll on him. His knuckles are kneading his temples in the familiar gesture. The newer technique, demonstrated by Emily Green, has been forgotten and he’s back to using brute force.

  ‘We’re up to speed, but only as far as you’ve told us.’ I hold his gaze. ‘I take it you realise how big this is going to become when word gets out?’

  He nods. His face etched with consternation. ‘Yeah. I’ve threatened the jobs of everyone who knows, to try and keep it contained for now.’ He makes a helpless gesture.

  Someone will leak the news. The woman herself, a nurse or a patrolman struggling to pay their mortgage may take a few bucks for a newsworthy tip.

  ‘Where is the woman now, is she hurt?’

  ‘The patrolman who found her radioed for help before bringing her back. She’s just been admitted to the hospital and is currently under evaluation. Both psychiatric and physical.’ He looks at his watch. ‘I’ve been told I should be able to see her in an hour or so. According to the patrolman, she’s in an extreme state of shock and was just babbling. She kept pushing her cell to him but when he tried to take it she wouldn’t let him.’

  ‘Do you know her name yet, or whose head was on the tortoise?’

  ‘Not yet. The damn head is still out there on the tortoise’s back.’

  ‘Why? Surely the patrolman brought it in?’ I can’t keep the incredulity from my voice. The police around here might be rubbish, but they should at least know better than to leave a tortoise wandering around with a human head on its back.

  ‘It’s not that simple, Jake.’

  I turn to face Alfonse. ‘What do you mean, not that simple? It’s obvious that you retrieve the animal and the head for evidence.’

  ‘In Breaking Bad, the removal of the head triggered an explosion.’

  I get it at once. Anybody who’s seen the show wouldn’t dare to touch the head. The best we can hope for is that the patrolman, or one of his colleagues, is tracking th
e animal.

  My eyes turn back to the chief. ‘I take it someone is keeping an eye on the tortoise, and that you’ve called in the bomb squad.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘What about the FBI? Are they here yet, and have you updated them?’

  ‘I spoke to the special agent in charge and he’s been held up with car trouble. He said he’ll get here in an hour, so I told him to go to the hospital.’

  ‘So, we’ve got an hour before anything happens.’ I stand up and make for the door. ‘I suggest we use that time wisely.’

  ‘What you sayin’, Boulder?’

  ‘I’m saying you’ll have things to organise. A press conference for one. A higher police presence for another. While you’re doing that, Alfonse and I will make ourselves useful. Can we use the other office?’

  ‘You do what you gotta do. Just stop tellin’ me how to do my goddamn job.’

  ‘Chief?’ Alfonse receives an enquiring glare. ‘What was the colour of the skin on the head?’

  ‘Brown. Marcus reckoned the guy looked Mexican.’

  I’d never asked the question myself because I knew what the answer would be. There’s no satisfaction in being right though.

  47

  I park beside the chief’s pickup and follow him into the hospital. I’ve left Alfonse working his way through the list of people Sherrelle had turned down for loans.

  The chief marches to the Emergency Room counter and growls his query to the receptionist. She gives him the information he needs and points the way.

  A minute later we’re standing outside a cubicle while the chief argues with a nurse. It’s a fierce argument which neither participant shows any desire to lose.

  Neither party should lose either. Both are doing their jobs. The nurse is protecting her patient; the chief the townsfolk.

  A doctor steps out from the cubicle and I get a look at the woman. Not a proper look, just enough of a split-second glimpse for me to recognise the fact that I know her. Try as I might, I can’t put a name to her.