by Graham Smith
50
A reception committee is waiting for me at the steps of the station. It’s safe to say they’re not impressed with me. Even Gaertner’s implacable face is covered with a scowl as I screech to a halt.
His hand extends without a word. He takes the cell from me and hands it to one of the two subordinates standing at his shoulder.
The subordinate wheels away and heads inside. I don’t need a Harvard degree to work out he’s Gaertner’s techie guy.
‘Listen to me, Boulder.’ Gaertner’s nose is a quarter inch from mine. If anyone else invaded my personal space this way, I’d spread their nose across their face with my forehead. However, FBI special agents get a free pass when I’m in the wrong. ‘I don’t buy your tale about forgetting you had that cell. I think you kept it back so you could continue your own investigation.’
His eyes bore into mine, defying me to deny his charge. I can’t. I’ve been busted and we all know it.
I hold up my cell. ‘It was a half-hour delay at most once I realised I had it, and it was a genuine mistake. Do you want me to get Alfonse to remove the videos?’
His temper drops from incandescent to furious as he sees the sense in what I’m saying. However good his man is, he’s still going to be a few steps behind Alfonse. ‘Do it.’
I make the call. I look at both Chief Watson and Gaertner as I add my own little request. They both nod approval.
The chief rounds on me as soon as the station door shuts behind Gaertner. ‘You are a prize idiot, Boulder. And what’s worse is you’re making me look like one too. Here I am trying to fight your corner and you’re running off like some damn renegade. This isn’t like TV, or the movies, where the hero finds clues by good luck. This is real life where processes have to be followed. You’re a smart man, Boulder. Stop acting like a wise ass and start thinking about the big picture. Your selfish actions have set the FBI investigation back.’ His finger jabs into my chest. ‘I can’t protect you much longer, and if you do something else like this I won’t even bother trying.’
I find myself looking at my feet as I mumble an apology. I hadn’t considered the chief going to bat for me. Hadn’t thought how I was making a fool of him. Just because catching the killers is the most important thing to all of us, it doesn’t give me the right to act like an ass.
‘So, what are you going to do now?’ The question is part a request for information, and part a demand for my good behaviour.
When I tell him, his eyebrows lift a full inch.
The Augiers live a few miles from where Noelle was picked up. He tells me to make sure he’s kept updated and turns away. I can tell from his body language he thinks I’m wasting my time.
He may be right. The Augiers are just a couple of steps above the Amish in their lack of understanding modern devices like cell phones.
51
Will Pederson pays his check and leaves a decent tip. The server is a cutie, but the attraction only flows one way. His batting average has dropped since passing his sixtieth birthday a couple of years back.
There was a time he could bank on hooking up with someone every week. Now he is lucky if it is once a month.
He knows age is a big part of it. While his body is still trim, despite his bulky frame, he is starting to look every minute of his age. It doesn’t help there are younger, tauter men competing with him. His natural charm can only mask so many of his age-induced deficiencies.
As he stands, the room takes a wobble. He hopes it’s the drink rather than his lack of youth. As a precaution he takes shorter, more considered steps than usual.
The lights flash on his car when he presses the blipper. He’s got the door open when someone speaks to him.
‘You off home, buddy?’
Pederson turns and sees a guy who had also been eating solo. They’d exchanged polite nods across the barroom but that was as far as things had gone.
‘Yeah. Unless I get a better offer that is.’ Pederson widens his smile.
Nothing about the man suggests to Pederson that he’s gay. Yet he was dining alone in a bar where the majority of patrons are.
Pederson figures the man to be bi-curious. There’s a hesitancy to his movements and a certain shyness. The guy had made the first move though, so he sticks out a hand. ‘I’m Will. You are?’
‘Brian.’
Pederson suspects the name to be an alias. It came after a moment’s thought in which the eyes flicked left. A sure sign of a lie being concocted. The lie doesn’t bother him. It just tells him the so-called ‘Brian’ has something he wants to keep hidden. Or private.
It also informs him that whatever happens will be a one-time affair. A situation which suits Pederson just fine.
The hand is rough and callused which contradicts the tailored suit and silk tie. Pederson guesses that Brian has chosen to wear his best clothes to try to satisfy a curiosity.
It’s a familiar scenario. Some go for Sunday best while others dress like the TV stereotypes they’ve seen. Neither get it right. Gay people wear the same clothes everyone else does.
‘Do you, uh, fancy a nightcap?’ Brian flashes a wide smile. ‘I’ve a bottle of eighteen-year-old scotch I’ve been waiting to try.’
Pederson gives his lips a mental lick. Malt whisky and a handsome man in his early forties. The evening ahead has just gotten a whole lot better.
Pederson drives as Brian gives directions from the passenger seat.
Brian is aware a panel van is following them.
Pederson isn’t.
52
The light is starting to fade as Butch Augiers walks towards me. His face is grim but there’s no animosity on it.
None of his family can be seen. It doesn’t matter. It’s him I’m here to see.
A suspicious part of my brain makes me check out the landscape in case he’s got a nasty surprise waiting for me by way of retribution.
He hasn’t.
Instead he’s appraising me. His eyes travel over every inch of my body as if I’m an animal to be observed. I find it unnerving, but keep my face straight.
He gestures to a tree stump where we sit.
I want to ask why he’s asked me to come out here, yet a sixth sense holds me back. Whatever he’s got to tell me has to come forth without pressure.
As I wait for him to speak, my eyes follow the silhouette of the hills against the night sky. It’s picturesque out here, peaceful. I could live in a place like this – provided I got a cell signal and a decent internet connection.
‘What I’m about to tell you goes no further. If you take it to the cops and they come looking, I’ll deny everything. Then we’ll come for you.’
I detect fear, worry and hesitation in him. Whatever is coming next is a big thing for him. He feels as if he’s betraying someone by telling me. Or worse, putting his family at risk. Yet, he’s still asked for me to come and see him. This tells me he knows something worth knowing. Or at least suspects he does.
He takes my silence as agreement of his terms. ‘I spoke to the family’ bout what you were asking. To cut a long story short, Freddie has a buddy who’s trouble. I don’t mean gettin’ inta fights or stealin’. Real trouble. The kid has gotten himself mixed up with somethin’ real bad and he’s trying to drag Freddie in.’
‘Into what?’
‘Freddie said the kid wouldn’t tell him details. He’d just said he was doin’ real work. Makin’ a difference.’
My pulse quickens and I have to suppress the excitement in my voice. ‘Who is this kid?’
‘David Jones.’ Butch shrugs. ‘Known as “Young David” because he got his grandpappy’s name.’
‘Where does he live? The police need to speak to him.’
‘Him getting hauled off by the police won’t do no good. Boy’s dumber than a fence post.’ He scratches his chin. ‘If he’s mixed up in anything his family will be too. Ain’t no way they’d allow him to work for someone else.’
‘Then the police can round them all up.’
‘What good do you think that’ll do?’ Butch shakes his head at me. ‘They’ll deny everything then start wonderin’ why the police came a knocking on their door. Ain’t no evidence the cops can use, is there?’
‘So how do we get some evidence?’
‘That’s your problem. They’re organising some fights. Running a book on them.’
‘You mean they’re fixing boxing matches?’
He chuckles at my question. ‘Ain’t no ring or a referee. These are real fights.’
I get what he means now. Bare knuckle bouts where the winner is the one left standing. They’ll take place at some isolated location. Attendance will be by invitation only. Bets will be made; money won and lost.
The combatants will be tough grizzled men with few teeth and fewer brain cells. Their punishment nothing more than entertainment for a baying crowd. Each spill of their blood greeted with enthusiastic roars.
It’s not a world I know or care about. ‘So how does this turn into something the police can use?’
‘Freddie says Young David has told him about a big fight happening tomorrow night. Says there’s also supposed to be a fight to the death.’ He spreads his hands wide. ‘I don’t know how much of this is true and how much is the kid running his mouth to impress Freddie. Could all be bullshit.’
‘What does your gut tell you?’ Men like Butch are all about instinct. Their primal senses more attuned than their brain.
He wipes a hand over his face. ‘It tells me not to trust the kid as far as I can kick him. On the other hand, I know the family has a history of fighting. Fought quite a few of them over the years.’
‘You were a bare knuckle boxer?’
He gives another chuckle as he gestures to his property. ‘How do you think I got this place? When my great-grandpappy came over from France he had nothin’ but the clothes on his back and the strength of his character. He, my grandpappy and my father all worked for someone else. I wasn’t prepared to do that, so I found a way of making some money. I fought twice a month for two years to get enough money to buy this place. Didn’t get much for the fights but I had some friends who laid bets for me.’
I look at him with different eyes. Ten or twenty years ago he must have been one hell of a fighter. His face doesn’t bear the scars of defeat. His nose is straight and unflattened; his teeth aren’t the best, but the fact they’re there pays testament to his fighting ability.
I’ve never thought about it until hearing his story; his surname speaks of a non-American heritage. It’s something I should have realised a long time ago. His family will have grown up with tales of the hardships faced by an immigrant family settling in a new land. They should never have been suspects.
‘Maybe I should go visit them myself.’ Unlike the police and the FBI, there’s very little to stop me extracting information with violence if necessary.
‘That’s not a good idea. There’s a whole bunch of them and if they don’t like the look of you they’ll run you off their land quick as look at you. And, if you got any sense, you’ll go without a protest. With your accent you’ll be lucky to say more’n three words before they want you gone.’
Interesting. They sound like a bunch of racists who’re used to violence. Just what I’m trying to find.
After my suspicions of the Augiers, I’m wary of jumping to conclusions again. The Jones family seem like perfect suspects but perhaps they’re too perfect. There’s also the question of evidence. At least some will be needed to convince the chief and Gaertner of the family’s involvement, let alone guilt.
I figure Butch already has a solution worked out. I’m just not sure I’ll like it. ‘So, how do I find out what I need to know?’
‘You go up there and impress them. This fight tomorrow night is your chance. Old Man Jones was round here askin’ if I wanted to make a comeback. I told him I’d think on it and let him know later.’
‘You’re proposing I enter one of these fights?’ The idea is ludicrous. ‘I fight when I need to – when the situation is forced upon me. I don’t fight for other people’s sport so they can make money off me.’
‘It’s the only way you’ll get close to them. They’re a fighter short for tomorrow night, they wouldn’t have asked me otherwise. They’re desperate. It’s your best chance.’ He strikes a match and lights his smoke. ‘Once they accept you as a fighter you’ll just have to keep your eyes and ears open. Make your own judgements.’
‘Why are they a fighter short at this late stage?’
‘Young David’s father went and got himself into something he couldn’t handle. Took enough of a beating to stop him taking part.’
I don’t care for what he’s saying. It’s making the wrong kind of sense. I’ll be better accepted by them if my presence helps them out of a hole. Their natural suspicions of a stranger dissipated by their gratitude to me for completing their bill.
Going back on my principles is my biggest problem. I don’t fight at the request of other people. I don’t take orders on who to beat up and when. I use my own judgement and hit only those who either deserve it, or those who try and hit me.
In the greater scheme of things, such concerns are of little importance. It’s better to compromise my principles for the greater good, than to stand by them and wonder if I’m in any way responsible for further deaths.
I’m still cagey though. ‘So what do I have to do, turn up and fight whoever is in front of me?’
‘Pretty much. Either the fights will be pre-arranged or they’ll be drawn on the night. Depends on how they’re plannin’ to run the book. Knowing Dave’s grandfather, my guess is it’ll be pre-arranged. He likes to control things and I’m sure whoever is runnin’ the book will be givin’ him a sizeable cut.’
‘Will they accept me as an unknown, give me a chance at a fair fight?’ The last thing I want is to find myself becoming cannon-fodder for one of their champions.
He gives a knowing smile. Now he’s broken his silence, he’s enjoying my discomfort. ‘They’ll not throw you to the wolves. There’s no money to be made from a mismatch.’
There’s no avoiding this. If I’m to find out if the Jones family are involved, I’m going to have to go undercover as a fighter. I give a sigh before answering him. ‘I’m in. What rules are there, if any?’
‘Only rules is you don’t pound on a man who can’t fight back and you don’t go gouging no eyes. Other’n that, there ain’t no rules. Be here for seven and I’ll take you up there.’
53
Alfonse is waiting for me in a quiet booth at the Tree. He wears the look of a man carrying several times his own bodyweight in stress. As ever, his laptop is open in front of him.
I point at him. ‘You first.’ I’m still not sure if I should tell him, the chief or Gaertner about tomorrow night.
‘I deleted the posts after adding a searchbot to them like you asked. They’d been shared or downloaded by two hundred and seventy-two people by the time I took them down. Noelle’s post by a hundred and five, and the other one by the rest.’ His fingers hover over the keys. ‘Say the word and I can trash every one of those computers.’
‘Don’t do it.’ The words pour out in a hurry. Alfonse’s finger is too close to the button for comfort. ‘Some of those computers will be at the police station. If you trash those, all hell will break loose.’
‘Well, duh.’ It’s nice to see his natural sarcasm has replaced the earlier anger. ‘I know their IP address and have removed it from the trash list.’
‘What about the FBI, do you know their IP addresses? What about the other agencies they’re bound to have alerted over this? They’re sure to have downloaded the videos for analysis.’
He looks shame-faced.
‘Don’t sweat it. You’re too close to this – too angry and upset to see beyond your immediate focus.’
‘Are you saying I’m useless?’
‘Don’t talk nonsense.’ A passing waitress pauses in surprise at my raised voice. I take the h
eat out of my next words. ‘You’re angry because you’re grieving. It’s natural you want to trash those computers. It’s a way you can take revenge, fight back. Your thinking is clouded because you’re a decent, caring human who’s suffered a personal tragedy.’
Alfonse gives me a tight grin. ‘Aren’t I the one who usually has to calm you down?’
‘What did you find in the cell records?’ I want to move the conversation away from thinking of his errors, to something he’s good at. ‘I’m sure you’ve got something from them.’
If anything, his mood darkens.
‘The videos were both shot around noon today. Noelle’s being the first. They were uploaded to the social media and sharing sites from her cell and left to go viral.’ He grimaces. ‘When I checked her email logs, I saw the videos were sent to CNN, the Washington Post, New York Times and several other major news outlets. And before you ask, as soon as I saw that, I let the chief know.’
I shudder to think of the conversations taking place at the station. Gaertner will be reporting back to various superiors and mobilising a small army of agents with the goal of neutralising the news carriers. The chief will be pacing like a caged beast, pausing only to spit orders at his men.
Stress levels will be through the roof; tempers frayed and arguments breaking out over the smallest things. Sure, they’re all professionals, but they’re also humans. Never before has a mess like this erupted. The power of social media and smartphones mean news travels faster than ever.
‘Have you run a trace on the cell’s movement?’ It’s a formality the FBI will have replicated, but every piece of information tells us a little bit more. ‘Can you tell where it was when the videos were sent and uploaded?’
‘The cell’s trace disappeared at 2.15am which coincides with a battery failure log. The logs show it was switched on at 12.13pm and 1.05pm but never picked up a signal. The signal and battery returned at 2.56pm. A quick run of the co-ordinates show it was more or less where Noelle was picked up. That’s also pretty much when the videos were sent.’