[Jake Boulder 01.0] Watching the Bodies

by Graham Smith

  His career in the Marines had spared him from these get-togethers but once delisted he’d endured them for Melanie’s sake. Putting up with a chatterbox and a bore for a few hours, twelve times a year was a tiny sacrifice he was happy to make for his wife.

  Now the woman’s gabbling has proven useful. He knows about her family. Where they work. Their passions.

  Her father seems to be the easiest target. He has spent time in his company at one or two social occasions.

  Getting close to him won’t be hard. His place of work is an ideal location to dump a body and remain unseen.

  He lifts his bowl and stirs the scraps of paper before selecting one. Opening the scrap of paper, he finds a single word. ‘Seppuku’.

  He laughs. Using the Samurai’s method of self-disembowelling as a way to kill is something he’s been waiting for. He’s even managed to get his hands on the correct type of short sword for the ritualised death: the Tanto.

  He remembers what he’s learned about Seppuku – the various rituals, the way Samurai warriors used it to avoid shame or falling into the torturous hands of a victorious enemy. For a time it was also used as a form of capital punishment.

  Laughing again, he looks forward to plunging his Tanto into the engorged belly of the chatterbox’s father and moving the blade across and then up. Setting the scene will be important on this one too. He’s keen to observe the ritual as closely as possible.

  He will act as the father’s Kaishakunin. It will be an honour to deliver the death stroke.

  With a glance at his watch, he gathers what he needs and sets off to hunt his next victim.

  The kill won’t take place this morning. He’ll do that later when he can watch the corpse without being missed by anyone.

  He knows his cover of being at work won’t last much longer, but he needs to eke out every last scrap of benefit it can afford him. With so many homicides in such a short time, it can only be a matter of days before the authorities start to close in on him.

  Yet the pattern must not alter. It and the tally are the points that matter, the staging of the bodies nothing more than a delaying tactic designed to confuse those investigating the murders.

  Chapter 50

  The chief ushers me towards his office. Where the reception was awash with a throng of people earlier, it’s now littered by a scant few members of a different family. The smell of stale bodies and nervous tension lingers on, infecting the new arrivals with its all-pervading tentacles of fear.

  In his position I’d do the same. After rousing two families from their beds, he’d kept them at the station all night, until he had to deliver the news none of them wanted to hear.

  ‘So tell me about the bodies that were found.’ I take a seat by his desk.

  ‘Kelly Oberton was out for an early morning run when she saw a car with bloodstains on the window. She went forward to get a closer look, hurled her guts up, then she ran home to call us.’ He scratches at the white stubble on his chin. ‘As soon as I heard, I sent the boys out to round up her family.’ His voice holds strength and conviction in his decisions, but there is a hint of resigned fatality seeping in at the back.

  ‘Have you got them all?’

  ‘No. Her brother left town to go to a conference in Vegas and her father refused to come into custody. Said he’s got too much to do at work without the police jumping at shadows.’

  ‘So what have you done with the father then?’

  He raises his hands from the desk. ‘What can I do, arrest him? He doesn’t want our help and we’re already getting slaughtered by public opinion. I haven’t read it myself, but apparently that Ms Rosenberg took more than a few potshots at us in yesterday’s Gazette.’

  ‘I trust you’ve got someone on him?’

  ‘I wish I had the manpower. If I start providing detectives or even patrolmen as bodyguards for every family member who doesn’t do what I ask of them, there’s no way I’ll be able to look after the ones who do. Let alone the rest of the town.’ His scowl lifts for the briefest moment. ‘At least that’s what I told his daughter.’

  I smile at the chief’s cunning. He’s using the father as a tethered goat. By not assigning an obvious bodyguard or shadow, he’s creating an opportunity to catch the killer before his selection process becomes public knowledge.

  Once that news breaks, the killer may change his methods, move on to a different system or leave town and start all over again in a different town, city or state.

  A thought comes to me. ‘Have you tried the FBI again? Got them to check their records for anything similar in other states?’

  ‘No. The thought occurred to me, but I haven’t had time to follow it up yet.’

  ‘You said their bodies were found in a car. What have you learned from the scene itself?’

  ‘To be honest, I’ve never given it a thought. At this moment in time, I’m more concerned with protecting the Oberton family than chasing after the killer.’ He shrugs. ‘If I’m lucky, I’ll be able to keep them safe until an arrest is made.’

  ‘Your best chance is that he targets the father and whoever you’ve got on surveillance duty catches him before he strikes.’

  ‘Right now it’s the only chance we’ve got of catching this guy.’

  It’s a rare admission from the chief and it makes me understand just how much the strain is affecting him. Not only are the words semi-defeatist, his tone is riddled with the cancer of utter dejection.

  ‘Do you mind if I go and have a look at the scene?’

  The gratitude in his face makes me feel as if I’m the one doing him a favour.

  ‘Not at all.’ He lifts the phone on his desk and presses a button. ‘Boulder is coming out there. I want you to make sure he gets treated the way I would. If I hear any different, you can leave your gun and your badge on my desk.’

  As I reach for the folder he’s handing me, he notices the bruises on my neck and the swollen redness of my knuckles.

  ‘Have you been fighting, Boulder?’

  ‘I got jumped by three bozos connected with the strip joint near Salt Lake City.’ I wave a dismissive hand. ‘They attacked me. I defended myself. They learned not to attack me.’

  I leave the room before he gets too far into it. There’s nothing to be gained from telling the chief of police how I beat up three men on a public street at eight o’clock in the morning.

  Chapter 51

  As I drive to where the bodies of Wendy Agnew and Donny Prosser had been found, I find myself thinking about what I’m about to witness, the questions whose answers I will be seeking and the direction this investigation has taken me.

  What started out as helping Alfonse look into Kira’s murder, has in a few short days seen me become the chief’s go-to option in the search for a serial killer. From my initial request for assistance by way of information sharing, I am now being relied on to help steer the investigation.

  The responsibility weighs heavy on me, yet I am experiencing a fraction of the burden the chief will bear. In addition to the multiple homicides, he has the everyday concerns of keeping order in a town of twenty-odd thousand.

  The biggest worry I’m facing, is the feeling I’m to blame for the latest deaths. If I’d made time to read all of Kira’s journal sooner, both Prosser and Wendy Agnew may still be alive.

  While my rational brain tells me it is only a perverse masochistic streak that made me read them in the first place, I’m aware the best breakthrough we’ve made so far has been identifying the killer’s selection process. While not helping us to catch him, it at least gives us a chance to prevent his next strike.

  Another part of my psyche is pointing fingers. It has the voice of my mother and the critical attributes of a scorned lover. Like a devil nestling on my shoulder and whispering into my ear, it is telling me I’m out of my depth. That a doorman at a bar shouldn’t be playing detective. It tells me I’m going to fail and people will die because of my failure.

  I hear it whispering their blood wi
ll be on my hands. That my incompetence has already caused two deaths.

  It takes an effort, but I cast the demonic utterances to the back of my mind and force the doubts away.

  The road twists and winds its way through the woods. Beristow’s Bluff is a local beauty spot by day and a make-out place by night. Named after one of the founding fathers of Casperton it holds memories for almost every resident.

  I reach the car park and leave my car next to Ms Rosenberg’s Chrysler. She’s arguing with a patrolman. He tries to deny me access, but Lieutenant Farrage shouts across and the patrolman steps aside ignoring the protestations and insults coming from Ms Rosenberg.

  Give Farrage his due, while he might not like me being there he accepts my presence. The strain of the investigation is starting to show on his face too. Thinking about it, I realise he’ll be under pressure from the chief. As mayor, his father will also be pressing him to solve the case and to top it off, Ms Rosenberg has spent months lampooning him and his abilities. Add the fact no sane person likes to see another human lose their life and it’s no surprise he’s looking so punched out.

  His being unfit to lead the investigation is bound to be another factor eating at him. He’ll know for certain he’s out of his depth. The chief bringing Alfonse and I in to help is a public slap to his face, yet he has gone beyond bitterness. For perhaps the first time in his gilded life he is seeing the bigger picture.

  Some CSI guys dressed in hooded Tyvek suits complete with overshoe booties are searching the car for evidence.

  I see a number of square foot pads leading to the car. I know from my reading it’s how CSI teams approach such a scene. First the ground is scouted for evidence. When the search is done a foot pad is laid and they move forward a couple of feet.

  Farrage approaches me. Extends a hand. ‘Look, Boulder, I don’t like you being here any more than you can imagine. But the fact is we need all the help we can get. I can put our differences aside. Can you?’

  The gesture and his admission take me by surprise but I don’t hesitate to shake his hand.

  ‘Of course.’ I point at the car with blood on the windows. ‘What have you got from the scene?’

  ‘Why don’t you take a look for yourself?’ He reaches into the CSI van and brings out a Tyvek suit, gloves and a pair of overshoe booties.

  ‘Sure.’

  The word carries more than acceptance. It unites us as witnesses to the horror man can wreak on his fellow human beings.

  It’s a struggle to wrestle my frame into the suit but I manage not to fall over or rip it in the process. Clad in the protective gear, I place one foot after the other and step onto the foot pads.

  As I approach the car, I see the residue of brain matter mixed with the blood on the windows. The stench of vomit carries across from where Kelly Oberton voided her stomach.

  I’m glad I haven’t yet eaten. The inside of the car is a grisly mess and has me fighting back the dry heaves. It takes a couple of manful swallows to get me close enough to peer through the windshield. The tableau inside tells a complete story.

  Wendy Agnew is sitting in the passenger seat. Her blouse is unbuttoned and one breast has been freed from the functional bra. There is a neat hole in the left side of her face and a larger hole above her right ear.

  Around the smaller hole are what look to be scorch marks caused by muzzle flash.

  I turn my attention to Donny Prosser and make mental notes of the facts. He’s shirtless, the bullet hole in his right temple shows no burn marks and there are no wounds on his body. His right arm is slumped between the two seats. The dark shape of a handgun lies in his palm.

  Looking away from the bodies, I let my eyes wander around the interior of the car. I see a couple of things which suggest a scenario. However, it’s not one I’m inclined to believe.

  Breathing only through my mouth, I study the car for a few minutes, then step away with ideas bombarding my brain, twisting and contorting known facts into the semblance of actual events.

  I return along the path of foot pads and strip off the protective clothing.

  Farrage is waiting for me with an expectant look. ‘What do you think?’

  ‘It looks like they were about to get it on when he shot her. Then realising what he’d done he turned the gun on himself.’

  ‘I agree. I’m not sure it’s connected to the other homicides.’

  There. Right there in one sentence is the reason nobody in Casperton trusts his detective skills.

  He is investigating a serial killer and has taken a look at a dump site and believed everything he’s seen. Without the capacity to think along different lines, everything presented to him is taken at face value, regardless of how much it contradicts known facts. Used to the straightforward and predictable he can’t get his brain to think beyond the obvious.

  Some tact is required to avoid disrupting our new-found truce. ‘It looks that way, but maybe the killer wants you to think it’s not connected. Maybe he’s staged the bodies to look this way. Right down to the open box of condoms on the floor.’

  ‘Why would he do…’ Farrage stops mid-sentence as he realises why a killer would stage a dump scene.

  As I watch his face, I can see his mind trying to work out what the next move should be. Fun as it is watching him struggle, I need answers to some questions and his men can be used to obtain them.

  ‘We need to eliminate the murder suicide angle.’

  I spend the next five minutes making suggestions as to what his men should be asking the families of the two victims.

  Ms Rosenberg tries to question me as I return to my car, but I blank her, my mind focusing on what to do next.

  Chapter 52

  I drive back to Casperton still unsure of what our next move should be. As I’m driving towards the police station, a newspaper headline displayed on an A-frame causes me to pull over.

  After snatching a copy of the Gazette from the pile, I start reading while I’m waiting to pay for it. The headline that caught my eye is repeated at the top of the front page.

  Serial Killer Stalks Casperton Families

  I scan the front page but see few details and a lot of conjecture. The most disheartening thing about it is the journalist has also recognised the pattern. Tracing my finger down the page, I look for the byline. As expected it bears the name of a certain Jewish lady with a New York accent.

  This revelation will throw the local population into a state of fear. It’s bad enough there’s a killer on the loose, without every man, woman and child in the town being terrified to call the police in case someone they love becomes the next victim.

  I wonder what the chief will make of this latest development. In my mind’s eye, I see him kneading his temples in a forlorn effort to relieve stress.

  When I call his cell, I’m met with a recorded message. I leave a short one thankful I don’t have to look at him when he learns of this news.

  Next I call Alfonse and get him to check the credit and debit cards of the two latest victims. His voice carries surprise when I tell him to share his results with Farrage as well.

  My thinking is Farrage’s men can check the restaurant and hotel spends with their families. It may be tactless and even cruel to make such insinuations, but as improbable as it may be, we need to discount the theory of them having an affair.

  Something about the dump site is nagging at me so I call Dr Edwards’ office. I’m not expecting a full appointment to be available at short notice, but after a little pushing I’m granted fifteen minutes on the condition I’m there within five.

  I make it with seconds to spare and may get a ticket for the way I’ve abandoned the Mustang, but I’m here.

  Taylor the receptionist smiles at me as I burst through the door.

  ‘Do you always cut things so fine?’ There’s a mocking glance at her watch as she ushers me towards Dr Edwards’ office.

  I take my usual seat on the couch and remain silent until he looks up from the notes he’s stud
ying.

  ‘We don’t have much time, Doctor, so I’ll agree to an appointment where you can ask me anything and get an honest answer if you answer my questions now.’

  He scratches at his beard. ‘I trust you to be a man of your word so that’s acceptable to me. What do you want to know?’

  I explain how the way the bodies have been arranged is bugging me. How I can’t seem to make sense of, or find a pattern to it.

  He scratches his lips and leans back in his chair to think. When he straightens he reaches for the intercom on his desk.

  ‘Can you reschedule Mrs Harman to a five-thirty appointment please, Taylor?’

  When she replies her voice is distorted. ‘Will you need me to stay late?’

  ‘No, I’ll manage, thanks.’

  He releases the buzzer and looks at me. ‘Working on the presumption the latest two deaths are connected, I can think of a number of different scenarios which may be at play here. As you suggest, the killer could just be toying with the investigating officers. Another theory is that he is recreating scenes which are relevant to a hero of his.’

  ‘A hero?’ I fight to keep the incredulous tone out of my voice. It’s not a battle I win.

  ‘Yes, a hero. I am by no means an expert on the subject, but it is entirely normal for people to copy or imitate those who they look up to. Add in whatever psychoses this man is suffering from and it is not beyond the bounds of belief the person he worships is a famous serial killer.’

  I say nothing. My brain is too busy trying to comprehend the horror of what he’s suggesting.

  ‘Another theory is he is working to a pattern. The semi-random choosing of the victims gives him an element of control while also leaving some in the lap of the Gods.’