I suppressed a smile. “Aren’t you the one who’s always telling me how much I’m missing by remaining childless?”
“Well, forget everything I ever said about it.” She took a breath. “Anyway, how are things with you?”
“So, so.” I told her about the latest developments. “I don’t know how we’ll do in a court of law, but the tide of popular opinion is certainly against us.”
“You wouldn’t have to deal with this stuff if you worked for the bank, you know.”
“I told you, I—”
“Lighten up, Kali. That was a joke.” There was a pause. “Why would a killer steal his victim’s underwear?”
I told her my theories. “Sex, power, humiliation.”
“I don’t know. If you ask me, it sounds more like a childish prank.” Her voice rose to a sing-song pitch. “’I see Paris, I see France, I see Sabrina’s underpants.’ Remember?”
“What I remember is the way you clobbered the Jones boy with your lunch pail when he tried that at the bus stop.”
“God, if I’d remembered how obnoxious boys could be I’d never have had any myself. Well, I’d better go clean up the carpet before the stains set in for good. I told Joey to pick up the garbage, but I’m going to have to work on the stains myself.”
I was heating water for a second cup of coffee when Sabrina’s words triggered something in my mind.
Have you ever been to Paris, France?
Oooh, la.
Boys will be boys.
Granger’s words echoed in my head. Was he referring to cigarettes and beer and girlie magazines? Or was there maybe something more?
It was a long shot, but one worth exploring.
I turned off the kettle and went to pay another visit to Bongo.
Chapter 29
“Tell me again about the afternoon you discovered the bodies of Mrs. Cornell and her daughter.”
Bongo was slouched on his living room couch, bare feet resting on the table in front of it. A bowl of popcorn was cradled in his lap, a can of Pepsi nearby. He’d yelled at his younger brother, Kevin, for letting me in while their mother was at the grocery, but he hadn’t thrown me out. I was hoping we could finish up before Mrs. Langley returned.
“I told you about it last time you were here,” Bongo grumbled.
“I know, but sometimes it helps for me to hear things a second time.”
“What part do you want to hear again?”
“All of it. It was a Sunday, I believe.”
Bongo nodded, took a swig of soda, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
“In the afternoon,” I coached.
“Yeah.”
“Were you supposed to meet someone in the barn?”
“No, I just thought. . . I thought my brother might be over there.” He looked quickly at Kevin and then away.
Kevin straddled a straight-backed chair as though he were riding a horse. “Why were you looking for me?”
“I just was, all right.”
“So you checked inside the barn,” I prodded.
“Yeah. I just sort of poked my head in. The place stunk something awful. When I saw those bodies all bloody and swollen I took outta there. Just about lost my lunch.”
“And that was it?”
Bongo nodded.“I told my mom and she called the police.”
“And now he’s afraid to go back,” Kevin said smugly. “I bet him my whole month’s allowance he couldn’t spend ten minutes alone inside the barn.”
“I don’t want your stupid money.”
“Oh, yeah?”
I tried again. “So you weren’t there long. Probably less than a minute?”
“A lot less.”
“Thirty seconds?”
“Not even that long. I told you, it was gross.”
“What strikes me as peculiar,” I said off-handedly, “is the way you saw the two bodies straight off. Not only noticed them, but knew right away the condition they were in. All in less than thirty seconds.”
He shrugged.
“I’ve been inside the barn. It’s dark in there. Coming in from the bright afternoon sun, it took my eyes awhile to adjust. Until they did, I couldn’t see a thing.”
Bongo popped the metal on his soda can. “Maybe it was longer than I thought. A scare like that makes it hard to remember straight.”
“Still, it seems funny that the first thing you’d focus on would be inert shapes at ground level, clear on the other side of the building.”
Bongo shrugged, but his face had paled considerably.
“I think you’re not being completely straight with me,” I said.
“What’ya mean?”
“I think maybe you spent more time inside the barn than you’re admitting to.”
He shook his head vehemently. “No way. It was a minute max. They were disgusting. They hardly looked like people at all. I wouldn’t even have recognized them if I hadn’t—”
“Hadn’t what?”
“Nothing.” Bongo’s breathing was rapid and shallow. A fine film of perspiration covered his forehead. He tossed Kevin his pocket knife. “Go see if you can find a piece of wood for that boat you been talking about making.”
“I don’t know what to look for.”
“Yes, you do. About this size.” Bongo cupped his hands into a shape the size of a football. “You can start by peeling off the bark.”
“Mom don’t like me using a knife when no one’s around.”
“I’ll be there in a minute. You go wait for me, okay?”
Kevin hesitated, then swung his leg over the chair and shuffled out. I waited for Bongo to continue, but instead he finished off his can of soda.
“You were telling me about finding Mrs. Cornell and her daughter,” I reminded him. “You wouldn’t have recognized them if you hadn’t what?”
He looked up and then away quickly. “I don’t know. I guess I knew it had to be them ’cause it was their property and all.”
“You keep stalling like this and we’re going to get to the dicey part about the time your mother gets home. You want to have this conversation in front of her?”
Bongo crushed the can in his hands. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“They found the underwear, you know.”
His head jerked up. “They couldn’t have.” Then he realized what he’d said and his eyes took on a glint of panic.
“Both pairs. They were in a trash bin. The police are going to be able to trace them back to you,” I said, lying through my teeth. “Modern forensics is truly amazing.”
Bongo swallowed hard.
“It wasn’t me,” he protested. “It was Tim. And they were already dead. We didn’t have nothing to do with that. All we did was take some of their clothes.”
“Who’s Tim? I thought you were alone that afternoon.”
There was a moment’s hesitation. “I was. But Tim and me were there Friday night, too.”
“That’s when you found them, Friday night?”
He nodded, his eyes averted.
“And you undressed them?”
“It was Tim’s idea, I swear. I just took a quick peek.”
“Sure.” I made no effort to hide my disgust.
“They were dead. They weren’t going to care.” His voice held a touch of insolence.
“Was it Tim who took the underwear?”
Bongo nodded, pulled himself up straighten “He said it was kind of like a souvenir.”
“So why’d he toss them into the trash?”
“Beats me. It was only yesterday he brought them out so we could take another look. I bet he’d had plenty of looks himself in between. He kept them hidden under a loose floorboard in his closet.”
“Yesterday?”
He nodded.
If Bongo was right, then the garments found in the compost bin weren’t Lisa’s and Amy’s. I leaned forward. “You’re sure it was yesterday?”
“Yeah, I’m sure. Tim didn’t say nothing
about getting rid of them either.”
I sat back a bit. “Why didn’t you report the deaths on Friday when you first discovered them?”
He shrugged.
“We're going to get to the bottom of this one way or another,” I told him. “If not here, then down at the police station.” When he didn’t say anything I stood. “Okay, if that’s the way you want it.”
“Wait.” The word squeaked out.
I eased back into my chair.
“We were staying at Tim’s Friday night. We were supposed to be watching his little sisters, but after they were asleep we snuck out with a six-pack of beer. Tim’s dad woulda beat the shit out of both of us if he’d known.”
“But why wait until Sunday?”
“Tim said we should just keep quiet about the whole thing, that someone else would discover them eventually. But I waited all weekend and never heard a word about it. Not in the newspaper, not on the radio or TV. Finally I couldn’t stand it anymore so I went back to see if they were still there.” He stopped and put his head in his hands. “They were. And they were so much worse this time. Swollen and ugly and crawling with bugs.” His voice faltered. “It was disgusting. I couldn’t even look.”
I had no doubt Bongo’s distress was real, but I had trouble working up much sympathy. “I want Tim’s full name and address. And you’d better not say a word to him about this conversation, you understand? You mess up this investigation any more than you already have and you’ll be in trouble big time. I’m serious.”
Bongo’s forehead glistened with perspiration. “I won’t say a word, I promise. Tim’ll kill me if he knew that I’d told. He’s already mad cuz I told my mom the bodies were in the barn.”
“That was about the only thing you did right, Bongo.”
On my way out I passed Kevin sitting on the front steps. The pocket knife was closed and he had no stick.
“Is he going to get in trouble?” Kevin asked.
“You were out here eavesdropping the whole time?”
Kevin glanced at the door, then back at me. His mouth stretched in a wide, gap-toothed grin.
“You’d better not say a word either.”
He nodded, but the grin never left his face.
<><><>
The car was hot when I climbed in. I started the engine, turned the air-conditioning on high, then rolled down the windows until it kicked in. My skin was damp and my head felt light, but it wasn’t simply the heat of the afternoon. My whole body burned with the sense of discovery.
If Bongo was telling the truth, then the underwear in the compost bin had been planted there to make Wes look guilty.
What I couldn’t decide was how to proceed. Part of me was eager to confront Tim, to find out for sure that he still had the underwear he’d stolen from Lisa and Amy. But I knew that wasn’t the best approach, not if I wanted to make sure the evidence would be introduced at trial. The safest strategy would be to convince Benson to get a search warrant, although I knew he wouldn’t like the idea. And the longer it took, the more likely it was Tim would dispose of the evidence.
There was also the issue of locating the killer. As long as he thought his ruse with the planted underwear had worked, he was likely to let down his guard, thereby increasing the likelihood of his being found out. But I knew that it would be difficult to keep the search of a young boy’s room from hitting the papers.
Sam hadn’t returned my call from yesterday. I was still anxious to hear his thoughts on Barry Drummond. But now, in addition, we needed to discuss the planted evidence. And I knew we’d make more headway in person than by phone. With luck, I’d be able to catch Sam at home.
His car was parked in the driveway, but when I knocked on the door it was his sister, Pat, who answered. She lived in Chicago and usually came to visit during the winter. I was surprised Sam hadn’t mentioned that she was coming.
“Sam’s not here,” she said wearily. “He’s in the hospital. Something with his heart. They called me yesterday and I flew in late last night.”
I was stunned. “Is he going to be all right?”
“I don’t know. No one does.” Pat’s makeup was streaked, her gray hair flattened on one side and jutting out at odd angles on the other. “I just came from the hospital. Maybe by later today they’ll know more.”
“Is there anything I can do?”
She shook her head, fighting tears. “There’s nothing any of us can do.”
I drove to the hospital in a blur. It felt as though my throat had closed down and my lungs filled with dust. My mind could focus on nothing but Sam’s kindness and generosity, and the fact that I’d never really told him how much I valued his friendship.
The parking places near the hospital entrance were taken, so I pulled into a spot around to the side. The volunteer in the lobby directed me to ICU on the third floor.
“They may not let you see him,” she warned, “but they can tell you how he’s doing.”
The elevator was slow in arriving and even slower making its way to the third floor. As I was getting ready to push the intercom button outside the double doors of ICU, Jake Harding approached from the other direction. His white medical coat was wrinkled. There were dark circles under his eyes, and you could see the tension in his face.
“You heard about Sam?” he asked.
“His sister told me. How is he?”
Jake took a breath. “Not good, frankly.”
“Can I see him?”
Jake hesitated, then nodded. “For a minute. I’ll come with you so you won’t have to hassle with hospital procedure.”
With Jake leading, we headed through the double doors to a room with about a dozen beds, at least as many nurses and an array of medical equipment that looked as if it were straight out of a science fiction movie.
Sam lay in a bed near the nurses’ station amid a tangle of wires and plastic tubes. His eyes were shut, his mouth contorted by the accordion tubing of a ventilator. He looked ancient, as though his frame had shrunk overnight, leaving his pale skin slack and loose.
Gently, I touched the hand with the plastic shunt. He raised his lids and looked at me, blankly at first and then with a flicker of recognition.
“Hi, Sam,” I whispered. There was a lump in my throat that made it impossible to talk further. But it didn’t matter; I couldn’t think of another thing to say. I gave his fingers a gentle squeeze and felt the slightest pressure of acknowledgment.
Sam’s soft, liquid-gray eyes were filled with sadness — a pleading sort of anguish that almost broke my heart.
I squeezed the hand again. “You take care of yourself, Sam. Listen to the doctors and nurses. We’re all rooting for you.”
He struggled for a moment, as though he was trying to raise his head. His mouth twisted around the ventilator tube. Jake touched Sam’s shoulder in sympathy, then adjusted a valve on the IV. In a moment Sam slid back into sleep. I waited while Jake conferred with the nurse and made a notation on Sam’s chart; then we left.
“I’m going to get some coffee. You want to join me?” Jake sounded exhausted.
“I think he recognized me,” I said as we started for the cafeteria.”That’s a good sign, isn’t it?”
“I’m afraid it doesn’t count for as much as it appears.”
“Is he in pain?”
Jake shook his head. “He’s probably confused, though. And being attached to all that machinery isn’t exactly fun. That’s why we try to keep patients sedated.”
We got our coffee and found an empty table.
“When was he admitted?” I asked.
“Yesterday. We’d planned to go fishing, but by the time we got to our favorite spot Sam was complaining of indigestion and dizziness. I tried to convince him to go to the hospital right then, but you know how stubborn he is. He did agree to let me take him home. He apparently called 911 later in the afternoon.”
“What are his chances of pulling through?”
Jake stared into his coffee. “I hones
tly can’t say. Sam’s not in great shape. He won’t exercise, eats all the wrong things, and won’t give up his after-dinner cigar. But even if that weren’t the case, I’d be hard pressed to give you odds. It’s simply too early to tell.”
I bit my lip and stared into my coffee. “He’s not going to be in any shape to take on a trial, is he?”
“No,”Jake said glumly. “I’m afraid not.”
Which left Wes Harding squarely on my shoulders.
As though he’d been reading my mind, Jake asked, “You think you can handle it?”
“Yes, I do. But if you and Wes decide you want someone else, I completely understand.”
Jake gave a noncommittal nod. “How are things shaping up?”
I knew Sam gave Jake daily progress reports, so I figured he wasn’t so much interested in an answer as he was in filling a conversational void. Still, there were some recent developments he might not have known about.
Jake seemed preoccupied as I told him about Lisa’s drawing of Barry Drummond.
“It may be interesting, but I fail to see how it’s going to help Wes,” Jake said. “Shouldn’t you be focusing more on getting ready for trial?”
There was a quality of ridicule in his tone that I found irksome. “I’m doing that, too. But if we can point to someone else, someone with a clear motive for murder, that’s got to raise reasonable doubt in the minds of the jurors.”
His expression remained skeptical.
I’d started to tell him about my conversation with Bongo when his beeper went off. My breath caught. I looked at Jake.
“Is it Sam?”
He shook his head. “They’d have paged me,” he said. “This is my service.”
My lungs started working again.
Jake rose. “Try not to worry. I’ll keep you posted on any changes in Sam’s condition.”
“Thanks.” I finished my coffee, then used a pay phone in the hospital lobby to call Daryl Benson.
“You got my message, then,” he said.
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