The search took only eight minutes.
Clipper got off the interstate at the Orono exit and followed route 2 through town before turning into a residential neighborhood near the University. He found the address and parked on the street a short distance away from the sixties’ ranch style house. At his knock, the door was opened by the same older man he has seen with Janice in Cleo’s. Recognition flickered in the man’s eyes, and his shoulders slumped fractionally. “I told her you’d figure it out,” he said. “I’m Hal Dennison. I guess you’d better come in.”
Janice was sitting in the living room with a cup of coffee. “Her voice was calm, but Clipper could see the tension like a coiled spring in her body. “How did you find me?”
“That’s not important,” said Clipper. “The important thing is, if a dumb cop like me can do it, anyone can. You’re in danger, and the only way to keep you safe, is for you to help me end this. Come in with me and make a statement, and we’ll set you up with some protection.”
Dennison spoke up. “He may be right, Janice. I’m a professor, not a bodyguard. If there’s as much danger as he thinks there is, I probably wouldn’t be much help.”
“The danger’s real enough all right. Janice is involved in a mystery that has killed three people and either she killed them, and there are people who still favor that theory, or she may be next on the list.”
Janice shook her head. “With Bill and Rupe gone, I’m the last one, and that’s what will keep me safe. Whoever this is, isn’t going to kill me as long as he thinks I know where the jewels are. And, it won’t help for me to make a statement, because I don’t know anything, anyway. Unless I’m under arrest,” she cast a questioning look at Clipper, “I’m staying here with Hal!”
Clipper sat on the couch. “Where were you last Friday night?” he asked, taking out his notebook.
“Janice relaxed slightly. “I was right here all night,” she said. “We went back to Bangor Saturday morning, when you saw us at Cleo’s. Hal had an appointment, and I was going to look for the jewels in Bill’s shop, but the police were there when I got there.”
“Do you know a man named Randolph Pelky?”
“No, who’s that?”
Clipper ignored the question and took a chance. “Why were you watching Bill every night before he died? And, I don’t want to hear you thought he might be cheating.”
Janice stiffened again. “I… It wasn’t every night,” she said. “I just…”
Clipper put an edge in his voice. “Janice,” he said leaning forward, “Stop jerking me around, here, or we will do this at the station. Why were you watching him?”
Janice flinched and sagged into her chair. “Alright,” she whispered, “I… I got another phone call. About three days before Bill died, the same man called and he said he would hurt Bill if he didn’t get the jewels…and then he’d come after me. I thought… if I could see him and call the police…”
“Did you warn Bill?”
“I called him, and he said he’d talk to the man, take care of it, but I don’t know if he did.”
“And since Bill died, you’ve been back to search the house twice?”
Janice frowned. “The only time I went back to the house was the other night when I ran into that man.”
“Tell me about him again.”
“It was dark… he was coming down from upstairs. He had a flashlight, but I think he dropped it. He shouted something like, get out, or…or,” tears started and her voice caught with the memory, “or I’ll kill you. I was scared, I ran.”
“You said he was bigger that you?”
“Maybe just a little. He…” she stopped.
“He what?”
“I don’t know, he just seemed wrong somehow. Like his clothes didn’t fit right, or he was lame or something. His voice was strange, kind of growly.”
“Did you see or hear a vehicle?”
“No, I ran through the back yard and hid. He chased me, but I don’t know where he went after that.”
When Clipper finished with his questions, he tried again to talk Janice into returning to Bangor, but she remained adamant, and he finally left, squinting into the late afternoon sun and thinking about her stubborn courage as he drove back to Bangor.
When he got home, Clipper tossed a frozen pizza in the oven, and sat at the computer to write up his interview notes. He put a copy in the front of the case book, and took his supper and a beer out to the deck, where he paused long enough to call John Peters.
“Hey John,” he said, “I had a thought. Let’s get the home phone and cell phone records for Bill Owens and Rupert Jones. Get the business phone and Janice’s too, I guess. Go back a couple weeks before the first murder.”
“Mmm, Ok. What are we looking for?”
“Not sure, but Janice talked about a threatening phone call… I can go through ‘em while I’m just sitting around. Maybe there’s something there.” Clipper hung up feeling guilty about not mentioning finding Janice Owens.
Chapter 2.15
Clipper woke to the buzzing of his cell phone, vaguely aware that he had overslept.
“’lo?” he muttered.
“Hey, Clip. It’s John. Get up, I’m on my way over.”
Clipper got up and unlocked his kitchen door before stumbling into the shower. He emerged ten minutes later, unshaven, but showered and dressed in jeans and a tee shirt, to find Peters sitting at the kitchen table with a bag of donuts and two large coffees. “Phone records,” he said nodding to a folder on the table and grinning around a mouthful of strawberry cream at the stupefied look on Clipper’s face. “I requested them Wednesday, thought they might come in handy.”
“Smart ass.” Clipper sat and flipped through the printouts. “I’ll go through them this afternoon.”
Peters opened his coffee. “Just what are you expecting to find?” he asked quietly.
Clipper hesitated. “I talked with Janice again.” he said finally. “Found her yesterday. She’s staying with an old college professor, her god-father, in Orono, the guy we saw her with last Saturday, and she said she got a couple threatening phone calls before her husband died.” Clipper stood and took a deep breath. “She also still believes that he was killed over a bag of jewels that Lester Edgewink hid in Bangor in 1937.” Peters ate a second donut while Clipper related Janice’s story, speaking faster, sensing the sergeant’s growing disbelief.
“Clip,” Peters finally blurted, “listen to yourself, man. This is crazy. You know she lied to us…”
“She explained that. She was trying to protect the family secret, maybe her chance to recover the stolen jewels, I don’t know… but she didn’t kill anybody.” Clipper slumped back into his chair. “John, I’ve spent quite a bit of time with her now, and I believe her.” he said slowing down. She’s caught in the middle of this thing and she’s in danger.”
Peters blew out an explosive breath. “Ok, ok,” he relented, if that’s the case, and just for the record, I’m still skeptical, then we need to get a good statement from her and look at the whole thing from her point of view.”
“I’ve been doing that, and her story hangs together, but I still can’t see the killer.” Clipper poked through the remaining donuts and selected a bear claw. We’ve got a mystery player out there somewhere.”
“Yeah, with a cattle prod.”
“What?” Clipper said, confused.
Peters grinned. “Adams called me last night with Peep’s autopsy results. Looks like he was killed sometime Tuesday evening. Single stab wound to the heart, probably with the same knife, but the interesting thing was they found two small burn marks on his throat. Looks like he was zapped with a stun gun.”
Clipper thought. “So someone zapped him, snatched him, taped him up and stabbed him. Had to be whoever killed Owens, eliminating a potential witness.” Do we have any idea where Peeps was between that night and when he was killed? He might have mentioned something to someone.”
Peters shook his head. “Been
down that road, couldn’t find a thing. He went into a hole somewhere, but there’s something even more interesting. Dave had the ME go back and take a closer look at Owens and Jones. Owens was clean, but Jones had two small burn marks on the side of his scalp. They missed ‘em the first time ‘cause they were under his hair.” Peters looked at Clipper. “That would explain how a woman could control a grown man.” he said levelly. “Now all we gotta do is find someone with a stun gun.”
Clipper snorted. “Find someone? Have you looked on the uniform belt lately?” he asked. “Everyone’s got a stun gun these days.”
The intruder approached from the rear, gliding soundlessly across the grass and flattening, ninja-like, against the wall, hating the daylight but wildly exhilarated by the spice it added to desperation. The door unlatched, eased open into the plain kitchen and through to the dowdy living room. Pulse thundering, surprise in her face, the old man falling from the furious attack, screams silenced, objective secured.
“Let me do the talking. They’re pretty jittery.” Clipper and Peters were in Clipper’s pick up, pulling into Hal Dennison’s driveway. They had decided to go back to the beginning in a council of war with Janice Owens.
“Ok, but try to remember, I’m the cop here. You’re still on suspension.” Peters followed Clipper to the front door, automatically stepping to the side as the lieutenant knocked. After several seconds passed without response, he cautiously peered through a front window.
“Oh, oh. We got one down in there.”
Clipper tried the door, found it unlocked and stormed into the house, pistol in hand. He automatically catalogued the man sprawled on the living room floor and the coppery smell of fresh blood in his nose as he moved rapidly from room to room, clearing the first floor. He was backing out of an empty bathroom when Peters shouted that the upstairs was clear.
Returning to the living room, Clipper knelt carefully by Dennison’s body, feeling the warm, rubbery skin for a pulse. The old professor lay on his back, legs twisted under him with a still liquid, dinner-plate sized pool of blood beneath his head, yellowed teeth showing behind lips frozen in a feral snarl. The back of Dennison’s head looked oddly flattened, and an old fashion, blood-smeared wooden billy-club lay near the body
Peters came down the stairs, cell phone in one hand, pistol in the other. “I’ll take a look outside,” he said. Orono’s on the way.”
Clipper was on the front steps, badge in hand, when the Orono cruiser rolled up. “One dead inside,” he said to the hard eyed officer who emerged, “and one missing.” He was explaining the case to the officer when Peters came back. “Her car’s in the garage,” he said, “and that one, nodding to a late model Ford in the driveway is Dennison’s, so she’s either on foot or she’s been snatched.”
Ignoring the second cruiser and ambulance that were just arriving, Clipper pulled out his cell phone and held up his hand for the others to listen. He call Bangor Dispatch.
“This is Clipper. I need a ten twenty-seven and all vehicles registered to Colin Murch, late twenties, of Bangor. Get the vehicles and his description out to the troops, ASAP, and put it out to surrounding departments. He’s a suspect in a murder and kidnapping that occurred in Orono within the last hour. The kidnap victim is Janice Owens, a white thirty-six year old female, and they may be going to her home at 236 Broadway.” Clipper drew a deep breath. “Put me through to the division.”
“Peters stared. “What did I miss?” he said.
Clipper grimaced. “That bastard is the only one besides me who knew where she was. I led him right to her, I… Paula. Who’s there? Ok, put him on. Ed, I want to know everything there is to know about Colin Murch. Yeah, the reporter for the News. Dispatch’ll have his dob. He’s the guy on these homicides and he’s kidnapped Janice Owens. Get me his history.”
“Come on,” Clipper said to Peters, striding grimly towards his truck.
Clipper aimed the big truck at Bangor and held it at a hundred on the southbound interstate. “I should have seen it,” he muttered. “He’s the big Edgewink expert, fixated on the jewels, but he didn’t know who Owens was, pretended not to know about the trench knife… the son of a bitch played me!”
Clipper slid to a stop in front of Murch’s apartment and blew through the outer entrance with a shuddering shoulder block that left the door hanging on one hinge. He ran to Murch’s door, Kimber in hand and hammered on it with his fist until Peters caught up and pulled him away.
“Man, you’re dead meat if he’s got a gun in there,” Peters panted.
Clipper shook off Peters’s arm and hammered again on the door, stopping only when he heard a faint voice inside.
“Who’s there?” The voice was female and scared.
“Bangor Police. Open up!”
The door slowly opened to reveal Murch’s girlfriend Wanda blinking fearfully and clutching a large pillow.
“I…I was asleep. What’s the matter?”
“Where’s Murch?” snarled Clipper, pushing past the woman into the apartment.
“I don’t know. He’s been gone all morning.” Her voice rose to an hysterical pitch. “What’s going on? What do you want?”
Peters stayed with the woman as Clipper checked the office, bedroom and kitchen. “It looks like Murch killed a man in Orono and kidnapped Janice Owens,” he told her. “We need to know where he might have gone.”
“No… no, he wouldn’t… he…” Wanda stuttered, holding her hands up and backing away. “Call him.” she said, tears coursing down her cheeks, “he must be at work.”
Clipper called for a uniform to stand by the apartment until a search warrant could be obtained, and he and Peters escorted Wanda out and locked it up as they left to continue the search.
Janice Owens sneezed and moaned with pain. She was lying, wrists taped together and blindfolded, on a hard, gritty floor and felt like she was suffocating in a dry atmosphere thick with dust.
Janice had been talking to Hal Dennison in his living room, when a man came running out of the kitchen and beat Hal to the floor with some kind of club. She remembered screaming and trying to run, but a crashing pain in the back of her head brought darkness, and she had woken to pain, dust and an almost palpable silence.
Janice sneezed again, gritting her teeth against the flair of pain and pressure in her head. Fighting nausea, she rolled onto her side and managed to sit up against some kind of wooden crate. Feeling a vertical edge of the box, she began rubbing the tape on her wrists, and within minutes had torn them free. The tape on her eyes and mouth took a little longer because of tangled hair, but she finally rid herself of the last of it and opened her eyes to absolute blackness.
“Hello?” she whispered tentatively. “Hello, is anyone there?” She stumbled to her feet, eyes straining, fighting panic. “Help!” she screamed. “Help me. Someone…I can’t see.”
Janice took a tottering step, arms extended in front of her, and collided with a waist-high wooden box. A step to the side yielded the same result, but when she turned, her hands brushed the rough surface of a stone wall, and two shuffling steps to the right brought her to and iron framed wooden panel that she recognized as a rough door. And with that, she suddenly understood and screamed with the horror of the darkness that enveloped her.
By three o’clock, there were roadblocks around Bangor in a fifty mile radius. Every law enforcement agency in the state, and all the border crossings, had descriptions of Murch and his vehicle, and overtime budgets groaned under the weight of maximum manpower. Local TV and radio was on board with near continuous news bulletins, and extra dispatchers had been called in to field the flood of tips, potential sightings and offers of vigilantly assistance.
Clipper paced across the front of the conference room. “They should have showed somewhere by now,” he muttered, staring at a large scale map of the state hanging on the wall. “Maybe we should…”
Clipper turned as Ed Angelo and Dave Adams burst into the room. “We found it,” crowed Adams, waving
a notebook. “Murch had a diary that was written by Bill Owens’ grandfather. He was part of the old Edgewink gang, spent years looking for their loot at the State Hospital, and there’s a letter that talks about Lester Edgewink hiding a bag of jewels and him killing an FBI agent in the hospital crypt and faking a suicide.”
“And that’s not all,” added Angelo. “Guess who was Albert Owens’ roommate at the University in 2002 and 2003. One Colin Davis Murch! And I found a campus security report that has Albert Owens complaining of a theft of family documents and a World War One trench knife from his dorm room in 2003.”
After her initial terror, Janice Owens had found strength in anger, coldly deciding to attack her captor at the first opportunity. She would have an opportunity, she reasoned, because he’d be back, he needed her otherwise he would have simply killed her. Feeling her way in the stygian darkness, Janice hunted in vain for a weapon, finally settling for the decorative belt buckle at her waist. Wrapping the belt securely around her right hand, she had taken up an ambush position against the chamber door. As the hours passed however, weariness and the throbbing pain in her head blunted her alertness and anger slowly turned to apathy. Now, as she lay quietly against the rough wooden door of her prison, only dimly aware of the choking dust and dryness, she had retreated into a part of her mind that denied the horror of her surroundings. She finally heard a metallic sound from the door, but didn’t stir until it began to pull away from her. Closing her eyes against the blooming glare of light, she let herself roll painfully aside, to spent to remember her anger.
“Wake up, Janice,” came a vaguely familiar voice. “It’s time we had a little talk.”
A foot prodded her leg and Janice turned to face the voice, barely able to open her eyes in the light. “Who are you?” she croaked. “Why are you doing this?”
Past Due Page 13