The Boat Man: A Suspense Thriller (A Reed & Billie Novel Book 1)

by Dustin Stevens

  The path cut across the concrete expanse at the back of the building in a diagonal pattern, linking up with the railroad tracks running straight away and passing through the fence encircling the property. It followed the metal trail for over two hundred yards before cutting to the left, just at the point where the tracks began to curve towards the river.

  Reed knew from years in the area that the line would link up with the major railway running alongside the Olentangy River, the waterway bisecting the city through the middle.

  Leaving the evenly spaced ties of the tracks behind, Billie led him through thick weeds, the footing rocky as he stumbled to keep up. Chunks of concrete and garbage did little to faze Billie as she went, her pace never once wavering.

  Any bit of hope Reed had once felt fell away as Billie pressed forward, continuing to loop away from the tracks. Out to the side he could see the lights from the cruisers and camera crews rising into the sky, hear the din of voices carrying through the night.

  The path was taking them back to the parking lot.

  The killer had parked right out front, walked in the building, killed Mason Durell, and then walked back to his car and drove away.

  Reed fought the urge to swear as he pulled his phone from his pocket and dialed. A moment later it was answered, the voice low, the sound of muffled voices in the background.

  “Gilchrist.”

  “Officer, this is Reed Mattox. How long are you guys on here tonight?”

  There was no delay as Gilchrist processed who was calling him, no questions about the seemingly odd request. “We’re on until seven. Judging by this zoo out front, maybe even longer.”

  The path they were on leveled out, drawing parallel with the building and continuing in a straight line. Billie continued to move fast through the low-level brush, every step confirming Reed’s theory.

  “I might be able to help get you away from that for a while,” Reed said. “This time of year, twilight should hit around six. As soon as it does, can you check the loading dock out back, follow the railroad tracks until they bank, then loop around to the front through the weeds?

  “My partner and I are walking it now, you should be able to see the path pretty clear.”

  “Okay,” Gilchrist replied, just the slightest hint of confusion in his voice. “And what am I looking for? You think the killer just walked out?”

  Towards the back of the parking lot their path veered again, this time headed for the corner of the blacktop expanse currently half full of automobiles.

  “No,” Reed said, shaking his head from side to side, “I know he did.”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  It took every bit of self control the Boat Man possessed not to fly over the counter at the diminutive Japanese man standing across from him. One frame at a time he let the scenario play out in his mind, watching as he vaulted the glass case separating them in a single bound and drove the man’s skull into it.

  The man had done nothing to the Boat Man, it was only the second time he had ever seen him. The problem was that he needed some place, any place, to aim his anger, the source of it now balanced across the case between them.

  Resting on a pale green cloth was the ken sword the Boat Man had purchased over a year before. The handle of it was wrapped tight and completely clean, the blade polished to a mirrored shine, the sheen of oil catching tiny bits of overhead light.

  Three-quarters down the length of the blade on the side closest to the shopkeeper, a v-shaped notch was missing from the razor’s edge, a single hairline fracture running away from it. Compared to the rest of the weapon it was an ugly blemish, the only mar on a perfect creation.

  The marring had occurred as the Boat Man went to remove the right arm from his most recent victim. The man was already gone, his arm propped up for removal. At the moment just before dismemberment his body had convulsed, a final spastic tic of a dying nervous system.

  The move had caught the Boat Man by surprise, throwing off his aim, missing his target and driving the end of his blade into the ground. The sound of breaking metal had entered his ears just a moment before his own cry of despair, the sound resonating with him as he finished the job and collected the chips of metal before disappearing into the night.

  “How did this happen?” the man asked, his height rising no more than half a foot above the counter. His grey hair was still thick and his eyes clear, defying the sagging skin on his features.

  “My dog,” the Boat Man said, reciting the story he’d concocted that morning. “He ran into the table it was resting on and knocked it from its stand.”

  The man nodded once, looking again down at the sword. “I can’t imagine a wooden floor would take a notch this large out of such a blade. What did it hit?”

  Again the overwhelming urge to grab the man by the nape of his neck and smash his forehead into the glass came to mind, but the Boat Man shoved it down, forcing in long breaths.

  “It caught the corner of the fireplace nearby,” he replied. “The blade was no match for masonry stone.”

  A flicker of something behind the old man’s eyes told the Boat Man he knew he was being lied to, but to his credit he chose not to press it.

  Doing so would have led to a most unfortunate situation.

  “I can pay you,” the Boat Man said, throwing the statement out there before any more questions could be asked. “Whatever it takes to make it like new.”

  The old man once more looked up at him, arching an eyebrow.

  “It has extreme sentimental value to me.”

  At that, the old man nodded, seeming to for the first time believe what he was being told. He returned his attention downward and slid his hands beneath the blade, lifting it as carefully as a parent holding a newborn. Raising it to eye level, he rotated it under the light, examining it from every angle.

  “Normally I would suggest getting a new sword,” the old man said, pushing on, seeming to ignore the Boat Man as he opened his mouth, about to offer rebuttal. “But since I can see you are quite attached to this implement, I might be able to patch it for you.”

  “Oh, thank you,” the Boat Man, the words thick with exhalation, a heavy sigh passing from him.

  “It will take some time though,” the old man said. “I have a few in front of you, and will need to obtain some things before I can work on a blade such as this.”

  The Boat Man felt his jaw drop open as he heard the words. In his mind he could picture the wall at his home, the three red X’s already scrawled out, the others yet to come.

  The entire situation was predicated on speed and precision. There was no time for him to wait.

  “Please, I can pay you whatever it takes to get it back home fast.”

  The old man seemed to sense the desperation coming across the counter, one eyebrow again rising. “Money isn’t the issue. I told you, this is very special steel. I’ll have to obtain a few things.”

  Heat rushed to the Boat Man’s cheeks, a veneer of sweat coating his feature. His tongue felt thick in his mouth as he stared across, his heart rate rising more now than it had eight hours before.

  “Please, it is very important.”

  A long moment passed as the old man stared unblinking back at him before nodding, returning the blade back down onto the cloth. “Tomorrow afternoon. That’s the best I can do.”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  For the second time in as many days, Reed met Gilchrist outside the interrogation room of the precinct. Unlike their previous encounter, the look of enthusiasm was gone from his visage, replaced by a deep rooted exhaustion. His eyes appeared puffy, the skin on his face loose and drooping.

  There was no need to comment on the young man’s appearance, Reed quite certain his own looked much the same. Both were used to working the overnight shift, though the things they were now encountering was enough to wear down anybody.

  Instead, he decided to go straight for it, looking through the glass at the large man seated behind the table. He was African-Amer
ican, though his skin tone was light, like he might be of mixed race. His head was shaved clean, reflecting the lamp above, and a couple days of growth outlined his jaw bone.

  Dressed in work clothes, he sat with his hands resting on the table, one knee bobbing up and down at a frenetic pace.

  “Looks nervous,” Reed said, seizing on the movement, motioning towards the window with his chin.

  “Just anxious,” Gilchrist said, weariness present in his tone. “Must have mentioned five times on the way in that he was usually the one to get his kids on the school bus.”

  “We think he was involved at all?” Reed asked.

  “No,” Gilchrist replied. “Name is Hank Winters, sheet’s completely clean. Been at the factory fifteen years, married, two children.”

  Reed nodded, not expecting to come across anything that easy. So far the guy they were chasing had been very careful, to the point of paranoia.

  Partnering with somebody didn’t seem to fit.

  “Were you able to get out behind the factory this morning?” Reed asked, having spent the time since at his kitchen table, scouring through the case files he had, trying to jot down as much as he could before the third one joined the mix.

  So far, nothing had jumped out at him.

  “We were,” Gilchrist said, nodding. “Greene was still on the scene itself, so I grabbed a guy named O’Shea from the one-six I went through the academy with.

  “Spent over an hour out there, couldn’t find anything. A lot of junk, trash, stuff that should have been hauled off years ago, but nothing at all resembling evidence.”

  It too jived with what Reed had thought ahead of time. He nodded, patting Gilchrist on the shoulder. “Thanks for taking a look. Appreciate it.”

  Gilchrist mumbled an indecipherable response as Reed passed through the door, Winters sitting up straight in his chair as he entered.

  “Mr. Winters, my name is Detective Reed Mattox. I’m sorry you had to come down here like this this morning.”

  In his experience when speaking with witnesses, opening with an apology seemed to work best, helping assuage any hostility they had about being pulled in. Reed paused, hoping it would have the same effect on Winters, as he slid back a chair and lowered himself into it.

  “Is there any chance we can make this fast?” Winters asked, the look on his face and the tone of his voice not quite matching up. “The school bus comes for my girls at a quarter after eight and I’m always the one to walk them down to the stop.”

  Gilchrist hadn’t mentioned an address on Winters, though if it was anywhere nearby Reed could understand his wanting to be there. By any measure he was an imposing man, the kind of person that would send a message to anybody that might be lurking, especially in rougher neighborhoods where physical encounters were more commonplace.

  Without glancing at his watch, Reed nodded. “I understand, and I promise to be brief. I’m sure by now you heard what happened to your co-worker last night, so we’re trying to be as thorough as possible in our search.

  “Anything you know, anything at all, would be appreciated.”

  Winters pressed his lips together, looking over Reed’s shoulder at his own reflection in the mirror, as if trying to let whoever was on the other side know he was aware of their presence. He held the pose a moment before looking back, Reed expecting to be read the riot act about having not seen anything.

  It wouldn’t be the first time.

  “Like I told the guy last night,” Winters said, “somebody tailed me inside. A lot of people work there, it might be nothing.”

  The last sentence confirmed Reed’s prior thought, a hint that he was already wishing he had never mentioned it.

  “But you seemed to think it was worth remembering,” Reed said. “Why?”

  A loud breath came from Winters’s nose as he looked across at Reed. “Fifteen years, and I’d never once seen the guy. Even the ones I don’t work with, like Durell, I know by sight.”

  Reed nodded, agreeing with the assessment. He’d never seen the other three cops working the scene with Greene the night before, but he would now recognize them moving forward. That was only a single meeting, fifteen years would give somebody quite a mental bank to work from.

  “You didn’t think he might be new, though?” Reed pressed, just to flush out the thought a little further.

  “No,” Winters said, the right said of his face crunching up in a squint. “A new guy would have introduced himself after I let him in, at least mentioned what line he worked on. This guy just said thanks.”

  “So you let him in?” Reed asked, careful not to make the question sound like an accusation.

  “I did,” Winters said, the slightest hint of guilt crossing his features. “He came jogging up as I approached, lunch box in one hand, bag in the other, asked me to hold the gate.

  “I’ve been there myself, so I helped him out.”

  Reed felt his pulse quicken a bit. The early report had mentioned a lunch box and gym bag found in the front men’s restroom, both empty, most likely props.

  “What did the guy look like?” Reed asked, fighting to hide any internal enthusiasm.

  For a moment Winters leaned back, fixing his gaze on the window again. He pressed his lips together and thought on it, shaking his head.

  “I don’t know, pretty standard. White guy, curly black hair. Had a hat pulled down low, couldn’t see a lot of detail.”

  “Tall?” Reed asked, scribbling the information down.

  “Shorter than me,” Winters replied. “Maybe six foot?”

  Reed nodded, continuing to write. “I know you have to get out of here, but I’d like to send a sketch artist by this afternoon if that’s alright. So far you’re the only person we know to have gotten a look at the guy’s face.”

  Even if the guy had in some way altered his looks, the black curls jumping right out to Reed as a wig, he couldn’t change his facial structure on the fly.

  Another sigh came from Winters as he seemed to contemplate the request. “Okay,” he said after several long moments, “but have them come by before three. I don’t want my babies seeing them and asking questions.”

  Reed nodded in affirmation that the request would be met, writing it down at the bottom of the page. He hadn’t thought of it before asking, but if in Winters’ place he would most likely do the same.

  “Just one last question,” Reed asked, “and then I’ll let you go. You said you only knew Durell by sight. Was there any talk around the place? Anything at all that might point out why he was targeted?”

  Both of Winters’ thumbs twisted up towards the ceiling as he raised his palms, a half-shrug using only his lower arms. “Like I said, he was in the back, so I didn’t really know him. Never heard anything bad about him, but can’t say I heard anything good either.”

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  From his second floor desk Reed watched Winters jog out to his truck, waiting with a cell phone pressed to his ear. Elevator music played through the line, a terrible brass rendition of Love is a Many Splendored Thing. He continued to stare as Winters started his truck and drove away, a plume of exhaust streaming from the tailpipe.

  “Man’s got a bus to catch,” Reed said, drawing Billie’s attention up at him, her eyes blinking in response.

  “Hello? Detective Mattox?” Dr. Solomon asked over the phone, the music falling away, snapping Reed’s attention towards it.

  “Yeah, still here,” Reed said, leaning forward and resting his left elbow on his knee, his ear pressed down atop it.

  “Sorry about that,” Solomon said, not a trace of apology in her voice. “I wanted to check something quickly, make sure I wasn’t giving you bad information.”

  “Not a problem,” Reed said. “To what do I owe a call this morning?”

  The body of Mason Durell had been sent over less than two hours before. There was no way there had been time for a thorough examination yet, Reed willing to bet the doctor hadn’t been on for more than thirty minutes
at most.

  “On a hunch,” Solomon said, “that I will admit was no small part curiosity, I took a look inside the young man’s throat when he arrived.”

  Reed’s eyes opened wide and he raised his gaze to the opposite wall. In the commotion of the night’s events he had forgotten that piece of evidence, the bag still sitting at home on his table, an oddity he wasn’t sure how to handle so he had chosen not to just yet.

  “Yeah?”

  “It was there on this one too,” Solomon said.

  Pushing out a breath, Reed fell back in his chair. “Same thing as last time?”

  “I don’t know,” Solomon said, “I gave that one to you. I’d have to see them side by side to know for sure. What I can tell you is there was definitely a coin, certainly not American, placed deep in the victim’s mouth.”

  “Thank you,” Reed said. “That is very helpful.”

  “I’ll get to the rest of the autopsy later today,” Solomon said, “another rush job request from your higher-ups downtown.”

  Reed didn’t bother to point out the pressure levied was only about to get worse now that the media had caught the scent of the story. Thus far he had made a point of avoiding the television, but it was only a matter of time before somebody slapped a newspaper down on his desk.

  Both sides disconnected the call without comment, Reed sliding the phone down on the desk.

  This now made two consecutive scenes where the coin had been present, both placed there deliberately. Solomon hadn’t mentioned anything from Mentor, though he guessed she would have already gone back to check, mentioning it if anything had surfaced.

  “Coins,” Reed muttered, his voice just audible, barely enough to raise Billie’s eyebrows, her chin remaining rested on her paws. Swiveling his chair towards the aging Acer perched on the corner of his desk, he called the computer to life and opened a search engine.

  His first search was simply “Rare Coins,” a broad topic that brought back over two hundred million responses in less than three seconds. Reed scrolled down through the list and clicked on the first Wikipedia article, scanning it quickly, picking out a few key words before backing out to the search engine again.