Had she been more responsive, or if he had any hope at all of actually coaxing much of use from her, Reed might have brought the early version of the case file in with him. He may have referenced his handwritten notes from the scene, using them to ensure accuracy, jog his memory to ask pertinent follow-ups.
Given her state though, he arrived empty handed, knowing any physical reminder of what had happened might be enough to push her over the edge, causing her to clam up for good. More than once, he had seen similar things happen, a person’s response being so strong that their minds more or less erased it, a natural form of self-protection.
“Ms. Barr,” Reed opened, his tone gentle. He waited for a response, or any sign of recognition, and when none came he lowered his head a few inches, changing the angle to look up into her face. “Ms. Barr?”
Across from him, she kept her attention aimed down at the table, her face framed by lank dark brown hair. Matching eyes were red and puffy, tear stains streaking her dirty features.
Along her left cheekbone looked to be the beginning of a bruise, though given the overall state of her appearance, Reed couldn’t be certain.
Once more Reed waited, watching as the tiniest flicker caught behind Barr’s eyes, her attention rising to meet his gaze.
“Lucy,” she whispered.
“Okay,” Reed said, lowering his voice so it almost matched hers. “Lucy, can you tell me what happened last night?”
Having spent most of the night on the scene, Reed had a reasonable sequence of events worked out in his head. Even at that, he wanted to hear if there was anything he might be missing.
At the sound of the question, Barr pressed her lips together, again lowering her attention back to the table. Her bottom lip quivered a bit before she drew in a deep breath.
“A.J. and I were in the kitchen, having a discussion about some things,” she began.
The condition of the house, combined with a statement from a neighbor and the possible bruise on Barr’s cheek, seemed to indicate that it had been more than a discussion. The details of their dispute were far from relevant at the moment.
If that’s how she had to handle things, that was fine by Reed. He just needed her talking.
“Outside, Bruno started barking,” she said, flicking her gaze up at him. “Bruno is A.J.’s pit bull.”
The sign above the dog house door had said as much, but Reed nodded as if it were an important detail, wanting her to keep going.
“He didn’t usually bark a lot, so when he started going crazy, A.J. went outside to see what was going on,” she said, her voice cracking on the last words. She drew in a loud sniff and managed, “That was…”
She never finished the sentence, her voice fading as her face contorted. She drew her arms up on the table in front of her and thrust her head down into the blanket, her entire body racked with sobs. The sound of them echoed off the walls, filling Reed’s ears as he sat and waited.
Dozens of questions floated to the front of Reed’s mind, things that he desperately wanted to ask, things that would, at the very least, narrow his investigation down a bit. As he sat and watched her cry, though, he let every one of them pass.
There would be a time to ask them eventually, this just wasn’t it.
He stood and walked from the room without another word, leaving Barr to her grief.
Chapter Fifteen
A drop of sweat hit the polished wood floor beneath the Boat Man, landing with a tiny splash. It remained there alone for a moment before a second one joined it, a third hanging from the tip of his nose.
The Boat Man aimed his focus at them as he lowered his face to the floor, lactic acid coursing through his deltoid and trapezium muscles. The concerted force of it caused his shoulder yoke to feel like it was on fire, pulling the breath from his lungs.
Slow and controlled, he finished the repetition, raising his feet to the ceiling. His core ached as he pushed himself upward in a vertical pushup, his vision blurring from exertion, unable to focus on the drops on the floor any longer.
He stayed in that position as long as his body would allow, until his side throbbed and his arms shook from exertion, before dropping his feet to the ground.
There the Boat Man remained, fighting to catch his breath, his body poised on all fours, like an oversized cat ready to pounce.
“Getting better,” he whispered, drawing his feet beneath him and standing, his breath still coming in ragged pants. Walking to the low-slung table beside him he took up a towel and ran it over his face and torso, cutting a matte swipe across his shiny body.
Keeping the towel in hand, the Boat Man walked across the open floor, his shoulders rising and falling with heavy breaths. He fixed his attention on the wall before him, a series of photos arranged on it, all pinned into place.
The wall had taken him months to put together, made through painstaking research and a patience he didn’t know he possessed. On it was every last thing he had uncovered since that night, every person and place, every time and occurrence that was even remotely pertinent.
Dropping the towel to the floor, the Boat Man took up a red marker from the table. With long even strokes he drew a circle around the face of A.J. Wright, followed by two heavy slashes. Together the lines formed an X, coming together just above the tip of the man’s nose.
“That’s two,” he said aloud, the sound swallowed up by the empty space around him.
By now, people would start to notice. A single occurrence could be written off. Sometimes, even a second as well, but rarely for something as unique, as sensational as what he had set out to do.
After last night, word would be circulating. The people he was after would be talking, knowing he was out there. If they hadn’t already, soon they would realize what was happening, would start to look over their shoulders, begin to feel the anxiety he had lived with for so long.
At the same time, they wouldn’t be the only ones who were able to figure things out. For a long time the cops had been a non-entity in The Bottoms, but even they wouldn’t be able to stay away from something as attention-grabbing as what he was doing.
Soon, people would be talking, loud enough to convey their fear, loud enough that somebody would have to listen.
The thought brought a smile to the Boat Man’s face.
That’s all this was about, to make people listen.
Capping the marker, the Boat Man tossed it aside and stared at the wall.
He took a step back from it, and then another. Once he was far enough removed, he again dropped his hands to the floor and hoisted his heels to the ceiling, ready to begin again.
Chapter Sixteen
The top on the canned, double-shot of espresso let out a wheeze of pressurized air as Reed popped it open, waiting for the hissing to stop before upending it. He held it, letting half of the can’s contents slide down his throat before pausing, taking a deep breath, and going back for more.
Just eight seconds after opening it, the can was empty.
Reed made a face as he worked his tongue around the inside of his mouth, trying to force the rancid taste down, and dropped the can into the wastebasket beside Grimes’s desk. It landed with an audible thud, the metal hitting against the bottom of the empty container.
“Am I going to be smelling whatever that was for the rest of the day?” a voice asked from behind Reed, turning him around in his seat. Leaning forward he raised his backside off the chair, waiting until the captain was past until dropping back down.
“No,” Reed said, his voice even, a bit of exhaustion in it. “Given that it was supposed to be coffee, there shouldn’t be an odor.”
Under different circumstances the comment might have earned at least a smirk, though this time Grimes kept his face even, a look just short of a scowl on his features. He settled into his seat and resumed his position of leaning back, his fingers laced across his stomach.
“Tell me last night wasn’t as bad as it sounded.”
Reed glanced away for
a moment, envisioning the scene in his mind, before shifting his attention back to Grimes. “I could give you the clichéd answer and say it was worse, or I could give you the real answer and say it was a hell of a lot worse.”
It took a moment for Grimes to process the response, blinking several times before fully registering what he’d been told. “Christ.”
“Yep,” Reed agreed.
“Where are you at with it?” Grimes asked, rocking his head forward and peering across at Reed.
The question had passed through Reed’s mind a half-dozen times on the drive in, trying to balance what he knew with where he could go next.
What he knew was that somebody was pissed, and wasn’t shy about taking it out on the residents of Franklinton. Where he could go next was a veritable spider’s web, scads of different directions that may or may not be connected.
“I tried speaking to Lucy Barr this morning,” Reed said, “the girlfriend of last night’s victim. As of five hours ago she was a wreck, so I’m guessing she’s still out of play for a while.
“That leaves only a single possible breathing witness, a woman who the uniforms came across yesterday while canvassing.”
Grimes arched an eyebrow, his chin again having been pulled back against his chest. “Anything promising?”
“Not sure,” Reed said, his shoulders rising a bit in a shrug. “They said she didn’t say much at the time, felt like maybe she was being watched, but they got the impression she might be willing to talk.”
“Hmm,” Grimes said, considering the information. “Try to get her somewhere else and ask your questions?”
“That’s what I’m thinking,” Reed said. “After that, now that all indications are that these two crime scenes are connected, I can start looking for commonalities, try to link the victims.”
“And there are two bodies,” Grimes offered.
“And there are two bodies,” Reed said. “Dr. Solomon over at the coroner’s is set to take a look at Wright this afternoon. I’ll meet with her there sometime, too.”
Grimes nodded, pursing his lips in front of him. “Do you foresee anything new coming from the autopsy?”
“No,” Reed said, “just a confirmation that the same weapon was used.”
Silence fell between the two as they sat, staring across at one another. For the first time since arriving Reed got the impression the meeting had nothing to do with giving a rundown of where the case stood. He couldn’t quite put his finger on it, but sensed there was something that wasn’t being said.
He gave it a moment, waiting for Grimes, before prompting him. Time wasn’t something he seemed to have much of these days.
“You going to tell me, or do I have to ask?”
The question sounded a bit harsher than Reed intended, though that didn’t change the purpose. He made no attempt to retract or even soften the delivery, instead staring across at his captain, waiting for a response.
“I asked you to stop by this morning to let you know this is your case,” Grimes said.
If any offense was taken to Reed’s question, he didn’t let it show.
“Right,” Reed said, unsure how to interpret the statement. “I know.”
A pair of doleful eyes stared back at him. “No,” Grimes said, “I mean, this is your case.”
Reed opened his mouth to respond before closing it, his eyes narrowing. Upon hearing it a second time, he understood what the captain was getting at, the words falling into place in his mind.
This meeting was a warning shot, a first and most likely last chance to let Reed know that pressure was being applied. If not by the higher-ups, by the clock that was now ticking on two brutal homicides.
“Is somebody calling for me to be removed?”
A flicker of something resembling approval crossed Grimes’s face, signaling that Reed had been correct in his assessment. He glanced out to the parking lot, watching as a pair of uniforms headed for their patrol car, before shifting his attention back.
“No,” Grimes said. “Luckily, right now that mess I mentioned yesterday about the Near East Side is still dominating the headlines and the Chief’s attention.”
Once more, Reed thought of the crime scenes he’d been called to the previous two nights. If either of those were to hit the airwaves, they would fast become primetime viewing, played on a loop during all major news cycles.
The only way Reed could figure that they hadn’t already, was that somebody downtown was running interference, or the media’s deep-seated apathy toward The Bottoms was finally on their side.
“But if this got out...” Reed said, his voice falling away.
“I’d say that’s a safe assumption, wouldn’t you?” Grimes asked, staring hard at him.
There was no pause in Reed’s response, no need to take a moment for debate.
The captain was absolutely right, and everything that fact brought with it meant the pressure on Reed was now greater than ever.
“Yes,” Reed agreed, his voice soft. “Yes, I would.”
Chapter Seventeen
The woman on the other end of the line had sounded uncertain when Reed called and asked her to meet. No matter how insistent he was that she was in no trouble herself, and that anything she said would be kept confidential, she was resistant to speak with him.
Three times she claimed to know nothing, having given her complete statement to the officers the day before. Not until Reed asked if she liked coffee did her stance relax even a little, a small tell in her voice indicating he had her attention, if not yet her acquiescence.
Once he landed on barbecue though, any trepidation fell by the wayside.
Reed was first to arrive at Old Smoque Barbecue, a west-side institution that had been turning out brisket and ribs for decades. Located a mile outside the freeway encircling Columbus, it was just a 12-minute drive from The Bottoms, but might as well have been in a different country given how far apart the two seemed.
Made from roughhewn wood painted to resemble a barn, Old Smoque was a single story structure that stood twice that high to accommodate the pitched roof. White board fencing surrounded the grounds, and an even hedge ran the perimeter of the place, mulched flower beds around it waiting for spring to officially arrive.
Half the lot was already full, despite the odd afternoon hour, most of the vehicles ranging from SUV’s to luxury cars, reflecting both the neighborhood and the clientele coming in for an early dinner.
The scent of hickory smoke passed through the vents of the car as Reed pulled the sedan to a stop, his stomach rumbling in response. Behind him Billie seemed to have the same reaction, a low whine drawing his attention to the rearview mirror to see her pink tongue shoot out over her muzzle.
“Yeah, I know,” Reed said, keenly aware of how far off both their body cycles were at the moment. Neither one had slept more than a few hours at odd times, both grabbing small meals at random hours, Billie shifting her patterns to match his.
Six minutes after arriving, a faded mint-green Chrysler pulled into the lot, instantly recognizable. Pockets of rust dotted the sides, and Reed noticed a hubcap missing as it rolled into a spot on the front row and stopped, emitting a vicious hiss.
Leaving Billie in the backseat, Reed tucked his badge away beneath his sweatshirt and stepped out, already halfway to the car before the driver’s door opened.
From the description given by McMichaels and the voice on the phone, a pretty close match to what Reed was expecting climbed from the car, moving slow and with great care. He waited until she was completely out and the door shut behind her before stepping forward, his hand outstretched.
“Mrs. Pearlman? Detective Reed Mattox.”
The woman waved a hand at him as she shuffled forward, shaking her head. “Aw, phooey with that Mrs. Pearlman stuff. My name is Gale.”
At some point Reed guessed she had stood close to 5’9”, those days now long past. Hunched forward at the waist, she just barely came to his shoulder, her breath coming in small
bursts as she moved. Silver curls were bunched tightly around her head, her chocolate-colored skin lined with age.
Without regard for Reed’s attempted handshake, she grabbed hold of the inside of his arm, her grip surprisingly strong. With her other hand she motioned to the door and said, “Help an old woman inside?”
Reed did as she asked until they were seated, waiting patiently as she stared over the menu. After five full minutes of intent study and confirming that Reed was buying, she ordered a full rack of ribs with fries and a Coke, frowning in disapproval as Reed opted for a pulled pork sandwich for himself, some link sausage for Billie.
Only then were they left to themselves, Reed having a few free minutes before the food arrived to determine all he could.
“So, Gale,” he opened, his voice low. Even tucked away in the corner, he wanted to be sure he wasn’t overheard, the case itself still very much a secret. “My officers tell me you might have seen something two nights ago.”
“Never said anything of the sort,” Gale said, snaking a hand into the tin bucket of peanuts on the table between them and removing a handful.
Reed waited for her to clarify her statement, but she remained silent, shelling the peanuts and tossing them back into her mouth with surprising gusto.
“You didn’t tell them you might have seen something?” Reed asked, shifting his head an inch to the side, his brows coming together.
Bits of peanut fell from her mouth as she chomped down, already reaching for more. “Well now, that’s not what you said the first time. You asked if I saw something that night, which I did not.”
Reed felt his eyes widen a bit in surprise, leaning back in his chair. “Oh, I see,” he paused, willing himself to remain calm.
It was not the first time a witness had chosen to be a touch difficult, using the temporary position of power to extract some small bit of pleasure. In most instances they did end up providing something useful, a fact Reed reminded himself of as he leaned back.
The Boat Man: A Thriller (A Reed & Billie Novel Book 1) Page 6