It was the first gray day outside, but the September air was still mild. As a native Floridian and transplant Angelino for the last sixty-plus years, Decker was still acclimating to the changes of seasons. Most normal people gravitate toward hot climates as they age. He and Rina went in the opposite direction, but he didn’t mind. In fact, he liked the cold. There was nothing better than curling up in front of a fire with a good whiskey and reading a great book. It was a luxury of his dotage: no small, runny-nosed, noisy children underfoot who needed to be dressed and undressed every time they went outside to play.
During the summer months, there was a small homeless camp at the underpass. When the days got shorter and the temperature dropped, some of them moved into the homeless shelter that provided a comfortable bed and three squares a day. But there were rules: no booze, no illegal drugs. The tenants were required to make up their beds, shower, and take their meds. Some capitulated; others evaporated only to materialize at the underpass in the following year’s thaw. Gray days like this one were arrows pointing the population to warmer places with a tolerant police presence.
The area was empty except for a man sitting on the dirt with a blanket spread out in front of him. On top of the cloth was junk that he apparently felt was valuable. Q could have been anywhere from thirty to sixty, so Decker split the difference and placed him around forty-five. The homeless man had a straggly gray beard, a lined face, and hair that was partially combed and partially matted. He had red-rimmed blue eyes and thin lips and repeatedly jerked his head to the left as if beckoning someone to come hear a secret.
“Hey, Q.”
“Hey, mister.”
“Where is everyone?”
Q shrugged. He gave Decker a smile with a mouthful of yellow teeth and jerked his head to the side. He pointed to his junk with a loving gesture. “Need something?”
“Whatcha got?”
“Take a look.”
Decker tried to find something that wasn’t too dirty or too broken. The closest he came was the head of a hammer without the handle. He could turn it into something useful. He bent down and picked up the head. “What about this?”
“It’s a good one.”
“How much?”
“For you, five dollars.”
“I’ll give you a dollar and that’s nice of me.” When Q waved him off, Decker said, “I’m not paying five dollars.”
“Four.”
“Two.”
“Three”
“Two.”
“All right, all right.” Another jerk of the head.
Decker pocketed the hammerhead and gave the man two bucks.
Q took the bills with dirty hands. “So what do you really want, mister?”
The man was a homeless alcoholic and probably mentally ill, but some native intuitiveness was still there. “I’m a cop.”
“Yeah, I know you’re a cop. You’re looking right at me. Most people look away. Whadaya want?”
“Do you remember a missing woman named Erin Young? She disappeared from here about four years ago.”
Q jerked his head. “I never hurt no one.”
“I believe you. Do you remember Erin?”
“Don’t think so.”
His eyes shifted downward. Decker knew he was lying. He said, “She worked as a cashier for the Circle M Mart. Her mother lives about three miles away from here in the woods. Corrine Young. I’m sure you know Corrine.” Decker paused. “She gives you some food and a little nip now and then, right?”
“Yeah, so what’s the harm?”
“No harm. So now that you remember Corrine, do you remember Erin?” A pause. “Erin was Corrine’s daughter.”
Q nodded his head. “She was nice. She worked at the mart, yeah.”
“Right. Did she also give you things?”
“Sometimes.”
“Food?” When Q nodded, Decker asked. “What else?”
“Once she gave me a pack of batteries. Said they were expired and weren’t no good. Even so, I put them in my flashlight. It worked. So there you have it.”
“Good deal.”
“Mama didn’t raise a fool.”
Decker smiled. “So you must remember when she went missing.”
Q jerked and nodded. “Now I do, yeah.”
“The police talked to you about it.”
“I didn’t hurt her. I didn’t hurt no one.”
“I know. But you do remember that the police talked to you.”
“Yeah, I remember. I’m not retarded, you know.”
But you are cagey, Decker thought. “What’d they talk to you about?”
“They talked to me about the shoes.”
Decker stared at him. “Right. The sandals. Do you remember where you found them?”
“Where I find everything. In the Dumpsters.”
“Do you remember which Dumpster?”
Q shook his head. “Don’t think so.”
“How many Dumpsters do you have?”
Q shrugged. “More than one.”
“Five?” No answer. “Ten?”
“Between five and ten,” Q answered. “I ’member showing the police where I found the shoes. So go ask them ’bout it, Mr. Cop. Your own guys took them from me and they didn’t even pay. That’s stealin’.”
“They thought they were Erin’s sandals.”
“It’s still stealin’. And like I told you, I didn’t hurt her.”
There was nowhere for Decker to go with the questioning because what Q said was true. He had taken them to the Dumpster and the police had combed through the garbage. Unless he was deliberately lying about the specific Dumpster he pointed out. Still, it felt like the man was holding back.
Decker thought for a moment. “Q, in the Dumpster where you found the sandals . . . did you find anything else?”
The homeless man narrowed his eyes. “I didn’t hurt her.”
“I believe you. What else did you find?” When Q didn’t answer, Decker said, “I’m not going to arrest you. I’ll even pay you for the sandals, but I need your help. Please answer me. Did you find anything else?”
Slowly Q stood up and went over to one of his three trash bags and began to search it. After about five minutes, he pulled out a baggie. He gave it to Decker.
Inside was a half-inch silver heart on a broken silver chain.
“You got this out of the same Dumpster you found the sandals?”
Q sidestepped the question. “I thought this was pretty.” He looked at Decker. “Is it hers?”
“I don’t know.”
“I kept it all this time. In a baggie. Just like you see it.”
“And you never tried to sell it?”
“No. I thought it might be hers and she’d want it back.”
“You never thought about showing it to the police?”
“I did, but then I didn’t ’cause I was mad. They didn’t pay me for the shoes.”
“I need it, Q. It might be important.” The man was quiet. Decker said, “Did you find the necklace with the sandals?”
“It was right on top of everythin’. It winked at me in the moonlight. Am I in trouble?”
“No, you’re not in trouble.” Decker handed him a ten-dollar bill. “That’s for the necklace and for the sandals.”
“Very nice of you, Mr. Cop.”
“I might talk to you again. Stick around.”
“I’m not goin’ anywhere.”
“Where do you go when it gets cold?”
“Around.”
“You know, there is a shelter in town. It’s warm there. There’s also food and a bed and a shower.”
“But they tell me what to do and I don’t like that.”
“I understand, but you can’t live out here in the winter.”
“I got my ways, Mr. Cop. Don’t waste your time worryin’ about me.”
Staring at the necklace in the baggie on his desktop, Radar said, “It’s Erin’s?”
“I showed it to the mother,” Decker said. “She told me that
Erin wore something very similar to it. But silver hearts on silver chains are common. When I was looking to identify it, I found at least a dozen companies that manufacture this type of jewelry. I couldn’t distinguish between them just by looking at pictures.”
“And Q had this stashed away?”
“That’s what he told me.”
“You think he killed her?”
“I can’t rule it out. But no.”
“Why?”
“He doesn’t look like he has a lot of physical strength for starters. But more to the point, why would he give me the necklace if he did it?”
“Throw you off the scent.”
“He’s not that calculating.” Decker sat opposite the captain on the other side of his desk. “The fact that it’s broken is interesting.”
“Someone pulled it off her neck?”
“Possibly.”
“So why didn’t he keep it as a trophy?”
“If she got away, why would the killer want to relive his failure? Maybe the killer took the sandals and necklace initially, and then he threw them away because the items didn’t give him any sexual charge.”
“That’s a leap.”
“Of course it is. But it’s still a plausible explanation. The upshot is I’m thinking that Erin Young may still be alive. Her mother suggested that if she’d run anywhere, it would be to Los Angeles. I’m sure she’s using a false name, but it’s possible that she’s still using her own birthdate and her own Social Security number, for instance, if she applied for a job. If I can get hold of a tax return that uses the birthdate and the SSN, then I’m home free. I can get her new name, her address, phone number, where she works, the whole bit.”
“If she pays taxes.”
“If she’s not a street walker or working as a domestic and taking cash under the table, you’re right. But if she has a normal job, someone is filing a W-2 form, which means she’s paying taxes. We should be able to get some kind of court order that will allow us to see if there’s anyone paying taxes with her Social Security number.”
“Maybe,” Radar said. “But I’ve never done it before.”
“It would help.”
“I’ll look into it if you really think she’s still alive.”
“It could be wishful thinking, but why not try? I’ll do all the paperwork if you’ll file.”
“Okay. It’d be good to know whether she’s alive or dead even if it isn’t related to Bogat. How are you doing with Bogat? Making any progress with what you have?”
“It’s still early, but we’re thinking that the killer is connected to Greenbury and the colleges since all three victims were students. As of now, I’ve had McAdams look at professors who have been teaching there for at least seven years, when Yvette Jones initially disappeared. We’re also searching for someone local who might be connected to the students. I don’t have any good candidates in the town department right now. In the gown department, I’m looking into charismatic professors who could have lured the victims by dint of their charm. I’ve got a list of a half-dozen well-liked professors who have likely crossed paths with all three students.”
“So let’s run with that until we’ve exhausted the possibilities. I’ll need that list of names.”
“No problem. And I’ll give you my reports as soon as I interview them. I’ll make a copy of the entire file for you, if you want it.”
“Don’t bother. Why waste trees? When you have something to tell me, just make sure you tell me. I’ll see what I can do about getting a tax file with Erin’s Social Security number. That’s going to take time.”
“I know.”
“I’ll talk to a lawyer and find out what rights we have.” Radar gave Decker back the necklace. “What do you want to do with this?”
“If it’s Erin’s, it might have DNA on it.”
“Q lives outside. The bag’s been exposed to the elements. Even if there was DNA, I’m sure it’s degraded by now. Not going to waste money on that until you have more information.”
“Okay. I’ll book it into the evidence room. I’ve got an interview in fifteen minutes, so that’s it for now.”
“No prob, Deck, keep at it. Lucky for us there’s no time limit on murder.”
Chapter 27
Two morning callbacks resulted in two appointments. Decker was pleased. It was about as good as it gets with academics.
At ten to two in the afternoon, Decker headed for Duxbury. It was the oldest of the Five Colleges, founded as a liberal arts school in the early nineteenth century. It had been ranked consistently among the top schools in its class and had always been noted for its excellence in the classics, history, and the social sciences. The students there were among the brightest in the consortium and often more than a little full of themselves. There were a lot of protests about issues the previous year on campus and mostly from the Duxbury students: everything from serving inauthentic cultural food in the cafeteria—bánh mì sandwiches on soft rolls instead of sourdough—to solidarity with whatever aggrieved group was in the spotlight. Most of the professors now kept a low profile—heads down and teaching their subjects in as neutral and as boring a way as possible.
Jason Kramer’s space was on the top floor of the Psychology and Sociology Building, a wood-paneled office with a nice view. Joining his impressive credentials—undergrad Yale, Ph.D. in clinical psychology from the University of Washington—were certificates and special awards that plastered the walls. From the dates, Kramer was in his forties. He wore a white dress shirt tucked into jeans with loafers on his feet and stood when Decker walked across the threshold. The man looked worn—droopy blue eyes and a pasty complexion. He offered Decker a chair opposite his desk.
“It’s been a long couple of days.” A weak smile. “For both of us, I suppose. You’ve been very busy up there at Bogat.”
“We have.”
“What’s going on? I’ve heard the police have unearthed Yvette Jones and Delilah Occum.”
“It takes a while to get an official-official confirmation.”
“Two officials. So you must have some preliminary confirmation.”
“We do.” A pause. “Thanks for seeing me on such short notice. You were very helpful in pointing us in the right direction with Lawrence Pettigrew. I was wondering if there is anything else you can tell me about him.”
“Like what?”
“We think he came back up to the colleges to meet someone here and soon afterward he was murdered. Any ideas?”
“None whatsoever. He didn’t contact me if that’s what you’re asking. I knew Lawrence but not well.”
“What can you tell me about him?”
“Just what I told you before.”
“Refresh my memory.”
“Lawrence was an extrovert. From what I remember, he was very smart and in your face.”
“Do you know of any people he offended?”
“I’m sure he irritated some, but I don’t know anyone specifically. He was a showman. He loved to play the piano and sing and get the crowd going. He reminded me of the Emcee in Cabaret.”
“Do you know who he was friendly with?”
“No, I’m sorry, I don’t.”
“Any faculty member perhaps?”
“Detective, I’m not holding back. If I knew something, I’d tell you. Being that he was a Morse McKinley student rather than a Duxbury student, I didn’t have the eyes and ears of the college.”
“One of the women at the LGBT Center told me he was very helpful to her when she did her high school tour of colleges. Arianna Root.”
“Ah, yes. She was there when you first popped in.”
“You have a good memory.”
“It was just a week and a half ago. I’m glad Lawrence was helpful to Arianna. Did she know him well?”
“Not well, no. But she did see him at Morse McKinley on the day he disappeared. Beyond that we can’t get a timeline.”
“Exactly when did Lawrence disappear?”
“
Five years ago—a couple of years after he left school. But we know that he came back to Five Colleges. He was a woman when he returned to Greenbury and went by Lorraine Pettigrew. Why do you think he came back to Morse McKinley?”
“No idea. My dealings with Lawrence had been pleasant but superficial.” A canned smile. “Anything else?”
“As you mentioned, we have been busy at Bogat. Whatever you can tell me about the two other girls would be useful.”
Kramer fiddled with a button on his shirt. “I don’t remember much about Yvette other than that she disappeared. I was younger and more self-absorbed. Delilah was more recent. We looked for her, you know. The entire consortium did several grid searches of the immediate acreage and the surrounding wilderness. We scoured the area for a full week. I was there every day. We found nothing, but obviously that’s irrelevant in light of your discovery. I just wished it would have happened sooner—the discovery. All that forensic evidence that’s lost . . .”
Decker nodded.
“Anyway, I’m sure you’re acutely aware of that. What do you have?”
“Forensically?”
“Stupid question. You can’t tell me.”
“No, I can’t tell you specifically. It’s less than ideal but more than you think. In your grid search, did anyone find clues?”
“I didn’t find anything. If someone did, I’m sure the police would know and it would be in her files.”
“I’m not asking about anything official. Just things that you remember about the case.”
“I know that she disappeared from a party. Mix alcohol with anything and it’s a potentially lethal combination. It used to be that the school gave freshmen lectures about safety. Minimal material: walk home with a buddy, don’t drink alone, don’t go with strangers . . . that sort of thing. But some of the women here said that the lectures put the onus of responsibility on them and not on the male students. They accused the school of being patriarchal. So we stopped about two years ago. Not that it mattered much. I’m sure the lectures went in one ear and out the other.”
“You seem to get along well with the kids at the LGBT Center.”
Kramer smiled. “They’re good kids—very, very serious, but it’s a group to which I can relate. Being gay and alone, I was very grateful to Yale’s LGBT Center in my freshman year. It gave me a place to go to when I felt abandoned.”
Bone Box Page 22