by MK Alexander
“To wrap up, I’ll just give you a list of probables for the remaining unidentified victims: Mr El Dorado… fourteen probables, six local. Mr Buick… twenty-three probables, two are local. Mrs Corolla—”
Fynn stood up and interrupted gently, “Can you tell us anything more about Mrs Prius? as Mr Walden has mentioned her car.”
“Right… we’re following a missing persons case, a Kimberly Groom from Arizona… we’ve yet to match dental records.”
“Another question, Ralph, forgive me: You are checking maiden names for Mrs Prius and Mrs Corolla?”
“Pardon?”
“If they were married, presumably they must have two names.”
“Oh, right… I’ll keep that in mind.”
“It may be important,” Fynn said quietly. “Another question, if I’m permitted…”
Ralph nodded, though nervously.
“I see from your report that you begin your missing persons searches from the presumed time of death— and work backwards, yes?”
“That’s the standard methodology for this case since the TODs are well established.”
“Is it possible to look forward as well?”
“I don’t understand the question.”
“Well, for example, say, Mr Buick who died in nineteen seventy-nine… though he might not be reported missing until sometime later, say, nineteen eighty…”
“I never really thought of that.”
“No… While it’s not a very probable occurrence, such is possible, is it not?”
“I’ll get right on it.”
“Wonderful. And could you please release your preliminary list of probables, as you call them.”
“Um… I’d like to pare them down a little further.”
“It may be important.” Fynn glanced over to Captain Morris. “I’d like the whole team to see them this morning, indeed, even Frances might have a look.”
Ralph glanced over to Morris as well, who gave him a nod. “Okay then, I’ll print them out now.”
“Thank you, Ralph.”
Fynn took the stage again and this time dragged over a whiteboard from the corner. He turned his back on the audience and started writing a series of numbers in a very neat hand. “I apologize, I have no patience with modern technology. I would prefer the old fashioned way, chalk on a blackboard. As we have it this morning, a rather squeaky marker on a white board.”
He turned to face the room and nodded over to Marisa. “Would you display the vehicles for me again?”
She complied and they filled the TV screen. On Fynn’s whiteboard was a numbered list, one through seven, each with a corresponding date:
82173: August 21st, 1973
9678: September 6th, 1978
71882: July 18th, 1982
21473: February 14th, 1973
52290: May 22nd, 1990
12102: December 1st, 2002
12212: January 22nd, 2012
“Even with the last two dates not being unequivocal, I do believe Mr Jardel’s observation of the odometers to be quite intriguing… Each date is certainly very close to the time of death, and before… in each and every case. As we can all see, such is not a random coincidence… Most curious is Mrs Corolla again. Her odometer better matches her vehicle’s age rather than the date of her demise.”
Fynn leaned down and whispered to Marisa. She typed a few lines and the TV lit up with a graphic of the cars as they were positioned in the reservoir. “A symmetry might be observed in how the killer submerged these vehicles… Marisa has kindly labeled this map with the time of death in each case. The V-shape, or a crescent perhaps, was created with some precision, by going left to right, all the way across the lake. To me, it shows the killer gaining in experience and confidence… each vehicle is slightly further out on the ice with every passing year. And yet one thing stands out: The very first car is not our first victim’s, Mr El Dorado. Rather, it is Mrs Corolla again, who is closest to the shoreline. This I find very curious. It is also the only vehicle without a license plate. Something for us all to ponder, yes? I now believe Mrs Corolla to be at the heart of this case.”
Fynn strolled across the stage. “Of course we must necessarily begin at the beginning,” Fynn said with a chuckle. “Our first victim, Mr El Dorado. Ownership was traced to Mr Clyde Lambert… Yet, where is Mr Lambert today? He is not counted among the missing, officially.”
A murmur rose through the audience.
“And as to exactly who reported this stolen vehicle back in nineteen seventy-four is still obscure to us.”
“I’ve got some news on that, Inspector Fynn,” Jamal called out. “The vehicle was reported stolen by Cassandra Lambert, on record as his wife….” Morris hesitated. “That said, so far, we have not been able to track her down either.”
“Thank you, Captain. I believe this to be very important.” He smiled graciously. “To jump ahead twenty years, we have the same name appearing again: this time though, a Mr Desmond Lambert. While on the periphery of this case, we do know Mr Desmond Lambert is alive and well… and living in…” Fynn looked down at his notes. “Uvalde, Texas.”
The room fell silent.
“Might we speculate, Mr and Mrs Lambert had a son named Desmond?” Fynn asked.
I heard some rustling paper nearby and looked over to the Texas Rangers; one of them was poring through his files.
“Excuse me, Mr Fynn…” he called out.
“Yes?”
“We’ve got that name on Jolene Hendricks’ phone contacts. Quite a few local calls… We believe they may have been involved in a sexual liaison.”
“Well then—” Fynn barely got two words out when someone else stood up.
“Carl, UCB… Campus Security. We also have a Desmond Lambert named in one of our reports.” The man leafed through the pages on his clipboard. “It’s from a ways back, seems like he jumped out of a dorm window— no serious injuries though.”
“When was this?”
“May, nineteen-ninety.”
“Perhaps it would be interesting to speak with this man.”
***
Fynn drew quite a crowd at the end of the meeting. The various investigators and experts all wanted a chance to chat with him, and he seemed to relish the attention. Captain Morris walked over to my seat and handed me a list of vehicles with their colors.
“He did good,” I said quietly.
“Fynn?” Jamal laughed. “He kicked butt as usual.” Morris took me aside to discuss what could be released and what should be kept from the public. I had the idea that full disclosure was the best course, while Jamal insisted on saying as little as possible.
“The more we say the better.”
“How’s that, Patrick?”
“Well, take the ice theory for example, the more people that know, the more likely somebody will come forward, not to mention more eyes on the NedCam….
“No ice… not yet…” Jamal said.
“Why?”
“Not with the lake starting to freeze over again. It’s a matter of public safety.”
“Right, I have to admit I didn’t think of that.”
“Patrick, what we release to the public is also released to the killer… and if he’s still in the area, there are some things I don’t want him to know.”
“You mean know that we know?”
“Yup.”
“Okay, how about Jolene Hendricks? If you release her name, maybe somebody saw her around town.”
“Alright, I’ll give you that one.”
“That’s it?”
“What else did you want to release?”
“How about the ID on Jeff Wheeler?”
“No, not yet.”
“The probable MP list? Might generate a lot of leads for you.”
“Absolutely not.”
“So nothing, really?”
“Yeah… but ah, contact Cindy, Ms Ramirez, please. I’d like to track down that ear-witness.”
I made a quick call to Andy wit
h what little I had, and asked him to update Cindy and Kaiser. He was disappointed to say the least, and kept repeating: “We are on deadline, you know…”
* * *
chapter eleven
nederland
There wasn’t a curve, an incline, a bump or a pothole I didn’t know intimately on Boulder Canyon Drive by now. I even knew some of the road snakes by name. Inspector Fynn had asked me to take him to the scene of the crime after the briefing. It was a bitterly cold evening, the mountains were covered in snow. Seemed doubtful he’d be able to see much.
“Jamal has kindly booked a room for me at the Best Western Lodge. I have the address written down, if you need.”
“I’m good… but why not stay in Boulder?”
“I think it’s only appropriate that I choose to spend a few days in the Nederlands,” Fynn said with a smile.
“You mean the Town of Nederland?”
“Of course.” The inspector laughed. “Can you tell me more about this place?”
“I don’t know much about it, really… an old mining town from a hundred years ago or more.”
“What sort of things did they mine?”
“Not really sure, tungsten, gold, silver, other stuff. Drummond could probably tell you.”
“Drummond?” Fynn asked. “Why is this name familiar to me?”
“Douglas… he’s a colleague of mine at the paper.”
“I don’t believe we’ve met.”
I pointed out the reservoir to Fynn as we drove past, slowing down so he could get a better look. It had started to freeze over again and for a brief moment I thought I saw a shadowy ice skater glide across the surface. It was just a trick of the light though. I dropped Fynn at his hotel on Lakeview Drive with apologies, and helped him unload his luggage. It was deadline day for me. “I have to cover the Planning Commission meeting tonight in Boulder… in about an hour.”
“Of course, Patrick, and I’m sorry to be such a bother.”
“I’ll see you tomorrow then, for breakfast?”
***
The next day, I saw a man walking along the shore of Barker Meadow Reservoir. He was wearing a smartly tailored overcoat and a Russian bear hat. He looked rather lost and cold. I pulled up along side and lowered my window. “Good morning, Inspector.”
“Ah, Patrick… good morning. How was your meeting?”
“My meeting?”
“The Planning Commission.”
“Oh… not much happened.”
“That is a shame.”
I glanced at Fynn. “You’re not really interested, are you?”
“No.”
I laughed. “Neither am I… How’s by you?”
“I am out for an early jaunt. I thought there may be some clues to be found.”
“And?” I asked, once Fynn sat in the passenger seat.
“It is most unsatisfying. The shoreline is rather straight here, and I must speculate that the ice forms from there out to the middle of the lake… yet, none of the cars are found very close to land.”
“Are you thinking rafts again?”
“No… I believe it is to do with ice, but it should be thickest near the shore, yes?”
“Makes sense.”
“So I asked, are the vehicles positioned in such a way because of the thickness of the ice?”
“Are they?”
“No. But thickness brings with it another consideration. A vehicle might sit exposed for quite some time. Surely, anyone might come along to notice such.”
“So?”
“The killer must have a way to sink the car when he wants, and quickly, I would think.”
“Meaning.”
“It’s likely he brings an axe or a sledge hammer with him.”
“What for?”
“To break the ice and sink the car exactly where and when he wants.”
“Oh, I get it. Otherwise it might sit there for hours or even days.”
“As you say. And this tells me our killer is rather daring.”
“Why?”
“It’s no easy task to drive a car out onto a frozen lake and cause it to fall in. There is a great risk here, yes?”
“Not something anyone could do.”
“I agree. And to me, your observation about the mileage is also essential. The killer must know exactly the distance he will drive to the place where the car will be submerged. This cannot be easy either.”
“So… he’s meticulous and daring.”
“Exactly how the FBI profile describes him.”
“He must know the area very well,” I commented.
“Exactly this. We might also ask, how does this man get back to Boulder City on such a cold night? He cannot walk there, some twenty kilometers?”
“Are you certain it’s a man, the killer, I mean?”
“Quite sure, though I have no evidence.”
“Could he have two cars at his disposal?”
“A fair question. I’m inclined to say the murderer lives in the town of Nederland, or he had an accomplice. Up until now, we’ve assumed there is only one killer. This might not be the case and we need to keep an open mind.”
“More than one killer?” I asked with some disbelief.
“It is merely a possibility… yet who would share such a fascination with ice and death?”
“Someone very, very committed.”
“Indeed, a family member, or a doppelgänger perhaps?”
I said nothing, preferring to let that comment slide for now.
***
The following day, I met Fynn in his hotel room. It was small, dark and rustic, and reminded me of a log cabin. I found the inspector on the floor kneeling over a large map of the western United States. He had a ruler and a red pen, and seemed to be drawing lines.
“What’s up, Inspector?”
“Ah, Patrick. I am only up to my knees today.”
“What’s all this?”
“I noticed the vehicles face the same direction with, I would say, startling accuracy. I wondered if they pointed to somewhere.”
“Do they?” I asked and helped Fynn to his feet.
“Yes, a place called Uvalde, Texas, as near as I can tell.”
“That’s where Ms Mercedes is from.”
“Indeed.” Fynn raised an eyebrow. “And Mr Lambert is there as well. He was traced to a telephone at a nearby ranch.”
“What?”
“A ranch.” He rose to his feet. “I have a person to meet with this morning. You’d care to come along?”
“Definitely. Where to?”
“I’d like to speak with Mr Kwiklube.”
“What kind of name is that?”
“It is what Jamal has written out for me.”
I looked at the paper. “Hmm, that may be his title. I think the name is Parker. I know the place though. If it wasn’t so cold, we could walk.”
A few blocks north of the hotel we strolled into a quiet garage that boasted one hour oil changes on its sign. There was a pickup truck parked out front with a well-worn snow plow attached. In the office we came upon Tony Parker, head mechanic and owner. He was clean shaven except for an otherwise unruly mustache, and somewhere in his sixties.
“Be with you in a sec…” he said without even looking up, poring through an auto parts catalog. “Can I help you, gentlemen?”
Fynn put his newly acquired badge on the counter. “We are investigating the reservoir killings and require your assistance.”
“Well…” he was at a loss for words at first and a startled look crossed his face. “Why come to me?” Parker glanced at the badge. “And who’s this guy?”
“I’m Patrick from the Boulder Broadsheet,” I replied and held out my hand. “I’m here to keep him honest.”
“Honest?”
“Make sure he doesn’t violate your rights.” I smiled.
Fynn got to business: “This car was reported stolen by you in nineteen eighty-five.” He placed a photo of the 1971 Corolla on the counter.<
br />
“Yeah… I already told the cops all that.”
“Can you tell us more?”
“That’s a ways back… eighty-five… It was summer though, I remember that much… came out in the morning and the car was just gone from the lot.”
“That’s all you can recollect?”
“Pretty much.”
“Who did you purchased the car from?”
“Ha… police auction maybe, or the salvage yard. I used to do a lot of that back then.”
“A lot of what?”
“Buy old cars cheap, fix ’em up, and sell ’em.”
“I see… We also found this.” Fynn produced a photocopy of the oil change sticker. “From your garage, is it not?”
He looked at the paper for a moment. “Sure, I put them on every car I service.”
“And this is your handwriting?”
Parker looked back at the paper. “Hard to say… it’s just numbers.”
“I don’t suppose this one is familiar to you.”
“They all look the same, don’t they?”
“Yes, except for the date and the mileage.”
He glanced at it again. “That’s almost fifteen years ago.”
“Tell me, Mr Parker, in your experience, is it easy or difficult to change the odometer on a car?”
“Is that some sort of accusation?”
“Not at all. I’m appealing to your expertise. Such would be contrary to the nature of your business.”
“How so?”
“You wish for your customers to return in three thousand miles. Why would you change an odometer?”
Parker laughed. “You got that about right.”
“Well?”
“You mean easy or hard?” He rubbed his face. “On an old car, it’s pretty simple to roll it back. Ask any used car salesman…” Parker chuckled. “On a newer car, the digital odometers are wired to a memory chip. You’d have to have some serious computer skills to change one of those.”