by MK Alexander
“I see… well, thank you.”
“That’s it?” Parker asked.
“Unless you have a memory of anything unusual to tell us, a peculiar customer perhaps?”
“Unusual and peculiar describes half the people in town,” Parker said and laughed. “There was one guy though… I remember he asked a lot of questions about digital odometers, just like you.”
“Is this his sticker?”
“It could be, I guess… I only remember ’cause it was one of those new hybrid cars, a Prius— new at the time.” He chuckled. “Wasn’t even sure if the damn thing took oil.”
“Why is this peculiar?”
“It was a brand new car. Didn’t really need an oil change, did it?”
“Could you say who it was?”
“Hmm… local guy, I seem to think.”
“What did he look like?” I asked.
“Can’t remember really… hey, wait a second, I think he worked for your paper.” Parker looked at me.
“Why do you say that?”
“No reason, just rings a bell… the backseat was filled with old newspapers.”
“Did he have a beard?”
“Can’t really say, but it doesn’t stick out in my mind.”
“Do you have any records of this?”
“Records? No… it’s just a courtesy sticker.”
Fynn glanced around the grubby office and gave me a side smile. “Tell me, Mr Parker, do you have any advice about fishing for us?”
“Fishing?”
“I see the many pictures here in your office… I would be interested in ice fishing.”
“Well, you should dress warm.”
“A wise precaution, I’m sure. And how does one get below the ice easily?”
“I use a hot poker to get started. Sometimes, a chainsaw…”
“You would not use an axe or a hammer to break the ice?”
“Not unless you’re suicidal.”
“And how is the fishing in the Barker Reservoir?”
“There is none… it’s not stocked, it’s illegal, and the ice is very treacherous over there.”
“How so?”
“The water level drops anytime they open the dam. Sometimes leaves a dangerous gap between the ice and the water, kind of like a suspension bridge. I’d never take a vehicle out, if that’s what you mean… No ice skating either…”
“May I ask one final question?”
Parker nodded.
“Do you live nearby?”
“Got a place out back.”
“Well, thank you, Mr Parker, you’ve been most helpful.”
“So you’re saying I’m not guilty, right?” Parker laughed.
“There is always that possibility.”
After we left, Fynn asked, “Why the question about a beard, Patrick?”
“Well, I was thinking about Kaiser Wayne… He has a beard, but I never believed it was real.”
“Like a disguise?”
“That’s the perfect word.”
“And why do you suspect your employer?”
“I don’t, not really…”
“But?”
“Well, he lives nearby… He’s about the right age… And there’s the sunglasses.”
“Sunglasses?” Fynn asked.
“I don’t think I’ve actually ever seen his eyes.”
***
Jamal Morris called with news. It was my phone but the news was for Fynn. A third victim had been identified, Mr Buick who disappeared in 1980. Dental records confirmed his real name as Joseph Hannah, a social studies teacher at Nederland Elementary. He didn’t seem connected to anything else, not Jolene Hendricks, nor the elusive Mr Lambert. Morris had few details so far: the teacher was known as strict, but generally respected. Joseph Hannah was unmarried and had disappeared in the middle of the year during winter break. The case went cold when it was suggested that Mr Hannah had moved to Florida just prior to a school board disciplinary action.
“One weird thing, I guess,” Jamal said, “He was missing according to the State of Florida but not here in Colorado… A missing persons report didn’t come in until about a year later from his mom in Pensacola.”
“That is quite odd.”
“We don’t know how yet, but it almost seems like somebody kept this teacher alive for nearly a year, at least on paper.”
“How do you mean?”
“Somebody paid his rent, utilities and stuff, for around nine months…”
“His mother did not notice he was missing?”
“I guess they weren’t that close.”
Fynn immediately went to his notebook and compared the time of death to the mileage of his vehicle.
“Well?” I asked.
“His time of death is in the winter nineteen seventy-nine, but his odometer date is the sixth of September, nineteen seventy-eight. A lapse of several months…”
“Any connection to that Wheeler guy?”
“The car was purchased from him.”
“And a connection to Lambert?”
“Every teacher must have a student, yes?”
***
On Saturday, Fynn and I pulled up next to the wild, wacky arm-waving-guy, though he was not on his best behavior today. Maybe the wind was too strong or the air pump not strong enough, but all we received was a limp greeting from a marketing tool that was bowing rather than standing. The place looked more like an ice rink than a parking lot, yet there was a carefully shoveled path that led up to the small showroom. I could hear hundreds of little flags flapping in the wind. This was Theodore Wheeler’s dealership and he was perhaps the only employee.
“Is that your Saab?” he asked as soon as Fynn and I entered. “Not sure I want to buy it if you’re selling. Unless of course you’re looking at a trade-in.”
“We are here for another reason,” Fynn said. “We are investigating the reservoir murders.”
“Oh. Well, you got a badge or something?” Wheeler asked.
Fynn produced his.
“A deputy, eh? And who is this guy?”
“This is Mr Jardel from the Boulder newspaper. He is here to insure that your side of the story is represented accurately.”
“Well now, that sounds pretty ominous.” He laughed a bit nervously. I glanced at him and gave a weak smile. He was somewhere in his late fifties and had sideburns well on their way to mutton chops.
“I can’t tell you how many times the police have been here already,” he started. “You’d think I was a suspect.”
“You are,” Fynn replied.
“What?” Wheeler seemed surprised. “How can you even think that? We’re talking about my kid brother.”
“As you say. And I offer my sympathies.”
“What kind of monster would drown a fifteen-year-old kid in the back seat of a car?” Wheeler shouted.
“That’s exactly what we hope to determine.”
“Wait a second…” Wheeler glanced back and forth at us both. “Is this all because I can’t find some damn vehicle records? Jesus, they’re from thirty, forty years ago…It’s a tall order, you know.”
“How long have you been in business?” Fynn asked.
“Well, we’re an institution around these parts. My dad ran the place, and his dad before that,” Wheeler said with a certain pride. “Still doesn’t mean we kept good records.”
“According to Captain Morris, your establishment is linked to four of the vehicles.”
“I know, I know… I’ve been told in no uncertain terms.”
“Have you been able to trace the owner of this car?” Fynn laid out a photo of the Ford Taurus. “It was stolen from your lot in nineteen ninety-one.”
“Yup, practically brand new… less than three thousand miles on it. How it ended up in the middle of the reservoir is beyond me.”
“This aside for the moment, could you talk about your brother, please?”
Wheeler sat back in his chair. Some sadness crossed his expression. “What a
bout my brother?”
“Anything that comes to mind.”
“I have mixed feelings, you know… it’s good to have closure, bad to give up on hope after all this time.”
“And your father?”
“Died about six years ago…”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“Do you know what? The police actually asked me where I was on Tuesday, January eighteenth, nineteen eighty-three. Like how could anyone remember that far back?”
“It would be quite difficult, I suppose.”
“You betcha,” Wheeler said and sat forward. “I mean I have a vague memory from back then. I was in the hospital for an appendicitis… I just can’t remember if it was before or after all this…”
“How old were you?”
“Seventeen, eighteen maybe… At the time, everybody thought my brother just took Dad’s car for a joy ride and never came back.”
“And what kind of person was your brother?”
“What kind of person? He was a little kid… just like any little kid. You don’t expect me to say anything bad about my brother, I hope.”
“Of course not. Why would you want to say something bad?”
“I don’t, and I won’t…” Wheeler said. He hesitated though, and started to rub his face. “Okay, well, truth be told, Jeff was kind of a bully growing up… got in some trouble at school for it.”
“Did he have any particular friends at school?”
“That was the whole problem, I guess. Not enough friends… There was one kid… Desi, I think…”
“Desmond Lambert?”
“Yeah, that’s the name. How did you know?” Wheeler turned around and pulled an old photo from a nearby shelf. “Class picture… nineteen seventy-eight, what, like fifth grade maybe? That’s my brother Jeff there… and that would be little Desi.”
“Who is the teacher?” Fynn asked.
“Oh, that’s Mr Hannah, Social Studies teacher. Got fired by the school board, I heard, some kind of hanky-panky going on.”
“Jeffery and Desmond were the same age?”
“Yup…”
“Would you say they were friends?”
“As far as I can remember…I didn’t really hang around with them much.”
“May I ask— did you grow up here in Nederland?”
“Yes.”
“And now?”
“I got a place out near Rollinsville, south of here.”
“Sorry—” I interrupted out of necessity. “Do you have a restroom I could use?”
Wheeler pointed. “Round the corner, past the bays, first door on the left.”
I heard Fynn asking about odometers as I walked across the showroom but failed to hear Wheeler’s reply.
“This guy has an axe and a sledgehammer, and a wet suit hanging up in the corner closet,” I whispered to Fynn as we walked back to my car.
“How do you know?”
“I saw them on the way to the bathroom.”
“Interesting.”
“Maybe he’s our guy… like revenge or something?”
“How do you mean?” Fynn asked.
“Trying to get back at whoever killed his brother.”
“A possibility, I suppose… though that’s quite a lot of vengeance to account for.”
***
“I heard you were skulking around town last night.”
“From whom?” the inspector asked, a bit surprised.
“I have my sources.” I smiled.
“Well, yes, if you must know, I have met this man from Texas and his snakes.”
“Who are you talking about?”
“Your colleague, Mr Drummond.”
“Oh?”
“He does not seem to like you very much.”
“Yeah, it’s a territorial thing. Nederland is usually his beat.”
“I see…”
“What do you make of him?” I asked.
“I cannot shake the feeling that this man is familiar to me, yet as hard as I try, I cannot remember meeting him before.”
“Did he say anything important?”
“He told me all about the Carousel of Happiness, a local landmark apparently… And he talked about dogs.”
“That’s important?”
“Probably not… though I had never previously considered that all the various breeds of dogs have sprung from the first domesticated wolf.”
“Did he say that?”
“No. He seemed quite obsessed with the idea that god created all these different canines.”
“God? I thought it was evolution.”
“I would say not. It was mankind’s doing.”
“How do you mean?”
“Selective breeding.”
“Is this relevant?”
“I doubt it, though his own dog seemed rather nasty.”
“He has a dog?”
“Indeed, a hound with a vicious temperament.”
“That’s it?”
“Mostly, though he was not alone.”
“Who else was there?”
“Two other colleagues from your newspaper.”
“Not Cindy and Andy?”
“No, Toby and Travis— I was singularly unimpressed by them.”
“Oh, the twins…” I said and let off a slight groan.
“Tell me, what is meant when one says he is a libertarian?”
“Oh, it’s like a democrat or a republican.”
“Ah, it is a political persuasion?”
“Sort of… they believe in a very limited role for government, the federal government...” I turned to look at Fynn.
“I seem to recall a future like this. A terrible place… the balkanization of America.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Perhaps a discussion for another time.”
“Wait, did Drummond say all this?”
“No, though his zeal for such seemed irrational and a bit alarming. What’s your impression of this man?”
“I barely know him really… he’s pretty smart, pretty good writer… worked here a long time… and I found out he’s best friends with Kaiser Wayne.”
***
Fynn called and asked to meet for dinner on Sunday night. Of all places, it was a pizza and beer joint in the small shopping center across from his hotel. It was near the carousel and a few doors down from the Nederland police station, the town library and the community center. I found it easily enough, next door to Dam Liquors, the busiest location in the plaza, and did have some trouble finding a parking space. I got there about ten minutes early, ordered a local micro brew and two pepperoni slices. As soon as I was served, I knew I was far from New York.
The restaurant was crowded. The only seat I could find was next to a girl sitting alone in front of a large pie. She was in her mid-twenties, skinny, and hardly the type who could down a whole pizza by herself. I took her to be a college student at first. She had jet black hair, not a natural color, as it seemed to be tinged with blue, and a face full of freckles. She was probably the only person not on her cell. Instead she was leafing through an old phone book. On the seat next to her was a binder full of papers. They were leaking out and seemed to be in considerable disarray.
“Mind if I share this table?” I asked.
“Oh, I’m waiting for someone… sorry,” she replied and didn’t even look up.
“So am I.”
“I doubt we’re waiting for the same person,” she said and went back to her phonebook.
“Unless that happened to be Inspector Fynn.”
“What?” She looked up at me. “What did you say?”
“Tractus Fynn,” I repeated.
“But… you’re not him, you couldn’t be.”
“I’m not, but I’m also waiting for him tonight.”
“How could you possibly know—” she stammered and then blushed slightly.
“Just a lucky guess… You’re Frances?”
“Yes.”
“Patrick. Nice to
meet you.” I sat down in an empty chair. “How’s the pizza?”
Fynn appeared some minutes later. “Ah, I see you two have met already… May I formally introduce you? Frances Lee, this is my good friend Patrick Jardel.”
“Franny or Fran is okay, not Fannie though, please don’t call me that.” She also stood up to shake Fynn’s hand. “And it’s nice to meet you in person, at long last,” she said and swayed from side to side, probably out of nervousness.
“You two have never met?” I asked.
“Just by telephone and letters,” Franny said. “Mr Fynn has the finest penmanship I’ve ever seen.”
“Why Frances, that’s a wonderful compliment. Thank you.”
“I don’t suppose you’re here about the murder by tree?”
“No, that case is on sabbatical for now.”
“Right. Well, it’s probably not as important as the Murder Lake case…”
“Murder Lake?” Fynn asked.
“That’s what everyone calls it around here.”
“I see,” the inspector said and sat down. “But you have discovered something about the Dumonts, hmm?”
“Well,” Franny began, “I checked the their insurance records. Pretty standard stuff. Household goods, electronics, clothing, jewelry…”
“And?”
“There’s just the one thing: a really old manuscript of unknown origin.”
“That’s certainly odd.”
“I thought so too. It hasn’t been appraised, but it has been dated to the fifteenth century.”
“Can you tell me anything more?”
“That’s all I have so far.”
“Well, thank you, Frances… it might be an important clue.” Fynn reached across the table and took a slice of pizza from her plate. “May I?”
She smiled. “And, closer to home, I’ve got what you asked for…”
“Have you now?”
“I checked all the dates you gave me— nada— only one of them seems significant.” Franny reached into her binder and pulled out a newspaper clipping. Fynn read it with great interest and handed it over to me. A huge satisfied grin crossed his face.
“I do believe you have solved the puzzle, my dear. Thank you, indeed.” Fynn reached across the table and clasped Franny’s hands. I looked over the article:
Mystery Hero Saves Toddler, said the headline, but the byline grabbed my attention first: Kaiser Wayne. There was a grainy photo too: the tail end of a car embedded in ice surrounded by rescue workers. In the foreground was a man, sitting, wrapped in blankets, though I could not see his face.