As the three of them sifted through the snapshots, McAdams said, “And the million-dollar question is . . .”
Radar was staring at the photos. “I’ve been here a while. No idea who they are.”
“The quality is so poor,” Decker bemoaned. “I’m trying to see if I can find a landmark or the name of a store . . . something to home in on.”
McAdams said, “The coffee cup . . . there’s a logo on it . . . maybe it’s writing.”
Decker said, “Maybe we can get it enhanced?”
“It’s so blurry, I don’t think it’ll work,” Radar said. “Let’s see if we can find something better.”
“Let me take it to my desk and work at it,” Decker said.
Kevin Butterfield knocked on the door’s sash, then walked into the office. “Patrick Markham is here.” When Decker looked confused, he said, “You did tell me you were free the entire afternoon.”
“Yes, of course.” Decker’s watch read a little past three in the afternoon. “Thanks, Kev. Put him in an interview room. I’ll be right there. Did you find out anything new with the CCTV?”
“It looks like our car was indeed headed for the highway. I’m going through the tapes again, starting much earlier in the evening. Maybe I can pick up the car going the opposite direction to the murder scene.”
“Good idea. Are you able to get a face view of the driver or any passenger?”
“Shadows only. The quality is really poor. But the one thing I will say is it is probably two people. What are you looking at?”
“Also poor-quality images. Photographs. They were hidden in Jaylene Boch’s wheelchair.”
Butterfield scanned through several of them. “I take it no one knows who these people are?”
“Nope,” McAdams said. “We’re trying to see if we can find a name or landmark that’ll at least let us know where these were taken.”
Butterfield said. “From the dress and hairstyle and cars, these are maybe fifteen years old.”
“I agree,” Radar said. “I should call up Baccus. You found these hidden at a house in his jurisdiction.”
“Let’s leave him out of this for the moment.” To Butterfield, Decker said, “I’ll be with Markham in a minute. Thanks for setting it up.”
“Sure. No problem.”
After Butterfield left, Radar said, “No Baccus?”
“Not quite yet, if you don’t mind.”
Radar was silent. Then he said, “Who’s Patrick Markham?”
“A high school friend of Brady Neil’s. I’ll tell you more after I’m done. Anything else?”
“No, you can go,” Radar said.
Decker walked out of the office, pulling McAdams along with him. “Since Kevin is still going through CCTV, could you go through these snapshots to see what you can nail as far as ID?”
“No prob.” McAdams paused. “Maybe there’s a watermark on the film with a date. Sometimes that happens.” He stared at a picture of the woman and older man drinking coffee or tea in a café. “Who are you?”
Decker stared at the pictures. “These do look to be about fifteen years old.”
“Is that significant?”
“Yeah, I think so. First of all, really good cameras were available fifteen years ago. My first thoughts are that these were taken by an amateur with either a cheap phone or a bad camera.”
“Ah, good thinking. Why black and white?”
“Don’t know. Maybe these were taken at night, so they just look like black and white. Actually, the shots do look like night. These were taken in a clandestine manner.”
“So, boss . . .” McAdams smiled. “What was going on fifteen years ago in Hamilton that you don’t want Chief Baccus to know about?”
“Nothing significant for him. But maybe something significant for Jaylene Boch.” Decker looked up from the photos and at McAdams. “Jaylene’s husband, Joe Senior, was still alive fifteen years ago.”
“You think the old man in the pictures might be Joe Senior?”
“I don’t know, but why else would she hide pictures of strangers in her wheelchair. They must have significance to her.”
“Or maybe Joe Junior hid them without his mom knowing. Fifteen years ago, Junior was twenty. It could have more to do with him than with her.”
Decker conceded the point. “You’re right. Jaylene was left to die. But Joe Junior’s room was the crime scene.”
“Yeah,” McAdams said. “His room was . . . not hers.”
Chapter 16
Patrick Markham was wearing a jacket and a red-on-red striped tie. Unusual for anyone his age, very unusual for anyone in Hamilton. The caramel-colored corduroy jacket had leather elbow patches and sat over a red-tan-and-white-plaid shirt. He wore denim pants and sneakers with no socks. He told Decker he had been coming home from work when he got the message that the police wanted to talk to him. He decided it was easier to drop by.
“What do you do?” Decker asked.
“Today I was teaching at one of the community colleges—practical electrical science. That’s a fancy title for being an electrician.”
“You must be good at what you do to teach.”
“I have a BA in electrical engineering, but I mostly work as an electrician. I have my own company. But I teach because it’s a little different even though it pays close to nothing. These days, with so many courses being offered online, I admire anyone who shows up for face-to-face instruction.”
Decker regarded Markham. He looked to be around six feet, solidly built with dark eyes and auburn hair. On his left fourth finger was a gold band.
Decker took out his notepad. “You’re married.”
“My high school sweetheart. She was a cheerleader, I was the running back. Everyone was shocked when we married and she wasn’t pregnant. Most guys are afraid to take the plunge. I’m afraid of dying alone. Particular neurosis of mine that’s not shared with most of my peers. Anyway, that’s more than you probably wanted to know. I realize this is about Brady. God, it’s been a tough couple of days.”
“You two were close?”
“During high school, yes.”
“But not afterward?”
Markham paused. “What do you know about Hamilton?”
“I’ve been here for over three years. But I live in Greenbury. I know it’s a different demographic than Hamilton.”
“One hundred eighty degrees. Greenbury is an upscale college town. Hamilton is larger than a town, not quite a city, and not at all on the economic upswing. The local high schools are not great, and that’s the best you can say about them. I kept my sanity by playing football, dating Mel, and actually studying for exams. Most of my teammates partied on the weekends with crystal meth and mollies. Lots of them had parents who had scripts for Vicodin or OxyContin. Whatever they could find that was easy.”
“What about Brady Neil?” Decker asked.
“Brady straddled all the different social options. He was popular despite his old man. Or maybe it was because of his old man. He was smart, but he could play the bad-boy image when it suited him.”
“He was a small guy to play football.”
“He didn’t.” Markham looked upward. “But he was a smart guy. He made a name doing other things.”
“Like?”
“He did a lot of chemicals in his senior year. Whatever he could find was up for grabs—for recreation and for money.”
“Ah,” Decker said. “Dealing.”
“Unfortunately, yes. Enough to keep some bills in his pocket. Certainly, his mother didn’t help him out. She could barely cope herself. Or maybe she did help him out, but inadvertently. I know he stole stuff out of her medicine cabinet.”
“Did his dealing continue after he graduated?”
“I don’t know. We didn’t talk as much after high school. I was busy with college, and Brady . . .” Markham’s voice trailed off. “It was really too bad. Brady could have gone to a four-year college, but he wasn’t interested. I won’t say he was lazy, but
he certainly wasn’t ambitious. He used to hang around in his mom’s basement, get high, and screw girls. My wife hated him. Brady and I drifted apart.”
“Understandable.”
Markham nodded. “It’s hard carrying that monkey on your back. He never could quite shake it. I don’t judge him, but there it was, and no matter what he did, it would always come back to his dad.”
“And you haven’t had recent contact with him?”
“Actually, it’s weird, because he called me up out of the blue about six months ago. I mean, you call somebody up after years of no contact? I thought he was in deep trouble or had something important to tell me. But no. We just shot the shit for about twenty minutes and that was it.”
“What did you talk about?”
“Life.” Markham thought a moment. “I’ve been going over that conversation in my head since he was found dead—murdered. Did I miss something that he was trying to tell me? Was he giving me a warning? I don’t think so, but I wasn’t paying attention to every word.”
Decker said, “Did he do most of the talking?”
“Yeah, come to think of it. He talked about how he was going back to school in coding and computers and how well he was doing. He talked to me about his job at Bigstore. Offered me discounts if I wanted any upgrades in my phone or computer or TV. He said something about doing a little business in recycled electronics. There was a lightness to his voice. I was happy for him. It seemed like old times. I did call him several times after that initial phone call. Left messages on his voice mail, but he never called me back. Frankly, with a business, a wife, and two kids, I was involved with my own life. I forgot about him until a few days ago. It felt like a punch in the stomach.”
“Any idea why he was murdered?”
“Lord, no. When we spoke, it didn’t sound like he was leading a fringe life. He sounded like he was getting it together. I’m totally baffled.”
“You said Brady had money from dealing?”
It took a while for Markham to answer. “Yeah. Why?”
“His mom reported him as always having cash. I’m wondering if Brady was dealing.”
Markham said, “I can’t tell you yes or no.”
“If Brady was dealing back then, who would he sell to?”
“This is taking me back.” A long pause. Markham said, “I don’t know, Detective. I tried hard to keep my nose clean. While Brady was my friend, I kept away from his darker life.”
“Fair enough,” Decker said. “Do you know if Brady kept in touch with his father?”
“Not when we were in high school. If he resumed contact with the old man, he didn’t tell me in the one conversation we had.”
“I heard Brady was close to Brett Baderhoff as well.”
“Yeah, we were a trio. Brett did okay for himself. He moved to Florida and became a nuisance hunter. He traps alligators and lizards and boas and other types of snakes. He always liked deer hunting, so it’s not too weird. We talk like once a year. When the news hit, I spoke to him soon after. He was as bummed as I was.”
Decker looked at the number he had stored in his phone for Brett Baderhoff. He showed it to Markham. “Is this current?”
“No, it’s old. I have to look up his current number. If you hold on a sec . . .”
“Not a problem.”
“I gotta tell you. He doesn’t have any idea about what happened, either. I know because I asked. Besides, he hasn’t lived in Hamilton for over four years.”
“I understand, but I’d like to call him anyway.”
“Right.” Patrick read off the number. “You can tell him I gave you his number. I’m sure Brett wouldn’t care.”
“Thanks. Patrick, when you were close to Brady, was he friends with Joseph Boch?”
“Who?”
“Joseph Boch.”
Markham opened and closed his mouth. “The guy in yesterday’s paper who’s missing?”
“Yes, him. He and Brady were friends. They both worked at Bigstore. Do you know if they had a previous relationship before this one?”
“No idea.” A pause. “I thought I read that Boch was in his midthirties.”
“He is.”
“That’s around ten years older than us. Why would he know him from before?”
“If Brady was dealing, unless he had a lab, he had to get his meth from someone.”
“And you suspect that this Boch guy was supplying him with drugs?”
“I don’t know. I do think Boch going AWOL and Brady’s murder are connected.”
Markham made a face. “I don’t know who supplied Brady in high school. I never asked.”
“Why were you and Brady friends?” Decker asked. “You don’t seem to have much in common.”
Markham sighed. “We just clicked. I think . . . it was easier to be friends because we weren’t in the same social groups. Even though my wife hated him—for obvious reasons—I always found it easy to talk to the guy.”
He checked his watch.
“Speaking of my wife, I should get home, help Mel out with the kids.”
“One more thing, please.” Decker took out one of the black and whites hidden in Jaylene Boch’s wheelchair. “Would you happen to know who these people are?”
Markham studied the photo. “No . . . sorry.” He handed the snapshot back. “Is that all?”
“Yes, it is.” Decker stood up. “How many kids do you have?”
“Two.”
“Boys, girls?”
“Boys. One and three. Live wires, both of them. They simple exhaust my wife. I keep telling her to go back to teaching. Working is easier than caring for those two wild animals.” Markham smiled. “They are cute. I do look forward to the days when my business card reads Markham and Sons.” He stood up. “Yes, I know. I’m an old soul in a twenty-six-year-old body. My teachers used to tell me: ‘Pat, you’re so serious. Lighten up.’ But I never did.”
“Being studious and dedicated never hurt anyone,” Decker said.
“That could be my epithet: Studious and Dedicated.” His eyes twinkled. “Still, I look forward to my twenty-fifth high school reunion. We’ll see who has the last laugh.”
In the station house, McAdams was poring over a photograph with a magnifying glass. Decker said, “How’s it going, Sherlock?”
“Come here for a sec.” McAdams focused in on the espresso coffee cup. “What do you see?”
“May I?” After McAdams gave him the magnifying glass, Decker peered at the cup. “It looks like an insect. Maybe a butterfly?”
“More like a dragonfly to my eye. Look at how skinny the wings are.”
Decker looked again, then handed him back the lens. “I do believe you’re right.”
“How many cafés would have a dragonfly as a logo?”
“Look it up.”
McAdams typed in “café, dragonfly” as keywords into Google. A surprising number of cafés showed up—from Portland, Oregon, to Massachusetts. “So much for a slam dunk.” He looked away from the screen and sat back in his chair. “I’m achy and tired, and I’m starved.”
“Did we eat lunch?”
“I sure as hell didn’t.”
It was a little past five. “Let me call up Rina and see if she made dinner. If not, I’ll pick up sandwiches at Kosher Mart.”
“Anything sounds good at this point. My shoulders are killing me.”
“Kvetch, kvetch.” Decker punched in Rina on his phone. She answered two rings later.
Her voice was a whisper. “Hold on.” A minute later, she spoke in her normal voice. “I’ve been in the library more or less since ten. It’s good to see sunlight.” A pause. “Is it really five o’clock?”
“It is,” Decker said. “What’s been so engrossing?”
“A lot of stuff. How about you?”
“Things are getting interesting.”
“We’ll catch up at home. It’s too much to tell you over the phone.”
“Okay. Should I pick up dinner at Kosher Mart?”
“That would be lovely. Smoked turkey on rye with mayo, mustard, lettuce, tomato and onions on the side. Pick up a pint of coleslaw and a pint of potato salad. Is Tyler coming over? It’d be easier to talk to both of you at the same time.”
“Yes, he’s coming. Can I have a hint?”
“You asked me to dig into the Levines before the murders, and that’s what I did. And that’s all I’m going to say. Otherwise we’ll be on the phone for a while, and like I said, it’s too much to deal with if we’re not face-to-face.”
“Fair enough. We’ll be home in about a half hour.”
“Good. I believe I’m starved, but I haven’t had enough time to think about it.”
“Well, I know I’m starved.” He checked his watch again. “Although eating at five-thirty is a little early, don’t you think?”
“Eating early is good for the digestion.”
“Now we’re really sounding like old people.”
“We are old people. Or at least, one of us is.”
“Did I ever tell you that you’re a mean woman?”
“Did I ever tell you how handsome you are?”
Decker smiled. “Especially for an old guy?”
“Especially for any guy, gorgeous. You know I’m a sucker for a guy in uniform.”
“Rina, I haven’t worn a uniform in over thirty-five years.”
“I know. But I have all those old photos of you in your salad days. It’s enough to make any girl dream.”
Chapter 17
Decker dropped a forkful of potato salad on the printout he was reading. They were given to him by Rina, and every time he finished a sheet, he passed it on to McAdams. “I’m such a slob.”
“You’re tired,” Rina said. “We’re all tired.”
Decker smiled. She was giving him an out. At his behest, she had been studying the blurred photographs, as well as the photographs in the shoebox found in Jaylene Boch’s closet, at the dinner table. “I am tired, but I’m also a slob.”
Walking Shadows Page 13