by Graham Smith
I can’t decide if she’s let herself go or was never together. Still I have questions to ask her.
‘Are you the guy who called earlier?’
‘That’s me. You must be Faith.’ I offer a hand and a smile. ‘I’m Jake.’
The smile proves to be a mistake. She toys with one of the knots in her hair and shows me her teeth. Or at least what’s left of them.
‘Come on in.’ Not waiting for an answer, she turns and tries to sashay down the hall. With her undernourished frame, it’s not a move she can pull off.
I follow her into the house. There’s mess everywhere and a smell so repugnant I have to breathe through my mouth. I decline the offer of a seat.
The state both she and the house are in speaks of laziness. I’m no neat freak, but I could keep this place clean with minimal effort. That she hasn’t bothered tells me she has no pride in herself or her belongings.
‘What can I help you with? You said it was about Roger. I told his bosses at the time he didn’t steal nuthin’. That it was all a set-up. Why’d you come botherin’ a grieving widow after all these years?’
The grieving widow must have a taste for cigars and mens’ footwear if the things lying about the house are anything to go by. On the other hand, if the rest of the house is anything to go by, they could well have belonged to her late husband.
‘I’m not here about anything to do with Roger’s work. I’m here about his death.’
‘You from the insurance company? I never got a red cent ’cause he was late with one payment. His pension is worth squat ’cause of him dying so young.’ There is the bitterness of the self-entitled in her voice.
Life hasn’t been kind to her, but she is the type who will see fate’s blows as a personal slight. While some people pick themselves up more determined than ever to succeed, she is the kind of person who blames others and expects those she deems responsible to help her.
With the news I’m about to break, my name is sure to be added to the list of people who’ve caused her life to get worse.
While I’m not informing her of a death, I’m exhuming an accident so I can turn it into a murder. It might not be as bad as breaking the initial news, but it’s still a task I’d be happy to avoid.
‘Faith.’ My use of her name grabs her attention just as I’d intended it to. ‘I have reason to believe Roger’s death wasn’t an accident.’
‘Whadda ya mean?’
‘Have you heard about the killer who’s targeting local citizens?’
‘Dolores said somethin’ ’bout it.’ From the way she waves her hand to the left, I guess Dolores is a neighbour. ‘Can’t say I was listenin’ too good though.’
‘It’s like this. There’s a serial killer working to his own twisted pattern.’ I don’t bother giving her the finer details. Whatever she’s been on before I arrived has dulled her comprehension. ‘There is a way he’s connecting all of his victims. Working backwards, we’ve traced his kills. The trail ends with Roger, so we believe he was the first victim.’
I give her a moment to digest what I’ve just told her.
Hope shines in her eyes. ‘Does this mean I’ll be able to claim off the police?’
Not being enamoured with the claim culture, I can’t begin to imagine what type of lawsuit she’s considering. If the world has any justice left, she’ll be sent packing by even the most fervent ambulance-chasing lawyer.
‘I don’t know anything about that.’ She may be able to detect the contempt in my voice. I don’t care either way. ‘I’m here to ask you a few questions about your husband in the hope we can find out who killed him.’
‘Oh yeah. Sure.’ Now there may be a chance for her to make a few bucks she’s all ears. No contrition or emotion, but plenty of ears.
‘The obvious first question is – did Roger have any enemies?’
A shrug. ‘We all got folks who don’t like us.’
‘Was there anyone he’d fallen out with? Argued over money, perhaps?’
‘You didn’t fall out with Roger. Not if you knew what was good for you.’
I try again. ‘Did he owe anyone money?’
‘He owed on the car but it was some kind of lease deal.’ She looks at the carpet. ‘Roger didn’t believe in running up debts.’
I detect a subtext to what she is saying. Looking at her and her home it doesn’t take Sherlock Holmes to realise she’ll be lucky if she has two cents to rub together.
Nobody with her lack of personal hygiene and general appearance will be hired by anyone looking to fill a customer facing position. Therefore, the only work she’ll be eligible for will be factory style work. Except Casperton doesn’t have any factories.
With debts looming over her, the future will be bleaker than the past. Every day the debts remain unpaid will see them grow. With her as good as unemployable, state handouts will stop her starving, but there will be little quality to her life. By today’s standards, the twenty-four-inch flat-screen in the corner is a sign of poverty.
The man whose boots lie discarded on the carpet won’t be a prize catch if he’s prepared to tolerate the filth she lives in.
I try another angle. ‘You may not like this, but was he seeing anyone else?’
‘No!’ The word and shake of her head both carry vehemence.
‘Are you sure? You didn’t hear anything after his accident?’ Sometimes people learn a lot about their partners after they die or part from each other. Friends and family members fall over each other to break the news they didn’t dare beforehand. In a twisted way, they believe they’re helping with the healing process. What they’re actually doing is rubbing salt into an open wound. Instead of being thankful for the good times and happy memories, the person remaining has nothing left to cherish.
‘I’m positive, damn you.’ A sneer curls her lip. ‘Don’t think I ain’t seen the way you’ve been looking down on me. I ain’t always looked like this.’
To emphasise her point, she rummages in a drawer and pulls out a framed picture. When she shows it to me, I see her arm in arm with a tall beefy guy.
Perhaps it’s the nurse’s uniform distorting my opinion, but while she’s no knockout in the picture, she’s several leagues above where she is today.
‘Sorry if I’ve offended you, but it’s something I had to ask.’
She doesn’t speak. Again her eyes fall to the carpet. Or whatever is covering the carpet.
I don’t tell her, but her logic is wrong. Working at the Tree for so long, I have seen every possible reason for a fight and the majority have been started over the fairer sex. Either one man is chasing another’s wife, or a woman’s flirting achieves the desired effect and makes her partner jealous. Hands get raised and blood gets spilled.
The next night, or week, the drama will be repeated by different characters. There may be a subplot or a twist, but it’s the same drama every time.
One thing it’s taught me is, regardless of who’s waiting for them at home, some people will always stray. It’s one of the reasons I stay more or less single; I’m one of them.
‘What about his work, you mentioned something of a… dispute?’
‘Asshole foreman thought Roger was on the take. He mighta been a lotta things but he wasn’t never a thief.’
‘You said before, people who knew what was good for them didn’t argue with Roger. What did you mean by that?’
She turns her head to one side. ‘Just that he was a big man who could take care of hisself. He weren’t no troublemaker, but when it found him he could deal with it.’
Alfonse probably says the same about me.
‘Was there any trouble he dealt with that might have come back to bite him?’
‘No. He did what he had to do and stopped there.’ Her fingers pick at a spot on her forehead. ‘He never whaled on a man who couldn’t fight back.’
‘Do you keep in touch with Roger’s family, or any of his friends?’ Perhaps one of them will have the information I need. Faith may have
it, but she isn’t prepared to share it lest she inadvertently cuts off a source of possible money. ‘And if you do, have you got a contact for them?’
She reaches inside her shirt and pulls out an old model cell.
I try not to think too hard about where she was keeping it as she gives me a couple of names and numbers.
64
I notice a different air in the police station when I enter the reception. Even Darla appears subdued. Two men with dark suits and cropped hair stand by the desk. Their faces are serious yet blank. Neither looks as if a winning ticket or the death of a family member will change their expressions.
The door to the chief’s office is closed so I give a knock and wait. There’s no answer although I can hear voices inside.
A hand touches my shoulder. It’s one of the statues from reception. He’s being gentle so far, but I know a firmer, more insistent grip is seconds away. ‘Please step away from the door, sir. Chief Watson is busy with Special Agent Doenig. They are not to be disturbed.’
‘I’m working the case and need to update the chief.’ I keep my tone level and fight the impulse to engage him in a staring match.
‘Tell me what you got and I’ll inform them both when they’re finished with the current briefing.’
‘No. This is too important to wait.’ It isn’t, but he doesn’t know that.
Taking advantage of his indecision, I’m two steps into the room before he’s had time to react.
‘What is it, Boulder?’ There’s irritation in the chief’s voice, but I’m confident I’m not the source.
I make a point of acknowledging the squat guy wearing a dark suit and darker expression before turning to the chief. ‘Thought you’d want an update.’
‘What you got?’
‘Ingerson was a big man who knew how to take care of himself. The wife says he hadn’t made any enemies but I’m not so sure.’
‘So you know him better than his wife?’ Doenig’s voice is the raspy drawl of someone who smokes rough tobacco too often. The smell of nicotine hangs over him like a damp hammock.
‘Of course not.’ I’m not trying to antagonise the guy, but it has been a long day and I’m too weary to keep the scorn out of my voice. ‘But I do know guys. Ninety-nine out of a hundred don’t tell their other halves when they’ve been fighting unless there’s no way they can avoid it. Then they make a point of being the one to break the news.’
I get a scowl but no further argument because I’m right. As much as women may like us to assume the role of protectors should trouble come along, deep down they hate to see us fighting because they’re afraid we’ll get hurt. Or worse, too used to solving problems with our fists.
My father never showed Mother the hairy side of his hand, but she’s told me how my paternal grandfather used to beat his wife. Growing up I never knew about it but armed with hindsight and more knowledge, I remember the constant stream of bruises dismissed as ‘silly old granny falling over again.’
‘Thank you, Mr Boulder, your cooperation is appreciated by the United States Government, but I think it would be appropriate for you to stand down now.’
I look at the chief as he’s the man who hired me. It may be a technicality, but there’s no way I’m being sidelined.
The chief is motionless, his face gives nothing away. Perhaps he’s auditioning for a role as a feebie statue. Then again, he’s a wise old bird who knows how to play the political game when he has to.
By staying mute and still, he’s showing allegiance to both sides while leaving us to sort it out between us. As a law enforcer, he operates in a hierarchical system and the special agent outranks him, the counterbalance being this is his patch and the FBI will find things a lot easier with his cooperation.
‘You didn’t hire me, therefore you can’t fire me. I have been assisting the police, and everything I’ve learned has been shared with them at the earliest possible opportunity. I’d like that situation to continue.’ I spread my hands out. ‘You can make the arrests and take the credit. All I want is to stay involved.’
‘The FBI does not work with amateur sleuths, Mr Boulder.’ His face softens a fraction of a fraction. ‘But in respect of what you’ve already achieved, I think Chief Watson should one day hire you as a detective. If today should be that day…’
The chief gets his inference a second before I do. A gnarled hand leaves his temple and opens a drawer. A badge flies my way along with a pointy-fingered admonishment.
‘You’re on probation until this case is over, then we’ll review your situation. You ain’t getting a gun until I know you’re competent. Understand?’
‘Yes, Chief.’ I decide this isn’t the best time to ask about a 401K.
‘Let’s get one thing clear right from the start, Mr Boulder. The FBI leads and you as a rookie detective follow.’
Doenig waves me to a seat and starts to pepper the chief with questions about the case. His instincts are good and the points he’s interested in are the ones which have been puzzling me.
He suggests a profiler, so I tell him what I’ve gleaned from Dr Edwards. I get a firm nod as a sign of approval but he still wants to speak to his own guy. It’s only right he does. However good the advice we’ve gotten so far may be, an experienced FBI profiler will always have better insights than a small-town psychologist.
When Doenig is finished questioning the chief, I tell them what little I’ve learned from Faith Ingerson.
I can see the special agent is sceptical about Ingerson being the first victim, so I explain how Alfonse traced the murders back from Kira.
He listens, but his eyes flit around the room as I’m talking. He’s not taking it in properly, which means he’s either fixated on something else or he’s learned the hard way not to trust evidence handed to him in a nice neat bundle. If I was a gambler my money would be on the latter.
While not accepting our evidence, I’m sure he’ll follow a lot of our footsteps. In the meantime, I can forge ahead and work the leads already developed.
One of the FBI statues bursts in. His face grave but otherwise immobile. ‘Sir, there’s been another body found.’
65
Norm puts the cell back in his pocket and waits for the police to come. This is going to be fun. His family will be gathered together by the police for safeguarding, just like the families of his other victims. Not only will he be inside the police’s circle, they’ll be protecting him from the killer.
It’s something he’s prepared for.
His cousin wasn’t prepared. Her lack of preparation is the reason her corpse is lying naked on the trail behind Sharon Linskey’s house.
It hadn’t taken much effort to get her alone. Always keen to interfere, she’d welcomed him into her home when he’d said he wanted advice regarding a girl he was seeing.
Being prepared he’d brought wine. While she’d finished her dinner, he’d poured her a glass of wine and added a few drops of the poison distilled from the cartons of cigarettes. The random selection of kill methods had thrown back the latest addition.
After just two sips of the full-bodied Merlot, she’d been lying on the floor complaining of stomach cramps. Convulsions followed, along with rapid breathing.
Five minutes later, her breaths began slowing. After ten they stopped altogether.
Then it was a case of stripping her body and dumping it into the trunk of his car. The implants she’d been so proud of looked odd against her flaccid body with its rolls of untoned flab.
She won’t be missed until after she’s been discovered. Her parents had moved to Florida and her husband had run off with his secretary a couple years back.
Lights flash as two cars travel round the corner.
Norm waves with one hand while shielding his eyes with the other.
The cars approach and park off to one side. Four men get out. As they move towards him they are illuminated by a streetlight. Norm recognises Chief Watson and Jake Boulder but not the other two. Judging by the way the
y are dressed, they could be feds. He hopes so. It’ll make everything so much more interesting. Plus, if the FBI are involved he’s been officially recognised as a serial killer.
A warm feeling envelops his body.
‘It’s over here.’ Norm points towards the alley where he’s dumped the first body.
He takes them behind the dumpster and lets them admire his handiwork.
His victim lies face down. If there wasn’t a pool of blood showing by the faint glow of a distant streetlight, he could be mistaken for a sleeping drunk.
Chief Watson uses his flashlight to sweep the area while one of the feds checks for a pulse.
Norm knows he won’t find one. He’d made sure the man was dead before dialling 911.
The four men say nothing, but he knows they’re thinking plenty. Each one is doing a cursory visual examination of the scene.
The chief finishes the general look with his flashlight and starts a slow pass over the body from the feet upwards.
Norm has to fight to make his face show revulsion instead of pride when the flashlight lingers at the top of the body’s legs. The chief steps forward for a better look at where he’d severed both femoral arteries with a scalpel.
There’s a gasp from someone – he thinks Boulder, but he’s not sure. It doesn’t matter who, what’s important is he’s drawn a reaction.
One of the feds touches Chief Watson’s elbow and he steps away from the body.
Norm approaches the fed who seems to be in charge and puts panic into his voice. ‘Is this a victim of the serial killer who’s in the newspaper? Will my family be safe? Will I?’
The fed takes a moment to answer. Norm can see him working out the correct response. ‘It’s too early to tell at this stage. As a precaution we’d like to know the names and addresses of all your family members who live in Casperton.’
Jake Boulder picks up on the fed’s unspoken request and takes him to one side. As they go, Norm hears the chief being asked if he knows the identity of the victim.