“Where were you Monday night?” Fenwick asked.
“At home with the kid. My wife was out at a library town meeting. Why are you asking these questions? I thought he drowned?”
Turner said, “Some people in town think Scarth’s death and that of the other six young men might be connected.”
“You mean a serial killer? In this burg? Get real.”
Turner asked, “Did you know his girlfriend, Evon Gasple?”
“Evon the slut or Evon’s mother?”
Turner and Fenwick looked puzzled.
McBride explained, “It’s Evon Junior and Evon Senior.”
“They were both dating him?” Fenwick asked.
“Sort of. I heard Scarth had screwed both of them.”
“Both?” Fenwick asked.
“I heard Scarth brag that he made it with both of them.”
“Did mother and daughter know about the other?” Turner asked.
McBride shrugged. “Evon’s a sad case. She’s got a juvie record longer than anybody in town.”
“What’d she do?” Fenwick asked.
“Petty stuff. Mostly trying to show off for Scarth, I suppose, or the other boys. When she was younger, she was thirteen going on slut. Rumor was she put out for any boy. Sometimes she and Scarth were exclusively dating. Sometimes not. I never did get that. Scarth could have almost any girl he wanted.”
“If he was such a creep, why would anyone date him?” Fenwick asked.
“He was pretty and his daddy was rich. He was a hot guy. He always had the hottest car or when we were kids he was the first one with an Xbox or whatever the chosen toy of the moment was. His stuff was also the best and newest. The girls liked that. Sure, I was jealous, but I knew my place.”
“It must have been difficult,” Turner said.
“The worst was when I got in some trouble a couple years ago. I was on the sidelines of smashing some windows in the school. I never picked up a rock. Scarth lied. He blamed me. My daddy isn’t rich. I got sent to a juvenile facility for six months. I survived. Barely.” He shut his eyes and shuddered. Finally he resumed. “I wish I had killed Scarth. I might even be out now for doing that.”
“Tough taking the blame for someone else.”
“Tough being the object of ridicule. Why they didn’t turn on Scarth for being a rat, I never could figure out. No one would listen to me when I tried to tell them. Krohn money and Scarth’s looks beat anything in this town.”
“You know any of the other kids who drowned?”
“What do they have to do with Scarth?”
“Nothing that we know of,” Turner said. “A few people in town think there’s some kind of connection.”
“It’s a lake. People drown. I don’t go down to the waterfront. Unless you work there, there isn’t much point. It’s jammed with tourists.”
Fenwick asked, “Did Scarth make love to tourists?”
“Locals. Tourists. If it was female, and it was breathing, Scarth was trying to get into its pants. He was the town stud. I don’t think anybody could ever sort out the rumors about his conquests. Scarth never did anything to quash them. Supposedly he even did some porn videos.”
“They make porn around here?” Fenwick asked.
“Anybody can make porn,” McBride said. “All you need is a little camera equipment, a sophisticated computer, and a little knowledge of lighting and setting. Doesn’t take much.”
Fenwick asked, “You mean he made this in his bedroom or there’s a place around here that makes porn?”
“Bedroom stuff is anybody’s choice, but supposedly the guy who owns the photo shop, Nick Broder, makes porn on the side.”
“You have proof of this?” Fenwick asked.
“Scarth and his buddies hung around the one photo shop in town way more often than made sense.”
“So what?” Fenwick said.
“None of them owns a camera.”
He gave them the name.
In the SUV Turner said, “Making porn? This isn’t the San Fernando Valley.”
“Porn as a reason for murder? It can happen. We’ve seen murder for less.”
“Half the town wanted him dead,” Turner said.
“Hell,” Fenwick said, “the Trans-Canada Highway is only a few miles away. Anybody could have come in off the highway and done some dirty.”
“Killing Scarth?”
“And the drunk college kids. Serial killers have murdered far more people for less motivation. We’ve seen killers who were acting on the voice of God.”
“I thought that was the Pope,” Turner said.
“Hey, you’re the one who takes his kids to Catholic Church every Sunday.”
“Believing equals accepting every bit of bullshit that’s in the manure pile?”
Fenwick said, “It all smells the same.”
Turner said, “These are the strangest theological comments I ever hope to hear, and I made one of them.”
Fenwick said, “So, we are not buying the passing trucker who likes to off college kids?”
“Do we ever discount possibilities?”
“All the time,” Fenwick said.
“Good. Then lets dump that one until we hear the voice of God or the Pope.”
“Hell of a trick,” Fenwick said. “What else do we have?”
“They all hated him.”
Fenwick said, “Except those that didn’t.”
“A small number. We need to talk to the parents of all these kids.”
“Can you believe that about Scarth doing the mother and daughter?” Fenwick asked.
“Right now, I’d believe that Scarth was the anti-Christ.”
Fenwick said, “It’s been a long day, and we’re not on overtime. We should check in with our families.”
“And you haven’t been fed in a while.”
“Got that right.”
22
Brian and Kevin sat at the end of the dock. The long twilight of the North Woods had begun. Each boys’ shoulders were slumped, and they kicked their legs sporadically and aimlessly over the side of the pier. Turner could hear Madge’s raucous laughter and Fenwick’s grumbling from the kitchen of their boat. Ben was rowing Jeff around the cove. Ian was reading Proust in his cabin.
Turner sat down next to his son. He asked, “How you guys doing?”
“Is this how you feel after working with a dead body?” Brian asked.
“Sometimes it gets me down,” Turner said, “but I’ve learned to keep working through it. I don’t expect that of you.”
“Kevin’s hung around all day. We didn’t do much fishing.”
Turner noted that the boys sat together with their shoulders, elbows, and legs touching. He said nothing. It was not his business what his son may have been doing, except it was his business, but he was not going to ask about it. He assumed his son had lied to him before this. He knew there were lots of things it was better for parents not to know. Certainly there were things he’d done that he hadn’t told his parents about, nor would he ever. This was not his secret to tell, if there was a secret here and it was worth knowing. And he wasn’t going to slyly hint about it, hoping for a mistake or for his kid to figure out that he knew.
Turner said, “I’ve been talking to people around town about Scarth Krohn.”
Brian said, “I’ve run into him a few times. He always stayed out of my way. He never gave kids a hard time around me.”
“You’re bigger and stronger than he is,” Kevin said.
“But I’m five years younger than he is.”
Kevin said, “But you don’t put up with crap from anybody.”
“I don’t make a big deal out if it,” Brian responded.
“Nobody ever messes with you,” Kevin said.
Brian shrugged it off.
Turner said, “Almost everybody in town agrees he was a bully. We talked to Beverly Fleming.”
“Mrs. Fleming is great,” Kevin said. “She’s the best lady in the world. She was a good tea
cher. I wish all the teachers were like her.”
“Did you guys see him Monday night in town?” Turner asked.
They had said that’s where they were going. He waited for a lie.
Brian said, “Kevin and I just hung around for a while. We didn’t do much of anything. We took a walk, watched the stars.”
Turner didn’t pursue specifics. He said, “We’re supposed to talk to Trent Krohn.”
“I’ve met him,” Brian said. “He seems nice. Never says much.”
“Scarth’s brother is real quiet,” Kevin said. “He was a grade above me. He’s a nice guy.”
“Do you know where he is?” Turner asked.
“The place where he camps now isn’t far.” He gave Turner a set of directions. “You can get there and back in less than half an hour. It’s a tiny, rocky little peninsula so the hunters never go there. Not a lot of fishermen either. He just has a little tent there. He doesn’t bother anybody. You should go by yourself. Mr. Fenwick might intimidate him. He’s shy and suspicious.”
Turner decided to give it a try.
23
Turner took the motorboat and followed the directions. The full moon was rising behind him as the sunlight turned to golden orange above the trees. He heard loons calling to loons. Occasionally he heard the plop of a fish or voices from the shore. It was fishing time. He saw boats out. Most had their lights on already.
Turner pulled close to an island he thought was the correct one. There were actually two of them, with a ten-foot passage in between. He circled the first one but found it completely deserted. Halfway around the second, he saw a light and motored closer.
When he shut down the engine, a voice called from shore. “Who’s there?”
“Paul Turner,” the detective said. “I’m Brian Turner’s father. He says he knows you a little. Kevin Yost is his friend. Kevin is our fishing guide every year.” About ten feet inland a teenager stood with a shotgun pointed at Turner’s head.
Turner said, “I’m not here to hurt you, son.”
“Scarth is dead.”
The boy’s quiet voice barely reached the boat. When the engine had died completely, the sounds of the northern night surrounded him. Full darkness was coming on fast. He’d be motoring back in the night.
The boy was skinny. He wore a black T-shirt that was too small and rode up on his torso revealing his tight jeans with black knit briefs peeking above them. He wore high-top tennis shoes. He held the shotgun on Turner as the detective climbed out of the boat. Turner felt his heart hammering in his chest. His gun was tucked into the belt on the back of his pants. He didn’t want to make any sudden moves to startle the boy. He didn’t want to end up at the wrong end of a shotgun blast.
Turner said, “I’d like to sit down and talk with you.”
“About what?”
“Scarth.”
“I didn’t kill him.”
“Could you put the gun down, please? And the bugs are getting pretty fierce. I could use some bug spray.”
The flies had risen. They could drive him away if the shotgun didn’t. Turner said, “I’ll leave or if you could get me some spray, we can talk.”
“You’re Brian’s father?”
“Yes.”
The boy nodded. The shotgun came down from his shoulder. “I have Bug-Be-Gone in the camp.” He walked backward toward his camp. The shotgun hung loosely, but close by his side. Turner didn’t try to grab for it. The boy sat on one side of the small fire and nodded toward a stump on the other. When Turner was seated, Trent reached into a side pocket of his small tent and pulled out a can. He tossed the Bug-Be-Gone to Turner, who slathered it on every exposed surface of his skin. He didn’t care about the antiseptic smell. After thirty-six hours, no matter how many showers you took on these trips, almost everyone smelled of a mix of smoke, bug spray, and lack of deodorant.
“What about Scarth?” the boy asked. His voice was soft. His eyes seldom left the fire. The shotgun was leaning against one leg. In his other hand he fiddled with another can of bug spray. He hung his head so the firelight hid his eyes.
“Some people think he was murdered.”
“Wouldn’t surprise me.”
“Would you kill him?”
“I stayed out of Scarth’s orbit.”
“Hard to stay completely out of his way when you share the same house.”
“Hard not to be outdoors in the summer helping fishermen and hunters. Hard not to be outdoors in the winter helping skiers. You make a lot of money. Scarth helped when my dad had big rich clients. I never let on how good I was at this to them. They thought I was this nerdy thin kid who couldn’t do much. Anybody would kill him. Anybody with enough balls. Even his idiot friends. I thought he just drowned.”
“Do you know his friends?”
“Those guys and Evon Gasple? Yeah, I know them. Sort of. I didn’t hang around with them.”
“How did they think they would get away with everything they did?”
“Do people in Chicago get away with crimes?”
“Sure. Sometimes.”
“It’s the same here. It’s quiet and bucolic and filled with flawed humans. Teenagers do stupid teenage stuff here just like in the States. And daddies cover it up.”
“Has your dad covered up for Scarth?”
“Yep. Scarth could never do anything wrong. And he turned out to be a sports jock from an early age. I won every chess championship in Ontario when I was ten. He was thirteen and playing hockey. He was a saint. I was an afterthought. Am I bitter about my brother? I’ve had a lot of time to try to not think about him. That’s another thing I do. I have thoughts. I’m sure Scarth never had one, other than how to satisfy his dick. His world revolved around his prick.”
“Your mother wasn’t on your side?”
“My mother does what my dad says.”
“You don’t live out here year-round?” Turner asked.
“I spend eight months of the year here. I know how to keep warm. I know how to take care of myself. My dad owns this spit of land. Nobody else gets near it. The other four months I’m down in Montreal working odd jobs and trying to sell my paintings.”
“Where were you Monday night?”
“Here. With no witnesses. I hated my brother, but I didn’t kill him.”
“Do you know Ralph Bowers?”
“Everybody in town knows Ralph. I felt sorry for him. At the dinner table, Scarth used to talk about the things he did to Ralph. My dad would laugh. I think I started hating my dad from then on. I couldn’t understand how anyone could be that mean. I still can’t.”
“Would Ralph kill your brother?”
“I have no idea. I doubt it. Ralph, despite his reputation, is a gentle guy.”
“What can you tell me about Evon?”
“The slut. Everybody knows her. They should have gotten married when they graduated from high school. I heard she took the morning-after pill so often they were thinking of giving her a year’s supply, except it was too expensive. I would have given them a lifetime supply as a wedding present. It might have been a way to keep them from reproducing.”
“She ever get an actual abortion?” Turner asked.
“Their last year in high school. I wasn’t sure if it was on Scarth’s insistence or my dad’s. I was a kid, and I didn’t always scan on what they were talking about. It was a nasty time. My father was furious. He screamed about condoms for hours.”
“How often did Scarth bully you?”
“Not as much as you’d think. We had a big house. He was always out doing sports, and I kept out of his way. I hid. My parents glowed at him across the dinner table every night. I knew my place. Sure, I’m pissed about it. I should get therapy for years. I haven’t had the time. But I was never angry enough to kill him. He got that done to himself on his own.”
Turner couldn’t think of any more questions. He said, “I appreciate your help.”
“Kevin’s a good guy. We hang out sometimes. I’ve met your s
on. He seems like a decent kid.”
Turner got up to go. Full dark had gathered in the forest’s glens.
Trent said, “I’ll lead you back. You won’t find your way.”
“I kind of know it,” Turner said.
“Would you like to be kind of out in the middle of the lake for several days?”
“How will you get back?” Turner asked.
“There’s a land path back to this piece of land. It’s a peninsula, not an island.”
“You can find your way in the dark?”
“Yep. I found the way in when I was seven. I may be the only one who knows it. No one else ever goes that way. You have to get a little wet and the path is not clear.”
Turner accepted the help. The boy stayed in the stern of the motorboat. He pointed the light several times and in a short while the houseboats began to come back into view.
As Turner cut the engine and began to dock the boat, the boy said, “I’m not gay.”
“Oh?” Turner hadn’t noticed any gay “characteristics” that night. The boy didn’t try to discuss color and fabric or sing Broadway show tunes. Turner didn’t care if he was or wasn’t.
“Everybody thinks I am. I guess I am kind of femmy. I’m not. If anybody thinks you’re gay in this town, you’re a target. Always gotta be acting macho. That was the only benefit of being Scarth’s brother. They let me alone.”
At the dock Turner said, “I’d like to be able to talk to your mom or dad about Scarth.”
“They don’t have a clue as to what he was really like. They adored him.”
“Still, it might help. Can you contact them and maybe get me in?”
“I can try with my mom. She notices I exist.”
“Thanks,” Turner said.
24
They went out fishing for only an hour or two the next morning. Jeff burbled less. Brian was quiet. Ben and Madge and the Fenwick girls caught fish.
After returning, Turner wanted to get into town and begin questioning people, but it was still barely seven in the morning. He also wanted to find out if Ian had discovered anything in his questioning the day before. He invited Ian for a stroll in the woods. Ian had on a long-sleeved white shirt, heavy jeans, a scarf, and his slouch fedora. The few visible bits of skin glistened with the residue of bug spray and suntan oil. Turner was in jeans, a short-sleeved sweatshirt, and bug spray.
Hook, Line, and Homicide Page 14