Hook, Line, and Homicide

by Mark Richard Zubro

  Neither Turner nor Fenwick disputed her insight.

  “Did they have drugs in their systems?” Fenwick asked.

  “The test results aren’t back yet.”

  Turner said, “Do you care if we check out his trailer?”

  “If you find anything interesting, let me know.” She gave Turner her card, then gave them directions to Scarth’s trailer. She said, “You don’t have a key.”

  Fenwick said, “We’ll just look around.”

  Bednars smiled. “Good luck.”

  35

  They found Scarth’s trailer deep in the woods. Driving in, they hadn’t seen another sign of human habitation for miles. They got out of their SUV. The trailer might have been new fifty years ago. The sides were rusted and shabby. Bits of the roof were warping away from the walls. It looked like the next winter storm might cause it to revert back to metallic and plastic kindling. They found no crime scene tape.

  “You’d think he could have afforded a nicer place,” Fenwick said.

  “Maybe he needed that money from the trust more than anyone knew. Drug deals gone bad? Desperate for cash. Maybe that’s why he did the porn.”

  Turner listened to the whine of insects and the rustle of leaves in the light breeze. The weather continued to be perfect after the storm.

  A plastic awning covered the only portal. A trash bin, half full of beer cans, stood to one side of the door. A black grill with large dents on the cover sat to the other side.

  They tried the door. The knob didn’t turn. Fenwick glanced around the woods and back down the driveway. He said, “Let someone with finesse and refinement handle this.” There were two steps up to the door. Fenwick stood on the bottom, twisted his bulk slightly to the left, then rammed himself upward and to the right. His shoulder bashed into the door with all his weight behind it. The door opened with a rush and banged against the wall behind it. The noise rang through the woods. “See,” Fenwick said, “it was open all along.”

  “I’ve always said you were a finesse kind of guy.”

  Fenwick looked back up the driveway and the surrounding woods. The noise had attracted no one.

  They marched into the trailer. Since it was nearly barren of furniture, it seemed spacious despite the size.

  “Scarth was reasonably neat,” Fenwick said.

  Turner glanced at the nearly empty interior. “How hard is it to keep practically nothing in order?”

  In the living room they found a recliner with cracks and tears in its vinyl covering. A few of the larger rents had yarn stitching holding the two split ends together. A towel, originally white, now stained yellow and crusted on top, sat on the right armrest.

  Fenwick said, “Looks like he liked to wipe up afterward.”

  Turner nodded. An ashtray on the floor had three cigarette butts in it. The only other piece of furniture was a forty-two-inch flat-screen television. It was attached to the front wall of the trailer. Under it was a stand with rows of DVDs.

  Turner and Fenwick perused them. “Alphabetical order,” Fenwick said.

  Turner started on the bottom shelf. “These last few just have dates on them.” Turner popped one in that had a date of the previous February. The remote was on top of the stand. He pressed On, then Play. The scene showed Scarth in a nondescript motel room. He was sitting in the middle of a bed staring off to the right of the camera. A voice said, “You can start whenever you want.”

  Scarth looked to the camera. “Do I look at you or what?”

  “You can just watch the video and do like we talked about. Start with rubbing yourself through your jeans then do whatever turns you on the most.”

  “Okay.” Scarth took a sip of beer then settled himself down.

  Fenwick said, “He has copies of his porn tapes?”

  Turner said, “Maybe this is his equivalent of family pictures.” Turner flicked it off.

  “Hey,” Fenwick said, “I was getting into the plot and the dialogue had depth and meaning.”

  “He comes in the end.”

  “You ruined it for me.”

  “Trust me. That’s how they all end.”

  “And you would know?”

  “I know everything. Let’s get on with this.”

  The kitchen cabinet had one pot, one pan, three forks, three knives, three teaspoons, three soupspoons, one bowl, one plate, one cup, one saucer.

  Fenwick said, “I don’t think he entertained a lot.”

  “Not formally,” Turner said, “and not in here.”

  Arranged in straight rows under the sink were cleansers and soaps. They moved into the bedroom. The bed was neatly made. A pole lamp gave the only light. A nightstand had a small heap of condoms. Fenwick pointed to them. “He was prepared.”

  “No books to read,” Turner said. “Nothing on the walls. Nothing that really gives this place personality.” The closet had pairs of jeans and work shirts and work boots and boxes on their sides that contained neatly stacked underwear and socks.

  They couldn’t both fit into the bathroom at the same time. The shower was cramped, the toilet minimal. In the cabinet above the sink were shaving equipment, toothbrush, toothpaste, and aspirin.

  “I wonder if he lived here much,” Turner said when they were back in the living room.

  “No clues to murder,” Fenwick said.

  The car was in the driveway. It was an Austin Healy.

  Fenwick said, “Was this back here or did the cops bring it back?”

  Turner shrugged.

  “I gotta piss,” Fenwick said. He repaired to the nearest edge of the clearing. Turner appreciated that he turned his back and was out of hearing range.

  The car doors were unlocked. Turner popped the switch for the trunk. He walked back. The lid swung open to reveal a spare tire, tire iron, several rods and reels, a small tackle box, bits of cloth, and loose clothes. Turner moved a large blue hoodie sweatshirt. Under it was a dark blue T-shirt with lettering on the front that said FRODO LIVES.

  The only person he knew who had such a shirt was his son Brian. He’d had it made at a Renaissance Fair in Wisconsin the summer before. He tucked the shirt in his belt next to his gun behind his back. His bulky shirt should cover both. He looked back at the sweatshirt. Brian had one of those as well. It was size large. Same as his son. There were no marks on it. Fenwick still had his back to him. He tossed the sweatshirt into the far back of the SUV. He had questions to ask his son. He would not hide evidence from Fenwick, but this was his son. Turner was nearly sick to his stomach. He knew what the T-shirt implied.

  Turner’s mind tried to conjure possible scenarios. Could this stuff have been stolen the night of the break-in? Brian hadn’t reported anything missing. How could the shirt have gotten here? Questions dinned in his head. What had his son been up to? What lies had been told? Had his son confronted Scarth Krohn and his buddies? He knew his son wasn’t a killer. The boy would be unable to control the guilt over such a horrific act. But there had to be a reason for this shirt being here. Could Scarth have had one of his own? The odds against it being coincidental were astronomical.

  Fenwick joined him. “Anything?”

  He pointed to the interior trunk space. “Not much.”

  While Fenwick checked the front seat, Turner examined the back. They found a few beer cans, pop bottles, empty Fritos bags, a few hooks and lures, two condoms—one still in a wrapper, one used.

  Turner wanted to talk to his son.

  When they were back in the SUV, Fenwick said, “It’s late. Let’s get back to the boats and eat.”

  Turner nodded. He could feel the lump of the T-shirt pressing against his back next to his gun.

  After they were on the road for a few minutes Fenwick looked at him. “You okay?” his partner asked.

  “Yeah. Fine.”

  Fenwick glanced back at the road then to Turner.

  “You sure?”

  “Just a little hungry.”

  But Fenwick knew it wasn’t that. You don’t know so
mebody this many years and not have a sense when something is wrong. He respected the silence.

  They returned to the boats. Brian was Jet Skiing on the other side of the bay. Jeff was fishing from the dock. Ben was cooking dinner. Ian was reading the collected speeches of Abraham Lincoln. Paul gave Ben a kiss, checked Jeff, nodded at Ian.

  He went into the boys’ room. He checked Brian’s things. White athletic socks, T-shirts with the logos of rock bands Paul had never heard of, jeans, shorts, swimming suit. No hooded sweatshirt. No FRODO LIVES T-shirt. He sat on the bed. He pulled the T-shirt out of the back of his pants and put it on the dresser. He heard thumps on the dock, then Jeff calling to Brian. He heard the older son hop onto the deck and stride down the short hall to the room. Brian walked in. He was wearing board shorts and nothing else. He smiled at his dad. His skin was deeply tanned. Turner watched his son carefully. The boy’s eyes went to the shirt.

  Paul said, “I found this.”

  Brian leaned against the small dresser. His hands gripped the top edge.

  “Where?” Brian asked.

  “In the trunk of Scarth Krohn’s car.”

  The boy looked genuinely confused.

  “Do you know how it got there?” Paul asked.

  Brian accompanied his “No” with a head shake.

  “Did you have contact with him?”

  “No, I swear.”

  “When was the last time you had the T-shirt?”

  Eyes shifting, legs crossing at the ankle, uncrossing. “I went swimming the other day. I left it on the shore. It was gone when I got back.” Paul didn’t accuse his son of lying.

  “You didn’t mention it was gone.”

  “No. I guess I forgot.”

  “It was your favorite shirt.”

  “I figured I could get another one.”

  “Is there something you need to tell me?” Paul asked.

  The boy hung his head.

  “Where’s your favorite blue hoodie sweatshirt?” Paul asked him.

  “I lent it to Kevin. Why?”

  “I haven’t seen you wearing it and I don’t see it here.”

  “He said he’d give it back.”

  “Why would you be lending shirts?”

  “He was cold.”

  “He didn’t have a shirt?”

  “Is there a problem, Dad?”

  This was murder, and Turner needed to know the truth.

  Turner said, “Your sweatshirt and T-shirt were found in the trunk of Scarth Krohn’s car.”

  “Is that important?”

  “He’s dead.”

  “Yeah.”

  “That T-shirt and sweatshirt are the only anomalies we’ve been able to find. I have no explanation for that. The official police don’t know they’re yours. They don’t know you lent the hoodie to Kevin.” Turner sighed. “On the first night we were here, I was rowing around the islands near here. You know I do that every year. I heard you and Kevin. I saw you making out with him. You said you were going to the movies. The movie didn’t let out until after midnight. I didn’t get started until late because I was playing chess with your brother. And don’t bother with the nonsensical gambit that I was spying on you. You were there. You were loud. How could I not have noticed? I did not stop and take pictures. Nobody was putting you live on the Internet, but if you were trying to hide, an island in the wilderness with a campfire blazing is not a great choice.”

  “I’m not gay.”

  He said, “You know that’s not what this is about.”

  The sounds of the others at the marina echoed and pattered outside the screened-in window. It was late afternoon. The wind was calm, the lake surface placid. Father and son sat down. Paul said, “You lent the T-shirt to Kevin.”

  “Yeah.”

  “What did he tell you when he didn’t give it back?”

  “I didn’t think about it. We wear each other’s stuff sometimes. You and Ben do that. Kevin was really depressed after that night. He wasn’t scheduled to be with us full-time until the last two days.”

  This was true. Kevin usually spent the first two and last two days of their week with them.

  Brian asked, “Why? What does it matter that he borrowed my shirts?”

  Turner said, “Scarth and his girlfriend were killed that night. Your stuff was in Scarth’s car. Kevin’s the connection.” He didn’t say “or you are.”

  “Kevin wouldn’t hurt anybody. You know him.”

  “Did he tell you anything?”

  “No, I swear.”

  “I need to talk to Kevin.”

  “I want to go with.”

  “No, I’m going by myself.”

  “I think maybe he’s going to hurt himself.”

  “What makes you think that?”

  “He’s really depressed.”

  “I’ll find him.”

  “Are you taking Mr. Fenwick?”

  “No, I’m going by myself.”

  36

  Turner drove to Kevin’s apartment. He’d dropped Kevin off a few times when the boy’s grandfather had been alive. Kevin had lived with him there and had stayed on after his grandfather died.

  Turner didn’t see Kevin’s car in the parking lot. He went up to knock on the door. It was open. All his cop senses hit high alert. He inched over the threshold, checking any corner or shadow for an enemy. The kitchen was on the right with a back door leading to a small patio. To the left was a small living room with a worn couch, a well-preserved easy chair, a pine footrest with a small stack of paperback books on it. Turner examined the bedroom from the doorway then stepped slowly in. He saw a small mound of clothes, a four-drawer brown dresser, and a twin bed. There were no signs of violence or of hasty packing as if someone were fleeing. The bathroom door was half open. He eased it the rest of the way with the tips of his fingers. Nothing. Clean, no mold on the shower curtain or between the tiles on the wall. White beach towels hung neatly from three racks on the wall. Turner breathed a sigh of relief. A small part of his mind had been expecting to find a dead body. He didn’t think Kevin was suicidal, but the stress of watching a murder and possibly committing one might drive someone to almost anything. Safe so far. He returned to the front room. In the doorway were Doran, Nagel, Verinder, and Dunsmith.

  Doran had a wicked grin on his face. “It’s not easy to follow around a fag. You keep losing us.”

  “Why bother to follow me?”

  “To get you alone.”

  “Was it you in the boat behind us the other day?”

  “Yeah. We know there’s some fags living far out on the lake. We wanted to get you and them.”

  Nagel said, “Kevin Yost is a fag. Scarth told us his butt was tighter than any girl.”

  “When was this?”

  Nagel said, “Last weekend just before you came to town. He told us he’d share Kevin with us. That it would be fun to make him squeal and beg for more.” He grabbed his crotch. “You’ll get some of this before we’re through with you.”

  “Scarth’s having sex with Kevin didn’t make you suspicious that Scarth was gay?”

  Nagel said, “When you’re tired of the same old crap from these twats up here, you figure a little recreation ain’t bad. Scarth wasn’t a fag.”

  Doran said, “You are, and you’re here.” He pumped his hips back and forth in a manner Turner presumed Doran thought looked sexy.

  Turner remembered the back door was behind him. He feinted toward them, picked up the vase with wilted flowers, threw it in their direction, then rushed for the back door. He slammed it behind him. Before they had time to react, he was in his car with the doors locked. Moments later they swarmed out of the apartment. He shoved the keys in the ignition, rammed the car into gear, and roared away.

  What to do? He wanted to find Kevin before anyone else. He didn’t know what the police would figure out. He needed to avoid the gay bashers. He looked in the rearview mirror. The flame red Mustang hurtled out of the parking lot and into the street then drove away in t
he opposite direction. He drove back to their dock.

  He immediately called all the adults together and explained the incident at the apartment. Ian and Fenwick were for a frontal attack.

  “Yes,” Turner said. “That would be great. Better yet: stay here. Protect the kids. Call the Ontario Provincial Police and talk to Mavis Bednars. She’ll send real help. I’ve got to find Kevin.”

  “Why?” Ian asked.

  Turner said, “He might be in danger. I don’t have time to explain now.”

  Fenwick nodded.

  Turner found Brian and Jeff playing a computer game on the laptop they’d brought along. He said, “Brian, could I see you a minute?”

  The boy accompanied him to the kitchen. “What’s up?” Brian asked.

  “I need to find Kevin.”

  “I don’t know where he is.”

  “He’s not at his apartment. Where would he go?”

  “We were at his favorite spot the other night.”

  “I think I can find it in the daylight. I just happened upon it the other night.”

  Brian gave directions. He finished, “He’d be in his favorite boat—you know, that little blue one with the engine he souped up to go faster.”

  Turner took the houseboat and started out. He didn’t want anyone else with him. Not yet. There must be a reason Kevin had done what he did. Had to be a reason. He wanted to hear that reason before he made a decision to turn him in. He wanted to hear that reason alone.

  37

  Paul Turner reached the island in about ten minutes. He saw no sign of a boat. After a moment’s indecision, he landed and hurried inland. The fire was cold. There was no tent. No sign of Kevin. He stood on the water’s edge and looked out on the surface of the lake. A fisherman drove by about thirty feet out. He was a portly gentleman with a white beard. Turner called to him, “Have you seen a small blue boat?”

  The man cupped his hands around his face and called back, “About five minutes ago heading out.” He pointed westward. “I think it was one of the guides.”