by Carolina Mac
They finished canvassing Maple Street, asked questions at all the trailers where the residents were at home, then started Pine Street. They knocked on Sheila’s door and Marg answered.
“Can I help you, Officer?”
Hodges asked the same questions and got the same answers. Sheila came to the door to see what was up and it was like a broken record. Nobody had seen Mabel or the five Chihuahuas since the night of the resident’s meeting.
Harold noticed that Marg was staying at Sheila’s trailer now, but never made a comment. He didn’t like that Gary fellow much and figured he’d be hard to live with, or next to impossible. Arthur Lyons had been over for a coffee after he repaired the pump house motor and had been more than anxious to fill Harold in on the night Marg and Gary had a huge fight just after they arrived in the park. Harold had picked up a strong vibe from old Arthur—the handyman wasn’t fond of Gary Eastman.
In all his forty years of marriage, and he and his wife had their share of fights like every married couple, Harold had never treated his wife like Gary treated women. That man had no respect and he was plain mean.
After Oak Street, the trio turned onto the street facing the highway, Hickory Lane. They started at the north end which was Lonnie’s trailer.
“Big rig isn’t here,” said Harold, “Chandler’s on a run.”
They knocked on Grace’s door because her truck was parked in the drive but got no answer. They moved on. The next trailer was vacant and for sale. Next was April. The cruiser parked in April’s drive behind her pickup.
“Her truck is here,” said Harold, “she’s must be home. She’s a painter.”
“Houses or canvass?” asked one of the officers.
“Houses or trailers,” said Harold.
“Mid-afternoon and she’s home,” said Smithson. “Maybe nothing to paint today.”
Officer Hodges knocked on the door and got no response, but there was a light on in the kitchen and only the screen door was closed. The inside door stood open.
“She has to be in there,” said Harold, “maybe she’s in the bathroom. She wouldn’t go far with her door open like it is.”
Officer Smithson walked across the deck and took a peek in the living room window. The sun reflected off the glass and he shielded his eyes to see more clearly. He squinted, putting his forehead close to the glass. “She’s on the floor,” he hollered. “I see blood.” He pulled out his radio and gave the address while the other officer opened the screen door and entered the trailer.
“Shit,” said Hodges, “call it in as an assault, possible rape. We need forensics people. There’s a lot of blood. She’s beat up bad… real bad.”
Harold stared in disbelief at April’s motionless form and thought he might hurl. A little girl like that. Black, blue and purple marks all over her body. Her face all smashed in, her nose off center, distorted with swelling and decorated with dried blood. Both her eyes were swollen shut and big chunks of her blonde hair were missing. Harold averted his eyes when he realized that April was naked from the waist down. He limped into the kitchen, felling unwell, collapsed onto one of the chairs and took a deep breath. It was better to not to look.
“Where’s the hair?” asked Smithson scanning the immediate area around the body.
Hodges shrugged. “Weird. Don’t see the missing hair. Don’t touch anything. Wait for the team.”
Smithson grabbed a throw from the sofa to cover April’s nakedness and Hodges hollered at him. “Don’t cover her and don’t touch anything. You could mess up evidence.”
Hodges moved the cruiser out of the driveway and he and Harold waited on the deck for the first response. “It’s that fuckin rapist out on parole,” said Hodges. “I’d lay money on it. He was after the girl two doors over and he’s been sniffing around here again. Now look what he’s done.”
LONNIE STEERED THE eighteen-wheeler through the Paradise Park entrance and turned right onto Hickory Lane. “Holy smoke, what’s happening at April’s?”
“Crime scene tape,” said Grace, “can’t be good.”
Ted barked up a storm at all the unfamiliar people in uniform. Ted hated uniforms almost as much as he hated women. Lonnie thought he must have had a run-in with a female mail carrier in his former life or been assaulted by GI-Jane.
The rig backed slowly into its spot next to the trailer, ready for a morning departure. Lonnie let Ted out, keeping a firm grip on his collar while he locked the truck. Ted strained against his hold, wanting to run down the road to the action and take a chunk out of one of the cops.
“I’ll get rid of my stuff.” Grace headed to her trailer with her bag and her computer.
Lonnie unlocked his trailer and made a bee-line to the fridge for a couple of beers. He filled up Ted’s bowl with kibbles and left him in the kitchen, then went outside. He sat on the steps of his deck, chugged half his beer and watched the activity at April’s place.
Harold Deegan limped towards him, silver cane in hand. “Hey, Lonnie,” said Harold, “you took Miss Whitmarsh with you, son?”
“I did, sir. I thought it would be best with me hauling to Chicago overnight.”
“Turns out that was a smart move. Looks like Miss April was assaulted and possibly raped.”
“Shit, no. Is she hurt bad?”
“Unconscious when we found her. A lot of blood,” Harold shook his head. “They took her away in an ambulance.”
Grace had changed her clothes when she joined the men on Lonnie’s deck. She picked up her glass of beer and smiled at Harold. “Hello, Mr. Deegan.”
“You best stay at Lonnie’s until they get that Rob behind bars, Miss Gracie.”
“Was it Rob who hurt April?”
“Nothing for sure. Police don’t know who did it. She’s beat up bad and…”
The color drained from Grace’s face. “And what…was she raped?”
“Police think that’s a possibility. A good possibility.”
Lonnie looked at Grace and tried to change the subject. “Would you like a beer, Harold?”
“Could use one. Been here since this afternoon when we found April in the state she was in.”
“Why were the police at April’s trailer?” asked Grace.
“Routine questioning. Mabel Plimpton is now a missing person and everyone has to be questioned.”
“I don’t think I ever met her,” said Grace.
“Lonnie knows her.” Harold said with a smirk. “At the last meeting, she complained that the big truck scares her dogs.”
“Everything scares those stupid Chihuahuas,” said Lon.
Grace smiled at his scowly face.
“Lonnie’s a good boy.” Harold took a healthy swig of his beer.
“Yes, he is,” said Grace, stroking his mop of hair, “a very good boy.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
GARY EASTMAN OPENED the door to a pair of suits and expressed his displeasure. “More fuckin cops? What kind of a ghetto hell am I living in?”
“Mr. Eastman, I’m Detective McMurtry and this is my partner Detective Spangler.” McMurtry was in his late forties, stocky build, dark hair cut short and Spangler was a tall blonde maybe ten years younger. Her hair was pulled severely back from her face and twisted into a clip at the back of her neck. She wore wire-rimmed glasses and very little make up. Her skin was clear and smooth and her teeth perfect. She was taller than Gary and peered over the top of her glasses at him.
“We need to speak to you, Mr. Eastman. May we come in?”
“I don’t let cops into my house without a warrant.” Gary held up his middle finger. “My number one rule.”
Unfazed, Spangler asked, “When was the last time you saw your brother, Mr. Eastman?”
“I’m telling you pair the same thing I told the uniforms yesterday. I ain’t seen him in a couple days.”
“Any idea where he could be?”
“Why? What’s he done?”
“We’re not saying he’s done anything,” said McMurtry, “we just
want him for questioning.”
Gary had already seen it on the news, but he prodded them. “Questioning about what?”
“A girl was raped and assaulted in one of the trailers in this park.”
Gary sucked in a breath and his eyes widened. “Who?”
“April Bonnacort. Do you know her?”
“The painter. Yeah, I saw her at the meeting when she was trying to get some painting jobs. That’s the only time I seen her.”
“Could you provide us with a description of your brother’s bike?”
“Black Harley Sportster, lots of chrome.” He lit up a smoke and blew it in Spangler’s direction.
“Any special paint job or markings?” asked McMurtry.
“I didn’t really look too close at it, tell you the truth. He’s always trading in his bike and getting a different one. It’s like a disease. All bikers do it.”
“Any idea of the plate number?”
“Nope, sorry.”
“We can get that easily enough,” said Spangler.
“Could you give us a list of his friends?” asked McMurtry.
“Don’t know who his friends are right now. He’s been out of touch.” Gary sneered. “As I’m sure you hot shots already know he was just released from the slam in Lindsay.”
“We are aware of his record,” Spangler responded coolly.
“I’m sure you are.” Gary’s voice took on an edge. “That’s what makes him suspect number one, right? He’s already guilty?” He pointed a stubby finger in Spangler’s face. “Once you’re an ex-con the whole fuckin world is down on you and ready to grind you under their fuckin boot.” Gary hauled off and punched the door frame.
Spangler stood her ground. “We only want to question him, Mr. Eastman, nothing more.”
“Just so you know. Rob never raped that girl that got him convicted. She swore up and down he did. That low life bitch got him arrested just for spite because he wouldn’t give her the time of day, and he went to jail over it. He’s a good-looking kid and he don’t need to rape nobody.”
“At our starting point in this case, everyone in the park is a suspect,” said Spangler taking a step closer to Gary. “Where were you night before last?”
“Me? You gotta be kidding? I don’t have to rape anybody to get it. They’re lined up for me.”
“I’m sure,” said Spangler with a tiny smirk. “But for the record, where were you?”
“I was here watching the ball game on TV.”
Spangler nodded. “Home alone watching TV is a popular alibi, but it doesn’t hold much water.”
“Got anything else?” asked McMurtry.
“Nope, the truth will have to do,” said Gary. “We done here?”
“For now, Mr. Eastman. Don’t take any long trips.”
“Fuck off.” Gary slammed the door and kicked it.
ARTHUR LYONS PEEKED through a narrow crack between his living room drapes and watched the man and woman in suits cross the road and approach his trailer. With no hesitation, they walked up on the deck and knocked on his door. “Can I help you?” He spoke to them through the screen.
The lady glanced down at a little map on her clipboard and said, “Mr. Lyons?”
“That’s right, I’m Arthur Lyons.”
“We’re detectives, Spangler and McMurtry and we need to ask you some questions. May we come in?”
“Sure,” said Arthur, “I just made coffee.”
“No thanks,” said McMurtry, “but thanks for the offer.”
Arthur motioned to the well-worn sofa in the cramped living room and the detectives sat down. McMurtry pulled out his notebook.
“Is this about Mabel Plimpton gone missing?” asked Arthur. “I already talked to an officer.”
“We’re investigating another matter,” said Spangler.
“What kind of a matter? Nothing bad ever happens in the park,” said Arthur, “at least it never did until that hoodlum moved in across the road.”
“Well something bad did happen, Mr. Lyons. April Bonnacort was assaulted and raped in her trailer and all residents of the park have to be questioned.”
“Raped?” asked Arthur. Color drained from his face. “What about Mel?” The puzzled look on his face had been replaced by one of panic.
“Mel who?” asked McMurtry.
“My next-door neighbor, Melba Grayson. She lives with her son and I look out for her. I don’t want her to get hurt. Is she in danger?” Arthur was breathing rapidly and the room spun a little. He paced in front of the sofa and wrung his hands.
Spangler stood up and helped him to a chair. “Sit down Mr. Lyons. You look pale. We don’t want anything happening to you.” She walked into the small kitchen and filled a glass with water. “Obviously, you care a great deal about your neighbor. We’ll warn her to keep her doors locked and we’re putting a nightly patrol on the park until the rapist is caught.”
“Thank you,” he said, taking a sip from the glass. He let out a big sigh and mopped his forehead with his handkerchief.
“Anything you may have noticed night before last, Mr. Lyons? Anything out of the ordinary happen on your street?”
“Night before last? Don’t think so, same as every other night. The only night that was different was right after that Gary… person… moved in across the road. He and his girlfriend had a loud fight. You could hear them hollering at each other all the way over here. A few days after that, Marg moved in with Sheila, her friend around the corner.”
McMurtry nodded. “Night before last, you were home alone?”
“I’m home alone every night, sir. That’s the way it is.”
MARG AND SHEILA were lounging on Sheila’s deck knocking back margaritas when the black sedan pulled into the driveway and shut off the engine. They watched with interest as the man and woman got out of the car and came towards them. “Sheila Warren? Asked the lady.
“Yes, that’s me. And you are?”
“Detectives McMurtry and Spangler from Ontario Provincial Police.”
Sheila nodded, “This is about April?”
“Yes, it is,” said Spangler. “Do you know her?”
“Not well.” Sheila set her drink down. “I’ve seen her around, of course, and last summer I hired her to paint the trim on the outside of my trailer. She’s a hard worker.”
“You weren’t friends, then?”
“No, just acquaintances, I’d have to say. She’s not an easy person to make friends with.”
Spangler raised her eyebrows. “Any reason for that?”
“I’m not sure why her personality is so negative,” said Sheila, “Perhaps something in her past, but I’m a teacher, not a shrink.”
Spangler turned her attention to Marg. “And you are…?”
“Marg Baker.”
“Your name isn’t Eastman?” asked McMurtry.
“Why the hell do you think it would be?”
“Mr. Deegan said you moved into the park with Mr. Gary Eastman.”
“We broke up,” Marg said as she lit up a smoke, “Lucky for me, I was never married to that loser.”
“Possibly a wise choice on your part,” said Spangler.
Marg broke into a grin. “Damn right.”
“Were you ladies home the night before last?” McMurtry had his notebook ready.
“Yep. We’re home every night. Nothing to do around here, but drink and sit on the deck,” said Sheila. “I’m off for the summer. Don’t go back to work until September.”
“Did you happen to notice anything going on at Miss Bonnacort’s trailer night before last? You have a clear view of it from the back of your place,” said McMurtry with a wave of his arm.
“When I got the wash off the line at five, before we made dinner, her truck wasn’t there,” said Marg, “she must have come home after that.”
McMurtry noted it and Spangler kept asking the questions. “She came home after five. Did you notice anyone around later in the evening?”
“I don’t think so. Did
you Sheila?”
“I’m trying to think. Give me a minute.” Sheila frowned and looked like it hurt her to concentrate after numerous margaritas. “I can remember looking out the bathroom window before I went to bed, and her lights were on. It was almost midnight and I thought it was odd. April is never up that late. She goes to bed around ten-thirty—that’s the time every night she turns off her lights. In the mornings, her truck is gone when I get up.”
“For her to be up at midnight is not her normal routine?” asked Spangler.
“Never saw her lights on that late before, if that means anything.”
“It might.” Spangler nodded and McMurtry wrote it down.
“Either one of you ladies seen Rob Eastman in the past few days?”
They both shook their heads.
BARKLEY CAMPBELL WAS busy edging one of his multitude of well-tended flower beds when he saw the man and woman in suits talking to Sheila across the road. Barkley’s corner lot was a showpiece and he was pleased to talk about his gardening prowess whenever and wherever the opportunity arose. He had the biggest and most beautiful piece of property in the park and was justifiably proud. From his vantage point on the corner of Hickory Lane and Pine Street he could see everyone that entered through the front gate, with whom they visited and how long they stayed.
After cleaning up from his gardening chores, Barkley washed, shaved and changed his clothes before the police arrived. He knew they were from the police because he had seen them park their car at the crime scene early in the morning. He glanced in the living room mirror over the fireplace and nodded. Yep, he looked good. For fifty-one he was still a looker. Thick blond hair with hardly a strand of gray, piercing blue eyes and a natural tan from working outdoors every day.
Gardening and exercise kept him in shape and a meticulous diet helped him maintain a high energy level. In summer, he grew all his own vegetables. He wasn’t eating anything that had been sprayed or imported from South America. That would be foolhardy to say the least. He poured himself a vegetable cocktail freshly made in his juicer, newly arrived from the shopping channel. He held the glass up to the sunlight and admired the purity of its contents.