by Laurel Dewey
When the doctor finally strolled in, Jane was met with a usual “how you doing?” chatter that was meant to create some sort of cozy connection between the two of them. But Jane tuned her out. She was more aware of the stainless steel tray singing as the doctor swung it closer. The overhead light demanded to be heard. The sharp aroma of disinfectant stung her nostrils. The clutch of the speculum groaned. The cold knife cut with judgment. Everything around her came alive within her raw, unfiltered, sentient awareness. Jane closed her eyes, desperate to tune it out. But her mind cried, Life is a struggle…and then you die.
Weyler stood waiting at the corner of 13th and Cherokee in front of Denver Headquarters. Never one to dress down, he looked dapper as usual in his navy suit with the imperceptible pinstripes. He rolled his oversized suitcase with the discreet monogram M.E.W. toward Jane’s Mustang. Jane unlocked the passenger door and flipped down the seat so Weyler could deposit his suitcase in the backseat. The first thought Jane had was that he had packed a lot of clothes for a few days. The second thought was, M.E.W.?
Weyler lowered his lanky, 6’ 4” inch frame into the passenger seat, chafing at the narrow entrance of Jane’s classic car as he dragged his briefcase onto his lap. “I suppose what it lacks in leg room it makes up for in visual appeal,” he groused to Jane, shutting the heavy door.
Jane floored the Mustang, turning right onto 13th Avenue and raced toward Speer Boulevard.
Weyler hung onto his briefcase and secured his seatbelt. “For a woman who doesn’t want to go someplace, you certainly are going there fast.”
Jane lifted her lead foot off the gas and turned onto Colfax. She grabbed her mug that held four shots of espresso and three teaspoons of sugar and took a generous swig. “I just don’t get it, boss. Midas is out of our jurisdiction and…”
“I told you…”
“Yeah,” Jane abruptly interrupted as the dancing image of a cigarette teased her mind. “What does some former co-rookie, pissant police chief from Bumfuck, Egypt have over you?”
“Bo Lowry is a friend. And that’s all that’s important right now.” Jane let out a loud breath of exasperation as she peeled the Mustang onto I-25 Northbound. “If you don’t mind my saying, you are much more direct this morning than normal.”
Jane gripped the steering wheel. “I quit smoking,” she offered, her voice tense.
“When?”
She stole a look at the clock. “Fifteen hours, thirty-six minutes ago.”
“And how long have you smoked?”
“Over twenty-three years.”
“And you just decide out of the blue that now’s a good time to quit?” Weyler sounded wary.
“Yeah. Why not? Life was going along too damn well. I figured it was time to inject some torture.” Her mind focused on the single cigarette ensconced in her last pack of American Spirits.
Weyler shifted in his seat and looked out the front window. Reading his body language, Jane knew he was growing apprehensive of spending much time around her. “They say the first three days are the worst.”
“Is that right?” Jane took another healthy sip of her espresso.
“I heard once that you shouldn’t drink coffee when you quit smoking because the two are usually interconnected.”
“Yeah, well. Ask me to quit smoking and coffee simultaneously, and somebody’s going to end up being shot.”
“I guess nicotine is tougher to kick than heroin.”
“Maybe I’ll take up heroin to get some perspective.”
Weyler chuckled at Jane’s retort. “You’re going to find that your senses wake up. Smell and taste will be much more acute.”
“Oh, Jesus, you have no idea, boss. I can smell the buttons on your shirt.” Jane changed lanes to flow into US Highway 36. She was just about to tell Weyler about alerting Betty regarding Jake and the runaway shelters when he spoke first.
“You have a chance to look over the file I gave you last night?”
“Yeah. Some of the continuing pages were missing. I’m going to have to go the library and play puzzle maker. Did you check out Copeland’s parents?”
“His parents?”
“Yeah. His mother would have been forty-three when she had him. Dad would have been fifty.”
“What’s that got to do with anything?”
“Jordan’s an only child. His parents were the epitome of the East Coast country club set in the sixties.”
“So?”
“So, that type didn’t make a habit of starting a family at forty-three and fifty.”
“Where is this going and how does it relate to Jake Van Gorden?”
“I don’t know,” Jane mused, her eyes canvassing the tawny landscape that framed the highway. “It’s the little things, you know? People are always looking at the elephant in the room and I’m always looking at the peanut.” As Jane drove further, the landscape became deafeningly bland. She was reminded that winter and spring in much of Colorado were bookends that held desolation, isolation and death. The low-lying areas were asleep, devoid of anything green. For five to six months, one lived in a brown and tan world, interrupted only by the powdered drifts of snow that reminded Jane how life could freeze and kill, and do it with impunity.
“Have you spent any time in Midas?” Weyler asked, reviewing a few pages of information he’d stashed in his briefcase.
“No. You?”
“No. I’ve kept up on it over the years because Bo ended up there. Obviously, the town likes the lack of interest. You know how some Colorado towns have reputations?”
“You mean like the trustifarians in Telluride, the freaks in Nederland and the disenchanted in Crestone?”
“Exactly. For some reason, Midas attracts people who have secrets.”
“How do people find out about it?”
“Not sure. Maybe word-of-mouth. Maybe rumor. But the town’s a magnet for all of them. Move there and your secret is safe. There’s lots of rich kids who are black sheep. It’s got more than its fair share of East coasters with no idea where they want to be or who they want to be. They just know they don’t want to be found out.”
“Copeland’s an East coaster. Is that why he chose the town?”
“I don’t know.”
“After doing thirty-four years of hard time, he can’t be rolling in greenback.”
“Bo said something about a trust fund he lives on. Must be pretty sizeable because he lives about a mile outside of town on ten wooded acres by the river. In fact, it’s just down a bit from the bridge where Jake tried to hang himself. Once a year the trustee of the fund flies out to check on Jordan, deposit the funds into his account and make sure he’s staying out of trouble.”
“Was the trustee informed of Jordan’s possible involvement with Jake’s disappearance?”
“Yes. Bo mumbled something about that. The guy’s due out next week.”
Jane shifted lanes, passing a semi. “I need more info on Jordan’s background.”
Weyler shuffled through a short stack of neatly clipped pages he’d copied from a couple crime databases. Weyler read from the page. “’Copeland was fine until the age of eight when he started to exhibit severe isolationist behavior traits.’”
“Any history of killing small animals?”
“None. Just an intense desire to not associate with others.”
“Why would an eight-year-old boy suddenly decide to be alone? There’s gotta be a trauma trigger. What happened to him at the age of eight?”
Weyler glanced down the page, searching. “Nothing’s referenced.”
Jane’s edginess crept closer. “I can’t believe somebody didn’t ask that question. It’s a fuckin’ no-brainer.” She shook her head in disgust and slowed down as the speed limit dropped to 55 mph. “So, from age eight to eighteen when he’s arrested for shooting his next-door neighbor Daniel Marshall and stuffing his body under his bed, what’s Jordan doing?”
“I guess going to school and suffering the slings and arrows of puberty like th
e rest of us.”
“No friends?”
“No one, according to the docs. No one except Daniel and he’s thirteen and mentally challenged.”
“They called it retarded back then.”
“They call it mentally challenged now.”
“Fucking PC talk.” As if on cue, they entered the outskirts of Boulder, a bastion for eco-freaking, Prius-driving, hempwearing, left-wing-leaning individuals. “Soy latte, boss?” Jane remarked with a sarcastic tip of her head toward a coffeehouse named The Eco Café where they served coffee in cups that were so quickly biodegradable, they started decomposing before you finished drinking the brew.
“You really do need to take it down a notch, Jane. Keep this up and you and Bo are going to mix like gasoline and fire.” He eyed Jane more carefully. “There’s something else going on with you…something besides quitting smoking...”
Jane had briefly forgotten about her ominous health problems until Weyler reminded her. His comment felt like a sucker punch. She turned away, not wanting to reveal any emotion.
“What’s going on, Jane?” Weyler’s voice was concerned.
“Does Jordan own a car?” Jane responded, shifting to her “all business” tenor.
Weyler realized pressing her further was pointless. “No car.”
“So, if he did kidnap Jake Van Gorden, did he walk him down to his place from the bridge and stash him somewhere on the property…like he stashed Daniel’s body?”
“Bo said they did a fairly intense search at the house and around the property.”
“There had to be more than his past conviction for probable cause to search.”
“Does wandering on the road, covered in mud and with bloody hands, generate probable cause?”
“Jesus. Okay, but they released him. The blood had to be his own.”
“It was. The question was—why was he looking like that within a day of Jake’s disappearance? Coincidence? If so, bad timing for it. Bo wonders if maybe this is a two-man-or-more operation and Jordan’s involvement was to draw Jake into the web.”
“You said there are a bunch of notes or clues?”
“Right. No ransom. Just odd, non sequitur deliveries to either Jake’s parents’ house or Bo’s office. We’ll see them when we sit down with Bo…”
“Jordan doesn’t need the money but he’s also not looking for attention. What’s his motive?”
“Maybe it’s just part of his sickness.”
Jane reached the outside edge of Boulder and started up the long highway that led to Midas. “’Is he a Frequent Flyer?’” Jane asked, referencing someone with a history of being in and out of jail. Weyler shook his head. “Okay. You know as well as I do that perps typically re-offend a lot sooner than seven years after they get out. And if their arrest history prior to going to prison is zilch, like Copeland, the chances of recidivism go down.”
“You know my feelings on statistics.”
“Right. It just takes one person to slant the chart.” Jane let out a tired breath. “One stat I do know is that the odds of a kidnapped kid showing up alive after five days missing are pretty slim. So if Jake is dead and Jordan’s got a part in it, he’ll never see the outside world again.”
“Maybe that’s exactly what he wants. Maybe between prison and freedom, the former is safer for him.”
Forty-five pensive minutes later, Jane wound the Mustang off the highway and into the town of Midas. After one block of service stations and several restaurants, they arrived on Main Street and a sign that declared they were 7,200 feet in elevation. The main drag had a wide-open feel to it—oddly exposed for a town so steeped in secrets. Sidewalks were well swept of debris and showed no signs that snow had fallen just a few days before. Wealth obviously bought swift attention from the town’s public works department. Even though it was a Friday, the streets were nearly bare of traffic and people. Jane mulled that everyone was probably tucked away in their homes—either counting their money or keeping a low profile.
It was obvious to Jane that Midas was a place where even the most severe euphemistic economic downturn wouldn’t cast a shadow down Main Street. Destructive outside forces like a pesky global recession simply weren’t allowed to penetrate the tenuous façade. There was a tangible eeriness that Jane felt as she drove slowly down the street. It wasn’t like the haunted vibe she got when she visited Creede, Colorado, or the outright fusion of contrasting vibes she felt driving through Peachville. No, Midas was different altogether. Midas felt like a town holding its collective breath; at once on edge and at the same time aggressively protecting itself. There were no outward signs of community involvement. No banners that announced town events. There was none of the corny, albeit apropos, small town greetings, such as Howdy or Welcome! on the town sign. Midas was a brick wall encased in a steel tomb.
Weyler directed Jane to drive to the middle of Main Street where the two-story, inconspicuous Midas Town Hall was located. She parked in front, having her choice of seven open spaces. The only action around Town Hall was the sight of two men on ladders installing cables and what looked like a wireless Internet antenna. As she locked the car door, the sickly sweet scent of gardenias surrounded her. Jane glanced at the flower boxes outside Town Hall expecting to see them awash in the ivory flower. But the only thing they held was dirt. Strangely, the aroma was even stronger standing outside in Midas than it was the night before when she first detected the fragrance in her closet. It hung closer to her, almost suffocating her with its intensity.
“Something wrong, Jane?” Weyler asked.
“You smell gardenias, boss?”
“No.”
“Seriously?” Jane said irritated. “You can’t smell that?”
“Bo’s waiting for us, Jane. Come on.”
Inside the front door, Jane and Weyler walked into a tiny seating room. An exceptionally round-faced woman sat behind a wall of security glass. As quickly as the scent of gardenias flowered, it abruptly ceased. But Jane’s heightened sense of smell still kicked into gear as she noted the pungent chemical bouquet of wood shavings, varnish, paint and glue—all leftover from the recently installed security window. The old, battered carpeting beneath their feet had been cut at the corners, in preparation for removal. Behind the glass, Jane watched several workers moving tables, removing antiquated Selectric II typewriters, pulling wires out of the ceiling, drilling holes in the walls and negotiating their way around a pile of large unopened boxes that looked to hold computers and high-tech equipment. It was clear that a massive remodel and overhaul of the place was in progress. A fine coating of drywall dust and ceiling debris drifted off the window when Weyler tapped his finger against it to get the receptionist’s attention. She turned toward him, obviously unaware of their presence due to the ambient noise. He held up his badge and announced that he and Jane were there to see Bo Lowry.
“Hang on,” she mumbled, seemingly unacquainted with the buzzer that needed to be depressed in order to let them inside the office. She pressed it and Weyler pushed the door but it wouldn’t budge. The woman, clearly overwhelmed by the technical revamp, depressed the button again—this time with more impatience. Weyler pushed harder and the door released. The woman pried her chubby frame out of her new chair with the tags still on it and led them through the maze of dust-laden boxes, freshly constructed desks and computer tables, as she yelled across to a worker to “rewire the buzzer for the front door…again!”
Turning one corner, she pointed toward a windowed office cloaked in half-drawn, yellowed Venetian blinds. “He’s in there,” she said, out of breath from the thirty-foot promenade.
Weyler rapped his knuckles against the closed door and opened it. “Hello, old friend!” he said in a genuine cadence.
The sweet smell of cigar smoke bit into Jane’s nostrils. A large man with a gut that hung well below his belt buckle swung his scuffed cowboy boots off the desk and put down his cigar. “Well, Christ Almighty, am I happy to see you!” Bo enthusiastically shook Weyler�
��s hand and patted him hard on his back. “Goddamnit, Beanie, you couldn’t have gotten here a minute too soon!”
“Bo, I’d like you to meet, Sergeant Detective Jane Perry.”
Bo’s gratitude quickly shifted to distaste. “No, no, no, 10-74!” he said waving his chubby hand in the air. “I asked for you, Morgan! Only you. Get her the hell outta here!”
CHAPTER 5
“God, I forgot how much I love that small town charm!” Jane sardonically responded after Bo’s less than enthusiastic greeting.
Bo’s face was turning five shades of red as he painfully spun toward Weyler and guided him around in a confidential pose. The juxtaposition of the two—with Weyler’s tall, lanky frame and Bo’s squatty, porcine physique—reminded Jane of Mutt and Jeff. “Beanie, I told you I wanted this under the radar. I ain’t fiddle fuckin’ around! What in the hell were you thinking?” Lowry’s voice sounded like he ate gravel and ground glass for breakfast and chased it with a cup of hot, spent ammo.
Weyler put his arm around Bo’s shoulder and spoke in a soothing manner. “You’re out of here in less than two weeks, Bo. We need all the help we can get and Jane is one of my best.”
“We don’t want TV cameras and publicity here!” Bo retorted in a gruff stage whisper. “And she…” Bo jabbed his thumb behind him toward Jane, “tends to attract that nonsense! And, I heard she’s a loose cannon! Jesus, Beanie, I need someone with a slower heartbeat than her.”
Jane hated the media coverage she’d drawn in the past two years more than anyone. But she also hated being referred to as “her” and talked about as if she wasn’t standing in the same room. And why in the hell was Bo calling Weyler, Beanie? “Well, fuck me!” Jane said under her breath, with indignation. “I don’t need this shit.” She turned toward the door.
“Jane!” Weyler snapped. “Close the door and sit down.” He turned to Bo. “She’s staying. I’m staying. And we’re going to figure out this damn case. So, let’s all take a deep breath and try to work together.”