“Yes, but like I said, Bo never had the blood work. He took off and I couldn’t locate him.”
Mullins paused to jot some notes in his red, covered, spiral bound notebook. “Uh huh” he said, his hand—which spanned most of the notebook’s width—was busily engaged in writing. “And, how long did it take you, including the time before you realized Bo Randall had left the building and whatever time you spent searching the area for him, for you to arrive back at Bo Randall’s house?”
It was clear to both Derek and Nikkie that Mullins was already liking Bo for the attack.
“I don’t think Bo had anything to do with the attack,” Nikkie said.
“Never said anything about Bo being a suspect, did I?” Mullins replied. “Just trying to iron out the time frame of it all. Hell, until I speak with the doctors up at Saint Mark’s Hospital, I have no idea if Victoria Crown was attacked the second after you and Bo left the house or one-second before you got back. Time frame is all I’m looking to figure out.” Mullins paused an exaggerated beat, then continued, “With that in mind, tell me the time from you losing track of Randall till you walked into the house and saw Victoria Crown?”
Nikkie paused thoughtfully, then said, “If he took off as soon as he walked to the back of the lab, I had no eyes on him for around an hour fifty-five. Two at the most.”
Mullins paused, seeming to be thinking over what Nikkie has just said. He then began tapping the end of his pen against the open notebook. “I’ve made that drive,” Mullins said. “The one from the lab to Ravenswood. Takes me no more than twenty minutes to hit the town line. Add another ten to get across Main and to Bo’s house. Which leaves you an hour and a half, give or take a few minutes, according to your time frame. Help me out with closing that gap.”
“If he took off as soon as he left the lab’s front office,” Nikkie said, “that means he was gone for twenty minutes before I found out he’d left. Add a few more for me to run around the building, see that he was nowhere in sight, call Crown to see if she heard from him, and now we’re up to, let’s say, twenty-five minutes. I drove around, looking for him for fifty minutes to an hour then drove back to his house. Totals up to my time estimate, doesn’t it?”
“That it does. That it certainly does.”
Derek said, “Look, it’s pretty clear that Bo could have made his way back to his house, bashed his mother over the head with whatever the hell she was hit over the head with, if he had help. If he had called a cab, I’m sure you would know about that already, and unless he’s a word class distance runner, he didn’t get back to his house in the time frame. So either he had someone waiting for him at the lab with a car—possible but not likely—or Bo had nothing to do with what happened to his mother.”
“Tell me again what the man you saw running away from the scene looked like?” Mullins said, completely ignoring Derek and what he had said.
Nikkie stated, again, that the distance and the obscured view she had because of the trees, made giving any accurate description impossible. “All I know for sure is that the guy, and even his sex is an assumption, was wearing a gray, hooded sweatshirt and jeans. He was probably five-eight and of average weight.”
“But you had a good enough view to know that he smiled at you, right before he ducked into the woods?”
“Flash of white was all I could make out,” Nikkie said.
“Uh huh.” Investigator Mark Mullins finished his notes with a flurry of his pen, closed the cheap notebook, placed his interlaced hands to rest on top of the notebook, and said, “Don’t suppose you saw him once he got into the woods? Didn’t hang out in the back yard very long, correct?”
Nikkie said, “I wanted to get back inside to check on Crown. So, no, I didn’t see him once he hit the woods. Why?”
Mullins scratched his forehead with the fingernail of his thumb, “I was kind of hoping you had seen if he dropped anything. We found a cell phone registered to Boregard Randall no deeper than a foot into the woods. It was just lying on the ground.”
“I didn’t,” Nikkie said. “Are you actually thinking Bo attacked his mother?”
“We sent the phone out for prints,” Mullins smiled and offered a small laugh. “As much as I love being a small town cop, the lack of resources is a pain in the ass plenty of times. I bet you that if I was in Albany, Syracuse or even Utica, I’d be able to carry that phone over to the office next to mine, get prints taken and have results back before I got back to my office. Should have results back in a few more hours.”
“You didn’t answer her question,” Derek said.
“That’s right,” Mullins said. “I didn’t.”
“You planning to do so?”
“Let’s lay our cards on the table, shall we? And first off, don’t think for a minute that me or anyone else in the Sheriff’s department think either of you are up to no good. Despite Louis Randall’s suggestions, you two are under no watch.”
Derek held the palm of his right hand up in a stopping signal. “What do you mean ‘despite Louis Randall’s suggestions?’ ”
Mullins leaned back against the orange plastic cushion of the bench seat. He decorated his face with a smile that seemed manufactured. “Randall, as you know, is Bo’s father. Since we picked up Bo, all he’s been doing is a half-assed attempt to discredit the department and get evidence tossed out. But, like I said, it’s all half-assed. I wouldn’t admit to this unless under oath, but the district attorney shared his surprise at how quickly Louis Randall started discussing plea options for his son. Yesterday, he comes in to the department, asks to see the county sheriff, and proceeds to tell him about you two being hired to do some ground investigation. I guess he went on and on about his concerns that you two would muddy up the waters and cause more harm than good.” Mullins looked at Derek, “Son of a bitch claimed you’re some type of a ghost hunter and all you would be looking to do is create some wild-assed story about maybe an extraterrestrial or ghostly clown starting that fire. Like that clown in that Stephen King book. What the hell was that clown’s name again?”
“Pennywise” Nikkie said.
“That’s it. Like you’d try to pin Pennywise for the arson. Anyway, the whole conversation didn’t sit right with the sheriff. He told me Louis Randall acted like someone afraid of what you two might find out.”
“We got the same impression when we met with him last night,” Derek said. “I was surprised he didn’t want to at least try to prove his son’s innocence. Shocked, actually.”
“The way I see it, either the father knows the son did the crime or the father knows something about the crime he doesn’t want anyone to find out about.”
“Exactly,” Derek agreed.
“So, as I was saying, you two have nothing to be concerned about in this investigation. I say that because I’m feeling we may end up needing information from you two and don’t want you to get all herky-jerky about working with us. That sound fair?”
“Completely,” Derek said.
“Good. The evidence against Bo Randall is pretty solid. While we don’t have an eyewitness putting him at the scene, we have enough evidence to prove in a court of law that it is highly probable that he was at least complicit in the arson. But the more digging I do, the more I smell something rotten. Something else is going on in this town and I won’t rest until I figure it out. Honestly, the Randall case is pretty much wrapped up. The DA is telling us that Bo’s attorney—his father—is working hard at getting the charges dropped to depraved indifference. The DA thinks Louis Randall will get his son to take that plea as soon as it’s offered. No sense in us running around trying to make a rock solid case even more solid if the DA is expecting a plea. But still, something isn’t sitting right with me. And I can tell by the look on your face, Derek, that you know what I’m talking about.”
“I was at the fire station this morning,” Derek picked up the conversation without skipping a beat. “A member was telling me about some strange things happening around town. Someone c
utting a neighbor’s tree down in the middle of the night, some guy beating on his wife and something about three guys he knows who were arrested for slashing a bunch of car tires.”
“And all those events did happen and all the people who either admitted to the crimes or are actively mounting a defense, are all saying the same damn thing that Bo is saying.”
“And that would be?” Nikkie asked.
“None of them remember doing anything they’re accused of. Total blank memory.” Mullins chuckled. “Maybe there is some alien or ghost or that Pennywise clown hypnotizing the townsfolk and making them do things they wouldn’t normally do.”
“I wouldn’t write that in my report if I were you,” Derek said.
“Not planning on adding it to any report I fill out. Just,” Mullins paused, slowly shaking his head, “I can’t put my finger on it. But I will figure it out. Trust me, I will figure it out.”
Derek stayed at the diner with Mullins while Nikkie left to check on Crown in the hospital.
“I’ll call you as soon as I find out anything,” she said.
“And keep calling me to keep me informed. I hate to say it, but I think I can do Crown more good staying here and figuring this mystery out than I could sitting by her side. If she wakes up, let her know I’m thinking about her, okay?”
As soon as Nikkie left the diner, Mullins turned to Derek, and said, “I’m far from a doctor, but you should should know, your friend is in serious condition.”
“I know,” Derek said, his eyes tracking Nikkie as she walked across the parking lot, got into her car and drove away. “I saw that her eye was practically popped out of the socket and the sure signs of a severe brain injury.”
“I shouldn’t be saying this, but the paramedics told me they didn’t think she’d even make it to the hospital alive.”
Derek nodded his head. He then folded his arms across his chest, looked Mullins dead in the eye, and said, “You think Bo did it, don’t you?”
“The arson? Damn straight I do. No reason to think otherwise.”
“Not the arson. You think he tried to kill his mother.”
“That I do, Derek. That I certainly do.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Derek had been in this situation before: Being involved with a case, knowing, or at least strongly believing, he wasn’t seeing everything that needed to be seen and having no idea what his next steps should be. He and Investigator Mark Mullins left the diner a full two hours after they had sat down. Most of their conversation—after Nikkie had left to be with Crown—had focused on the recent events Mark considered to be “highly strange, highly suspicious and highly connected somehow.” Those events were the fire that took the life of Brian Mack and his mother; Adam Strafford, the quiet and reserved manager of three chain restaurants in the area, who had, according to his wife, “just walked upstairs from the basement and got into beating” her; Pat Waterhouse and his three fifteen early morning chainsawing escapades; and Saul Troffert, Andy Benner and Bruce Ibsen, each accused of slashing car tires, smashing a few house windows and, in a few cases, pissing into the gas tanks of three or four cars.
“I can’t say I know any one of them well, but I can tell you that none of them has any history with the law and none of them presented themselves to be the criminal type. Hell, people in town can’t believe what these guys are accused of. People who know them called us, emailed us, even sent us snail mail, all saying basically the same thing.”
“And that would be?” Derek has asked.
“That something or someone set these people up for whatever reason. They say there’s no way on God’s green earth that these guys are guilty. But hell, it was Strafford’s wife who told the nurse in the emergency room that her husband had beaten her. Still, people don’t believe it was him. No one believes it was him. Matter of fact, Adam Strafford doesn’t believe it was him.”
“I wouldn’t be surprised if each one of those guys say they have no memories of the times when the crimes were committed.”
Mullins gave Derek a long look, a half smile playing on the corners of his mouth. “All five have no memories of the time during which the crimes they are accused of were perpetrated. Tell me, Derek, what made you say that?”
“Bo Randall insists he has no recollection of the night of the fire. He’s damn emphatic about his amnesia, too.”
“Sergeant Ken McCallion did the initial interview with Bo. He told me the same thing. Now, understand, the fire that took the lives of the Mack’s happened this past Sunday. Turner’s wife was beat up the previous Monday. Strafford felled his neighbors oak tree the week before, and the three amigos did all their vandalism less than two weeks ago. So when McCallion told me about Randall denying any memory, my spidey senses got all nervous and twitchy. Knowing that all of the six accused claim to have no memory, told me something is wrong in this town.”
“And I’d be willing to bet that’s when you started looking for a connection.”
“Started then and continuing now,” Mullins said. “And it pisses me off that I haven’t found any connection beyond they all drink the water, breathe the same air and drive down Main street to buy whatever the hell it is they feel compelled to buy.”
“Some of the ways people are connected are invisible. Kept secret,” Derek said. “People are connected to others in a ton of ways that they’d rather no one ever learn about.”
“I think you and I are chasing the same rabbit down the same rabbit hole.”
“Only question is, where the hell will our chasing lead us?”
“That is the question, Derek. That is the question, indeed.”
Derek adjusted his position on the hard plastic bench seat of the booth. As he did, he felt an uncomfortable bulge in his back pocket. Remembering what he had shoved into his pocket and what he had seen while driving through the heavily wooded area of Ravenswood, Derek reached into his pocket, removed the flattened bundle of weeds and placed them on the table between himself and Mullins.
“And these are what?” Mullins asked.
Derek explained seeing the two men tossing overly stuffed garbage bags into the back of a pickup truck and how he came across the stash of weeds that was now sitting in a wilting declaration of their death, on the diner’s table.
“At first I figured it was pot, but, unless you grow some genetically altered species of cannabis here in Ravenswood, I have no idea what this weed is.”
Mullins took one stem of the green weed into his hands, his thick fingers making the stem look like a green toothpick. He twirled the stem around, staring at it with an apparent level of curiosity. After several seconds, he dropped the weed to the table, and said, “Looks like an ordinary weed to me.”
“Then why,” Derek began, “would people be gathering ordinary weeds up into several garbage bags, then hightail it out of the area after someone, and that someone happened to be me, spotted them?”
“Tell you what, Cole,” Mullins said as he picked up a couple of the weeds from the table, “I’ll send these up to our lab and see if they contain some special ingredient.” He shoved the weeds into the breast pocket of his sport coat.
“Pretty sad, actually.”
“What’s pretty sad?” Mullins asked.
“That the only tangible thing I’ve found since starting this case is a bunch of weeds that probably are nothing more than weeds.”
“Add the weeds to the mystery, Cole. And who knows, these damn weeds may be the break we’re looking for.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
After speaking with Nikkie and having learned that Crown was taken into surgery, where a piece of her skull was removed in order to relieve the swelling of her brain, Derek needed to calm himself. Though he couldn’t see a direct connection between the events happening in Ravenswood and the attack on Crown, he knew there was one. Mullins had assured him that the sheriff’s department would apprehend Crown’s attacker and both he and Derek believed that whomever it turned out to be, would claim to have
no memory of the attack.
Bo’s absence certainly concerned Derek and while he had yet to meet Bo face to face, something in the back of his mind told him Bo wasn’t the attacker. Someone else, connected or not connected to Bo, had done the attacking, and Derek was hell bent on finding out that someone’s name. Bo Randall being Crown’s son made the case personal for his agency. Having Crown attacked and fighting for her life made the case personal to him.
The last thing Mullins told Derek before he headed back to the Sheriff’s Department was that, besides the three men accused of slashing tires and a few other assorted misdemeanors, none of the men accused of being involved in the recent crime spree were acquainted.
“They all knew one another, but to no more degree than how people in small towns across this county know each other. Turner and Waterhouse belong to the same gym. Troffert and Turner attend the same church and Bennet and Strafford have mutual friends. But beyond Troffert, Bennet and Ibsen working together at the compounding facility, there’s nothing that connects them to each other. Nothing.”
Derek pulled out his Moleskine notebook and skimmed over the notes he had taken since accepting the Bo Randall case. He couldn’t remember the name of the bar Bo claimed he had spent the majority of the night at on the night of the fire. Once he found the name, Route 69 Bar and Grill, he plugged it into his GPS, then followed the turn-by-turn directions to the bar.
Route 69 Bar and Grill was less than three miles to the west of Ravenswood. Stuck, as if by accident, on the left hand side of Route 69, the bar looked out of place. Its weathered brown siding, sharply slanting blue steel roofing, gravel and pitted parking area and brightly painted orange doors belied the long stretches of vacancies that ran both sides of the road. The bar simply sat alone, screaming at drivers passing by with signs claiming, “The Best Chicken Wings in the Area,” “Twenty-three Beers on Tap,” and “Live Music Every Tuesday, Friday and Saturday.” A pulsating neon sign glared from the window closest to the front entrance, “Saranac Sold Here.” Derek parked his car in the spot nearest the front door, bringing the total number of cars to six in the parking lot. It was a few minutes after noon and the wished-for lunch crowd had either not yet arrived or decided that, despite Route 69 Bar and Grill laying claim to the best chicken wings, that a more welcoming establishment was more deserving of their patronage.
The Devil's Snare: a Mystery Suspense Thriller (Derek Cole Suspense Thrillers Book 4) Page 10