by Jon Redfern
“Sergeant Royce can’t ID him?”
“The guy had pantyhose pulled down to his Adam’s apple. Royce ended up with a black eye.”
“How?”
“A plate got thrown at him during the chase.”
“Any witnesses? Anyone see a man with pantyhose on his head running down the street?”
“Not so far.”
Butch pulled a cell phone with a leather case out of his right pocket. “Here’s a present for you, courtesy of city hall.”
“Morning, Dodd,” Billy said, trying out the new unit. He and Butch were now in the cruiser heading down the concession road towards Lethbridge. “I need you to get over to Randy Mucklowe’s and pick up the professor and Miss Bird. Tell them about the break-in. Warn her there’s a mess. I need to find out what’s missing and maybe some lead as to who did it. Then I want you back on the files. Dig up anything on Keeler. Yes, Woody. Did he make a statement yesterday, by the way? Look up theft, any data on vagrancy, check arrest records going back ten years.”
Out at the junction of Highway 3, Butch made the eastern turn into the fast lane and cruised the rim overlooking the Belly River valley. After twenty-five minutes, the two men reached the Lethbridge city limits. The cruiser crossed Oldman River, and Billy spotted two herons flying above the tops of the cottonwoods in Indian Battle Park. On Ashmead, Butch pulled up to Satan House. Dodd was on the front steps waiting with Sheree Lynn Bird.
“Morning, Miss Bird,” Billy said. He reached out and shook her hand.
“Randy’s in Montana this morning, Inspector. Working on his dig site plans.” Sheree Lynn looked drawn.
“I’m sorry we had to bring you back here on Sunday,” said Butch, climbing the front steps and opening the door. In the front hall was the chair where Sergeant Royce had spent part of the night on duty.
“Oh, God.” Sheree Lynn raised her hands to her mouth when she saw the tumbled mess in her bedroom.
Billy fumbled for a second. “I am sorry. We had a night watch, and our sergeant had sealed the place, but. . . .”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“Take your time, Sheree,” said Billy. “Go in slowly, look around, tell us what’s gone.”
Constable Gloria Johnson was at Sheree Lynn’s dressing table dusting for prints. “Morning,” she said.
The bed had been pulled apart. A candle lay broken on the floor by the window. All the brushes and perfumes on the dressing table had been thrown to the floor. There was broken red glass by the doorway.
“I can’t really tell, Chief,” Sheree Lynn whispered. She turned and came back to the doorway. “Maybe a book or a brush.”
“Did any of the patients you counselled at social services ever do anything like this, Sheree?” asked Billy.
“No.”
“You have any idea who might have done this?”
“Oh, I could guess. Some of the parents — like Cody’s mom — have claimed I was trying to steal their kids from them. Who knows?”
“I’ve found no evidence of prints so far, sir,” said Johnson.
“So all we have is guesswork here,” Billy added.
Sheree shrugged. “No matter,” she said. “At least the person didn’t harm anyone.” She started to cry and covered her face.
Billy handed her a tissue from his pocket.
“Thanks.”
Downstairs, Billy inspected the back window, where the intruder had entered Satan House. He went out on the porch steps and gazed around, letting his eye fall on the area surrounding the window and the entrance to the house. He walked to the bottom of the steps and knelt.
A moment later, Sheree Lynn came and stood on the top step. “What is it?”
Billy raised his hand. “Call Butch to come here, will you, Sheree?”
Butch came with a Ziploc already open. “What’d you find?”
Reaching down, Billy folded the baggie over the thumb and pointer finger of his right hand and picked up a broken red elastic band. He folded the Ziploc so that the band fell down inside, then sealed the edge.
“Won’t hurt to call on Woody this morning,” grimaced Butch.
“You think this investigation will take a while?” Sheree sounded anxious.
“I’ll tell you this,” answered Billy, his voice betraying frustration. “The longer we take, the harder it is to piece together the puzzle. We’re only one day into the investigation, and all we’ve got is a phone call and a caller who may know the person or persons responsible for hurting Darren. So far, we’re still lacking firm leads. And witnesses.”
As Billy knew only too well, the crime scene is the key to an investigation. Evidence leads to conviction; fitting clues together presents a logic of motive, opportunity, and means. It wasn’t customary for him to give out details of the investigation to those who, for one reason or another, could be tagged as potential suspects. But then he’d often found that sharing selected information could prompt something of use, a hint, an attitude in the respondent, a revelation to be stored away for future consideration.
Billy noticed that Sheree Lynn blinked as if she’d felt a sudden pain.
“Inspector, I want out of this whole mess. I hope you can clear this up soon, and we can let Cody and Darren rest in peace.”
“If we need you, we’ll contact you at Randy’s. Butch and I can give you a lift back now.”
En route, Billy talked to Sheree Lynn, who sat beside him in the cruiser’s back seat.
“There’s got to be a motive for this killing,” said Billy. “Somebody had a big need to hurt that boy. Is there anybody you know of who’d want to do that?”
“You asked me that already, Inspector,” replied Sheree Lynn.
“What about Woody? What do you know about him?”
“He drank. He beat up Darren once. With a rope. He admitted it the time Children’s Aid sent me over to the house to meet with Sharon. He was an angry man. Used to hitting people. The agency ran a check on him, but only in terms of complaints concerning family matters. We didn’t find anything. Sharon told me Woody had been poor, brought up on a dryland farm near the Peigan reserve. I never saw him outside of the social services meetings I’d arranged with him.”
“Can you think of any boys Darren’s age, anyone who was jealous of him, or may have picked on him?”
“Jealous? There was Blayne Morton, I suppose.”
“Was he part of a group with Cody Schow?”
“No. Just the opposite. Blayne was the outsider. I remember Darren told me about him a couple of times. I only saw Blayne once, standing out on the street in front of the house on Ashmead. He was a big kid. Darren was scared of him. He and Cody didn’t like the boy much, and I think Cody once had a fight with him at school. Blayne often pestered Darren, always wanting to take his picture.”
“You never spoke to Blayne?”
“No, Inspector.”
“He never came into the house?”
“Not that I know of.”
“Do you think he knew much about you? I mean, did he know where you went, what your phone number was? I’m fishing here. Could Blayne be the one who called you yesterday?”
“He may have gotten my — our numbers — from Darren. Who knows?”
They drove on in silence. Billy waited to see if Sheree might add more. In his experience, silence was a great motivator. Talkers abhor a vacuum. But Sheree sat with her eyes down, fatigue turning her features pale.
The cruiser crossed the river and ended up in a housing development near the university grounds. Billy made a mental note of the apartment building where Randy lived. It was not impressive. He expected a professor to have a more fashionable address. “Randy rents here, Sheree?”
“Alimony, Inspector. Humbles a man’s setting.”
Butch dropped Sheree Lynn at Mucklowe’s, then drove back across the river.
“Royce find any trace of Darren’s clothes?”
“Nada. He was in pain after the plate-tossing incident and called in to
dispatch for backup. I’ll send him out later.”
“The sooner the better, Butch.”
“I’m running, buddy. As best as I can.”
“We can’t stop, not even for a breath. Killers who smash up houses, I figure, are on a roll. Darren’s hanging and this incident are making me feel uneasy. I want you to get a team of sergeants on call for twenty-four hours. We need backup for Royce and Dodd.”
Butch nodded and drove in silence up to Balham Street, where he parked the cruiser two hundred yards down from Dodd’s unmarked car. He phoned Dodd, car to car, and told him that he and Billy would take over. Dodd waved, and Billy looked carefully at the small bungalow rented by Sharon Riegert. It needed paint, the yard was full of shaggy crabgrass. A broken fence sagged against both sides of the house.
“You figure Woody will be here? Not at his own place?”
“It’s a hunch, Butch. I bet the two of them are lying low together, considering yesterday’s events.”
Butch called Dodd and handed the phone to Billy. “Dodd, go over to the Schow home now. Get the address from headquarters. Talk to Cody’s mother, if she’s sober. And to anyone around who might be nosy enough to keep tabs on the woman. Find out where she was last night. And push her, if you have to. Also call that junior high counsellor, Barnes, and see if he can locate a kid called Blayne Morton.”
Billy hung up. He got out and walked behind as Butch sauntered up to the Riegert bungalow’s front door. Chief Bochansky did not carry a weapon. But Billy insisted he phone the station to have a constable come by in case of trouble. Billy wasn’t so sure they’d need backup. Yet, with a man like Woody, a gun was not out of the question. Woody could be sitting waiting for them, a rifle loaded to blast through a front window.
Butch knocked.
“Ya? It’s open.”
Butch pushed the door slowly and stepped to the side. Billy stood opposite him.
“Come in, boys.” The voice was slurred. Butch peeked into a room darkened by a bedsheet pinned up over the front window. There was a smell of beer and fried food. Woody Keeler was standing in his shorts, holding a beer can, his shirt off, his feet bare. His hair was tied back. The doorway he stood in was lit from behind by a naked yellow bulb hanging from the ceiling of the kitchen. “Whad you after?”
Butch walked in, showed his badge, and told Woody why the two of them had driven over. Woody laughed. He turned and walked through the kitchen and went through a door leading to an open patch of unmowed lawn. He threw himself into a plastic lawn chair and raised his chin.
“You want to talk to me, Chief, you gotta come out here to do it.”
Butch sighed. “Wait here, Billy. I’ll handle this.”
Sharon Riegert came through the doorway dressed in a long pink bathrobe. Her hair was matted and her face puffy. “What is this?” she said, her voice gravelly.
“We came here to talk to your boyfriend, Mrs. Riegert.”
“About what?”
Sharon edged her way into the front room and lowered herself onto a couch covered with fake satin pillows and a giant pink dog. She grasped the dog to her chest, its plastic eyes the size of saucers. Billy thought the toy looked more frightening than cute.
“Where was Woody last night between ten and four in the morning?”
“How should I know?”
“Does he live here with you?”
“On and off. So what? What’d he do anyhow?”
“Were you here last night, Sharon?”
“Course. Where else would I be?”
She rubbed her hand across her nose.
“I wonder if you could help me, Sharon?”
“You sure are polite for a policeman. Whad you say your name was?”
“Yamamoto. Billy Yam. . . .”
“You a Chink or somethin’?”
“Japanese.”
Billy watched her. She was half asleep. Hungover. Her eyes were glazed. On her hands were scratches as if she’d been mauled by a cat. He looked up. Through the far doorway, Butch was leaning down to talk to Keeler. Butch’s face was contorted, his mouth moving fast. Woody was sitting stiff and still as if he’d been plastered to the chair.
“Woody went out,” Sharon said. “He went out, then he came back in. I was tired. I don’t know when. I don’t know when.”
“I am sorry about your son, Sharon. I want to find out who hurt him.”
“You do?” Sharon Riegert looked up.
Billy had seen faces ravaged by grief before. They took on a softer look somehow. The eyes were always narrow as if too much light, or too much terrible truth, might blind them.
“She did it. That witch. Bird. She hurt my boy. He shoulda never been there in that house.”
“Why would she hurt him, Sharon?”
“How do I know? She did, that’s all. How come he was there in that basement?” She looked as if she wanted to cry but was too exhausted.
“Did you know Cody Schow?”
“Stupid boy. I didn’t like him. Always sassing me. I told Darren, ‘Don’t ya go with him. He’s shit,’ I said. I told him not to go or he’d get a lickin’.”
“What were your son’s other friends like, Sharon?”
“What friends? I don’t know. Just that fat kid with the camera.”
“Do you remember his name?”
“Ya. You think I’m stupid? Blayne. He was hanging around here a lot. Always outside waitin’ for Darren. I didn’t know if he was pickin’ on him or what. Darren sometimes went out with him somewhere.”
“What kind of camera was it?”
“Black. Kinda old-fashioned. The front popped out. I think it was one of them where you get the picture quick, you know. . . .”
“Polaroid.”
“I don’t know, maybe. I didn’t like him.”
“Did he ever give any pictures to Darren? Did you ever see any?”
“Course.”
Sharon struggled up from the satin pillows. “Come ’ere,” she said. Billy followed her into a closet-like space off the living room. Dark cloth hung over the single window. A narrow bed had rumpled blue sheets. Posters of Marilyn Manson and Metallica were attached to the walls with staples. Sharon lifted a red notebook from a table beside the bed. She slapped it open, her hand smacking the paper. Two Polaroids were stuck in the back of the notebook. “I found these in the garbage a few days ago. Maybe a week or so. I thought Darren lost them, so I put ’em back in his schoolbook. You can have ’em. He don’t need them.” She dropped the notebook, covered her face with her left hand, and with the right thrust the two pictures at Billy.
“Can you remember what Darren was wearing on Friday?”
“No. Just his normal clothes.”
“Did he wear jeans, a jacket, boots?”
“Sort of. I mean, he liked black. I guess it was a black shirt and jeans. Why?”
“We’re still looking for his clothes, Mrs. Riegert. They may help us find the person who hurt Darren.”
Sharon Riegert raised her hands. “I don’t wanta hear.” Quickly, she left the room.
Billy examined the photos; one showed a large red Valentine box of chocolates; the other was a picture of Darren, his eyes half closed, wearing a leather jacket. Billy looked in the closet and found only rumpled shirts and underwear. He bent down and scanned the floor under the bed, finding nothing. Where was the leather jacket? Billy returned to the living room. Sharon was wiping her eyes and holding the stuffed dog to her chest.
“May I keep these for a while, Sharon?”
“You can have them all you want.”
“Do you know where Darren’s jacket is?”
Sharon looked at the Polaroid and shrugged. Billy glanced towards the front door. A row of coat hooks held cloth jackets and a raincoat.
“Did Woody ever hurt Darren?”
“No. Okay, maybe he hit him once. I don’t remember. It didn’t mean nothing.”
“Did Darren ever say Blayne hurt him? Or wanted to hurt him?”
; “He never talked to me about the fat kid. I just saw them once in a while, that’s all.”
Butch came into the room. Woody was right behind him, wearing a drunken grin.
“You got nothing on me, Chief. Ask her. Ask her where I was!”
Sharon stood up. She began to shake.
“I didn’t tell him nothin’, Woody! I said ya went out for a little while. That’s all. I was in bed. I was tired, I didn’t. . . .”
“It’s all right, Sharon,” said Butch, toning his voice to sound calm.
“You men want a beer or somethin’?” Woody laughed.
“Come on, Billy. Good day, folks,” said Butch.
“Mind you shut the door nice, now,” cried Woody.
Back in the cruiser, Butch lit up.
“Nothing,” said Butch. “Of course. We’d need a warrant to search the place. But who knows? He may have dumped anything he had, if he was there. But I got a bad itch in my armpit, and when I itch about someone I’m usually right.”
“Was he wearing an elastic band in his hair?”
“Yeah. Bright red.”
“She told me a little herself. Calls Sheree Lynn Bird a witch. But better, she said Blayne Morton had been around the house. That he had a camera. She gave me these.”
Billy showed Butch the photos. “Look at the back of the one with the Valentine.”
Butch read out loud: “‘Meet Me at Gym Later, or Else.’“
“Sound like a threat to you?”
“We got us a sweetheart. Can’t wait to meet him.”
“Sharon didn’t know what went on between the two boys. She kept lashing out at Sheree Lynn Bird.”
“That’s guilt talking, buddy. She’s a beater. Sheree was the only loving mother type the kid probably had.”
“Perhaps,” said Billy. Sheree Lynn Bird brought out a fear, an anger, in these people. Billy wasn’t so sure the reactions of these parents could be so easily dismissed.
“Speaking of elastics,” he then said, filling up the sudden silence between them. “Let’s get the one we found today over to the lab. We might get lucky and find one of Woody’s hairs.”