Dead Investigation

by Charlie Price

  “He was a financial officer?”

  “I suppose so. From the money he brought home every two weeks, more like a bookkeeper.”

  “Where did he work?”

  “Trask Engineering. Up on Air Park.”

  That name had some meaning but Gates couldn’t connect it at the moment. “No one who’d loan David money for another house? No inheritance coming? No parents to bail him out?”

  “I suppose it’s sad. David was pleasant, too oblivious to be kind but never intentionally hurtful. He was a cypher. Nothing to him. Anyone close is either dead or uninterested. Ariel never asked about him after we moved.”

  The woman stood. “I wish I could help you…”

  CARDS ON THE TABLE OR SHOVEL’S IN THE SHED?

  The three of them were sitting together around the woodstove in the small cabin’s living room. Pearl sprawled in the boxy low-armed love seat where she usually read or finished homework after dinner. Janochek leaned forward in his ratty maroon recliner, angled toward Murray, who’d brought in a kitchen chair and straddled it. Murray, fidgeting, embarrassed, didn’t want to talk about hearing the voices and, more, didn’t want to admit he’d been hiding it from Pearl and Janochek. Thoughts jumbled, he couldn’t decide what to say.

  Pearl directed. “Tell us when this started.”

  “I’m not sure. Back at least a couple of weeks or more. First time, they were real weak. Top of the bluff above the rodeo grounds. I didn’t think anything. Cats or something. When I cleared trash up by the east hedge, there they were. Each time a little louder. I couldn’t keep ignoring it. Decided to look.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  Pearl again, and Murray thought he heard more than irritation in her voice, maybe her feelings were hurt.

  “The last time I told you, you wouldn’t let it go. You went and got a shovel.” Murray wouldn’t look at her. “I didn’t want to go through that again.”

  “You won’t have to,” Janochek said. “This time’s different. The three of us are together on whatever it is. None of us will exhume anything. If we think it’s right, I’ll call the police.”

  “Not Sergeant Drummond! He hates me.” Murray had a vivid memory of the red-faced man, hardened, like he’d seen too much stupidity or cruelty and could barely contain his anger.

  “Okay,” Janochek said, “not Drummond or the police. Gates. Sheriffs. He turned out to be reasonable.”

  “If you don’t remember, he accused both of us of killing Nikki Parker.” Murray knew he would never forget that particular moment in the hospital when he was recovering from his gunshot wound. Gates, like a giant standing at the foot of his bed, mad and threatening to arrest him.

  “I recall,” Janochek said, “very well, but he mellowed. He wound up asking for the help we offered. Caught the murderer from information you gave him.”

  INVESTIGATION TERMINATED

  From his interview with Payne’s ex, Gates drove straight back to the department and once again raked through the stack of reports he’d been given as well as others he’d accumulated during the course of this investigation. Found what he was looking for in a handwritten note attached to the sheet recording his Domestic Violence intervention at the Barker household last year. “Chuck Barker, Chief Financial Officer, Trask Engineering, Air Park Drive.” He would have been David Payne’s boss. It would have been Barker’s call to fire Payne.

  Gates knew there was more. Digging through the file again, he found it in a later addendum, a prior search on the name Chuck Barker. “Chuck Barker named in federal inquiry, comptroller interviewed: embezzlement and fraud investigation, Riverton-based company. Investigation terminated for lack of evidence.”

  He went to the N-DEx computer that connected local, state, and federal law enforcement agencies. Entered “David Payne, Riverton, CA.” Within two minutes a single entry typed itself onto the office printer. “David Payne, accountant/finance officer, questioned 2008 July. Re: federal inquiry, embezzlement and tax fraud. Investigation terminated for lack of evidence.”

  Gates returned to the N-DEx and entered the FBI inquiry number. Shortly received a one-page synopsis detailing the embezzlement and tax fraud investigation initiated April 2008 to connect a California engineering firm with a syndicate-owned Gulf Coast Louisiana/Mississippi gambling operation.

  An FBI mole reported an exec from Trask Engineering was regularly investing as much as five million dollars’ worth of company assets on “design research and development” for a fictitious casino–amusement park complex in Gulf Coast, Louisiana. On paper, the five mil would appear as an expense, thus substantially reducing Trask’s tax liability. The lump-sum investment would be redeemed in a few years. Having been previously written off as a business expense, the money would now be an unreported windfall to put in personal untraceable accounts for the engineering firm’s CEO or CFO, whoever was arranging the deal.

  September 2008 the investigation was terminated following a catastrophic tropical storm in the Gulf of Mexico that hit the shore, decimating the targeted gambling structures and destroying evidentiary material.

  Two employees of Trask coming up in the same case? As a bettor, Gates knew the odds against that were astronomical. Barker and Payne connected? The answer could reveal why these particular homeless were targeted. Gates hoped so, since, as yet, there was no hard evidence linking Barker to either Payne’s disappearance or the other missing homeless.

  On the surface it made no sense. A wealthy executive whacking street people? Nobody would buy that. And no bodies, no crime. If the homeless were not just missing but dead, it would take phenomenal luck to locate the bodies. Not one had been found during the past month.

  Kiefer.

  Gates was uncomfortable with his association. Could the kid even do that? Gates shook his head as he realized that somehow, sometime, unbeknownst to himself, he had come to accept the boy’s talent even if he didn’t understand it, even if he didn’t believe in such things. And he also remembered what he really wanted to ask the strange boy.

  Speak to my son?

  ROPE BURN

  Murray closed his eyes, searching his memory. “The rodeo grounds side of our fence. I couldn’t get to where they were from the cemetery. I didn’t think so anyway. The moaning scared me. I couldn’t make out what they were saying but I couldn’t ignore them … I imagined they were some people from a long time ago … like some massacre and they were buried together and time passed and the cemetery changed.”

  Janochek was nodding. “When you asked me about boundaries and the history of the place.”

  “Yeah, but I guess I couldn’t convince myself. So this afternoon I climbed the hill over to where the voices were strongest and just as I got there I slipped, slid down a little, and that’s when I saw the rope.”

  Pearl’s eyebrows knitted when he said that.

  “No, really, just lying there, pretty much covered in dirt so it was hard to see, wouldn’t be seen”—Murray knew he was talking faster and faster—“and I knew the guy was using it to pull himself up the hill when he was carrying a body and there were all these people buried between two trees—”

  “Easy there,” Janochek broke in, “take a breath.”

  Murray stopped, felt foolish, like a little boy who’d been frightened by a strange man in his living room and run to tell his mother.

  “So a rope went up the hill to the grave site,” Pearl said, “which looked like what?”

  “Messed-up ground, high on the bluff. Dirt clods and stuff. Like somebody’d dug it up and then spread a few leaves back over it. That’s where the voices were coming from.”

  “How many?” This from Janochek.

  “I don’t know. Four? Eight? I couldn’t tell.”

  Janochek rubbed his forehead. “I don’t remember several people being killed. Not in the news.” He looked at Pearl. “You?”

  “No way. Everybody’d be all over it,” she said, absentmindedly twisting her hair between her fingers.
“Could it have happened a long time ago?”

  “I looked in the papers, for the past month. I didn’t go back further than that but I didn’t see anything. So it was probably a slaughter. Maybe a hundred years ago … or more. Like people from a homestead or a wagon train.” Murray knew that didn’t sound very convincing.

  “Nope,” Janochek said, “the ground wouldn’t be freshly disturbed … or there’d be more than just a rope. If archaeologists were uncovering something on the bluff, there’d be equipment. Sifters, frames.”

  Murray knew the truth. Didn’t know how he knew. Someone’s killing people. Hiding them. He made himself stay quiet, sit still while his stomach porcupined.

  “Can I come when you do it, Dad?”

  “Look at the site? I don’t think so, honey. One reason, the more people that go up there, the harder it is to investigate for remaining evidence. And … until we know more about this, we don’t know … if somebody’s killed several people … I don’t think I’ll even do it alone. Tomorrow I’ll call Gates and see what he suggests.” Janochek pushed himself up. “You want to stay with us tonight?” he asked.

  Murray nodded, surprised as he felt his shoulders loosen, possibly for the first time in hours. “I could sleep by the fire.” He tugged his hoodie collar tighter and crossed his arms.

  Pearl rose and left the room. Came back with a blanket. “Warm up, Banshee Boy. We got work tomorrow.”

  DAYMARES

  Murray needed to sleep but couldn’t find a way. He kept wishing he were different. An ordinary kid. He hadn’t felt normal for a long time. Early on, when he was five or six, he realized he could tell how his mother felt, predict what she was going to do next the moment he saw her. This wasn’t unusual. Just family. Only two of them. When he met one of her men he immediately knew whether to avoid him at all costs. When he tried to warn his mother about some of these guys, she thanked him. Ignored his concern. Shushed him if he brought it up again. Again, normal.

  But he could tell when she was going to go on a crazy speed run before he knew about drugs. Maybe she was extra antsy, or maybe she was suddenly cheerful after she’d been down for days. Or maybe it was just when some new guy left money on the coffee table. She’d leave the house for a while and come back talking a mile a minute, start dancing by herself with the TV and stereo both blaring. She’d pick at her hair and scratch her arms till they bled sometimes. Murray tried to stay out of her way. She was smiling, but she didn’t seem happy.

  One time, he must have been nine or ten, she went out the door and before it even closed he got this horrible feeling. Scared. Vomity. He ran and caught her on the sidewalk, begged her not to leave. She brushed him off and went anyway. Came home the next day all banged up, black eyes, bruises on her face and arms. She’d said car accident, but she wouldn’t talk about it. Maybe that was normal, too. Lots of people got in car accidents … except he was sure. Somebody had beat her up.

  He’d always felt lonely. Wished for a brother or sister, but it never happened. He read or heard at school about imaginary friends and he tried but couldn’t do it. Even when he covered the kitchen table with a blanket and got under it like he was in an old-timey covered wagon and tried to imagine another pioneer boy to talk to, nothing happened. That made him feel stupid and he never did it again.

  So how could he explain talking to dead people? It would help to have a story. Maybe he could say he was trapped under the ice, like that boy in Michigan who was frozen but came back to life. He could say that caused it. I was dead. I got to know how they talk. Except he didn’t remember being dead. He longed to meet just one other person who could hear the dead. Then he wouldn’t be so alone, and worse, mental.

  A teacher told him.

  His third grade class had been on a field trip at Mary Lake and walked near a cemetery. Saint Michael’s. And Murray told her he heard people talking in there. When the teacher looked, she didn’t see anybody. She leaned and whispered, “Don’t say things like that.” He had forgotten. Forgotten. How could he? His stomach cramped just thinking about it. Didn’t that mean he’d always been nuts? Defective? And he even hid it from himself.

  He’d cut off his arm if the voices would just leave him alone. Oh. Wait. The dead were his only friends … but he just wanted to hear their voices, not the others. And so he went round and round, over and over. It was a twisted loop and there didn’t seem to be an alternative. Couldn’t have one without risking the other. He knew one thing. If people knew what a freak he really was, they’d put him away or drive a stake through his heart. This is why people pray, to keep from being eaten by demons.

  He got off the couch and looked for a magazine. Anything to distract.

  LONG-DISTANCE PHOTO

  The following morning at briefing Gates learned Rex had failed to show at the mission. Missed dinner. Didn’t appear for breakfast. Extremely unusual. Apparently Rex didn’t mind sleeping in a doorway, but never missed a warm meal.

  Gates found the lieutenant in his office. Asked to be relieved of Major Crimes duties for a few days to concentrate on the unsolved cases he’d been given. Said he believed he’d made a breakthrough on the Payne disappearance and now had identified a viable suspect that might connect several uncleared cases and possibly a teenage missing person. The lieutenant pulled the duty-rosters clipboard off its hook beside his desk, examined the sheets. Gave Gates a week. Said he’d get more if he needed.

  Gates called a judge and got a search warrant for Trask Engineering personnel documents. Made a phone appointment to speak with the firm’s CEO later that afternoon. Used his own cloaked cell to ascertain whether Chuck Barker still worked at Trask or whether he’d retired. Found he was in a meeting until noon.

  Fine by Gates. He could get the photo he needed when the man went to lunch. Check out a camera with a telephoto lens from the supply room, get a pic of Barker’s face without alerting him to the investigation.

  At 11:45 Gates was in his pickup at the curb on Benton Drive with an excellent view of the Trask building’s entrance and Barker’s Lexus in the parking lot. At 12:30, just as Gates was wishing he’d brought coffee and a snack, Barker exited the building and Gates got four close-ups of his face from different angles before the man reached his car.

  Couldn’t wait. Drove to the mission and showed the pics to the counselor. He’d never seen the man. Cathy, the administrator, came into the dayroom with a stack of orientation flyers. Saw the camera and leaned over. “That looks a little like Mr. Engle,” the woman said, turning the small screen to eliminate as much glare as possible.

  “If it is, how do you know him?” Gates automatically taking out his notepad.

  “He made a sales call about a bookkeeping method his company had developed especially for nonprofits. Asked about our staffing and operations. Asked for our client roster to get an idea of our average census, gender, and age group, to determine if the process might be cost-effective for us.”

  The woman looked up. “He’s going to send us a price quote sometime this month,” she said, searching Gates’s face. “Shouldn’t I have done that? Why are you asking?”

  “Broad inquiry. If you see him again, please give me a call.” Gates handed her a card and was out the door before she or the counselor could ask more.

  Gates had felt his phone buzz while he’d been in the dayroom. Back in his truck he got his voice mail. Roth Trask, the engineering company’s CEO, had declined meeting with Gates on the advice of his attorney. If Gates insisted, the man would only speak, if at all, with his lawyer present. Cited prior negative experience with law enforcement officials.

  Gates had suspected the man might equivocate regarding knowledge of Payne and Barker and the earlier federal investigation. At this point, it didn’t matter. Gates had everything he needed to proceed with his main suspect. Now it was only a question of tactics. Should he bring Barker in for questioning and present the pile of circumstantial evidence? Or should he meet the man at his house after work and inquire about h
is son’s disappearance? Catch him off guard with a follow-up question about the federal investigation and the man’s relationship with David Payne?

  HILL AND FAIL

  Saturday morning Janochek didn’t call Gates and he didn’t go to the burial site alone. Murray took Janochek and Pearl to the top of the hill, to the hedge separating the cemetery from the bluff overlooking the rodeo grounds. The voices hit him like a burst of wind but he ignored them as best he could. “This is where I hear them,” he said, pointing at the hedge. “On the other side, almost to the top? That’s the evergreen the rope’s tied to.”

  Janochek did his best to part the hedge’s thick branches and see through. Gave up. Said, “Let’s go to the other side.”

  When they’d walked back as far as the cottage, Janochek stopped and faced Pearl. “You stay here, honey. If someone’s keeping an eye on the hill … I can’t imagine anyone is, but I don’t want them to see you. Don’t want you to be a target.”

  Murray had overlooked that possibility—if someone saw him nosing around the graves, they’d kill him, too. Obvious, now that Janochek said it. Maybe he could just draw Janochek a map. Not go back there again.

  “You want me to go with the two of you or you want me to go by myself later?” Pearl asked her father, eyes blazing.

  Pearl was so brave. Once again made Murray feel guilty. He noticed Janochek stiffen, his face flushing.

  “You would willfully disobey me when I’m trying to protect you?”

  Pearl didn’t answer.

  “Damn it, we’re just going around to the bottom of the hill. There’ll be nothing to see. We’re not going to get close or disturb anything.”

  Pearl remained silent, keeping her eyes on her father.

  Murray thought he knew how this would turn out. Victory often went to the most stubborn.