by David Dagley
Cale looked out to the front of the house and saw a second team of officers taking photos, dusting the patrol car and the surrounding area for prints. He walked over near Rayman’s body and bent down to look closely. The head was severely burned beyond recognition. Hair had burned off the victim’s charred head. Exposed skin had burned and blistered and later fallen away under pressure of a fire hose. Cale asked, “How do you know it’s him?”
“His wallet was found under the beam near his hand. We took it from him after the initial photo series. The beam removed from Stell’s back also covered the wallet, protecting it from burning,” said the photographer.
Chief Mathews explained, “We won’t be one hundred percent sure until the dental records are checked. But Mr. Stell does live here alone. The victim’s blood is already on its way downtown.”
Cale stood up, looked down at the body, and asked, “Where’s the wallet now?”
The photographer went to a small box, pulled out a bag with the wallet in it, and handed it to Cale.
Cale opened the wallet through the plastic bag and read the information on the driver’s license, stating, “This license is expired, and there are no credit cards in this wallet.” Cale looked up at Chief Mathews then glanced at the photographer, neither of which responded. Cale then looked back at the information on the license, turned his head the length of the body, and said, “It says here that Rayman Stell is six-two?” Again Cale glanced at Mathews and at the photographer standing nearby and continued, “This guy’s about five-eight or nine. What do you think?” Cale watched as Chief Mathews and the photographer looked at the body, trying to size up the victim. Cale showed the license to Chief Mathews, “See, six-two.”
The photographer stated cynically, “Yeah, but even a ham shrinks when it’s cooked.” He clicked off some more photos without looking at Cale or Chief Mathews.
Chief Mathews said as he took the bagged wallet, “I have a tape measure in my truck, and we’ll double-check with his DMV records.” He delicately walked away from the body.
Cale added, “You’ve got the DMV records on the expired license.” Cale shook his head and moved on, looking around trying to remember where things were, where the table was on which Rayman compared his Moguk stones with the stones found at the museum. He estimated the distance from the front door and moved to where he thought it had been. Satisfied with his location, Cale looked over his left shoulder to where the floor safe should be located. A large pile of debris covered the spot. He walked to the edge of the pile and knelt down, looking under and into the darkness of the pile. While stretching his arm out under the pile, searching for loose floorboards, his hand dropped into a hole, but felt nothing. Cale stood up and tried to wipe the black soot off his hands, but failed, then looked down at the two black soot smudge marks on his knees and spoke to the photographer, “Was this pile of wood here when you got here or piled here by the firemen?”
“A bit of both. It’s part of the roof that fell in. Plus when the firemen discovered the body, they piled more there, not really thinking about disturbing evidence but about possibly saving someone,” explained the photographer as he took some photos of the pile of charred rafters and the bits of melted fiberglass insulation. He inquisitively asked, “Why? What’s underneath?”
“I’m pretty sure there’s a floor safe down there somewhere.”
Mathews had arrived and heard what Cale had said. Mathews looked at the photographer and waved another officer over.
The photographer couldn’t help himself; he had to ask, “What’s in it?”
Cale shrugged off the question, “Yesterday, there was a thermos full of rare and very expensive Moguk rubies, but if my suspicions are correct, it’s probably empty now, especially if that is not Rayman Stell.”
Cale wandered around the pile of debris, while Chief Mathews explained to an officer, “We need to get to the bottom of this pile as carefully as possible. I want you to get some other officers together and carry one piece at a time past the edge of the foundation and outside the tape. Lay the pieces out in some organized fashion. I want someone to try and identify and tag each piece and where it came from in the construction of the house. Everybody wears heavy gloves for protection against heat, sharp objects, and nails.”
Cale looked around the living room, remembering what some of the items were and where they stood. He could barely make out some of their leftover traces. Some of the metal sections of spears remained in a loose cluster, spilling out of the corner, and the old instrument Cale had strummed—the body was gone but the neck was still recognizable. Cale grabbed a stick and flipped through a stack of black papers on the ground near where the desk had been. They were still hot in the middle. He saw the partially melted metal frame of the photograph of Rayman’s family. He realized everyone in the photo had possibly died except one, the young girl wearing all black with cat ears mounted on her head and a black mask covering her eyes and nose. Her mouth was open, baring a plastic set of fangs, and her hands posed like cat claws in front of her. On her hands she wore black fingerless gloves exposing painted glitter pearl nail extensions. Cale said to no one in particular, “Monica Won Stell.”
Mathews asked, “Can you come with me for a second, Detective?”
Cale responded hypnotically, “Yeah.”
Mathews walked with Cale and admitted, “The news people already think its Rayman Stell’s body, so if you’re right, there’s going to be a bit of explaining to do. I’m hoping you can fill me in on what you know so I don’t look like a moron for very long.”
“Of course.” Cale stopped, looked out to the road, and saw a camera crew filming a newsperson. The smoldering scene was the backdrop, and Cale realized he was standing alone in the middle of it. He thought back to the jeweler and the brothers swapping clothes with the dead and running into the jungle for safety. Cale turned to the hillside and looked for police officers in the woods, but only saw slush footprints going a short ways off in every direction. He asked over his shoulder, “Has anyone searched through the woods at all?”
Mathews looked out into the woods, “No. We were more concerned with the fire until you showed up. By the way, the DMV confirms his driver’s license. He’s six-two.”
Mathews walked back to the body, pulled the tape measure out head to toe, and said, “Five foot seven. Shit.” He stood up, put his hands on his hips, and looked out into the woods. “We’ve got to get some people in those woods immediately, before the snow completely melts.”
“Do you have any people here who are careful with detail? Because if there’s anything out there, it’s fading fast.” offered Cale.
Chief Mathews went out of the yellow tape and called to two of his officers. They responded rapidly, and two patrol cars drove out in opposite directions after a fire truck. The camera crews continued to shoot snapshots and roll their cameras. The chief called into the police station and requested a dog team on the site, then returned to Cale. “Detective Dixon, can I talk to you at the station now?”
“Yeah, sure. I have to get to a phone anyway. I forgot to recharge my cell phone battery. How long will DNA testing take?”
Chief Mathews answered regretfully as he got in his truck, “Awhile, a few days at the earliest. Our town is not exactly set up for such procedures, except for maternity stuff where you spit in a cup. Otherwise it’s body or tissue samples, in this case, bacon. By the time we get the results, the wrong news will be out, and I’m going to have to deal with it, one way or another.”
Cale nodded slowly as he headed for his car and followed the chief down to the police station. When they arrived, the first thing Cale did was call Victoria.
“Research department, this is Victoria.”
“Victoria, hi. It’s Cale.”
“Cale, I just caught the news in the break room,” she exclaimed.
“Yeah, but it’s not Rayman. The victim is shorter than Rayman by four or five inches. Listen, could you call Monica again and tell her what’s goi
ng on here? Make sure she understands that it’s not Rayman Stell in the smoldering ruins. Besides that, get as much information from her, on her, as you can about their finances, deposits, and police records, DMV, all that.”
“I have Monica’s information here. She’s clean except for some parking tickets, which doesn’t surprise me, living in DC. The captain is working on some clearance issues. He actually seems excited to be doing his part,” Victoria said amazed. “What’s next?”
“I’m at the Driggs police station for awhile explaining what I know to the chief here and then off to the airport to fly to DC to meet with Ms. Stell, if she’s around. Monica is the last trace of the whole Stell family. Rayman is alive but now on the run. He probably saw the news by now, and he knows I have her address. I have to make a connecting flight in either Seattle or Denver to get to DC, so it’s going to take some time to get there. I’ll call you.” Cale hung up and walked into the Driggs police chief’s office.
—
38
—
Mr. Won looked up at the domestic flight arrival schedule to see if Lyin’s flight was going to be on time. He had a half an hour until Lyin was to arrive from Idaho. He saw a restaurant sign and walked towards the entrance. He looked for a television that he could watch while he waited. A server came over, turned a plastic menu holder towards Mr. Won, and asked, “Can I get you something from our snack menu or something to drink?”
“Yes. Coffee, please. And I’ll see if there’s anything here that strikes me on your menu,” he said graciously.
The server smiled and wrote on an order pad while she turned and walked off towards the bar.
Mr. Won looked around the restaurant quickly and took off his coat, rolling it freely over the back of his chair. There was a soft muttering of patrons and clink of dishes being stacked off in some distant corner of the kitchen. Mr. Won looked up at the television screen and sat back in his chair.
The television broke into a morning news review. An anchor man spoke crisply, “A man was caught in a house fire in Driggs, Idaho, late last night or early this morning. Authorities believe the fire may have been set deliberately. Jen Turner is following the story from Driggs, Idaho. Jen? Any further developments? What can you tell us?”
Jen stood alongside the road, “Thanks, Mark. Behind me is the Stell ranch house where Rayman Stell lived alone.” The cameras zoomed over her shoulder and focused on the wet smoldering remnants of a wall then backed up to encompass the entire house. The police photographer stood behind the house, taking pictures of burned wood being carried out by both police and some remaining firemen from a pile near the middle of the house. “Sometime in the early hours of morning, a fire broke out on all sides of this house, trapping a man inside. It’s not clear whether he was unconscious or sleeping prior to the fire starting. Originally, the police assumed it was Rayman Stell who was burned to death, but now we have reason to believe that the police don’t know that for sure. The reason I say that Mark is that about a half hour ago a San Francisco detective flashed his badge ten feet away from me and walked on to the scene. Within fifteen minutes we picked up on our police scanner the Driggs Police Chief Mathews calling his dispatch for confirmation from the DMV details of Rayman Stell. Apparently there’s a discrepancy in the victim’s appearance, besides three-quarters of his body being severely burned. After the chief received the information he needed from dispatch, he and the detective returned to the body and measured it with a standard measuring tape. Immediately after that, two police cars rushed a fire truck out of the way in order to get out, and they headed off in opposite directions. The police chief and the detective just left a few minutes ago in separate cars, heading for the police station.” While Jen spoke, the television screen showed Detective Cale Dixon, center stage, with the smoldering house in the background.
Mr. Won recognized the detective standing in the front yard, looking off into the nearby forest. He watched as the police chief and the detective walked back into the taped area and measured the body. The officers stood up and both looked off into the woods in different directions before the chief hailed two police officers, who briskly moved to their vehicles, followed a fire truck out of the driveway, and sped off in opposite directions.
The camera focused on Jen’s face, “I spoke with one of the local firemen earlier, who grew up in the area and knew Rayman Stell since elementary school. He said that the Stell family has had a string of bad luck as long as he can remember. When I asked for examples of what he meant, the fireman said that Rayman’s mother had died from a poisoning when Rayman was young and that his father had disappeared when Rayman was in high school. Rayman was then taken care of by his uncle, who left his daughter in boarding school on the East Coast while he was in Driggs. Monica Stell, Rayman’s cousin, lives in Washington DC. The uncle also disappeared from this house a few years later, while Rayman and Monica were both off studying at different universities. The fireman said that he had dated Monica Stell a few times when she came to stay at the ranch house, but for the most part she remained on the East Coast.” Jen turned towards the driveway and pointed. The camera followed as she spoke, “As you can see, there are still a lot of police here, and the victim’s remains are still being photographed while half buried under or near a large crossbeam of the roof. Obviously the scene has been taped off to protect the evidence of this tragic event. Since the San Francisco detective arrived, the police haven’t given us any more details than what we can see from the road and what we can piece together. Back to you, Mark.”
“Jen, do you know the San Francisco detective’s name?” asked the anchor man.
“I’m sorry, no, but hopefully we will with an update.” Jen frowned.
The television focused on the anchorman, “Okay, thanks, Jen. That was Jen Turner in Driggs, Idaho. We’ll be checking back with her later in the day as clues and information come to us. We are going to have a station break. Sports and weather are next.”
Mr. Won was horrified. He put his hand over his mouth as tears glazed his eyes, staring at the television.
The waitress put his coffee down and left the receipt next to it. She looked at Mr. Won and could see his anguish. She turned to the television and saw an ad for constipation pills. She then looked back at Mr. Won and said softly, “I’ll come back, or just leave the money on the table.”
Mr. Won went to the gate and watched every person come through the door. Lyin was not among the travelers. He knew that Lyin was lying at the bottom of the burned ranch house forever searching for the Moguk stones.
Mr. Won’s cell phone rang in his pocket. He pulled it out, hoping it was Lyin and that he missed his flight. He looked at the number. It was his mother’s phone.
“Yo bo say yo?”
“Son?”
“Yes.”
“Where are you?”
“I’m at the airport. I just put my brother’s body on a flight back to Seoul.”
“Good. Is Lyin with you?”
Mr. Won eyes closed, realizing she knew everything, and he responded, “No. I think he’s dead.”
“What are you going to do next?”
“I am going to Washington DC to see this Monica Stell person.”
“My son, your father doesn’t know she exists. But I have known about her since her birth. Your sister wrote me a letter before she killed herself. I think your father would look upon her as an abomination and rather she didn’t exist, but I want you to bring her home with you. She has Cho blood and Won blood in her veins, which makes her family. I wish to educate her on our family. Will you do this for your mother? Her address is 1260 Euclid Street, near Dupont Circle.”
“If she’s white, she will die.” Mr. Won hung up and walked towards the ticket counters.
—
39
—
Victoria sat at her desk working on her computer when the fax machine began to sputter. It beeped when the last page came through, and she rolled her chair over and reached out
to gather the pages. They were from the Squire Hotel in New York, Mr. Cummings, head of security. The first page was a photo of a man in a light-colored trench coat carrying a suit bag over his left arm. The photo was taken in the lobby, not at the reception desk. The phone rang. Victoria picked it up, “Research. Victoria Short.”
“Ms. Short, this is Mr. Cummings, head of security at the Squire Hotel in New York. Did you get my fax?”
“Yes, I’m looking at the two photos right now,” she said, holding up a photo of twenty people crowding around the reception and lobby area.
“I’m sorry we don’t have a better photo of him, but he seems to only come to the reception desk to pick up his key. He pays for his room through an account set up in Washington DC, and we send a receipt. It takes him a very short amount of time to get his key, plus he’s wearing a hat and never looks up. As you can see, there are a lot of other people in the photo. Apparently a tour group had just arrived. He’s the one in the light trench coat. I did manage to find a maid who vaguely remembers cleaning his room after he’d gone, and she said that it didn’t look like he slept there. The beds were still made, but the towels and bathroom were in general disarray. The maid said she’s never seen his face, but guesses he’s around fifty or so. I then asked the restaurant accountant, and they checked their records for the last few dates he’d stayed with us; they came up empty. It doesn’t look like he ate here. I’m sorry I can’t be of more help.”