“Boring as hell,” Rick said. “I’m not going to lie. I miss the work but not enough to come back.” Benny was called to the other end of the bar. Rick turned toward Parker, looking at him closely. “You’re a bit green to be the lead on this one, aren’t you?”
Parker took a drink of club soda. “I’m the perfect man for the job.”
“Why’s that?”
“I was born and raised in Portland. If the people in town are going to talk with anyone, it’s going to be with me.”
“You may have a point,” Rick said and took a long swallow of beer. “Damn funny town of yours. Most people like to talk; they like the attention. But the people in your neck of the woods, they don’t say a word. You ask them a question, and they stare at you as though they don’t speak the same language. Why do you think that is?”
“They’re private people,” Parker said, trying to keep the defensiveness he felt out of his tone. He couldn’t help it. He had a loyalty to his hometown that had never left him. Maybe it had to do with the way he had been raised with a sense of responsibility, devotion to the small, tight community that for the most part had been a safe place to grow up. Maybe that was why he’d transferred to the field station at the first opportunity, to be close to the people who knew him best, to live his life quietly alongside the river and leave behind the day-to-day problems that came with the job. There was truth to this, but there was also a deeper reason for why he’d returned, one he was just starting to figure out.
“If you ask me, they don’t talk because they’re scared,” Rick said.
Parker didn’t reply. He didn’t have to. There was a certain look on the faces of the people in town that he’d recognized on his own father’s face. He’d been a boy when he’d first become aware of his father’s activities where the Scions were concerned. It had happened one night when Parker had been up late, past his bedtime, when there had been a knock on their back door. His father had opened the door to find a rough-looking guy on their stoop. The guy had had his hand pressed to his abdomen, blood pouring through his fingers.
“In here,” Parker’s father had said, leading the man in the leather cut and tattoos to his office on the side of the house where his private practice had been located. He’d directed the man to lie on the table. The door to the examination room had been left open a crack, and Parker had peered in, watched as his father had worked, cutting the clothes away from the guy’s wound, blood splattering the front of his father’s white lab coat that he’d thrown on over his pajamas at the last second.
The man had been sweating, his face a putrid white. “The motherfucker stabbed me,” he’d said.
“Don’t say anything more,” his father had said, working frantically to stop the bleeding. “I don’t want to know.” In another hour, his father had had him stitched up, and then he’d left the examination room where the man had lain resting, waiting for his ride.
His father had returned to the house and poured himself a shot of whiskey.
Parker had stepped out of the shadows. His father had jumped. His hand had been shaking.
“Why do you help them?” Parker had asked, wondering why his father had bothered to help men like the Scions.
“Everybody deserves care,” his father had said. “Even criminals,” he’d added.
Parker’s father had never reported the incidents to the local police. He’d treated the members of the club without questions whenever they’d appeared on their doorstep, sometimes at all hours of the day and night, with open wounds, busted-up faces, gashes on their heads, swollen knuckles, and broken fingers. Parker believed his father had been afraid to turn the men away, to turn them in out of fear of what they might have done to him if he had, when all Parker had wanted to do was put them behind bars.
“Tell me about your case,” Rick said.
Parker didn’t see any reason why not. He’d stick to the facts. “The victim was a young guy from Jersey. He had some priors, the biggest being a felony for armed robbery. There are rumors he was involved with a motorcycle gang in Jersey. It’s not clear what his connection to them might be. Nothing in the system to confirm one way or the other.”
Rick drank from the mug. “And what about the body?” he asked.
“Shot and gutted and dumped in the river.”
“And washed up on our side.”
“Don’t they always,” Parker said.
“Any problems with the Jersey State Police wanting to take it over?”
“They won’t touch it. We found some of the victim’s blood on our side of the river a few miles upstream from where the body washed up. No question it’s ours.” He thought about the clearing in the woods, the spot along the river where the dogs had picked up the scent, the blood where the guts had been discarded. They believed an animal had come along and devoured them, an animal that had gorged itself, had a taste for human flesh.
“What else have we got?” Rick asked.
We? Parker thought, but he let it go. He’d answer Rick’s questions, expecting Rick to hold up his end of the bargain and divulge the information he had on the first case, information that wasn’t in the original file.
“The victim was shot with a .30-06 rifle, same make and model as the first case but different gun, according to ballistics. The knife was a common hunting knife that any number of hunters in the entire Slate Belt area carries. We’re dragging the river for both.” They’d searched every inch of the crime scene and surrounding woods. Maybe they’d get lucky in the river. Ever since he’d been a young boy, Parker had believed the river had her own kind of intelligence and that she’d held secrets, and all a person had to do to hear them was listen.
He was listening.
“We dragged the river too,” Rick said. “What felt like every inch of it at the time. Never found the rifle or the knife. But it was the knife that interested me the most. The field dressing was his signature. If we would’ve found the knife, we would’ve had him.”
Parker had the same thoughts.
Rick continued. “We knew the Scions were involved. We had our suspect, the enforcer at the time, a guy by the name of Russell Jackson. We searched his place. We even tore apart his barn. I was so sure we’d find something.” He shrugged. “But we didn’t.”
Parker nodded. Rick wasn’t telling him anything he didn’t already know.
“I don’t suppose you have any witnesses?” Rick asked.
“None yet.” Parker stared at his glass. Condensation dripped down the sides, making a small puddle on the bar. He’d talked to a few potential witnesses, made a full sweep of the town, but so far no one had given him anything to go on. He was waiting for the local news media to move on and forget about his case before he tried again, knocking door-to-door. Only then would he have any chance of getting some information out of the locals. But Rick was right; people were scared.
Rick finished his beer and signaled Benny for another. He waited until his mug was refilled. When Benny stepped away, Rick picked up the mug and asked, “Do you know Clint Kingsley?”
“Yes.” Parker cleared his throat. “He was the chief of police until about five years ago.”
“Yeah, well, he was the first cop at the scene on the first case. He handled the investigation for the first seventy-two hours before we got wind of it, of the implications of what the case entailed. You know how important those first forty-eight hours are, so you can imagine my partner and I weren’t too thrilled about taking it on after seventy-two hours.”
Parker didn’t reply. Something told him the bad feeling he’d had earlier was about to get worse.
Rick continued. “He was annoyed. He didn’t seem to want us involved, and at the same time, it was like he didn’t want any part of it either. I thought it was a little strange, but like I said, the people in your town were a little peculiar around that time. No offense.”
“None taken,” Parker said and grabbed an ice cube to suck on.
“When we finally got around to his of
fice, his whole demeanor changed. He went from being annoyed to downright uncooperative. He wanted to know why we were so interested in the case. He said it was small-town stuff and he was perfectly capable of handling it. Then he goes on to tell us that since it was so small town, he hadn’t even finished his report and he needed some time. He said he was waiting for the medical examiner’s report. We told him not to worry about any of that, to just hand over whatever he had, we’d take it from there. But no, this guy insisted he finish his report and all but threw us out.”
“Maybe Clint just liked to keep the town’s police matters under his control. It was his job, after all,” Parker said. He refused to believe Becca’s father was incompetent or crooked in any way.
“Maybe. But the report we got was shit. Hell, he could’ve typed it up while we were standing there. There was nothing in it. I always suspected we didn’t get the original report from him, but I could never prove it. So we followed him for a while.”
“You tailed him?”
“Yeah, for a couple of weeks, to see what would turn up. Like I said, we didn’t have the rifle or the knife. We just didn’t have enough evidence to make an arrest. We knew the chief was the younger stepbrother of our guy, Russell. We were hoping he would lead us to him.”
“And?” Parker asked. The muscles in his arms tensed.
“And nothing,” Rick said. “Clint was clean. I’d even go as far as to say he was a good chief.”
Parker’s body relaxed.
“So that makes the flimsy report and his behavior all the more confusing.” He paused. “Well, there was one flaw in his character. Hell, nobody’s perfect.”
“And what was that?” They were talking about Becca’s father, a man Parker had looked up to most of his life, and his curiosity about Clint, his curiosity in general, had gotten the better of him.
“Let’s just say he liked women.”
Parker had heard the rumors before, how Clint had been seen around town with different women while he’d still been married to Becca’s mother. There was always some truth to gossip. Parker had wondered about it back when he and Becca had been in high school, but she hadn’t liked to talk about her father, and Parker hadn’t pried.
“And how is any of this supposed to help my case now?” He wondered what he was supposed to do with all of this noninformation. Russell Jackson was dead, so he couldn’t be responsible for this crime. But his son could be the copycat killer. Parker knew John Jackson had stepped in as the enforcer, taking his father’s place in the club. But what Parker hadn’t been able to find was what had eluded Rick on the first case, the hard evidence to make an arrest.
“Clint knew something,” Rick said. “All these years later, and it still keeps me up at night. He knew something. He wears a badge same as us, but he wasn’t talking. Why? Who was he protecting? Russell? The history we dug up on them was that they’d never gotten along. It didn’t seem likely that Clint would protect him, not for something this big.” He paused. “Well, that was my gut feeling anyway.”
The door to the bar swung open, bringing a draft of cold air into the place. Both Parker and Rick turned in their seats to see who had walked in. Parker recognized the pixie cut, the slight build, the big, careful eyes of the girl who had once been his best friend.
Rick was eying her closely. Parker’s pulse picked up. After what Rick had suspected about her father, Parker felt an overwhelming need to protect her. The best way he knew how was to pretend he hadn’t recognized her. He turned back to the bar, hoping she wouldn’t spot him.
“Hey,” Becca said, tapping him on the shoulder.
Parker turned around, feigning surprise. “Hey,” he said. “What are you doing here?”
“I was looking for you,” she said, touching the small stud in her right ear. “I stopped by the station. They told me to check here.”
“Aren’t you going to introduce me?” Rick asked, keeping his eyes on her.
Parker didn’t like the way the retired detective was looking her over. “Sorry,” Parker said. “Becca, this is Rick Smith.”
Rick seemed to be studying her face. “You look familiar,” he said. “Have we met before?”
“No,” Becca was quick to say—too quick, which made Parker think she was lying.
“Are you sure? I never forget a face, and yours is definitely familiar,” Rick said.
Behind where they were sitting, some of the guys hooted and hollered over the hockey game they were watching on TV.
Parker used the brief disruption as an opportunity. “Sit,” he said to Becca and pulled the stool out on the other side of him, putting himself between her and Rick.
No one said anything. Parker didn’t know how he was going to get Rick to leave, but then Rick stood. “Well, that’s it for me.” Before he walked away, he said to Becca, “I’m sure I know you from somewhere. It’ll come to me sooner or later. Probably in the middle of the night. Don’t you hate when that happens? I can never get back to sleep.” He stared at her a second more.
She kept her head down, didn’t reply. Parker wanted to shield her from Rick’s glare.
“Okay,” Rick said. “It was nice meeting you, Becca.” He slapped Parker on the back. “Keep in touch.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Becca was ten years old. She was outside skipping rope at the end of her driveway. Sheba was darting around the yard, carrying her favorite toy, the kind that squeaked every time she bit down.
“Forty-one, forty-two, forty-three.” Becca counted the jumps with each swing of the rope. Her goal was to make it to one hundred without missing.
Her mother was volunteering again at the nursing home across town. She’d been spending more and more of her free time there, out of their house and away from Becca’s father. Her mother read to the patients from their favorite books and magazines, and occasionally she styled the women’s hair or applied a little makeup to their cracked and withered faces. She’d said it made them feel better, like somebody cared. It made them feel human. But mostly, her mother had said, it made her feel good.
Becca’s father’s truck was parked in front of the garage. He’d chased her outside when he’d come home, eager for her to leave the house, demanded she play outdoors. He’d said he’d let her know when she could come back in. The weather was pleasant enough, so she didn’t mind so much, although the wind bit at her ears. She’d made it to sixty-six when her foot caught the rope just as a dark-blue sedan slowed and pulled into the driveway, coming to a full stop beside her.
She blinked.
The driver’s-side window went down. “Do you live here?” the man in the sedan asked.
“Yes, sir,” she said and looked back at the house. She wasn’t supposed to talk to strangers. Should she run and get her father? Or would he be angry at her for interrupting him? Sheba had stopped playing with her toy, although it was still in her mouth. She stood in the middle of the yard and stared at the car, eyes and ears alert.
The man in the sedan must’ve sensed her hesitation. “It’s okay,” he said and flashed his badge. “I’m a police officer. You can call me Jim, and this is my partner, Rick. Is that your dad’s truck? Is he home?”
Because her father was chief of police, she knew the other cops in town by name, but she had never heard of Jim or Rick. These two weren’t from Portland. They weren’t wearing the typical police-blue uniforms her father and the other Portland officers wore.
She took a step back.
“What do you say you take us inside,” Officer Jim said and got out of the car. He was tall and thin, in a suit and tie. He looked important. Sheba barked.
“My father’s home, but he doesn’t want to be disturbed.”
“Oh, yeah? Why’s that?”
By this time Officer Rick had gotten out of the car. He was wearing a suit too, and when he put his hand on his hip, Becca saw a gun strapped to his side.
“He has company,” she said.
Officer Jim smiled. “Is that so?” He tur
ned to his partner. “Maybe we should go in and see who it is.”
“We’re not here to get involved in small-town domestic shit,” Officer Rick said. “Just tell him we’re here,” he said to Becca.
She didn’t want to go inside and get her father, but she didn’t believe she had a choice. Sheba sniffed around the two officers’ legs. Officer Rick bent down to pet her.
Becca stepped through the front door, dragged her feet up the stairs. The mattress in her parents’ bedroom creaked. “Dad,” she called and knocked. There was more creaking, heavy breathing.
“Dad,” she hollered and kicked the door. The room grew quiet. Then there was the sound of muffled voices and shuffling around.
In the next minute, her father pulled open the door. “What the hell?” He stepped into the hall, yanked the door closed behind him. He was shirtless, and the button of his pants was undone. “I told you to wait outside.”
She stared at her feet. He smelled funny. “There are two police officers outside waiting to talk with you. They’re not from around here.”
He pushed past her and entered her bedroom to look out her window. “Shit,” he said and grabbed Becca by the arm. “Go on and tell them I’ll be out in a minute.”
She went back outside. Sheba was lying in the driveway, chewing the handle on Becca’s jump rope. “He’s coming,” she said to the two officers, looking at her feet once again, ashamed and confused about what her father was doing with another woman in her parents’ bedroom. It was wrong. She knew it was wrong, but what was she supposed to do about it?
The two officers leaned against the side of their sedan and waited.
It was another few minutes before her father approached them from the garage, fully dressed. “What gives you the right to barge into my home?”
“We’re here for the river body case.” Officer Jim, who turned out to be Detective Jim Cronen, flashed his badge. “We’d like your cooperation.”
River Bodies (Northampton County Book 1) Page 15