by James Carol
‘What?’ he asked.
‘You look like a cop who’s had all his badges stolen.’
‘Better than looking like a fading rock star who’s desperate to relive his glory days.’ He nodded to the whiteboard. ‘Where do you want this?’
‘Over there by the wardrobe, please.’
Taylor propped the whiteboard up against the wall. It needed to go end-on because of the lack of space.
‘Answers, Winter.’
‘You’ll get them once you’ve passed the third test.’
‘Test? What are you talking about?’
‘It’s just a couple of questions. Nothing to worry about.’ I made a sour face. ‘At least I hope there’s nothing to worry about. Okay, question one: have you ever murdered anyone?’
‘What! Of course I’ve never murdered anyone.’
‘Question two: is lying ever acceptable?’
Taylor just glared.
‘Answer the question.’
‘No.’
‘So little Jimmy’s puppy has just died and his mom tells him that Scraps has gone over Rainbow Bridge to live at Sunshine Farm where he’s going to spend all his days chasing rabbits and eating prime rib-eye steak.’
‘Okay, I guess there are times when white lies are acceptable.’
‘And that’s what you truly believe. You wouldn’t be lying about that now, would you?’
‘Enough already. I have no idea what you’re up to, but if you don’t start making sense in the next two seconds, then I’m walking and you can find yourself another sucker to play your mind games with.’
I cracked a smile. ‘Congratulations. You’ve passed with flying colours.’
Taylor shook his head and made for the door.
‘A bad profile is the best way to screw up a case.’
He froze with his hand on the handle.
‘You’ve got a whole load of questions running around your head, but that one’s up there at the top of the list.’ Taylor stared at me, and I stared right back. A nod towards the bed. ‘Have a seat. Let’s talk.’
Taylor walked over to the bed and sat down.
‘I needed to know if I could trust you,’ I said.
‘Why?’
‘We’ll get on to that. The other thing I needed to know was whether I could work with you. On the plane when I asked your opinion on the film clip, I wanted to find out if you’d tell me what you thought rather than what I wanted to hear. I hate “yes” people. Then back at the station house, I needed to know if you could think on your feet. You knew the profile I gave was bullshit, but you kept your mouth shut. Good call, by the way.’
‘But why? I don’t get it. Really don’t get it. Why go to all the trouble?’
‘Because there’s one massive assumption that’s been made with this case, an assumption that’s based on a piece of misdirection that even I’ll admit is pretty impressive.’ I paused for a second to catch my thoughts. ‘Okay, when I gave the profile I said we were looking for a white male who’s five foot nine and in his thirties, slim-built and college-educated. Five pieces of information. Two of those pieces of information are correct, and three might be correct.’ A shrug. ‘Then again they might not be. So, which two are correct?’
‘It’s a trick question,’ said Taylor. ‘All five are correct. You got the information from the film clip. The guy who tossed the match was definitely white and slim-built, and five-nine is in the right ballpark. The nature of the crime, chances are he was college-educated and in his thirties. It’s not exactly rocket science, Winter.’
I kept my mouth shut, gave Taylor a couple of seconds to think through what he’d just said.
‘Shit. The guy who tossed the match isn’t the unsub. That’s the assumption, right?’
‘You almost had it earlier back on the plane when you said the firestarter could have been a robot.’ I held up my hand, thumb and forefinger an inch apart. ‘You were that close. The lack of emotion was the key. You were right about that. And there are easier ways to kill people, more efficient ways. You were right about that, too.’
Taylor’s eyes were wide open and he was giving me his complete and undivided attention. Any thoughts of leaving had dissipated.
‘Fire is a nasty way to kill someone. The only person who would choose fire as a murder weapon is a sadist, and a sadist would react very differently from the guy in the film. A sadist would draw things out as long as possible. He’d take his time. He’d play around with his props. He’d shake the jerry can so his victim would hear the gasoline sloshing around inside. He’d light a couple of matches and let them burn down to his fingertips before blowing them out. He’d taunt his victim until he broke. Then he’d torch him.’
‘Jesus,’ Taylor whispered. The faraway look on his face was made up of a mix of horror and revulsion.
‘The one thing a sadist would never do, not in a million years, is march straight up to his victim, douse him in gasoline then toss a lit match on him. Where’s the fun in that? Our firestarter was coerced into doing this.’
‘How?’
I shrugged. ‘He was threatened somehow. Maybe a family member. Have you had any missing person reports come in over the last forty-eight hours?’
Taylor shook his head. ‘Not that I’m aware of.’
‘So probably not a family member, then. Not unless there’s a house full of bodies that hasn’t been discovered yet. Anyway that’s not the important question here. The important question is why? Why didn’t our unsub do his own dirty work?’
‘No idea, but I’m guessing he had a really good reason.’
‘What makes you say that?’
‘The fact he chose fire as a murder weapon means he’s got sadistic tendencies. However, the fact he got someone else to light the fire means he’s suppressing those tendencies. He wouldn’t do that without a good reason.’
‘And he’s got a very good reason. Gasoline is horrible stuff to work with. The smell sticks to your clothing, your hair, your skin, and once that smell is on you, it’s difficult to get rid of it. Then there’s the smell of burning to take into account. That sticks to you, too. Have you ever sat around a camp fire? You’re still smelling the wood smoke days later. Fire is a stupid way to kill someone. You might as well stick a neon sign above your head advertising the fact that you’re the killer.’
‘But our unsub isn’t stupid. That’s why he gets someone else to torch the victims. He’s aware of the sort of evidence that forensics look for when dealing with arsonists.’
‘Go on,’ I encouraged. ‘You’re almost there. Take that final step. If it helps, the answer is in your earlier question. Why do I need to know if I can trust you?’
Taylor opened his mouth to tell me he didn’t have a clue what I was talking about. Nothing came out. His eyes widened with realisation.
‘Jesus. You think the unsub’s a cop.’
12
‘There’s no way this guy’s a cop, Winter. Absolutely no way. I work with these people day in, day out. If one of them was a murderer, I’d know.’
I walked over to the window and parted the drapes with one finger. There were a couple of early birds walking along Morrow Street, just in time for Happy Hour. These were your hardened drinkers, lonely lost souls who wouldn’t let something like a murder get between them and a bottle. The sun was a ferocious ball of yellow that was closing in on the horizon but it still had a way to go. I let the drape flutter down.
‘No, you wouldn’t know. For eleven years I lived with one of this country’s most notorious serial killers and I didn’t suspect a thing. My mother was with him for seventeen years. We’re talking almost two decades. For thirteen of those years they were married. They shared a bed, shared a life together, and she didn’t suspect anything. My father lived in the same small town all his life, one not much different from Eagle Creek, except it was on the other side of the country in California. Some of his friends went way back to his school days, and they didn’t suspect anything, either.’
‘You were just a kid. It’s no wonder you didn’t suspect anything. Nobody would have expected you to.’
‘And you’re missing the point. We all have multiple personalities. The average is three, but some people have more. There’s the face you wear for your friends and family, the one you let the outside world see. Then there’s the face you see every time you look in the mirror. Everyone has a dark side. We all have thoughts and feelings we’d rather not share. We’ve all lain wide awake in the dead of night and wished someone dead.’
‘You’re wrong.’
‘Am I? So you’ve never wished anyone dead.’ I shook my head. ‘You can try telling me that, but you’d be lying. Did you know that studies have shown there are an alarming number of similarities between psychopaths and teenagers? Psychologically speaking they’re almost identical.’
‘So what?’
‘So you were a football star in college. Back then you would have been pumped so full of testosterone your brain would have temporarily shut down for a few years. You wouldn’t have been able to help it. Now add in the fact that you were a teenage psychopath, and it would be nothing short of a miracle if you hadn’t wished someone dead. Probably more than one someone.’
A faint blush rose up in Taylor’s cheeks, a hint of red against a dark background.
‘I don’t want details. I just want you to admit I’m right.’
‘You’re wrong. What about Gandhi, or Mother Teresa? Are you telling me that they had a dark side, too? That they went around wishing people dead?’
‘Interesting you should choose two people who aren’t alive to defend themselves, but, yeah, I’m sure they had their demons.’
‘And what about you?’
An image of my father strapped to a padded prison gurney in the execution chamber reared up in my mind. It was followed by an image of a young girl with a plastic bag over her head, a leather belt cinched tight around her neck, eyes wide and skin blue from cyanosis. I wondered how Carl Tindle was getting on in prison. Hopefully his new friends would be making him feel right at home.
‘We’ve all got a dark side. Face it, Taylor, you cannot ever fully know another human being. How many times have you heard that cliché?’
‘I’m telling you, Winter, he’s not a cop.’
‘And you can vouch for every one of your colleagues, from the sheriff himself all the way down to the dispatchers?’
Taylor nodded.
‘Even though you’ve only been there six months?’
Another nod, but this one wasn’t quite so vehement.
‘And what about the police department? Can you vouch for every single person that works there, too?’
There was no nod, not this time. I’d been aiming for reasonable doubt, and that’s what I’d got.
‘Be careful with assumptions, Taylor. They have their uses, but if you abuse them they’re going to turn around and bite you on the ass. I said the unsub was a cop, I didn’t say he was from the sheriff’s department.’
‘Are you a hundred per cent positive this guy’s a cop?’
I shook my head. ‘No, but I am up to ninety-nine per cent, and believe me, until this guy’s in custody that’s as good as it gets.’
Taylor fell silent, the gears in his head turning. He was looking for a counter-argument, something to prove me wrong, anything. He was grabbing for straws in a pitch-black room.
‘Okay,’ he said at last. ‘Let’s assume for a second you’re wrong. You just said yourself that there’s a one in a hundred chance that this guy isn’t a cop. If it turns out that you are wrong, then we’re going to waste a load of time chasing a ghost, time that could have been spent doing something useful, like chasing down someone who isn’t a cop. In the meantime, the countdown hits zero and someone else ends up being burnt alive.’
‘We’re not wasting our time. First off, this guy is a cop. Secondly, you have the whole of the sheriff’s department and the police department out there looking for a killer who isn’t a cop. That’s a lot of manpower. If by some miracle I am wrong, then we need to have faith that they’re going to do their jobs and catch this guy. Thirdly, if it does turn out I’m wrong, I’ll be the first to put my hands up and admit it. If the cops haven’t caught him by then, we change tack and try a different approach.’
‘And in the meantime, someone else dies.’
‘And that’s the reality of this business. You make a plan based on the information you have to hand, then hope and pray you’ve got it right. Sometimes you win, sometimes you lose.’
Taylor said nothing.
‘Worst-case scenario, I’m wrong and someone else ends up getting torched. Best-case scenario, I’m right and we catch this guy before he kills again.’
Still nothing.
‘You’re smart and you can think on your feet, and that’s what we need right now. I can do this on my own‚ but I’d appreciate your help. It’s your call, though. If you decide that you can’t help me, then I’ll go it alone. However, I’d appreciate it if you kept your mouth shut about my theory that this unsub is a cop.’ I smiled. ‘But that’s all academic since you’re going to help me.’
Taylor let out a long sigh. His broad shoulders slumped as a heavy weight settled on them.
‘It gets worse,’ I added. ‘You realise that until this is over we’re effectively the Dayton Sheriff’s Department? It’s just you and me, my friend.’
‘You’re full of good news, aren’t you?’
‘Hey, it’s not all bad. You’re now the new head of the Dayton Sheriff’s Department Criminal Investigation Division. You’re sprinting up that career ladder. Keep on at this rate and they’ll be fitting you for that brand-new sheriff’s uniform in no time.’
‘So what happens now?’
‘Now we work the case. We start by having a good look at Sam Galloway. If in doubt, always go back to the victim. It’s amazing what the dead can tell you if you take the time to listen.’
I took out a quarter and flipped it. Dull metal spun through the air, throwing off sparks of muted light. I slapped the coin down onto the back of my hand.
‘Heads we go talk to the widow. Tails we check out Sam’s office.’
13
McArthur Heights was to the north-west of Eagle Creek, out where the houses were cathedrals and the golf club was just a short drive away. Taylor stuck to the speed limit, eyes glued to the road even though traffic was light, signalling even when it wasn’t necessary.
‘My turn for some questions,’ I told Taylor. ‘I’ve dealt with a lot of sheriff’s departments, and do you know how many own a Gulfstream 550? Zero, zilch, nada. Go out and buy one tomorrow and you’re not going to have much change out of fifty million bucks. And we’re talking second hand. Budgets are being cut all the time. There’s barely enough money for paperclips, never mind a personal jet.’
‘We don’t own our own Gulfstream.’
I laughed. ‘Yeah, I’d already worked that one out. What I want to know is who you borrowed it from, and, more importantly, why they let you borrow it. If I owned a Gulfstream, I wouldn’t let you borrow it, and I like you.’
‘The plane is owned by Morgan Holdings. The Morgan family have been in Eagle Creek since forever. They own a large chunk of Dayton. Did you see the statue in the town square?’
I nodded. ‘It’s hard to miss.’
‘That was Randall Morgan. He discovered oil on his farm back in the early 1900s, the first oil strike in Dayton. Local history has him painted as some sort of saint. It’s like he was one of the Founding Fathers. Let me tell you, he was no saint. As soon as the money started rolling in, he started buying up land, anywhere he thought might have oil. When it came to getting people to sell up, he could be very persuasive, if you know what I mean.’
‘Broken limb persuasive.’
Taylor was nodding and staring straight ahead at the road. There was tension in his shoulders that hadn’t been there a minute ago, tension in his face. Tension all over. His finge
rs tightened and relaxed on the wheel, knuckles turning brown to white then back again.
‘Grandfather or great-grandfather?’ I asked softly.
‘My great-grandfather. He had a smallholding twenty miles north of Eagle Creek. He grew some corn, raised some livestock, scratched out something that might have been called a living. Which was really no life at all. Go back to the start of the last century and there weren’t many black men who owned land in the South, and any that did, you can guarantee that the land wasn’t up to much.’
‘So Randall offers to buy the land for a pittance. Your great-grandfather tells him to shove it, and Randall sends in the heavies to make him an offer he couldn’t refuse.’
‘Not quite.’
Taylor’s fingers were still kneading the steering wheel. Over a century had passed yet the anger was still there. Memories run particularly long in this part of the world, and I was getting first-hand experience of just how deep those ancient resentments went.
‘What happened?’
‘Randall sent in a lynch mob. Half a dozen men on horses dressed in white sheets and wearing white hoods. They dragged my great-grandfather from his house in the middle of the night, strung him up from the first tree they found and erected a burning cross in the yard. Next day Randall turns up with a lawyer and a contract and gets my great-grandmother to put her mark on it.’ Taylor shook his head. ‘Do you want to know the real tragedy, Winter? There was no oil on that land. It was just a worthless couple of acres. My great-grandfather was murdered for nothing.’
We’d left Eagle Creek behind, houses and concrete replaced with fields and trees. There wasn’t a soul in sight. It was easy to imagine it was a century earlier, easy to imagine we were back in a time when a rich white man could arrange to murder a poor black man without fear of repercussions.
‘When Randall died, his son Randall Morgan Junior took over,’ Taylor continued. ‘Junior was ambitious, but he wasn’t ruthless like his father. And he was clever, too. He’d worked out early on that the oil was a temporary thing, so he spread his investments. You name it, he invested in it, anything and everything. The one thing that most of his investments had in common was that they turned a profit. Newspapers, radio, banks, construction.’