by Bob Mayer
There were notes there, but they were typed and Xeroxed. Chase checked the other dates. Someone had taken the time to type up the class notes. The same person had given Rachel the notes for all the classes she'd missed up to the night she'd died. Chase stared at those notes for a minute. There was only one way he could find out who had given those to her. He’d have to go to CU.
But before he left, he did one more thing. He got out all the information he had on the Patriots and on Art Rivers. He printed out the article from Merck Magazine and tucked all the information into a new book he was beginning. He labeled this one the Book of Patriots and locked it in his lower right drawer, the one he used his own personal padlock on, not trusting the lock built into the drawer.
* * * * *
Driving to CU during the noon lunch rush wasn't relaxing. Contemplating what he was going to say to Gavin wasn't relaxing either. There was something going on, something Chase had missed. Maybe Gavin had given Rachel Stevens those notes. They were meticulously typed, probably computer printed. What if he had known Rachel a lot better than he let on, Chase wondered? And then there was that off the wall question about personalities the first time Chase had questioned him. Of course, maybe she had just asked Gavin for notes and he'd given them to her as a good teacher? Chase had the feeling he was grasping for straws.
Most of the staff had split for lunch. Chase parked, gathered the notebook and made for Gavin's office. He had seemed distant and put out when Chase had arranged for another interview. No doubt, he wondered why Chase kept returning.
Chase was right about Gavin’s attitude. The professor was in another world; he seemed to be bothered about something. And he was drinking again. A couple of empty beer cans were on his desk.
Chase started talking about Rachel's grades, but the professor wasn't listening. Chase noticed Gavin had some documents on his desk in front of him. Chase tried to peer around the jumble of papers, but he wasn't very subtle.
Gavin picked them up. "Are you wondering about these, detective?"
Chase told him he was.
Gavin laughed. Not a pleasant sound. It was more of a sarcastic grunt. "My wife just had me served with divorce papers. In class, as a matter of fact. Very apropos. I didn't know she had it in her. I do believe that things would be different if I had even had the slightest inkling she was so clever. You know what she said?" He didn't wait for a guess; Chase wouldn't have given one anyway. "She said we didn't communicate. She said all I was interested in was lecturing. I suppose the old adage is true. If you can't do something teach it instead."
Chase let Gavin ramble on a few minutes while he casually opened Rachel's notebook to the mysterious typed pages. He was no expert, but he could see right away that they didn't match the pages in the bin on top of Gavin's printer.
Chase was so busy checking that out that he didn't hear Gavin until he repeated himself. "I said. Have you ever been married detective?"
“Yeah, I was married.”
“Since you use the past tense, I assume you have some experience with divorce?”
“Yes. It sucks."
"Indeed it does." Gavin checked his watch. "What else did you come for? I'm sure it was more than to talk about my divorce."
Chase showed him the notes. "I got these out of Rachel Stevens’ notebook. These pages are from the nights she missed. I'm presuming Rachel got these from someone in the class. I was hoping we could compare them to some of your other papers and figure out whom."
Gavin gave them a cursory glance. "Pretty much all students have laser printers although fonts vary."
"Do you have some papers from that class I can compare it to?"
"They might not have come from that particular class. Students have a little black market going on class notes. She could have purchased them from someone who took the same class a previous semester."
At West Point that would have been an honor violation, Chase thought. "I'd just like to check that class for now, if you don't mind."
"Why is it so important who gave her the notes?"
Chase hated it when people asked him why. "Do you have a folder from that class?"
Gavin glanced over his shoulder at a stack of folders. "Yes, but--"
"The papers, please, doctor."
Gavin frowned, thought for a moment, then grabbed a folder off the shelf. He reluctantly handed it over. He was right, Chase noted; all of the papers were done by a laser printer, but the font matched exactly on only one set: Jim York. The name rang a bell, a loud bell. It was the guy who had returned Chase’s call, the guy who had sat next to Rachel in Gavin's class. But most importantly, it was the guy who said he never noticed if she were absent or not. Yet had given her the notes for those classes she'd missed.
"Find something?" Gavin asked. He seemed more in the present now.
"No," Chase replied handing him the folder back, tired of answering other people's questions when they gave him so much crap answering his.
"How is the case going?" he asked as Chase stood to leave.
"It's going," Chase said. He was anxious to follow up this new angle. York had held back and Chase’s antenna always went on alert when people lied. Chase left Gavin to his drunken woes and headed to his Jeep.
* * * * *
By the time, Chase made it to the squad room he was breathing hard from the climb up the stairs. He realized he needed to stop smoking and go back to running the trails, but it just seemed like too much effort.
Porter wasn't around, but Chase knew he had some time. He went back to the attendance sheets for that class. Rachel's absences were the most notable. He finally found it. Three weeks before she was killed, Jim York hadn't been in class either. Chase looked forward. Damn. York had been present the night she died. Why wasn't anything ever simple? Chase thought about it for a second. That didn't rule him out though. He might have been waiting in that parking lot after class. They'd ruled out Gavin, but not the students in the class.
Chase looked up York's name in the roster and checked his address and phone number. Chase was writing all that down when Porter finally walked in.
"Nothing with Hatcher. I'm beginning to think we could watch this guy forever and get zippo." He sat down with a sigh and loosened his tie. "Anything new on your end? I tried calling earlier, but they said you were out."
Chase brought Porter up to date about the notes and Jim York. "I've got his address here. I think we should pay Mister York a call and check out his story."
Porter looked at what Chase had written. Porter started to smile and the energy level in the squad room went up a few notches. "You're not going to believe this. Look."
He reached over to the pile that pertained to Hatcher. Sorting through, he found the computer printout of the license numbers. He trailed his finger down until he reached Rogers, Arnold D. 3267 Church Street. Then with his other hand, he pointed. Jim York, 3269 Church Street.
"I was going over these this morning. I started to get a feeling Hatcher wasn't the one. This can't just be coincidence." Porter looked at Chase expectantly.
Chase scratched his head. "What about Arnold Rogers? It says here he drives a ‘74 Buick. It could be just coincidence he lives next door to York." Even as Chase said it, he didn't believe it. But after the enthusiasm for Hatcher, he was trying to temper things as much as possible.
Before Porter could answer, Chase knew what his partner was going to say. It was so absurd, but he knew it was true. This was Colorado after all. It cost a lot of money to register cars here. Jim York, to save on registration, was driving around with his neighbor's plates. Or maybe not just to save a few bucks. Maybe he was driving around with his neighbor’s plates to throw the cops off. Rogers may have a ‘74 Buick, but Chase was willing to bet that Jim York drove a white Econoline van.
Before Chase could say another word, Porter said something about vehicle registration and to hold on as he grabbed the phone.
Chase waited by going through the notes of his call with York. There
was no rush. York had said he worked for the post office and since he went to night classes, it was reasonable to presume he was at work now.
Chase tried to remember how York had sounded when they spoke. Very polite. Not too informative. But he had returned the call promptly. He had been the only one. He had also known Rachel was dead before Chase had said anything, although it had been on the news by then. Chase tried to think if he should have figured something out sooner, if there was something he had missed.
Hell, Chase cut himself some slack. How could he have figured anything out? There had been nothing there until he'd noticed the notes and then he'd been so distracted by all the other stuff: the semen, the swingers club, Linda Watkins, Wyoming, the Barnes, Fortin, and all the other bullshit that had floated around this case and his life. Chase still didn't have a clue why Jim York might have wanted to do in Rachel Stevens, but at least they had a trail that looked better than hanging around the CU campus.
Chase found the address book that her husband had given him. Chase had sorted out the numbers with no names. He could account for those. He flipped to the Y's, no Jim York. Then he had an inspiration, think like Rachel, and he started to flip through the book looking for York's number. He found it under the P's. She had listed him as Jim's Printing and that explained why it hadn't been checked it out. She had probably called York with questions about the lectures she had missed. Chase wondered what else they had talked about.
Before Chase could berate himself for not cross-referencing all the numbers in Rachel's book with the class rosters, Porter was back. He waved the paper with a flourish. "Jim York, 3267 Church Street, drives a white Econoline van. Let's go check it out."
* * * * *
Arnold Rogers turned out to be seventy-two years old. He still kept the Buick in his garage waiting for the day those young punks at the licensing department would realize he was still capable of driving and renew his license.
He didn't know if the car had its plates or not. He hadn't been to the garage out back in over a year. But if Jim York had the plates, then that was fine with him. Jim offered to take him places, not like his good for nothing children who didn't give a damn and were just waiting for him to drop dead so they could sweep through like vultures. He said he'd even signed the car over to York so his kids wouldn't get it.
Chase and Porter listened to him ramble on about ungrateful kids until it was polite to leave. They assured Rogers that he was in no trouble and that went for York as well. Chase was worried that he might call York at work, but Rogers didn't seem too concerned. Plus, York shouldn't get too jumpy from someone checking on the registration. Unless there was something else, he needed to be worried about. They went out back and looked in the garage. The car not only didn't have plates, but it was covered in dust and all four tires were flat. It wasn't going anywhere for a while.
No one had been home next door when they entered Roger's house and it was still empty as they trudged back to the unmarked car and moved it a few houses away. Now it was time to just sit and wait. Porter pulled a couple of candy bars out of his pocket. They were mushy, but not bad. Chase didn’t say anything and neither did Porter. When the van finally pulled up, Chase checked the plate. It was Rogers. York hadn’t switched back to his own, which Chase thought was a little odd. Of course, York had probably figured no one had taken down the number.
Chase looked at Porter and he still didn't say anything. It was time to just do it.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Jim York was not what Chase had expected when he opened the door. Chase was prepared for some dark, sinister type. Some guy with big hands. Instead, Chase was half-right. York was big, just over six feet and he filled out his postman's uniform with solid bulk. But meeting him, Chase felt like he was looking into the face of a poet. One of those pale faces with light liquid eyes and lips that belonged on a woman. His round gold-rimmed glasses were perched on a nose that was thin to the point of sharp. Add to that, the unruly mass of straw colored hair that was thinning on top and the sensitive soul appearance was complete.
"Are you Jim York?" Porter asked.
He nodded, eyes flickering between the two.
"I'm Detective Porter from Boulder Police and this is Detective Chase. He spoke to you on the phone last week and we have a couple more questions. Since my partner and I were in the neighborhood we thought it would be a good time."
York's voice was deeper than one usually allotted to such a soft looking face. But Chase did remember it from the phone conversation. "How did you know where I lived?"
Good question, Chase thought. He had discussed with Porter how they wanted to do this while they were waiting in the car. They'd settled on not making him suspicious from the start. So much for that idea, Chase thought.
Porter stepped up. "Mister York you know you don't have to answer any of our questions and just to be sure that you understand that, I'm going to read you your rights."
When Porter was finished, York was really beginning to vibrate. With great effort, he steepled his fingers and placed them under his nose as if contemplating what to do next. "I was just making some coffee. Would you care to join me?"
Chase exchanged a puzzled look with his partner. But Chase followed him out of the foyer though the living room toward the kitchen all the same, with Porter flanking. The living room was neat and tidy, everything in its place. Chase noticed what appeared to be a makeshift altar at the end of the room. It looked like a couple of tall stereo speakers pushed together with a white sheet draped over the top. Chase could just see the rim of the speaker fronts on the bottom before the shag carpet started. There were candles and a large Bible on the altar.
A vivid portrait of the Crucifixion hung on the wall above. Someone had carefully lettered the words: "HE DIED FOR OUR SINS" above the edge of the frame. There were also statues. Chase recognized the Virgin Mary, some of the others he wasn't too sure about, but he assumed they were saints. They were all gathered around the Bible. As Chase got closer, he noticed that someone had blacked out the eyes on all the statues.
Porter nodded his head in the direction of the shrine in case Chase had suffered total sensory failure and missed it. Porter mouthed the word "nut" behind York's back.
Chase noted some photos on the top of the altar and halted as he saw that they were of Rachel Stevens. There was one of her getting out of her car in the CU lot. Another one was of her walking across campus. Another of her sitting in the cafeteria. It was obvious she hadn’t known she was being photographed. Chase nodded back at Porter, keeping one eye on York who was in the kitchen. Porter looked at the photos and his face tightened.
Chase checked out the Bible. The print was large and he could see it was opened to Deuteronomy. All that curse upon thee stuff. That's not good, Chase thought. He wondered if they should bust York now before he went off with a butcher knife. He decided to follow Porter’s lead, but loosened his gun in its holster any way. He went into the kitchen.
York poured the coffee in silence, but Chase noticed a tremble in his hands as he set the mugs on the table. It seemed odd to Chase to be sitting in this comfortable kitchen with the late afternoon sun streaming through the window knowing that this gentle looking man had probably killed Rachel Stevens.
Chase was putting the coffee to his lips with his off-gun hand when York spoke. His words were startling enough for Chase to spill some of the scalding liquid.
"I didn’t kill her, you know."
Porter took it in stride and reminded York that he didn't have to talk. York didn't seem to pay much attention to what Porter was saying. He was busily cleaning up the spilled coffee, wiping it carefully with a sponge so as not to leave any on the floor.
"This stuff is so hard to get up once it dries on the linoleum." He said it apologetically, as if trying not to bother anyone with this little quirk.
Porter met Chase’s eyes over York's bent head and mouthed the word "loon.”
"No shit," Chase mouthed back. He took his gun out
and held it ready under the table.
Finished with the clean up, York sat down across the table and took a few sips of coffee. Chase knew Porter was thinking the same thing though: York could clam up at any moment. They had to be very careful about this. If York wanted to talk about how he didn’t kill someone as a normal occurrence, they would follow suit.
Porter started. "Detective Chase and I have learned a lot about Rachel Stevens in the last week."
Chase picked up the cue. "She was certainly an intelligent woman. Her grades were outstanding."
Porter nodded, agreeing with what Chase had just said and added that it was pretty remarkable that she could make such good grades when she cut class so much.
York perked up at that statement and Chase could tell he wanted to say something. After a few seconds, he decided to help him. "Rachel would have never gotten an A in Professor Gavin’s class without your help, would she, Jim?"
York leaned back in his chair, lifted his glasses from his face and set them carefully on the table. He used both hands to rub his eyes. When he spoke, his voice was tinged with fear. "I know she…” he searched for words, “wasn’t what she appeared. I know I shouldn’t have taken those photos. But she was so nice to me. I was afraid you would come. I've almost been waiting for this. But I didn’t kill her. I swear.”
Porter nodded as if agreeing. "Why don't we start from the time you first met Rachel? I think it would be a good idea if we taped this. That way there won't be any questions about what was said. And we can make sure everyone really understands your side of things. That’s very important since you say you want to establish your innocence. The more we know, the easier we can clear you off the list of suspects. Is that OK with you, Jim?"
York was agreeable to the taping, so Porter pulled out his pocket recorder. He held it close to his mouth and spoke the date, time, his, Chase’s name and the purpose of the tape. Porter led off by repeating the Miranda to York and then getting his approval of the taping for the record. He double-checked to make sure York didn't want a lawyer and York said no thank you.