Lasting Doubts (The Red Lake Series Book 2)

by Rich Foster

“Grim,” “G…R…I…M.”

  “Whatever.” Her hand fluttered like a wounded bird.

  “What color was your daughter's hair?”

  Harry knew the answer but the question was when?

  “She was brunette.”

  “Did she ever bleach or dye it?”

  “What a strange thing to ask. Don’t all girls?”

  “I suppose,” Harry admitted grudgingly. “but what about Alison?”

  “She bleached it blond that spring. Alison dreamed she would be in the movies. She thought it made her look like Marilyn Monroe.” A reflective pause crossed her face. “All it did was make her look like me.”

  “Then she must have been quite beautiful.” Harry offered the compliment as a distraction. Then he continued, “Tell me about Dr. Oliver. You said he had a crush on you in high school.”

  Annoyance and distaste passed over her.

  “It wasn’t infatuation, it was an ugly obsession. He would say God intended us to be together, or that I was so beautiful that he thought he might die if he couldn’t have me.”

  “Wouldn’t many girls find that flattering?”

  “Not to the degree he pushed it. It was creepy. I told you he wanted a clipping of my hair. He even offered me $50!”

  “Did you sell?”

  Carole looked repulsed. “Of course not!” Then she added, “I’m sorry Mr. Graham, I have to go!”

  Her door closed.

  Back in his office Harry called Pat Egan.

  “Egan here.”

  “Harry Grim.”

  “I’m busy, what do you want?”

  “What color hair did Judy Stanton have?”

  “At the time of death who knows? She was cooked, but on her driver’s license she was listed as blonde. Why are you asking Grim?”

  “You might nose around and see who her physician was.”

  “And why would I want to do that?”

  “You might find a link to another case?”

  “Can the crap, Harry. What case?”

  “How would I know?”

  Harry heard the phone slam down. Egan would pout, be annoyed, and finally do as suggested. Later he would try to squeeze Harry for his source but tougher men than Egan failed at that.

  Harry propped His feet on the desk and leaned back.

  Oliver seems a good candidate for Alison’s untimely demise. He's linked to two other women who suffered violence,. But Kerri Kershaw and Judy Stanton were twenty years apart?. Pretty hard to link those up, unless Oliver is a serial killer? Not too likely or we would have more homicides in Red Lake.

  The phone interrupted his thoughts.

  “Harry, it’s me.” Dirk’s familiar voice came across the line.

  “What’s up friend?”

  “I talked with your acquaintance in Denver. I know you said not to, however, I am sometimes more direct than you.” Barton continued without waiting for a protest, “I think he may have watched too many movies about violent black men; his eyes were ready to pop the minute we met.”

  “I suppose this was not at his office.”

  “No, in his living room when he got home at ten o’clock last night. He was very surprised to see me.”

  Harry chuckled to himself. He imagined Holland when he found Dirk in his house.

  “Your boy is quite loquacious when adequately motivated. It seems he was doing Alison regularly. He said she was quite eager and willing. The gleam in Holland’s eyes told me she was not alone in that sentiment. Anyway, after a month and a half romps where they tried out the choir loft, bell tower, and his office, she suddenly turned it off.”

  “And she wanted money?” Harry interjected.

  “Give that man a cigar! Yep, and Holland didn’t have any. For a while he swiped money from the offering plate. He actually called it borrowing. But Alison wasn’t happy with fifty or a hundred a week. Holland said he about had a heart attack when she went to his wife. After that he promised Alison big money once he got divorced, if she would just shut up.”

  “But she disappeared before he got divorced.”

  “Which he found to be a great relief, but he swears he didn’t know she was dead at the time.”

  “How can you be sure?”

  “If Mr. Holland was guilty of Alison’s death, he would have shared it with me. He is a very weak man and possesses an appallingly low threshold for pain.”

  Silently, Harry admitted that Barton’s techniques were more efficacious and quicker than his own, polite conversation would never have brought this out.

  “Anything else?”

  “I suggested that he should keep his hands off any merchandise that wasn’t properly aged. As a gentle reminder, I flattened his nuts.”

  “That should help.”

  “At least for a while, but his kind never change. I told him I might check back on him to put the fear of God in him.”

  “Or the fear of you, which may be worse.”

  Barton chuckled. “My job got canceled, thought I might fly back in for a few more days, if that's okay with you and Paula?”

  “Anytime, anyplace.”

  “Fine. See you later this afternoon.”

  Harry no sooner hung up than the phone rang again.

  “Grim Investigations.”

  “Pat tells me you are giving suggestions. Being the Sheriff, I appreciate a concerned citizen. Why don’t you tell me who you were speculating about?”

  Harry thought about how to answer. “Well I was wondering about Kerri Kershaw, Alison Albright, and Judy Stanton. They were all blondes and Albright and Kershaw look an awful lot alike.”

  “Albright's hair was brown.”

  “If you check the morgue file I think you will find that when she died, her hair was blond. The photo used when she disappeared was her senior picture, it was taken before she bleached it.”

  “Which was when?”

  “Two months before she disappeared.”

  Only their soft breathing filled a long silence.

  “Would I be amiss if I guessed they all had Dr. Oliver in common?”

  “How should I know? You’ll have to ask, but Alison did have a birth control prescription from him.”

  “I think you know the answer to this and could save me time, Grim, but I also assume it is best that I don’t ask why you are supposing this.”

  “I suppose.” Harry smiled to himself.

  “You got anything else?”

  “Raymond Holland did not kill Alison Albright.”

  “And you know this how?”

  “Unbeknownst to me, someone asked him. Mr. Holland was quite convincing in his answer.”

  Harry heard a grunt from the other end of the line.

  “Anything else?” Gaines asked.

  “Off the record, Holland admitted banging her until she sunk her talons into his wallet.”

  “Alison Albright seems to have been a unique piece of work.”

  “World’s probably a better place without her.”

  “That’s not for me to say.”

  “But it’s okay to think it, Sheriff.”

  There was another pause.

  “Anything I can do for you, Harry?”

  “Do you know how Judy Stanton died?”

  “Nope. Soft tissue was all gone. If she was shot it wasn’t in the head, and if she was stabbed, the blade failed to nick any bones. My guess would be she was strangled. Less mess and its quiet.”

  “Any suspects?”

  “Other than her ex-husband? No.”

  “You think he was good for it?”

  “He was heard to threaten her. But he seems the type to beat her to death in a drunken rage, not lie in wait. The pathologist said there were no broken bones in her ribs or jaw. We might find a break in her arm bones if we found them, but with the budget as it is, we aren’t looking.”

  Neither seemed to have anything else to say. Finally Gaines said, “Stay in touch, Harry.”

  The use of his first name felt good. Whenever
the Sheriff was riled he used Grim.

  Harry went out into the midday sun. He pulled on a pair of fliers glasses. His truck was hot. Should have bought a white one. The engine turned over. He rolled the window down until cool air began to kick out. Five minutes later he was near the hospital, he pulled over a few buildings down from Oliver’s office. Harry saw Egan’s unmarked sedan parked at the curb. That should make the Doctor sweat. Harry waited twenty minutes before Egan came out and walked down the rose-lined walk. A minute later, his car kicked out a puff of black exhaust and pulled away.

  Before Egan was even out of sight, Harry was on the sidewalk. He crossed at the corner and took the walk alongside Oliver’s office. The rear gate was open. Harry walked quickly toward the rear door but instead of knocking he slipped into the bushes. He lay in the dirt waiting and watching through the basement window.

  Within minutes Dr. Oliver appeared. The man looked upset. With an air of urgency he brought down the same file Harry found during the night. Oliver’s fingers darted across the file tabs and then jerked one out. The two business envelopes fell to the floor spilling the pictures. Oliver got down on his knees and scooped them up, but then paused, and began to sort through them.

  The photos shook in his trembling hands, but with each one his face underwent a change, until it was deformed by desire and some element Harry could not place, but it left him with a sick feeling.

  The doctor finally tore his eyes away. He looked around the basement until he found a metal bucket. Oliver dropped the photos in, and then pulled a pack of matches from the pocket on his white lab coat. The coat’s the only thing clean about him, Harry thought, suffering a rare wave of Puritanism.

  Otis Oliver’s hands shook so badly that he failed to ignite the first three matches he tried. As the fourth flared into flame, Harry tapped on the basement window with the barrel of his gun. The doctor flinched, startled by the tap, and the match fell where it perished on the floor. A moment later the fear in his eyes was replaced by anger mixed with indignation. Oliver turned and stormed up the stairs. The rear door banged open.

  “Who the hell do you think you are?”

  “Maybe I’m a peeping Tom.”

  “I’m going to call the police!” Oliver roared with indignation.

  Harry held up a snapshot in which Alison Albright reclined naked on an examination table with her legs spread.

  “I bet the police can find where this was taken and by whom.”

  Harry found over the years that proper diction often frightened people.

  Like paint from a bucket leaking bucket, the color drained from Dr. Oliver’s face.

  Harry continued. “Some people might say you were burning evidence.”

  “How…?” Oliver stumbled on the words. “How did you get that?”

  “Did you think you owned the only copies?”

  “Oh my god!”

  Oliver’s arms crossed his belly as if he had been gut punched.

  “I’ll buy them from you! What do you want?”

  “A little talk.”

  Oliver shook his head violently. “No, no, no,” and then as if a light flashed on he said, “You set the police upon me didn’t you?”

  Harry shook his head, no. “If I had done that and given them this,” he shook the photo idly, “do you think they would be gone?”

  The doctor looked around nervously. “I can’t talk here, not now.”

  “Maybe we should call the Sheriff?”

  Panic rose in Oliver’s voice, “That will destroy me! Come back later and I will tell you whatever you want.”

  Harry feigned to consider this. He let his face twitch, after a few moments he said, “Okay. If you give me your copies of the photos and Alison’s file for safe keeping, I’d be willing come back later.”

  “How can I trust you?”

  “How can you not? You’re between Scylla and Charybdis.”

  Oliver’s face twitched, too. “A literate snoop,” he said peevishly.

  Harry eyed Oliver. “Don’t mistake that for being soft,” he said with menace in his eyes. Harry handed Oliver a business card. “Call me! If I don’t hear from you by seven I will go to the sheriff. I’ll get that file, now.”

  Harry shouldered past the doctor who stood in the doorway of the mudroom. He took the basement stairs down. When he returned Oliver was still by the rear door.

  “Don’t you have patients to see?” Harry asked sarcastically.

  “Yes,” he said glancing at his watch, “but please, bring all the copies and I will tell you everything.”

  Harry drove home disgusted with his fellow man. He felt a need to get away. The driveway was empty when he arrived.

  In the kitchen, he constructed two sandwiches out of deli salami, tomato, mustard and mayo on dark rye bread. Three Downtown Brown Ales went into a small cooler.

  The boat’s canvas cover was speckled by ash that came and went depending on the prevailing winds. He turned the dock hose on it and found solace in the simple act of washing down the craft. Gradually the water ran clear through the scuppers and his inner frustrations washed away with it.

  The engine came to life. Harry went forward to cast off the bowline and then aft to the port stern cleat. The boat drifted slowly away from the dock as it rocked on the afternoon chop. He hopped aboard and nudged the shifter into gear. The engine sounded smooth, the exhaust came out clear after the initial belch of diesel smoke. He listened for the sound of the cooling water being discharged. A sense of well being filled him.

  Harry eased the throttle forward, the boat gradually picked up speed and after he passed the swim buoy he opened it up and the boat quickly climbed up onto a plane. The boat hopped over another boat's wake. He popped a beer and enjoyed the wind as it whipped his hair, and the boat rocked and bounced beneath him. He bent his knees slightly and rode it like a surfboard.

  He held the helm northerly, running past the federal prison at Upper Cramsden and past his favorite fishing hole. In the rolling hills to the east smoke still rose from the fire lines, but the flames were abated. The last estimate Harry heard put containment at ninety percent.

  The northern part of the lake was shallower; as a consequence no marinas dotted the shore and there were fewer wakes from other boats. As Red Lake narrowed, the water became glassy flat. He continued on to where the Forks River ran down from the Lazarus Mountains, under the highway bridge on Route 12 to feed Red Lake. Ahead muted by the soft afternoon haze Harry made out the profiles of Mount Justice and Desolation Peak, foreboding names begotten to the mountains by churchman long on faith and short on a theology of mercy.

  He idled into the shadow under the bridge. Overhead the rumble of passing cars and trucks reverberated. Looking down into the clear water Harry saw a large bass feeding in the currents. It was big enough to boast about, but Harry was sick of killing. I wish you well Grand Daddy, go and live for another day.

  As if the fish heard his thoughts it gave a powerful flick of its tail, cut hard, and disappeared into deeper water. Harry reached down and felt the water. It was ten degrees colder than near his house. Snow pack still ran icily from the peaks, hopping and cascading over boulders in a torrent of white froth, never lingering long enough to be warmed by the sun. Upon entering the lake, it would slide along the bottom into the cold, black, depths of the lake.

  His cell rang.

  “Grim.”

  “It’s me. I’m a few minutes out. Do you want to pick me up or should I get a rental?”

  “I’ll meet you. I’m out on the water. Cross the road to the Prop Shop and I will tie up to their dock.”

  “Whoever gets there first can grab a stool.”

  “See you in a bit.”

  “Roger.”

  Harry shifted out of neutral and raced south along the western shore. What wind that blew was out of the west and in close the water was barely rippled. He was halfway there when he spotted Barton’s plane, a small dark speck over the mountains. The twin-engine plane drop
ped altitude rapidly and then banked hard over the lake. It sped over the center of the lake like a spitfire on a strafing run. Harry waved. The plane wiggled its wings as it passed to his port side, circled wide around his stern and continued the turn to line up with the landing strip. Harry saw it low above the treetops and then the plane was out of sight.

  The dock behind the Prop Shop was as desultory as the bar’s patrons, planks were missing and pilings tilted as much as late night drunks. Harry wondered who owned it and why they let waterfront footage go to waste. Which was not to say it should be developed in his mind, only he wondered who or what kept the rapacious developers at bay. He tied off, then ran a second line to a more substantial piling on the far side of the dock. Then he padded barefoot toward the rusting yellow Quonset hut that housed the Prop Shop Bar.

  Behind the bar the fuselage of a Cessna rusted near the rear wall, one wing lay in the dirt as if it hit the building and bounced off. Weeds grew around it. Someone had put a scarecrow filled with straw in the pilot’s seat. The rags were sagging in upon themselves and reminded Harry of bodies he came across while fighting in Afghanistan.

  The bar never seemed to change. The window was besotted by grime that nobody made an effort dislodge. The swamp cooler blew a stream of dank humid air. A cluster of interchangeable drunks manned the table in back and one or two booths. Harry ordered a beer.

  From the back Toby lumbered forward. He was a fat, rarely employed, and a drunk. Today he was drunker than usual. He poked Harry in the shoulder with a meaty finger.

  “You’re friends with that black bastard ain’t you?”

  Harry appraised him “If you mean that mean, psychopathic, killing son-of-a-bitch who made you drink that beer the last time I was here, then yes.”

  “Well, give him a message for me. We don’t want no niggers in our bar.”

  Harry nodded. “I’ll give him the message.”

  Toby retreated into the rear. Harry nursed his beer. Five minutes later the front door opened. Barton was silhouetted by the bright outside light. He entered. Harry looked his way, then shouted as he jerked his thumb toward the rear, “Guy back there told me to keep the black bastard out.”

  “Barton glanced around as though confused then pointed to himself?”