Lasting Doubts (The Red Lake Series Book 2)

by Rich Foster

  “So he's in custody?”

  “No.” Gaines tossed back the last of is drink. “I went to see Judge Huffman and District Attorney Scott. Huffman said I had a series of coincidences that were interesting but fell short of convincing. quote, 'I don't find probable cause to issue a search warrant.”

  “What about the D.A.?”

  “Scott said he wouldn't touch the case, somewhat testily adding, that we lacked means and motive. Opportunity existed only because Cox was possibly in town when the women died as were several thousands other residents. In that Martin Hoffman was executed in 1985 for the killings that occurred in the sixties and in that we aren't even sure that Judy Stanton was a homicide, and in that Jane Doe was never identified, we really only have Alison Albright. Unless we could give him means, motive, and opportunity for her death then he would never press charges.”

  “But what about the timing?”

  “Coincidence, according to him.”

  “Is the guy blind?”

  “No, just worried about getting re-elected. It didn't help that he heard about your investigation. He says there are a dozen people who wanted Albright dead so how is he going to get a conviction on a man who has no known ties to her?”

  “How'd he hear about that?”

  “Obviously, one of my deputies has a big mouth. But the problem stands; with what we have we can't get a search warrant or an indictment, much less a murder conviction.”

  Harry poured himself another whiskey. He held the bottle up but Gaines shook his head no.

  “I'm sorry, Harry. Unless we get some solid evidence, Cox is a free man.”

  Harry's face grew tight. The hand holding his glass trembled, then the glass shattered.

  “Damn it!” he swore. Blood ran from a cut on his finger. Using a paper towel he wiped the glass into a pile, then pressed another in his fist to stop the flow.

  “Is it bad?” Gaines asked.

  “It's just not right.”

  “I meant the cut.'

  Harry opened his hand and looked. The paper was spotted with blood. “No, it's nothing I can't take care of.”

  Gaines stood up, ready to leave and let Harry clean up the mess.

  “What about rental companies? You never found the van that Kershaw was grabbed in. Why not run Cox's name or picture by them or ask to check their records?”

  “Not a bad idea, Harry. I'll check, but I'm afraid Cox is shrewd. He either would not rent or he would have a plan to cover his tracks.

  Gaines worked himself into his winter jacket. “I need to get back to the office. With the first snow we always have more calls and accidents.”

  “You knew him, Sheriff. Why do you think he became a killer?”

  Gaines paused, his hand on the doorknob. “As I remember Randy was always a bit of a loner. I suppose finding your mother murdered might push one over the edge.” He shrugged, “That's a question for the shrinks.”

  “Could you pull the file on his mother's murder?”

  “Sure, if it wasn't lost when they moved everything to the new warehouse ten, twelve years ago.”

  “I'd be curious to know what exactly happened back in 1960.”

  Gaines opened the door. A blast of icy air gusted into the room.

  “It's getting colder. I was hoping this stuff would melt. It's going to be a long, cold winter.”

  With that parting thought, he was gone.

  Harry put a bandage on the cut which was messy, but not too deep. The shattered glass went into the trash and fresh whiskey into another glass. He turned the wing chair around to face the French doors and slouched in it as he stared out on foreboding water. Flecks of foam tore free from the whitecaps the wind drove toward the shore.

  There must be some way to catch Cox, he mused. The drink left him feeling warm and a bit softened in his thinking. Then again, he thought, crazy people can still be clever.

  He realized Gaines was right, the rental agencies were probably a dead end. The law would never touch Cox.. Perhaps other means are necessary?

  Paula came in just as Harry was going out. He stopped to lend a hand carrying groceries inside.

  “Getting prepared to be snowed in?” he asked.

  “Be prepared.”

  “That's the Boy Scout motto.”

  “It's still good advice.”

  Paula busied herself putting the food stuff away.

  “I'll be back,” Harry said tersely.

  “Okay Arnold, see you later.”

  Momentarily Harry was puzzled until he mentally made the connection with the film.

  Red Lake was different under snow. The familiar was hidden or altered. The roads were emptier than usual. Even the blackened hills were beautified under the blanketing of white. He drove north. The plows had the roads cleared. The gravel they put down on the curves and over-crossings kicked up and chattered against his truck's undercarriage.

  He missed the turn on the first pass and then looped back. The development where Cox lived was up a steep hill, then the land leveled out a bit. Lots had been cut into the hillside. What was likely once a pleasant meadow was now covered by gravel streets, tract houses, and littered by items caught out in the snow. Bright colors of plastic poked out to hint at a playhouse or tricycle.

  The street was not plowed but the snow was packed down by cars that went off to work. The walkways to some houses remained hidden by undisturbed white. Others showed a trail of footprints out to the street or to the mailbox and back again. A few walkways were shoveled.

  Harry parked his car. The snow made his plan more complicated so the first thing he needed to do was leave some tracks. He went door-to-door making fictitious inquiries, leaving footprints and finding out who was home. If someone answered the door he was ready with questions about a missing person. If anyone was watching him, they would soon be bored and lose interest. Gradually, he worked his way toward Randall Cox's house.

  The snow in front of 1856 Birch Lane was undisturbed. The view behind the house was expansive, over the tops of pine trees and taking in the lake below. But the clouds were lowering. If they came down much more he would be shrouded by fog.

  Harry rang the bell. From inside came the sound of footfalls. Cox opened the door.

  “Whatever you are selling I'm not interested.”

  “Not selling anything, I'm looking for a missing person.”

  Harry looked past Cox, getting a mental image of the layout of the house. His eyes ran up the door jamb and failed to find a magnetic contact for a burglar alarm.

  “Do I know you?” Cox asked.

  Harry stared him square in the face. “The boat harbor, yesterday!”

  Cox grinned, “That's right! It's a small world.”

  “Seems like a different world with this snow.” Cox stepped back, “Why don't you come inside for a minute, so I can close the storm door?”

  Harry entered a room that was precise and neat. On the coffee table magazines were lined up in squared precision. The room was immaculate. On a sideboard, cut crystal glasses formed a perfectly straight row. Even Cox's back seemed ramrod straight.

  “So who are you looking for?”

  “A boy ran off with his girlfriend. His pickup, a yellow Dodge was reportedly parked at the end of this tract day before yesterday. It's not there now. I am just asking around to see if anybody noticed anything?”

  “I can't help you there. This is the first street, so I seldom go to the upper part of the subdivision.”

  Harry scanned the room. There was nothing personal about it. No photographs, awards, plaques, or medals. It might as well be a hotel room. Even the artwork appeared cold. On the wall in the next room he noticed a copy of Edvard Munch's painting The Scream.

  Odd art for a dining room. “Well, thanks anyway. It was Randall, right?”

  “Yes, and you were, Harry?”

  “Yes. Harry Grim. Let me give you my card. If you see the truck let me know. It has a vanity plate that reads, LEMON.”

  “
That shouldn't be hard to find.”

  Harry opened the glass storm door and stepped out. The air was biting after the warmth of the house.

  “Perhaps we will meet again.”

  “It's a small town. I'm sure we will,” Harry answered affably.

  He trudged down the walk and proceeded to stop at the rest of the houses on the street lest Cox was curious about their meeting twice in two days. Besides, it inured the residents to his presence. If he came back, neighbors would think he was merely following up on a lead.

  When Harry got home he called Sheriff Gaines.

  “What type of vehicle does Randall Cox drive?”

  “Are you going to do something illegal with this information?”

  “No, I just want to know what to be on the lookout for.”

  There came the chatter of computer keys.

  “A Subaru square back, license 673 DKJ. Color, green.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Don't do anything that could compromise this case, Harry.”

  “What case? The D.A. won't touch it.”

  “Good point. I have the Cox file from the archives if you want to stop by. I'll leave it at the front desk.”

  *

  Harry thumbed through the case file. The paper was brittle on the edges where it was exposed to air. Vivian Cox was attractive. She was only thirty when she died. Today she'd be over eighty if she were alive! The thought made Harry feel old.

  There was little in the file. Black and white crime scene photos showed the victim on the kitchen floor. Harry assumed the dark area on the checkerboard tiles was blood. There was little left of the face to identify her as Vivian Cox. Near the body lay a crowbar.

  Elsewhere in the record he learned the ID was based upon dental records and a cesarian section scar on her abdomen.

  He read the investigating deputy's report. The rear door was forced and open, when Randall Cox came home from school. He found his mother on the floor and called the police at 4:12 on the afternoon on June 3, 1960. The responding officer's report stated that he found the boy holding his mother and, as a consequence, covered in blood. Numerous items were missing from the house including Mrs. Cox's jewelry box and money that was in her purse. The safe in the upstairs closet showed attempts of the dial being hammered upon,it was to no avail, the safe was not breached. It was thought that may have been the motivation for the break in, but when the safe was opened by a locksmith it contained only personal papers.

  Randy Cox was nearly catatonic, the authorities found he had little to tell them. Afterward, he became withdrawn and refused to discuss it with the court-appointed psychologist. In that his father was dead, Cox was sent to live with a foster family.

  No arrests were ever made.

  That could well push a lad over the edge, especially if his father was dead and he was attached to his mother.

  Harry closed the file.

  *

  Over the next several days the snow turned to slush, then largely melted, but at the end of the week an Arctic cold front rolled down from Canada. The thermometer plummeted to zero, cars were difficult to start, sidewalks became treacherous, and so, people stayed indoors and grumbled. Outside, the ground froze killing the last of summer's grass. Within days, a skin of ice formed on the lake, a bluish gray disk as cold and flat as a frying pan surface.

  Harry got out a small camp heater. He drove up the Shore Road and parked on the shoulder near the intersection of Ash Lane and the highway. On the corner stood a wooden school bus shelter. Many neighborhoods pitched in to erect these huts against the bitter days of winter. They varied from little more than a wall and roof to mini cabins with windows and doors.

  Cars came down and turned north or south. Parent's dropped children at the stop and went back up the hill. Others arrived on foot, puffing great clouds of vapor from their scarf covered mouths. Soon the bus came. The children climbed on burdened by snowsuits and school bags, then the bus chugged off.

  Harry walked over to the hut. In that short time outside his skin burned and his lips grew chapped. The icy air cut at his nasal passages and the wind bit into his clothes. The inside of the hut was not much better but it stopped the wind. Harry lit the camp heater, opened a thermos of coffee and settled onto a bench to wait.

  Soon the hut was somewhat warm. The only problem being the windows tended to fog over. His cell phone vibrated in his pocket. Harry tended to keep it thus having almost been killed when it rang at an inopportune time during another case. The ensuing bullet clipped his shoulder.

  “Harry, what's up?”

  He recognized Dirk's voice.

  “Freezing my butt off. It's ten below here.”

  “Santa Barbara is seventy-two and sunny. You should move!”

  “There's a lot of things I should do.”

  “So how goes your investigation?”

  “I found the guy.”

  “Super sleuth.”

  “No, dumb luck. I ran into the guy at the fuel dock.”

  “Luck is when proper preparation meets opportunity, buddy! If you weren't looking, you wouldn't have noticed.”

  “Doesn't matter, so far we can't touch the guy. He has been at all the right places to have opportunity, but the District Attorney wants a slam dunk. So far he won't file the case.”

  “There are other ways, Harry.”

  “Tempting, Dirk, but essentially not my style.”

  “Ethics is something you trip over on the way to justice.”

  “Tell that to Martin Hoffman.”

  “Who's that?” asked Dirk.

  “The guy who was executed for three murders he didn't commit.”

  Just then the green Subaru came down the hill. It turned toward town.

  “I got to go!” Without waiting for an reply, Harry ended the call.

  He took the heater back to his car. Then he walked along the road a hundred feet and turned into the woods. He worked his way up the hill among the trunks of pine trees. Ten minutes later he was at the top of the bank behind Randall Cox's house. Harry put his head down so his hood hid his face from both the wind and any neighbors who might be looking.

  The backdoor lock was simple. He carried a pick set, but a plastic shim shoved between the door and jamb released the strike. Harry stepped inside. With his handkerchief he wiped off his boots, lest bits of clinging ice melt and leave a water trail on the floor.

  He checked the living room first. The bar held a dozen bottles of liquor. The coffee table held magazines but there was no place to store anything. He went into the hall. The bathroom showed the same compulsion. No sodden towels lay on the floor, the lone towel on the rod was perfectly straight. On the vanity's top was a neat row of mouthwash, cologne, and hand soap. The medicine cabinet was virtually empty. Cox lived as though he might check out at any moment.

  One bedroom was completely empty. No furniture, no storage boxes, nothing. The other bedroom was militarily neat. The pillows flattened and aligned across the bedhead, the blankets tucked into crisp points at the mattress corners. Harry opened the closet door. Cox's shirts and pants were ironed with hard creases. They were sorted by colors, each hanger evenly spaced from the next. On the shelf were several shoe boxes. In one he found a pair of military dress shoes. Another held assorted pieces of junk, perhaps trinkets from past trips. The last one was shocking.

  Harry laid the photos out on the bed. Some were colored digital prints, others were old Polaroids discolored by age, a few were black and white, evidently developed in a home darkroom. They were all strangely alike. In each photo a blonde girl stared wide eyed at the lens. A few seemed to carry the vestiges of the fear they suffered as they died. For some, the tongue protruded as if too large for their mouth. All bore a surprising resemblance to Alison Albright.

  The last photo was different. It was a studio portrait of a girl. She was smiling at the camera, full of life, her head tossed back while evoking a come fuck me look. Harry turned it over. In the bottom corner was a stamped name, Con
way Photography, Red Lake. Below that was a date 10-12-51. He turned it over again. The girl's appearance was much as the others, only she was alive.

  “Freeze!”

  Harry never heard him come in. He was too entranced by what he found.

  Cox stood in the doorway with a gun aimed at him. Harry had looked down guns before, they no longer frightened him. One day he would die so what was there to fear from a gun?

  “Is this your mother?” Harry held up the studio photo.

  Cox's mouth twitched. “Yes.”

  “Did you love her very much?”

  The gun barrel shook as Cox laughed. “I hated the woman!” A crazed look edged into Randall's eyes. “And, the cunt hated me!” Spittle flew from his lips as he spoke. “My dear mother got herself knocked up by some soldier who was based here after the war. He left and she was stuck with me!”

  “And then she left you by dying?” Harry said in an attempt to empathize or practice amateur psychology.

  Cox seemed puzzled.

  “She didn't leave me,” he said with contemp, “I beat her to death!. I wiped that smug, sanctimonious, condescending face off of her. Cox jabbed the barrel his gun toward the photo in Harry's hand. “She would hold that picture up and tell me how beautiful she once was, and then berate me for ruining her life. God, how many times did she rue the fact that she could not get an abortion?”

  Again the gun waved as he shook with anger. “Do you know how many times I wanted to take my hands and strangle her? To choke off the words that flowed like a fetid river of abuse from her mouth?”

  Harry moved forward a bit to lay the photograph on the bed, closing the gap between them slightly.

  “So you're just an angry boy killing his mother again, and again, and again?”

  “I was too small to choke her to death, so I did the next best thing; I used a crowbar. I pried the door open. She came into the kitchen and I hit her. I can still see the shock on her face and feel the soft thump as the bar slammed into her throat. She went down on her knees incapable of making more than a gurgling a sound. She wasn't so damn beautiful when I got done!”

  “And the police?”