Sand City Murders

by MK Alexander

  “Not much left of it, I’m afraid. Pretty much rained all night,” Durbin said.

  “And what are these white structures scattered along the sand?” the inspector asked, pointing to the photo again.

  “Lifeguard chairs.”

  “How tall are they?”

  “Hmm, I dunno, maybe six, seven feet off the ground.”

  “Interesting… I would like to see the bodies, if possible… and especially any personal effects.”

  Detective Durbin nodded. “We don’t have an official coroner’s office. They’re over at Willard’s, the local funeral parlor. I can take you over later if you’d like.”

  “Well gentlemen, if there’s nothing else?” Arantez said in his official voice, trying to wrap things up.

  “Another request, if I may,” Fynn asked. “I would like to study your missing persons reports.”

  “Sure, it’s all on the computer. Detective Durbin can help you.”

  “Ah, but no, not recent reports. I would like to see the old records. Missing persons from long ago, thirty years or more.”

  “That’s an odd request.”

  “Indulge me, please.”

  “Well, we’ll have to get you over to Fairhaven, the county seat. That’s were the archives would be.”

  “Perhaps Mr Jardel could drive me?”

  Me? I thought so loud, I was afraid I had actually said it. Durbin and Arantez readily agreed to the idea. I was suddenly appointed Chief Inspector Fynn’s goodwill ambassador and chauffeur.

  chapter 6

  sixteen south

  “Ah, this is very familiar to me. I almost feel like I’m home.”

  Inspector Fynn was talking about my car, a 2002 Saab. She was getting a little long around the tooth for sure, and a bit cantankerous. But when she was running right, she could really haul ass, and was built like a tank, solid and safe. I felt good about driving probably one of the last true hatchbacks on the road. I felt bad about driving a car from a company that was now defunct. Especially when it came to repairs. A couple of months ago, I pulled into Matt’s Motors for my yearly inspection and had a rear brake light out. Just replace the bulb, right? No such luck. There was a short somewhere, or something, and it cost me four hundred and fifty dollars to fix.

  “Do people still drive Saabs in Europe?” I asked idly.

  “But of course… well, perhaps less nowadays. Especially in Sweden. Volvos mostly, I should think.”

  “What do the police drive?”

  “Opels and Volkswagons, I’d say. No Saabs.”

  “Do you carry a gun?” I’m not sure why I asked that, just making conversation, I guess.

  “A Walther? No, not usually. I rarely have the occasion to shoot anyone.”

  “So... what’s it like being a chief inspector living in the Netherlands?”

  “Quite pleasant.”

  “That’s Holland, right?”

  “Amsterdam is part of it, yes.”

  “That makes you Dutch?”

  “I suppose it does. But it’s a bit more complicated than that.”

  “How so?”

  “The entire nation is called the Netherlands, yet it is divided into regions; and culture to a lesser extent. Holland is one of those regions.”

  “I’m not sure I’m following.”

  “The Netherlands is a kingdom... there are Catholics to the south and Protestants to the north… ha, and nowadays so many immigrants…” his voice trailed off.

  “Not Belgium?”

  “No, not Belgium,” he said and then fell into silence for a time. “How long is this drive to Fairhaven?”

  “Depends on traffic, forty-five minutes, an hour. I’ve made it in less. It all depends on sixteen.”

  “Sixteen?”

  “Route sixteen— it’s the only road out of town.” I turned off at the rotary in Oldham onto a merge ramp and accelerated along a two-lane highway. “Sixteen,” I observed aloud. It’s a straight narrow road with a double orange line up the middle. The whole thing is a no passing zone and last year they put up plastic barriers, fall-away sticks to prevent you from taking any unnecessary risks, or drifting over into the oncoming lane accidentally. Though mostly straight, it did curve around the landscape in places, and undulated up and down for a good thirty miles. If you got stuck behind a slow truck or a tourist going under the limit, it was frustrating to say the least. All I can say is it’s lucky for them I don’t drive around with a shotgun in my car. The posted limit is fifty. I got my old Saab up to seventy-five and started to cruise.

  Sometime later, I decelerated back down to sixty or so.

  “Why are we slowing?” Fynn asked.

  “Speed trap, or there could be... State cops. There are only four places they can hide and well, of course I know them all.” I glanced quickly to my left as we approached a small dirt road hidden in the dunes. “Nope. Not today.” I brought the old gal back up to seventy-five.

  “I probably owe you an apology, Inspector Fynn.”

  “An apology? For what reason?”

  “At the meeting, all that stuff I said… the questions I asked.”

  “Not at all. You were just doing your job.”

  “That’s true, but sometimes I think in headlines— it’s a bad habit.” I glanced over at the inspector. “As for the questions, yeah well, another bad habit.”

  “Think nothing of it, please. Questions are always important. Unfortunately I am far more accustomed to asking, rather than answering.”

  We drove in silence for a while.

  “Tell me Mr Jardel, you have a very good memory, yes?”

  “I guess I do. It’s a blessing and a curse.”

  “How so?”

  “I’m sure there are a lot of things I’d rather forget.”

  Inspector Fynn paused for a moment, as if recalling something he’d rather disremember. “I suppose you are correct on this. But you remember everything?”

  “That’s kind of an odd question.”

  “I am sorry. Perhaps you need to focus your attention on driving?”

  “No, that’s not it. I guess I’m not used to questions either. The reporter in me. I’m more comfortable listening.”

  “I see. And this is a skill you have?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “We share this particular talent then.”

  “I’m sorry, what? What did you say?” I glanced over at Fynn to see his face, to see if he knew whether I was kidding or not. I wondered how he might react. This would tell me something about the man.

  He smiled slightly then burst out laughing. It was a robust sort of laugh, infectious. “How little you’ve changed,” he commented.

  “What?” I asked again, this time I wasn’t joking. I was confused but he completely ignored my question.

  “I gain much more information from listening than talking, eh? There are many people I think who are incapable of truly listening. For them a conversation is all about talking; they listen only for the chance to speak again.” The inspector persisted, “But your memory?”

  “I don’t have a good head for dates or names… but yeah, I remember a lot of weird stuff sometimes.”

  “And do you consider yourself a curious person?”

  “Curious? Everyone is curious. It’s part of being human.”

  “Some are more curious than others.”

  ***

  “Cold case or active files?” someone asked us.

  At the Fairhaven Police Station, the chief inspector and I began what seemed to be a futile task. “No, those reports have been moved years ago. They’re not here anymore,” a rather hostile lieutenant informed us. He never even bothered to get up and greet us. Just sat at his desk converting actual paperwork into computer files. His jacket was slung on the back of a chair. His shirtsleeves were already rolled up and his tie undone. I asked him if the files had been computerized, but he didn’t care to fathom a guess.

  “I’d try the County Records building. Might be there.”


  They weren’t. Someone from county records told us to try the Courthouse. They in turn directed us to the Court Annex, the basement records room. It was a fairly long walk. That’s when I first noticed Inspector Fynn’s peculiar gait. It was almost as if he wanted to be doubly sure where his foot might land before he stepped. I also began to appreciate his persistence and unflappable patience.

  We met with Wilma Peterson, a clerk too long at her job. She wore her hair tied back in a bun, mostly all of it, except for a few strands that refused to comply and fell across her face. And she was a bit overweight, unnecessarily packed into an officer’s uniform. Ms Peterson stared at us dubiously through the rim of her glasses which rested precariously on her nose, though they were firmly attached to her neck with a rhinestone chain. I slipped our note through the oneway feeder. Her demeanor changed a little after she read the paperwork Durbin had prepared.

  “Well, that’s going back a few years,” she commented. The heavy security door buzzed loudly. “C’mon through,” she said graciously enough. “Only one real rule here: nothing leaves the library. You can copy anything you’d like, any way you like— pen and paper, photographs, whatever. And there’s a copy machine I’ll let you use.” She glanced to the corner of the office and then led us down a narrow corridor. “Let’s see, missing persons, nineteen seventies. Hmm, those files could be anywhere, maybe in a box, or maybe on micro-fish.” She gave us a pained smile.

  I was pretty sure she meant microfiche.

  “The computer records don’t really start till the mid-eighties.” She paused to laugh. “Of course though, why else would you be down here?”

  Wilma led us into a dark, rather dank room filled with shelves, and on them stacks of boxes, all exactly the same.

  “There’s the viewer, if you need it… and if you find what you’re looking for, call me back and I can make a copy.”

  “Mademoiselle Peterson, you have been a great help already and I extend my deepest gratitude,” the chief inspector said rather grandly, but effectively it seemed. Wilma broke into a huge smile and pushed away her errant strands of hair without thinking.

  “We would need the files of missing persons both locally, in your parish, and perhaps throughout the entire state.”

  “Well, Inspector Fynn, that shouldn’t be a problem at all.” Wilma walked over to a set of shelves then slowed, pausing to read the dates. “We don’t have national records of course— not sure anyone does from such a long time ago. But these are the county records. The records for the whole state are probably on micro-fish.”

  “Thank you again, we will begin our search here.” Chief Inspector Fynn glanced at me as if to say help the poor woman with the box. I did just that, jumped on the stepladder and hauled down a heavy container.

  “What year was the car which Detective Durbin mentions?”

  “Nineteen seventy-four.”

  “We will begin there, I think. And we will begin with photographs. If we find a similarity, we can check for fingerprints.”

  “Fingerprints?”

  The inspector looked at me and smiled. “A very strange state of affairs, Mr Jardel.”

  “Why exactly are we looking at these old files?” I asked.

  “The geological clue I spoke of.”

  “No offense, but that’s utter bull crap.”

  Fynn looked at me but didn’t seem at all upset. “I think there maybe a family connection. Like you mentioned, a generational killer.”

  “Oh.” I had little else to say but that seemed more plausible somehow.

  After about an hour of searching he came upon two files: Clara Hobbs and Debra Helling, both twenty-two years of age, both from Sand City, both disappeared in 1975 and 1976 respectively. Never found. I looked at the cold case photos and compared them to Durbin’s files.

  “The resemblance is extraordinary, don’t you think?”

  “If I didn’t know better, I’d say they were the same people… especially her,” I said, and pointed to what looked like a yearbook photograph of Debra Helling.

  “Indeed.” Chief Inspector Fynn sifted through the files again, paying special attention to fingerprints. He seemed dismayed to find none.

  I tried to explain, “Back then people didn’t get fingerprinted routinely… not unless they were convicted of a crime… and even now...”

  “Ah yes… of course,” he muttered almost to himself but continued through the folders. After a few minutes more, Inspector Fynn found a third file: Lorraine Luis, age twenty-one, disappeared from Sand City in 1977. She was never found either. The last record seemed to have an effect on the inspector. I couldn’t be absolutely sure, but I’d say a small tear came to his eye.

  “Who is this third girl?”

  “Someone I know… from the past.”

  “What? Where is she?” I asked then paused. Wait. Why did I just ask that?

  “Apparently she has not been discovered yet.”

  “Yet?”

  “It’s rather odd.”

  “So she will turn up?”

  “I fear for the worst.”

  What was I thinking? Why are we even looking at records from, like forty years ago. I felt very unsettled. I took out my camera and started photographing the files on the desk.

  “What are you doing?”

  I shrugged. It was pretty obvious.

  “Is this permitted? Is it alright for Detective Durbin?”

  I was quick, got all the shots I needed and reached for my cell. “Yeah, I’ll call him right now,” I said, but then remembered the cell phones were down till Thursday at least. Inspector Fynn made copies of all the files with the help of Mademoiselle Wilma.

  The drive back to Sand City was very quick and very quiet. Hardly another car on the road and no speed traps. The inspector sat in a brooding silence, I thought. Anytime I tried to broach our paradoxical discovery— no— make that impossible discovery, he brushed me aside with replies like, “I cannot offer a suitable explanation…” or “...it is too difficult to comprehend…”

  That’s for sure. But records don’t lie.

  Chief Inspector Fynn raised his doubts, “No, I do not trust computers much.”

  “How can you say that? They’re instrumental to our civilization.”

  “I agree with that premise, but it does not change my idea of trust.”

  “I’m not following you.”

  “For example, I doubt the truth of anything I find on the internet. Photographs are so easily altered. The primacy of the visual image has been compromised. You cannot trust what you see. Even film, or video, as you call it— such can be altered in any way as to hide the truth or create a false one.”

  “You mean like special effects?”

  “Exactly.”

  “So?”

  “So, I certainly do not trust what I read. All text is subject to easy and instant change by almost anyone. How can I trust the written word nowadays? And why should I?”

  All good points, I guess, but it completely begged the question. Nothing we just found was from a computer file.

  I dropped Fynn at the Blue Dunes Hotel, just northeast of the Village on the ocean side, tucked away beneath a high sandy bluff. He had a corner suite on the second floor.

  “Do you want me to take the files back to Durbin?” I asked as he was about to leave.

  “Thank you, but no. I’ll telephone him from my room.”

  “How can I get in touch with you? I could call your cell… or, what’s your room number?”

  “I have no cell phone.”

  “No cell? Are you kidding?”

  “Why would I kid? I find it makes my life simpler.”

  “Simpler? Ha. I can check my email anytime I want, text anyone, talk to anybody, search or fact check instantly. Why would you want to live without a cell?”

  “As I’ve said, my life is simpler than that. Whether it is better, is a personal valuation.” He turned and smiled briefly. “Besides, my mobile does not seem to fun
ction in your country.”

  “Gotcha… So, how do I get in touch with you then?”

  “I will be in touch with you.” He smiled again.

  “You want my number?”

  “Not really, rather it’s not necessary. I’ll find you when I need you.”

  chapter 7

  double doubts

  My old Saab was built for just this: twisty turny pavement and excessive speeds. I raced down the back roads from the ocean side to the Sand City Chronicle office after dropping off Inspector Fynn. This time of year traffic was a rarity. It was early evening, maybe around six o’ clock or so. No one was there, except I might have heard a noise from the basement. Jason, probably. I headed straight up to the attic, the morgue, the archives, and started a search on the two dead girls. Nothing about my visit to Fairhaven with Fynn sat well. How was any of this possible? How could two girls from the seventies show up dead almost forty years later? It was impossible. I had three wildly improbable theories and one plausible. On the wild side: alien abductions, frozen corpses, clones or doppelgängers. On the plausible side: mistaken identity.

  It took some doing. I sifted through boxes of old newspapers and eventually came across the mid-seventies. Wow, had things changed… Back then, the Chronicle was a weekly already, but a giant broadsheet, maybe fourteen by twenty-something inches. And the design was painfully amusing. Must have been a seventies thing. I didn’t even recognize half the fonts. Is that Peignot? Only paste-up Amy would know for sure...

  On page six of every issue was the Sand City Police Blotter. A quick roundup of all calls for the week. Stupid stuff mostly, drunks, cats in trees, domestic disputes. This might take some time…

  About an hour or so later I came upon the first missing person, Clara Hobbs. Not much there, but it was confirmation. Clara, a waitress at the Crab Shack disappeared on North Hollow Beach while walking her dog, September 1975. There was more about the dog than her. He was a yorkshire terrier that answered to the name of Roxy, and had apparently disappeared as well. Debra Helling, victim number two, was last seen on Boxtop Beach, October 1976. The third disappearance was Lorraine Luis, who seemed to have vanished without a trace from the bridle path in July 1977. I made copies of everything and stuffed them into my bag. Confirmation of the impossible.