by Bob Avey
When Crawley saw Elliot coming, he smiled. “Find what you needed?”
“Some of it,” Elliot said. “Thanks for your help. Could I ask another favor?”
“Sure.”
“You covered the story. Is there anything I should know that wasn’t in those articles?”
He rubbed his chin. “What I know is pretty much there, in the papers you went through.”
“The articles mentioned Dr. Lyndon Shriver, the medical examiner during that time. You wouldn’t happen to know where I could find him?”
“Charlie’s a good man, son. I’d hate to see him get hurt over this.”
“So would I, but this is important.”
Crawley frowned. “Yeah, I know Shriver. He doesn’t live that far from here. He and Charlie go way back, old army buddies. Rumor has it Charlie saved his life in Vietnam.” He grabbed a scrap of paper and started writing. “Here’s his address. Maybe he can remember something that will help.”
“What about this Mr. Beaumont that was mentioned a couple of times?” Elliot asked.
“Old Clarence? He ran a butcher shop in town years ago. Closed down now. I hated to see it go, but there was no one around to run it after Clarence passed away.”
“What was his connection?” Elliot asked,
“That Marcia girl, the one that was killed, she dated Clarence’s son a few times. Let’s see…Philip, yeah, that was the kid’s name. Don’t know where he is now.”
Elliot found Dr. Shriver living on the outskirts of town with his wife, Vivian. When he told him he was investigating the deaths of Johnnie Alexander and Marcia Barnes, Shriver became nervous and told Vivian he and Elliot were going to talk in his office, a spacious room located in the front part of the house.
Shriver closed the door behind them and opened a cabinet made of shiny walnut burl that sat beside the desk. He pulled a glass and a bottle of gin from the cabinet, filling the glass half full and topping it off with lemon-lime soda. “Drink?” he asked.
Elliot sat in a chair of soft brown leather. “No thanks. I just need a little information.”
“Well,” Shriver said, looking as though he’d been forced to swallow a bitter pill. “What is it, exactly, that you want to know?”
Elliot thought about that for a moment. Shriver was nervous and he hadn’t even asked him any questions. He began to suspect Bob Crawley had given him more than just a lead—he was on to something. “I’d like to know the truth, Dr. Shriver.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Why don’t you tell me what you observed during the autopsy?”
“What’s to tell? I’m sure you’ve read the report.”
“I’ve looked it over,” Elliot said. “But I’m having trouble with some inconsistencies.” He stretched the truth. He hadn’t seen the report.
Shriver took a sip of his drink. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“That may be,” Elliot said. “But Johnnie Alexander was probably the best left-handed quarterback to ever attend Porter High.”
“So?”
The question sounded genuine enough, but Elliot could tell by the look on Shriver’s face that it wasn’t. “Why was the .38 found in his right hand?”
“I guess I never gave it much thought.”
“I find that hard to believe, Dr. Shriver. In fact, I’d lay odds that someone with your experience could tell by the trajectory of the bullet, and its position in the entry wound that Johnnie didn’t pull the trigger, which means he probably didn’t inflict the wounds on Marcia Barnes.”
“What are you saying?”
“The report stated Marcia Barnes died first, is that correct?”
“I believe so, yes.”
“But that’s not the way it happened, is it?”
“I’m getting a little tired of this and I don’t have to put up with it.” He started to rise.
“My guess would be Johnnie was killed first because he wasn’t the target. He was simply in the way.”
Shriver poured himself another drink. “I could ask you to leave, Detective Elliot.”
“But you won’t, and I’ll tell you why. This thing’s been eating away at you for a long time, and you’d like to get it off your chest, set the record straight. It’s something I know a little bit about.”
Shriver turned away and walked to a bay window that looked over a garden area. For a long time, he stood there, staring through the window in silence. When he finally spoke, his voice cracked under the strain. “So what if the boy didn’t take his own life? They were both dead. Nothing was going to bring them back. What was the harm in helping to close the case, putting an end to the whole sordid affair? Anyway, why do you care? You were the one who benefited the most from the murder-suicide verdict.”
Elliot shook his head. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “Did it ever occur to you that someone actually committed the crime, someone your actions helped to set free to kill again?”
He turned back to face Elliot, his face livid. “What do you think?” He asked. “Well, did you, stud? Did you kill again?”
“Only in the line of duty,” Elliot said.
A look came over Shriver like his soul had just been condemned to hell.
“I’m the investigating officer on the cases in Tulsa,” Elliot said. “Don’t you read the papers, Dr. Shriver, or watch the news? There was enough there for someone with your knowledge to draw a conclusion and see the similarities between the recent killing of Michelle Baker and the murder of Marcia Barnes.”
Shriver’s eyes grew red, and he began to tremble.
“Why did you lie about it?”
“Have you ever been indebted to someone, Detective Elliot?”
Elliot thought about his getting off the hook. “I guess that depends on how you look at it.”
Shriver nodded. “Someone saves your life, you owe them.” He turned up the glass and finished the drink. “Do you have any idea what it’s like wrestling with such a dilemma, and living with sin because of it?”
Again Elliot considered his answer. “Yes, Dr. Shriver, I think I do. But you can put it to rest now.”
“I’ll deny everything I’ve told you.”
Elliot slowly got out of the chair and walked toward the door. “I’d better be going now. Thanks for your help.”
Outside, Elliot climbed into his car. Dr. Shriver had falsified the report because Charlie Johnson, to whom he felt he owed a great deal, had called in his marker. The question was: why had Porter’s chief of police felt compelled to do that?
23
He had the windows rolled down, letting the air rush into the car, and when he reached down and flicked off the headlights, speeding into the dark night surrounding Highway 51B, the exhilaration went to his head and he had to grip the wheel tightly to regain control and reassure himself it was real. Visiting his old haunting grounds had been such a pleasure that he hadn’t made it very far before the desire to experience more of the same caused him to turn the car around and head back.
His work wasn’t finished there. Things were getting out of hand, spiraling out of control, and it was up to him to take the reins and pull them tight again. He pushed the accelerator harder. It was times like this, when their separation would narrow, bringing them closer—and he embraced it, for she had set his senses clear. It was destiny, and those who meddled in their affairs had to be dealt with.
But the time would come when it came. He had other things to do, and even in the darkness he could feel he had arrived. He pulled off the road and stopped the car. Getting out, he walked along the weedy path until he reached his destination. Porter was just around the bend, but from where he stood, looking across the black fields, it was hard to tell. He’d forgotten how special the place was. It seemed strange that something so fulfilling could have happened there, a place called the Point, a lover’s lane where teens had taken their dates. It was here he’d made the discovery that would set him free.
He wal
ked a few yards up the pathway, stopping beside a tree, and as he stared at the gnarled oak, there was no doubt in his mind he now stood in the exact spot where it had happened. He closed his eyes and breathed in the night air, flashes of that night going through his head. With a shaky hand, he reached out and touched the rough bark of the tree and as he did tears rolled down his face and his legs gave way, bringing him to his knees.
Gathering himself, he stood and walked back to the car and drove back into town, parking behind the school so he could walk the back roads to the garage and not be noticed. He slipped by the house as he put on his gloves, and edged along the outside wall of the garage until he reached the front. Breaking and entering wasn’t his forte, but it almost felt that way, being there in the middle of the night. But you couldn’t very well break into a place where you had free access. He slid the key into the old padlock, heard it click open, and seconds later stepped inside the office, closing the door behind him.
Cautiously, he walked into the garage area, flipping on the lights as he went. The fluorescent glow spread across the workbench, bringing into view the large red toolbox that sat atop it. Holding his breath, he opened the toolbox and reached inside, sliding his gloved hand around the handle of the knife that was kept there.
Outside again, he refastened the hasp and closed the padlock, then crept into the darkness. Using the dimly lit streets, he made his way. It was a fresh experience, prowling like a common criminal in the streets of the town he knew so well, and when he came to Carmen’s house the excitement roiled in his veins. He got to his knees and crawled to the window where he’d seen her before, slowly bringing his eyes to a level with the sill. The sight of her rendered him lightheaded. She was nothing like her, but she was beautiful in her own right, creamy brown skin fitting her frame so well, and her black hair shining.
She turned off the light.
24
Elliot reached for the bottle of aspirin he kept in his desk drawer and downed a couple with a swallow of coffee. He’d gotten in late the night before and slept badly. To top that off, Dombrowski had jumped him as soon as he’d walked in the office, asking him where he’d been, and why he hadn’t called in. Elliot was still struggling over their encounter at the restaurant, but his anger had eased since then. Now he was somewhere between determination to see this thing through and total confusion.
He left his desk and went to the forensic lab, stopping at the lab director’s office. Eddie York, the director, was bent over his desk and didn’t seem to notice Elliot had come in. “Hey, Eddie,” Elliot said.
He looked up. “What can I do for you, Detective?”
Elliot held out the piece of paper he’d used to take the rubbing from the rusted car he’d found in the creek bed at Porter and handed it to Eddie York. “I’ve got a partial vehicle identification number and I was hoping you could help me run it down.”
Eddie York took the paper and examined it. Frowning, he said, “You’re missing a few numbers.”
“Yeah, I know. The plate was damaged. It looked like someone had flattened it with a hammer. I know it’s a lot to ask, but I need to know who the vehicle was registered to, if it’s possible.”
Eddie nodded. “I’ll see what I can do, but I’m not promising anything. Speaking of cars, how’s that restoration project of yours coming along?”
“It’s not. I’m in over my head. You wouldn’t happen to know anything about cars, would you?”
“You kidding? I was just curious, that’s all. I’ll get to work on this.”
Elliot met Beaumont in the hallway as he left the lab. He looked sorry-eyed and nervous, like a dog that’d done something wrong. Elliot stepped around him. He was hungry. He had to think to remember the last time he’d eaten: Maggie Caldwell’s chicken soup early yesterday.
Elliot drove to Nelson’s Buffeteria on Boston Avenue. Once inside, he ordered eggs and hash brown potatoes, then found a place and sat down.
After leaving the café, Elliot went to the county offices. Bob Crawley had given him an approximate date for Cynthia Johnson’s exodus, and he wanted to check it out.
Once there Elliot took the elevator then walked the hallway to a set of glass doors. He pushed the doors open and walked inside, where a multitude of people stood at or near a long counter, behind which were the county workers. Elliot took a place at the counter and finally a man wearing obnoxious checked pants that clashed with his shirt came over and asked how he could help. Elliot told the man what he wanted and the man pointed to a shelf along the wall that held a collection of large, bound books. They were the county marriage records and were there for public use.
The records were arranged alphabetically by date, and it wasn’t long until Elliot found what he was looking for: In May of 1976, Cynthia Rebecca Johnson, Charlie Johnson’s sister, married a man by the name of Terrance Kincaid.
Elliot left the county office and went back to the department. Once there he checked his voice mail and found he had several messages, but one in particular caught his attention. It was from Rachael, Lagayle Zimmerman’s unusual friend. Punching the button, he listened to the recording.
“Detective Elliot. I was hoping to catch you. If you get this, please call me back.” There was a pause, then, “I think someone’s following me. In fact I’m positive. At first I thought it was my imagination, after talking to you about what happened and all. But he’s there all right. I’ve seen him more than once. Look, I’m scared, okay? I mean what if it’s the same guy Lagayle saw? I’m probably just being silly, but if I don’t hear from you, I’ll call again. Call me, please.”
Elliot flipped through his list of numbers and called Rachael’s house. Her mother answered and said she wasn’t there. She didn’t seem all that concerned. Elliot grabbed a phone book and looked up the number of the restaurant where Rachael worked then dialed it, and after interrupting the voice on the other end as it went through a commercial spiel, he asked for Rachael.
“She’s not here.” It was Joe Bernard, the restaurant manager, and when Elliot identified himself, he said, “Hey, I’m glad you called. I haven’t seen Rachael since the day she talked to you. It’s probably nothing. We go through more employees in this business than we do apple pies, but I’m worried about her. She was different, or at least I thought she was. Never pulled anything like this before.”
Elliot told Mr. Bernard he’d look into it and hung up the phone, a sick feeling seething through his stomach. Rachael Johnson wasn’t exactly petite but she wasn’t large either, and she fit the rest of the bill quite nicely: she had blonde hair and blue eyes.
Elliot decided to drive over to Rachael’s place and have a look around, but halfway there he received a phone call that stopped everything. He put the cell phone to his ear, and nearly lost all concentration as he listened.
“Hello, Detective.”
It was the mechanical voice of his attacker at the old schoolhouse. “You’re proving to be a real nemesis…always in the way.”
“Perhaps if you’d tell me what it is you’re trying to accomplish,” Elliot said, “I’d sympathize and get out of your way.”
He laughed, but it sounded more like an estranged growl. “You wouldn’t understand; no one ever does.”
“Why don’t we stop this little game? I’ve always preferred face-to-face discussions. Anywhere you like, just pick a time and place.”
“I think this is the part where I say, you’re going to have to do better than that. But I won’t. In fact, I’m going to give you what you want, go out on a limb, help you. After all, we’re old friends, aren’t we?”
“How did you get my cell phone number?” Elliot asked.
“A mutual friend had it in her possession.”
“Are you talking about Rachael Johnson?”
A long silence followed. Elliot began to wonder if the man had disconnected, but then the robot voice came back on line.
“Rachael’s quite fond of you, speaks of you often. Pretty fantastic for a dead per
son, wouldn’t you say?”
Elliot’s heart sank, and he heard himself ask, “Where’s the body?”
“If you insist, my presumptuous friend, then find where the market crosses over 4th Street and go east until you reach a northbound Illinois town. The Depression Bridge is close, but the concentration camp is where you’ll catch your prize.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Well, if you really want to know who and why, you’ll just have to figure it out.”
Elliot’s thoughts raced. He had to be speaking of a place somewhere in the city. The phone went silent, and Elliot knew the man was gone, but suddenly, he also knew where to go. An image of the area the voice had described had formed in his mind with such clarity that he could almost feel the rough surface of the concrete that formed the overpass where the MKT railroad crossed over 4th Street. The Illinois town was the key, for when Elliot realized his caller was speaking of Peoria Avenue, everything else fell into place. As he headed north and caught a glimpse of 1930 chiseled into the fabric of yet another bridge, he remembered the caller referring to the Depression and his inclination to believe he was on the right track grew stronger. When he saw the deserted manufacturing plant he knew without a doubt that he’d found the place.
Elliot turned onto Latimer Place, brought the car to a stop in an old driveway, and called in to relay his whereabouts. He waited for backup, and a few minutes later Sergeant Conley pulled in. Detective Beaumont was with him.
An uneasy look came over Conley’s face as he and Beaumont climbed out of the car to join Elliot. It was a sparsely populated area made up of manufacturing businesses and industrial buildings. A lack of traffic, pedestrian or otherwise, lent a deserted feel to this part of the city. More to the point, it was a good place to hide if someone chose to do so, and Elliot had to admit the hair on his neck was standing on end.