Redemption Lake

by Susan Clayton-Goldner

  Radhauser pulled out his badge.

  “Jesus.” The man’s lips fluttered around the matchstick. “Mitch is one of my good ones. Why do you want to talk to him?”

  “Part of a routine homicide investigation.” Radhauser tucked his badge back into his inside coat pocket and pulled out his notebook. “Is he here?”

  “Homicide? Are you shittin’ me?”

  “Is he here?”

  “I heard his wife died last week, but Mitch said she was high strung and maybe it was suicide.”

  “Mitch was wrong. What’s your name?”

  “Simon Pierce. I’m the house manager.” He puffed up a little at the word ‘manager’.

  Radhauser jotted the name in his notebook.

  “I don’t want no trouble,” Pierce said.

  Radhauser pocketed his notebook and stepped inside. “I’m not here to make trouble. Just to ask some questions.”

  “He’s been here about three weeks now,” Pierce said. “Far as I know, he’s mindin’ his own business. He shows up for meals and does his share of the chores. Got a job right away, makin’ deliveries for the East Valley Tribune, six days a week.”

  Radhauser decided to take a chance, to assume it was Travis’s father who’d waited in The Spur parking lot to see his son. “Witnesses spotted Mitch Reynolds in Tucson last Friday. And again on Saturday—the night his ex-wife was murdered.”

  “I know all about his bein’ there,” Pierce said. “He got a weekend pass from his parole officer. Mitch’s boy lives there and he wanted to see him—to make things right. Makin’ amends is a big part of the program here.”

  “Do you know what time he got back?”

  Pierce shook his head. “I didn’t hear him come in. But that don’t mean nothin’. I’m a heavy sleeper. I can check the sign-in sheet, if you want.”

  Pierce stepped over to a small desk beside the door and leafed through a notebook.

  Radhauser looked around the room. It was clean and well-organized, with the standard fare for halfway houses—a sagging brown sofa, two side chairs, end tables, and a coffee table in front of the sofa. A card table with four folding chairs set up in the corner—a deck of cards and a stack of jigsaw puzzles on top. The floor, white linoleum with blue speckles, was partially covered by a braided hooked rug, the kind seen in country farmhouses. A dining area with a round maple table and eight chairs was set off from the living area with an arched plaster wall painted army green.

  “Says here he got home at 6:30 Sunday mornin’. We use the honor system. And far as I know, Mitch ain’t had no infringements.”

  Plenty of time to kill Crystal, get cleaned up and drive back here, Radhauser thought. Casa Grande had a truck stop off Interstate 10 with showers for rent. He could have packed a change of clothes, worn a raincoat, and dumped his bloody clothes there. “Is he here now?”

  Pierce nodded, confirmed what Radhauser already knew. “He don’t go to work until 10. Second door on your right. I can get him for you, if you want.”

  “Is there a place I can talk to him in private?”

  “Sure. There’s a conference room down the hall on your right, just past the indoor swimming pool.”

  Just what Radhauser needed, a wise ass.

  Pierce grinned. “I’m just shittin’ ya. The bedroom’s set up for four, but the other residents do construction. Out of here by dawn six days a week. I run a tight ship.”

  Radhauser tapped on the bedroom door. An instant later, it opened.

  He didn’t know what he’d expected, but it wasn’t what greeted him. Mitch Reynolds was a handsome man, with sand-colored hair, strong features, and white teeth that would have been perfect if they hadn’t overlapped slightly in the front. His eyes had an unmistakable sincerity to them and were the same laughing blue color as his son’s. With his clean shave and boyish grin, he looked more like a country western singer than an ex-con, right down to the cleft in his chin and the absence of any visible prison tattoos. He wore a blue plaid western shirt tucked into a pair of Levi’s that looked as if the creases had been steam pressed—his cowboy boots polished like new.

  Radhauser introduced himself.

  Without changing his expression, Mitch stuck out his hand. “Pleased to meet you.”

  Radhauser shook it.

  The small room was crowded with two sets of bunk beds, neatly made with brown corduroy spreads tucked into the mattresses with military corners. A shared desk wedged into the space between them held a big ashtray that had been recently emptied, but not washed.

  “You want to sit?”

  Radhauser pulled out the desk chair, took off his hat and placed it on the desktop, then turned the chair around so it faced into the room.

  Mitch sprawled out on what Radhauser assumed was his bunk. “My guess is you’re here about Crystal.” He shook his head. “Damn shame. I wish I’d known she was in such a bad way when I seen her. Looked to me like she was on top of the world, had a date with some older guy driving a fancy Lincoln.”

  Radhauser moved his chair a little closer. The legs made a scraping sound on the linoleum. “What else can you tell me about your visit with Crystal?”

  Mitch told Radhauser he’d stopped by The Silver Spur on Friday. He’d wanted to see Travis, but Crystal was adamant and threatened to get a restraining order if he tried. He said she’d finally agreed he could wait in the parking lot and catch a glimpse of his son when he dropped her off between 5:30 and 6 on Saturday.

  “I was so excited I got there an hour early,” he said. “At first, I was pretty pissed off about her telling Travis I died in Vietnam. But it’s not like I ever paid her a dime of child support. When she told me why she’d done it, I understood. It worked, too. That boy is something else. Crystal planned to tell him about me when he turned eighteen.”

  He paused and grinned. “July fourth. I used to call him my little firecracker. I got a lot of making up to do with that boy.” He gave Radhauser a quick nod. “I plan to do it, too.”

  Mitch sounded sincere, and Radhauser admired the way he validated Crystal’s position and didn’t try to make himself the injured party. This man had a steely capacity to endure what life offered without the usual ex-con bitterness. Radhauser saw it in his eyes, the depth of the injuries he’d inflicted on his son and his willingness to heal them.

  “Did you follow Crystal home when you left The Silver Spur on Saturday?”

  He swung around and sat on the edge of the bed. His eyes narrowed, like someone farsighted trying to read the small print. “I told you she had a date. My sister lives on Campbell Avenue, near the medical center. I drove to her house, had dinner around seven o’clock with her and her husband and two of their neighbors. We watched a baseball game on her television. They had a few beers. I drank iced tea. I’m in AA now.”

  “Did you drive back to Crystal’s house later that night?”

  “The neighbors left around midnight. Sis and I cleaned up the kitchen and then went to bed. I got up very early and drove back here.”

  Radhauser told him about the Medical Examiner’s findings.

  All the color drained out of Mitch’s face.

  “Did you kill your ex-wife?”

  Mitch shook his head, then stared at his hands. “Once a con, always a con, right? It figures you’d think I had something to do with it.”

  “Did you?”

  “No, sir.”

  “You understand if your alibi doesn’t check out, I’ll be back.”

  Mitch’s gaze met Radhauser’s and held as he recited his sister’s name, address, and phone number from memory. “Please don’t scare her. She’s one of the few people who still believes in me.”

  Radhauser jotted down the information in his notebook. As he wrote, he realized he believed this man. It wasn’t because he’d confirmed Mitch’s alibi, found something else that exonerated him, or because some other person confessed to Crystal’s murder. Mitch Reynolds exhibited that indescribable compassion only the innocent knew—the m
oral certainty he’d done nothing to harm Crystal written all over his face.

  “Would you be willing to give me a DNA sample?”

  Like an innocent man, Mitch Reynolds agreed with no argument. “It’s hard to believe anyone would want to hurt Crystal. She was a fun-loving person. Real friendly. And smart, too. She was pissed off at me, but for good reasons. I behaved real stupid and irresponsible. I wasn’t ready to be a husband and father at eighteen. I screwed around on her. Got myself in big trouble with the law. Her and my boy deserved better. Him and Crystal were real close. How’s he doing?”

  “About as well as anyone could be,” Radhauser said. “I’ve met your son on several difficult occasions.” His hand clamped onto his belt buckle. “Any man would be damn proud of him.”

  “And I am, sir, I swear to you. Crystal told me about his baseball scholarship. The University of Arizona.” There was awe in his voice. “I never even graduated high school. That boy’s not like me, thank God.” He shook his head, as if it were too much for him to fathom and then started to cry, his arms stiff on his knees.

  When Mitch settled down, Radhauser asked, “Did you ever know Crystal to cut her hair—whack it off in clumps with a razor blade or a pair of scissors?”

  He stared at Radhauser for a moment. “Back when she was a ten-year-old kid, her stepfather sexually molested her. She told me she was ashamed, thought it must be her fault and that she wanted to be ugly.” He smiled sadly. “Not that Crystal could be ugly if she tried.”

  As he left the halfway house, Radhauser wondered if Crystal had been ashamed of something Saturday night. Maybe it was the lie she’d told Loren Garrison about the paternity of the baby. Or maybe it was something else. Whatever the reason for her impulsive action, Radhauser was no closer to solving her murder. He sighed. But at least Travis still had a living parent who cared.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  No one had been more surprised than Winston Radhauser to learn the search warrant for Loren Garrison’s property had yielded a pair of bloody scissors that fit Crenshaw’s description of the murder weapon. And the washcloth matched the one Travis had provided. Early analysis indicated the blood on the scissors was B negative—the same type as Crystal Reynolds.

  He hadn’t expected to find anything in the Lincoln. Garrison was too smart to leave bloody scissors there—but Radhauser had hoped the lab would come up with some trace evidence on the carpet, the driver’s seat or in the trunk. Finding the scissors in a Saguaro cactus boot was a first, and he had to hand it to Columbo and Friday. Those dogs didn’t miss much.

  He checked out Mitch Reynolds’ alibi with his sister and two neighbors. It matched perfectly with what Mitch had told him. Though it really wasn’t pertinent to the case, Radhauser had spent the last hour on the phone with an old friend on the Phoenix force, tracking down Reynolds’ history. He’d driven the getaway car in a series of convenience store robberies involving two other men. One of the robberies resulted in the death of an older man who worked behind the counter. Reynolds was convicted, along with the other two, of armed robbery and homicide. And although he was nowhere near the victim, he received only a slightly more lenient sentence. In a way, Radhauser felt sorry for him, hoped he’d stay out of trouble and find a way back to his son.

  After a bad cup of coffee in the Sheriff’s Station break room, Radhauser returned to his office, opened Crystal’s file, and reviewed his evidence. He spread his crime scene photos on his desk and, once again, studied them. If Garrison had wrapped the scissors in one of the missing washcloths, he probably took the towels as well. Radhauser’s search of Garrison’s garbage cans, the garage, and the area surrounding the house had yielded nothing. He could have dropped the towels into a dumpster on his way back from Catalina. But if he’d done that, why had he kept the scissors and washcloth?

  He shook his head. Garrison had no record, not so much as a traffic violation. The lab reported Luminol showed no trace evidence of blood in the Lincoln, not on the seats or in the trunk, not on the steering wheel or carpet. If he’d killed Crystal, Loren Garrison would have had blood on his clothing and shoes. With Crystal in the tub, there was no place for him to shower.

  He could have used the towels to clean himself up and then put them in a plastic garbage bag before tossing them into his trunk. If he’d done that, surely a trace of blood would have remained and found its way into his car. Maybe Garrison had brought a change of clothing and shoes. But that would be premeditated, and he didn’t seem the type to plan a murder. If only Radhauser could figure out what pushed Garrison over the edge.

  In addition to Nate and Karina, Radhauser had interviewed some of Garrison’s colleagues and neighbors. From all reports, he was not a violent man. Aside from arrogance, no one Radhauser interviewed said anything negative, not even his ex-wife. But cops don’t question fate when it comes in the form of bloody scissors.

  * * *

  Matt parked high in the Saguaro-laden foothills, just beyond Gates Pass. Travis had been unusually quiet on the drive up the mountain, and in a way Matt was relieved. Today was the one-week anniversary of Crystal’s death. Last Saturday night, she’d opened the sliding glass door and invited Matt inside. It was the biggest mistake of his life. If only he’d turned around and driven home.

  He had no idea what to think about the scissors he’d found in his father’s car. It could mean his father killed Crystal. Or someone else planted the scissors. But who would try to frame his father? And why?

  Matt wanted to talk to Travis about it, but didn’t know how to begin or how much to say. Travis knew Matt’s father well, knew how particular he was about his car and he was too smart to leave a murder weapon in it for almost a week. Travis would never believe him capable of murder. Maybe Matt should tell him about the scissors. At the very least, he needed to tell Travis about the affair before he heard it on the news or read it in the newspaper.

  Matt opened his Mustang’s trunk and waited while Travis lifted the rectangular black box of ashes. It was made of particleboard and weighed much more than the seven pounds of ash a human body normally weighed. Six Phillips-head screws secured its top—an identification number stamped on the lid. Matt stared at it for a moment, hit hard by the realization Crystal, once so full of life, was now just a number on a fake wooden box. Matt grabbed a screwdriver from the toolbox in his trunk and slid it into his pocket.

  He and Travis hiked through the desert to a high plateau overlooking the Tucson valley. It was silent except for the sounds of their footsteps, and some small lizards and ground squirrels scurrying along the dusty, rock-strewn path.

  When they emerged into a clearing, Matt crouched with his back against a boulder. He breathed in the smell of the desert greasewood and creosote. Even if he were blind, Matt would still know the spring desert by the way that fragrance clung to the small hairs in his nostrils.

  With all the beauty and solitude around him, his dark mood lifted. He and Travis had often watched the sun set from this location, the sky tangled with shades of peach and purple flames, while the Catalina Mountains tucked a rose-colored blanket over their rocky summits. It was a place where a poet could center himself. A place for belief in something larger.

  “I never thanked you for trying to help me the night she died,” Travis said. “You stuck around when others would have booked.”

  “I couldn’t let you—”

  “That’s what I’m talking about, man.”

  Travis had a strange look on his face, and for a moment Matt wondered if he’d suspected at least a portion of the truth—Matt had known and tried to prevent him from seeing his mother in that bathtub.

  After setting the box on the ground, Travis picked up a small, flat rock and rubbed it between his thumb and forefinger. He studied it for a moment, then tucked it into his pocket.

  Matt took the screwdriver from his pants pocket. “Do you want me to open it?”

  Travis shook his head. “I need to do it myself.”

  Matt hand
ed him the screwdriver.

  Travis’s hands were shaking. The screwdriver skidded off the screw heads a couple times before he managed to remove the screws. He lifted the cover. Crystal’s ashes were in a clear plastic bag, closed with a blue twist tie. Another tiny Ziploc bag that held the gold cross earrings was taped to the underside of the lid.

  Travis stared at the earrings for a moment, then shoved the Ziploc deep into the pocket of his jeans. He untwisted the tie on the bag and opened it.

  Matt had never seen human ashes before. He couldn’t take his gaze off them. They were gray, nearly white, with visible fragments of bone. Crystal’s bones. The hipbone he’d traced with his index finger. Her delicate wrist bones. He wrenched away from the box, made a choked noise that sounded much louder in the silence.

  Travis didn’t seem to notice as he knelt in front of the open bag.

  Matt swallowed hard and joined him. Together they recited the Lord’s Prayer.

  When they were finished, Matt waited, wanting to give Travis time for whatever else he might need to think or say. He seemed to be content to look around him. Matt followed his friend’s gaze out over rocky hills.

  The Sonoran desert was a wild landscape, both secret and open, where wind circled the mountains and seemed to blow from every direction at once. In the valley below them, Palo Verde trees heedlessly spilled their last blossoms.

  “Radhauser asked me if I knew she was pregnant,” Travis said. “I didn’t. A little more than three months with a girl.” He laughed, a torn sound, darker and far more complicated than humor. He rubbed the heel of his hand under his eyes. “Imagine. Me with a baby sister.”

  Before Matt had time to absorb the image, Travis stepped close to the edge of the canyon and quickly poured out his mother and the beginnings of his sister. A cloud of dusty ashes hung in the sky for a moment, then fell to the ground, covering the smaller cactus and sage bushes like snow. When all the ashes had settled, he stood and walked away.

  Matt watched Travis’s back for a moment as he walked farther out into the desert. If only Crystal had told Matt about the pregnancy, he might have understood why she couldn’t handle anything else, why she couldn’t bear to think about Travis knowing what they’d done. If Matt had known, he would have promised her his silence. It might not have changed the outcome for Crystal, but he would have felt better about himself. He hurried to catch up with Travis, who bent to pick a burr from his pant leg.