by Roger Hayden
“It’s nice to see that your humor’s still intact after all these years,” she said.
“I could be a stand-up comedian just like that,” he said, snapping his fingers.
Resting nearby, her cell phone suddenly flashed and vibrated. Incoming information was too vital to dismiss, so she reluctantly glanced at the caller ID screen and answered. “Yes, Detective Prater?”
“So far no one has seen a thing,” he told her. “Though, one neighbor did recall hearing a vehicle arrive at Simmons’s house about two nights ago.”
Harris nodded, holding the phone. “That would put the time of death around our original assessment.”
“There you go. I’ve talked with about a dozen neighbors. They say that Simmons was friendly and kept to himself. They’re shocked that something like this could happen to him.”
“So are we,” Harris said. Eager to get back to reading, she set the phone down. “We’ve got to get back to our bit here. I want to sit down with Detective Knight and go over this case piece by piece. My goal is to find a verifiable suspect before the day ends.”
“Good luck with that,” Prater said with a tinge of sarcasm. “Tell the old man that he might be right. No incriminating prints found so far.”
Knight leaned closer to the phone and responded. “Told you so.”
“All right. We have to go,” Harris said. “We’ll call you in a bit.” Prater continued talking, but she hung up. Her eyes had already spotted an entry that might propel their suspect from an apparition to a real person.
Selling baby blue after all these years. Just need the money. Plus, it’s about time for the old Chrysler to emerge from the garage and re-enter the world. Been working on her long enough. Got a couple of calls about it. One dude was offering cash. No bullshit. How about that?
Harris’s finger went immediately to the next page. She stared down, stunned. She told Knight, “Detective, you’re a miracle worker.”
Knight leaned forward, curious. “What is it?”
“The van!” she said, excited. “He’s mentioned the van. I can’t believe it…” She flipped the page, reading from the third to last entry, which laid out what appeared to be their first vital piece of information: I had to drive the van to this old parking lot near the Try N’ Save. Didn’t even know that place was still in business. This dude offering cash seems a little shady. Brought my gun just in case. I show up, he looks at the van, and he buys it right there on the spot. From there, I was a little confused. Didn’t know what he had driven to get there. He appeared to be alone. He showed me the $2,000. That part was great. But I’m telling you, this dude was weird. A week before he insisted on all these rules, I almost told him to forget the whole thing.
I had to meet him there, travel alone, and not ask him too many questions. He looked like he was wearing a disguise. He had a ball cap and what looked like a shaggy hair wig with sideburns and a fake mustache. Wasn’t a big guy. He had a jacket over a sweater and so forth. I swear, the son of a bitch looks like he had a fake nose. Told me his name was Dan. I was fine with just taking the money. He even offered to drive me home. Before we left, he got a phone call on his cell phone. He walked out of range, but I could still hear a woman’s voice. She called him Everett. He drove me home, barely said a word, gave me the cash, and dropped me off. Strange guy.”
“Everett?” Harris said. The name meant nothing to her. With Knight, however, the name seemed to have struck a chord.
“What is it?” she asked.
Knight stroked along his cheek and screwed up his face, thinking. “I don’t know. Name sounds familiar.”
“Could just be his middle name,” Harris said, flipping to the next page. There was no mention of the van or its buyer. Simmons griped about work, talked about going out to the bar after work, complained of his inevitable hangovers, and then the entries stopped.
Despite the seeming simplicity of Simmons’s life, he frequently addressed the larger, more complex questions about his life and the world around him. He admittedly struggled, especially with depression. But he had a passionate spark for classic cars, people, and especially his two young sons. Harris felt saddened to see his story come to an end.
“So, he paid cash,” Harris continued. “But that doesn’t mean the title wasn’t transferred.”
She swung toward her computer and logged into the vehicle database. They didn’t have a license plate number, so she began her search by name, typing Simmons’s name and Social Security number from their records. Two vehicles populated: a blue 1967 Plymouth Valiant and a 1992 GMC van. A click on the van link showed that Simmons was still the legal owner. The news was disappointing but not surprising. “Well… that’s that. He was too smart to change the registration.”
“Everett,” Knight said, leaning back in his chair. “Dan Everett, perhaps? No, Dan must have been an alias. We’re looking for an Everett. That’s our man.”
“Who do you think the woman is?” Harris asked.
“Probably his accomplice,” Knight answered.
Harris felt emboldened by this new lead and ready to delve further into the case. “Phone records,” she said, typing. “I’ll request the court order right now.”
“Good,” Knight said, looking around the room. He proceeded to flip through Simmons’s journal as she sent the formal records request up the chain. The room got quiet but for the fast typing and the click of the keys. Knight, still searching his memory for the name Everett, looked up and spoke slowly in recollection. “There was a case a few years before I was assigned here, back in my day. It was a botched rescue attempt.” He suddenly leaned forward as though the memory had come to life. “A boy had been kidnapped. Six or seven years old. Police found the guy and surrounded his house. It was some strange hostage situation. The lead officer made a judgment call and sent a team inside the house. It was a disaster.”
Harris stopped typing and turned in her chair, facing him. She didn’t know where he was going with any of it but didn’t want to miss a word. Knight closed his eyes as the details seemed to emerge. “The boy’s name was Brian. Brian Caldwell. They put pictures of him all over town. The guy who kidnapped him wanted a ransom from the boy’s wealthy father. An exchange was set up and everything, but when the police breached the house, the boy was killed. And the kidnapper was taken out with him.”
He paused, taking a deep breath. Harris still didn’t see the connection, but she didn’t want to interrupt him. The litany of cases comprising any detective’s career could become a never-ending blur.
“Lee Strickland, that was the kidnapper’s name. He wanted a lot of money. Took a few bullets instead.”
“What happened to Brian?” Harris asked. “How did he…”
“Strickland was unstable. Guess when he saw the heat closing in, he got angry or desperate and took it out on his victim. Slashed his throat before the police could fire a shot.”
Harris suddenly thought of the gaping, bloody wound across Simmons’s throat when she found him.
“The boy’s parents. They were beyond distraught, but angry too. They brought a civil suit against the department. The county ruled against them and absolved the department of any wrongdoing. I remember, because the father was everywhere on the news, threatening more legal action. Then he just disappeared.” Knight paused for a moment, not saying a word.
“What are you suggesting?” Harris asked, impatient, but not wanting to prompt him or lead him.
Knight shook his head. “I’m not sure. It just all came back to me. Everett Caldwell was the father. One of the moneyed eccentrics about town. I know it sounds ridiculous, but—”
“No,” Harris said, raising her hands to stop him. “Doesn’t sound ridiculous at all.”
She swung back to her computer and searched through the news archive in the database, beginning with the name Everett Caldwell. Links to several old articles populated the screen, and she selected the first one. The headline read: The Tragic Fall of the Caldwells. Below was a f
aded family photo of Everett, his wife, Belma, and their beaming son, Brian, seated on his father’s lap. Harris slowly scrolled down the article, reading as Knight pulled his chair closer. “I think you’re onto something,” she said.
The station wagon parked across the street from the stone house, which looked well cared-for and peaceful, with a row of palm trees on the side and a freshly cut yard. Everett knew the address all too well. He’d been there before. It had been a while. He recalled the thrill of sneaking up the driveway to deliver a letter in the earliest hours of the morning.
It was a miracle he hadn’t been caught and seen his plans go up in flames way back then. It would be an even bigger miracle if he pulled off his final act. Everett attributed his luck to the righteousness of his mission. He was driven by utter contempt of the town and everyone in it.
Most importantly, he reveled in toying with the police and evading capture. But he didn’t consider himself a careless person by any measure. He always took precautions. Different vehicles, new disguise, an isolated farmhouse deep in the country were all measures to keep him one step ahead of the law. Everett liked to be the man in the shadows; the invisible man. Careful planning and patience were the key. He’d waited for this moment for so long, a chance to prove to all of them that he could and would win. But there were no guarantees that everything would go as planned.
Everett watched the house from behind the wheel of his idling wagon. The garage door was open, with a blue Volvo parked inside. Knight wasn’t home, but it certainly looked like his wife was. Everett looked up and down the unwary neighborhood street. A lawn maintenance crew was busy tending to the yard a few houses down. One man with earphones and a bandana on his head pushed a lawn mower, while another trimmed the edges of the driveway.
Their equipment droned in the background, providing Everett some additional cover. Nothing so far about Everett’s presence seemed to raise any suspicion. There were other vehicles parked along the sidewalk on both sides of the road, including the truck and trailer ahead of him. Everett tilted the rear-view mirror toward himself, practicing his smile as he glanced up.
He shut off the engine and opened his door, grabbing his suitcase and fedora. He turned toward the house, observing it from behind his sunglasses. The cool breeze invigorated him. He walked across the street, dress shoes clicking against the pavement and then up the driveway to his familiar destination. Knight’s wife Bonnie was no simpleton. He’d have to convince her that he was on the level. He’d have to say whatever he could to get inside the house. Reaching the front door, he took a moment to remove his sunglasses and adjust his tie.
He glanced behind him, keeping a watch. Knight was at the station as planned, but the man of the house could easily arrive home early and unannounced. Everett moved close to the door and tried to listen for sounds inside. The window to his right had open blinds, but it seemed he hadn’t been spotted yet. One ring of the doorbell, and the games would truly begin. He pressed the glowing button, unleashing a chime inside the house. He knew that Bonnie might be suspicious, though it had been five years since he was last there.
The droning of the lawn mower continued unabated. Everett stood in front of the door, careful not to stare into the peephole. He felt that she was watching him and trying to decide whether to open the door. If she refused, he planned to find a way in regardless. Much to his satisfaction, the deadbolt soon unlocked as she carefully opened the door halfway. She looked at him with hesitant eyes on her thin face. Her auburn hair was tied up in a bun, with loose strands falling across her forehead.
“Can I help you?” she asked.
Everett tipped his hat toward her with a slight bow. “Greetings, ma’am. My name is Ronald Stapp. I’m with the county police pension fund on an important mission.” He then extended his hand, smiling. “Are you Mrs. Bonnie Knight?”
Apparently wanting to be polite, she smiled slightly but remained safely behind the door. “Yes, I am.”
“Excellent,” he said with jovial friendliness. He then held his briefcase up and glanced around. “I’m actually here to meet your husband. Is he currently home?”
Bonnie shook his head. “No, I’m sorry. He’s out right now.”
Everett feigned disappointment, followed by a solemn expression. “Oh, really? We were supposed to meet today.” He scratched his chin and then looked at her. “Do you know when he’ll be back?”
“What is this about?” Bonnie asked.
Everett quickly apologized. “I should have called ahead of time. There was a little matter of a pension payment owed to your husband, and the county dispatched me to personally clear the matter with Mr. Knight so that we can make payment.”
Bonnie remained behind the door with clear skepticism on her face. “Could you maybe come back later? Charles won’t be back for a while.”
Everett held up his arm and glanced at his wrist watch, sighing. “I’m afraid if we don’t get this matter settled today, it could take days, maybe even weeks.” He then paused and smiled, exhibiting a folksy charm he hoped would win her over. “My, you do have a lovely home here. Beautiful lawn too.”
The door creaked open as she thanked him. “I wish I could help, but I have no idea when he’ll be back. It’s best that you just work it out later.”
Snapping his fingers, Everett spoke. “Tell you what. I’ll be out of town for the next week. I just have some papers here that you can sign and get the ball rolling. You see, a simple glitch negated a portion of his monthly pension payment, and I’d like to remedy that ASAP.”
Bonnie shook her head as her brows knitted in doubt. “He never mentioned that to me.”
“You see, Mrs. Knight, the glitch occurred over a long period of time, so it’s not enough to get anyone’s attention right away. We’re so glad we caught this before it got worse.”
Uncertainty swept across Bonnie’s face as she held her hand up. “Mr. Stapp—”
“Please, call me Ron,” he said.
“I appreciate your situation, but it’s best that you just get with my husband another time.”
He began unlatching his briefcase without another word, leaving Bonnie to watch in the awkward silence.
“I just want to get this whole thing straightened out.” He grinned as their eyes met. “How about that?”
Bonnie appeared conflicted, but he could tell that she didn’t want to simply send him away.
“I can call him and ask,” she said. “But I really don’t want to bother him right now.”
“Whatever you feel appropriate,” Everett said, leaning back on his heels.
She studied him for a moment as he stood harmless, hands down at his side and briefcase in hand. He slouched some to appear less tall. After a moment of doubt, Bonnie finally seemed to give in. She stepped back, opening the door and inviting him in. Everett slipped into the foyer and closed the door behind her.
Bonnie was already walking off toward the living room in her T-shirt and shorts. Floor cleaner scent permeated the house. He passed by the kitchen, following her, and saw a mop and bucket inside. She must have been cleaning. She motioned to a sofa against the wall and asked if he’d like to sit.
“Certainly,” he said, moving around the coffee table. “That’d be great. Thank you.”
She turned away and approached the living room window. “Is that your station wagon?”
“It sure is,” he answered, sitting with relief. The hardest part was already over. He placed his briefcase on the coffee table in front of him and stretched his arms. “That old car’s done well for me. Can’t complain.”
“Do you have a big family?” she asked, walking over. She then halted next to a recliner as though regretting the question. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to pry.”
“Not at all,” he said, waving it off. “My wife and I have been married for twenty-five years. And we have three children.” He glanced at a nearby bookshelf where a framed family photo was displayed. “You have a daughter, right?”
&nbs
p; Bonnie looked down, picking at the top of the recliner. “Yes. Our daughter, Holly She was home for a little bit but moved a few years ago.”
Everett leaned back against the cushion, removing his fedora. “How’s retired life treating you both?” He then paused, correcting himself. “That is, if you’re retired as well. You certainly don’t look it.” Bonnie’s pleased laugh gave Everett all the encouragement he needed.
“You can write that check now, Mr. Stapp,” she continued with a light chuckle.
Everett nodded as he unlatched his briefcase for the second time. “Of course.”
“I retired from the county library last year,” she then added.
Everett looked up and clapped. “Well, look at us all. Just a couple of former and current county employees shooting the breeze. Too bad your husband can’t join the party yet.”
Bonnie snapped into action. “That reminds me. Let me call Charles.” She hurried off before Everett could say another word. He then called her name before she could move out of view. She stopped at the entryway into the kitchen as he continued. “Could I have a glass of water, please? Feeling a little parched.”
“Sure,” she said, walking off.
Everett sighed in relief as he heard a cabinet opening. He had managed to stall her for a moment, but she was fast on the way to calling her white Knight. With time pressing, Everett flung his briefcase open and grabbed a pair of gloves, a rag, and a bottle of chloroform. He slipped on his black leather gloves and rose from the couch. The faucet turned on as he removed his shoes. He kept his movements quick and measured.
Turning a corner, he entered the kitchen and saw Bonnie at the sink with her back turned toward him. Everett doused the rag, steadily and silently approaching. She had just filled the glass as he lunged at her, one arm around her neck and the other pressing a wet rag against her mouth. Her screams were muffled, her eyes widened in shock.