An Unkindness of Ravens

by European P. Douglas

  Smiling to himself, Tyler opened up a new blank Google Doc and started outlining his next article. If Sarah had the right guy - which Tyler doubted - the story would be coming to an end very soon, and he’d have to be ready to go with his ‘inside tale’ in a couple of days. Banging away on the keys, he bullet pointed the main strokes he would use.

  The phone at his desk blasted shrilly into life and startled him.

  “Hello.” There was a low crackling noise in the receiver and Tyler held the phone away, afraid he was about to get a loud noise like an old dial-up modem in his ear. Then a voice raspy and metallic come through,

  “I’m going to make this easy for you. The second killer is Karl Stanver.” The line went dead at once, and Tyler sat there a moment in surprise. Whoever it was who called had gone to the trouble of disguising their voice beyond all recognition. It was close to a machine talking more so than a man. It might even be a woman for that matter, but he didn’t think so.

  “Karl Stanver,” Tyler said aloud, writing the name down. There was no way he was going to forget it, but you just couldn't be too careful with these things sometimes. “Who the hell are you?” Tyler said.

  It was not a name he’d come across in any of his own investigations and he wondered if the FBI had spoken to him. It was very unlikely that Sarah would be willing to share that information with him right now after the Ferguson thing, but he had other ways of finding this out. The only trouble was the time he had. For all he knew, this guy could be calling the other newspapers or even the police as Tyler sat here thinking about it. He had to act now.

  The first thing he did when looking for information on people he didn't know was an online search. It was amazing how much people put about themselves and their lives online. Many times before, Tyler had been able to pinpoint the work address or even the home address based on social media sharing and seeing things in the background and piecing it all together. It was so easy.

  Straight away, Tyler found five Karl Stanver’s between Maryland and Virginia. He was sure there were more, but this is what he had to play with at the moment. Tyler focused on three who were in their thirties to look into some more. He looked at Facebook and LinkedIn profiles, read some tweets and studied some Instagram pictures. They were all normal looking guys, typical office worker looks and haircuts. Probably cut a little loose at the weekends or when they were out of town. Could one of these clean-cut thirtysomethings be a killer? Why not?

  Fifteen minutes after receiving the phone call, Tyler set out for the Karl Stanver who lived closest to the town of Palmyra. He was the one closest to the action. As he left the building, he wondered about calling Danny and seeing if he wanted to come along, but he decided against it. Palmyra was a three-hour drive from Baltimore. There wasn’t any time and this was his story after all; he had to have some facts to himself. He liked to be in the position of being the only person to know certain facts when the opportunity arose.

  Traffic wasn’t heavy and Tyler was making good time. He booked a room for the night in a small hotel as it could be late when he was finished and he didn’t want another three-hour drive back in the dead of night. His hope was to talk to Karl Stanver tonight, but there was a chance he wouldn’t get to. He watched the other cars on the road, wary of seeing one he recognised, a fellow journalist on the hunt with the same information. So far he’d seen none.

  As he got closer to his destination, however, and on leaving the main roads, Tyler began to feel like he was being followed. He’d been vigilant enough and hadn’t spotted one individual car that looked like it was making the same journey as he was, but he hadn’t been concentrating on that. He could have missed it.

  It was dark now, and in his mirror he could see the lights of three other cars behind him. Was one of them on his tail? He wouldn’t put it past his rivals to stake him out on this case and see what he was doing. The thought, more sinister, also crossed his mind that it might be Danny who was following him. He’d already shown a knack for it in the apprehension of Ferguson and his following of Sarah that morning. Was he checking up on Tyler now?

  Up ahead there was a turn that looked like it went to a dirt road. Glancing at his satnav, he saw it didn’t even come up on the map. At the last moment, and without indicating he swerved around and turned sharply into this, stepping on the gas when he straightened out and driving about fifty yards before screeching to a halt and killing the engine.

  Tyler jumped out at once and watched the road he’d just left though the tree-lined dirt track. Two cars passed almost together, and Tyler didn’t see any face look in his direction. He waited a few moments as the sounds of those two cars receded into the night. It was silent now. Where was the third car? Was it possible he’d missed one passing as he jumped out of the car? No, they weren’t that close, he was sure of it, and he’d been watching his mirrors until he turned his head to face the road and would have seen it.

  Jogging to the end of the track, back towards the road, Tyler listened for the sound of anything at all. Cars, idling engines, footsteps in the trees. He moved through the last of the track in the treeline himself and then came to a point where he was able to see the road. It was clear and dark and quiet, the moon reflected on the tarmacadamed surface. There had been a third car; he was sure of it. There was a rustling the trees above and he looked up, nothing there but some ravens roosting, disturbed by his presence.

  This unscheduled stop made it even later when Tyler got to Stanver’s house. The place was closed up, and through the door pane Tyler could see the reflection on the cover glass of a painting of a flashing alarm panel light. He wasn’t at home.

  In this case, it was hardly surprising. Tyler had seen from his online search earlier that Karl Stanver worked in a bar in town, and as luck would have it only a couple of streets from the hotel Tyler would be staying in.

  After checking in at the hotel, Tyler went to the bar and found his target. Karl Stanver was thirty-five, about six feet tall, had black hair and brooding brown eyes. Tyler saw at once in the way he acted that Karl had gotten into this line of work in the first place for the women. He made eyes and had some joke or other for every female customer who came his way. He tended towards the younger ones, however, those who were only legal to drink in the last couple of years. They would be the easiest to take advantage of, Tyler supposed.

  Tyler had ordered from another barman and now he sat across the room studying Stanver. He had all the hallmarks of a predator, Tyler thought. There were probably a lot of young women in this area who’d become notches on his bedpost and would wake up regretting what they'd done the next morning. That wouldn’t bother Stanver though; he was getting what he wanted with no real effort at all. Was he satisfied with just sex, however? Was that his only craving? None of the victims had been young women so far, but what did that mean? Not much. Stanver would be known for sleeping with young women. It wouldn’t make sense as a killer to kill where he was most often found.

  As he watched Stanver work, Tyler had an idea. He walked back to the bar and ordered a tumbler of neat whiskey from Stanver this time. When the drink was paid for, Tyler picked it up with two fingers and let the whiskey fall to the floor at his feet. He left the bar without anyone noticing he'd stolen the glass with Stanver’s fingerprints all over it.

  Chapter 21

  It was one of those times when Sarah didn’t want to look at the ringing phone to see who was calling. But she was glad she did - Des Roche was awake! He was groggy, but they would be allowed to talk to him in a limited capacity. She glanced at her watch, it was still only early afternoon. If she left now, she could be there and home in a few hours. She sent Marcus a message to tell him she was going to be late home and she would let him know a more solid time when she had one. She knew he wasn’t going to happy about this and it made her feel a little guilty to send the message, but it had to be done. She set off for Charlottesville in search of another piece of the jigsaw.

  On the way, she rang the lab to s
ee if they had results yet for the hair found at the latest scene. As she expected, they didn’t. Sarah then called the Woodbridge PD for any update on Ferguson or what his lawyer might be trying to pull, but all was quiet there too. Her last call was to Sheriff Hannan for any updates on the bodies found near Warrenton. This was another bust; so many places had been searched and everyone in the state must be aware of it by now, and yet there was no clue as to where the murders had taken place. ‘John the Baptist’ was good at this. Too good for Sarah’s liking.

  An armed officer stood guard at the door to Des Roche’s room at the hospital. He was their celebrity customer at that moment and local PD didn’t want anything to happen to him before he was fit for trial. The officer told Sarah that Roche had been charged with murder and attempted murder as soon as he was conscious. He was in and out of consciousness since then.

  “I don’t know how much of what’s going on here that he understands,” the officer said. Sarah nodded but made no reply to this. She went into the room. “Shouldn’t you wait for his lawyer?” the officer said after her, and again she made no answer, letting the door fall quietly closed behind her.

  Anger filled her on seeing his seemingly comfortable slumber, while not far away her partner was in a coma they didn’t know if he was ever going to come out of. Des Roche must have been aware of her presence. His eyes opened a crack and he looked at her.

  “Who are you?” he croaked weakly.

  “I’m Agent Brightwater,” Sarah said, coming to the side of the bed. “I’m the one who shot you, Mr Roche.” It felt good to say this to him and to see his natural flinch at this. Did he think she was here to finish him off? “My partner, Agent Malick, is in a coma due to your shooting him. Do you recall any of this?” she went on. His head went up and down a little, but she wouldn’t have sworn it was a nod of agreement.

  “What about the car dumped in Shenandoah Park? Or the body dumped on the roadside? Do you recall any of these things?” She was aware her voice was raising some and she knew it would be counterproductive to lose her cool right now, but oh how she wanted to rail against him. To pull him up by that stupid hospital gown and shake the answers out of him would have been a real treat at that moment.

  “I didn’t kill anyone,” Roche said in a low voice. His eyes closed for a long time and then opened half way again.

  “You drove the car to dump it?” she asked, and this time she thought he did nod. It was confirmed when he said,

  “That’s all.”

  “It’s not all,” Sarah said, “You shot my partner. I was a witness to that.”

  “I had no choice,” he said, his eyes closing again for a very long blink as he spoke. Sarah looked at his IV bag and saw something was being administered, probably pain relief. How she’d love to yank that out and let him feel everything, be awake to it all at once!

  “What do you mean you had no choice!” she asked, incredulous.

  “You don’t understand,” he answered, and it took a long time for him to get this sentence out.

  “Well then, help me understand. What are you talking about?”

  “I didn’t kill that woman in the car,” he said.

  “Then who did?” she found she was leaning over him now, her face not all that far from him. To an outsider it would have looked pretty aggressive, but right now Sarah didn't give a damn about that.

  Then she saw something that surprised her, but only for a moment; tears were forming in Des Roche’s eyes.

  “I can’t tell you anything,” he said, “You don’t understand!” This last part was in what qualified as a raised voice for the patient at this point and it seemed to wipe him out completely. His head sank back into the pillow and his eyes closed. Only for the fact she could hear his breathing she would have expected the machines in the room to start that long beep of the dead and to have people rushing in with the crash cart around her.

  “You still there, Mr Roche?” Sarah asked, but he was out for the count. She looked at the door to make sure no one was looking in and then shook him by one shoulder a little. When she got no response, she did this again, only a little harder. Still nothing. This interview, for what it was worth, was over.

  After this, she went to see Malick, hoping that his wife might be off having a rest or taking a walk or something. She was out of luck. Tara Malick looked up as Sarah came in, probably expecting a nurse or doctor. She looked back to her husband. He looked restful and it freaked Sarah out; it was like he was already dead.

  “I hear the guy who shot him is awake,” Tara said.

  “Just barely,” Sarah nodded, “He’s not making any sense yet.”

  “It’s a pity you didn’t kill him when you shot him,” Tara said.

  “It wasn't from lack of trying,” Sarah said flippantly and she regretted this straight away. What kind of a way was this to talk to a civilian? Tara looked at Sarah and then shook her head,

  “No, it’s better if he’s alive. Suffering years in prison is better than a quick death by a bullet.” Sarah wondered if she should tell Tara that Des Roche was likely to get the death penalty for what he’d done, and Virginia had one of the shortest periods on death row in the country. It could be as little as seven years before he was executed. She decided not to bring it up.

  “How is he?” Sarah asked, nodding to Malick.

  “No change,” Tara said, “But they tell me they are ‘optimistic’ about his recovery.” She used air quotes and a sarcastic tone on the word ‘optimistic’.

  “I don’t think they tend to use language like that unless they’re confident,” Sarah said, trying to convince herself as much as anyone. Tara didn’t say anything to this.

  “Do you have someone at home waiting for you right now, Agent Brightwater,” Tara said after a long silence.

  “Yes, a boyfriend,” Sarah said, wondering if this was the moment she’d find out what the problem had been between them.

  “Is he FBI, or police too?”

  “No, he works for a software company.”

  “You should call him more often,” Tara said, “No matter how often you do it, you should call him more often. You don’t know what it’s like being involved with someone who works in law enforcement. Every moment you wonder if you’re going to get the call to tell you to come down to the hospital, or worse still the morgue.”

  “I can’t argue with that,” Sarah said, knowing it was going to be late when she got home, and Marcus would most likely be asleep already when she did.

  “Go home, Brightwater,” Tara said, her voice softer now. “I’ll call you if there’s any change here.” Sarah looked at her, glad there had been no ‘Agent’ in her address.

  “He’s going to be fine,” Sarah said, putting a hand on Tara’s shoulder.

  “I know,” Tara said, but the conviction was not in her voice.

  Chapter 22

  It was indeed very late when Sarah finally came through the door of her apartment in Woodbridge. Marcus was not in bed, however, and this surprised her.

  “Baby, what are you doing still up?” she asked.

  “I’m tired of not seeing you, so tonight I’ve stayed up be with you,” he said, and there was no anger or tone in his voice. “If all you want to do is get ready for bed and then go to sleep, I’ll do that with you.”

  This kindness joined with her frustrations from her talk with Des Roche and her worry about Malick overwhelmed her and she couldn't answer. She started to cry. Marcus rushed to her and took her in his arms.

  “What's wrong?” he asked.

  “I’m sorry about the way things have been,” she said when she could.

  “Don’t worry about a sorry,” he said.

  “No, I need to say it. I know it’s tough on you being with me, never knowing if I’m going to be home for dinner or if I’m going to cancel plans at the last minute because there’s been a new lead in a case.”

  “I knew what I was getting involved with from the start,” he said.

  “
Still, I don't want you to think I don’t care, or that I don’t appreciate you.”

  “I don’t think that,” he said, but something was wrong; Sarah had heard it. Was it a pause a beat too long before he said this?

  “You sure?” she said, pulling back to look at his face when he answered. Her tone was hard and she heard it. She felt him bristle at this, his tender hug dropping.

  “Well, it’s hard not to think it sometimes,” he said, his own ire rising fast. She could see that in his eyes. “How would you feel if things were the other way round?”

  “That’s ridiculous,” she said, “My job doesn’t stop me from caring about you!”

  “It just makes it harder to show it!” their voices were raised now, and this last one hurt her.

  “I don’t have the kind of job where I can clock out at five and it doesn’t matter what happens while I'm not there!”

  “You don’t even try to stop thinking about it,” he said, “When you leave, someone else is on duty. What happens when they are working is their concern!”

  “That’s not how it works,” she snapped back, “I thought you understood that!”

  “This,” he retorted, moving his hands back and forth between them, “is not how this works. I thought you understood that!”

  “What does that mean?” Sarah asked.

  “It means you care more about your job than you do about this relationship!”

  They were both silent then and they stepped away from each other. Sarah took all this in a moment, stunned by it. She knew it was hard on him, but she never knew he felt this way.