No Justice; Cold Justice; Deadly Touch

by J K Ellem

  Then it all changed last night when he had seen the man arrive at her doorstep.

  It made him angry, more so when she had shown him up the stairs to the room above the garage. The visitor was no longer a visitor. He was staying. For how long? He was unsure. It had changed some of his plans, and he hated changes to anything. Especially when he had been so meticulous in his preparations for killing her and then disposing of the body. At first he was going to make it public, sending a message to the police that he had found her after all these years. She couldn’t hide. No one can truly disappear.

  But he was going to make her vanish now. Permanently.

  Then he changed his mind, he decided he would hide the body, and he knew exactly where. In plain sight. They would never know. It was so obvious it was laughable. It would be the last place they would ever look, the last place anyone would look. It was perfect. The town had a graveyard near its outskirts, a small, quaint plot of land overgrown with neglect and full of people buried in the dirt, covered with regret, and incapable of retribution. He was going to add one more. He knew the exact spot where he was going to bury her, had chosen it especially for Emily. Except her grave would be unmarked, no wilting dead flowers, no blemish on the surface.

  He needed to deal with the man now. There was room in the graveyard for another hole in the ground.

  11

  He saw her coming down the road towards the café. Not too fast, not too slow, careful where she stepped. The sidewalk was icy and salt had been thrown down for traction, but she still took her time.

  Shaw watched her through the café window, and she hadn’t seen him. Her eyes panned left to right then back again, a frontal arc of vision that most people focused on while they walked, provided they weren’t glued to their cell phones.

  Watching her made him curious. Most people were oblivious to the world around them. They walked in their own bubble. But she was different. She had a certain awareness of her environment, a sense of her surroundings. The traffic ahead, the people in front of her, the landscape beyond. Her head was up, not down, and even at this distance Shaw could tell she had her radar up.

  Unfortunately, like most people, she focused on what was in front of her and to the sides. Most people didn’t look over their shoulder, at what was behind them or in their blind spots.

  So Shaw did it for her. He reversed his position, his view. He put himself out of the café and into the street where Emily Bell was and looked at her blind spots, left and right.

  Her background came into focus and her foreground blurred away. That’s when Shaw noticed the figure.

  Only dumb people followed someone directly from behind. A skilled stalker uses angles to track their prey. Their “long-grass” is trigonometry, the study of distances and angles to their target. A skilled stalker positioned themselves parallel, from the opposite sidewalk or at eight o’clock or nine o’clock, but never at six o’clock, never from behind.

  Shaw had made a career of watching people watch other people. And he could do it without looking directly at them.

  As Emily Bell approached, Shaw observed the man who was two hundred yards behind her and to her left on the opposite side of the street. There were other people closer. An older couple walking arm-in-arm. A young man, maybe eighteen or nineteen and wearing a sweatshirt and jacket, earphones in, smart phone in his hands. An older man walking a dog with a tartan doggie jacket. None were almost in complete unison, in step with her, orbiting Emily as she moved.

  The man was medium build, wearing a heavy snow jacket over a hooded sweatshirt that concealed his face, cargo pants, functional clothing, muted woodland colours that Shaw himself would wear. Blend in, don’t stand out. Olive drab and flat dark earth, not ski-slope chic with bright colours and lurid patterns. The man was hunting in an urban environment so he dressed accordingly.

  Shaw sat up a little straighter.

  Emily Bell reached the intersection opposite the café and stopped, spotted Shaw, and waved.

  Then everything changed.

  Three things happened at once. Three police SUVs, white Ford Explorers, Denver Police Department blue emblems emblazoned on the doors, sped past in front of her. Shaw lost sight of Emily for a split second. Next, the man following Emily stopped too, his attention swivelled to where Emily had waved, across the street to where Shaw was seated in the café. Their eyes locked, two predators watching the same prey, suddenly aware of each other. He realised he was also being watched. In the blur of the passing police cars, Shaw saw the man step sideways and dart into a side alleyway.

  When the cars had passed the man was gone. Vanished like a ghost.

  * * *

  Emily ordered a coffee and sat next to Shaw. Shaw kept shifting his attention from her to across the street, but the man didn’t appear again.

  “So what can you tell me about the town?” Shaw asked Emily, his interest in her suddenly increased. He was not going to tell her about the man. He wanted to be sure that the man was definitely following her. And more importantly, he wanted to know why. The only way he was going to get that answer was to indirectly question her. If he mentioned the guy right away she might panic and clam up, say nothing.

  “It’s a nice town, quiet, nice people. I’ve been here a few years. Took a job as an elementary teacher at the local school.”

  “And before that?”

  “I was in Florida. That’s where my parents are. Been there my whole life.”

  Shaw nodded. It was a lie, he could tell. For the next ten minutes Emily told him about herself, about the college she went to, the brother who was in the army who was deployed in Iraq. The sister in San Francisco who was working for some new start-up company. It sounded too scripted, she was too forthcoming, like she had rehearsed the story many times before to repeat on cue if someone asked. This intrigued Shaw even more.

  “What about Sheriff Decker?” Shaw asked. “Are you good friends with her?”

  Emily frowned. “I wouldn’t say I was good friends with her. We get along well. I like her. She helped me out a lot when I first arrived. She has a tough job, you know Lacy being a one-Sheriff town and all. She had a deputy, but he was transferred elsewhere, she told me.”

  “But she acts as your estate agent?”

  For a moment Emily didn’t understand, then she laughed and it was genuine. “No, I just told her a while back I had a spare room and wanted to know if she knew anyone who she could trust to rent it.”

  “I guess there’s a lot of strangers out there. You can’t be too careful.” Shaw watched her carefully as he said this, looking for any response.

  She looked at him dead-pan. “No, you certainly can’t.” There was a certain cold behind her blue eyes as she said it. “And you? Apart from what you said last night, what’s your story?” she asked.

  “There’s not much to tell. I’m just passing through.” Shaw didn’t offer more.

  “I heard about what happened at the clothing store. The workers from the camp can be a real pain at times.”

  Shaw nodded. “News travels fast in a small town, especially by text message.”

  Emily smiled. “At first, when you came in here yesterday, I thought you were one of the people looking for the church.”

  Shaw gave a questioning look. “Looking for the church?”

  “We get quite a few people travelling up from the cities. It’s like a spiritual retreat, I’ve been told. Maybe a commune would be a better way to describe it.” Emily leaned forward. “For people looking for spiritual guidance,” she said mockingly. She sat back and folded her arms. “I gave up on God years ago.”

  “The sheriff did mention it. Do a lot of people from out of town go there?”

  Emily nodded, “It’s up in the hills, about a few miles out of town. They keep to themselves, but occasionally you’ll see them in town.”

  Shaw thought about this for the moment. It was a perfect location, high up in the mountains, isolated, peaceful. He could understand. But he wasn�
�t looking for redemption. “Do I look like one of their potential followers? Like I need salvation? Needing direction?”

  Emily laughed. “Well, you did look at little lost yesterday. You certainly looked like an out-of-towner, but not a tourist. I mean that in a nice way.” She touched his knee, almost flirting. “We all get a little lost, Ben, don’t we? Need some direction.” Another cryptic comment that Shaw didn’t know what to make of. Her signals were mixed, confusing.

  “Some of them are a bit creepy,” Emily said. “But as long as they keep to themselves I don’t care.”

  “Who runs the place?”

  “He’s some older guy, long gray hair. I can’t remember his name though. I’ve only seen him once. He tried to get me to come up to their place. He thought I needed saving.” Emily laughed. “He likes to think of himself as a shepherd of his flock as he puts it. He’s their spiritual leader, thinks he’s a guru of some kind. But it’s no charity I can tell you that. They’ve got money, a lot of it.”

  Now Shaw was interested. “How do you mean?”

  “I went up there once, just to see for myself. They gave me a tour. The place is huge, a lot of money spent on it, you can tell. It’s not like some tent community in the forest. They have their own power, grow their own food, a huge modern gathering hall where they congregate to do whatever they do. The place just felt like it had money behind it. Beautiful grounds, proper driveways, nice buildings, not rustic and spartan. They’ve got money, maybe some wealthy benefactors funding them.”

  “How long have they been up there?” Shaw asked.

  “They’ve been there a while, before I arrived. Why don’t you take a look? They allow visitors.”

  “I might just do that,” Shaw replied.

  “Anyway I’ve got to go, I’ve got a few errands to run around town.” Emily got up. “I’ll see you later.”

  Shaw watched her leave, checking to see if the man appeared again. He didn’t.

  12

  They sat in a corner booth, away from the lunchtime crowd. Annabel’s was full of regulars and the background noise was enough to mask their conversation.

  “So what’s the book?” Clare swivelled the book around that Shaw had in front of him, looked at the cover then frowned. The book was well-worn and crammed with old bus and train tickets strategically placed, bookmarking important pages and passages of wisdom.

  “Meditations?” Clare read the title.

  “Marcus Aurelius,” Shaw answered. “He was a philosopher and Roman Emperor. It’s his writings to himself.”

  “He wrote to himself?” Clare asked.

  Shaw smiled. “It was like reminders to himself on how to act, what to expect from others, how to live your life.”

  “And you read this?” Clare flipped the book and looked at the back.

  Shaw nodded. “It helps me understand people at times.”

  Clare laughed. “Hell, I’m a cop and I still don’t understand why people do the stupid things they do.”

  She had a deep throaty laugh that Shaw liked. Genuine and real, not some girlish giggle.

  “So what did he say? In the book. What words of advice? God knows I could use some right now.” Clare said.

  Clare slid the book back towards him.

  “He would remind himself not to be too disappointed with people. That we are all wired to disappoint, lie, cheat, and steal from each other. It’s in our DNA. We can’t help it.”

  “I agree,” Clare said. “That’s why I’ll always have a job.”

  “He says that each morning you should get up and expect that the people you will meet that day will let you down.”

  “I like that advice. Are you positive he wasn’t a cop back in Roman times?”

  Shaw smiled. “No. He was a realist. He basically said to be prepared for the day, don’t have high expectations of people, because most people don’t hold themselves to a high standard. Expect to be disappointed every day, get used to it. It’s better that way.”

  “Wow, he would have made a great cop.” Clare replied. She looked at the book again, noting the title. “Maybe the title should be updated for modern times, you know, something like the world is shit and so are most people!”

  There was something very attractive to Shaw about her. Her blunt honesty, her directness. She was not a stuffy, politically correct cop, yet she had a strong moral compass of doing what was right. “So what did you find?” Shaw said, changing the topic, his hands wrapped around a cup of coffee for warmth.

  Clare picked up her turkey on rye. She had skipped breakfast so she could drive to the logging camp early and she was famished. She had already filled Shaw in on the meeting with Taggart. It would take twenty-four hours to run the prints on the switchblade. Clare told Shaw she was confident it would reveal that he hadn’t handled the weapon.

  “Find? What makes you say that?” she said, between bites.

  Shaw could tell she was being defensive.

  “I saw three Denver Police Department SUVs go past over an hour ago, not something I imagine you see in a town like Lacy.” He didn’t tell Clare about meeting Emily here earlier or the man following her. “So I guessed something has happened.”

  Clare seemed to be thinking. She trusted him, so she said, “I found a hand yesterday, up in the hills past the town.”

  “A hand? Whose?” Shaw replied.

  “I don’t know, I was there following up on a possible mountain lion sighting when I saw a cougar. Came out of nowhere, plain as day. Had a human hand in its mouth. Dropped it right in front of me then took off back into the forest.”

  “Are there any missing persons reported?”

  Clare shook her head then wiped her hands on a napkin. “No, I checked yesterday. The database was clean.”

  “How far did you search? How far back did you go?”

  “Just local and within the last two years. Why?”

  Shaw shrugged. “Can’t believe you didn’t get a hit. You’re bucking the national statistics.”

  Clare knew the missing national persons statistics. It was disturbing. If you cast too wide a net for a missing persons search you’ll be pulling in nearly the entire state and be chasing your own tail. There are as many as one hundred thousand current missing person cases in the U.S. At any one time. And every year more than eight hundred thousand children go missing.

  “Maybe it’s a tourist, someone from say Florida or New York. It makes the task almost impossible.”

  Clare nodded and ate in silence for a few moments. It was true. Police resources were pushed to the limit and missing persons were given a low priority when compared to homicides, rape and theft.

  “Where’s the hand now?” Shaw asked.

  “I had it in the fridge at my office last night. You were probably just three feet away from it when you were in the holding cell. I called Denver PD last night and reported it, so they drove up this morning to collect it. They’ve already sent it for forensic testing.

  “They may not get a DNA match,” Shaw added.

  “I know. It could be an unknown subject with no previous DNA record. Then it could stay in the database for years until someone comes forward.”

  “Have you searched for a body yet?” Shaw asked.

  “No, not yet. We just don’t have the facilities here on the mountain or the manpower to conduct a wide search. It’s just me and it’s a limited service sheriff’s office. I rely on the local community to do their part as well, but no one from around here is missing. Anyway I’ve turned it over to the Denver police, they’re responsible for investigations. I took them up there this morning when they arrived and showed them the spot where the cougar dropped the hand. They’re still up there now, searching the woods, but the snow fall last night would have covered any tracks or evidence. It could be a crime scene or it could be a missing person. Either way the search area could be thousands of acres of forest.”

  “Has anything like this happened before?” Shaw asked.

  “What do y
ou mean? We get mountain lions coming within the town limits all the time. I normally take care of it or I call Parks and Wildlife. In winter they’re just searching for food, so they get more brazen. But no, not like this. I’ve never found a body part.”

  Shaw looked out the window. Snowflakes swirled as people pushed against the wind.

  “Do you want to take a look?” Clare asked.

  “What? At the hand?” Shaw replied.

  Clare pulled out her cell phone, looked around the café to make sure no one close by was watching. She thumbed the screen then passed Shaw the phone. “Here take a look. I snapped a few pictures last night, just for my own records.”

  Shaw took the phone and looked at the screen. There was a series of grisly pictures, five in total. It was a hand alright, the skin pale and waxen, the wrist bone splintered and protruding.

  “It’s OK, I used surgical gloves to handle it so I wouldn’t contaminate the evidence,” Clare said.

  The hand was small, mauled at the wrist, fingers white and bony, bent inwards like the hand was grasping at something. Shaw thumbed through the images, paused and scrolled back to one particular picture. “Why are you showing me these? Isn’t it a matter for Denver PD?”

  “I value your opinion, another set of eyes.”

  “It’s not really my field of expertise,” Shaw replied, brow furrowed. He had seen dead people before, plenty. But a body part by itself, not connected to anything, was surreal. It had a certain morbid fascination about it.

  “It’s a small hand, a child’s maybe, right hand.” Clare added.

  “I agree, definitely a kid’s. You took good pictures, different angles and distances.” Shaw concentrated on the pictures. Like Clare, he had done basic forensics training. It mainly focused on the correct procedures for collecting evidence for analysis, not crime scene processing or actual evidence analysis. But he did notice something.

  “A woman’s hand,” he said, his eyes scrutinising one particular picture Clare had taken.