Dead Girl Found

by Warren Court

  “Trauma, Armour. Multiple trauma to the girl’s genitals. Her anus. Bruising, old ones and fresh ones. Repeated entry by force, over time, leaves telltale signs.”

  “Oh,” Armour said and blushed hotter than his coffee.

  “You asked for it,” Kenny said and left.

  Armour’s stomach rumbled again and despite the displeasing imagery the officer had left him with, he ordered the eggs.

  31

  Armour walked out of the diner more than full. Kenny had been right, those were some mighty fine eggs and he’d definitely be back. He got in his car, and made to head out to where Powers lived.

  He made it half way down main street when he caught a stop light. He casually glanced in his side view mirror, the only one he had, and saw a white pickup behind him. He turned around, couldn’t help it and saw through the rear window the face of Bill Powers staring at him, dark glasses and a grimace on his face. Baseball cap pulled low over his head. But it was him. The light turned green. Powers kept with him, right on his butt.

  “Jesus,” Armour muttered. What could he do?

  The truck stuck to him like glue. They came to another stop light and Armour looked around nervously. There were no cops in sight. No Sergeant Kenny. Would his new “friend” do anything? Yes, he would be duty bound but what would he do? What had Powers done? Nothing, other than chase him off the Eastman steel plant property where he had been trespassing. But the man owned a Toyota Corolla your Honour, small two-door jobby – maybe. There’s your proof. Armour chuckled at the absurdity of it.

  The light turned green and Armour gunned it as much as his car would let him. He flew down main street towards the harbour and looked in his mirror. The pickup was gone. Was it a figment of his over active imagination? A kind of spell but experienced when he was fully awake?

  Armour decided to turn around and head back the way he had come. He wasn’t going to let a phantom chase him out of town, keep him from finding out the truth. And the truth was here in Port Dover.

  He made a right turn onto a side street, narrow one with cars lining both sides and a dead end. Bad move. He started to maneuver his car around, using someone’s driveway to turn around. When he got his car pivoted around he looked in front of him and blocking his path was the white pickup. Powers’ eyes were locked on him.

  Armour left his car running and got out. Powers got out too. He was taller than Armour remembered. He seemed to be puffed up. He was wearing the same blue security guard jacket he’d seen him in and blue jeans. Armour had told Melanie he thought he was sixty but here in broad day light he looked younger, meaner.

  “Do you mind? I made a wrong turn,” Armour said.

  “You sure did, pal. Why are you following me around?”

  “Excuse me? I think you were following me there.”

  “How does it feel?”

  “Listen, I want to get by, you’re blocking me…”

  “You stop following me,” Powers said as he came closer. Armour decided to dive in and see what he could find out.

  “What did detective Burke want with you back in ’91?”

  “Huh?”

  “The detective that came to see you at work after the Truscott girl was murdered. I’ve seen his notes. He took note of your license plate.” Armour pointed at the six-digit plate on Powers’ pickup. There was more rust than white paint on it and the numbers were barely visible but it wasn’t quite bad enough to force the MOT to get him to buy a new one. “You’ve had that quite a while. Is it sentimentalism?”

  “You little…”

  “You used to have that plate on your Corolla. Remember your little Toyota Corolla? It was a ’86 wasn’t it?”

  “Smart guy huh.” Powers moved closer. Armour bladed himself up and his hands came up to his belt ready for anything. That gave Powers a reason to pause. Stand up to a bully, Armour’s father always told him, watch him back down. It worked, most of the time. Unless that bully was a killer.

  “Your Corolla, the brown one. The one with the union sticker on it was seen on the Scotch Line road at around the time the Truscott girl was murdered.”

  “I was at the plant. I was on duty.”

  “Can you prove that?”

  “I had alibis. I showed the cop. It wasn’t me.”

  “Why did Powers automatically come out and see you? How did he know you? What make of car you had?”

  “You figure it out. I was cleared. Word to the wise, stop following me around.”

  Powers got back in his truck, put it in reverse and roared back up the side street. His tires squelched when he made a quick turn around and then he was gone. Armour took a deep breath and then leaned against the front of his ticking car.

  32

  Burke had cleared him, but was there lasting proof of Powers’ alibi? Had Burke just screwed up, convicted the Macintyre boy then deliberately swept the Powers connection under the carpet? There was one man that might know.

  The Grahams weren’t home so Armour drove around Port Dover for a while. Then he parked at the top of the Grahams’ street and waited. It was close to supper time when the Grahams drove down their street to their house. Armour watched Cynthia help her husband out of the car and guide him to the door. He started his car and drove down the street.

  “We’re surprised to see you back again. He’s just in the bathroom. We were out getting some groceries,” Cynthia said.

  “Yes, I know.” Cynthia gave him a queer look.

  “I came by early is what I meant, and drove around a bit. Didn’t want to leave for home until I’ve spoken to your husband.”

  “Where is home exactly?”

  “Hamilton, it’s a bit of a drive. I have some news on the Truscott case, just wanted to run something by your husband.”

  There was the sound of a toilet flushing and Cynthia raised her eyebrows.

  “Takes him a while. Why don’t you take a seat and he’ll be along in a second?”

  Cynthia lead Armour down into their sunken basement, the one with the fantastic view of the lake. A cold wind coming off Lake Erie was battering the windows and the lawn was covered in red and yellow maple and birch leaves.

  “Winter’s coming soon,” Armour said.

  “Hope not.”

  “Do you go south for the winter?”

  “No, never have. We like to stay home.”

  Armour went over to the wall strewn with photographs. There were a few black and whites of relatives long since passed but most of them were of Cynthia and Lester.

  “Here’s us on our wedding day, 1986. Are you married?” She said.

  “I was.”

  “Oh, I see.”

  “My wife passed away,” he said, glossing over the horrifying truth. That she had been abducted, raped and strangled to death. Armour thought about that, is that why he was so interested in the Truscott case, and now Sanders’? The same method of death. If he could bring justice for these girls maybe he could close some chapter on his own life?

  He looked again at all the photos. There were pictures of Cynthia with a group of girls and he moved in to study it closer. He recognized Barbara Housen.

  “You were a teacher?”

  “Phys-Ed, athletics coach. Never anything academic.”

  “Did you know this girl?” He pointed at Barbara.

  “Not sure, it was so long ago.” Cynthia moved in closer and raised her glasses. “Oh yes poor Barbara. She was involved in an accident, had to change schools.”

  “I know. I met her.”

  “You did? How is she?”

  “She’s getting along. She’s in a wheelchair but she’s very successful.”

  “That poor girl.”

  “Did you know the Truscott girl?”

  “No, I don’t remember her but I wasn’t at that school when it happened. Of course, I remember the murder. Everyone in that area heard about it. It was big news.”

  “I know, I covered it. It was my first big story as a journalist.”

  Th
ere was a noise from up the small set of stairs and the elder Graham emerged and wheeled into the short elevator.

  “Hello there. What brings you back?” he said as he lowered himself down to the den.

  “I was just in the neighbourhood. Wanted to tell you that I found Bill Powers.”

  The elevator came down with a clunk.

  “Really,” Lester Graham said and he wheeled forward. “That’s something. How?”

  “He still works at the steel plant. Eastman Lake.”

  “Impossible.”

  “He’s a security guard.”

  “What’s he guarding? Rust?” Lester said and all three of them laughed.

  “I guess to keep out vandals and kids so they don’t get hurt. Someone would be liable.”

  “Should tear that thing down. So, is that what you came to tell me?”

  “Well I spoke with Powers. Asked him about detective on the Truscott case coming out to see him.”

  “Yes. I think I remember that. He spoke to me first, I had to go get Powers off the line.”

  “He says he has an alibi for the day of the murder.”

  “Does he? Hmm.”

  “Could he? I mean would there be a punch card somewhere that showed him punching in and out.”

  “It would be long gone. I certainly didn’t keep anything like that.”

  “What did Powers do at the plant?”

  “He was on a flow line if I remember correctly. Line of molten steel comes down out of the smelter into the forms. Powers’ job was to fish out any clumps, put them in a special bucket. So, they wouldn’t stop the flow. Do you know anything about steel production?”

  “A little. Could he get away unnoticed, from a job like that?”

  “Not on that job, not while he was punched in. If he wasn’t there to get those chunks out, the line would foul up and that could cause huge problems. It would be his ass. He’d lose his job, there would be no second chances. Union or no union.”

  “Do you remember him driving a brown Toyota Corolla to the plant?”

  “Son, I barely remember my own cars.”

  “Oh right, okay. I should be going.”

  On his way out of the house Cynthia was in the driveway unloading some groceries from her car. Armour went to help.

  “No, really you don’t need to,” she said.

  “I insist. You’ve been very hospitable.” He grabbed a paper sack of groceries. There were diapers on the top and a carton of milk. The diapers fell off the top of the grocery bag and Armour bent down to pick them up.

  “For the grandkids?” he asked.

  “You know it,” Cynthia said.

  He followed her through the garage to the door that lead into the kitchen. She put her sack down inside the door and turned around to take his.

  “I can take them from here. Thanks again.”

  “It’s my pleasure, Mrs. Graham.” On his way out of the garage, Armour thought how orderly it was. There was a large snow blower wrapped in a blue plastic tarp, that was why their car was in the driveway. There were several large shiny tool boxes, like the ones he’d seen at the Burke house. Above them were several metal signs. One was for STP Oil, the other for the automobile manufacture AMC. Armour thought for a second that one of those metal signs, one with Ford on it, might look good in his garage. Then he shook his head, smiled and left the garage.

  33

  It was dark when Armour drove out of Port Dover. He stopped in at the truck stop with the bar that Powers frequented but just went into the diner portion for a bite to eat and to think. Powers’ pickup was not in the parking lot. Armour questioned himself. What was he trying to do, deliberately provoke Powers? If he pulled into the truck stop he’d surely see Armour’s car and there could be another confrontation. Provoke him. Yes, that’s exactly what Armour was thinking. Armour was reminded of his father’s words. Never back down from a bully.

  Armour saw the rusted sign of the Eastman Lake Steel company on Highway six. He had a vision of trucks, dozens of them all at once, superimposed on each other turning down that road, all loaded with cold rolled steel from other plants. Dozens of cars, people by the hundreds going to work. A swirl of lights and steel funnelling down into that road and the product coming out. Building lives, supporting the kid’s college funds, sending hard working people on modest vacations, allowing them to own their own homes. All of it, the entire history of the plant funnelled into Armour as he approached the cut off. Armour wasn’t aware of it but he let his foot off the gas, a bus coming up behind him laid on its horn. Armour cranked the steering wheel and left the highway.

  As soon as he transited the overpass the sensation subsided. He slowed down and watched the meagre night time traffic flow under him and took out a handkerchief to wipe his brow. Then he proceeded on.

  The road was dark and spooky, the tall pine trees closed in all but a sliver of the night sky. The road became bumpier as he got to the plant, huge pot holes he only narrowly avoided, guided by the weak lamps of his Ford.

  He came out into the clearing, the same one he had been in days before when he had his first run-in with Bill Powers, security guard. Possible murderer. Except now it was nighttime. The administrative building glowed white in the crisp air and moonlight, but behind it the hulking steel plant was large and dark, its smoke stacks jabbing into the night sky like fingers.

  Then Armour was blinded by white light and he put his hand to his eyes and stopped his car. He looked through his fingers at the twin high beams of a car in front of him. It had been hidden in the darkness of the plant and the night.

  Armour turned his car off and got out. He walked in between the beams of his car. His eyes were becoming better adjusted to the other car’s high beams now and he saw a door open and a dark shape emerge. The person stepped in front of his own beams, mirroring Armour. It was Powers.

  “You’re early,” Powers said.

  Armour said nothing.

  “You weren’t supposed to be here for another hour. I don’t like surprises,” Powers said.

  Armour grunted.

  Powers continued, still unaware of who he was speaking too. “If you’re not going to follow the rules I laid out, then the deal is off. I’ll go to the police with what I know. You know that. Doesn’t matter that it was forty years ago, murder is murder.”

  “Blackmail,” Armour said out loud.

  “What the fuck?”

  “You’re blackmailing the murderer,” Armour said.

  “You.” Bill Powers pulled something from his jacket and Armour leaped to the side out of the glare of the headlights as the security guard fired a gun, shattering one of Armour’s lights. Armour scrambled to his feet and ran into the darkness almost running straight into a rusting pile of steel conduit over ten feet high. It caught at his shoulder and spun him down onto the ground just as another bullet whizzed off the metal into the black forest.

  “You son of a bitch,” Powers yelled.

  Armour moved down the side of the conduit, keeping it between himself and Powers. He came around the end of it. There was another pile ten feet away and he made a dash for it heading closer to the steel plant. Two shots rang out as he went and he tripped and collided with something hard and unforgiving. It dug into his hip and ripped his pants. The pain was good, made him want to fight harder to live. Goddamn it. He got up and kept moving. Dodging and weaving as more shots came his way. He looked back once and saw the silhouetted shape of Powers coming after him.

  Armour saw a gap in the fencing around the plant and ducked through it plunging into the darkness of the rear loading bays. Their doors were open and he lifted himself up over the concrete dock and was in complete darkness. He laid still, trying to slow his heavy breathing. Then he belly crawled deeper into the darkness until he was sure it was safe to stand up. He walked now, sliding his feet forward gingerly so as to not trip on anything. He couldn’t see his hand in front of his face. Good. It meant that Powers couldn’t see him either. Unless he had a fla
shlight. He looked back at the loading bay, a hundred feet away and saw what looked like Powers lifting himself up, just as he had done moments before. Then the silhouette was absorbed into the darkness of the plant’s interior.

  His keys, he would need them if he was going to get out of here. He checked his coat pockets, couldn’t find them. Did he lose them? No, they were still in the ignition of his Ford. As he moved further into the plant there were slats high up letting what little light there was in. He kept to the shadows.

  As his eyes adjusted, he could see huge forms in front of him, massive steel containers and ladders. There were ladder works and gangplanks up above. Armour moved to the side of a large metal structure, not sure what it was. His foot hit something hard and he reached down and came up with a two-foot piece of metal rod. It was jagged and sharp in his hands but heavy and lethal. With his weapon he waited, only the sound of his breath which sounded like a steam engine huffing and puffing. There was a knock of something out there in the blackness. Then another, something metal was kicked and skittered along the plant floor. He’s coming for me.

  Was he visible, was he unknowingly silhouetting himself? Armour thought. He had on his brown suit, now torn. His shirt was blue. He didn’t think he would glare too much in any light. It was as dark as a grave in here but his eyes slowly became more accustomed and he saw small shapes scurrying up above him on the gangplanks. Racoons, a family of them moved silently above him back to their nest. This place was probably alive with animal activity both in daylight and nighttime. Armour was still staring at them when he felt the barrel of the pistol placed up against his face and heard the click of the hammer.

  “Drop it,” Powers hissed. Armour complied and the metal bar, unused, clattered to the ground.

  “Hands up.”

  Armour raised his arms and Powers roughly turned him around and patted him down. He put the gun to the back of Armour’s head. Armour had a second to think that the last pleasant thing he might see on this earth were those racoons that had vanished into the darkness. Him to soon follow. A different darkness. Would he be with his Bess again?