by David Carter
“All right; do you still have the number for that computer geek friend of yours back in Woodridge?” Blaze was referring to one of Danny’s high school friends who, later in life, had turned out to be a computer genius. Blaze had paid him fifty thousand dollars to give Danny a new identity after he’d escaped from Winterhill.
“Yeah man, I got his number. Why’s that?”
“I need some information. I know for sure the rat is someone inside the MC. I just need some confirmation before I do anything rash.”
“You? Do something rash?” Danny smiled and tried to reach for his cell phone on the table next to the bed. Ellie scolded him and retrieved it. Danny scrolled down through the names on his contacts list and opened one of the profiles. He made the call.
Danny’s friend picked up after more than half a dozen rings. “Yes,” a low, monotone voice answered.
“It’s me, Danny Foster.”
“Hi, Danny, how are you, buddy?”
“Good, man. Hey, look, I need a favour.”
“Shoot.”
“I need some information on someone.”
“It’ll cost you.”
“Money is no issue.”
“Good. Who am I looking for, then?”
Danny looked to Blaze for the name. “Undercover Agent Watson of the Brighton Police Department,” he said.
Danny relayed the name to his friend.
Blaze quickly added, “Tell him I need to send him a package, too. Get his mailing address.”
Danny did so.
“I'll call you when I have something,” his friend replied, and clicked off.
Chapter 54
“I still don’t know what you think we will find,” Sandra said to Ryan as they combed the Bowmans’ house for the second time.
“There has to be something we missed. It also helps that I’m here with a different mindset this time,” Ryan answered.
“How do you mean?”
“This time I’m trying to prove Blaze’s innocence, not his guilt.”
“But how are you going to do that? The meat cleaver with his prints all over it is pretty compelling.”
“Yes, I realise in a court of law it looks bad. But you heard what Blaze said when he gave his statement to the police.”
She scoffed. “That he was helping Laurie Bowman cut some chicken breasts; prepping their dinner?”
“Yes. And I don’t see why he would make something like that up.”
“How about to avoid a two first degree murder charges? And why would Laurie need help in the first place? Surely he could have managed by himself?”
“There must be a reason. It’s not like Blaze to be a charity case.”
“He said in his statement that Laurie was struggling from old age.”
Ryan thought for a moment. “I’m going to start from the beginning,” he said. Then he acted out the likely scenario of Blaze’s visit. He started at the front door. He spoke as he pretended to press the doorbell. “Blaze shows up unannounced, explains who he is, and being old fashioned, the Bowmans ask him to come inside, lead him down the hallway to the kitchen, and offer him a cup of tea.”
Sandra observed him curiously.
“Then, of course, Blaze declines the tea and politely asks for coffee instead. Mrs Bowman obliges. Then they all sit down at the kitchen table to discuss Blaze’s questions.” Ryan paused. “No, wait—according to Blaze’s statement, Laurie was cutting the chicken breasts when he arrived, which is when he offered to help him.”
“Which we still don’t really know why,” Sandra cut in.
Ryan suddenly had a thought. “Have you got Laurie’s medical records with you?”
“Sure do,” she selected a manilla folder from the pile on the kitchen table. She perused the document, and said aloud as she read, “Heart problems, depression, allergies to peanuts and bee stings, chronic arthritis from the age of fifty —”
“Stop there,” Ryan cut her off.
“Arthritis?”
“Do you know how painful that can be?”
“Can’t say I do.”
“I had an aunt who suffered from arthritis. She said it was like having shards of glass buried in your joints. Imagine trying to prepare something like raw chicken with so much pain in your hands you can barely cut it.”
“Get to the point.”
“Let’s assume Blaze was telling the truth, and was helping Laurie prep dinner because he was in obvious pain.”
Sandra interrupted this time. “Prepping dinner at lunch time? Chicken breast don’t take all afternoon to cook, you know.”
Ryan took her point. He pondered the scenario for a few moments. He picked up a folder from the pile on the table and flipped out a photograph of the kitchen from the day of the murders. He flinched as he noticed something interesting. “There,” he said, and pointed at the slow cooker sitting on the bench top.
“What about it?” she said.
“Not only is the slow cooker out and ready for use, but the red power light was on when the photo was taken. Which means Laurie Bowman was prepping their dinner, and was going to use the slow cooker. Which proves Blaze’s story. But whoever killed him didn’t notice he had already turned it on, and tried to hide the diced chicken breasts at the bottom of the rubbish bin in an effort to cover up the crime.”
She was astounded by his acute observation. She remembered finding the raw chicken buried in the rubbish bin when they’d first combed the crime scene. “You don’t miss anything do you?” she replied.
“I try not to.”
“So if what you say is true, Blaze is either innocent, or tried to cover up the murders.”
“He’s innocent,” Ryan said tersely.
“You can’t prove that,” Sandra argued.
“Actually, I can.”
“Go on, then.”
“Come on Sandra; think. What was the other obvious piece of evidence we found tying Blaze to the crime scene?”
She thought for moment. “The phone number in their garden,” she answered.
“Exactly. Only a fool would commit a crime, cover it up, then leave his personal phone number behind for the police to find, along with the murder weapon covered in his prints. And for somebody with Blaze’s intelligence, that’s just idiotic.”
Sandra finally conceded. “Okay, you’re right. But that still leaves us with a huge problem. As of now we have exactly no leads on who the actual killer is.”
Ryan looked like his mind was elsewhere.
“Cameron?”
“Hold on, I just realised something.”
“What?”
“Let’s say that Blaze is definitely innocent for a second.”
“Okay.”
“How did the killer know to use the meat cleaver with Blaze’s prints on it to frame him?”
She saw his point immediately. “You think they were being watched?”
“It’s possible.” He stood at the bench in the kitchen—in the most likely spot someone would prepare a meal. He turned around slowly. And as he did so, he realised he could see through the doorway into the living room and beyond into the back garden through the large, see-through french doors that opened up onto a small porch, spanning the length of the rear of the house. “We need to go outside,” he said.
They opened the french doors and stepped out into the rear section. It was extremely private. No one could look in from the outside. It had a tall, oak-stained wooden fence separating the section from the neighbours’, with a gate that opened up onto a footpath that encircled the cul-de-sac. There was a vegetable garden, various flowers and shrubs along the fence line, and another long garden that ran the length of the porch. Ryan positioned himself where he could see through the french doors and into the kitchen where Blaze had likely been standing during his visit.
“If you were spying on someone in the Bowmans’ kitchen and didn’t want to be noticed, surely this would be the spot,” Ryan said.
Sandra agreed, and noticed that to see into the kitchen,
Ryan had to have one of his feet planted in the garden to keep his balance. His leg was nestled against a bushy shrub. “Cameron,” she said abruptly, “have you noticed where your left foot is standing?”
He pulled his foot away and brushed the branches aside, so he could see the dirt in the garden. And right there, next to his shoeprint, was a patch of torn, blue trouser material next to a perfectly preserved boot print beneath the shrub’s bushy base.
Sandra took some photos. Ryan compared his shoeprint next to the boot print. “Going on the size of the print, it must have been someone as least as tall as me, if not, taller,” he said. “I’m well over six foot. And the print isn’t overly deep, so I’m suggesting our suspect is of wiry build.”
Sandra agreed. She took measurements of the print for her report. “I’ll email the print off with the dimensions to the lab, and see if they can at least find us what type of shoe or boot it belongs to. What do think this material came from?” she said.
“I’m not sure,” he replied. “We’ll get it analysed. And in the meantime, we need to canvass the area again,” he added.
“But we did that last time we were here,” she protested.
“Yes, we did. But we were calling for witnesses connecting Blaze to the murders on that occasion. Who knows? We might get lucky; someone might remember seeing a stranger lurking around the street but didn’t think to mention it as we were looking for a biker.”
“Fair enough.” She gave in.
They locked up the house and headed outside to start the arduous task of walking the street and banging on doors for the second time. But just as they left the Bowmans’ and stepped onto the footpath, Ryan suddenly stopped.
“What’s wrong?” Sandra said.
He motioned to the house directly across the street from the Bowmans’. “There’s a light on in the living room; someone’s home,” he said.
“I thought the commissioner said the witness was in protection.”
“That’s what I thought. Maybe they had a change of heart?”
“Well there’s only one way to find out,” she said.
They scampered across the road to the home of Witness X.
Chapter 55
Ryan knocked on front door of the house directly across the road from the Bowmans’. An elderly lady answered. She was hunched over and frail. “Can I help you?” her croaky voice asked.
Ryan introduced himself, as did Sandra, and said, “We are looking into the murders of Laurie and Marilyn Bowman. I wondered if we could have a few minutes of your time to ask some questions?”
Her pale blue eyes saddened. “I’m not sure I can be of much help,” she replied.
“Sure you can, seeing as you’re the witness?” Ryan hinted.
“Excuse me?”
“You are the witness that went into protective custody after giving a statement to the police about the Bowmans’ murders, aren’t you?”
“I’m sorry, detective, I don’t have the foggiest idea what you’re talking about.”
“Please, Mrs…”
“Audrey Williams,” she replied.
“Can you please tell us where you’ve been for the past two days?”
“I went to visit my son. I only arrived home this morning,” she said tersely.
Ryan was confused. Who is the witness, then? We’ve questioned every other resident on the street.
“Please, Audrey, may we come in? I promise to keep this short. We’ll be out of your hair in a minute or two,” Ryan said.
“All right; come in, come in,” she relented, waved them through the doorway. She led them to the kitchen. “I’ve actually known the Bowmans for over thirty years,” she said as she habitually put the kettle on for her guests, and offered them some shortbread.
When they were settled at her small kitchen table, Ryan asked, “In your thirty years of knowing the Bowmans, have you ever known anyone to have a disagreement with them, or anyone that may have had a reason to harm them?”
“Oh, good heavens, no!” She held a lace handkerchief to her mouth as she coughed. “They were honest, upstanding citizens of Worthington. Laurie was on the city council, and Marilyn was heavily involved in community projects. They were such a wonderful family —” She paused suddenly.
“Is everything all right?” Sandra asked, placing her hand on top of Audrey’s withered fingers.
“Sorry, I’m fine,” she replied. “It’s just that I have always despised that wretched son of theirs. So, to rephrase, they were a wonderful couple.”
“Why? What was wrong with their son?” asked Sandra, unaware of the full extent of Samuel Bowman’s history.
“He was a bad apple from the day the good Lord put him on this Earth. Some say he was possessed by the Devil. He set my cat on fire once. My late husband had to put the poor thing down.”
Jesus Christ, thought Ryan.
Audrey took a bite of her shortbread, then continued, “I was always afraid of him, and felt that same feeling of anxiety when I saw him the other day while I was out in my garden. He must have been visiting his parents. I managed to sneak inside the back door before he saw me, though. Oh, I wish poor Marilyn was still here.” She dabbed her eyes with her handkerchief. “I’m so lonely here all by myself in this big, fancy house,” she sniffled.
Ryan almost fell of his chair as he registered what she’d just said. “You saw what!” he exclaimed.
“Did you say you saw their son?” Sandra asked, just as baffled as Ryan.
“Yes, I believe so.”
“What day, exactly, did you see him?” asked Ryan.
“Let’s see...yes, it was around lunch time.”
“Yes, but which day?” Sandra patiently asked her again.
“I can’t be sure...my memory isn’t what it used to be.”
“What about the fire at the army airbase? Did you see him before or after the fire during the night?”
“Oh, now I remember.” She smiled. “It happened the day of the fire. The Bowmans had quite the busy day with visitors if I recall.” She took a sip of her tea.
Ryan was feverishly writing everything down. “And what do you mean by a ‘busy day with visitors’?” he asked.
“Well, I was planting some flowers in my garden, and I saw a young man on a ghastly motorcycle roar up the street and go inside their house. I was worried sick, but when I saw him leave, I didn’t think anything more of it. Then I saw their son arrive literally a few minutes later. That’s when I left my garden and went inside.”
“And did you see their son leave?”
“Yes, I was peeking through my living room curtain. I called Marilyn as soon as he was gone to make sure they were okay.”
“And were they?”
She chewed slowly on her shortbread. “They were still in shock. No one had seen him for over thirty years now.”
“Did they say why he suddenly decided to call in?”
“Apparently, he called in to say hello for old times’ sake, and let them know he was still alive and that he still cared about them. But they didn’t let him stay long, because in their minds he doesn’t exist.”
“Can you give us his description?”
“Oh, I can do better than that,” she said. She got up from the table and pottered over to a large, polished wooden box in the centre of her living room floor. “I keep all my photos in my glory box,” she said. She puffed hard as she tried to lift the heavy lid open.
“Allow me,” said Ryan, and lifted the lid for her.
She pulled out a thick, green photo album. She sat on the couch in the living room and started flipping through the pages. She stopped when she found what she was looking for. “This is a picture of my son’s graduation class at Worthington University.” She pointed to her son. Then she pointed at another student sitting in the front row, wearing a black gown and mortarboard cap. “That’s him; Samuel Bowman,” she said. “Bright as a button, but a devil to boot.”
Ryan looked long and hard at the picture. It was
a tad blurry, and had faded somewhat, but even so, Samuel looked familiar somehow. He had the classic intelligent look: brown hair parted on one side, thick glasses, and a gangly physique—typical for a student of twenty something years old. But Ryan knew that behind those glasses lived a monster.
“Audrey, would you mind if I borrowed this picture?” Ryan asked her.
“You can keep it, dear. I have plenty others of my son.” She handed it to him.
Sandra asked, “Audrey, you said there were lots of visitors at the Bowmans’ house that day you saw their son. Did you see anyone else visit after you called them to see if they were all right?”
“Yes, as a matter of fact. I went out to finish planting my flowers after Samuel left, and maybe ten minutes later I saw a police officer arrive and go inside.”
“Did you see his patrol car?”
“No. He was in one of those plain, unmarked patrol cars. It was red, if I recall.”
“And did you see him leave?”
“Sorry, no, I didn’t. I’d gone back inside for my afternoon nap before the officer had left. I assumed Marilyn had called the police to inform them her son was very much alive and well.”
“So it wasn’t you who called the police to report their murders?”
“Goodness, no. I had a plane to catch the next morning and I needed my rest. The police arrived after I’d woken up. That’s how I found out they were —” Her lips quivered.
Sandra comforted her while Ryan finished writing everything down. “Thank you, Audrey, you have no idea how much help you have been,” he said kindly.
They bade her farewell and took their leave.
“So we can rule out Blaze as the murderer,” said Sandra, “and Samuel.”
“Yes, and we finally have something concrete to go on.” He referred to the boot print.
“So why did you ask if you could keep Audrey’s photo?” Sandra asked. “I’m pretty sure we can rule out Samuel as the killer.”
“Because Blaze is looking for his biological father.”
She didn’t understand. “And it helps him, how exactly?”
His features didn’t flinch as he replied, “Now, for the first time we have an idea of what the bastard looks like.”
