The Wolf Lake Murders (A Bo Boson Adventure Book 1)

by Henri Jenkins

  "It's a valve handle," Dave said and stopped to swallow another breath, "from the crime scene."

  Bo sat tall and craned his neck.

  "What crime scene? Our crime scene? You went to the lake without anyone else?"

  "Yes, no, well yes and no I guess."

  "Speak English would you."

  "I went there with the lab guys. So I went but not alone."

  "Why did you do that?"

  "Well I was talking with Robert from the lab, you know Robert."

  "Yeah he, ah, wears the white lab coat."

  "They all do."

  "I know dumbass, get on with it."

  "Anyway, Robert said the crew was going back to search the area again so I asked if I could tag along."

  "You asked if you could tag along? What are you - six?"

  "No – I. Stop! I found this handle. See. It has a sticky substance on it. A red sticky substance. I think it could be blood." Dave radiated in pride.

  "So why didn't you give it to the lab guys."

  "I knew Prescott would be here this morning so I told them I would give it to him for analysis."

  "Oh, well, I guess that makes sense. You have paperwork on it?"

  Dave pulled a folded piece of paper from his back pocket. "Right here."

  "Then." Patty motioned with both hands toward Prescott. "Give it to him and let's see what they find. And take a shower, you stink."

  Dave walked the bag and paper to Prescott sitting next to Bo. Prescott's counterpart took the paper and signed it. Prescott held the bag up and examined the handle through the plastic. He handed it to Bo. He repeated the process, pulling the bag close twisting and turning the plastic. He handed it back to Prescott who passed it on to the other agent. Prescott glanced at Bo.

  "My guess would be some kind of hydraulic or marine grease."

  "We'll see what the lab says," said Prescott.

  Bo nodded his head in agreement. Considering odd couples once more, he wondered how Gunner and Dave knew one another, why Gunner would go behind his back, and why Dave would claim to have found the handle. Bo questioned his previous assessment of Dave.

  "We have the analysis on the ransom note," Prescott said to the group. "As you probably already know, the envelope was postmarked in Whiting, Indiana and was clean of fingerprints. The D.C. lab said a manual typewriter was used to make the note and address the envelope, an antique Underwood Model 3 to be exact. In going along with Bo's theory of the murder being a copycat of Leopold and Loeb, this typewriter was in production in the 1920s."

  Patty asked, "Anyone who visited the homes of the boys notice an antique typewriter? Fitzgerald, Walker, Freeman, Haverly even?"

  The people in the meeting observed one another, each shaking their head no.

  “I believe the one used by Leopold and Loeb was stolen from a fraternity,” said Bo.

  "We all need to make a mental note to keep our eyes open should we visit any of the houses again," Patty said discounting Bo’s statement entirely.

  "The even stranger thing about the analysis is the paper," said Prescott, "a twenty-five percent cotton rag bond that also dates to the 1920s. The lab is still working to identify the manufacturer."

  "I imagine that would be rarer than the typewriter," said Bo.

  "Exactly. I have two agents on their way here to start reaching out - antique stores, pawn shops, stationers, etc."

  "If I'm not needed elsewhere I can jump in and help."

  "That'd be great. They're bringing lists with them."

  "Anything else?" Patty asked Prescott.

  "Yes, our search warrant with the phone company came back. The call made to the Haverly house the day Harold disappeared was made from a payphone in Whiting. The office has put together a collection of background information on the Leopold and Loeb murder. Copies are there on the table next to the door."

  "We also made copies of Harold's History report. The copies are next to the FBI paperwork," Patty said.

  The meeting ended. Bo grabbed a copy of each packet. He spent the day reading the material and placing calls about vintage typewriters and paper. He ate his "working man's lunch" at the desk provided him in the State Police office. His version of the age-old standard included a second Moon Pie to go with the R.C. Cola. He also packed a homemade ham and cheese on white bread with tomato, mayo, mustard, and sweet crispy pickle slices. It was his favorite sandwich.

  The cold calling effort was a bust. The one vintage typewriter recently sold was to an overseas client. One of the older stationers echoed Bo's thought of the paper being the rarer of the two. He said most paper of that era would be in either private or public collections and seldom came up for sale. Bo concluded whoever made the note either owned or had access to the paper. They did not purchase it.

  Around four o'clock Patty stopped by Bo's desk to ask about the search. He told her it had been fruitless. She walked away.

  “Dave’s in Chicago. I’m running out for dinner in a bit if you’re interested,” she said over her shoulder.

  Bo scanned the room.

  She stopped and turned back waiting for an answer.

  "I-I can't. I have laundry and I'm meeting a friend."

  "Oh sure.” She turned away. “No big deal."

  "Rain check?"

  "Yeah whatever." She walked back to her desk.

  Bo squinted; staring at the back of her head as if her intent were printed there. He pushed the thought from his head and dialed the next number on the list.

  Her intentions regarding dinner lingered on his mind all evening as he went to find Gunner. Unable to locate him, Bo almost regretted having provided the gas for his getaway. He made a mental note to phone his police friend in Chicago to see if they could help locate Gunner again. Bo headed home to do laundry and share a late meal with an elusive red-haired Raven.

  The reality of truth is a singular perception.

  Patty would agree only to her own truth. The following day, the police brought Kenny Lowe in for questioning as a possible material witness. Wearing his necklace to the interview, it took less than an hour.

  Later in the afternoon they questioned Walter Freeman IV. The school's wealthiest parent, Walter Freeman III, was unappreciative of any suggestion of knowledge or participation by Four. He sat in on the interview along with two high-priced defense attorneys.

  Patty again led the questioning. Lancaster, Prescott, Bo and Dave Lowman sat in. During Walter's interview, they discovered Jay had accompanied the Freemans on their last vacation to Palm Beach. Walter and Jay had purchased matching necklaces on the trip. Patty asked Walter why he no longer wore his.

  "I bought it on a whim, an impulse buy, not really my style - at all. I prefer the feel of gold or platinum against my skin."

  "Still have yours?"

  "I may. I'd have to look."

  "Please do."

  "I'll look when we get home. Do you think Jay had something to do with Harold's death?"

  "We're following leads right now but your necklace could help clear things up."

  "I'll do my best to find it."

  "Thank you. Maybe we can send a few officers to help you in the search."

  After the Freemans and company left, the group discussed the information collected.

  The majority of the group agreed Jay's reaction to the different metal was intriguing though none considered it directly connected him to the crime.

  "Walter Freeman," Patty said.

  "What about him?" asked Lancaster.

  "Any reason to place a surveillance team on him?"

  Most shook their heads, "No."

  Bo sat quiet playing with his broken gear.

  "Wanna jump in here?" Prescott asked, nudging Bo's arm with the back of his hand.

  "As far as the Fitzgerald boy, I agree his reaction peculiar."

  "How so?" said Prescott.

  "I couldn't tell if it was relief or satisfaction."

  "Aren't they the same thing?" Patty asked.

&nbs
p; "In questioning people you find relief in being proven innocent of an accusation or - much farther along - the realization of the guilty truth. Satisfaction comes in either the guilty feeling they've been successful at convincing you of their lie or the realization the evidence is wrong."

  "Sounds like a bunch of philosophical mumbo-jumbo to me. What makes you such an expert?"

  "Let's agree he is," Prescott said. "Go on."

  Bo glanced at Prescott. “I’m thinking out loud here. Walter and Jay are the best of friends. They purchased matching necklaces while vacationing together. Jay continued to wear his, Walter moved on. Is it possible that Walter IV killed Harold, realized his necklace missing and stole Jay's so he would appear to have his if it came up? It’s weird though because to me, everything about Walter said innocent. As for Jay there's that smile."

  "Oh! Maybe we can have him smile for the jury and they'll convict him on your expert fucking testimony. Could you tell Walter is his accomplice because he cracked his knuckles or blinked every time Harold's name was mentioned?"

  Bo ignored Patty's rant. "As for the younger Freeman, I know the Principal felt he took after his mother but the apple rarely falls far from the tree and his father is one stone oak."

  "What the fuck does that mean?"

  "It means if you put them all in a line up and asked me to pick out the stone cold killer; I'd choose the elder Freeman."

  "Well shit - maybe we should put a tail on him too. Let's put surveillance teams on the entire fucking country club. And while we're at it, you were awfully fucking chummy with the Fitzgeralds yesterday so maybe we should be tailing your ass too."

  Prescott stood and walked to Captain Watson. He leaned and spoke quiet in the man's ear. The Captain stood and led Prescott to his office. At the door, Prescott turned back. "Bo, can you join us?" Bo stood and walked to the men, closing the door behind him.

  Patty paced, fuming and mumbling to herself. She got coffee and went to her desk. Marlboro smoke smogged her desk. She kept eyeing the closed door and fidgeting with her things. The butt of the first cigarette ignited a second.

  A few minutes later, the door opened. Bo walked past the rest of the group. "Night all," he said and glanced at Patty. He walked out.

  Confession while great for the soul often proves contrary to happiness.

  If I had some, I would have duct taped my mouth shut to keep the truth from falling out. I had to confess. It would not wait any longer.

  I made my way downstairs and escaped unnoticed through the basement door. The neighborhood had long held secrets. As a boy, I learned of and even created several hidden egress points between yards. Most still existed.

  Though a few were cramped, the passages allowed me to traverse my way to Walter's backyard without using the sidewalks or alley. While it would be natural for me to walk in without knock or notice, I desired invisibility.

  The kitchen door was out of the question. Ernestine, the cook, stood at the window busy with work in the sink. She watched the groundskeeper bent at the waist weeding the beds beyond the brick paver patio. A sugar maple and two pink dogwoods framed the scene for her.

  From experience, I knew they kept the basement door alongside the patio locked. A third door, at the garden tool shed could provide access. Walking like I did not care about being noticed, I made my way to it hoping I would not. The squat, petulant gardener, Alphonse, would be easily dismissed if inside. He was not.

  I made my way through the opposing door to the four-car garage. From there I slipped into the house. Approaching the living room, I began to identify voices. I stopped short and listened. Mrs. Elizabeth ranted about the police having been at the house and their search for a petty necklace. She spoke as if she wanted the space fumigated.

  A noise from the pantry to the left startled me. I jumped into the hall bathroom and hoped the noisemaker was not of the same mind. A tray of cocktails clinked past. I realized it was the butler, Antoine, passing liquid meds. I waited for him to return to his hideaway adjacent to the kitchen.

  The crisis adverted, I inched my way into a slight view of the living room. I realized if recognized I would have to act normal. In the moment, I was uncertain how normal looked. Luck was on my side as Walter alone faced my direction. I caught his eye and pointed up.

  I rushed down the hall passing the pantry door like a blur and bounded the back stairs. Walter excused himself and casually made his way up the front. We met in the second floor hallway. He greeted me with terse eyes, grabbed my arm tight and pushed me back through the wide space.

  My mouth opened to object but his free hand held it shut like the tape I wished for earlier. He stopped near one of the seldom used bedrooms and opened the door. We ducked inside. He locked the knob behind his back and pulled me close. I collapsed into his arms. Walter held me like a parent comforting the anguish of a wounded child. The hug lingered into an embrace.

  When I had enough, Walter led me to the en suite bathroom and again locked the door. I wondered if I should go into the closet within. He motioned for me to sit on the toilet and I complied. He leaned against the polished marble countertop like an executive at his credenza.

  "How are you Fitz?"

  His face and body language spoke of genuine concern. His voice sounded unnatural and off-putting. I sat back.

  "Fitz." He leaned toward me and snapped. "Fitz, are you alright?"

  A simple enough question, I was uncertain how to answer. Walter always spoke direct, clear and focused but of two minds. The bulk of his existence consumed the self. To most, this constituted the solitary image of Walter, the passing glimpse of a lifeless reflection. I knew the man beyond the silvered glass, a man with a caring and profound heart.

  "What did you tell the police?"

  The question lay upon my mind, floating atop my own thoughts. It settled, pushing into my brain. I understood. The mirror spoke true. He wanted to know if I had given him up. The accusation ruined me. Tears came and fled to the floor. My mouth went dry as wet eyes found his cold blue stare. "I did it."

  "What?" He walked close and stood over me like a father about to berate his child. Walter placed a finger under my chin and lifted my head. "What did you say?"

  I chewed for spit. "I did it."

  Walter drew in a deep breath and blew hard. His hands came to rest on his waist, fingering his leather belt.

  "You did what Fitz?"

  "I killed Harold."

  "You did not."

  My eyes lifted to Walter.

  "You?" he whispered. "You killed Harold?"

  I nodded.

  "What? How?" His hands found his head as he walked away. Interlocking his fingers behind like a common criminal, he stood at the thin window without a word.

  I searched for anything resembling a reaction.

  He remained still.

  "Why didn't you tell me?"

  "I had to do it."

  He turned toward me. "You should have told me. I would have considered letting you have, given you one."

  "It wasn't about that Walter."

  "Then what? I could have helped, could have watched over you and protected you."

  "Walter, I didn't want to kill."

  "Then why Harold?"

  "I took Harold for you, Walter, to distract the police. I planned to keep them occupied until you found fulfillment." I wiped at my face giving the thought time to seep into Walter.

  "For me?"

  "Yes." I burst into tears again, finding the admission hard.

  Walter rubbed at his chest like a man with heartburn. "I still don't understand why Harold. I'd been no less impressed with you doing one of the spicks."

  "Don't you see?" I cried. "It's because of them, because the police are looking for them."

  "Did Harold find out about them? Did you tell him?"

  "No Walter. I took Harold so the police would stop investigating those other boys. I did it to protect you but he discovered me and tried to escape. He left me no choice."

&
nbsp; Walter rushed to me and knelt at my feet. "Fitz," he said cupping my face, "You didn't have to do that for me. The police are far too stupid to ever connect me to them."

  A single tear rolled down Walter's cheek. I reached and wiped it away. "You're upset with me."

  "No Fitz. No." He grabbed my left hand and squeezed it. His thumb caressed my cheek. "I'm not upset. Quite the contrary. No one has ever done anything like this for me." He came closer. "You've touched me as no one else could."

  I bawled.

  Walter pulled me into his arms and held me tight. He stroked my hair. "You'll have to tell me all about it some time."

  "I don't ever want to think about it again. It's maddening."

  "There, there," he said, "it'll pass. When the time is right, you'll tell me everything. I want to hear all about it."

  "Please don't make me relive it Walter. I beg of you."

  He pulled away to see my eyes. "Not now. Not now." He kissed me on the forehead.

  I lunged back into the comfort and strength of his embrace.

  He squeezed me tight and kissed at my ear.

  I pulled away. His face was barren of expression but his eyes read of excitement. I leaned in and kissed him with my eyes open, watching, judging. He kissed back. I kissed him again, longer and fuller. My eyes closed. I gave myself completely to him. He jumped to his feet and started away. My gaze followed in shock.

  Walter unlocked and opened the bathroom door. I thought he was gone. He reached out for me and motioned with his head. He wanted me to join him. I stood and took his hand like a lover. He pulled me into the bedroom and onto the bed. We made love, soft and quiet. It was fulfilling.

  When we were done, Walter sat against the headboard, my head in his lap.

  "I don't want to lose you Walter. I can't."

  "I'm not going anywhere Fitz."

  "Should I turn myself in?"

  "No, wipe that thought from your mind." He stroked my hair.

  "They got to me so quick. I'm afraid they are going to put the pieces together."

  "They're idiots Fitz. If they were going to put anything together they would have already done so."

  "I don't know Walter. I feel like that woman cop can see right through me and there was one man there who seemed quite sharp."