Detective Jack Stratton Box Set

by Christopher Greyson

  “There was never a suspect?”

  “None. The police never came up with anyone. I knew Chief Wilson personally, and he worked that case like it was his own son who’d been killed. And I’ll tell you what, I think he would have solved it, too. But he died about three months after the murder.”

  “How did he die?”

  “Heart attack, at home. Mabel, his wife, thought that case killed him. I’d have to agree. It really changed him.”

  Jack sat back on the couch and sighed. “Ripples in the pond,” he muttered.

  “Excuse me?”

  “You don’t think about the toll on other people.” Jack rubbed his hand on his leg. “One event, but far-reaching effects.”

  Replacement tapped her glass. “Did you ever interview a Terry?”

  Jack cringed, but Jeff just squinted at Replacement. “I don’t remember. Where did you get the Terry tip?”

  “It’s not a tip.” Jack was wary about divulging any information.

  “Is there some reason you two are looking into the case? Did something similar happen in another town? A copycat?”

  “No, no.” Jack shook his head. “It’s just . . . family research. Is there anything else you can tell us? Anyone you know who might have some more information?”

  “Well, there’s Henry Cooper. He’s still around.”

  “He was the first officer on the scene,” Jack said.

  “You did do your homework. Yep, Henry found Steven. He might not be talkative though.”

  “Why would that be?”

  “The Peterson drowning?” Jeff looked at Jack like this should mean something. “Father and son on a snowmobile?” Jack and Replacement both shook their heads. “I’m not familiar with that,” Jack said.

  “It was big news at the time. Brian and Jarred Peterson were snowmobiling on Houtt’s Pond. Their snowmobile went through the ice. Cooper was the first cop on the scene. He managed to save the boy, but Brian, the father, died. The problem was, Cooper talked to a TV reporter right after it happened. She smelled the whiskey on his breath. Chief had to fire him.”

  “Who was chief?” Jack asked.

  “McCann.”

  “McCann?” Jack repeated, confused. “He’s a lieutenant.”

  “He is now. Around here the police chief is elected every six years. McCann took over when Chief Wilson—Senior, that is—died, and he was chief for sixteen years until he lost to Dennis Junior.”

  “And he stayed on the force after losing like that?”

  Jeff shrugged. “I found it kind of odd, too. You’d think he’d retire. Now McCann has almost thirty years. He also worked the Ritter case.”

  Jack sipped his tea. Interesting. Another lead to follow up on. He asked Jeff, “Did you find anything that you didn’t print?”

  “Well . . .” Jeff swirled his glass and looked down. “There was one thing. But it was just a rumor of a rumor. I didn’t feel right printing it.” He looked out the window. “Everything about that kid was squeaky clean, but I did hear that Steven may have been ‘involved’ with a shady girl.”

  “Do you have a name?”

  “Patricia Cole. She had a reputation of being the town trollop.”

  Replacement blurted out, “Patty Cole is Jack’s mother,” but the warning came a second too late.

  The reporter’s eyes went wide, and his hand trembled as he brushed his remaining gray hair. “My apologies, sir. I had no idea . . .”

  Jack’s tone was ice-cold. “Your articles stopped so suddenly. Why?”

  Jeff shrugged. “I wasn’t getting anywhere. There was no new information. I tried to keep the story going, but it just faded. You can’t really write an article if there’s nothing to say.”

  Jack nodded. “Well, thank you for your time, sir.”

  “You still haven’t told me why you’re looking into this,” Jeff said.

  “It’s—” Jack began.

  Replacement cut in. “We’re doing some research for a family tree.” She smiled.

  “I see.” Jeff didn’t look convinced, but he let the matter drop. “Well, I wish you the best of luck.”

  Jack started the Impala. The engine hesitated briefly before it fired up. He turned his head to listen to the engine, then, after a few seconds, he rubbed the dashboard and pulled out.

  “Why do you do that?” Replacement asked.

  “Do what?”

  “Rub the car.”

  “I didn’t rub the car.”

  “I just saw you.”

  “I patted it.”

  “It wasn’t a pat, it was a rub.”

  “I’m not, like, caressing the car, if that’s what you’re saying.”

  “I definitely never said ‘caress.’ Is that what you’re saying?”

  Jack scowled. “She’s my baby and she sounded off. I got worried.”

  Replacement’s head wobbled back and forth. “I can’t believe I’m jealous of a car.” Then her face suddenly turned beet-red and she shifted to look out the window.

  Cooper’s address, which Replacement had looked up on her phone, was listed as 43B Westmoore. But when they got there, number 43 was a laundromat.

  “This guy was a cop. Let me do the talking on this one.”

  “Are you sure that’s a good idea?”

  “I’ll behave.” Jack raised his right hand like he was taking an oath as he looked up to the second floor. “Let’s check out back for a staircase.”

  An alley led behind the building, and a worn wooden staircase badly in need of paint led up to two doors. The wood creaked underneath their feet as they walked up, and Replacement held tight to the rickety railing.

  The doors had been scrawled on in thick permanent marker: 43A and 43B. Jack motioned for Replacement to stay to the side while he knocked on 43B. The knock was answered by a guy in blue jeans, work boots, and a dirty sweatshirt.

  “Mr. Cooper?” Jack held out his hand. “I’m Jack Stratton. Can I have a couple minutes of your time?”

  Henry’s gray hair was cut short, and his face was deeply lined, but Jack guessed he was in his early fifties. With one hand he held on to the doorframe while he studied Jack closely. “Come on in.” He held the door open and stepped aside.

  With a quick sideways glance at Replacement, Jack headed in.

  Apart from a door that looked like it led to a bathroom, the apartment was just one room. One half—the “kitchen”—was covered in old, stick-on linoleum squares that looked to be excess from the laundromat below. There was a dingy table with three rickety chairs. The other half was covered in worn carpet and furnished with a fold-out couch, a cheap metal chair, and a TV showing an old cop show, the sound turned low.

  “You’re his son.” Henry picked up some papers from the kitchen chairs and put them on the counter. “You could be him.”

  Replacement sat down, but Jack remained standing. “How did you know?”

  “Small town. I’m a friend of Terry Bradford’s.” The muscles in Jack’s jaw flexed at the name.

  Henry walked over to the TV and turned it off. “Terry’s a little hard to take, but he’s a good guy. He didn’t know you were Patty’s kid.”

  Henry sat at the table and motioned to them to join him. His left hand had a constant tremor. “Are you really looking into it, after all these years?”

  Jack pulled out the third chair and sat down. “That’s why I wanted to speak with you. You were the first officer on the scene?”

  “Yeah. You’re a cop, right?”

  Jack hesitated.

  “I heard.” Henry shrugged. “Like I said, small town.”

  “Was he . . . was he alive when you got there?”

  Henry shook his head. “No. The EMTs came right after me, but there was nothing they could do.”

  “He never regained consciousness?”

  Henry rubbed the back of his left knuckle with his right hand. “No. It was bad. The bastard who killed your father stabbed him multiple times. They called it a rage killing. A lot
of hate. Didn’t make sense. No reason for that. Even now, I bet you can’t find anyone who hated that kid.”

  “The paper said Frank McCann handled most of the investigation—”

  “That’s why you don’t trust those scumbags.” Henry pressed his hands down on the table. “McCann couldn’t tie his own shoes. Guy was a moron. Still is a moron. Chief ran the investigation. McCann took it over after the chief died. You ask me, that’s why they never caught the guy.”

  “You never had a suspect?”

  “Nope. Your old man was a good kid. Well liked. No enemies.”

  “Did you know him?”

  Henry crossed his arms and leaned back. “Yeah. Scouts. The chief was scoutmaster and McCann and I were assistants. I liked your dad. I don’t think he liked me much. None of the kids really did.” He scoffed. “I was just out of the marines and was a little hard on them. Kids need that. Most of the other kids were little sissies, but your dad was a tough kid. A good kid.”

  “You never found the murder weapon?”

  “Nah. By the time the state police could bring out a dive team, the pond froze. McCann had us drag the lake come spring. But there were way too many lily pads, and we didn’t find anything. Anyway, I figure the killer just took the knife with him. Why wouldn’t he? You want a drink?”

  “Water.” Jack took out a new notebook he’d picked up at a drugstore earlier; he couldn’t be seen walking around with that pink and purple monstrosity. “I appreciate the answers. It helps me if I jot stuff down. Do you mind if we start at the beginning?”

  Henry took down three glasses. “I got no other plans.”

  For the next hour, Jack had Henry walk through everything that happened after he got to the pond. Jack added to his notes on everyone involved in the investigation and what they did.

  When Jack finally closed his notebook and stood up, Henry remained sitting. He looked drained. “Can I ask you a question?”

  Henry leaned back in his chair. “I’m just curious why you’d come talk to me.”

  “Because you were the responding officer.” Jack tried to maintain a neutral expression, but he felt the muscles in his face harden with suspicion.

  Henry nodded. “Yeah. That makes sense. I was just wondering.”

  Jack held the door for Replacement. As they went down the wobbly staircase, Jack was wondering, too.

  27

  Bad Gas

  The Impala’s engine sputtered again as Jack turned the key. He grimaced and pumped the gas until it started.

  “I’ll have to go get some dry gas,” Jack said as he pulled away from the curb.

  “How can gas be dry?” Replacement asked.

  “It’s just called dry. It’s something you mix with your gas if you get water in the tank. She sounds rough.” As Jack took a right, his eyes shifted to the rearview mirror. An old white pickup truck had taken the right, too.

  “Where are we going now?”

  Jack took another right, drove halfway down the street, and pulled over to the curb. “Put your seat belt on.” The truck pulled onto the street and came to a stop in the middle of the road.

  “Okay . . .” She made a face but complied. “What’s up?”

  “We’ve got a tail.”

  When the driver of the pickup threw the truck into reverse and backed up to the main road, Jack punched it and cut the wheel hard to the left. Smoke billowed from the Impala’s tires as it did a one-eighty, and Replacement was pressed against the door, then bucked back into the seat as the car shot forward.

  The pickup was already racing around a corner. The Impala flew after it.

  “Use your phone,” Jack said as they slid into the turn. “Get a picture of the plate.”

  Replacement fumbled for her phone as Jack tapped the brakes and then powered into the turn.

  “We’re in downtown,” Replacement cautioned.

  “I know. I got it.”

  The truck’s brake light flashed at the next intersection. The right taillight was out. Jack thought he had them now and jammed the gas to the floor, but the Impala jerked forward and stalled.

  “What the hell? No, baby. Come on.” He hit the gas again, but the engine sputtered and died. Jack slammed on the brakes, threw it into park, and tried again to start the engine. The motor turned over, but the car wouldn’t start.

  Jack screamed in rage. A string of obscenities poured out of his mouth as he stared at the now deserted street.

  “Tell me you got the plate.”

  Replacement grimaced. “No. Too far and the plate was dirty.”

  Damn.

  He turned the key, and again the engine just sputtered.

  Jack got out. “I’m going to try to get her going. When I tell you, give her some gas.”

  For the next twenty minutes, Jack fiddled with the carburetor, but he couldn’t get the car running. Finally Replacement stuck her head out the window and said sheepishly, “Do you want me to call the garage?”

  They had to wait another twenty minutes for the tow truck. The kid driving it looked about Replacement’s age, with bright red hair and so many freckles there was hardly any space between them. He hooked the Impala onto the back of the tow truck, and Jack and Replacement rode in the cab the five miles to the garage.

  The small building was a combination gas station, used car lot, and service station. One look at it, and Jack was sure it was exactly the same as it had been thirty years ago.

  “What’s the mechanic’s name?” Jack asked as he helped Replacement down from the cab.

  “Marty. He’s my dad. I’m Matty.” Matty flashed a quick smile. “I’ll back your car right in, okay?”

  “Thanks,” Jack muttered as he headed into the garage.

  A man in his early forties, an older version of Matty, walked out to meet him. “You the fella who broke down on West Street?”

  Jack nodded. “It just stalled. It was running fine, but this morning it sounded rough.”

  “When you get gas last?”

  “Yesterday. And I got the gas here.” Jack pointed toward the pumps.

  “Then it’s not the gas.” Marty laughed. He looked at his watch. “I have an inspection and an oil change in front of you. You want to check back tomorrow morning?”

  Replacement stepped forward with one of her improvisations. “We’re on vacation, so—”

  “The sooner you could get to it, the more we’d appreciate it,” Jack finished for her.

  Marty nodded. “I understand. I should be able to get started tonight, but most likely it’ll be morning. I can get you set up with a rental.” He nodded toward a blue Volkswagen Beetle sitting outside. “It’s great on gas, and you can have her for a few days.”

  Replacement took one look at the tiny car and pressed her hands together. “It’s so cute!” She turned hopefully toward Jack.

  Jack sighed. “I don’t suppose you have another rental available?”

  Marty shook his head. “Sorry.”

  Fifteen minutes later, Jack and Replacement walked back out of the office. “I just have to grab something out of the trunk,” Jack said.

  Jack retrieved the two boxes they’d gotten from Patty’s house and put them in the Volkswagen. “Do you want to drive?” he asked Replacement, holding up the keys.

  “Yes!” Replacement beamed as she dashed over to the driver’s side.

  Jack had to put his seat almost all the way back to fit in. “This sucks,” he muttered.

  Replacement was practically dancing in the seat as she adjusted the mirrors, but she sounded sincere when she said, “I’m sorry about your car.”

  “Me, too. Let’s go back to the hotel and look this stuff over.”

  They started with the lighter box, the one with stuffed animals on top. It appeared to be a collection of Patty’s mementos: under the stuffed animals were a trophy from an elementary school spelling bee, another one from gymnastics, and a framed picture of Patty when she was only five or six, hugging a slender, smiling woman.

>   My other grandmother.

  The woman looked a little like Patty, but she had a rounder face. Her smile was broad. They both looked quite happy. The glass in the frame was gone, but the frame itself was decorated with colorful hearts.

  The other box had two high school math books on top of a stack of teen magazines from thirty years ago. At the very bottom was a yearbook.

  Replacement lifted out the old yearbook. “It’s from middle school.” It was small and yellowed with age. The front had water spots, and it smelled of mildew. Replacement’s nose crinkled. “How about we look at this . . . not on the bed?”

  She scooted off and went to the desk. Jack looked over her shoulder. They found twelve pictures of Patty and two of Steven. In every picture, she was beaming.

  “She looks like a happy kid,” Jack said.

  She was a happy kid—before her mother died and her father . . .

  At the back of the book, pressed between the pages, was a homemade card—a red construction paper valentine, in the shape of a heart, with three arrows going through it from left to right. “Three arrows—that’s a lot of love,” Replacement said. “PC & DJ. That’s sweet. If she kept it, it was special to her.”

  “DJ?” Jack looked around. “Aren’t those the initials you found carved on that tree?”

  Replacement nodded. “I think so.”

  Jack grabbed one of the high school yearbooks. “Maybe we can find out who DJ is. You check that one.”

  After a few minutes, they both closed their books.

  “Zip,” Jack said.

  “Nada. No first names that start with D and last names that start with J.”

  “But there was definitely someone, maybe not at her school, or maybe they were older?” He considered for a moment, then gave up and sighed. “What do you want to do for dinner?”

  Instead of answering, Replacement jumped up, went to the closet, and took out the brown dress. “Do you think maybe we could go out? There’s a little Italian place around the corner.”

  Inside, Jack groaned. The last place he wanted to be was a crowded restaurant. But he could hardly refuse those big green eyes. Besides, he knew why she wanted to go—it was an opportunity to wear that dress.