“All right,” Burkett said, and turned to the two homeless men. “Who stabbed who? And why?”
“Well,” said the younger of the two men, a big guy, clean-shaven on head and chin except for some stubble. “We had a malcontent in camp, guy named Perry. He pulled out a big honking knife and stabbed the other guy. Just like that.”
“What’s your name, sir?”
“Mark…” The man trailed off, obviously reluctant to say more.
“Mark who?”
“His ID says Mark Lincoln,” the uniformed cop said.
“OK, Mark. What was the fight about?”
“I don’t know,” Mark said. “Booze? Who owned which tent? Bullshit like that. Like I said, Perry was a malcontent. Right, Harve?”
The other homeless man, a guy with a big, bushy gray beard and a ponytail, nodded firmly.
“So I’m confused,” Burkett said. “Who said he walked away?”
The patrolman shrugged. “We got a phone call. Some kid in a panic, it sounded like.”
“That would have been Damien, if I had to guess,” Mark said. “I don’t doubt he had a cellphone. Not that he ever said anything to us about it.”
“All right. Tell me the rest. If the dead body didn’t walk off, where is it?” Burkett sounded frustrated. These kinds of cases should be easy to solve. Bodies didn’t disappear; the culprit was usually still around. He turned to the other homeless man. “Why don’t you answer this time, Harve.”
“Perry––that’s the malcontent––he and his buddy Grime carried the body off. Good riddance to Grime, he stunk. Said they were going to bury him and that we’d better not say anything. Or else.” He glanced toward Mark, as if looking for confirmation.
There was a hard gleam in the younger man’s eyes. He nodded slightly in approval. Carlan was suddenly certain they were being fed a load of bullshit. He could tell that Burkett thought so too.
Harve continued talking, nervously. “But of course, we’re cooperating. We were planning on walking to town in the morning and reporting it. Damien ran away; I don’t know where he is. Doubt we’ll ever see him again. Probably ran home.”
Mark spoke up again. “I’m telling you, detective. Perry stabbed the new guy right in the heart. Right up to the hilt. No way he walked away.”
Up until then, Carlan had barely been listening. But as soon as he heard the words “new guy,” he stepped over to the two men. He pulled the sketch of the suspect out of his pocket. “Were any of them this man?”
“That’s the new guy! That’s him!” they both exclaimed.
“Where did they go?” Carlan asked. “Where would this Perry and Grime go?”
“I’m betting they’re headed for the homeless shelter,” Mark said. “It’s going to be a cold night. There isn’t really anywhere else they could go.”
Carlan had heard all he needed hear. As soon as he could get confirmation that his suspect was dead, he was off the hook. It wasn’t the best of solutions, there wouldn’t be a confession, but it was good enough. He didn’t care who had killed whom, only that Jamie’s murder was solved.
“Can I take the car?” he asked Burkett.
“Sure, I’ll catch a ride with Jerry. I think we’ll wrap this up for now and come back tomorrow in full daylight to see if we can’t find any new graves dug in the dirt around here.”
“Good luck,” Carlan said, anxious to get away.
Burkett handed him the keys and waved him off.
Carlan tried not to kick up dust in his rush to drive away. He was trying to be calm, to be professional. He knew exactly where to go: he’d accompanied Jamie to the homeless shelter more than once, dropping her off and picking her up from her volunteer work. Father Harry would know who these men were.
Jamie’s murder was all but solved.
Chapter 28
Brosterhouse got the call about the DNA as he was ready to call it a day and head for his motel room. He was sitting in his supply closet of an office, thinking about driving back to Portland if something didn’t break soon.
“Thought you might like to hear what we found,” the lab tech was saying. “It’s really a strange result.”
“Go ahead.” Brosterhouse got his pen and pad out.
“Most of the blood was the victim’s, of course.”
“OK.”
“But the skin particles came back as ‘unknown.’”
“Unknown? You mean you couldn’t identify whose they were?”
“No, I mean ‘unknown’ as in, this isn’t human skin. This isn’t animal skin. It’s something organic, but we don’t know what.”
Brosterhouse felt a chill. He got up, phone crooked between his chin and neck, and put on his coat. Bastards sent me to Siberia, he thought. But even as he thought it, he knew the chill had come from something else. He suddenly had a vision of Harkins, an image he hadn’t remembered until now. The man’s face had looked strange as he had picked up Brosterhouse and tossed him into the alley, as if the teeth had grown longer inside his mouth and were forcing his chin out farther than ought to be possible.
“But we did find some DNA in the blood besides the victim’s,” the lab tech was saying. “It came back a match for a Bend cop named Richard Carlan.”
“Well, he was the victim’s boyfriend. So that figures.”
“No, you didn’t hear what I said. Some of the blood came back as his.”
Brosterhouse’s weariness fell away. Finally. Now he had a solid lead to pursue. Other than a traffic ticket, there was very little to connect this “Jonathan Evers” to the crime. Sure, it was suspicious that the man had run, but people ran from the police for all kinds of reasons.
Carlan was a much, much better suspect. There was the restraining order, of course, which was a dead giveaway, most of the time. Then there was the way Carlan was pursuing this case, as if he was looking for a patsy. But mostly, it was Brosterhouse’s feeling that the Bend cop was dirty, a manipulator, and most of all, a creep. Brosterhouse didn’t like him. In his experience, if there was a history of abuse, it was nearly always the boyfriend or the husband who had committed the murder.
The DNA was important, but it wasn’t conclusive. He needed more.
“Thanks,” he said. “Do me a favor and hold onto those results for now. No need to send them to the Bend police just yet.”
“You sure?’
“Yeah, it’s my case anyway. I’d rather not let my suspect know that I’m on to him.”
“Oh, I get you. I’ll email you the paperwork.”
Brosterhouse hung up and sat back in the chair, which creaked threateningly as he put his feet up. He quickly put his feet back on the ground, remembering that he wasn’t sitting in his custom-made chair. He pondered for a minute, tapping his pencil against the pad.
How had the chain gotten into Jonathan Evers’ suitcase? And why would he keep such an incriminating piece of evidence?
Brosterhouse got up and headed down the stairs. The one advantage of him having been exiled was that he could come and go as he pleased, without being observed. But he only made it halfway down before he changed his mind and headed back up.
He was in luck. Patterson was shooting the shit with some of the other uniformed officers in the break room and Carlan was nowhere to be seen.
“May I speak with you for a moment, Officer Patterson?” Brosterhouse said.
The young man scowled. He didn’t want to appear too accommodating to an outsider in front of his friends. He casually took a sip of his coffee.
“Now,” Brosterhouse said firmly. The patrolman blanched and put his coffee down. The other cops fell silent. Order was restored, the hierarchy between uniform and detective reestablished.
“Sorry,” Patterson muttered as they left the room. “I was out all night searching for the suspect in the Howe case.”
“That’s what I want to talk to you about,” Brosterhouse said. He led the other man to the first landing of the stairs, where he could hear anyone opening the doors an
d approaching. Their voices echoed, but he knew that they wouldn’t carry beyond the doors.
“Now,” he said. “I need to know what the situation was when you went to the motel.”
“It was a righteous bust,” Patterson said defensively. “By the book.”
“I don’t doubt it. Still, I’d like to hear for myself. Maybe you missed something.”
Patterson was obviously mulling over the pluses and minuses of helping an outsider. He looked around and realized no one could hear them. “I got the call from Carlan at about nine o’clock,” he began.
“Wait––you didn’t go out there together?”
“No, sir. Carlan checked to make sure the suspect was registered and then called me.”
“Why did he call you? Is it normal for a uniformed officer to take the lead on a murder case?”
“Well, it isn’t the usual, but sometimes it happens. Carlan knew the victim, figured it would be better if someone else took the lead.”
“But you’re a rookie, right?”
Patterson flushed. He stood up straight and looked Brosterhouse in the eye, which meant he was looking up about half a foot. “I was on duty,” he said. “Every police officer in this department can take the lead on a case, or they wouldn’t have been hired in the first place.”
Brosterhouse was sympathetic to the young man. The case had probably seemed like a lucky break for him, and here another cop––and an outsider at that––was implying that he hadn’t been prepared. Somewhere in the back of Patterson’s mind, he must have been insecure about it, because he was getting flustered.
“But Carlan asked for you specifically, right?” Brosterhouse asked.
“So?” Brosterhouse could see that Patterson was about ready to shut down on him. If that happened, he’d probably get nothing but monosyllabic answers.
“Look, Officer Patterson. Your name’s Cam, right?” Brosterhouse said, lightening up for the first time. “I’m not saying you did anything wrong; I’m sure you were more than ready to take on this case. But I need to know all the facts.”
“It’s all in the reports,” Patterson said, sounding somewhat mollified.
“Bear with me,” Brosterhouse said quickly. “So you got the call and headed out there. Then what happened?”
“Officer Carlan was waiting with the key. We went in. He went to search the bathroom and I started with the suitcase.”
“The suitcase was sitting right on the bed? Carlan passed by it?”
Patterson looked thoughtful, as if he was starting to see how some of what had happened might appear to have been unusual. “He was probably leaving the easy stuff for me,” he said.
Brosterhouse nodded. “No doubt. That’s all, Patterson. Like I said, you did nothing wrong. But let’s keep this conversation between ourselves, OK?” The young cop looked uneasy, and Brosterhouse put the steel back into his words. “I mean it. Not a word.”
“Yes, sir.” Patterson was completely cowed. He’d stay silent, at least for a few days, and unless he was mistaken, that’s all Brosterhouse needed.
#
Brosterhouse drove to the Badlands Motel. He was in luck: the same clerk was on duty. The kid looked as though he was nodding off, or playing solitaire on the motel computer, or something equally boring. But he perked right up when Brosterhouse walked in. No doubt the search for a murderer had been one of the most exciting things to happen to him in his whole life.
“When did Carlan arrive?” Brosterhouse asked after he’d warded off several excited questions from the clerk.
“The guy arrived a couple of days ago. Just around dinnertime.”
“No, you didn’t hear what I said. When did Officer Carlan arrive?”
“Oh. The cop?” The kid looked a little confused. “He got here the next night, about an hour after the––the suspect––left.”
“He asked for the suspect by name?”
“Yeah, he wanted the room number and the key. After he went in the first time, he came back and asked to use the phone. That’s when the other cop arrived and they searched the room.”
Brosterhouse tried not to react when the clerk mentioned “the first time.” He’d expected it, but it was gratifying to know he was right, and that he had a witness.
“How long did he spend inside the first time?” he said casually.
“Oh, about five minutes or so.”
More than enough time to plant evidence, Brosterhouse thought. He’d been right––Carlan was a dirty cop. At the very least, he was a liar, and someone who cut corners. At worst, he was trying to frame another man for a murder he had committed.
Brosterhouse didn’t know who the man was who had stayed in this motel room, but he felt sorry for him. Apparently he’d been guilty of nothing more than getting a traffic warning on the same street and day as a murder.
Chapter 29
Terrill and the two homeless guys reached a quiet country road and started walking down it side by side. Actually, I shouldn’t be excluding myself, Terrill thought. Three homeless guys.
Terrill was starting to feel the effects of being stabbed. He was amazed that he didn’t fall upon the two humans walking next to him, that he didn’t rip them to strips of bloody meat. He could sense their blood flowing through their bodies, just inches away, but somehow, it didn’t call to him. Besides, he liked them.
He was weak, but was resigned to staying weak until he could find some other way of replenishing himself.
Blood didn’t even sound all that good to him right now. That broth Perry had fed him… he had a hankering for some of that broth, which, according to the Perry, had contained carrots and broccoli and other things Terrill shouldn’t have even been able to keep down. That was strange.
“So what’s your story, Christian?” Perry said after awhile.
“What?” It took a moment for the name to penetrate.
“Why are you here? Not to put too fine a point on it, why are you homeless?”
Terrill didn’t say anything. He felt he owed the man an explanation, but what could he say?
“You don’t have to tell me,” Perry said quickly. “It’s sort of an unwritten rule; no one’s supposed to ask, no one’s supposed to tell. I never was one for rules, though. Probably why I’m homeless in the first place. Besides, some guys like Grime here can’t stop talking about their past, right, Grime?”
Grime grunted.
“See what I mean? Chatter, chatter, chatter…”
Grime grunted again.
Perry continued. “Other guys never say a word, which is OK. Me? I’ll tell you anything you want to know. I like the outdoor life, and I like to drink a little too much. That’s the whole story of me. But you got to admit, Christian, you’re enough to get anyone curious. I never seen anyone with a crucifix burned into his chest before, like some kind of modern Crusader or something.”
“I’m anything but that,” Terrill said.
They walked in silence for a while longer. There were few cars, and it seemed that Grime, who was walking farthest out into the road, didn’t give a damn if there was traffic. He made them pull around him. A couple of cars honked, but Grime hunched his shoulders and dared them to run him over.
Grime said something that Terrill didn’t quite catch. Perry laughed. “I agree. Grime here says you seem to get younger the longer we know you. When you first stumbled into camp, you looked, I don’t know, fifty? Now you look like you’re in your thirties.
“So I’m going to ask again, what’s your story?”
“There was a girl,” Terrill began.
“Oh, ho!” Perry said. “There always is!” He and Grime both laughed.
“I… I hurt her, and I’m trying to make amends. As soon as I can get back on my feet.”
“Yeah, well about that. I’ve never seen anyone get back on their feet. Once a bum, always a bum.”
Grime muttered in agreement.
“I’ve had a little bad luck,” Terrill said, and again, the other men laughed
. “No, really. I appreciate all your help, but I’ll be moving on pretty soon. I’ve got resources.”
Something in the way he said it must have gotten through. They didn’t laugh this time.
“Well, I admit, you’re not like most other homeless guys I’ve met,” Perry said. “So, maybe so. Maybe so…”
Grime pulled out the bottle of whiskey that they’d been passing around in camp. It was barely down a quarter.
As they started drawing down on the bottle, Perry couldn’t stop laughing.
“Got to hand it to Grime,” he said, raising the bottle in salute. “There might be death and destruction, but by God, he manages to keep his eye on the important things.”
They were all pretty drunk by the time they reached the outskirts of town. A police car passed by, and Terrill realized he probably should be alarmed, but with the soft glow of alcohol and friendship, he didn’t care.
The cop kept going.
They passed several thrift shops on the edge of town, and Perry turned toward one. He was eyeing Terrill shrewdly. “You need a proper Central Oregon coat, Christian,” he said. “It can get cold at night around here.”
Terrill was still wearing the overcoat he’d driven into town with. It was filthy and torn, which was one reason he didn’t match the description of the guy the cops were looking for. Still, it wouldn’t hurt to have something that looked completely different.
“The Humane Society Thrift Store stays open later than the others,” Perry said. “We might make it in time.”
The clerk was just flipping the “Closed” sign when they walked up the steps. Perry banged on the door and the man nearly jumped out of his skin. Then he came over reluctantly and opened the door.
Perry happened to know the guy and talked him into staying open a few minutes longer.
They started rummaging through the racks of clothing. To the surprise of both Perry and Terrill, it was Grime who picked out the winning coat, walking up to Terrill and measuring him.
“…ry …his,” he said.
It fit Terrill perfectly, in both style and size. In fact, it looked like it had been tailor-made for him. It was dark brown with black buttons, came to about mid-waist, and was made of not-too-thick but warm wool.
The Vampire Evolution Trilogy (Book 1): Death of an Immortal: Page 14
