The Dead Girl: Greg Owen Mystery #1

by Evan Ronan

  There’s a knock on the door. I’m grateful for the interruption because the subject of our conversation was putting me in a foul mood, foul enough to begin addressing the elephant in the room:

  Our history.

  I open the door.

  “Greg, it’s over,” Roy says and his eyes annoyingly drift past my shoulder to see Denise. “Some of the guys are ready to cash out.”

  “Okay.” I turn back to Denise. “Duty calls. I’ll be right back.”

  She puts her drink down, stands on tiptoes, and platonically pecks me on the cheek.

  “Thanks, Greg. Can we talk tomorrow?”

  Seventeen

  The phone jars me from a dead sleep.

  “Yeah, hello?”

  “Greg Owen?”

  As I wake up, I’m immediately on alert, thinking this is the same guy or someone like him who pranked Denise earlier.

  “Who’s this?”

  “This is Officer Haneke.”

  An icy hot fear in the pit of my stomach.

  “What’s happened?”

  “We got a call about ten minutes ago. Looks like somebody vandalized and possibly robbed your convenience store.”

  Shit.

  “I’ll be right there.”

  Right there turns out to be fifteen minutes later.

  Officer Haneke is a bright-eyed, bushy-tailed policeman, probably a year or two removed from the Academy. Not a wrinkle anywhere to be seen, not even on his uniform.

  He points at the storefront. “As you can see.”

  The glass is shattered completely and shards litter the front walk near where we’re standing. Inside the store is dark. I’ve been tempted over the years to keep it open twenty-four hours a day, since we live in such a nice town.

  Or at least—

  I

  Thought

  We

  Did.

  I unlock the doors and step inside. The storefront window, now missing, creates a space wide enough for two guys to climb through abreast. I’m checking the store now for signs of robbery.

  And it doesn’t take me long.

  The nearest shelving unit has been toppled. Thankfully, there was no domino effect as the other units remain vertical. Cookies and crackers and other bagged snacks are spilled all over the floor.

  It’s an absolute mess, but I can’t tell if anybody took anything.

  “I’ll have to do inventory to be sure,” I say.

  Haneke nods.

  The bright beams of a sedan hit and temporarily blind us. Then the car angles itself away and I can see it’s another cruiser. My buddy Shawn gets out.

  “Hey, Greg.”

  “Shawn.”

  “Making more friends, I see,” he says.

  I don’t respond. The same idea has been running through my head.

  Is this the work of your standard vandals?

  Or is this the work of someone trying to send me a message?

  Coincidence, as much as authors claim otherwise, does happen all the time. But still, it’s probably more useful to go through life thinking it doesn’t exist.

  I turn on the lights to see if there’s more damage. One of the doors on the refrigerator case is smashed, spider web-like veins through the glass.

  “Denise contacted us earlier,” Shawn says. “She talk to you?”

  I nod.

  “You get any calls?”

  I point at the mess. “Maybe I just did.”

  Shawn sighs. “This case gets everybody fired up, even people who never knew the Carlisles or the Steins. Even people who never went to school here, and who don’t have kids. It’s a flashpoint.”

  “Yeah.”

  We survey the damage some more but without going through the items one-by-one and comparing that against stock, I have no idea if any significant amount of inventory has been taken.

  So that means—

  “If they took anything, they didn’t take much,” I say.

  Shawn nods like this confirms what he’s been thinking.

  “Looks like this was more of a message.”

  “Who phoned it in?” I call out to Officer Haneke, who stands sentinel in the front of the store.

  “Somebody driving by the place noticed the window.”

  “Their names?”

  Haneke narrows his eyes.

  “It’s okay,” Shawn tells him.

  Haneke absorbs that. “Joe Goldfarb.”

  “The father or the son?”

  “Son.”

  I nod at Shawn. “Know who he is, right?”

  Shawn purses his lips.

  He knows.

  “He’s Julie’s first or second cousin.”

  Eighteen

  A friend of a friend recommends a commercial window service for me. They offer to install new glass today—for an extra price. I agree to pay because I want the minimum disruption to business.

  I watched the video from last night’s security footage. Whoever did this was smart or lucky. They parked with their high beams blasting through the store front to blind the interior cameras. After tossing a brick through the storefront, causing the glass to explode, the guy—definitely a guy—comes in, picks up the brick he’d already used, and hurls it at the refrigerator door.

  With the high beams silhouetting him and no lights on inside the store, he’s a shadow. Even if I could make out some details, he was smart enough to cover his face anyway. Hat, shades, scarf or something covering his mouth.

  At least watching the video spares me the need to check inventory. The vandal didn’t take anything. He just smashed some glass and left, in no big hurry.

  It takes a couple hours to get the place in order. Shawn even hangs for a bit and helps, before having to get back to the station to complete the graveyard shift.

  My first early bird employee arrives, and the sun’s just rising when we finish making the place presentable. Chester is thirty years old, single, with no family in the area, and spends his afternoons writing self-help books.

  Everybody hustles.

  I leave the place to Chester. It’s going to get hot inside the store without the front window, but the glass guys should be here soon.

  I’ve got things to do.

  I hole up at the pool hall where no one will bother me this early. My eyes are heavy but I fight through my daze to read up on my next suspect …

  … and I wake up in my chair, feet kicked back on the desk. Dozed off reading. It’s ten o’clock, time to get a move on.

  Then I realize I’m getting a call—that’s what woke me up.

  “Hello?”

  “Greg, Jason Shaw here.”

  My ears perk up. “Hi, Jason. Good to hear from you.”

  “You wouldn’t happen to be the same Greg Owen I hear is investigating the Julie Stein murder. Are you?”

  Careful here. Not sure if this screws the deal.

  “I used to be a PI,” I say. “I’m just helping a friend out on something. This will be over in a few days at most.”

  He laughs, incredulous. “You sure you’re capable of closing a real estate deal right now? I don’t have time to fuck around.”

  “I’m ready to go.”

  “Alright,” he says. “Let’s do this. Get your home inspector out tomorrow. You can test the water and soil whenever you have somebody lined up.”

  I have my experts on deck—all guys I know from school, or friends of friends.

  Everybody knows everybody.

  “My inspector will contact you this afternoon, if not sooner.”

  We hang up and my juices are flowing again. This is it. This is life. Wheeling and dealing and taking the next step. I call my buddy, the home inspector. He hems and haws about going out there tomorrow, but ultimately relents when I sweeten his end a little bit. He promises to contact the water and soil guys to get them rolling.

  Things are moving.

  I read some more and then jump in the car. Drive out to the state pen once more. No Nick Carlisle today for me.
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  Today I’m meeting with my next suspect.

  Warren John Fereday is fifty-three years old. He has abducted, raped, and killed at least five women in the tri-county area. According to the excellent reporting done on his trial, the prosecution did not offer the defendant a plea deal at any point. They were intent on getting the death penalty. They had to settle for five life sentences without possibility of parole.

  Before this conviction, Fereday was never in trouble with the law. For a time he was even married and has two children of his own—both women. There is no indication in the trial or reporting that he was ever untoward with them.

  But who knows.

  I get there a little before eleven, my stomach grumbling to remind me I haven’t eaten yet today. Before I go inside, my inspector calls me back to confirm he’ll be onsite at the Commodore building bright and early; the other guys will be there later in the day.

  Different corrections officers are working today. I go through the same routine, sign the same papers. The difference this time is I’m taken to another visiting area.

  The guards take me to a smaller room with only one table. I wait a few minutes till a couple guys that looked like linebackers bring in a wiry middle-aged man with noticeably bad posture and thinning grey hair. He sits on the other side of the table and they shackle him to a bolt in the floor.

  “You okay?” one of the guards asks.

  “I was a Marine.” I give him The Look. “I’m good to go.”

  “Semper fi,” the guy says before going to the other side of the room and giving us some privacy.

  Warren John Fereday squints through his glasses at me. He has an embarrassingly thin mustache and beady eyes, and for the life of me I can’t understand how in the world this mole-like shifty man was able to entice teenaged girls to get into his windowless van.

  “Who are you?” he says.

  “Greg Owen.”

  “Class of ’95, right?”

  I do a double-take. “Did you go to Apache?”

  He shakes his head. “No, but I’ve been in the area a long time and I had a habit of keeping an eye on young men and women.”

  My skin is crawling. He had no way of knowing I’d come to see him today. Perhaps he heard through the prison grapevine that I met with Nick Carlisle. But why would he care—

  Unless.

  “You’re sweating,” he says.

  “It’s hot in here.” I nod at him. “And creepy.”

  He laughs. “So what do you want?”

  “Have you heard of Julie Stein?”

  He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath in through his nose. “Ah, Julie Stein. She was very sexy.”

  “You knew her?”

  “In the Biblical sense?” He smiles. “Maybe.”

  I almost throw up in my mouth.

  “Shame what happened to her. She was so beautiful. Then again, it’s all downhill after they get out of high school. Isn’t it?”

  My fingernails are digging into my palms. It takes a conscious effort to relax my hands.

  “You raped and killed five girls between the ages of seventeen and twenty, by somehow luring them into your van and knocking them out with chloroform.”

  “Somehow?” He’s really enjoying creeping me out. “I turned on the charm.”

  “You look like one of the fucking Morlocks from The Time Machine,” I say. “You told the DA there were more girls out there.”

  He ignores my insult. “Julie Stein was a bit short for my tastes. I liked them tall, taller than me if possible. Though her tits were perfect. Right between a B and C. Exactly how I like them.”

  I can’t wait to get of this room. Take a shower. Then a bath.

  “So tell me about her then.”

  He checks his fingernails, picks one. “Eighteen years old, fair skin, brown hair.”

  “All of which can be found in the newspaper.”

  “Every year, there’s a graduation party at the lake. And every year, I’m there.” He grins ear-to-ear. “So many girls, so little time. Usually they’re drunk. Easy pickings. Real easy.”

  “Yeah, yeah.” I stand up. He’s telling me what I want to hear. “Go fuck yourself.”

  “June 17th, 2011,” he says. “I can still remember it. Must have been a hundred degrees that night. The AC in my van wasn’t working, so I had the windows down.”

  This guy is bullshitting me.

  He has to be.

  Right?

  I don’t sit back down.

  But I don’t leave either.

  “Julie was upset. In tears. Could barely catch her breath. Those perfect little tits, rising and falling, rising and falling. I didn’t know what was wrong then. Didn’t have to. But I found out later she’d just gotten back from seeing her ex-boyfriend. Julie was so wrapped up in what she was going through, the sight of me—a Morlock, as you put it—didn’t even faze her. I just pulled over and gave her the old line I was having car trouble and asked to use her phone.”

  “Then what happened?”

  “I have an … effect on girls. At first she didn’t think it was weird I was there. But she got over that. That’s how it always goes with girls. They can sniff me out.”

  “What did you do to her?”

  “The usual.” He takes another deep breath in through his nostrils. “I didn’t last long. But can you blame me?”

  I go to leave.

  “Thirty-seven times,” he says. “The van was soundproofed along the paneling so that’s why nobody heard us. I killed her in there, hence why there was no blood at the crime scene. Then I drove her to the other lake and dumped her there. Over the years, I had occasion to scrub the interior of that van many times, as I’m sure you can imagine. Necessity is the mother of all housekeeping. Whatever was left of her in that van is long gone, washed away years ago.”

  My mind is spinning.

  Warren John Feredey, all one hundred and fifty pounds of him, stands. He’s bolted to the floor and can’t leave, but he calls out to the guard.

  “We’re done for the day.” Then he looks at me. “Come back tomorrow if you’d like to hear more.”

  “Did you do it?” I ask. “Did you kill her?”

  “They all run together, Greg. But I remember one thing about Julie.”

  The guard is unbolting him.

  “What?”

  “No carpet. She was all hardwood.”

  And I have a Baudelairean thought:

  His smile tastes like vomit.

  Nineteen

  So I might as well see Nick.

  You’d think since I’m right here and Nick’s obviously right here too, it’d be an easy transition. One inmate for another. But this is the penal system, which is part of the government. So there are rules, regulations and procedures that must be followed. My request is unusual. Ordinarily, visitors only come to see one inmate per visit. They almost don’t know what to do with me because this is un-

  Fucking

  Precedented.

  I’m shuffled to the room where I met Nick before, only this one is filled up with visitors and inmates, so now I have to wait for space to clear and this eats up more of my time. I call Chester at the convenience store. The glass guys are still taking measurements and are going to call me with an estimate shortly. I call my inspector and he confirms the other guys are lined up and I tell him that if that asshole Jason Shaw doesn’t let him see every apartment, he is to raise holy hell. Then I call Tom at the pool hall to check in. Then I call—

  “Come on, Mr. Owen,” one of the guards says.

  He takes me back, once more, to the same room I not just met Warren John Fereday in. Over an hour has passed. Nick is waiting for me.

  “Greg! You’re taking the case!” He offers his hand, and I don’t really want to shake it. Because I don’t really believe him or not believe him. My mind is in limbo with this kid.

  “Nick, I have one question for you and it’s going to sound weird but I need to know.”

  “Okay
…” Slowly, shame-faced, he lowers his hand when he realizes I’m not going to shake it.

  “Was Julie … shaved?”

  “You mean?”

  I nod.

  “Why do you want to know?”

  “Was she?”

  He blushes. “Yes.”

  Holy.

  Shit.

  “Thanks, Nick,” I manage.

  “What is it? What does that mean?”

  I can’t tell him. “Did you ever share that with anybody?”

  “What?” He’s outraged. “I’d never tell anybody that.”

  “Would she tell somebody? Did any pictures of her get around?”

  “NO!” More outrage. “Julie wasn’t a slut! I was her first and we were together for nearly three years.”

  “What size bust she did have?”

  “Why does this matter?”

  “I don’t want to ask you this but I have to know.”

  “She was like, between a B and a C.”

  My skin starts crawling again.

  “Was there anything else … peculiar about Julie’s body? A birthmark or a tattoo?”

  “Why are you asking me this?” He’s still outraged, but now he’s crying too.

  “I need to know, Nick.”

  He closes his eyes and shakes his head no as the tears track down his face.

  Twenty

  Nick Carlisle begs me to explain why I ask him these rather delicate questions but I give him vague answers. There is so much hurt in his eyes, the wounds still fresh, that I can’t bring myself to say what I’m now considering a possibility.

  Warren John Fereday is a bona fide suspect.

  I’m vaguely aware of walking to my car, getting in, and then sitting there with the keys in my hand but not in the ignition.

  Now what?

  You agreed to help Denise out.

  I’m not a private eye. My most challenging case in my aborted PI career involved catching a known cheater cheating.

  Whoop-dee-do.

  You said you’d help.

  Okay, okay, I’m thinking. Let me think, asshole voice of conscience.

  Fereday, I guess, had a thirty-three percent chance of guessing correctly. Either Julie went au natural, or she trimmed, or there was nothing down there. One in three odds of picking the right option.