The Guilty Dead

by P. J. Tracy

  CHAPTER

  52

  MAGOZZI RUBBED HIS eyes, drained the last cold dregs of his insipid, Homicide-brewed coffee, then returned his attention to his computer screen. Clara Riskin’s murder book was thick, rife with the longhand, chicken-scratch language every detective used to record initial observations and the potential theories that emerged throughout the course of an investigation. Most of these notes never made it to a final report because the hard evidence that came later rendered them irrelevant.

  There were also timelines, interviews, court transcripts, witness statements, and photos of the crime scene that enraged and sickened him. Clara Riskin had been beaten to death with a piece of wood, and there would never be justice for a savaged fourteen-year-old girl whose life had ended before she’d had a chance to live it.

  But from what he’d read so far, there was no magic here ‒ something he had to admit he’d been hoping for, foolish as it was. So far, it looked like Pitkin County had conducted a solid investigation. Richard “Kip” Kuehn had been found near the scene, half dead from a cocktail of drugs, still holding the piece of lumber he’d used to bludgeon Clara Riskin.

  But that was how homicides were. You chased any dangling thread, hoping it would bring you home. Sometimes it worked out, others it didn’t.

  “This seems pretty tight, Gino. I’m not seeing anything. How about you?”

  Gino looked up from his own computer with bleary eyes. “Not really, but I haven’t gotten to the court transcripts yet. Right now I’m looking at the witness list. Robert Zeller is on it. He was in Aspen with the Norwoods when the murder happened, along with his wife Louise, and Conrad Jarvick. The asshole.”

  “Makes sense. Zeller doesn’t seem to go anywhere without him.”

  “What are you looking at?”

  “I’m about to crack into the coroner’s report. Did you look at it yet?”

  “Hell, no. I don’t do coroner’s reports until noon. It’s bad luck.’

  “Since when?”

  “Since right now. I need more coffee. You want some?”

  “Yeah, thanks.” Magozzi handed him his mug and delved into the cold, antiseptic language of the coroner’s report, which seemed completely disassociated from the actual victim and the crime it detailed. Reading the words “blunt force trauma” was an entirely different experience from studying the crime-scene photos that showed what blunt force trauma actually looked like.

  A call from Rosalie Norwood interrupted him, a reprieve from a depressing task. “Good morning, Ms. Norwood.”

  “Good morning, Detective Magozzi. I hate to bother you with something that seems inconsequential …”

  “Remember, nothing is inconsequential in a homicide investigation.”

  “That’s why I’m calling. I remember you asking if Trey experienced a traumatic event when he was sixteen. I disregarded Clara’s murder as a cause at the time, but my mother just told me he was in love with her. He wanted to marry her. I still can’t believe that’s what sent him down such a dark road, but I thought you should know. I guess that was never your mystery to solve.”

  “I appreciate your call.”

  “Did you ever find Father’s laptop?”

  “No, we didn’t. We went back to the house last night, but it wasn’t there. Whoever killed your father took his computer.”

  “But you said there were no signs of robbery.”

  “That might be the only thing that was taken.” Magozzi heard an apprehensive sigh at the other end of the line. “Is there something else?”

  “There’s probably sensitive information on that computer. Account numbers, passwords. I have to call our banker, Detective. Goodbye.”

  Gino returned from his coffee-gathering odyssey and set a freshly filled mug on Magozzi’s desk, along with a chocolate éclair. “Thank McLaren for the donut, thank me for the coffee. I had to brew a new batch because the sludge that was sitting in the carafe was toxic slime mold. Whatever happened to coffee-room etiquette?” He brushed some powdered sugar off his shirt. “Who was that?”

  Magozzi told him about Rosalie Norwood’s call.

  “Huh. Not to sound callous, but doesn’t that seem like a little bit of an overreaction, destroying your life over a high-school crush?”

  “That’s essentially what she said.”

  “Well, it’s a sad story all around. Kind of like a modern version of Romeo and Juliet. I hated that play.”

  Magozzi decided to abandon the grisly coroner’s report until his éclair had had a chance to settle in his stomach, which gave him an opportunity to call Grace. Just hearing her voice smoothed the jagged edges of his frustration and exhaustion, and temporarily alleviated his misanthropy.

  “Hi, Magozzi. How are you?”

  “Great. I’m talking to you, I just ate an éclair, and I’m on my fourth cup of coffee.”

  “Did your case break?”

  “We’re breathing down Riskin’s neck. Are you still meeting with Dahl and Shafer this morning? They had a pretty busy night.”

  “As far as we know. Harley should be here any minute to pick me up.”

  “You’re meeting them at their office?”

  “Harley doesn’t want Shafer in his house. He said it would be like inviting a vampire in.”

  “Fair analogy. Since you’re going to be a few blocks away, stop in for a minute before you go home. Gino and I could stand to see some friendly faces.”

  “I’ll call you when we’re finished.”

  “How’s baby?”

  “Active.”

  “How active?”

  “Marathon-running active. I’m glad you came over last night.”

  “I’m sorry I had to leave.”

  “Your case will be over soon and you’ll be bored to tears.”

  “But I won’t know I’m bored because I’ll be asleep.” Magozzi heard Harley’s voice in the background, making a fuss of Charlie. “Sounds like your ride’s there.”

  “He is. See you later, Magozzi.”

  He hung up and went back to his computer, thinking it was just wrong to follow up a conversation with the love of your life and the mother of your baby with a coroner’s report.

  Five minutes into reading, his eyes stuttered over the primary cause of death. “Hey, Gino. Clara Riskin was beaten, but not to death. Official cause is strangulation. The trauma wasn’t enough to kill her.”

  Gino’s coffee mug froze before it hit his lips. “Sick bastard. Literally. Kip Kuehn was a disaster waiting to happen. He beat his twelve-year-old sister with a paperweight when he was seventeen, caused brain damage. He was institutionalized for two years after that, but they obviously should have thrown away the key.”

  Magozzi kept scrolling through the report. “There were no ligature marks or embedded fibers in her neck, which meant it was a hands-on, manual strangulation. But there were no fingerprints, either.”

  Gino frowned and rubbed the whiskers that were sprouting from his chin. “Seems a little clean for a disorganized, certified loony-tune on drugs. But the evidence against him is unimpeachable. Her blood was all over him, his DNA and prints were all over her.”

  “Except on her neck, which means her killer was wearing gloves or some kind of protection. That doesn’t synch with his profile or how sloppy he was.”

  “He went to prison for it, so there’s a reason Defense didn’t score on that. I’ll start looking.”

  Magozzi went back to the coroner’s report, took some notes, and his eyes froze on the computer screen. In the end, an investigation was simply a collection of tiny pieces that eventually filled a mosaic; tiny pieces that could steer you in an unexpected direction; tiny pieces that could easily be overlooked if you weren’t careful. Magozzi stared at his monitor for a long time before he spoke. “Gino. Clara Riskin was pregnant. And I think we know who the father was.”

  CHAPTER

  53

  DEPUTY FRANK MARLIN was at the station, finishing his shift by officially logging the ni
ght’s thrills into his office computer—after his detour to the Hitching Post Motel to check in on Ben, he’d ticketed two speeders, arrested one drunk driver, and had responded to a deer versus car. He’d had to put a young doe out of her misery, which would haunt him for a while. When he got to the scene, she was flailing in a ditch, trying to run on broken legs. She probably had fawns somewhere out in the woods and he hoped they would survive.

  He finished his last report, which explained the discharge of his firearm—three bullets just to make sure the doe didn’t suffer ‒ then rubbed his eyes. They felt sandy and raw, and his whole body ached from sitting in his squad all night. He liked the job enough, just not the butt-time. But the shift was finally over and he’d catch a quick breakfast at the Pineview to see Kayla’s sweet face and ripe curves. Maybe he’d ask her to go fishing or to see a movie this weekend. They’d been spending some time together since his divorce and she was an easy companion, who could bait her own hook and bake a perfect lemon meringue pie.

  He flipped over to the bulletin screen and scrolled through it, not because he wanted to but because it was department policy to check any new BOLOs before signing off. He paused when he saw a California Corrections mug shot of a skinny, long-haired man with empty eyes. Presumed to be somewhere in Minnesota, armed and dangerous. August Riskin, a.k.a. Gustav Holst. The longer he stared at the shot, the more he thought it bore some resemblance to Mr. California from the Hitching Post, but he’d run the plates before he’d left the motel and they’d checked out clean. John W. Harris from Tustin, in Pine County for some fishing.

  He looked at the mug shot again, then printed out a copy. The shot was only a few years old, but this was obviously a young man. John Harris had some wear and tear on him, a lot of bulk, and the deep creases that came with time. You didn’t age ten years in three. Still, it was worth checking out. He’d just swing by the Hitching Post on his way to the Pineview and have a chat with him about fishing, get a closer look.

  He glanced up when Randy Morrow walked into the office, ready and eager to start his shift. He was a new hire, fresh out of the academy, and his enthusiasm hadn’t yet been dulled by the realities of the job. It was refreshing for a veteran such as Frank, and he liked him. “Hey, Randy, you want to take a ride with me?”

  “Sure, Frank. What’s up?”

  “I’ll fill you in on the way.”

  * * *

  Gus jerked awake in the sprung-out bed at the Hitching Post Motel to the sound of gravel crunching in the parking lot outside his door and the indistinct chatter of a police radio.

  FUCK, FUCK, FUCK! They’d found him. Somehow, they’d found him.

  Impossible, his mind stubbornly resisted. It’s just Deputy Marlin, stopping to check in on Ben.

  He heard a sharp rap on his door, the cop calling, “Mr. Harris?” and at that moment he knew something was very wrong. And there was no way in hell he was going to let all his work go up in flames in a shitty motel in the middle of nowhere.

  With a frantic heart, he slid out of bed, crab-walked to the bathroom and shut the door quietly. On hands and knees, he ripped open the zipper of his duffel bag and clawed wildly through bundles of cash, grabbing the cell phone. He saw the gun and grabbed it, too, but suddenly it felt alien and wrong in his hand as a bright, strange truth was revealed to him: he didn’t want to die. And he didn’t want to kill anybody else. His fight was almost over, and the only thing that mattered was finishing it, whatever the consequences.

  His hand was shaking badly as he began punching numbers into the phone to start the sequence earlier than he’d planned. There was an hour on the timer, and he wanted so badly to be watching TV when it happened but apparently it wasn’t meant to be. No matter, he supposed. What was important was that Gus Riskin was finally going to make his impact.

  The rapping on the door grew more insistent, the cop’s voice louder. “Mr. Harris, this is Deputy Marlin. Can I have a word?”

  “Just a minute,” Gus called, slipping on a pair of jeans and shoving the gun into the back waistband.

  CHAPTER

  54

  GINO WAS PACING around his desk, demolishing a third donut. “Clara’s pregnancy and the lack of fingerprints on her neck never came up in the trial. I went through every frigging word.”

  Magozzi shook his head. “That’s rotten to the core.”

  “Damn right it is. And nobody’s going to convince me Trey Norwood killed her, along with his own kid. And it doesn’t look like Kuehn killed her either, so we’re looking for a third party.”

  “I suppose you have a theory.”

  “Of course I do. Clara tells Trey about the baby, and Trey’s in love with her so he wants to do the right thing. Happily ever after. He goes to his parents for help and their blessing. But the bad news that he’d knocked up the fourteen-year-old daughter of the help didn’t sit well with them. That could have been a little tarnish on the sterling. Maybe even a major inconvenience and a problem the Norwoods needed to solve.”

  “Please do not tell me you’re saying Gregory Norwood killed her.”

  “Hey, I’m just laying down some fresh tracks. Walk with me and don’t panic.”

  “I’m not panicking.”

  “I don’t see Norwood getting his hands dirty. But maybe he found somebody who would for the right price. Conrad Jarvick comes to mind. I told you he was ‒”

  “Yeah, yeah, an asshole. But a homicidal one? I get where you’re going, but you’re speculating about pure evil.”

  “And what’s so weird about that? We see it all the time. A reputation, a fortune, and the future of an only son were at stake. And, don’t forget, Clara Riskin was holding all the cards. What happens if there’s a lovers’ spat and she turns on the family, goes to the press? Maybe Gregory Norwood didn’t want to leave it to chance.”

  “That’s crazy.”

  Gino grunted. “It’s not the craziest theory I’ve ever come up with, not by a long shot. Try this on for size. Norwood never sent the letter of termination to the Riskins, and when we asked Zeller about the timeline, he got amnesia, right?”

  “It was twelve years ago. I don’t remember what I had for dinner last night.”

  Gino batted away the interruption, sending a piece of donut flying. “You had a Kwik Mart hotdog. So let’s say Norwood’s about to send the letter, then Trey shares the news he’s going to be a daddy and wants to get married. Norwood wants to get rid of Clara and her family, but he doesn’t want any loose ends, so he holds back the letter to keep her around until he figures out what to do with her.”

  Magozzi let out an irritated sigh. “Norwood wasn’t going to jettison his son’s pregnant girlfriend and her family. That would have opened up a lot of vulnerabilities.”

  Gino persisted: “Norwood already had knowledge that the Riskins had hired a druggie nutcase. What a perfect storyline, what a perfect candidate for a violent homicide. Kip Kuehn works the property, gets obsessed with a pretty young girl: who’s not going to buy him as the doer, especially with the physical evidence?”

  “Kuehn beat her. Norwood didn’t set that up.”

  “Maybe Kuehn didn’t. He could have been framed from the get-go for everything. But they forgot to put some of Kuehn’s prints on Clara’s neck. Sloppy, but it got past the court. Or the court was bought and paid for. Gus Riskin pulled it together and decided the only justice he was going to get was killing Norwood. We had him figured for the murder anyhow. And you know damn well Zeller was in on this ‒ he had to be ‒ and so was Conrad.”

  Magozzi felt a hollowness start to swallow him. What Gino was saying was horrific and outrageous, but in a very sick world, it made sense. “This is all conjecture. Wild conjecture.”

  “We wouldn’t solve a case without it. Conjecture always leads to greater things.”

  “Yeah, like evidence. Which we don’t have. And if there’s even a grain of truth in what you’re saying, how would Riskin figure this nightmare out? He was ten when it happened.”
>
  “He was there, Leo. Maybe he saw something. Maybe something that didn’t make sense when he was ten, but makes sense now.”

  “Like what?”

  Gino rolled his tongue around his cheek. “Could be something his parents had, something he found after they died. Or it could be that Zeller’s face has been plastered all over the media ever since he decided to throw his hat in the ring for governor. And Conrad never leaves his side. Maybe that rang bells big-time for Riskin.”

  Magozzi rubbed at the sharp pain that was burning in his temples. “Norwood and Zeller as co-conspirators to the murder of a pregnant fourteen-year-old girl, Conrad as hitman, and Riskin as Norwood’s killer. It’s a great screenplay, Gino, but if that’s what happened, there is no way in hell we’re ever going to prove it.”

  “That’s where you’re wrong. If we start hitting Zeller with this angle and he knows something, super-lawyer or not, he’ll paint himself into a corner eventually.”

  “You want to go after Zeller.”

  “I want to question him. And the Norwoods. Betty, in particular.”

  Both their phones jumped to life, ringing and clamoring with alert tones. Gino grabbed his first and answered. He listened, asked a few questions, then slammed it down. “Getting closer, Leo. That was Pine County. Riskin shot two cops. He’s on the run.”

  CHAPTER

  55

  GUS HADN’T WANTED to use the gun again, but it turned out survival instinct was more powerful than he’d ever realized. At least he hadn’t killed either cop, just wounded them to buy some time. And he hadn’t hurt Ben at all, at least not physically. And he wouldn’t. He was just a kid with his whole life ahead of him. Besides, he needed a driver and a car while he thought things through. He had a very small window of time to figure out his next move and he couldn’t give that important task the attention it demanded while driving and looking out for cops on his tail at the same time.

  He needed a car. What had happened back at the motel wasn’t hard to figure out, even for the hayseeds up here. There was definitely an APB out on Ben’s Camry, and he was on law enforcement’s radar, as unbelievable as it seemed, because the cops had recognized him. He’d seen the unmistakable flash of shock, then certainty in their eyes when he’d opened the door, as if they’d just been waiting to see his face, waiting for confirmation. Deputy Marlin had been clueless last night, so something had happened between then and now.