by Graham Smith
The overriding element I’ve got is that Kira’s obsession with me appeared to be a case of undeclared love with psychotic overtones.
Upson, Lester and Chalmers had been selected as boyfriends so she could parade herself past me with them at her side. Every detail of her frustrations at the ploy not working has been recorded with intimate accuracy. The fact she’d repeated her actions a second and third time after the initial failure is described in self-critical terms where she’d railed at her own stupidity for not being able to make it work.
All blame is laid at her own door while I escape without criticism. The journal’s pages detail every occasion in the last two years when she’d seen me. Whether it is one of her nocturnal visits, seeing me at the Tree or just a chance meeting somewhere in town.
Times and dates are recorded, along with the clothes I wore, the people I was with and how I looked. Comments about any girls in my company are three points north of swivel-eyed jealousy.
Kira had vented against these unknowing innocents. She’d oscillated between describing them in every defamatory term ever uttered about a woman and comparing herself against them.
Every time I turn a new page I see further levels of obsession, self-flagellation at not being able to snare my attention and a further elevation of my appeal to her. It is as though all the setbacks, real as well as perceived, increased her affection for me.
Struggle as I might to get my head round the situation, I know Dr Edwards would find enough material in these pages to write several important papers.
The underlying theme is that I could do no wrong in her eyes and she was prepared to play the long game in her quest to snare me. There are screeds of pages where she is preaching patience to herself, stating I would tire of my single life and turn to her.
She’s even gone so far as to describe her hooking as a means to finance a decent lifestyle for the two of us should her father cut her free for not marrying someone he deemed suitable.
Reading this particular revelation twists a knot of responsibility in my gut. She’s written of her loathing for her clients and the depravities they paid her for. Yet she also rationalises the encounters as a necessary evil to provide a comfortable life for the two of us.
I feel shame that a friend, a sometime girlfriend who booty called me, should go to such lengths to create an imagined future. The fact I hadn’t had the slightest inkling of the depth of her feelings mocks me.
The logical part of my brain is trying to say otherwise, but the MacDonald blood in me is too proud to accept innocence. It wants action. Justice. A resolution for a young life ended many years too soon.
It doesn’t matter which part of my brain or nature I listen to. I know her killer has to be caught and brought to justice. This is no longer a case. It is personal.
‘You ready to talk about it?’ Concern laces Alfonse’s face and voice.
Am I showing my feelings that much?
I dismiss the thought as soon as it registers. He’s been my best friend for twenty-something years. If he can’t tell when I’m upset by now, he isn’t deserving of the title.
‘I guess.’
‘Tell me, what are you thinking?’ The phrase is unlike him. He’s never shy in sharing his opinions and then asking for my thoughts on what he’s said. I can only guess he’s jumped to some of the same conclusions I have and is afraid of putting ideas in my head. Either that or he’s thought of something I haven’t. After all, he’s had longer to digest the content of Kira’s journal than I have.
‘I think I’ve been stupid not to pick up on her infatuation with me.’ I throw a barb at him to keep him on his toes. ‘But then you never spotted it either.’
I get a scowl and a continue gesture from him.
‘For whatever reason, Kira fell hard for me. Yet she didn’t push the issue, preferring to bide her time and wait until I was ready for a proper relationship. She was using the guys she saw while I was dating someone. They meant nothing to her and they were mostly aware there were no wedding bells on the horizon. Therefore, only Terrel Upson was fool enough to fall for her.’
He nods and repeats the continue gesture.
I take a deep breath and hold it for a moment before sighing it out. ‘That she was obsessed with me isn’t in doubt. Whether it’s relevant to her murder is another thing altogether. If it is connected, I would have made a better target as her infatuation with me would have prevented her from settling down with someone else. On the other hand, jealous rage isn’t known for promoting logical thought.’
‘The killer could have been a coward.’ Alfonse skewers me with a stare. ‘It’s no secret around here that you can look after yourself. She would present a much easier target.’
He’s struck a low blow, yet I have to agree with his logic. Taking me on would be a much tougher proposition than attacking Kira. ‘You’re right – but it still doesn’t make any sense. By killing her, he’s cutting off his nose to spite his face.’
‘Your face. Remember he’s already lost her by this point. And since when did killing someone ever make any sense?’
‘I’m still not convinced that’s why she was killed.’
‘Of course you’re not. Your subconscious will be trying anything it can to wriggle out of responsibility. Real or imagined.’
I look at him, take in the concern on his face. ‘Suppose her feelings for me are the reason she was killed. Knowing the motive doesn’t help us find the killer.’
‘Doesn’t it?’
He is right. If we are on the money with the motive, we can use this information to direct the investigation.
A thought enters my head. ‘If jealousy is the reason she was killed, we’ve a whole lot of suspects to look at.’
Alfonse’s snort was half mocking and half derisive. ‘You flatter yourself. There can’t be that many people jealous of you.’
‘Who says they’re jealous of me? What about all the wives or girlfriends of Kira’s clients? Perhaps she had a secret admirer who somehow found out about her feelings for me?’
The dejection in my voice is echoed by the way Alfonse slumps into a chair.
With so many possible suspects it will be tough to get a handle on which, if any, of the wives or girlfriends had learned of their partner’s visits to Kira. Then it will be a case of working out if they’d taken matters into their own hands.
There is always the possibility they’d hired a killer. If the husbands can afford ten grand for sex, the wives would have twenty to hire a hitman.
While investigating this possibility we’ll be up against rich and powerful women with secrets to hide.
‘So what do we do then?’
He is really asking which direction we should point the investigation.
‘You been invited to Claude’s party tonight?’ He nods. ‘We go and hang out. Find out what we can about the guys she dated. If they’ve had any other relationships since Kira. Who they’re seeing. If they’re obsessed with Kira, they may have not bothered with anyone else.’
‘Kira did.’
I scowl at his double-edged statement. ‘Have you a better idea?’
‘No.’
A familiar look crosses Alfonse’s eyes. It’s the one he gets when his mind is travelling digital highways and is about to go off-road.
I guess he is thinking of ways he could learn more about the wives or girlfriends of Kira’s clients. Whether there is a way he can identify them without their knowledge.
Once he knows who they are, he can begin to trace their movements, both physical and financial.
I rise from my seat. ‘I’ll see you at Claude’s in an hour.’
31
I pull in behind the police cruiser and climb out. Chief Watson had called as I was driving from Alfonse’s.
So here I am. Summoned for the second time today – this one way more intriguing than the first. I doubt Chief Watson will give me a gun, although I hadn’t expected Mother would either.
The plastic crime
scene tent erected four hundred yards from the car park is just visible in the fading light. Its presence confirms my suspicions about the reason for the chief’s terse call.
‘Come to the Panchtraik Reservoir public car park and ask for me. I need you.’ He’d rung off before I’d had the chance to agree or refuse.
Insects brought out by the cooling night air are starting their mating calls as I set off towards the plastic tent.
I hang back while the chief finishes his conversation with one of the Tyvek-suited examiners. Farrage and one of his buddies are off to one side talking to a young couple. From their body language and the tears streaming down her face I figure they are either relatives of the person in the tent or they had found the corpse.
Keeping well away from the lake, I skirt the area and take a look around. I’m not looking for anything in particular, just something out of place. Or missing. Or broken.
Like the branches of the dogwood bush by the side of the reservoir.
Not wanting to contaminate any possible evidence, I approach the bush from the side. Using my cell as a torch, I look at the ground to make sure I don’t trample anything I shouldn’t.
Up close and under illumination, the branch of the dogwood looks to have been broken within the last day or two. When I turn my eyes to the ground I find a tyre mark. Not wide like a car tyre but wider than you’d get from a bicycle.
The beam of light from my phone doesn’t extend far into the bush, so I can’t see if the tyre mark goes anywhere. I take care to retrace my steps backwards and grab the nearest officer and show him what I’ve found.
‘Boulder! With me please.’
Chief Watson may have said please, but there is no request in the way he’s called me over.
I match his pace as he strides back towards the car park. There is none of the huffing and puffing you’d expect from a man of his age moving so fast.
As we walk, he gives me the bare facts. An elderly woman has been found by a young couple. They’d thought she was sleeping until they saw the colour of her skin.
The initial examination has shown the woman’s throat has been cut right at the jugular. Beyond that, he hasn’t got much else to tell me. He doesn’t yet know who the woman is or why there is no blood at the scene.
‘Why did you call me, Chief?’
He stops walking and turns to me, one meaty paw massaging the deep furrows on his brow.
‘This is the third homicide victim we’ve had in as many days.’ A thumb jerks in Farrage’s direction. ‘Those assholes couldn’t find their way out of a room with one door and when I asked for a couple of detectives to be sent over from Salt Lake City I was refused. I need your help.’
‘What about the FBI?’
‘They’re not interested. Person I spoke to told me to call them when the body count reaches five. Asshole.’
‘Still, why me? Or should I say us?’ It is only right to include Alfonse.
‘Because you’ve shown more gumption than those morons.’ Again his thumb jerks towards Farrage. ‘You and your buddy achieved way more on the Niemeyer case in one day than they could hope to achieve in a month. I can’t run around wiping their asses while I’ve a whole town to run.’
I can see his predicament. Like every other sizable town on the planet there is an element of society in Casperton who’ll realise when the police are overstretched. Petty thefts will increase; one of the stores or banks may even be held up with the entire police force distracted by the homicides.
It is a balancing act and the keystone for the whole inverted pyramid is Chief Watson.
I want to help, but Alfonse and I are already out of our depth investigating Kira’s death.
‘I’m not saying yes until I speak to Alfonse, but what exactly do you want from us? I’m guessing you’re not gonna toss us a badge and declare we’re now deputies.’
My attempt at humour washes over him. ‘I want to use you in an advisory capacity. So I don’t have to think of everything myself. Those assholes have never had an original idea between them. Go phone your buddy, will ya. I need to get things moving around here.’
As I go back to my car to make the call in private, the officer I’d shown the tyre track to approaches Chief Watson.
Alfonse picks up on the third ring.
When I leave my car to go tell the chief we’ll help, I have to leap out of the way as a tan Chrysler shoots into the car park.
Despite all the police in the area, I run round the Chrysler and haul open the driver’s door. My fist is cocked ready to deliver an unforgettable warning about dangerous driving. At the moment I’m about to strike, I realise the driver is female.
A wave of eye-watering perfume hits me before her words do. ‘You the bozo I nearly run down? You should learn to watch where you’re going.’ She has one of those unmistakable Jewish New York accents. She points at my fist. ‘We both know you’re not going to use that so you may as well put it down and get out of my way.’
When she climbs out of the car the top of her head reaches my shoulder. A cigarette dangling from the corner of her mouth drops ash onto her peach-coloured blouse. She doesn’t notice – her eyes are locked onto the tent.
‘So, I’m guessing with all the cops around we’ve got a third body inside that tent.’
I don’t answer. I don’t yet know who she is. The way she dominates everything she does proves she is a force of nature. Until I know more about her, there is no way I’m telling her anything that may come back to bite me.
A young cop runs over, his arms spread as if he’s herding cattle. ‘That’s far enough, Ms Rosenberg.’
‘Is that Chief Watson I see over there?’ She makes to brush past him but he shifts his feet to block her.
‘He’s there and I’m sure he’ll speak to you when he’s got something to say but right now he’s busy.’
I leave the young cop trying to obstruct the formidable presence that is Ms Rosenberg, and head back to the tent and Chief Watson.
I’ve heard of, but never met Ms Rosenberg. She is lead reporter for the Casperton Gazette and carries a reputation as a hard woman who brooks no obstruction in her search for the truth. According to legend, it is so long since anyone has used her Christian name even she’s forgotten what it is.
Regardless of her nature, she is a good journalist and her scathingly insightful articles are the main reason Casperton has so little corruption in public office. A cub reporter I’d once dated told me how Ms Rosenberg would spend much of her spare time scouring public documents in her search for irregularities in the finances.
She might not be a nice person or a careful driver, but she keeps the local politicians honest, which means we all owe her a debt of thanks.
Chief Watson sees me coming and leaves the dogwood bush to join me. ‘That was a good find you made there. The tyre marks go right to the water’s edge and then disappear.’
‘Do you think they’re relevant?’
He kneads his temples before answering. A sure sign of his stress. ‘I think it’s too much of a coincidence not to be associated. My guess is her killer moved her from the car park using a wheelbarrow, then dumped it into the reservoir to hide the evidence.’
‘Makes sense.’ I am stating the obvious, but it won’t hurt for him to have his opinions verified. He needs support, help carrying the burden before he has an aneurysm. ‘I spoke to Alfonse. We’ll be happy to offer you some help in an advisory capacity.’
‘Thanks.’ Already he is looking younger and less like a condemned man.
I hold up a hand to cut him off before he starts on another tack. ‘You’ll need to put Farrage and the rest of your detectives in the picture. Catching a killer is too important to waste time in pissing contests. If we get any grief from them, I’ll kick their arses then Alfonse and I will walk.’
Determination sets on his face making me fear I may have overplayed my hand by threatening his subordinates.
‘Farrage!’
His voice carri
es to the lieutenant who turns and walks over, contempt decorating his face and body language. ‘Yeah?’
I keep my face neutral as Chief Watson explains the new regime. Such is the ferocity of the chief’s words and tone, there’s no way Farrage can misunderstand the consequences of failing to obey.
As Farrage makes to return to his interview, the chief has a final warning for him. ‘If I learn there is one missing word or even a comma from any of the reports you send to me and Mr Boulder, you’ll be out on your ass and the first person I’ll explain your sacking to is Ms Rosenberg. Then I’ll take you round to see the families of the deceased so you can explain why playing games was more important to you than catching a killer. Do I make myself clear?’
‘Yes, Chief.’
Farrage’s demeanour changes at the threat. Gone are the insolence and contempt. The twin threats of public humiliation and being forced to explain his actions to bereaved families are enough to make him sharpen up his act.
‘I shouldn’t have, but I enjoyed that.’
‘It’s been a long time coming, Chief. He deserves every word.’
I think Farrage has gotten off easy. In the chief’s position, I would have thrown punches at anyone who showed me the same lack of respect.
‘You got a strong stomach?’ Without waiting for my answer he starts walking towards the protective tent.
32
The smell of cooking meat wafts across the air causing my stomach to flip like an Olympic gymnast. I would have eaten before coming, but, after entering that tent, I didn’t trust myself to keep anything down.
The chief had filled me in on the details of Paul Johnson’s murder and had called back to the station to have the desk sergeant email me all of the reports.
Rounding the back gate, I find the party in full swing. There’s a couple of dozen of the usual crowd, plus a few of Claude and his girlfriend’s family members. I know most of the family members from past events. It’s a relief to see Claude has abdicated the chef’s position in favour of the barman’s role. Nobody will be sick from anything other than a hangover.
