The Jake Boulder Series: books 1 - 3

by Graham Smith

  Her eyes lock onto the chief. ‘What happens when I give you this list?’

  ‘I’ll send officers to everyone’s house and your entire family will be escorted to the station for the rest of the night. We’ll look at getting some more comfortable accommodation for you tomorrow. We’ve only just made this connection and don’t have anywhere else we can guarantee your safety.’

  ‘Is it safe to go upstairs and get dressed?’ It’s the younger son who asks. He’s close to tears and has an arm round the father.

  I give him a reassuring smile. ‘I’m sure it is, but would you like me to go up and check for you?’

  He nods so I make my way towards the stairs I’d passed on the way in. Not having any official capacity leaves me feeling like a voyeur. The chance to check through the house in case the killer is lying in wait is too good to pass up.

  I give the house a thorough if unconcerned search. Any killer present is bound to have heard the chief’s banging and hollering. Half of what I’m looking for is signs of forced entry.

  With both halves of my search coming up empty, I return to the lounge where the chief is on his cell, relaying the details noted down in Mrs Masterton’s neat script.

  Hearing a knock at the door, I look out and see the two patrolmen the chief had summoned on the drive over.

  The chief ends his call and issues his orders to the patrolmen.

  As he strides towards the door he throws me a sideways nod. ‘C’mon, Boulder. We’ve got the Tanners to see now.’

  What neither of us have mentioned is how the killer identifies the people who find the bodies. It’s not the kind of information shared with the press or mentioned outside of law enforcement circles.

  Therefore, the killer is either being fed information by the police, is a member of the force or is watching the dump sites.

  It’s a question which cannot remain unanswered. ‘How does the killer know who finds the bodies?’

  ‘Lord knows.’ He scratches at his chin while screeching around a corner. ‘I looked into all my men when I moved here. They may be useless and in some cases downright stupid, but none of them have been in trouble for excessive force or anything like that. I don’t know them well enough to vouch for them, but for the most part I’d say they’re too damn lazy to go to all this trouble.’

  For the most part I agree with his assessment, but there is always the element of the unknown.

  The idea one of them is sharing information with the killer doesn’t fly. As soon as they’d worked out what was happening they’d have stopped. The only way they’d have continued is if the killer had threatened their families.

  Which is possible, but not likely.

  That leaves a third option. ‘Do you reckon he’s watching the dump sites then?’

  ‘What other explanation is there?’

  I can’t think of one. I would push a bit harder, but we’ve arrived at the Tanner’s house.

  46

  When we return to the station, I find a seething mass of bodies crushed into the reception area. The adults are sitting on a variety of office chairs while the children are either sitting on their parents’ knees or are cross-legged on the floor.

  Every face is filled with worry and anger. I can empathise with their concerns. Nobody enjoys being roused from sleep and told they or their loved ones may be in danger from a serial killer.

  Farrage is being harangued by a group of angry men who demand he leave the station and catch the killer at once.

  Frustration and a feeling of impotent rage fills the air with a noxious tension, turning the room into a powder keg of emotion. One wrong word in here could start a fight as discomfort and worry combine.

  As soon as the chief is recognised, the men surrounding Farrage abandon him and focus on the higher power. At least Farrage has the decency to hide his face so nobody except me sees his relief.

  The chief lifts his hands, palms outward. ‘One at a time please.’ His voice isn’t raised but it carries enough of an edge to cut through the chatter and silence the room.

  ‘You first.’ He points at the man on the left of the group. ‘What is it?’

  The man is mid-forties and carries himself well in spite of the situation. ‘It’s my wife. She didn’t come home tonight. He’s got her, hasn’t he?’

  ‘We don’t know that for certain. Boulder, take him to my office. I’ll be there directly.’ The chief turns to the next man. ‘Yes?’

  I lead the man into the chief’s office.

  ‘What’s your wife’s name?’

  ‘Wendy… Wendy Agnew.’

  ‘What time was she due home?’

  ‘Around midnight. She was dropping a colleague at the airport after work.’

  I look at my watch. She’s two hours late.

  ‘How come you’ve just noticed she is missing?’

  Guilt replaces the worry on his face. ‘I knew she was gonna be late so I went for a couple of beers after work. Had a couple more when I got home. When I got woken and brought here, I never looked at the time. I just assumed she wasn’t home because it was before midnight.’

  I don’t know what to say to that. If he’d been sober he would have noticed sooner. Yet I know all too well the pull of another beer. It’s one of the reasons I drink so rarely.

  ‘Have you called her cell?’

  ‘Of course. It just keeps going to answer phone after a few rings.’

  The fact it is ringing is good news to balance the bad of it not being answered. If it was going straight to voicemail there is a chance it has been destroyed or isn’t picking up a signal.

  I pluck a pen from the desk and point at the chief’s desk pad. ‘Write her number on there for me.’

  I pull out my own cell. Alfonse picks up before the first ring is complete.

  ‘Run a trace for me.’ I recite the number Agnew has written down. ‘Call me back as soon as you have a location.’

  ‘Do you think he’s got her? Do you think she’ll be his next victim?’

  I don’t reply because my answer to both of his questions is yes. Instead I change the subject. ‘What car does she drive? What’s her licence plate?’

  My distraction works. A part of him understands giving me information is more important than anything he wants to know. I jot the details down on the corner of the chief’s pad and tear it loose.

  A thought enters my head before I leave to get the chief. ‘Have you called her work to check she left?’

  ‘No.’ Hope springs into his eyes as he reaches for his cell.

  ‘Are you part of the Tanner or Masterton family?’

  ‘Tanner.’

  He turns away as his call is answered.

  The hunch of his shoulders as he asks his questions relaxes for a moment before returning with more intensity.

  When he turns to tell me what he’s learned, I see fat tears tumbling down his cheeks. ‘She left at eleven-thirty.’

  I’m about to leave the room and get the chief when he enters with a woman. She’s in her forties and is dabbing at reddening eyes with a paper tissue.

  The chief is the first to speak. ‘This is Gayle Prosser. Her husband Donny went to work at seven this morning and never came home.’

  I get her attention by touching her elbow. ‘Are you related to Frederick Masterton?’

  ‘He’s my nephew.’

  I step into the corner of the room and gesture for the chief to join me. ‘How much do you know?’

  ‘They had a fight this morning and he hasn’t answered her calls all day.’ He gives an exasperated shake of the head. ‘She says it’s not the first time though. When they fight he tends to go for a beer. He doesn’t usually stay out all night, but this morning’s fight was a big one.’

  ‘Have you put a trace on his cell?’

  Defeat fills his voice. ‘I’ve requested one, but I was told not to expect an answer before tomorrow afternoon.’

  ‘What’s his number? Alfonse will get it long before then.’ He hesitat
es. It’s one thing hiring us to help out, but to actively encourage us to break the law goes against every principle he is paid to uphold.

  I watch his face as he conducts the internal debate. It doesn’t move beyond a tiny flickering of the eyelids. I know he’ll be balancing the probability of Prosser lying asleep on a buddy’s couch against the fact he could also be in the hands of a serial killer.

  Concern for the safety of a civilian wins the battle with his instinctive law-abiding morals.

  As he begins to open his notebook, my cell rings.

  I listen to what Alfonse has to say, then read him the second number right from the chief’s notebook.

  Taking the chief’s arm in my hand I make for the door.

  47

  I turn onto Main Street and stop at the first set of lights, which are showing red. There’s no traffic but I have the chief of police sitting beside me. I’m only driving because his car was blocked in and mine wasn’t.

  ‘Dammit, Boulder. Put your goddamn foot down. Ain’t nobody in this town gonna give you a ticket tonight.’

  I obey his instruction and streak through town until I’m heading towards the airport.

  With Casperton behind me, I open up the Mustang until it’s approaching three-digit territory.

  My eyes keep flicking to the odometer. Before hanging up, Alfonse told me Wendy Agnew’s cell was seven point two miles from the edge of town.

  When I reach six and a half, I slow down to thirty in case his calculations are off. The chief opens his window and shines his flashlight onto the scrub at the side of the road.

  We’re not sure what we’re looking for, but we’re looking anyway. I just hope it’s not a body we find. Apart from the fact another innocent will have died, us discovering one of his kills will put our families at risk from the killer.

  My headlights bounce off a metallic silver car. The same kind of Ford Wendy Agnew owns.

  I glance at the odometer. It shows seven point two miles travelled.

  As I draw up beside the car, the chief uses his radio to summon two deputies. We climb out and circle the car, looking around as we do so. Finding nothing obvious, I stare out into the blackness as the chief shines his flashlight inside.

  ‘There’s nobody in the car.’

  He gives me a pair of nitrile gloves and pulls on a pair himself.

  We’ve found the car, but not the owner. The car being left here is odd. There is no real place for parking, no junctions or side roads. There isn’t even a track leading into the scrub.

  I hear the chief trying a door handle as my eyes scan the darkness again. I can’t see anything due to the cloud cover but it doesn’t stop me sensing there’s something out there.

  There’s a slight creak from the hinges as the car door opens. The chief reaches in and presses the button to release the trunk.

  There’s a thunk as the mechanism releases the catch.

  We move to the back of the car as if choreographed. My eyes never leave the wilderness surrounding us. My vigilance is involuntary, fuelled by an instinct borne of some primeval sixth sense.

  The way the chief doesn’t comment on what I’m doing makes me realise he feels the same way. That he’s trusting me to keep lookout is a comforting endorsement, only offset by the fact he shares my nerves. When an experienced law enforcer like Chief Watson gets the jitters, it’s not without good cause.

  ‘It’s empty.’

  He takes over guard duty while I sink to my knees with his flashlight and look underneath the car.

  There’s nothing there except a small patch where oil has dripped from the engine. Standing up, I shake my head and return his flashlight.

  I leave him shining his flashlight into the nearby brush and lean into the car. There’s an open handbag in the passenger footwell. It’s filled with the usual paraphernalia along with a cell phone and a woman’s purse.

  I fish the scrap of desk pad from my pocket and use my cell to dial the number Agnew gave me. The cell in the bag rings, providing all the confirmation we need.

  So where is she?

  I don’t profess to be an expert on women, but I’ve met enough to know there are very few who’d leave their car in the middle of nowhere and go off without their bag or cell.

  Therefore, this is the site of her abduction. Which brings us back to trying to work out who took her.

  The realisation does something to me. I’m not sure whether it provides adrenaline or a higher state of consciousness, but I no longer fear whatever may be hiding in the shadows. The killer won’t be watching the abduction site. His style is to watch the place where he dumps his victims.

  Looking around I see enough brush and scrub bushes fleetingly illuminated by the chief’s flashlight to know we’ll never find Wendy Agnew’s body tonight even if it’s twenty feet from here.

  ‘When the deputies get here, I’ll leave them to guard the car. We can start a search in the morning. You heard from your buddy yet?’

  I shake my head. The chief’s subtext is I should call Alfonse to ask. There’s no point, he’ll be in touch as soon as he’s located Donny Prosser’s cell.

  A check of my watch shows the time as five after three. If Alfonse takes the same time tracing Prosser’s cell as he did with Wendy Agnew’s my cell should ring within ten minutes.

  We wait in silence until a patrol car arrives. When it does, the chief walks over and starts issuing orders before the patrolmen have fully exited the car.

  I stare at my cell, willing it to ring. It doesn’t.

  The chief joins me in my car, his raised eyebrow asking the question again.

  I ignore him and start the engine.

  We’re a mile or so from Casperton when my cell rings. I listen to what Alfonse has to say without commenting. There’s not a lot I can say, but an inner cussedness is making me enjoy the chief’s exasperated impatience.

  Making a mental note of Alfonse’s directions, I end the call and hang a left at the first opportunity.

  ‘Well?’

  The chief’s sole word carries insistence along with the full burden of his worry.

  ‘His cell was at his place of work until six thirty. After that Alfonse traced it to a couple of bars.’

  ‘I don’t want its family history, Boulder. I want to know where it is now.’

  ‘The last signal he got from it was a half mile out of town. He says it was near the bridge over Hangman’s Creek.’

  ‘That’s on the Forty towards Denver ain’t it?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  I’ve forgotten just how new he is to Casperton. He’s still finding his feet in this town, learning the place and the people.

  Like me, Alfonse and a lot of the other incomers, he’ll never achieve total acceptance by the town’s original inhabitants no matter how long he stays. If I have any children born and educated in Casperton, they’ll be classed as locals, but it’s not a status granted to anyone who moves into the town.

  I ignore him as he pulls out his cell and starts issuing orders. My concentration is on my driving as I throw the Mustang into corners and hurtle along the deserted streets until I link with the Forty.

  As we leave town, I slow in case Prosser’s cell is lying in pieces at the roadside. Nearing the bridge over Hangman’s Creek, I can guess why the trace on Prosser’s cell ended here.

  The creek may only be a few feet wide at this time of year, but I can hear its roar as I park my car on the bridge.

  The chief plays his flashlight down and picks out the frothing waters of Hangman’s Creek. I grip the railing a little tighter and try not to think of the water below me tumbling and fighting to gain passage through the rocky gulch.

  I turn to face the chief. His silhouette shows against the first rays of morning sun. ‘How much do you want to bet Prosser’s phone is down there somewhere?’

  He scowls at me. ‘You don’t know that for sure. Could be he just decided to skip town after fighting with his wife. Tossed his phone over the bridge on his way t
o a new life.’

  ‘So he worked all day, went for a couple of beers then just up and left town. Didn’t go home for a change of clothes or to say goodbye to his kids.’ I scowl back at him. ‘Do you believe that’s what happened?’

  ‘I’d like to, but no.’

  We spend a few minutes scouting about the area without finding anything except scrub and rocks.

  ‘Take me back to the station, Boulder. I’ve search parties to organise.’

  I keep my thoughts to myself as I drive him back. I’ve nothing useful to say and I know he’s got some thinking to do. If he kneads his temples any harder his knuckles are going to meet in the middle.

  As we approach the station, I ask what he wants me to do next.

  ‘Obviously my priority is finding these missing people. I need you to help me speak to their families, while I send my detectives out to speak to anyone who may have seen Prosser last night.’

  48

  I let myself into my apartment and decide not to bother Alfonse until I’ve had a shower. The need to wash the night’s discoveries off me is more compelling than checking a simple fact with him.

  After scrubbing myself for five minutes, I drop the water temperature as low as it will go. The cold water does far more to energise me than yet another cup of coffee will. My body and brain feel sharper and more able to tackle whatever else the day throws at me.

  Once dressed, I call Alfonse. For once, luck is on my side. Now I have this piece of information it shouldn’t be too hard to verify or discount an idea which has been bugging me.

  The last two hours had been spent trying to extract details of favourite haunts, drinking buddies and so on from Prosser’s wife and his brother. While there was always the possibility he’d loaned his cell to someone or had it stolen, I don’t think that is the case and neither did his wife.

  She had been so vehement about him never lending his cell to anyone, including her, it made me wonder if there was a specific reason he never let her use it. Being a cynic, my first thought was the reason may have blonde hair, long legs and a less confrontational nature than his wife.