The Jake Boulder Series: books 1 - 3

by Graham Smith

  With that done, I move onto the next issue. The protection of Harriet and Olly’s family.

  They’ve all been rounded up and are under guard at the motel. Fear has kept their grumbles to a minimum, but they’d all wanted to know how long they’d be there.

  It is ironic we’ve had to half-imprison potential victims while the killer is running free.

  Those staying in the motel are all connected to Harriet by birth or marriage. Looking at Alfonse’s notes, I check the family connections and see a distinct pattern emerging.

  Each of the victims has a direct blood link to the finder of a body. Step relations and those affiliated by marriage have never been selected. It’s always genuine relatives who fall within his range of targets.

  It’s tempting to share this news with the chief, but now we have a family under the protection of guards, it seems foolish to release some of them or think the killer won’t change his methods when thwarted by our security measures.

  I pay the check and head for home. My plan is to get a shower and a couple of hours’ sleep. Everything has been taken care of so far and there’s nothing more I can do unless something else breaks or the killer is foolish enough to try and storm the motel.

  61

  Norm curses as he realises the extra work he’s going to have to do to put his new plan into action. If the idea wasn’t so good, there’s no way he’d let it delay adding to his tally.

  Yet it’s just too perfect to pass up on. This is the kind of thing that will elevate him from being yet another serial killer to becoming a legend.

  His story will become famous – the way he outsmarted the police, how he eluded capture despite being so close to the investigation.

  The question that will be asked most of all: how he could be cold-blooded enough to kill his own family just to keep his pattern going?

  Before he can set any of that into motion, he has to do some research, a spot of surveillance and a learning of routines.

  If executed in the right way, he can remove himself from suspicion. Get it wrong and everything will come to a shuddering halt.

  Now the game is afoot, he’d prefer to be captured so he can see how it all plays out, but he is still comfortable with the idea of dying. Perhaps in the greater scheme of things it will be better to die with some mystery to him. He may even be attributed with a few extra kills as the police look to clear one or two of their unsolved files.

  Norm knows he’ll spill everything for the sheer hell of it if he’s taken alive. The thrill of telling his interrogators will be too great to resist. He knows he’ll want to see the look on their faces as he details each of his kills. The methods, research, selection process and the takedowns.

  He’ll give them what they want and a whole lot more.

  Gathering up his gear, he piles what he needs into his rucksack and sets off to check something he’s discovered on the sister’s Twitter feed.

  Working in reverse a whole kill ahead is throwing his usual preparations. He’s not sure whether he should target the mother or sister first. Either will do, it’s just a question of which will be the easiest to set up. That’s what the watching is for. To make his decisions more logical and practical.

  Chance is not allowed to figure in this one. Lady Luck mustn’t play a part unless he’s directing her.

  62

  When Alfonse lifts his eyes from the computer, they’re red from straining at the screen for so many hours. His voice and posture tell me the anger he felt earlier has been replaced by tiredness. A pang of guilt for my snatched two hours hits me before I dismiss it. He’ll be able to go home and rest now this task is complete.

  ‘That’s it. I can’t find anymore.’ Defeat rather than satisfaction for a job well done fills his voice. ‘As far as I can tell his first victim was Roger Ingerson. He was run off the road into Marton Creek just over four years ago. His car was found upside down in the water after a flood had subsided.’

  ‘What do you know about him?’

  He shakes his head. ‘Nothing. I’ll have a look, see what’s on the system.’

  Alfonse’s fingers rattle a couple of keys and he reaches for the mouse. A clacking whir comes from the corner as a printer starts to spit out sheets of A4.

  I take them from the printer and sit back down.

  Alfonse rises to his feet with a groan; he’s unsteady through exhaustion, but I’m not prepared to let him go just yet. ‘What did you get from the DMV?’

  ‘They wouldn’t speak to me so I got the chief to put someone onto it. Let me grab a few hours’ sleep and if we haven’t heard anything I’ll find a way into their system.’

  I don’t like the delay, but recognise his brain and body need a rest.

  He stops at the door and turns to me. ‘Stay safe, Jake. Before Kira, this guy had killed twenty-five times.’

  I do a quick calculation. The total number of victims is thirty-one and we have no idea who he is or why he’s killing.

  Reading the details on Roger Ingerson, I find there isn’t much to tell. At the time of his death he was married with a nine-year-old daughter. He worked the oilfields as a roustabout. His listed address is in one of Casperton’s less salubrious areas. Not the worst, but I don’t expect he had a white picket fence or a neighbourhood watch he could rely on.

  From the report and its official language, I glean his death was listed as misadventure and hadn’t been investigated in any fashion. His body was trapped in the wreckage of the car and the coroner’s report stated his cause of death as drowning.

  His legs were both shattered and there was internal bleeding, which would have killed him if he hadn’t drowned. I can only hope for his sake he was knocked unconscious by the crash.

  I go in search of Chief Watson. He’s busy conducting the press conference I’d set up earlier, so I make a couple of calls.

  When the chief is finished with the press, I manage to get him and the mayor to see me in his office.

  ‘What you got, Boulder?’

  I tell him what Alfonse has uncovered and my thoughts about how Ingerson may have been specifically chosen as a starting point. The chief accepts the news with a sigh and a closing of his eyes. The mayor on the other hand looks as though he’s just caught his wife in bed with his brother. There’s anger, denial and incomprehension flashing across his face as he tries to come to terms with the number of homicides.

  ‘Any specific ideas about Ingerson?’

  ‘No, but Ingerson’s widow has agreed to see me so long as I’m there before ten.’ I hesitate, knowing what I’m about to say is crossing a boundary. ‘I’m going to have to tell her his death wasn’t an accident.’

  The chief purses his lips. ‘Yeah, you’ll need to. I’d come with you, but the FBI have called. They’ll be here in an hour.’

  ‘That’s fine.’ I’m happy to go alone. To slip under the radar and steal a march. ‘That’s great about the feds. Have you heard anything from the DMV?’

  ‘I called and tried to light a fire under them. They told me the one guy who knows how to do that won’t be in until tomorrow morning.’ He raises his hands in a helpless gesture. ‘Perhaps the FBI will be able to put more of a squeeze on them, or go to a national source who can get that information.’

  ‘Let’s hope so.’

  I don’t think there’s anything else to say just now, so I leave them to deal with their end of things and head off to see Faith Ingerson. On my way past the reception desk, Darla waves me across and hands me a bunch of files.

  ‘Hey, sugar. The chief told me to give you a copy of these.’

  Flicking through the files, I see they are reports from the coroner and the CSI team.

  With a glance at my watch to check I have time, I find a seat and skim read them.

  Five minutes later, I’m handing the files back to Darla. Nothing in them came as a surprise, although I was interested to learn Donny Prosser and Wendy Agnew’s bodies had both displayed the tell-tale marks left by a Taser. According to
the report, Prosser had been zapped four times.

  That explains how he’d been put into the car where he’d been murdered. As a final nail into the coffin of the killer’s romantic-tryst-gone-wrong set-up, the coroner’s report also noted Wendy Agnew was on her period.

  The CSI team’s report is filled with lots of little pieces of evidence which would have to be analysed in a lab before a firm conclusion is made. Due to the public location of where the bodies were found, I don’t hold much hope they have found something which will help identify the killer. Their evidence will be more use in the courts than the investigation.

  Both had filed preliminary reports on Angus Oberton, but neither is detailed enough to tell me anything new.

  63

  Since the spat with Alfonse, I’ve taken to checking my rear-view mirror a lot more than usual. I don’t spot any particular set of headlights tailing me, but I’m not what you’d call an expert at this kind of thing.

  I reach the edge of Maesher and turn onto sixth. There’s the odd street light not working, a pair of sneakers hanging from an overhead cable and there are cars on bricks in two driveways, but the area’s not as bad as I remember. One of the mayor’s programs must have actually worked for a change.

  As I park outside the Ingerson house, I notice a bunch of youths playing a game of pick-up across the street.

  Part of me half expects them to try and hustle me for a few bucks against the safety of my car. Considering my current frame of mind, it will be a whole lot safer for them if they don’t.

  Maybe it’s my body language or the look in my eyes, but not one of them so much as steps towards me.

  The door opens before I get to it and a teenage girl runs outs. ‘Screw you. I’m going to Sophie’s.’

  I step forward and knock on the still open door. Getting no answer, I rap my knuckles against the faded paint a second time and call out.

  The woman who comes to the door is a sight and a half. I don’t know whether her appearance is a direct result of the loss of her husband or the constant battle of raising a headstrong teenager, but she doesn’t look good.

  Her hair is matted and the clothes she wears are stained and shapeless. The look on her face is one of uncaring indifference to the world.

  I can’t decide if she’s let herself go or was never together. Still I have questions to ask her.

  ‘Are you the guy who called earlier?’

  ‘That’s me. You must be Faith.’ I offer a hand and a smile. ‘I’m Jake.’

  The smile proves to be a mistake. She toys with one of the knots in her hair and shows me her teeth. Or at least what’s left of them.

  ‘Come on in.’ Not waiting for an answer, she turns and tries to sashay down the hall. With her undernourished frame, it’s not a move she can pull off.

  I follow her into the house. There’s mess everywhere and a smell so repugnant I have to breathe through my mouth. I decline the offer of a seat.

  The state both she and the house are in speaks of laziness. I’m no neat freak, but I could keep this place clean with minimal effort. That she hasn’t bothered tells me she has no pride in herself or her belongings.

  ‘What can I help you with? You said it was about Roger. I told his bosses at the time he didn’t steal nuthin’. That it was all a set-up. Why’d you come botherin’ a grieving widow after all these years?’

  The grieving widow must have a taste for cigars and mens’ footwear if the things lying about the house are anything to go by. On the other hand, if the rest of the house is anything to go by, they could well have belonged to her late husband.

  ‘I’m not here about anything to do with Roger’s work. I’m here about his death.’

  ‘You from the insurance company? I never got a red cent ’cause he was late with one payment. His pension is worth squat ’cause of him dying so young.’ There is the bitterness of the self-entitled in her voice.

  Life hasn’t been kind to her, but she is the type who will see fate’s blows as a personal slight. While some people pick themselves up more determined than ever to succeed, she is the kind of person who blames others and expects those she deems responsible to help her.

  With the news I’m about to break, my name is sure to be added to the list of people who’ve caused her life to get worse.

  While I’m not informing her of a death, I’m exhuming an accident so I can turn it into a murder. It might not be as bad as breaking the initial news, but it’s still a task I’d be happy to avoid.

  ‘Faith.’ My use of her name grabs her attention just as I’d intended it to. ‘I have reason to believe Roger’s death wasn’t an accident.’

  ‘Whadda ya mean?’

  ‘Have you heard about the killer who’s targeting local citizens?’

  ‘Dolores said somethin’ ’bout it.’ From the way she waves her hand to the left, I guess Dolores is a neighbour. ‘Can’t say I was listenin’ too good though.’

  ‘It’s like this. There’s a serial killer working to his own twisted pattern.’ I don’t bother giving her the finer details. Whatever she’s been on before I arrived has dulled her comprehension. ‘There is a way he’s connecting all of his victims. Working backwards, we’ve traced his kills. The trail ends with Roger, so we believe he was the first victim.’

  I give her a moment to digest what I’ve just told her.

  Hope shines in her eyes. ‘Does this mean I’ll be able to claim off the police?’

  Not being enamoured with the claim culture, I can’t begin to imagine what type of lawsuit she’s considering. If the world has any justice left, she’ll be sent packing by even the most fervent ambulance-chasing lawyer.

  ‘I don’t know anything about that.’ She may be able to detect the contempt in my voice. I don’t care either way. ‘I’m here to ask you a few questions about your husband in the hope we can find out who killed him.’

  ‘Oh yeah. Sure.’ Now there may be a chance for her to make a few bucks she’s all ears. No contrition or emotion, but plenty of ears.

  ‘The obvious first question is – did Roger have any enemies?’

  A shrug. ‘We all got folks who don’t like us.’

  ‘Was there anyone he’d fallen out with? Argued over money, perhaps?’

  ‘You didn’t fall out with Roger. Not if you knew what was good for you.’

  I try again. ‘Did he owe anyone money?’

  ‘He owed on the car but it was some kind of lease deal.’ She looks at the carpet. ‘Roger didn’t believe in running up debts.’

  I detect a subtext to what she is saying. Looking at her and her home it doesn’t take Sherlock Holmes to realise she’ll be lucky if she has two cents to rub together.

  Nobody with her lack of personal hygiene and general appearance will be hired by anyone looking to fill a customer facing position. Therefore, the only work she’ll be eligible for will be factory style work. Except Casperton doesn’t have any factories.

  With debts looming over her, the future will be bleaker than the past. Every day the debts remain unpaid will see them grow. With her as good as unemployable, state handouts will stop her starving, but there will be little quality to her life. By today’s standards, the twenty-four-inch flat-screen in the corner is a sign of poverty.

  The man whose boots lie discarded on the carpet won’t be a prize catch if he’s prepared to tolerate the filth she lives in.

  I try another angle. ‘You may not like this, but was he seeing anyone else?’

  ‘No!’ The word and shake of her head both carry vehemence.

  ‘Are you sure? You didn’t hear anything after his accident?’ Sometimes people learn a lot about their partners after they die or part from each other. Friends and family members fall over each other to break the news they didn’t dare beforehand. In a twisted way, they believe they’re helping with the healing process. What they’re actually doing is rubbing salt into an open wound. Instead of being thankful for the good times and happy memories, the person remaining has no
thing left to cherish.

  ‘I’m positive, damn you.’ A sneer curls her lip. ‘Don’t think I ain’t seen the way you’ve been looking down on me. I ain’t always looked like this.’

  To emphasise her point, she rummages in a drawer and pulls out a framed picture. When she shows it to me, I see her arm in arm with a tall beefy guy.

  Perhaps it’s the nurse’s uniform distorting my opinion, but while she’s no knockout in the picture, she’s several leagues above where she is today.

  ‘Sorry if I’ve offended you, but it’s something I had to ask.’

  She doesn’t speak. Again her eyes fall to the carpet. Or whatever is covering the carpet.

  I don’t tell her, but her logic is wrong. Working at the Tree for so long, I have seen every possible reason for a fight and the majority have been started over the fairer sex. Either one man is chasing another’s wife, or a woman’s flirting achieves the desired effect and makes her partner jealous. Hands get raised and blood gets spilled.

  The next night, or week, the drama will be repeated by different characters. There may be a subplot or a twist, but it’s the same drama every time.

  One thing it’s taught me is, regardless of who’s waiting for them at home, some people will always stray. It’s one of the reasons I stay more or less single; I’m one of them.

  ‘What about his work, you mentioned something of a… dispute?’

  ‘Asshole foreman thought Roger was on the take. He mighta been a lotta things but he wasn’t never a thief.’

  ‘You said before, people who knew what was good for them didn’t argue with Roger. What did you mean by that?’

  She turns her head to one side. ‘Just that he was a big man who could take care of hisself. He weren’t no troublemaker, but when it found him he could deal with it.’

  Alfonse probably says the same about me.