The Jake Boulder Series: books 1 - 3

by Graham Smith

  ‘Was there any trouble he dealt with that might have come back to bite him?’

  ‘No. He did what he had to do and stopped there.’ Her fingers pick at a spot on her forehead. ‘He never whaled on a man who couldn’t fight back.’

  ‘Do you keep in touch with Roger’s family, or any of his friends?’ Perhaps one of them will have the information I need. Faith may have it, but she isn’t prepared to share it lest she inadvertently cuts off a source of possible money. ‘And if you do, have you got a contact for them?’

  She reaches inside her shirt and pulls out an old model cell.

  I try not to think too hard about where she was keeping it as she gives me a couple of names and numbers.

  64

  I notice a different air in the police station when I enter the reception. Even Darla appears subdued. Two men with dark suits and cropped hair stand by the desk. Their faces are serious yet blank. Neither looks as if a winning ticket or the death of a family member will change their expressions.

  The door to the chief’s office is closed so I give a knock and wait. There’s no answer although I can hear voices inside.

  A hand touches my shoulder. It’s one of the statues from reception. He’s being gentle so far, but I know a firmer, more insistent grip is seconds away. ‘Please step away from the door, sir. Chief Watson is busy with Special Agent Doenig. They are not to be disturbed.’

  ‘I’m working the case and need to update the chief.’ I keep my tone level and fight the impulse to engage him in a staring match.

  ‘Tell me what you got and I’ll inform them both when they’re finished with the current briefing.’

  ‘No. This is too important to wait.’ It isn’t, but he doesn’t know that.

  Taking advantage of his indecision, I’m two steps into the room before he’s had time to react.

  ‘What is it, Boulder?’ There’s irritation in the chief’s voice, but I’m confident I’m not the source.

  I make a point of acknowledging the squat guy wearing a dark suit and darker expression before turning to the chief. ‘Thought you’d want an update.’

  ‘What you got?’

  ‘Ingerson was a big man who knew how to take care of himself. The wife says he hadn’t made any enemies but I’m not so sure.’

  ‘So you know him better than his wife?’ Doenig’s voice is the raspy drawl of someone who smokes rough tobacco too often. The smell of nicotine hangs over him like a damp hammock.

  ‘Of course not.’ I’m not trying to antagonise the guy, but it has been a long day and I’m too weary to keep the scorn out of my voice. ‘But I do know guys. Ninety-nine out of a hundred don’t tell their other halves when they’ve been fighting unless there’s no way they can avoid it. Then they make a point of being the one to break the news.’

  I get a scowl but no further argument because I’m right. As much as women may like us to assume the role of protectors should trouble come along, deep down they hate to see us fighting because they’re afraid we’ll get hurt. Or worse, too used to solving problems with our fists.

  My father never showed Mother the hairy side of his hand, but she’s told me how my paternal grandfather used to beat his wife. Growing up I never knew about it but armed with hindsight and more knowledge, I remember the constant stream of bruises dismissed as ‘silly old granny falling over again.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Boulder, your cooperation is appreciated by the United States Government, but I think it would be appropriate for you to stand down now.’

  I look at the chief as he’s the man who hired me. It may be a technicality, but there’s no way I’m being sidelined.

  The chief is motionless, his face gives nothing away. Perhaps he’s auditioning for a role as a feebie statue. Then again, he’s a wise old bird who knows how to play the political game when he has to.

  By staying mute and still, he’s showing allegiance to both sides while leaving us to sort it out between us. As a law enforcer, he operates in a hierarchical system and the special agent outranks him, the counterbalance being this is his patch and the FBI will find things a lot easier with his cooperation.

  ‘You didn’t hire me, therefore you can’t fire me. I have been assisting the police, and everything I’ve learned has been shared with them at the earliest possible opportunity. I’d like that situation to continue.’ I spread my hands out. ‘You can make the arrests and take the credit. All I want is to stay involved.’

  ‘The FBI does not work with amateur sleuths, Mr Boulder.’ His face softens a fraction of a fraction. ‘But in respect of what you’ve already achieved, I think Chief Watson should one day hire you as a detective. If today should be that day…’

  The chief gets his inference a second before I do. A gnarled hand leaves his temple and opens a drawer. A badge flies my way along with a pointy-fingered admonishment.

  ‘You’re on probation until this case is over, then we’ll review your situation. You ain’t getting a gun until I know you’re competent. Understand?’

  ‘Yes, Chief.’ I decide this isn’t the best time to ask about a 401K.

  ‘Let’s get one thing clear right from the start, Mr Boulder. The FBI leads and you as a rookie detective follow.’

  Doenig waves me to a seat and starts to pepper the chief with questions about the case. His instincts are good and the points he’s interested in are the ones which have been puzzling me.

  He suggests a profiler, so I tell him what I’ve gleaned from Dr Edwards. I get a firm nod as a sign of approval but he still wants to speak to his own guy. It’s only right he does. However good the advice we’ve gotten so far may be, an experienced FBI profiler will always have better insights than a small-town psychologist.

  When Doenig is finished questioning the chief, I tell them what little I’ve learned from Faith Ingerson.

  I can see the special agent is sceptical about Ingerson being the first victim, so I explain how Alfonse traced the murders back from Kira.

  He listens, but his eyes flit around the room as I’m talking. He’s not taking it in properly, which means he’s either fixated on something else or he’s learned the hard way not to trust evidence handed to him in a nice neat bundle. If I was a gambler my money would be on the latter.

  While not accepting our evidence, I’m sure he’ll follow a lot of our footsteps. In the meantime, I can forge ahead and work the leads already developed.

  One of the FBI statues bursts in. His face grave but otherwise immobile. ‘Sir, there’s been another body found.’

  65

  Norm puts the cell back in his pocket and waits for the police to come. This is going to be fun. His family will be gathered together by the police for safeguarding, just like the families of his other victims. Not only will he be inside the police’s circle, they’ll be protecting him from the killer.

  It’s something he’s prepared for.

  His cousin wasn’t prepared. Her lack of preparation is the reason her corpse is lying naked on the trail behind Sharon Linskey’s house.

  It hadn’t taken much effort to get her alone. Always keen to interfere, she’d welcomed him into her home when he’d said he wanted advice regarding a girl he was seeing.

  Being prepared he’d brought wine. While she’d finished her dinner, he’d poured her a glass of wine and added a few drops of the poison distilled from the cartons of cigarettes. The random selection of kill methods had thrown back the latest addition.

  After just two sips of the full-bodied Merlot, she’d been lying on the floor complaining of stomach cramps. Convulsions followed, along with rapid breathing.

  Five minutes later, her breaths began slowing. After ten they stopped altogether.

  Then it was a case of stripping her body and dumping it into the trunk of his car. The implants she’d been so proud of looked odd against her flaccid body with its rolls of untoned flab.

  She won’t be missed until after she’s been discovered. Her parents had moved to Florida and her husband had r
un off with his secretary a couple years back.

  Lights flash as two cars travel round the corner.

  Norm waves with one hand while shielding his eyes with the other.

  The cars approach and park off to one side. Four men get out. As they move towards him they are illuminated by a streetlight. Norm recognises Chief Watson and Jake Boulder but not the other two. Judging by the way they are dressed, they could be feds. He hopes so. It’ll make everything so much more interesting. Plus, if the FBI are involved he’s been officially recognised as a serial killer.

  A warm feeling envelops his body.

  ‘It’s over here.’ Norm points towards the alley where he’s dumped the first body.

  He takes them behind the dumpster and lets them admire his handiwork.

  His victim lies face down. If there wasn’t a pool of blood showing by the faint glow of a distant streetlight, he could be mistaken for a sleeping drunk.

  Chief Watson uses his flashlight to sweep the area while one of the feds checks for a pulse.

  Norm knows he won’t find one. He’d made sure the man was dead before dialling 911.

  The four men say nothing, but he knows they’re thinking plenty. Each one is doing a cursory visual examination of the scene.

  The chief finishes the general look with his flashlight and starts a slow pass over the body from the feet upwards.

  Norm has to fight to make his face show revulsion instead of pride when the flashlight lingers at the top of the body’s legs. The chief steps forward for a better look at where he’d severed both femoral arteries with a scalpel.

  There’s a gasp from someone – he thinks Boulder, but he’s not sure. It doesn’t matter who, what’s important is he’s drawn a reaction.

  One of the feds touches Chief Watson’s elbow and he steps away from the body.

  Norm approaches the fed who seems to be in charge and puts panic into his voice. ‘Is this a victim of the serial killer who’s in the newspaper? Will my family be safe? Will I?’

  The fed takes a moment to answer. Norm can see him working out the correct response. ‘It’s too early to tell at this stage. As a precaution we’d like to know the names and addresses of all your family members who live in Casperton.’

  Jake Boulder picks up on the fed’s unspoken request and takes him to one side. As they go, Norm hears the chief being asked if he knows the identity of the victim.

  66

  As soon as I see the tattoos on the victim’s bare arms, I recognise him. Ian Yarwood drank in the Tree every weekend.

  A die-hard rock fan, he’s had the emblems and motifs of all his favourite bands immortalised onto his arms. In just one pass of the chief’s flashlight I’d seen the Guns ‘N’ Roses crucifix, Aerosmith’s angel wings and the Rolling Stones’ lips and tongue.

  Try as I might, I can’t recall Yarwood’s name being mentioned by Harriet, Olly or any of their family.

  Another point to consider is Yarwood’s body has been found inside the town’s limits, whereas all the obvious murder victims were dumped or displayed in more rural areas.

  The clinical way the man has been murdered smacks of our killer, yet he may not fit the selection process.

  If it’s the same killer, I wonder if he is getting cockier, more confident. The worst-case scenario is he’s started a new string after being thwarted by the chief’s preventative methods.

  The thought he may start choosing victims totally at random isn’t something I care to think about. Should his pattern have changed, he’ll be even harder to predict, let alone stop.

  I don’t know the guy who found the body, but I’m sure I’ve seen his face somewhere.

  As the chief and the feds talk among themselves, I approach the guy and start asking questions like the detective I’ve suddenly become.

  ‘Norman Sortwell. Everyone calls me Norm though.’

  ‘What time did you find the body?’

  ‘A couple of minutes before I called the police.’ He gives a helpless gesture. ‘I tried for a pulse first. When I couldn’t find one, I made the call.’

  ‘Did you see anyone else in the alley? Or someone coming out of it?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why did you go into the alley in the first place?’ This has been troubling me since I got here. The alley is a dead end. Only refuse collectors have a good reason to go down there.

  Norm gives a rueful smile. ‘I needed to take a whiz. It was quiet so I ducked into the alley.’

  ‘Fair enough.’ It is as good a reason as any. ‘Where have you been tonight?’

  ‘Nowhere special. I came out to get some milk and decided to grab a couple of beers.’

  I nod at his answers. They’re commonplace and banal, which is normal for Casperton. Only in the movies do people find bodies while doing something exciting. The exact statistic escapes me, but I know for a fact most bodies are found by dog-walkers.

  ‘We don’t know for certain if this man has been killed by the person we’re hunting, but to be on the safe side, we’ll need to bring your family into protective custody.’

  It’s hard to judge his reaction in the dim light of the alley, but I’m not convinced he’s too worried about his family.

  ‘All of them or just the ones who live in Casperton?’

  ‘Just the ones who live locally to begin with.’

  After that, who knows? There are far too many possibilities to consider.

  Has our killer made a mistake and jumped his pattern or have we missed a connection between Harriet and Yarwood?

  Perhaps it’s a copycat killer aping the guy who’s got a whole town gripped with fear. If it is we’re going to need a lot more than three FBI guys.

  I get the details from Norm. We’re in luck this time. His only relatives in town are his parents and a cousin. As we’re talking, I recognise him as one of Pete Lester’s workers.

  The FBI statue comes over and starts asking Norm the same questions I’ve just gone through.

  I leave him to it and go to update the chief. As we talk both of us are watching Doenig. He’s over by Yarwood’s body. While not close enough to contaminate any evidence, he’s near enough to inspect the body. A pen light held by a steady hand throws a narrow beam of light onto the areas he wants to inspect.

  In his other hand, his cell is displaying a faint glow as he holds it out and speaks with a soft tone. I guess he’s using it as a Dictaphone rather than having a conversation.

  The fact his face still hasn’t changed expression makes me wonder if Botox injections are part of the FBI toolkit.

  ‘What’s your thoughts on this, Boulder?’

  The chief’s face has shed weariness in favour of exhaustion.

  ‘The clinical manner of the execution points to our man, but I’m not so sure. Dr Edwards was convinced his selection process was highly important to him, but the victim’s got no connections I know of to Harriet or her family.’

  ‘You know him?’

  ‘He’s a regular at the Tree. Got a wife and two young boys.’ I remember the pride in Yarwood’s voice whenever he discussed his sons. ‘Don’t let those tattoos fool you. He was a stand up guy. Never got a whiff of trouble and I’ve often seen him play peacemaker.’

  The chief’s eyes close as he takes a deep swallow. He’ll be thinking about what he has to do next. ‘I’ll need to inform his wife before I can start asking if he’s related to Harriet or Olly.’

  I shudder at the thought of Chief Watson or another cop knocking on Yarwood’s door to tell his wife. It’s bad enough anyone getting killed, but the idea of young children losing a parent to mindless violence is abhorrent.

  Kicking the tyres of the chief’s car, I imagine coming face to face with the killer. It’s a nice thought. I won’t be worried about making an arrest. Not until I’ve inflicted some pain onto him.

  67

  Doenig takes me back to the station, leaving his cohort to protect the crime scene. The chief is on his way to break the news to Yarwood’s wi
fe after calling Darla to get an address.

  Neither Doenig nor I discuss the body as we travel back. Both of us are lost in our thoughts. There’s every chance we’re thinking the same things, but you’d never know.

  Norm sits in the back of the car for his own protection. I’m certain Doenig will give him another round of questions back at the station.

  He is chewing at his nails and moving with a nervous energy. He’s called his parents and told them to expect a visit from the police. He is trying every minute or so to contact his cousin, but whenever he tries he ends up cutting the call after a few seconds.

  My suggestion we go round to his cousin’s house is met with a blank stare by Doenig. Norm keeps at him though and he relents to the detour.

  Getting directions from Norm, Doenig drives fast with skill. There is no flamboyance, just careful considered movements of the wheel. Every turn is indicated and his braking and accelerating don’t cause the car’s occupants to be thrown forward or back. His instructors at Quantico would be proud of the way he’s travelling at twice the speed limit while still observing the niceties of driving.

  When we arrive at Norm’s cousin’s we exit the car and approach the house. It’s in darkness but so is every other house on the street.

  It’s a typical house on an average street. Nothing is remarkable or unique about it. The car parked on the drive is a mid-range saloon. Everything about the area screams bland domesticity to me. I want to leave in case it’s contagious.

  We knock on the door and ring the bell. There’s no answer.

  Doenig beats me to the obvious questions. ‘Is your cousin married? Does she have kids?’

  ‘No. Her husband left her a couple of years ago and they didn’t have kids.’

  ‘What about a boyfriend?’

  Norm tilts his head as he thinks. ‘She did say something about seeing a guy. His name was David, or Daniel. It began with a D. Do you think she’s with him?’ Hope has filtered into his voice.