by Graham Smith
The smell in the office is now of stale bodies and despair. The chief and Doenig have joined us at regular intervals but we’ve had nothing worthwhile to tell them.
Everything we’ve looked at has checked out the same way, and the crime scenes are too public to yield specific samples.
Cross matching the samples for DNA is something Doenig has pushed through the FBI lab, but as with every government department, they’ve suffered cutbacks in both personnel and budget. The soonest they can get us the answers we need is two days away.
My cell beeps, but when I pull it out expecting yet another snarky message from Mother, I see it switching itself off. The battery has given up – I’ve never thought to charge it.
The chief walks into the room, his face all grey stubble and greyer skin. If we don’t catch the Watcher soon, he may well die of exhaustion. He needs twelve hours’ sleep, a hearty meal and then another half day in bed.
Cuthbert takes the opportunity to head for the bathroom. Since being detailed as my bodyguard he’s never been more than six feet away from me.
‘Got anything yet?’
‘Not a thing. What about your end?’
‘Zilch. We’ve traced as many of the people at the nature reserve as we can, but none of them saw anything.’
‘What about the last victim? She was supposed to be meeting her date at seven, wasn’t she?’
‘We’ve spoken to him. He was at work all day and then his roommate vouches for him from the time he left work until he went to meet her.’ He kneads his temples. ‘After being stood up he sank a couple of beers and went home. Her cell had four missed calls and a succinct message from him, but his whereabouts are vouched for from leaving work until he went to bed.’
I know it isn’t the date, but he still has to be checked out. There’s something nagging me about the last kill, but I can’t figure out what.
The timeline between Norm Sortwell finding Ian Yarwood’s body and his cousin dying is so short it means the Watcher is escalating his kills with increasing rapidity.
There were less than eight hours between the two events and it doesn’t seem credible someone could have learned who Norm was, traced his family, executed a kill then dumped a body in such a short time frame.
If I didn’t know it was impossible, I’d start to think Norm was supposed to find Yarwood’s body.
Alfonse bursts into the office as Cuthbert is closing the door behind him. Cuthbert’s hand flies into his jacket and emerges with a gun. He’s halfway towards aiming it when he recognises Alfonse.
‘I think I may have found him.’
‘Who?’ Three voices speak as one.
‘When I started looking into the first…’
The chief beats me to the interruption. ‘Tell us the who first. Then you can explain how you’ve found him.’
‘It’s Norm Sortwell.’
There’s a stunned silence until I wave a hand at Alfonse. ‘Why do you think it’s him?’ It’s tough to believe when his cousin is the latest victim.
‘As I was saying. When I started to look into Ingerson’s family, I found out his wife used to be a nurse. A few weeks after he was killed she was fired.’
‘Why?’
‘The clinic she worked at was sued for infecting a patient with HIV from a dirty needle. She was the nurse who had used the needle. The case was settled out of court by the insurers.’ Alfonse gives a grim smile of self-congratulation. ‘The patient who was infected had already died by the time this all happened. Her name was Melanie and she was married to Norm Sortwell. The same Norm Sortwell who found Ian Yarwood’s body.’
The chief shakes his head. ‘Coincidence. His cousin was killed.’
‘Here, I’ve printed out everything I found so you can check it for yourselves.’ Alfonse pulls a sheaf of papers from his briefcase.
He sits down at a desk and starts to boot up his laptop while we absorb what he’s told us.
I let the chief and Cuthbert read the printouts Alfonse has supplied. I trust his judgement, but I need to work it through my own mind before fully accepting his accusation.
Starting at the beginning I put together a mental chain of events. Faith Ingerson’s stupidity or laziness caused Norm’s wife to catch a deadly virus. He’d sued the clinic after Melanie’s death. The settlement he’d received wasn’t enough for him though, he had wanted to see her punished.
After losing his own spouse, he must have decided it was fitting for her to lose hers. Where his selection process had come from or why he’d carried on killing is still unknown but there is always the possibility he’d got a taste for it or had suffered a mental breakdown of some kind after his wife’s death.
‘Did you have chance to look into him?’
‘Yeah. It’s not pretty. He was in the Marines for years. Done all the usual tours, Helmand, Baghdad and so on. I also looked at his medical records. He’s now got full blown AIDS.’
I think of Norm’s appearance. The gaunt face, depleted body tissue and the belt showing used holes where he’d lost weight.
He is dying and knows it. Perhaps he wants to go out with a bang or just get even with the world for the hand he’s been dealt. Maybe the twin blows of losing his wife and contracting a death sentence saw his mind disintegrate.
The chief’s voice is laced with doubt as he turns on Alfonse. ‘Hang on a minute. Sortwell was under police guard from the moment he found the body until his cousin was discovered. There’s no way he could have killed her.’
Alfonse’s face is filled with dismay at having his logic unpicked.
‘I think you’re wrong, Chief.’ I ignore his sneer and press on. ‘I reckon the cousin was killed and dumped before he called in the body he supposedly found. He’s using us to provide the alibi you’ve just stated. Have you had a time of death for her yet?’
He doesn’t speak. Instead he reaches for the nearest telephone.
Cuthbert has a cell to his ear and I can hear him requesting someone joins us. I guess it’s Doenig.
Since Alfonse arrived, a new energy has filled the room. It’s banished the odours of defeat and helplessness and is energising tired limbs with a sense of purpose.
The more I think about it, the more I believe Norm Sortwell is the Watcher. As a former Marine he’ll have the necessary skills to have made the kills. Plus, he’d be able to get close to his cousin to kill her. While we still don’t have a cause of death, there are too many inconsistencies about her death fitting into the narrative of someone else killing her so soon after Yarwood’s body was discovered.
First there was the missed date. She’d posted about it on Facebook and there were clothes laid out ready on her bed. Judging by the length of the skirt and the fancy underwear, it wasn’t a date she planned to miss.
Second, if she’d changed her mind about the date why hadn’t she called or messaged the guy. She was a professional woman in her forties, not some immature teen. With the ease of cell messages as a way of communication, being stood up is becoming a thing of the past.
Third, if she had decided to miss the date, why weren’t the clothes put away? Where was she for the five and a half hours between leaving work and Norm finding Yarwood?
Fourth, no woman I’ve met in the last five years would go anywhere without her cell and purse. Both of which Josie had left behind if she’d left the house of her own volition.
Everything I can think of suggests Josie had been killed before she was due to go on the date. Therefore, the Watcher had got to her between her arriving home at five-thirty and getting dressed for the date at say six-thirty. This left a one-hour window.
Remembering how long Sharon used to spend in the bathroom, I know an hour isn’t a lot of time for a woman getting ready for a date. Especially the kind of date the lacy underwear on the bed suggested.
Josie wouldn’t have wanted anyone to disrupt her. All but close family members would have been shunned or rescheduled. Norm was family and would be allowed in, even if only for a
few minutes. A trained Marine wouldn’t need more than seconds to kill a defenceless woman.
The chief hangs up his call as Doenig enters the room. His expression is unchanged apart from a slight lifting of the eyebrows.
‘You’re right, Boulder. Dr Green says the time of death was around seven o’clock last night give or take an hour or two.’
As the chief brings Doenig up to speed, I ask Alfonse what he’s working on.
‘What you got, buddy?’
‘I’ve been taking a closer look at Norm Sortwell. His Marine psyche evaluation has him as a natural killer. He felt no emotion or compassion for his targets, he just did what he had to do.’ He looks at me with fear in his eyes. ‘A lot of what he did was classified and passworded to death. I’ve only scratched the surface, but from what I’ve seen, I would guess he was one of the go-to-guys for the really crazy missions.’
‘So we’ve got a trained killer who is dying from an incurable disease.’ I shoot a look towards Doenig and the chief. ‘Correct me if I’m wrong, but that doesn’t sound like a good combination.’
Doenig fires a lump of questions at the three locals in the room and then lays out what we’re going to do.
I like the sound of his plan. As much as I’d like to pound on Norm, taking down someone as dangerous as him when he’s nothing to lose is a job for the SWAT team Doenig’s going to call in.
The one part of his plan I’m against, is that I’m to join my family at the motel.
Any protestations I make are shouted down by three different voices. I do everything apart from get down on my knees and beg, but they are resolute. My place is with my family under armed guard.
With the decision made, Doenig spits orders at everyone in the room including Alfonse.
He wants to know everything about Norm. His address, the car he drives, its licence plate, hangouts, friends, credit card history and a dozen other details including the National Guard strength in Casperton, the number of police officers and the weapons the chief has.
Alfonse gives him most of the answers he’s looking for regarding Norm and the chief supplies the rest.
77
Cuthbert is with me as I leave the police station. His instructions are seared into my mind. Move fast, but don’t run. Keep your eyes open, but don’t gawp like a tourist.
The idea is simple. He’s taking me to the motel without causing a big fuss about it. A full phalanx of armed guards would be a serious giveaway if Norm is watching. It would show that all of a sudden we’ve got more nervous. If he’s as bright as we think he is, he’ll know why.
The last thing Doenig wants is for him to go to ground or disappear. He’d much sooner leave him be until the SWAT team arrive and then pinpoint him by triangulating his cell.
It makes sense. Other than knocking Steve out while killing Angus Oberton, the Watcher hasn’t harmed any innocents. I’m not sure if Cuthbert falls into that category as an FBI agent, but I’m glad he’ll be with me.
The bulletproof vest I’m wearing under my shirt is cumbersome and inhibits my movements but I didn’t grumble when it was suggested and I’m not complaining now.
All of the Watcher’s kills have taken place up close, but I’m not prepared to gamble on being his first distance kill.
As I climb into the Mustang, I wonder if turning the key will trigger an explosion. I hesitate for a moment before rationalising it has spent the day sitting outside a police station beside a busy thoroughfare.
I turn the key as Cuthbert reaches for the door lock. Three times he presses the button down without success.
‘It’s bust.’ I’ve been meaning to drop it off with Lunk for weeks now, but have never gotten around to it.
His sigh carries more criticism than a dozen of Mother’s shouty messages.
We’re halfway to the motel when Cuthbert startles me with some of his typically abrupt sentences.
‘There’s a red suburban three cars back. It has followed us from the station. Norm Sortwell drives one of those.’
I curse myself for missing it and resist the urge to bury my foot into the gas pedal. It’s tempting to floor it and get to the safety of the motel quicker but the sudden burst of speed would be a red flag to Norm. So would me taking detours along side streets in an effort to lose the tail.
What is needed are calm nerves and a steady behaviour. There’s two of us, we’re both carrying guns and we’re in early evening traffic. He’s never broken cover by doing anything in a public place. As long as he thinks he’s undetected, he’ll wait for a chance when he feels the odds are in his favour.
Taking a left onto Fourth, I’m watching the mirror as much as the road ahead when I hear the parp of a horn. Seeing I’ve crossed halfway onto the other side of the road, I jerk the wheel to return the car to where it should be and fix my eyes on what’s in front of me.
Clearing Fourth I swing onto I40 a half mile from the motel. It’s a straight drive now along a nice piece of highway. If it comes to it, I’m confident my Mustang will outrun his suburban.
As we’re approaching the railroad crossing the barrier starts to lower and the lights flash their amber warning. I consider stamping on the gas but the gap is too small and there’s no point risking our lives to escape someone who isn’t yet trying to kill us.
I glance in the rear-view mirror as I draw to a halt. I see nothing but darkness behind us. No headlights, no dark shapes that could be cars without lights on. Nothing.
The train arrives at the crossing in a rumble of clanging metal and repetitive clatters as it thunders across the rails. It’s one from the oilfields, which means it’ll be a long one. A mile or more in total, still accelerating, it’ll take a couple of minutes at least to pass.
Reassured by the lack of headlights behind us, I relax a little and rotate my shoulders to try and alleviate the tension which is knotting them. It doesn’t work.
Cuthbert is looking round the car like a human lighthouse. The faint light from the train is casting shadows and shapes back at us, along with our own reflections in the windows.
Something hard lands on the car’s roof just above my head causing both Cuthbert and I to look to my side of the car.
There’s the tiniest fraction of a second between a second clunk and the passenger door being opened. Norm Sortwell is there and he’s holding a Taser in his free hand.
There’s a buzzing sound and a blue flash as the Taser hits Cuthbert’s neck. So quick is Norm’s movement, the FBI agent never gets a chance to even see his aggressor.
I know my hand is reaching for the gun I’ve placed in the centre console, but all my senses are focused on Norm and the gadget in his hand.
A whiff of scorched flesh assaults me as I fumble for the weapon.
I’m too slow.
The last thought I have as Norm reaches over Cuthbert’s twitching body and presses the hot tines of the Taser against my neck is that I’m about to be at his mercy. Instead of trying to get the gun I should have been trying to knock the weapon out of his hand. Or maybe opening the door so I could stand up and fight him.
As he presses the button on the Taser, I feel my body convulse as the current does its job and incapacitates me. There’s pain at first, but that gives way to a confused anger as my limbs refuse to obey any command I try to give them.
I’m aware of things but they don’t make sense. All five of my senses are gathering information as usual but my brain isn’t able to process it. Instead there’s just a jumble of mixed-up data.
The rattle of wheels on rails is fighting the smell of cooked flesh. My limbs bang of various parts of the car as they spasm. My eyes see the kaleidoscope of shadows thrown by the passing train and my mouth is filled with the acrid taste of defeat.
I don’t know where Norm has got to, but I can’t control myself enough to look in one direction with any clarity. Even if I do know where he is, I can’t mount any kind of defence in this state.
Nothing happens for a minute except Cuthbert and I th
rashing about as we try to garner control of our bodies. He’s making some kind of gargling noise. At first I think he’s struggling to breathe, then I realise he’s trying to speak. Maybe it’s his tongue or my confusion, but I don’t understand what he’s trying to say.
My door opens and a shadow appears. I recognise Norm as strong hands bunch into my shirt, haul me out of the car and dump me onto the tarmac.
I try to fight him as he drags me by the collar, but the Taser’s effect hasn’t dissipated enough to give me any control of my arms or legs.
Norm stops dragging and stoops over me. I feel my shirt being torn off my back and the bulletproof vest being removed. A hand grasps my belt and another rests underneath my armpit.
The tarmac below me gets further away as Norm lifts me into the trunk of his car. My feeble attempts to struggle resemble a baby splashing in a bath. The lid comes down and I’m left in darkness. Cramped in a small space with twitching limbs.
78
I focus on my watch’s second hand to drive away the confusion in my mind. As the pointer begins its fourth trip around, a measure of control comes back to my arms and legs.
From the front of the car I can hear loud music. It’s the kind of stuff played at the Tree. I recognise the song as ‘Drowning Man’ by U2 just as it fades out and the bluesy opening of ‘Black Water’ by the Doobie Brothers filters in.
With brain and body functioning again. I run through my options. They’re more than limited.
First I concentrate on trying to escape. The lock mechanism of the trunk is encased in the bodywork of the car. If I had a set of wrenches and sockets I may be able to gain access and pop the lock.
Wriggling around, I use my fingertips to search for a release lever. If I can get into the back seat, there’s a chance I can overpower Norm before he brings the car to a halt. I fumble along the rear of the seats but find no release catch or lever.
With escape ruled out, I shift my focus onto defence. Believing attack is always the best kind, I start feeling around for a weapon. Anything will do – a screwdriver to jam into his gut, a wrench I can use as a club or ideally one of his murder tools. All I find is a plastic bottle filled with some kind of liquid.
