by Graham Smith
‘You make a good point, Boulder.’ She drops her cigarette and marches off in her hurried style that’s more movement than progress. As short as she is, she can’t take big strides at the best of times, let alone when hampered by a tight skirt and four inch heels.
60
I let myself into Alfonse’s place. While we’re still frosty to each other, I don’t help myself to coffee or anything else.
He doesn’t look as if he’s slept. Bags hang under bloodshot eyes and his natural ebullience has all but vanished.
He needs a friend, and I need him to be my friend. Our spat has to be resolved before it becomes a rift.
‘About last night, Alfonse. I shouldn’t have said what I did.’
He doesn’t answer me for a full minute. He just sits there, staring at me. ‘No, you shouldn’t, but you’re not the only one who said the wrong thing. I just don’t see how you going off and fighting for other people’s sport can help catch whoever killed Darryl.’ He flaps his hands. ‘Now I’ve had time to think, I’m still not convinced, but I trust you know what you’re doing. I should have trusted you last night.’
The more time I’ve had to consider it, the less sure I’ve become. I could be setting myself up for a beating or just wasting my time. I can live with the beating, if getting it progresses the case.
Wasting time isn’t something I can countenance though. New victims are turning up every day. Each one killed in a horrific manner.
The publicity garnered by the videos has given the investigation a different dimension. We need to start closing in on the killers instead of reacting to their latest atrocity.
Alfonse hands me a sheet of paper with an address on it. ‘This is where Pederson’s cell was last sending out a signal.’
I fold the paper and stuff it into a pocket as he tells me about the traces he’s run on the IP addresses that downloaded the original videos.
‘Have any of them re-posted after they were taken down?’
‘Six.’ He rubs his nose. ‘I’m running traces on them now.’
‘Good. As soon as you have anything solid, let me know and also send it to Chief Watson.’
‘Well, duh.’
Sarcasm may be the lowest form of wit, but it’s how Alfonse and I communicate. The fact he’s starting to use it again is encouraging. It gives me hope that his black mood will soon lift.
‘I’ve also heard from Emily.’ Again he passes me a sheet of paper. ‘We’re not supposed to have this. She called me late last night and told me her findings from the autopsy on Gazala Kulkarni. These are the details.’
I glance at the sheet. It’s got a lot more information than the first sheet.
‘Is she doing the other autopsy yet?’
‘No. The FBI have brought in their own guy. She’s mighty pissed at being kicked out of her own morgue. Hence the fact she’s breaking rank and giving us information the FBI wants kept private.’
Emily is taking a risk and putting her career in our hands. If Gaertner finds out about this, he’ll make sure she’ll never again work as a coroner anywhere near Utah.
I let my eyes focus on the page. The details are all there, specific information lies in silent rows saying nothing. The entire page is mute.
Perhaps if I hadn’t attended the scene with Chief Watson, the report would be more informative. All it does now is force my mind to revisit the horror.
I don’t need the technical medical speak for the manner of her death. I saw how she died, the agony on her face and the brutality of her execution. What I want to know is if Emily found any clues when performing the autopsy.
Was there any foreign skin under her fingernails from where she’d scratched her attackers? Were any fingerprints found on her body? Had she been drugged? If so, what with? Were there other wounds or injuries to her body which may be used to identify a specific weapon, or location where she’d been held?
Only one of these questions is answered. Admittedly it’s answered on multiple fronts. Traces of adhesive have been found on her wrists, ankles and feet. A spectrograph test of the adhesive shows it to be from a generic brand of duct tape; a killer’s first choice of restraint.
What’s odd is that it’s been found in strips on the tops of both of her feet. She’s also got torn and strained ligaments in one ankle.
I lay the paper down, and stare at the coffee machine for a moment as I process these details along with the other facts I know about her last day on earth.
Alfonse dumps a cup of coffee in front of me with enough force to slosh half a mouthful onto the table. ‘You could have made it yourself, or even asked.’
His words jolt me back to the present.
I was imagining a young woman running for her life. Terrified that the chasing men would catch her. Arms and legs pumping like never before as her tape wrapped flats protected her feet. Breaths would be ragged as surges of adrenaline filled her mouth with a coppery taste.
She was young and fit. Her pursuers may not have been. Did she think she was getting away when her ankle twisted? I’ll never know the answer to this question, but I’ll always want to.
How she got the chance to wrap her feet and make a break for it will also nag, yet it’s her state of mind that interests me most. I hope she had the euphoric feeling she was escaping, that some part of her ordeal let her have the tiniest glimmer of hope. She deserves that much and more for her guts and ingenuity. I never knew her in life, but I find myself respecting her in death.
I narrate the movie in my mind to Alfonse.
His jaw hardens and his breaths grow loud and deliberate.
‘Stuff the police. Stuff the FBI. We’ve got to get these guys. They can’t get away with this. With killing Darryl. With kill—.’
His vehemence ebbs away as sobs wrack his body. He sinks to the floor and cups his head in his hands as his shoulders heave.
I slip down beside him and rest a hand on his shin. There for him yet not intruding. He needs the release – for too long he’s kept it together, been strong for others and not faced his own grief.
To my knowledge he hasn’t cried since his father’s funeral six years ago. Since then he’s taken care of his mother and stepped into his father’s role as head of the family. Even then his father had passed away after a lengthy battle with cancer; his death an escape from suffering, rather than a shocking act of violence.
I sit with him until he recovers his composure and stands. He doesn’t say anything and neither do I. We’ve been friends for too long for words to be necessary.
He goes to the bathroom and I brew more coffee.
Alfonse returns and gives me a small nod. I respond by pointing at the coffee I’ve poured him. We might talk about this one day and we might not. It’s his choice and I trust him to make the decision that’s right for him.
‘I’m going to head now. Can you cross-check the names on the list of people who Sherrelle refused loans to, and the owners of the vans?’
61
I follow the coordinates on Alfonse’s notes and park behind an aging station wagon. The house I’m looking for is at the end of what looks to be a good street. Lawns are trimmed and there are decent cars in most of the drives. The station wagon in front of me will be the oldest car on the street and if the jumble of tools in the back is anything to go by, it doesn’t belong to one of the residents.
The low bungalows, and lack of children or toys, make me wonder if this area of town is a kind of retirement village. The one person I see on the sidewalk is walking with a cane in one hand and a hunch across his shoulders.
A car is parked on the driveway. It’s the same make and model as Will Pederson’s. A check of the notes Alfonse gave me verifies the licence plate as his.
This is the sticky part. The last thing I want to do is knock on the door and bother them if they’re still in bed. It’s bad enough Chief Watson jumping at shadows without me being guilty of coitus interruptus.
There’s no sign of another car at the house
so I take a walk around the garden wall and peer through the garage window. I see a lawnmower, various other gardening implements and a variety of hand tools. The space where a car would go is empty.
I switch my gaze to the house, specifically the windows. The drapes are all open and the longer I watch, the less I see. No shadows pass the windows as people in the house move around. There’s no flicker from a TV or any other signs of life.
A mental image of the chief kneading his temples makes me circle back to the street and walk up the path. When I knock at the front door there’s no answer.
With Pederson’s car left here there are a dozen reasons why the house would be empty – them having gone out for breakfast being the most obvious.
I try again with the same result.
I’m at the point of giving up when a woman crosses the street. The pink tinge to her hair and velour sweats remind me of Mother.
‘Can I help you, Son?’
It’s well over a decade since I came of age, but I recognise her use of son is a generational thing. Her words are more polite than either her expression or tone.
I decide to bluff it out with an outrageous but heart-rending lie. ‘Hi, I’m wondering if you can help me? I’m looking for my uncle. My mother has taken another turn for the worse. I’ve heard he’d be at that house over there but I can’t find him. Please lady, my mother’s real sick and she wants to say her goodbyes while she still can.’
Her face softens. ‘Is that his car?’
‘Yes. Have you seen him?’
‘Not today I haven’t. There was a stranger there yesterday. Said he was a nephew of the Nelsons and was spending the night there while he repainted his own bedroom. I didn’t believe him, but he had a key so I went back to minding my own business.’
I have to bite down on a snort at the thought of a busybody minding her own business.
‘Has everyone gone out then?’
‘Who’s the everyone? The Nelsons are away on a tour of Europe.’
‘What about the nephew, have you seen him this morning?’
‘I never saw nothing of him earlier, although I heard a noise around two this morning. When I got up, I saw a panel van pulling away from there.’
I can feel a sense of dread enveloping my body, only for a wave of excitement to wash it away. If this lady has spoken to the supposed nephew there’s every chance that if Pederson has been snatched, we’ll get the first positive ID on one of the killers.
‘This nephew of the Nelsons, can you describe him for me?’ I give a helpless shrug. ‘I’m going to try a couple of places, see if they went out for breakfast.’ I repeat the shrug. ‘My uncle has a weak bladder and may well be in the bathroom so it’d be good if I know what his buddy looks like in case I miss him.’
She looks me up and down. ‘He would be about your height, perhaps a few pounds heavier although he wasn’t fat. His hair was dark, with some grey starting to show.’
‘What age would you say he was?’
‘I’m not much good at guessing people’s ages. Never have been.’
‘Go on take a guess.’ I give a conspiratorial grin. ‘He’s not here to be offended if you get it wrong.’
She returns the smile. ‘If I had to guess, I’d say he’s about forty.’
‘What about his clothes, how does he dress?’
‘He dresses well, real well. But then again, he’s a very handsome and charming man.’
‘Did he give you his name?’
‘He said it was Brian, but I’ve never heard them talk about a Brian.’
This is the kind of lady who gossips with her neighbours and pries into their family. Her not hearing of Brian speaks volumes. ‘Did you notice anything else about him; eye colour, accent, anything like that?’
Her eyes narrow. I fear I’ve overstepped the mark.
‘No. I only spoke to him for a moment.’ She folds her arms together. ‘I’m sorry I can’t be of any more help. Good day to you.’
I have my cell in my hand as I stride towards the Nelson’s front door. When I lift the fake brick from the porch I find it empty.
Perhaps the Nelsons removed the spare key before going to Europe. I’ll bet they didn’t though. This would explain why the man calling himself Brian has a key to their house.
The chief answers on the third ring. By my fourth sentence he’s barking orders and demanding to speak with Gaertner.
I finish my report and end the call before Gaertner comes on the line to yell meaningless threats. When he’s had a chance to digest this new information, he’ll realise that, while I’ve gone behind his back and carried on with my investigation, I’ve also uncovered what may be the best lead yet.
She doesn’t know it yet, but the pink-haired lady is going to be talking with a whole lot of special agents.
62
The woman’s eyes show hostility and mistrust, but those emotions are something Ms Rosenberg is used to. When you’ve earned a reputation for bringing errant politicians to account, you learn to grow a skin thick enough to cope with preconceived ideas about your motives.
Natural persistence helps, as does a dogged refusal not to accept anything but the truth.
‘I just want to get your opinion on these killings. You’re an important person in your community and as long as those heinous killers are at large, those you represent will turn to you for guidance.’
‘I ain’t no Martin Luther.’
Ms Rosenberg pounces on the softening of the woman’s expression. ‘Perhaps not, but you’re the one they come to when they need help.’
‘P’r’aps. It ain’t right for me to speak for them unasked though.’
‘I don’t want specific names or instances. You’re the only person whose name will appear in my column.’ Ms Rosenberg gives what passes for her gentlest smile. ‘Like it or not, you are the one who represents your community and, as such, your views and opinions are important. You won’t just be speaking for the black community in Casperton. Everything you are thinking and feeling will be reflected across every state in the country.’
The woman’s resistance breaks and she starts talking. Ms Rosenberg’s pen scratches out her own bastardised version of shorthand as she listens to the stories of people afraid to go about their normal lives; of rosters being drawn up to share the burden of watchfulness as the community bands together to protect itself.
When she hears of parents refusing to let their children go to school unless armed guards are present she feels her heart race as she imagines headlines. School shootings are all too common in the US and, while Casperton is under siege from racial attacks, a school in the heart of the black and Mexican community makes an inviting target.
Everything she hears makes sense and ties with her own imaginings. The minority communities are working together in the right way to protect themselves. It’s not that they don’t trust the police, it’s more them recognising how impossible their job is.
The police are doing their best to reassure the locals – she’s seen more police cars patrolling the streets than ever before – and now the FBI are involved, the level of protection is bound to increase.
She’s planning the column in her mind as her pen scratches out the woman’s words. Even though it’s only a first draft circulating in her brain, she knows it’s going to be a powerful column.
Instead of her usual diatribe against an individual, she’s planning a different tone: one of a community banding together in the face of adversity. She’s still planning a certain amount of censure, but that will be aimed towards the racists behind these brutal killings.
She knows all too well about racial targeting. Her parents were smuggled, along with a dozen other children, from the village of Otterwisch, southeast of Leipzig, into Switzerland when the rounding up of Jews began.
They’d been relocated to an orphanage in Queens and had never parted until her father passed away.
She’d done everything she could to find out about her grandparents and o
ther family members left behind. She’d taken a trip to Otterwisch after getting a tangible lead through the JewishGen website. The trip had been poignant but worthless. All traces of her family were gone. Lost as part of Hitler’s pogroms. The Germans may have tattooed prisoners, and kept records towards the end, but in the early days of the Holocaust no records or identifications were made. Jews were simply executed.
Growing up, she heard countless tales of the hardships and bigotry her parents had faced as they forged a life for themselves and their only daughter.
Now she has the chance to kick back at bigots and racists, she plans to take it. The black community’s plans for self-preservation will provide the meat of her column, but she intends to add her own fiery sauce to show defiance and revulsion.
This is no longer about reporting or getting a scoop before rivals, it’s now become a personal crusade against oppression.
63
I take a seat opposite Mother and wait for the usual bout of narcissism. She examines me from her chair. As ever, she sits bolt upright surrounded by the chintziest room imaginable.
‘What brings you here today, why aren’t you out risking your neck like before?’ She fixes me with a glare. ‘Are you trying to see me into an early grave, is that your aim?’
‘Enough.’ It’s only one word but I say it in a way that silences her. ‘We need to talk. About Dad.’
‘That worthless piece of garbage. You haven’t asked me about him for years. Why are you asking now?’
I’d believe the sneer in her voice if it wasn’t for the uncertainty in her eyes.
‘Are you sure you can’t guess?’
‘Why would I? I haven’t heard anything of that scumbag for years.’
I pounce on her mistake. ‘Don’t you mean since he walked out on us?’
‘Don’t you be arguing semantics with me, Jacob Boulder.’ The return of her Glasgow accent and use of my full name prove she’s rattled. I’m not here to upset her, but I need to know the truth about my extended family. ‘I can’t tell you what I don’t know.’
