Devil's Pasture

by Richard Bannister

  Pushing herself away from her desk and stretching, she saw Dixon bearing down on her. A shortish bald man with wire-rimmed glasses, he always wore a checked shirt and jeans. Kayla often wondered if he had any other style clothes. A look of irritation showed on his face as he spoke to her:

  "Walk with me, Ellis."

  He led her into a small Japanese garden at the rear of the press building. Once they were outside, he paused to light a cigar.

  "The police are chewing my ass for information about what your friend Beth Gervais was working on. I haven't looked what she has in process on the server, because according to the Tribute Newsgroup who own us, it's better if I don't know. Their wretched attorney, Schwartz, seems concerned I might commit perjury."

  Kayla grunted, "Uh-huh," waiting for a shoe to fall.

  "I've always given you the latitude to pursue stories at your own pace, but you're falling behind in your responsibilities. Your readers won't put up with an absence of articles for more than a couple of days, and neither will I. What's your next column about?"

  "I have access to the source who was feeding information through Matt to Beth. I'm planning some hard-hitting articles, and the first will focus on police incompetence in the Bennett investigation."

  "Is this the same information Beth had? The cops think that's what got her killed. Be very careful, young lady," Max admonished. Kayla wondered how many more people were going to tell her the same thing.

  "I'm on the verge of a career-changing story."

  "You won't get a Pulitzer working in this city. If awards are what you want, you need to get a job at one of the nationals. You're not Woodward or Bernstein. We all need to know our place in the big scheme of things. The Examiner is a small-town newspaper, and we publish local news. You know—the fair is coming next week; Main Street is closed for repairs."

  "I have no problem with that, but I do need to follow this story to see where it leads."

  "It won't be a career-changing story if you're dead. I've already lost one employee, and another is in a coma. I cannot afford to lose you. If you insist on working on controversial topics while there are killers on the loose—killers who seem bent on attacking journalists—you should consider staying at a secure location. I own a secluded cottage that no one knows about. It's a little way out of town, and you're welcome to stay there."

  "I'll think about it," Kayla fibbed. Max was a letch who was always eyeing up female reporters. He had put his hand on a few butts over the years, Beth's included, that much she knew for sure. But Kayla never knew whether to believe the rumors of goings-on at the cottage between Max and reporters, or ex-sports editor, Millie Price's claim that Max had raped her during an evening of heavy drinking there three years ago. Millie had shared with Kayla that she went to the police, and spoke to Detective Townsend, but was told it would be a case of he said she said. Millie had quit and was working in San Fran. They could all be lies—reporters could be fanciful, and Millie, in particular, was known to embellish stories—but Kayla didn't want to discover the truth first-hand. She resolved to move out of Brockway Apartments, but not into a place for which Max Dixon had a key.

  "Watch out, young lady." Max's face was stern. "If you don't pull out of your slump, your career here will be in jeopardy."

  CHAPTER 32

  I ARRIVED HOME from the hospital at 7 p.m., feeling exhausted, and more than a little dejected about Hildegard's escape. It was hard to believe he got on a work-release program without help from the prison staff. It was also suspicious that he escaped while working at Olsen's construction site. I was positive I'd seen Marcus Pascoe there, right before I received a bang on the head that knocked me unconscious. And now this. Was Hildegard already planning his escape when he had his girlfriend send the threatening letter?

  Once inside my cottage, I checked that the windows and doors were all locked before kicking off my shoes, removing the police badge from my belt, and tossing it onto the dresser with my flashlight and an extra clip for my Sig Sauer. Monday, Wednesday, and Friday evenings, I went to the local climbing wall; weekend evenings were for crashing.

  Although I wasn't seeing Doctor Kate, the shrink anymore, I was trying to work on the healthy living ideas she recommended. Doing something to promote my personal growth was a bust. Not thinking of my work as my life was problematic when it took up eighty percent of my waking hours. Listening to classical music was an easy one as it has always helped me clear my head after a long day. I opened my laptop and kicked off the Brandenburg Concerto no 3 in G Major on Spotify, playing it through my Bluetooth speakers.

  Needing to prepare something for dinner, I rose and stretched. My kitchen was tiny but workable. I sautéed a diced chicken thigh with sliced zucchini, bell peppers, onion, and mushrooms in a skillet. You can only heat so many chunks of meat and vegetables in a pan before boredom threatens your efforts. But that evening, I just needed nutrition.

  It had been a mistake to listen to my messages right before leaving work. Townsend and the mayor were both demanding progress reports. If I gave them a data dump, it wouldn't look pretty, and Townsend would try to further micromanage my case. Sending detectives on wild goose chases was one of his specialties.

  I sipped a glass of Sauvignon Blanc and reviewed my case notes, while I jabbed at the skillet with a spatula. Two women had been murdered—the mayor's assistant, Ashley Logan, and Beth Gervais, a journalist. She was writing an article about developers Joey Sands and Jack Bennett. Two years ago, the two developers were seeking to build an apartment complex on land owned by Buddy Olsen. The site was zoned commercial, so they needed a variance from the planning commission. The rumor mill said Mayor Vicki Whitehead took bribes to greenlight the project.

  Marcus Pascoe claimed to be the bagman who paid off subcontractors renovating the mayor's house. When detectives threatened to send him back to jail for a parole violation, he agreed to tape Whitehead and Sands incriminating themselves. Then Pascoe suddenly vanished with a suitcase full of money. Investigators surmised he was either dead or hiding in a third world country.

  I didn't know what to make of him surfacing today at the DMV construction site. Olsen was reputedly a mean bastard, and one of the people Beth had phoned repeatedly in the days before her death. Had Pascoe or one of Olsen's workers whacked me on the head, trying to deter me from investigating further?

  Matt Baker was the IT guy from The Examiner where Beth worked. When I interviewed him, he implied he worked closely with Beth on her articles. I got the impression that his computer research methods were shady, to say the least. Did he find something incriminating online? Then, Baker was kidnapped, tortured, and left for dead.

  Crimes we rarely see in a city like Stockbridge.

  Beth and Ashley's execution-style deaths, the search of their house, the fire, and the torture all spoke of someone trying to control an incriminating leak. Pascoe's bribery allegations were thoroughly investigated at the time of his disappearance. But did Beth find incriminating evidence missed by detectives? Did Mayor Whitehead have the two women killed to silence them? I couldn't see someone taking such desperate measures to hide a bribery scandal. Unless it was a part of something much bigger. It would take a major operation with wiretaps, stakeouts, and warrants to thoroughly investigate the Mayor. Such an operation wouldn't be approved based on rumor and innuendo—which was all I had. My only course of action was to keep working the evidence from the killings and see where it led.

  I transferred my dinner to a plate, set it on the table, and poured myself another full glass of Sauvignon Blanc.

  The Bennett case likely had no connection to my investigation, but something about it nagged me. Was it because Jack had been partners with Joey Sands, one of my current persons of interest? Or how quickly Townsend pronounced his death a suicide? I resolved to look at the case file, the next time Townsend was out of the office, and to talk to Jack's wife, Angie. But I had to be careful. Working off the books on a closed case could get me fired.

&nb
sp; Maybe I'd sustained a concussion at Olsen's construction site because the second glass of wine had more of an effect than usual. Or perhaps I was over my withdrawal from the Desyrel. After several nights of interrupted sleep, either was fine with me. I put my dirty dishes in the sink, took off my shirt and pants, and flopped onto the bed in my underwear. Moments later, I fell into a dreamless sleep. Neither Jake's death nor crashing helicopters troubled me all night.

  CHAPTER 33

  ON SUNDAY MORNING, I scanned up and down the street before exiting my car. Dirk Hildegard could be anywhere. Despite Chief Kane's assurances, I knew it was only a matter of time before he came after me. There hadn't been any local sightings of the escaped prisoner, but his rap sheet was a testament to his ability to move around unnoticed as he burglarized homes and businesses.

  Seeing nothing suspicious, I shut off the engine and climbed out. The semi-frosted glass front of Core Fitness Gym was at the end of a strip mall. I pushed through doors embossed with stick men and women exercising. The treadmills were mostly occupied, and several people were grunting in the weight area. At the reception desk, a young woman with spiky blond hair and a nametag reading Kat, rattled off the latest offers before I could introduce myself. She started to ask which membership option I wanted but stopped short at the sight of my badge. I gave her the names of the two dead women, along with their photographs.

  Kat typed into her computer and said, "They're not members here."

  "Take another look." I lifted the glossies closer to her face. Detective's Assistant Jackie Orvar had tipped me off she'd frequently seen both women working out here with Kayla Ellis, the reporter.

  "Um, I might have seen them," Kat said as if it was a great effort to retrieve her thoughts. "Talk to Wilkes. He's the manager here. He should know." She pointed a red, white, and blue fingernail toward the rear of the gym.

  I found Wilkes chatting up a Kat lookalike. His hair was greasy and his beard like a tangle of dried brush. A look of annoyance spread across his face when I flashed my badge.

  "Did either of these women have lockers here," I asked.

  "The blond was hot, but I haven't seen either of them in a few days. Their monthly payments are past due. I was about to clear both of their lockers out." Wilkes snickered to the Kat lookalike.

  "I want you to open their lockers up."

  "You'll be needing a warrant to do that," Wilkes smirked.

  "If I come back with a warrant, we'll take your computers apart to check and see what type of porn you're into; then we'll lock sniffer dogs in your office and car until they find your stash." The Kat lookalike stiffened, traded looks with Wilkes, and hurried out of the room.

  Wilkes swaggered over to a bank of lockers, pulled out a huge bunch of keys on a long chain, and opened two adjacent ones. Peering inside, he leered, "Mmm, you've gotta love those hot pink panties. I should have pulled those out earlier."

  "Go and stand over there," I ordered and pointed to a spot twelve feet away. I guessed we'd find a stash of panties in Wilkes' office.

  He obeyed grudgingly.

  Both lockers held a change of underwear, gym clothes, and tampons. Removing a pair of jeans from Beth's, revealed a padded book with a floral cover design. The type sold by greeting card stores as journals. Donning latex gloves, I opened it and saw Beth had used it to keep track of her workouts and her menstrual cycle. I fanned the pages but didn't see much of an evidentiary nature written there. Near the back, I came across papers Beth had tucked inside. The first sheet was a typed list of first and last names, with a date next to each. There were about twenty in all, and the dates spanned the past fifteen years. Three photographs were inside a folded sheet—for protection, I guessed. The pictures were the type of snaps you'd get from a store at the mall, and each depicted a child. There were two boys and one girl, each with a toothy grin. Near as I could guess, they ranged in ages from about four to eight years.

  Not trusting Wilkes, I slipped the journal and photographs into an evidence bag to keep with me. Then I sealed both lockers with tape and phoned Andrews to come and check for trace evidence.

  Seeing a CCTV camera pointing at the lockers, I asked Wilkes about security footage, and he led me into his office. It was a pigsty, with discarded food wrappers and newspapers strewn on the desk. Three 1960's style pinup calendars adorned the walls; none turned to the current month. A razor blade with traces of white powder lay in a saucer with a cigarette butt. I eyed the gym video feeds displayed on the monitors facing where Wilkes sat and figured he liked to watch the ladies exercise.

  "How long do you keep the footage?" I asked.

  "It gets overwritten every two weeks." He was shifting uneasily from one foot to the other.

  I sent a text to Andrews and said to Wilkes, "Someone will be here shortly to make a copy of the video. What can you tell me about either of the women?" I set the photos on the desk in front of him.

  "She was always complaining about something." He tapped a nicotine-stained finger on the picture of Beth. "No paper towels, too hot, too cold, one of the members was bothering her. You name it."

  "Who did she complain about?"

  Wilkes sat and worked the keyboard to his computer, bringing up a screen which showed a member's picture and details. "This guy."

  It was Patrick Whitehead, the hospital employee who'd reported the home invasion. "What did she say he was doing?" I asked.

  "Just checking her out as any normal guy would. She was a looker, you know."

  "Did you speak to him about it?"

  "Not really. No point."

  Of course, you didn't, I thought. Wandering eyes and unwanted attention was something I often ran into at gyms.

  My eyes drifted to a newspaper open on his desk. The headlines 'Police Incompetence' caught my attention.

  Wilkes followed my eyes and smirked. "Another screw up by the cops, eh?"

  I picked up the paper and took it to a seat in the reception area while I waited for Andrews.

  I read:

  POLICE INCOMPETENCE IN THE JACK BENNETT CASE

  Exclusive by The Examiner's Investigative Reporter Kayla Ellis

  As my regular readers know, this columnist has never shied away from controversy, especially when it involves our incompetent local police department. I'm writing today about a travesty of justice some ten months ago. After the shooting death of developer Jack Bennett, police were quick to rule the fatality a suicide, even in the face of eyewitness testimony showing beyond a shadow of a doubt that he was murdered. Was it due to police laziness, or was it corruption? Let us examine the facts: Jack Bennett was in his office on that fateful day when neighbors heard two gunshots. Two local heroes rushed toward the source of the commotion and discovered Jack seated in his office chair with a gunshot wound to his head, and a pistol lying by his left side. I should point out Jack Bennett was right-handed, yet he was somehow able to shoot himself in the right side of his head, then throw the pistol over to the left side of his body. His right arm was hanging down toward the floor where he would naturally drop the gun had he shot himself. Then there were the two shots. Did Bennett miss himself the first time? Really? Even the police report, which has never been released, says a nurse who treated the stricken man at the ER saw no powder burns around the entry wound. Burns that any rookie investigator knows would have surely been there if Bennett was shot from less than two feet away. Burns that had to have been there to conclude Jack Bennett killed himself. But that is not all. Jack Bennett was a regular at the local shooting range, but when he attempted this bogus suicide, he somehow shot himself in a trajectory which grazed the top of his head and brain in a downward direction. Seriously? If any of my readers had been the investigator, would they have entertained suicide, even for a moment? Adding to the weight of this evidence, the two heroes who rushed to Bennett's aid both reported hearing a motorcycle starting up and driving away at high speed.

  But wait, you say, what would be the motive for Jack Bennett's murder? Newly disco
vered documents reveal he and his business partner, local developer and construction company owner Joey Sands, were having money troubles at the time. Also, exclusive to this column, are documents showing Bennett had discovered evidence implicating other local bigwigs in an illicit venture. Did those same big cheeses pressure the police department and specifically Chief Kane to push for the trumped-up finding that Jack Bennett killed himself? When you, my faithful readers, now know the truth.

  Keep reading this column, as I delve deeper into this and other local scandals, including the current police investigations into the deaths of Examiner reporter Beth Gervais and her partner, Ashley Logan. Are police deliberately overlooking evidence in that case too? Stay tuned.

  How the hell did the press get this kind of detail, I wondered? I made a mental note to read the Bennett report myself. My mind drifted back to the list I'd found. Something newsworthy must have happened to the people, but what did the dates mean? On my phone, I Googled one of the names and the corresponding date, but only spam appeared in the search results. I tried two more, with no success. Then I entered groups of dates without including the names.

  Nothing.

  Chris Andrews barreled through the glass doors.

  "Have you read this crap?" I asked, waving the newspaper at him.

  "Yeah. I was on the Bennett investigation. Some anomalies couldn't be explained, like the location of the pistol. Granted, there was no note, and his death was a surprise to everyone who knew him, but we never found signs of anyone else being there." Andrews replied. "But they don't ask my opinion when they're deciding something like that."

  I handed him the evidence bag holding the book and told him about the list of names and the photos, as we walked to the lockers. I watched Andrews dust them for fingerprints and helped him catalog the contents. I guessed Wilkes's prints would already be on file.