“In a professional capacity; Psychology is your field isn’t it?”
“In an academic sense it is,” Willow’s face seemed to brighten up. “What are you getting at?” he said.
“Mr Willow,” Whitton said, “I know this is hard but I want you to distance yourself from all involvement in this matter.”
“What do you mean?”
“Let’s pretend you are being asked your professional opinion on an identical case. A woman is brutally murdered and a child is attacked. The father is unharmed but it is made to look like he carried out the attacks.”
“Do you think I’m being framed?” Willow said.
“Distance,” Whitton repeated, “distance yourself. What would make somebody do that?”
Willow stared straight past Whitton as though he was deep in thought.
“I see what you’re getting at,” he said finally, “revenge is always a good starting block.”
“Revenge?” Whitton said.
“Since the dawn of time, humans have sought retribution for one thing or another,” Willow began, “it is a basic human tendency; when people are wronged they seek justice.”
“Then that’s where we will begin,” Whitton said, “who would have reason to carry out such a brutal attack?”
“Are we talking hypothetically here?” Willow asked.
“For now,” Whitton replied.
“In the Bible they call it an eye for an eye,” Bridge suggested.
Whitton and Willow looked at him.
“In that case,” Willow said, “this is quite disturbing. What we are looking for is someone who lost a wife and child because of me.”
“Any ideas?” Bridge said.
“I think I’d remember killing someone’s wife and child,” Willow snarled.
“Maybe that’s not what this is all about,” Whitton suggested.
“What do you mean?” Willow said.
“Maybe whoever did this just thinks you are responsible. In their mind, you did something dreadful and you needed to be punished for it. Can you think of anybody at all who might blame you for something that happened in the past?”
“No,” Willow insisted, “I’ve never hurt anybody in my life.”
“This may sound flippant,” Bridge said, “but lets say, for example that you were to keep a student behind after class to discuss something; that student misses the last bus home and is forced to walk. While walking home the student is attacked. If you hadn’t kept them behind they wouldn’t have been attacked, ergo, it’s your fault.”
Willow shook his head.
“That’s ridiculous,” he said, “it’s like saying the butterfly that flaps its wings in Brazil is responsible for the death of the people from a tornado in Texas.”
“You’ve lost me,” Whitton said.
“Chaos theory,” Bridge said.
“It’s ludicrous that’s what it is,” Willow sighed.
“I’m afraid you’re too close to this,” Whitton said, “you’re too involved. Let me ask you one more thing though. What do people do when they’ve been wronged?”
“They look for someone to blame,” Willow replied.
“Exactly, and in this case I certain that something happened in the past and somebody believes it was your fault.”
“I’m a University Professor Detective; it’s not exactly a dangerous occupation.”
“You’re a Professor of Psychology. Is your work strictly limited to the classroom?”
“What do you mean?” Willow was becoming irritated.
“You’re an expert in your field. Do you do any other Psychology related work?”
“No, that’s all I do. A few years ago I used to do the odd evaluation but I stopped it. I don’t have the time any more.”
“What kind of evaluations?” Whitton said.
“I used to do work for law firms; psychological profiles, stuff like that.”
“Could you elaborate on that?”
“If there was a case going to trial, I was often called to the stand to give my opinion on the state of mind of some of the defendants.”
“So someone could be sent to jail based on your diagnosis?”
“Not jail,” Willow said, “my findings usually kept people out of jail. If the judge saw fit he would sometimes recommend psychiatric facilities.”
“Mad houses,” Bridge laughed.
“They prefer the term Mental Institution these days,” Willow said.
“So let’s start there then,” Whitton said.
“Is this going to take long?” Willow asked.
“Are you going somewhere?” Bridge said.
FIFTY FOUR
WOLFIE
“What kind of Police force gives a Detective Sergeant two weeks off in the middle of a murder investigation?” Whitey laughed.
“How do you know about the case?” Smith asked.
“Twenty four hour news,” Whitey replied, “I can find out anything I need to know on this baby.”
He tapped the computer screen.
“My house was broken into while I was away picking up a murder suspect,” Smith said, “one of the guys who broke in rubbed me up the wrong way.”
“I see,” Whitey said with a knowing smile, “I want you to take a look at this.”
He brought up the Face Book home page on his browser and in the search box he typed in ‘Brain of Wolfie’. A new page appeared on the screen.
“Who’s Wolfie?” Smith asked.
Whitey laughed. “Do you like cryptic crosswords?” he said.
“Not really,” Smith said, “but my colleague does; I suppose you have to have a certain kind of brain.”
“When I first started dealing with these people they traded under the name BOW Enterprises but I couldn’t figure out what the BOW stood for. One evening in a marijuana haze, purely medicinal I might add, I was reading an article about the Rainbow of Life and it struck me.”
“I don’t get it,” Smith said.
“Rainbow of Life,” Whitey said, “Brain of Wolfie, they’re anagrams of each other. The old cult was tarnished so they couldn’t use the same name but they managed to keep the name only with the letters in a different order. It was genius. The man in charge even started referring to himself as Wolfie. He became the Alpha Wolf as it were.”
“And the rest were members of his pack,” Smith added.
“Exactly. Look at this page; they have over eight hundred members all over the world. Your sister may be on here somewhere. She will probably be using a different name but there might be something on her profile that you could recognise. Be my guest, scroll down and see what you can find. Do you like Indian food?”
“Not really,” Smith said.
“I’m going to order something anyway. You’ll like their Tandouri chicken; it’s not too spicy.”
Whitey stood up from his chair. He immediately grabbed hold of the desk. Smith looked concerned.
“Dizzy spell,” Whitey said, “I get them a lot these days; nothing that a Lamb Vindaloo can’t sort out. I’ll be back in ten minutes; help yourself to another beer.”
While Whitey was gone, Smith looked at the screen in front of him. Under the title ‘Brain of Wolfie’, it read ‘Spiritual Community’. Underneath, there was a picture of a wolf in a howling stance on the top of a rainbow.
“This is freaked out,” Smith said to himself as he scrolled further down.
He clicked on the Friends icon and a list of names appeared on the screen. They were in alphabetical order. Whitey was right; most of the names seemed to be made up. There were names like ‘Lone Wolf’ and ‘Mother Wolf’ but as Smith scrolled down further, something grabbed his attention.
“Find anything?” Whitey said. He put the food on a table in the corner.
“I think this is her,” Smith said, “Moonface Wolf.”
He clicked on it.
“Moonface Wolf?” Whitey exclaimed.
“From the book,” Smith explained, “The Magic Faraway Tree.�
�
“I’m still none the wiser,” Whitey said.
“It was Lauren’s favourite book. Moonface was her favourite character; this has got to be her.”
“What does it say?” Whitey asked, “You don’t mind if I eat do you? There’s nothing worse than cold Vindaloo.”
“Eat away,” Smith said. “Moonface Wolf,” he read from the page, “the Lord and the spirit of the wolf will guide me to ultimate enlightenment. This is scary shit.”
“Click of the information tab,” Whitey said with a mouthful of curry in his mouth, “she might have set privacy limits but we may get lucky.”
“This has got to be her,” Smith was getting excited, “Female, nineteen years old.”
“Christ this is a hot one,” Whitey said as he ate, “does it give any clue as to where she might be?”
Smith carried on reading.
“Married to the community,” he said, “In Allen Station. What the hell does that mean?”
“Say that again,” Whitey said.
“In Allen Station,” Smith repeated.
Whitey spat out his food. “She’s closer than I thought,” he said.
Smith looked back at the screen.
“What does it mean?”
“Another anagram,” Whitey replied, “look at the letters. In Allen Station.”
“You’re going to have to help me on this one,” Smith said.
“Tallinn Estonia,” Whitey said.
“Where the hell is Estonia?” Smith asked, “Geography’s not my strong point.”
“Former Soviet State,” Whitey said, “very popular for stag parties I believe.”
“I’m going to find her,” Smith insisted.
“Slow down my friend. Eat your chicken, Tallinn is a big place; we need to find out a bit more first. You don’t even know what she looks like now.”
“She can’t have changed that much in ten years.”
“I did. Now just chill; we need to think. Eat your food before it gets cold. Let me demonstrate to you the wonders of the computer generation.”
He sat down at the desk.
“I’m sure I have a dormant e mail address here somewhere,” he said.
He tapped away on the keyboard like a lunatic.
“Thought so,” he said eventually, “I need your help here. What other characters did Laura like in that book?”
Smith thought for a moment.
“She liked the angry pixie,” he said, “He always made her laugh.”
“Good,” Whitey said, “you are going to be Angry Pixie 20. I’ve found a nice picture of an angry pixie here. That will be your profile picture. You are, how can I put it, searching for guidance in a chaotic world. I should have been a writer. Ok, almost done. He typed in ‘Moonface Wolf’ and clicked on ‘send friend request’. All done.”
He had a sparkle in his eyes that was not there before.
“Please tell me you have a cell phone with internet access,” he added.
Smith took out his phone; he saw he had received two messages. He handed the phone to Whitey.
“It’s slow,” Whitey said, “but it’ll do the job.”
He quickly tapped a few keys and handed the phone back to Smith.
“There,” he said, “it’s all set up; you can access this page from your phone and if Laura or who you think is Laura accepts your friend request, you’ll receive a message to notify you.”
“It is my sister,” Smith said, “I’m positive.”
“Your user name is Angry Pixie 20,” Whitey said, “and your password is Tandouri. Can you remember that?”
“Of course,” Smith said, “I am a Police Detective.”
“You had two messages from someone called Erica Whitton,” Whitey said, “Girlfriend?”
“No,” Smith replied almost too quickly, “she’s a work colleague.”
He looked at the phone. The first message read ‘Willow given us info on possible new direction to take. Looks like he was set up’. The second one said ‘Hope you find what you’re looking for. x.’ Smith smiled at the kiss at the end. As he was putting the phone back in his pocket it beeped. There was a symbol on the screen that Smith has never seen before. He handed the phone to Whitey. Whitey pressed the retrieve button.
“Angry Pixie 20,” Whitey said, “you are now friends with Moonface Wolf. This is going to be interesting.”
FIFTY FIVE
THE PURLOINED LETTER
Thursday 7 January 2009
“Please tell me you have something for me Whitton,” Chalmers said, “as you know, the Super has his annual crime stats presentation next week and this unsolved murder of ours is going to drag his figures right down.”
“Can I ask you something sir?” Whitton said.
“Fire away.”
“How did the Super reach such a high position in the force? I mean, anybody who knows him thinks he’s a complete buffoon.”
“He went to the right school and he knew the right people Whitton. Don’t be so bloody naïve; that’s the way things work in this job. Eton, Oxford, high power job. Intelligence doesn’t even come into it. What did you get from Willow?”
“He was a bit reluctant at first,” Whitton began, “but he’s given us a different direction to take; it could be someone with a grudge.”
“That’s some grudge,” Chalmers remarked. “You’d better get moving on this. Willow is due in court next week. The press have already labelled him a wife killer. He’s going down for this one unless we find something.”
“Willow has given us a list of consultancy work he used to do. Me and Bridge are going to check it out.”
“Have you heard from Smith?” Chalmers asked.
“No sir,” she replied, “should I have?”
“It’s just that you and him are pretty tight; I think you’re the only one he trusts.”
Whitton blushed.
“I’d better get cracking sir,” she said.
Her phone buzzed in her pocket.
“Sorry sir,” she said.
“Answer the bloody thing,” Chalmers insisted.
It was Smith.
“Detective Whitton,” she said.
“Why so formal Whitton,” Smith joked, “you could see it was me. Are you busy?”
“Busy with a case,” she said quietly.
“Is the DI there?” Smith was astute.
“Yes.”
“Put the phone on speaker,” Smith said, “he needs to hear this too.”
Whitton did as she was asked.
“Morning sir,” Smith said.
Chalmers looked around the room in confusion; he was not quite up to date with technology.
“I’ve put the phone on speaker sir,” Whitton said, “Smith has thought of something.”
“Where are you Smith?” Chalmers said.
“Spending a bit of quality time with an old friend,” Smith replied.
“Who’s that?”
“Nobody you know sir.”
“What have you got for us Smith?” Chalmers said, “We haven’t got much time; Willow is almost certainly going to be sentenced to jail next week.”
“We’ve been stupid sir,” Smith said, “all this time we’ve been trying too hard; we’ve been concentrating all our efforts on something we think is deeply hidden.”
“You’re talking in riddles Smith.”
“Where’s the best place to hide something?”
“Where nobody would ever think of looking for it I suppose,” Chalmers replied.
“Exactly and where’s that?”
“Spit it out Smith.”
“Have you ever heard of Detective Dupin sir?”
“Never heard of the bloke.”
“The Purloined Letter,” Whitton said.
“The what?” Chalmers was becoming agitated.
“Purloined, stolen sir.”
“I know damn well what purloined means Whitton.”
“Let me explain sir,” Smith said, “Edgar Allen Poe wrote a s
hort story. The Purloined letter. A letter was stolen, an important letter and the owner of the letter was being blackmailed so she contacted the Police so they could help her find it. This is my point. The Paris Police are very competent and this is what the thief who stole the letter is banking on. They tear open walls and search every conceivable place for the letter but they still can’t find it.”
“Smith,” Chalmers said, “get to the point.”
“This detective Dupin, an amateur detective I might add, searches the room and finds the letter immediately.”
“Where was it?” Chalmers was suddenly interested.
“In plain sight sir. It had been placed in a card rack where everyone could see it.”
“So what you’re saying is,” Chalmers said, “we need to look at what’s been in front of our faces the whole time.”
“Who else can be placed at the Willow place around the time Wendy Willow was murdered? Who was also at the babysitter’s place?”
The room was silent.
“Who even helped us to solve the babysitter’s murder?”
“The taxi driver!” Whitton exclaimed.
“Our friend Dave,” Smith said, “not only was he there but he still hung around afterwards; he was more than willing to help. He was in our bloody faces the whole time; he even brought my dog back to my house.”
“I still can’t see it,” Whitton said, “Dave, a murderer. He seems so nice. What made you think of this?”
“Just something an old friend said,” Smith replied, “can you remember that time when Dave dropped us off at the Blues Club?”
“I won’t ask,” Chalmers said.
“You said there was something odd about him that night.”
“I remember,” Whitton said, “he seemed different from the first time we met him; he seemed agitated about something.”
“I’ll be back in a few days,” Smith said, “I’m going to make sure Martin Willow doesn’t go to jail.”
“That’s not your decision Smith,” Chalmers warned, “you’re on leave. The Super is already after my balls; I really stuck my neck out for you there.”
“I know sir, but you need me.”
“Ok Smith, I can feel my pension going up in smoke as we speak. You’re on leave for another ten days; if you want to do a bit of snooping in your spare time make sure nobody finds out about it. This conversation never took place ok?”
The York Trilogy: The First 3 DS Jason Smith Detective novels Page 22
