Obsidian

by Thomas King

  SHIPMAN LED THE WAY along the riverbank. Thumps and Leon followed along behind. Leon was the first to speak.

  “We went back over the motel records and couldn’t find Oakes’s name anywhere. No record he had ever stayed in Humboldt County.”

  “Nina found him under an alias,” said Shipman. “Check your records for a Charles Cullen at the Bayview Motel.”

  “Okay,” said Leon. “She happen to mention just how she found him?”

  “Not exactly,” said Shipman. “I know she was especially interested in single men in generic motels, motels where you didn’t have to go through a lobby to get to your room.”

  “That would be the Bayview,” said Leon. “But how did she know that Oakes was Anna Tripp’s husband?”

  “Don’t know that,” said Shipman. “Sorry.”

  Thumps tipped his hat back. “And how did she know that Cullen was Oakes?”

  “Don’t know that either,” said Shipman, “but I expect that she put all the single men into a pile and began sorting through them, checking names and addresses, ages, professions, credit card and phone records.”

  “Is that how you’d do it?” said Thumps.

  “That’s one way,” said Shipman.

  “Until she discovered that Charles Cullen didn’t exist?”

  “That’s what I’m guessing,” said Shipman.

  “So, it was Charles Cullen whom you tracked to Rexburg?”

  “That’s right,” said Shipman.

  “Motel?”

  “Motel 6.”

  “You see, what bothers me,” said Leon, “is why this Maslow didn’t share this information with the police.”

  “You’d have to ask her that,” said Shipman.

  “Except we can’t.”

  “No,” said Shipman. “You can’t.”

  Thumps hadn’t known Maslow all that well, but what he did know of the woman told him that she wouldn’t have shared her information freely.

  Leon took out his silver dollar. “Let me guess. Heads, you didn’t go to the cops. Tails, you didn’t go to the cops.”

  “Maslow didn’t tell me about Oakes until just before she was killed,” said Shipman. “I figured you guys already knew about Oakes.”

  Leon caught the dollar and peeked under his hand. “Try again,” he said.

  “Look,” said Shipman, “I don’t know for sure that this Cullen was Oakes or that Oakes killed anyone. It was Maslow’s theory, not mine. And frankly, I don’t give a shit about Oakes. He’s not even in the script.”

  “And you’re not looking to solve the case,” said Thumps. “You just want to make a movie.”

  “Sue me,” said Shipman. “I’m an asshole.”

  “Naw,” said Leon, “being an asshole is my job.”

  Shipman’s smile was friendly but tired. “I’ve given you everything Maslow gave me. You have the research I did for her. You’ve got all the original evidence from the case. You know about Oakes. All you got to do is turn lead into gold.”

  Leon turned to Thumps. “What about it, Tonto? How’s your alchemy?”

  “Second time you’ve said that,” said Thumps.

  “What?”

  “Lead into gold,” said Thumps. “You said that you had a couple of twists in mind that would turn lead into gold.”

  “That’s right,” said Shipman. “I do.”

  “You want to share?”

  Shipman shrugged. “Maslow had an interesting idea that the Obsidian Murders could be the work of a killer who was evolving.”

  Leon frowned. “Evolving?”

  “She thought he had killed before, but rather than honing his technique, he was feeling his way through different methods and maybe even a different set of victims.”

  “So there wouldn’t be a pattern.”

  “More than that,” said Shipman. “Maslow thought he was learning that there were no limits to what he could do, that the killings were becoming a complex game.”

  “Like chess?”

  “More like Go,” said Shipman. “But without the board and without the rules.”

  “Never played Go,” said Leon. “So, Maslow thought this guy was killing people as part of a game? Serial killers versus the police?”

  “No,” said Shipman. “Maslow was worried that this guy was becoming so skilled and confident that he was beginning to play against himself.”

  “And you’re going to incorporate this ‘evolving serial killer’ idea into the plot?”

  “You should go to Rexburg,” said Shipman. “See if you can find what happened to Oakes. Boots on the ground and all that.”

  “You didn’t go?”

  Shipman shook his head. “That’s what the phone and the internet are for. Had Cullen at the Motel 6 for one night.”

  “And nothing after that?”

  “Checked all the towns between Rexburg and here,” said Shipman. “Zero.”

  Moses and Cooley had left the picnic table. Mercer was heading back to the car. Gerson was waving and shouting something that Thumps couldn’t hear.

  “Time to go,” said Shipman. “We still have a ton of work to do before we lock the script. Who knows, with any luck, by the time we get to the first day of shooting, you guys will have solved this thing.”

  MOSES MADE A POT of coffee, and the four of them took chairs down to the river.

  “It doesn’t get any better than this,” said Moses. “Come evening, you can watch the bats dance in the sky.”

  “Bats?” said Leon. “Those buggers got nasty teeth.”

  “They just eat bugs,” said Cooley, “and sometimes fruit. But they are a little on the ugly side.”

  “I hear Al has a boyfriend,” said Moses. “That guy with the cars.”

  “George Gorka.”

  “That’s the one,” said Moses. “Al says that they are going to go to that fancy lodge north of Glory. The one with the big pool and hot tub.”

  “Gorka has to drive the transport down to Cheyenne for the next auction,” said Cooley. “Then he’s coming back, and the two of them are going to spend the weekend just eating and swimming.”

  “They might do other things,” said Moses, “but that would be their business.”

  “A whole weekend,” said Cooley. “Gorka seems nice enough, so I hope that Al isn’t leading him on.”

  “Yes,” said Moses. “Personal relationships are tricky.”

  “Al said she’s going to close the café,” said Cooley, “so it looks serious.”

  Thumps sat up. “Close the café?”

  “Just for the weekend.”

  “Any fish in the river?” asked Leon. “I’ve got a pole in the RV.”

  “You bet,” said Cooley. “Some good-sized trout.”

  “You can bring your RV down,” said Moses. “Park it right over there. But the first fish you catch, you have to let it go, so it can tell all its relations that you’re trying to catch them.”

  “Give the fish a fighting chance?”

  “That’s right,” said Moses. “Then if you catch one, you know that the fish don’t mind being caught.”

  Thumps turned toward the river and let the wind find his face. In the distance, the mountains ranged along the horizon, soft shadows in the morning light. What was it Claire had told him any number of times? If you could see the mountains, you knew you were home.

  “Look at that,” said Moses.

  “Sweet,” said Cooley.

  A squadron of white pelicans appeared on the river, skimming the surface of the water.

  “They get all nice and fat on the coast,” said Moses, “and then they come here to nest and raise their young. First sign of cold weather, they head out for someplace warm.”

  Thumps watched the pelicans disappear in the distance. Maybe the birds were on to something. It wasn’t a bad idea when you thought about it. Moving from one place to another, following the good weather, never staying too long.

  “That’s why I bought the RV,” said Leon. “So I could be a
pelican.”

  Twenty-Seven

  As Thumps drove back to Chinook, he tried to imagine living with Claire and Ivory. The idea was appealing, but then ideas were generally more attractive than realities. Leon, for example. When Ranger had shown up, Thumps had been delighted to see him. Now that Leon had moved in, Thumps wasn’t sure what he was going to do with him. Take him out for dinner? Show him the sights?

  And if Leon complicated his life, what would Claire and a baby do?

  “You know what we should do, Tonto?”

  “Solve the case.”

  “Sure,” said Leon, “we should do that. But maybe we could do a little photography.”

  “Photography?”

  “You’re a photographer,” said Leon. “I’m a writer. Be a step up if I could take pictures as well.”

  “The magazine work.”

  “That’s right,” said Leon. “Nothing like a photograph to brighten a story.”

  Thumps rolled down the window and let the air rush in. “Well, first you’ll need a camera.”

  “Got one,” said Leon. “Sweet little camera. Fixed lens. Real quiet.”

  “You have it with you?”

  “Back at the RV.”

  “First rule,” said Thumps. “You have to carry the camera with you.”

  Leon nodded. “So how about it?”

  “How about what?”

  “How about showing me how to take pictures?”

  “Now?”

  “Sure,” said Leon. “We can take photos and solve the case at the same time. You got something better to do?”

  No, Thumps thought to himself, he didn’t have anything better to do. Which was depressing all by itself.

  “We could work the town,” said Leon. “Do some street photography. Let me get the hang of the camera. You can give me pointers and critique my shots.”

  There were probably a good many reasons why this was a bad idea, but off the top of his head, Thumps couldn’t think of any.

  “Which version of Photoshop do you have?”

  “Photography is more than just Photoshop.”

  “You’re still shooting film?” Leon banged his hand against the side of his head. “Darkrooms and nasty chemicals?”

  “Nothing wrong with film.”

  “You do know,” said Leon, dropping his voice an octave, “darkroom fumes are what killed the dinosaurs.”

  THE FUJI REMINDED THUMPS a little of an M series Leica.

  “It’s what they call a rangefinder,” said Leon. “The soft shutter-release button and the thumb rest are accessories. Had to pay extra for them.”

  “Red?”

  “Yeah,” said Leon, “but you can get the buttons in green or bronze or blue with birds and lizards.”

  “Designer accessories.”

  “Youth market,” said Leon. “The kids are the ones with the money.”

  “So, what do you want to shoot?”

  “I was thinking something with western character,” said Leon.

  “Seedy?”

  “Seedy’s good,” said Leon. “And I’m a little hungry. This town got any good doughnut joints?”

  GOOD DOUGHNUTS WERE, to Thumps’s way of thinking, an oxymoron. For a diabetic, they were poison. Beth had been very specific about doughnuts. And pizza and hot dogs and pasta, and most of what you would find at popular places such as the Golden Harvest Chinese-American buffet.

  Still, if you had your heart set on doughnuts, there was only one place to go.

  Dumbo’s.

  As they drove across town, Thumps tried to prepare Leon for Morris Dumbo.

  “Dumbo’s,” said Thumps. “The proprietor is one Morris Dumbo. Morris is a man of specific opinions.”

  “Bit of a racist?”

  “Nothing ‘bit’ about Morris.”

  “He going to refuse to serve me?” Leon started smiling. “You know, I’ve never been refused service.”

  “You’ve led a sheltered life.”

  “Sometimes, in a good week,” said Leon, “I even forget I’m Black.”

  “Morris will probably mention it.”

  “Hot dog,” said Leon. “Can I shoot him?”

  DUMBO’S WAS AT the end of Main Street. It was a one-storey clapboard rectangle, about the size of a double-wide trailer. The building itself was a particular shade of brown that reminded Thumps why he didn’t want a dog.

  As Thumps waited to turn left into the parking lot, he could see that Dumbo had been hard at work. For reasons known only to the man himself, Morris had painted a bright yellow stripe all around the building. From a distance, the place looked like a present tied up with a ribbon.

  Leon looked out the side window. “You’re kidding.”

  “Nope.”

  “I’m bringing my pistol.”

  “You wanted seedy.”

  “I wanted good doughnuts.”

  “Best in the state.”

  “If this is a joke,” said Leon, “I’ll shoot you.”

  The interior of Dumbo’s was unremarkable. Tables with plastic cloths, chairs that weren’t related, worn wood floors, small windows that were so dirty you couldn’t see out. Even on a bright day, the light that came in through the panes was no more than a soft glow.

  Leon stopped in the doorway. “I hear a banjo and we’re out of here.”

  Thumps had forgotten about the smell that rose off the floor and hung in the air like a haze.

  “Is that mildew?”

  Morris Dumbo was behind the counter, stretched out in his Naugahyde recliner. Under the big Budweiser clock was a handwritten sign that said, “I Don’t Serve Those I Don’t Like.”

  Morris looked up as Thumps and Leon stepped into the shop.

  “Afternoon, Morris,” said Thumps.

  “That you, chief?” Morris sat up. “Who’s your shadow?”

  “Friend of mine,” said Thumps.

  Morris was a thin, grizzled man with a bony face and a head of short brown hair that looked as though you could use it to scrub pots and pans.

  “Cop?”

  “Retired,” said Leon.

  Dumbo kept his eyes on Thumps. “Your friend armed?”

  “He is.”

  “So am I,” said Morris. “You see that sign?”

  “You make it yourself?” said Leon.

  “It means what it says.”

  Thumps bent down and looked at the baskets of doughnuts. “How about an old-fashioned and coffee?”

  “You still diabetic?”

  “More or less,” said Thumps.

  “Then you’ll be wanting the plain,” said Morris.

  “I’ll take a chocolate cake,” said Leon. “And coffee.”

  Morris stood behind the counter with his arms crossed. “I don’t know you.”

  Leon nodded. “Where’d you serve?”

  Morris squinted in the dim light. “You a vet?”

  “’Nam.”

  “Shit.”

  “You can say that again,” said Leon.

  “Marine?”

  “Army,” said Leon. “Company B, First, Twenty-second Infantry, Fourth Division.”

  “You sorry son of a bitch.” Morris started laughing. In the dank confines of the doughnut shop, it sounded as though someone was banging on a dumpster with a steel pipe. “You got drafted.”

  “Way it was.”

  “Didn’t have no rich daddy to save your ass.”

  It was Leon’s turn to smile. “Didn’t have no daddy at all.”

  Morris opened the case and put two chocolate cakes on a plate. “First two are on me,” he said. “For your service. Coffee too.”

  Leon nodded.

  “But the chief pays his own way.”

  “Always do,” said Thumps.

  “And don’t go spreading rumours about how generous I am,” said Morris. “Just gives people ideas.”

  Thumps took the table in the corner, near the window, as far away from Dumbo and his recliner as he could get. Morris’s eyesight might be
suspect, but his hearing was twenty-twenty.

  “Interesting guy,” said Leon.

  “As in the Chinese proverb?”

  “Maybe I should take his picture,” said Leon. “You know, one of those candid portraits.”

  “That’s Morris,” said Thumps. “Candid.”

  “But he makes a good doughnut.”

  “The best,” said Thumps.

  “And cops would know.”

  Thumps wondered if two old-fashioned plains would have less sugar than one old-fashioned glazed.

  “You know there’s something not right about our Mr. Shipman.” Leon broke the doughnut in half and dipped it in the coffee.

  “He seems to know more than he should.”

  “There’s that,” said Leon. “We looked hard and came up empty.”

  “We didn’t know about Oakes at the time,” said Thumps. “And he was using an alias.”

  “Charles Cullen at the Bayview Motel.”

  “Easy enough to check out,” said Thumps. “We’ve got the motel records.”

  “Let’s say he shows up,” said Leon. “What I don’t understand is how he did it.”

  Thumps waited.

  “I mean, the guy is just out of prison.”

  “Motel would want to see ID,” said Thumps. “Major credit card. Driver’s licence.”

  “Fake IDs are expensive.”

  “And then he shows up in Rexburg, Idaho.”

  “How’d he get there?” said Leon.

  “Bus?” said Thumps.

  Leon shook his head. “The way I see it, he comes out of prison with no money and no prospects. The only thing he has going for him is Anna Tripp, and yet a few weeks after he’s released, he seems to have found a new life as Charles Cullen.”

  Thumps tried his doughnut. He could feel the sugar rush through his body.

  “I think we want to talk to Mr. Shipman again,” said Leon. “And this time, we might want to squeeze a little harder.”

  Morris came over with the coffee pot. “You get one refill,” he said. “After that, it’s a buck per fill-up.”

  Leon leaned back and smiled. “Maybe Mr. Dumbo can help us.”

  “Don’t do much helping,” said Morris. “Especially cops. No offence.”

  “None taken,” said Leon. “But let me ask you a question. Let’s say you just got out of prison.”

  Morris stiffened. “You calling me a crook?”