by W. H. Clark
Ward popped McNeely’s cell phone closed and handed it back to her. McNeely stopped taking photographs and slid the phone back into her pocket. “Everything okay?”
“I guess so.” Ward stroked his short-cropped beard, opened a drawer. Empty.
“Any idea what we’re looking for?” McNeely placed her camera on the small table by the old man’s bed.
“Nothing much to see.”
McNeely’s eyes narrowed as she studied Ward.
“I’m still trying to work you out, detective. You’re different. No offense.”
Ward removed his Stetson and placed it on his heart. “No offense taken, ma’am.” His pale blue eyes settled on McNeely and he held her gaze.
“You’re all right, though. Cowboy boots.” She laughed. “You got cowboy boots.”
Ward smiled briefly and reseated his hat.
McNeely studied the detective a few seconds longer. “You’re okay. Different okay. And don’t pay no heed to Newton. He’s just playing out time. Running down the game clock. Has been for a while now.” She reached into her bag for her fingerprint kit. “I’ll dust around but it all looks pretty clean. Maybe too clean?”
“Whole building’s too clean you ask me,” Ward said. His eyes had settled on the picture of Bermuda that adorned the wall. He cast a glance around the otherwise austere room and then his eyes returned to the picture. “We need to find out where his belongings went.”
The door opened and Newton lunged through. His speechless eyes fell on Ward. He pulled his body straight. He was panting and he placed his hand on his chest. He took a few sharp breaths before speaking.
“What have you got?”
“Newton, right?”
Newton said, “Wha’?” and then, “Yes, Newton.”
“Okay, Newton. Ward.” He pointed to himself. “And I got this,” Ward said. “If you can tell me what you got and then you’re okay to go.” He studied Newton: the erosion on his dimpled face, the dark crescents below his eyes and the retreating gray hair. He thought sleep was a stranger to him. A kindred spirit.
“Okay,” Newton said. “William O’Donnell.” He waited a couple of seconds after speaking the name and then continued. “Seventy-eight years old. Cause of death: morphine poisoning administered through the foot. Approximate time of death: between eight and midnight on Sunday.” He paused again and then said, “Guy’s a murderer.”
“Whoa,” McNeely said, dusting the bedstead for prints as Newton bent to sit on the mattress. “Not the bed.”
He straightened up again too quickly and pain showed in his eyes. “Bill O’Donnell. He murdered his grandson.”
“He did?” Ward said.
“Sure he did.”
“We’re collecting evidence. For the homicide of an old man. You’re saying this old guy murdered his grandson. He do time for it?”
Newton’s shoulders slumped and he took a fat swallow.
“You’re going to tell me what I’m missing here?” Ward said.
“Okay, some history,” Newton said. “Back in 1985 a seven-year-old boy called Ryan Novak disappeared.”
McNeely nodded recollection.
“The boy was never found. No body neither. The main suspect was this guy, his grandfather”—he pointed at the empty bed—“but there wasn’t enough evidence on him.” Newton left a pause. Ward and McNeely didn’t fill it. Newton rubbed the base of his back and with his other hand reached in his pocket for his pills. He took them out and put them back. “The guy was never convicted.”
“Okay,” Ward nodded slowly. “And how does a twenty-five-year-old cold case help us with this here homicide? Do you think they’re connected somehow, detective?”
Newton looked at McNeely and then back at Ward. “I think they might be.”
“Might be? Okay. Even if we accept that he killed the boy, as you say he did even though he didn’t do time for it, who does that put in the frame for this old guy’s death? We need to be mindful not to go confusing the two cases, don’t you think? So, I suggest that McNeely and myself go on with this crime scene and then we’ll look at what we’ve got.”
Newton clasped his hands together and bit his thumbs. “You’re right, you’re right. I’ll be… I’ll get out of your way,” he said, and he stood up to leave. “Thing is, it was my case,” he said. “It was my case.”
Ward had stared at the picture of Bermuda for going on five minutes. And then he noticed the extra pushpin at the bottom, offset to the right-hand side. Then McNeely took his attention away.
“What have we got here?” She was staring at the windowsill with hands on hips. All the fingerprints that the dust had revealed. “Only a whole load of latents. The cleanest crime scene ever apart from this windowsill. Not just one set of prints but a whole load of them.” She reached into her bag and took out a magnifying glass.
Ward went over to take a look. “All pointing inwards. Into the room.”
“Mostly.”
“What does that tell us?”
“Well, all the prints look like they’re from the same person. So it tells us that somebody repeatedly entered the room through this window.”
Ward took a closer look. “Are these palm prints facing the other way? In and out prints? Is this our guy?” He was thinking out loud, but McNeely replied.
“In the absence of any other prints in this room it’s a good place to start. This is going to take a while.”
“You need a hand?” Ward asked.
“We’ll just get in each other’s way.”
Ward looked out of the window. The room, south-facing, looked over two thirds of the town, yesterday offering views of a crisp winter scene with remnants of snow clinging to rooftops and pavements hedged with dirty shoveled-up snow heaps from earlier clearing efforts. Today, the freezing mist blurred everything. An icy wind blew down from the hills which started ten miles north, the tail end of a small mountain range that snaked towards Canada, and brought a harder-than-average winter this year. Fifteen Fahrenheit was normal for a January day like today: it was five, and long icicles hung like silent wind chimes from the old man’s window frame.
Ward returned to the picture. He considered the pushpin for a moment and then removed it. Expected something to drop from behind the Bermuda picture but nothing did.
“I think there was something here,” Ward said. He got up close to the picture to see if there were any signs that something had been concealed behind it. He peeled back the corner of the picture and he could see a slight discoloring of the wall. Something had been pinned there. Something small. He did a rough measurement with his thumb and forefinger. About the size of a photograph.
“It’s gone now,” McNeely said.
“We need the old man’s possessions. We also need to know who’s been in this room since he died. We need to find out what this pin was holding.”
7
The man holds the boy in his arms. The boy’s eyes are open but don’t see. The man’s eyes are closed but tears spring from them. He rocks the boy, then pulls him in close. For minutes he stands there but he knows nothing of time. He holds him and he wants to for an eternity. He yearns to swap places with the boy, and a groan from the deepest depths of his soul escapes him. He sobs and looks towards heaven, an attempt at a prayer, a plea for forgiveness and mercy. He suddenly fears his final judgment. He stares into infinity and pities himself.
8
The conversation with the nursing home manager, Grainger, had been brief. Ward had asked him about any comings and goings on the day of the homicide, and Grainger had sweated his way through the questions, ending each answer with a “yes, sir.” Said there was a girl with the victim shortly before he died. Paid regular visits. Ward had asked him about security and Grainger had pointed out surveillance cameras and had told Ward that all visitors were obliged to sign in on arrival and to sign out on departure. Yes, sir.
Ward had asked who had been in the room since the old man’s death and Grainger had told him that the
room had been cleaned and gave Ward the name of the cleaner. Said that he couldn’t account for everybody who might have been in the room as it had not been locked. Ward had then asked him how drugs in the facility were secured and Grainger had told him that the pharmacy was secured by lock and key and that the on-call doctor and residential nurses had access to the key, which was locked up in the safe, for which he, Grainger, held the key. Yes, sir.
He had then asked Grainger to organize a full inventory of the pharmacy, make sure nothing was missing. With particular attention to morphine. He would do that of course, yes, sir. Ward had dismissed Grainger with a thank you and had told him that there might be more questions later. Grainger had answered with a yes, sir.
9
It was a dark evening. Ward swung into the parking lot of the station, a modern building with plenty enough glass and a bit of steel girder and dark wood siding. He parked the car and turned off the engine and the rock music but didn’t remove his seat belt. He stared straight ahead. He was still there when McNeely pulled in beside him a couple of minutes later. McNeely got out of her car and came over to him, tapped on his window. He wound it down.
“Welcome to Montana,” she said.
Ward popped the belt. “Let’s check this in. I’ll update the lieutenant. See if you can find out what happened to the victim’s possessions.”
Newton was sitting at his desk. He faced his box of possessions, chewing at his thumb, occasionally examining it for intact skin to bite.
Ward dropped his hat on the desk next to Newton.
“I’ll move my things,” Newton said.
“No, stay. I’m fine over here.”
Newton looked way past retirement, his gray pallor underscoring the gloom of the day. He spoke without looking at Ward. “He did it.” He glanced a hand across his thinning hair.
“I’m sorry?”
“Been twenty-five years sorry.”
“We lose sometimes.”
Newton’s head cranked up to face Ward. “I worked the Ryan Novak disappearance for months. Still working it in my head. Something like that stays with you.”
“We all have the ones that we don’t solve.”
“The nature of the job, son, I know, but this.”
“You want to talk about it?”
“Aw shit, I don’t know.”
“Okay,” Ward said, and gave Newton room to continue.
“It takes something away from you. It’s not the failure. Stats don’t count shit when it comes to the disappearance of a child. That’s something that you’re measured against differently and not by the department. By others. You front a failure like this in a small town like ours and you’re the guy who didn’t protect one of their children. You know how that goes down? You know what that does to you? I couldn’t walk the streets without someone looking over at me and thinking, ‘There goes the cop who let that bastard get away.’ I still get that to this day. I sense it. The truth, son, that’s all I need to know.” He stopped. Ward saw the man of twenty-five years ago, scratching around for answers that disappeared around corners and into the darkness of dead ends.
“I hear you,” Ward offered. He stood there looking at the old man who was shrinking before his eyes.
“Anyway, it’s your case. I’ll keep out of your way.”
“Okay.”
Ward took a step backwards and as he did he crashed into a uniformed officer, who fended Ward off like a defensive lineman.
“Watch where you’re going,” said the officer, a half smile, half grimace on his face. Teeth too big for his mouth and too white.
Ward’s anger swelled but he didn’t allow it to overflow from his puffed-out chest. “I’m sorry,” he said as his fists clenched and he bit his bottom lip. “Ward.” He unclenched his fist and offered his open hand. The officer didn’t take it.
“No problem. Officer Mallory,” said the officer, and he sat on the edge of Newton’s desk, a smile running across his mouth.
Lieutenant Gammond was a short butternut squash of a man with slicked-back hair and a large mustache. Ward had knocked on the door and Gammond had said “come” but Ward was already in the office by then.
“Just come to update you on the homicide, sir.”
“Ah yes,” Gammond said, and he waved a pudgy hand at a chair for Ward to sit. “The old man. Hold it right there if you will.” And he tapped at a few keys on his computer keyboard as slowly as he spoke. Ward sat.
“We’ve done our—” Ward started but Gammond held up a hand and continued to type with his other. Ward looked around the office, at the hunting photos, the photos of Gammond in uniform, the set of golf clubs, the homemade sign that read, “You don’t have to be crazy to work here, you just got to do what I tell you.” He saw the gun cabinet with three hunting rifles in it. He recognized the Mauser 98 and the Remington Model 700 but couldn’t get the third.
“That one’s a Krieghoff, son. Two rifle barrels and a twenty-gauge shotgun barrel. That’ll bring down a dang country.” He still tapped.
“You shoot that thing?”
“I done shot it once. Shoulder still smarts some.”
Gammond stopped tapping, sucked through his bottom teeth as if he’d got a piece of meat stuck there, and said, “Okay, where’re we at with the ol’ feller?” He picked at his teeth with a manicured fingernail.
“As I was saying, sir, we’ve done our preliminary forensics gathering and taken statements. Should have results soon. I’ll update you when we have something.” He stood to leave.
“Sit down there, detective,” Gammond said, and Ward hovered and then sat. “We ain’t had a proper welcome sit-down-and-drink-a-whiskey chat.” He reached into a drawer in his antique oak desk that looked like it was made from a single large tree and pulled out a bottle and two small glasses. “How we do things up here.” He poured. “And don’t tell me you’ll pass because I won’t hear a dang word of it.” He handed the glass to Ward and sniffed his own before knocking it back. Ward did the same.
“See, we’re civilized up in these parts.” He stroked his mustache with thumb and forefinger. He stopped and seemed to lose his thoughts over somewhere else.
“I want Newton on the case with me.”
“He’s finished.”
“He’s got a few more days.”
“What’s he going to do in a few days?”
“Local knowledge. He knew the guy.”
“Dang it, you’re the homicide detective now, son. What’ll you do with an old—” He stopped himself. “He’ll be apt to get in your way. It’s your job now. Why we got you up here.”
Ward remained silent. Just regarded Gammond with eyes that didn’t blink.
Gammond looked around like he’d lost something. “Dang it. You sure you want him on your case?”
“I am, sir.”
“Well, he’s still on the payroll, so I guess we got to put him to work. Okay, he’s yours for the next two weeks.” He poured himself another whiskey but didn’t bother to offer Ward one.
“He mentioned the little boy who disappeared.”
Gammond put his glass down heavily. “Well, detective, ain’t no gain in that line of thinking. Totally unrelated.”
“He doesn’t think so.”
“Like I said, ain’t no gain in that line of thinking. What we don’t want is for Detective Newton to go reopening ol’ wounds. ’Stead of thinking down that track, see to it that he sticks to this here case. Use him by all means. He got nearly thirty years’ experience. But that little boy case. That stays closed. And I got to be getting on now.” He knocked back his second whiskey and Ward knew it wasn’t his second of the day. “Good t’have you here, detective. And Ward, son, I want to be kept in the loop with ever’ detail of this investigation. Ever’ development, ever’ line of inquiry, I need to know. Captain’s orders.”
“Why, who was this guy?”
“Jus’ an ol’ man.”
10
The medical examiner’s assistant was still
there when Ward arrived. He buzzed Ward in. The mortuary was locked down after five. Presumably to stop any of the guests leaving.
“You must be Detective Ward,” Dave Turner said, standing at the end of the corridor, mop in hand and wearing a blue plastic apron. “You’ve come to see our latest arrival?”
“If I could.”
“No problemo. This way, hombre. Weather like this I don’t know why we bother refrigerating them. Would be cheaper to just open the windows. If we had windows.” He led Ward down a corridor and through a door which opened into the cold chamber. He walked, slumped shoulders, into the corner of the room and released the brake on a gurney with his foot, spinning it around and wheeling it over to one of the doors. He released a catch on the door handle, threw back the handle and opened the door. He placed the gurney in front of the drawer, locked the wheels, and slid out the tray which contained the old man’s body. He unzipped the body bag and pulled down the sides so the old man’s head, torso and arms were visible.
The old man’s skin seemed to be slipping off his body and his underlying rigid muscle structure seemed tauter because of that. He was a scaled-down model of what he’d been thirty years ago. In good shape for a dead old man. Ward reached for the zipper and glanced over at Dave.
“Go ahead, my friend,” Dave said.
Ward pulled the zipper all the way down to reveal the cadaver’s feet and he examined the tiny entry wound, as deadly as a bullet but more subtle, he thought. He stepped back and pinched his chin, grabbing and stretching his beard as he pulled his fingers away. He was quiet for long enough to prompt Dave to speak again.
