The Watchman

by V. B. Tenery

  “Stop complaining and fix me some breakfast while I tell you about my case.”

  “You drag me out of bed at seven in the morning, and you want breakfast, too?” He shook his head and moved toward the kitchen. “The day we met must have been my lucky day, Adams. I can’t imagine what I did to God to deserve you.” Jake really loved me. He just liked to complain.

  A maid clad in gray rayon entered from the den. “Do you want me to make breakfast, Mr. Stein?”

  He waved her off with a grin. “No, Ruby. I’ll take care of this freeloader myself.”

  He led me into a gourmet kitchen and pulled down a pan from over the island. While Jake whipped up omelets, I made toast and coffee and filled him in on Rachel and Cody. Jake’s a great cook. He could make another fortune in the restaurant business.

  I continued my story while we ate.

  Jake gave a long low whistle. “If you take on Harry London, you’ll take on a world of trouble. You know that, don’t you? I heard about this at the club over the weekend. London didn’t go to jail. He claimed his son fell out of his treehouse. The police chose to believe him rather than deal with it.” Jake lifted a carafe from the table and refilled our cups. “London said his wife cooked up the stunt with a private eye to get the kid away from him. I should have known it was you. He’ll be coming after you, big time.”

  “What can he do?”

  “He can file kidnapping charges against you, for one. In any court system other than Hebron’s, it wouldn’t be so easy. You know the corruption downtown as well as I do. The best way to fight it is for your client to file for a divorce.”

  “What would happen to Cody during the divorce proceeding?”

  “Courts almost always lean toward split-custody. I don’t think I could get her full guardianship without proof of abuse. Has the kid seen a doctor?”

  Rachel wouldn’t leave Cody alone with his father for a minute, much less part time. I couldn’t blame her. He might go into a rage and kill the kid.

  “Rachel is taking Cody as soon as she can get an appointment. She’ll never go for anything less than full custody.”

  Jake sipped the coffee, his brow wrinkled in a frown. “Then you’d better keep the family out of sight for a while. I don’t want to know where you’ve hidden them. London might try to force me to tell where they are. Let me know when you get the X-rays and report from the physician. If they prove mistreatment, then I can take him on.”

  Jake folded his napkin and placed it beside his plate. “This thing could turn ugly very fast. You need to avoid the police; London will be gunning for you. My sources tell me he has some heavy connection with the less desirable elements up Chicago way. His rise to power was too fast to be honest.”

  Just what I needed. Harry London and the mob.

  “You realize I haven’t handled anything in the divorce and domestic violence field in years.”

  “Jake, I would trust you with anything. This family needs help, and you’re the best man I know for the job.”

  “I’ll do what I can.” Jake sounded almost humble. He picked up a piece of toast and offered one to me. I shook my head. “You never said how you solved that Texas case so quickly. Want to enlighten me?”

  A subject I preferred not to discuss, but I owed Jake the details. He financed the trip. My bank balance at the time hovered around five dollars.

  “Some things are difficult to explain, but I’ll try. The news covered the kids disappearing in the Dallas area, five in just over a year. The morning I borrowed the money from you, I’d watched the news and learned a little girl had just vanished. The reporter at the scene stood in front of the parents’ home, lots of people milling around in the background.”

  Jake waved his hand in a rolling motion, anxious for me to get on with the story.

  “One guy in the crowd caught my attention. At first, I figured he just wanted to get his mug on the news, but he looked into the camera as most fifteen-minutes-of-fame jerks do. He seemed please with himself, rather than ‘hey-look-I’m-on-TV.’ It hit me that this might be the killer. Don’t ask me how I knew...but I did, and if the police didn’t catch him that day, he would kill that little girl.

  “George flew me all the way to DFW, and I hopped a cab to police headquarters. You can imagine my reception. Like they needed an unknown private eye from Wyoming riding in to tell them their business.”

  Jake scowled at me. “And this perp took one look at your Honest-Joe face and spilled his guts.”

  I grinned and shrugged. “Pretty much.” I sipped my coffee. Some of the details I couldn’t confide to Jake.

  One of the detectives gave me a friendly ear, and I convinced him to get the news tapes from all the disappearances. This wasn’t anything new for police departments. They routinely check bystanders after a crime and, in fact, they still had the tapes. They’d already checked out my guy and cut him loose.

  We viewed the tapes and the guy was visible in every crowd scene filmed after the children vanished. I asked them to bring him back in for questioning.

  Police interviewers got nowhere with the perp, Willy Jackson. He stalled for two precious hours. Finally, I asked if they’d give me a shot at him, and they agreed to let me have thirty minutes. What did they have to lose? Their case was going nowhere.

  My friendly detective let me into the interview room.

  Willy Jackson was a short man, about fifty pounds overweight with thinning brown hair.

  “Hi Willy. I’m detective Noah Adams. You want something to drink? Coke, coffee, water?” I reached out and shook his hand. I almost gagged. It felt like sticking my hand in an open sewer, but it gave me all the details I needed.

  “I’ll take a water,” he said.

  I had to keep it together. A child’s life depended on turning this creep. The problem, how to get the information to the cops watching me in the room next door without revealing how I knew.

  I leaned forward in the chair, watching his eyes. “We know you took that little girl, Willy. People saw you. We even know the area where you took her. You can make it easy on yourself by giving us the address. Maybe keep you off death row.”

  He scoffed. “Sure you do. You don’t know squat.”

  “Ah, but we do. You were careless, Willy. We know your history, what your father did to you. I understand, Willy. What you’re doing...it isn’t your fault.”

  He danced me around until my time was up, and I gave it one last shot. “Willy, have you ever considered that little girl feels exactly like you did after your father abused you? She’s hurting, Willy. You can stop the pain.”

  His eyes filled with tears. He broke down and gave me the address.

  The sad part was his father helped create the monster Willy became.

  Naturally, the cops were curious about my knowledge of his past. I convinced them it was just lucky profiling.

  What happened to those five children still haunted my dreams.

  Solving that case brought me a lot of notoriety I didn’t need any calls from hurting parents across the country whom I couldn’t help. I didn’t have all the answers. I wished to God I had.

  Jake and I finished breakfast in silence. I pushed back my chair, slapped his shoulder, and went to the entryway. A fast scan of the street told me I could leave. Not a patrol car in sight.

  Reaching for the doorknob, I shifted back to Jake. “Thanks for breakfast. By the way, you should know. Harry London may have pictures of me inside his home, taken this morning by his security cameras.”

  A deep groan from behind me reached my ears as the door clicked shut.

  

  Hole In-The-Wall Café, Hebron

  I left Jake’s place, called Amos Horne, and invited him to a late lunch. Since I stood him up on Friday, he accepted and said he’d meet me at one o’clock. We usually met at The Hole in the Wall, one of his favorite places. Appropriately named, the café looked like a dump, but a clean dump. I’d never figured out whether it was designed ambiance or jus
t run down, but they served the best hamburgers in the free world.

  In most situations, Amos would provide details on a case. I wanted to pick his brain about the disappearance of Abigail Armstrong. The department frowned on sharing police records with civilians, but Amos never worried about the rules.

  I arrived early and took a seat by the window. Amos pulled his unmarked car in beside my SUV and untangled his big frame from behind the wheel. He glanced around, taking in everything at once and then sauntered into the entrance. A cop’s habit. High cheekbones and an easy grace reflected his Cherokee heritage. Amos wore his ethnicity with pride. At thirty-five, and a twelve-year veteran of the HPD, he held the distinction of being the youngest detective in the department. But then, there were only two.

  I’d learned to live with it but never enjoyed the freaky nature of my gifts. The sorrow, almost pain, to discover someone I admired and trusted could have feet of clay. This probably explained why I’d only found three real friends in my lifetime.

  Jake and Amos were two of the three―not perfect, but good people. Public faces seldom reveal what goes on inside. Outward confidence can hide a mass of internal turmoil. With Jake and Amos, what you saw was what you got. Jake was complicated, precise, organized and crafty, where Amos tilted to the other extreme.

  Amos had developed a paunch from lack of exercise and eating the wrong foods, but the diet hadn’t affected his investigative skills. We partnered on the force after going through the police academy together. Our friendship remained strong, even though he never forgave me for deserting him to go into the P.I. racket.

  Life as a rookie cop hadn’t worked for me. A loner by nature, I had an aversion to getting trapped in a job with too many rules and too many bosses. Not to mention some of the cops made the crooks I hauled off to jail look like saints. So I bailed.

  As my own boss, I could choose the people I worked with. The pay wasn’t much better and the benefits lousy, but I slept well at night.

  I joined Amos at the order line. We worked our way to the front and Marie, the clerk behind the cash register, greeted us with a bright smile on her pretty black face. “Hi, Amos, Noah. What’ll it be today, the usual?” Marie had a photographic memory.

  We nodded.

  The usual for me consisted of a burger with everything, fries, and a large iced tea. The usual for Amos was a gastronomic nightmare. Two cheeseburgers with the works, which included jalapeno peppers, a double order of onion rings, and a super size soda.

  Marie wrote our order and names on two brown paper bags. Later the cook would place the finished order in the paper sacks. Efficiency in action.

  We sat in a shabby booth near the window while waiting for the food. Amos placed a thick manila folder on the table and shoved it across to me.

  “What’s this?”

  He grinned. “I made a copy of the case book for you.”

  He pulled the envelope back, opened the flap, and fanned glossy photos before me. “Brought the crime scene shots. I’ll have to take ’em back, but you can make copies at Walmart if you like.”

  I shook my head. “Thanks, I don’t need copies, but I do appreciate getting a look at them. Hope you don’t get in trouble over this.”

  Having the photos and investigation details was the next best thing to being at the crime scene.

  “Not hardly. This case is as cold as a dead Alaskan salmon.”

  The first photo of the car’s interior caught my eye. Sometimes people try to fake their disappearance by leaving blood samples behind. Not so in this case—too much blood. It’s hard to fake the splatter. All outward appearances indicated Abigail Armstrong died from wounds sustained in her car.

  An expensive handbag and car keys lay on the floorboard. Obviously, robbery wasn’t the motive.

  “Where did they find the vehicle?”

  Amos shifted his large frame and fingered the snapshots. “In a very rough neighborhood on the south side. Some kid was trying to remove the tires when the police spotted him. A crack house sat across the street, and a meth lab operated one block down. We’ve cleared the drugs from that area at least a dozen times. They come back like roaches.”

  We didn’t have a problem with gangs in Hebron, or as far as I know, in most parts of Wyoming. My theory is it’s just too cold to hang out on street corners. However, we do have a drug problem. Meth was a big deal here.

  I looked over the case book copies. “Any reason to believe she might have been a user?”

  “The blood stains had no trace of drugs. Since we didn’t have a body, we couldn’t be certain. None of the evidence pointed in that direction.”

  The pictures bothered me, so I turned them face down on the table. “Did anyone question her doctor? Most physicians suspect when a patient is an addict.”

  “The doctor said Abigail Armstrong wasn’t the type to do narcotics. Much too level headed. Those were her words, not mine.” He tapped the envelope. “It’s all in here.”

  I handed the photos back to him and placed the file on the seat beside me. “Having access to your interviews will be a big help, save me a ton of time. Since she left home after getting a phone call, it’s a sure bet she knew her assailant.”

  “You’re probably right. Now all you have to do is find out which of the ten thousand people in town placed the call.” He followed the comment with a smart-aleck grin.

  “What’s the theory in the department?”

  “The popular guess—a stalker killed her. Abigail Armstrong was a looker. She must‘a been forty but could have easily passed for thirty at the time she vanished. We checked Lincoln Armstrong inside and out, but we couldn’t find a motive. We never found an affair on either side. If he did it, he’s one smart hombre.”

  “He is that. Intelligent, I mean. Armstrong didn’t kill his wife. Trust me on that.”

  “If you say so.” He gave me a mock salute.

  “Any evidence she was being stalked?”

  “A couple of neighbors remembered a man parked in a car outside the Armstrong property several times the week she vanished. They couldn’t agree on the model or even the color. We didn’t have enough information to find the guy.”

  “Did you follow up on the country club angle?”

  “Sure we did. It wasn’t my case, but I helped Art, the detective who caught the assignment. We interviewed the staff and every guest there that night. Considering who she was, and the press frenzy, the mayor was on our backs. The people we talked to all agreed she seemed fine when she arrived, but her mood changed just before she left.”

  Marie called us to pick up our order, and we dropped the case while we ate.

  “I hope my reward in Heaven will be a mountain of cheeseburgers just like this,” Amos said and wiped his mouth with a paper napkin. “With a hill of banana pudding on the side.”

  I chuckled. “You’re a man of simple needs, Amos Horne.”

  “Hey, guys. You plotting the downfall of the Republic?” A slender brunette laughed and slid into the booth beside me. The collar of her blue police uniform couldn’t quite hide the ugly white scar that ran across her throat. Jessie Bolton and I were old friends. I’d been the officer on duty the night her husband tried to kill her.

  “Nothing that easy, Jess. I’m trying to rescue an abused family.”

  “Anybody I know?” She took one of my fries and dragged it through Amos’ ketchup.

  I shoved the rest of the fries in front of her. “Do you know Rachel London?”

  She dropped the food back on the tray and wiped her mouth with a napkin. “Yeah. I’ve met her, and I’ve met the judge. Ask me if I’m surprised. Mrs. London had the look of a whipped puppy.”

  “What are you doing these days,” I asked. “Still patrolling the streets?”

  She shook her head. “Mostly babysitting drunks in the county jail. It’s worked out better for me. Regular hours and I get to spend more time with my two kids.”

  “Have you had lunch?” Amos asked. “Noah will spring for
a burger if you want.”

  “Thanks, but I was on my way out when I saw you guys. Wanted to say hi since I haven’t seen you in a while.” She leaned in and kissed my cheek. “Take care, big guy.”

  The touch of her lips on my cheek told me all was not well with Jessie. Her husband would finish his prison sentence in ten months. And she knew he would be coming after her.

  I watched her leave with more than a little concern. Jessie needed to get out of Hebron soon, without leaving a trail her husband could follow.

  Amos tapped his finger on the Armstrong case book. “You gonna solve this, Noah, and make us look bad?”

  “That’s what I’ll try to do. Not to make you look bad but to help a very sad man find out what happened to the woman he loved.”

  “That would be Armstrong.”

  “You never cease to amaze me with your perceptive grasp of the obvious.”

  “You have to remember, I’m just an underpaid detective, not a big-bucks P.I.”

  If only he knew how seldom a client like Armstrong came along. The lunch crowd began to trickle out to go do whatever they did. I leaned back in the booth and smiled. “I get paid for my infinite knowledge of the criminal mind.”

  “Yeah, right.”

  “Speaking of Judge London, what’s the scuttlebutt at the precinct on him?”

  A dark expression came over Amos’s face. “We catch ’em. He lets ’em go. The D.A. hates him with a purple passion, but lawyers love to get their clients before London. He’s the guy who sentenced Jessie’s husband to five years for capital attempted murder.”

  “London’s wife and son are clients of mine as of last Friday night. That’s why I cancelled dinner.”

  “Yeah, I figured that out from what you told Jessie.” Amos shook his head. “You trying to redefine stupid? London’s trouble with a capital T. Deal me out on this one, buddy. I want to retire with a full pension. If I were you, I’d back off while I still could.”

  I peered across the table at my old friend. “You wouldn’t if you’d met his family.”

  5

  Noah’s Home, Hebron, Wyoming