by Graham Smith
The Augiers family are well known for their lack of tolerance towards other races, and as such I have their names in mind for the killings. To that end, I want them to behave themselves long enough to get drunk. With luck, one of the two dictaphones I’ve taped to the underside of their tables will pick up something incriminating. It’s a longshot, but at this moment in time I’m willing to try anything to get a solid lead.
The evening passes with me never being too far from the Augiers table. I don’t get close enough to be antagonistic or overhear their conversations. At the same time, I’m near enough for them to know I’m watching, and waiting for them to screw up.
Until ten o’clock their behaviour is restrained enough. There are a few bursts of sudden laughter and one curse-laden story, but nothing that gives me good reason to toss them out. When all is said and done, the Tree is a bar and people laughing and swearing is par for the course. Butch quells any potential trouble with a quiet word, or a scowl as appropriate.
I see one of the younger family members coming back from the bathroom. He’s unsteady on his feet and tries to engage a girl in conversation. She gives him a polite smile and turns to go back to her seat.
The smile was a mistake. It encourages him.
I know the girl. She’s a regular and she’s here with her boyfriend.
The Augiers lad follows ten paces behind her as she heads back to her seat. I’m five behind him.
He reaches her table. I hang back but make sure the boyfriend can see me. If he gets up and takes a swing at the kid, all hell will break loose.
The drunk Augiers kid slurs something to the girl. She responds by gesturing to her boyfriend.
The kid points at the boyfriend and jerks a thumb over his shoulder. The boyfriend doesn’t move so the kid pushes at his shoulder.
I’ve seen enough. I stick my own thumbs out and bury them into the kid’s armpits. Applying just enough pressure to lift him onto his toes, I direct him back to his family. If he had any brains he’d raise his arms to neutralise the pain of my thumbs digging into his soft skin. He though, is a drunk kid with more arrogance than intelligence. His attempt to salve the pain consists of clenching his arms by his sides. A move which intensifies, rather than alleviates his pain.
When I release him, he whirls round to face me with raised fists. The drink he’s taken makes him rotate a few degrees too far. By the time he’s corrected himself, a meaty hand has landed on his shoulder.
‘Sit. Down.’
The kid obeys Butch without hesitation, leaving me facing the real head of the family. There’s a challenge in his eyes. I dare say he sees one in mine.
‘You gonna put us out over that?’
‘No. But if there’s anything like it again you’re out.’
He gives a small nod. ‘Fair enough.’
While I’m happy enough to fight him if needs be, I would like to keep him onside if possible. If he and his family aren’t behind the killings, they may know who is. He travels in different social circles to me and his is a community I don’t know. My only access into that element of society will have to come through him.
The rest of the night passes without incident until it’s time for them to leave. Most, if not all, of them are fully in their cups. As they walk away from their table Jim-Bob fronts up to me.
I back away from him as he tosses abuse towards me. It centres on the fact that I manhandled his kid. He thinks I’m retreating when all I’m doing is leading him outside so I don’t have to worry about damaging anything belonging to the Tree.
As I back-step down the three steps at the entrance, he uses them to launch himself forwards onto me.
Thanks to the steps he’s got a height advantage to add to his weight. My advantages are sobriety and intelligence. His advantages aren’t going to be enough.
He swings his right fist as he flies through the air. I take a swift step to one side and reach for his other arm. I grasp his wrist and lever him round to further emphasise the spinning momentum caused by the wild punch.
Because he’s airborne he can’t counteract the move by shifting his weight. When he lands, he’s on the half turn and staggers with his arms out as he tries to stay upright. Before he can react, I step forward and deliver a sharp uppercut to his jaw.
I turn without waiting for him to drop. There’s too many of them to stand around admiring my handiwork.
The kid is two paces away. His fists are raised, but he’s so drunk and inexperienced he’s lifted them so high they’re blocking his view. A solid dig in the gut leaves him doubled over, regurgitating everything he’s consumed.
The females in the group are shouting abuse at me as Butch elbows his way forward. There’s a sadistic gleam in his eyes as he gazes over his fists.
He’s leading with his right but I know it’s a trick because I’ve made a point of identifying his dominant hand.
I don’t have time to reflect on the wisdom of researching possible opponents as he feints twice with the right and steps forward to throw a couple of left jabs.
I lean back to dodge the blows and duck under the right cross he follows them with so I can deliver a couple of hard lefts to his ribs.
He grunts but doesn’t stop swinging. I manage to dodge the first couple of punches until he lands a roundhouse that restarts the amateur orchestra in my head.
The realisation he wants to keep this as a fistfight makes me change my tactics. When he sends out his next punch, I grab his arm and wheel inside twisting and bending as I go.
I’m sure the move wouldn’t work against anyone with martial arts training, but he spins over my shoulder and lands on his back as intended.
My knee drops into his gut and then I’m on him. My blows rain down on him as my self-loathing for letting Alfonse down finds an outlet.
It takes all my willpower for me not to pound him into mincemeat, but when I feel his struggles wane I stand up and wait to see which, if any, of the family are willing to continue the fight.
None are, so I push through them and make my way back into the Tree.
16
Gazala closes the door behind her and retrieves the slice of toast from her mouth. The sun is alone in the clear blue sky but it’s too early in the day for its warmth to be felt yet.
She sets herself a brisk pace to counteract her late start. She hadn’t meant to oversleep, but she’d worked into the small hours composing the first draft of her business plan. Every point on her father’s list had been addressed. She’d known that she ought to have stopped hours sooner, but she’d hit a stride where solutions to the myriad of problems were coming to her.
As her feet pound the sidewalk she is working on refinements to last night’s work. The tiredness she feels is insignificant when compared to the elation of having gotten through so much work.
The business plan was a chore she’d been putting off until her savings were sufficient to make the dream become a reality. Its daunting presence has loomed over her since her father first suggested writing it six months ago.
Now the task has been started, she understands her father’s insistence that she writes the business plan as soon as possible. Like the wise owl he is, he’d known how it would focus her mind on the financial aspects of the business, and help her to identify the flaws in her current thinking.
A copy of it rests in her handbag, ready to revise at lunchtime. Already in her head she’s redrafted the paragraphs on cash flow and unforeseen expenditures.
So wrapped up is she in her thoughts, she doesn’t notice the panel van fifty yards behind her.
Gazala takes a left turn and sets off through the park. At this time of day, it’s deserted – bar one lady walking a golden retriever. She passes the woman and exchanges a nod with her.
As she nears her intended exit, a panel van comes to a stop beside the sidewalk. It has no markings on it but she doesn’t give it any thought.
As Gazala leaves the park, the racist from yesterday leans out of the window. ‘Excu
se me, girl. Can you tell me where I can get some gas?’
Against her better judgement, Gazala steps forward with her left arm pointing. ‘Go three streets down and take a left…’
The side door of the panel van slides open and strong hands grab her. She’s hauled into the van before she can offer any resistance or even finish her sentence.
Gazala is thrown onto her stomach and has a rag stuffed into her mouth and secured in place. Her arms are held behind her back while packing tape is wound around her wrists. She tries to kick out but she feels powerful fingers grasping her ankles.
The only thing she’s sure of, is that she’s about to be raped.
17
I enter LH Associates and make my way along the corridor to Elizabeth’s office. I’m hoping she’s got the information I requested. There’s precious little in the way of leads so far and I’ve lost a few hours with having to work last night.
Alfonse had spent the evening talking to Darryl and Sherrelle’s friends, looking for enemies, but had turned up nothing. None of the people he’d spoken to had said a bad word about them. That was to be expected as nobody wants to speak ill of the dead.
What’s strange, is that none of their friends knew of anyone who didn’t like them. At times like this people fall over themselves to help, and in their efforts to offer information they can often conjure up scenarios which never existed.
With no obvious enemies to focus the investigation on, their deaths are taking the shape of a hate crime. The list of suspects for such an act is an unknown quantity – made worse by the resurgence of open Klan activity. Marches have taken place throughout a number of states. Utah has a history of being a Klan stronghold and Casperton is a remote enough town for members to believe they can act as if it were still the twenties.
Another thing chewing at my mind is the conversation I had with Kenneth after I’d dealt with the Augiers. He told me a little more about the man who’d been looking for me. A man with an accent like mine.
I need more time and less of a workload to try and figure out who the man may be. The fact he sounds like me means he’s Scottish, which suggests a relative across on vacation. Yet it can’t be as simple as that. If a relative was across visiting, I’d have known about it.
My mother would have organised a big dinner and a party for them; if for no other reason than to be the centre of attention. The relatives would have been regaled with tales of my sister’s successful business, and my refusal to settle down and provide my mother with grandchildren to spoil.
The fact this hasn’t happened suggests the person looking for me is an unknown quantity. From Kenneth’s sketchy description of the man it’s hard to determine if he’s someone sent over by a lawyer, or if he’s a former acquaintance who’s travelling across the States and has decided to look me up.
It’s a stretch though, as it’s twenty odd years since I left Glasgow and I’ve not heard from any of my old friends. I made promises I didn’t keep and as soon as I realised what my Scottish brogue did to the local girls, all thoughts of Glaswegian mates were forsaken. If I’d been a few years older, there’s a better chance I’d have somehow kept in touch, but I wasn’t the only one to blame. None of them had written to me either.
If social media, or even emails, had existed, keeping in touch would have been a lot easier. Teenage boys are not renowned for their letter-writing skills.
The one ghost from my past that I expect to never turn up is my father. He walked out of the family home when I was six and hasn’t been seen or heard of since. It was Mother remarrying which brought us to Casperton.
Elizabeth greets me with a tight smile tinged with sadness. My presence here is a reminder of the horror which has invaded her world.
She’s brisk and business-like as she hands over an envelope.
I take a seat and break the seal. Inside is a single sheet of paper.
Below the letterhead is a name and address. Below that, a date and a brief outline of the case Darryl had fought against a Mr Jefferson.
‘I’m guessing this is all you can give me without breaking attorney-client confidentiality?’
‘I’m afraid it is. However, I can tell you from personal experience that when Mr Jefferson lost the case he flew into a rage, and shouted a lot of dumb threats.’
I like what she’s saying, but all of this happened long ago. It’s a stretch to think this Jefferson guy has killed a lawyer who defeated him five years ago.
Still, it’s not beyond the bounds of possibility. Perhaps Jefferson has pinpointed losing that case as the beginning of a slide his life has taken; I need Alfonse to dig into the guy’s life.
A chime from my phone as I leave LH Associates makes me reconsider my plans for the day.
18
Dr Edwards looks at me over steepled fingers, as is his way, his face as inscrutable as ever. I would have blown off the appointment but I know Dr Edwards may be able to help me understand the killer’s motive.
‘I need your help.’
‘Do you realise the implications of what you’ve just said?’ His face still hasn’t changed. I must remember to never play poker with him.
‘You don’t understand, Doctor. I need your help with a case I’m investigating.’
His lips purse beneath his beard and fine lines appear at the edges of his eyes. ‘Would I be right to assume you’re looking into the murders of the family found up at Ashley Forest?’
I nod. ‘I need your opinion on what mind-set the killers may have – to commit a crime like that.’
‘I’m not a criminal psychologist, Jake. I’m just a plain old regular psychologist who’s trying to help a man who has some issues he needs to work through.’
‘And I’m a layman. Your knowledge and insights can help me.’ It’s not the first time we’ve done this dance. ‘They have before.’
He rests back into his chair. ‘Same arrangement?’ I know I’ve got him on board although it’s going to cost me more than I want to pay. It would be easy if it was money he was after. Instead he wants the truth about my feelings. Why I have stayed single and how it’s connected to my father’s abandonment of us. It works like a quid pro quo deal; I get his insights on the case but in return I have to give honest answers to his probing questions.
I tell him how the bodies were arranged at the dump site. His eyes widen as I speak. It’s good to see him have a human reaction to a horrific situation. I would think less of him if he didn’t.
‘So, you’re investigating their deaths and, by extension, their lives.’ His words are a statement rather than a question. ‘I presume you’re looking at possible enemies and, because of the way they were killed, you’ll also be considering hate groups.’
‘You’re right with your presumptions. So far, we’ve uncovered no known enemies, and everything we’ve learned points to them being well liked. This, in turn, suggests it’s a hate crime rather than a targeted one.’
He leans forward, placing his elbows on the desk and resting his chin on steepled fingers. I let him think in peace. What I’m asking him is outside his area of expertise and I want him to give me a properly thought out answer.
I look around the office while he thinks; its muted tones are supposed to be calming. A couple of framed certificates hang on a wall. A watercolour of Kangle’s Bluff is the only splash of colour.
‘I can only judge hate groups from what I’ve seen in the media as I have no personal experience of them. Taking the Ku Klux Klan as an example, it would seem they are organised and have some kind of code of conduct. Their activity seems limited to marches. Their days of burning crosses and hangings, thankfully, seem to be in their past. I also think that if it was them, there would be other incidents across the country.’
He makes sense and I tell him as much. ‘What about other groups?’
‘Neo Nazis wouldn’t stage it to make it look like a Klan killing. They’d do it their own way and leave something there to claim the credit.’
‘
Are you suggesting it’s an unknown group?’
‘I’m not suggesting anything. I’m just giving you my interpretation of the facts.’ He looks me in the eye. ‘My turn. What’s the longest relationship you’ve had?’
‘About three months. What about the mentality of these killers?’
‘I can’t answer that because I’ve never met, or treated, anyone who’d do such a thing. The best I can imagine is that they are aggrieved at the Fourniers for no other reason than their skin colour. It may be the twenty-first century but there’s still a lot of nineteenth century thinking. Racism isn’t something that can be quickly eradicated from a person’s beliefs. Especially not if they are surrounded by like-minded people.’ He scratches his ear and picks up a pen. ‘Why do you think three months is the longest relationship you’ve had?’
‘Because I’ve never wanted to settle down with anyone.’
My answer is trite even to my own ears and I just know he’s going to follow it up.
‘Why is that, Jake? Have you not found the right woman, or is it a fallout from your father’s abandonment?’
‘I’ve never pictured myself with a wife and kids. Don’t get me wrong, I like kids, I just don’t think I’m cut out to look after one.’
He gives a little chuckle. ‘That’s what everyone thinks. Most of us pick it up as we go along.’
I’m making excuses and we both know it. The real truth is that I remember the pain when Dad left and I know how badly my mother blamed herself. I don’t want to be the one to cause such hurt. On the flip side, I never want another person I love to abandon me.
‘These killers, what about their mind set? I mean, c’mon, they’ve nailed a family of four to crosses and then set them on fire. They must be psychotic, right?’
