by Graham Smith
His hands slam on the desk as he stands up. ‘What, you’re telling me they’re all just horribly misunderstood? You’ll be telling me that piranhas make great bath toys next.’ There’s enough scorn in his voice to flay a walrus.
If anyone else spoke to me like that, I’d have made them horizontal by now. Laying out the chief of police however, is a bad idea. Doubly so when you need his help.
‘You’re not a stupid man, Chief. I suggest you stop acting like one.’ If I can’t slug him, I’m sure as hell going to bring him down a peg or two.
We stare each other out for a moment until we’re interrupted by the desk sergeant. He passes the chief a message.
The paper is tossed onto the desk as the chief slumps into his chair. ‘An Indian girl has gone missing.’
‘Don’t you mean native American?’
‘I mean Indian, as in, from the country India.’ He’s calmer but not by much. ‘She left for work this morning and didn’t get there. Her purse and cell were found lying on a sidewalk halfway between work and home.
The implications of the girl’s heritage isn’t lost on either of us. Her purse and cell being found on a sidewalk indicate she’s been abducted and her belongings discarded. These days even the densest of criminals knows to dispose of their victims’ cell phones.
It’s too early for a normal missing person’s report to be filed and acted upon. Twenty-four hours is the starting point for that. Neither of us say that though.
My immediate thought is that, if she’s been snatched by a person or persons unknown, she’ll be terrified she’ll be raped, or if she’s seen the news, of being crucified and burned alive.
If she’s been grabbed by the gang who killed the Fourniers, her chances of survival are so low as to be negligible. Provided she hasn’t already been murdered.
The chief is on his feet – the hat in his hands a sign our meeting is over. I promise to call him later, and leave.
My next stop is Green River. It’s a hundred and eighty miles or so to the south. I plan to be there within two hours.
22
Gazala comes to, only to find she’s still in the back of the panel van. The floor pitching and yawing causes her to slide around, bumping into the boots of her captors.
Their conversation has moved from rape to sports. They’re discussing the pitcher for Salt Lake Bees and his recent game stats.
Her jaw hurts and she’s desperate for a cold drink. Neither of these things worry her too much. In the greater scheme of things such minor discomforts as thirst and a sore chin are the least of her problems.
It doesn’t take her long to work out they must be travelling along a rough track. The movement of the floor tells her as much.
This can mean only one thing: she’s being taken somewhere remote. Somewhere her captors can rape or kill her without being disturbed.
Every time the van lurches into a hole, or over a rut, she picks up another bruise. It doesn’t matter; she wants the journey to last forever. Whatever happens when she is taken out of the van will be far worse than anything she’s endured so far.
The van draws to a halt and her captors clamber out. The bald man slides the door shut behind him.
Now she’s alone she begins to fight against her bonds. Her efforts cause her body to wriggle across the floor. Something pointed digs into her back and snags at her blouse.
She can feel where it’s drawn blood and the realisation is a welcome one. If it’s sharp enough to cut her skin through the blouse, it’ll be sharp enough to cut through the tape binding her wrists.
It takes a lot of wriggling for Gazala to manoeuvre her body so she can saw at the tape binding her wrists. Once in position, she saws her arms back and forth until she feels the tape begin to part.
After what seems like an age, the last strand of tape parts and her hands are free. As she picks at the end of the tape around her ankles with her right hand, she rubs her left hand against her side in an effort to restore some blood flow.
After a minute she changes hands and uses weak fingers to grasp the end of the tape which her nails have worked loose. Thirty seconds later her ankles are free.
She grits her teeth and pulls at the tape holding her gag in place. However much it hurts, she mustn’t cry out. If they hear her cry out they’ll know she’s broken free of her bonds.
One quick yank and the tape is on the floor of the van, along with the other pieces. The skin around her mouth burns but no sound escapes her lips.
Now she has a decision to make. Does she try and escape now or does she wait until the men come for her, and burst out of the door as soon as they open it?
Both options are fraught with danger. If the men are outside the van, they’ll react as soon as she opens the door. Waiting for them to open the door is also full of risk. Instead of getting away unseen she’ll be entering a race right from the start. As her captors have the van, the only way she’ll be able to escape is to go across the countryside.
Not the best of ideas when the men are sure to know this area much better than her. It’s still a better idea than letting them do whatever they’re planning to do though.
To help her decide she puts her ear to the back door and listens.
She hears voices. Not loud, not quiet, just the voices of a group of men chatting. She guesses they are about eight or ten feet from the back of the van.
Too close for comfort. By the time she’s opened the door and taken a step they’ll be on her.
This means she’ll have to burst past her captors and hope she can outrun them.
Now she knows what she has to do, she starts looking at ways she can give herself every possible advantage.
Her shoes are ballet style flats. Great for comfort and work but not good for running. If she loses a shoe and has to run barefoot she may as well stop and let the men recapture her.
She remembers the man who bound her dropping the roll of tape into a tool locker at the front of the van. The youth and the bald man had used the locker as a seat.
When she heaves the lid open she finds the roll of tape sitting on a bag of tools. She removes the tape, a screwdriver and a utility knife.
The knife blade is an inch in length. Long enough to do some damage with a slash but no use as a stabbing weapon. That’s where the screwdriver comes in. It’s the kind of long, thin, narrow type used on wall sockets or other fine work.
A hammer, or something else that could be used as a club, would have been a good find, but there wasn’t one. It could be a good thing; the extra weight may slow her down or at least upset her rhythm.
She moves on, conscious the men may come back for her at any moment.
Using the weapons is a last resort to prevent recapture. There are at least four men outside the van and she knows there’s no way she can fight them all off. The weapons are there for defence should one of them manage to grab her.
She puts the weapons on the floor and winds the tape around each foot in turn. With her feet secured into her shoes, Gazala turns her attention to her skirt. It’s tight enough to hinder her legs at full stride.
That can’t be allowed to happen. She can either remove the skirt or hitch it up over her hips.
Gazala is about to hitch up the skirt when her eyes land on the knife. Rather than risk the skirt lowering itself as she runs, she slips it off and cuts a slit in both sides before pulling it back on. Now her dignity will be more or less maintained and her skirt will provide no hindrance to her planned sprint.
With her preparations complete, she goes through a series of stretching routines to make sure her muscles are ready for the sudden burst of exercise she’s going to give them.
Five minutes into her exercises she hears a hand grab the handle of the van’s back door.
She tenses herself, ready to dash; to stab and slash if need be.
It’s the youth who opens the door. Gazala’s hand turns at the last moment so she delivers a backhanded punch to his face rather than a slash.
/> Unprepared, and off balance, he staggers backwards before tripping into the bald man.
Gazala sees none of this. She’s travelling past him as soon as the blow lands. Ahead of her is open land. A track runs from left to right and there’s a ranger, or forester station a few yards to the right.
She runs straight ahead. Towards the open land where the van can’t follow her.
With the possible exception of the youth, she reckons she’ll be fitter and faster than any of them.
Shouts follow her. Gunshots don’t.
She hears heavy footsteps, and heavier breathing, for twenty paces but it starts to fade as she outruns her pursuers.
If she can just keep going for a few more minutes she’ll be far enough ahead to slow to a pace more suited to the rough terrain. That she might turn an ankle is a constant fear.
23
I pull into the car park of a motel. Jefferson’s listed address is next door and I want to have a scout of the area.
Green River is one of those cities that populate all the main interstates. Spaced every hundred miles or so, their main trade comes from gas stations, diners and motels servicing the passing travellers. Garages and mom and pop stores also do a decent turn and the rest of the economy supports itself with local services. Casperton would be the same if it hadn’t got lucky by establishing itself beside some oilfields.
A rumble of my stomach tells me it’s time I ate. I want to ignore it, but I know I need sustenance of some kind. Discussions with strangers always go better if your body doesn’t embarrass you. A bathroom would also be good. I made the drive from Casperton in a little over two hours, but only because I’d shattered the speed limit and managed not to get pulled over.
I take a look along the wide street and spy a diner halfway along the next block. The walk is a short one taken with long strides as I welcome the chance to stretch my legs.
The diner is like Sherri’s without the authenticity; or the high standards of hygiene; or the friendly staff.
Most tables are occupied, although none of the patrons seem too enamoured with the place. Off to one side a mid-forties couple are engaging in a hissed argument while another couple are struggling to contain their young children from burning off steam now they’ve escaped the confines of a car.
A trucker shovels food into his mouth as if it’s the first meal he’s had for weeks, while a man who must have waved goodbye to his eighties several years ago, stares into his cup with rheumy eyes.
The server greets me with a bored expression. She looks as if she’s spent her life making bad decisions, and waiting tables is her punishment.
‘C’n I getcha?’
Even her voice sounds defeated. There’s no effort to add warmth or basic civility. I stop short of pointing out that friendly waiting staff can double, or treble, their wages with tips, and order a well-done burger and some fries. It’s hard to get food poisoning from well-cooked meat, and the heat of the oil in the fryer will see off any germs on the fries.
While I’m waiting, I focus my mind on the same things I’ve been looking at all the way down here: the questions I want to ask Jefferson, the missing girl, whether Alfonse has learned anything, and whether the search team found any clues on the trail up to the dump site.
The questions are all no brainers – depending upon Jefferson’s answers I may have to think on my feet. I’ve tried to foresee as many comebacks as possible, but don’t expect I’ve thought of them all.
The Indian girl who appears to have been snatched is a worry. I should have asked Chief Watson for more details. The obvious ones like her name, age and where she was travelling from and to.
It was stupid of me not to do so. My job at the Tree means I know a lot of the people in Casperton and there’s a chance I know her. I can think of three girls whose race could put them in the frame, but know only one of them well enough to do anything more than pass inane greetings. I hope it’s not the one I know as she has two young kids.
The chief won’t be able to start an official investigation into her disappearance until the obligatory twenty-four hours have passed. In normal circumstances he’d be able to start looking for her pretty much right away. He’ll be annoyed and frustrated there’s no way he can redirect any of his resources away from the investigation into the multiple murders, regardless of how much he may suspect the Indian girl’s life is at stake.
My last thought jars with me. I’m thinking of this missing girl as the Indian girl. That’s wrong. She’s a girl with Indian parents. I think of myself as a guy, rather than a Scottish guy. Why should she be any different?
This is the kind of natural and casual racism that creeps into society and goes unnoticed. It’s nowhere near as bad as it used to be, but it’s still there in all of us. My grandfather’s tongue was laden with terms like darkie, chink or wog. While those terms are now outdated and offensive, racial stereotyping and grouping still goes on in our subconscious.
Alfonse is my best friend and I’ve never thought of him as anything other than a guy, a mate, a buddy. Not once in all the years I’ve known him have I used his skin colour as an identifier or as the butt of a joke. Yet when someone adds a country of origin to a person’s sex, my subconscious pounces on it and gift wraps the whole package into one racist parcel.
My burger and fries arrive as Darla answers my call. The chief’s assistant gives me the information I need and manages to call me sweetheart twice, and honey four times, in a three minute conversation.
The missing girl’s name is Gazala Kulkarni. She’s twenty-two and was born and bred in Casperton. I wasn’t, and as such will never be classed as a true local. Gazala lives with her parents and works at C-Dude. According to the report filed by her father she left home at eight-thirty and never arrived at work. Her boss had called at ten after nine demanding to know why she wasn’t at work.
I’ll refocus on her disappearance as I drive back to Casperton. For the meantime, the Indian girl shall no longer exist. Her name is Gazala and that’s the way she deserves to be thought of.
The burger and fries are better than expected and the plate is in good condition with no bacteria-laden chips or cracks. The chef must care more about hygiene than the waiting staff.
I call Darla again and get answers to the questions I forgot to ask the chief.
The search of the trail uncovered three faded candy wrappers, six cigarette butts, one cigar butt and, best of all, a few flakes of white paint. The paint was from where a vehicle appeared to have slid from the trail and scraped against a tree.
What is most encouraging is that the searchers’ report stated the tree showed a recent gouge which had led them to finding the paint flakes.
I’m no expert on the subject, but I’ve read enough crime novels to know automobile paint can be traced to a particular vehicle. It’s just a matter of time before the lab results come in and give us a make and model.
Saliva from the cigar and cigarette butts would be better than an ID on the paint. A quick run through a DNA database or two and the chief could be on the phone to the nearest SWAT team.
The torrential rain on the night of the murders is likely to have ruined any chance of a DNA trace. I’m sure Chief Watson will have sent them for tests anyway. The odds are it’ll be a waste of time and money, but he’ll have procedures to follow and he might just get lucky.
I’m tempted to call Alfonse, but I know he’ll call me as soon as he has some news. I also know disturbing him when he’s deep in a project is a bad idea. Once he gets himself on the digital highways he’s lost to the world. Interruptions are met with biting sarcasm. The fact I’ve directed him off the highways, onto the back roads, will at least double his displeasure at my calling for an update.
I decide against calling him and count out the exact change to pay the check. As an insult to the least-welcoming waitress in Utah, I leave a solitary dime three inches to the side of the check. It’s tight of me, but no more than she deserves.
Once I’m
outside, I walk round to the back of the diner and find the trade entrance. My knock is answered by a homely woman with a natural smile.
‘Yes, sugar?’
I hand over a five dollar bill. ‘Your waitress will come back here in a minute. She’ll be bitching about a customer who left her a dime tip. Tell her it’s a statement of customer satisfaction, and share the real tip among those who’ve done their jobs the way they’re paid to.’
The waitress’s voice comes storming out the door carrying its own weight in expletives.
I get a knowing smile and a wink as the homely woman pulls the door closed.
24
The house is a nice one, even if it is next to a motel. The Mercedes on the drive is a recent model. The guy who lives here won’t be rooting down the back of his couch for loose change. If Mike Jefferson is the man who answers the door I’ve wasted my time coming to Green River.
He stands five-three in his sandals and has the build a supermodel would consider too thin. Not only that, his skin is two shades of ebony darker than Alfonse’s.
Still, I’ve made the journey, so I might as well ask my questions, stupid as they now seem.
I’ve learned that telling the truth about why I’m asking questions, can distort, or even prevent, the answers. I proffer my hand and get ready to shovel some bull. I’ve done this enough times to know I need to speak fast and with conviction.
‘Hi. Are you Mike Jefferson? I’m Jake Boulder, you don’t know me, but my lawyer has told me about you. Said you were the right man to offer me a lifeline.’
