The Killing of Bobbi Lomax

by Cal Moriarty

  ‘I guess Reno put her up to it.’ Clark couldn’t call them the Real Faith, not here. He looked out at the press pit, as the remaining journos, obviously from more liberal news organisations, made a beeline for Debra Franklin. Closely followed by two dark-suited members of the Faith’s PR team. The journos and the PR boys would be keen to have a clue to her source, albeit for very different reasons.

  ‘I guess they’re hoping you’ll sell them the Bible now.’

  ‘They can hope all they want,’ said Laidlaw. ‘It’s not for sale.’

  ‘If I could ask you to wait there a moment, gentlemen, I’ll just get a couple of shots for official release.’ Clark noticed the guy didn’t have a press pass. He must be the Faith’s go-to photographer. They didn’t want unflattering or undignified pictures of their leaders peering out from the morning’s newspapers.

  As the photographer settled them all into the frame, Clark looked up, directly into the camera. He felt the others shuffle into position around him. He watched the photographer’s hands, one hovering near the button, the other clutching the large flashbulb and ushering them all closer. Clark pushed the Testament of Faith closer towards the camera. Everybody set. A hand on the shoulder. Peter’s. Squeezed him. A whisper. Well done. The Supreme Leader, sat to his right, put his hand forward onto the top corner of the Testament next to Clark’s.

  ‘Quite a find, son. Truly marvellous.’

  Clark didn’t take his eyes from the camera. ‘I think I’m getting a nose for it.’

  As he waited for the photographer to click the shutter Clark knew he would have two lives. His life before this moment. And his life after it.

  29

  November 2nd 1983, 4.24 pm

  They made their way out of the precinct, around the side of the lot, towards the far end of it, where what passed for the state’s first, and only, forensics lab sat like some kind of shiny mirage amongst the clutch of rusting cop cars long ago abandoned to the extremes of the desert temperatures.

  Marty, the code forgotten, stepped aside as Al punched it in. ‘What is it?’ said Marty.

  Al tapped the side of his nose, that would be telling, and pushed the door open for Marty, following him in, the wooden door slamming behind them. Whittaker turned to them.

  ‘Don’t touch anything. Yet. Gloves.’ Whittaker indicated a large box of latex gloves next to the door. They each grabbed a pair. ‘Come on. I’ll give you the nickel tour.’

  They looked around at all the tables groaning under the weight of thousands of transparent baggies, most of which seemed to contain nothing but unrecognizable fragments.

  ‘Looks a mess,’ said Al.

  ‘Nature of the beast,’ said Whittaker, leading them to the far side of the room. ‘Hopefully, even the ultimate chaos yields order.’

  ‘Here’s hoping,’ said Marty. ‘Because right now we could do with a little.’

  ‘And maybe even a few clues.’

  ‘We got a couple of tables going for each bombing. The cars are out back in the shed. We’re still going over those. But this is Mrs Lomax’s evidence. Right behind you is Gudsen. Next to him, Houseman, and lastly, over by the door, today’s: Mr Angel. We’ve prioritised certain elements of each for fingerprints. But we’re striking out. Nothing on the boxes, on the ribbons, or on any of the bomb housings.’

  ‘He wore gloves?’

  ‘Not necessarily. It just means the explosions and/or fires wiped out what was there.’

  ‘So we might luck out?’

  ‘Sure. I’ve sent my guys back out to each of the sites again, in case we missed anything,’ said Whittaker.

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘For starters: this.’

  Whittaker moved back across to the table by the door. Dog Angel. He held up a baggie with a small dented clump of what looked like lead.

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘It’s a blast cap. The bombs were all pipe bombs. You stuff each end with a lead cap. We only found one at this scene.’

  ‘Was that why it was a smaller explosion?’

  ‘Possibly, Marty. Although perhaps it was a smaller device. You’d have to ask Tex about that. It’s possible that it’s there and we just didn’t find it first time around.’

  ‘Perhaps it got blown to smithereens, huh?’

  ‘We don’t think so, Al. We got all the others.’

  ‘Maybe he ran out, used something else?’

  ‘Possibly. I’ll let you know how my guys get on. We’re searching for whatever we can find.’

  Footsteps from out the back, from the car shed. Marty looked up as Big Tex emerged from the open doorway. He was wearing gloves, but his hands were smeared with oil and grease. ‘Hey, Mart. I bet you’re wondering how Mr Houseman managed to blow up two others and then himself, plus another one while he was laid up in County?’

  Marty smiled. ‘It had crossed my mind. Your theory taking a knock?’

  ‘Like hell it is.’ Tex had taken off his dirty gloves and was replacing them with a fresh pair as he moved fast across the room towards where they still stood at the Angel table. ‘And this proves it.’ He picked up a baggie. Mangled metal inside it.

  ‘What’s that?’

  Big Tex grinned like all his numbers just came up in the lottery. ‘A timer. That’s what.’

  Marty and Al peered closer. ‘We’ll take your word for that,’ said Marty.

  ‘Do. The cunning son of a bitch used three tilts . . . and, today’s, a timer. So much for a bomber’s signature.’

  ‘That’s some planning,’ said Al.

  ‘So, you still think he blew himself up. Maybe on purpose?’

  ‘That I don’t know, Mart. I just do facts.’

  ‘Sure,’ said Marty. ‘Well, four bombs is a fact. No matter what was used. But Houseman as the bomber, that’s not fact, just supposition. In fact, if the timer was set to go off after all the others, but set before the first bomb, then that throws suspicion not just on Houseman but all the victims, including the dead ones.’

  ‘I hear ya, Marty,’ said Tex.

  ‘Yeah. And who’s to say Houseman or one of the others didn’t have an accomplice? Either one of the other victims, or some other SOB who’s still running around town, planning who knows what?’

  ‘Al’s right, Tex. We got nothing else here. No fingerprints. Nothing. Any of these guys could be the accomplice of the other. Or none. Who would Houseman’s accomplice be?’

  ‘The wife maybe?’ said Al.

  ‘Not unless she’s got Stockholm Syndrome,’ said Marty. ‘And I don’t think she has. She’s a loyal Faith wife, but I don’t think it stretches to murder.’

  ‘Maybe the timer’s his only accomplice.’

  ‘It might be the only one, Tex. Sure. For any of them. What was all that stuff in Houseman’s trunk, Whittaker? Did you dry it all out?’

  ‘Looks like a lot of old paper.’

  ‘What you hoping for, Mart, a scrawled confession?’

  ‘That’d be nice.’

  ‘Wouldn’t it? Then maybe we could go home,’ said Al.

  ‘Show me where it is.’

  ‘Sure, Mart. Back over here.’

  They moved as a unit, following Whittaker back over to the far corner of the room. ‘It’s all here,’ he pulled out a huge cardboard box out from under the table. It was stuffed with small baggies. Marty pulled out one. A tiny piece of browned paper, so small it only contained the merest hint of a pen mark, not even a letter. He pulled out another. ‘They’re all like that, Marty. Each piece in a separate bag. There’s over forty-eight hundred pieces in there. Four boxes full.’

  Marty looked under the table at the other boxes. ‘Any idea what it is?’

  ‘None,’ said Whittaker.

  ‘The longest confession in history,’ said Al.

  ‘And we just don’t have time to find out now. Like I said, we’re . . .’

  ‘Prioritising. I know.’ Marty turned to Tex and Al. ‘What’s Houseman’s motivation?’

&nbs
p; Al shrugged his shoulders. ‘Anger. If he’s invested with Lomax and Gudsen and lost his money.’

  ‘Is he on the List?’

  ‘What list?’

  ‘Jesus, Al. The List. The disgruntled three thousand.’

  ‘I didn’t see his name.’

  ‘Check again for any of his family: wife, parents, sister-in-law, the lot.’

  ‘How about Angel? He wasn’t an investor?’

  ‘No, he said not.’

  ‘Check him again. But if Angel wasn’t an investor and it turns out he isn’t connected to Lomax and Gudsen, even through his clients, and judging by the fact he most likely wasn’t parked in his usual spot, he probably wasn’t the target.’

  ‘No? Then who?’

  ‘I don’t know. But whoever they were, they got business somewhere along that strip.’

  ‘The deli and all that?’

  ‘Yeah. ’Cos even if the timer was supposed to go off the same day as any of the other bombs, that car was parked there deliberately. Whoever Angel saw, they weren’t in any hurry, not panicked in any way, and a few days later the car is still there. And then, boom. Looks like that beagle was right, they were worthy of barking at.’

  ‘Don’t forget, Mart. The first bomb. The nail bomb. Someone hated Gudsen more than they hated the rest of ’em.’

  ‘Or wanted us to think they did, Tex.’

  Bang.

  Bang. Bang. Bang.

  ‘Looks like you’re not the only one forgot the code.’ Al moved across to open the door. It was barely open before someone was pushing their way through. The Captain.

  ‘So this is where you all are.’

  No one answered, they just stared at him. Probably wondering why he was wearing a tux to visit the forensics shed. Another back-slapping function, no doubt. Tough at the top.

  Whittaker broke the silence. ‘Good to see you, Captain. You haven’t been over here since you helped the Sheriff cut the ribbon.’

  The Captain mumbled something inaudible back at him, then turned to Marty.

  ‘You do realise I’m on the board of the Mission.’

  What he should have said was: You do realise I’m trying to ingratiate myself a place in the Supreme Chamber. Marty looked him square in the eyes. ‘You realise I’m a cop, sir?’

  ‘Yeah, one with a grudge against the Faith.’

  ‘I’m not the one with the grudge, sir.’

  ‘Against Laidlaw and who knows who else. What’s all this got to do with the Faith, anyhow?’

  ‘Haven’t you noticed, Captain, everything in this town has something to do with the Faith?’

  ‘Keep it in check, Detective, or I’ll have you directing traffic on the freeway . . . or was it closing down the exits?’

  So it had been Laidlaw on the phone.

  The Captain looked over Marty’s shoulder and his eyes fell on table after table of bagged evidence. He looked as if he’d woken up from a sleepwalk to find himself on an alien planet. ‘In the name of our Lord Prophet: what’s all this mess?’

  ‘Our case, sir.’

  ‘This is it?’

  ‘Pretty much.’

  ‘Get someone in the frame for this, Marty. No one wants the Feds down here, sticking their nose in everything, and I’m not going to be able to keep them out much longer if we don’t close this case.’

  Marty wanted to ask if it mattered whether they were guilty or innocent, but knew it didn’t. What the Captain meant was the Faith didn’t want the Feds here. Marty didn’t much either. They’d lost opportunity after opportunity to find Liss. Although the Faith hadn’t exactly facilitated their presence in the Canyon, Marty believed the Feds when they said the Faith had hampered them at every turn.

  ‘We need warrants.’

  ‘Warrants? For what?’

  ‘Searches. Homes. Businesses. Gudsen. Lomax. Houseman. Angel.’

  ‘The victims’ homes, businesses? Have you gone crazy? You got probable cause?’

  ‘We’re working on it.’

  ‘No probable cause and you want warrants? Are you trying to get me fired?’

  No. But it was an idea.

  ‘Nobody stops until we find this guy. Nobody.’

  Marty guessed he meant everyone in the room not wearing a tux. He watched as the door banged shut.

  A collective smile. Shakes of the head. A whistle from Tex. ‘Someone’s got their panties in a bunch.’

  ‘Glad he’s not my boss,’ said Whittaker.

  ‘I’ll second that,’ said Tex.

  ‘Count yourselves lucky,’ said Marty.

  ‘What now?’ said Al.

  ‘I’m going to get us our warrants.’

  Al raised his eyebrows. ‘From on high?’

  ‘Pretty close.’

  ‘You want an assist?’

  ‘Better I go on my own. Can you get a couple of uniforms to take those boxes over to the evidence room for when I get back? That OK, Whittaker?’

  ‘Sure, if you use their side room. I’ll give you some sheeting also. I’ll seal the boxes. Give you a pack of gloves.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘What are you going to do with it all, Mart?’ said Al.

  ‘Put the shit together, of course.’

  ‘All that?’ said Al.

  ‘Every last piece.’

  ‘Hell,’ said Tex. ‘The Captain’s right: you are crazy.’

  30

  February 8th 1983

  Nate’s Diner

  Clark, his empty plate in front of him, was staring at the newspaper. He couldn’t believe that he had done it. He looked to where, behind the ketchup and menus, he’d tucked the large envelope to give to Kenny. He hadn’t told him anything on the phone. Just that it was a courier job. And it was urgent. And to pack his overnight kit.

  Behind that envelope was an identical one, inside which were three lists. Wish lists. One for the Faith, one for the Real Faith and one for the more literary-minded collectors and booksellers and their clients. Clark would get them copied up later. On the lists were individual lost gems. And many gems that had never even existed. Clark thought that was the ideal scenario. That way you could create the ultimate document for each client. Bespoke forgeries. Clark hated that word, ‘forgery’. ‘Creation’ was far less unpleasant. ‘Forgery’ was such a negative word. He was an artist, not a forger. A creative artist.

  ‘Good?’ Clark looked up from his newspaper. Gloria, a forty-something career waitress, was stood over him. ‘The schnitzel?’

  ‘It came highly recommended.’

  ‘Looks like it sure lived up to the recommendation. Room for dessert?’

  ‘I shouldn’t.’

  She leaned down toward him.

  ‘See that line by the door?’

  Clark looked up. While he’d been lost in thought, the diner had filled up, not a spare seat in the house. By the entrance a gaggle of seniors were stood, menus in hand, primed to shuffle at a pace towards the first table that looked like it might be ready to expel its diners.

  ‘If they see you just sipping on coffee, gazing out the window, they’re gonna turn you to stone with their stares.’

  Clark looked back over to the seniors. They caught his stare and heads tilted almost in unison, seemed to be waiting for him to get the hell out of Dodge and relinquish the four-person booth he was hogging all to himself.

  ‘Look what they did to those two.’

  She indicated out to the thin green strip of what passed for lawn outside the diner, where, planted in the lawn, were two stone grotesques. ‘I obviously missed the warning. Maybe in a few minutes. I’m waiting on a friend,’ Clark told her.

  Gloria looked down at Clark’s open newspaper. ‘He as famous as you, this friend?’

  Clark’s eyes followed her gaze to where in the center of the page sat the Faith’s official group photo from yesterday, all of them grinning out at the world as they gathered way too proudly around the Testament. ‘It’s not me.’ Gloria picked up the newspaper, held it up to her
face, peered over the top of it at Clark, then back to the newspaper.

  ‘Not you? Your twin then?’

  ‘You could say that.’

  ‘Says here that old bit of paper was worth fifty grand, that’s more than my house!’

  ‘Everything’s only worth what people will pay for it,’ he looked at her name badge, ‘Gloria – and you gotta take into account a whole bunch of criteria. How much would you pay for your house today?’

  ‘With my old man in it? Nothing!’

  ‘And with Harrison Ford in it?’

  ‘Well, I’d sell my soul for that – and throw in the house ’n’ all.’

  ‘I rest my case.’

  She took up his plate. ‘Well, Mr Houseman, if you or your twin ever bump into Harrison, be sure and send him to 1321 South Beacon.’

  ‘Sure will.’

  Clark had just turned back to his newspaper when he heard a commotion over by the door. He looked up to see a blond man in biker’s leathers squeezing past the diners. Kenny. Now everyone had a reason to stare. ‘Sorry! Sorry! I had a drop-off downtown. Jeez, this place is out of the way.’

  ‘That’s kind of the point.’

  Kenny threw himself down into the booth, made a grab for the envelope. ‘This it?’