[Jake Boulder 01.0] Watching the Bodies

by Graham Smith

  It’s something he’s prepared for.

  His cousin wasn’t prepared. Her lack of preparation is the reason her corpse is lying naked on the trail behind Sharon Linskey’s house.

  It hadn’t taken much effort to get her alone. Always keen to interfere, she’d welcomed him into her home when he’d said he wanted advice regarding a girl he was seeing.

  Being prepared he’d brought wine. While she’d finished her dinner, he’d poured her a glass of wine and added a few drops of the poison distilled from the cartons of cigarettes. The random selection of kill methods had thrown back the latest addition.

  After just two sips of the full-bodied Merlot, she’d been lying on the floor complaining of stomach cramps. Convulsions followed, along with rapid breathing.

  Five minutes later, her breaths began slowing. After ten they stopped altogether.

  Then it was a case of stripping her body and dumping it into the trunk of his car. The implants she’d been so proud of looked odd against her flaccid body with its rolls of untoned flab.

  She won’t be missed until after she’s been discovered. Her parents had moved to Florida and her husband had run off with his secretary a couple years back.

  Lights flash as two cars travel round the corner.

  Norm waves with one hand while shielding his eyes with the other.

  The cars approach and park off to one side. Four men get out. As they move towards him they are illuminated by a streetlight. Norm recognises Chief Watson and Jake Boulder but not the other two. Judging by the way they are dressed, they could be feds. He hopes so. It’ll make everything so much more interesting. Plus, if the FBI are involved he’s been officially recognised as a serial killer.

  A warm feeling envelops his body.

  ‘It’s over here.’ Norm points towards the alley where he’s dumped the first body.

  He takes them behind the dumpster and lets them admire his handiwork.

  His victim lies face down. If there wasn’t a pool of blood showing by the faint glow of a distant streetlight, he could be mistaken for a sleeping drunk.

  Chief Watson uses his flashlight to sweep the area while one of the feds checks for a pulse.

  Norm knows he won’t find one. He’d made sure the man was dead before dialling 911.

  The four men say nothing, but he knows they’re thinking plenty. Each one is doing a cursory visual examination of the scene.

  The chief finishes the general look with his flashlight and starts a slow pass over the body from the feet upwards.

  Norm has to fight to make his face show revulsion instead of pride when the flashlight lingers at the top of the body’s legs. The chief steps forward for a better look at where he’d severed both femoral arteries with a scalpel.

  There’s a gasp from someone – he thinks Boulder, but he’s not sure. It doesn’t matter who, what’s important is he’s drawn a reaction.

  One of the feds touches Chief Watson’s elbow and he steps away from the body.

  Norm approaches the fed who seems to be in charge and puts panic into his voice. ‘Is this a victim of the serial killer who’s in the newspaper? Will my family be safe? Will I?’

  The fed takes a moment to answer. Norm can see him working out the correct response. ‘It’s too early to tell at this stage. As a precaution we’d like to know the names and addresses of all your family members who live in Casperton.’

  Jake Boulder picks up on the fed’s unspoken request and takes him to one side. As they go, Norm hears the chief being asked if he knows the identity of the victim.

  Chapter 66

  As soon as I see the tattoos on the victim’s bare arms, I recognise him. Ian Yarwood drank in the Tree every weekend.

  A die-hard rock fan, he’s had the emblems and motifs of all his favourite bands immortalised onto his arms. In just one pass of the chief’s flashlight I’d seen the Guns ‘N’ Roses crucifix, Aerosmith’s angel wings and the Rolling Stones’ lips and tongue.

  Try as I might, I can’t recall Yarwood’s name being mentioned by Harriet, Olly or any of their family.

  Another point to consider is Yarwood’s body has been found inside the town’s limits, whereas all the obvious murder victims were dumped or displayed in more rural areas.

  The clinical way the man has been murdered smacks of our killer, yet he may not fit the selection process.

  If it’s the same killer, I wonder if he is getting cockier, more confident. The worst-case scenario is he’s started a new string after being thwarted by the chief’s preventative methods.

  The thought he may start choosing victims totally at random isn’t something I care to think about. Should his pattern have changed, he’ll be even harder to predict, let alone stop.

  I don’t know the guy who found the body, but I’m sure I’ve seen his face somewhere.

  As the chief and the feds talk among themselves, I approach the guy and start asking questions like the detective I’ve suddenly become.

  ‘Norman Sortwell. Everyone calls me Norm though.’

  ‘What time did you find the body?’

  ‘A couple of minutes before I called the police.’ He gives a helpless gesture. ‘I tried for a pulse first. When I couldn’t find one, I made the call.’

  ‘Did you see anyone else in the alley? Or someone coming out of it?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why did you go into the alley in the first place?’ This has been troubling me since I got here. The alley is a dead end. Only refuse collectors have a good reason to go down there.

  Norm gives a rueful smile. ‘I needed to take a whiz. It was quiet so I ducked into the alley.’

  ‘Fair enough.’ It is as good a reason as any. ‘Where have you been tonight?’

  ‘Nowhere special. I came out to get some milk and decided to grab a couple of beers.’

  I nod at his answers. They’re commonplace and banal, which is normal for Casperton. Only in the movies do people find bodies while doing something exciting. The exact statistic escapes me, but I know for a fact most bodies are found by dog-walkers.

  ‘We don’t know for certain if this man has been killed by the person we’re hunting, but to be on the safe side, we’ll need to bring your family into protective custody.’

  It’s hard to judge his reaction in the dim light of the alley, but I’m not convinced he’s too worried about his family.

  ‘All of them or just the ones who live in Casperton?’

  ‘Just the ones who live locally to begin with.’

  After that, who knows? There are far too many possibilities to consider.

  Has our killer made a mistake and jumped his pattern or have we missed a connection between Harriet and Yarwood?

  Perhaps it’s a copycat killer aping the guy who’s got a whole town gripped with fear. If it is we’re going to need a lot more than three FBI guys.

  I get the details from Norm. We’re in luck this time. His only relatives in town are his parents and a cousin. As we’re talking, I recognise him as one of Pete Lester’s workers.

  The FBI statue comes over and starts asking Norm the same questions I’ve just gone through.

  I leave him to it and go to update the chief. As we talk both of us are watching Doenig. He’s over by Yarwood’s body. While not close enough to contaminate any evidence, he’s near enough to inspect the body. A pen light held by a steady hand throws a narrow beam of light onto the areas he wants to inspect.

  In his other hand, his cell is displaying a faint glow as he holds it out and speaks with a soft tone. I guess he’s using it as a Dictaphone rather than having a conversation.

  The fact his face still hasn’t changed expression makes me wonder if Botox injections are part of the FBI toolkit.

  ‘What’s your thoughts on this, Boulder?’

  The chief’s face has shed weariness in favour of exhaustion.

  ‘The clinical manner of the execution points to our man, but I’m not so sure. Dr Edwards was convinced his selection process
was highly important to him, but the victim’s got no connections I know of to Harriet or her family.’

  ‘You know him?’

  ‘He’s a regular at the Tree. Got a wife and two young boys.’ I remember the pride in Yarwood’s voice whenever he discussed his sons. ‘Don’t let those tattoos fool you. He was a stand up guy. Never got a whiff of trouble and I’ve often seen him play peacemaker.’

  The chief’s eyes close as he takes a deep swallow. He’ll be thinking about what he has to do next. ‘I’ll need to inform his wife before I can start asking if he’s related to Harriet or Olly.’

  I shudder at the thought of Chief Watson or another cop knocking on Yarwood’s door to tell his wife. It’s bad enough anyone getting killed, but the idea of young children losing a parent to mindless violence is abhorrent.

  Kicking the tyres of the chief’s car, I imagine coming face to face with the killer. It’s a nice thought. I won’t be worried about making an arrest. Not until I’ve inflicted some pain onto him.

  Chapter 67

  Doenig takes me back to the station, leaving his cohort to protect the crime scene. The chief is on his way to break the news to Yarwood’s wife after calling Darla to get an address.

  Neither Doenig nor I discuss the body as we travel back. Both of us are lost in our thoughts. There’s every chance we’re thinking the same things, but you’d never know.

  Norm sits in the back of the car for his own protection. I’m certain Doenig will give him another round of questions back at the station.

  He is chewing at his nails and moving with a nervous energy. He’s called his parents and told them to expect a visit from the police. He is trying every minute or so to contact his cousin, but whenever he tries he ends up cutting the call after a few seconds.

  My suggestion we go round to his cousin’s house is met with a blank stare by Doenig. Norm keeps at him though and he relents to the detour.

  Getting directions from Norm, Doenig drives fast with skill. There is no flamboyance, just careful considered movements of the wheel. Every turn is indicated and his braking and accelerating don’t cause the car’s occupants to be thrown forward or back. His instructors at Quantico would be proud of the way he’s travelling at twice the speed limit while still observing the niceties of driving.

  When we arrive at Norm’s cousin’s we exit the car and approach the house. It’s in darkness but so is every other house on the street.

  It’s a typical house on an average street. Nothing is remarkable or unique about it. The car parked on the drive is a mid-range saloon. Everything about the area screams bland domesticity to me. I want to leave in case it’s contagious.

  We knock on the door and ring the bell. There’s no answer.

  Doenig beats me to the obvious questions. ‘Is your cousin married? Does she have kids?’

  ‘No. Her husband left her a couple of years ago and they didn’t have kids.’

  ‘What about a boyfriend?’

  Norm tilts his head as he thinks. ‘She did say something about seeing a guy. His name was David, or Daniel. It began with a D. Do you think she’s with him?’ Hope has filtered into his voice.

  ‘Perhaps.’ I point at the car in the drive. ‘If she is, he’s picked her up.’

  Doenig’s face registers its first expression. Exasperated impatience.

  I’m guessing he wants to be away from Norm and I so he can start making calls to other agents without being overheard. If he doesn’t, he should.

  I turn to Norm. ‘Do you have a key or know if she keeps one hidden somewhere?’

  ‘No, I don’t. Sorry.’

  I start looking in the obvious areas. Under the doormat, behind the plant pot. Doenig joins in with a scowl while Norm stands around looking helpless.

  Finding nothing we go round to the back of the house and repeat the process with the same result.

  ‘Nothing doing. She must be at the boyfriend’s. Come on. I’ll have someone run a trace on her cell and track her that way.’

  As we’re travelling the mile back to the station I have a thought. It’s not one I want to share in front of Norm so I keep it to myself until we’re at the station.

  Entering the reception, I’m about to get Doenig to one side when he’s approached by the colleague he’d left behind.

  While they’re talking, I introduce Norm to Darla and give a quick explanation as to why he’s here. She grasps the situation at once and leads him away with the offer of coffee.

  With Doenig tied up and the chief away, I find a seat and rethink my latest thought a second and third time.

  However I poke and prod at the idea, I keep coming back to the same conclusion. There’s a way I can check, so I pull out my cell and make a call.

  It’s late but something tells me nobody at the motel is going to be sleeping.

  The detective who answers hands his phone to Olly Vernal. I question him about any possible connection his family has with Yarwood. He denies any but checks with other family members.

  I can’t hear what they’re saying, but I can hear the low rumble of voices interspersed with the odd indignant shriek.

  Olly comes back on the line and tells me there’s not even the most tenuous link.

  It’s what I was expecting, but I still needed to check it out before making any rash statements.

  With my facts established, I go in search of Doenig.

  I find him still in conversation with the other agent; I hesitate to interrupt them. My involvement is limited despite the fact I’ve been deputised. While there’s no open hostility from Doenig, I’d have to be stupid not to recognise his tolerating of me is only one step above humouring.

  His eyes land on me, so he turns away from his colleague. ‘What is it, Detective?’ There’s the lightest trace of a sneer in the way he uses my job title.

  ‘I don’t think Harriet Vernal was the first person to find Angus Oberton’s body.’

  I can tell I have his full attention by the way his eyes widen. ‘Why?’

  ‘We know the killer is targeting the families of those who find the bodies. Thanks to a newspaper article so does the public. We’ve assumed he’s been finding out who the person is from press releases or by watching the dump sites.’ I lick my lips. ‘With the public aware of his selection method, the first person to find Oberton may have thought they were protecting their family by not reporting it.’

  He raises a hand. ‘I’ve got it. What you’re saying fits.’ The tolerance in his eyes is replaced by a fleeting gleam of respect.

  Neither of us speaks. The same thought assaulting my brain will be laying siege to his; the only way to verify my theory is to ask Ian Yarwood’s relatives if they found a body.

  The questions will be taken as accusations, as instruments of blame by even the most sensible. At a time of grief, of self-recrimination, we may have to get heavy with members of his family to identify the person.

  If I am wrong, none of this will play well in the media or coffee shops. When the public hear how the police and FBI harangued grieving family members for something they didn’t do, there will be a closing of doors and a withdrawal of information and cooperation.

  FBI man or not, Doenig is a human being. Like me he won’t want to be the one to raise the subject with distraught relatives, even if I am right.

  We are given a temporary reprieve by the appearance of Darla. She points at Doenig. ‘Chief Watson is on line three. He wants to speak to you.’

  Doenig takes the call while I hover, unsure whether or not I should leave the room.

  Darla stays, so I do the same.

  It’s a one-sided conversation, filled with ‘I sees’ and ‘okays’.

  He hangs up and turns to me. ‘You were right. After hearing the news Yarwood’s wife called her parents. The father told Chief Watson he’d found Oberton but didn’t dare call it in.’

  ‘Now the link has been confirmed we’d better get Norm’s family rounded up as soon as we can.’

  Chapte
r 68

  I toss my keys onto the counter and brew a strong coffee, intent on washing the taste of failure from my mouth.

  The last three hours have been spent chasing after Norm’s cousin. Doenig’s trace revealed her cell hadn’t left home after returning from her work.

  He’d contacted her work colleagues, while I had banged on the neighbours’ doors until I got a response.

  Neither of us had learned anything useful.

  Fearing the worst for her, Doenig had picked the lock on her door and led the way through her house with his gun drawn.

  The empty bottle of wine on the counter had given me hope – she may just be asleep and dead to the world. Doenig pushed each door open and shone his penlight into every room with the same result. Or lack of it.

  Finding no sign of the woman, we switched the lights on and looked for clues as to her whereabouts.

  Her cell was on the armrest of a chair, but when we tried to access it we found its battery dead. A tablet lifted from a table had been accessible. Her Facebook status was last updated at five twenty and complained about a busy day being a terrible way to prepare for a date.

  I found a charger and plugged in her cell only to find it locked. Doenig had contemplated taking the cell so a tech expert could access its secrets but until we knew for certain she was missing he decided it was a step too far.

  Her purse and cell being left at the house was enough for me, but he’d be bound by a set of unbreakable rules. You don’t become a special agent by being a loose cannon or habitually breaking the rules. The position is awarded to the most diligent and robotic of their ranks. Individual brilliance will help, but the main criteria will be team ethics, sound investigative procedure and an ingrained willingness to follow orders.

  He justified not taking the cell by saying he could have someone tap into it and retrieve any information on it.

  It was a compromise, but I accepted it as he was the one holding all the cards. One act of serious insubordination from me and I’d be out on my ear. Not something I was prepared to allow. Not only was I pursuing the killer for the families of those he’d killed, I was seeking justice for the victims, for the two friends he’d killed.