“Can’t remember much about him. Kinda’ kept to himself. Didn’t say much. Just showed up and worked and then left. That was pretty much it,” Pete responded.
“You mentioned on the phone that you had met his brother-in-law a couple of times,” Kevin continued.
“Once or twice. His car wouldn’t start or some other issue so his brother-in-law’d bring him to work. Looked more like his father though. Real, real grizzly looking guy. Almost like he was just waiting for death. You know, his eyes were sunk in his head and his teeth were rotted. Wasn’t the nicest guy either. Just lifted his chin when introduced but never said a word.”
“He was killed too,” Kevin added. “His body was found the day after Dale’s.”
“Really,” Pete stated rather than questioned. He dropped his arms and put his elbows on the desk as he clasped his hands together. “Strange. Hope his kid’s okay.”
“Kid?” Mike interjected before Kevin spoke. He never shared any details of Suzanne’s story to Kevin so Pete’s reference to a child was nothing more than anecdotal to him at this point. “You met Ingerstahl’s kid?”
“Not Dale. The brother-in-law.”
“Was it a boy or a girl?”
“Girl,” Pete answered.
“So you met the other guy’s daughter?”
“I never met her.” Pete looked back and forth between the two detectives. Kevin stared suspiciously at Mike who sat perched on the edges of his seat. “Was in the truck one time when he was dropped off. Saw her sitting in the back. Asked Dale who she was and he said she was his niece. Couldn’t have been more than fifteen or sixteen. Ratty looking kid though. Remember feeling sorry for her. Definitely didn’t look very happy. Like she was being punished or something. Seemed kinda’ young to be the other guy’s daughter.”
“Do you remember what she looked like?” Mike asked.
“Hard to tell. She was sitting down in the backseat of a pickup truck. Looked tall, kinda chunky but not really fat, long brown hair, way too much make-up. Remember just thinking she looked angry. Real, real, angry. That was the one and only time I ever saw her. Probably only a few months after that Dale got sent up and that was pretty much that.”
With corroborating proof of Molly’s existence, Mike wanted to laugh out loud. It was far from exonerating for either him or Suzanne but given his mixed bag of questions he was elated at finally finding an answer. But it was only the beginning. At least now he knew Molly was still with Dale and Herbert until she was at least sixteen.
Memories of Suzanne’s childhood tempered his elation at Pete’s revelation as his stomach roiled again. The idea of Molly enduring the same abuse and torture at the hands of her grandfather and uncle was too much for him to bear so he pushed it out of his mind.
“That was good news right?” Pete asked. “It helped you?”
“Yes Mr. Elkins you’ve been a tremendous help.” Mike stood to leave when Kevin chimed in.
“Wait. Just a few more questions if you don’t mind,” Kevin said. He looked up at Mike until he sat back down. “Can you remember if he had a favorite hangout he went to often or any friends he might have made when he was working here? Anything else we might be able to use?”
“Can’t say anything about any friends. Never saw him with anyone except when he was working. Used to go down to this bar about two miles down the road pretty much every day when he was done though. Think he was there until closing almost every night if memory serves. Now remember, in the summertime that means he was done by two in the afternoon. Get my meaning?” Pete tilted his head to one side emphasizing his words.
“Yeah. I understand,” Kevin said. “Anything else?”
“Can’t say anything comes to mind. Hard worker but not a good guy. Not a good guy at all. Could just tell. Like I can tell when a tree just isn’t going to root. Can just tell.”
Chapter 42
“So what’s the big deal about the daughter?” Kevin asked when they got back into the car. “You seem extremely happy knowing Stanford had a kid. Do you think she might be able to point us in the right direction or something?”
Mike debated how much information he should share. With Kevin’s loyalties still in question, Mike wasn’t about to trust him with full access to what he qualified as information spoken in confidence. But keeping all the details from him wouldn’t service Mike’s ultimate goals either. He could be very helpful if given the proper support and direction.
“Let’s go down to the bar first,” Mike said. “We can talk to the owner and the people who work there and see if we can get anything from them. I’ll try to explain it to you after that.”
“Try?” Kevin asked.
Mike didn’t respond. They pulled into the sparsely populated parking lot and he used it as an excuse to terminate the current strain of conversation. He got out of the car and Kevin followed.
The inside of the bar was small, dimly lit and decorated with garage sale knick-knacks, torn leather chairs and wooden tables carved with names, numbers and pornographic depictions. Ten patrons, all men over the age of fifty sat scattered throughout the bar, oblivious to the tinkling of the small bell set off when Mike and Kevin walked in.
The air hung heavily with stale smoke either from lack of adherence to the ban, poor upkeep or a combination of both. Compounding the heaviness was the smell of unkempt age and laborer’s sweat making the room feel desperate and lonely no doubt indicative of its inhabitants.
Mike walked up to the bar and asked to talk to the manager.
“I’m the manager,” said the bartender. His hollow eyes were distrusting, scanning them from head to toe. Mike watched him as he folded his arms across his boney chest and squinted, making his only sign of life tiny slits across his gaunt face.
A sad excuse for a ponytail pulled back the man’s last remaining hairs and at least three days’ worth of beard made its home on his severely chiseled chin. He breathed heavily through his nose, the overgrown hair within waving with each exhale.
Mike showed him his badge and the man took on an air of defensiveness. No doubt this was the kind of place where the drunken reprobates of the city came to hide out amongst their peers. While there was no loyalty, there was definite camaraderie and they protected their own, at least in the sanctity of their self-pitying stained bar.
“So,” the man said. “What do you want?”
“I need to ask you a few questions…,” Mike started.
“Walter.”
“Walter. About a man who used to come in here a few years back. His name was Dale Ingerstahl. Ring any bells?” Mike asked.
“Yeah, I remember Dale. What about him?” Walter visibly relaxed. By the changed expression on his haggard face Mike assumed there was no love loss for Ingerstahl and hoped that would loosen his tongue.
“He was killed last week,” Mike said. He studied his reaction closely.
Walter looked at him and started to rub the white terry cloth towel he held in his hand over the bar top confirming Mike’s initial read on his indifference.
“How?” Walter asked without looking up.
“Actually he was chopped into pieces.” Mike continued to test his theory with directness.
“And?”
“Can you tell me anything about him? Anything you think might be helpful in finding out who killed him?” Mike asked.
“Who cares?”
“Unfortunately I have to care.”
Walter looked Mike over again and breathed deeply. “Nothing to tell. He came in, drank until closing time, paid his tab and then left. That was pretty much it.”
“That’s a lot of time to spend in one place. That’s also a lot of alcohol. Did you guys ever talk?”
“At first but quite frankly I didn’t like the guy. He was an asshole.” He said it with defiance in his voice as if daring Mike to correct his language.
“What made him an asshole?” Mike asked.
“You name it. He was cocky and stupid and used to tell the stupid
est stories that quite frankly I found offensive.”
Mike was stunned. This guy had forty years of bartending in this dump written all over his face. It was hard to imagine him getting offend at anything yet Ingerstahl had done just that.
“What did he say that was so offensive?” Mike asked.
Walter looked around and hesitated. “I know a lot of guys thought it was a bunch of talk,” he started. “But I’ve been doing this for forty-seven years and I can tell when a guy’s talkin’ shit and when he’s being serious and that guy was totally serious.”
“About?”
He started wiping the bar top again. Whatever Ingerstahl had said made an impact. It was at least seven years since Ingerstahl was in the bar as far as Mike could tell and this guy was still uncomfortable with the mere thought of it.
Walter looked around again and leaned forward toward Mike and whispered. “He had a thing for…you know…young girls.” He cleared his throat as if the words contained poison and he infected himself by verbalizing them. He spit in the trashcan and righted himself. “He was fine the first couple of months he came in here, no different than the rest of the lot but he started to get comfortable, too comfortable. After a few drinks he started talking about the kind of girls he liked and how he liked ‘em young. ‘No grass on the playing field you know what I mean’ he’d say like it was funny or something. It made me sick. I have three daughters and hearing that kinda’ shit just made me sick.”
Remembering his conversation with Suzanne he took Walter’s story as a perverse confirmation of her own. He also took it as confirmation that poor Molly had suffered the same fate. There was no justification for taking another life in his mind but if there was ever a cause for rationalization this was high on his list.
Walter continued. “I just avoided him whenever he came in after the first time he said something like that. I served him his drinks and that was it. I even told him I thought he was disgusting and if he ever spouted out that shit again I was going to call the cops. He never said anything to me about it again after that.”
“So he kept coming in?”
“Just a little while after that. Then I heard he got busted on some drug charge and I never saw him again. Don’t have any patience for worthless scum like that.” He added, rubbing a non-existent spot off the bar top as if to rub out Ingerstahl’s comments from his memory.
“Is there anything else you might be able to tell us that might help find out who killed him?” Mike asked.
“Sorry. Like I said, I never talked to him much after that. Even when we did talk it was always about some stupid television program or him complaining about all the wetbacks he has to work with. I doubt he had any friends. Not that I’m surprised.”
He reached out his hand to the man. “Thank you for the information. You’ve been very helpful.”
They walked out into the fading sun both breathing in the unadulterated air. Mike looked at his watch as the second hand jerked around the face.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
Chapter 43
They drove in silence as they made their way to the house Ingerstahl and Stanford shared. Mike chewed the inside of his bottom lip as he again thought about the abuse inflicted on Suzanne and Molly. Walter’s confirmation of Suzanne’s story enlivened and disturbed him.
He looked over at Kevin who looked distracted as he flipped the bottom of his tie over and over his right index finger. Some rookies salivate at getting a juicy case their first time out. Kevin was not that rookie. Mike had watched flashes of offense and moral outrage wash over Kevin’s face as Walter recounted his conversations with Ingerstahl, at one time wondering if he would burst into tears. It was a tough way to learn and the inevitable crust of a seasoned investigator began to form because of it.
By the time they reached their destination Kevin was no longer fondling his tie and Mike’s shoulders no longer doubled as earmuffs. He felt as if they were moving in the right direction but the fading minutes continued to taunt him. By this time tomorrow someone would be in handcuffs. He just hoped it wasn’t him.
The house was in an older neighborhood surrounded on two sides by unused government land. “For Sale” signs littered the neighborhood with only an occasional car parked in the driveway. Overgrown front yards, discarded furniture and a plastic grocery bags caught in the dying tree branches decorated the long street leading to their destination. The neighborhood looked abandoned and empty like the vacated houses with “Foreclosure” stickers on the front windows comprising it. The back wheel of a red tricycle overturned in a dead Mexican Bird of Paradise spun as if still in motion.
They pulled up in front of the dilapidated two-story house, the stucco missing in chunks around the worn, beige facade. Mike parked on the street as two forensics trucks filled the small, oil stained driveway. The members nodded their heads at them as they gathered their equipment and discussed responsibilities.
Mike opened the front door leading into a sparsely furnished living room reeking of stale beer and body odor. He nodded to the additional members of the forensics team as he made his way inside.
He felt an invisible filth crawl over his skin and he unrolled his sleeves and buttoned the cuffs. Scattered over the spotted, glass coffee table and 1970’s brown and black, threadbare sofa were pornographic magazines and old newspapers. Discarded beer and energy drink cans and old take-out containers completed the look filling in any empty spaces except a path created by the forensics teams showing stained beige, builder-grade carpet. Order was of no interest to them and at times they left a mess but it was obvious this wasn’t a result of their thorough investigation. This was how these men lived and it was disgusting. Mike scowled at not only the thought of living here but keeping a child here as well.
Mike and Kevin did a sweep of the shared living areas and managed through the two men’s bedrooms upstairs. Mike’s mood continued to sour as he went through Ingerstahl’s bedroom. Crack pipes and small wads of tin foil lay scattered with no attempt at concealing them. “Barely Legal” magazines and stacks of illegal child pornography were in his closet underneath a mound of soiled and stench ridden clothing.
The third bedroom was a child’s room made obvious by one small, greatly abused, teddy bear sitting between the uncovered pillows of the unsupported mattress on the floor. The pink bedspread was the only indication it was a girl’s room.
The walls were bare. There were no rock or movie star posters or pictures he expected to see in an adolescent or teenage girl’s bedroom. A dresser with peeling, white paint and an industrial “Please Recycle” trashcan were the only other two objects in the room.
He looked through the drawers and the closet which was filled with an odd collection of clothing. Normally he would expect to find some continuity in their fashion but the compilation of scraps made it obvious this wardrobe was creating from availability not intent. Everything from dresses, pants, shirts, underwear, socks and T-shirts were in the room. Mike couldn’t help but feel abandoned, as if the inhabitant left with whatever was on her back and never looked back.
The attached garage was next but it also proved useless. Aside from more telling signs of neglect and overt sloth there were no informative jewels to be found. Boxes covered with a canvas tarp, an old lawn mower and other miscellaneous gardening tools covered in dust and cobwebs filled the room. There was space for a car but that was it.
Mike was disappointed. High on the insights from Pete and Walter he hoped to hit the trifecta with the house. But they would be leaving empty handed. The forensics team was still doing their search and may uncover something they missed but he needed something now. It could be days before they sifted through all that crap and even longer before they completed their analysis. He didn’t have time to wait.
“Are y’all supposed to be lookin’ round there?” Mike heard from over the hedge running along the driveway. A woman in her sixties peered over watching them. She wore a pink, floral bathrobe with curlers in her hair. “They ain�
��t gonna’ sell so stop comin’ round he’a.”
“Excuse me?” Mike asked as he walked toward her.
“I knows ya’ll from the development comp’ny and you’re just waistin’ your time. Ya’ll is trespassin’.”
“Sorry ma’am but we’re with the police department.” Mike pointed to the forensics truck and held up his badge.
“Oh,” she said. “Sorry. I just thought you was one’na them development people.”
“Development people?” Mike asked.
“Yep. They been tryin’ to get us to sell for months now. So, police are ya’? Well is there anythin’ I can hep you wit?”
“No thank you ma’am,” Mike smiled.
She walked around the hedge and Mike’s jaw tightened. He didn’t have time for the obvious inquisition this nosey neighbor was about to put them through.
“I wish I could say it’s a shame ‘bout them two bein’ kilt in all but I cain’t. Terrible people those two were. Terrible neighbors and downright terrible people,” Henrietta Rollins said, her southern drawl emphasizing every word.
“How well did you know the men?” Mike asked, resigned to the fact she wasn’t going to let them leave until they heard what she had to say.
“Not well really. I jus’ tried to keep to m’self ya’ know. But they’s not exactly good neighbors to have round. Evil sorts. Jus’ downright evil. I could tell the minute they moved in. At least that other one lef,” she said.
“Other one?” Kevin asked.
“Yes sir. They had another one livin’ wit them a few years’ back. Must a had some kinda’ row or sumpin and he lef. Never seen him again and good riddins’ I say.”
“Do you happen to remember this other guy’s name?” Mike asked.
“Something Mexican. Cain’t remember exactly.”
“Ortiz?” Mike offered.
“Yeah,” She said as she pointed a bony finger at him. “That’s it. Ortiz. Didn’t like him neither. Poor girl. Living with them awful men. Poor, poor girl.”
Burdened By Guilt Page 20
