Twisted

by Steve Cavanagh

  Paul nodded and said, ‘I understand. I’m not asking you to do this out of the kindness of your heart. I’ll pay you …’

  Waving away the offer, Daryl stopped Paul mid-sentence and said, ‘No, look, I couldn’t—’

  Paul wasn’t taking no for an answer. He cut off Daryl’s protest at the knee.

  ‘I’ll pay you two million dollars, cash,’ said Paul, and instantly regretted his timing as Daryl spat a fountain of coffee over Paul and the table.

  ‘You serious?’ said Daryl, wiping his chin.

  ‘I’m serious,’ said Paul.

  ‘I’m in,’ said Daryl.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  The hospital wouldn’t let Sheriff Dole and Deputy Bloch into Maria’s room. He stood in the corridor, staring through glass with the smell of alcohol-based disinfectant in his nose. The odor didn’t seem to bother Bloch, but it always made Dole’s eyes sting just a little. On the other side of the glass Maria lay in bed, her head wrapped in an impossibly large bandage, making it look as though her skull was egg-shaped.

  A skinny nurse with sharp cheekbones had given them an update.

  The swelling in Maria’s brain had subsided following both the injury and the surgery. Her vitals were good, the steel plate in her skull would take without rejection, there were no signs of infection and barring the scars on her head where surgeons had taken off the top of her skull, she would come out of this with no visible damage.

  There was no telling what would happen when she woke up. They wouldn’t know if she would remember anything, or everything, or most things, or if her memory would ever function again. Her speech, balance, temperament, even her personality could all be adversely affected. In the next few hours the affects of medical sedation would wear off.

  She would wake up in the next six to twelve hours, or next day, or next week, or in six months, or never, and any time in between.

  There was just no way to tell. They would have to wait and see.

  All of these things ran through Dole’s mind again and again as he stood beside Bloch, gazing upon the serene face of Maria Cooper.

  ‘Not much we can do,’ said Bloch.

  He nodded, without looking at her, then turned and together they made their way down the corridor toward the nurses’ station. If there was any change in her condition, Dole wanted to know. He wanted to be there when she woke up. The nurses had his cell phone number and the number for Port Lonely Sheriff’s Department already, but it didn’t hurt to pay them a reminder.

  Dole stopped at the nurses’ station and saw the angular features of the skinny nurse again. It said, ‘McCutcheon,’ on her name badge.

  ‘You’ll let us know the minute there is any—’

  ‘Of course, Sheriff, we already have your contact numbers. There’s not a lot we can do until she comes round. Oh, do you want to take her clothes? I saw them in the lockers this morning when I came on shift. No one has collected them yet.’

  ‘Sure, we’ll take them.’

  ‘There’s quite a bit of blood on them. When she was brought in we didn’t know what had happened to her, so the nurse put her clothing in a clean bag. You know, for evidence. We had to cut the clothes off of her, but they’re all there. I’ll just get them for you,’ said Nurse McCutcheon.

  Dole had come across this new procedure once before. If the hospital suspect the injuries occurred as a result of an assault, they preserve the clothing in sanitized bags in case it has any evidential value. In this case, Dole couldn’t rule that out. He would take a look at the clothes back at the station then seal them in evidence bags and get them to the forensics lab in Bay City.

  The nurse went into a private room behind her station, and was gone for almost a minute before she returned with a large yellow plastic bag, sealed at the top with a cable tie.

  ‘Here you go. And don’t worry, soon as there’s any change you’ll be the first to know,’ she said, handing over the bag. Bloch reached out, took the bag from the nurse and thanked her.

  ‘Let’s go,’ said Dole.

  In the Port Lonely Sheriff’s Department, way in the back in one of the interview rooms, Bloch spread out a sheet of plastic on the desk, put on a pair of latex gloves while Dole watched her carefully. She placed the bag they’d picked up from the hospital on the plastic, then took out her notebook and began making an entry. Documenting the chain of evidence, thought Dole. He took the department camera from its leather case and snapped a couple of establishing shots – just to be on the safe side.

  There was probably nothing very important, but he needed to be careful. Every cop knew a story about a perp walking away because a five-hundred-dollar-an-hour defense attorney had taken a cleaver to the police evidence. He put down the camera, put on his own gloves and asked Bloch to take a picture of the seal on top of the bag, and to snap one of Dole breaking the seal.

  She put down her pad and pen and took two shots of each action.

  While Dole held the bag open, he asked Bloch to remove the first item of clothing. What had once been a white tee, now appeared to be a burnt blood-orange color. The dark, deep hue of blood on cotton. A color he had seen before. Many times. Bloch held the tee by her fingertips, and slowly, reverently, she placed it on the plastic and tugged the edges until it had spread out its shape. The camera flashed on the tee, and he watched Bloch lean over to get a close-up of the darkest stain, on the right shoulder. She turned over the tee, photographed the back. Satisfied, Dole put the shirt in a separate evidence bag, sealed it and logged the exhibit number on the bag while Bloch made notes.

  They would do this for each item. Bra, socks, underwear. Dole still found himself noticing the respect, and solemnity in Bloch’s careful touch of each item. The blue jeans were the last item in the bag. Same drill. An establishing shot of the clothing coming out of the bag, spread on the table, facing front, with close-ups of staining, then flipping the item over. This time, when Bloch turned over the jeans to photograph the backside, she called a stop.

  She’d spotted something. Dole leaned in, squinting. There was a lot of blood on the back pockets, probably from the way Maria had been rolled in the plastic and then left. Few areas of the body bleed as much as the scalp. The blood had run right down her back. Dole felt his lip twitching.

  ‘There’s something in her hip pocket,’ said Bloch.

  Without further instruction, Dole gently picked at the top of the hip pocket, on the left side while Bloch snapped away. His fingertips took hold of something, and with his other hand he used his index finger to pry open the pocket further. The sound of dried blood cracking was audible over their breath, but no other sounds could be heard save for the occasional digital click of the camera.

  With great care, Dole slipped a piece of paper from the pocket. It was folded in two, and one small corner had been exposed over the lip of the pocket, staining it dark red. Dole placed the paper on the plastic sheet, stood back for the establishing shot, then returned to the paper in the wake of the camera flash.

  The stained corners were holding the piece of paper together, binding them in blood. Very slowly, Dole tested the paper, pulling it apart millimeters at a time, listening to the cracks as it separated.

  He opened the single page, and put it down on the plastic. Bloch got her shot. They both leaned in.

  A bank statement belonging to Paul Cooper.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  The plan.

  For an hour Paul lay on the bed in the musty basement and sifted through the finer details in his mind. He often did this. In his novels, his characters’ actions had to be credible, something that definitely could happen. In other words, could it happen once in the real world and would it work?

  If the answer was yes, then he had to look at it again from a different angle. If it could really happen, then what could go wrong? What are the chances of everything falling into place at just the right time and people behaving as you expect them to in that situation? Human error had to be factored into ever
y scenario. No one was perfect. Things went wrong all the time.

  Paul played the game in his head. Ran through all the pros and cons, the slips, the what-ifs, the likely outcomes and the fallout.

  Man, it really could work.

  He rose, went upstairs to the ground floor of the old wooden house and found Daryl on the phone. Paul said nothing. Daryl waved a hand at him, telling him to be quiet.

  ‘I’ll be by later,’ said Daryl. ‘Ten o’clock. Got it. I’ll bring cash. Just have everything ready to go,’ he said, then hung up the call and gave Paul a thumbs-up.

  ‘You found somebody?’ said Paul.

  ‘Sure thing. My buddy in the city knows a lot of the wrong kind of people. He did a nickel in state a while back and made some friends on the inside. You ever been to jail?’ said Daryl.

  ‘No, thank God. Hoping I never do,’ said Paul.

  ‘Me neither, but it pays to have contacts who’ve done some time. My guy says this dude has the skills and he can hook us up. I’ll go see him tonight. Probably best if you stay put.’

  Paul knew he was right, of course. His picture had been all over the news for days. The Port Lonely Sheriff’s Department must have struggled to find a picture in the house. Paul was always careful about photos. There was nothing of him online. In the end, the Sheriff’s Department had given the media Paul’s photo. All it would take would be one person to notice him sitting in a car and it would all be over.

  ‘Okay, I’ll stay here. You know, I think this is going to work,’ said Paul.

  Daryl smiled, said, ‘I know it will.’

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  It wasn’t very often that Sheriff Dole lost his cool. Several things were likely to set him off, none more so than listening to ‘hold music’ with a phone pressed to his ear.

  He put his feet up on the desk, and scrolled down on his mouse, revealing more of the text on his screen. All of the deposits listed in Paul Cooper’s bank statement had been made by LeBeau Enterprises. The public company information was sufficiently wide to allow the company to undertake every kind of business from sustainable fishing to fracking.

  An internet search for LeBeau led only one place. The Wikipedia entry for J. T. LeBeau made interesting reading. He knew he would need to read it again. With some kind of electronica version of a Scottish ballad playing in one ear, he wasn’t quite taking it in.

  Checking his watch, Dole said, ‘Eighteen goddamn minutes I’ve been on this call. And I’ve only spoken to some guy in a call center. I don’t think there is anyone at the bank. If there is they must all be deaf ’cause they’re not answering the frickin’ phone any damn time soon.’

  Bloch didn’t look up from her iPad. She flicked her little finger across the screen and read more. They’d both noticed that the payments into Paul Cooper’s account had come from LeBeau Enterprises.

  ‘You think it’s something to do with this mystery writer?’ said Dole.

  Bloch shrugged. She was back to her chatty self.

  ‘You read books, don’t you? Ever read this guy?’ said Dole.

  ‘Most of ’em. He’s pretty good. Lots of twists, but I prefer Lee Child and Michael Connelly,’ said Bloch.

  Blowing hot air through his lips, Dole tried to relax. The soothing sounds of Celtic ballads played on a synthesizer made him want to punch a hole in the wall.

  He had a pile of reports on his desk compiled by his team over the last two days. He couldn’t delay reading them much longer. Anything important had been relayed to him already, but nevertheless he wanted to read the reports – make sure no one, including him, had glossed over any potentially important details.

  When he was done with this call he would read the reports. Nothing else for it.

  The music died, and Sheriff Dole swung his feet from the desk and sat up straight as if the person on the other end of the line had just walked into his office.

  ‘Hello, can I help you?’ said a voice.

  ‘Yes, thank you for rescuing me from that hold music. I’ve been waiting a long time to talk to you – time I don’t have, frankly. My name is Abraham Dole, and I’m Sheriff of Port Lonely, USA. An account in your bank has become relevant in a serious criminal investigation and I need your help,’ said Dole.

  ‘Of course, we will assist in any way we can. My name is Mr. Alleyne. I’m one of the account managers here. What is it you require?’

  Dole found a photocopy of the bank statement, and he read out the account number, sort code and personal information.

  ‘There’s a lot of money in this account. I need to know how it got there. Plus, there’s a chance that the money in this account might be moved somewhere else. I believe the account holder may be deceased. If a single cent is removed from the account we need to know about it, immediately. Nothing is to leave that account without my prior authorization.’

  ‘I’ll need a warrant which is valid for this jurisdiction,’ said Mr. Alleyne.

  ‘We’re going to email a letter from my department soon as you give me your address,’ said Dole.

  ‘We don’t work on email, I’m afraid. There is no WiFi system in place in this facility. Too much of a security risk. We have a fax machine to deal with urgent matters.’

  Dole found himself longing to work in Cayman International – no email, no WiFi, just the low-tech stuff he felt more comfortable using.

  ‘Okay, we’ll fax it. The warrant comes from a State judge, but I am assured from the consulate there is mutual respect for our laws,’ said Dole.

  ‘That goes without saying. Security is our number one priority,’ Alleyne said, and disconnected the call.

  Dole called Sue and asked her to fax a letter of authorization to Cayman International. He dictated the letter on the phone, and the warrant, and asked Sue to set up a meeting with Judge Caplan to get the warrant authorized.

  ‘Have you read my notes yet?’ asked Sue.

  Working his fingers into his forehead, Dole said, ‘No, not yet. Anything you think is important in there I should know?’

  ‘I didn’t go to all the damn trouble of typing up my notes so you could just ask me on the phone. I’m at the front desk if you want to speak to me. You remember where that is, Abraham?’ she said, and hung up.

  ‘Shit,’ said Dole.

  ‘Coffee?’ said Bloch.

  The voice startled Dole. Most of the time Bloch was so quiet he forgot she was there.

  ‘Sure. In fact, I’ll get it myself. You should take the clothes and the statement over to the Bay City lab. We’ve held onto it long enough.’

  As Dole stood his knees gave him a reminder that he was north of fifty-five and not in the best shape to handle a major criminal investigation.

  The Nespresso machine in the modern kitchen extension spat an espresso into a designer glass mug, which Dole then handed to Bloch. She poured it into a go-cup and left. Dole made two more espressos and then poured them all into a porcelain mug embossed with the Port Lonely Sheriff’s Department logo. He walked back to his office, settled in his chair and started to read the pile of reports on his desk while Sue worked on the warrant.

  Two hours later he’d reduced the pile considerably, and had skipped a few reports to find Sue’s. It was spiral bound, around ten pages in length with closely typed text and sported a burgundy card cover. Bloch returned to the office and went straight for the coffee. She had something in her arm, a package in a Styrofoam box. He opened Sue’s report and began reading. At the bottom of the fifth page he got distracted. Dole removed his reading glasses and let them fall to his chest, secured there by a cheap gold chain around his neck.

  Dole stood. He came around his desk and opened his office door.

  Dole saw Bloch had set up a laptop on her desk. It must have been Paul Cooper’s. The techs at Lomax City must’ve been able to bypass the security and let Bloch inside. She had another laptop hooked up to Cooper’s and she was standing behind her desk, hands on her hips, staring at the screen. Her chair was a good ten feet behi
nd her, like she’d stood up suddenly and sent the chair rolling away behind her.

  ‘I think you need to take a look at this,’ said Bloch.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘More on J. T. LeBeau.’

  Dole pulled up a seat at her desk so he could see the laptop. Deputy Bloch explained she had found several thousand images. At first, Dole didn’t understand how so many images had been stored on the computer. That is until she told him that once an image appears on screen, it is copied and saved to the hard drive. Like a ghost. That image is there forever more even if the computer operator didn’t consciously make a copy of it.

  Bloch explained she had used a justice department program to extract the images. They were then broken down into thumbnail-sized blocks so she could quickly scan fifty at a time on screen. It was easy to tell most of the images were perfectly ordinary stock images from news sites and research sites.

  One image had struck Bloch immediately. When she’d clicked on it, she knew it was important. It was a screenshot. In fact, there were two of them. Taken over ten years ago. It was a conversation on some kind of private messenger service – maybe Facebook or something like that. The images had been stored on a file labeled ‘J. T. LeBeau’. The computer program labeled the shots as exhibits.

  EXHIBIT DB4

  Screenshot 11th November 2008

  EXHIBIT WS3

  Screenshot from 8th January 2009.

  Dole’s lip twitched. He leaned back in his seat, waiting for Bloch to speak. He folded his arms, watched her work through the possible scenarios in her mind. Even though she didn’t talk much, she had an expressive face. A slight raise of her eyebrows. A nod. She had made up her mind.

  Bloch got up, went to the coffee machine, refilled and went out back, through the secure door into the lot. Dole followed her. He found her sitting on the hood of a patrol car, looking at the night sky.

  ‘You know if this investigation is going to go anywhere you’re going to have to talk to me,’ said Dole.