Desperate Measures: A Clancy Evans Mystery (Clancy Evans PI Book 5)

by M. Glenn Graves

  “I’m with you, kid. Onward and upward. We’ll get to the bottom of this. Let’s have some dessert to cap off this great meal,” he said.

  “You think food is the answer to everything?” I said.

  “It helps to sooth the savage beast.”

  “I thought that was music,” I said.

  “You don’t hear that country song in the background while we are dining so sumptuously?”

  “Ricky van never really did it for me, but the steak is good.”

  “Let’s try some key lime cheesecake just to see,” he said.

  We met Detective Owen the next morning in his office. He was drinking coffee but the doughnuts were conspicuously absent from his desk top.

  “You fasting?” I said as we entered and sat down in front of him.

  “I hear you are setting off shotguns and destroying private property,” he said ignoring my question.

  “Guns can be touchy, you know. The door just happened to be in the way between my premature demise and enjoying another doughnut with my favorite Weston detective.”

  “Wife warned me before I left the house. Said she noticed a few more pounds around the middle. Thought I’d better curtail for awhile. Coffee is decent.”

  Rosey jumped up and poured two cups.

  “I think they knew we were coming,” I said after swallowing some of his black brew.

  “That’s what makes you such a good private eye, huh?”

  “I have my moments.”

  “That could have been set for any intruder, anyone who came knocking.”

  “Risky to gun down the Fuller Brush man.”

  “Yeah, true. But some folks value their privacy and don’t like solicitations.”

  “I expected more from the civilization around Weston,” I said.

  “Lower your sights some. Folks around here can be just as testy as the ones who live in the Appalachian Mountains near you,” he said, pronouncing the word Appalachian with a long a on the third syllable. Folks who don’t live around the mountains usually say it the way Owens said it.

  “Near me? I live in Norfolk, Virginia. That’s a long mile from the mountains.”

  “Geography never was my strong suit,” Owens said.

  “And I did lower myself enough to escape death.”

  “How’d that happen? Some intuitive thing hit you just in time?”

  “I reached down to pet Sam.”

  “Wow. You owe the dog,” he said.

  “Isn’t the first time. I’ll keep him around.”

  “Where to from here?” Owens asked.

  “Where would you go?”

  He drained his cup and set it down on the desk. Leaning back in his squeaky desk chair, he seemed to be pondering more than usual. The chair squeaked several times while he mused over my question.

  “Sounds stupid, but I would backtrack.”

  “Return to the house that has no door?” I said.

  “Further back. I would go to the college dorm apartment and see if she is hiding out there. Young criminals are not necessarily smart criminals.”

  “Old criminals are not that bright either,” I said.

  “So you agree with my notion? You think she is behind this whole charade?” I said.

  “Don’t know if she is the mastermind or not, but I do think she’s part of it. At least the leads thus far would indicate that. Yeah, I think I would backtrack to her dorm. Just a hunch.”

  “Not sure I can make it through the day without a jelly doughnut,” I said as we all left the building.

  “I was just thinking the same thing,” Owens said. “The bakery is on the way.”

  “Ignoring your wife’s subtle warning,” Rosey said.

  “It wasn’t subtle. I’ll pick up some flowers for her as I head home this evening.”

  “That’s bribery,” I said. “It’s also a tell-tale sign that you indulged.”

  “It’s the way we cops can stay married,” Owens added.

  57

  Owens’ idea to backtrack to the Sandy Chatterworth’s dorm was a dead-end. In light of my recent exposure to shotguns and motion sensors, I noticed that Owens took extra care in approaching the door of Sandy’s apartment.

  We were forced to wait a few hours while Owens went the legal route. He obtained a search warrant for Sandra’s place.

  With search warrant in hand, we entered her room. Sandy wasn’t home. Our diligent search of the premises offered us nothing of value.

  “See,” Owens said, “even the best detective in the world is occasionally wrong.”

  “Who said you were the best detective in the world?”

  “My wife.”

  “Oh. Who am I to argue with a woman who would agree to spend her whole life with you?”

  “Only twenty-two years so far. I think she has some more time to come.”

  “You make it sound like a prison sentence.”

  “Hold that thought. I wouldn’t marry me,” he said as we returned to his car without a directional clue.

  “Ask her sometimes if it seems longer than a mere twenty-two years,” I said.

  “You’re a mean person, Clancy Evans,” he said.

  “Okay, Mr. World’s Greatest. Where to now?” I said.

  “I still think I’m right about backtracking.”

  “I’m game. Lead the way,” I said.

  “I have alternative plan,” Rosey interrupted our conversation.

  “Okay,” Owens said.

  “Why not take a few days and stop our due diligence. Give the guilty the idea that maybe they have scared us off, or that we’re barking up another tree somewhere. Take some time to rethink our next step; not that backtracking isn’t a good idea. I think you’re on to something, detective. I also think that as close as we are, the people responsible for these deaths are waiting on us. Let’s take their edge away. Let’s stop and take a few days to give them pause to wonder what we are up to.”

  “Feign retreat in order to go forward,” Owens said.

  “Something like that,” Rosey responded.

  Once our strategy was set, Rosey, Sam, and I wasted no time in heading back to Boston to see Uncle Walters and give ourselves some pause that might refresh. Perhaps Rosey was thinking of our conversation about my own futility when he made the suggestion to Owens. Or perhaps it was simply a good counter measure. Maybe both ideas were floating in his brain. No matter. I liked the idea of stepping back and seeing the larger picture. If I could see it. Rest is a good friend to an investigator.

  Two days into our strategic R&R, Starnes Carver called me.

  “Got your package, watched the movie, and wondered what on earth you’ve gotten yourself into.”

  “You watch it more than once?” I said.

  “You know me. Saw it maybe ten to twelve times.”

  “See anything unusual, beyond the obvious?” I said.

  “A little. You wanna meet and talk about it?” Starnes said.

  “I’m in Boston. Where are you?”

  “I’m not in Boston. I’m a fer piece from the Commonwealth of Massachusetts,” she said.

  “Can we talk over the phone?” I said.

  “You mean now.”

  “Now’s a good time for me.”

  “Is this line secure?” she said.

  “Yikes, I didn’t see that coming.”

  “Pays to be really careful sometimes. I’m still learning the ropes here in McAdams County, but I am learning.”

  “Impressive. Never doubted for a moment that you wouldn’t learn and adapt.”

  “Not sure about that adapting bit, but I am learning. Tell you what, I’ll meet you half way,” Starnes said.

  “Let’s see, Asheville to Boston … means somewhere in Pennsylvania,” I said.

  “Close enough. I’ll split the difference and wait for you in Harrisburg, PA. Name the day and time,” she said.

  We set up the day and time for the next day and I went to bed.

  Next morning I ate an early br
eakfast of leftover oatmeal muffins laced with blueberries, inhaled two cups of coffee, packed a thermos full of the remainder of the coffee, put Sam in the car along with some dog food, and headed off to Harrisburg, Pennsylvania to meet with Starnes Carver.

  I met Starnes in a Duncan Doughnut shop not far from I-81 in Harrisburg. Of course. We sat in the back so we could talk, see the entrance, and not be so readily seen.

  “Two things,” I said.

  “I’m listening,” Starnes said.

  “You don’t like doughnuts.”

  “I eat them on occasion, but, no, they don’t do it for me.”

  “Makes your police skills questionable, you know.”

  “I’ll risk it. What’s the second thing?” Starnes said.

  “Why all this extreme caution here in Harrisburg, Pennsylvania?” I said.

  “I live and work in McAdams County. I can count on one hand the number of people I trust with my life. You’re at the top of that list by the way.”

  “And the names on the remainder of your fingers?”

  “Wineski.”

  “And?”

  “I’ve reached the end of the list,” she said.

  “Wow. Short list.”

  “And I can live to fight again another day if I stick to it.”

  “What have you got?”

  “I assume that you sent me that recording with the idea that I would do more than watch it.”

  “Shrewd CSI that you are.”

  “Yeah, that’s me, Miss Shrewd. So, I watched it. Gruesome. It would have been nice to have had a head’s up.”

  “Sorry about that. Figured you could handle it.”

  “There’s always the question of whether one wants to handle such as that.”

  “Yeah, well, in our line of work, we see the worst.”

  “It ranks pretty high up on there on that chart,” Starnes said. “So, I watched and re-watched and watched some more. After awhile, I got almost immune to it, but never quite crossed over into the numb stage. I stopped watching the dreadful scene and watched the tape I made instead. Easier after that, I confess. I could slow it down and do a digital frame by digital frame. Technology is a wonderful thing.”

  “And did you learn something?”

  “Maybe. I saw the person in the corner of the screen. It was brief, but I had it on slo-mo and, presto, there he was.”

  “Yeah, there he was.”

  “Nothing definitive,” she said, “but it was a person watching and maybe more.”

  “Maybe more,” I said.

  “Orchestrating, perhaps.”

  “Crossed my mind as well.”

  “And then there’s the tape-over.”

  “The tape-over?” I said.

  “Someone recycled the tape. It was a prerecorded tape. The horrific recording I watched ad infinitum was recorded over the top of another recording.”

  “Must have been a fraction of a second break. I never saw it, neither did the crime labs of Boston or Norfolk. How come you’re so astute with stuff like this?” I said.

  “It’s what I do. Must be my quick eyes or keen imagination,” Starnes said.

  “Quick eyes, huh? Tell me more.”

  “It happened twice, separated by only a few seconds, maybe five seconds apart or less. There was a stoppage when the tape was being recorded over by your infamous recording.”

  “Stoppage, like a pause?” I said.

  “No, a pause would have allowed the tape to continue to erase the original image. This was a full stoppage that forced the taper to begin recording again.”

  “And it happened twice in about five seconds or so,” I repeated her words.

  “Probably an electrical outage, or a spike or something like that in the current where the recording was being made.”

  “So when the person who was making a copy of the recording from the surveillance camera, a break in the flow of electricity occurred. This caused the person to have to resume recording, he had to set up the recording a second and third time,” I said to be sure I understood her diagnosis.

  “You got it.”

  “What does this mean for my case?”

  “I don’t know. I just thought it was interesting.”

  “You had me drive down to Harrisburg, meet you in a doughnut shop when you don’t even like doughnuts, only to tell me that the recording you dislike so much was recorded over the top of another recording. Cloak and dagger for this?” I said.

  “Mostly,” she said.

  “Nothing else,” I said almost pleading.

  “I didn’t say that. I just gave you a prelude to the biggie.”

  “Do I need to order some doughnuts and more coffee for this?”

  “Depends. I think it’s informative,” she said and handed me two photographs.

  One was blurred. There seemed to be a person standing in front of a pole. It appeared that the blurred photo was taken at night. Besides being blurred, it was fuzzy. That is my non-technical word for something unclear. The second photo was not blurred. It was clear. A person was standing in front of a pole, but, in fact, appeared to be bound to the pole. It appeared to be a woman with her hands tied behind her back. She was gagged. There was another person in the photo kneeling in front of this bound woman.

  “From the recorded-over DVD?” I said to Starnes.

  “Yeah, enlarged. I figured the 8x10’s would help you see more clearly. The blurred photo doesn’t really do you much good. I just wanted to verify that I captured two images under your recording. The second one is telling. However, taken in tandem, you can see that there is a progression. The blurred one has an image, albeit unclear, of that kneeler from the second photo, standing. Seconds later, in the clear photo, that standing person is kneeling in front of the bound woman.”

  “So what is the second photo telling?” I said.

  “See that glow to the left of that person kneeling there?” Starnes pointed to the image she described on the photo. It was upside down from her vantage, but she had studied the photo enough to have memorized all aspects. Thorough, she was.

  “I see it. What do you think it is?”

  “Fire.”

  “Oh. You mean you think that this photograph is evidence of another murder by fire, but without the gunshot?” I said.

  “Can’t say all of that. I can say that it is evidence of someone burning someone at the stake, so to speak. A pole by any other name. The gunshot may have come later, but it would have been hard for the person with her hands bound behind her body to shoot herself in the head.”

  “Tricky.”

  “And we had to meet in Harrisburg for you to tell me this?” I said.

  “Like I told you, I don’t trust many people. I couldn’t tell you this over the phone. I wanted you to have the photos. And,” she handed me the DVD across the table, “I wanted to give this priceless treasure back to you. Not something I want to watch again. Or retain. The images are burned into my memory, no pun intended.”

  “Got it.”

  “If you want my opinion about your case, I think that maybe your gruesome recording is evidence of a murder. I also think it is not the first time that someone involved with this type of murder has recorded the murder.”

  “It would seem.”

  “Does this help you?” Starnes said.

  “Remains to be seen. It certainly adds fuel to the fire, pun intended,” I said.

  “Pass the doughnuts,” Starnes said. “That was a bad pun.”

  58

  “See if Chester Chatterworth is his real name,” I said to Rogers as I was leaving Harrisburg with Sam.

  “I thought I did this search a few days ago,” she said.

  “You discovered that ….” I began to say.

  “I know what I found out. I was testing your memory.”

  “Don’t get testy. I stumbled onto something I missed. Mia culpa or whatever you want to call it. I messed up. I also failed to have you find out more.”

  “Here it is,�
� she said. “Birth name of Chester Farely Chatterworth. Born in 1945, Racine, Wisconsin. You want more details about his birth?”

  “Fast forward a few years. Say, the 1970’s. Pick up whatever trail you might find and give back to me as soon as you can.”

  “What are you looking for?”

  “Connections.”

  “People, places, or things?” she said.

  “Whatever you find.”

  “You have other names?”

  “Yeah, add Leonard Johnstone. See if you can find some connection between Chester or Fletcher and Lenny.”

  “I didn’t do a background on Leonard Johnstone,” Rogers said.

  “I know. Again, my bad. I must be slipping. I figured since he was the grieving boyfriend, that he had no part in the suicide or murder. It was a stupid assumption.”

  “Error of judgment or poor detective work maybe, but you’re not stupid. It won’t likely happen again,” Rogers said.

  “How can you be so sure of that?”

  “I won’t allow it. Henceforth, I will check backgrounds on every name you give me. It shall be done. Have no fear. I will make you look really good.”

  “And the cost of this to me?”

  “Hey, I’m here to serve you. What could I possibly receive from you as a price for you to pay for my due diligence?”

  “Homage.”

  “Okay, I accept.”

  I shook my head. Nothing like springing her verbal trap.

  “She tricked me,” I said to Sam, who merely raised his head, exhaled a loud sigh, and then returned to his slumbering position, head resting on his front paws.

  “I merely led you down the correct path. Of course, I do expect you to be kinder to me now that you have proven yourself vulnerable.”

  “I’ll never hear the end of this,” I said to no one in particular, but since I was still on the phone with Rogers, she and Sam were the only ones to hear it.

  “I shall see to it.”

  “The work on Chester and Lenny or the never-ending reminders of my failure as a good detective?” I said.

  “Both.”

  Rogers clicked off.

  I called Owens to confess my blunder.

  “We were both duped into thinking the boyfriend was innocent. I should have checked on him.”