Home Deadly Home

by Janice Kay Johnson

  “What did you fight about?” Grant asked.

  In a matter of minutes, some of the flesh seemed to have melted from Brett’s face, leaving him gaunt and decades older. “Nothing new. I wanted children. She didn’t. Never had, she admitted, even though we used to talk about starting a family. I thought it was time, she told me it wasn’t happening.”

  “That made you angry.”

  “You thinking I shouldn’t have been? Her lying all those years?” The brief burst of remembered temper sputtered and died like a wet fuse. “She liked everything perfect. House, clothes. She didn’t want stretch marks, the messes kids make. I should have guessed. I wasn’t supposed to step foot out the door in sweats or old jeans. It wasn’t the right image.” He sat without moving for a minute. “I didn’t care. I wanted…” He swallowed. “I guess it doesn’t matter now, does it?”

  No.

  “I’ll need to know where you were last night.”

  Brett named a bar in Prineville. Then he’d sacked out for a couple of hours in his truck in the tavern parking lot, he admitted. When he woke up feeling like shit, he knew it was time to go home.

  He turned his head to stare hopelessly toward the living room. “If I’d been here…”

  Grant had a strong suspicion Brett would be dead, too.

  “I know you went to U. of O.,” Grant said. “Did you do any military service?”

  He shook his head. “Doubt they’d have taken me. My vision is really crappy. Without my contact lenses or glasses, I’m close to blind. Remember? Coach wanted me to play off the line, but I couldn’t see the ball from any distance.”

  Grant had forgotten. Brett wasn’t quite hefty enough to be drafted into the NFL as an offensive lineman or defensive tackle, and his vision had ruled out other positions on the field. And he was right; who wanted to put a gun in the hands of a man who couldn’t see worth jack shit if his glasses got jarred or even fogged up or he lost a contact lens?

  Of course, Brett wanted to know whether Alicia had been raped and how she’d been killed, and he didn’t take it well when Grant wouldn’t tell him. But eventually Grant gave permission for Brett to call his mother.

  After saying only a few words, he set down his phone. “She’s coming.” Brett’s stare was fixed on some distant point. “I should call Alicia’s parents, too.”

  “No, that’s my job.”

  The relief on Brett’s face was obvious. It didn’t appear he adored his parents-in-law. Not a crime, Grant reminded himself as he stood. “I’ll head over there now, before someone sees all the flashing lights and calls them.”

  Dawson appeared from the family room, said a few words to Brett, and walked with Grant back around the house.

  “You probably know the family,” he said. “It makes sense you should talk to them. I’ll stay here until the techs are done.”

  Grant rolled his shoulders. Death notifications were not his favorite part of the job.

  *****

  Word about Alicia’s murder spread like a brushfire. Even though this week’s Courier wasn’t yet out, everyone Cassie spoke to seemed to know that Paul Lawseth’s murder was somehow connected, too. Really, though, they were all focused on Alicia. Once Cassie reached the office, the phone kept ringing with one or another of Grant’s football ex-teammates saying, “You must know more than the police are saying.”

  She did her best to convince them all that she hadn’t learned much yet, either, while trying to draw them out.

  “I’ve never met Alicia,” she told Scott Mathison. “I hear she was in marketing. That suggests an outgoing, likeable personality.”

  “Great first impression,” he said. “Really attractive. She was kind of a beanpole when we were younger, and ended up almost six feet tall. Once she developed – or bought – breasts, we all thought she could be a model. She had that kind of looks and zing. You know?”

  “Charisma.”

  “Yeah, that’s the word I couldn’t think of. Thing is, she was her biggest fan, if you know what I mean. Well, her and her daddy. I heard he was not happy when she wasn’t crowned Homecoming Queen. Princess just wasn’t good enough.”

  “Really?” Cassie couldn’t imagine that being a big deal. “I didn’t even go to prom.”

  His rueful chuckle reminded her how personable he’d first seemed. “I did, but for most of us, it was awkward. Maybe especially for guys. I felt like a total dork in this rented tuxedo and shiny shoes. I ventured into a florist for the first time in my life, and had to endure these oh-isn’t-that-cute smiles from the women who worked there.” He sounded good-humored about it all. “Same thing when we went out to dinner. And then you’re kind of stuck with this girl you brought, which might be fine if you’d been going together for months, but gets strained when this is your first date.”

  Despite the darkness hovering over her mood, Cassie found herself smiling. “You make me really glad I skipped all that fun.”

  “’Course, my date and I went to a real party afterwards, at Greg Miles’s house. His parents weren’t home. I woke up in bed with her, so I’m not complaining.”

  “Maybe I did miss out on a few things.” She hadn’t tried sex until she was in college, knowing that made her an outlier.

  “You missed out on me.” The leer in his voice had her smiling again. But then he said, “I didn’t keep up with Alicia or Brett. They held cocktail parties and networked while the rest of us shared a pitcher and played darts at a tavern. But who cares? Why would somebody kill her?”

  “Why was Travis Burke murdered? I haven’t heard a bad word about him.”

  “No.” Scott was quiet for a minute. “He was a really good guy.”

  “So good, he made somebody jealous?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t understand any of this.” His voice had thickened. “It’s beyond bizarre.”

  It was.

  The first thing Lauren Jeffrey said was, “I’m completely freaked. I have a suitcase packed and I’m getting out of town. The way I feel right now, I don’t know if I’ll ever come back.”

  “Where are you going?” Cassie asked.

  “I’m not telling anyone. Not even you. He might follow me.”

  Cassie wanted to reassure her, but couldn’t. Lauren gave the impression of being warm and friendly, a woman who’d go out of her way not to hurt anyone’s feelings. But she’d been Homecoming Princess, Grant’s date that night, his girlfriend throughout that glorious football season. That might be reason enough for a man who’d envied from afar to hate her, too.

  Cassie called Rob Fullerton, who probably wouldn’t have answered the phone if he’d recognized her number. His tension masked fear, she guessed. He ended the short conversation by saying, “There wouldn’t be five people dead if Holcomb knew what the fuck he was doing.”

  That so closely echoed something the killer had said in one of his calls, she made a note, then closed her eyes and re-ran this conversation, trying to match Rob’s voice to the homicidal caller’s. She was left uncertain; Rob’s voice was ordinary, mid-range, neither deep nor high enough to disqualify him.

  Rick Oberg was the only one who came right out and called Alicia a bitch, but he sounded more wry than bitter. “Dad did some plumbing work for her parents. Once she realized he was my father, I became invisible. Service people should be, right?”

  “Like servants in nineteenth century great houses?”

  “Yeah, something like that. But, you know, she might have changed.”

  “People do grow up.”

  “They grow, anyway.”

  He had a point, Cassie conceded. How much had she changed from the prickly, independent, yet lonely child she’d been?

  She called a few people she hadn’t yet interviewed, including Juan Estrada, who’d been a kicker or punter, she couldn’t remember which. At least his hint of an accent did make the probability low he could be the killer.

  She kept wondering what Grant was doing today. Had the killer screwed up this time and left so
me trace evidence? Or, in the absence of a fingerprint or a witness, did Grant have any leads to pursue? She couldn’t help remembering the first call.

  How do they imagine they’ll find a ghost? And then something about when the police make fools of themselves, it was up to her to tell the truth. Even if no one else believes you.

  The problem was, the killer’s truth and hers were not at all the same, and never would be.

  *****

  Thanks to FBI Agent Noah Taylor, by Saturday Grant had a list of who among his high school class, as well as the classes one and two years younger than him, had served in the military. The dates of service were included, too. Grant wasn’t surprised to learn that almost two-thirds of his classmates had served at least two years. That was the expectation in these parts for young men. Less so for women, but several he’d known had also enlisted.

  What he still didn’t know was what all those men and women had done while serving.

  He and Jed sat at a table in the conference room, each skimming part of the list.

  Jed broke the silence. “Here’s a general discharge. Richard Oberg.”

  Grant lifted his head. “How long had he served?”

  “Ah…not quite ten years.”

  “Interesting,” he said, and Jed nodded immediate agreement.

  The general discharge raised a red flag, but didn’t indicate any serious misconduct. He’d probably been slapped on the hand with some nonjudicial punishment. It might be no more than a clash with a commanding officer who wanted to get rid of him. Depending on how much time Rick had actually spent in war zones, he might have been suffering from some PTSD. A lot of Grant’s contemporaries were. Most of them, maybe, including him. Still, he’d really like to know what had led to that discharge, given that Rick had appeared to be on track as career military.

  “Is he local?” Jed asked.

  “No, but he’s here in town temporarily because his father died a couple of months ago and Rick has to deal with the estate. I have no idea where he does live.”

  Jed made a note.

  “Another one who’s been around but doesn’t actually live here is Brian Avery. I’m told he lives in The Dalles, but he was here for that meeting Mathison called.”

  The Dalles was a fair drive north on the Oregon side of the Columbia River.

  Fact was, they couldn’t eliminate anyone from consideration just because he currently resided in south Florida or Detroit, Michigan. Any of those men could be home for an extended visit to family, or staying somewhere in central Oregon within a reasonable driving distance. Verifying people’s real whereabouts would be a time-consuming business.

  A few minutes later, Jed found a dishonorable discharge. Caden Jones.

  Grant frowned. “His name came to me the other day because he didn’t make picture day.”

  “Right, I remember that.”

  “He was two years behind me, but was bumped up to varsity. I don’t remember why, because he was kind of scrawny.” Grant shook his head, dredging for any recollection of Caden on the football field. He might have been fast. Running backs had cycled in and out, as had wide receivers. Or had he been a backup kicker or punter?

  “Damn it, I need to find someone who might remember better, and who has stayed in the area so he can tell me who’s been around and who hasn’t.”

  “What about your coach?” Jed asked.

  “Died of a heart attack a few years ago.”

  “Wonder if he’d have been on this killer’s list if he’d still been alive.”

  There was an ugly thought.

  “Jones was navy,” Jedd added, “the first one I’ve hit on. He served twenty-seven months before the involuntary separation.”

  “Don’t know if he came home. If so, I haven’t encountered him.”

  A couple of minutes later, Grant said, “Damn, here’s another dishonorable discharge. Rob Fullerton. He was at Mathison’s meeting.”

  “Him, I know.” Jed grimaced. “Bar brawl.”

  He’d been mixed up in a couple of those since Grant’s return to town.

  “Yeah, he always had an explosive temper. That served him well on the football field, although he was responsible for most of our penalties.” Taking the chance to loosen muscles, Grant stretched. “From what I know, he’s a long-haul trucker these days, but he owns enough land to run a small herd and call himself a rancher.” He frowned. “His name didn’t come up earlier when we investigated Curt Steagall’s feud with the feds over land rights. Wouldn’t be surprised if Fullerton wasn’t at least a sympathizer. Since he tended to take offense at anything, he’s just the kind to have convinced himself that if the government didn’t hoard so much land, he could have been a successful rancher.”

  “Not sure that’s important, given the more recent victims,” Jed pointed out.

  “You’re right.”

  Jed offered to take on finding out whether Fullerton still drove trucks, and if so try to verify his schedule.

  It didn’t take them long to finish, and then exchange lists so they could see each other’s highlights and notes.

  “My inclination is to focus on the guys who spent significant time in the military,” Grant said. “The army doesn’t train two-year enlistees as snipers. Someone like Rick, now…”

  “I agree.” Jed’s expression closed, as it invariably did when they discussed his former career. Of all people, he knew how much dedication and training was required to qualify as a sniper. Once the army had invested that much in someone, they wouldn’t be inclined to let him go right away, either. “Although those shots could have been taken by someone who grew up hunting.”

  Grant studied him for a moment. Jed hid most of what he felt, making Grant believe he had serious issues. Hard to be sure, when the guy was so close-mouthed. Whatever those issues, however, they hadn’t yet impacted his job performance.

  Shaking off an irrelevant diversion, Grant said, “How many hunters shoot from that kind of distance? But I know it’s possible. This whole military thing could be a dead-end, but my gut still tells me that’s where this guy got his training.”

  His detective shrugged a concession.

  “Got to look into the men with the dishonorable discharges, too, starting with the people we know are here in town.” That put Fullerton first, even though Grant’s instinct said the guy didn’t have the impulse control to have been so meticulous in the commission of these crimes.

  Oberg next, given his length of service and general discharge. Caden Jones would up there, too, if it turned out he lived locally. Both had been short, which made them second string in a sport like football. That could lead to jealousy. Grant would have added Juan Estrada, except he didn’t fit what bare-bones profile they had. Estrada had been a decent kicker who helped the team win. In fact, he’d pulled out the win in the last minute of the championship game by kicking a field goal. After graduating, he’d gone to Cal Berkeley for his undergraduate work, Lewis & Clark here in Oregon for his law degree. His practice in Fort Halleck appeared successful. Plus, he’d been valedictorian of their high school class. Grant didn’t see him as having self-esteem issues.

  Grant didn’t know about Justin Addington, another little guy. He’d served four years in the army and received an honorable discharge. Who knew where he’d gone after that, or what he’d done?

  “We’ve got to find out where these people live now,” he concluded. “I think I’ll talk to Mathison. Except for two years in the army as a medic – with an honorable discharge – he’s mostly been back home. He could be a good source of information on these guys.”

  Jed volunteered to do the online searches. He had a knack for it. Having a plan, Jed went to his desk and Grant dialed Scott’s number.

  Gather one piece of information at a time, he reminded himself. Homicide detectives more often felt like the turtle than the hare – but the turtle had won the race.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Sunday morning, Cassie opened one eye and glared at the alar
m clock. She hadn’t slept much better last night than she had the night before. The stress of knowing they were no closer to identifying a serial killer was a big part of it. Missing Grant didn’t help. Five days since they made love, and the best they could do was him stopping by for an hour or two several evenings to talk and, as he put it, make out. Unfortunately, that just left her hot and bothered and grumpy.

  Yesterday, she hadn’t seen him at all. He had to have been going nonstop. That he’d called and they talked quietly for fifteen minutes or so had been a gift.

  As if picking up her tension, Dad had been in a mood yesterday evening, his stare so hateful she’d been too close to saying, “You know what? You’re on your own!” But in his own way, he’d been her prop when she was growing up, and she’d determined to do the same for him now, no matter how difficult he became. All she had to do was keep reminding herself how devastating the stroke had been to him, a man whose fierce independence she understood. Cassie had read about a condition called Locked-In Syndrome, which left the incapacitated individual unable to move or communicate, even while he could hear and his mind worked fine. It sounded like hell on earth to Cassie. In a lesser way, that’s what Dad must feel like. His body had become a cage he had no way of breaking open. He had to have noticed that his recuperation had slowed or even reversed recently, too. Of course he was angry. Despair took some people that way.

  With a groan, she dragged herself up. She’d been neglecting a lot lately. Helen had been doing her best to fill in on the business and subscription side of putting out a newspaper, but Cassie needed to pay attention, too. Honestly, she hardly knew what Andy was working on, and in the absence of Paul, she either needed to handle more of the day-to-day local news that people expected to find in the Courier, or she had to hire someone.

  That was a decision she should discuss with her father, she decided.

  A steaming shower helped clear her head. She didn’t bother with the dryer, just finger-combed her hair as she often did. Dressing, she glanced at the clock. She needed to hustle. Cassie usually fed herself and Dad before Mary arrived, which would be in about twenty minutes.