The Boat Man: A Thriller (A Reed & Billie Novel Book 1)

by Dustin Stevens

  “Damn,” Reed muttered, his eyes pulling tight in a wince. “Man’s best friend, huh?”

  He had caught a glimpse of the dog under guard of animal control, the pit bull no more than half the size of Billie. Before finishing the thought, he pushed it away, shuddering even at the idea of her jaws going to work on a victim.

  “So one arm before death, one after,” Reed said, fixing things into place in his mind. “Same murder weapon?”

  “That I don’t know,” Solomon said, “but I put some side-by-side photos in there for you comparing the two victims. It’s impossible to tell one knife wound from another with a complete degree of certainty, but I can tell you they are very consistent.

  “Almost identical, in fact.”

  Again Reed nodded. He had expected that to be the case, the other similarities too pronounced to be coincidence.

  “Okay,” he said. “Anything else?”

  “Yes, actually,” Solomon responded, turning in her chair and taking up a small evidence bag from the desk behind her. It was made of clear plastic, an ID tag filled in with ink along the top. She held it up, offering it to him.

  “I dug this from the victim’s trachea, so far down I’m not surprised the ME missed it on the scene. I didn’t even notice it until I saw some scraping along the inside of the throat.”

  Reed accepted the item and held it up to the light. At the bottom of it was a small metal disc, the diameter of a nickel, though much thicker and non-uniform in shape.

  “Scraping?” Reed asked. “Meaning it was forced there?”

  “That would be my guess,” Solomon replied. “Looked to be inserted post-mortem, meaning it wasn’t swallowed, and there was no way the victim did it to himself.”

  Chapter Twenty

  “Hey, buddy, can you hold that a second?”

  The Boat Man put a friendly smile on his face as he said the words, jogging to the gate. In one hand he carried a red lunch cooler with nothing inside, the other a gym bag filled with just enough crumpled newspaper to give the item some shape.

  The man holding the door did so without a word, a look of exasperation on his face as he watched the Boat Man get closer. When he was just a few feet away, the guy shoved it out wide, the Boat Man catching it with his shoulder and stepping through.

  “Thanks.”

  The man already had his back turned, moving on into the building.

  Three times a day the Midwestern Paper factory made a shift change, once at 7:00 in the morning, again at 3:00 in the afternoon, a final time at 11:00 at night. The place stayed fully operational around the clock, the only difference being reduced manpower for the late shift.

  Under ideal conditions, the Boat Man would have preferred this target first, but he had to wait until he cycled onto the night shift for it to happen. The man’s living situation was too crowded to ensure invisibility, and as far as could he could tell, this target very rarely went anywhere that wasn’t home or work.

  If only that had always been the case.

  Peeling himself away from the foot traffic flowing in, the Boat Man hooked a right into the restroom and locked himself into the back stall. There he remained while the last few stragglers of the afternoon shift filtered out, shedding both the bag and the cooler, stowing them along the wall behind the toilet.

  Every moment he had been in possession of the items, he had worn gloves, ensuring that no physical evidence of any kind could tie him to them.

  Considering what he was about to leave behind, he highly doubted anybody would care about a duffel bag and a miniature Igloo.

  Stepping out from the stall, he stopped and peered at himself in the mirror. The look he had put together would blend well, a far cry from his actual appearance in the off chance there was a camera anywhere on the grounds.

  Raising his hands to the brim of the Browns cap he wore, he adjusted it a half inch lower on his forehead, bringing it down to touch the top of his yellow safety glasses. Thick black curls spilled out between the two, the wig hot and itchy, though a necessary precaution.

  Reaching down to his leg, he tapped his right hand against the scabbard tucked beneath his clothes.

  It was time.

  Exiting the restroom, the Boat Man crossed the yellow safety line on the edge of the factory floor and headed for the rear of the building. Beside him, three large conveyor systems fed finished cardboard boxes into stacks, a machine wrapping them in green plastic strips for shipping. Moving among them were a dozen employees, all dressed in the same jeans and flannel look he now sported, nobody glancing his way as they got to work for the night.

  Keeping his right leg extended straight, the Boat Man walked with a bit of a limp as he moved through the main part of the building, past the inking stations and the baler where two kids fresh out of high school fed scraps to be repurposed for use again.

  It was the third time the Boat Man had been inside Midwestern, using the same ruse each time to gain entry. In a place as large as the factory, with over 100 people coming in and out at shift change, it wasn’t difficult for him to gain entry, blending seamlessly with the masses.

  Spread out over the last couple of months, the Boat Man had gotten a clear idea of where everything was located inside, of the best place to find his target.

  Throwing a wave to one of the young guys working the baler, the Boat Man walked through the heavy, clear-plastic strips separating the main factory floor from the warehouse at the back. The din of machinery fell away as he passed through.

  What was noise and heat just a few feet earlier, receded to cool silence, the room half the size of the factory floor, stacked to the ceiling with enormous rolls of sound absorbing raw paper. Stripes of black rubber crisscrossed the concrete floor from the modified forklifts used to transport the product, a series of railroad cars positioned along the back wall, ready to move out as soon as they were loaded.

  A smile crossed over the Boat Man’s face as he made one pass through the room, making sure everything was in order, before settling himself into position.

  All he had to do now was wait.

  The Boat Man was good at waiting.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Through some sort of merciful twist in karmic logic, Reed was unable to dream, or rather, unable to remember them. He was fully aware of the fact that he had a subconscious that was far more active than the average person, for almost without fail when he awoke, he found himself in a worse state than when he’d fallen asleep.

  This evening was no different.

  The sky outside his window was still dark as his eyes opened. The sheets beneath him were wet, the thin fabric sticking to his skin, beads of sweat streaming down the side of his face. Most of the blankets had been balled into a tangle at the foot of the bed, twisted into a heap that looked like he had been thrashing just moments before.

  From the doorway a soft whine met his ears, pulling his attention to a pair of brown eyes standing three feet off the floor. There they remained, unblinking, as he ran a hand back over his forehead, pulling sweat away and wiping it against the bed beneath him.

  “Hey, girl,” he said, his voice betraying the exhaustion he felt.

  At the sound of his voice, Billie took the initiative, stepping into the room, her toenails clicking against the hardwood floor. She walked up alongside the bed and rested her chin on the mattress, her nose cool and wet against his skin.

  Reed buried his fingers into the thick black hair behind her ears, low moans escaping her as he kneaded the skin back and forth.

  “Care to tell me what the hell had me sweating like a pig in here?” Reed asked, not expecting an answer, appreciating the effort as Billie forced her eyes back open to look at him.

  “No? How about, how many times a week you stand there watching over me?”

  Reed waited for a response he knew wasn’t coming before raising himself to a seated position. Sleep was now gone, any chance of returning was futile. His right hand he kept on Billie’s head, the left he used to
rub the crust from his eyes as he turned and focused on the glowing red clock face beside the bed.

  2:30 in the morning.

  Less than three hours since he had gone to sleep.

  Kicking away the last bits of blanket around his feet, Reed rose and pulled on a pair of gym shorts, the floorboards of his farmhouse creaking as he made his way through it. Behind him he could hear Billie following him into the kitchen, her feet beating out a familiar rhythm.

  Starting in the pantry, Reed filled the stainless steel bowls on the floor by the sink with kibble and water, watching for a moment as Billie attacked her breakfast, feeling his own hunger rise within.

  Most nights they would be in the middle of a shift, both of them breaking for food, their internal clocks telling them this evening should be no different.

  Putting on a pan of water to boil eggs, Reed grabbed a Gatorade from the fridge and sat down at the kitchen table, resuming the same position he’d been in just a few hours before. Scattered across the polished surface were the two case files, the photos nothing short of horrific as they stared back up at him.

  He was making progress, though it seemed to have a clear ceiling that Reed was fast approaching.

  Both murders had been committed in the same fashion, with only moderate variation in the MO. The fact that the second one seemed far more vicious than the first concerned him, though he had tried to reason with himself that the escalation could have been caused by anything, ranging from a personal connection, to somebody walking by before he could finish with Mentor.

  The only way to know for sure would be the appearance of a third body, something he desperately hoped didn’t happen, no matter how much harder it made his investigation.

  It was the agreed opinion of both him and the coroner that the same weapon had been used twice, which if nothing else, indicated it was only a single person. He hoped that the criminalists were able to pull something from the balcony that could be useful, or at the very least, confirm that supposition, though he wouldn’t know until later and wasn’t holding his breath.

  Thus far, the guy had been flawless. There was no reason to believe that would suddenly change.

  The water on the stove started to boil as Reed drew himself up and dropped a few eggs into it, pulling it from the heat and covering the pot. On the floor beside him Billie finished up the last of her meal, shoving the empty dish along the ground, her muzzle buried deep, trying to get out every last morsel.

  Reed folded his arms and put his back against the counter, waiting for his eggs to finish as he stared at the mountain of paperwork across from him. So far, the scenes had given him little to work with, almost everything he knew originating with the bodies themselves, which practically begged to be noticed.

  Otherwise, there was nothing, meaning the connection had to be with the victims themselves.

  The sound of his landline blasted Reed from his thoughts, just as he was putting together an agenda for the morning, jerking his head toward the wall where it hung. As far as he could tell, it was the first time that phone had been used in years, the sound so foreign, a growl rolled from deep within Billie as she tensed, trying to place it.

  “Down,” Reed said, the familiar feeling of anxiety bubbling up within him. He patted Billie on the head to calm her nerves and stepped around her, lifting the white plastic receiver from its cradle and holding it to his ear.

  “Detective Mattox.”

  There was no way the call wasn’t work related.

  “Hey, Sugar,” Jackie said, concern in her tone. “Everything alright over there?”

  “Yeah, why?” Reed asked, deciding not to comment on the question or the hour at which it was being asked.

  “Oh,” Jackie replied. “I called your cell a half dozen times but wasn’t getting a response. Not like you.”

  Again, Reed contemplated reminding Jackie he wasn’t on night shift for the time being, but decided against it. “Yeah, sorry. It was in the bedroom. Billie and I were working in the kitchen.”

  The line fell silent for a moment, a sure signal to Reed that there was a reason Jackie was calling that had nothing to do with concern for where his cell phone was currently parked.

  “What is it?”

  “You’ve got another one,” Jackie said, her voice just north of a whisper. “Midwestern Paper. Call just came in a few minutes ago.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  A halo of light was visible above the Midwestern Paper factory as Reed pulled up, multiple hues glowing off the trees and the front of the building, rising into the night sky.

  “Oh, shit,” he muttered, easing the sedan into the back of the lot and taking up the short lead from the passenger seat.

  “You ready to clear a path for me?” he asked over his shoulder, Billie moving back and forth in answer to his question.

  Opening the backdoor just halfway, Reed reached in and attached the clip to Billie’s collar, holding her tight as she jumped to the ground, head already aimed at the commotion by the front gate. Letting his badge swing free against his chest, Reed fell in beside her.

  The Midwestern Paper factory was something Reed had driven by 100 times in his life but had never been inside. Located on the edge of Franklinton and neighboring Hilltop, it employed a fair number of people from both towns, making and distributing boxes for various frozen food companies around the state.

  Normally, the place looked the part of a factory from the road, an large industrial-like building stretching several blocks long, a parking lot out front to accommodate employees. A chain link fence ran the length of the property separating the two, a single strand of barbed wire visible along the top.

  Tonight it was lit up like a Christmas tree, several cruisers and other emergency vehicles parked out front, their overhead lights flashing red and blue. Beyond them was the source of Reed’s trepidation, presenting a new angle to the case that had not yet been a concern.

  Media.

  At first glance, Reed felt almost a bit of relief pass through him. Everything about the scene was wrong, from the public site to the presence of so much fanfare. It was a far cry from the previous killings that felt meticulous in their bid for privacy.

  There was no way this could be the same perpetrator.

  A moment later, a second thought came to mind, forcing him to wonder if this was the next step in the escalation. No longer was the killer content to just commit such atrocious acts, now feeling he needed an audience.

  The front gate stood open as Reed approached, allowing his badge and the big, black dog by his side to peel the crowd away. At the sight of them, the scads of employees and media cleared a path, casting sideways glances as they walked through.

  Just once, a brave reporter tried lobbing a question his way, but he pressed on as if he hadn’t heard it.

  On the opposite side of the fence were a half dozen uniforms, among them Gilchrist. He nodded to Reed as he came near, moving away from the pack and lowering his voice.

  “Fair warning, the captain is looking for you,” Gilchrist opened.

  Reed felt his eyebrows rise. “Grimes is here?”

  “Just stepped away,” Gilchrist said, “should be back out any second.”

  “Hmm,” Reed replied, absorbing the news. There were only a couple of reasons that a captain would be on the scene at such a late hour, all of them bad. “What have we got?”

  “I don’t know exactly,” Gilchrist said, again checking the crowd for anybody who might be listening in. “Greene and a couple other senior patrol guys are back there to secure the scene. He sent me a text message a few minutes ago that said it’s ugly, and it’s definitely another one.”

  “Great,” Reed said, lifting his chin toward Grimes as he approached. “Here he comes, you might want to disappear.”

  Gilchrist gave a quick glance over his shoulder and nodded his farewell, heading off into the crowd a moment before the captain arrived.

  “You just get here?” Grimes asked, glancing down at Bill
ie as he came to a stop near Reed.

  “Yeah,” Reed said. “Jackie called us 20 minutes ago.”

  Again, Grimes glanced between them, bags drooping beneath his eyes, a frown on his face. “I think she called you at the same time the chief called me.”

  The questions of how the chief had known and why she called Grimes, both popped into Reed’s mind, but he let them pass. He had more pressing matters at hand, things that more directly concerned his case.

  “How bad is it?”

  The frown on Grimes’s face moved a bit deeper as he took another step or two away from the gate, motioning for Reed to do the same. “Bad,” he confirmed. “I obviously didn’t see the other two scenes, but I’m guessing it has to be on par, if not worse.”

  Everything about the area had already told Reed as much. After two consecutive nights of seeing the horrors, he liked to believe he was as steeled as he could be to it.

  A wave of raised voices drew their attention out to the parking lot, Billie giving a single tug on the leash, leaning that direction as well. It took a moment to locate the source of the noise, another rash of media having arrived, satellite dishes and lights visible overhead.

  “I’m guessing they’re the reason you’re here?” Reed asked without looking away from the spectacle.

  “They are,” Grimes said, a mix of exhaustion and disdain in his voice. “This many employees on site, no way to issue a gag order to everyone. Somebody over at KCMH gave the chief a call, she in turn called me.”

  “Hmm,” Reed said, nodding, not the least bit surprised. “She tell you how to handle the media?”

  “Not exactly,” Grimes replied, “but she let it be known that diplomacy would benefit everyone involved.”

  “So she told you how to handle the case.”

  “Not exactly,” Grimes repeated, giving one long look before taking a step toward the crowd, “just that this better get solved fast.”