The Codebook Murders

by Leslie Nagel

  “What? What happened?” PJ demanded as Dye paused. It seemed he, too, had fallen under the spell of Dye’s story.

  The reporter leaned forward, clearly milking the drama for all it was worth.

  “Regan’s mother,” he said in a low voice, “still lived. Doris Fletcher was in the memory ward of a nursing home. I waltzed past their nonexistent security with a bunch of flowers and told Doris I was a friend of Regan’s. With dementia loosening her tongue, the old lady blabbed a huge secret she’d intended to take to her grave. I’m talking bombshell here.

  “Two days after the big Homecoming football game, before Regan’s body was found and while she was still presumed a runaway, Douglas and Doris Fletcher received a ransom note tucked into their mailbox.” Charley gasped, and Dye grinned. “I know, right? The note included one of Regan’s hair ribbons. Douglas, the obsessed idiot, was so convinced of Carter’s involvement that he decided it was a prank. Press coverage about the missing necklace, insured for fifty thousand dollars, made it sound as if the Fletchers had a lot of money. Douglas maintained that anyone could have picked up that ribbon at school, that his daughter lost them all the time.

  “Doris, however, wasn’t so sure. She thought maybe Regan had worn that ribbon to the game. She begged her husband to call the police, but he refused and forbade her to do so. Douglas destroyed the ransom note.”

  Charley gasped again and Marc stirred in his chair, his detective instincts no doubt rebelling at the notion of destroyed evidence.

  “It didn’t end there,” Dye continued. “In secret, Doris filled a duffel bag with newspapers and put a thin layer of cash on top. She dropped it where the note specified she should—inside a trash barrel at RiverScape—and sat in her car, watching and waiting. When a man in filthy army fatigues and long greasy black hair collected the duffel, she followed, committing the license plate number of his ancient truck to memory. He disappeared into a dilapidated apartment building on the east side. She called the police with an anonymous tip that Regan had been seen, then got the hell out of there.

  “Police responded to the tip, but reported finding nothing and no one—it was an abandoned building with no occupancy permit, a squat for homeless drug addicts. They told all this to the parents, never dreaming Doris was the tipster.

  “Doris was on the verge of confessing what she’d done, and then the dreaded call came. Regan’s body had been found. The woman realized that her beloved girl had already been dead when that note was delivered. It was a cruel prank after all.”

  “That’s so sad,” PJ whispered.

  “Tragic,” Dye agreed briskly. “But listening to her story, I was struck with an idea. The building had been a dead end, but maybe the license plate on that truck wasn’t. Even if the note writer hadn’t killed the girl, he’d found the hair ribbon; he might know something. At a minimum, I figured this could make an intriguing chapter in my bestseller. And Doris, in the unfathomable way of dementia, couldn’t remember yesterday’s lunch, but she had perfect recall of that plate number.”

  “You got someone to run the plate,” Marc guessed.

  “Any reporter worth his salt has contacts in law enforcement,” Dye confirmed. “The plate came back to one Yousef Alsayegh, a Vietnam veteran of Arab-American descent who was currently doing three to five for car theft in a state penitentiary in Indiana. He’d recently gotten in a knife fight with another inmate who died as a result of his stab wounds. Alsayegh was looking at life inside with no parole, despite his claims of self-defense and constant Arab bashing by skinhead inmates.”

  “This was two years before the Twin Towers,” Charley murmured.

  PJ’s young face set in hard lines. “Racists pretty much lump all us brown people together, and they’ve never needed an excuse to hate.” Charley laid a gentle hand on his. The boy huffed out a breath. “Sorry. Go on, please.”

  “You paid this Alsayegh a visit?” Marc prompted. “How’d you get him to talk?”

  “I lied,” Dye said simply. “I told Yousef I knew about the ransom note, and that I had proof he’d sent it. If he would come clean about killing the girl, I’d make him famous. Together we could shed light on the cruel conditions at the prison. I also suggested that clearing an innocent man’s name might earn him slack from the system, which currently seemed bent on making his time as hard as possible.

  “It took the guy all of five minutes—which in retrospect,” Dye said ruefully, “should’ve been a red flag. What the hell, Yousef said. Sure, he’d killed her. He’d been homeless at the time, owning nothing but his old truck. When the weather was nice, he liked to sleep outside. Smith Gardens was one of his favorite places: nice and quiet, nobody around at night, nobody messing with him as long as he was out before dawn. But that night, a foxy redhead came sneaking in. She looked well heeled, so he approached her and asked her for money. She tried to run, he grabbed at her, and she fell and hit her head. He panicked and dumped her body in the pond. He saw that one of her ribbons had come off in the struggle, and he shoved it in his pocket. When he read about her disappearance and the missing necklace, he figured the Fletchers had money, so he pasted together the note with the ribbon and dropped it in their mailbox. After the fake ransom drop he fled the state, figuring it for a police sting.”

  “What did he say about the necklace?” Charley found this particular unsolved mystery one of the most intriguing aspects of the case.

  “This is where his story starts getting sketchy.” Dye frowned. “Yousef claimed he searched her body, but she didn’t have any necklace or any other valuables, not even a wristwatch. Then I asked about her backpack. The guy became evasive. Finally he ‘remembered’ that he’d taken her bag, didn’t find any money, so he tossed it in a Dumpster somewhere. He claimed he couldn’t recall the color.”

  “But it was bright yellow,” Charley protested.

  “Exactly,” Dye agreed. “Who forgets a bright yellow anything? Yousef’s story had other problems, such as being vague about exactly how Regan had died. Carter’s court records included the autopsy report. I tried to interview the original ME, but he’d passed away, so I showed a copy with the names blacked out to a doctor friend, who wasn’t much help—she told me that, without more information, or access to the body or the scene, she couldn’t say for certain whether anything in the report was inconsistent with Yousef’s story. But then there was Yousef’s equally vague account of when he’d been at the Gardens with Regan. First he said it was ten, then later he changed it to nine or nine-thirty.”

  “Either way,” Marc mused, “he could’ve been the person seen fleeing Smith Gardens just before ten that night.”

  Dye pointed at Marc. “He could have been.”

  “Why did you believe this guy?” Charley wondered. “It seems obvious to me he was lying, and you clearly had doubts of your own.”

  “Two reasons,” Dye replied. “First, he had the ribbon. Second, when he searched Regan’s pockets, he found a bunch of keys. He described the fob, a hunk of brass shaped like a fancy capital ‘R.’ That detail was never revealed to the press. Between that and the fact that nothing he’d said could be proved a lie, I swallowed my misgivings and contacted the authorities. Yousef swore out a detailed confession. Using modern methods, they ran new DNA tests on the three hairs they’d found in Regan’s charm bracelet.” He leaned back, the folding chair groaning in protest. “No one was more surprised than yours truly when they came back as a match for Yousef Alsayegh. After nineteen years behind bars, Carter Magellan walked free.”

  “The hairs matched?” PJ asked, eyes wide with excitement. “That means Yousef was the killer, right?”

  “All that proves is that he handled her body shortly before she went in the water,” Marc contradicted. “Coupled with a signed confession, though, I can see how the court would overturn Magellan’s conviction.”

  “But Yousef recanted,” Charle
y said. “Why?”

  “I believe,” Dye said quietly, “he knew he was going to die. The poor bastard suffered a massive heart attack. According to the prison nurse who attended him, he wanted to clear his conscience by amending his story. He now claimed he’d bedded down behind some bushes at Smith Gardens like always. When he heard strange noises, he stayed hidden. Then things quieted down, and he emerged from cover and found the body. He searched her for valuables, which was when he found her keys, and also when his hairs must’ve gotten caught in the bracelet. Concerned about fingerprints on the body, he filled her clothes with landscape stones and rolled her into the pond, then took off.

  “His story about the ribbon was unchanged; he’d picked it up while smoothing away his boot prints from the muddy path. He also maintained there was no necklace and no backpack. Yousef had no family; he begged the nurse to contact me, his only visitor in years.” Dye stared at his hands. “He died the next morning.”

  Everyone fell silent. A moth batted against the screen, its desperate tick-tick a reminder that time was fleeting. Of all the ruined lives surrounding Regan Fletcher’s death, Charley thought that Alsayegh, this veteran of a despised war—a man abandoned by society, reduced to a life of crime, victimized by a racially biased justice system, ultimately dying in a prison cot attended by strangers—might be the most tragic story of all. In his final hours, with nothing left to lose, why would such a man lie?

  As if reading her mind, PJ asked, “You think he was telling the truth? A deathbed confession?”

  “That’s what I think,” Dye said. “Despite the DNA evidence, I just couldn’t shake the feeling that there was more to Regan’s story.”

  “What did you do next?” Marc asked.

  “He made a few dollars out of someone else’s misery,” Charley said disdainfully. “You published Yousef’s retraction, and it ruined Carter’s life all over again.”

  “That was the nurse, not me. She sold the story to a tabloid and the mainstream media picked it up.” Dye shook his head wearily. “But I let it go. Mea culpa. I always meant to come back to the case, write that bestseller and clear Carter’s name, but other projects kept luring me away. And as person after person connected with the investigation died off or moved away, so did potential leads. It’s been almost twenty years, but I’ve never forgotten about Carter and Regan. I vowed that, someday, I would find the truth.”

  As the reporter slumped in his chair, contemplating past choices and plainly unhappy with at least a few of them, Charley felt an unexpected surge of sympathy for Berkeley Dye. It seemed evident that the man’s career hadn’t gone the way he’d planned. Not, she reminded herself sternly, that a hard life was an excuse for breaking and entering.

  Dye sat up and rolled his shoulders. “Fast-forward to the present. I’ve got a buddy who’s good with computers.”

  “A hacker?” PJ asked.

  Dye cocked a blond eyebrow. “That’s a harsh word, son. Anyway, he’s had a watcher program running to flag any mention or combination of certain words, including ‘Regan Fletcher,’ ‘backpack,’ ‘tunnel,’ and ‘Oakwood.’ When your friend posted her little news flash on Instagram, it tripped the alarm. My pal called me. As luck would have it, I’m working on another story in the Dayton area, so I came right over to, uh, see you.”

  “Came to rob me,” Charley contradicted sharply, “and to burgle my home. You scared my father nearly to death. Why didn’t you simply come inside Old Hat and ask to see the journal?”

  “I do apologize. But I saw the open door, and when I peeked inside, it was just sitting there.” He sighed. “Also, I was afraid you wouldn’t trust me, and frankly, I couldn’t take that chance. I’ve waited too long for a break in this story. To be fair, I never actually committed burglary tonight before you…” Dye trailed off as he glanced around the circle of grim faces. “Wait, what? Who scared your father? He doesn’t live here, does he?”

  “He lives over there.” She pointed at the Carpenter house. “Are you saying you didn’t jimmy that side door and toss the place?”

  “Jimmy the—what?” Dye exclaimed. “I just confessed to taking the journal. Why would I lie?”

  “Because you’re a thief.” But even as she spoke, Charley realized, to her surprise, that she believed him.

  Dye waved this away. “Yes, yes. Bygones, am I right? Water, bridges, and so on? I have no clue who broke in next door, except that it wasn’t me. It’s probably an unfortunate coincidence. The important point is, here we are. I did my due diligence. I know all about you, Charley Carpenter. And you, former homicide detective Marcus Trenault. You two are like a modern-day Nick and Nora Charles.” Once again he produced his winning smile. “What do you say? Let’s work together and find out what really happened to Regan Fletcher. Maybe this journal contains clues to the true murderer. And then there’s the missing necklace. It’s still out there. Come on,” he urged as Charley and Marc remained silent. “This kind of investigation is right up your alley. And I don’t have a cryptographer on staff.” He patted PJ on the shoulder. “But you do, unless all that Instagram stuff was crap.”

  PJ grinned and indicated the papers. “Well, this stuff is crap, but I have decoded part of the journal.”

  “You have?” Dye’s eyes bulged. “Holy moly, kid. Does it say anything about who might’ve killed her?”

  “Well,” PJ began, “mostly she talks about—”

  Marc quelled PJ with a glance, and the boy clamped his mouth shut.

  Charley schooled her expression, but inside she was dying to say yes to Dye’s proposal. This was the second version of Regan and Carter’s story she’d heard. With each telling, more details had been revealed. Details about the events, as well as the people involved. For the first time, there might be a real chance to get answers that had eluded everyone for forty years. What amateur sleuth wouldn’t want in on that?

  At last she spoke. “What do you have in mind?”

  “Excellent!” Dye rubbed his hands. “We start by decoding the journal.”

  “Start by returning it, you mean,” Marc said severely.

  “Ahem, yes. The journal is safe and sound in my van, along with all my files on Carter’s case.”

  Charley blinked. “You have all of it with you?”

  “Of course. I’ve been researching this case for two decades, so I’ve accumulated quite a bit. And, uh”—Dye reddened slightly—“I’ve been sort of living in my vehicle for the last few months. Times are tough.” He grimaced, standing with a pop and crack of vertebrae and knee joints, neon parrots straining as he rotated his hips. “You could license that chair to the torture teams at Guantanamo, young lady.”

  Charley grinned. She found herself liking this shifty, opportunistic slob, in spite of the fact that he’d stolen her property. Intelligent, with an engaging personality and a subtle sense of humor, Berkeley Dye was, after all, a man on a twenty-year mission. Perhaps more than most people, Charley could sympathize with the…blurring of procedural lines in the pursuit of a goal.

  As Dye moved toward the door, Marc rose. “PJ and I will go with you, if you don’t mind.”

  “Fine by me.” The reporter winked at Charley. “Those files weigh a ton.”

  They returned a few minutes later, each lugging a big cardboard box. As they dumped them on the worktable, Charley spotted her carrier bag resting on top of the nearest one. She removed the journal, glad to have it safely back.

  “I’ve had a quick look through it,” Dye puffed, “but the code is Greek to me.”

  “Not to me.” PJ reached for the journal and, after a moment’s hesitation and a totally unnecessary caution to handle it carefully, Charley handed it over. He immediately began flipping pages, taking a few additional cellphone shots.

  She hummed in appreciation as Dye removed the box lids. Each box was outfitted with hanging file frames and packed with fol
ders, all neatly tabbed and labeled. Charley started to remove a file from the nearest box, but Marc touched her elbow.

  “It’s too late to get into this tonight, babe.”

  Charley replaced the file reluctantly. “I suppose.” She checked her watch and clucked in dismay. “It’s after one! PJ, you need to get home. Marc can take you.”

  “Nah.” PJ handed her the journal. “I rode my bike, and it’s only five blocks. Wait’ll Katie hears how I helped catch the thief,” he said gleefully as he stepped onto the deck. “See you guys tomorrow!”

  “And I need to get some shut-eye as well.” Dye hesitated. “I’ve got my manuscript in the van,” he said diffidently, “if you’re interested.”

  “Perhaps later.” Marc’s tone was glacial.

  Dye handed Charley a business card. “Call or text, twenty-four seven.” He took her hand and bent over it in a courtly gesture she found oddly touching. “It’s been an honor, Ms. Carpenter. I’ve got a very good feeling about this.”

  After he was gone, Charley asked the question uppermost in her mind. “Do you think he was lying about the break-in?”

  “He’s not an easy man to read,” Marc admitted. “If he was telling the truth, either we’ve got a huge coincidence, or there’s more than one person interested in Regan Fletcher’s journal.” He scowled. “And that’s the possibility that worries me the most. By the way, who the hell are Nick and Nora Charles?”

  Charley ran a hand over the boxes. “You know who’d love to get in on this?”

  Chapter 8

  “All right, people. The first official meeting of the Oakwood Mystery Club will now come to order.”

  The four women seated around the Carpenters’ dining room table fell silent. Four pairs of eyes regarded her expectantly. Charley had called this ten a.m. meeting; she’d used Marc’s cellphone to text everyone last night—well, very, very early this morning—and awakened at dawn to four eager “yes” responses and one “no.” Sharon Krugh, the only absent member, was on duty at the county morgue until three o’clock, at which time, her message made clear, she expected a complete briefing on whatever the club discovered.