by Graham Smith
I gesture inside the house. ‘I won’t take much of your time.’
‘You can have the next year if it helps catch the swine who murdered Paul.’
The underlying fury in her tone tells me she’s gone past denial and has landed in anger.
I follow her into the house. Like her, it’s homely and lived in. Nothing is dirty except a coffee mug, but there’s enough untidiness to make it a comfortable, welcoming place.
She points me to a seat and pets the Labrador puppy flopping its way around her ankles. There’s no offer of coffee or any other kind of drink.
I sit as instructed before starting with my questions.
‘Can you tell me a little bit about Paul – where he worked, his family, his interests and hobbies, any enemies he may have had?’ I already know the answers to these questions, but I’ve read enough fictional interviews to know you should always start by establishing a baseline of emotions by getting the subject to recount known truths.
She takes a deep swallow. ‘He worked up at the reservoir. His job had some fancy title like systems analyst when all he did was sit on his butt making sure the dials were all pointing the right way. He was separated from his wife, and his daughter is at college in Salt Lake.’
A handkerchief is pulled from her sleeve and used to dab her eyes.
‘I’m sorry, I know this must be tough for you, but everything you tell me can help us catch the man who did this to your brother.’
‘I know.’ The handkerchief is lifted to her face again.
I give a gentle prompt. ‘His interests and hobbies.’
‘Yes. He didn’t have a lot in his life. He worked every hour they’d let him so Leah could go to college.’
‘And when he wasn’t working?’
‘He’d do odd jobs to raise a few extra bucks. You know, mowing lawns, painting. That kind of thing. Virtually every penny he made went to his ex-wife or Leah.’ The amount of resentment in her voice makes me wonder just how acrimonious his divorce had been.
‘He didn’t go bowling or date or anything?’
‘Nothing. He had no life other than work.’
‘What about enemies?’
She laughs in my face. ‘Paul wasn’t the type of man to have enemies. He went through life unnoticed. Nobody bothered with him beyond polite conversation. After the divorce he worked, slept and then worked some more.’
I can tell by her body language she disapproved of his empty lifestyle but won’t put a voice to her criticism in front of me.
Once I’ve exhausted all my questions, I thank her and leave.
Next on my list of people to visit are Evie Starr’s family.
42
I step out of the shower and reach for a towel. After invading the lives of two grieving families, I was left with the need to wash. To cleanse myself of their misery and the dirty feeling I got from causing further hurt.
After dressing I make a sandwich with some cold meats from my fridge and the last slices of bread. The bread is harder and drier than I care for, but with everything that’s been going on, I haven’t had time to collect any fresh groceries. The glass of milk I pour myself is a day past its use-by date, but smells okay, so I risk it.
I take a seat and begin a mental recap of everything I’ve seen or heard today. There’s a lot to chew over, but I work my way through it until some ideas have formed.
One idea I can’t shake, despite knowing there’s no way it can be correct, is Paul Johnson is almost a perfect fit for Dr Edwards’ suggested psyche of our possible serial killer. He has the loneliness factor and after the way his ex-wife discarded him, he was sure to be harbouring more than a little resentment.
Every fibre of my body tells me associating a victim with a killer in this way is wrong. While I’m not going so far as to speak ill of the dead, the uncharitable thoughts are still coming.
What I can’t get my head round is how we’re meant to identify the killer. Everything I’ve learned about each of the victims is unique and individual to them. Other than being lifelong residents of Casperton, there is no common thread. No shared interests, hangouts or friends.
Even their ages are disparate, with there being at least half a generation between any two of them.
I make a note to look deeper into the financial side of their lives. If they share a tradesman or professional of some kind, there may be a connecting link to give the investigation a focal point.
This is the type of work Alfonse excels at. It’ll become his task while I busy myself with something more people orientated.
Looking at my scribbled notes, I wonder if either Johnson or Evie Starr kept a diary. It’s a question I never asked and its omission nags at me.
With a half hour to go before I’m due to meet the chief, I call Alfonse asking him to join me there. Having everyone in the same room will save any repeated conversations.
To kill time, I pick up the last pages of Kira’s diary in the hope of finding a clue of some kind. I don’t expect to, but a part of me knows I need to read them just in case.
43
Upon entering the station I’m waved right through to Chief Watson’s office where I find him on the telephone.
I’m not sure who he’s talking to, although it’s a fair bet they’re not enjoying the chief’s words as much as I am.
The handset rattles when he thumps it into the cradle. ‘Sit down, Boulder, and wipe that smirk off your face.’
I obey the first half of the command. ‘That was a great use of language. Most people would have just sworn at him.’
‘I don’t believe in using curse words with my men.’
I get the smirk off my face but can’t remove it from my voice. ‘Sorry, but it’s the first time I’ve heard a detective being described as less use than a syphilitic camel’s rotting carcass.’
He kneads his temples, a grimace turning down the corners of his mouth.
‘He deserved it. I’ve just had Evie Starr’s son in running his mouth about insensitivity. The son said you’d been there too. Said you’d shown way more tact and understanding.’
I give a shrug and a nod of thanks in one movement.
The visit to her family hadn’t been pleasant for anyone, but all through it, I’d known they were suffering way more than I was. It was written on their faces and translatable from their body language.
Interpreting the way he looked at me over the top of his mug as an invitation to speak, I hold up two fingers and pull out my cell.
‘You’re late and the chief’s waiting, where are you?’
‘I’m here.’ I hear Alfonse’s voice in my ear as his head pokes round the chief’s open door.
I scowl my disapproval at his poor timekeeping, but as usual he ignores me.
‘What have you got then?’
The chief’s question is aimed at both of us, but it’s Alfonse who speaks first. ‘I’ve spent most of my day looking at the wives of Kira’s clients in case it was one of them seeking revenge. None of them seemed likely to have gone that far and unless they have secret accounts in false names, none of them have withdrawn large amounts of cash.’
‘I’m guessing you mean to pay a hitman rather than do it themselves.’ The chief’s words are a statement not a question.
‘Yep. There was nothing I could find to suggest any of them had dropped out long enough to travel here. These women have little to do and are constantly updating their Twitter or Facebook feed.’ He gives a self-deprecating shrug. ‘Once I’d identified them, it didn’t take long to rule them out.’
‘Is it possible they have offshore accounts that didn’t show on your searches?’
‘Yes, but it’s not likely. I tapped into their email servers and checked their historical emails to locate their bank statements. Once I’d done that, it was just a case of having a look at their income and expenditure.’
‘I see what you meant about inadmissible.’ The chief shoots me a look then turns back to Alfonse. ‘How do you know their o
ffshore accounts are linked to that particular email and they don’t send their statements in the mail?’
‘Nobody who has a secret offshore account wants their statement put in the mail. Some of them had more than one email, but the software I used to get into their PCs or tablets scans for historical searches on any browser. One of the things it flags up is sign-up pages for email accounts. Therefore, I’m ninety-nine per cent confident I’ve got all their email accounts covered.’
I believe him and can see Chief Watson does too. These days, everyone is tuned in to their cells or tablets as if they are a magical gateway to a better world.
It’s all a nonsense – what’s happening is the erosion of societal manners and consideration for others. Just last week I saw a guy in his late twenties so engrossed with his cell he walked into a busy intersection without noticing. When confronted by angry drivers blaring their horns, he’d flipped them the bird as though they were the ones at fault, before continuing to the nearest sidewalk with his cell still held in front of him.
If just one of those cars hadn’t screeched to a halt, I’d have witnessed Darwinian selection first hand.
‘So you think they should be eliminated from our thoughts?’
‘Yeah. After doing that, I started to look into the other two victim’s finances.’
Score one for Alfonse. ‘I was hoping you would. What did you find?’ I keep my voice matter of fact, not wanting the chief to realise I hadn’t considered it until after it was done.
He addresses the chief rather than me. ‘Paul Johnson lived a pauper’s life only one large bill away from disaster. He had no secret accounts or hidden stash. Unless it was cash stuffed into his mattress.’
The chief shakes his head. ‘We didn’t find anything like that when we searched his house. I saw where his money was going for myself when I looked through his statements. You would too, Boulder. What about, Evie Starr?’
‘She had some money, but not what you’d call a lot. Ten grand and change in a savings account, plus a pension which paid enough to cover living expenses so she could use the savings for luxuries.’
‘Where’s the pension from?’ I’m wondering if a small businessman is cutting off bad payers and trimming outgoings from the firm’s pension fund.
‘One of the oil companies.’
His words nix that particular theory. It is enough of a stretch a local firm was protecting their pension fund, but the global companies involved in the oilfields wouldn’t care about such trivial amounts.
‘Did you find any common purchases? Had they all had building work done by the same firm or something like that?’
I’m pleased the chief and I are on the same wavelength. Not only does it validate my own thoughts, but it’s good to see he is smart and capable of independent thought.
His predecessor had been rooted in the old ways and had all but condoned the lacklustre efforts of Farrage and his buddies. With Victor Watson, Casperton, for the first time in many years, has an intelligent and decent man as chief of police.
Alfonse pulls three sheets of paper from the leather document folder he brought with him. ‘I haven’t had time to cross-reference them yet but these are the last six- month’s-worth of purchases for each of the three victims.’
He hands me a sheet and another to Chief Watson. ‘I’ve put them in alphabetical rather than date order.’
Five minutes later we’ve finished checking the lists. Only four businesses feature on all three: Casperton Auto Repairs, a fuel stop in the centre of town, the 7-Eleven and Sherri’s.
Almost everyone in Casperton uses the 7-Eleven, Sherri’s and the fuel stop. Their inclusion was a given for any local. I use them myself, as does Alfonse.
Johnson had visited Sherri’s just once, and by the time of the transaction and amount paid, I’d guess his daughter was home for the weekend.
Which means the one common business used by each of the three victims was Casperton Autos. This brings us back to Lunk.
Again, a lot of people use Casperton Autos. Whatever else he may be, Lunk is a fine mechanic and his rates are way more reasonable than the dealerships on the edge of town.
‘Did you have a chance to look at the accounts of Casperton Autos?’
Alfonse and I exchange knowing glances at the chief’s question. Like everything else about Lunk, his accounts will be a mess. It would surprise me if his accounts are on paper let alone a computer.
Any bill I’ve ever had from him was handwritten on cheap paper headed with nothing more than a variety of oily fingerprints. For minor jobs like new tyres or an exhaust, he’d pull a number out of his head and I’d pay cash without ever seeing a check. I’m sure the IRS are long overdue an investigation into his accounts, but that, quite literally, is his business.
‘What about you, Boulder? What have you learned today?’
I tell them of my day, the visits to the grieving families and the hour I spent with Dr Edwards.
He listens without interrupting, the pen in his hand scratching out notes onto the cluttered desk pad. His scrawled handwriting follows no logical pattern or direction. Notes are jotted at random points of the compass, the text assuming whichever direction his hand finds easiest. How he makes sense of it is beyond me, but it must work for him – he’s too experienced not to have learned the best way to work.
When I finish he lays down his pen with a heavy sigh. ‘I’ve learned more from you two than I have from any four of my detectives.’
There’s nothing we can say to this so we stay quiet waiting for him to continue.
‘You mentioned Evie Starr’s family were adamant she was loved by all who knew her. It’s a cliché, I know, but did you get any feeling they were looking through rose-tinted glasses?’
‘Not at all.’ I shake my head. ‘I spoke to one of her neighbours as well. She was always the first to contribute to bake sales or to help others whenever they needed it. She was so popular the kids in the neighbourhood called her Auntie Evie.’
The chief kneads both temples at once.
Now we’ve given him his information, it’s time for him to reciprocate. ‘Have you heard anything from the CSI team?’
He nods and consults the mess of scribbles on his desk pad. ‘They found everything we expected them to and nothing we didn’t.’
I know what he means. What had happened in her house was pretty obvious, but still we’d had an idea or two, which may help the CSI team get us a suspect, our best theory being the killer may have removed his gloves to wash the blood off her body.
‘Did they find any fingerprints in the shower?’
‘Only hers. The shower controls all had partial prints, which had been smudged. Piers, who was the lead investigator, said it’s typical of what happens when someone wearing gloves touches something.’
The fact I was expecting this news doesn’t make it any easier to accept.
‘What else did they find?’
Again the chief’s fingers reach for his temples. ‘Nothing that tells us anything new. Everything they told me just confirms what we suspected.’
‘What about how he got her from the house to the reservoir?’
‘There were no tyre tracks in her driveway other than the ones from her own car. A shed at the back of the house was found to have its lock broken.’
A thought hits me. ‘Did you find the keys for her car?’
‘I didn’t know we were supposed to look for them.’
‘A dime says you don’t find them anywhere you’d expect them to be.’ The chief scowls so I keep going. ‘I’m guessing he used her car to drive to the reservoir. The broken lock on the shed is too coincidental not to be connected. Therefore, I figure he stole a wheelbarrow from the shed to carry her from the car to the bench. Once she is in place he takes the car back and walks away.’
‘Goddamn it, I think you’re on to something. If you’re right it explains why the neighbours didn’t see any strange vehicles in the area.’ He points at me. ‘You’ve
been at the house – you’ve seen how easy it would be to approach from the back without being seen.’
He reaches for the telephone on his desk. Dialling a number from memory, he waits for an answer then barks out a series of instructions. Whoever is on the other end of the line is left in little doubt of how quick the chief wants them to act.
Ending the call, he turns to me. ‘That tyre print you found. I’ll bet a week’s salary it was the killer dumping the wheelbarrow into the reservoir.’
I’ve had the same thought. ‘Do you know anyone with diving equipment who can find out for you?’
A malicious gleam twinkles in his eye. ‘Lieutenant Farrage is always talking about pool parties. I’m sure he’ll be able to swim down a few feet and find out if we’re right.’
As much as I hold Farrage in the contempt he deserves, I don’t envy him the task of having to swim into the cold depths of the reservoir. Down below the surface in the shade of the trees there will be murky blackness, indistinct shapes and the pressure of the water squeezing his body.
The water will push at his closed mouth, trying to force a way into his lungs. If it finds no entry there, it will refocus its attention on his nostrils. Whatever other faults he may have, Farrage will earn my respect if he can propel himself into the depths and find the wheelbarrow.
‘Here.’ The chief passes a folder to me and one to Alfonse. ‘I got these reports just before you arrived. I haven’t had time read them myself yet.’
All three of us read in silence. It doesn’t take long to go through the pages. Not only are there few details to consider, but the detectives have shown their laziness by only recording the barest information in the briefest way possible.
I expect their training will have taught them to record only the pertinent facts using the fewest words possible, but their idleness has progressed to new levels, thereby robbing the reports of any character. Not once is a theory offered forward, there’s just fact after fact delivered as a series of bullet points.
There are statements from the young couple who found Evie Starr and the report from the CSI team who’d examined the dump site.
