by Graham Smith
Nothing my eyes land on does anything more than confirm what I already know or suspect.
The chief slaps his papers onto the desk and glares at us. ‘Nothing. That’s what I get from these – absolutely nothing. Tell me you’ve got something.’
Alfonse shakes his head while I remain still and silent.
‘You found something, Boulder?’
‘I don’t know. There’s something nagging at me, but I can’t figure out what it is.’
‘Figure quickly.’ Yet again the chief’s hands stray to his temples. ‘I want you to focus on the two women. The more I think about it, the less I believe Johnson’s murder is connected to the others.’
I disagree with his way of thinking, but I’m aware he has more experience than me when it comes to hunting killers. Besides, unlike Farrage and his cronies, I don’t have to follow his every order.
The chief looks at his watch. ‘We’ll meet here at noon unless something breaks through the night. If you think of anything, call me, regardless of the time.’
44
I get home and settle into my recliner with the reports. The thought nagging at me hasn’t come into bloom yet, but I intend to read them as often as necessary until it steps forward and identifies itself.
Finding a rhythm, I pour over page after page until I’ve read every report twice.
Inspiration eludes me as I try to reshape my questions to fit the knowledge accumulated so far.
I make some notes which I score out when I realise other facts refute their validity.
No matter which way I approach the problem it stays resolute, defiant of my attempts to solve it.
I pick up the remaining few pages of Kira’s journal. Perhaps a change of focus will freshen my tired mind.
As is always the way, it’s one of the last pages that gives me the breakthrough. There, among her ramblings about me, is a passage that makes my heart beat faster as the jigsaw in my mind begins to form a clear picture.
If I’m right, there’s a serial killer targeting Casperton with a bizarre way of selecting his next victim.
I grab my iPad and begin to seek out the registries Alfonse has shown me. I type in the hacked password he gave me and start my search.
First I look at the local births and marriages register, tracing back the family tree of Evie Starr. Knowing she had two daughters and a son helps and it doesn’t take long to pinpoint their dates of birth.
Finding the son’s children is easy as they will have the family name. He is the proud father of two sons. Both are unmarried so I can strike them from my thoughts.
I cross-reference the dates of birth of the two daughters against the register of marriages. Using their married names, I return to the dates of birth and check for any children. One has two daughters but neither carries the name I’m looking for.
Next I look at the second daughter and learn she’s been married twice. I’ve been looking for children from her second marriage. The first one only lasted two years but she’d produced a pair of twins.
There in a small font is the name I am looking for. To be certain I have the right person, I enter her name into the search box. It comes back with one entry. Hers.
I realise with a jolt I’ve gone about this the long way. If I’d started with her name and traced backwards I would have gotten the same verification of my theory two or three hours ago.
I call Chief Watson. He doesn’t answer so I leave a message and call Alfonse.
He listens as I tell him my theory and the research I’ve done. He agrees with my logic and promises the information I need within five minutes.
Feeling adrenaline pulse through me, I try the chief again. He answers with a gruff voice laden with the nuances of the recently awoken.
45
The chief looks extra stressed as I stride into his office. One hand appears to be fixed to his temple as he speaks into the phone. The fact he’s not getting any joy with his requests for help shows on every crease of his face.
The phone slams down and he glares at me as if it’s my fault. ‘Are you positive about this, Boulder?’
‘I wouldn’t have told you if I wasn’t.’ I pass across the printouts I’ve brought with me and hope he notices the needle in my voice. He can treat his subordinates however he likes, but I don’t take insults from anyone.
He scans the pages and gives a terse nod. ‘You’re right. They are connected.’ He grabs a folder off his desk and waves at me to follow him as he moves towards the door.
As we pass the front desk he leans over it, invading the desk sergeant’s personal space. ‘Get every officer you have the number for into this office in the next twenty minutes. I don’t care whether they’re traffic, detectives, off duty or retired. I want them here by the time I call you. Am I understood?’
He doesn’t wait for an answer, so I match his pace as he hurries outside. I climb into his car without bothering to ask if he wants me along.
The chief stands on the gas with vehemence. The tyres lay down a strip of rubber as the car shoots out of the parking lot with lights and sirens in full operation.
‘That’s a good call you made, Boulder.’ He sighs as his mind realigns itself from administration to action. ‘What put you onto it?’
‘I was reading Kira Niemeyer’s diary when I found out her cousin had discovered a person who’d hanged themselves. I remembered Kira’s body was found by Mrs Halliburton who is the sister of Paul Johnson. Two coincidences like that seemed a bit of a stretch, so I looked into the person that found Johnson’s body. She turned out to be Evie Starr’s granddaughter.’
He negotiates a corner so fast the protest of tyres can be heard over the siren.
Upon reaching our destination, the chief screeches to a halt on the wide road and jumps out. I’m a half pace behind him.
He bangs on the door of a stereotypical house until the glass splinters. Still he bangs and hollers until a light comes on and a dark shape appears behind the glass.
The door opens to reveal a man shaking off the effects of the sudden awakening. Stepping back, I can see other lights in the house turn on.
‘Mr Masterton, I’m Chief Watson and I need to talk to you at once. You are not in any trouble but members of your family may be in danger.’
Masterton looks at me, then the chief and back to me, his brain still too near sleep to process the information it is being given.
I step forward and usher him backwards. ‘Your family are in danger. Get everybody in the house downstairs. Now!’
My last word being shouted jolts something inside him. He stumbles up the stairs shouting names as he goes.
Two minutes later his family are gathered in the lounge. There’s a son of college age, another in his mid-teens and a wife. All of them are sleep-tousled and the wife’s expression is that of a professional lemon taster. A cat stalks along the floor then leaps into the lap of the youngest son.
The chief points at the elder son. ‘When Frederick here found the body of Evie Starr, we believe he was being watched.’
‘By whom?’ Even in her current state, the sour-faced woman gets her grammar correct.
‘The person who killed her and dumped her body there.’
‘I presume you’re connecting that lady with the two murders in the Gazette?’ Again it’s the woman who speaks. It doesn’t take much deduction to work out who rules this particular roost.
The chief raises a hand towards his temple only to stop the movement at shoulder height. ‘Our intelligence leads us to think the killer watches to see who finds the bodies. Once he’s identified them he selects a member of their family as his next victim.’
What little colour is in their faces drains away as the chief’s words sink in.
‘We need you to provide us with a list of your family members, their addresses and phone numbers.’
‘Beth. What about Beth? She was with me. Won’t she be at risk as well?’
I turn to Frederick. ‘We’re going there next. D
on’t worry, she’ll be fine.’
Mrs Masterton takes control of the situation. ‘Frederick. Will you bring me a pen, some paper and my cell please? The sooner we do this, the sooner they can go and warn her.’
Her eyes lock onto the chief. ‘What happens when I give you this list?’
‘I’ll send officers to everyone’s house and your entire family will be escorted to the station for the rest of the night. We’ll look at getting some more comfortable accommodation for you tomorrow. We’ve only just made this connection and don’t have anywhere else we can guarantee your safety.’
‘Is it safe to go upstairs and get dressed?’ It’s the younger son who asks. He’s close to tears and has an arm round the father.
I give him a reassuring smile. ‘I’m sure it is, but would you like me to go up and check for you?’
He nods so I make my way towards the stairs I’d passed on the way in. Not having any official capacity leaves me feeling like a voyeur. The chance to check through the house in case the killer is lying in wait is too good to pass up.
I give the house a thorough if unconcerned search. Any killer present is bound to have heard the chief’s banging and hollering. Half of what I’m looking for is signs of forced entry.
With both halves of my search coming up empty, I return to the lounge where the chief is on his cell, relaying the details noted down in Mrs Masterton’s neat script.
Hearing a knock at the door, I look out and see the two patrolmen the chief had summoned on the drive over.
The chief ends his call and issues his orders to the patrolmen.
As he strides towards the door he throws me a sideways nod. ‘C’mon, Boulder. We’ve got the Tanners to see now.’
What neither of us have mentioned is how the killer identifies the people who find the bodies. It’s not the kind of information shared with the press or mentioned outside of law enforcement circles.
Therefore, the killer is either being fed information by the police, is a member of the force or is watching the dump sites.
It’s a question which cannot remain unanswered. ‘How does the killer know who finds the bodies?’
‘Lord knows.’ He scratches at his chin while screeching around a corner. ‘I looked into all my men when I moved here. They may be useless and in some cases downright stupid, but none of them have been in trouble for excessive force or anything like that. I don’t know them well enough to vouch for them, but for the most part I’d say they’re too damn lazy to go to all this trouble.’
For the most part I agree with his assessment, but there is always the element of the unknown.
The idea one of them is sharing information with the killer doesn’t fly. As soon as they’d worked out what was happening they’d have stopped. The only way they’d have continued is if the killer had threatened their families.
Which is possible, but not likely.
That leaves a third option. ‘Do you reckon he’s watching the dump sites then?’
‘What other explanation is there?’
I can’t think of one. I would push a bit harder, but we’ve arrived at the Tanner’s house.
46
When we return to the station, I find a seething mass of bodies crushed into the reception area. The adults are sitting on a variety of office chairs while the children are either sitting on their parents’ knees or are cross-legged on the floor.
Every face is filled with worry and anger. I can empathise with their concerns. Nobody enjoys being roused from sleep and told they or their loved ones may be in danger from a serial killer.
Farrage is being harangued by a group of angry men who demand he leave the station and catch the killer at once.
Frustration and a feeling of impotent rage fills the air with a noxious tension, turning the room into a powder keg of emotion. One wrong word in here could start a fight as discomfort and worry combine.
As soon as the chief is recognised, the men surrounding Farrage abandon him and focus on the higher power. At least Farrage has the decency to hide his face so nobody except me sees his relief.
The chief lifts his hands, palms outward. ‘One at a time please.’ His voice isn’t raised but it carries enough of an edge to cut through the chatter and silence the room.
‘You first.’ He points at the man on the left of the group. ‘What is it?’
The man is mid-forties and carries himself well in spite of the situation. ‘It’s my wife. She didn’t come home tonight. He’s got her, hasn’t he?’
‘We don’t know that for certain. Boulder, take him to my office. I’ll be there directly.’ The chief turns to the next man. ‘Yes?’
I lead the man into the chief’s office.
‘What’s your wife’s name?’
‘Wendy… Wendy Agnew.’
‘What time was she due home?’
‘Around midnight. She was dropping a colleague at the airport after work.’
I look at my watch. She’s two hours late.
‘How come you’ve just noticed she is missing?’
Guilt replaces the worry on his face. ‘I knew she was gonna be late so I went for a couple of beers after work. Had a couple more when I got home. When I got woken and brought here, I never looked at the time. I just assumed she wasn’t home because it was before midnight.’
I don’t know what to say to that. If he’d been sober he would have noticed sooner. Yet I know all too well the pull of another beer. It’s one of the reasons I drink so rarely.
‘Have you called her cell?’
‘Of course. It just keeps going to answer phone after a few rings.’
The fact it is ringing is good news to balance the bad of it not being answered. If it was going straight to voicemail there is a chance it has been destroyed or isn’t picking up a signal.
I pluck a pen from the desk and point at the chief’s desk pad. ‘Write her number on there for me.’
I pull out my own cell. Alfonse picks up before the first ring is complete.
‘Run a trace for me.’ I recite the number Agnew has written down. ‘Call me back as soon as you have a location.’
‘Do you think he’s got her? Do you think she’ll be his next victim?’
I don’t reply because my answer to both of his questions is yes. Instead I change the subject. ‘What car does she drive? What’s her licence plate?’
My distraction works. A part of him understands giving me information is more important than anything he wants to know. I jot the details down on the corner of the chief’s pad and tear it loose.
A thought enters my head before I leave to get the chief. ‘Have you called her work to check she left?’
‘No.’ Hope springs into his eyes as he reaches for his cell.
‘Are you part of the Tanner or Masterton family?’
‘Tanner.’
He turns away as his call is answered.
The hunch of his shoulders as he asks his questions relaxes for a moment before returning with more intensity.
When he turns to tell me what he’s learned, I see fat tears tumbling down his cheeks. ‘She left at eleven-thirty.’
I’m about to leave the room and get the chief when he enters with a woman. She’s in her forties and is dabbing at reddening eyes with a paper tissue.
The chief is the first to speak. ‘This is Gayle Prosser. Her husband Donny went to work at seven this morning and never came home.’
I get her attention by touching her elbow. ‘Are you related to Frederick Masterton?’
‘He’s my nephew.’
I step into the corner of the room and gesture for the chief to join me. ‘How much do you know?’
‘They had a fight this morning and he hasn’t answered her calls all day.’ He gives an exasperated shake of the head. ‘She says it’s not the first time though. When they fight he tends to go for a beer. He doesn’t usually stay out all night, but this morning’s fight was a big one.’
‘Have you put a trace on his cell?’
Defeat fills his voice. ‘I’ve requested one, but I was told not to expect an answer before tomorrow afternoon.’
‘What’s his number? Alfonse will get it long before then.’ He hesitates. It’s one thing hiring us to help out, but to actively encourage us to break the law goes against every principle he is paid to uphold.
I watch his face as he conducts the internal debate. It doesn’t move beyond a tiny flickering of the eyelids. I know he’ll be balancing the probability of Prosser lying asleep on a buddy’s couch against the fact he could also be in the hands of a serial killer.
Concern for the safety of a civilian wins the battle with his instinctive law-abiding morals.
As he begins to open his notebook, my cell rings.
I listen to what Alfonse has to say, then read him the second number right from the chief’s notebook.
Taking the chief’s arm in my hand I make for the door.
47
I turn onto Main Street and stop at the first set of lights, which are showing red. There’s no traffic but I have the chief of police sitting beside me. I’m only driving because his car was blocked in and mine wasn’t.
‘Dammit, Boulder. Put your goddamn foot down. Ain’t nobody in this town gonna give you a ticket tonight.’
I obey his instruction and streak through town until I’m heading towards the airport.
With Casperton behind me, I open up the Mustang until it’s approaching three-digit territory.
My eyes keep flicking to the odometer. Before hanging up, Alfonse told me Wendy Agnew’s cell was seven point two miles from the edge of town.
When I reach six and a half, I slow down to thirty in case his calculations are off. The chief opens his window and shines his flashlight onto the scrub at the side of the road.
We’re not sure what we’re looking for, but we’re looking anyway. I just hope it’s not a body we find. Apart from the fact another innocent will have died, us discovering one of his kills will put our families at risk from the killer.
My headlights bounce off a metallic silver car. The same kind of Ford Wendy Agnew owns.
