by Graham Smith
Neill’s footsteps as he comes downstairs act as a welcome interruption. His lined face shows puzzlement at the disturbance and raised voices.
‘C’mon. I need to get you to the police station as soon as possible. That way the police can keep you safe.’
Hearing the words come out of my mouth I realise what I’ve just said and the subtext behind it. Mother and Sharon will be kept safe along with their husbands. I won’t be joining them. My place is continuing the investigation.
I get them bundled out of the door and into my car and drive them to the station. Mother complains all the way about the lack of legroom in the back of a Mustang while Neill concentrates on not commenting about the speed of my driving.
A tightwad by nature, he always drives at the optimum speed to get the best mileage possible. To be crossing town in the high sixties will seem nothing short of reckless to him.
Mother has travelled far enough with me to become unconcerned by my driving. Although she will on occasion, cite an inevitable crash as yet another way I’m preventing her from becoming a grandmother.
70
Entering the station, we find Sharon and her husband Ted talking with Doenig’s sidekick.
When she sees Mother she runs across and wraps her up in a big hug. I get a similar one from her. Ted’s politeness makes him shake my hand despite the accusation on his face.
Mother will be glad of an ally in her campaign against me, although Sharon and Ted’s presence will keep her away from the ever-present subject of grandchildren.
Doenig and the chief emerge from his office. The FBI man looks fresh whereas the chief’s face and body show his exhaustion. His movements are clumsy and he’s dragging his feet.
I take the initiative. ‘What’s the next move, Chief?’
‘You and your family go to the motel and stay there.’ Doenig’s tone brooks no argument. ‘This has to end here. No more deaths.’
‘We thought that yesterday with the Vernal family.’ I’m not prepared to be sequestered away. By dragging Sharon and Mother into this mess, the killer has made it way too personal for me to allow myself to be shunted aside.
Besides, the thought of being cloistered away with Mother when she’s got full justification to rail on me isn’t an attractive one. She’ll rattle on for hour after hour, attacking me from every possible angle. As a rule I would be able to mount a defence against her, but on this occasion I’m guilty as charged.
It won’t be long before the others side with her. Even in silence, their faces will show what they think of me. There’s no way I want to be in that position. Not when I can be stopping a killer.
‘I’m not going to the motel. I’m staying on the case.’
‘No you’re not.’ The chief’s voice is as tired as the rest of him. ‘That’s how we lost Angus Oberton.’
‘If you stay on the case you’ll be a target. I’m not having one of my officers at risk.’
I hand the chief my badge. ‘Problem solved. I’m a civilian now.’
‘Which means I can arrest you if I want to.’
‘Enough.’ Doenig keeps his voice low, but there’s a quality to it which cuts through our bickering. He looks at me. ‘If you don’t go to the motel, you’ll become a target. But I’m not sure the killer will take you on. I think he’ll be expecting you to be protected or guarded. And he’ll be right.’
Which means that if the killer doesn’t come after me, his pattern will have to be broken as I only have four direct relatives in the US and they’re all under police guard.
Only, the killer isn’t going to move onto someone else. I don’t for one minute believe he dumped the latest body outside Sharon’s home by chance.
It is a deliberate act, designed to hamper the investigation. With me either distracted or stationed in the motel, I’ll be less effective.
Yet looking at it from his point of view, there is the danger he won’t be able to get to me. I don’t think he is ready to stop, so his involving of my family is the laying down of a challenge.
He’s asking if I’m man enough to face him. He wants to take me on. The realisation of what he wants firms my resolve.
I take a deep breath and make a suggestion which might get me killed. ‘He’s coming after me, so use me to catch him.’
The chief is the first to speak. ‘No way. Forget it, Boulder, there’s no way I’m risking him getting to you.’
‘You’re not the one taking the risk. I’m in charge.’ Doenig looks at me with respect in his eyes. ‘Are you sure about this?’
I swallow. ‘Can you think of any other way we’ll catch him?’
Neither of them reply, which is all the answer any of us needs.
The chief tosses the badge back to me and pulls a gun out of his drawer. ‘Do you know how to use this?’
‘No, but I’ve got one I do know how to use.’ I’m stretching the truth a bit, but I’m trying to reassure him.
‘Where is it?’
‘In the trunk of my car.’
‘Go get it. Keep it with you at all times.’ He cocks his head to one side. ‘Round up a couple of patrolmen and take your folks to the motel. When you’ve done that come back here and make sure you have a patrolman with you at all times.’
I sense he is getting rid of me on purpose, so I leave him and Doenig to it.
After getting the gun from the trunk of my car and stuffing it into my waistband, I go to join my family.
There are two patrolmen watching over them, so I approach the nearest. ‘Chief says they’re to go to the motel. I’ll take the guys in my car, you take my mother and sister.’
I plan to inform Neill and Ted what I’m doing on the drive over and leave them to break the news. It’s a cop-out but I’ve enough self-critical thoughts of my own, without Mother dripping scornful vitriol in my ear.
71
When I arrive at the motel I see two burly workers and a cop stationed at the entrance. Another civilian and a cop are standing by the fire exit. They look bored but their heads are in constant motion as they sweep the area for possible aggressors.
The patrolmen gain us entry and a couple of rooms are secured for my folks. They look stunned but there’s little I can do to change things. It’s about to get worse for Mother and Sharon when their husbands repeat the news I’ve given them.
As they are escorted down the hall, I pull my cell out and read the message I’ve just got.
It’s a picture of a woman. Her face has a deathly pallor and the dewdrops coating her cheeks look like tears.
A second message comes in, followed by a third.
The second is from the chief asking me to show the picture to Norm Sortwell to see if it’s his cousin.
I check the last message and sigh when I see who it’s from.
YOU ARE AN IDIOT JACOB BOULDER. WORRYING ABOUT YOU WILL PUT ME IN AN EARLY GRAVE. I EXPECT TO HEAR FROM YOU EVERY TWO HOURS.
Stuffing the cell back into my pocket, I go to the receptionist and ask which room Norm is in.
As I make my way along the corridor, I’m rehearsing what to say, the tone to use and guessing what his reaction may be. This is new ground for me and I curse the chief for making me walk it.
How Norm will react depends on the closeness of their relationship. It was tough to gain any insights last night. He’d been questioned to the point of distraction by the feds, then brought out here with his parents.
I knock on the right door and hear a TV being turned down. Norm’s face appears as the door opens. He looks as if he’s had less sleep than me.
Seeing him in proper light for the first time I notice how gaunt and drawn his face is, that his belt shows wear on each of the holes. He must have lost weight recently, although his bare arms show tight knots of muscle.
‘Morning.’ I drop the good from the greeting on purpose. If we’re right about the body, there isn’t going to be anything good about today. ‘I’m sorry to trouble you, but there was a body found a couple of hours ago. It matc
hes the description you gave us for Josie.’
His hand flies to his mouth and he takes a few steps backwards until his legs collide with the bed. As he sits, springs creak. He raises his eyes to my face. ‘Are you sure it’s her?’
‘I’m afraid not. We’ll need someone to make a formal identification.’ I’m winging it, but to my ears the words sound like something a cop would say.
I pull my cell out. ‘I have a picture of the victim on here. Do you think you could take a look and see if it’s Josie?’
Norm doesn’t speak, but his arm extends in my direction. Handing over the cell, I watch to see his reaction.
It’s a muted one. He looks at the image for a few seconds then passes the cell back. ‘It’s Josie. She looks so peaceful.’ His voice is a whisper.
‘Thank you.’
‘How did she die? Will there need to be an autopsy?’
‘We’re not sure yet, but there will be an autopsy and it should tell us how she died.’ I’d like to tell him she didn’t suffer, but without knowing the details, I’m reluctant to say anything in case I’m wrong.
‘Will we be able to go home now?’
I’m not sure if I have the authority to make this decision, but I make it anyway.
‘I don’t see why not.’
I leave him with his thoughts and a promise someone will bring them more news as soon as we have it.
Before climbing into my car, I call Alfonse and point him at Roger Ingerson. I want to know anything and everything he can dig up about the first victim, as I’m sure that’s where the key to the killer’s identity will lie.
72
Norm lies on his bed and savours the irony. His next victim asking him to identify the previous one is delicious. It’s more than enough to make up for having to spend the night in this crummy motel.
He’d made sure to give Boulder a careful look over when acting shocked about Josie. The man was in good shape, his movements fluid despite an obvious discomfort at the news he was delivering.
There had been a temptation to attack him there and then. A solid blow to the solar plexus followed by a sleeper hold would have done the trick nicely, but in doing so he would have unmasked himself as the killer.
Plus, he wants the random selection of the method to throw up one of the delights he still has in store.
When Boulder left, he’d noticed the bulge at the back of his waistband.
There is no telling how proficient with a gun he is, but the information is collected and stored as he begins to plot ways to capture him.
He gathers his jacket and leaves the room. Five paces along the hallway he knocks on the door of his parents’ room. Mom answers and lets him in. He feigns shock as he informs them of Josie’s death.
They sit in silence for a time, then Norm leaves them to come to terms with the news.
As he hands the room key back to the receptionist, he sees which other keys are missing from the row of pegs. He knows from a conversation with a cop the whole corridor was reserved by the police. The empty pegs tell him which rooms Boulder’s family have been allocated.
Norm smiles as he realises the significance of just two keys being missing. Boulder’s sister and mother are here but the man himself isn’t staying to be guarded.
Instead, Boulder is still active. If he’s active he’s vulnerable.
The feds and local cops will be watching his back, but Boulder is unpredictable and will at some point do something that puts him at risk.
He’ll be there, ready to kill him.
Norm leaves the motel and decides to walk home. The fresh air and exercise will invigorate his body. He wants to be as energised as possible when he tackles Boulder.
He passes a 7-Eleven but turns back and walks in. He buys a copy of the Casperton Gazette, scans the front-page headlines and skim reads the article by Ms Rosenberg outside the store. She’s covering the murder of Angus Oberton. What pleases him most is the nickname she’s given the killer.
He loves being called ‘The Watcher’; it’s perfect as it’s exactly what he does. He watches. If he’s lucky it will stick. A good nickname will help secure his place in history.
73
I find the press camped out in the station’s reception area. Ms Rosenberg is at the head of their ranks as they clamour for more information about the two latest victims.
Her eyes pick me out as I try to sneak into Chief Watson’s office. She approaches with a raptor-like expression. As usual she’s wearing enough foundation to support a skyscraper.
‘Are you any nearer to catching the Watcher? Have you any leads? How many more people must die before he’s stopped?’
I keep my mouth shut. I’m not even prepared to say ‘no comment’. It’s the chief and Doenig’s place to speak to the press. Maybe the mayor’s too.
Their moniker for him is apt though. ‘The Watcher’ is the perfect fit.
When I enter the chief’s office, I find him and Doenig briefing one of the FBI agents.
Doenig sees me enter and points at his colleague. ‘This is Agent Cuthbert. He’s going to be your bodyguard.’
I flick my eyes at Cuthbert. He’s dressed in a sombre dark suit, has the necessary cropped hair and the stance of someone expecting trouble. The way his arms are held makes him look like a cross between a gunslinger and someone carrying two rolls of carpet.
‘No offence, but isn’t he a little obvious as a feebie?’
Doenig scowls at me. ‘He’ll lose the suit and get some normal clothes. We do actually train for this type of situation in the FBI.’
I mumble an apology and avoid his eye. I can feel colour filling my cheeks at my naivety.
Cuthbert leaves the room so I use the distraction to ask the chief what he wants me to do next.
‘I want you to go over all the reports. The ones from the CSI teams, the coroner, the investigating officers. You’re looking for anything that can possibly be used to identify the killer. You need anything, ask Darla.’
I understand he is both dismissing me and keeping me close.
He doesn’t dare have me running around town where the Watcher can attack me. Therefore, he is using me to double check and reassess all the details in the safe environment of the police station. Cuthbert is sure to be the pedantic type who’ll never be more than six feet away.
There is no way the Watcher will try anything when I am so well protected. He’ll either wait until the levels of security are lessened, or abandon his selection process and find another victim.
I’ll need to find a way to persuade Cuthbert to give the Watcher enough space to feel confident he can attack me but not so much my life is at risk.
After leaving the chief’s office, I ignore Ms Rosenberg again and speak to Darla. She promises to bring me the reports I’ve asked for.
I choose to use the office Alfonse used yesterday. It’s hot and stuffy with the aroma of stale sweat and junk food, so I open the windows and take a seat where the breeze cools me while also taking the worst of the nasty smells away.
‘Here you are, sweetie.’ Darla dumps a stack of files onto the desk nearest me. ‘Good luck with that lot.’
I know what she means. I’ve read most of these files already and I haven’t seen anything of note. Perhaps getting all their information into my brain in one pass will make the details more pertinent in relation to each other.
When Cuthbert arrives back, I’m so engrossed with a report I don’t notice him until he’s at my side.
‘Are you serious? Are you trying to get yourself killed?’ His blank face is showing its first impression and it’s one of complete disgust and amazement. ‘You’re the target of a serial killer and you’re sitting by an open window. Not only that but you’re so wrapped up in what you’re doing, you’re not paying any attention to what’s going on around you.’
As he’s berating me, he goes round the room closing windows and dropping blinds. I can understand his frustration and anger. In his position I’d be the same.
Not only is he tasked with a dangerous duty, the person he’s protecting seems to have no idea about basic common sense precautions. For him, this is the type of assignment on which careers are made or broken. Anything bad happening to me will, for him, be the equivalent of writing a letter of resignation.
Seeing the scale of his reaction, I realise there’s no way I’ll be able to persuade him to let me draw the killer out.
I try to placate him by apologising then asking his opinion about the facts I’ve gleaned so far.
The distraction works. There’s every chance it’s the first time he’s been asked to contribute on anything other than guard duty since arriving in Casperton.
We settle into an uneasy truce and each pick up a file. The room becomes stuffy again, but Cuthbert ignores it and I think better of asking for an opened window.
We’re reading the files in chronological order. From time to time, he’ll ask me a question. It’s usually something to do with local knowledge, but one or two of his points are good ones.
After six hours with nothing more than coffee I call a halt and stand up. ‘C’mon. We need to eat and I want to speak to someone who’s doing research for me.’
Cuthbert reaches for a phone. ‘We’ll order in.’
‘No we won’t. It’s the middle of the day and we’ll be eating in a crowded public place.’ He doesn’t put down the phone so I push harder. ‘Trust me, it’ll be fine. My treat.’
He wavers so I walk towards the door forcing him to make a decision one way or the other. He puts down the phone and picks up his jacket.
74
Instead of my usual seat at the counter, he directs me to a booth at the back. I can see why he’s chosen the booth. From our seats we have a full view of the diner and can see both entrances and the doors to the bathrooms. Nobody can approach us unseen by his watchful eyes.
He surprises me by foregoing the chilli burger I recommend and selects a vegetable and pasta bake. I’d pretty much assumed all FBI agents would be macho dudes who’d eat plenty of red meat and drink bourbon by the bucket.
