Watching The Bodies: a Jake Boulder Thriller

by Graham Smith

  He doesn’t offer an explanation and I don’t ask for one. His diet is his own business.

  I ask about his family and where he’s from, but other than the barest details he doesn’t tell me anything.

  Giving up on the small talk, I concentrate on my burger, savouring the burn from the jalapenos and the spicy wedges accompanying it.

  As I’m eating, my mind is still leafing through the files. Checking and cross-checking details. After everything I’ve read this morning, I’m still no closer to making a decent connection.

  My only hope is Alfonse has something for me. The lack of contact from him suggests otherwise though.

  I pay the check as promised and leave Sherri’s with Cuthbert’s understated praise for the diner making me smile.

  The gun nestling in the small of my back is uncomfortable, but there’s no way I’m going to remove it.

  WHEN WE ARRIVE at Alfonse’s, I reassure Cuthbert he can talk freely in front of my friend. The last thing we need is FBI reticence impounding on our conversation.

  His mouth and eyes give me two different replies.

  Alfonse is at his desk with his laptop open. He looks pissed and not just with his results.

  Cuthbert positions himself by the door and leaves us to talk.

  ‘What you got?’

  He pulls a face. ‘Little more than nothing. Ingerson was no saint, but his record is clean enough and the friends of his I spoke to said he was never one to start a fight.’

  ‘His wife intimated he finished a few.’

  ‘Sound like anyone we know?’ If his tone drips any more scorn he’ll have to wipe his chin. His eyes bore into mine. ‘By all accounts he’d do enough to stop them and leave it at that.’

  I give a half shrug. Big deal, Ingerson’s philosophy matches my own.

  Once you’ve knocked the fight out of someone, there’s little point in continuing to hit them. All you do is create room for grudges to develop. Hospitalising people comes with its own risks, namely incarceration and a heightened desire for violent revenge.

  ‘Did you speak to any of the guys he fought?’

  ‘Most of them. They all said they’d picked the fight for one reason or another and had their ass handed to them.’

  ‘What were the reasons they gave?’

  He spears me with another glower. ‘Flirting with their girlfriends mostly. The friends I spoke to said he was like that. He’d chat to women and flirt with them but would never follow it up.’

  Again it sounds familiar, but at least I try not to flirt with anyone who’s already dating.

  ‘Any other reasons?’

  ‘There was an accusation of him being a card sharp during a game of poker which turned into a fight.’

  I feel my pulse quicken; money is one of the main reasons for crime. ‘What happened?’

  ‘After a couple of punches were traded Ingerson showed the guy his cards.’ Alfonse grimaces. ‘A two, six, seven, jack and king spread across all four suits.’

  I wince. Even with what little I know about poker, I recognise it’s a poor hand.

  ‘Did any of the people you spoke to know of anyone with a grudge against him?’

  ‘None they’d admit to. Even the guys who’d lost to him said he could have pounded on them more but stopped as soon as they went down.’

  I get the picture. It’s an unwritten dude rule. When someone hands you your ass, but stops as soon as the fight is out of you, you accept the better fighter won and leave it there.

  It’s something I’ve seen many times at the Tree. Two guys will knock seven bells out of each other one night, then get drunk together and reminisce over the fight the next.

  ‘Is there anybody worth taking a closer look at?’ I’m thinking a couple of hours being grilled by the FBI will shake loose any details someone’s holding back on.

  ‘Nobody I’ve found yet.’ For the first time since I arrived, he looks at me without anger or fear. ‘I’m gonna keep digging in case I’ve missed something.’

  Cuthbert’s pronounced tones enter the conversation for the first time. ‘You sure Ingerson was the first of the Watcher’s victims?’

  ‘He’s the first as far as the chain is concerned. There may be others who don’t match the Watcher’s methods, but he’s definitely where the chain begins.’

  I have a thought. ‘Try looking at his family as well. Perhaps one of them has wronged the killer and he’s exacted a twisted kind of revenge.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘He’s targeting family members of those who find the bodies he’s left. Perhaps one of Ingerson’s family found out something about him.’

  Alfonse’s face lights up at my suggestion and Cuthbert nods his head. ‘Good idea. I like your train of thought.’

  From the taciturn agent, the two sentences are equivalent to a ticker tape parade.

  75

  Norm watches as the Mustang turns off Main Street and pulls into the police car park. The man with Boulder is a new face in town, but he pegs him as an FBI agent who’s been given bodyguard duty.

  The man has the institutionalised air of conformity about him. From the buzz cut to the square stance and expressionless face, he may as well be wearing a windbreaker with ‘FBI’ stencilled on the back in yellow letters. The clothes he wears still carry the creases from where they’ve been folded into their sales packaging.

  The man has a bulge in his jacket where a left-handed person would carry a gun. There’s no sign of a shoulder holster but he knows it’ll be there. The lump in the jacket is as obvious to his trained eye as a signal flare.

  What he’s waiting for is that fraction of a second when their guard is down and he can make his move.

  One positive thing he’s learned from tailing them is Boulder’s unfamiliarity with the gun stuffed into the back of his waistband. Every minute or two he slips a hand round his back, either to check it’s there or to move it into a more comfortable position.

  The way his shirt hangs over it is no problem to a trained professional, but a panicking amateur is more likely to get his gun or hand tangled. He might free it in a second or two, but two seconds in a takedown situation is a long time.

  Add the element of fear and he’ll only have to worry about the feebie in the first five seconds. Fingering the Tasers in his pocket, he’s content with the time frame; all he needs to do is wait for the right opportunity.

  The draw he made earlier has thrown up the one method he’d been hoping not to get. He’d wanted something gorier and more painful for the man whose investigative prowess has caused so many problems. While enjoying the challenge, he’d hoped there would be more time wasted by the town’s detectives before the pattern was recognised.

  Boulder’s interference wasn’t something he’d expected, but the fact the FBI would become involved was anticipated.

  Whatever happens now, his place in history is cemented. All he has to do is keep going as long as possible. The higher the tally, the greater his legend.

  76

  I toss the last report onto the pile for Cuthbert and stand up. Arching my back, I go through a few stretches to try and remove the stiffness.

  The smell in the office is now of stale bodies and despair. The chief and Doenig have joined us at regular intervals but we’ve had nothing worthwhile to tell them.

  Everything we’ve looked at has checked out the same way, and the crime scenes are too public to yield specific samples.

  Cross matching the samples for DNA is something Doenig has pushed through the FBI lab, but as with every government department, they’ve suffered cutbacks in both personnel and budget. The soonest they can get us the answers we need is two days away.

  My cell beeps, but when I pull it out expecting yet another snarky message from Mother, I see it switching itself off. The battery has given up – I’ve never thought to charge it.

  The chief walks into the room, his face all grey stubble and greyer skin. If we don’t catch the Watcher soon, he ma
y well die of exhaustion. He needs twelve hours’ sleep, a hearty meal and then another half day in bed.

  Cuthbert takes the opportunity to head for the bathroom. Since being detailed as my bodyguard he’s never been more than six feet away from me.

  ‘Got anything yet?’

  ‘Not a thing. What about your end?’

  ‘Zilch. We’ve traced as many of the people at the nature reserve as we can, but none of them saw anything.’

  ‘What about the last victim? She was supposed to be meeting her date at seven, wasn’t she?’

  ‘We’ve spoken to him. He was at work all day and then his roommate vouches for him from the time he left work until he went to meet her.’ He kneads his temples. ‘After being stood up he sank a couple of beers and went home. Her cell had four missed calls and a succinct message from him, but his whereabouts are vouched for from leaving work until he went to bed.’

  I know it isn’t the date, but he still has to be checked out. There’s something nagging me about the last kill, but I can’t figure out what.

  The timeline between Norm Sortwell finding Ian Yarwood’s body and his cousin dying is so short it means the Watcher is escalating his kills with increasing rapidity.

  There were less than eight hours between the two events and it doesn’t seem credible someone could have learned who Norm was, traced his family, executed a kill then dumped a body in such a short time frame.

  If I didn’t know it was impossible, I’d start to think Norm was supposed to find Yarwood’s body.

  Alfonse bursts into the office as Cuthbert is closing the door behind him. Cuthbert’s hand flies into his jacket and emerges with a gun. He’s halfway towards aiming it when he recognises Alfonse.

  ‘I think I may have found him.’

  ‘Who?’ Three voices speak as one.

  ‘When I started looking into the first…’

  The chief beats me to the interruption. ‘Tell us the who first. Then you can explain how you’ve found him.’

  ‘It’s Norm Sortwell.’

  There’s a stunned silence until I wave a hand at Alfonse. ‘Why do you think it’s him?’ It’s tough to believe when his cousin is the latest victim.

  ‘As I was saying. When I started to look into Ingerson’s family, I found out his wife used to be a nurse. A few weeks after he was killed she was fired.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘The clinic she worked at was sued for infecting a patient with HIV from a dirty needle. She was the nurse who had used the needle. The case was settled out of court by the insurers.’ Alfonse gives a grim smile of self-congratulation. ‘The patient who was infected had already died by the time this all happened. Her name was Melanie and she was married to Norm Sortwell. The same Norm Sortwell who found Ian Yarwood’s body.’

  The chief shakes his head. ‘Coincidence. His cousin was killed.’

  ‘Here, I’ve printed out everything I found so you can check it for yourselves.’ Alfonse pulls a sheaf of papers from his briefcase.

  He sits down at a desk and starts to boot up his laptop while we absorb what he’s told us.

  I let the chief and Cuthbert read the printouts Alfonse has supplied. I trust his judgement, but I need to work it through my own mind before fully accepting his accusation.

  Starting at the beginning I put together a mental chain of events. Faith Ingerson’s stupidity or laziness caused Norm’s wife to catch a deadly virus. He’d sued the clinic after Melanie’s death. The settlement he’d received wasn’t enough for him though, he had wanted to see her punished.

  After losing his own spouse, he must have decided it was fitting for her to lose hers. Where his selection process had come from or why he’d carried on killing is still unknown but there is always the possibility he’d got a taste for it or had suffered a mental breakdown of some kind after his wife’s death.

  ‘Did you have chance to look into him?’

  ‘Yeah. It’s not pretty. He was in the Marines for years. Done all the usual tours, Helmand, Baghdad and so on. I also looked at his medical records. He’s now got full blown AIDS.’

  I think of Norm’s appearance. The gaunt face, depleted body tissue and the belt showing used holes where he’d lost weight.

  He is dying and knows it. Perhaps he wants to go out with a bang or just get even with the world for the hand he’s been dealt. Maybe the twin blows of losing his wife and contracting a death sentence saw his mind disintegrate.

  The chief’s voice is laced with doubt as he turns on Alfonse. ‘Hang on a minute. Sortwell was under police guard from the moment he found the body until his cousin was discovered. There’s no way he could have killed her.’

  Alfonse’s face is filled with dismay at having his logic unpicked.

  ‘I think you’re wrong, Chief.’ I ignore his sneer and press on. ‘I reckon the cousin was killed and dumped before he called in the body he supposedly found. He’s using us to provide the alibi you’ve just stated. Have you had a time of death for her yet?’

  He doesn’t speak. Instead he reaches for the nearest telephone.

  Cuthbert has a cell to his ear and I can hear him requesting someone joins us. I guess it’s Doenig.

  Since Alfonse arrived, a new energy has filled the room. It’s banished the odours of defeat and helplessness and is energising tired limbs with a sense of purpose.

  The more I think about it, the more I believe Norm Sortwell is the Watcher. As a former Marine he’ll have the necessary skills to have made the kills. Plus, he’d be able to get close to his cousin to kill her. While we still don’t have a cause of death, there are too many inconsistencies about her death fitting into the narrative of someone else killing her so soon after Yarwood’s body was discovered.

  First there was the missed date. She’d posted about it on Facebook and there were clothes laid out ready on her bed. Judging by the length of the skirt and the fancy underwear, it wasn’t a date she planned to miss.

  Second, if she’d changed her mind about the date why hadn’t she called or messaged the guy. She was a professional woman in her forties, not some immature teen. With the ease of cell messages as a way of communication, being stood up is becoming a thing of the past.

  Third, if she had decided to miss the date, why weren’t the clothes put away? Where was she for the five and a half hours between leaving work and Norm finding Yarwood?

  Fourth, no woman I’ve met in the last five years would go anywhere without her cell and purse. Both of which Josie had left behind if she’d left the house of her own volition.

  Everything I can think of suggests Josie had been killed before she was due to go on the date. Therefore, the Watcher had got to her between her arriving home at five-thirty and getting dressed for the date at say six-thirty. This left a one-hour window.

  Remembering how long Sharon used to spend in the bathroom, I know an hour isn’t a lot of time for a woman getting ready for a date. Especially the kind of date the lacy underwear on the bed suggested.

  Josie wouldn’t have wanted anyone to disrupt her. All but close family members would have been shunned or rescheduled. Norm was family and would be allowed in, even if only for a few minutes. A trained Marine wouldn’t need more than seconds to kill a defenceless woman.

  The chief hangs up his call as Doenig enters the room. His expression is unchanged apart from a slight lifting of the eyebrows.

  ‘You’re right, Boulder. Dr Green says the time of death was around seven o’clock last night give or take an hour or two.’

  As the chief brings Doenig up to speed, I ask Alfonse what he’s working on.

  ‘What you got, buddy?’

  ‘I’ve been taking a closer look at Norm Sortwell. His Marine psyche evaluation has him as a natural killer. He felt no emotion or compassion for his targets, he just did what he had to do.’ He looks at me with fear in his eyes. ‘A lot of what he did was classified and passworded to death. I’ve only scratched the surface, but from what I’ve seen, I would guess he was one
of the go-to-guys for the really crazy missions.’

  ‘So we’ve got a trained killer who is dying from an incurable disease.’ I shoot a look towards Doenig and the chief. ‘Correct me if I’m wrong, but that doesn’t sound like a good combination.’

  Doenig fires a lump of questions at the three locals in the room and then lays out what we’re going to do.

  I like the sound of his plan. As much as I’d like to pound on Norm, taking down someone as dangerous as him when he’s nothing to lose is a job for the SWAT team Doenig’s going to call in.

  The one part of his plan I’m against, is that I’m to join my family at the motel.

  Any protestations I make are shouted down by three different voices. I do everything apart from get down on my knees and beg, but they are resolute. My place is with my family under armed guard.

  With the decision made, Doenig spits orders at everyone in the room including Alfonse.

  He wants to know everything about Norm. His address, the car he drives, its licence plate, hangouts, friends, credit card history and a dozen other details including the National Guard strength in Casperton, the number of police officers and the weapons the chief has.

  Alfonse gives him most of the answers he’s looking for regarding Norm and the chief supplies the rest.

  77

  Cuthbert is with me as I leave the police station. His instructions are seared into my mind. Move fast, but don’t run. Keep your eyes open, but don’t gawp like a tourist.

  The idea is simple. He’s taking me to the motel without causing a big fuss about it. A full phalanx of armed guards would be a serious giveaway if Norm is watching. It would show that all of a sudden we’ve got more nervous. If he’s as bright as we think he is, he’ll know why.

  The last thing Doenig wants is for him to go to ground or disappear. He’d much sooner leave him be until the SWAT team arrive and then pinpoint him by triangulating his cell.

  It makes sense. Other than knocking Steve out while killing Angus Oberton, the Watcher hasn’t harmed any innocents. I’m not sure if Cuthbert falls into that category as an FBI agent, but I’m glad he’ll be with me.