The Kindred Killers

by Graham Smith

  As the chief and I start the hike back down the hill, he pulls a radio from his windbreaker and starts issuing a string of orders to various people.

  While he’s doing that, I busy my own mind with people to question and the answers I need to find. The reports from the coroner and the CSI team will be worth double, or treble, what Farrage and his cronies produce. Whereas Alfonse and I will learn far more from people and technology than he could hope to.

  6

  The chief and I make good time as we head back to the road. Both of us are too wrapped up in our private thoughts to speak much. There’s the odd comment or question, but all we’re doing is affirming ideas and seeking support from each other.

  Around half-way down we meet the CSI team working their way along the track.

  The chief beats me to the obvious question. ‘You guys find anything worth finding?’

  A man in a protective suit lifts his gaze from the trail and shakes his head. ‘Sorry, Chief. There’re too many pine needles on the ground for there to be any tyre marks. We’ve picked up a couple of cigarette butts and a food wrapper, but they look as if they’ve been lying there a good while.’

  I know what he means about the pine needles. The track has had too little traffic to create ruts and muddy patches where tyres would have left a discernible tread. It could be years since it last saw regular use.

  Having seen the organisation and preparation behind the executions – I can’t think of them as murders – I’m not expecting the CSI team to find anything left by the killers.

  As we reach the treeline we see a half dozen cars parked at the side of the road. I hear the chief utter a curse under his breath, and follow his gaze.

  A certain Ms Rosenberg is busy haranguing a sergeant. The Casperton Gazette’s lead reporter is a short New Yorker of Jewish extraction. Legend has it, it’s so long since anyone used her Christian name even she’s forgotten what it is. A fearsome nature combined with an evangelical desire to unearth the truth makes her one of the main reasons there’s so little corruption in Casperton’s political figures.

  Her flitting eyes spy us as soon as we emerge from the treeline. She turns away from the sergeant and marches over to us trailing a cloud of cigarette smoke and noxious perfume.

  ‘Chief Watson, can you confirm the rumour that a family of four has been crucified and then incinerated?’

  I see from his face he’s loath to tell her anything at this stage of the investigation. Yet it seems she knows too much for him to give a flat denial.

  With a long sigh he faces her. ‘At this moment in time, we do not have a confirmed identity for the victims of what has been a heinous crime. As soon as we have identified the bodies and informed the families, we will release a statement to the press.’

  Her eyes shine as she digests his words. As expected she reads between the lines on her first pass. ‘You’re not denying four people have died that way.’ It may be a statement she makes but there’s no doubt she means it as a question.

  ‘I’m neither denying nor confirming anything at this time, Ms Rosenberg.’ He gives her a tight smile borne out of politeness rather than pleasure. ‘If you’ll excuse me, I have a busy schedule.’

  ‘One last thing, Chief. Why is Jake Boulder here with you?’

  It’s a good question. Ms Rosenberg has championed my investigative ability in the past. Once again, she’s found me accompanying the chief at the scene of a serious crime.

  ‘He’s here at my request because he hikes up here all the time. His local knowledge has just saved me an hour’s hiking. As you so rightly pointed out in your column, he has the makings of a good detective.’

  I try not to show any surprise about my new-found love of hiking. Her eyes narrow as she assesses our faces. She’ll have been shovelled enough bull in her time to have good instincts for when people are telling the truth and when they’re lying. She must take the chief at his word, as she turns on her heel and heads towards her car.

  I look at the chief. ‘You may regret that last part.’

  ‘I doubt it. She’s right.’ He kneads his temples. ‘I’m guessing you’ve come to the same conclusion as me regarding a rough time of death.’

  I haven’t, but a moment’s thought gives me enough time to make an educated guess. ‘They were taken in the middle of Monday night, stroke Tuesday morning. I reckon they were taken straight there and executed.’ I wipe a hand over my face. ‘What I don’t understand is how the fire didn’t burn them, and the crosses, more thoroughly.’

  The chief gives me a strange look. It un-nerves me and I wonder what he knows that I don’t.

  ‘Do you remember anything about yesterday?’

  I feel my cheeks burn. I want to lie to protect myself, but there’s no point; he’ll see right through me. ‘No. I can’t remember any of it.’

  ‘Well if you could, you’d remember waking up to a huge rainstorm.’

  He doesn’t need to continue. While most people would assume gasoline drenched bodies and timber crosses would burn away to nothing in a matter of minutes, the truth is they’d take a lot longer without other fuel to create a heart to the fire. It might be an effective way of ending lives, but without the wood usually found in a funeral pyre the bodies would never have been disposed of.

  Left to burn, the fires would have smouldered for hours. The heavy rain would have cooled them; robbing their heat and extinguishing them far earlier than the executioners had planned.

  7

  I catch up with Alfonse at his place. He looks dejected and frightened in a way I haven’t seen since our high-school days. As his friend I need to salve his wounds and rid him of the despondency he’s feeling.

  We’ve always given each other straight talk when required, yet I know he doesn’t need me to tell him to stop moping, and start thinking of ways to catch his cousin’s killers. He needs reassurance they will be caught, confirmation I’ll help no matter what it takes, and guidance in the best way to find these excuses for human beings so they can be brought to justice.

  What he needs most of all, is to know that the remaining members of his family are safe. That has to be the first priority in our investigation. Once we can determine whether the Fourniers were selected at random, or specifically targeted, we will be able to assess the risk to his mother, Aunt Nina and both his brothers and their families.

  ‘What did you learn from your family?’ I lead as he is still too shocked to think properly.

  His head shakes. So do his hands which isn’t normal for him. ‘Nothing. There’s nothing to tell. No affairs, no known money trouble. They were excited about planning Robyn’s birthday party.’

  His voice is on the point of breaking and taking his composure with it. I pour him a mug of coffee and help myself to one. While he has my pity for what he has gone, and is going through, I need him operating at a higher level if we’re to have any success with our investigation. My mind can’t comprehend the trauma of having loved ones go missing, only for them to be reported as the victims of what appears to be a hate crime.

  ‘Have you had a proper look at their finances yet, or a look through their online presences?’ I don’t mean a scan of their bank accounts and a glance at their social media profiles. I mean an in depth forensic look at expenditure, cross-referenced against social media posts and family events. To be specific, I’m looking for the stuff other members of the family may not know about. Things like debts, illicit trysts and a hundred and one other clues which may give our investigation a focus.

  ‘Not yet.’ His voice is flat. Devoid of his usual excitement for life.

  I pass him a sheet of paper. ‘Write down where they worked. I’ll go and see the people there. Ask a few questions.’

  I would question their neighbours but the police will be doing that. Instead, I plan to look at their professional lives in case their killers are someone they’ve crossed.

  He takes the paper and scrawls down the information I’ve asked for. I consider asking if
he knows of anyone I should speak to at their workplaces but change my mind. It’s better I go in cold and work through the hierarchy myself to find out who to speak to.

  I fold the paper as I stand. He doesn’t lift his head to follow my movement.

  It’s time for some tough love and hard logic. Not something I want to do, but he needs to lose the melancholy and find some fire in his belly. ‘I’m going to go speak to whoever I can find at these places. I need you to get off your backside and start working. It’s only a matter of hours before Lieutenant Farrage and his buddies take all the computers, tablets and phones from your cousin’s house, along with all their financial records.’

  ‘They’ll never think of that. Wouldn’t know what to do with them if they did.’ There’s self-pity in his voice as he mocks the detective squad.

  ‘You’re right. But Chief Watson will, so you better do it first while you still have access. I know how much it sucks. How work is the last thing you want to be doing right now, but,’ I rest a gentle hand on his shoulder as I let the word hang, ‘you can do your grieving when this is all over. Right now, we’re the best and only chance there is of justice being delivered.’

  ‘I don’t want justice. The assholes who did this don’t deserve justice. They deserve to die screaming in agony. Just like Darryl and his family did. If they were here right now, I’d kill them with my bare hands if I could.’

  I’ve mistaken him. I thought he was beside himself with grief. In reality he’s overcome with rage and thoughts of vengeance.

  He should be careful what he wishes for. Normal people like him and I aren’t equipped to take lives. There is a toll. A cost which I was neither expecting nor forewarned of.

  A murderous revenge may seem like a good idea to Alfonse at this particular moment in time. I know from experience that as soon as the deed is done, he’ll regret it. That’s what I now have to live with. I’m the tougher of the two of us, both mentally and physically.

  The man I killed deserved to die. He’d killed others and was trying to kill me. None of these facts matter when you wake up tangled in sheets and soaked in perspiration. Nor do they count when you look in the mirror and see the face of a killer. They matter least of all when you are considering your own worth to society and realise you’ve committed a worse crime than many of those incarcerated in prisons across the land.

  You can try to justify it any way you like. It all boils down to one thing. You killed someone. Took a life. The worth of the life is irrelevant.

  I’ve got to live with the knowledge of what I’ve done. He shouldn’t have to do the same.

  He’s not equipped to handle the guilt. The constant self-recrimination.

  Every day since I took another man’s life, I’ve examined my actions with a forensic scrutiny in a vain attempt to justify every choice I did and didn’t make.

  The results of this examination oscillate between crippling guilt and a powerful certainty I did the right thing.

  Even so. I killed in a life or death situation. Alfonse is talking about something different. He’s talking about pre-meditated murder.

  I know him too well to believe he means what he says. It’s just surreal to hear him saying it.

  8

  Gazala puts the three shirts returned by the obese man back on the correct rails. She returns to her post by the cash register straightening various displays as she passes.

  Her preference would have been to work in a fashion house, or at least in a store which sold women’s fashions, but in a town like Casperton you have to take what jobs there are.

  C-Dude is all about men’s clothing for those who want to look good. It sells shoes, hats and everything worn in-between. The quality of the clothing is reflected in the pricing. C-Dude isn’t a discount store and everything on sale has a definite brand.

  The one upside of the job is the number of good-looking and financially-sound men who walk through the door. Sometimes, if she’s lucky, she’ll get to help out with a spot of personal shopping. This allows her to play dress-up, with the man in question assuming the role of her personal model.

  Her sales technique is a mixture of honesty and knowledge garnered from a fashion course at Salt Lake University. With a flirtatious nature and pretty face she makes sure none of her customers leave empty-handed. Her skills at upselling ensure her monthly commissions are the best in store by a considerable margin. By never being greedy or pushy with her colleagues she retains good relationships with all but one of them.

  The exception is the matriarch of the group. Neither liking nor liked by any of her colleagues: Marjorie does things her own way. Often discussed rumours of an affair with the owner are the only explanation for her continued employment.

  Gazala knows when the day comes that she opens her own store there will never be a place for anyone with as poor people-skills as the ageing woman.

  The dream is still a couple of years from being realised, but the groundwork is being laid every day. Still living with her parents, she’s managing to save almost every penny she makes. Her father has agreed to put money into the business providing she can raise fifty thousand dollars of her own. Bank loans are not an option. She has to raise the money herself with no ties.

  Gazala’s days off are spent researching female fashion trends and travelling to Salt Lake City to observe the higher-class stores she plans to emulate. Her own group of friends have long bemoaned the lack of a decent women’s clothing store in Casperton and it’s a gap in the market she intends to fill. Nights are spent mining her father’s vast experience in starting businesses and making them a long-term success.

  A man walks in and starts to look around. It’s Jenny’s turn so she approaches him asking if he needs help with anything. A smile is flashed and the two of them head towards the section of the store where the shoes are kept.

  ‘You there.’

  Lost in her thoughts Gazala jumps and lets out a squeak. The speaker’s voice is gruff and domineering. She suspects that whomever it belongs to will be a demanding customer who’ll take up a lot of her time and buy little.

  ‘Yes, sir. How may I help you?’ Her smile is bright as she tries to turn this customer into a decent prospect.

  She feels the man’s eyes bore into her face as he points towards her. ‘I want a new suit and I want a good one.’

  ‘Very well, sir. We have a range of suits for all occasions. Can you tell me what you need the suit for?’

  It’s a standard sales technique. Find out the occasion and the intended venue so you can best advise the customer. Once they’re taking your advice it’s easier to upsell to them. A nice shirt and tie combo to complement the suit, or a pair of shoes which are a better match for the colour.

  ‘None of your business, girl. Just show me the suit.’

  Gazala doesn’t answer him. Doesn’t see the point in explaining herself to someone who won’t listen. The best way to deal with rude, obnoxious cretins like this guy, is to serve them what they want and get them out of the store as quick as possible.

  As she shows him the suits, Gazala can feel his eyes examining her body. The blouse she’s wearing is open enough to flash a tiny bit of cleavage. Her pencil skirt is above the knee, but only just. The way it accentuates her thighs and butt often helps with the light flirting she uses to make sales. She knows her light brown skin looks good against the white blouse and grey skirt. Depending upon the time of year, Jenny spends hours sunbathing, or a fortune on tanning lotions, so she can darken her skin to a similar hue.

  Today, with this customer, she feels like she’s exposing herself to a predator. He looks at her as if she’s a piece of meat. When he’s not looking at the suits he’s towering over her; his eyes travelling past her face into her blouse. There’s no lust in his face. Just a cold expression of bored indifference. He’s ogling her, but doesn’t seem to be interested in dating her.

  It’s not the first time she’s been ogled and she knows it won’t be the last. Yet the lack of manners,
and the dominant manner of this man, turn an everyday occurrence into something more sinister. Gazala can feel her skin prickle as the man makes no attempt to disguise where his eyes are landing. Backed up with friendly conversation, and a little flirting, his wandering eyes wouldn’t bother her. But his eyes are cold and give nothing away at all.

  To fasten another button would be obvious, so she keeps moving around to minimise the number of times his gaze finds its target. Every time she turns her back on him she can feel a visual handprint on her butt and legs.

  ‘Do you know your sizes, sir?’ God forbid she has to measure him.

  From across the room a peal of laughter comes from Jenny as she jokes with her customer. To Gazala it sounds almost mocking. Matters are made worse by the rude man looking at Jenny and smiling.

  ‘Of course I do, girl.’

  Gazala listens as he give her his measurements. Her teeth biting the inside of her lip to prevent her giving voice to her dislike for the man and his derogatory use of ‘girl’ to address her.

  She picks out a couple of suits and shows them to him. He snatches one and stalks off towards a cubicle.

  Gazala takes the opportunity to fasten all the open buttons on her blouse. It’s a small show of defiance but there comes a point when the customer is no longer right.

  When the man exits, he’s wearing the suit and it’s a good fit on him. He admires himself in the full-length mirror before returning to the cubicle.

  A minute later he throws the suit at her. ‘Bag it.’

  As she’s removing the anti-theft devices the man switches his gaze from her to Jenny. He’s all smiles for her. There’s a flirtatious nature to him now. That is until Gazala gives him his receipt. The simple act of looking at her wipes the smile from his face and the warmth from his eyes.

  It’s at this moment she realises the man’s issue. He doesn’t like her because of the colour of her skin. To him she’ll just be another ‘damn A-rab’. In his secular world, all brown-skinned people will be either terrorists or illegal Mexican immigrants. If he wasn’t such a douche about it she’d pity him.