by Graham Smith
‘Dammit, Boulder. Do you always have to make such sense?’
He leads the way towards the entrance and crashes through the doors. His police issue boots squeak as I match his stride down the corridor.
He knocks on the pathologist’s door and enters without waiting for an invitation.
There’s a flash of irritation on the pathologist’s face at the chief’s rude behaviour. She is, however, wise enough to let it pass without comment.
Doctor Emily Green is pretty with auburn hair. She’s intelligent, professional and has been dating Alfonse for a few weeks.
‘How’s Alfonse today?’
I make a non-committal noise, then add a few proper words. ‘Busy. He’s trying to find their killer.’ I don’t bother saying it’s his way of managing his grief, she’s smart enough to work that out for herself.
She accepts what I say, understanding that this kind of talk isn’t what we’re here for. Or good at, if I’m honest with myself.
I don’t talk about my feelings with other guys and I don’t expect them to talk about theirs. I have feelings and if they bother me, I deal with the root of the problem. If they still bother me after that, I tend to find myself waking up God knows where with the mother of all hangovers.
‘Right then, Doctor. What can you tell us about Darryl and his syphilis?’
Emily turns her head so the chief can’t see her rolling her eyes at the way he’s given ownership of the disease to Darryl. ‘When I ran the bloods as normal, we found traces of penicillin, and the natural antibodies which the body produces to fight syphilis, in Darryl. Sherrelle’s tests showed the birth control pill. I’d also guess she was taking vitamin supplements as her levels are too good for her not to have taken them.’
‘What about the kids?’
I don’t like where Chief Watson may be going. I understand he has to go there, but I’m glad Alfonse isn’t here to hear it.
‘They were clean. No traces of anything.’
I throw a question at her. ‘Was there any alcohol in Darryl’s or Sherrelle’s blood?’
‘None.’ She lets the information sink in. It doesn’t take long. The single word is damning enough.
This is perhaps the most disturbing thing she’s uncovered. All four of them were clean and straight when they were taken. None had drugs or alcohol in their systems. Nothing to dull the pain of nails being driven through flesh. Of flesh being ignited.
The chief lets out a long exasperated sigh. ‘Is there anything else you found?’
‘Just that…’ Her eyes dart towards the exam room, then close for a brief second. ‘Just that their lungs showed signs of scorching which are synonymous with inhaling a burning accelerant.’
I close my eyes while the chief lets out a string of curses.
My mind creates a distraction by focussing on the fact Sherrelle still used birth control. It shows she was still sexually active yet she hadn’t caught her husband’s syphilis. Therefore, the birth control was a years-long habit maintained for those times she and her husband made love, or she too was playing around outside the marriage.
Not knowing what goes on behind closed doors, I let flights of fancy have their moment and imagine the Fourniers wife swapping and attending swingers’ parties.
Reality bites when I remember how devout they were. How they attended church every Sunday. Just because I don’t practise religion myself, doesn’t mean I don’t recognise the good it can do for those who worship on a regular basis. My own issues with the church are aimed at the extreme groups who try to indoctrinate all others, or bend them to their way of thinking. Too often religion has been used as an excuse for war; not just in today’s world, but right back through the annals of time.
I tune back into Emily and the chief’s conversation. She’s telling him she called Darryl’s doctor and learned that the syphilis is something Darryl had contracted just three weeks ago.
The doctor hadn’t been too forthcoming, but he’d said Darryl had suspected that he’d caught it on a recent trip to Las Vegas.
What happens in Vegas didn’t quite stay in Vegas this time around. It never does.
Las Vegas didn’t acquire the name Sin City for no reason. The identity of the person who passed the disease to Darryl is unimportant. Whether a bored housewife, cougar, hooker or male escort is responsible for the infection is irrelevant. A Vegas hook-up is the ultimate one-off experience. Names will have been optional or false; alcohol will have been consumed to the point of inebriation.
I’ve been there, done that. Somehow I’ve always dodged the bullet that’d have me visiting the clinic.
The chief scowls as I beat him to the obvious question. ‘I don’t suppose the doctor told you who Darryl went to Vegas with?’
‘No.’ Emily’s head shakes. ‘I’m sure his family will be able to tell you though.’
The chief’s scowl is transformed into a questioning look.
I don’t have to be a genius to know he wants me to ask the question of Alfonse and his family. It’s not something I’m keen on broaching with him, but someone has to and the chief’s heightened stress levels have made him gruffer than usual.
‘I’ll ask him. I was planning to see him anyway.’
‘Good man.’ His eyes turn back to Emily. ‘Is there anything else we should know?’
She hesitates, but decides against whatever she was about to say. Either it isn’t relevant or she’s not convinced enough to put voice to her thoughts.
The chief’s eyebrow raises and his eyes bore into hers. ‘What is it, Doctor?’ His tone has a sharp edge to it.
‘The way you keep rubbing your temples – I’m guessing you suffer from stress headaches?’
‘So? I’m trying to catch a killer. I wouldn’t be normal if I didn’t feel stressed.’ The chief’s voice is a growl but there’s an admission in his words.
‘Well you’re not helping yourself kneading away at your temples like that.’ Emily’s tone matches the chief’s for intensity. ‘Give me your hands and I’ll show you how to do it properly.’
Before the chief can protest, she rises from her chair and takes his hands in hers. I spend a surreal couple of minutes watching the pathologist give the chief of police a lesson in head massage. When he’s not looking, I grab a quick picture with my cell.
As we leave he’s still massaging away. A faint redness touching his cheeks. ‘Don’t you dare tell anyone about this, Boulder.’
‘You’re too late. I’ve already tweeted and Facebooked it.’
I let him curse and threaten me for a solid five minutes before telling him I haven’t.
His final word on the subject questions my parentage.
30
Noelle smiles at Oscar and slides onto the chair he’s pulled out for her. Taking the other seats around the table are members of her family. Oscar’s parents and sister are here too.
The rest of his family remain in Mexico, although she has travelled to Ciudad de Durango with him and met some of his many relatives.
Ciudad de Durango is the capital of the Durango municipality and Noelle had fallen in love with the city. The architecture reminding her of cities like Barcelona and Paris.
Oscar had given her a complete tour of the city, showing her the memorable landmarks and the unforgettable slums. So obvious was Cuidad de Durango ingrained into Oscar’s blood, Noelle had suggested they leave Casperton and move there. He’d smiled, kissed her fingers, and told her he would never again live in Mexico.
Noelle’s father raises his glass and starts another toast. His smile is wide and his words are nothing he hasn’t already said in either of his first two toasts. Nobody minds, least of all Noelle and Oscar. Tonight is a celebration. Of love. Of new life. Of new beginnings.
Menus are distributed by the servers. A wine list is handed to Noelle’s father. Tonight is his treat and he’s intent on celebrating with style.
Gallo Vermiglio is the finest restaurant in Casperton. It’s owned and run by a hu
sband and wife team. She cooks while he runs the front of house. The business has been on sale for three years and isn’t likely to be sold anytime soon. Every prospective buyer recognises the fact that Debora and Seppe are the business. The only people who could continue their success are those looking to build their own business, not pay the price of an established one.
Noelle runs her finger down the menu and tries to decide what to have. She fancies mussels but knows shellfish can be dangerous to pregnant women. Instead she opts for a steak: well done rather than her usual medium rare.
As the evening progresses, Noelle and Oscar bask in the celebrations. In the joy shared with those closest to them. Nothing is amiss. Everything is wonderful.
The one tiny issue is nothing more than a nagging doubt.
There’s a man dining alone. He sits a couple of tables away and has a battered paperback in front of him. His face has a familiar look to it. Noelle doesn’t know where she’s seen him before, she just knows she has. She guesses he’s just one of those people she sees once in a while, and when seen out of context is unrecognisable. Like a pharmacist without his white coat.
There’s nothing remarkable or distinguishing about the guy. He’s mid-forties with short greying hair. He’s eating with one hand and his eyes are lifting from his book to make regular scans of the restaurant. There’s nothing odd with that; she does the same herself when alone. She likes that he reads, tries to see the cover. Even in this moment of celebration, she wants to meet the stranger and talk books with him.
31
Alfonse looks weary. It’s not something that surprises me; he’s spent all day staring at a computer screen and no sane gambler would bet on him having slept well last night.
Henry looks worse. He’s not just tired, he’s angry.
Not ‘bad day at work’ angry; ‘someone’s killed my brother and I want to kill them’ angry. In someone with his energy and intellectual capacity it’s a dangerous anger to have.
Assuming he gets his revenge without being killed himself. Aunt Nina has lost one son to a killer. She doesn’t need to lose another to the prison system.
I can only hope Alfonse’s calming influence rubs off on him long enough to prevent him doing something moronic.
Alfonse leads me through to the kitchen. Defeat fills the areas of his face untouched by exhaustion. ‘I hope you’ve learned more than me. I’ve got the square root of diddly squat so far.’
I try not to grimace but he knows me well enough to spot a minor tell. It’s a shock when the heel of his fist thumps the worktop. Perhaps Henry is rubbing off on him.
‘I haven’t got much. And what I do have is mostly negative.’ I tell him of my conversation with Butch Augiers. He doesn’t make any comment, but then again he doesn’t need to. His face says enough.
‘Anything else?’
‘Yeah, but you’re not going to like it.’ I was going to try and break the news in a gentle fashion. His mood tells me that would be a mistake. He needs straight talking from me, not a pair of unfamiliar kid gloves. ‘When Emily ran the bloods she found Darryl had syphilis but Sherrelle didn’t.’
A curse escapes his lips. In all the years I’ve known him, it’s only the second time I’ve heard him use a four letter expression of such powerful emotion.
I keep my mouth closed. He needs to work this out for himself. Reach the same conclusions and questions I did a couple of hours ago.
Give him his due, he doesn’t pepper me with a dozen variations of the same question, nor does he doubt the results.
When he does speak, his words echo those of anyone who cares about their family’s public image. ‘Who knows?’
I know he’s not worrying about himself. His concern is for Aunt Nina, Henry and Sherrelle’s side of the family. About their shame and anger if Darryl’s infidelity becomes public knowledge.
‘As far as I know, it’s just us, Emily and Chief Watson. Perhaps a couple of others at the coroner’s office will know.’
‘It’s not going to stay that way for long is it?’
I don’t answer him. His question is at least three parts rhetorical. All investigating officers will find out and, regardless of how slim the chances of their killer being someone connected to Darryl’s indiscretion are, it’s still a line of enquiry they’ll have to follow.
Farrage and his cronies will ask their questions. Sooner or later one of them will say the wrong thing to someone they shouldn’t. Word will spread from person to person. The news will move with stealth and subtlety at first, but will gather momentum and embellishment with every re-telling. Rumour will become fact and in a few short hours Darryl will be accused of having long-term affairs with every woman he’s ever spoken to.
Alfonse sticks his head into the hallway. ‘Henry. You better come through.’
Henry repeats Alfonse’s curse and adds a few of his own when Alfonse finishes bringing him up to speed. His long legs propel him across the kitchen in three strides before he changes direction.
‘Are you sure? Who knows about this? Why are they trying to destroy my brother’s memory? They’ve got it wrong, haven’t they?’ His eyes bore into mine with such intensity I shift my feet so I’m better balanced if I need to defend myself. ‘Tell me they’ve got it wrong.’
Alfonse lays a hand on his shoulder. ‘They haven’t got it wrong. Nobody is trying to destroy Darryl’s memory. It’s just a crap fact that’s been found in the search for his killer.’
I have an idea which may help appease their distress. ‘Darryl told his doctor he thought he contracted syphilis on a trip to Vegas. If we can find out more about this trip, and who Darryl had slept with, then perhaps we can contain this information.’
‘How?’ Alfonse and Henry speak as one person. That is, one person with two different voices. Distress and fury separate their tones.
‘We get the information first and present it to Chief Watson. If it’s the dead end I think it is, he’ll focus the investigation elsewhere.’
Henry’s voice is laden with contempt. ‘How does that help?’
‘It keeps the information in the hands of as few people possible. Those who went to Vegas with Darryl will almost certainly know what he got up to there. I’ll find out what happened and then ask them to keep that information to themselves.’
I don’t mention that I intend to use threats of violence to keep Darryl’s secret. Alfonse wouldn’t approve and Henry may want to come along to emphasise my point.
‘So, what do we do?’
I look at Alfonse as I answer Henry’s question. ‘You tell me who Darryl went to Vegas with and then you get back to work. That’s where the key to the killers’ identities lies. This syphilis thing is nothing more than a side-line. If this were a movie, or a book, it’d be nothing more than a red herring. The sooner I can draw a line through it, the sooner we can all focus on the real leads.’
Alfonse looks at Henry with a raised eyebrow. ‘Who’d he go with?’
‘He went with one of his bosses and another lawyer.’ A shrug. ‘I didn’t listen too close when he was telling me about it. He was more interested in the conference than anything else.’
This is good news from my point of view. Lawyers understand the need for discretion better than most. Businessmen who rely on a good reputation are easy to threaten. Violence isn’t always the answer; though when it is I’m seldom found lacking a decent response.
Alfonse spends a minute telling me about his lack of progress, but after a few words he starts using technical terms which move the conversation several feet above my head. I glean enough to know he’s got a lot of data still to process, and he’s trying to narrow things down to people who live in the local area to minimise the number of potential suspects.
I’m about to leave when my cell beeps.
It’s a message from Taylor. If the number of exclamation points after the three words are anything to go by, there’s every chance I’m going to be single again before the night ends.
; The realisation that I’m bothered surprises me.
Before I deal with that, I need to find out why Taylor is asking where I am. And where she expects I should be.
I scroll past the message she’s just sent. What I find neither impresses me nor fills me with any confidence. The chain of messages shows me arranging a date for tonight. I’m supposed to have met her for dinner an hour ago.
Armed with this information I can at least reply to her.
On my way. Long story.
I have the five minutes it’ll take to travel across town to work out why I’d poured my heart out to her in a message.
Sure, the time and date against the message shows it was sent on Tuesday night. The lack of grammar, decent punctuation, and the terrible misspellings attest to how drunk I was at the time of typing.
None of this changes the fact that I’ve opened up to a girl I am dating. Told her my innermost feelings.
I could blame the drink, but I’ve been drunker without doing this before. They say a drunk man speaks the truth. If this is true, I’ve been lying to myself about my lack of feelings for Taylor.
She’s good company, intelligent, and has cheekbones higher than a seventies rock star. Her manner is easy-going and I can relax with her. She doesn’t try to change me or feed me quinoa at every opportunity. I enjoy her company, want to keep on enjoying it.
I stop thinking about my feelings for Taylor and concentrate on getting across town.
32
Taylor is sat in an alcove when I arrive at the restaurant. Even when she’s pissed she’s beautiful. Her blonde hair and blue eyes hint at a Scandinavian heritage, but there’s no trace of an accent when she speaks.
‘What kept you? I’ve been here an hour.’ Her tone is cool. Not quite glacial, more like the first frosts of winter.
I take a seat opposite her without trying to offer a kiss. She’s not in the mood for pleasantries. ‘Sorry I’m late. I’ve been helping Alfonse look into his cousin’s death.’
