by Graham Smith
Everything slots into place. They took her cell when they abducted her. To prevent the cell giving away their location or movement they removed its battery. When they knew it would have no signal, they switched it on long enough to make the necessary videos then pulled the battery again. They re-inserted it to send the emails and post the videos at the drop off point.
‘There are clues in there. There is an almost two hour gap between the last video being made and the phone being switched on at the drop off point. They’re not going to have done what they did anywhere public, so I’d say they’d be lucky to do more than fifty miles an hour on the back roads. That gives us a hundred mile radius.’
Alfonse beats me to the math. ‘Which means we’re looking at a search grid of thirty-one and a half thousand miles. We’ve practically found their doorstep.’
I ignore his sarcasm. ‘I reckon I can get it down to about a fifth of that, a quarter tops.’
‘How do you plan to do that?’
I point at his laptop. ‘Bring up Google Maps and centre it on the area Noelle was dumped.’
When he does, I use a straw as a pointer and indicate the area a half-hour north east of Casperton where Noelle was released. ‘Think of a circle two hours from this point. To the west and south there’s Indian reservations which means a lack of privacy. To the east is the dinosaur monument which always has tourists around. Going north there’s Rock Springs and that’s without discounting the forested areas. If you remember the video with Noelle, she was standing with her back against a wooden shack.’
‘So, how does that help us?’
‘The skyline behind the shack showed a bare ridge. That tells me she was in the wilderness somewhere rather than a forested area.’ I point at the map again. ‘My guess is that shack is only about fifty miles from where she was found. It’ll be in the north east quadrant, away from busier roads, respectable farmers, and places where hikers or rangers frequent.’
‘Makes sense.’
‘They’ve also shown they understand technology and how best to wage a terror campaign.’
Alfonse makes a connection. ‘It must have been planned in advance. They pulled the battery from her cell before they even left the house. That speaks of preparation.’
‘So does the tortoise. They’re not something you find lying about. Especially ones that size.’
‘True.’ I’m about to suggest we leave the resources of the FBI to try and trace the animal’s origin, when someone approaches our table.
I look up into the face of a familiar stranger. It’s like looking into a mirror and seeing a younger version of myself.
The stranger is hesitant. He too must be unnerved by our similarity.
I’m glad of the moment – it gives me a chance to unscramble my brain. Or at least try to.
Alfonse pushes the lid of his laptop down and shifts round in his seat. ‘I’ll give you guys a minute.’
I reach for his arm. ‘It’s fine. Stay where you are.’ The stranger still hasn’t spoken. A closer examination reveals he’s got a pallor about him. Not just the usual Scottish whiteness, but the grey skin symptomatic of illness.
The stranger points at his face and then me. ‘There’s no point in asking if you’re Jake Boulder. It’s pretty obvious you are.’
His accent is Scottish. Not the Glasgow one that comes from my mouth; his is a softer rolling burr, the kind I’d associate with the better areas of Edinburgh or perhaps the Borders.
‘I am. And you are?’
‘John…John MacDonald…I’m your brother.’
54
Alfonse puts a coffee in front of me and opens his laptop. He’s aware that John’s appearance isn’t something I’m ready to discuss yet, and has re-directed us back to mine so we can discuss our next moves.
‘Did you get anything on the paint sample or the cigar butt?’
I expect the FBI to run these angles as well, but the more information we have the better. There’s also a chance the FBI are focussing on the other end of the investigation as well as trying to protect the public.
Like me, Alfonse doesn’t believe the Fourniers were chosen at random. This belief is what we’re basing our investigation on.
He consults his laptop. ‘There are eighty-six Ford E250s, with white paint, registered within fifty miles of here. A hundred and fifty-two within seventy-five.’
The numbers are higher than I expected but not by much. Those vans are popular and, since hearing of their involvement, I seem to have seen them everywhere.
‘And the cigar?’
‘I’ve checked the ten biggest internet sellers. In the last six months only two boxes have been sold to people in this area.’ I feel a buzz of excitement. The lower the number, the better the chance of a decent lead. ‘They were bought by Mayor Farrage and Darryl’s boss, George Ligotti.’
He lets the sentence hang. Those two names are big ones. While nobody should be above suspicion, those names are tough to point a finger at. Mayor Farrage might be pretty useless, but he’s backed every programme going for the betterment of the poorer areas of society. Areas which are predominantly filled with a hodgepodge of racial mixes.
A big cigar is part of his image. Like Groucho Marx and Winston Churchill, Mayor Farrage is rarely seen without a huge stogie.
Ligotti, on the other hand, has obvious Italian descent. He employs people of various races and, while a businessman at heart, he showed genuine compassion when learning of Darryl’s brutal death.
Both men have too much to lose by resorting to murder. While it’s an accepted fact that psychopaths often succeed in business and political ventures, they tend to achieve more than either Farrage or Ligotti have. Whichever way I analyse my thoughts, or examine their possible motives, I just can’t see them being involved.
‘What about local stores, does the place in the mall sell them?’ Another thought strikes me. ‘How many places on the internet sell them?’
The keys of his laptop chatter as he searches for the answers. He looks up after less than a minute. ‘The place in the mall doesn’t list them on their website. As for the internet, I’m getting dozens of possible retailers.’
‘You’ll need to trace as many of them as you can. See if you can widen the search. I’ll speak to Ligotti and the Mayor tomorrow.’
We chase around one or two theories without creating anything tangible. After a while, we’re both out of ideas so we fall silent rather than repeat ourselves.
There’s an elephant in the room and its name is John. Neither of us approaches the subject, but we both know it can’t be ignored forever.
‘What did Butch want?’
I’ve been hoping Alfonse wasn’t going to ask this question. I still haven’t decided how much to tell him.
‘He’s got a suspicion about who might be involved.’
‘Who is it? Why haven’t you mentioned it until now?’
I bring him up to speed and watch the fire in his eyes dim.
‘You’re not going to go through with it, are you?’
‘Of course I am.’
He scowls at me, his face twisting into unfamiliar viciousness. ‘Then you’re a fool. You’re not going to be fighting six-beer heroes who know your reputation and quit at the first sign of retaliation. You’ll be fighting real fighters who’ll know how to punch without getting hit themselves. Stop trying to be the hero and start using your head. It’s brain we need right now not brawn.’ He throws his hands up. ‘All that’s going to happen is you’re going to waste an evening getting your ass kicked in some bullshit machismo display. You’re a good fighter, Jake, but you’re not that good.’
‘I’ve always been good enough to protect you.’ I’m on my feet now, full of anger and bitterness at his words. ‘Or have you forgotten that?’
He leaves without saying another word.
It’s for the best. Both of us are too angry for each other’s company right now.
I shouldn’t have said what I did, but his lack
of faith in my fighting skills hit me harder than any punch ever has.
Now I’m alone, I let my thoughts focus on John.
His resemblance to me is strong enough for any instinctive denials to be quelled before they gain any traction.
It stands to reason my father had found love again after walking out on us. It’s just not something I’ve given any consideration. Any thoughts I’ve had of him, or discussions with Sharon about him, have all been focussed on why he left. As we got older and learned more about the world, we hypothesised he’d left mother for another woman. We just didn’t envision it working out for him.
Him settling with another woman long enough to have children, isn’t something we’ve ever discussed. I expect our subconscious minds were protecting us, shielding us, from the despair of supplication. The alternative is that neither of us wished him any happiness, and therefore didn’t ever raise the possibility of him finding some.
My father had stayed true to form. He’d walked out on John’s mother three weeks after John’s fifth birthday.
Like the strangers we are, we talked round the edges of things and passed on general information. He’s married with two daughters, and his younger sister Sarah is a single mother with one son.
All of a sudden I have two half-siblings, a brace of nieces and a nephew.
What Mother will make of all this is beyond me, I’m an uncle, but she still isn’t a grandmother. I suspect that, when she gets over the initial shock, she’ll try to use John’s proven fertility as a way to goad me into giving her the grandchildren she so craves.
I’m not yet ready for her to find out about John. I need to get the case out of the way first.
My thoughts wander their own sweet way.
It’s a beep from my cell that brings me back to reality. Taylor has messaged asking why I’ve just rang her and not spoken.
I call her back, and this time I do speak. My subconscious has betrayed me by selecting the one person I want to discuss this with, and making contact.
As I open up to Taylor, I start to accept I’m developing real feelings for her. A situation I find more concerning than tomorrow night’s fight.
55
I force my eyes open and look for my cell. Once again I’ve fallen asleep in my recliner rather than going to bed. I find the cell between my legs where it has slipped from my hand.
Chief Watson’s gruff tones complete the job of waking me.
I listen to what he has to say and give him the answers I can. He’s reluctant to return the favour when I put some questions to him, but I get most of what I ask for.
His calling me at six in the morning is a sign he still values my input, but is either unable or unwilling to contact me when Gaertner is around.
The most significant things about the call are him informing me that Will Pederson can’t be traced, and that all the news outlets who’ve been sent videos, have discredited the footage and therefore will not be running the story.
At first I sense Gaertner’s hand in the latter, but on reflection I realise any pressure or mention of the videos from a high-ranking FBI man would give the papers and news channels all the confirmation they need.
It’s only a matter of time before the videos are reposted by those who downloaded them. Once that happens, and the media pick it up, they’ll run the stories with added intensity.
I know Will Pederson. He spends a couple of hours drinking at the Tree every Saturday evening, before heading across to the Manhattan Bar on the other side of town. He’s a decent guy and, as an ex-cop, has plenty of stories to tell. In his own way he’s fought discrimination since coming out at his retirement party five years ago.
The chief had tried to raise him when rounding up all local law-enforcers – past and present. He’d been unable to contact Pederson and, while a player like him could be anywhere, it’s unusual for an ex-cop to drop off the grid.
Pederson might well be a white Christian, but his sexuality could see him become a target. Without any of his own men to spare, the chief has asked me to check on Pederson’s whereabouts.
Alfonse won’t be happy to hear from me – especially at this time of the morning – but I select his number and make the call.
His cell rings out and goes to voicemail. I’m not sure whether he’s blanking me or sleeping. Regardless, I leave a message suggesting that he traces everyone who’s downloaded the videos. If the killers are as clever as they appear to be, there’s a chance they’ve downloaded the videos to another computer so they can be re-shared in the event the cops or the FBI took them down.
Whoever is in charge of the killers possesses more than a little intelligence. The using of Noelle and her cell as conduits to social media proves as much.
Without any physical evidence, other than the bodies, there are few leads to follow. If there had been a note, the paper could have been analysed; the handwriting or printing used as factors to help secure a conviction, or possibly even give a firm lead.
I haul myself up and begin the process of making my first coffee of the day. While it’s brewing I slump myself in front of my computer and start browsing Facebook. I’m not a big user of the site and for me it’s nothing more than a way to connect with other keen readers and a few authors I admire.
I’m looking for something in particular and it doesn’t take me long to find it. I check Twitter and discover #BreakingBadMurder and #HeadOnATortoise are trending.
As ever with social media, there are some who endorse the actions of the killers. Others with a more sensible and decent nature, rage against the killers calling them worse than scum.
Arguments are breaking out between the two factions, and every thread I look at sees a rise in the aggression levels of those championing the racists’ actions.
This is what everyone involved in the investigation has been dreading. The video has now become a recruitment poster for the Christian Knights of America. Once it got noticed on social media, it was always going to go viral.
While the social media sites will do everything they can to take it down, it will already have been seen and downloaded by many thousands of people. It’ll feature on blogs and websites where opinions are given and rants made.
I curse myself for delaying until I was with Alfonse before viewing it. That extra half hour could have been the difference between the video being suppressed and it becoming the hottest topic in the world.
Gaertner won’t be impressed when he learns how this has all blown up. He for one will be quick to point a finger in my direction. I wasn’t to know its incendiary content, but that doesn’t change the fact I made a conscious decision not to look at it at once.
Next I check the websites for the major newspapers. Every one of them is now running with the story. None have yet gone as far as writing an opinion piece, but that’ll come along once the world wakes up.
So will responses from the so-called great and good. It’s only a matter of time before statements are issued by the FBI director, the senator for Utah and various members of the political elite. With the president being black, there’s every chance he’ll want to have his say too. And that’s before all the celebrities see voicing an opinion as an opportunity to get themselves in the limelight.
The only people to benefit from this sorry mess will be Casperton’s hoteliers, as reporters are dispatched to the epicentre of the story.
I’m about to try Alfonse again when there’s a knock at the door.
It’s Taylor, and she’s carrying takeout coffee and a baggie filled with donuts. ‘Here. Since you’re doing police work, I thought you’d like some police food to go with your coffee.’
‘Thanks.’ I take the baggie and put it on the counter without telling her I don’t much care for donuts. She’s trying to be kind and I don’t want to hurt her feelings. I’ll give them to Alfonse later, that is, if he’s still speaking to me.
‘I just wanted to drop by and see you’re okay. You sounded really stressed last night.’
&
nbsp; ‘Yeah, I’m fine. Just needed to talk it through with someone. Sorry to have bothered you.’
‘Don’t be silly. It’s what you do when you love someone. Relationships aren’t all hearts and flowers you know.’
That cherished little word has crept into the conversation between me and women before. Whenever I hear a woman say love, I feel myself clam up, my mouth goes dry and I start looking for a way to let the woman down gently. For some reason I’m not feeling that way today.
I pull Taylor into an embrace and kiss the top of her head. With so much going on in my mind right now, her arms offer a temporary respite to the horrors of the investigation.
In the last twelve hours, I’ve fallen out with my best friend, agreed to become a bare-knuckle boxer, and potentially worsened racial tensions across the whole of the United States through my pig-headed selfishness in wanting a first look at the videos on Noelle’s phone. On top of all that, I’ve met a half-brother I didn’t know I had.
Whatever the next twelve hours has in store for me, things can only get better.
56
Will Pederson comes to with the slowness of someone awakening from an alcohol induced stupor. His mouth dry and tongue furry. There’s a pounding in his head that’s all too familiar and he’s not sure how long he can go without hurling. His body is stiff and uncomfortable and when he tries to raise a hand to his face his arm won’t move.
‘Oh look, the faggot is awake.’ The voice is unfamiliar. It’s not the man who called himself Brian.
He remembers Brian pouring the whisky; an eighteen-year-old Glengoyne from the highlands of Scotland. Smooth and rich, Brian’s generous measures had gone down a treat. Conversation had flowed around the usual topics of sport and, by following Brian’s lead, he’d realised nothing was going to happen.
The last thing he recalls, from the night before, is sitting in a chair with a glass in one hand and his eyelids growing heavier by the second.
