The Front Range Butcher

by R Weir

  I found the office on the first floor, as he apparently was the main tenant of the building. I walked in to find a lovely Hispanic lady answering the phones. There were only two waiting room chairs and a TV playing his commercials through the years in a continuous loop. At least the sound was on low, though close-captioned so those waiting didn’t miss out on the excitement created in his thirty to sixty-second spots.

  As the receptionist finished her phone call, I used my engaging smile that normally caused women to pass out from panting too much. Somehow, she overcame my superpowers.

  “What can I help you with?” she said, barely looking me in the eye.

  “I need to talk with Evan Green.”

  “Do you have an appointment?” It was the standard line and required skill for a receptionist.

  “I do not. But I’m sure he’ll want to talk with me.”

  “He is really busy.” Rather than use a computer, she pulled out a paper appointment book to check for openings. It was nice to know the old ways weren’t dead yet. “He could talk with you next week. How about Tuesday morning?”

  “Today would be better if he is in.” I insisted with more authority.

  “He is, but he is busy doing client work. Next week is the best I can do.”

  She was dressed in a short red skirt, with pink blouse showing cleavage that would make any red-blooded man stare. She had too much make-up and lipstick for my taste, her full bodied black hair making her head look huge. She smelled of nice perfume and cigarette smoke. The way her hand was twitching I figured she was due for her break. I could wait her out.

  “Tuesday morning will work fine.”

  “What is your name?”

  “Todd Helton.”

  She looked up at me, as if recognizing the name. I smiled, as if to say that is who I was. Though I doubt she knew the former Rockies baseball player. I saw her write it down, noting that she spelled his first name with only one d.

  “We look forward to seeing you then,” she said, handing Evan Green’s business card. “Call if you can’t make it.”

  Smiling I stepped out of the office and waited in a chair in the building lobby. It was barely five minutes before I saw her hustle outside, purse in hand, digging for her cancer sticks and lighter. She never saw me, and I headed to the office, finding the door unlocked. I entered, finding Evan sitting at his desk reviewing some paperwork. He was probably pushing sixty, with thinning brown hair, bushy sideburns and wrinkles under his brown, leery eyes. He was dressed causal, with mustard polo and black pleated slacks. When he saw me, he had a sour expression on his face. I placed my business card in front of him and sat in his less than comfortable vinyl chair. He looked over the card and tossed it back at me.

  “Not interested,” he said. “I have my own private detectives on payroll.”

  I laughed. “Not that it wouldn’t thrill me to work for a TV star like yourself, but that is not why I’m here.”

  “You shouldn’t be here at all. Gloria should have shooed you away.”

  “I snuck in while she was filling her lungs with nicotine. Otherwise she is a nice buffer to protect you.”

  He grimaced. “I knew I shouldn’t have hired her. Needs to step out every hour to quench her habit. Pee breaks on top of that. She can barely type but is nice to look at. What are you here for?”

  “Belinda Woodley,” I said.

  There was a slight reaction though not strong. “Not sure I know the name,” he said carefully.

  I didn’t believe him. “Client of yours from way back. Over twenty years.”

  “You’ll have to give me more than that. I’ve had hundreds of clients since I’ve been in practice.”

  “The Front Range Butcher.”

  This time the recognition was stronger. “Now I remember. She escaped from that cold-blooded killer. Cops were all over her and I helped her deal with their questioning. It was almost as if she was the killer and not the victim. They seemed to think she was lying.”

  “Was she?”

  “No comment. Even if she was, I was there to protect her.”

  “What can you tell me about her?”

  He leaned back in his chair. “Why should I say anything to you? She is a client and her information is privileged.”

  “I asked nicely?” I smiled, though it rarely caused men to pass out.

  “Nicely only gets you a polite ‘take a hike.’ Otherwise it would be a ‘go to hell.’” He had a good sneer which likely worked wonders on a jury.

  I nodded, deciding over what I should do. I could rough him up, but that would only lead to legal action, and bruises ruining his TV persona. I had talked with my lawyer, Barry Anders, who knew of Evan, telling me his morals and ethics weren’t as pure as the driven snow. For the right amount, he could be bought. The question was, how much money would it take?

  “Is there a statute of limitations on client confidentiality? Is she still your client, or was she for only that one time? What would it take for me to see her files?” It was a lot of questions, but he should have been sharp enough to handle them.

  His interest was piqued. “What information are you wanting?”

  “I understand she moved away shortly after her experience with The Front Range Butcher and grilling by the cops. I’d like to talk with her and want to know where she lives. Thought you might have that in your files.”

  He thought it over for a minute. “Let me check something.” He picked up the phone. “Gloria, can you bring me the Belinda Woodley file please.” Apparently, she had returned from her break.

  We sat silently, until she walked in, handing him the file. She looked my way.

  “Mister Helton,” she said with surprise. “What are you doing here?”

  “An appointment opened up while you were out. Evan and I have been having a nice chat.”

  Green looked at me, and then her as confusion filled her face, before finally shooing her away.

  “Helton?” he asked.

  I shrugged. “She was under the impression I was Todd Helton. I get mistaken for him all the time.”

  He looked confused now, but shook it off, opening the file and glancing over some things. I was the master of confusion when I wanted to be.

  “I wanted to verify something, before discussing further,” Evan said. “Belinda never paid her final bill. Owes me three hundred and fifty dollars. We sent her several notices, but finally we gave up. Could have taken her to small claims court but decided to write it off. Figured she’d been through enough. You pay her bill and you can have the file.”

  I thought it over for a minute, deciding to haggle the price, even if it was worth the cost to get the info. “One seventy-five. But only if you have an address.”

  “There is an address, but it was over twenty years ago. No guarantees she is still there.”

  “I can work from there. Do we have a deal? You already wrote it off, so this is pure profit for you.”

  He thought it over and nodded his head. I handed him a credit card.

  “I need a receipt,” I said.

  Evan called in Gloria again to run the transaction. She looked at the card and seemed flabbergasted.

  “But Mister Helton, this card says Jarvis Mann on it.”

  I gave the full wattage smile now. I was expecting her to unzip her skirt and unbutton her top, but she resisted.

  “Jarvis Mann is my alias,” I said. “Otherwise I get inundated with autograph requests. I’m sure you understand working with a big TV star like your boss? The public never leaves you alone otherwise.”

  Her confusion was complete, looking her boss’s way, as he assured her, with a blank face, that it was safe to run the card. After five minutes, she was back, and I signed the receipt.

  “Don’t go selling that autograph on the internet,” I said, cradling her hand when giving her their copy of the receipt. “I’ll know it was you and I’ll come back and discipline you.”

  I think she blushed and hustled out of the room with
a nice wiggle. I had made her day, now she could tell her friends Todd Helton made a pass at her.

  With no handshake to seal the deal, Evan handed over the file, which I verified had the information I was looking for. It would seem a two-hour trip south to Pueblo Colorado was in my future, if I could confirm she was still living there.

  Damn, it was too late to visit the Colorado State Fair and be a judge at the Craft Beer Competition. Some days, life isn’t fair.

  Chapter 25

  Pueblo was a decent size town, though nowhere near the size of Denver. With its strong labor force from the steel mill history since the late 1800’s, the city had flourished, slumped and then flourished again like many industrial towns. Once called the Pittsburg of the west, the town today had a more modern feel to it, while still holding onto its older heritage in buildings, commerce and its citizens.

  The drive from Denver to Pueblo when traffic was light on the I25, is around an hour and forty-five minutes. But traffic is never light, especially between Denver and Colorado Springs, so it was more like two plus hours. Once south of Colorado Springs it was smooth sailing until I hit the outskirts of Pueblo. Still the town of one hundred thousand didn’t have nearly the bottlenecks I was used to, so I glided through.

  I had found that Belinda still lived down there, though no longer at the same address, after doing some research. She worked for King Soopers, a grocery chain, and I was able to determine this with a couple of calls. She didn’t know I was coming, and I wanted to observe her before trying to talk. I’d brought a change of clothes thinking I’d stay at least one night.

  I found a Springhill Suites on the interstate, and checked in early, as my room was ready. I dropped my bag on the bed and then headed to the King Soopers on West Northern Avenue to see if I could spot her.

  When I arrived there was a Walgreens, O’Reilly’s and a couple of other smaller businesses on the same lot. I found a parking spot as close as I could and headed inside. I grabbed a basket, so I looked like a shopper, which I was really, since I planned to pick up a couple of items to eat in the car and take back to the hotel.

  As I browsed, I watched for faces in store uniforms, since I had a general idea of what she looked like. Then I checked the front desk customer service counter, stockers of the produce area and servers at the deli. It was there that I spotted her, packaging up pasta that didn’t look all that appetizing, from under the lighted display glass. Fresher, more appealing fruits and produce was nearby, so I picked out a couple of apples and a banana, then headed to the deli. Another lady helped me to some fried chicken.

  While I waited, I got a good look at Belinda. She was older now, probably in her middle to late forties, with short hazel and gray hair in a hairnet, with thick glasses on her plain face. She was short, with a little too much weight, wearing a black apron over royal blue shirt and jeans. Talking softly and slowly, she didn’t smile a lot while helping the customer, though wasn’t mean or rude. She just didn’t appear happy.

  Once I got my chicken, I stepped away, and as stealthy as possible from the best angle I could get, took a picture of her. After trekking to the self-serve line, I paid for my food and sat in my Mustang.

  One of the challenges of being a detective when on a stakeout is keeping your car clean. You live in it, eat in it and could trash it without realizing. I’d often found when stepping out, that food was all over the front of me, as a result of time spent eating while surveying who you were following. I did my best to keep most of the fried chicken crumbs in the container, but inevitably there were strays. I had music playing, though not too loud to attract attention, shifting from time to time in my seat to keep my cramping muscles loose.

  I took a couple of bathroom breaks in the store, using the opportunities to check she was still there. There was a donut shop nearby and I weighed taking a chance on getting some double-chocolate cake donuts, debating the benefits they would provide to my health against the possibility of missing her coming out of the store and leaving for the day. Since it was later in the afternoon they probably weren’t fresh, but I was willing to chance it, and was about to stroll over, when she walked out.

  She was carrying a reusable grocery bag and continued to walk, not stopping to get into a car. I decided to chance it and got out of the Mustang, my Rockies cap and sunglasses on, a light t-shirt and jeans, and began walking behind her at a safe distance. She passed the EZ Pawn store and crossed over at the intersection of West Northern and Cambridge Avenue once the light changed. Then back across Cambridge; after turning right she headed a block along to Stanford Avenue, then turned left. I was a block behind but could still see her.

  The sun was warm on this late afternoon, probably in the low eighties, with very little breeze. I missed the air conditioning of the car, though I couldn’t run it much without calling attention because of the water condensation that drips off the compressor. She turned down Oxford and walked up the driveway to the second house going in the front door. It was a one-story brick home, with car port, one car parked under it. It was an older Toyota Corolla, the boxy style from the nineties. The yard looked well kept, though it wasn’t large. There weren’t any trees, and a few flowers in some pots up front. This must have been home for her.

  I walked back to my car, drove over and took up station down the street from her house, where I could continue to watch. I got the license plate number from the car in the car port and called Bill on my cell phone.

  “Oh boy, it was getting close to quitting time,” he said sarcastically. “What small favor are you needing today?” He sounded annoyed, which wasn’t surprising.

  “Couldn’t I be calling to say hi?” I said happily.

  “Absolutely. And then you’ll want me to find someone or maybe have a plate you want info on.”

  He was pretty much on target.

  “Hi Bill,” I said. “Can you run this plate for me and see what you find.” I gave him the number. “You’re the best pal a man could ever have,” I said sweetly.

  “You’re full of shit,” he stated.

  “Actually, I’m full of fried chicken that will soon turn to shit,” I corrected.

  He sighed. It was the end of the day and I was pretty sure he was tired. Still I could hear him typing away.

  “Belinda Woodley,” he said. “Lives in Pueblo.” He gave me the address, which was the house I was staring at. “Nothing in the system other than about twenty or so years ago, she was questioned in connection with The Front Range Butcher case. Looks like she was taken by him but escaped. There is a notation the investigators questioned the validity of her statement, feeling she had made up the whole thing. Nothing else since.”

  “Is she married?”

  “Doesn’t appear so. Looks like she is forty-six.”

  “Thanks. Pretty much confirms what I knew.”

  “Beer tonight?” asked Bill.

  “Need a raincheck. I’m in Pueblo and will probably stay the night. I’m looking at her house right now.”

  “What are you looking for?” He sounded curious.

  “Not sure really. Mostly a nagging suspicion about her escaping the serial killer. And she was the last victim, at least until recently. Something about that doesn’t feel right if it’s true. I’m chasing down any lead I can right now hoping to come across something that will get us ahead of this bastard.” What I really meant was, I was grasping at straws.

  “How is that going for you?”

  “Not well so far. But I’ll find something eventually.”

  “No matter the cost to the client?”

  “He can afford it.”

  “I’m sure he can. Boone’s when you return.”

  I agreed and hung up the phone. I sat there for another ninety minutes waiting. There were no changes in the front and no major clues presenting themselves to me. It was getting late and some nosy neighbor was likely to call the police if I sat here too long. I headed back to my hotel room enjoying some left-over chicken and fell asleep on the b
ed with the baseball game on. America’s pastime making slumber all the easier.

  Chapter 26

  The next day I was back, this time early in the morning, trying to catch her going to work. Instead she never left the house. I had picked up some early morning fresh donuts and OJ, making sure I didn’t waste any of it by leaving any crumbs on my Sturgis t-shirt I’d gotten as a gift from April.

  There was no movement until around 10 a.m. when a Toyota Tundra truck, driven by a younger man, came to pick her up. I followed them as we drove south for a while. I kept my distance, until they stopped at an IHOP. I got out and tailed them at a distance as they both went inside and took a corner booth. I decided to take a seat too, sitting at the counter where I could still see them, and ordered myself some pancakes, uncertain of how many opportunities I’d get to eat today.

  I had a pretty good view of them, and they seemed cordial, though nothing too out of the ordinary. Not enough to give me a clue as to who the guy was in relation to her. I had noted the license plate number before calling Bill on the drive over. He was busy, and said he’d text me the info when he had a couple of minutes, so I still didn’t know who this guy was.

  A big stack of fluffy pancakes was placed before me, and for the House of Pancakes, they weren’t too bad, though you’d expect excellence from the namesake menu item. I’d always liked the syrup variety they provided and went with strawberry. I cleaned up my meal, making sure I was done before them, paid the bill and got in my car to wait. When I did, the familiar ding of a text came through.

  Darren Woodley was who the truck was registered to. Twenty years old, with an address in Pueblo, different from hers. No outstanding warrants or arrest issues. He looked completely clean. If I had to hazard a guess, I would say he was her son.