The Verdict on Each Man Dead

by David Whellams

  “Yeah,” muttered Phil as he scanned the corners of the room, “but why bother cleaning out anything? Stick around for several hours, risk being caught loading the grass in the driveway. Hell, I don’t know …”

  They made eye contact, both grasping the essence of the crime. They were in tune, a team. Phil said it first. “It was a warning. The drug gang who did this were sending a warning to Tom Watson, and to all small-timers. Cleaned out his operation to make a point. Killed his spouse, took the time to schlep her body next door, severed the head.”

  Henry nodded. “Tom Watson came home to Number 3, then rushed over here and found his dead wife and his hollowed-out little factory. They were waiting.”

  But the script sounded threadbare to Henry even as he said it. The killers had taken huge risks. For one thing, the hit squad, burning several hours to truck out the marijuana plants, had run the real chance of Maude Hampson and others seeing them. Also, why slaughter Gabriella in one house then move her next door?

  “Maybe Tom Watson did it solo,” Phil ruminated. “Fights with his wife, stabs her, hides the body here …”

  “Or, leaves the body next door while he cleans out his stash in here,” Henry tried. He didn’t believe his own words.

  Mohlman tiptoed around the trestle table to examine the neck trauma. “What the hell is that?”

  Beneath the table in the blood pond sat a wooden box, ten inches wide, about sixteen long. Phil crouched down and eyed the polished surface. It was lovingly crafted. Henry stayed at the far end so that he wouldn’t defile the spatters on the floor, but he knelt and scanned the box from a couple of feet away. “Look, Phil, there are screw holes in the lid, but no screws.”

  They had the same thought: the box was just big enough to hold a head.

  Phil was closer. He reached across the thickening vileness and lifted the wooden cover. Two zinc-coated metal tubes lay inside, their ends plugged and soldered, and hooked to a timer. The detectives recognized the wiring of a pipe bomb.

  “What’s the clock set for?” Henry said.

  “Sweet Jesus, I can’t tell,” Phil rasped. Henry pulled him out of the way before he could vomit into the mess.

  Leaning in, Henry said, “It appears to be set for 4:30. That’s forty minutes from now.”

  Officer Jackson entered the living room. He too seemed ready to puke his lunch. “I found her head under the sink.”

  Phil got up and dashed to the kitchen with Jackson, while Henry stayed by the trestle table an extra moment to be sure about the digital clock trigger.

  “Get the hell out,” he called to Mohlman and Jackson. “Save the head.”

  Phil handled the call himself from the concrete steps outside, streaming his commands to Corrine in a firm voice. “I want the Bomb Squad first. Two squad cars. Then an ambulance, and tell them I have a headless body. In that order. The ambulance can leave its siren off.”

  “Because the victim is dead?” Corrine said.

  “Because there’s a bomb inside and the Bomb Squad has to disarm the device before the attendants can enter. Because I don’t want to alarm the residents more than I have to. Because, because, because. Jesus, Corrine, I’m standing here with a head in a bag.”

  Corrine’s efficient tone was her apology. “The disposal team are on their way, Detective. Patrol cars dispatched.”

  “And, Corrine, I need Emergency Services and the Animal Rescue wagon,” Phil said.

  Henry took the phone. “Corrine, tell the bomb guys that the device is an ordinary-looking pipe bomb but it’s set to detonate at 4:30. That’s less than forty minutes from now.”

  When the first cruisers screeched up to Number 5, Phil was still standing on the stoop with Mrs. Watson’s head fermenting in the plastic trash bag in the last of her cerebrospinal fluid. Quiet though it was now, Henry recognized the potential for a circus on Hollis Street.

  To Jackson and Henry beside him, Phil hissed, “Keep the uniforms back, Henry. Jackson, you bar the door until the Bomb Squad arrives. But I want space left in the driveway for the Emerge people. This head isn’t getting any fresher.”

  The simultaneous arrival of the red Emergency Services van, the ambulance, and the Animal Rescue SUV immediately threatened to swamp them. Henry came down the steps and worked to control the crowd as the talk of bombs and beheadings cranked up the building horde of uniforms. Phil descended too, and the throng parted as they realized what was in the bag. With Henry’s help, the Emergency Services driver found space at the end of the Watsons’ drive and, unfazed, took Gabriella’s head from Phil and retreated into his van to store it in his refrigerator. At one point Henry glanced back up the steps, where Jackson stood alone with his hand on the butt of his service pistol.

  The heat was getting to everyone. There was nothing more to do until the bomb technicians arrived. Uneasy expectation became the mood of the crowd.

  Henry and Phil moved to the curb to talk. “So, Henry, we’re good? Start your interviews, if you want. I’ll handle this nonsense, but come back and tell me if you spot Boog DeKlerk on the street. See what the neighbours know about the Watsons’ habits. Jackson and I will start on this side and we’ll connect up somewhere down thataway.”

  “We’ll meet at the dead end,” Henry said, and grinned nervously. He was happy to be heading out on his own. He had been on the West Valley force less than two years, and this was an opportunity. He would try to finish his segment by nightfall and move on to the odd numbers, knowing that his partner wouldn’t get far down his half of the interview list before tomorrow.

  Henry waited for the Bomb Squad before heading to Maude Hampson’s. The appearance of the two composed and methodical technicians dispelled much of the tension in the crowd. At Quantico, it was called, with respect, the “nervous profession,” but Henry admired the insouciance these experts always showed.

  They were out of the house in ten minutes, one carrying the wood box in both hands like a mini Ark of the Covenant; clearly, it had been rendered harmless. The second technician came over to Henry at the curb. “It was a dumb pipe bomb. From what you told us, Detective, we went in figuring two possibilities. I mean, who sets a bomb to go off at 4:30 in the afternoon? We thought maybe he made a mistake and intended to set the timer for 4:30 a.m. but set it for p.m. Saw that once in El Paso. But really it was the flaw in the design that fouled the plan. He carved a piece of the trigger mechanism out of some kind of plastic and it warped in the heat. It would never have gone off.” He paused for effect. “But I am glad we got to it before 4:30 rolled around.”

  CHAPTER 4

  In his impatient mood, Henry was prepared to strangle Maude Hampson if she failed to explain how the Hollis residents had missed seeing, hearing, and smelling the grow op that had flourished in plain sight in their tiny neighbourhood.

  She answered the front door before he could knock but then, as she had with Jackson, turned and tottered down the hall. Her disclaimer trailed behind. “I never noticed comings and goings, no suspicious characters.”

  She disappeared through the living room arch. Henry strode after, giving her no time to grasp the TV remote. “Did you know her well?”

  She picked up the remote anyway. “I liked Gabriella Watson very much, watched her walking Puffles. I’d say hello the rare times I went out.”

  “Leave it on mute, please. What was he like?” Henry asked.

  “Sociable enough.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  “They were joiners, participated.”

  “For example?”

  “They both attended the annual barbecue. Brought steaks for themselves, salads and banana loaf for everyone. I’m concerned about the dog.”

  “And what’s Tom Watson do for a living?” Henry guessed the trades.

  “He’s in construction.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Or electr
ician. Yes, that’s it. Sign on his truck. No, Officer, I don’t remember the company he works for. And no, I didn’t see him leave for work this morning.” Henry anticipated Maude’s next line. “He was always such a quiet man, Officer.”

  Sure, thought Henry. If people next door are always so quiet, why do so many noise complaints get called in? He had a long row to hoe this afternoon, and he had to get his first interviews in before the community had a chance to compare notes on the Watsons.

  “I have to visit the other residents, Miss Hampson. Do you know the folks next to you along this side of Hollis?”

  Maude paused, as if the question weren’t straightforward. “I knew them, at least …”

  “Why are you hesitating?”

  “Because the house next to me is vacant now. They moved out months ago. But I think it’s sold. The next one’s vacant, too.”

  “You mean to say, the houses at Numbers 6 and 8 on your side are both empty, along with 5 directly across the street?”

  Maude had drifted along the well-worn path to her front curtains. “Not at the moment. There’s all kinds of folks pouring into Number 5 as we speak.”

  Henry cut the interview short and went outside to find Phil. The traffic jam made it dangerous to cross the road. The ambulance, back door ajar, had been given pride of place in the Watsons’ driveway, and Henry guessed it would be an hour or more before the forensics crew would allow Gabriella’s body to be removed. An unmarked SUV stood away from the crowd, down by the stone gates, and a woman in coveralls was carrying Puffles (whose bloody beard would end up being snipped for serology testing) in a blanket towards the vehicle. At least someone was being decisive, he thought.

  Phil was standing where Henry had left him in the street, remonstrating with a large, barrel-bellied man. This was Bill “Boog” DeKlerk, head of the West Valley Narcotics Unit, a veteran detective disliked by most cops on the force. Boog hated Mormons and therefore was biased against Henry Pastern. Henry contemplated his next move. If DeKlerk learned that two more houses stood empty on the street, he would immediately call Chief Grady to argue that these vacant homes likely meant another grow op or two and that the Drug Squad should take over the investigation.

  Several residents had finally come out onto the sidewalk way down at the end of Hollis, where the two-storeys began. In the forefront, a balding man of sixty seemed about to charge down the street.

  Henry possessed a good temperament for the swirl of chaos. He watched the turmoil across the road and was suddenly content to be a detective. For the first time since returning to SLC from Washington, he felt it distinctly: professionalism. Policemen and -women were fanning out, controlling the scene, and he was part of it.

  He pivoted and walked back to Maude’s doorway, and rapped. She answered, looking annoyed, television voices wafting from her living room.

  “Yes, Detective?”

  “Miss Hampson, is there some kind of street organization in place, a neighbourhood improvement committee or the like?”

  “Oh, not now. Hasn’t met in a year.”

  “If it did meet, is there someone who would logically be in charge?”

  “Oh, yes. That would inevitably be Jerry Proffet at Number 11.” Maude clearly disliked Jerry. Does she like anyone other than Puffles and the late Mrs. Watson?

  “Does he happen to be bald?”

  “Yes, that’s him. Goodbye.”

  This time Henry walked straight down the path and across the street to Phil and DeKlerk, turning only once to verify that 6 was entirely dark. The South African, as he was known around HQ, ignored Henry’s approach. Phil was trying out a conciliatory strategy. “Bill, I’ll make you a deal. The body is mine, but once we get the forensics, you can investigate the grow op. Let’s just leave the tech team to do its work. They’re helping both of us.”

  “Whatever it takes to get us out of this broiler oven,” DeKlerk said.

  One of DeKlerk’s people came over and ruined the truce. “Lieutenant, don’t 6 and 8 look empty to you?”

  Everyone turned and scrutinized the pair of bungalows. Henry decided not to mention that he had seen a SOLD sign propped up against the side wall of Number 6.

  “How long have they been empty?” DeKlerk demanded.

  “Just guessing,” Henry said, “but months at least. Not sure about 6. I’m told it’s been bought, but the new owner hasn’t moved in.”

  “That changes everything,” DeKlerk puffed, still ignoring Henry.

  Phil Mohlman grimaced, not keen on a fiefdom battle with the Drug Squad boss yet resistant to even minor concessions. “It changes nothing. No reason to imagine there’s grass in there.”

  “We need to get into them,” DeKlerk said. “If Number 5 was gutted by Watson to create a grow op, these sites may be active, too.”

  “Possibly,” Henry murmured.

  Phil frowned at him, but then he got Henry’s game. Boog DeKlerk was mesmerized by the vacant houses. Let him concentrate on additional imaginary grow ops while Homicide took on the real case, namely the murder. Divide, divert, conquer, tie him up with paperwork, that should be their strategy. Phil couldn’t resist needling his rival. “Okay with me, Boog, but you need warrants.”

  “It’s urgent we do the search. It all flows from Mrs. Watson’s death.”

  “You know that won’t wash legally. Enter without a warrant, and everything that flows from it is tainted.”

  Boog clearly understood the point, but Henry couldn’t resist hammering on the law. “Phil’s right. It would be fruit of the poison tree.”

  “Screw the tree, college boy.” But Boog’s bluster didn’t require further response, and his outrage petered out. The heat appeared to defeat him and he mopped his forehead. Henry wondered if he had a heart condition.

  “We’ll meet at six at the Rose. I’ll figure something out by then,” said Boog. He glared at Henry as he departed.

  The big man headed for the two crime scene bungalows, where he hesitated, as if wondering if his bulk would fit inside with the crush of cops.

  Henry led Phil a few yards in the other direction and whispered, “Phil, you see that guy hovering down the end of the street?”

  “Bald, ex-military?”

  “That’s the one. Jerry Proffet. The old lady told me he’s the former president of the street committee. I’m thinking he might be carrying a list of the residents. ’Cause right now, I can’t tell who lives where.”

  They started up the row. Phil and Henry had the same feeling, that at any moment a scything blade might greet them at the door of any given house on Hollis Street. Was the vicious killer of Mrs. Watson one of the residents, fresh from his first beheading and primed for another?

  They eyed Mr. Proffet, who was walking down the block to meet them. He brandished a sheet of paper that resembled a map. “Good guess, partner,” Phil hissed.

  Proffet was of medium height, fit for a guy of sixty, and firm in his gaze, with a touch of the politician. Henry was judging hastily, but he had encountered this kind of blustery aplomb in tinhorn community leaders before, including a few Mormon elders. As they approached the point where the street began to arc around the cul-de-sac, Henry confirmed that Proffet lived at Number 11; “The Proffets” was etched on a wood sign in the centre of the lawn. It amazed Henry that the man wore a zipped windbreaker in this weather, yet he did not appear to sweat.

  Before Phil or Henry could speak, the bald man reached out a dry hand. Phil shook it perfunctorily. “I’m Jerry Proffet, past president of HASA, the Hollis Avenue Street Association.”

  “We’re Detectives Mohlman and Pastern,” Phil said matching Proffet’s officious tone. “Could you explain what you mean by ‘past president,’ Mr. Proffet?”

  “We don’t actually have a president currently. I suppose I’m de facto head, until we elect a new executive.”

  Henry inser
ted himself. “You said Hollis ‘Avenue’ Association. I thought it was Hollis Street.”

  “It is but we thought ‘HASA’ flowed better.”

  Henry stared at him. Who cared how the acronym flowed? Proffet was fussy and pretentious and Henry took a dislike to him.

  “Could we talk inside, sir?” Phil said, as if in confidence, and Jerry Proffet brightened. He led the way — happy to help, elected or not. Henry noted the neatness of the Proffets’ front path, which was flanked by geometric flower beds outlined in little painted rocks.

  “You military?” Phil asked just before they entered the house.

  “Warrant officer, Signals, U.S. Marines, retired,” Proffet reported.

  The house wasn’t air-conditioned, it hadn’t ever been, and an enveloping hothouse was the consequence. It occurred to Henry that marijuana plants would thrive here. Proffet ushered them into his living room, where the dampness oozed up tropically from the rugs and the sofa; two leather La-Z-Boy rockers seemed to Henry to be perspiring. Dozens of figurines, some of them identical to those on Maude Hampson’s mantel, manned the perimeter of the room. Mrs. Proffet was nowhere in sight. Is her head on her body?

  “Excuse the heat, officers. I have a condition where I’m super-sensitive to cold. But I did not get a medical discharge, I left with full honours.”

  A tall fan stood in one corner, but the breeze barely reached the detectives. Phil nonetheless took his time.

  “Whatcha got there, Mr. Proffet?”

  The ex-soldier handed over his diagram of Hollis Street, each house labelled with the owner’s name; 5, 6, and 8 were marked “vacant.”

  “This is very helpful,” Phil said. “Do you know all the homeowners personally?”

  “All of them.” Without pause, Mr. Proffet demanded tactlessly, “What’s happened at the Watsons’?”