Touching Evil

by Kylie Brant

  “It’s just me, Mrs. Moxley.” Sonny pitched his voice above the sound of the TV blaring in front of her. He stepped through the dark cramped dining room to the living area where Moxley spent most of her time.

  “Oh, Sonny.” The old lady chuckled. “I must have dozed off. I dreamed that I heard Carleton. You didn’t see him, did you?”

  “No, sorry. Do you want me to find him for you?”

  “Such a good boy,” she said good-humoredly. “But it’s probably just as well. He’s never liked you. He’ll come out when he’s hungry, I’m guessing.” Fumbling on the TV stand she had set up next to her easy chair, she picked up a thick pair of glasses and peered at him. “Oh.” Her voice was disappointed. “I thought maybe you’d been to the bakery again.”

  He gritted his teeth against the urge to give the old cow the same treatment he’d given the cat. “I’m not feeling too good. I was wondering if you had some Tylenol or something for pain.”

  He’d successfully distracted her. “Oh, you poor dear.” She grabbed a handful of the bottles off the TV tray and brought each in turn up for a closer look. “I’m sure I’ve got something you can use.”

  A news bulletin came on and she paused in her search to glance at the screen. “This same bulletin has been on for two days,” she complained. “Comes on right when I’m trying to watch my stories. They must not have found that man yet. They just keep showing…” Her voice tapered off. She reached up to press the glasses more squarely on her nose. Leaned closer to peer at the TV. And then looked at him.

  His eyes were drawn to the sketch on the television screen. What the news anchor was saying blended with the background noise that filled his head most of the time. But the picture drew him.

  Where had they gotten a picture of him? No, not a picture, he corrected himself, as he stood rooted in place. This was no photo. Someone had done a drawing of him. But when? Who had gotten close enough?

  That cap he wore in the sketch hung on a peg just inside his kitchen door. It was one of his favorites. But try as he might, Sonny couldn’t recall the last time he’d worn it.

  He tore his gaze away from the TV once the regular programming ensued. And found the old lady staring at him, fear in her eyes. The clamoring in his head grew louder. “Drawing looks like a couple dozen guys I know. Who could tell from a sketch like that?”

  Moxley’s voice was weak. “I’m sure you’re right. When…how long have you had the beard?”

  “Not long. You know, forget it. I’m starting to feel better.” With false nonchalance Sonny turned and headed back to the kitchen. “Maybe after a nap I’ll feel up to going to the store for some. If I do, I’ll stop at the bakery. Maybe bring you brownies next time.”

  He looked over his shoulder expectantly. The old bat was still wearing the glasses. Still staring at him fixedly. And he knew what her expression meant. Cocking his head, he said, “Do you hear that? It sounds like Carleton.”

  Concern replaced the suspicion on her face. “It does? Is he in the kitchen?”

  “No-o.” Sonny pressed his ear against the door leading to the cellar. “It sounds like he might’ve gotten locked downstairs.”

  “That rascally cat.” With the help of a cane she heaved her heft out of the chair and waddled over. “No, don’t you call him,” she said as Sonny made as if to open the basement door. “He won’t come for you. He must have slipped down there when I opened it for the broom this morning. Found a spider on the ceiling as big around as my thumbnail. But the broom put an end to him.”

  The old woman was out of breath as she reached the door, fumbled with the lock. “Carleton?” She flipped on the light switch that only lightened the shadows below by a fraction. “You bad kitty. Carleton!”

  In a flash Sonny moved behind her. Slipped his hands around her neck and squeezed. With his good leg he kicked the cane away as Moxley’s hands came up to claw at his, her big form putting up more of a struggle than he would have expected.

  She was harder to strangle than the others. Her neck was as fat as the rest of her. He pressed harder and squeezed until her hands fell from his. Until her body slumped. And then he shoved her hard, watching with interest as her body bounced and rolled down the narrow stairway, getting caught near the bottom and lodging there at an odd angle.

  Something furry sped by Sonny and through the door. Down the steps. The cat. Perfect. He laughed out loud as he swung the door shut and locked it again. A fitting ending if he’d ever seen one.

  He’d always hated that cat.

  * * * *

  “Want to talk about it?”

  Cam spared Sophie a brief glance before returning his gaze to the traffic. Upon getting in the car he’d donned a pair of sunglasses, so she couldn’t tell what he might be thinking. “What?”

  “You’ve barely said two words since you left Gonzalez’s office.”

  He grimaced. “She wasn’t happy about the video going public. And she made damn sure to let me know that Miller was going to be even more pissed.”

  “I’m not sure what else you could have done besides contacting the kids. Jenna did that. The risk was always there.”

  “Result’s the same. And I can’t blame her. If the relatives of that victim see that scene…well, it’d be a PR nightmare.” He slowed for the traffic light and looked over at her again. “Lucky for us that the video shows the offender more clearly than the victim, and it was dark. But I still want to get the woman ID’d ASAP.”

  “Hopefully sending her photo to law enforcement will spark something.”

  Luck. There had been a dearth of that in this case so far and he didn’t see circumstances changing that anything soon. Gonzalez had made it clear that she expected results at warp speed. Amazing how quickly the SAC had forgotten the rhythm of an investigation once she’d been promoted. As an agent, Maria Gonzalez had been one of the best. Now with the pressure coming from on high, she was quickly becoming unreasonable.

  He had a pang of guilt for the uncharitable thought. He’d worked long enough with Maria to know she hadn’t lost her instincts about a case. But he wasn’t so sure that pressure from the brass didn’t, on occasion, make her ignore them. And that never boded well for the agents she managed.

  Cam said nothing more until they pulled up in front of a modest brick single story ranch in the Beaverdale neighborhood. Sophie watched as he gave the property a critical look as they exited the vehicle and walked up the drive.

  The home, much like others like it on the tree-lined street was dated, likely built in the forties or fifties. But it was in good shape. The brown shutters had been freshly painted and the shrubs trimmed. The lawn didn’t seem to have a blade of grass out of place.

  “Sometimes I think I’d like a lawn to mow,” he mentioned as they were climbing the front steps.

  She looked at him askance. “I don’t have much experience in the area, but I’d guess that most men don’t share that dream.”

  He reached out a finger to drill the doorbell. “It might be relaxing. A way to unwind.” Slanting her a sideways glance, he added, “And when a case keeps me too busy I’d probably have a wife who shares my love of mowing who’d volunteer to take over.”

  She smirked. “It’s your fantasy. But I have to tell you it’s sounding more unlikely by the second.”

  They both sobered as a man comfortably settled in his seventies opened the front door. “Mr. Fedorowicz?” Cam produced his credentials. “DCI agent Cam Prescott. This is my associate…Mona Kilby.” For a moment his mind had gone blank. Not a good sign when he was tasked with keeping Sophie’s new identity secret. “I called earlier.”

  “Yes. Come in.” The older man unlocked the screen door and held it open for them to step inside. He wore khaki shorts and a burgundy golf shirt. After he’d ushered them to seats he closed the front door again. “It helps to keep the house cooler. Air conditioning is expensive.”

  “I understand brick homes are easier to keep cool,” Sophie offered the man a warm smil
e. “My childhood home was brick, and I remember my parents saying that.”

  “It is.” The older man sat down on the couch to face them. His knees beneath the shorts looked like two shiny white doorknobs. He waved a gnarled hand at the picture window with its heavy curtains drawn. “Every little bit helps.” His gaze shifted to Cam, his expression expectant. “I’m intrigued. What would bring the DCI to my door?”

  “I’d like to talk to you about a cold case that occurred about fifteen years ago. A gun registered to you was used in the commission of a crime.”

  A pained expression crossed the other man’s face. “My memory’s not what it used to be, but something like that I can’t forget. Yes, the gun was registered to me. My wife and I were foster parents for over ten years after our kids were grown. One of the teenage boys who lived with us for a few months stole the gun from my gun case. Robbed a convenience store. It was unloaded, of course. I keep the ammo locked up, too, but…”

  He shook his head as if the memory pained him. “You get these kids…some of them are okay, just got born to the wrong people. They just need a chance, you know? But others…their future is set. Jamie Wallace was one of those kids. Bad to the bone. Stole everything that wasn’t nailed down. Lied like an experienced con man. I knew after a week the kid was headed for prison. Heard a while back that he’s there now.”

  “You got the gun back, I understand.” Gently Cam steered the man back on track. “But then it was used four years ago in a possible home invasion.”

  Fedorowicz seemed to shrink into the couch. “I never even knew it was gone. Helluva thing, isn’t it? My wife had just died. I’d been staying with my daughter in Ohio for a few months. Cops were only able to contact me by talking to the neighbors. They were the ones who discovered a basement window broken. Punks destroyed the gun case. Took every one of them, nothing else. Cops thought they knew what they were after.”

  Cam felt a flare of frustration. It’d been a long shot. The detective investigating the case at the time very likely had looked at all the possibilities. “Did any of your neighbors know you had guns?”

  The older man nodded. “Oh, sure a couple buddies and I went out to the shooting range frequently. The cops even made me give them their names.” He chuckled ruefully. “As if they’d have any reason to steal mine. I’d had most of them for decades. They all had nicer weapons than I did.”

  “How about kids that lived in the neighborhood at the time?”

  “Like I told the police, this is a settled neighborhood. There were plenty of kids when mine were growing up, but young people these days, they don’t want houses like this.” He stabbed a knobby finger to the east. “They buy brand new homes in that new development a couple blocks from here. We get a few rentals with people in and out, but mostly folks are middle-aged and up.”

  “You mentioned a daughter.” Sophie leaned in subtly. “Do you have more children? Grandchildren?”

  “I have a son in Nevada. Three grandkids, ten, twelve and fourteen.” He nodded to the framed pictures scattered on top of the entertainment center, his dark eyes alight with pride. “Smart as a whip, all of them. And I don’t give a damn that every grandparent says that, because it’s true.”

  Sophie laughed. “Having met you I’m sure you’re right. Did the police by any chance ask for a copy of the names of the foster children who had stayed here?”

  Cam smiled inwardly. Sophie could deny it all she wanted, but she had an investigative mind. She’d picked up some of the techniques naturally working side by side with law enforcement over the years. But a person couldn’t acquire instincts. And hers were spot on.

  Fedorowicz pulled at his bottom lip. “Not that I can recall. By that time we’d been out of the foster care business for a while. I couldn’t even name all the kids we housed, to tell you the truth. Some we took just for respite care, others just for a weekend until they got a permanent placement. There were probably forty or so in all. And my memory isn’t good enough these days to name more than a handful of them.”

  “What about financial records?” Cam asked. Sophie had come up with a good line of questioning and it was worth pursuing. “You received payment from the state as foster care parents, right? Did you keep the records from that time?”

  The man looked abashed. “Clarice, my wife would have told you that I’m a notorious packrat. So I’m going to answer yes, probably. But the information would be in a box somewhere with old tax information in the basement. I can get the names to you later if you like.”

  “If it wouldn’t be too much trouble.” Cam got up and handed the man one of his cards. “You can call me with them, text or email.”

  Fedorowicz chuckled. “I can guarantee I won’t be texting. My grandkids are far more adept with technology than I am. But I have an email account. Go down to the library every Wednesday morning to check it. I’ll get the names to you.”

  Cam stood. “I’d appreciate that.” He and Sophie walked to the door. His hand on the knob, he turned, as if a thought had just occurred. “Would you mind telling me where you worked before you retired?”

  “Forty years as a security guard for Wins-Go Freight.” Cam had heard of the name. The trucking company operated out of Des Moines. “Had a couple second jobs here and there over the years to help make ends meet. Mostly night watchman for various places. Same job, different employers.” The older man shook his head. “Not like the kids these days. They hop from job to job. Maybe they’re more ambitious. Sometimes, though I think they just want to have immediately everything their parents had after thirty years.”

  “Did you ever take a second job with a funeral home?”

  The man stared at Cam for a moment, before giving a bark of laughter that deepened the creases on his face. “Can’t say I ever did. I’m not going to lie, a funeral home is the last place I’d ever want to be at night. Do they even hire night watchmen?”

  “Do you keep up with any of the kids you fostered?” Sophie picked up the line of questioning seamlessly. “By any chance did any of them take jobs at a funeral home?”

  The humor had vanished from his face. Fedorowicz aimed a shrewd look at her. “I have a feeling you have a very specific reason for asking that question.” He looked from one of them to the other. Gave a little sigh. “And that you’re not going to tell me what it is. Well, the answer is, I have no idea. We’d hear from a few of the kids for a while after they left us. Those that aged out of the system at the time they were staying here, usually. We haven’t had contact with any of them for years, though. Lots of times we were just a stopping place in the revolving door of their lives. That’s what Clarice used to say.” There was a note of sadness in his voice. “Can’t say I blame them. Most of them had tough roads ahead. The ones that made it probably wanted to leave their pasts behind.”

  Sophie touched his arm. “I’m sure you made a positive difference in their lives.”

  He patted her hand. “Thank you for saying that. I like to think so, but you just don’t know.” Shifting his attention to Cam, he said, “I’ll get you that information you wanted.”

  Thanking him, Cam and Sophie walked to the vehicle.

  “He was a nice man,” she said, sliding into the car and buckling her seatbelt. “And a bit lonely, I think.”

  Maybe it was the older man or maybe it was Sophie’s observation, but for some reason Cam thought of his mother. Who was nowhere close to Fedorowicz’s age, and probably not lonely since she’d been married for the last six years. But he hadn’t talked to her in almost a week. He made a mental note to call when he had a chance.

  “The visit was likely a bust.” He put the car in gear and pulled away from the curb. “He didn’t tell us anything that wasn’t part of the police report Franks pulled from a few years back.” He tossed a look at her. “Except for the foster kid route. That was a good thought.”

  “When he mentioned how long he’d had the guns, it occurred to me that he would have owned them while they provided foster car
e. Troubled kids in the house. It was a chance.” She leaned forward and adjusted the radio. He restrained a wince when she settled on a classical station, but refrained from remarking on it.

  “Maybe. But it’s more likely that he was targeted by one or more individuals looking for empty houses to rob.” Which meant that this line of questioning had been a waste of time. Nevertheless, he’d check out the male names on the list the man came up with. Cross-reference them with the list of the state’s violent sexual felons released in the last few years and the one of employees of funeral homes in the area. Sometime, one of these long shots was going to pay off.

  And that time couldn’t come soon enough.

  He turned off Twana Drive onto Lower Beaver Road. Headed toward Urbandale. “I don’t know about you, but I’m hoping to get something more substantial from Kevin Stallsmith.

  * * * *

  Alfred Fedorowicz laboriously moved box after box, peering at the dates marked on the tops until he found the one he was seeking. He carried it over to the folding table he’d set up in the basement and started going through it for the information the agent had asked for.

  It wasn’t like he had better plans for the day. And given his blasted memory lately, if he put the task off for long he’d forget it completely. As he and Clarice had often remarked, getting old wasn’t for sissies.

  She’d never been a sissy, despite the excruciating agony she’d experienced at the end from the pancreatic cancer. He’d had three short months with her after she’d been diagnosed. Every day of her end had been approached with the grace she’d displayed each day of her life.

  A drop fell on the folder he held. Followed by another. Alfred hadn’t even been aware that he was crying. He took a handkerchief from the pocket of his shorts and wiped his eyes. Blew his nose noisily. Thoughts of his late wife could still ambush him, even after four years. Make him bawl like a baby, like her death had been yesterday.

  Determinedly he got back to work, welcoming the distraction. It took hours, as he’d known it would. There were so many children, and reading the names on the documents brought back memories that weren’t always welcome. He’d liked the babies and toddlers best. It had been nice to have young kids in the house again after his own were grown. But most often they’d been chosen for kids ten and older. More boys than girls he saw from the names on the ever-growing list at his elbow. Some names didn’t even ring a bell. Alfred was ashamed of that. It only seemed right that each child would etch into his memory as they’d passed through his life. Seemed like he owed them at least that much.