by Jon Redfern
“I loved Randy. I wanted to protect him. I know he was a bully sometimes. That he kind of hypnotized me so that I’d lie for him. I lied to myself. You want a motive for what I did, Inspector? I didn’t do it to hurt Darren, the poor boy. I did it for me. I was tired of being blamed for everything. For the boys’ lives and the ugly violence of their parents. Tired of being spat at by people like Sharon Riegert.”
Sheree stopped talking. She leaned back. Billy waited. He was trying to gather some questions and was hoping Butch would jump into the interview for a time. Instead, there was silence.
“What did Randy tell you about Justin Moore, Sheree?” Billy said finally.
“He told me he hurt Justin. Out of anger. He didn’t mean to. He told me never to tell anyone what he did. I thought about what he said to me, and I knew, then, that I had to stop the lies. I had to. They were killing us all.”
Billy looked again into Sheree’s eyes. They were still, vacant, not really looking at anything in the room.
“Do you know where Sam Heavy Hand is, Sheree?”
“Yes. You’ll find him in Cardston.”
“In Cardston? Why there?”
“You’ll find Sam in the hospital there,” she said. Now Sheree broke into a timid smile. For a second, she held it, and then her face once again became blank. “He’s not in any ward, though.”
“Where is he, Sheree?” Billy asked.
“In the morgue, Inspector.”
By 1:15, Sunday afternoon, Butch, Billy, and Dodd were in the police canteen eating sandwiches. Billy had taken three Tylenols for the headache he’d had since early morning.
“We meet with Randy and his lawyer in ten minutes,” said Butch.
For most of the past hour, the three men had talked about Sheree’s confession, about Randy’s involvement in the Riegert case, his tampering with the body, and the fact that Sheree had implicated him in the death of Justin Moore. “Will you officially book her for withholding evidence, obstructing an investigation?” asked Dodd.
Butch answered. “Yes, once we establish Randy’s role.”
“I’m still not sitting comfortably,” Billy said, rubbing his forehead. “We don’t have a lot of hard evidence for a conviction in the Moore case. We have only Sheree’s word, and Sheree cannot always be relied on to tell the truth. That goes for the Darren Riegert story as well. What bothers me most is I’m not sure if our witness, the elderly neighbour, could identify Randy in a lineup. The broken mask is a clue, but it’s circumstantial. All we know is that Justin was strangled by a pair of strong hands. Yianni Pappas has an alibi, and with Sam Heavy Hand lying in a morgue, we’re down to Randy.”
“Sam Heavy Hand was identified by his sister Rita, this morning, at nine.” Dodd was reading out from his notebook. “He’d been found by the road to Waterton Lakes early Saturday morning. His truck had rolled into a ditch, and it was his dog, an old Lab, that had alerted a farmer with its barking. Heavy Hand’s alcohol reading was over the top; he rolled a couple of times and suffered fatal head injuries.”
Billy reached into his pants pocket and pulled out the soil sample he’d taken from the wheel of Randy’s van. He unwrapped the tissue and held up the clump of dried reddish clay-like soil. “What do you think, Dodd? This look like the same soil that was on the steps leading into the Satan House basement?”
“Sure does.”
A flash went through Billy’s mind. The koan reveals. He stood up so quickly he bumped the table and spilled Butch’s coffee. “You remember the Bible story of Cain and Abel, Dodd?”
Dodd blinked. “Yes, I guess so, sir.”
“How the guilty Cain was marked by God for the murder of his brother?”
Butch snorted and ran a napkin over his spilled coffee. “The mark of Cain, buddy?”
“Butch, where is the van? Where did we park it when we brought Randy into the station this morning?”
“In the compound.”
Billy ran through the canteen. He stopped suddenly at the door and turned to Butch, who was staring in amazement at his friend’s abrupt movements. “You got the key?”
Butch rose and followed Billy to the hallway. He picked up the key and then ran with Billy to the compound, a fenced-in area beside the main building. Billy grabbed the key from Butch’s hand. “I remember thinking it odd at the time,” Billy said.
“What?” growled Butch.
“The papers on the driver’s seat. They had splotches on them. In the dark, they looked like someone had spilled black coffee. But. . . .”
Billy unlocked the van door. The papers had been untouched and lay on the seat. They were spotted with black paint.
“Same colour as the paint on the genitals. And on the floor and wall of Satan House.”
“You sure, buddy?”
Billy pulled out a tissue from his pocket and bent over and started to pat with his hand below the seat. “He must have painted the body, then come back to the van with this, hoping to hide it or destroy it later.” Billy held up a small brush, thick with dried black paint. “But he didn’t have time. He knew he had to get the masks and repair the one that somehow he or Justin broke. He had to work against the clock because he and Sheree were meeting Robert Lau in Vancouver. If Randy didn’t get the mask repaired, he’d lose money. A lot of money. He meant to destroy this brush, but he forgot.”
Butch rubbed his chin.
Billy rummaged again under the seat. “Well, well,” he said and held up a small jackknife. “Do you think this may be the knife he used to cut Justin’s clothes?”
“Sounds plausible, buddy. But you’re running on a bunch of guesses here.”
“When we go into the room, Butch, I want you to look hard at Randy’s left cheek. Really hard. And remember the Bible story. There’s a mark. A smudge. You nod to me if you think it’s the same paint that’s on these papers and this brush. It’s that mark, I wager, that will place Randy at the scene of the crime. All we have to do is to get him to confess to being there.” There were two men in the room when Butch and Billy entered. Randy Mucklowe sat at the interview table. He was still wearing the hiking shorts and T-shirt he’d worn when Billy had surprised him in the university lab. Unshaven and pale, Mucklowe looked strained. His eyes shone with a preternatural intensity, partly brought on by fatigue. The other man, the lawyer Barnet, shook hands with a controlled smile. Butch read out the charges. Barnet listened with his hands crossed behind his back. After ruminating for a moment, he went to Mucklowe, bent over him, and explained briefly the procedure to follow. Billy kept his eyes trained on Mucklowe the whole time. Be careful, stay ahead of him, he thought. Barnet then walked over to Billy and whispered, “You haven’t got enough for a conviction. You know that, don’t you? All you’ve got is circumstantial evidence. Worth shit, as far as I’m concerned. And a worthless confession — her word against his.”
In full voice, Barnet then said, “Shall we begin, gentlemen?”
Randy Mucklowe remained silent. Billy feared the man might not be able to answer anything in a rational manner. He pulled up a chair to Mucklowe’s left, while Butch stood near the door. When Billy looked to Butch, he saw Butch’s eyes blink twice, the signal they had agreed on before entering the room. The smudge on Mucklowe’s cheek was still there, although also visible was a red quality to the skin around it, as if Randy had tried to rub away the smudge. Is Barnet aware of what it is? Surely he must be. The pounding in Billy’s head was intense. Interviews of this kind were always difficult. How long could Mucklowe resist revealing the truth? And what was the truth Billy was after? Was this the man who had strangled Justin Moore? Who had placed his hands around the young man’s neck and crushed the last breath out of his throat?
“Randy,” Billy started, “I heard about your buddy, Sam Heavy Hand.”
“Did you?” responded Randy, raising his face towards Billy’s. His tone had taken on the arrogance Billy had heard when he met Randy for the first time.
“How did he die, Randy?”
“He lied to me.” Randy sat back in his chair. “He and I were old friends.”
“What did he lie about?”
“He stole my van. He lied to me.”
“Randy, are you sure?”
Mucklowe now focused on Billy’s face. He answered, his eyes brightening, “What’re you after, Inspector?”
“Randy, you told me last night that Sam had taken your van, or so you thought, and then brought it back to you.”
“Yes, yes, that’s it. He did, the liar.”
“Well, Randy. Sam died early Saturday morning, four or five hours before you got to the university. He was driving his own truck according to the police in Cardston. If Sam had his own truck, why would he borrow your van?”
Randy cleared his throat. “I don’t follow you, Inspector.”
Barnet spoke up. “I think we can shut this down right now. You cannot prove what Randy did or did not know since he was not anywhere near the scene of this so-called accident. Mr. Heavy Hand was a heavy drinker. Seems he ran off the road in a stupor. My client had no connection to this or any prior knowledge of Heavy Hand’s whereabouts.” Barnet signalled to Randy to stand up, but Billy motioned to the lawyer.
“I’m not done, yet, Barnet. We agreed I could question your client on at least two matters. I’m not quite finished with this first one.” Billy crossed his legs and tilted his head. “This matter must be settled, Randy. From what the local police told us, Sam took a hard fall, into the ditch, and died of a massive concussion. His truck was in the ditch on the very road you were travelling on when you were returning to Waterton after killing Justin Moore.”
“That’s it,” cried Barnet.
Billy shouted over the lawyer’s protest. “And the investigating constable who was called to the scene early Saturday said you stopped by the ditch, saw the truck, and spoke with him. You were checking it out, weren’t you? You must have known Sam was dead.”
“Randy,” cried Barnet.
Randy flashed the lawyer a hard glance. “I can answer for myself, Barnet. Shut up. Inspector, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Did you leave your cabin on Friday, late, and come into Lethbridge? Was it around midnight that you parked your van on Baroness Street outside Justin Moore’s house? You knew where he lived. Your girlfriend lived next door. You were there for a reason.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. Mr. Barnet, now this interview is over. I’m not saying another thing.”
“There’s more, Randy. Listen. We found a witness.”
“What?” Barnet demanded.
It was risky, Billy knew, and this next move could blow up in his face, yet Billy realized it was time to gamble. He avoided Butch’s eyes as he continued. “The witness claims she saw you and Justin Moore crossing the backyard of Satan House very early Saturday morning. You were both wearing shorts. Justin was leaning on your shoulder, or rather you were making it look like that. You were dragging him.”
Randy’s eyes grew large. “Where was she? She’s lying! That’s not true,” he said, his voice shaking. “That’s a bloody lie!”
Billy pulled his chair closer. He placed his hands on the table where Randy could see them. He held them together. “I’m sorry, Randy, but I don’t think that’s right. I think you know that, too. You’ve been doing a lot of lying. Let’s start with Darren Riegert. You lied about finding him. Sheree told me you made up a story, and a pretty good one at that! You had me and Butch running around after a cult killer, or was it a group of sadists? Anyway, someone who tied up Darren and lit candles underneath his body.”
“Come, come, Inspector. Sheree didn’t tell you any such thing. She’s not even in town, as I told you. She’s at my cabin relaxing.”
“You never liked Darren, did you, Randy?”
Randy sat forward.
“He was a nuisance. But, Inspector, most civilized people put up with nuisances, as I am doing this minute. Just because I don’t like someone doesn’t mean I’d kill.”
“You really thought you’d get away with it, didn’t you?”
“Sheree likes to tell stories. She likes the attention.”
“She’d do anything for you, wouldn’t she?”
Randy smirked.
“You’re going in circles,” Barnet said.
“You tied up Darren Riegert, just as Sheree said, to create a lie. You wanted to destroy his body, but that would’ve been too much of a bother. A nuisance. Much easier to try to fool the stupid cops. The shiftless provincials you think we are.”
“Oh, my,” Randy snarled. “It hurts when you’re outsmarted, doesn’t it, Inspector? Really, Barnet, I think this has gone far enough.”
Barnet was about to speak when Billy deliberately leaned in closer to Randy’s face.
“Then there’s your lie about Sam. When I met you in the lab on Saturday night, Sam was already dead. He’d been found by the highway almost eleven hours before. So your story about him going back to Montana was not true. And you lied about the golden masks. No one gave them to you. You and Sam stole them last October. You planned to steal them away from Sam, you and Sheree, so that the two of you could go to Mexico and start a new life.” Billy paused. Randy’s breathing became louder. Billy counted to five and then sat back and spoke with a fast, aggressive delivery, keeping his eyes centred on Randy’s face. “We’ve got a dead body in the morgue. Justin Moore. Your student. A young man who once trusted and admired you.”
Randy appeared to fold over into himself. Butch stepped forward. He was about to say something but then stopped. They both sensed Randy was cornered.
“You can help yourself, Randy, if you want to,” Billy said, leaning in close again and lowering his voice.
“How do you figure, Inspector?” Randy was shaking, his face ashen, his hands clasped together as if he were suddenly in a tight space. As if his wrists had already been clamped into cuffs.
“The truth. Tell me and Butch what really happened.”
“You live in a dreamworld, Inspector. You have no proof. Especially on Darren. And, yes, I was with Justin on Friday. We were drinking. We were friends, and we’d come to town after the dig to celebrate. And your claim that I saw Sam dead. That is sheer nonsense.”
Billy pulled out the brush filled with dried black paint. He laid it on the table in front of Randy.
Barnet rushed forward. “What’s that?”
Randy pulled back. Without thinking, he raised his hand to his left cheek and touched the black smudge.
“This is the paintbrush used to paint the genitals of Justin Moore, Mr. Barnet,” explained Billy. “I found it under the driver’s seat in Randy’s van not twenty minutes ago. It is the same brush that Randy accidentally smudged his face with. The same black paint.”
“You are a filthy liar!” shouted Randy. “A filthy yellow liar.”
Butch stepped up to the edge of the table. He lifted up the brush. “Barnet, this brush will stand as evidence in court, as will the broken mask Randy had in his possession. You can see there is a mark on Randy’s cheek. We can have the lab run a test on the paint on the floor of Satan House. We can determine the colour, the dyes, the age of the paint. It won’t be so hard to prove a match.”
An hour later, Butch and Billy went over the confession they subsequently heard from the mouth of Randy Mucklowe. Butch read his version first from his quick notes, sitting at his desk across from Billy, who listened while rubbing his temples. Billy then corroborated. By 3:35, Randy Mucklowe was climbing, cuffed, into the back seat of a Lethbridge city police force cruiser. Formal charges would be laid the next morning.
With the evening coming on, Billy gave in to his exhaustion. He craved food and sleep. It was always like this. A confession, a wrap-up, coming-to-the-end brought a mood of letdown mixed with mild elation. To be sure, all was in place. Billy printed out Randy’s confession, bought a coffee, and read through the words one last time, content to see the riddle finally unravelled.
“Late Frida
y night, Sam and I discovered one of the masks was missing. We’d both been drinking hard. The students had left after supper. I was in the kitchen when Sam came in yelling, ‘Where the fuck is it?’
‘What’re you talking about?’ I asked him as his fist swung out at my chin. ‘Where the fuck you hide it?’ he screamed. Sam yanked me into the living room. The black garbage bags were on the coffee table. Only six masks were there. I was woozy with rye, and the facts didn’t hit me right away. I dove under the sofa, pulled back the chair beside it. Then I ran into Justin’s room and looked under his bed, by that time fearing he’d stolen one of the golden faces. ‘Sam! It’s one of the students. Justin Moore must’ve taken it.’ Sam stumbled into the bedroom. ‘I’ll kill him!’ Sam yelled, throwing his beer bottle against the wall.
I ran after him. I tried to convince him to follow Justin into town. ‘Fuck you,’ laughed Sam. ‘You go! I’m stayin’. I ain’t lettin’ those gold buggers outta my sight!’ I yanked at Sam’s sleeve. ‘Come on, I’ve got his address in my van.’ Finally, I persuaded him. I said to him we should go separately. Sam would go in his truck, me in my Chevy van. Cara was taking the boys home. We could head them off. Me at Justin’s house. Sam, at Cara’s. We were drunk. The plan sounded good. We wrapped up the masks. It took me another bit of convincing to make Sam leave them in the cabin. We’d both meet back there after, I argued. We could lock up the place. We both had keys. That way we’d know where the masks were.
After a few minutes of argument, he agreed. I left Waterton in my van. Sam drove right behind me in his truck, but he was so drunk he could hardly steer, and I lost him on the highway, and I didn’t bother to wait since I couldn’t stop thinking about the mask and where to find Justin.
I got to Justin’s house near midnight and parked by the curb, across from the front door. I figured Cara would bring Justin home. I was hoping that. I didn’t want Sam to find them first. When Justin came up the street a while later, walking, his backpack on, he was alone. I got out of the van and went up to him. I was not thinking straight. Justin could see I was mad and drunk. His eyes were full of fear. ‘I just want to talk,’ I told him. ‘I want to get my mask. I’ll pay you for it, Justin,’ I bargained. ‘I can help you pay your debt,’ I told him. That should have been it, but he backed off. He started to run towards the porch. I couldn’t let him escape. He ran up the steps. I thought he’d get away from me, but then this stupid dog came running out of the flap in the door. That yappy terrier.
