by Neil Watson
Siobhan looked over Peter’s shoulder at her phone and took it back, almost snatching it from his hand. “He should be right here!” she said, incredulously. “Maybe he’s hiding in the bushes!” She raised her hands in front of her mouth to form a human loudhailer, and was about to yell out Oliver’s name when Hardy stopped her.
“Wait!” he commanded with authority. “Let’s look around first. Everyone split up and check this area thoroughly. And quietly.”
They all moved apart from each other, their heads bowed down, scrutinising the ground. It was Siobhan who spotted Oliver’s iPhone lying on the ground between the track and one of the bushes. She picked it up and looked at it. It was still switched on and showing a number of texts and emails that hadn’t yet been opened—including the one she’d sent attaching the image of Yushi’s confession note. “So, Oliver doesn’t yet know what we know,” she thought, alarmed. She returned to the cars, holding the phone in the air, and when Hardy reached her side, she began crying.
“Show me exactly where you found the phone, please,” Hardy asked, compassionately. She took him to the spot, and he looked around nearby. A few feet up ahead, in the direction of the sheds, a small piece of distinctive red and white cloth was dangling from a shrub and blowing slightly in the light wind.
“I’d swear Oliver had a shirt like that!” Siobhan sobbed.
“Now then,” Hardy tried to reassure her. “It looks like he’s caught his t-shirt on the bramble, and he’s made a run for it up to those sheds, I’ll bet ten bucks. Get back in the car. Come on Peter—you and David come with us and leave your car here. Everything will be okay. We’ll find him, don’t you worry.” Hardy’s apparent confidence calmed Siobhan, and she smiled at him. He smiled back, trying to be reassuring, and wishing he was as confident as his smile suggested.
Hardy proceeded to drive slowly and stealthily up the track towards the river and the woodsheds. As they got nearer, with David the photographer forever snapping away, they noticed Ashley and Wheatley’s police car tucked away in the bushes. Hardy parked his car next to it, and the four of them silently got out.
“Stop,” Hardy said in a loud whisper. “This is my job to do, and it could be dangerous.”
He reached back into his car through the open window and, retrieving his gun from the compartment under the dash, made it clear that the other three could stay behind in the safety of the car if they preferred.
“No way!” Siobhan, said softly but emphatically.
“Okay,” Hardy conceded. “I can’t stop you. But be careful. Stay behind me and don’t do anything until I say. We don’t know what to expect, and we don’t even know whether Oliver is actually in there.”
“But you bet me $10 he was,” Siobhan reminded him, trying to make light of such a serious situation.
“So I did, young lady. So I did,” comforted Hardy, as he put his muscular arm around her shoulder.
***
Moments earlier, inside the shed, Oliver had been keeping very still on the landing. He had listened a few moments earlier to the sound of Ozborn moving the ladder into position. Somehow, Ozborn must have been able to manoeuvre it more easily than Oliver had done earlier—or perhaps it was simply that Ozborn’s arm muscles were that much stronger. For a few seconds, all Oliver could hear was deafening silence, followed by the faint, far-away sound of footsteps and creaking floorboards.
“Oh God!” thought a terrified Oliver. Ozborn must be on the landing of the other shed now, and he guessed it wouldn’t take him long to come down the corridor. Oliver imagined him checking the two empty rooms before entering the third, the room in which he was now crouching, waiting . . .
Oliver had to do something, move somewhere else, but where? He was too high up to jump to the ground and escape. He considered a slim chance that he might lower himself, by holding onto the broken stair treads, as low as possible, then let go and drop—but the noise would attract too much attention. Plus, he’d probably break a leg and wouldn’t be able to move away quickly enough. Ozborn would have clear sight of everything below, including him. And also, Ozborn would have a clear shot too. Oliver quickly discarded that idea.
Now that Oliver had become accustomed to the dim light from the cracks in the timber and the hole in the roof, he looked around more carefully upwards. The roof looked like it might be his only chance of escape, if there was any way he could make the hole bigger and squeeze his body through and out on to its surface. But he guessed he wouldn’t be able to do that in the small amount of time he had available. Anyway, he had a fear of heights, and just the mere thought of clinging to some slippery roof tiles almost made him pass out.
But then, as he studied the roof area more thoroughly, he thought he could make out the outline of a small trapdoor in the wall, under the eaves. It was barely large enough for a human to get through, so it may only be a cupboard—but it was better than nothing. He knew that if he stayed where he was, Ozborn would certainly see him behind the stack of timber within seconds of entering the room. He believed that the trapdoor was his only chance of escape.
The trapdoor was high up on the wall, but fortunately there was a crate beneath it that might help him, Oliver thought. He decided to try it. He did his best to not make a sound, but just as he heard his pursuer coming closer, he caused the floorboards to creak, enough for Ozborn to be alerted. With only seconds to spare, he clambered up on the crate just high enough to push open the trapdoor, but its hinges had rusted with time so badly that they had firmly seized. Oliver knew that it had to budge if he was to have any chance of escape, and he pushed harder. Gradually, the door moved an inch, and then another and another, just enough for him to squeeze through.
Had Oliver remained in his spot behind the stack of timber, he would have clearly seen the two uniformed police officers entering the building, and he could have alerted Ashley and Wheatley of his whereabouts, and the whereabouts of Ozborn. But now that he was away from his viewpoint, he was oblivious to their presence, in the same way that they were oblivious to his. All they could hear was the creaking floorboards coming from somewhere up above.
At the exact moment Oliver managed to push open the trapdoor and tightly squeeze through it, Ozborn entered the landing area, catching a brief glimpse of Oliver’s body as it disappeared into the void on the other side. Without thinking, Ozborn’s instant reaction was to fire his gun. The bullet pierced the flimsy wooden wall between the landing and the void.
Down below, officers Ashley and Wheatley, on hearing the gunshot instinctively took cover while simultaneously looking upwards in the direction of the loud bang. But their view of Ozborn was obscured by the crates and stack of timber. Outside the building, Siobhan gasped and covered her mouth with both hands. Peter and David ran back and crouched on the ground behind the car. Detective Hardy kept his cool and edged his way inside the barn door, holding his Police-issue Colt revolver firmly with both hands. He insisted with a motion of the gun that Siobhan stay where she was.
The void behind the trapdoor was larger than Oliver had expected. It was more of a room than a cupboard, and at the far side there was a wall with a window, but to get to the window he would have to jump across three missing floorboards, underneath which was a fifteen-foot drop to an area directly above the building’s barn door entrance. He had to make a dash for it, so, feeling dizzy with fright, he took a run-up and leapt across the gap. As he did so, he caught a glimpse of someone below. It looked like a woman with long dark hair, but as he only saw the person for a split second, he couldn’t be sure.
Reaching the window, he tried to see if it would open. “Damn!” he muttered. It was a fixed type that had four square panes of glass, all of them broken with corners missing, making the remaining glass lethal and impossible to climb through unless he could knock the broken panes out. As he looked around for an implement he could do that with, he felt his dizziness increase. It wasn’t only through fear. Unaware that he’d been shot, he was leaving a trail of blood that oozed
from the wound in his upper right arm.
Ashley and Wheatley looked at each other when they heard the shot ring out, and courageously ran through to the other woodshed, acknowledging the presence of Detective Hardy when they noticed him for the first time. Without a thought for her own safety, Sergeant Ashley began climbing the ladder. Hardy stayed where he was and looked up, just in time to see some movement from behind the stack of timber as Ozborn moved towards the trapdoor.
“Ozborn! Stop!” Hardy shouted, with his gun poised to shoot at an unseen target. But Ozborn ignored him. By now, he could think only of silencing the boy, without considering the consequences.
Inside the void, Oliver had found a stick of wood that would enable him to break the remainder of the windowpanes. He was about to take a swipe using all his rapidly dwindling strength when Ozborn appeared at the trapdoor and peered inside. With the wood in his hand, Oliver leapt back over the missing floorboards and hit Ozborn square across the face. It was enough to daze Ozborn, but not to stop him. Siobhan, looking up in the direction from where the noise came from, moved into a position which afforded her a perfect line of sight through the hole in the ceiling at the two men above.
A semi-stunned Ozborn staggered backwards with the shock of having the stick whacked across him. Having lost all ability to think clearly and logically, as if on autopilot, he fired two shots randomly in the air, as he staggered towards the trapdoor for a further attempt at reaching Oliver.
Now very weak, Oliver looked down at the pool of blood at his side, realised he’d been wounded and willed himself not to faint. Siobhan watched in horror from below as Ozborn raised his gun again, ready to shoot at Oliver through the open trapdoor. Hardy was also standing underneath the missing floorboards with his gun poised, but his position was such that Oliver was between him and Ozborn, making it impossible to take a shot at Ozborn without risking hitting Oliver as well.
Siobhan decided that she had to do something. She had to trust her hunch that this was the same guy Yushi had referred to in his confession note. She had to shout out something that would break his concentration. “You didn’t do it!” she yelled. “You didn’t kill Sandy!”
Caught off guard, Ozborn was baffled enough to momentarily stop in his tracks and look around to ascertain where the woman’s voice had come from. Through the gap in the floorboards, he saw Siobhan. “What the hell are you talking about?” he shouted.
“You think you killed her, but it wasn’t you—it was Yakamoto all along,” she continued, playing for time.
Ozborn was surprised by what Siobhan was saying, and very confused. “Yeah, sure. I know your game,” he countered. “The little shit’s out to get me, and I may as well finish him off now. Whether I go to jail for one killing or two ain’t gonna make much difference now, at my age.”
“But, you needn’t go to jail for either killings,” shrieked Siobhan. “I’m telling you, you didn’t kill Sandy Beach—it was Yakamoto who hit her with the bike radio while you were out cold on the patio. I’ve got his confession note all on here,” she continued, waving her phone in the air, trying to look convincing. “Why don’t you drop the gun and come down peacefully?”
Just then, Ozborn heard the familiar ‘click’ sound of a gun’s safety catch being pulled back, followed by the sensation of a cold hard object being pressed against his head from behind. “Drop the gun, Ozborn,” demanded Ashley, with Sergeant Wheatley standing close by, a pair of handcuffs at the ready. Weighing up the dramatic scene as best as he could, Ozborn decided on doing what he was told, and let loose the grip on his gun. It dropped to the floor and Wheatley kicked it through the hole to land at Detective Hardy’s feet on the ground.
“Good work, you two,” Hardy called out. “Oliver, it’s safe now. You can come on down.”
Siobhan expected to see Oliver’s cheery face appear at any moment, but instead there was no answer. “Oliver!” she called out again. Still there was silence. While Wheatley proceeded to handcuff Ozborn, Ashley moved forward slightly to take a look through the trapdoor, and was met with the sight of Oliver lying still and flat across the timber floor, with a large amount of blood next to him. As the pool of blood gradually found its way through a gap in the boards, it dripped down in front of Siobhan.
“Oliver!” she cried out, hysterically.
Theresa Ashley, who was less emotionally attached and had professional training on her side, got straight on her radio that was strapped to her shoulder, and spoke calmly and concisely. “We have one male casualty, at Flatrock Creek woodsheds. Ambulance required urgently. Gunshot wound. The victim is unconscious. Copy?”
CHAPTER 44
(MONDAY, 22nd JANUARY, 2018)
Moores Shows
Remorse
P eter and David had been listening intently as best as they could. When they deemed it safe to do so, they then appeared at the shed’s barn door, furiously writing notes and taking an abundance of photographs. Remembering what Ursula had said about safety being paramount, they’d heard the proceedings and decided they could now begin doing their respective jobs on behalf of the Terre Haute Daily Times. This sure beat covering the latest ball game, or violent arguments in overcrowded shopping mall car parks, they concluded. This was a real news story. If they played their cards right, they might even be in line for next month’s journalistic awards in Chicago.
But more important than any newspaper story, was Oliver’s condition. Directly following the horrendous incident at Flatrock Creek, Siobhan and the four officers had to endure an excruciating four minutes before they could even establish whether Oliver was alive or dead. Thankfully, he was alive, but there would then follow a further 48-hours before Siobhan’s young friend would regain consciousness.
***
(TUESDAY, 23rd JANUARY, 2018)
Detective Hardy wanted to tie up the loose ends of the case, and the next day he had been working hard to extensively join all the pieces of the jigsaw together—present and past, with the help of Siobhan and the many files on Oliver’s laptop computer. The whole Bike Radio Murder story, from 1981 up to Oliver’s current-day investigations, was extremely well and cohesively documented, but there was one particular loose thread that bothered him—that of former Police Chief turned corrupt Governor, John Moores. What had happened to him? Hardy wondered. It didn’t take very long to make some enquiries and come up with the answer, and Hardy decided to take a drive north east to find out more.
Wheelchair bound, Moores now lived comfortably at the Greenacre Care Home in East Chicago, in his own palatial apartment overlooking Lake Michigan, with warden-assisted care on call 24/7. Ironically, some of his carers were of Japanese descent. During his working life he would have considered it unthinkable that he’d be allowing such people to give him a daily wash-down, let alone occasionally wipe his arse when it became necessary.
Moores had clearly been able to hang onto a lot of his ill-gotten fortune, but Hardy wasn’t interested in looking into the financial aspects of Moores’ life. He just wanted to know whether Moores had deliberately perverted the course of justice regarding Yushi Yakamoto’s case.
When Moores agreed to receive his visitor that day, George Hardy arrived at the main reception area and was taken by the warden to Moores’s apartment room, where a sad and lonely figure was sitting in his wheelchair staring out at the water. Without turning around to greet Hardy, the old man spoke with a voice that was almost inaudible. “I’ve done my research, and I know who you are, but I can only guess why you’re here. Yushi Yakamoto, yes?” Hardy nodded silently, and even though Moores wasn’t looking at him, he knew that his assumption had been correct.
“I’m tired now, Mr. Hardy. Tired of living,” continued Moores. “I doubt that I’ve got a lot of time left on this planet, and there’s little point in me pretending that I haven’t done some very bad things in the past. God only knows I’m now paying for the errors of my ways. But there’s still something I should admit to. I need to admit to. What you decide t
o do to me after I’ve told you, that’ll be up to you entirely. I won’t try to change your mind one way or the other.”
“Go on,” Hardy then encouraged. While Moores was speaking, it was clear to the detective that despite it being well documented that in the past Moores had been a racist, especially against the Japanese, it appeared that he might be leading up to a confession. Although he seemed to be exhibiting signs of genuine remorse, could it be that Moores was simply saying what he expected Hardy wanted to hear? Was it all a clever performance? Hardy couldn’t be sure, although he was certainly intrigued.
“But I don’t understand what you had against Yakamoto.” stated Hardy. “Whatever your past thoughts of foreigners might have been, hatred even, Yakamoto wasn’t even Japanese—he was born and bred in the United States. You knew that at the time, just as you were also well aware of someone else in Sandy Beach’s house at the time of her murder. That’s true, isn’t it? And yet you chose to ignore some of Doctor Copeland’s forensic evidence, as well as the neighbour’s witness statement. Yakamoto might well have been spared the needle if Ozborn’s presence at the murder scene had been taken into consideration—after all, his actions had been a contributing factor to Beach’s fate.”
This time, Moores swivelled around in his chair and looked up at Hardy. Moores’ eyes were moist. “Not a day goes by when I don’t think about that. I did bad, I know that—but my feeling against all foreigners back then was so strong, and especially the Japanese on account of what they did to my poor father. I accept now that I was wrong, but at the time I couldn’t help it—the hatred and contempt I felt was so ingrained. Thankfully, I’m a reformed man now, Mr. Hardy, although I don’t expect you to believe me, even though it is the truth. But I’m afraid I did even worse than ignore evidence or witness statements—I’m only glad that things didn’t work out the way I’d planned.”
