Ray Elkins mystery - 02 - Color Tour

by Aaron Stander

  37

  Ray, weary and dispirited, drifted away from the blackened masonry skeleton of the duplex. His eyes burned and the stench from the blaze hung on his clothing, skin, and hair. He coughed, his throat sore from inhaling the smoke. He walked slowly down the curving drive. A predawn quiet had settled over the school. Walking past the dormitories, dark buildings in pools of soft light, he wondered how the students would handle this newest tragedy. Lost in thought, Ray was caught unaware by the sudden appearance of Sarah James at his side.

  “I didn’t mean to startle you,” said Sarah.

  “I was in my own world. I didn’t see you,” he explained. “Want some coffee?” she asked.

  Ray did not respond right away. Finally he said, “Sure.” They walked to Sarah’s cottage in silence. Entering, she switched on the lights and led him into the kitchen. “Decaf or regular?” she asked, turning toward him.

  “Regular,” he responded. “If that’s what you’re going to have.”

  She looked over at the clock. “It’s almost morning, might as well.”

  Ray visually inspected the kitchen and adjoining living room. There was a comfortable feel to the place; the furniture and other interior decorations were harmonious in color and design—lots of wood and earth tones. He brought his attention back to Sarah. She looked tired, worn, and fragile.

  He dropped his coat over a kitchen chair and watched in silence as Sarah placed a filter in the machine, scooped coffee from a bag into the filter, and poured water into the reservoir. She touched the on button and moved toward him.

  “Tell me about Medford—from your perspective,” he asked.

  She didn’t respond immediately. Finally she said, “I only knew her on the edges; she was a very private person. She was often difficult, reluctant to accept any changes. But she was a terrific artist, and the kids adored her. And this fire… ” Sarah put her arms around Ray, “Please hold me.”

  He wrapped his arms around her and felt her puddle into his body. He felt her sob for many minutes, then slowly regain control. He continued to hold her close.

  “I’ll get us some coffee,” she said, sliding from his arms. “Want anything in yours?”

  “No.”

  Sarah poured the steaming mahogany liquid into two delicate cups, and placing them on matching saucers, carried them to a coffee table in front of the couch. She settled next to him, then moved into his arms. Ray held her close and felt her soften. Once again he became aware of his own fatigue. His eyelids were heavy; he’d been awake for almost twenty-four hours.

  When he opened his eyes again, he could see daylight at the edges of the blinds. He felt her jump as he moved. She looked up at him and said, “We must have fallen asleep.”

  She kissed him gently on the lips and slowly stood. “I’ll make some fresh coffee,” she said. Ray found the bathroom and tried to wash the sleep from his eyes. When he joined Sarah in the kitchen the coffee was brewing and a plate of buttered toast was on the counter. Ray peered out of the kitchen window at the heavy fog and the gray dawn.

  “Thank you for staying.” She came to his side, setting a cup on the counter next to Ray and sliding her arms around him. He held back briefly and then enfolded her in a tight embrace for a long moment. The chirping of his cell phone intruded into the scene.

  “Must you answer?” she asked.

  “I better,” he responded, letting her slip from his arms. He pulled the phone from his jacket pocket. “Elkins,” he said into the mouthpiece.

  “Found your car, but I couldn’t find you,” said Sue Lawrence.

  “I’m having coffee,” he responded.

  “Arson inspector is here, and Dr. Dyskin is on his way. As soon as it gets a little lighter they’ll be getting started.”

  “Good,” said Ray. “Let’s keep a wide perimeter on the area until the body is removed. I don’t want any of the students to see what’s happening. There’s been enough chaos in their lives already.”

  “Yes,” came the response.

  “I’ll be there in a few minutes.” He closed the phone and picked up the coffee, carefully sipping the steaming brew.

  38

  As Ray walked up the road toward Devonshire Cottage, Dr. Dyskin, going in the other direction in his ponderous, rusting Lincoln, slowed to a stop and lowered his window. “Elkins,” he initiated before Ray could say anything, “can’t tell you anything. The body is too badly damaged. The autopsy might provide some useful information.” He looked over at Ray. “Get some sleep, you look like hell,” he added, before continuing on his way.

  Mike Ogden, the arson investigator, was standing with Fire Chief Bernie Rathman near the front of the cottage running through incident indicators, a checklist that would help focus the investigation and explore the possibility of arson.

  Ogden, thirty-something, was dressed in a dark-blue jumpsuit and heavy boots. Rust-colored sideburns framed his freckled face, and the brim of his hard hat hid most of his forehead. He acknowledged Ray’s presence with a handshake and a quick smile and continued with his questions, recording Bernie’s responses on a clipboard.

  “So, as far as you could tell, were the doors and windows locked when you arrived on the scene?” Ogden asked.

  “Yes,” Bernie responded. “Front door was locked. We had to knock the front door off its hinges. It musta been solid oak. Same story with the side entrance. I can’t tell you about the back unit. Our attention was on the occupied side of the duplex. Things in back were pretty burned away before we got to them.”

  As the questioning continued, Ray drifted away and slowly circled the perimeter of the burned-out dwelling. The upper portions of the oak trees near the building were charred, leaves and small twigs burned away, only the trunks and primary branches remained. He climbed a small knoll on the north side of the building and looked down on the four exterior walls—black walls faced with cut stone. The acrid smell of death and destruction clung to the air.

  As Ray watched, Ogden carefully photographed the building’s exterior. Then he moved inside, shooting the interior sectionby-section, including the body. Ogden worked the area a second time, collecting and labeling ash samples in small glass containers. At his direction, the corpse was bagged and removed. Ray and Sue, following the protocol that exists between the police and fire personnel, waited as Bernie’s crew and the arson investigator completed their work.

  Finally Ogden emerged from the building and carried his gear to the back of his vehicle.

  “What did you find?” Ray asked, after walking to his side.

  “Come and have a look.” Ogden led the way. Bernie and Sue joined Ray in the procession.

  Although Ray had been in burned-out buildings many times, he was surprised by the extent of the destruction. And since he had recently visited the cottage, the scene was even more startling. Nothing of the interior—save the distorted skeletons of metal objects and some broken crockery and glassware—remained. The art, furniture, and books, all the things that reflected the life of Janet Medford, were in ashes. The temperatures in the masonry clad building had been particularly intense; the destruction was nearly complete. They moved from room to room, completing the tour in what had once been the small kitchen. Ogden pointed to a frying pan amongst the debris on the floor near the stove, only a bolt remained where a wooden handle was once attached.

  “Might have been something as simple as that,” said Ogden looking at the pan. “Happens all the time. Someone starts heating some oil in a pan and then gets distracted, the phone rings or they wander off and look at the TV. Before you know it, you’ve got a grease fire.”

  “But you’d run out of the building and call 911,” offered Ray.

  Ogden gave Ray a boyish smile. “True.” He pointed to the controls on the soot-blackened stove. The plastic knobs had melted away. “Look at these three,” he said, “they’re all in the off position. But this last one, one of the back burners, was in an on position. Unless the knob was hit by something falling
before it disintegrated, the burner was probably on.”

  They walked out of the kitchen door and away from the building. Standing on a small rise, the group looked back at the masonry skeleton of the building.

  “The frying pan, you think that’s the source of the fire?” asked Bernie.

  “Might be,” said Ogden. “But then, why didn’t the victim get out of the building? Did she have a heart attack or stroke?” “She was a heavy drinker,” offered Ray, “perhaps that played a role.”

  “Was she a smoker?” Ogden probed.

  “Yes,” responded Ray.

  “There’s another possibility,” said Ogden. “Do you know how many fires are started by drunks that fall asleep with a lit cigarette in their hand? Lots,” he said, answering his own question. “The victim, any chance someone wanted her dead?” asked Ogden.

  Ray explained that the woman who occupied the other half of the duplex, Ashleigh Allen, had recently been murdered. He also told Ogden that some evidence was being stored in her side of the duplex.

  “The couple killed on the beach?” Ogden asked. “Yes,” said Ray.

  “How does Medford fit with the murder investigation?” “She’s a teacher here at the school, and she shared the building with the victim. I interviewed her a few days ago. I wanted to know if she had seen or heard anything that might be useful.”

  “Get anything from her?” Ogden asked.

  “Not much. And I doubt that she knew anything that would have put her in any danger.” Ray hesitated for a long moment and then said, “She did provide a possible suspect with an alibi. Is there anything suspicious here?”

  Ogden pulled off his hardhat and ran his hand over his thick brown hair. After repositioning his hat he said, “Well, as you can see, the damage is so complete that the obvious kinds of things we find in many suspicious fires aren’t here. I’ve collected a lot ofsamples, and we’ll test them for traces of accelerants. If we find some, there’s a case for arson. But if the fire was started in another way, even if it was a criminal act, I may be hard pressed to prove it. Any of these prep school kids got pyromaniac tendencies?” he asked with a chuckle.

  “That one hasn’t come up yet,” Ray responded with a smile. Ogden looked at Bernie. “When you arrived on the scene, were both sides of the duplex engaged?”

  “Yes. That’s the way it looked. I was on this side with the pumper. I didn’t really get to the other side until the fire was under control.”

  The group carefully moved into the area that had been Allen’s apartment. Little remained.

  After a few minutes Ogden asked, “You were storing some evidence here?”

  “Sue Lawrence and I had gone through the murder victim’s apartment quite thoroughly,” Ray explained, “but it was nice to know that we could come back here again if we thought there was something more to be learned.”

  “I’m sort of done here,” said Ogden as they exited the building. Looking at Ray, he continued. “Last time you dragged me halfway across the state in the wee hours, you took me to some great little bakery for coffee and chocolate croissants.”

  “Anything for interagency relations,” Ray responded. “I trust the pastries will move this investigation to the front of the line.” “Absolutely,” agreed Ogden with a bright smile. Ray looked at the Sue and Bernie. “We’ll continue this discussion at Le Patisserie. And I’m buying.”

  39

  The sun was already low on the horizon when Ray pulled off the county road and headed west on Burnt Mill Trail. He pulled the visor down to escape the glare and fished for his sunglasses in the glove box. Ray felt exhausted and discouraged as he pulled into the parking lot near the Lake Michigan shore. Sand blown off the dunes during the last storm covered much of the blacktop, and piles of damp leaves had collected in low spots at the edges of the pavement. He climbed out of his vehicle and followed the path that led over the dunes to the beach.

  For several minutes, he sat on the knoll at the top of the trail and watched the waves, focusing on the water stretching to the horizon, the ominous play of light in the thin clouds as the sun dropped toward the melancholy gray swell, the gulls riding the wind out over the treacherous rollers.

  It had been weeks since Ray had been in his kayak on Lake Michigan, the place where he felt most in tune with the natural world and the most at ease. And he had picked this particular strip of sand and water to paddle because it was the area where the murders had been committed. He wanted to see the scene from another perspective: he was hoping that some new insight would put him on the track of the killer.

  Ray walked back to his Jeep and changed clothes in the empty lot—shedding his uniform and pulling on paddling shorts, a neoprene Farmer John, and a neoprene top. He added a heavy fleece jacket and a dry-top—a waterproof anorak with rubber gaskets at the neck and wrists. He slipped into a neoprene spray skirt and then zipped on his life jacket. And last he added a thick rubber hood to keep his head warm if he accidentally capsized or decided to practice doing some Eskimo rolls.

  After undoing the tie-down straps, Ray lifted his kayak from the rack and carefully set it on a patch of grass. He secured a hydration pack, his cell phone protected in a waterproof pouch, and some neoprene mittens under the bungee cords on top of the deck at the front of the cockpit. Ray looked up at the darkening sky as he carried the boat and paddle to the beach. He checked his watch, noting that little more than an hour of daylight remained.

  The rollers were surging high onto the beach as he pushed the bow into the waves. With the stern still resting on the sand, he slid into the snug cockpit and pulled the tight-fitting neoprene spray skirt around the cockpit coaming, checking that it was securely attached. Then he pulled on the thick black neoprene mittens. Ray was now one with the boat, a watertight unit ready for the challenging conditions.

  Pushing against the sand with his hands, he lifted the stern and propelled the light craft forward into the breaking waves. Ray fought his way through the surf zone—paddling hard and bracing at times to avoid capsizing—and then headed for deep water. He wanted to get out far enough to view the whole scene, the shoreline, the steep dunes, and the plateau above.

  Once he had passed the second sand bar, he paddled parallel to the beach. He could see the bluish-white yard light at Nora Jennings’ cottage; the few other houses up on the dunes were dark and empty.

  As he paddled, he settled into the rhythm of the waves, slowly moving through the water, his attention focused on the beach of the murder. Ashleigh’s face flashed across his mind; he was sure he had seen her before, perhaps in the IGA, at Art’s, or the Friendly Tavern. He mentally reviewed the scene again and the limited evidence they had gathered. He considered the people he and Sue had interviewed: Ian Warrington, his wife Helen, Sarah James, Janet Medford, Kim Vedder, and Alan Quertermous. He considered the possible motives. Then his thoughts drifted to the Medford fire.

  Ray paddled farther than he had planned, past the end of the dunes, into the bay beyond. Daylight was fading into a purple-blue dusk as he turned the craft and started back toward the beach. He pointed the craft straight into the wind until he rounded the stark headland and turned south. Nora’s light would help him find his way back if necessary. He paddled closer to the beach, his eyes reviewing the murder scene in the reduced light. He held his paddle in a low brace position and rode the waves, thinking, looking for patterns, links in the bits of evidence and information they had gathered. What did they add up to? Who possessed the wrath needed for these crimes?

  The brighter stars began to emerge in the twilight. Ray bobbed in his kayak, scanning the sky for Orion’s belt.

  Suddenly Ray’s hydration pack exploded. It took Ray several seconds to comprehend what had happened. He lifted his paddle, and the shaft between his two hands splintered. Instantly he understood. Someone was trying to kill him.

  Filling his lungs completely, he rolled the boat to the right, away from the beach, toward the deep water, and capsized. He groped for the loop
on the spray skirt in the dark water, finally pulling it free from the coaming. He held the sides of the cockpit and started to slide out of the boat. He felt the concussion of the next shot, and then the burning in his right leg just before he pulled free from the kayak.

  Ray stayed below the boat and waited; there were several additional thuds as bullets smashed through the sides of the boat. He hung below the capsized craft, occasionally pulling his head into the cockpit to get a couple of quick breaths. He expected the shooter to put a few rounds into the bulkheads, the watertight chambers in the bow and stern that kept the kayak afloat, but it never happened. His eyes slowly adjusted to the dull light of the water and the near-blackness of the cockpit.

  Ray felt the water seeping into his wetsuit, at first very cold, then slowly warming as it absorbed his body heat. He felt a numbing pain in his leg. He needed to explore the wound, but didn’t want to change his grip on the boat. He wanted the shooter to think that he had been hit, mortally wounded, and was hanging inverted in the overturned boat, held in by the spray skirt.

  He worked the cell phone free and carefully lifted it up into the blackness of the capsized cockpit. Through the plastic cover he pressed the keypad, hoping for the light to come on. If he could just key 911, they would trace the call’s location. He pushed buttons, but the keypad remained dark. He slid his fingers along the case until he found a tear. The bag was flooded. His spirits dropped. His situation was desperate.

  Ray tried to calm down, carefully breathing in and telling himself to consider his options. First, how bad was his leg? He hooked the front of the cockpit with his left arm and cautiously explored his right calf below the knee. He felt the gash in the wet suit halfway to his ankle. Pushing a finger into the hole, he felt the sharp ends of shattered bone.

  Stay calm, he told himself. He practice a breathing exercise he had learned in a yoga class. His tibia was shattered, but the bleeding was probably minimal. Cold, that was the real danger. He was just beginning to shiver—the earliest stage of hypothermia. He knew his condition would rapidly deteriorate, both physically and cognitively. How much time? he wondered. How much time? Was he going into shock? Was the shooter waiting? Would he want to see his kill?