by Sue Henry
“I’m a pushover for sausage. I’ll be down, but not too early. You should get some sleep.”
“You, too.”
In less than five minutes, she had followed his advice—after sliding her improvised locks into place on both doors and propping the shotgun once again beside the bed.
18
“I can’t tell her any more than I already have,” Jensen replied with irritation the next morning to Caswell’s suggestion. “Besides, if I talk about it over the cell phone, I could give away too much of our investigation, let the bastard—if he’s listening—know that we’ve got some leads. He’d be able to make it harder for us or disappear. But I really don’t like the idea that there’s someone else down there on that island with her. Haven’t talked to her yet today; the storm’s screwed up the phone.”
“Give it a little time. Maybe it’ll clear. She’s right, you know,” Ben cautioned. “It was probably someone totally unrelated to any of this—someone who never even knew she was there—who’s gone now. How could it have been our guy, when he was here trashing the inside of your place?”
“I know. Dammit. But that doesn’t make me any happier.”
“What’ll make you happier is to catch this creep. So let’s get on it. You want me to check on Moule? Call his probation officer?”
“Yes, thanks. I want to know where he is and what he’s doing—exactly.”
“I’m on it.”
“Yesterday didn’t net us much. I still want to find out about Collins—where she is and what she’s up to. I’ll get in touch with Nancy Stilton, the woman who’s living in Collins’s old apartment. Maybe she knows something that will help, but probably not—since she moved in after Collins was gone.”
“Department of Motor Vehicles? She doesn’t seem the type to be registered to vote.”
“Right. Work I can do on the telephone. Let’s get at it.”
A few minutes later, Alex put down the telephone with a frown and a shake of his head, the result of a trail gone cold. Nancy Stilton, as he had anticipated, knew nothing at all about Mary Lou Collins, except that there had been at least two other tenants in the apartment before she moved in with her children.
He called the DMV, but there was no record of an automobile of any kind registered in Collins’s name.
“Doesn’t mean she doesn’t have one—just that it’s not registered, or belongs to someone else. In any case, it won’t help us with an address,” he told Caswell, who was waiting with a troubled expression when he hung up again.
“I told John McIntire we’d come in to see him in about an hour,” Ben said. “I think we’d better go talk to him about Moule. There’s some complicated stuff going on with this guy. It seems he didn’t learn much in jail.”
“Yeah?”
“Let McIntire tell you, okay? I’d rather you heard it from him. He’s got all the details.”
“Sure. Let’s go. Anchorage, I assume?”
Ben nodded. “Afterwards, we might as well stop in the lab and see if Timmons learned anything from what the team turned in on your house and that place in the trees behind the dog lot.”
Heading for Jensen’s truck, they met Phil Becker coming in.
“Hey, where you off to?”
“Moule’s parole officer in Anchorage.”
“Got anything for me to do while you’re gone?”
“Yes, actually. I struck out on Collins. Stilton—you know, the one with the kids—didn’t know a thing. DMV has nothing. See what you can come up with in tracking her down, would you, Phil? I’m not giving up on that one. She’s got a nasty attitude—could be a real grudge-holder.”
“Absolutely. I’ll get right on it. File on your desk?”
“Yes. There were some character witnesses in that case. You might see if you can contact any of them.”
“Right.”
John McIntire looked about the way Jensen expected. His carrot-red hair was combed neatly back from receding temples as freckled as the rest of his face and arms. Eyes as blue as a Celtic sea met Alex’s with a welcoming grin as he rose from behind his desk to offer a hand to each of the two troopers. Two creases of concern reasserted themselves between his eyebrows as he sat back down, after offering them chairs and coffee from a pot that filled the small room with a rich irresistible aroma.
“My primary indulgence,” he told them, pouring three generous mugs full and taking his own back to the desk, which was covered with files and papers. “You want to know about J.B. Moule, right?”
“Right,” Caswell agreed. “Just tell us what you started to tell me on the phone, please, John.”
“Yes, well…” He glanced down at an open file and frowned more deeply as he studied it. “James Robert ‘J.B.’ Moule. You already know his trial history, so I’ll skip that. You were involved in that arrest, Sergeant Jensen?”
“Yes. The assault took place in a Palmer trailer court—a disagreement over a six-pack of beer that Moule started to walk away with after an afternoon of drinking. The guy who rented the mobile home—shack, really—objected and was attacked. He was the friend of a supposed buddy of Moule’s—also a part of the drinking party—who called us and the ambulance. They were all drunk, and Moule has a record of violence, especially when he drinks.”
“That seems to be the pattern—and from his attitude, I don’t think it’ll be long until he’s back inside.”
“Nothing changed?”
“Worse, if anything, but he’s not as dumb as he used to be. He learns quickly—just the wrong things. Time inside just made him colder, more cautious—and slick. He’s walking a very narrow line and, so far, getting away with it, but only because he’s being very careful and very clever.
“He reports to me regularly, does exactly what he’s supposed to do—spent some time in a halfway house when he got out and made no specific trouble there—you know, best behavior? But he’s the type who says just what you want to hear—sneers at you while he mouths all the right words. To be honest, not many of them bother me, but he makes my skin crawl. Has the eyes of a predator—watches you the way a cat watches a mouse, waiting to see if you’re going to drop your guard and give him an opening to pounce and gobble you up, or anyone who gets in his way. I’d love to put him back inside, but he gives away nothing we can use. And he knows it.”
“What’s he doing for work? Where’s he living?” Jensen asked.
“Well, it’s hard to imagine, but he’s living with his father—another piece of the game he’s playing, I imagine. His old man probably abused him as a kid—knocked him around, but seems to have the patience of Job now. The rest of the family won’t have anything to do with him—wouldn’t, even before his conviction—and his sister testified against him. She’s left the state with no forwarding address. Can’t say I blame her, single mother with two small kids to think about. But his dad just won’t give up, and it can’t be easy—calls me every so often for advice, and I haven’t much to give him. I think J.B. is staying with him for the time being just to keep us off his back—make it look good on the surface.
“He’s been working construction all summer—got out last spring. Couple of arguments with co-workers, according to his boss, but nothing we could pin down. After one incident, the other man involved in the disagreement was seriously injured in an accident on his way home from work—something to do with the brakes—but no one could prove Moule had anything to do with it.”
“Brakes?” Jensen straightened in his chair and cast a narrow-eyed look at Caswell.
“Yeah. They went out, he couldn’t stop and wound up in an intersection where a van plowed into his side of the car. Paramedics resuscitated him twice on the way to the hospital, and he made it. He’s on permanent disability—lost his left arm.”
“Were the brakes tampered with?”
“Not so anyone could positively tell, and there wasn’t even a prayer of incriminating Moule—lot of suspicion, no evidence.”
“Anything else?”
“Not since h
e got out.”
“But there was that nasty incident on the inside,” Caswell spoke up. “The other thing I wanted you to hear. Go ahead, John.”
“Moule did his time in Seward at Spring Creek. He was part of one of those small gangs of prison bullies; no surprise, given his temper and inclinations. There was a kid, not quite twenty years old, doing a deuce for auto theft—wasn’t a bad kid, just decided to run away from home, but made the mistake of ‘borrowing’ a neighbor’s car to do it. They caught him at the border, heading for Canada and the Lower Forty-eight. Somehow, though nobody could prove it, at Spring Creek he got sideways of Moule and company. Next thing, he was found bleeding in the shop, with a couple of dents in his head.”
“And nothing to implicate Moule?”
“That’s what I mean when I say slick. Everyone knew he was responsible, but there wasn’t one solid thing to stick him with; no less than a dozen other guys had been there at the same time, and of course no one was talking—not a word. Some cons even make other cons cautious. They had to let it go—a vicious, calculated assault and he got away with it. Makes me want to puke. Also makes me very careful how I deal with him. I got a wife and three kids—one in college.”
“And the boy he assaulted?”
“Brain-damaged. They’re maybe going to teach him to count—after he learns to talk—but he never will.”
A silence fell over the room, into which McIntire dropped small sounds as he refilled their coffee mugs. After a long minute, Alex shifted in his chair.
“We’ll need his residence and work addresses. I think this one we follow up on now. Keep your fingers crossed, John, and maybe we can get you enough to get rid of Moule for a long, long time.”
“I won’t ask what, but I guess you know about how much that would hurt my feelings.”
“Give us information on the kid he hurt, too,” Caswell said.
“Michael Wynne. He doesn’t even remember who he is.”
“That’s okay. Just putting a finger in every dike.”
“His family’s pretty bitter—with good reason, I think. Tried to sue, but got nowhere with it. Take it easy on them, okay?”
“I think that if they understand we’re on their side, it’ll be all right. Might even give them a little something positive, if we can get him.”
“Yeah, you’re probably right.”
“Well, here’s Tweedle-Dee and Tweedle-Dum. I kinda thought you two might come rolling in sometime soon.”
Hearing his name mentioned, Assistant Coroner John Timmons had whipped his wheelchair around a corner in the crime lab and was grinning at Jensen and Caswell, who had just asked for him.
“Hey, you’re the one who does the rolling, remember? We just plod along.”
“Sure…sure, Alex. How’s Jessie doing? You got her well stashed?”
“You better believe it. Nobody knows where—and nobody will.”
“Good…good.”
Alex knew Timmons meant it, but he seemed slightly distracted.
“Listen. I’ve got a couple things for you, but neither amounts to much. Nothing you can use to establish a suspect, but maybe to identify somebody you’ve got an eye on. Come on back.”
They followed him into the heart of the lab, past people busily working on cases: an artist working with a witness on a computer sketch for identification, a patient technician putting together shards of window glass that were laid out on a table top like a giant jigsaw puzzle, and, as they passed the door, the muffled sound of a shot from an adjoining room, where a tank of water stopped a bullet for use in matching others collected from some crime.
Timmons, as an assistant coroner, was primarily concerned with autopsies and the bodies of victims of violent crime. But his interests did not confine themselves to that field alone. He was a tinkerer and, whenever possible, tended to watch and learn from other experts in the lab and elsewhere. Through the years he had picked up a host of talents that reached into many areas of criminal investigation. Coupled with infinite patience, his knowledge helped to wring useful facts from the details of many cases.
“The dirt on those traps you brought in?” he reminded them. “Well, I kept at it, and there’s one thing I think you should know. The basic soil matches, and I’m all but positive that it came from the valley.”
By the valley, he meant the Matanuska Valley, northeast of Anchorage, that held the towns of Palmer and Wasilla and the community of Knik.
“But it also has chemical traces of conifer wood ash. Now, the Miller’s Reach fire burned half of everything out there last year and put that kind of wood ash into the soil for miles around, but the concentration was heaviest in just a few places in the area, where more of it drifted and fell. Knik Road is one of them.”
“So it shows what we already know—that it was in the dog lot?”
“Yes, but that doesn’t help much. We know it was there. There’s another thing—well, several things, but one that may count, since you won’t find it on Knik Road—cement dust.”
“Cement dust.”
“Yes. Seems an unusual thing to find on an animal trap, because it wouldn’t ordinarily be found where one would be used. Must have come from where it was kept or transported.”
“Doesn’t tell us much—could be anywhere.”
“True. Didn’t I just say it wouldn’t net you a new suspect? But if you find one who lives around cement of some kind…”
“Right. I see. You said you had a couple of things?”
“Here.”
Timmons waved a hand at a nearby table, indicating several numbered plaster casts which Jensen recognized as the boot prints that had been found in the brush at the back of the dog lot at the cabin.
“Now, I’ve tried my best to duplicate the odd pressure that made this print. This is the original, by the way,” he said as he handed one to Alex. “These other four are my own attempts—in the order I made them, with the same type boots.”
The four all looked remarkably similar. Caswell shook his head and turned to Timmons.
“Okay, I give. Let us in on it, John.”
“Look carefully. The only two that come close to matching that pressure are the third and fourth ones. Do you see why?”
Jensen took a long look and made a guess at the slight difference he saw.
“They all appear to have had the weight distributed, like the search team said, to the inside, as if the person who wore them was knock-kneed. But the original and those other two look deeper in the middle of the print.”
“You’ve got it. Ever see a foot shaped to make a deeper impression in the middle?”
“No. That’s where the arch holds it away from the ground.”
“Exactly. The only way I could get the third one was to have a much smaller person wear the boot, so the ball of their foot was positioned in the middle. But, being much smaller, the foot tended to slide around in the boot if they walked, making prints with inconsistent pressure.
“To make the fourth—the one that worked—I had a person with a foot too big for the boot put it on, but it would only go on partway, so they were walking almost on their toes—at least on the ball of the foot. The heel of the foot would not touch the bottom of the boot at all; only the heel and toe of the boot itself were making a print as they came in contact with the ground, but the ball of the person’s extended foot put pressure in the middle of the print, creating that odd, deeper spot.”
Jensen nodded slowly, still intent on examining the results of the experiment.
“Good work, John,” he said finally. “The way your mind works is amazing. But what does it mean?”
Caswell cleared his throat and frowned as he reluctantly gave Alex one possible, if unwelcome, answer to his question.
“You were wondering if there could be more than one person involved. If there is, one of them has feet bigger than the boots that made that print.”
19
Caswell followed Jensen from the lab and paused as Alex stopped in the
parking lot, thinking hard.
“You know, that cement dust on the traps could fit right in with Moule’s construction job. I’d like to know exactly where he’s working and if it has anything to do with concrete.”
“Good thought. Should we take a run to the address McIntire gave us?”
“I think it’s more than in order. I want to see that construction site, talk to the foreman, and get a look at Moule.”
The construction site in south Anchorage was loaded with cement. It seemed to Alex that the condominium that was nearing completion a few blocks from the shopping district at the intersection of Dimond Boulevard and the Old Seward Highway was being built of nothing but concrete. He was already collecting a few samples for Timmons when a heavyset man in a yellow hard hat walked out of a portable office and across the yard to investigate the presence of the two strangers poking around his site.
“Help you with something?” he asked, tucking the thumbs of his beefy hands into his belt, a frown of curiosity and confrontation beetling his heavy brows.
Jensen presented identification, introduced himself and Caswell, and learned in exchange that he was speaking to the foreman of the project, Al Peters.
“We’re working a case that may have something to do with this site,” he explained. “You have a J. B. Moule working here?”
The frown deepened. Peters sighed, glanced down past his beer belly to the toes of his scarred, cement-splashed leather boots, then back up at the trooper, and sucked his front teeth.
“Yeah—against my better judgment—but he didn’t show for work this morning, so I can always hope that he’s quit. What’s he done now?”
“I understand from his parole officer that you’ve had trouble with his aggressive behavior.”
“You could call it trouble. I’d probably use stronger language. Couldn’t prove anything—not enough to fire him. He’s a real piece of work, a real bone-deep mean bastard. Most of my crew leaves him strictly alone—walks wide circles around him.”
“Tell us about it.”
The essentials of the description of Moule’s confrontations with his co-workers matched what John McIntire had told them earlier, except that Peters labeled them fights, not arguments.
