Chapter 21
Rick Dawley is a large man, though not particularly tall (he is just over five-feet, ten-inches), carrying the bulk of one several inches taller. He’s been a cop in Roscoe for about five years. Before that, he was Military Police in the Army for four years, serving in Iraq following graduation from the University of Colorado. He’s got a wife, Tara Jean, and a cute little boy named Kyle. It’s because of them that he’s here in Roscoe—also, because there’s no work for ex-military (or anybody else, for that matter) in the little town of two hundred residents that Rick called home, back in rural Colorado.
Tonight, he’s working the “graveyard shift,” patrolling the various stretches of country road surrounding Roscoe, and checking security on the few business establishments that dot the little town.
It’s just past two in the morning when he passes the WLUV radio station up on Bear Spring Mountain Road. He notices a car parked in the front of the parking lot, and upon further inspection, spots another vehicle, tucked in tight behind the building, hidden out of sight of the road.
That’s odd, he thinks. The radio station goes off the air at midnight, yet here it is two hours later, and not one, but two cars are parked on the premises. I better take a look. He pulls his vehicle alongside the first car, a red VW Jetta, and reads the familiar license plate belonging to the local disc jockey, Bryce Wilson, advertising BRC@NITE. That’s a relief, he thinks. The other vehicle is a beat up white Honda CRV, with a Walton High School parking decal on the windshield. Rick chuckles to himself. Everyone within receiving distance of the little FM station is familiar with Bryce’s penchant for fooling with high school girls, and Rick figures that’s probably what’s going on now. For a split second, he’s a bit envious, picturing Bryce and one of the local “hotties” entwined within the darkened edifice. Then another image enters his mind, one of the skeletal remains found clinging to a rock in Cathy’s Creek, and he slams the shifter into park and reaches for the large Maglite flashlight mounted alongside the console.
Closing the vehicle’s door silently, Rick makes his way cautiously toward the side door of the station. As he reaches the door, his military training kicks in, and he carefully withdraws his service revolver from the holster on his belt. Peering through the small window next to the door, he can see that the interior is pitch black. He shines the flashlight’s high intensity beam through the glass, swiveling it left and right, but nothing appears out of order. He tries the door handle, and is surprised to find it unlocked. Suddenly, a movement off to his right catches his attention, and he whirls toward its source, the white CRV.
“Son of a bitch,” he murmurs, then stifles a laugh with the back of the hand holding the flashlight, causing its beam to bounce crazily among the treetops. Over behind the building, the white Honda is bouncing up and down like a Mexican Chevy on a Tijuana street, and the windows are so fogged up that it’s impossible to see inside. Rick decides to have a little fun. With the flashlight pointed at the ground, he tiptoes alongside the driver’s side of the car. He raps his revolver sharply against the window; yanks open the door, and directs the flashlight’s beam inside the vehicle, toward the back seat.
“What the hell?” yells Bryce. He struggles to sit up and tries to pull his tattered blue jeans up over his naked lower body. At the same time, his female companion, a shapely blond with enormous breasts, crosses her arms over her torso, in a weak attempt at modesty. Much to Rick’s embarrassment, her efforts are insufficient to the task, and he catches a glimpse of two dark nipples, poking out on either side of the girl’s arms. He instinctively turns away, shutting off the flashlight at the same time. “Get your clothes on; both of you,” he says. “And, when you’re dressed, I want to talk to you, Mr. Wilson.” He closes the car door, inserts his revolver back into its holster, and walks slowly to his vehicle.
Standing with his back against the patrol car, Rick looks up at the night sky, then closes his eyes and listens to the muffled noises coming from the Honda. After several minutes, the two occupants exit from opposite sides of the little car, and slowly make their way toward the police vehicle, muttering foul epithets at one another.
The girl is young; just how young is another matter. “Let’s see some ID, Miss,” says Rick. Glancing at Bryce, he shakes his head disapprovingly and extends his hand. “You, too, asshole.”
“But—”
“And make it snappy. I don’t have all night.”
The girl’s driver’s license identifies her as Charity Holmes. Her DOB makes her forty-seven days past the age of consent. She’s legal, but barely. Rick gives the disc jockey’s ID a fast once-over, but doesn’t return it quite yet. He walks around the Jetta, looking for a violation. Anything at all. He’d like to write him a summons, but can’t find anything out of order. He tosses Bryce’s license at him without warning, hitting him in his chest. “You realize I could write up the two of you for public lewdness?” says Rick. He won’t of course.
“Aw come on, officer,” says the girl. “You know this is private property. Besides, weren’t you ever young once?”
“Sure,” says Rick. Then, looking pointedly at Bryce, he adds “And so was he—once. Do your parents know where you are, young lady?”
“Well…”
“That’s what I thought. Maybe we should give them a call. I’m sure they would be quite interested to know that their daughter is out at two in the morning with a man old enough to be her father.”
“Now, wait just a minute,” says Bryce. “If you think that you can—”
“No, you wait a minute, Mister Disc Jockey. This isn’t the first time you’ve been warned about this. Either lay off the high school girls or I’ll make it my business to catch you doing something—anything—that I can write you up for. Do we understand each other?”
Bryce starts to object, but thinks better of it. “Yeah, yeah,” he says. “I get it. No problem. Beat it, Charity.”
“You beat it,” says Rick to Bryce. “Oh, by the way, the door to the studio is unlocked. We wouldn’t want anyone breaking into your office now, would we?”
“No. Thanks.”
“Don’t mention it.”
After Bryce leaves, Rick asks the girl to sit in the patrol car for a minute.
“I know you think this is no big deal,” he says to the girl. Charity shrugs her shoulders.“But, the fact is that a young girl—probably around your age—was murdered not that far from here. And, not that long ago. I wouldn’t want to see you end up like her.”
“Wha—”
“And I’m not saying Bryce would do something like that, but—”
“Bryce? Gimme a break. He’s harmless.”
“That’s what they thought about Ted Bundy,” answers Rick.
“Ted who?”
“You know, Ted Bundy. He was a serial killer in Florida.” Rick can see that the girl hasn’t the faintest idea what he’s talking about. “Look, the point is that it’s not safe to be out like this. Besides, you’ve got your whole life ahead of you. Why do you want to go getting mixed up with a jerk like Wilson?”
“Have you taken a good look at the boys in my high school?” asks Charity with a laugh.
“I see your point. But, seriously, be careful, okay?”
The girl nods her head in agreement. “Can I go now?” she asks.
Rick sighs. “You can go now,” he replies. “But, be careful.”
“I will.”
Five minutes after the girl pulls her Honda out of the parking lot, Rick sits quietly in his car, thinking what if Bryce isn’t so harmless; what if he has a dark side—like Bundy? What if…
The rest of the night passes by uneventfully, and Rick puts Charity—and Bryce Wilson—out of his mind.
Chapter 22
“Matt, it’s Harold. I think we need to talk. When’s a good time?” The voice on the other end of the phone line belongs to Mayor Swenson. Good old Harold. Short, sweet, and to the point – that’s Harold. And it’s obvious from his tone th
at something is bothering the hell out of him.
“What’s the problem, Harold? Did Walker give you another parking ticket?” I know I shouldn’t do it, but I just love twisting the knife just a little bit. Besides, he’s a big boy; he’ll get over it. Judging by the growing silence on the other end of the line, it’s obvious he’s decided not to dignify my parking ticket remark. “Now is just fine, Harold. What’s up?”
“Some of the boys on the council have been bugging me about the Cathy’s Creek thing, and I thought you might bring me up to date on what’s happening with the investigation.”
“First of all, Harold, it wasn’t a thing; it was a girl—a teenage girl. And, she was murdered. Don’t think for a second that I’m not aware of that fact. But, to be perfectly honest, Mayor, there’s not too much to report.”
“Well, you must have…something? Am I right, Chief?” (touché). “After all, it’s been…what...three weeks?”
“Yeah, so what?” I say. “It took over twenty years to catch Gary Ridgway.”
“Okay, I’ll bite. Who the hell is Gary Ridgway?”
“The Green River Killer? Oh, never mind. Look, Harold. Tell the boys that we’re doing the best we can. These types of things take time. In case you’ve forgotten, it was me who found it—the body, I mean. I want to catch the son of a bitch as much as anybody, okay?”
“Okay, okay. Don’t go getting all high and mighty. I’m on your side. It’s just that—”
“It’s an election year?”
“That was cold,” says Harold.
“Sorry. Couldn’t help it. Anyway, tell ‘em whatever you want, Harold. I’m doing the best I can. Something will break. It always does.”
Harold chuckles. “Yeah, well let’s hope it doesn’t take twenty years—for both our sakes.”
“So long, Harold.”
“Yeah. So long, Matt. And keep me posted.”
I’ve already hung up the phone.
“I swear to God, Val; you’d think these guys were running a Fortune 500 company. Bottom line. That’s all they care about—the bottom line.”
Val and I are sitting in the kitchen, sipping our after-dinner coffee. I’ve just finished relating my conversation with Mayor Swenson, and I’m blowing off steam. Thank God, Val’s a good listener, because I haven’t finished yet.
“I mean, it’s not like I’ve got a task force at my disposal. I’ve got two ‘country bumpkin’ police officers…all right, they’re not country bumpkins, but they’re not the NYPD’s finest, either. But, still—”
“Matt, Matt,” says Val. “Calm down. You’ll give yourself a stroke.” She rubs her hand slowly up and down my back. It’s like magic. Instantly, the tension melts away. It’s always been this way. Whenever I get myself worked up into a lather, she can calm me with a touch. I’m a lucky man.
“You can’t blame these people, Matt,” she says. “They might not show it, but they’re just as concerned as you are. They’ve got daughters, girls just like the one you found. Just because this is a small town, doesn’t mean people automatically feel safe.”
“That’s my point,” I say. “It’s my job to make them feel safe. What the hell am I doing, if I can’t do that?”
“Doing the best you can?” says Val.
I look at my wife and see the concern in her eyes. She’s the best friend I’ve ever had. And, she’s right. I know she is—but it doesn’t make it any easier.
“If they only knew,” I sigh.
“They know. Believe me.”
“You think so?”
“I know so.”
“Val, I don’t think I’ve ever felt so helpless. This girl. Nobody’s looking for her. It’s as if she was born, grew up, and died, all without anyone knowing.”
“Well, someone does. She was real, Matt. Eventually, somebody will come looking.” Then, it’s as if Val hears a voice. “Have you talked to Chris?”
“Not in a while. Why?”
“Well…maybe he’s got some ideas. I don’t know. It couldn’t hurt.”
“You’re right,” I say to Val, “maybe I’ll give him a call. It won’t be the first time he’s bailed me out.”
“Good,” she says. “Besides, if nothing else, he can give you a fresh perspective. After all, he’s the ‘big city’ cop now. You’re just a…what was it you called Walker and Dawley? A country bumpkin?”
“Screw you,” I laugh.
“Sounds good to me.”
I feel a little funny calling Chris; maybe guilty is the more appropriate word. It’s been more than two years since we worked together. When I first moved to Roscoe, we’d talk once a week; then, it was more like once a month. I realize now that it’s been nearly six months since our last conversation. It’s not that I haven’t wanted to call him; it’s just that there hasn’t been much time. Headquarters tells me he’s working four-to-midnight, but they’ll have him call me when he breaks for coffee. Twenty minutes later, the phone jingles. I pick it up on the first ring.
“Hello?”
“Whatta ya say, stranger?”
“Not much, Chris.” It’s good to hear his voice. “Aw, who am I kidding? I’ve got my ass in a sling—again!”
“Why? What did you do now?”
“Nothing. It’s what I haven’t done.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means I’m not doing my job.”
“I can’t believe that. You? Mr. Dependability. What’s really going on?”
I tell him the story about the girl. How it’s been three weeks without anything whatsoever happening. How I don’t know what to do, and how frustrated I am. He doesn’t say a word. He’s smart. Always was. Finally, but only after I’ve finished spewing the details of the case and my lack of progress, he speaks.
“Well, first of all, you’ve got to stop blaming yourself. The only thing you did wrong was to find the body. Other than that, you’ve done everything by the book.”
“And I’ve got nothing to show for it.”
“Sometimes that’s just the way it goes.”
Yeah? Well, that’s just not good enough.”
“Is there anything I can do to help?” asks Chris.
“I can’t think of anything, really. I guess I just needed to hear you tell me that I was doing everything I could.”
“Well, you are.”
“So, what do I do next?” I ask.
Chris laughs. “What do I look like? Columbo? How the hell do I know?”
“Thanks—for nothing!”
“Don’t mention it,” says Chris. Then, his voice grows serious. “All kidding aside. If you need me to run a search—anything—just give me a call. I’ll make it happen.”
“Yeah, well. It’s just that I really want to solve this one. This prick messed up my favorite fishing hole. Can’t let him get away with that, now; can I?”
“Guess not,” says Chris. I detect a slight air of detachment in his voice. “Well. it’s good to hear from you, Matt.”
“Same here. We’ll have to get together. Maybe Fourth of July. You, Rita, me, and Val. Just like old times.” I know it probably won’t happen, but I say it anyway.
“You got it,” he replies, unconvincingly.
The whole conversation suddenly reminds me of those I used to have with my ex-wife.
“Take care, Chris.”
“Good night, Matt.”
Chapter 23
Rhonda, some time the previous fall – day three
The diner is crowded, and every once in a while, Rhonda peeks out through the round windows of the swinging doors that separate the kitchen from the main body of the restaurant. She is terrified she’ll see Howie, but thankfully, so far, he has yet to show his face. Last night, Glenda helped her change her hair color from black to bleached blond, but in her mind, Rhonda still sees herself the same. She glances at her reflection in the bathroom mirror, and is startled by what she sees. She moves closer to its silvery surface, and traces the outline of her hair with her finger. He’d p
robably love it, she thinks, envisioning Howie, drooling. Then, another thought enters her mind. I can’t stay here.
“Thinking about home?” It’s Glenda, and she has a smile on her face. Her squat frame encased in her blue waitress’s uniform is a welcome sight, and Rhonda returns the smile with a shrug that speaks volumes.
“Here’s a little something for your traveling fund,” says Glenda, offering a handful of change in Rhonda’s direction.
Rhonda hesitates, but then extends her own hand and takes the money. “Thanks, Glenda,” she says. “You really don’t have to do this.”
“Bullshit!” replies Glenda with a wink. “We’ve got to get you to South – I mean North – Carolina, don’t we?”
Rhonda looks down at the ground, then back up. “Yeah, I guess so,” she sighs. “I just hate to leave.”
“And I hate for you to leave, too. But, it’s the right thing to do. Besides, there’s nothing here for you. You have a chance to make a brand new start. You have to go.”
“Yeah, I know.” A tremendous sadness surrounds the young girl, and she appears on the verge of tears.
Glenda shuffles her feet, then snaps her finger. “Hey! What say we go to a movie tonight? There’s a new Tom Cruise film playing. My treat. How ‘bout it?”
“What if—”
“What? If that jerk shows up? Don’t you worry about a thing. I’ve handled worse than him. He’s just a bully. Besides, he’s usually drunk by dinnertime, right?”
Rhonda smiles at the image. “Yeah, right.”
“Then, it’s a deal.”
“Deal.”
The drive to the theatre in Glenda’s old ’89 Grand Prix is a short one, and they arrive in plenty of time for the show. The art deco building is old, probably built after the war, but its shabbiness is more than offset by the warm, comforting feeling it evokes in Rhonda. She huddles close by Glenda’s side as they wait in the brief line for the ticket window. She glances anxiously about, expecting to see Howie’s ugly visage at any moment. But, her fears are unfounded, and after Glenda purchases the tickets, the two slip quietly inside to the relative safety of the dimly lit lobby.
Opening Day: A Matt Davis Mystery Page 9
