I filled two mugs and joined her at the table. I pulled the notebook from my purse. “It was a complicated day,” I said. “I wrote it all down. Shall I read it to you? It’s kind of disjointed but I wanted to get it on paper before I forgot some of it.”
“That complicated? Of course. I want to hear every detail. Isn’t that the notebook that was in the swag bag from Happy Shores?”
“It is. I like it.” I opened the book. “Another item from that same bag is involved in today’s happenings.”
“Tell me. I can hardly wait.”
I began to read my scribbled, penciled notes. They were quite random, and to anyone except my aunt, would have sounded like a mishmash of fact and fancy. I made a mental note to type this up neatly for the class, omitting all conjecture and following the instructions I’d given the others. Be objective. Deal with facts. But for now—this stream of consciousness muddle of words would have to do.
It took almost fifteen minutes to read it. I finally looked up from the pages. “Well? What do think it all means? It’s like a game of connect-the-dots where the dots don’t connect or pieces of a puzzle that should fit together but don’t.”
“I see what you mean. You didn’t tell me before about the vision of the white cat with the Berman boy’s eyes.”
“I didn’t?”
“No. That’s all right. I think maybe the cat peering into your window with those distinctive eyes lends some credence to the Peeping Tom theory, don’t you? Even though she’s not a tomcat.”
“You’re right.” I was excited. “Pete asked Dakota to come down to the police station to answer some questions. But, of course, the blue-eyed cat is nothing the police department can use.”
“I know. But it may lead to something more concrete.”
“Speaking of concrete, I forgot to mention that it looks as though the weather may postpone the pouring of the parking lot at the wild woods. Pete’s going to need more time to check up on the possible location of the poison bottles. Maybe he found out something today. Did he say what time he’d be over to return the book?” I looked at the clock. So did she.
“Should be any minute now. Want to go upstairs and change? I’ll entertain Pete until you get back.”
“Okay. Thanks. Be right back. I’ll leave the notebook here. Maybe between you and Pete, you might make some more sense out of it. Put together some more puzzle pieces. Connect a couple of dots.”
“I’ll try. Now shoo. Go on upstairs. Hurry back. I have a lovely chicken and broccoli casserole in the oven. Coffee ice cream with hot fudge sauce for dessert.”
When I left via the kitchen door, O’Ryan was already on the second floor landing peering down at me. I caught up with him and together we climbed the final flight and entered my apartment. The cat hopped up onto the old velvet-covered wing chair I’d had reupholstered in a wild zebra print, turned around in a circle or two, then curled up and closed his eyes. Tossing my purse onto the couch, I proceeded down the short hall to the bathroom, shed clothes and turned on the hot shower full blast. It felt wonderful and when I stepped out of the tub, reaching for a towel, the little room was like a sauna.
Wrapping myself in a fluffy white towel, I reached out to clear the mirror’s steamy surface. One swipe with a paper towel, and the twinkling lights and flashing colors appeared—superimposed on my wavy reflection. The vision came into sharp focus. It took only seconds for me to understand what it meant.
I picked up the clothes I’d dropped on the floor and shoved them hurriedly into the laundry chute. Towel clad, I raced through the kitchen and into the bedroom. Usually I give some thought to looking my best when I’m going to see Pete. Not this time. Grabbing the first things I saw—faded jeans and a wrinkled Boston Celtics T-shirt—hair a wet mess and barefoot, I dashed out my kitchen door and—sorely tempted to use the banister—I raced down the front stairs and into Aunt Ibby’s living room.
“Is he here yet?” I called as I headed through the dining room and into the kitchen. “Is Pete here? I know what happened to James Dowgin!”
“I’m here babe, I’m here!” Pete reached for me, pulling me into his arms. “What is it? Are you okay?”
“Yes. I saw it. In the mirror. I know what happened to him. Maybe it’s even how somebody killed him.”
“Here. Sit down dear.” My aunt, her brow furrowed, pulled out a chair. Pete guided me to it. Obediently, I sat.
“I’m fine” I said. “It was a vision, Pete.”
Understanding showed in Pete’s face. He doesn’t like my visions, but he’s learned to accept the fact that they often provide answers to some very difficult questions. He took the chair next to mine, still holding my hand. “Tell me about it.”
I got control of my breathing, pushed some dripping curls away from my forehead, and began. “Remember that when they found James Dowgin in the cemetery, his clothes were soaking wet, even though it hadn’t rained much during the night. Remember that?”
“Sure,” Pete said. “The ambulance guys had a hard time moving him out of the narrow space he was in because of the weight of the wet clothes.”
“Pete.” I gripped his hand hard. “He was in one of those tubs. At the diaper laundry. I saw it. There was a huge shiny metal drum with a curved cover that was open. There was hot water in it. Very hot water. I could see the steam. There was a blue bucket of white powder being poured into the water. I saw it.”
“You saw James Dowgin in the water?”
“No. Just the tub and the soap or whatever it was. But I’m sure that’s what the vision meant. That’s how James Dowgin got so wet. And maybe it killed him somehow.”
Pete nodded, dropped my hand and stood up. “Miss Russell? Will that casserole keep for a while?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “Lee, put on some shoes and we’ll go for a little ride. I hope we can get there before those tubs go through a metal crusher.” He looked at me. “Better put on a hat too.”
I did. Sneakers, jacket and knit hat were hurriedly thrown on and we were out the door, on our way to the no-name street at the wild woods. It’s not a long ride from my house, and Pete was definitely exceeding the speed limit. There was time for one question though. I wanted to know what Dakota had told him, so I asked. I got the raised-eyebrow, that’s-police-business look and a curt reply. “Not much. Let him go.”
The brakes squealed when we pulled onto the broken pavement beneath the loading dock at the Wypee-Dypee Laundry. There was no dump truck in sight, but the lights were on in the blue building. A car marked with the name of a security service was parked at the edge of the pavement.
“Wait here,” Pete said. “I’ll be right back. I just want to check and be sure the tubs are still here. Then I’ll try to get a stop order on the demolition until we can check everything out.”
“No way,” I told him, looking out the window at the trees which seemed like live things, waving their branches and crowding around us in an unfriendly way. “It’s starting to get dark. I’m coming with you.”
He sighed. “I should have left you with your aunt, but all right. Looks like there’s nobody here except maybe a security guard anyway. Stay behind me.”
I stayed behind him. Close behind him. We climbed a ramp to the top of the loading dock and Pete pounded on a door beside the big roll-up door we’d seen earlier. I heard a radio playing inside. Someone yelled “Who is it?”
Pete pulled his wallet from his back pocket and held it up so that his badge showed. “Police” he said.
“Nate,” according to the embroidery on his pocket, peered out. “What’s up, officer?” he said, looking past Pete and straight at me. “Anything wrong?”
“No,” Pete said. “We noticed your lights. Just checking. Mind if we step inside for a minute?”
“No. Come in. Glad of the company.” He moved aside. “Wait a sec. I’ll turn down the radio. Gets lonely in here.”
I’d never seen the inside of a big commercial laundry before. I was glad the place was brightly lit. The
looming shapes would have been frightening in darkness. There were some machines that looked like our washing machine at home, but about ten times bigger. There were gaping holes in the walls with tiny bits of pipe protruding through. I guessed these were places where the workmen we’d seen tossing chunks of metal into the dump truck had harvested their bounty of copper and steel.
“See anything like the . . . you know . . . thing you saw?” Pete whispered.
I turned around slowly. A series of three oblong chambers ran along one wall, with one giant corkscrew-like mechanism running through all of them. The guard pointed to it. “Mean looking, ain’t it? It’s a tunnel washer. The auger pulls the diapers through the different rinses, fabric softeners and bleach and stuff and dumps them out in a big block at the end.”
“Interesting,” I said, still not seeing anything resembling the bright metal tub I’d seen in my mirror. I moved away from Pete toward an alcove near the back of the place. There it was. Even bigger than I’d envisioned it. I guessed it must be made of steel. The cover was closed now. It had been open when I’d seen it, but I knew this was it.
“Big sucker, ain’t she?” The guard spoke from behind me. I whirled around to make sure Pete was there too. He was.
“What is this?” I asked.
“It’s a washer-extractor,” the man said. “It’s so big a guy can stand inside it for service or maintenance. And when she’s runnin’, this beauty can extract one heck of a lot of baby poop.”
“I’ll bet,” Pete said. “You know a lot about this place. Do you work here every night?”
“No. Used to. Only two, three nights a week lately. They got another guy, young fella, for the other nights. I think he works cheaper than me. I worked here in the laundry when I was young though.” He shook his head and looked genuinely sad. “People don’t put nice soft diapers on their kids no more. Damned plastic things with sticky tapes and cartoon pictures on them. No wonder the kids grow up so mean.”
I tugged on Pete’s sleeve. “This is it,” I said. “No doubt.”
“Mind if I take a closer look at the washer extractor?” Pete moved toward the huge tub as he spoke. “Can I look inside?”
“Sure.” Broad smile. “Don’t fall in though. Me with my arthritis and this little lady would have a hard time pulling you out.”
Pete returned the smile. “I’ll be careful.” He reached for the curved cover at the top of the drum-shaped machine and, with some effort, pushed it up exposing the interior. He leaned forward. “This is really deep.” His voice echoed strangely from within the contraption. He turned his head. “Do you have a flashlight I could borrow for a minute, Nate?”
“Got it right here.” The guard detached a flashlight from his belt and handed it to Pete. “Whatcha lookin’ for?”
“Not sure,” Pete said, his voice echoing again as he played the light around the inside of the drum. “Has this thing been used lately?”
“Nah.” Nate scoffed. “Not for years. Why? Is it rusted out in there?”
“Not at all. Actually, there’s still some water in the bottom of it.”
CHAPTER 39
When Pete reclosed the cover of the washer-extractor and handed the flashlight back to the guard, I noticed that his cop face was in place. “Nate,” he said. “Did you work here Monday night?”
The man reattached the flashlight to his belt and paused a few seconds before answering. “Funny you should ask about that,” he said. “I was supposed to. I was scheduled for Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday. But late Monday afternoon they call up and tell me not to come in. No reason. They say they just don’t need me.”
“They used the other guy? The young guy you mentioned instead of you?”
“Uh-uh. Don’t think so. See, I can tell when he’s been here from the radio station.”
“The radio station?”
“Yeah. I listen to the all night talk shows. The ones about aliens and bigfoot and stuff like that. When the other guy has been here, the station’s been changed to music. Like rap and rock and that modern crap.”
Pete nodded. “So when you came in on Tuesday the other guy’s station was on?”
“No sir. It was one I never even heard here before. Long hair tunes. Beethoven and Bach and like that.”
“Okay. Thanks, Nate. You’ve been a big help.” Pete pulled out his phone and moved away from me and the guard. When he spoke into it, his tone was urgent, but his voice just low enough so that I couldn’t make out the words. I tried to though, leaning in his direction as far as I could without tipping over. Nate was doing the same thing. We must have looked like a couple of cartoon eavesdroppers when we tried to straighten up and look casual when Pete put his phone away and faced in our direction.
“I’ve called for some backup. CSI, forensics.”
“CSI? Does that mean crime scene? You think there’s been a crime in here?” The guard looked around the room. “Musta been a long time ago. This place has been closed up since the eighties.”
Pete spoke softly, right next to my ear. “There’s a couple of inches of water in the bottom of that washer. You’re right about James Dowgin being in there and now I have something I can tell the chief.”
I didn’t say anything but I’m sure the question was in my eyes.
“His shoe,” Pete said. “One of the shoes was missing from the body.” He tilted his head in the direction of the washer-extractor. “It’s in there.”
Another shoe.
Pete instructed Nate to stand on the platform outside and to be sure nobody entered by either of the two doors there until the police arrived. Pete and I stood beside a smaller door at the end of the building. Pete, with a handkerchief over his hand, checked to be sure the door was locked while I studied my surroundings. A time clock still hung on the wall next to a rack of yellowed cards with names on them. Wheeled canvas carts, like the ones I’ve seen in coin laundries only larger and deeper, stood in an orderly row, each cart numbered.
“Look at that,” I said. Each cart had a big painted black number on its end. There were seven carts but the numbers went up to eight. “There’s a cart missing. There’s no number six.”
“You’re right. Did I ever tell you you’d make a good cop?”
“Many times,” I said. “And I still don’t want the job. But what was James Dowgin doing here? And how did he wind up in that washer? And who dumped him in the cemetery?”
“That’s what we’re going to figure out.” The sound of sirens announced the arrival of the investigating team, and things moved very fast after that. “You don’t have to stay if you don’t want to,” Pete told me. “Want me to call a cab for you?”
“Are you kidding? I wouldn’t miss this for anything. I’ll stay out of the way, I promise.”
I tried to keep my word and even looked around for a chair but whatever office furniture might have been there was gone. I wondered where Nate sat during his long night shifts of guarding the Wypee-Dypee building so I asked him.
“There used to be a folding ladder the workers used to reach the big machines,” he said, “like that one the cop was looking at. I always sat on it to listen to the radio, or eat my lunch. But it’s gone now. I guess the guys that stripped the pipes musta took it. Now I just find a clean spot on the floor to sit and lean against the wall. Lunch time now. You can join me if you want. PBJ and chips, okay?”
“Thanks,” I said. “My aunt’s holding dinner for us, but I’ll keep you company. Let’s sit where we can watch the cops, okay?”
“Heck yes. Not something you see every day in this old dump.”
There were about a dozen people moving around the long room—quietly, efficiently, quickly. I recognized a couple of them from other crime scenes where I’d unfortunately been present, but most of the men and women on the team were unfamiliar to me. I knew some of the procedures. The fingerprinting unit concentrated on the alcove where the washer-extractor stood, and on the monster machine itself. The most interesting part though was the
retrieval of the shoe from the bottom of the machine. It was, as Nate had told us earlier, big enough so that a worker could get inside. A stainless steel ladder appeared from somewhere, and when the fingerprinting was complete, they slid the cover up and one of the team, in white coveralls and holding a pair of tongs, climbed into the washer.
I fought a strong urge to run across the room and look into the thing, envious because Pete was doing just that. He stood right next to it when the tech reappeared, a brown shoe, dripping water, grasped in tongs. Pete held a plastic bag open, and the tech released the wet shoe into it.
Team members assembled in small groups, making notes, marking evidence bags, speaking a few quiet words among themselves. A woman investigator approached the wall where Nate and I sat. Nate immediately returned his sandwich to a blue plastic cooler and scrambled to his feet. I stood too.
The woman introduced herself as Dr. Fredonia Foster and asked both of our names. She seemed to recognize mine, smiled, and glanced from me to Pete and back, then asked Nate to step outside for a moment so that she could ask a few questions. I wished I could follow them, curious about what he’d have to say, but had to content myself with—to use one of Aunt Ibby’s expressions—“standing around like a tree full of owls”—simply observing.
“Observing is exactly what a good investigative reporter does,” I reminded myself, and trying to look as unobtrusive as a badly dressed redhead with wet curls sticking out of an old knit cap can, I took a slow turn around the edges of the long room. I drew a few curious stares, but no one seemed to object to my presence. I figured that Pete had vouched for me. Even so, I was careful to avoid touching anything. When I saw Nate and Dr. Foster return from the loading platform, I quickened my step a little and joined them next to the big roll-up door. Dr. Foster thanked Nate, wished me a good evening and returned to her colleagues.
“Everything okay?” I asked the guard, who certainly seemed as though everything was okay. Actually, he looked quite pleased with himself.
Grave Errors Page 23
