The Pact: A Detective Locklear Mystery

by Carol Coffey

  Locklear could feel himself tense a little. He had no experience interviewing so-called holy men and did not know what the correct protocol should be.

  The preacher threw out his right hand.

  “Willkamen,” he said.

  Locklear searched for insincerity in that one word but found none. He didn’t take the outstretched hand.

  “Snackst de Platt?” the pastor asked.

  Carter moved forward and shook his head. “English, Pastor Plett.”

  “I’m Pastor Plett – Henry – and this is my wife, Rachel.”

  Locklear watched as a small dumpy woman, dressed in a long grey dress and a white bonnet covering her blonde hair, moved forward, smiling as she walked through the crowd of worried faces.

  “Welcome,” she echoed. “You’ve come from Richmond. We’ve heard of your arrival. Please come to our house after prayers for sustenance.”

  Locklear thought for a moment. “Heard of my arrival. From whom?”

  Rachel Plett now looked as worried as her husband’s small congregation. She glanced nervously over Locklear’s shoulder at Carter who had not taken his eyes from the dusty ground, now trampled by fifty pairs of uninvited feet.

  “Pastor,” Locklear began as gently as his angry mood would allow, “this is a crime scene. None of these people should be here. I need everyone gone right now so I can find out what happened here.”

  Henry Plett’s face darkened. “Your name, sir?”

  “Sergeant Locklear.”

  The pastor seemed to hesitate, then said, “Your Christian name?”

  Locklear grimaced. He never told anyone his first name. It resulted in too many questions. Only Kowalski knew it and he was not likely to repeat it.

  “I am not a Christian,” Locklear replied defiantly, hoping to put an end to the probing.

  Quiet murmurs grew up from the crowd but the sound he heard loudest was the groan emitted from Carter’s mouth.

  “Mr Locklear, we are here to pray for young Andrew. He is much loved in our community.”

  “Then let me do my job. Let me find out who tried to kill him and get off this godd–” He stopped before using his favourite curse word. “Please leave so I can do my job.”

  Pastor Plett looked at his congregation and beckoned for them to leave. Slowly, men, women and children, even the very young ones, filed silently past him, most with eyes fixed on the ground. An occasional woman glanced at Locklear nervously.

  When the last of the crowd had driven off the dusty lot, Locklear surveyed the ground. Scores of tyre tracks criss-crossed the ground around the barn and on the roadway that led into the farmyard, making it impossible for him to figure out the type of car that was present when Andrew Fehr was hanged.

  He hunkered down and spread his fingers across the dry earth. Lifting a small piece of soil, he smelt it and held it in his hands. He was never sure why he did this. It was instinctive. It was in his blood. Each time he did this something stirred in him. He loved the earth, the soil, and if his work didn’t keep him in cities it would be here, in nature, that he would live and breathe. But there weren’t enough murders in the countryside to keep him alive and so he lived among tall buildings and concreted ground where soil was absent and the only trees he saw were plastic offerings in the entrances of foyers.

  He stood and walked towards the barn and through its open, weathered wooden doors. Inside, bales of mouldering hay lined its sides. He could hear the quiet footsteps of a nervous Carter behind him. He looked up at the long beam that ran across the middle of the large barn. There was nothing that the boy could have used to climb on, not even the hay which was little more than dust, obviously forgotten by whoever had packed it there.

  “I took photos of the tyre tracks and of the rope,” Carter said. “They’re with forensics in Harrisonburg.”

  Locklear did not reply. It didn’t look like he was going to be able to trust Carter and he had already decided to ask Kowalski to send another outsider to help with the investigation.

  “You think that boy climbed up here and tried to hang himself?”

  “No, sir,” Carter replied quietly.

  “Then ... what do you think happened?”

  Carter stared blankly at Locklear. “I don’t rightly know, sir.”

  “Yep, I was afraid you were going to say that, Carter.”

  “Why?”

  Locklear ignored the question and made his way out of the barn to take in the vista. The abandoned farm was more rundown than he had imagined it would be. A small, dilapidated farmhouse faced the barn, its back to the road, giving the area a sense of old-world isolation. There was no glass in any of the windows and the front door was missing. A torn fly-screen screeched eerily in the wind as it moved backward and forward on its rusted hinges. The farm was situated on a high hill and as far as the eye could see the soil was parched and lifeless, sheltering only a few tufts of dry patchy grass. Locklear scanned further and noticed a small holding set on lower land adjacent to the farm. Its grass was a deep green and fat milking cows grazed in the lush pasture. A tiny house could just about be seen as the land dipped steeply away. It was a simple scene but even in the distance the neighbour’s farm appeared to be well kept compared to the wasteland on which he stood. What, he wondered, could make two adjoining farms look so very different?

  “Who owns this farm?”

  “It belongs to the Fehrs.”

  “Why aren’t they farming it?”

  Carter shrugged.

  Locklear grunted. For a man who was teamed up with him to supply local knowledge, Carter seemed, or pretended, to know very little. Locklear threw down the soil he was still holding and, as he moved back towards the car, he noticed a tall man standing in the dried-out scrub at the entrance to the farm. A brown-felt cowboy-type hat was pulled down, shielding his eyes. From the clothes he wore Locklear could tell the man was young – light-brown boots over dark-blue jeans and blue-check shirt. As they passed he made no attempt to move and even Carter, who seemed so at ease with the unusual community, visibly tensed.

  “Who was that?”

  “Luke Fehr,” he answered quietly.

  “A relative?”

  “The victim’s older brother.”

  “Gotta talk to him,” Locklear said, looking back into the scrub for the man but he had already disappeared from view.

  “Oh, he won’t talk to you, sir. Luke Fehr doesn’t talk to anyone.”

  Chapter 2

  The short ride back to Harrisonburg was an uncomfortable one as Locklear had anticipated it would be. Lee Carter sulked silently, annoyed obviously that Locklear would not follow his lead in how to engage with the religious group. Locklear categorised the questions he needed answers to before they reached Harrisonburg’s hospital where Andrew Fehr had not yet regained consciousness.

  “The old guy, the one who sat in his buggy. Who was he?”

  Carter sniffed a little, anxious to show some sign that he was displeased with earlier events.

  “That’s Samuel Shank – he’s an elder at the church.”

  “Why didn’t he join in with the praying?”

  Carter shrugged. “His wife’s a distant cousin of the Fehrs – I think there’s no love lost between the two families but I guess he had to show his face for his wife’s sake. Ellie Shank is a sweet lady. And ...”

  Locklear tensed at the pause. Carter was probably one of the most unusual men he’d been partnered with and was definitely the most annoying, which was saying something given the cretins he’d worked with during his years in New York.

  “The Fehrs are shunned. He probably didn’t feel they deserved prayers as they’re no longer members of the congregation.”

  “Shunned? Jesus, this is the 21st century!”

  Carter grimaced again at Locklear’s language but said nothing.

  “It’s rare to hear of shunning now. It happened generations ago. My dad said it was just after the Civil War. I don’t know the whys of it. These people keep
things like that private.”

  Locklear tried to absorb this. “So, then, the Fehrs are not Mennonites?”

  Carter seemed to need time to respond to this.

  “I guess they still are but if they choose to attend church they’re not allowed to receive communion. Congregations tend to adhere to the rules in various levels of strictness. In some cases, shunned people can’t eat with other Mennonites or do business with them.”

  “So ... it’s permanent, this shunning? There’s no way a new pastor can overrule it? Let a person rejoin?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t suppose it upsets Luke Fehr too much – and the other Fehr kids will just follow his lead anyway.”

  “So, they’re outcasts who still live in a place they are not welcome?”

  “I guess.”

  “Then why not leave?”

  “And go where? This is the only life they understand. They’re poor people without trades or any qualifications. What would they do outside of here?”

  Locklear nodded. “Well, why the prayers then? Why the pastor?”

  “Pastor Plett is a good man and the people here, they’re good people.”

  “So you don’t think that was an attempt to ruin my crime scene?”

  “No way, sarge. It wouldn’t occur to these people to do that – even if they had something to hide. They lead good, innocent lives. Though people don’t like Luke much, everyone here feels sorry for the Fehrs. They’ve had real hard times and tragedy. Not one person feels any badness towards them –”

  “Except the person who tried to hang Andrew,” Locklear retorted.

  Locklear thought about the crowd he witnessed earlier. The people did look genuinely sorry but they also looked afraid. Everyone, that is, except Samuel Shank.

  “Tell me more about Shank. Why was he in traditional dress while most of the others weren’t?”

  Carter smiled again, his sulk slowly thawing at the prospect of his local knowledge being used in this investigation as he felt it had been intended.

  “He’s Old Order, most of the Shank family are.”

  “As opposed to?”

  “Well ... new order, I guess, but they don’t call themselves that. They’re just known as Mennonites mostly.”

  “What’s the difference? The Old can’t drive cars, use computers, that sort of stuff?”

  Carter shook his head. “No, you’re thinking of the Amish community. A few hundred years back they were all one but the Amish came into being when a small group broke away because they didn’t feel the followers were adhering strictly enough to the religion. Some Old Order Mennonites still live a strict life but most of these folk drive cars, use technology and have careers. Most stick to farming, though, to keep their families working together and away from people who don’t share their beliefs.”

  “Which are?”

  “Well, lots of things. They get baptized as adults for a start – something I personally think is a good thing. They believe it is up to a person to decide if they want to follow a life devoted to God when they’re old enough to make that choice. And, they are pacifists, another thing I admire about them.”

  “You serve in the army, son?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Well, if you had, you’d know that sometimes wars need to be fought to make peace.”

  “Or maybe I’d return from war thinking the opposite?” Carter retorted, bringing back the unease again to the stifling hot car.

  Rockingham Memorial Hospital in Harrisonburg was no different from any other hospital Locklear had ever been to, except on a smaller scale. The four-storey redbrick building looked modern enough and had the air of generalised chaos he’d experienced in any US hospital.

  In the main foyer they waited patiently for a Dr Bosch to take them to see the victim. The doctor, when he finally arrived, looked exhausted and couldn’t hide his irritation at being called off his rounds to talk to more policemen. When he finally brought them to the foot of Andrew Fehr’s bed, Locklear felt an immediate and inexplicable surge of pity for the boy who lay in front of him.

  Andrew Fehr was small and skinny for his age. He had mousy-brown, thin hair and a face as pale as the sheet which lay over him. A large red-raw mark was visible on his thin neck and his eyelids were covered in small red dots. Locklear remembered the name of the Tardieu’s markings common on the skin of survivors of hangings. The boy was intubated which Locklear knew was not a good sign.

  “He’s not breathing on his own?”

  Bosch lifted the chart hanging on the end of the bed and studied the latest notes.

  “He has pneumonia. We’ll remove the tube in a couple of days and see how he does.”

  “Will he survive?” Locklear asked.

  “It’s too soon to tell.” Bosch yawned.

  “But your guess is?”

  Bosch pursed his lips in disgust. “Doctors do not guess, sergeant. But for a boy who is very underweight he’s putting up a fight. Imaging shows he has no spinal-cord injury but there’s extensive soft-tissue injury as well as damage to his larynx. His speech might be affected. He was deprived of oxygen as is the case with many survivors of attempted suicide by hanging.”

  “It wasn’t suicide,” Locklear interjected swiftly.

  The doctor’s eyes widened in surprise.

  Locklear noticed Carter remained completely silent and, apart from a brief initial look at the boy, had fixed his eyes on the window which looked out onto the hospital’s parking lot.

  Bosch excused himself and closed the door, leaving Carter and Locklear alone with the almost lifeless body of Andrew Fehr.

  Locklear moved closer to the bed and thought a while.

  “You examined the body – I mean, this boy?”

  “I only got a few minutes with him before the ambulance arrived.”

  “Was he conscious?”

  “No. Harrisonburg’s police took a look at him when he was stabilised. There’s a report on the system.”

  “Did you read it?”

  “No ... not yet.”

  Locklear thought he heard a slight gulp in Carter’s voice, a whimper of emotion.

  “Did you know him well?”

  Carter nodded. “He’s a good kid, harmless. Lived over the garage where he worked on the outskirts of Harrisonburg.”

  “There are no parents?”

  “Not for many years. Not since he was a small boy.”

  “Why couldn’t he live with the brother we saw earlier?”

  “Luke? No, Luke lives a ... well, he’s a feral sort of man.”

  “There’s no one else?”

  Carter finally took his eyes from the window but still did not look at Andrew Fehr. He rested his eyes on the light over the bed and kept them there. Locklear knew he was stalling for time and wondered what the trooper was trying to keep from him.

  “There’s an old man named Fehr living alone in the hills – Aaron Fehr. I guess he’d be a grand-uncle of sorts. He wants nothing to do with them. He’s a – he’s a little – well – nuts, sir – so best keep away from him. There are five of them Fehr kids. Luke’s the eldest and his twin, Sara. She had an automobile accident seven years ago. She’s been in a vegetative state in hospital ever since. Esther lives in a small unit on the grounds of Pastor Plett’s home. Andrew is next and then Abigail. She’s fostered by the Wyss family. They’ve got the farm next to what was once the Fehr farm.”

  Locklear pulled the sheet back further from Andrew’s neck and took a closer look at the markings there. Tiny scratch-marks were visible along the scar – fingernail scratches from where the boy tried desperately to loosen the rope. Again he felt a surge of emotion for the boy. Even in his sleeping state Andrew Fehr seemed like a vulnerable and helpless person.

  “You say he’s mentally deficient?”

  “Well, not exactly … just a little slow with learning, you know?”

  “And you can’t think of a reason why anyone in this peace-loving community would want to hurt him?”
<
br />   Carter shook his head and diverted his eyes away from Locklear again. It was his tell. He did it every time he was lying. He’d make a crap poker-player, Locklear thought.

  He raised Andrew’s arm up from underneath the sheet which had been tucked tightly around him, revealing a deep bruise on the boy’s left wrist. Locklear reached over the body and gently moved the boy’s right arm from under the sheet, revealing similar bruising on the wrist – deep thumbmarks caused by someone holding down the boy as he struggled.

  Carter’s eyes and mouth opened in unison. Locklear felt that the reaction was genuine.

  “Well, Carter, what does your peace-loving community say about torturing a dim-witted boy whom everyone seemed to like?”

  Chapter 3

  The phone conversation with Kowalski went better than Locklear expected. His boss would send Joe Mendoza, a smart young cop, to help with the investigation. Locklear had worked with Mendoza Senior. He had been a good cop. Sharp.

  “I thought Mendoza’s kid was a homo artist?” Locklear joked.

  “You’re a real piece of work, Locklear, do you know that? It’s his other kid.”

  Locklear didn’t know the kid but knew he would be smart. The only snag was Kowalski insisted that Carter stayed on too, that the chief himself had insisted on it. What Locklear couldn’t figure out was why. He didn’t like it but knew by the tone of Kowalski’s voice that it was non-negotiable. When he thanked his boss for sending a man he could depend on, Kowalski laughed heartily and Locklear hung up. He didn’t have time for Kowalski’s strange sense of humour.

  The drive to Pastor Plett’s house on the outskirts of the village was a short one but even in the few minutes it took to get there from the station, Locklear could sense the tension in Carter. Whether that tension was because Carter had heard about the reinforcements Locklear requested or because he was worried about how his superior would behave in the pastor’s house to which they had not been invited, he didn’t know.