“I know, but I had him on the phone, so I asked.”
She sighed and waited for me to start.
“You may want to sit for this,” I said.
She sat. I took a long hit on my beer.
“Ten years or so before I retired, Bill and I worked a case involving a murder at the local city dump, located ten miles south of Rockford in a small town called New Milford. New Milford doesn’t have a detective force, so they asked RPD for help.
“Well, a body was found at the dump. But not out in the sludge and garbage. It was laying on one of the main dirt roads that the trucks use. No attempt to hide it. In fact, the first truck of the day almost ran over it. Two gunshots to the head, from behind. Turned out to be .22s. No wallet or driver’s license, so we used fingerprints to ID the body. It turned out the victim was the brother of a city alderman. Everyone knew this alderman was on the take and as crooked as the day is long.”
I had never gone into detail about any of my old cases. Arabella liked talking shop and sat forward in her lounger, hanging on every word. Wide-eyed with a faint smile, she listened like a six-year-old hearing a bedtime story.
“We didn’t have much to go on, so we had uniforms ask around the area. The dump is in a rural area on a secondary road, so the houses are pretty scattered. No one saw or heard anything. After two weeks, I was ready to let it go cold, but Bill wasn’t. He said we needed to push a little longer and something would spring.”
“Was he right?”
“Yeah, kind of. Bill always said, ‘Work from the end,’ so we went back to the dump one afternoon. We stood on the dirt road, nosed around a bit, and bounced ideas off each other. But we didn’t get anywhere.”
“What did you do?”
“We left. But, on the way back, we stopped at a convenience store in New Milford. Bill claimed the place made the best hot dogs in the county, and he was hungry. Well, anyway, it was a good thing we stopped.
“The girl working the register saw our badges and asked if we were investigating the murder at the dump. It was big news in a town the size of New Milford. She said she was working the night of the killing and was still freaked out—her words—by the whole thing. Bill showed her a picture of the victim, and she said she thought he had been in the store.
“We checked the security video for several weeks before and after the murder, and sure enough, he had been in the store. Several times. He even stopped on the night of the murder. But he wasn’t alone. Two other guys were with him. We used the video to get a mug shot of his companions and circulate it around the department.”
“Did someone know them?”
“Yeah, one of them. He was a petty thug, in and out of county a dozen times. We tracked him down and brought him in. He claimed his innocence, big surprise. We had an eyewitness placing him with the victim the night of the murder. But that’s all. Nothing else. No weapon, no motive, no blood or trace evidence. Circumstantial at best.
“Bill thought we might have at least one of the guys. We couldn’t ID the other guy, and the one we had wouldn’t give up his buddy.”
“So?”
“The alderman puts pressure on us to make this guy as his brother’s killer. I didn’t bite. No way this is a case. Bill is on the fence. So, the alderman goes to the DA’s office. Suddenly, the DA says to lean hard on the guy, so Bill does. Real hard. I wasn’t so sure. So, two goofballs know each other. Big deal. Doesn’t prove murder.”
Arabella shook her head. “No, it does not.”
“Bill had never been in such a hurry with so little to go on. I kept telling him to slow down, let’s make sure. But Bill kept forging ahead. I was the odd man out on this one. Usually, Bill was telling me to slow down.”
“Wow.” She smiled wide, almost laughing in disbelief.
“The guy finally pleaded out. It stunk, but the die was cast. Part of the plea was that he didn’t have to rat out his friend. Everyone was happy. The DA closed the case, and the alderman strung up his brother’s killer.” I swallowed some beer, glanced away for a moment, and shook my head. “Bill was never the same after that. Neither was I. It was disappointing and not our best work. It went against everything I thought Bill stood for and what I believed.
“After that, all he wanted to do was retire, which he did about two years later. That was the one case we never talked about.” I finished my beer and stared at Arabella.
“What?”
“Tiffany was the witness, the girl at the register that night.”
She scrunched her eyebrows and glared at me. “Oh, Conklin—”
“She was all we had.”
“You had the video, no?”
“Not really. The video only showed a couple of guys at a gas station. Circumstantial at best. If not for Tiffany, Bill and the DA couldn’t have pressed so hard. The plea wouldn’t have happened.”
“But you became friends with her.”
“I know. Unethical, to say the least. But there wasn’t a trial. It just happened. She met Marybeth and considered her a mother figure. I don’t know … We all became friends.”
Arabella slowly shook her head.
“Like I said, not my proudest moment.”
We were both quiet for a moment. Arabella straightened her back. “Seems you are the only one left.”
She was right, again. I was the last one left, and hearing it out loud drove the point home, which may have been her intent.
“So how does all of this help us?” she asked. “What should we do?”
“That’s the second half of what I have for you.”
I went to my desk and brought back a pencil and a piece of paper. I wrote out the words four-wheel drive and 4WD.
“See this?” I said, pointing at the words four-wheel drive.
“Yes, that is from the ad.”
“It doesn’t mean four, as in the number four,” I said.
She hadn’t gotten it yet.
“It means for as in f. o. r.” I crossed out the 4 in 4WD and replaced it with for. I showed her the paper. “What does this mean to you?”
“It could mean for someone with the initials W and D.”
“The guy that took the plea, and went to prison?”
“Yes?”
“His name was Wayne Dow.”
She pored over the paper for a moment, eyes widening. “For Wayne Dow! Heilig shit!”
“To say the least.”
CHAPTER 46
I STOOD ON the veranda and watched the morning rain drench the island. With an average rainfall of fewer than twenty inches per year, precipitation was a rare event on Bonaire. But when it came, it did so in a deluge. The intense downpours lasted only fifteen minutes or less and caused large standing puddles and flooded roads. I sipped a Diet Coke, munched on the last microwaved apple donut, and watched cars drive past the YellowRock throwing large columns of water across the sidewalks.
The surveillance team was gone. I scanned the street in both directions and leaned out beyond the railing to check the nearby side street. I also checked the parking lot. No sign of the squad or the truck with a seahorse on the tailgate. Lester had to be somewhere with Mandy, which could be bad for Mandy. Bonaire was a small island. A person—or persons—couldn’t hide forever.
Tiffany came to mind as I held the last bite of donut between my forefinger and thumb. I couldn’t bring myself to finish it and broke it into several pieces, lying them on the far side of the railing. A few small yellow and black birds called chibi-chibis braved the rain and converged on the remnants. They’re known on Bonaire as “the Sugar Thief” because they like all things sweet, even many-days-old, microwaved apple donuts. They devoured the morsels in a matter of seconds and stood on the railing screeching at me. One lost patience and flew away.
I held up my hands. “Sorry, guys, that’s all there is.”
The gray clouds moved across the island at a steady pace, and I selfishly hoped the bad weather would last most of the day. The low ceiling and poor visibility would make it impossibl
e for Chuck to fly over to Spelonk and carry out his planned trip.
A boat from one of the dive operators sped across the water, headed south with a full load of divers. Rain never stopped the diving. The term Dive into the Weekend had a very literal meaning on Bonaire. The sun peeked through the overcast in the south, bringing with it the trademark blue sky of Bonaire. The weather would soon return to normal, back to perfect.
My rib didn’t hurt as much as it had the last few days but still ached whenever I shifted my weight to the right. Any attempt to run or swim was at least a week or more away. I finished my soda and tossed the empty can in the bin, but before I could head downstairs, Arabella called my cell.
“You’re up early,” I said.
“Morning, Conklin. I have been up most of last night and early this morning researching Wayne Dow.”
“What’d you get?”
“I was able to get stuff from the NCIC and—”
“The NCIC? How’d you get access?” She referred to the National Crime Informational Center, a multiple database criminal records system owned and operated by the FBI.
“I have friends in The Netherlands who helped. But some of this I got from doing internet searches. My friends in Holland even got information from your old department.”
I had no idea who she, or her Holland friends, had talked to in Rockford or how they had tapped into NCIC, but it didn’t matter. I was eager to listen. Her voice rang with excitement and I hoped the new intel would create some forward momentum.
“That Wayne Dow stuff,” she said. “Wow, it sure was a messy hell.”
“Yeah, I told you.”
“They found him dead in his cell a few years ago. The case said mysterious circumstances, whatever that means. Earlier, they had moved him to a place called Big Muddy River Correctional Center, in Ina, Illinois. Doesn’t say why.” She said the “s” at the end of Illinois.
“Yeah, I know the place. Does it say—”
“Hold on, Conklin, there is more,” she said. “Dow had a wife and son.”
“I remember.”
“Seems after Dow dies, the wife commits suicide. She shot herself in the head. Residue on her hand, stippling on the temple, handwritten note—verified by a writing expert. No doubt she did it.”
She paused.
“But?” I said.
“Strange thing, though, no gun was recovered.”
“Don’t tell me.”
“Medium caliber,” she said. “Seems there was never ballistics testing with the wife’s suicide, so nothing was in the system.”
“Penn had mentioned partial prints on some of the cartridges. I’m betting they’re Dow’s, loaded back before he went to prison.”
“Would make sense, but I do not have any information on that.”
“What about the son?”
“Report says Dow Junior found his mom’s body. Swears there was no gun. No one believed him, but they could not prove otherwise.”
“He took it.”
“That would be a good working theory, but, again, how to prove it.”
“Anyone talk to him?”
“Looks like no one knows where he is.”
“What?”
“Yeah, it is like he vanished. He was an adult when all this happened, and it seems he disappeared, right after his mother’s suicide.”
“Job?”
“Nothing currently. It looks like his last job was at Jay’s Automotive in Rockford, Illinois.”
A hollow sensation stung me as my mouth went dry.
“There was an insurance policy on his mom, Dow’s wife.”
I swallowed what saliva I could muster and said, “How much?”
“No information.”
“How about Lester Jeffrey?”
“He is twenty-eight, graduated from Rockford High School East, and went to Rock Valley Junior College, has a two-year degree in criminal justice. Clean record … Get this. He works for a private security company. Doing what exactly, I do not know. Lives in Madison, Wisconsin.”
The license plate at Vinny’s came to mind. EVR COOL.
“Bella, is it possible—”
“Conklin, I do not see any connection between him, the Rybergs, or Dow.”
We were both quiet for a moment. Lester was a weird cookie, but that didn’t mean he was a murderer. Or in any way mixed up with this. But everything kept coming back to him.
“I’m checking island immigration,” she said, “to see if they processed someone named Wayne Dow Jr. I should rule it out.”
“Agreed. Have you spoken with Schleper?”
“Ha! I do not think he wants to hear our leads. Besides, I was told not to talk to you about this. I am on his shit list right now and need to lightly tread.”
“Okay. Good work and thanks. Thanks for the weapon last night, too.”
“Please be careful. Speaking of shit lists, I think you are the last one on his—whoever this Wayne Dow Junior person is.”
“Yeah, I think you’re right.”
“Oh, and I forgot to tell you. When I left last night, my car would not start again. I took your Wrangler.”
CHAPTER 47
ERIKA SAT AT her desk, typing away on the keyboard. I hadn’t expected her back to work until after Malfena’s funeral, which was still two days away. A man had walked out of the office as I came down the last stair. I did a double take, noticing his orange Chicago Bears hat.
“What are you doing here?” I asked Erika.
“Working.” She continued fingering her keyboard. “That is what you pay me for?”
“I thought you’d be with Cado. At least until after the funeral.”
She leaned back in the chair, eyes fixated on the monitor. “Ludson has a lot of family right now. Besides, I need to get away from all the sadness. Work takes my mind off it.” She straightened and shuffled through stacks of papers on her desk. “When I am not here, no work gets done.”
I bit my lower lip, shook my head, and held back a grin. She needed to win this one, so I kept quiet. Besides, I agreed with her.
I sat for a few moments and considered the conversation with Arabella. She had given me a lot of useful information on Dow, stuff I didn’t previously know. But the info on Lester left me stumped. I’d have bet a new banjo on Lester being my man. It all added up. His attitude this week, him being at Ruth’s after Tiffany died, his truck at Karpata, his lies to Schleper. Bill would say it was all circumstantial and he’d be right. I had nothing tying Lester to any of the crimes. The facts needed to stand on their own and not be manipulated to fit my prejudicial vision.
I didn’t like Lester and didn’t like the way he had treated Tiffany. She deserved better, and I’d never understand why she stayed with him. My disdain for him had encouraged me to mold reality to implicate him. His relationship with Mandy was also unsettling. Why would he bring his girlfriend to a tropical island, then spend time with another woman?
Mandy W. Driver.
I stared at the dirty ceiling tile again for inspiration and considered the guy who had earlier walked out of the office.
“Hey, Erika, who was the guy that left as I came down the stairs?” I asked.
She continued with her work for a moment, but eventually said, “That was Mandy.”
I hadn’t met Mandy, but that didn’t make sense. Maybe Erika hadn’t heard me correctly. “No, I mean the guy.”
She laid her glasses on the desk and turned to face me. “Mandy Driver, one of our guests. He said someone left a note for him to stop by the office. I did not know what he was talking about.”
“Mandy is a man?”
She stared at me and leaned forward. “Did you not hear what I said? Yes, that was Mandy.” She turned back to her computer and put her glasses on. “So, yes, Mandy is a man, and he is not happy that someone—” she glanced over her shoulder in my direction “—went into his room with no permission.”
A guy. A guy!
That explained the lack of toiletries and c
lothing.
Follow every lead, no matter how small.
I called Arabella and when she answered, I asked, “Can you do a little more research for me?”
“Sure, I will try. What do you need?”
“Find out what you can on Mandy Driver … Mandy W. Driver.”
“Yes, I can find out about her.”
“Not her.”
“What?”
“Yeah, I just ran into Mandy.” I avoided Erika’s gloat, my face burning with embarrassment. “She is he.”
“What? Mandy is a man?” Arabella said.
“Yup.”
“Wow. I will call you back.”
Arabella would provide information on Mandy, but I didn’t need to sit and wait. No reason I couldn’t do searches of my own. After all, over the past few days, I’d developed into an internet guru.
First, I searched on Wayne Dow. Should’ve done this earlier, but I didn’t need to with Penn pulling the information. Or at least I thought he was. Thankfully, Arabella came to the rescue.
The effort yielded results for white pages, Facebook pages, and LinkedIn profiles. I read them all but didn’t discover anything of value. I discerned most of the listings and links didn’t pertain to my Wayne Dow—different spellings, ages, locations, and in one case, even an incorrect gender. Lots of bogus information on the net.
I found several obituaries and a photo. One of the obits was for Wayne Dow, Sr. It mentioned he died in his cell at Big Muddy River Correctional Center, as Arabella had said, and left behind a wife, Shelly, and a son, Wayne Jr.
Along the side of my screen were several links regarding the name Wayne. If so inclined, I could discover the meaning, where it came from, and the definition.
Being an in-depth investigator and a world-class detective, I clicked on the link about the meaning. Things like a craftsman, wagon-wright, and wagon driver were listed. It noted John Wayne as a famous bearer of the name. Interesting, possibly.
Next, I found the obituary for Shelly Dow, maiden name: Mandel. She was preceded in death by her husband and left behind a son, Wayne Jr. No surprise.
I went back and clicked on the photo of Dow, enlarging it as much as possible. The resolution was weak, and the picture was old, taken at least twenty years ago. It showed Dow standing against a brick wall in an orange prison suit, probably taken during one of his many incarcerations, before the one that caused his death.
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