Chapter 16
J ohn heard the bedroom door opening behind him. He turned in his chair at the folding table, now serving as their shared desk. “How’d it go?”
As she was walking over, Beth absently gathered her hair into a ponytail and secured it with a stretchy band. She sat down in the chair beside him. “It was interesting.”
“That’s an interesting adjective.”
“He knocked me for a loop.” She recounted her conversation with Max Longren and ended on a self-deprecating laugh. “I’ve witnessed important, powerful people conclude a meeting with him, na?vely unaware of how craftily they’d been manipulated. I can’t believe he used his reverse psychology on me, and that I fell for it.”
“Are you mad at him?”
“He asked me that.”
“And?”
“Last night he told me to pack up and return to New York ASAP, like he was issuing me an order. It made me even more determined to stay and see this through.”
“Is that a good thing, or bad?”
“It’s a wait-and-see.”
She’d said it casually, almost flippantly, but, in the following moments, the statement changed tenor and took on importance. They were sitting shoulder to shoulder, but their heads were turned to each other. Close to each other.
The cluttered room seemed to grow smaller. Every creature in the swamp seemed to have stopped its industry and was now suspended in motionless, breathless expectancy. From his blanket on the floor, Mutt whined as though sensing a sudden change in the atmosphere that had lifted the hairs of his coat.
John watched Beth’s eyes drift over his facial features as though she were taking stock and cataloguing them one by one. In a husky voice, she said, “Your name came up.”
He raised his eyebrows, letting them speak for him.
“Max said that he regrets missing his opportunity with you.”
“To do what?”
“Talk about your disgruntlement over the investigation. He believes he might have gotten you to open up.”
“He’s delusional.”
“Essentially, that’s what I told him.” She smiled, but it was a small one and so brief that it had barely been there before her lips went lax.
John didn’t smile at all. He was looking at her mouth and thinking about how warmly she had responded to his kiss this morning, wondering if she would be as receptive, or even more so, if he kissed her now.
Looking closely into his eyes, she said softly, “John?”
Optimistically, he leaned in. “Hmm?”
“We have work to do.”
He sat back and sighed, “Yeah.”
She motioned toward his computer. “Any progress so far?”
“While I was at my house this afternoon, I called the police departments in Galveston, Jackson, and Shreveport. I hoped to gain their confidence before Barker had a chance to alert them to my dismissal and tell them that I’m an ex-cop who’s making up fairy tales.
“I started with Detective Morris in Galveston, since I’d already talked to her, and she seemed to have formed a favorable opinion of me. Of course that will change if I wind up in jail.”
“ Jail? ”
“Barker might file charges, Beth. Avoiding arrest was one reason I wanted to hustle us out of Dodge this morning. Anyhow, unaware of all that, Morris didn’t hesitate to give me the names of the lead detectives for the cases in Jackson and Shreveport.
“The guy in Jackson, Roberts, seemed like a decent guy, devoted cop, said he hated that their young woman is still categorized as missing. No real leads, no remains, no closure. And, by the way, he disapproved of your show’s exploitation of Crissy Mellin’s case.”
“It’s not meant to be exploitative. Rather, empathetic.”
“I can’t debate that until after I’ve seen it.”
“I have the final version on my laptop.”
“Can I take a look?”
“Whenever you want.”
“Later. In the meantime, Roberts agreed to send me his case file. But he warned me not to get too excited. Boiled down, the young woman had no enemies with a reason to kill her, no lovers or ex-lovers.
“Their one person of interest was the short-order cook at the Waffle House where she worked. He had a crush on her, but she didn’t return his romantic interest, which seemed like a motive. But he’d been working an all-nighter and was still on his shift when she was reported missing by her roommate. Her bicycle was found on the side of the road roughly midway between the restaurant and her apartment.”
“What about regulars who would have known her? Or any customer who happened in and liked what he saw?”
“All checked out. Police had seven days’ worth of security camera video. Using car tag numbers and credit card receipts, they were able to track down and question all the people who went in and out of the restaurant that week. Nothing came of any of those interviews.”
“Her bicycle?”
“No sign of a struggle around it. Investigators theorize that she stopped when she was approached by whoever snatched her. If she had any sense of potential danger, it came too late.”
“What about Shreveport?”
“A detective nicknamed Cougar. Talks in a growl, but he was cooperative. The girl there took her dog out to do his business, no sign of a struggle, no one in her apartment complex even heard her dog bark.
“CCTV cameras videoed her on the playground, but she walked into a darkened area behind one of the buildings. When her dog was next seen on camera, he was dragging his leash. That leads me to believe that the perp knew her routine, knew where the cameras were and how to avoid them.”
“Someone who lived in the complex?”
“They looked at everybody. Even got search warrants for a couple of the men who looked iffy. Never found one single scrap of evidence, even circumstantial. They’re still monitoring them, but so far neither has raised a red flag.”
“They’ll be watching them Thursday night?”
“Cougar assured me they would. The departments in Galveston and Jackson will also be on high alert, but Galveston has Dobbs in prison, Jackson and Shreveport never had a suspect, and ours committed suicide. All to say, it still appears that there’s absolutely no connection among these four disappearances.”
“Except for the moon.”
He grimaced. He’d dreaded having to tell her the reactions of his fellow detectives. “None think it was a factor, Beth, except that Dobbs used the moon to get Larissa on his boat and away from shore.
“Cougar was especially doubtful. He admitted that he’d been soft on that angle since he first heard about it from Gayle Morris. Three and a half years had passed between his case and Morris’s. He said, and I agree, that serial killers usually don’t go that long without being triggered.
“I grant you that the blood moons are an intriguing element, but even full moons drive people to do crazy shit. Ask any law enforcement officer or anyone who works in a hospital emergency room. People dance naked in public fountains, pregnant women go into labor. You get what I mean.
“Anyway, those three detectives listened politely and attentively, they didn’t brush me off, but if I’d been them, I probably would have. They’ll be even more leery of me if they find out that I no longer have a badge. Most telling, they haven’t sent me their case files, and I think those are essential to our progress.”
“I believe they will,” she said with heart.
John wasn’t as convinced. “Barker might have got to them, halted any help they might have provided.”
“I’m remaining optimistic. What do we do in the meantime?”
“When you came out, I was reading through the notes I took on my last interview with Carla Mellin. It ended antagonistically. I was trying to figure out the best way to approach her now. I don’t think just appearing at her door will get me far.”
“She no longer lives at that door.”
“What? You’re sure?”
She told him about her encounter at Carla’s former address. “After he slammed the door in my face, I canvassed other neighbors, which was an exercise in futility. After failing to reach you, and coming away empty-handed there, I took it as a sign to go back to New York.”
“Damn it.” John stacked his hands on top of his head and reared back to look up at the stamped tin ceiling. “Can’t anything be easy? I was hoping to start with Carla.”
“Me too. I thought you might have heard from her during these intervening years.”
“No. There was no love lost between her and those of us who worked the case.”
“That hostility comes across in her interview. She said the police failed her, failed Crissy.”
“Can’t argue that.”
“In the episode, Carla is identified as a ‘working single mom.’ There was no mention of Crissy’s father.”
“Deceased. He was a rover. Once when he was away, Carla was notified by authorities in Missouri that he’d been in a fatal car-train accident. Best day of her life, she told me.
“She used to work for a credit union. I called it earlier this afternoon and was told that she quit soon after Crissy’s disappearance. No one there has heard from her since.”
“Does she have any relatives we can contact?”
“A sister. I have her contact info somewhere in here,” he said, pointing toward the thumb drive in his laptop. “She may be willing to help. Or, just as likely, she’ll tell me to go to hell.” He turned in his chair, angling himself to address Beth more easily. “We need to enlist some help.”
“Mitch?”
“He’d be willing, but he has time constraints. Besides, I wouldn’t want to jeopardize his concentration. One slip while he’s working, and he’s dead. I’ll only ask for his help if it becomes absolutely necessary, and even then he might not be available.”
“So who?”
“There are a handful of people within the department that I trust. I propose getting them to do the grunt work like looking up addresses and phone numbers.”
“You’re sure they’re trustworthy?”
“As sure as I can be. They’re not Barker fans, and have made it known, which has cost them promotions.”
“Call them. I trust your judgment.”
“All are on the day shift. I’ll start calling them when it’s over. I don’t want them doing this anywhere inside the department.”
He turned to his computer and opened a document. “I’ve made a list of key people we should talk to. Look it over. You may want to add to it. While you’re doing that, I’m going to take Mutt out, walk around the property.”
At the mention of his name and the word walk , Mutt awoke, shook himself, and headed for the door. John lifted the shotgun off the wall-mounted rack. He made sure it was still loaded, and pocketed two more shells he took from an old cigar box shelved in a bookcase.
Beth asked, “Is the shotgun necessary?”
“For my peace of mind, yes.” He nodded down at his pistol, which he’d left on the table next to his computer. “Point, pull the trigger.” He waited for her nod, which she gave him with obvious reluctance. He then followed Mutt’s lead out the door.
He made a loop, checking both the camouflaged garage and the hiding place where he kept the boat. Then he propped himself against a tree trunk and began making calls, opening each one with, “This is Bowie. I’m sure you know what happened today.”
Everyone to whom he spoke was happy to assist. He explained the basic research he needed done, stressing that it had to be done covertly, using a personal computer. He gave each the number of a burner phone. “If I change phones, I’ll notify you. In the meantime, this is the only way you can reach me, but get back to me as soon as you have something, even if it’s the middle of the night. This is acutely time-sensitive.”
Each cautioned him not to underestimate Tom Barker’s treachery.
When he returned to the cabin, Beth was in the kitchen, butcher knife in hand. “How was your walk?”
“I’m glad we got it in when we did. It’s going to rain again.” He joined her in the kitchen and, as he filled Mutt’s food and water bowls, saw that she was chopping fresh vegetables. “What are you making?”
She replied with a question. “Omelets okay?”
“Fine. Need help?”
“No thanks.” She lifted a bottle of beer from the countertop. “I helped myself. Want one?”
“Would love it, but I’m abstaining. I told Mitch I needed to keep my head clear.”
“I added a couple of names to your list of people we should contact.”
He sat down at the makeshift desk, woke up his computer, and read her additions. Noticing one in particular, he said, “Gracie Oliver died.”
Gracie, Billy’s grandmother, had reared him by herself. His mother had never named his father, possibly because she didn’t know. She died of a drug overdose when Billy was still in diapers. Without hesitation or complaint, Gracie had taken him in. She nurtured and loved him, and her affection was reciprocated.
When Crissy went missing, John and Mitch had questioned Gracie several times about her grandson’s relationship with their neighbor. John remembered her anxiously twisting an embroidered linen handkerchief and saying over and over, They’re friends, Mr. Bowie. My boy wouldn’t do that girl no harm. John had been inclined to believe her. Tom Barker hadn’t.
Beth abandoned her chopping and moved up behind his chair. “I hadn’t heard that she died. When?”
“A few months back. She was in a nursing home. Mitch’s wife saw a notice of it in the parish’s online newsletter. She called to let me know.”
Last night, Beth had accused him of being a man without feelings, one who didn’t give a damn. What she didn’t know, nor would even suspect, was that his emotions used to run hot. None of them, from rage to remorse, had had a moderate temperature setting.
That had changed the night he’d had to tell Gracie Oliver that her adored grandson Billy had hanged himself in his jail cell.
Straight from the gruesome scene and Barker’s repulsive, insensitive remark, he and Mitch had gone together to Gracie’s house, hoping to reach her before the media reported it. He couldn’t bear the thought of her seeing Barker on TV boastfully making the announcement.
When John broke it to her as gently as he could, she’d collapsed. He and Mitch had waited until friends from her church were notified. They’d arrived in numbers, soon filling the modest mobile home to mourn with her. He and Mitch then had extended her their pathetic, useless condolences and had said their goodbyes.
John had barely made it out the door without suffocating. He’d stormed from her house ready to murder Tom Barker for having said they should celebrate Billy’s suicide. If it hadn’t been for Mitch, literally wrestling with him to hold him back and shaking him until he’d calmed down, he might have acted on the impulse.
That was the night his life had begun to unravel.
It was also the night he had assumed the indifference immediately evident to Beth. That night, as Mitch had driven him away from Gracie Oliver’s house, he’d put his emotions in deep freeze and had donned a fuck-you attitude as impenetrable as a suit of armor. He wore it still to prevent him from ever again feeling too deeply, personally, hurtfully, destructively.
He now stirred himself out of the reverie and made himself focus on the business at hand by reading over the names Beth had added to their list of people to contact. “Who’s Victor Wallace?”
She had returned to the kitchen to continue preparing dinner. “Just before I left New York, I came across an online article he’d written. He teaches sociology at a community college in Orleans parish, but his syllabus includes extra credit lectures on the occult, fantasy, goth. Like that. I thought I might contact him to see if he had anything to say about the superstitions relating to blood moons.”
Another name she’d added had caught his eye. It was that of the deputy sheriff who’d discovered Billy hanging from the water pipe in his jail cell. “Isabel Sanchez,” he read aloud.
“Do you know her?”
“Yes. She was traumatized by what happened on her watch. Blamed herself for letting it happen. She got counseling, but couldn’t cope with the guilt over it and ultimately resigned from the SO.”
“She declined our request to give an interview for the show, but I thought I would add her, see what you thought.”
Without even having to ponder it, he said, “I think we should leave her alone.”
He checked his inbox for the dozenth time. None of the emails he was hoping for had come in. He got up and went into the kitchen, where Beth was adjusting the flame beneath the skillet on the ancient propane-fueled stove.
Her ponytail had slipped and hung lopsidedly against her nape. The incandescent bulb in the fixture overhead made her eyes shine like polished topaz in a jeweler’s case. Her lower lip caught that shine, too. The light also cast half-moon shadows of her breasts onto her midriff.
“Everything to your liking?”
He jerked his eyes up to hers. “Huh?”
She used the tip of the butcher knife to point out the ingredients she’d chopped and separated into mounds. “See anything you don’t like?”
Huskily, he replied, “No. I like it all.”