Chapter 13 #3
I cackle again. "There is a certain hypnotic quality to—" I snap my jaws closed on the rest of what I was going to say, which would be wildly inappropriate for a number of reasons. "Enough. What've you got, Carter?"
"Well, Sheriff, I did some very quiet digging."
"Into what, exactly?"
"Just for, um…context, I suppose, I should mention that back in high school, I was part of a pilot program that sent seniors into nursing homes to hang out with the residents.
We'd talk, play cards, chess, checkers, and watch TV.
The old folks loved it, and most of us kids did too.
It was a little weird at first, not gonna lie.
But eventually I came to enjoy talking to them.
I'd get them telling stories, and let me tell you, the old folks've got some real doozies. "
I scrub my face. "You did not interview Beasley. Tell me you didn't."
"God no. I went under the pretense of checking it out for my grandma."
I snort. “Is that true?"
He cackles. "God, no, sir. She's been dead since I was four, she's buried in Chongqing, and I never met her. But they don't need to know that, do they, sir?"
I hold both hands. "Knock it off with the sir bullshit, Carter. Off duty, at least. And let's limit them to once per sentence while on duty. This ain't the Corps."
"Got it, s—got it." He blinks a few times, finding his train of thought. “So…alright. I looked into Beasley, just to get my own impression of the man.”
“And?”
“Well, he’s pretty universally disliked around Three Rivers, with the exception of a few hardliners like Charlie Hollis.”
“Because he was a bad sheriff, if nothing else. A lot of stuff went uninvestigated under his watch, and a lot of folks suspected it was intentional, but how do you prove that? Regardless, he ran the station with an iron fist, and he held the deputies to rigorous ticketing quotas that meant people drove around town in fear of getting popped for going point-five over the limit or not signaling a turn or whatever.”
“Exactly what I found. I talked to dozens of people, and almost no one had anything positive to say about him. There was some sympathy for the fact that his wife died of cervical cancer, leaving him to raise their young son alone.”
I frown. “Jared Beasley, yeah. He’s…what? Ten years older than me? Mid-forties. Left Three Rivers…oh god, early aughts, I guess.”
“Right. He lives in Skokie, Illinois. He’s married and sells car insurance.”
“And?”
“Well, it’s not a short drive from Skokie to Three Rivers, sir. Several hours, at best.”
I’m getting irritated at the run-around. “And?”
“When did Amber Brunner vanish?”
“April 2nd, 2003,” I answer.
“Jared Beasley vacated his long-term rental, broke the lease, quit his job as an assistant branch manager at Three Rivers State Bank and Savings, and left town right around then.”
Something jangles in my gut. “Hmmm. Possible connection, but it’s tenuous at best.”
“And your father’s car accident? That was when?”
“July 18th, 2012.”
“Jared Beasley checked into Pineview Motel on Third Street near Main on July 16th, and checked out July 20th. Another coincidence?” He shrugs, but his face betrays his skepticism.
“Maybe. Maybe not. I know it’s not much, but it’s something.
I feel like it’s something, at least. I know ‘my gut tells me’ isn’t exactly evidence, but—well, he’s only visited his father a handful of times, otherwise, almost always around the holidays.
In fact, that’s the only time he ever visited his father not around Thanksgiving or Christmas. ”
"Carter?" I keep my tone level and calm. "Why was this a hunt me down on my day off emergency? You could have texted me this, or told me on Monday."
"I went late yesterday evening and I…" he blinks, cutting himself off. "Shit. I overstepped, didn't I?" He sighs, as if this isn't a new phenomenon. "I tend to get myopic about this kind of thing."
I can't help but laugh. "It's good work, Carter. For real. Keep it up."
"Just don't turn an email into a meeting on your day off?" He laughs ruefully. "I apologize. But…why are you here this early on a Saturday?" He blinks rapidly. "Sorry, sir. None of my business." He pushes to his feet. "Well, I'll get out of your hair, now that I've disrupted you."
Lacey arrives then, breezing into the station with a big brown paper bag in the crook of one arm and a large box of coffee carried in the other.
She sets everything on an unused desk and passes out sandwiches to the deputies in the bullpen before pouring three paper cups of black coffee and bringing them in here, along with three sandwiches.
I toss a paperclip at him. "Nah, sit, sit. Lacey is a lawyer, and I wanted to get her thoughts on what I have so far."
"Sort of," Lacey murmurs under her breath. Then, louder, "I haven't practiced in a while, but I did work in a prosecutor's office."
We eat the sandwiches and sip coffee while I lay out the case I have so far for Carter and Lacey, showing them the scant hard evidence and the small amount of circumstantial evidence.
We don’t really get anywhere more concrete than I was a few days ago, other than Carter’s possible connection regarding the possibly suspicious timing and circumstances of Jared Beasley’s departure from Three Rivers and the visit years later.
I just know that it feels really fucking good to share the burden, finally. I've carried the weight of this for fourteen years—I've had the question of dad's possible murder and the potential of a killer living in our town on my own the whole time.
I suppose it's just nice to share the burden, to know there’s someone other than just me thinking and caring about this.
By the time the three of us wrap up, it's after eleven.
"Well, Carter," I say, putting my files and evidence away. "I don't plan on spending the whole day working. I appreciate you looking into this. And like I said, keep it quiet. Beasley gets a whiff of you asking questions or poking into his past, he's not gonna like it."
He eyes me. "You almost sound scared of him, Sheriff."
I roll a shoulder. "Not scared, just…wary. There were rumors, back when I was a deputy."
"Rumors?" he presses.
"That Beasley was crooked. There used to be a motorcycle gang that operated in the area.
Beasley always made a lot of noise about shutting them down, but they always seemed to be a few steps ahead.
They were mostly into running drugs across state lines, but the occasional body would show up wherever they operated.
The rumors were that Beasley was on the take, and that some of those bodies were taken out on his orders. "
"What happened to the gang?" Carter asks.
"By the time I took the office, the founding president was dead, and the V-P was in jail for a long list of shit. I helped out with a federal task force and got the rest of the big shots put away, and the minor players all sort of vanished on their own, once the big boys in charge were in prison."
"So what you're saying is that you can't say for a fact that Beasley isn't capable of having a biker gang put out a hit on me for asking too many uncomfortable questions," Carter says.
"Exactly. Or me." I eye Lacey. "Or her. I don't know that he can, but I also don't know that he can't, and until I'm sure, I’m inclined to take this whole investigation slow and quiet, and the circle of people who know small."
"Beasley is what, eighty by now?" Lacey says. "Anyone he may have known has to be just as old, right?"
I sigh, shaking my head. "Not a safe assumption, babe. Just because Beasley is old doesn't mean he's any less of a nasty character. And old guys can have young guys on speed dial, y'know?"
She nods. “Yeah, that makes sense. I guess you see old people and you sort of just assume they're all these sweet, innocent little old folks."
Carter cackles. "Sweet and innocent they are not, Miss Grey.
STD's are rampant in nursing homes. And I’ve been told some stories that would get people put in jail if not for the statute of limitations—things would really knock your hair back, and I'm not kidding.
" He rises to his feet. "Thank you for the coffee and breakfast, Miss Grey. Sheriff, see you Monday morning."
When he's gone, Lacey and I just stare at each other.
"Well, Sheriff," Lacey murmurs in a soft, breathy voice. "We have the rest of the day together. Whatever shall we do with it?"
"Sounds like you have an idea," I say.
She lifts one shoulder, tipping her head to the side. "I might have some thoughts, yes."