Alfred Hitchcock's Mystery Magazine Presents Fifty Years of Crime and Suspense (69 page)

“Not even close.”

“What?”

Takarada turned away from the computer. “Try May—of last year.”

Erie stared at the mechanic blankly, his mind racing. His pet theory was blown.

Within seconds another one started to take its place.

He gestured at the key rack on the wall. “These are for the cars you're working on?”

“And the ones waiting out back, yeah.”

“You ever work on vans here?”

Takarada shrugged. “Sure, every now and then.”

Erie mulled that over for a moment. “Anything else?” Takarada was obviously anxious to get back to work.

“If you could print that out for me, I'd appreciate it.” Before Takarada could groan or sigh or roll his eyes, Erie added, “Then I'll be leaving. You've been a big help. Thanks.”

Takarada started to swivel back to the keyboard, then stopped himself. “So, can you tell me? Is Long in some kind of trouble?”

Erie gave the safe cop answer: “No, this is just a routine inquiry.” But he knew trouble was headed Raymond Long's way. Erie hoped to deliver it himself before the day was over.

11:44
A.M.

E
RIE ATE LUNCH
at a Denny's across the street from the Ford dealership. A few too many people were probably expecting him to drop by Peppy's, the diner around the corner from police headquarters. But he wanted a chance to think.

His turkey club and fries went down untasted. The file on Joel Korfmann's murder was spread across the table before him.

Erie was pleased to see that the report was neat, thorough, precise. He'd put it together himself months before.

On New Year's Eve, at approximately nine fifteen P.M., Joel Korfmann had been bludgeoned to death in his home. The victim, age forty-one, was a Lutheran Family Insurance representative who had spent the day making calls on potential customers. In the evening he had been at the office doing paperwork. (In parentheses after this information were the words “Indicative of victim's character?” Those were code words. What they meant was, “What kind of jerk makes cold calls selling insurance on New Year's Eve? Then spends the evening doing paperwork when he could be with family and friends?”) Security surveillance tapes showed that he left work at eight forty-three P.M. It would have taken him about half an hour to drive home.

The victim's wife, Candace Lane Korfmann, age thirty-eight, spent the evening with her sister, Carol Lane Biggs, and brother-in-law, Rudy Biggs. Witnesses placed them at the Dew Drop Inn on Division Street from eight thirty P.M. until approximately twelve thirty
A.M.

Carol and Rudy Biggs drove Candace Korfmann home, arriving at twelve fifty-five. All three entered the house. Mrs. Korfmann immediately noticed that several items—a GoldStar television, a Sony VCR, a Sony stereo—were missing. In the kitchen Rudy Biggs discovered the body of Joel Korfmann. He had been hit from behind by a large, heavy object. Forensics later concluded that he had been hit five times with the butt of his own shotgun, which was also reported missing.

Most of the Korfmanns' neighbors had been away for the evening celebrating the holiday. But a James Wallender, an elderly man who lived by himself across the street, reported seeing a dark van parked on the street near the house at approximately eight thirty P.M. Later, Wallender said, he saw it in the Korfmanns' driveway. (In parentheses here: “Witness seems anxious to help investigation.” That was Erie's way of hinting that the old man might not be the most reliable witness. Sometimes lonely people were so eager to please they would “remember” things they'd never seen.)

The report concluded that the victim had surprised someone in the house—an individual or individuals in the process of burglarizing it. Seeing the house dark on a holiday, the perpetrators must have assumed the residents were out of town or would be out all night partying. It was a common scenario.

There had been no evidence when Erie had written his report. There were no fingerprints, no hairs, no tire tracks that could be linked to the crime, and the stolen items had never surfaced. And that hadn't changed. Erie still had no evidence. But he did have something new—a hunch.

Driving back to headquarters after lunch, his mind dwelled on Raymond Long. He pictured him as a young long-haired redneck with muscular arms and fiery eyes. He pictured him killing Joel Korfmann. He pictured him beating Candace Korfmann, finally killing her in a rage—or just because it suited him.

He saw it all, crystal clear in his mind. Long the manipulator, Long the killer. Joel and Candace Korfmann, the victims.

The only thing that interrupted these thoughts was a stray one that crept in from another part of his brain as he maneuvered through afternoon traffic. It was the image of cars and trucks whipping up and down Green River Road, leaving roadkill behind them on the asphalt, on the side of the road, tumbling into ditches. He hoped the little black cat was safe.

1:10 P.M.

A
T HEADQUARTERS
E
RIE
checked to see if “Long, Raymond” had a criminal record. He wasn't disappointed. There were three charges of disturbing the peace, two charges of battery, two disorderly conducts, one assault, and the inevitable DWI and resisting arrest. Over the years he had served a grand total of fifteen months in the Vanderburgh County lockup.

The pictures came as a surprise, though. Long was thirty-seven, and he looked every day of it. He was balding, pug-nosed, and jowly. He didn't look like the kind of handsome young devil who could charm a vulnerable widow—or widow-to-be. Erie assumed he was one hell of a talker.

Erie went back to his office (accepting a number of handshakes and pats on the back on the way) and began calling all the U-Stor-Its and Storage Lands in town. The people he spoke with knew him, knew what he was looking for, knew the drill, but they couldn't help. No, they hadn't rented space to a Raymond Long in the last year. Yes, they'd give him a call if a Raymond Long came in.

After saying “Thanks, have a good one” for the eighth time, Erie hung up the phone and left his office. It was time to have a talk with Raymond Long.

2:17 P.M.

T
HERE WAS SOMETHING
different at 1701 O'Hara Drive when Erie pulled up. He walked toward the house slowly, trying to pin down what it was.

The curtains were still drawn shut. The Taurus and the pickup were still parked out front. The trash can still lay on its side in the yard.

He was walking up the driveway past the pickup when he realized what it was. The truck was splattered with mud—mud that hadn't been there that morning. Erie crossed the street and rang James Wallender's doorbell.

“Hello there, chief,” the old man said as he opened the door. “I was wondering if you'd come back again. Why don't you come in?”

“I'm sorry, Mr. Wallender, I don't have time to visit right now. I just wanted to ask if you'd seen any activity at the Korfmann house today.”

“Well, I might have peeked out the window a time or two since you were here.” Wallender winked. “Hold on a minute.” He shuffled away, then returned a moment later with a small notepad clutched in one trembling hand. “You left here at approximately ten forty-five
A.M.
Around eleven that fella Ray pulled his truck into the garage and brought the garage door down. At eleven twenty he drove out again and was gone for a while.”

“Was there anything in the pickup when he left?”

“Yeah. Something big and green.”

“Green?”

Wallender checked his notepad. “Yes, green. At least that's what it looked like to me.” He tapped his eyeglasses. “I have to look at everything through these Coke bottles.”

“Could it have been a tarp thrown over something in the back of the truck?”

Wallender nodded. “Sure, it could have been.”

“And how long was Ray gone?”

Wallender looked at his notepad again. “Forty-five minutes.”

Erie extended a hand. Wallender shook it. “Mr. Wallender, by the power vested in me by the state of Indiana, I hereby declare you a junior G-man.”

Wallender smiled. “I always said I wanted to be a detective when I grew up.”

3:10 P.M.

T
HE SHOES
E
RIE
had shined so carefully that morning were now covered with mud, coffee grounds, and mysterious flecks of filth. His trousers were similarly splattered, and there was a new rip where a piece of jagged metal had snagged his pants leg. Even his tie was beginning to smell bad.

Early on, there had been two other scavengers, a heavyset couple with prodigious guts spilling out from under their dirty T-shirts. They'd seen him—a well-dressed, middle-aged man picking through piles of garbage at the county dump—and stared as if he were some exotic, dangerous animal pacing back and forth in a cage at the zoo. They kept their distance, eventually driving off in a beat-up station wagon loaded with discarded toys and clothes and broken appliances.

Erie told himself he'd only look for another half hour. If he couldn't find anything, he'd head back down to Pine Hills and have that talk with Raymond Long. Not that he was going to make much of an impression in his current condition. Maybe after another thirty minutes wading through garbage he would smell so putrid Long would confess just to get away from him.

The ridiculousness of it made him long for Nancy. He wanted to go home and tell her everything that had happened. He couldn't even tell if his last day had been sad, funny, triumphant, or disastrous without her face to gauge it by.

From off in the distance came the popping and clicking of tires rolling over gravel. More scavengers were headed up the winding back road to the dump. Erie was going to be on exhibit again. He thought about abandoning his crazy theory and just going home for a nice long bath.

And then he found it. It was underneath a big flattened-out cardboard box, the kind washing machines are delivered in. A GoldStar TV. The screen had been broken in and the plastic cracked on top, but it was relatively free of mud and grime. Erie checked the back. Even though someone had made a halfhearted effort to bust up the television and make it look old, they hadn't bothered scratching off the serial number.

Erie tore into the nearest pile of garbage, tossing trash bags and boxes aside with manic energy. At the bottom he found a Sony VCR, the top crushed as if someone had jumped on top of it. He picked it up and looked at the back. Again, the serial number was still there.

It only took him another minute of digging to find the stereo. It was nearby, underneath a pile of newspapers. It had hardly been damaged at all. There was still a serial number on the back.

That left just one item—the most important of all. Once he found that, he could call in the evidence techs to dust everything for prints and look for tracks that matched the tires on Raymond Long's truck. The tracks would have to be nearby. Erie turned around to look.

Raymond Long was walking toward him. “Is this what you're looking for?” he said.

He was holding a shotgun. It was pointed at Erie. His finger was on the trigger.

In the time it took Long to take two more steps Erie had considered five different options: dive and roll and draw his gun; charge Long and go for the shotgun; put up his hands and feign ignorance; put up his hands and try to talk Long into surrendering; run like crazy. Those few seconds were all Erie needed to realize that all his options stank. But he picked one anyway. He put up his hands and started talking.

“Don't do anything dumb, Ray. A lot of people know where I am. If anything happens to me, they're going to know exactly who to point the finger at.”

Long stopped about seven yards from Erie. At that range there was little doubt what outcome a shotgun blast would have.

“Yeah, well, maybe by the time they're pointing fingers, I'll be hundreds of miles away.” His voice was full of spiteful good ol' boy bravado. But Erie could see the sweat shining on his face, the damp rings that were spreading under the armpits of his T-shirt.

Erie shook his head. “You won't make it. Wherever you try to go. Cop killers never get away. Other cops take it too personally. You'll end up right back in Indiana facing a capital murder charge.”

“Don't you mean
two
capital murder charges?” Long sneered. He had a good face for sneering. It looked like he'd done a lot of practicing over the years.

“You should stop talking, Ray. You should put down the shotgun and let me take you in. That's what a lawyer would tell you to do. You haven't crossed the line yet—you haven't doomed yourself. If you put the gun down now, this could all still work out for you and Candace.”

Erie knew instantly that he'd made a mistake. As soon as he'd said Candace, Long's sneer had turned into a scowl of rage. Erie had pushed the wrong button. Now he had to get out of the way.

Erie threw himself to the left, twisting in mid-flight so he'd take most of the buckshot in the back, buttocks, or legs instead of the face and chest. There was a boom, and a searing pain lanced his side. But it wasn't bad enough to stop him. He rolled over and came up with his gun pointing toward Long.

But Long wasn't standing there anymore. He was lying on the ground. Erie watched him for a second, stunned. Long wasn't moving.

Erie stood up and winced as a bolt of agony struck in a familiar place: his gymnastics had strained his cranky lower back. He limped toward Long, each step sending pain shooting up his spine.

Long was a mess. And he was dead.

Erie guessed that he'd bent the shotgun's barrel or jammed the chamber when he bludgeoned Joel Korfmann. He might even have used the stock to bust up the TV, VCR, and stereo. So when he tried to shoot Erie, the shotgun had exploded, sending shards of metal and wood out in all directions—but mostly into Long's body.

Erie checked the right side of his abdomen where he'd felt the sting a moment before. He'd been wounded but not by buckshot or shrapnel. His shirt was torn, and a short, shallow gash was bleeding onto the white cotton. When he'd jumped, he'd landed on something sharp.