Believe No One (34 page)

Kate Simms would no doubt use this little insight into the student's interests as evidence that he should not be trusted, but it didn't seem at all odd to Fennimore: Josh Brown studied psychology for the first three years of his academic career – this was exactly the sort of inquisitiveness and initiative that made him stand out from the crowd.

Fennimore told him their plans to have a geographical linguist analyse the killer's words, and about their suspicions that there might be a second killer – a puppeteer who gave orders from a distance. ‘But it looks like our demonic Pinocchio just cut the strings,' Fennimore said.

‘And
Seed of Chucky
is born,' Josh said.

‘What?'

‘Chucky?' Josh said. ‘The most iconic doll in horror movies? Never mind. As a matter of fact, I was about to call you when you rang – there's some stuff in here I just can't make sense of.'

‘Go ahead,' Fennimore said.

‘Sharla Jane asks can she make it up to him, and he moves in close and says, “Time will tell.”'

‘Yes.' The words were practically burned into Fennimore's auditory nerve.

‘Then he mutters something I can't quite catch … Maybe “clay pit”?'

‘“Clay pit” … yes, I suppose it could be,' Fennimore said. ‘The farm pond where Laney Dawalt was found was dug out of clay.'

‘Then he says … “full”?'

‘He could be tormenting her, telling her where he dumps the bodies of his victims,' Fennimore said.

‘Thing is,' Josh said, sounding doubtful, ‘I've played that section over and over, and he doesn't seem to be gloating. What I see is disappointment – bitterness? I don't know.'

‘Have you tried altering the bass and treble?' Fennimore suggested.

‘No, but I'll give it a go.'

‘If that doesn't help, just spell what you think you hear phonetically, and make it clear it's a guess – the linguistics specialists will probably have the technological wizardry to clean up the audio.'

‘Okay. Where do I send it when I'm finished?'

‘Professor Varley knows someone at Aston University – he'll be in touch as soon as he's cleared it with them.'

‘Fine, I'll keep my mobile nearby.'

It was already early evening back in Aberdeen, but Fennimore did not doubt that Josh would work through the night to get the job done. Josh's work obsession and complete lack of a social life was one of the reasons Kate Simms distrusted him. When Fennimore and Kate had worked together all those years ago in the National Crime Faculty, he had relied heavily on her to demystify the subtler nuances of social interaction, but Fennimore had never had any trouble spotting liars and crooks. He knew that Josh was hiding something – on that level he
was
lying – but Fennimore believed that the younger man was sincere, as well as a damn good scientist. In Fennimore's mind, that earned him a fair amount of leeway.

Listening by the door inside the weighing shed, Riley Patterson had heard everything Sheriff Launer said. He knew Mrs Tulk would not stand by and watch her family and her business get torn apart – she
had
to turn him in. He crept out of the shed before they even finished talking. At first he ran to put distance between him and her boys, but now he's on the shady side of a wooded ridge he knows will keep him close to the highway.

Mrs Tulk thinks he has no clue who murdered his momma, but Red has known since he told her the truth about what happened Friday. He didn't get it right away, but he woke up in a sweat that night with it all worked out. Will killed Momma, and if he wasn't such a baby, he would've known that without somebody having to tell him. He should've looked out for Momma, instead of scampering into the woods like a baby, like a scared little rabbit, like—

Like a goddamn coward.

He feels a pain in his gut like someone punched him hard. He falls to his knees, and soon he is sobbing, screaming his anger and hurt.

Locked in the trunk of Harlan Tulk's car the night his momma died, crying till his chest ached, it felt like he had cried out all the sadness and pain of his life, but this new pain feels like sin. It feels like his wickedness is what brought all this evil down on him and his momma; his cowardice that let it happen.

[I]n general it requires an active effort if something unconscious is to become conscious.

E
RICH
F
ROMM
,
T
HE
A
RT OF
B
EING

Sheriff Launer called off the search of the woods until Monday morning, when two COSAR search-and-rescue dogs were expected to arrive with their handlers. After speaking with Josh, Fennimore spent a few hours in his hotel room, reading emails, replying to student requests for information and guidance and choosing the slides he would use for his presentation at the International Homicide Investigators Association symposium in St Louis. He checked Suzie's Facebook page as a matter of routine, although his stomach clenched every time he opened the link. There were no new postings waiting to be cleared to go on her wall, and he opened the image of the girl in the sundress. The dream he'd had in the early hours of Saturday had disturbed his sleep ever since. In his dream, he saw again the girl in the photograph walking alongside the older man. A warm breeze carried the scent of flowers and a whiff of river water. A police siren wailed – slightly off-key to his British-attuned ear. The girl half turned, startled by the sudden din, stumbled. And he'd thought,
Faux pas –
a false step. What did it mean? He was sure there must be something he'd missed in the picture.

His room phone rang and Fennimore picked up; it was Hicks.

‘I'm headed home for the night,' she said.

‘Okay …'

‘I got some takeout food. Want to share?'

‘Love to,' he said. ‘Why don't you come over?'

After an awkward silence, she said, ‘I'm about fifty yards left of the hotel driveway. Why don't you meet me there?'

Minutes later, he was climbing into her beat-up SUV.

‘Sorry about the cloak-and-dagger stuff,' she said. ‘But the gossip-mongers had a field day when I parked up outside your room last time and …' She shrugged.

‘So, where are we off to?'

‘My place,' she said.

Hicks lived in a rented bungalow down a potholed road on the edge of town. It was tiny: just a sitting room, bedroom, bathroom and kitchen on a large overgrown lot with fruit trees and a tumbledown woodshed. She liked it, she said, because she could sit out on the stoop at night and look at the stars. She must be an optimist at heart, Fennimore thought: the property owed its window on the night sky to the fact that two in every three of the street lights were broken and most of the other houses were abandoned.

They ate fried chicken and drank beer and talked about the case. Hicks was concerned for Billy Dawalt, who seemed to have been forgotten in the scramble to find Riley Patterson.

‘Billy's been gone six months,' he said. ‘Riley, just three days.'

‘I know,' she said. ‘Riley's chances are good, compared to the other kids – they'd be better yet, if we could just get the Tulk family to cooperate.'

‘Tell me about the Tulks – I gather they're notorious.'

‘They are.' Hicks took a bite of chicken and chewed. ‘You kept company with Harlan and his brother, Bryce, the day you got drunk in Danley's Bar.' She closed one eye. ‘The day I rescued you.'

‘I remember being pleasantly pissed,' he said, with what he hoped was lofty disdain. ‘I do not recall being rescued.'

‘If that's how you need to see it, Professor,' she said, chuckling into the mouth of her beer bottle. ‘But those boys were scowling at you from the shadows like wolves in a cave.'

‘You make it sound like I was in real danger.'

‘The Tulks come from a long and infamous line of outlaws and desperadoes, going way back,' Hicks said. ‘Before the railroad came out here – before Oklahoma was even a state – this was frontier land, Indian territory. There was a saying back then: “There is no Sunday west of St Louis, no God west of Fort Smith”.'

‘And the Tulks still hold to the frontier spirit, is that it?' Fennimore said.

‘As a matter of family pride. Only difference is they grow pot in the woods, these days, 'stead of brewing hooch.'

‘Which explains the booby traps.'

‘And why they're so reluctant to help us search their land.'

Fennimore knew that what he was about to ask would put Deputy Hicks, as a probationary law officer, in a tricky position. ‘I understand there was a bit of a spat over at the Tulk place – hints and allegations about pot growing?'

Hicks nodded. ‘As I recall, the Sheriff and Harlan did dance around that subject for a bit.'

‘Is there is anything in it?'

‘Like I said, the Tulks take pride in their family traditions.'

Fennimore knew evasiveness when he heard it. ‘I'm more interested in the accusation against the Sheriff.'

She looked at him for some moments. Her she-wolf eyes betrayed nothing more than caution, but Fennimore felt uncomfortable under their glare.

‘Abigail, this is just you telling me a campfire tale – a bit of blether,' he said, to break the silence.

She set down her beer. ‘All right, but this – what did you call it?'

‘Blether.'

She nodded. ‘But this “blether” is just between you and me. Okay?'

‘Okay,' he said.

Even so, she seemed reluctant to begin. She took a deep pull of beer and set it down again with a sigh, made two abortive attempts to start before launching in.

‘Sheriff Launer's campaign flyer says that drug crime is down thirty per cent,' she said.

‘I'm guessing the stats don't back his claims?'

‘Meth-related visits to the ER at County Hospital are up twenty-three per cent,' she said. You're good at math, Professor.' Hard anger flashed from irises. ‘Can you explain to me how drug crime could be
down
when drug use is
up
?'

‘It is a conundrum, isn't it?' he said mildly. ‘How did the Sheriff achieve this mathematical sleight of hand?'

She hesitated, and he thought she might retreat again, taking the safer option of keeping her suspicions to herself, but then she began slowly: ‘You can cut drug arrests by half if you push the tweakers to the margins where they won't offend law-abiding citizens. You can “re-categorize” offences, so a meth-influenced psychotic attack becomes a “domestic dispute” – you don't even need to mention drugs. You might arrest a woman for solicitation, but don't write it up in your report that she was so high on meth you had to wait a few hours before you could charge her.'

‘Wouldn't it be in Launer's interests to look strong on drugs, especially during an election campaign?' Fennimore asked. ‘Surely, more arrests mean he's doing his job?'

She didn't answer directly. ‘Politics is all about balancing the needs of your voters against the aspirations of your campaign supporters.'

‘I'm not sure I understand,' he said.

‘Do you know the single biggest factor in deciding who will win an election?'

‘Charm?' Fennimore tried. ‘A good manifesto? A winning smile?'

‘None of the above – though Launer'd have a head start on the smile thing,' she said. ‘No, in politics, it pays to advertise. The Sheriff joined the country club over at Hays, and he works those contacts. He paid for thirty minutes of prime time a week on the radio station for the last six months; you can reach a lot of people on the radio out here. Launer's campaign flyers and posters are designed and printed by Merl and Shona at the
Westfield Examiner.
He buys regular full-page ads with them in behalf of the sheriff's office – and all of that
costs.
'

Realisation dawned. ‘You think Launer brokered a deal with the suppliers.'

Hicks frowned at her beer bottle, edging it round with her fingertips on the tabletop, but didn't answer.

‘You should talk to the District Attorney,' Fennimore said.

‘I told you, the DA's an asshole. Anyway, I got no proof.'

‘What about your administrator friend?' Fennimore asked. ‘The one he reassigned to the county jail?'

‘You mean the one who quit, the day after – moved out of
county
? Last time I called her cell phone, I got an out-of-service message. Professor, all I got is speculation and educated guesses, and I need a
lot
more before I'd poke that bear.'

Abruptly, she scooped up her beer bottle. ‘Let's go out back,' she said. ‘I need some air.'

They took their beer down the field to the fruit trees. The moon was full and he could see now that the land attached to the property was extensive. The ground sloped away, with row on row of small fruit trees. Peaches and sweet cherries, mostly, already swelling after the recent rains, but also plums and a few pears with teardrop stubs that would produce a good crop, come August. The cicadas had fallen silent, one by one, and now the softer chirp of the crickets and katydids filled the warm, scented night air.

She turned to him, and for once he didn't need to be told what the firefly flashes of emotion in her eyes meant. He could see that she was frustrated and felt powerless to change the situation for the better, because he felt it, too.

Fennimore kissed her, and she kissed him back, her teeth clashing against his, more angry than passionate at first, but gradually the tension left her, and she kissed him deeply while the katydids chirruped and bats whispered low over their heads.

After a time, she eased away from him. ‘Still need some air,' she said, laughing softly, leaning her forehead, warm, against his chest.