“You don’t know it was murder. The policeman I talked to said it might have been some bozo in a passing car.”
“Her mother disagrees.”
“Well, I can’t help you. I already told you everything I know.”
I nailed her with a look and let a silence fall, hoping her discomfort would generate further comment. No such luck, If she knew more, she was determined to keep it to herself. I left a business card, asking her to phone me if she remembered anything.
I spent the next two days talking to Caroline Spurrier’s professors and friends. From the portrait that emerged, she seemed like a likable kid, funny, good-natured, popular, and sweet. She’d complained of the harassment to a couple of classmates without giving any indication who the fellow was. I went back to the list of witnesses at the scene of the accident, talking to each in turn. I was still tantalized by the guy in the pickup. What reason could he have to falsify his identity?
I’d clipped out the news account of Caroline Spurrier’s death, pinning her picture on the bulletin board above my desk. She looked down at me with a smile that seemed more enigmatic with the passing days. I couldn’t bear the idea of having to tell her mother my investigation was at an impasse, but I knew I owed her a report.
I was sitting at my typewriter when an idea came to me, quite literally, in a flash. I was staring at the newspaper picture of the wreckage when I spotted the photo credit. I suddenly remembered John Birkett at the scene, his flash going off as he shot pictures of the wreck. If he’d inadvertently snapped one of the guy in the pickup, at least I’d have something to show the cops. Maybe we could get a lead on the fellow that way. I gave Birkett a call. Twenty minutes later, I was in his cubbyhole at the Santa Teresa Dispatch our heads bent together while we scanned the contact sheets.
“No good,” John said, “This one’s not bad, but the focus is off. Damn. I never really got a clear shot of him.”
“What about the truck?”
John pulled out another contact sheet that showed various views of the wrecked compact, the pickup visible on the berm behind. “Well, you can see it in the background, if that’s any help.”
“Can we get an enlargement?”
“You looking for anything in particular?”
“The license plate,” I said.
The California plate bore a seven-place combination of numbers and letters that we finally discerned in the grainy haze of the two blowups. I should have called Lieutenant Dolan and had him run the license number, but I confess to an egotistical streak that sometimes overrides common sense. I didn’t want to give the lead back to him just yet. I called a pal of mine at the Department of Motor Vehicles and asked him to check it out instead.
The license plate was registered to a 1984 Toyota pickup, navy blue, the owner listed as Ron Cagle with an address on McClatchy Way.
The house was stucco, dark gray, with the trim done in white. My heart was pounding as I rang the bell. The fellow’s face was printed so indelibly in my memory that when the door was finally opened, I just stood there and stared. Wrong man. This guy was probably six foot seven, over two hundred pounds, with a strong chin, ruddy complexion, blue eyes, auburn hair, red moustache. “Yes?”
“I’m looking for Ron Cagle.”
“I’m Ron Cagle.”
“You are?” My voice broke in astonishment like a kid reaching puberty. “You’re the owner of a navy-blue Toyota pickup?” I read off the number of the license plate.
He looked at me quizzically. “Yes. Is something wrong?”
“Well, I don’t know. Has someone else been driving it?”
“Not for the last six months.”
“Are you sure?”
He half laughed. “See for yourself. It’s sitting on the parking pad just behind the house.”
He pulled the door shut behind him, leading the way as the two of us moved off the porch and down the driveway to the rear. There sat the navy-blue Toyota pickup, without wheels, up on blocks. The hood was open and there was empty space where the engine should have been. “What’s going on?” he asked.
“That’s what I’m about to ask you. This truck was at the scene of a recent accident where a girl was killed.”
“Not this one,” he said. “This has been right here.”
Without another word, I pulled out the photographs. “Isn’t that your license plate?”
He studied the photos with a frown. “Well, yes, but the truck isn’t mine. It couldn’t be.” He glanced back at his pickup, spotting the discrepancy. “There’s the problem…”He pointed to the license. The plate on the truck was an altogether different set of numbers.
It took me about thirty seconds before the light finally dawned. “Somebody must have lifted your plates and substituted these.”
“What would be the point?”
I shrugged. “Maybe someone stole a navy-blue Toyota truck and wanted plates that would clear a license check if he was stopped by the cops. Can I use your telephone?”
I called Lieutenant Dolan and told him what I’d found. He ran a check on the plates for the pickup sitting in the drive that turned out to match the numbers on a vehicle reported stolen two weeks before. An APB was issued for the truck with Cagle’s plates. Dolan’s guess was that the guy had left the state, or abandoned the pickup shortly after the accident. It was also possible that even if we found the guy, he might not have any real connection with the shooting death. Somehow I doubted it.
A week passed with no results. The silence was discouraging. I was right back where I started from with no appreciable progress. If a case is going to break, it usually happens fast, and the chances of cracking this one were diminishing with every passing day. Caroline Spurrier’s photograph was still pinned to the bulletin board above my desk, her smile nearly mocking as the days went by. In situations like this, all I know to do is go back to the beginning and start again.
Doggedly I went through the list of witnesses, calling everybody on the list. Most tried to be helpful, but there was really nothing new to add. I drove back to the campus to look for Caroline’s roommate. Judy Layton had to know something more than she’d told me at first. Maybe I could find a way to worm some information out of her.
The apartment was locked, and a quick peek in the front window showed that all the furniture was gone. I picked up her forwarding address from the manager on the premises and headed over to her parents’ house in Colgate, the little suburb to the north.
The house was pleasant, a story and a half of stucco and frame, an attached three-car garage visible at the right. I rang the bell and waited, idly scanning the neighborhood from my vantage point on the porch. It was a nice street, wide and treelined, with a grassy divider down the center planted with pink and white flowering shrubs. I rang the bell again. Apparently no one was home.
I went down the porch steps and paused in the driveway, intending to return to my car, which was parked at the curb. I hesitated where I stood. There are times in this business when a hunch is a hunch… when a little voice in your gut tells you something’s amiss. I turned with curiosity toward the three-car garage at the rear. I cupped my hands, shading my eyes so I could peer through the side window. In the shadowy interior, I saw a pickup, stripped of paint.
I tried the garage’s side entrance. The door was unlocked and I pushed my way in. The space smelled of dust, motor oil, and primer. The pickup’s license plates were gone. This had to be the same truck, though I couldn’t think why it hadn’t been dumped. Maybe it was too perilous to attempt at this point. Heart thumping, I did a quick search of the cab’s interior. Under the front seat, on the driver’s side, I saw a handgun, a.45.1 left it where it was, eased the cab door shut, and backed away from the truck. Clearly, someone in the Layton household had been at the murder scene.