I get the details from Norm. We’re in luck this time. His only relatives in town are his parents and a cousin. As we’re talking, I recognise him as one of Pete Lester’s workers.
The FBI statue comes over and starts asking Norm the same questions I’ve just gone through.
I leave him to it and go to update the chief. As we talk both of us are watching Doenig. He’s over by Yarwood’s body. While not close enough to contaminate any evidence, he’s near enough to inspect the body. A pen light held by a steady hand throws a narrow beam of light onto the areas he wants to inspect.
In his other hand, his cell is displaying a faint glow as he holds it out and speaks with a soft tone. I guess he’s using it as a Dictaphone rather than having a conversation.
The fact his face still hasn’t changed expression makes me wonder if Botox injections are part of the FBI toolkit.
‘What’s your thoughts on this, Boulder?’
The chief’s face has shed weariness in favour of exhaustion.
‘The clinical manner of the execution points to our man, but I’m not so sure. Dr Edwards was convinced his selection process was highly important to him, but the victim’s got no connections I know of to Harriet or her family.’
‘You know him?’
‘He’s a regular at the Tree. Got a wife and two young boys.’ I remember the pride in Yarwood’s voice whenever he discussed his sons. ‘Don’t let those tattoos fool you. He was a stand up guy. Never got a whiff of trouble and I’ve often seen him play peacemaker.’
The chief’s eyes close as he takes a deep swallow. He’ll be thinking about what he has to do next. ‘I’ll need to inform his wife before I can start asking if he’s related to Harriet or Olly.’
I shudder at the thought of Chief Watson or another cop knocking on Yarwood’s door to tell his wife. It’s bad enough anyone getting killed, but the idea of young children losing a parent to mindless violence is abhorrent.
Kicking the tyres of the chief’s car, I imagine coming face to face with the killer. It’s a nice thought. I won’t be worried about making an arrest. Not until I’ve inflicted some pain onto him.
67
Doenig takes me back to the station, leaving his cohort to protect the crime scene. The chief is on his way to break the news to Yarwood’s wife after calling Darla to get an address.
Neither Doenig nor I discuss the body as we travel back. Both of us are lost in our thoughts. There’s every chance we’re thinking the same things, but you’d never know.
Norm sits in the back of the car for his own protection. I’m certain Doenig will give him another round of questions back at the station.
He is chewing at his nails and moving with a nervous energy. He’s called his parents and told them to expect a visit from the police. He is trying every minute or so to contact his cousin, but whenever he tries he ends up cutting the call after a few seconds.
My suggestion we go round to his cousin’s house is met with a blank stare by Doenig. Norm keeps at him though and he relents to the detour.
Getting directions from Norm, Doenig drives fast with skill. There is no flamboyance, just careful considered movements of the wheel. Every turn is indicated and his braking and accelerating don’t cause the car’s occupants to be thrown forward or back. His instructors at Quantico would be proud of the way he’s travelling at twice the speed limit while still observing the niceties of driving.
When we arrive at Norm’s cousin’s we exit the car and approach the house. It’s in darkness but so is every other house on the street.
It’s a typical house on an average street. Nothing is remarkable or unique about it. The car parked on the drive is a mid-range saloon. Everything about the area screams bland domesticity to me. I want to leave in case it’s contagious.
We knock on the door and ring the bell. There’s no answer.
Doenig beats me to the obvious questions. ‘Is your cousin married? Does she have kids?’
‘No. Her husband left her a couple of years ago and they didn’t have kids.’
‘What about a boyfriend?’
Norm tilts his head as he thinks. ‘She did say something about seeing a guy. His name was David, or Daniel. It began with a D. Do you think she’s with him?’ Hope has filtered into his voice.
‘Perhaps.’ I point at the car in the drive. ‘If she is, he’s picked her up.’
Doenig’s face registers its first expression. Exasperated impatience.
I’m guessing he wants to be away from Norm and I so he can start making calls to other agents without being overheard. If he doesn’t, he should.
I turn to Norm. ‘Do you have a key or know if she keeps one hidden somewhere?’
‘No, I don’t. Sorry.’
I start looking in the obvious areas. Under the doormat, behind the plant pot. Doenig joins in with a scowl while Norm stands around looking helpless.
Finding nothing we go round to the back of the house and repeat the process with the same result.
‘Nothing doing. She must be at the boyfriend’s. Come on. I’ll have someone run a trace on her cell and track her that way.’
As we’re travelling the mile back to the station I have a thought. It’s not one I want to share in front of Norm so I keep it to myself until we’re at the station.
Entering the reception, I’m about to get Doenig to one side when he’s approached by the colleague he’d left behind.
While they’re talking, I introduce Norm to Darla and give a quick explanation as to why he’s here. She grasps the situation at once and leads him away with the offer of coffee.
With Doenig tied up and the chief away, I find a seat and rethink my latest thought a second and third time.
However I poke and prod at the idea, I keep coming back to the same conclusion. There’s a way I can check, so I pull out my cell and make a call.
It’s late but something tells me nobody at the motel is going to be sleeping.
The detective who answers hands his phone to Olly Vernal. I question him about any possible connection his family has with Yarwood. He denies any but checks with other family members.
I can’t hear what they’re saying, but I can hear the low rumble of voices interspersed with the odd indignant shriek.
Olly comes back on the line and tells me there’s not even the most tenuous link.
It’s what I was expecting, but I still needed to check it out before making any rash statements.
With my facts established, I go in search of Doenig.
I find him still in conversation with the other agent; I hesitate to interrupt them. My involvement is limited despite the fact I’ve been deputised. While there’s no open hostility from Doenig, I’d have to be stupid not to recognise his tolerating of me is only one step above humouring.
His eyes land on me, so he turns away from his colleague. ‘What is it, Detective?’ There’s the lightest trace of a sneer in the way he uses my job title.
‘I don’t think Harriet Vernal was the first person to find Angus Oberton’s body.’
I can tell I have his full attention by the way his eyes widen. ‘Why?’
‘We know the killer is targeting the families of those who find the bodies. Thanks to a newspaper article so does the public. We’ve assumed he’s been finding out who the person is from press releases or by watching the dump sites.’ I lick my lips. ‘With the public aware of his selection method, the first person to find Oberton may have thought they were protecting their family by not reporting it.’
He raises a hand. ‘I’ve got it. What you’re saying fits.’ The tolerance in his eyes is replaced by a fleeting gleam of respect.
Neither of us speaks. The same thought assaulting my brain will be laying siege to his; the only way to verify my theory is to ask Ian Yarwood’s relatives if they found a body.