The more I think about it, the more I believe Norm Sortwell is the Watcher. As a former Marine he’ll have the necessary skills to have made the kills. Plus, he’d be able to get close to his cousin to kill her. While we still don’t have a cause of death, there are too many inconsistencies about her death fitting into the narrative of someone else killing her so soon after Yarwood’s body was discovered.
First there was the missed date. She’d posted about it on Facebook and there were clothes laid out ready on her bed. Judging by the length of the skirt and the fancy underwear, it wasn’t a date she planned to miss.
Second, if she’d changed her mind about the date why hadn’t she called or messaged the guy. She was a professional woman in her forties, not some immature teen. With the ease of cell messages as a way of communication, being stood up is becoming a thing of the past.
Third, if she had decided to miss the date, why weren’t the clothes put away? Where was she for the five and a half hours between leaving work and Norm finding Yarwood?
Fourth, no woman I’ve met in the last five years would go anywhere without her cell and purse. Both of which Josie had left behind if she’d left the house of her own volition.
Everything I can think of suggests Josie had been killed before she was due to go on the date. Therefore, the Watcher had got to her between her arriving home at five-thirty and getting dressed for the date at say six-thirty. This left a one-hour window.
Remembering how long Sharon used to spend in the bathroom, I know an hour isn’t a lot of time for a woman getting ready for a date. Especially the kind of date the lacy underwear on the bed suggested.
Josie wouldn’t have wanted anyone to disrupt her. All but close family members would have been shunned or rescheduled. Norm was family and would be allowed in, even if only for a few minutes. A trained Marine wouldn’t need more than seconds to kill a defenceless woman.
The chief hangs up his call as Doenig enters the room. His expression is unchanged apart from a slight lifting of the eyebrows.
‘You’re right, Boulder. Dr Green says the time of death was around seven o’clock last night give or take an hour or two.’
As the chief brings Doenig up to speed, I ask Alfonse what he’s working on.
‘What you got, buddy?’
‘I’ve been taking a closer look at Norm Sortwell. His Marine psyche evaluation has him as a natural killer. He felt no emotion or compassion for his targets, he just did what he had to do.’ He looks at me with fear in his eyes. ‘A lot of what he did was classified and passworded to death. I’ve only scratched the surface, but from what I’ve seen, I would guess he was one of the go-to-guys for the really crazy missions.’
‘So we’ve got a trained killer who is dying from an incurable disease.’ I shoot a look towards Doenig and the chief. ‘Correct me if I’m wrong, but that doesn’t sound like a good combination.’
Doenig fires a lump of questions at the three locals in the room and then lays out what we’re going to do.
I like the sound of his plan. As much as I’d like to pound on Norm, taking down someone as dangerous as him when he’s nothing to lose is a job for the SWAT team Doenig’s going to call in.
The one part of his plan I’m against, is that I’m to join my family at the motel.
Any protestations I make are shouted down by three different voices. I do everything apart from get down on my knees and beg, but they are resolute. My place is with my family under armed guard.
With the decision made, Doenig spits orders at everyone in the room including Alfonse.
He wants to know everything about Norm. His address, the car he drives, its licence plate, hangouts, friends, credit card history and a dozen other details including the National Guard strength in Casperton, the number of police officers and the weapons the chief has.
Alfonse gives him most of the answers he’s looking for regarding Norm and the chief supplies the rest.
77
Cuthbert is with me as I leave the police station. His instructions are seared into my mind. Move fast, but don’t run. Keep your eyes open, but don’t gawp like a tourist.
The idea is simple. He’s taking me to the motel without causing a big fuss about it. A full phalanx of armed guards would be a serious giveaway if Norm is watching. It would show that all of a sudden we’ve got more nervous. If he’s as bright as we think he is, he’ll know why.
The last thing Doenig wants is for him to go to ground or disappear. He’d much sooner leave him be until the SWAT team arrive and then pinpoint him by triangulating his cell.
It makes sense. Other than knocking Steve out while killing Angus Oberton, the Watcher hasn’t harmed any innocents. I’m not sure if Cuthbert falls into that category as an FBI agent, but I’m glad he’ll be with me.
The bulletproof vest I’m wearing under my shirt is cumbersome and inhibits my movements but I didn’t grumble when it was suggested and I’m not complaining now.
All of the Watcher’s kills have taken place up close, but I’m not prepared to gamble on being his first distance kill.
As I climb into the Mustang, I wonder if turning the key will trigger an explosion. I hesitate for a moment before rationalising it has spent the day sitting outside a police station beside a busy thoroughfare.
I turn the key as Cuthbert reaches for the door lock. Three times he presses the button down without success.
‘It’s bust.’ I’ve been meaning to drop it off with Lunk for weeks now, but have never gotten around to it.
His sigh carries more criticism than a dozen of Mother’s shouty messages.
We’re halfway to the motel when Cuthbert startles me with some of his typically abrupt sentences.
‘There’s a red suburban three cars back. It has followed us from the station. Norm Sortwell drives one of those.’
I curse myself for missing it and resist the urge to bury my foot into the gas pedal. It’s tempting to floor it and get to the safety of the motel quicker but the sudden burst of speed would be a red flag to Norm. So would me taking detours along side streets in an effort to lose the tail.
What is needed are calm nerves and a steady behaviour. There’s two of us, we’re both carrying guns and we’re in early evening traffic. He’s never broken cover by doing anything in a public place. As long as he thinks he’s undetected, he’ll wait for a chance when he feels the odds are in his favour.
Taking a left onto Fourth, I’m watching the mirror as much as the road ahead when I hear the parp of a horn. Seeing I’ve crossed halfway onto the other side of the road, I jerk the wheel to return the car to where it should be and fix my eyes on what’s in front of me.
Clearing Fourth I swing onto I40 a half mile from the motel. It’s a straight drive now along a nice piece of highway. If it comes to it, I’m confident my Mustang will outrun his suburban.
As we’re approaching the railroad crossing the barrier starts to lower and the lights flash their amber warning. I consider stamping on the gas but the gap is too small and there’s no point risking our lives to escape someone who isn’t yet trying to kill us.
I glance in the rear-view mirror as I draw to a halt. I see nothing but darkness behind us. No headlights, no dark shapes that could be cars without lights on. Nothing.
The train arrives at the crossing in a rumble of clanging metal and repetitive clatters as it thunders across the rails. It’s one from the oilfields, which means it’ll be a long one. A mile or more in total, still accelerating, it’ll take a couple of minutes at least to pass.
Reassured by the lack of headlights behind us, I relax a little and rotate my shoulders to try and alleviate the tension which is knotting them. It doesn’t work.
Cuthbert is looking round the car like a human lighthouse. The faint light from the train is casting shadows and shapes back at us, along with our own reflections in the windows.