Bonne Femme

Chapter 18

Trips

September 10

        Jill and Marta were flying to France where they would visit Jill's aunt before Marta went on to Barcelona and Alberto.  Marta had insisted on paying.  Although it was not certain that she would return, Richard get her security system installed before taking his own trip to West Virginia for more background on Mic.  He was just back from the airport when JR called.

        "We found the source of your picture, Richard.  A Dr. C. P. Warren, professor of forensic psychology at Michigan State, says the picture came from his files.  His archives contain hundreds of cases of actual and suspected serial killings going back thirty years.  Someone hacked in."

        Richard wondered if Mic would be foolish enough to send a photo of one of his victims.

"How old is the picture?" he asked

        "The woman was killed in Murray, Kentucky in the eighties.  The perp is doing life at Marion for another murder.  Here's the good part.  Warren is connected with VICAP.  The feds are interested in our boy now.  Of course, the trick is to prove he did it."

        "That's a relief, I suppose," he said.  "Listen, JR.  We're all going to be out of town for a while.  Jill and Marta are going to France to see Jill's aunt.  I'm going to West Virginia to see if I can find out what Mic was doing when he was there."

 

317.

"Okay.  Nothing else happened?"

        "I would have told you if it had.  I just wanted to let you know what I was doing.  I was getting ready to call you as a matter of fact.  Do me a favor and don't tell anyone where we are."

 

        After noon he met the security people at Marta's, selected the system he wanted, and got a briefing on its operation.  Leaving them to their work, he went home to pack and get some rest, intending on an early start in the morning.  But the house was too quiet, so at nine he dropped by Marta's to enter a temporary entrance code and set the deadbolt.  On his way back, he thought about the probability of a decent night's rest, considered it wasn't good, said to heck with it, and headed east through a driving rain.

 West Virginia

September 11

        He had spent most of the interminable overland trip to Appalachia worrying about the women and hoping the FBI would make Mic for the e-mail and put their resources and expertise digging through his past.  Sleepy, he took a wrong turn in the mountains, tried to improvise a way back to his route, and got hopelessly lost on back roads.  Finally he found a route shown on his multi-state map, and was able to backtrack to the main highway.

        It was twilight when he reached the junction of 47 and 33 where Glenville was located.  He had a motel reservation at Buckhannon, a further twenty-five miles down the road.  Since he was tired, he decided to drive on, go to bed early, and backtrack to Glenville in the morning.

        He fell asleep quickly and slept straight through---to three o'clock.  Tired of tossing and turning, he gave it up an hour later, dressed, but put off shaving until later, and went out to find an all-night café where he read the Charleston paper until the dawn-rising locals came in to compare illnesses and solve the world's problems.

        The road down to Glenville hugged the flanks of steep slopes and ran parallel to the numerous streams and nameless wet weather creeks webbing the rugged coal country.  Yesterday he hadn't really appreciated the way the twisting two-lane flirted with the many abysses in the terrain.  No one here ever went anywhere as the crow flies, perhaps not even the crows.  Finally he made it safely to Glenville, a middling-sized small town, where everyone probably didn't know everyone else, but where a stranger asking questions would draw immediate attention. Experience is that which lets you know you've made a fool of yourself without having someone else point it out.  He had learned his lesson in Cassville.  Besides, he wasn't concerned.  Mic had been an outsider too, so there should be no clannish resistance to his inquiry.

 

318.

         Of course he ran into problems immediately.  The local newspaper had gone out of business.  At the library he learned that back issues were not available because the editor-owner had died earlier in the year, and the newspaper morgue was locked away in the building pending probate.  Yes, the librarian told him.  The heirs might give him access, but they all lived in Charleston.  Dispirited, he decided on an early lunch in town.

        He parked diagonally on the rain slick street and stepped out into raw dampness beneath a dark purple sky.  Most of the storefront windows were dark, but a few still glowed dimly yellow or stark florescent white.  Downtown Glenville was under siege by superstore out to the highway, and capitulation was near.  Crossing to a portico covering the entrances of shoulder-to-shoulder dead and dying businesses, he hunched against the heavy mist.  After traversing the full sloping length of the fractured sidewalk he found a functioning café at the corner.  A dingy window was half covered by a hand written poster proclaiming the cubbyhole inside as Martha's Café.  Mismatched furniture lent it a forlorn look, but it was clean and, more to the point, warm.  He slid into a booth with cracked vinyl seats and picked up a laminated single-sheet menu old enough to have undergone several corrections via black marker.  A short blonde waitress swooped in with a plastic glass of water, and plucked a pen from the hair above her right ear.  She had the sort of post-high school looks that were fading rather than maturing.

"Can I get you some coffee, Sugar?"

Lipstick several shades too dark for her pallid complexion made her mouth seem huge. 

"Please," he said.

"Hot, strong, and straight, right?"

It was the opening salvo of her campaign.

"Yes, black," he said.

        She came back with coffee and leaned forward in a prolonged effort to wipe an imaginary spot from the table, inviting him more than a glimpse of cleavage.  She was not a woman to be ignored.

        "What brings a handsome guy like you to the sticks?" she asked with a toothy smile.

        Feeling almost under siege, he tried to concentrate on her face.  Despite his efforts not to encourage her, she seemed to take it as a propitious omen.  Richard had visions of a trap-door spider.

        "Just trying to look up a guy named William Boyd.  The last I heard he was living here."

 

319.

"You're a friend of Billy's?"

        The last thing he expected after his futile morning's efforts was to stumble onto someone who knew Mic.

"We're old service buddies.  Do you know him?"

She nodded enthusiastically.

"He came in here all the time before he ran off to California.  Got a job as an LA cop."

"Was he a cop while he was here?"

        "A security guard at Buckhannon, but he wanted to get back to real police work.  I was hoping he could get on with the sheriff, but they didn't have no openings, I guess."

Richard quit worrying about leading her on.

        "Say, do you think you're boss would mind you talking with me for awhile?  The restaurant doesn't seem too busy."

At that, the only other patron cleared his throat loudly to attract her attention.

        "My mom owns the place," she said, ignoring him.  "What's she gonna do?  Fire me?  Hold where you are, Sugar.  I'll be right back."

        Obviously peeved that the old man required attention, she refilled his cup without so much as a word and then left the pot with him.

        "That ought to hold the old cheapskate," she said brightly as she scooted in across from him and leaned forward on her elbows inviting another glimpse down her blouse.  "So what do you want to talk about?"

The subject didn't matter.  She was eager to talk---for starters. 

"Did Billy have any friends that might know his current address?"

        "He might have had some over at Buckhannon, but I doubt it.  When he wasn't working he was in here a lot.  We dated some."

She twisted a loose strand of hair before continuing wistfully.

 

320.

"Then he just kinda walked out of my life.  That's the way it goes, I guess."

"You mentioned police work.  Did he ever tell you where he worked as a policeman?"

"I thought you were a friend of his."

        "Well in the Marines he never mentioned being a policeman.  A pretty girl like you---maybe he was just trying to impress you."

Her laugh was a snort.

"Billy wasn't fibbing to impress me.  I seen his stuff."

"Stuff?"

She smiled conspiratorially, obviously sizing him up.

        "At his apartment he showed me his gun and handcuffs.  You've got to buy those when you get to be a cop so they let you keep them."

"I didn't know that."

        "Me neither.  I asked him what a security guard needs handcuffs for, and he says because he used to be a policeman.  He still had his uniform and one of those dash lights like the cops on TV."

A chill ran up his spine.

        "I don't know if I should be telling you this or not," she continued with a mischievous glint in her eyes.  "No telling what kind of girl you'll think I am."

"He cuffed you?"

        "Asked me if I knew what it felt like," she arched an eyebrow suggestively.  ‘Kind of kinky,' I said, ‘but I'll try anything once.'"

Given her level of discretion so far, Richard anticipated a detailed play-by-play.

        "I can see the way your mind's working, you bad boy," she said, wagging a finger in his face, "but nothing happened.  He acted like he wasn't going to . . . you know, but he was just teasing me."

 

321.

A frown eclipsed her smile for a moment.

"You know what?  It ain't sexy like on the movies.  Those things hurt."

He wondered how close she had come to being another of his victims.

"I'll never get out of this damned place," she said suddenly.

"You could be in a worse place than this," he said.

"Like Hell maybe!" she said with another snort.

Like a shallow grave, he said to himself.

        The thought occurred that besides lurking to spring on eligible men, the desperate woman probably lived for gossip.

        "I hear you all had a real tragedy back a few years.  Something about a murder-suicide by one of the locals."

        "They weren't locals," she said sourly, obviously disappointed at the turn of conversation.

        Fear that she would end the conversation was premature.  She may not have set a hook just yet, but she wasn't ready to cut bait.

        "Transplants.  Guy brings his wife out to retire among us hillbillies.  Wifey gets bored and finds herself a local stud---nobody knows who.  The old man finds out and kills her.  And then he shoots himself too.  I didn't know her, but Doc Scott seemed like an okay guy.  I guess you just never know.  Then again, maybe he was kind of nuts all along ‘cause that's why a lot of them guys become shrinks in the first place, right?"

"Scott?"

        "Yeah.  He did volunteer work with the juvenile officer over to the county seat, which, you know, means he was like basically a nice guy---except for the being nuts thing that is.  Maybe he was like teetering on the brink all along and his wife's messing around finally pushed him over the edge.  He seemed too gentle to do a thing like that, but I guess you never know."

Richard barely heard her.

"Would you happen to know his first name?" he asked.

        "Charles or Carl?  Something like that, I think," she said impatiently.  "Speaking of names, you never did tell me yours."

"Richard Carter," he said distractedly.  "Are you sure it wasn't Olin?"

 

322.

"No.  I would remember a weird name like that."

As he rose to leave he took out a five and placed it on the table.

"Thanks for talking to me Miss . . . "

"Hope," she said dispiritedly as she snatched the bill.  "Ironic, huh?"

        It wasn't ironic, but Richard understood.  He had done nothing to her but talk, yet he had become the latest in a string of men who had betrayed her.  She was a sad and lonely woman who was fast becoming not so young anymore.  He wanted to tell her not to try so hard, but it wasn't his place to give advice.  Besides, he had to find out if the name was just a coincidence.

        Richard went to his car oblivious to the wet gusts blowing up the valley.  Preoccupied, he backed up on autopilot until a horn blast made him hit the brakes.  He shrugged acknowledgment of blame that earned him only a one-fingered salute from the bearded driver of the rusty pickup.

 

        He killed an hour reading the Charleston paper while waiting in his car for the sheriff to return from lunch.  He could have used more coffee, but he'd had all the confessions and cleavage he could use for the day.  At one on the dot an unmarked pulled up, and a tall thin man with the beginnings of a potbelly, wire-rimmed glasses, and a wide-brimmed, off-white hat got out and went up the steps.  It might have only been a deputy, but Richard was tired of sitting so he followed him inside.

        He had given his name and stated his business earlier, mentioning his suspicion that Boyd may have been involved in an abduction in the area.  That he had traveled so far ought to earn him an audience, he thought, unless the man was a total jerk---not uncommon for elected officials, but not requisite either.  After a short wait, the secretary, a trim, efficient-looking woman on the far end of middle age opened the inner door and ushered Richard into the office of Sheriff John Osborne.  Without rising, the man nodded toward a chair.  He ran fingers through his straight white hair without modifying in the least the indentations made by his hat.

       "Well, Mr. Richard Carter, you check out according to the uh . . . "  He peered through the fish scales of his bifocals at the blotter on his desk.  ". . .  Lake County Sheriff's Department in Michigan.  But you're no longer with the department.  What's going on?"

 

323.

"I'm here on my own.  I just mentioned the department to establish my credibility."

        Osborne tamped tobacco into the bowl of a well-used pipe before lighting it with a tubular pipe lighter.  As the flame licked downward, cherry tinted smoke curled around his head, evoking an image of Uncle Bill with his shotgun and the golden lab called "Sugar" sitting patiently in the duck blind.

        "I don't have a thing on this Boyd character," said Osborne.  "And we've had no women abducted off the roads of my county.  What ever gave you the notion to come out here and suggest such a thing?"

        "I came here about Boyd.  The abduction thing came from something a lady here told me this morning.  She knew him when he was here."

        Richard told him about the police paraphernalia and the handcuff play the waitress had described.

        "He explained having that stuff by claiming he had been a policeman.  I don't think he ever was."

        "Police uniforms, cuffs---you can buy that sort of thing mail order, probably online nowadays," said Osborne.  "Some guys like to play dress up and pretend, but like I told you, there haven't been any reports of women accosted while driving alone Of course, there are a boatload of women and girls who go missing.  Check the supermarket bulletin boards."

        Richard had hoped that he was giving Osborne a hot lead.  It would have made his next question more likely to be received well.

        "Well, all that's incidental to why I really came here.  What can you tell me about this Scott who killed his wife and himself?  I gather---"

        "What does Charlie Scott have to do with this Boyd character?" interrupted the sheriff gruffly.

        "I'm not sure.  Records show that Boyd saw a psychiatrist by the name of Scott.  Scott wasn't from around here, I take it."

"No.  He moved here to retire.  Service pension."

Richard felt a rush of adrenaline.

"Marines?"

 

324.

Osborne nodded, but then held up his hand.

        "Whoa.  Let's backtrack a little here.  A woman here tells you about the cuffs and stuff, and that gives you the idea about possible abductions, but you came here to ask about Charlie Scott.  Did you make that other up just to get in here to talk to me?"

        "No.  If you're interested in that go ask the waitress at Martha's Café.  She's the one that told me about the police gear.

        "Seems odd.  You come into town, and right away you find someone who knows this guy you're looking for and she tells you something like that."

"It surprised me too, but it's a small town."

        "Okay.  You've come a long way for this so maybe I can indulge you for a bit.  Why do you need to know about the Scott case?"

"First tell me if the violence seem out of character for Doctor Scott."

        "Charlie seemed stable, but that's the way it usually is with domestic violence.  It goes unreported and unnoticed most of the time.  There was nothing in his past to indicate it."

"Is there a chance he didn't do it?"

Osborne shook his head.

        "There was a note, a contact gunshot wound in the right temple, GSR and blowback on his right hand and shirtsleeve.  His pistol was right there.  Ballistics matched."

        It sounded like a slam-dunk, but what were the odds of two Marine psychologists named Scott turning up?

"Sheriff, could you call Lake County and request Boyd's records?"

"I think he and Boyd had a history."

"It was a suicide, Carter," he said, pushing his swivel chair back.  "The case is closed."

"If I'm wrong all it's cost you is a little time."

 

 

325.

         A phone call, a fax, a few frowns, a second call, and another fax ate up half an hour.  Osborne paced, glancing first at one and then at the other badly copied facsimiles.  Boyd's discharge papers showed that he had been released before his six-year enlistment ran out on the recommendation of Captain Olin C. Scott.  West Virginia DMV confirmed that Olin C. and Charlie Scott were one and the same.

        "Boyd and Scott had business in San Francisco and then traveled separate two thousand mile paths only to end up here where one of them ends up dead and the other leaves without anyone knowing they ever knew each other," muttered Osborne, pacing the floor with the curled papers of the antique fax machine still clutched in his hand.

He went to the window and peered through the Venetian blinds.

"Carter, I would have thrown you out of here when I was younger."

Osborne went to his desk and held down the key on the intercom.

"Lill, bring in the Scott file."

"Right away," came a tinny voice embedded in static and background buzz.

        "Intercom's older than I am," said the sheriff.  "Can't waste the people's money on anything as trivial as decent equipment."

He keyed the box again.

"And, Lill, send Herb down to evidence for the envelopes on the case."

". . .-ight," came the tinny reply.

"Carter, what do you know about Charlie Scott?"

"Nothing but what I've found out today."

Osborne shook his head.

"I'd kind of like to remember him the way I thought he was."

        The door opened and a graying man wearing horn rim glasses and carrying a considerable paunch held out two large manila envelopes.

"Thanks, Herb," said Osborne, rising to take them.

 

326.

The man withdrew with only a nod of his head and closed the door.

        "The note always did bother me," said the sheriff.  "It was more accusatory rather than explanatory, but it was in his handwriting."

"I don't suppose you can tell me what it said?"

        "I shouldn't, but it's obvious that you believe someone else---namely this Boyd---killed both of them.  Now tell me why you believe that."

"Because everywhere he goes women he knows end up dead, strangled like Mrs. Scott."

"Go on."

"I don't think murder-suicides happen like this?"

"How so?"

        "Strangling takes a lot of determination.  I mean it's not like hitting someone with a blunt object or pulling a trigger.  That's over in the blink of an eye.  Strangling takes time.  It just doesn't seem consistent with remorse afterwards.  Can you show me the crime scene photos?"

"Why?"

"Boyd sent one to . . . a friend of mine---a woman.  I want to see if they're similar."

        "I can't do that," said Osborne as he pawed through one of the envelopes.  "Here.  How similar are they?"

He handed Richard a crime scene diagram. 

        Two rooms were drawn to scale, complete with furniture.  A female body was outlined face up on a rectangle representing the bed. The arms were portrayed at the side but ended at the waist.  Another figure was outline curled on its side near an overturned chair beside the bed.  Seven neat numbers had been printed around the bodies, and were identified in the same neat script at the bottom of the page as pistol, female articles of clothing, blood spatter, urine, note pad, note, and pen.

       "The woman in the picture he sent was positioned exactly like that," said Richard pointing to the outline on the bed.  "She was bound and the ligature was still around her neck."

"How do I know you're not making that up?"

 

327.

"Call Lake County back."

        "I might do that," said Osborne distractedly.  "You know, the way we figured it was that he became enraged when he found out about her infidelity and confronted her when she came in from taking a bath.  An argument escalated and he killed her.  Then when he realized what he had done he killed himself.  But the note always bothered me, because he didn't finish it.  Maybe that was because he couldn't find a way to."

"Can I see the note?" asked Richard.

"What's your connection to this fellow?" Osborne asked suddenly.

        "We were in the Marines together, in Somalia.  He looked me up when he came to Cartier.  I don't know why because we were never friends."

        "And what's your connection to the woman he sent that picture to?  You say she's a friend?"

"She's my fiancée."

"So it's personal."

"Very.  He threatened to kill her."

Osborne held his gaze a long moment, nodded knowingly.

        "I might as well get hanged for a sheep as a goat," he said, handing him a plastic bag with a sheet torn from a spiral notebook inside.

        The note had been torn from the notebook, crumpled, and then flattened.  Blood spray flecked it.  Scrawled in blue "doctor's hand," two short sentences and the beginning of a third were barely legible.  He read it through twice.

                        Tilly is a slut.  She spreads her legs for anything in pants.

                        My wife

He smiled grimly.  Mic liked to use the phrase "she spreads her legs."

        "Yeah," said Osborne, noticing his expression.  "The present tense bothered me too.  We wrote it off to his level of distress."         

 

328.

"Tilly?" said Richard, still puzzling over the note.

"Short for Matilda.  Charlie always called her that."

"Odd to use an endearment under the circumstances?"

        "Strange, but none of this seemed like the Charlie Scott I knew.  That is his handwriting however."

"Was her body covered when they found them?"

"No.  Why?"

        "It seems to me that if he was sorry afterwards, he might have covered her.  Of course, you'd have to talk to forensic psychologist about that.  The other thing is that your diagram shows her hands under her.  Was she tied up?"

        "With the belt of her robe.  I see what you're saying.  It looks more like a premeditated thing than just a fit of passion.  We're going to have to reopen the case."

"I know that Lake County will share anything they have," said Richard.

         "Out of curiosity, since you seem to have a theory about everything, how do you think it happened?"

Richard thought about it a moment.

        "Maybe something like this:  Scott comes home to find Boyd in the house and Mrs. Scott tied up.  He forces Scott to write.  Knowing the man's violent history, Scott begins, perhaps hoping to talk him out of hurting his wife.  He balks when he realizes that he's being asked to write a suicide note.  Boyd immobilizes Scott in some way.  Maybe he kills him first, or ties him up.  After he kills Mrs. Scott he arranges then scene to look like a murder-suicide."

Osborne stared out the window.

        "Toxicology showed nothing in either victim's system," he said.  There were no abrasions on his wrists.  No evidence of intercourse.  Besides, if someone wanted to make this look like a murder-suicide---say a real smart guy---why would he leave the woman like that?  Admittedly, it made us suspicious, but in an odd sort of way, it argues against staging the scene, doesn't it?"

 

329.

Osborne scowled skeptically.

        "Something else here doesn't make sense," he continued.  "If this guy you're so hot for me to take a look at is a serial killer or whatever, then why did he track Charlie Scott down?"

"I don't know.  Maybe he was fixated on Mrs. Scott."