The touch of murder, p.22
The Touch of Murder, page 22
Veronica just blinked.
What the hell is this psycho talking about? How does he even know Freddie?
“Calm down, Troy.” Steve cleared his throat. His voice was only slightly louder now. “What’s this about?”
Marcus McVeigh entered the claustrophobic hospital room now and Veronica was struck with a strong sense of déjà vu.
Don’t these guys have anything better to do than to harass a sick man, sheriff or not?
McVeigh was perfectly capable of handling things by himself. And, if the rumors were true, being handed the reins, even under such bizarre circumstances as these, was something that the chief deputy should have relished.
Then Veronica recalled that they weren’t here for Steve. At least Troy wasn’t.
“What do you want with Freddie?” Veronica asked.
Troy’s eyes were red with anger now and even though she stood her ground, she felt her heart start to beat like a snare drum.
“You just tell him. Tell him what I said.”
The spell was broken when Troy turned.
“I don’t work for you,” Veronica said sharply. It wasn’t the best or most confident comeback, but it was all she could muster.
It didn’t seem to affect Troy and the man left in as big a huff as he’d arrived. Some of the hot air followed him out of the room.
“What the hell was that all about?” The question was on Veronica’s mind, but Steve was the one to ask it.
“No idea.”
Veronica felt her face redden a little when she realized that the question hadn’t been directed at her but at McVeigh.
“We, uhh, we had two more overdoses last night,” McVeigh replied hesitantly.
“Really?” Veronica tried to stop the image of Steve lying in the alley from moving to the front of her mind.
It was an impossible task.
“Yeah, both appear accidental, no evidence of foul play. Except…” Once more, the chief deputy looked to the sheriff for permission to continue.
“Go ahead. You can say anything in front of her.”
There was a snarky remark on the tip of her tongue, but Veronica resisted the urge to say it.
“Right.” McVeigh licked his thick lips. “Well, looks like they were fentanyl overdoses. We found baggies at both scenes—they had that logo on the package, the snake eating the eyeball. The same stuff that put you in here.”
There was an odd lilt to the man’s tone that was somehow accusatory.
For the first time, Veronica considered that perhaps she wasn’t the only one who knew about Steve’s drug problem, that the real reason he was in here wasn’t just because of his accidental undercover overdose.
This might explain McVeigh’s attitude, but not Troy’s. The DEA Agent had barely noticed Steve. He was looking for Freddie. And when the bald man hadn’t found the big detective, he’d taken his anger out on Veronica.
What the hell does any of this have to do with Freddie?
“Coordinate with Greenham PD, talk to Matheson, too. We need more officers on the street,” Steve said. “People are dropping like flies out there.”
Veronica furrowed her brow.
“Nearly every available officer is already out there looking for this killer as it is,” Veronica stated. Her phone rang and she pulled it out of her pocket. “Shit, gimme a sec.” She turned her back to the men and answered.
“Detective Shade, it’s Officer Furnelli.”
“What’s up, Court?”
“We’ve got—well, that press conference of yours might have done some good after all. We got a call from someone who claims to have witnessed Jake Thompson’s murder.”
Veronica’s heart rate had returned to normal after Troy’s exit, but it rebounded just as quickly.
“What? Are they—”
“Yeah, they’re on their way to the station now,” Court said, predicting her question.
“Good. I’ll be right there. I want to interview them.”
“Sure… but, I gotta warn you?”
“What? What is it?”
“Detective Shade, the witness… I thought you should know. The witness is an eleven-year-old boy.”
Chapter 48
The two children couldn’t have been more different. Beverly Trammel had pigtails and loved to play with her yo-yo. She was outgoing and gregarious.
Her parents had been murderers.
Max Taylor, on the other hand, was a blond-haired blue-eyed boy hunched over a sheet of paper, tongue pushed into his cheek as he colored. Even before speaking to him, before meeting him, Veronica could tell that Max was a quiet and reserved child.
“Like I said, it’s probably nothing.” David Taylor’s resemblance to his son Max was uncanny. He had the same slight stature, same hair, same eyes. “I was watching the news when Max came in. I was just about to turn it off when he pointed and—”
“You did the right thing by coming in,” Veronica interrupted. Like crime scenes, she liked to go into interviews with as little bias as possible. “Since your son is a minor, David, it’s probably best if you join us.”
Though David nodded, he appeared uneasy.
“This isn’t an interrogation,” Veronica assured him, hoping to alleviate his concern.
“No, I understand. It’s just... well, Max has quite an imagination.”
“That’s a good thing,” Veronica said warmly. She briefly touched the man’s shoulder before letting him enter the room first, followed by herself and then Freddie. Veronica had every intention of confronting her partner about what Troy had said back at the hospital, but that would have to wait. When they’d met at the station—Court had called Freddie after speaking to her—not only had David Taylor been present, but the man was uncomfortable and jittery.
They couldn’t afford Max and his father to walk. The tone of Court’s voice had suggested that the officer was doubtful that the boy had anything of value to offer, but Veronica knew that sometimes the least likely witnesses provided the most valuable information.
And they had nothing else to go on at this point.
“Hi, Max,” Veronica said softly. She lowered herself, and Max looked up from his drawing. She was struck by just how blue the boy’s eyes were. “My name’s Veronica and this is my partner, Freddie.”
“It’s okay, Max. You can talk to them. Just tell the detectives what you told me,” David encouraged.
Veronica sat across from Max, intentionally blocking his father’s view.
“Do you like drawing?”
Max nodded vigorously.
“Can I take a look?” The boy nodded again and slid the paper closer to her. Veronica spun it around and held it up. Max had drawn a rather intricate old-fashioned boat complete with a massive helm and oars protruding from the sides.
“This is amazing,” she said, genuinely impressed. “You must draw a lot.”
“Any talent he has, he got from his mother,” David chimed in.
Veronica was beginning to regret her offer of letting the man sit in on the interview. His interruptions, well-intentioned as they may be, were a distraction that served to pull Max’s blue eyes away from Veronica.
“Well, I think you are an excellent artist.” Veronica switched gears and lowered her voice. “Now, Max, I want to ask you about what you saw a couple of nights ago. Your dad mentioned that you sometimes like to go out at night for a walk. Is that true? Now, you’re not in trouble in any way,” she clarified. “And your dad says you’re not in trouble, so long as you tell the truth.”
Max glanced at his father, who gave him an encouraging head nod.
“Sometimes, I can’t sleep,” Max whispered, forcing Veronica to lean even closer to ensure that she didn’t miss a word. “Dad says I shouldn’t go out after dark, but I—I just… I just can’t sleep, so I go anyway.”
Veronica subtly sniffed the air as Max spoke, which felt wrong, but habits were hard to break.
She detected no signs of deception from the boy.
“Believe it or not, I used to do the same thing when I was a girl.” Unlike Max’s words, this was a lie. While it was true that Veronica would often go on late-night walks, they were always accompanied by her father, who liked to walk and smoke after dinner. And even accompanied by her police officer dad, they would never go near a place like Needle Point. “A couple of nights ago, did you go out then?”
“Yes.” As he spoke, Max grabbed another crayon and began drawing on a fresh sheet of paper. Veronica wanted the boy’s full attention but if her time with Dr. Jane Bernard had taught her anything, it was that sometimes a distraction could actually be helpful. It could loosen you up, keep you calm while describing an otherwise stressful situation. “And where did you go?”
Max shrugged.
“Somewhere with sheets hanging from the sky.”
The white tarps hanging from the building where Jake Thompson was found came to mind.
“Was this far from your house?”
“Not too far. Maybe… I don’t know. Thirty minutes? I’m not sure.”
“And did you happen to look behind those sheets, Max?”
As much as Veronica desperately wanted a break in the case, the idea of this eleven-year-old boy seeing Jake Thompson sitting on that chair with his throat slit and his lungs pulled out, seemed like a hefty price to pay.
“Yes.” The single syllable came out more gasp than word and everyone in the room held their breath.
“And what did you see?”
Max continued drawing and just as Veronica was about to repeat the question, the boy lifted his picture to show them.
“A monster,” he whispered. “I saw a monster behind those sheets.”
Chapter 49
Cole Batherson hadn’t been exaggerating when he’d told Troy Allison that the circumstances surrounding Dylan Hall’s arrest were eerily similar to those involving Detective Freddie Furlow’s brother-in-law, Braden Byers.
Dylan was discovered with a kilo of top-notch heroin after an anonymous tip-off. An anonymous tip also led to the discovery of a large amount of the Schedule I drug in Braden’s possession. The difference was that Braden had been driving his car at the time and not sitting at home.
The man, who, also like Dylan, had a significant rap sheet, received a fifteen-year sentence for possession and intention to distribute.
Cole hoped that his intervention would prevent Dylan from a similar fate.
Perhaps the most striking commonalty between the two cases, separated by nearly a decade, was Freddie Furlow’s involvement in both. Now, Cole knew that Troy Allison was too smart to keep his phone records, so not even a subpoena would reveal that Freddie had placed the ‘anonymous’ tip about the drugs in Dylan’s apartment. But he’d bet his bespoke double monk shoes that that was the case.
And the man who had arrested Braden Byers? Well, that was none other than his very own brother-in-law, Detective Furlow.
This dichotomy—feeling such moral compunction that you’d arrest your own brother-in-law and yet have no apparent qualms about framing an innocent man—was the only real confusing thing to Cole.
The good news was that a similar dichotomy existed when it came to people’s understanding and perception of Internal Affairs. They fucking hated them, sure, but because they knew how shitty IA could make their lives, a measure of respect was often levied.
And Cole had gotten around. He’d worked cases that involved Greenham PD, Matheson PD, even Bear County Sheriff’s Department. Rarely, very rarely, Cole had even dealt with the feds. This department whoring paid dividends and would continue to do so until news of his resignation made its rounds. And as luck would have it, the man Cole dealt with on those very rare interactions just happened to be working the desk at the Federal Corrections Institute, Sheraton.
This guard didn’t even ask for Cole’s badge, which, of course, he didn’t have. He addressed Cole by name and granted him a meeting with inmate 990767 without question.
They even gave him quick access to Braden Byers’ visitor log.
It came as no surprise that the man’s sister, Susan, visited him on a regular basis. Suspiciously missing from this list were both Freddie and his sons, Kevin and Randall Byers.
Cole didn’t know what to make of this. Because Braden had taken a plea deal—a terrible one, one that should have been summarily rejected by even the greenest articling student—the details of the case were difficult to come by.
“I just need five minutes,” Cole told the guard.
“Yeah, sure.”
“Should I be worried?” Cole mimicked having handcuffs put on.
The guard chuckled.
“With Braden? No, no way.”
If appearances meant anything, then Cole had no problem taking the guard’s words at face value. Mr. Byers’ hair, sandy brown, brushed to one side, not only looked clean but recently styled, as well. He had dark eyes, but they weren’t hardened, a square jaw, and an average build. Cole saw a resemblance to Susan Byers, which wasn’t unexpected. They were twins after all—fraternal, not identical—but still.
“Mr. Byers, my name’s Cole Batherson,” Cole said, sitting across from the unshackled convict.
“Yeah, I know. They told me you were with Internal Affairs. What do you want with me?”
Cole let his reputation precede him.
“This case I’m working, it’s a bit different than the usual.”
True.
“What do you want, Mr. Batherson?”
“I want to help you,” Cole replied flatly. Braden’s orange jumpsuit rustled as he crossed his arms over his chest. No, the man wasn’t hardened. But nobody spent ten years in a federal prison and didn’t harbor just a little paranoia. It was pretty much required for self-preservation.
“I just want to understand your case. I want to know why you took the plea deal.”
Braden sucked his lower lip into his mouth before speaking.
“Who are you working for?” There was a surprising amount of anger in the man’s voice.
“Would you believe that this case is pro bono?”
Braden frowned.
“Internal Affairs working pro bono?”
“You’re right.” Cole showed his palms. “Look, I just want to get your side of the story.”
“There is no ‘my side’ of the story. I got pulled over with heroin and now I’m in here, doing my time.”
Braden was surprisingly cavalier about his situation. It could be that he’d found Jesus or something like that. But this deal? The one that put him away for real time? This was the only deal he’d accepted. That was exceedingly rare.
And it didn’t make much sense.
“I mean, to be arrested by your own brother-in-law? The man married to your twin sister?”
Braden might not be hardened, but he had a hard streak in him all right.
“What the fuck do you really want?”
“Why are you getting angry with me?”
“Who sent you?” Braden flexed his hands flat on the metal table between them.
“Nobody.” Cole shrugged. “The thing is, though, your brother-in-law—no, no, I can’t say that. Let’s just—can I ask you a hypothetical?”
“I don’t want anything to do with this. I just want to do my time.”
Cole continued, unperturbed by the man’s comments.
“What if… what if the drugs weren’t yours, Braden?”
“They were mine,” the man countered from between clenched teeth. “They were my drugs.”
Angry or not, this was a curiously adamant assertion. One that gave Cole pause.
So, what you’re telling me, Lieutenant, is that this underwear that you’ve been sniffing when your office door is closed are yours?
Absolutely! They’re my underwear! I swear!
“Right. Well—” Cole stopped mid-sentence.
They were mine… they were my drugs.
Cole recalled the visitor sheet. It wasn’t who was on the list who was important, he realized, but who wasn’t.
“Fuck,” he whispered. Then Cole snapped his fingers. “They weren’t your drugs at all, were they?”
“They were!” Braden said, his voice getting louder. “They were mine!”
Cole pictured what Veronica might see—or smell? Was it smell when someone was lying? Yeah, that was it, smell.
He inhaled deeply, imagining his nostrils filling with the stench of gasoline.
“No, no, they weren’t yours.”
When Braden shouted this time, the guard opened the door and hurried into the small interview room.
“Leave it alone!” Braden warned. “Just… leave it alone.”
“You okay?” the guard asked Cole.
“Yeah, I’m fine.”
“Just take it easy, Braden, someone’ll be here for you in a moment.” Once outside, the guard turned to Cole and said, “What did you say to him, anyway? He never gets upset.”
“I just asked him if the drugs were his, that’s all.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
They were nearly at the front doors when Cole thought of something else.
“Let me ask you something—Mr. Byers’ commissary, it’s always full, isn’t it?”
“Yep.” The guard confirmed. “He’s got everything he needs in here.”
“Right, figured as much—he looked pretty comfortable. Who fills it, by the way?” Cole tried to make his interest seem conversational and not investigative. “His commissary, I mean? Wife? Girlfriend…?”
The guard scratched the back of his head.
“No, no, not a man. Some—ah, what do you call it when the first few letters of the first and last name sound kinda the same?”
“Alliteration.”
“Yeah, that’s it. F-f-f—”
“Fred Furlow?” Cole helped him out.
The officer beamed.
“Yeah, that’s it. Fred Furlow—he makes sure that Braden Byers’ commissary is always full, that the man doesn’t want for nothin’.”
Chapter 50
Monster…
It wasn’t the boy’s words that echoed in Veronica’s head, but those of the homeless man in the alley.
