Five Minutes Alone (19 page)

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

I wonder what state Bevin and Taylor Collard are in, whether they’re very much alive or very much dead, or some very much miserable state in between. I get the feeling it’s the latter. I get the feeling Peter Crowley wants to make them suffer, and he’s taken them well out of town for it. But they’re just feelings, and in twenty minutes we’ll know the facts.

For some of the journey it’s the same as yesterday morning. We leave the edge of town. Onto the motorway. Houses petering out and farms petering in. The Christchurch prison is ahead, then we’re alongside it, then it’s behind us, traveling west, and I remember coming out here earlier this year and promising myself if another case ever brought me out here I was going to turn it down. We get a phone call from the station. The phone company has just reported that Peter Crowley’s cell phone is no longer transmitting.

We’re only a few minutes away from the location the phone company gave us when we see the glow on the horizon. Morning is on its way, and at first that’s what we think it is, the lightening of the sky, but of course we’re driving in the wrong direction for that. We’re driving west and the sun is rising in the east. Then the glow becomes more yellow, more orange, it become stronger and we know we’re not looking at some optical illusion as the sun reflects off the landscape. We’re looking at a fire. I call it in, telling the fire service we’ll have a more accurate address soon, but for now just to head west out of the city down the main highway and follow the flames. As we continue onwards it seems likely the location we’re looking for and that orange glow are one and the same. Of course they are. And instead of going to the place the phone company told us, we drive towards the glow. We’ve turned off and are now
heading north, through a maze of country roads, some sealed, some gravel, some just hard-packed dirt, and I now know exactly where we’re heading, and a minute later it’s confirmed.

We pull into the long driveway of Grover Hills, passing the big oaks guarding the entrance. Ahead the abandoned mental institution is a mass of black shapes covered in blankets of yellow and orange, the black shapes of walls and the roof all at right angles to each other, the yellows and oranges flowing over every surface. Windows crack, some pop, some explode, the sounds like gunfire in the night. As we watch, some of those right angles shift. Some grow and some shrink as beams inside twist and some start to fall. This is the mental institution where I tracked a serial killer earlier in the year. This is where I took the heavy blow to the head that was my golden ticket to Coma Land—come for the peace and quiet, stay for the dreams.

Kent gets on the phone and I jump out of the car and the air is hot, unbearably so, and looking at the fire is like staring into the sun. There’s a body twenty yards from the entrance. I run over to it, and right away I can see the face of the man I saw in the photographs in the hallway when Charlotte Crowley was leading us to the door. I check for a pulse, but there’s nothing there. The body is still warm, but that could just be because Grover Hills is burning. The side of his head has been caved in. Rebecca catches up to me.

“Who?” she asks.

“Crowley.” I reach into his pockets. There’s no cell phone, and maybe it’s in the flames and that’s why it’s no longer working. I find a wallet and check the driver’s license and it matches the dead guy.

“Is that a car?” Rebecca asks, and points towards the building.

At first I can’t see it. The air is shimmering, there are sparks and flames and ash, and the building is in the throes of dying, and then through the flames I see it, a car parked up in the entrance of the building—it’s climbed the steps and is almost right up against the door, pitched on an angle with the hand brake on. I can’t tell if anybody is in it. We can’t tell if anybody else is here.

“There must have been a second car,” Kent says.

“Or somebody is still out here. Lock our car,” I tell her, “and let’s walk the perimeter.”

She locks the car. It would be foolish to split up, and foolish to try and find a way in there. We would, if we really felt there was somebody in there to be saved. As it stands we’re both sure if anybody is in there it’s going to be the Collard brothers, and neither of us are going to go fire walking for those guys. We start left, the glow from the fire lighting the grounds in all directions, sparks jumping into the long grass and soon that will burn too. We start a loop, wide enough so we don’t cook in the heat. Around the south side, about ten yards from the building, is a dead dog. The fire isn’t as strong back here, but it will get there.

“A stray?” Rebecca asks.

I shake my head. “Looks like it has a collar.”

I put my arm up to shield my face, and then I run to the dog, crouch down, and grab its collar. I start pulling, dragging the dog back from the building. Sweat is pouring down my face and back. I drag the dog twenty yards further from the flames. It’s a rottweiler. Its head is a mess of blood and torn skin and one of its ears is missing. The collar doesn’t have a dog tag on it.

We leave the dog and carry on. We don’t find any other vehicles. No more dead dogs or dead people. We finish our loop.

“See that?” Kent asks, and points towards the burning car.

“See what?”

“I think there’s a body beneath it.”

I have to shield my eyes with my hand, but all I can see are flames, they’re dancing back and forth, but then there’s a gap, and I can see a head and shoulder with an arm pointing outwards from beneath the car and then the gap closes. “Want to go and drag it out?” I ask.

“After you,” she says.

“Can you make out the registration plate?”

“I can’t even make out the color.”

There’s a loud cracking sound, and we both jump as a section of roof collapses inwards. A new set of flames fills the space. They reach up and try to burn the morning sky. Ash and charcoal hang in the air, suspended in the moment as if hanging on wires.

“We need to move back,” I tell Rebecca, “and we need to clear the drive for the fire trucks. We should drag Peter further back too.”

“Let’s photograph him first,” she says, “for the medical examiner.”

Rebecca drives the car out onto the road and returns with the camera. We snap some photographs of Crowley so the medical examiner can see what position we found him in, then we drag him to the guarding oak trees where there is no chance of being run over. If the fire trucks are getting close, we can’t hear them as Grover Hills continues to eat itself, there’s another crack, and another corner of the roof turns inwards, then part of the wall beneath it twists, balances, then falls inwards too. Sparks and fiery splinters of wood spray into the air, they catch on the light breeze and are taken away. I think about the scream room downstairs, the stories I heard of patients who used to be tortured down there by some of the staff, sometimes as punishment, sometimes just for kicks.

There is nothing more we can do as we wait for the fire trucks and for Hutton to show up, and soon we hear them, the sirens close enough to be heard above the splintering wood, four fire trucks in total, they enter the driveway and form a semicircle. Maybe twenty people spill out of them like circus clowns, and they get to work, and moments later water is being pumped into the heart of the fire from one truck, then another, then all four hoses are writhing like snakes across the ground as water fattens them up. We stay out of their way as all the evidence inside is torched first and then soaked with water. It seems like a war the firefighters can’t win as the fire latches on to the landscape and tries to burn that too.

“I know who he is,” Kent says. “The bald man.”

I turn towards her because I think I know too. I’ve been think
ing about it since seeing where the fire was burning. Grover Hills. A bald man. I know one bald man that knows this place is out here. But is it possible? No. Kelly Summers was his case, but not Linda Crowley. But still . . .

“Who?” I ask.

“He’s a victim. I think he’s lost somebody close to him, the same way Peter Crowley did. This bald guy, he’s trying to help others like himself. And if that’s true, then he wouldn’t have done anything to hurt Peter, because they’re on the same side, the same way he was helping Kelly Summers.”

I think about that, and it goes against what I’ve been thinking since I got here, that somehow Schroder could be involved. I was the one who tracked a killer out here months ago, but for the following week Schroder had to come out here every day, dealing with the fallout, dealing with what we had learned about the history of this place, what had been covered up here for so long, dealing with those who spent days and nights in the scream room before being buried in the ground. A lot of suffering happened inside these now-burning walls, and a guy like Schroder knows a lot more suffering could happen out here and nobody would ever know.

But Schroder is Schroder. At least he used to be. Not anymore. I still can’t see him being involved—of course not—it’s just a coincidence he knows about this place, just as thousands of other people know about it. After all, the case was covered in the news.

Kent carries on. “The train line where Dwight Smith was killed. You draw a line between here and Kelly Summers’s house, and that train line is on it. Is this where they were coming before they ran out of gas?”

“They?”

“If Peter was here tonight, only stands to reason Kelly would have been here last night, don’t you think?”

“There was no indication she had been in the car,” I say, “and if she had been following, then they could have dumped the body into her car and carried on.”

Kent thinks about that for a few moments. She runs the math, runs the scenarios, tries to get things to fit, but can’t. “So maybe she wasn’t involved. Maybe the bald guy was just doing this on his own. When the car ran out of gas he probably figured the best thing was to throw the body on the railway lines, hoping we would think it was a suicide. Then he walked back, or hitched a ride. Maybe he gave Kelly the option and she said no, and he gave Peter the option and he said yes.”

A couple of police cars show up then. Hutton is among them. He sees us and comes over, and once again I think about how good he looks now he’s lost all that weight.

“That’s Peter Crowley?” he asks, nodding towards the body.

“Yeah.”

“That’s where you found him?”

“We had to move him,” I tell Hutton, then explain why.

“Medical examiner is on her way,” he says, “and she’s not going to be too happy about that.”

“She’ll be happier than she would have been if we’d left him where he was.”

“Any theories?” he asks.

I look at Kent. Kent shrugs, then shakes her head, and then says, “Nothing yet.”

Hutton looks at his watch, then looks at the sky as if it confirms what his watch just said. “I want you guys to go back and talk to his wife.”

“Now?”

Part of the building is no longer ablaze. It seems the war might actually be won by the firefighters. Not yet, but eventually. By the time it’s over I can’t imagine there’s going to be a lot of the building left standing.

“I don’t see any reason to put it off,” he says. “Look, I know it’s late. But give notification to the wife, and maybe now she’ll let you take a look in her husband’s study without a warrant, though at this point it’s just a matter of semantics since we can get one anyway.
We’ve got a task-force meeting scheduled for nine, but I’ll push it back to ten. I know it’s not much, but it gives you time to grab some breakfast or try and get a quick nap beforehand. As soon as we can get a look at the car, we’ll run the plates and see who it belongs to.”

Right then one of the firefighters comes over and gives us an update. He expects they’ll have the fire under control within the next thirty minutes, but then tells us not to hold out any hope of entering the building anytime soon. “If at all,” he says. “You’re apt to fall through the floor,” he tells us, “or apt to have a wall fall on you. We’ll send in a robot with a camera, but I’m telling you the best thing we can do is pull that car out of there, the bodies beneath it, then just knock the whole thing down.”

“
Bodies
?” I ask.

“Yeah, there’s two of them under there. We’ll be able to get what’s left of them, but not till the fire is out. Getting them out in one piece is going to be difficult. First of all, parts of those bodies are going to be stuck to the car, and if we tow the car out it’s going to destroy what’s under there, and I’m guessing you want them intact as much as possible.”

“Yes,” Hutton says.

“Okay. We’ll get a crane down here. We’ll figure a way to get the car lifted right up, and we’ll do the best we can. But your medical examiner is going to have to keep in mind those bodies have already been burned and water-blasted, so there’s not going to be much there anyway. Also, there’s a dead dog around the south side.”

“Yeah, we know about the dog,” I tell him.

“Looks like somebody beat the hell out of it. I’ll update you when we know more,” he says, then walks back towards the fire, which is definitely dying down.

“A dead dog?” Hutton asks.

“Yeah,” I say, then fill him in, and the whole time he’s shaking his head.

“The guy who did all of this, he’s not in there, is he,” Hutton says.

I shake my head. “No.”

“How can you guys be so sure?” Kent asks.

“Do you want to tell her or do you want me to?” Hutton asks.

“You go ahead,” I tell him.

“Because nothing is ever that easy,” he says.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

I can feel the heat on my back as we walk to Kent’s car. When we’re far enough away it actually feels pretty good. Then when we’re too far away the night feels cool again. Not that it’s night anymore—that’s been and gone. Kent gets in the car and I get in and we stare out the windshield towards the flames.

“I’m not really up for this,” she tells me.

“I feel the same way.”

“I’ll text my sister and let her know.”

“I don’t like the idea of Bridget waking up and me not being there. Seeing your sister is going to confuse her.”

“It’s after six,” she says. “How about we swing by your place on the way and you can wake her up and tell her what’s going on?”

So that’s what we decide to do. Kent sends her sister a text message to tell her our plans. The drive back into town is a quick one, and after a while there’s a glow on the horizon to the east. There isn’t much in the way of life, just a couple of taxis, a couple of people walking home from clubs, a few women carrying their shoes. Some of these people probably didn’t quite get the buzz they were wanting since the men behind the clubs they bought drugs from are out of business.

We get to my house and Kent waits out in the car. Her sister meets me on the path up to the door. She smiles at me. It’s a little forced at this time in the morning, and I smile back, equally as forced, and she tells me everything is fine, that Bridget hasn’t woken up. Then I go inside while she goes and chats to Rebecca.

Bridget is still asleep, and I tap her on the shoulder, then slowly shake her, then have to shake her even more to get her to stir.

“Morning,” she says, and smiles up at me, and boy how I love that smile.

“Hey,” I say.

Then she notices I’m dressed. “You’re working today?”

“Yeah. I’m sorry,” I tell her, “but I have to head out early.”

“Teddy off to save the world,” she says, and she still sounds asleep.

I tell her that I’ve been out during the night, and that Rebecca’s sister is here to keep an eye on her.

“I don’t need a babysitter,” she says, now sounding awake.

“I know you don’t,” I tell her. “But I just want to make sure you’re okay.”

“So you’re never going to leave me alone again?”

“No, it’s—”

She smiles at me. “It’s okay, Teddy. I’m just teasing,” she says, but I’m sure there’s some truth in there too. She’s scared—and rightly so. She looks at the bedside clock. “You’ll be gone most of the day?”

“Most of the morning,” I tell her. “That’s all I know for now.”

“I’ll call my mom and dad in a few hours and get them to come over, and then the babysitter can go home.”

I give her a hug and then I’m heading back outside, and Rebecca’s sister sees me and she climbs out of the car and we nod at each other, but don’t say anything.

Fifteen minutes later we’re pulling in behind the patrol car outside Peter Crowley’s house. We are only a quarter of the way towards the front door of the house when it swings open and Charlotte Crowley, followed by her stepdaughter and her son, come spilling out onto the doorstep.

“Unless you have a warrant,” Charlotte says, but then she stops. She knows. I don’t know how she knows—both Kent and myself have done this before, and it’s not written on our faces, but people just know. This is one of those occasions.

“Where is he?” she asks. “Why aren’t you bringing him home?” she asks, but I recognize these questions for what they are—
delaying tactics. She knows her husband is dead, and if she can will it to be otherwise, then she’ll give it a good shot.

“Can we come inside?” Kent asks.

“Who’s he having an . . . an . . . affair with . . .” she says, but she runs out of steam, and there are tears there now. “Is it that woman you mentioned? Do you have a warrant?”

“We need to speak to you alone for a few minutes,” Kent says to her.

“Where’s Dad?” Monica asks. “Have you arrested—”

Charlotte turns towards her. “Go inside and wait for me.”

“You can’t tell me—”

“Monica! Please, for once in your goddamn life, will you please do what I ask of you?”

Monica looks shocked, but then she turns around and heads back inside, and a moment later her bedroom door slams.

“You too, honey,” Charlotte says to her son, and he disappears without saying anything and then the three of us are alone.

“We’re sorry to have to tell you this,” I say, “but—”

“Then don’t,” Charlotte says, shaking her head.

“Unfortunately—” I say.

“Don’t,” Charlotte says. “Please, please, don’t say it.”

“I’m sorry,” I say, slowly shaking my hand.

“I’m begging you,” she says. “Please, I’m begging you, don’t say it.”

But I have to say it. It’s why we’re here. I have to tell this woman that her husband is dead, and no amount of begging is going to change that.

“Peter was found deceased an hour ago,” Kent says.

Charlotte shakes her head, and she looks defiant, and she says simply, “No. No, you’re wrong.”

“Is there somebody we can call for you?” Kent asks.

“My husband. Perhaps I’ll call Peter. Yes, I’ll do that if you two don’t mind just waiting outside. Peter will be able to sort this out.”

“Mrs. Crowley,” I say. “Can—”

“No,” she says. “My answer to everything is no, not until Peter is home. Once he’s home he’ll be—”

Monica comes back outside. “He’s dead,” she says, and she says it calmly, and she’s been listening in. “Don’t you get that? They killed him just like they killed Mom.”

“Who killed him?” Charlotte asks, and the question is for Monica as much as us.

“I hate this world,” Monica says, her voice still calm, then she goes back inside and we hear a door close, this time it isn’t slammed.

“Please, Mrs. Crowley, Charlotte,” Kent says. “Let’s go inside.”

“Peter got called away yesterday,” she says. “He’s working on a broken water main, but he’ll be home soon. We have to buy some more plants. We wanted to get the entire front garden done by the time the weekend ends.” She starts pointing at the fresh plants in the garden alongside the pathway. “Peter kept saying we had enough, and I kept telling him that we didn’t, and you can see . . . you can see . . .” she says, and her hands go up to her face. “Are you sure?”

“Yes,” I tell her.

“Where?”

“An abandoned mental institution by the name of Grover Hills.”

“The place that was in the news earlier in the year?”

“Yes,” Kent says.

“Then it can’t be Peter,” she says, “because Peter would have no reason to go there. Or is that where the broken water main was?”

“This would be easier if we could go inside to talk,” Kent says.

“Easier? No. Easier doesn’t fit into this conversation at all.” She turns, but then ends up sitting on the doorstep. The morning is quite light now, and soon the sun will be coming into view. “This is about the men that hurt Linda, isn’t it.”

“Yes,” I tell her. “Did Peter talk much about them?”

“He used to, in the beginning,” she says. “Not much. When I met him he was in a bit of a mess, but so was I. Robby wasn’t even a year old and my husband had left me. I met Peter one day and,
you know, that’s what happens, right? People meet and they move on. I mean, it was hard for him not to talk about the men that attacked Linda, but when he did it felt like he was still living that life, and I always felt like I was trying to fill the shoes of the wife he left behind. You know? Nobody wants their husband to talk about their former wife, but when he did it hurt both of us, and it was unfair of me to be angry about it, you know? How can you be angry at somebody who was raped, then killed themselves? This is the house she killed herself in,” she says. “I want him to sell it. I want us to move on, but he’s always refused, at least he did until recently. I convinced him it’d be healthier for him and for me too, and probably also for Monica, though Monica says if we sell it she’ll run away. I convinced Peter a month ago, and we’re going to do it up first. It’s why we’re planting new shrubs. He just needs to . . .” she says, then shakes her head. “I can’t believe this is happening. Those boys, did they do this to him? Did they take him out there and kill him?”

“It’s looking like it was the other way around,” I tell her. “There are two other bodies out there, which we haven’t identified yet.”

“You think it’s them?”

“It’s too soon to tell,” Kent says. “But it’s possible. It’s possible Peter killed them, and it’s likely he had help.”

“Help? Who would help him do such a thing? The man that was here yesterday? You think Monica saw the man who got Peter killed?”

“We’ll know soon,” I say.

“So . . . does that mean . . .” she says, and then she starts to cry, and I know what’s coming. It was always going to come. “If we had let you into Peter’s study, if you had taken a look around, could you have . . . could you have stopped it?”

“We don’t know,” Rebecca says. “But if you let us look around in there now, we might be able to find the man who did all of this. This could have been something Peter was planning. Or it could be that yesterday was their first interaction.”

“Did I help kill him? By not letting you look around?”

Kent shakes her head. “You didn’t send him out there.”

“But I could have stopped it.”

“It’s possible it was all over by the time we even came to see you.”

“
Possible
also means
possibly not,
” Charlotte says.

“We need to talk to Monica again,” I say. “We want her to come down to the station to give us a description of the man she saw.”

“Okay, I’ll get her ready,” she says. “Give her a chance to get herself together, then I’ll bring her in later this morning. I promise. But this bald man,” she says, “you need to arrest him. He has to pay for what he’s done, but at the same time you need to give him a medal too. If we had more people in the city like him doing your job for you, then people like Linda would never get hurt in the first place.”