Prey (5 page)

Mendoza kept her foot down all the way and they made the distance in just over five hours. She’d called in a favour with a buddy in narcotics and got hold of a BMW M3 that had been confiscated in a drug bust. The car had been pimped accordingly. Darkened windows, leather upholstery, metallic white paintwork, and a sound system that turned the car into a nightclub. They’d been pulled over twice. The first time as they’d skirted past Binghamton, and then fifteen miles south of Syracuse. On both occasions Mendoza had shown her badge and they’d been back on the road again a couple of minutes later.

For the last ten miles the roads had been getting narrower and more rural, the trees taller. Despite the tight turns, Mendoza was still driving fast, and that was fine with Winter. The quicker they got there, the better. He would have preferred to be behind the wheel but at least she wasn’t hanging around. The further they got from New York, the more relaxed he was feeling. The interview room was a distant memory, and there was a sense that things were finally moving in the right direction.

They passed a signpost that read
HARTWOOD
:
THE SMALL TOWN WITH THE BIG HEART.
Up ahead, was an old wooden kissing bridge that had been painted a rustic brown. It was in pristine condition. A photo opportunity, if ever there was one.

Mendoza glanced over from the driver’s seat. ‘If this turns out to be one of those
Twilight Zone
towns and I end up murdered in my sleep, I’m coming back to haunt you. Are you hearing me?’

Winter laughed. ‘And it would be nothing less than I deserve.’

‘I’m serious.’

‘I don’t doubt that for a second.’

They crossed the bridge at fifteen miles an hour, wood clattering all around them and the sound of that big engine bouncing back off the roof. The BMW rumbled out the other side and was swallowed up by the trees again.

‘So why did you become a cop?’

‘Where did that come from?’

‘It’s just a question.’

‘I don’t do personal.’

‘Nor do I.’ Winter left the statement hanging there and waited for Mendoza to look over. ‘The reason I joined the FBI’s Behavioral Analysis Unit was because I was trying to make sense of what my father did. The reason I left was because I’m still trying to make sense of that. Okay, your turn.’

Mendoza didn’t say anything for a bit. She kept stealing glances at him from the driver’s seat.

‘My dad was a cop,’ she said eventually. ‘So was my grandfather. I guess you could say that it’s the family business.’

‘Is your dad still a cop?’

Mendoza shook her head. ‘He retired ten years ago. Him and my mom moved up to New Hampshire.’

‘What about your mom? Was she a cop?’

‘No, she was a cop’s wife. She was the one who wanted to move. After thirty years she just wanted to get as far away from New York as possible.’

‘I’m guessing she wasn’t exactly thrilled when you decided to follow in your dad’s footsteps.’

‘No she wasn’t, but she wasn’t surprised either. Okay, no more questions.’

A couple of minutes later they reached the town. As they cruised slowly up Main Street, Winter experienced a sense of temporal dislocation, like they’d travelled back in time to the turn of the last century. There wasn’t a single chain store in sight. No McDonalds, no Walmart, no Starbucks. A red-and-white striped candy pole turned lazily outside the barber’s shop. The drugstore had a sign saying
APOTHECARY
, and the largest building belonged to the general store. The garage sold gas, and repaired cars, and was one of those businesses that had probably been passed down from father to son for generations. Winter started humming
The
Twilight Zone
theme and Mendoza ignored him.

Hartwood’s police department was located in a small one-storey concrete office building halfway along Main. Mendoza parked in an empty slot and killed the engine. The dirt-streaked Ford Crown Victoria next to them was more than ten years old and probably had two hundred thousand miles on the clock.

‘You think that’s the only car that the Hartwood PD own?’ Winter asked as he opened the door.

Mendoza ignored him again.

Winter got out and attempted to stretch away the miles, his fingertips pointing to the heavens. He shrugged his muscles loose, then put on his sheepskin jacket and zipped it all the way up to his chin to keep out the chill. The trees lining the sidewalk were alive with every shade of brown, red and orange, and the sun was burning low in the sky. It was going to be one of those beautiful fall days where you could almost trick yourself into forgetting that December was just around the corner.

Mendoza straightened her suit and headed for the entrance, Winter tagging along a couple of steps behind. The door opened on to a single room with a long counter separating the business and the public side. Access from one to the other was gained through a yard-long bar-style flap.

There were two desks and no sign of any ancillary offices, which indicated that the Hartwood Police Department was strictly a two-man affair. Tucked away in one corner was a small six-foot-by-six-foot holding cell. Metal bars, and a metal bedframe that had been bolted to the floor and walls. No toilet, which was probably a blessing. A large map of Monroe County was fixed to one wall, and there was a door in another wall that presumably led out back.

The guy behind the counter was in his mid-twenties. There was something in his expression that gave the impression that he wasn’t particularly bright. Maybe it was the vague look in his eyes, or maybe it was the way he was staring like he’d never seen real-life city folk before. Or maybe he’d just never seen a thirty-something man with white hair. Whatever the reason, it was clear this wasn’t the guy in charge.

Mendoza pushed her sunglasses on to the top of her head and walked over to the counter. She flashed her badge. The cop stared some more, then slowly lifted his head until he met her gaze.

‘Chief Birch isn’t here yet.’

He was soft spoken and timid, and if Mendoza had said ‘boo’ he would probably have died on the spot. His uniform was clean on and neatly pressed, the seams dead straight, and Winter wondered if his mom still did his laundry. The name tag read Peterson.

‘Maybe you can help us since you are here,’ Mendoza suggested. ‘We need some information about the Reed murders.’

Peterson just stared at her like she was speaking in a foreign language. It took almost three whole seconds for him to process what she was saying.
One Mississippi, two Mississippi, three Mississippi.

‘Chief Birch should be here soon.’

‘Yes, but you’re here now.’

His eyes narrowed. ‘I don’t know anything about the Reed murders.’

‘The number of murders that happen in Hartwood, I can see how this one slipped your mind.’

Another three whole seconds passed before Peterson responded. ‘Chief Birch should be here soon.’

‘Define soon.’

Peterson gave her a blank look.

Mendoza sighed. ‘My guess is that things don’t get too exciting around here, right? But every now and again you’ll get an emergency. So your boss leaves a number you can contact him on in case of an emergency.’

‘But it’s not an emergency.’

‘Just call your boss, okay?’

‘I can’t do that. He doesn’t like to be disturbed when he’s having breakfast.’

Winter had heard enough. He flipped the counter up and made a beeline for the desk on the left. This was obviously Peterson’s as the computer was on.

‘Hey,’ Peterson called out, ‘you’re not allowed back here.’

Winter ignored him and sat down. He opened the top drawer and went through it, and struck gold straightaway. He lifted out the contact list and scanned it quickly. Birch’s cellphone and home numbers were right up at the top. Mendoza had followed him through and was standing at his shoulder, her cell already out. Winter handed her the list and she punched Birch’s number into the phone.

‘You need to get back on the other side of the counter,’ said Peterson, but he was talking to himself.

‘Chief Birch?’ said Mendoza. There was a short pause while she listened to the reply. ‘My name is Sergeant Mendoza and I’m with the NYPD. I’m currently running an investigation that’s led me to your beautiful corner of the world, and I’d really appreciate it if you could give me a couple of minutes of your time.’

She paused again, listening. ‘That’s correct we’re at the station house. Officer Peterson is making us feel right at home.’

Birch said something that made Mendoza laugh. There were a couple of ‘Uh-huhs’ in response to whatever he said next, then she hung up.

‘He’ll be here in ten.’

Chief Birch’s ten minutes was closer to fifteen. He came waddling into the station house wearing a wide politician’s smile. His waistline was at least fifty inches. This was a man who would definitely get pissed if he missed a meal, so Peterson’s reluctance to disturb him at breakfast suddenly made sense.

He wasn’t just wide, he was tall, too, at least six-three. Early fifties, black tidy hair, red cheeks, three chins, and a heart attack waiting in the wings. He squeezed through the gap in the counter and the effort wiped the fake smile from his face. He didn’t offer to shake hands, and he didn’t look happy to be there. A quick glance at Mendoza, then a longer one for Winter. He stared at the hair, stared at the Jim Morrison T-shirt, stared at the worn Levis and the scuffed Converse sneakers.

‘Who the hell are you?’

‘Jefferson Winter. I’m working with Sergeant Mendoza on this case.’

The eyes turned suspicious. ‘You’re not a cop.’

‘No, sir, I’m not. I was with the FBI’s Behavioral Analysis Unit for more than a decade, though. Nowadays I work freelance.’

‘Behavioral Analysis, eh? That’s where you try to get inside the heads of killers, right? I’ve seen the documentaries on TV. All a load of BS, if you ask me. It’s right up there with getting psychics to solve crimes.’

Winter was tempted to tell Birch about how his overeating was the result of low self-esteem, and how that in turn was rooted in his miserable childhood. But he held back. That fat kid was still there, every time Birch looked in the mirror. No matter how tempting it was, poking him with sticks was not going to help, not if they wanted to get him on side.

Birch stared a second longer, then turned to Peterson. ‘Get me a coffee. And I want real sugar, not those crappy sweeteners my wife told you to use. I can taste the difference, you know.’

‘Yes, sir.’

Peterson disappeared out to the back rooms, and Birch waddled over to the chair Mendoza was in and stood next to it until she moved. He sat down heavily, coughed a couple of times, then sniffed. ‘So, what can I do for you folks?’

‘We need information on the Reed murders,’ said Mendoza.

Birch stared at them one at a time, brow creased, puzzlement on his face. ‘Now, why on all that’s holy would you want to know about a murder that happened out here years ago?’

‘I’m afraid I can’t go into specifics because the investigation’s ongoing.’

‘Fine, don’t tell me. But I’ve got to say, I can’t see how what happened to the Reeds could have any bearing on anything that you might be working on. That was local business. The Reeds had no connection with New York. They were born and bred here. They can’t be involved in whatever it is you’ve got going on. I’m telling you now, if you’re looking for some sort of connection, you’re looking in the wrong place.’

‘Maybe so, but since we’ve driven all the way up here, the least you can do is humour us by answering a few questions.’

Birch laughed. ‘Sure, why not?’ He stopped talking and looked at Mendoza like he was waiting for her to start firing off questions. When she didn’t say anything, he added, ‘I was involved in that investigation from start to finish. Those jokers from the sheriff’s department tried to push me out, but that was never going to happen. This is my town. I was the first cop on the scene when the call came in about the Reeds. In all my years I’ve never seen anything like it, and I pray to God I never see anything like it again.’

‘How about you walk us through what happened?’

Winter matched the pitch and cadence of his speech to Birch’s. Mirroring might be an old trick, but it was also an effective one. Show people a reflection of themselves and it helped to relax them. The more relaxed they were, the looser their lips got. If they were going to get anything useful from Birch, he needed to follow Mendoza’s lead and tread warily. One push in the wrong direction and the chief would clam up.

Birch dragged a hand down over his mouth and squeezed a sigh between his fingers. ‘Six years ago, but it seems like yesterday. We don’t get many murders around these parts. Mostly when a murder does happen we’re dealing with an argument that’s got out of hand, and thank the Lord, those don’t happen too often. What happened to the Reeds, though, that was something else entirely. You know what I remember most was the blood. Sweet Jesus, there was more blood than you could ever imagine.’

Winter nodded. He’d seen enough crime scenes to know that eight pints of blood could go a long way. And Birch was talking about a double homicide, which meant sixteen pints. Two gallons of blood could make one hell of a mess, and had obviously left one hell of a lasting impression. Before he could say anything else Peterson came back in. Birch took the coffee mug from Peterson without a word of thanks, sipped some, then put it down on the desk. CHIEF was written in big gold letters on the side.

‘Where did you find the bodies?’ Mendoza asked.

‘In the living room. Both of them had been stabbed. There was blood sprayed all over the walls. It was all over the floors.’

Winter nodded at Mendoza then moved closer to Birch. He wanted to try a cognitive interview. Reliving the event in this way, the quality of the information was so much better. People remembered things they would never have remembered otherwise, and what they came up with was sometimes the difference between solving a case or not. He needed to go carefully though. If Birch worked out what he was up to he’d probably show them the door. A cognitive interview would definitely be classed as ‘BS’.

‘Where were you when the call came in that the Reeds had been found?’ he asked.

Birch rubbed a meaty hand over his mouth. ‘You know, I can’t recall where I was. You’re talking six years ago here. That’s a whole chunk of time.’

‘Okay, what time of day was it? Morning? Afternoon?’

‘It was definitely morning. I remember that much because the bodies were found by Dave Henderson. He was delivering the post. The door was open when he got there, which it never was. The Reeds both worked. He called their names and when he got no answer he went inside. That’s when he found them.’

Before Birch could get started on the blood again, Winter said, ‘We’d like to talk to Henderson.’

‘In that case it’s a shame you’re not a psychic as well as a mind reader. He died last year. A heart attack.’

And right there you had one of the big problems that came with investigating cold cases, thought Winter. ‘Okay, if it was morning, you were probably here at the station.’

Birch rubbed his mouth again, his fingertips stroking his chins. He nodded. ‘Henderson called and he was in a hell of a state, as you can imagine. He was in such a state it took me a while to work out who I was talking to, and I’d known him since we were kids. Anyhow, I calmed him down and he tells me this story about how he’d found the bodies. He wasn’t making much sense and I thought he might have been drinking. It wouldn’t have been the first time he’d been drunk at that time of day.’

‘So what happened next?’

‘Well, once I’d established he was sober, I told him to stay where he was then rushed straight over.’

‘What was the weather like?’

‘Excuse me?’

‘Was it raining?’ asked Winter.

Birch opened his mouth to say something then snapped it shut again. He ran a hand over his face. ‘Now you mention it, yes it was raining. Later that day we were hit with one of the worst snowstorms I can remember. The rain was the start of it. How did you know that?’

It was an educated guess. This part of the world, in the middle of winter, rain was more likely than sun. Winter wasn’t about to admit that out loud, though. ‘So you pull up as close to the Reeds’ house as you can get because you don’t want to get any wetter than you need to, and you hurry up to the house because you don’t want to get cold. Where’s Henderson?’

‘He’s sat on the porch staring into space. My first thought was that he
was
drunk, then I realised he was in shock. He’d thrown up into a flower bed. He got up and said he’d show me where the bodies were and I told him to stay put. The house wasn’t that big. I didn’t think I was going to have much trouble finding them. And I was right. All I had to do was follow my nose.’

‘What was the first thing that struck you when you stepped into the living room?’

‘The bodies and the blood.’

The answer was pretty much what Winter expected. Six years added up to more than two thousand days. During that time Birch would have recounted this story out loud and in his head on numerous occasions, and on each retelling he would have focused increasingly on the gore and the devastation until those details eclipsed everything else. People didn’t want the basic details, they wanted to know about the horror.

‘And what was the second thing you noticed?’

‘How neat the table was. It was all set out like they were about to have a dinner party. Place mats, wine glasses, knives and forks. There was even a candelabra. Damn weird was what it was. I remember thinking at the time that it was all a bit much.’

‘And this was a weekday night. Do you know if the Reeds were celebrating anything? A birthday? An anniversary?’

‘Not without looking at the files.’

‘And you found Nelson Price’s prints in the house?’

‘They were all over the house.’

‘What about the knocker or the doorbell?’

Birch looked flustered. His face was turning redder by the second. ‘How the hell am I supposed to remember something like that? This happened years ago. Why do you want to know anyway?’

‘Because I’m trying to work out if Nelson broke in, or if the Reeds let him in.’

‘I guess there might be something in the files.’

‘We’d like to see those files, please,’ Mendoza said.

‘I’ll get Peterson to dig them out for you.’

Birch whistled to Peterson, then gestured to the door that led out to the back rooms. Peterson hurried off, the door banging shut behind him.

‘Can you remember where the bodies were?’ Winter asked.

‘Melanie’s was by the fireplace and Lester’s was next to the dining table.’

‘Okay, let’s stay with the dining table. I want you to close your eyes and tell me again how it was laid out.’

‘Excuse me.’

‘I just want you to close your eyes and tell me what you see.’

‘I heard you. I take it this is one of those weirdo ideas they teach you in the FBI. Tell you what, let’s do this the old-fashioned way. I’ll have a little think about things and tell you what I remember. Does that work for you?’

Winter shrugged. ‘Sure.’

‘Okay, for starters the dining table was set for four.’ Birch delivered this piece of information like he was laying down a winning hand.

‘You seem pretty sure about that.’

‘I am. A hundred per cent certain. There were four places set. One on each side.’

And you didn’t think to mention this earlier
, he thought but didn’t say
.
‘Were Lester and Melanie expecting guests?’

‘No, it was just Lester and Melanie. Nelson set the table out after he killed them. It’s the only explanation that fits. That was my theory, by the way.’

‘Why do you think he did that?’

Birch laughed. ‘Because the kid was as crazy as a shithouse rat.’

‘What else can you remember?’

‘The tablecloth was white and the place mats were red. They’d used their best cutlery and their best flatware. Same goes for the china and the drinking glasses. Everything was the best they owned. It was like they were expecting a visit from the president.’

‘Tell me about the candelabra.’

‘It was solid silver with red candles.’

‘Did it belong to the Reeds or did Nelson bring it along with him?’

‘And why would he do something like that?’

‘Because he’s as crazy as a shithouse rat,’ Winter suggested.

Birch just stared.

‘Okay,’ Winter went on. ‘We know that the murders were carried out by Nelson Price, but before he was caught were there any other suspects?’

Birch shook his head. ‘Nope. No suspects.’

‘There must have been someone. Lester or Melanie must have made at least one enemy over the years.’

‘The reason we didn’t have any suspects was because we didn’t need any suspects. Nelson Price was seen at the Reeds’ house and his prints were all over the murder weapon. It doesn’t get much more open and shut than that.’

‘But before it become clear that Price did it, was there anyone else you were looking at? Anyone at all.’

Birch eyed Winter suspiciously. ‘I’m getting the feeling that something’s going on here and I’m only privy to part of it. Do you know how much that pisses me off?’

Mendoza fielded this one. ‘My colleague was approached by someone we believe might be connected with the murders.’

‘Connected how?’

‘He thinks they might be the killer.’

‘And that’s what brought you all this way?’

Mendoza nodded. ‘Yes, sir.’

Birch’s laughter filled the room. ‘Well, I’m sorry to say but it looks as if you’ve had a wasted journey.’

‘Where is Nelson Price being held?’ Winter asked. ‘We need to talk to him.’

Birch laughed again. ‘Not going to happen. He’s dead.’

For a moment Winter just stood there thinking. It would be useful to talk to Dave Henderson or Nelson Price or Jeremiah Lowe, the original lead investigator in the Reed murders, but they were all dead. That could be viewed as overly convenient, except this was a six-year-old murder and a lot could happen in that time.

‘What happened to him?’

‘He hung himself in the family’s barn.’

‘And I’m taking it that this happened before he could confess.’

‘Nelson Price did it. No two ways about it.’

Winter nodded to himself. ‘So he hung himself before you got a confession.’

Birch looked from Winter to Mendoza then back again. The sudden change in his body language made it obvious that they were done talking. ‘I’ve got a busy morning ahead of me, so I’m afraid our time is up.’

Winter fired a sunny smile at Birch. ‘Before you get too deep into your busy morning, you said we could see the file.’

Time stopped. No one moved.

‘Peterson,’ Birch called out, eyes still locked on Winter’s. ‘Where the hell’s that file?’

There was some banging and scrabbling from the back of the station house, then Peterson reappeared. His cheeks were flushed, his hair was a mess and his uniform was wrinkled and sprinkled with dust.

‘I can’t find it,’ he said.

‘What do you mean you can’t find it? Have you tried under R for Reed and P for Price?’

‘I’ve looked everywhere, sir. It’s not here.’

‘It has to be there,’ Birch hissed.

Winter searched Peterson’s desk for a sheet of paper and a pen. He scribbled down his cellphone number then got up and laid it neatly on Chief Birch’s desk. ‘If the file turns up, please give me a call.’ He headed for the door, paused with his hand on the handle. ‘One last thing: I’m going to need directions to the Reeds’ house and a couple of flashlights.’