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After Abigail had left to pick up Glinda, Frank took a ride. He was on a leave of absence from his consulting job at the sheriff’s department, because things were slow, to work on his new novel. Sheriff Mearl hadn’t minded when Frank had called up and asked for vacation time. So his schedule and his time were his own to fill. But a novelist’s time, unless there was a set deadline, followed no one’s clock. Frank could easily slip away from his laptop for a couple of hours, or more.
Frank climbed into his truck and set the GPS for Fairfield, the small city Abigail had left behind eight years before. Fairfield was approximately a hundred miles away from Spookie, so it wouldn’t take him but about two hours or so one way to get there. An easy enough day trip.
From Bracco’s records, he had the name and the address of the gas station, a Quick Trip on the fringe of town, where Joel had gassed his car up and bought cigarettes on that fateful night he vanished. Frank had the manager’s name, who’d been on duty at the time, because Bracco had noted it as he had the two cashiers’ names and their addresses. Interviewing those QT employees, whichever ones were still working there, was a good place to start.
He did wonder, on his drive to the QT, how many of the witnesses would still be employed there or how many would still live in the area. Ten years being a long time. But, he supposed, he’d find out who was left and who wasn’t.
The day was sunny, warm, and the drive was enjoyable. Frank was one of those people who loved to drive. Anywhere. Anytime. Rain and snow didn’t bother him. He got a kick out of driving in them. Bad weather, unless it was extreme like sheets of ice over the roads or impenetrable fog, didn’t bother him. Driving, alone, was his preferred form of absolute freedom, or it had been absolute until cell phones came into being. There’d been a time when he could motor around for hours and no one could reach or bother him. Ah, heaven. Those days, of course, were long gone. The phone attached to his hip reminded him every second that was no longer true. He put the phone on vibrate and continued driving. He switched on the radio to an oldies station and sang along to an Eagles song he knew every word to.
Driving was also an excellent time to mull over his work-in-progress, reflect on his characters, the plot and what scene he wanted to write next and how he would write it. So the two hours passed swiftly. Good music, fine weather and a wheel beneath his hands. There wasn’t much more a man could ask for. Well, except an eternal love and a billion dollars in a bank account.
He drove through Fairfield. There were the normal city streets, the tacky sprawling shopping centers, the smaller strip-malls, the shiny-glassed business buildings, the residential areas with the neatly landscaped yards and, beyond the city’s limits, the compact family farms. The downtown appeared like one from the nineteen-fifties, all cozy and cute. Small city chic. Frank had driven through and seen a thousand communities just like it. A normal American city in the American heartland filled with hard-working men and women living their everyday lives.
It felt odd to travel through the place where his Abby had once lived, worked and loved another man. He hadn’t wished ill on Joel but also grasped if Joel wouldn’t have passed to the other side, Abby wouldn’t have moved to Spookie; he never would have met and married her. There’d be no Laura and Nick or his quirky gang of mystery-solving friends. His life would be very different and a heck of a lot lonelier. His town and his novels kept him busy, but without Abby’s love and the children, he’d have nothing.
I’m sorry you died, Joel, but your death gave me a great gift and I thank you. I’m taking tender care of your Abigail. We love each other. She’s doing her art. I want you to know she’s happy. We love our children, Kyle, Nick and Laura, and they love us. We have many friends. And maybe soon we’ll have a daughter-in-law we are already fond of and, someday, grandchildren.
Joel didn’t answer, but Frank had the feeling Joel would have approved.
First he stopped at the Fairfield Police Station, a dreary looking brick building in the middle of town, and met with chief of police Alex Dunham. Being an ex-police officer, part time consultant now, gave him an instant comradery with the chief. They sat down in the chief’s office with the framed awards hanging on the gray walls and the shag green carpet beneath their feet. Frank introduced himself, explained why he was there and what he wanted.
“I was hoping,” Frank launched into his appeal, “you’d let me have a look at the file on Joel Sutton’s disappearance–the case was around ten years ago or so–and the ultimate discovery of his corpse discovered in his car in a wooded gorge two years later. Maybe even make me a copy of the file so I can study it in further detail later.”
Lounging in his cushioned chair with the desk between them, Chief Dunham leaned back and studied Frank with sharp eyes. “That isn’t usually the policy of the department...to let just anyone look at our reports, much less toddle off with a copy of one of them. But, in this instance, because you used to be and still are a part-time police officer, and the old crime is a distant cold case, I’ll allow an exception. We cops stand together; you know that. And honestly, I wouldn’t mind having that cold case off our books. At this point, I wouldn’t care who cracked it, as long as it was solved.”
“Thanks, Chief Dunham. I appreciate it.”
The chief tented his fingers on the desk, his stare meeting Frank’s. “Also, I know exactly who you are. I read about your exciting exploits in Chicago two years ago and how you saved those college girls. Excellent job. I am also a fan of your murder mystery novels. You’re quite a writer. So I know I can trust you not to use the report for anything other than your own research. Before you leave, I’ll have one of my men run off a copy of the Sutton file for you.” Chief Dunham used the phone on his desk and asked someone on the other end to pull the old Sutton file, make a copy of everything in it, and bring it in to them.
Frank was relieved. Getting the file hadn’t been as difficult a task as he’d been afraid it would be. “Again, thank you, Chief.”
“Ah, it’s little that I can do for you. I wasn’t chief when this injustice transpired. My predecessor, Chief Lawrence, was behind this desk in those days. He’s retired now and living blissfully in Florida somewhere. Naples, I think. He was a first-class officer and a better chief. Good man. I worked for him, he taught me all I know and more. We were friends.”
Another officer came into the room with a manila file and laid it on the desk close to Frank. He was a tall, skinny fellow with bright carrot-hued hair and a fledgling mustache the same color. His blue eyes and smile were friendly. “Here’s what you asked for, Chief. A copy of the Sutton report.”
“Thanks Officer Berens.”
Berens nodded in Frank’s direction and departed the room.
As Frank picked up the folder and began to riffle through its pages Chief Dunham continued their conversation. “Officer Price, though, the main officer on the Sutton case and the one who did most of the interviews and compiled that mess of a report in front of you was totally inept, as far as I was concerned. He shouldn’t have been a police officer to begin with. Too many weaknesses of character. Liked the women far too much. Ate too many cakes and donuts. The drinking problem was the one that brought him down. Drank like a fish and, in the end, he didn’t try to hide it. Eventually, when he was caught for the third time, drunk on duty, he was fired. That must have been about six years ago or so. I wasn’t chief yet. Not until a year later.
I have no idea where Price is now. I tried to keep in touch with the man because I felt sorry for him. He was one of ours after all. Until he stopped taking my calls and purposely dropped from sight. One of my officers said he saw him a while back living beneath some bridge. When I went to find him, he was gone. No one knows where he is now. Poor man.” A shrug. “So you can’t speak to him, or pick his brain, about what’s in that file. I’m sorry.
“Oh, but I do remember Chief Lawrence talking to me about the case when the body was found. He’d felt so sorry for the wife. Felt bad about the whole thing. We hadn’t been much help to her, although the chief had assigned a second officer, who now works in security somewhere in Wyoming, besides Price, on the case at the time. Lawrence reopened the investigation because, I’ll tell you the truth, he suspected foul play in Sutton’s death. He believed Sutton had been mugged and murdered, and then his car purposely crashed into that ravine. But he was about the only one who believed that. We never discovered or apprehended a suspect, though. Never got a solid lead in that vein. That troubled Chief Lawrence to no end. He hated unresolved cases.
“So, Mr. Lester...do you have any new information, any new leads or theories, to what might have happened to Joel Sutton ten years ago? Are you planning to write your next book on this crime?”
“I’m not writing a book on it. And at the moment I don’t have any fresh leads, just hunches, but my investigation is only beginning.
“And, to be upfront with you as you have been with me, I have another reason for wanting to find out how Joel Sutton died. You see, I’m married to Joel’s widow, Abigail. Her first husband’s death has haunted her for years, though she rarely brings it up. I know it still bothers her. I want to solve this for her. Find out if Joel’s death was truly accidental...or if it was murder. I, like your ex-Chief Lawrence, now think it was murder. Abigail hired this private detective, Andy Bracco, after her husband went missing. He investigated but didn’t, in the end, get anywhere.”
He explained to the police chief about Bracco’s death and the dossier that had been sent to Abigail. “Of course I had to read it and that’s when I realized there were leads that hadn’t been run down. Witnesses not interviewed. Missed clues. Being who I am, Abigail’s husband and a writer, I couldn’t let it go.
“Did you know, according to my wife’s private detective’s notes, there was no DNA taken off the body?”
“No, I didn’t know that. As I mentioned before, I wasn’t one of the officers on the Sutton case. I imagine the files will explain more. Maybe. As I said, Officer Price’s investigations weren’t always up to snuff. Heaven knows what he missed or what he decided wasn’t important enough to put in his report or to follow up on.”
Frank was grateful Dunham wasn’t one of those police chiefs who guarded and defiantly defended the integrity of his department and his officers, but not above the truth. Most police chiefs would have been offended if Frank had even suggested one of their investigations, one of their police officers, had been inadequate. Dunham only seemed to want to help him.
After they conducted the polite police small talk, Chief Dunham stood up and shook Frank’s hand. “I wish you luck, Mr. Lester. I hope you find whatever it is you’re looking for. If there’s anything else I can do for you, just give me a call. Call me, as well, if you uncover anything of importance; and if you have leads to or suspect who the murderer might be. You can count on us to step in and conclude the investigation for you. Make an arrest, if need be. I’d love to close that cold case once and for all.”
“I will contact you if I discover anything of consequence, Chief,” Frank said something he didn’t really mean. He intended to wrap up the case himself. He didn’t need Dunham’s help. “Thank you.”
Clutching the manila file snuggly against him, he exited the police station, got in the truck, and tossed the folder behind him into the seat. He’d study what was in it later that night when he was home.
For now, he had other stops to make before he drove away from the city of Fairfield.
*****
WHEN HE ARRIVED AT his destination, a Quick Trip convenience store and gas station similar to so many others, he parked the truck on the side of the building. The station was embedded in the center of what appeared to be a park or woods full of dense foliage and thick trees. A perfect place for a mugging or an abduction. There was more than enough cover to hide a crime.
He got out of the vehicle and walked into the QT. It was practically empty, yet fairly normal for that early time of the day. The rush would come as people drove home from work and stopped in for snacks and gas.
On his right there was a young woman with short curly hair who was stocking the shelves. Other than her, and a cashier, he didn’t see any other employees. He moved up to the checkout counter and stood in front of the cashier on duty, a gaunt middle aged black man with a welcoming grin. Frank picked a couple of candy bars from the shelf beneath the counter and placed them before the man.
“That’s all you need, friend?”
“That’ll do it, thank you,” Frank gave the man a grin in return and handed him a ten dollar bill. The total was rung up. Change passed from one hand to another.
“Would you mind,” he asked the man, ‘since you seem to have a break in business at the moment, if I ask you a few questions about something that happened in town here, oh, about a decade ago?” Frank caught and held the man’s gaze.
“Something that happened ten years ago? Here in Fairfield?” The man was clearly confused. “What thing?”
“A man from town went missing.”
“Really? And why are you interested in such a thing?”
“My name’s Frank Lester. I’m a writer,” Frank launched into his cover story, “and I’m doing research on a cold case crime that occurred in Fairfield back then. The disappearance and eventual the discovery of the dead body years later of a local man, Joel Sutton, that took place here in town? I’m investigating, maybe even trying to unravel the mystery of what really happened to Joel Sutton. I have reason to believe he vanished from this very store, or right after leaving it, the night he first went missing; that’s why I’m here today. Following a lead. Were you working at the store ten years ago? Did you know the victim, Joel Sutton, at all?”
With a solemn sideward glance, the man surprised him when he answered, “Yeah, I was working here back then. And I knew Joel Sutton, too.”
“You did?” A twinge of excitement fluttered in Frank’s chest. Jackpot. He’d been hoping someone at the Quick Trip would remember Joel Sutton.
“Frank Lester, huh? I do know you. You’re that writer guy who pens those murder mysteries set in that quirky little town with those screwball characters, aren’t you?”
“That’s me.” Again Frank was amused he kept running into his fans. Who knew so many people read cozy murder mysteries? He didn’t, but he was learning.
“I’ve read a handful of them. My sister gave me the books after she’d finished reading them because she thought I’d like them, too.”
The man behind the counter smiled ingratiatingly. “I liked them. A Lot. I’m not much of a reader, but I kinda like science fiction and murder mysteries. Reading gives me something to do here when it’s slow. I thought I recognized you from your photo on the back covers. It’s a good likeness. I’m a big fan.”
“Well, thanks for liking my books. Tell your sister the same. I’m always happy to hear from my readers. It never gets old.”
“I imagine it wouldn’t. My name’s Leroy Clark,” the man stated, putting out a hand for Frank to shake, which Frank did, “and I’m the manager here. You’ve lucked out. I’ve been working at this QT for eleven years next month. I was pretty new, working the night shift as a cashier, when the incident you’re referring to took place, but I remember it all so well. That night has stuck in my mind for a decade. Mostly because I knew both Joel Sutton, and his wife, now your wife, Abigail. When he vanished like he did, the police coming around, and later some private eye his wife hired, to interview me and the other employees that had been on duty that night, it cemented Joel and what had happened to him in my memory forever. You know how that is? Like everyone remembers where they were, what they were doing, when the twin towers came down or the Las Vegas shooting happened.
“So I remember that final time, that last night I saw Joel, really well. He came in and bought a pack of cigarettes. He was trying to quit, as I was, too, so he thought buying a pack at a time would help him abstain, smoke less. It never did, of course, but he tried it anyway. We spoke for a minute or two, just the normal pleasantries because I had another customer to take care of, so Joel ended up chitchatting with some of the other people in the store he happened to know, wandered towards the rear to look for something or other, and then he left. I recall him waving goodbye to me before he went out the door. He had this odd wave where he half saluted and whistled while he did it. You knew when he was leaving.
“Joel was an interesting individual, one of those guys who took time to just stop and chat with anyone, everyone, about anything. He liked people and they liked him. A kind man, too.
“Once when I had a very bad cold and had had it for days, before my shift was over, Joel returned with a container of hot chicken noodle soup. He said his wife made it for me. How many people would do that?”
“Not many,” Frank agreed, with a smile. “Joel was a compassionate person, Abigail always says, and she is a special woman. I should know, being married to her now.”
“You’re a lucky man. I remember Abigail, as well,” the manager continued. “A sweet woman. Like Joel, she cared about other people. Quite the looker, too. She was a wreck after Joel disappeared, coming in here when she was first looking for him; crying, and so broken hearted. She never gave up hope in those early months and years he might still be alive somewhere. The police finding his body devastated her. I’m glad to know she ended up happy. That she remarried and to another creative person such as yourself. Does she still do her art?”
“She does. She’s become quite the celebrity in her own right, gaining a reputation as an exceptional artist with her town murals and paintings in local art galleries in and around Spookie.
“That’s where we live. Spookie. A quaint village not unlike the one I set my murder mysteries in. We live in the cabin I built out in the woods with our dogs and a finicky cat. Abby loves it there. We adopted two great children, Laura and Nick. Laura’s going to art school and Nick is a high school student and a musician in a band. We have many friends. I’m officially retired but, as you know, I write novels. I also consult part-time for the sheriff’s department in town. Abby and I have a good life.”
“Ah, so that’s the reason you’re looking into this cold case? For her?”
Frank nodded. Best not to mention Abby didn’t want him to be looking into it and that he was doing it anyway. The store manager didn’t need to know that.
“What else,” the man behind the counter prompted, “would you like to know about that night and Joel?”
The store was fairly empty, with only a trickle of customers milling around shopping for something or other, so they spoke a while about that night when they weren’t chatting about Frank’s books. The man was a mega fan.
Frank went down the list of Joel questions he had jotted down before he’d left the house that morning and scribbled down the manager’s answers. He didn’t glean much more than he had learned from the Bracco files, except for various personal insights into the sort of good man Joel had been.
Then Frank thought of something. “I noticed you have another person working today with you.”
“Yeah, it’s store policy, since we’ve been robbed so often over the years. There are at least two people on duty at all times and usually three.”
“Who was working that night? If you can recall.”
“I do. Me and two other employees, Leann Carter and Phyllis Day. Like I said the details of that night have stayed with me. Let’s see...Leann moved on about five years ago but Phyllis still works here.”
“That other employee, Phyllis Day, still works here after a decade?”
“She does. Most people who work here stay. It’s a good job with first-rate benefits and chance for advancement at either this location or another. Phyllis has actually been here longer than me. Fourteen years or so I think.”
“Did she know Joel at all, do you think?” He didn’t expect the answer he got.
“Yes, she did. They were pretty good friends. Whenever she was working Joel would often stop and chat with her. As I said, Joel was a friendly guy. In fact,” Leroy commented, his eyes going to a woman customer who had come up behind Frank, “not only was she working at the cash register that evening, but she spoke to him for a long time that night.
“The place was pretty much deserted because the weather was terrible. It was storming like crazy, unbelievable lightning forking down from the skies, and the fog, as thick as oatmeal, had rolled in from the woods. Joel lingered here longer than he normally did. Waiting for the rain to slow down. The lightning to lessen. But, eventually, after a while, he left out of here anyway while it was still storming. He wanted to get home to his wife, he said.
“Phyllis ended running out into the rain as Joel was heading for his car, which he’d parked on the side there as he usually did after he’d gotten gas. He’d forgotten something–I don’t remember what–on the counter and she ran it out to him. I can still see her doing that. She looked like a drowned rat when she came back in and we made a big joke of it.”
Now the man had Frank’s attention. That was something that hadn’t been in Bracco’s notes. Leroy Clark and his interview had been in there and one from the other on-duty cashier, Leann Carter, but no mention of Phyllis Clark, and her conversation with Joel, or that she had chased after him into the parking lot in the downpour for some reason or other, at all. Perhaps this Phyllis hadn’t been around when Bracco was doing his questioning at the Quick Trip? That might account for her interview being missing.
“Is there a way I could speak to this Phyllis Day? Does she live nearby?”
“She does. About a mile or two away. It makes it convenient for her working here. That’s part of the reason why she’s still here. Proximity.”
“Is there any way, if you called her first to ask permission, I might stop by her house and talk to her about that night and Joel?”
“She don’t like strangers coming to her house, I can tell you.”
The customer behind Frank was getting impatient so Frank moved to the side. The manager dealt with the woman’s purchase and the woman left the store.
As Frank had waited for the customer to be taken care of, he’d been thinking. So when she was leaving the store, he turned to Leroy and coaxed, “Okay, could you persuade Phyliss to come here and talk to me right now? If she’s available and would agree to it, that is.”
Leroy seemed to consider what he’d been asked and proposed, “Tell you what, I’ll call and ask her.”
Frank liked that idea. “I’d appreciate it, Leroy.
“Oh, by the way,” Frank glanced up at the ceiling above the check-out corner, “do you have surveillance cameras in the store and outside of it?”
“Of course we do. All our stores have security cameras. Inside and outside. Like I said, we’ve been robbed far too often, going back years and years, not to be as security minded as we possibly can be. The home office insists we be cautious and observant.”
“I know it’s a lot to ask but is there any way I could get a copy of the surveillance video of the night Joel went missing? I know it’s been ten years, a long time ago, but if it still exists, is it possible?”
Leroy scratched the side of his head, mulling over the request. “I don’t...know. I’d have to ask permission from the home office, see if we still have the original, and get their permission to copy it if they do.”
“I’d appreciate it more than you know, Leroy, if you could look into it and check if the video exists. And if it does, if you could send me a copy of it, for the inside and the outside parking lot area, from about seven p.m. that night to twelve midnight, I’d send you an autographed copy of my newest book.” Bribery sometimes helped.
Leroy grinned. Frank had him. “Wow, that would be great. All my friends would be so impressed that I not only know a real author, but an author who autographed one of his books for me. That’s proof. Tell you what, you leave me your telephone number and address and if I can get permission and obtain a copy of the video for that night, I’ll send it to you. I don’t see what objection the big boss would have to that. It’s not evidence or anything.”
Yet, Frank thought.
Frank gave the manager one of his writer’s business cards with his book covers on it in full glorious color; scribbling his cell number and home address on the back. The store manager gave him his contact information as well.
“Now,” he said to the store manager, “I trust you not to hand out my telephone number and address all around. I cherish my privacy.”
“I guess most writers do. But I won’t give your address and telephone number to anyone else, I promise.”
Then the manager telephoned Phyllis. When he got off the phone he told Frank what he’d found out. “She’s agreed to drop by here and chat with you. When I said who you were and why you wanted to speak to her, that you’re a famous writer doing research, and you’re interested in Joel Sutton’s disappearance, she agreed right away. She’ll be here any minute. She says she’ll meet you outside at the picnic table around the side there.” He pointed to a weathered table that was outside the building and beneath the trees.
Frank thanked the man for his help and moseyed out of the building. Once outside, he didn’t have to wait long. He was relieved the table was shaded by massive trees hovering over it because the day had grown hotter. Frank wasn’t outside more than five minutes before a sweat broke out on his skin. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed at his face and neck. He had barely made it to the picnic table, and sat down, before a wave of dizziness had assailed him. He laid his hand on his chest until the dull ache subsided. He made another mental note to himself: Call your doctor and make that appointment. You’re playing with fire here. Get that check-up. Now. You’re no spring chicken anymore, old man. Something’s not right.
Yeah, yeah, his procrastination self mocked him. It’s nothing. Nothing. Just a little heartburn. But...you’re fine. Focus. Focus.
An older model blue Chevy with a woman behind the wheel drove up and the woman got out. A slightly overweight female with auburn colored hair pulled up into a high pony-tail, a shy smile; in baggy blue jean shorts and a T-shirt with the words I Love Cats on its front approached him. “Frank Lester?”
He stood up and shook the hand she gave him. “That’s me. You must be Phyllis Day?”
“I am.” With a soft grunt, she settled across from him at the picnic table.
There was a melancholy tinge in her eyes he recognized from other depressed people he’d known. He sensed she wasn’t a happy person and wondered if it had to do with her professional or personal life. None of his business, he chided himself, so onward.
“Nice to meet you. Leroy says you’re a writer?”
He sat down again. “I am.”
“He also said you wanted to discuss Joel Sutton and his disappearance from all those years ago?”
“I do. I know it was a long time past but there’s a reason.” He somberly explained why he wanted the information and his relationship to Joel’s once wife, Abigail.
When he was done talking, he observed her reaction, waiting. A sympathetic look had spread across her face and he knew she had something important to give him.
She nodded. “It’s true, I was friends with Joel. He made anyone he met a friend, though. Really. He was that kind of person. He could and did talk about almost anything. Never looked down at anyone no matter what their job was or who they were. Had a sense of humor. So he had a lot of friends. Everyone in town, you know, eventually comes to our store. It’s a gathering place because Fairfield isn’t that big. And everyone needs gas or something else we sell.
“I knew your wife, Abigail, too, and liked her. I’m glad she’s doing better these days. She was a nice woman. She is, I mean. Those were awful days for her after Joel went missing.”
The woman, shaking her head, pulled out a cigarette and lit it up. After a puff or two, she resumed talking. “You know, I did go to the police after Joel went missing. They took my information and some officer; I can’t recall his name–it was a long time ago–came out once weeks later to see if I’d remembered anything else that could help. I couldn’t. I’d told them everything I could recall. At the time anyway.”
“Could I ask you to tell me what you said to the police? Somehow there’s nothing in the police files about you or what you told them.”
“Really?” Phyliss let out a small noise that sounded like a disgusted snort. “I’m not surprised. As I recall, the cop who spoke to me didn’t seem very with it or quite...sober. He didn’t ask many questions and didn’t seem to care what I said. He wrote down very little.”
Oh, so it would have to be from scratch, then. Frank had brought his handy notebook from out of his shirt pocket and had his pen poised above it, ready to write. “All right. I know it’s been a long time since that night, but do your best. We’ll start at the beginning. Don’t worry, I’ll write down everything you say, this time, and everything you can remember.
“What happened that night, Phyllis, and what did you see?” As a past and present detective, Frank was well aware witnesses and their memories weren’t always reliable, especially after so much time had passed, so he would be grateful for anything she could tell him. It would be just another piece of the puzzle. But if he gained enough pieces of that puzzle, maybe, just maybe, he’d get the whole picture.
“Okay. Let me think.” The woman, taking another puff of her cigarette, began to relate what she recalled about that fateful night, painstakingly, as if she had to drag every detail from her memory. He could tell she was racking her brain for the specifics; trying hard to give him what he needed. “As I recollect, Joel showed up around seven o’clock that evening or so. Got gas at the pumps and then moved his car adjacent to our building, wanting to wait out the worst of the storm if he could.
“My goodness, but the weather that night was horrendous. It was storming to beat the band, with this scary lightning that seemed to cover the whole sky, and the wind was vicious. And to make it worse, everything was covered in a blanket of fog. You couldn’t see ten feet in front of you. I remember that especially because, as close as I live to the store, I was worried about driving home later. It was really bad out.” Her hand pressed against her chest in a gesture of sincerity, as she confessed softly, “I have this thing about weather. I’m scared of violent storms and such. I dislike snow, but absolutely hate icy conditions. Don’t tell my boss, but sometimes I even call in sick if the weather’s too threatening. I almost did that night, call in sick, but the worst of the storm came in after I’d begun my shift. So I got caught. I was here.
“Anyway, Joel stopped by to get cigarettes, I think, or something. He came in soaking wet just from the sprint from his car–which by the way was a newer car, a sleek cherry red sports coupe of some kind, he’d just bought and was so proud of–and another reason that specific visit stuck in my mind, my memory. It was his beautiful new car he was showing off to everyone, along with what happened when he did come in, paid for his gas purchase, and bought his pack of cigarettes.”
“What was that?” Frank watched the woman’s face closely to show how interested he was in what she was saying. A trick he’d learned as a young homicide detective. People believed you were more genuine that way.
“A couple things. When he paid for his cigarettes he yanked out his wallet and gave me his credit card. But I couldn’t help but notice how much money, cash, he also had on him. It was uncommon he carried that much. A wad of twenties. A thick wad.
“Thing was, there was this man, one I’d seen a couple times before, not often, I didn’t know his name, standing in line behind Joel who seemed exceedingly interested in him and his wad of money. I believe, from conversation I’d overheard him have with other customers on different occasions, the man lived in a run-down farmhouse somewhere in the older section of town.
“Anyway, the man couldn’t take his shifty eyes off of Joel’s wallet. If you ask me, the man seemed down on his luck, he was filthy, with raggedy clothes and an angry look in his eyes. He stunk to high heaven, too. I’ve seen druggies before and I would have bet a hundred bucks the man was strung out or had some sort of mental problem. It was the way his body twitched; his eyes roved around everywhere as if he were dazed.”
“Do you remember what this man, besides what he was wearing, looked like?”
“Not really, sorry. He was so nondescript. Average looking. Average height. He kept his head down most of the time he was in the store. I think...dark longish hair. But that’s about all I can recall after all this time, other than what I’ve already said.”
Frank nodded. It wasn’t much, but it was something.
“I do know he gave me the creeps, but I also felt sorry for him. I have a cousin I care about who has a mental condition. She’s bi-polar. So I recognize the signs. Earlier I’d seen the man get out of a ratty looking car with a smashed up rear fender...an old greenish, that weird lime green, color. A Pinto, if you can believe it. A real hooptie. I had thought: who drives a Pinto anymore? So that wreck of a car caught my eye.”
“Did he and Joel interact in any way?”
“No, but he watched Joel like a hawk watches a baby rabbit. Then Joel took what he’d bought and went out the door into the night. Here’s the thing.” Phyllis leaned closer, crossing her arms on the picnic table’s pitted surface. “Somehow Joel had left his credit card on the counter and after the man behind him paid for his soda and left, I saw the card laying there. I snatched it up and ran outside, in the rain, to see if I could catch Joel before he drove away. He was pulling out when I caught him. I ran up to his car and when he rolled down the window I gave him the credit card. He thanked me and drove away. I was soaked by then, but I felt pleased about doing a good deed, especially for Joel.
“That’s when I saw the beat-up Pinto pull out behind Joel’s car. Hard to miss, besides the ugly color, it had a busted rear fender. I don’t know why but I had the feeling something wasn’t right. So before the Pinto roared off down the road into the fog I tried to get the license plate number.”
“Did you?” Frank experienced a surge of excitement. His cop’s intuition was telling him this could be something. This could be important.
Her shoulders fell a little. “Only the first three numbers. Sorry. It was raining too hard, and it was too foggy, to catch any more of it. I gave the numbers to the police when they came out to interview me the next day, after Joel first went missing, you know. I don’t remember them now, though I imagine they are somewhere in the police report.”
Frank would be sure to search for them when he studied the Sutton report police Chief Dunham had given him. He couldn’t remember if any partial license numbers had been in Bracco’s dossier, or even if there’d been mention of Phyliss or the green Pinto. Which made him ask, “Did you give this information to Abigail’s private investigator, Andy Bracco, when he talked to you?”
“Who?”
“Andy Bracco? The private investigator Abigail hired after a couple of weeks when the police couldn’t find Joel? Bracco recently passed away and his daughter bundled up and recently sent his findings, the complete file on his investigation of Joel’s disappearance and what he uncovered afterwards, to Abigail. Curious, I had to read it. From what I could make of it all, there were some loose ends, things omitted or things that should have been included but weren’t, in the narrative. So I decided to try to chase down and tie up those loose ends, if I could. That’s one of the reasons why I’m looking into Bracco’s findings now.”
“No, no, I don’t think I ever talked to him. Bracco, I mean. I spoke to no one else but the local police here.”
That surprised Frank. “No one else?”
“Nope.”
Hmmm, Frank thought. That was strange. How had Bracco over-looked Phyliss and the green Pinto?
“But,” she added, “I will say sometime after Joel went missing, I don’t recall precisely when, I was transferred to another Quick Trip a couple towns over and worked there for over a year before I was reassigned here. So perhaps I wasn’t here when that private detective did his interviews.”
That scenario was possible, Frank supposed. But why hadn’t Bracco taken the time to track Phyliss down at the new Quick Trip and speak to her? He asked her that question.
“I don’t know. Could be he meant to and something came up? Who knows now with him being dead and all.”
“Yes, who knows now.”
After a short conversation with her about his books and how she loved murder mysteries; wanted to write one herself someday–how many times had he heard that one–and other niceties sociable conversation demanded, he thanked her for her help and took his leave.
Feeling better physically than he had felt before talking to Phyliss Day, the dizziness gone, he thought he’d finish what he’d started. He’d make that final stop before calling it a day and heading home. He had business at the medical examiner’s office on the other end of town. Chief Dunham had given him the address.
*****
EARLIER THAT MORNING, before he’d driven away from his house, Frank had been smart enough to call ahead and speak to the Fairfield medical examiner, a Stuart Woodley, and prepare him for his visit. After an amiable telephone chat with Mr. Woodley explaining what Frank needed and why, the man said he’d attempt to dig up Joel’s autopsy report, and any other medical files connected to it, and have a copy of them ready for Frank when he arrived. Here again Frank being an ex-cop, sheriff’s consultant, and a mystery writer, afforded him special treatment. He tried not to abuse that privilege, but when he really needed to use it, he did.
“Detective Frank Lester, it’s nice to meet you.” The man who rose up from behind the desk, came around it, and shook Frank’s hand, was so short of stature, at first Frank thought he was a dwarf. He wasn’t. Just a very short man. He had a white lab coat on, his hair was the same color, and his face was pale. If he stood in front of a white wall, he’d be nearly invisible, except for his eyes, which were a brilliant and shrewdly intelligent blue.
“I was a detective. In Chicago. Now I’m just a lowly sheriff’s consultant in Spookie, where I live.” Frank thought the other man’s handshake was unusually firm, yet his smile was warm.
“Nothing to do with police work is lowly, Frank.”
“Glad you think so.”
The room they were in was spartan, as was the building itself. There was nothing on the walls. There wasn’t much furniture, and it was of a simplistic gray metal variety. Very futuristic. There were other doors, most likely to other rooms, visible. The room was so meticulously clean it looked as if someone had just mopped and waxed the floor, the walls, and the doors. The place made Frank cold. He knew what was beyond those doors.
The other man smiled again and officially introduced himself. “Hi, I’m Stuart, in case you hadn’t figured that out yet. I’ve been waiting for you. I would normally have been out to lunch but I decided to go after your visit. I had to meet the cop who became an author. The cop who’s resurrecting a long dead cold case. Most excitement I’ve had in a long time. I’ll eat later.” He gestured Frank to an uncomfortable looking chair and, after he’d resettled himself in his seat, the man passed over a plain file folder, which was very thin.
Frank took a quick look at the name on the file tab. Joel Sutton. “Thank you for this report, Stuart. Hopefully it’ll help me in my quest.” Frank smiled at the medical examiner. He’d already clarified why he’d wanted the file and what he was trying to do. Woodley had seemed to understand and hadn’t denied his help.
“Hopefully. I salute you for trying to solve such an old case. There are way too many of them on the books as far as I’m concerned. People go missing or are found dead under suspicious circumstances all the time. Chief Dunham and his men do their best but there are always these rare cases that defy solving no matter how hard the detectives work. Nature of the beast, I guess. Being an ex-detective yourself, you know what I’m talking about.”
“I do,” Frank replied. There were cases he’d left behind in Chicago he could never crack as hard as he tried. Some crimes remained unexplained mysteries forever. It was the nature of the beast.
“You know,” the medical examiner volunteered, “I wasn’t here when this Joel Sutton went missing or when his remains were found. I’ve been here three years and, according to that file, Joel’s corpse was discovered in his car eight years ago.”
Frank nodded. “That’s what you mentioned on the phone. But you’ve read the file?” As the folder lay in his lap, Frank tapped it with his fingers.
“I had some time waiting for you, work load is light today, so I did read it. I’m an inquisitive man.”
“Good, because since you’ve read it, I have a couple of questions. From what Chief Dunham told me there was no DNA taken off the body or from the outside of the car? Not even finger prints. How was that?”
Woodley shrugged. “According to the file you have there, the car, demolished and abandoned in an isolated gorge about five miles from here, wasn’t found for two years–over two years. The corpse inside was skeletal with scarcely any flesh left to DNA test. Probably because the car’s windows had all been open the whole time and there had been the weather, of course; and the animals and insects had gotten to the body, which was a mess. The M.E. at the time, Carl Willis, did the best he could. Then again, because of the car’s wrecked condition, the police at the time of discovery believed Mr. Sutton had died in an accident. No one thought, as you are beginning to believe now, he might have been murdered. So why back then take DNA samples and look for finger prints? It is all there in the file. There’s nothing much else I can add to it or I can give you.”
“You gave me the file and that’s good enough. Thank you. I’ll return it when I’m done.”
“You don’t need to. Those are copies in that folder. We never release the originals.”
The two men spoke a brief time longer, mostly about what it was like to be a coroner in a small city, and how Frank conducted the research for the murders in his murder mysteries. Frank picked the coroner’s mind for relevant minutiae he could use. He found both Woodley and the office he held interesting, contemplating that he might make one of his characters in his new book a medical examiner. He hadn’t used one of those before in his books. So he listened and stored away every subtle nuance the M.E. exhibited. It helped that, after about fifteen minutes of talking, Frank realized he liked the man. Woodley was clever, a fair conversationalist, and had a wicked sense of humor.
“Working with dead people all day,” the M.E. said, “a doctor has to have a sense of humor, or the job can sour you pretty quickly. My staff here and I joke all the time, play pranks on each other. Laughter helps. Not much different than a police officer having to keep upbeat for his mental health.”
“So true,” Frank concurred. “In our lines of work a good attitude often keeps us from totally going around the bend.”
“Exactly.”
When Frank’s meeting with Woodley was over he left and drove home so he’d be there in time for supper. The day, with everyone he’d seen and spoken to, had tired him out and he was ready for his own hot coffee, a homecooked meal, and time alone later on the porch with Abigail. Digging into the tragedy of her past life had made him frantic to rush home to protect and love her. He was so grateful he had her and the children. The day had made him aware of just how fragile life could be, and how inevitable death.
*****
THE MANAGER FROM THE Quick Trip telephoned Frank that evening. “I got permission from my boss to retrieve that surveillance video you wanted for the night in question. You were really lucky it still existed. The store doesn’t usually keep their surveillance videos that long. But, for some reason, the boss set it aside and preserved it. It shows the inside and the parking lot as you asked. I downloaded it onto a DVD. It’ll be in the mail to you first thing in the morning. The outside stuff is pretty fuzzy because the rain and fog makes it tricky to see what’s going on. But it’s something.”
“It’ll be better than nothing. Thank you. And perhaps I’ll spot something of use in it no one else has. Thanks for sending it to me and thank your boss for me, as well. I’ll be sure to put that autographed book in the mail tomorrow morning. I promise.”
Supper was over, Nick was in his room writing songs, and Abigail was preoccupied at the kitchen table adding finishing touches to her drawings from that day at the Theiss house. So Frank retired to his writing study where he delved into the files from Fairfield’s Chief Dunham and the its medical examiner Stuart Woodley; doubled checked a couple things in Bracco’s dossier. He was following a timeline and comparing details between the three accounts. So many things, he soon saw, did not match up.
He hadn’t told Abigail where he’d been that day or anything about the records he’d snuck home, hiding them beneath his shirt until he could unload them up in his study. Knowing he should tell her what he was up to, he found he couldn’t. Not yet. Not until he knew more than he already knew. Not unless he could offer her more clarity on what had really happened, or on the possible identity of the man who, accidently or purposely, had killed Joel. Because, the truth that was dawning on him, after he’d mucked through all the files first to last pages, was he didn’t believe Joel’s death had merely been an unfortunate car accident. There were too many inconsistencies and too many unfollowed leads. Opening the police report again, he read through it for the third time. Looking for anything suspicious, anything off, to point the way...anything....
Bracco’s account had nothing in it about Phyliss or the green Pinto. The private detective never interviewed her, but the police report did briefly have her recounting of that night. The report mentioned Phyliss, the suspicious man in the green Pinto, how Phyliss ran out and saw it follow Joel’s car into the night. It listed the first three numbers, a partial license plate. But then nothing after that. Officer Price had never asked about or searched for that Pinto, never followed the bread crumbs. Sloppy. So sloppy.
Frank kept studying the files he had, taking notes and trying to figure out how everything fit in together, or not. Slowly, the picture of what had happened to Joel Sutton became clearer.
Later that night, he closed up the files and put them away so Abigail wouldn’t see them. He had a lot of thinking to do.
*****
TWO DAYS LATER FRANK received the surveillance DVD from the manager at the Quick Trip. He watched it over and over on his laptop. And yes, there was Phyliss at the cash register, looking younger and happier. There was a man he took to be Joel–he’d seen Abigail’s pictures of him in the old photo albums–paying for his cigarettes at the main counter...and forgetting his credit card, an oddly behaving man in shabby clothes stalking him through the store and outside, Phyliss running after Joel out into the parking lot and there...in the foggy night was the Pinto, with a smashed rear fender, tailing Joel’s new red sports car out onto the highway. Bingo.
The parking lot and road leading away from the store portion of the video was grainy and, as Leroy Clark had warned, not very good, but good enough to make out the two vehicles, among the other cars at the gas pumps, leaving; driving under the gas station’s lights so Frank could just make out their colors. He replayed it again and slowed it down, paused it at certain times, but he couldn’t see the man in the Pinto clearly. It was too dark. He did think the man had longish hair, was most likely Caucasian, but other than that the figure driving was a blurry blob.
The only thing Frank couldn’t understand was why hadn’t Officer Price, or someone else in the Fairfield police department, search for the man in that beat-up Pinto? Yeah, Price had been incompetent all right. Frank closed the laptop. He sat there mulling over what he would do next. Then he had it.
He had to try to find that green Pinto, if it still existed. It was somewhere in Fairfield, if Phyliss had been right about the suspect living nearby, and if Frank was really lucky, or if fate was on his side, he’d locate it somehow...and the man who had driven it that night. He needed to speak to that man. It was the best clue he had so far.