Dead Even (8 page)

There was a report from another student, who stated he spoke with Audra briefly outside the library where she was doing her routine stretching exercises. He remembered telling her there was a storm moving in, and that she should stay close to campus. There was a notation that the officers had no way of knowing whether Miss Delaney followed his advice—no indication as to where or how the assailant came into contact with her.

The rest of the report was just basic police work. A heavy snowstorm had moved in around midnight, obliterating any evidence they might have found in the area. The attack had taken place in a remote area, only reachable by a winding dirt road. Had it not been for the two teenagers who used the spot as a necking place, Audra's body would probably have not been discovered until spring. Either the assailant knew the area, or had gotten mighty lucky.

The Lawrence police had questioned all known sex offenders, several transients, and a few college boys, with no success. They had never received a solid lead in the case, and the investigation was still open on their books.

The initial report from the psychiatrist suggested Audra had some form of amnesia about that night. He further stated that it might take months, or years for her to remember—if she remembered at all. His report to the police advised them to back off, because the subject was in danger of going clear over the edge mentally. His recommendation was for extensive therapy.

Mike lit another cigarette, inhaling deeply. What the hell had happened that night? Something more than the rape and stabbing? Something so awful that even after ten years Audra couldn't face it?

*   *   *

That night Audra dreamed again. She was being chased by a man wearing a hideous Halloween mask. “Say you love me,” he kept yelling. Then he was on her, pawing at her, ripping her clothing. She tried to scream, but something forced its way around her neck, making it hard to breathe. The man in the Halloween mask danced around her, chanting. She tried to understand what he was saying but it was garbled, like a record played on the wrong speed.

She wanted to run but her legs wouldn't move. The man came up close to her and she could smell his sour breath and see his insane eyes shining with anticipation. She reached up to pull the mask from his face, and his head came off in her hands. She awoke screaming.

Chapter SIX

Early Sunday morning, Mike rang the doorbell of the fashionable ranch style home located on the east side of the city. It had been easy enough to trace the phone number. It belonged to a Howard Simpson, age fifty-two, an insurance salesman who had lived in Hays for twenty-one years. He had no record, belonged to several area civic clubs, and every year supported the police carnival held for underprivileged children, even running some of the booths on occasion. Markham had warned them to go slow, make no accusations. With nothing more to go on than a voice identification of a ten-year-old crime, they were skating on dangerously thin ice.

Butch looked at the house and back at his partner. “Not exactly the type of house you would associate with the crime we're investigating, is it?”

Mike had to admit he was right. The house looked like money. The large yard was landscaped and neat, with big cottonwood trees surrounding the home. The sidewalks and porch had been swept to remove the light layer of snow that had accumulated during the night. The area in front of the double garage had been swept clean also, making it hard to tell if a car had left. Mike raised his hand to ring the doorbell again, but brought it back down as the door opened.

“Yes? Can I help you?”

“Mr. Simpson? Howard Simpson?” Mike asked.

“Yes, I'm Howard Simpson. What can I do for you?”

He was an average-looking man, slightly under six feet with dark brown hair combed forward, trying, unsuccessfully, to cover a receding hairline. He was wearing tight-fitting jeans, and a V-necked yellow sweater over a brown dress shirt. The top two buttons of the shirt were undone, and around his neck he wore two gold chains. The overall impression Mike received was of a middle-aged man trying to look twenty again.

Mike took his badge from the pocket of his coat and opened it toward Mr. Simpson. “Sir, I was wondering if we could have a few words with you—ask you a few questions?” He remembered Markham's warning and added, “That is if you have the time. We have a little problem, and we think maybe you could help us out.”

Howard Simpson swung the door open wide. “Well, certainly. Come on in out of the cold. I just made a fresh pot of coffee. I'll get us all a cup and then you can tell me what this is all about. How does that sound?”

“Just fine, sir,” Butch smiled at the man. “We never turn down coffee. Certainly not on a day like this.”

Both men had taken note of the voice. Deep and raspy. They followed Simpson into the brick home. It was as nice inside as the outside indicated. They were ushered into a large living room, then left alone as Howard Simpson went to the kitchen for coffee. The room was furnished in a contemporary style, with large lamps atop all the tables, and recessed lighting across the beamed ceiling. Mike finally figured out what was bothering him. All of the light was coming from artificial means. The large windows that ran along the west side of the room were heavily draped, as were the windows in the dining area just off the living room. He could see sheers were also used and wondered why the main drapes weren't pulled to allow in more light.

Howard Simpson returned with three steaming mugs. “There you go, gentlemen. Nothing like a good cup of coffee to get the old blood circulating on a cold, January morning. Now then, what did you need to see me about?”

“Mr. Simpson,” Mike began, “would you happen to remember if you were in Lawrence, Kansas about ten years ago? Wednesday, the fifteenth of January, 1986, to be exact?”

“My goodness, such a long time ago. Why in the world do you need to know that?”

Mike cleared his throat. “I'm sorry, sir, but someone has accused you of a crime—at least they
think
it might be you. I know it's been a long time, but we have to follow up on these things, no matter how farfetched they may seem. If there is any way you could prove you weren't there, it would help us out a lot.”

Howard Simpson nodded his head. “Well, I certainly don't like the idea of being accused of something. What is it they say I did?”

“I'm sorry, Mr. Simpson, but I'm not at liberty to say. At least not yet.”

The two officers waited for the explosion they were certain was to come. But instead Howard Simpson merely nodded his head again. “I see. In that case I guess I better find out where I was ten years ago.” He stood. “Come with me into the den. All of my records are in there. Just bring your coffee along. It's perfectly all right.”

The first thing Mike noticed when they entered the room was that here, too, the curtains were pulled tight across the windows. Simpson switched on the overhead light and crossed over to a long row of bookcases. He ran his hand down a row of notebooks, each marked on the spine with a year, until he found the one he was looking for. He opened the notebook and flipped through a few pages.

The two officers watched as Simpson took several deep breaths. “Good heavens. I
was
in Lawrence on that date. At an insurance convention. But I assure you I committed no crime while I was there. Now that I think about it, I don't believe I ever even left the motel.”

Mike and Butch exchanged glances. “Maybe you had better come with us down to headquarters, Mr. Simpson,” Mike said. “We can get it all straightened out there.”

Simpson was clearly agitated. “No, no. Now wait a minute. What time did this crime supposedly take place? Was it during the day, or in the evening?”

“Between six and eleven in the evening, sir,” Butch answered the man. “And unless you can account for that time, I'm afraid you'll have to come with us.”

Simpson walked over and opened a cupboard above his large screen television. Inside were rows of videotapes. He hunted for a few seconds, then selected one. “I happen to remember that night, now that my notebook has jogged my memory. I was one of the speakers at the meeting. It's all on video. I was on stage with several other insurance people that entire evening. The date and time are on the video. Here, I'll show you.” He turned on the television and inserted the tape in his VCR.

They watched in silence as Harold Simpson began his speech. The date and time were imprinted across the bottom of the video, just as he had said.

When it was finished, Mike turned to Simpson. “Is there any way to verify this tape?”

“Of course,” the man nodded. “It was done commercially by a firm in Lawrence. We always use the services of a local business in the city where the conventions are held. Good will, you know.” He ejected the tape from the machine and passed it over to Mike. “The name's right there on the label. Shem's Video. And there are two or three other insurance agents in town who I'm sure have this same tape. Sam Walker with Strophe Insurance for one. He was on the stage with me that night. If anyone else would have one, he would.”

Mike extended his hand. “Well, that ought to take care of it, then. Looks like our witness was wrong. We'll check this tape out, of course, but I'm certain you don't have anything to worry about.”

Simpson walked them to the door. “I don't understand how someone could think I was involved in a crime that happened so long ago. What made them think it was me?”

“Your voice, sir,” Mike answered. “They heard your voice and thought they recognized it. It
is
rather distinctive, wouldn't you say?”

Simpson nodded. “So
that's
it. Well, this husky voice is the result of trying to save my wife and son when our house burned down. Neighbors tried to keep me from going in, but I had to try and reach them.” He stopped talking and looked away. “Couldn't though. Lost them both. And I was left sounding this way.”

“We're sorry, sir,” Mike said. “And we're also sorry about all this. Just doing our job, you know.”

“Quite all right, officer,” Simpson answered. “I understand completely.”

*   *   *

It took them three hours to confirm the authenticity of the tape—record time for a Sunday. They obtained a duplicate from Sam Walker, then placed a call to Shem's Video in Lawrence. They happened to catch the owner as he was preparing his cameras for an afternoon wedding. One hour later, Mason Shem returned their call and verified that he, personally, had videotaped the presentation, and yes, the dates were correct. He had checked his files carefully, and was positive there had been no mistake. Forty-five minutes later, an efficient employee of the Holiday Inn Convention Center called with the information they had requested. Yes, Harold Simpson had been registered at the motel for three days. Yes, the final meeting had taken place the evening of the fifteenth. And yes, according to their files, Harold Simpson had been one of the featured speakers. She had also managed to obtain a bar bill with his signature. From nine until eleven-thirty that night, Harold Simpson had been in the motel's lounge, drinking with several other salesmen.

“Well, that's it, then,” Markham said. “Your witness was wrong. We couldn't ask for any more proof than this. Contact her and let her know what we found out.”

“Damn it,” Mike said. “She was just so positive. And then to find out the man was actually in Lawrence at that exact time—I don't know, it just seems a little coincidental to me.”

Markham snorted. “There were lots of people in Lawrence on that night. It doesn't mean shit. Harold Simpson was giving a speech in front of three hundred insurance agents. He was filmed doing it. We have verified the film from three different sources. What the hell more do you want?”

“I know. I know,” Mike grumbled, unwilling to concede. “It all seems pretty pat.
Too
pat, actually. Think about it. If someone wanted to know where
you
were ten years ago, what proof could you give them?
None,
I'd bet my sweet ass. Nor could most people. Yet here we have a guy who needs to come up with an alibi for a ten-year-old crime, and presto! Within minutes he hands us irrefutable proof he could not have done it! Pretty neat. Pretty damn neat!”

Captain Markham removed his glasses and rubbed at the sore spot on the bridge of his nose. Damn glasses. He hated the things. Bifocals! His eyes, along with just about every other part of his body, were turning on him, and quite possibly he was getting senile. Why else would Mike be making sense to him? “What else, Mike?” he asked. “What else bothers you about this?”

Mike leaned forward in his chair. “We have a witness who believes Harold Simpson attacked her. She swears the voice is the same. We check it out, and the guy
does
sound like she described him. Furthermore, he was in Lawrence the night she was attacked. Also, he is a rather pathetic middle-aged man who dresses like a college boy, even to wearing gold chains around his neck. He lives alone, and has no family. And furthermore, he couldn't have been nicer when we questioned him. Most men would have gotten a little upset, especially when we wouldn't even tell him what the crime was. But Harold Simpson didn't blink an eye. As a matter of fact, he only asked us about it that one time, and then just accepted it when we told him we couldn't give out that information.”

Markham shook his head. “And you're faulting him for that?”

“I'm just saying it wasn't natural. I'd have been pissed as hell!”

Butch interrupted. “Tell him about the drapes, Mike. I thought that was strange.”

“Yeah, that's right. Every single drape in the house was pulled shut. You couldn't see a speck of sunlight coming in from any of the windows. And I'm talking every room, including the kitchen. We went in to return the coffee mugs, and even in there, the windows were covered with heavy curtains. As a matter of fact, they were pinned with straight pins in the middle so they wouldn't even gap.”