Forever Man (15 page)

Izzy blew into her mug, took a sip and burned her lips. She jerked the mug back, spilling more onto her hand. 

“Damn,” she muttered, then looked curiously at Owens as he swallowed another mouthful.

He caught her staring at him, smiled, and lifted his mug. “Good coffee.”

The room was quiet as the three of them finished their drinks. Owens set his empty mug off to one side. He folded his hands and rested them on the table. Looking first at Sten, then at Izzy, he said, “Can you please turn the tape recorder off?”

Izzy said, “Why? Are you afraid you may say something to incriminate yourself?”

“Either the recorder gets turned off, or we sit here looking at one another all morning.”

Sten was shaking his head, but Izzy overruled him by hitting the recorder’s off button.

“Satisfied?” she asked.

Owens nodded. “As I’ve already told you, I did not kill that boy. Nor did I kidnap or in any way harm your daughter. And before you ask, I don’t know where she is, either.”

Izzy opened her mouth to protest, but Owens quickly raised a hand.

“I know,” he said. “We’ve already been over this. Please, let me finish.”

“Fine,” she replied. “But denials and conspiracy theories aren’t going to keep you out of jail.”

“Chief Morris,” Owens said. “You’re familiar with the name Sallinen.”

Sten leaned forward, as if he hadn't heard Owens correctly. “Come again?”

“Yeah,” said Izzy, equally confused. “What’s Jack Sallinen got to do with this?”

“Not him,” Owens said, “as much as his son.”

“J.J.?” Sten laughed. “Now you’re going to try and pin this on
him
?”

Owens shook his head. “I didn’t even know he existed until yesterday, when that girl, Katie, mentioned him.” He picked up his empty coffee mug and rolled it back and forth between his palms. “No, I’m talking about his
other
son.”

She thought back to the young boy in his too-small pajamas and his Picassoesque drawings. “You mean Kevin.”

Owens sucked his lower lip in between his teeth and nodded. “He’s the reason I’m here.”

While Sten stared disbelievingly at Owens, Izzy stumbled over what to say next. Owens was talking about an eight-year-old, harmless autistic child. From her notebook, she pulled out the drawing Kevin had given her. A basic crayon scribble of an animal standing in the rain and lightning, nothing more sophisticated than what a four-year-old could do. How could this poor kid be involved in anything dangerous?

“He’s just a sweet kid with autism,” she said, showing Owens the drawing. “I don’t understand what he’s got to do with this?”

Owens looked uncomfortably at the picture. “That’s the complicated part.”

“Sure,” snorted Sten. “Because it’s total bullshit.”

Even though she tended to agree, she laid a restraining hand on Sten’s shoulder. “He brought it up. Let him answer the question.”

Sten hesitated only a moment. “You’re the boss.”

She gave his shoulder a reassuring squeeze. “Well,” she said to Owens. “Let’s hear it.”

Owens’ nostrils flared as he drew in a deep breath. When he spoke, his voice echoed in the small room. “What’s happening in your town—the taking of your daughter, the death of her boyfriend—is being done intentionally. They’re distractions, meant to keep you preoccupied. Looking elsewhere while plans are put in place to take the Sallinen boy. Before you know it, he will quietly disappear. And if that happens, you’ll never see him again.”

Izzy said, “What does this have to do with you?”

“I’m here to keep that from happening,” Owens replied with complete seriousness.

“I see.” She was beginning to wonder if perhaps Owens was mentally ill. Paranoid delusions about kidnapping plots? Grandiose self-image as the hero who stops the bad guys? If that was the case, Kevin
could
be in danger—from Owens. “How’d you learn about this plot against Kevin?”

“I know it’s hard to believe without thinking I’m crazy—”

“You got that right,” said Sten.

“—but the boy is in serious danger.”

“Answer my question,” Izzy insisted. “How’d you learn about this ‘danger’ to Kevin?”

“We don’t have time—”

“Answer the question.”

“You wouldn’t—”

The door abruptly opened and Sgt. Talbot stuck his head in the room.

“Chief, we just got a call. There’s another dead body. Memorial Park, near the gazebo.”

Izzy felt her stomach drop. “Any idea who it is?”

Bob Talbot nodded. “Jenny Bethel.”

Almost four hours later, the activity at Memorial Park had died down. Under a cold, cloudless sky, Al Hamilton and Carlton Manick had strung up yellow police tape around the crime scene. It restricted access to the two cars in the parking lot—one was Jenny Bethel’s, the other Chet Boardman’s—and the destroyed gazebo. More tape cordoned off the area of the beach where Jenny’s body had been found. Pictures had been taken; evidence tagged, bagged, and sent off for processing. All that was left was for Izzy to try to piece together what had happened.

The ME had finished examining Jenny’s body and had sent her remains ahead to await an autopsy. This was the second body from Kinsey in less than three days. The look on his face as he walked toward her spoke volumes about his concern.

Dr. William Buzynski, MD, had been the county’s medical examiner for the last thirty-two years. Big and burly, with a head of thick, white hair, a commanding presence, and a no-nonsense attitude, he could easily have made it as a cop. But she’d known him for years, and the gruff exterior was all show. Inside that man was the kindest soul she’d ever met.

“I’m sorry to hear about Stanley,” he said, offering her a hug. “I’m sure he’ll be fine. And Natalie. Have you made any progress finding her?”

Izzy gratefully accepted the hug. “We’ve got one suspect in custody, but he’s being difficult. I had to break off the questioning to come here.”

“You’ll find her, Elizabeth. You’re the best.”

“I hope you’re right.” She gestured for Sten Billick to join them. “But for now, we’ve got another dead body. What can you tell us?”

The ME shoved his hands deep into the pockets of his jacket. “Time of death was somewhere between eight yesterday evening and midnight. Looks like someone beat her in the back of the head with a blunt object—that part of her skull was a mess. But that’s not what killed her.” He paused, the breeze ruffling his white hair. “She was crushed to death. I wouldn’t be surprised to find multiple rib fractures, bones ground together and lacerating just about every internal organ that poor woman had. Whoever did this—he had to have been incredibly strong. Dying that way…hell, if I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes, I would’ve thought it impossible.”

“You don’t think Chet Boardman could’ve done this?” asked Izzy.

“I don’t know the man,” replied the ME. “But I don’t see how two or three people working together could’ve done something like that. So, no. I doubt it was him alone.”

Sten said, “There was a lot of blood on the gazebo’s floor. My guess is most of it is Jenny’s. We’ll have to wait on the lab results for confirmation. But this is what I don’t understand: her body was found all the way on the beach. Correct me if I’m wrong, doc, but after bleeding that much, walking or running would be out of the question.”

“That’d be my opinion,” Dr. Buzynski said.

“And,” Sten continued, “there were no tracks leading from the gazebo to her body, and nothing to suggest she was dragged.”

“So, what do you think?” asked Izzy.

Sten’s eyebrows drew together. “I think she was thrown there.”

Thrown? Izzy thought. From the gazebo? But that was at least thirty feet. No one had that kind of strength. There had to be another explanation.

“Then there’s the damage to the gazebo,” Sten said. “The way the boards are shattered, I’d swear someone busted up through the floor. Hard enough to toss the picnic table down the steps. Again, how big would you have to be to do that?”

“Let me add a little flavor to this discussion,” the ME said. “I dictated the Cain boy’s autopsy report yesterday. I’ll give you the condensed version. The edges of his abdominal wound were jagged, irregular, and there were eight puncture marks along the midline, between the sternum and umbilicus.” He smiled. “That’s the belly button. Anyway, in my opinion, this boy wasn’t cut open with a knife—he was
torn
open, like someone had stuck his fingers into his guts and ripped him apart. And then there’s his ribcage. If you tried to rip one out, all you’d do is lift the body off the ground. Give it a sharp, strong jerk and
maybe
you’d break a rib or two. But his was torn completely off his body, every rib broken. Again, we’re talking about an incredibly strong man.”

“Then you’re ruling out any kind of animal attack?” asked Sten.

The ME nodded. “Doesn’t fit the evidence.”

“All right,” said Sten, gesturing to the gazebo. “It looks like Chet and Jenny had dinner in there. And whatever happened took place
after
they’d eaten. There was a knife in the grass, just off the steps, with blood on it. Did Chet use it to protect Jenny, or kill her?”

“I’ll check for any sign of knife wounds,” offered the ME.

Izzy said, “We need to find Chet. His car’s still here, so where’d he go?” And when did he get his keys back from Gene?

“Speaking of going,” said the ME. “I’ve got this woman’s body waiting for me.” He gave Izzy a hug, shook Sten’s hand. “I’ll let you know what I find.”

As the ME walked toward his car, Izzy looked around the crime scene. She thought back to the interview with Owens.

“What’s happening in your town,”
he’d said,
“is being done intentionally. They’re a distraction, meant to keep you preoccupied, looking elsewhere.”

Already, four hours had gone by since he had said it.

“Jimmy was buried today,” she said to Sten. “I’ll head over to the wake. Denny’ll be there. Maybe he knows where Chet is. Katie will probably be there, too. I need to tell her about her mother.” Christ, how did you tell someone she was an orphan?

“What about Owens?”

“Go back and start working him.”

“And Natalie?”

“If Owens is right, all this is connected. We keep working the case, we eventually find her.”

“And if he’s lying?”

Izzy grimaced. “Let’s hope he’s not.”

Jimmy Cain’s burial had been an expedited event. The coroner’s office had released the body late Saturday morning. Surprisingly—or maybe not—Denny and Maddie Cain had arranged for a closed-casket service yesterday, with a burial this morning. Izzy didn’t understand their haste, but she had also never buried a child.

At least, not yet.

The reception hall holding Jimmy’s wake was located a block and a half from the funeral home. Once a VFW hall, an ill-advised second mortgage encouraged by Jack Sallinen had ultimately been beyond the veteran’s ability to pay. Jack’s bank had quickly foreclosed on the property. He had then sold it to Del Crest, his buddy and the owner of the funeral home. When Del didn’t need it for funeral business, he rented it back to the veterans for their fish fries. Probably at an exorbitant rate.

Neither Jack nor Del had put their lives on the line for their country, and Izzy was sure neither had lost a minute’s sleep over how they’d screwed the vets. To them, money was the be all and end all.

She stood in the doorway to the hall, reluctant to enter a place of mourning with news of more death. The air was thick with the aroma of fried chicken and coffee. Most people sat at long folding tables, eating or chatting quietly with one another, their murmurs broken by the rustle of paper plates and the dull scrape of plastic cutlery. Several individuals had gathered at the far wall, where a big screen television displayed a picture of Jimmy in his football uniform. That picture slowly dissolved into one of Jimmy as a baby at his christening.

Izzy spotted Jimmy’s parents in the throng of people at the back of the hall. She made her way over to them.

Maddie Cain sat on a chair in front of the television. She wore a plain black dress with white trim along the collar and a small pillbox hat with a dark veil. Her hand clutched a wad of tissues, which she would occasionally slip under her veil to wipe away her tears. Denny stood next to her, also in black. When he saw Izzy approaching, he whispered something to his wife and moved off toward the bar.

When Izzy had reached Maddie’s side, she crouched down so the other woman wouldn’t be forced to look up at her. Grief brought all low and should be shared that way.

“I’m so sorry,” Izzy said to Jimmy’s mother. “So very, very sorry.”

Maddie dabbed at her eyes once more. She wore no makeup, had made no attempt to hide her pain under a patina of blush or mascara.

“Denny tells me you have the man who killed Jimmy,” Maddie said, her voice distant, emotionless.

“We have a suspect in custody, but there’s still work to be done.”

“And your daughter?” Maddie whispered. “What about Natalie?”

Izzy opened her mouth to say something, but the words stuck in her throat. All she could manage was a shake of her head.

Maddie smiled weakly. “I understand. I’ll pray for you, Izzy. For you and Stanley. I’ll pray you get your daughter back. I’ll pray, because that’s all I’ve got left.”

Izzy grasped the woman’s hand. Blinking back tears, she said, “I’ll figure this out, Maddie. I promise.”

At that point, Jack Sallinen walked up with Denny Cain trailing him like a baby duck following its mother. Jack was the only mourner not wearing black; he’d decided on a cream-colored three-piece suit. He even had a Bluetooth in his ear.

“You’ll get through this,” Izzy said to Maddie, and then stood. “My condolences, Denny.”

Denny opened his mouth to say something, but Jack stepped smoothly in front of him, cutting the man off.

“Chief Morris,” Jack said with an easy smile. “I heard about your husband. What a terrible thing to happen. I hope he’s doing well?”

“He’s fine, thank you.” Izzy tried to step around Jack’s bulk. “Denny, have you seen Chet?”