Buried (A Bone Secrets Novel 03) (26 page)

Mason paced the small interview room at the state prison. The room was so stereotypical; he’d nearly rolled his eyes when he walked in. Painted cinderblocks, small window with bars, and a metal table fastened to the floor with two fastened stools. Impossible to budge. Or use to hit someone over the head. Mason hadn’t had time to review the Sandra Edge murder case. Ray was digging through the files and would get him the highlights as soon as he could.

Didn’t matter. He just needed to see Fielding. Get a feel for him. The right questions would come when he saw the murderer’s face.

Two guards appeared with Lee Fielding between them. Fielding had handcuffs attached to his leg irons and shuffled
as he walked. The prisoner looked about sixty years old, but Mason knew he was closer to fifty. He was soft everywhere. Soft face, soft hands, soft belly. It looked like the man hadn’t attempted physical exercise since he’d been imprisoned. Mason instinctively sucked in his gut. This guy was too close to his own age, and Mason couldn’t help but compare. He knew he looked decent for his age. The damned graying hair and lines on Mason’s face announced his age, but he made sure his body stayed fit. A home gym and runs through the neighborhood kept away the middle-aged spread. He exercised more out of stress relief than anything else.

Fielding glanced curiously at Mason as he shuffled by and then plopped himself down on one of the stools with a sigh. His hair had grayed to completely white but had left his eyebrows black. The puffiness of his face kept away most of the lines men get on their face in their fifties, but his demeanor added invisible lines, aging him. He radiated
old
. He gave off the emotional waves of an old man who’d been beaten down. The guard attached a link to the big silver loop on the table and Fielding was fastened into place. A flash of anger crossed Fielding’s face as he studied the fastener and then vanished, and his face took on the doldrums look again. Mason noted the anger.

Can’t fool me, buddy. You just try to look lazy.

There was a pissed-off man inside that soft body.

“Mason Callahan, I’m with OSP.”

Fielding raised his gaze to meet Mason’s. And shrugged.

Silence.

Mason internally rolled his eyes. You’d think the asshole would appreciate the opportunity to see and talk with someone new. A break in his boring routine.

“Sandra Edge. It’s been a while,” Mason stated.

Fielding’s puffy face didn’t flinch.

“Why her?” Mason asked.

Mason saw a touch of surprise behind the lazy eyes. The directness of the question had caught Fielding off guard.

“Why not?” Fielding’s voice was surprisingly high pitched for an older man. He sounded like a thirteen-year-old. A thirteen-year-old girl.

It was Mason’s turn to be surprised, and he wondered if Fielding was gay.
Dumbass. Like a voice indicates sexual preference.

“Did you know her before?”

Annoyance crossed Fielding’s face. “Why are you asking questions that you already know the answers to?”

“Humor me. I didn’t have time to read your case.”

Fielding’s gaze narrowed. “In a hurry? What’s the rush?”

Again, Mason was treated to a glimpse of the person hiding inside the soft figure. Fielding wasn’t dumb.

Of course he’s dumb. He’s sitting in prison for murder.

“Sandra’s roommate disappeared nine years after she was killed. Dawn Henderson. Her body just turned up, and we’re looking into it.”

“Can’t help you there. I’ve been inside.”

“Again. Why Sandra?”

Fielding shrugged and looked away. “A lack of planning on your part does not necessitate urgency on my part,” he stated as if reading from a rule book.

Mason’s anger tightened his throat.
He’s fucking with me. He’s bored.

“I saw that on a sign in a public health office once,” Fielding said. “Seemed typical of public employee attitudes. Roles are reversed here, aren’t they?”

Mason leaned forward, his hands on the metal table.

“Why Sandra? Where’d you meet? And don’t give me shit about wasting your time with information that’s already in your file. You’ve got plenty of time to waste. Why don’t you just enjoy talking to my pretty face and see it as a break in your boring-assed routine. All the other prisoners should be so lucky.”

Fielding’s mouth twitched at one corner. “Okay, Detective. I’ll play. I met Sandra at a local bar. She was selling it. I was interested. I was stoned. Things got out of hand. The end.”

“Local bar? You both lived close by?”

Fielding shrugged. “My buddy lived close by. I was in town and camped out on his couch for a few days.”

“Where did you live?”

“Nowhere.”

“Transient?”

“Sometimes.”

“So you had no money to pay her. No money for a roof over your head and no money for the hooker. But you had money for the dope and beer. Fucking typical.”

The anger flashed through Fielding’s eyes, and Mason knew he’d perfectly nailed Fielding’s life at the time.

“You must be loving prison. Three squares a day, a roof, cable. And it doesn’t cost you a dime. In fact, as Joe Taxpayer, I’m paying for your stay at the Ritz.” Mason paused. “And you’re very welcome. Anything to keep shit like you off the street.

“Your buddy must have been thrilled when you went to prison and got off his couch. I bet you weren’t there for just a few days, you were probably sponging off of him for weeks.”

“Fuck you. He went in, too.”

“Went in? Prison?”

“Yeah, he was there. You really should read the fucking file so you don’t sound like an idiot. Gary and I both went away for
Sandra’s murder. He got off easy because they lost half the damn evidence.”

“And because you were the one who actually killed her. He was probably just there to party,” Mason prodded. “You fucked up his life, too. What was his name?”

“Who, Gary? You’re coming off as a dumbshit because you haven’t reviewed the case.” Fielding’s face reddened. “You’re like a high school newspaper reporter who doesn’t know what the fuck he’s talking about.”

“Gary what?”

“Gary Busey.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake. Grow up.”

“Gary Hinkes.”

Mason wrote the name in his mental notebook. “Was that so hard?”

“Are you really a cop? ’Cause you don’t seem to know shit.”

Mason smiled, showing all his teeth. “I’m all cop. Now pretend I’m your best friend and tell me everything you know about Hinkes.”

Fielding shifted on the metal stool, his black brows coming together. “Fucker fell off the face of the earth. He went to Shutter Creek for his time.”

“In Eastern Oregon?” Mason had never been to the medium-security prison.

“Yeah. I’d get a letter now and then. Then mine started coming back to me. I tried to find out if he’d been released or transferred. He was only supposed to be in for nine months, I think.”

“That’s it? Accessory to murder and he got nine months?”

“Naw, it was for breaking probation and something else. I don’t remember. I’ve searched for him online but can’t figure out where he went.”

“Online?” These guys get Internet access? “I bet you were looking at dating sites, right?”

Fielding didn’t even blink. He kept rambling, his eyes focused on a spot on the table as he thought about Hinkes. “He’s probably dead somewhere or locked up somewhere else. He couldn’t keep his hands to himself.”

“What does that mean?”

Now Fielding looked up. And grinned. “He liked it. He liked getting it from anyone. The rougher, the better. A lotta pain involved, all the better. Men, women, didn’t matter.”

Mason froze. Every neuron in his brain firing at once.
Bingo.

“Where is Hinkes?”
This is our guy.

“I just told you that I don’t know. I’ve looked. Nothing else to do in here. I figure he served his sentence and got out. Who knows what the fuck he’s up to, but asses like that don’t change. It’s in his blood. I’ve never seen anyone who likes the pain along with the sex so much.”

“Fucking pervert.”

Fielding just nodded. “Gary fit most pervert descriptions.”

“What’d he look like?”

“Gary? Oh, he was a freak. One of those white-skinned guys. You know, the genetic shit? Albinos? But he dyed his hair. Used the cheap crap…it always looked like shit. He wanted colored contacts but couldn’t afford them. Had some pretty amazing tattoo work done. Don’t know how he paid for that…I can guess, though. His back looked like a piece of oriental artwork. Fucking amazing.”

Blood was pounding in Mason’s head. He strained to hear past the noise. “Did he have tattoos on his wrists?”

“No, his upper arms were tattooed. Not his wrists. That could have changed. He had a serious addiction to tattooing.
Loved them. I never understood. That shit fucking hurts.” Fielding pulled up his sleeve to show a small phoenix on his upper arm. “I did one. That was enough.”

Mason stared at the small figure. “Why a phoenix?”

Fielding looked away and pulled down the sleeve, rubbing at the fabric over the tattoo like he could wash it off. “Stands for new beginnings. Change.”

Mason snorted. “Maybe someday, eh?”

“How can he just vanish?” Mason asked. He was seriously frustrated. His best lead, the name from Lee Fielding, was hitting a stone wall. After his prison interview, Mason had called Ray, pointed him in the direction of searching for Gary Hinkes, and sped back to the office, hoping Ray would have fantastic news by the time he’d arrived.

Ray shook his head. “It’s crazy. I went to records to pull the file. Everything is still on paper from back then. The whole file on Hinkes is missing. The only info I can get is from Fielding’s file. And I swear, there’s shit missing from there.”

“There’s no record of Hinkes’s arrest and sentencing?” Mason didn’t like this one bit.

“There is. I can find that he was arrested. I can find that he was sent to Shutter Creek. But that is it. Everything else is flat gone.”

“What about previous arrests? Fielding said he’d broken probation, so there has to be something previous.”

“Nothing.”

“What? How can that be?” Mason tapped his desk with a pencil and then spun it in his fingers, mind churning. Noting the
slightly blunted tip, he thrust the pencil into the electric sharpener and let the noise clear his brain. He added the pencil to the other perfectly sharpened dozen pencils in a mug on his desk.

“What about pictures? There’s got to be at least one photo of the guy somewhere. One we can show to Jamie Jacobs.”

“Nothing,” Ray stated again. The cuffs of his white dress shirt had been sloppily rolled up to his elbows, and the lines between his brows hadn’t left his face since Mason had walked into the office.

Mason stared at Ray’s cuffs and noted the tie askew. Ray was feeling the pressure, too. The man was usually the picture of beefy male elegance. Unlike Mason, who strove for matching socks inside his cowboy boots.

“We’re close here. What’s bugging you? Spit it out.”

“How can all this information be missing?” Ray asked. He looked over his computer monitor at Mason. “It’s just Hinkes’s info that I can’t find. There’s plenty on Fielding. I can tell you exactly what he’s been doing since his arrest, what he eats for dinner, and when he takes a shit, but everything on Hinkes is gone.”

A small buzzing started at the base of Mason’s skull. “What are you saying?”

“Someone made all this info go away. I can find a half dozen pictures of Fielding. Why can’t I find any of Hinkes?”

“Did you check newspaper archives? Maybe his face ended up there.”

Ray nodded. “Most papers have their archives accessible online. Nothing is coming up. Same with driver’s licenses. No photo available.”

“That’s fucked up.” The buzzing was getting louder.

“Agreed.”

Michael was pumped. He fought to hold in his excitement. Lusco and Callahan had figured out that Jamie’s attacker was albino. And that the kidnapped children were probably held by a person with the same coloring. How many albinos could be wandering around Oregon? Or with blood on their hands in Eastern Oregon? He was about to do a Google search to find albino numbers compared to the rest of the population. Either way, the window was narrowing on their suspect.