The Boy Must Die (16 page)

“My name is Billy, Blayne.” Billy slowly sat down across from the
swaying boy. He nodded to Barnes to activate the camcorder. “Blayne Morton, aged fourteen, Sunday, June 30.” Billy spoke in a low, firm, cautious voice as he slid his notebook out of his upper pocket. Blayne was wearing a rumpled white T-shirt. There were dirt smudges on the chest area. Billy leaned closer. There was no indication of black paint or blood. He next studied Blayne’s hands. On them were old scabs, round brown spots the size of cigarette ends. His skin was sallow, ill-fed, but there were no splotches of black or red. Blayne’s green hair was in knots. Again, no signs of blood or paint. Billy bent down and looked under the table to check the boy’s shoes and black jeans. Dirty smudges on the toes, streaks of dust on the pants. Counsellor Barnes stood silent. Billy watched Blayne move back and forth in his chair. The boy’s eyes were ringed with grey circles, and he did not seem to notice either Billy’s or Barnes’s presence.

And then the boy’s eyes filled with tears. “Help me,” he whispered. “Help me.”

“How can I help you, Blayne?”

“Darren,” Blayne replied. “Darren betrayed me.”

Blayne rolled his eyes back. He raised his scab-spotted hands to his face and covered his forehead. He began rocking again, singing in a low voice: “Darren loves peace, Darren loves peace.”

“Officer.”

Blayne ceased his chanting. He shut his eyes, rolled off his chair with a pounding thud, and curled up on the floor.

Billy threw a glance at Barnes. “Let him be,” Barnes whispered.

The officer stood in the doorway, staring at Blayne.

“Go and get the boy’s mother,” Billy said. “She’s in the lobby.”

Billy and Barnes waited in silence while Blayne remained in a foetal position, his arms clutching his knees. Soft moans rose from the boy’s throat until Mrs. Morton entered. She crept into the room clutching her straw purse to her breasts. “Oh, Blayne!” She crouched down next to her son, and the two of them were as pale as corpses.

“I’ve called an ambulance for you, Mrs. Morton,” Billy said.

“Thank you, sir. Thank you, Inspector.”

“The officer here will accompany you and Blayne. Will you be all right?”

“Will they look after him?”

“We’ll put him in the hospital for observation. You can stay with him if you like. If he seems better in the morning, I suggest you give a call to your doctor.”

“Oh, I did that already, sir.” Mrs. Morton attempted a smile. “He’s out of town till Monday.”

Billy then realized that a man in a white medic’s uniform was standing in the entrance. The ambulance had arrived sooner than he’d expected. Blayne kept his face covered with his arms. Billy stood back as the officer and the medic lifted Blayne and led him and Mrs. Morton through the doorway.

“Come on, Barnes,” Billy said. “Let me buy you a sandwich. I need to get some background from you.”

The air was still as the two men walked across the shady green lawns of Galt Gardens. In its centre stood the cenotaph, a bronze soldier leaning on a rifle, the butt rooted in a mound of bronze poppies. The cottonwoods and blue spruce had been planted by the first British settlers to come into the west after the Riel Rebellion. Beds of impatiens and petunias were thick with red and pink, and in the branches of the trees starlings and sparrows chattered in the afternoon heat. The two men entered the glass-domed mall, bought sandwiches and soft drinks, and walked back into the shade of the park. They sat down at a picnic table.

“What’s your take on these boys?” Billy asked. “You had some acquaintance with Darren and Cody. And with this Morton.”

“Outsiders. Loners. Kids from one-parent and broken homes.”

“You met the parents of these boys at one time or another.”

“I talked to them, yes.” Barnes did not hesitate. He took a drink and went on. “The parents never said much about their boys. These kids were in trouble — missing classes, cheating, smoking in the washrooms. All of them were pretty quiet for the most part. Stayed by themselves. None of them was into sports. We never saw any one of them at the
dances. Fourteen year olds are often shy, but these kids seemed too withdrawn. Now Blayne Morton, he’s different. I didn’t want to say anything inside. Not with his mother there. I didn’t want to prejudice your judgement, but I’m not so sure what we saw today was real.”

“How do you mean?”

“He lies. I’ve seen him go into that rocking act in a session in the counsellor’s office when he was caught with some stolen textbooks in his backpack. An unstable kid. Putting him under observation may give you some better indication, Inspector. We’ve had him assessed and have intervened a couple of times over his semi-violent behaviour. That kid fits the A.S.D. profile. He can change moods as fast as the weather, and he also knows how to manipulate.”

“I’ve heard he was pestering Darren and fighting with other boys.”

“Cody didn’t let Blayne into their little group. Blayne was only interested — as far as I could tell — in luring Darren away for himself. He was a bully who liked to punish people; he told me that in a session once, when I caught him hitting and threatening a young boy in the hall.”

“Did Blayne know the boy in the hall? Was this an isolated incident?”

“Blayne had few friends. He’s a big kid and was often made fun of because of his size.”

“Do you think Darren Riegert’s hanging was a suicide?”

Barnes stopped eating. He looked straight ahead, pulled off his sunglasses, and rubbed the fingers of his right hand.

“I hope so. That sounds odd, I know. Cody and Darren were friends. I know they both frequented Miss Bird’s place. I fear that maybe the boys made some kind of pact. It’s just a gut feeling. But knowing them as much as I could, I find it hard to believe each one would act entirely separate from the other. Now, from what you tell me about Darren, his being tied and cut by a knife, well, that’s more difficult. Who knows? Maybe there’s a revenge thing going on here. A jealousy thing. Blayne could certainly be a suspect, as I assume you are thinking. These teenagers have feuds and battles they don’t tell us about.”

“Let me toss this in. Two boys are found hanging in the basement of
the same house. The last kid mutilated. Satanic books and Miss Bird are all part of the picture. We had a case a few years ago in Vancouver. Four girls — all fifteen — were found over a nine-week period in a number of different garages in the neighbourhood of Marine Drive. Every one of them dead from carbon monoxide poisoning. A suicide pact? No. A serial killer. A substitute teacher posted around the city. He’d lured the girls, subdued them with chloroform, then turned on the cars and watched them die. My late partner on the city squad, Harry Stone, found the chloroform and the gas mask the killer had worn hidden in the suspect’s briefcase along with some of the students’ schoolwork.”

“So, Inspector, which one is more likely, do you think, in this case? The pact or the serial killer?”

“I don’t know, Barnes. I need to see this from any and every angle. Do you know of any cult groups in the city? A link between that kind of activity and the boys’ interest in Satanism might lead somewhere.”

“I don’t know, Inspector. I’ve not encountered cults here. That doesn’t mean there aren’t any. But as you know, they hide underground. And most of their younger members tend to leave school and disappear onto the streets.”

“Right,” agreed Billy. “Come on, Barnes.”

Back in the office, Counsellor Barnes presented Billy with his card. Billy handed him a three-by-five lined note card with his cell phone number and the station’s e-mail address. “Thanks, Barnes. I’ll get a hold of you on Monday. Can we set up some more interviews?”

“You may not get many more, Inspector. I went through my files — I keep a copy of them at home on my laptop — and I couldn’t find any more names associated with Darren Riegert. His one best friend is already dead.”

“You ever counsel a young girl named Emily Bourne? Dark hair, spider tattoo on her neck.”

“Not that I remember. How is she involved here?”

“She says she was friends with Cody and Darren. I’m looking into her connection to them.”

Billy and Barnes shook hands. After he escorted the counsellor to the reception area, Billy walked down the corridor into Butch’s office. He sat at the computer, entered the password Butch had given him, and began to skim the files on Cody Schow and Sheree Lynn Bird. He jotted in his notebook information from the constables’ reports, the fingerprint data, the coroner’s analyses. After reading for an hour, he logged off. He placed his notebook on the table in front of him.
Let impressions float for a time
.
How much was Sheree Lynn Bird involved?
Billy opened his eyes.
Now that’s interesting. Why would that question come up first, above all others?
He shut his eyes again, leaned back in his chair. The hum of the office seeped into his meditation.
Is this a case of Blayne Morton behaving like a lunatic because he is trying to smoke-screen a feeling of guilt?
Billy placed his notebook into his suit pocket, next to his heart, walked into the coffee room, and found Dodd.

“Dodd, can you get me the Bird statement?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And, listen, the junior high school will be closed, but get a hold of the principal and get this and last years’ yearbooks from their archives. I need pictures of Darren and Blayne Morton.”

Dodd was scribbling down the names on a piece of paper he’d grabbed from a pile by the mini-fridge.

“Also, get the principal to blow up a picture of Riegert and have it posted for when the students return for summer school. Print out a notice asking for anyone who might have known Darren or seen him in the past week. If you find a clear picture of Blayne Morton, get an identikit done and then take it to the city bus system today. Find out from their dispatch people who was driving the main routes up Ashmead and the street where the Mortons live.”

“No problem.”

“You got your notebook with you? Let’s walk and talk.”

Dodd fumbled in his pocket, pulled out his notebook, and followed Billy to the door. He flipped a few pages and read quickly.

“Okay, sir. I enquired of the neighbours of Woody Keeler and Sharon
Riegert, on Friday night. At both addresses, Keeler’s and Riegert’s. No one had seen them. I drove to the beer outlet near the Riegert bungalow. The manager said he knew the man’s name — Woody — and that, yes, he had come in Friday night, as usual, and had purchased a two-four. The time was approximately six-thirty.”

“Okay.”

“The videotapes of Miss Bird and Professor Mucklowe were completed, as requested. Checked on Mucklowe and Miss Bird for whereabouts on Saturday night. No statements from landlord or neighbours since no one saw them. As requested today, went to the Schow household and asked of whereabouts for last night. Mrs. Schow was drunk and refused to allow questioning and shut the door.”

By now, Billy and Dodd were standing by the entrance to the lab. They had come down a flight of stairs and gone through two sets of swinging doors, Dodd reciting from his notebook in a steady, low voice.

“Afternoon, Johnson.”

The smell of disinfectant saturated the dry air. Billy and Dodd stepped into the brightly lit room, where Johnson was wearing an apron and gloves. A paper mask dangled from her neck.

“What’s our wrap-up on Darren Riegert?”

“First, the handwriting man at the horsemen’s headquarters took a quick look at the note from Riegert’s mouth and the writing on the Blayne Morton Polaroid you gave me.” Johnson handed back the picture of the Valentine box to Billy. “He said the printing was not similar, especially the formation of the capital letter
E
. The slant of the words was more pronounced in the message on the Polaroid.”

“What else?”

“The basement at Satan House had no significant markings, no prints on the overhead pipe or on the utility sink. Prints in the stairwell, on the back doorknobs, and on the washer and dryer had been touched and smudged so often there were no distinct specimens to analyze.” Finger-prints were only useful if they could be matched up with those from identifiable felons.

“The paper towel and the blood had obscured any skin oil or markings from the handlers. Same on the note found in the body’s mouth.”

“You get anything from the rope or the boom box?”

“All blood samples match. All are from the Riegert body.”

Billy stood by the table. He let his eyes roam over the objects in front of him. Dodd had paused a few moments by the door, gulping in a few deep breaths, before he came up beside him. “The smell in here gives me the jitters, Inspector,” Dodd said.

“I have a question for the two of you,” Billy said, looking first at Dodd and then at Johnson. “How do we establish that this boom box is actually Darren’s? For certain? These things don’t have serial numbers. This one could belong to me, for instance. Boom boxes of this brand and year all look alike. It may have been brought to the scene by someone as a gift. As a bribe. As part of the ritual.”

Dodd interrupted. “But only Darren’s prints were on it.”

“So we could suppose he carried it into the basement. Or that the murderer was wearing gloves since no other prints were found.”

Johnson hesitated. “I tried something earlier before you came down, sir. I placed the boy’s boots on top of the boom box. Hawkes removed them from the body after he was finished. Here, let me get them.”

Johnson walked to a cabinet and pulled out a large Ziploc containing the blood-spattered boots of Darren Riegert. She brought the boots to the table and placed them on top of the machine, side by side. “See?” Johnson was pointing to the splatter pattern on the boots and the edges of the boom box. “When I lift up the two boots, you can see that there is a clean area along the top of the box where the boots were placed. When I put the boots back, the splatter pattern is continuous from the toe sections over to the edges of the box.”

“The boy was standing on the box in his boots and was cut and bleeding.”

“It looks that way.”

“Which means what?” asked Dodd, who scratched his temple.