The White River Killer: A Mystery Novel (6 page)

Okay. How long ago did Toil say the murder occurred? A day? Yesterday morning?

It was unlikely the murderer still would be here. If Amir had roommates, it was impossible to imagine they didn’t notice this. Most likely, Amir lived alone. The apartment was empty. This was a high risk opportunity. With the state police absent, and the door busted, he could snoop around inside and see . . . what? Hubbard couldn’t come up with what might reasonably be in there, but still, it was too tempting.

Of course, there was also another possibility; his speculation was wrong in its entirety. He could traipse blindly inside, be discovered by someone residing in Amir’s apartment, and be shot dead as an intruder. There were no legal consequences for shooting anyone breaking into your home under Arkansas law.

He took five steps backward to get a better view of the backyard. The four stalls in the remodeled garage were vacant. He checked his watch. The morning was burning away. The street was quiet. Residents were probably at work or in classes at the college. He returned to the door. He rationalized, Amir’s main entrance wasn’t properly shut, almost open.
Can’t leave it like that.

He tapped the door with his boot, it held, so he tapped it again, harder this time and it swung open.
See, almost open
. He glanced nervously toward the street. Anyone would stop and helpfully secure a neighbor’s open door.
It’s an act of courtesy
.

He remained on the stoop and leaned his shoulder against the door frame so he could get a better view of the interior. The luxurious residence had an open floor plan. To the left was a high-tech kitchen, and just beyond was a well-appointed dining room. The dining table held a translucent blue vase that contained fresh flowers. The beautiful arrangement reflected the artful efforts of a florist, not a grocery store. Did Amir have a girlfriend? The walls held several oversized photos, expensively framed and matted, close-ups of wild flowers and a stunning image of a river that looked a lot like the White at morning. A silvery mist hovered eerily above the water.

Hubbard took in as much as he could. He hadn’t tried to envision Amir’s living conditions before now, other than the crude furniture of a college dorm. But if he had, it certainly would not have been this grand style. Who was this guy?

Then Hubbard saw something that looked out of place. Resting on the thick beige carpet that began on the other side of the kitchen’s tile floor was a small white rectangle. The arctic white paper looked like the back side of a photograph. The possibility of seeing the image was tempting. Hubbard listened intently for any sound of human activity in the house. Nothing.

He should leave. Obviously, there would be no one here to interview. This could be the murder scene. Or, could it? The older homes were all packed together. Large homes built on narrow lots. The discharge from a double-barrel shotgun wouldn’t go unnoticed like the relative quiet of his door lock being pried off did. After hearing the thunderous discharge of a gunshot, the tenants in the house or the neighbors would jump up and call 9-1-1.

He looked back at the bright rectangle floating starkly atop the beige rug. It seemed to beckon him.

Four steps away? Just four steps, take a quick glance at it and four steps out. Perhaps it’s just a piece of paper. No, it’s not. It’s a photo.

“Hello,” he called to anyone who might be inside, “I noticed your door was open.” Don’t shoot, he wanted to add. Without more thought, he took five steps, not four, to reach the white rectangle. He was correct. It was a photo of three costumed girls at a Halloween or New Year’s Eve party. The trio assumed the “Charlie’s Angels” pose, holding imaginary guns for whoever held the camera—Amir? It looked like a typical sorority party: raucous, drunken. The girls were pretty, but all wore neon-bright colored wigs, flapper styled, making it difficult to differentiate their faces. Once again, Amir was not living a life Hubbard would have predicted.

Above him, the second floor groaned softly. His eyes shot up toward the ceiling. He stood motionless for several breathless seconds and listened, biting his lower lip in concentration.
How would I explain my presence here?
Older homes often made noises. Perhaps there was someone in one of the other units? He slipped the photo into his pocket.

A wave of cool air blew against the back of his neck. His left arm rose in defense, and he spun around in time to see the unit’s back door, which he now saw led to the outside deck, slam against the wall of the apartment. He shook his head wryly. Apparently, the door hadn’t been properly latched. He stepped to the door, and in order to avoid leaving fingerprints, he used his elbow to knock it closed. He leaned back against it until it clicked shut, and he sighed in relief. From this new vantage point, he could see stairs at the far end of the apartment.
This is a two story apartment?
Then his eyes were drawn to the floor.

About four feet to his left, near the dining table; three boxes crammed with photos, photo albums, at least two cameras and a Mac computer were all thrown together in a sloppy rush. He considered the boxes. Were they left behind during the break-in? He tried to imagine what might have happened here. Perhaps Amir interrupted this burglary and—

Hubbard jumped away from the door. The sound of approaching footsteps on the wooden deck was as startling as it was distinct. Were the state police here? No deafening sirens filled the air, and those guys probably used them for a doughnut run. His pulse quickened in realization as he glanced back at the boxes. He was wrong. The containers hadn’t been placed there a day ago.

The break-in is still going on.

He turned to leave by the door he came in from, but stopped.
Are you going to run?
Let him get away with it?
The familiar rage returned, undiminished by time. He lowered into a crouch, his eyes focused on the door. This would be just another fight, he assured himself, and he knew how those worked. He would take that son-of-a-bitch’s shotgun and twist it around his neck like a noose. Amir would have justice, unlike his father. His heart raced as his focus narrowed on the brass doorknob as it twisted ineffectually back and forth. The knob stopped moving, and the door creaked as the man leaned his weight into it. It wouldn’t be long before the door gave way, but the element of surprise was on Hubbard’s side.

“Open up.” It was a man’s voice, filled with frustration.

Who is he talking to?
Hubbard suddenly remembered the creak of the floorboards on the second floor of the apartment.
Oh, shit—

The apartment’s back door shifted sideways and the floor bent. His knees buckled as the room tilted up as if he was on a ship cresting a wave during a storm.

He opened his eyes, not remembering closing them. No longer focused on the door of the apartment, he inspected the carpet at close range. The lush pile was difficult to see, even though it was no farther away than the end of his nose. His bruised head throbbed. What the hell hit him?
Who
the hell hit him? The rest of his body was like a lead weight, dumb to his commands to rise. What was that irritating noise? Either his head was buzzing, or it was the wail of approaching police sirens. And who was talking? It sounded like the man on the other side of the door, speaking Spanish in a whispered rush.

Hubbard’s Spanish was rusty at the best of times. He was so much stronger in French after years of study.
C’mon, speak French
, he thought groggily.
Parlez- vous Francais?

He caught a Spanish word he understood—
matale.

“Kill him,” the man said.

6

T
HE
F
IVE
W
S
AND
H
OW

S
PRAWLED OUT ON THE FLOOR
of Amir’s apartment, Hubbard’s haze cleared as he felt a cool spring breeze blowing through the open back door. Outside, multiple police sirens peaked in decibels and then fell silent. Their ear-splitting approach had scared the intruders off, likely saving his life. A jolt of adrenaline surged through his body as he realized the troopers might find him at a second crime scene. Damage to the front door clearly signaled a break in—an offense that Sgt. Connors would be happy to charge him with.

He moved one limb at a time until he made it to a seated position. He rose unsteadily to his feet. The open door at the rear of the apartment led to the deck and revealed the two thugs’ escape route into the backyard. Hubbard used it for the same purpose.

As he stepped onto the deck, Hubbard discovered a trail of photos, scattered across the lawn like fat breadcrumbs, the farthest near the back gate. He ignored the ache at the back of his skull and made it as quickly as he could to the alley. Here the incriminating line of photos evaporated. No one was in sight.

Why would the thieves steal photo prints when there were things of real value all through the place?
He looked down at the last of the fallen images—yet another eight-by-ten-inch shot of an empty, weedy field. At the right top corner of the photo, someone had written
NW32
in blue ink.

Hubbard recalled the professional camera lens on the dining room table in the apartment.
Why was Amir taking photos of empty fields? And who would want them this badly?

Hubbard peered back around the fence toward the Victorian. There was no activity inside or around the house that he could see. Where were the troopers?
Of course—they’re waiting on Connors, just like last time.
Support for his assumption came from a new siren, approaching from the west. Sgt. Connors’s vehicle arriving finally from Hayslip. Hubbard pictured a group of cops and technicians, impatiently standing at the front of the house, waiting for Connor’s barked approval to begin their work. He hoped they wouldn’t find any evidence of his presence. They shouldn’t—he had left everything as he found it. Hubbard gingerly touched the blood-matted hair on the back of his head as he hurried back to his truck. The troopers might not notice his pickup down the block immediately, but given time . . .

He took Second Avenue to get to the highway to ensure that he didn’t pass Connors on the way back. Once the siren faded, he got back on the main road to Hayslip.

Hubbard glanced at the clock on the dashboard. It was past ten o’clock. The sun dominated the sky, quickly heating the day. Bright sunlight reflected off the road and he blinked in pain, flipping down the windshield visor. Sweat trickled down the side of his face; his head throbbed. He shrugged off his coat but as soon as he threw it to the back seat, his cell phone, still in a coat pocket, rang. It had to be Mrs. Welsh, reminding him of the perils of brinkmanship. He reached back for it, continuing to steer with his free hand.

“Don’t worry. I’m on my way—”

“Mr. Hubbard? This is Mrs. Fincher,” the elderly voice quivered on the line.

Hubbard’s heart sank.
Not today
.

“Hello, Mrs. Fincher. It’s odd that you called—I’m coming back from Monticello and I just passed the road to your place.”

“Oh, perhaps you could turn in on your way. I may be coming into some money to start my insurance back up.” Her voice was hopeful.

There was an extended back and forth as Hubbard gently explained why he couldn’t see her now. He didn’t know if she fully understood his explanations, but in the end, they had set up a time to meet to discuss her burial insurance. Hubbard reminded her to write their appointment down on the pad by her wall phone and then he hung up.

It wasn’t as easy to find a parking spot on the square as it had been earlier. Hubbard drummed his fingers on the steering wheel impatiently as he waited for a car to pull out from a space in front of the Hayslip municipal building and parked. He jogged across the square to the
Union Democrat
offices, using his right hand to explore a nice-sized bump on the back of his head.

When he entered the news office, his reception was not what he expected. Instead of rising up with panicked recriminations concerning the missed story deadline, Mrs. Welsh slouched low in her chair, an unfamiliar pose for a woman who favored starched white blouses for their professional decorum. She stared despondently at her computer screen, her face a sickly pale.

He walked around the sales counter and approached her with caution. Was this a diabolical guilt-trap?

Mrs. Welsh was the first to speak. “You didn’t say the student was A-mir.” Her voice broke on his name.

Hubbard crouched down beside her, surprised by the rare show of sentiment. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know you knew him.”

“He worked on a project for Mrs. Andrews as a photographer. He would come by and wait for his late afternoon meetings with Mrs. Andrews, and then they’d leave to work on their project. She was always late, so we’d talk about photography, flowers, everything. He was a sweet boy, very charming.
Always on time
. Who could do such a thing to him?”

“I don’t know.”

“We can’t run these photos of him. They’re all too coarse. He deserves better.”

“I understand. I didn’t think you would . . . Did he do anything for the paper? I don’t remember seeing his name on a photo credit.”

“We never used him here at the
Union Democrat
. I think he worked on a brochure for the college or other things. “

“Did Tony know him?”

“Yes, of course. I told you—he did his work for the Andrewses. He was a very talented.”

“Yes, he was.”

Mrs. Welsh turned to him. “You’re familiar with his work?”

“I think I saw some of his photos on the walls of his apartment.” Hubbard explained.

Her eyes widened. “You went in?”

“Yes . . . the door was open . . .sort of.”

“Did he live with anyone? His girlfriend? He said he found someone, but he couldn’t talk about it.”

“He may have had one, but I think he lived alone.”

Mrs. Welsh turned suddenly toward the wall clock. “Oh, my goodness. The time. The deadline. You’ll never make it.”

“I write fast.”

“No one can write that fast.”

“Call your young men in India and tell them we’ll be just a little late.”

“I simply can’t do that. In the ten years I’ve done this, I’ve never missed a deadline.”

“That’s why they’ll have no problems waiting for you. It’s the first time in ten years.”

Mrs. Welsh’s shoulders drooped. “Can you get it done by 12:30?”

“12:45.”

Mrs. Welsh nodded, spiritless. “Amir was
so young
. . . Well, you have your pick.” She indicated the three desks reserved for freelance staff.

Hubbard rose and turned toward the nearest desk.

“My God! What happened?” Mrs. Welsh cried out, rising to her feet.

Hubbard spun back to her. “What?”

“Your head!”

Startled, Hubbard brought both hands up to his face. “What’s it doing?”

She spun him around to examine him. “No goose! Your head is bleeding.”

“Oh, that . . . I . . . I ran into a door.”

“Backward?” Mrs. Welsh raised an eyebrow and put her hands on her hips. “Were you fighting again? One day your anger will kill you”

“I’m not that person anymore. I’ve been peaceful . . . and sober for two years.”

“So how did this happen, young man? Something about your uncle again? That’s only hateful gossip. Your mother was a fine woman. And your uncle . . . has lots of friends. Pay no mind to small minds.”

“It wasn’t about my mother, father,
or
uncle. It was nothing like that.”

“Well, what was it then? I want the truth.”

Hubbard sighed. He gave Mrs. Welsh a quick summary of what happened at the apartment trying to downplay the drama, which proved to be impossible. As she listened, Mrs. Welsh’s facial expression degraded from concerned to terrified as she listened to him summarize events at Amir’s place. Her obvious distress made Hubbard reflect, for the first time, on how close he had come to a nasty end pursuing a $250 article. “
Kill him
,” the man had said. What had possessed him to take that risk? When he finished his tale, he was as disturbed by his foolhardiness as Mrs. Welsh. Embarrassed he had behaved so recklessly, he didn’t wait for her to chastise him but went to a computer and logged on.

“What are you doing? You can’t write now. You need to go to a doctor right away.”

“I’m fine. If I had a nickel for every time I’ve been hit on the head . . .”

Mrs. Welsh began to wring her hands. “You
must
go to a doctor. You could have a concussion. There might be internal bleeding. Your brain could be swelling as we speak. There’s no time to waste. Why in the next minute, you might fall over dead!” Mrs. Welsh’s voice rose with each syllable.

Hubbard was taken aback by Mrs. Welsh’s display of raw emotion—probably a side effect of Amir’s brutal murder. He shouldn’t have let her see the photographs of the body.

“Mrs. Welsh, if this is your idea of a pep talk before I begin writing—it needs work.”

Making a sound like an agitated crow, Mrs. Welsh threw up her arms in disgust. “Awwwk! Don’t come running to me when your head explodes!”

She stormed off and got on the phone to her young men in India. Hubbard imagined their surprise when they read the grisly story of a murder in a small town paper usually dedicated to golden anniversaries, school lunch menus, and “Sunday School Roundups.”

He turned his attention to the blank screen, and fought a wave of anxiety about how to start—never mind finish—this story. He was an amateur. His coverage of local sports was based on a formula he repeated time and again: “Timberjacks Corral Mustangs.” But his sports template didn’t transfer easily to a murder story: “Local Killer Bests Visiting Arab.”

The flashing cursor seemed to taunt him. Mrs. Welsh sat motionless at her desk, waiting for him to start typing. He could sense her eyes on his idle hands, lolling on the keyboard as if his fingers were on summer vacation. An image of the blank front page of the Union Democrat floated through his mind. He had to start writing something—anything. By the time his article appeared mid-week, the murder would have been covered in a variety of news outlets. But
Union Democrat
readers would still be interested in a feature focusing on the local angle that Little Rock media would ignore.

He would begin with whatever came to mind after the fifth blink of the cursor. His words might be schlock, but they would be words.

The countdown began. Five . . . four . . . three . . . two . . . one . . .

Hubbard typed as fast as he could, refusing to stop for either cliché or hyperbole. In spite of the rush, he tried to provide some order by telling the story in a chronological manner. Mrs. Welsh startled him when she came up behind him and began dabbing the back of his head with a swab from a first-aid kit. He plowed on despite the distraction.

Almost an hour later, Hubbard checked the story’s word count, and was surprised to find that the end was in sight. But there was no satisfactory ending. Without an arrest, there was no final score.

The second part of this investigative series will appear next week.
Why did he write that? Someone else could do the follow up; he had a daughter to think about. He did a spell check. He then sent the article to Mrs. Welsh who was now engrossed in her own project.

“Okay,” Hubbard said. Mrs. Welsh’s computer pinged. He was surprised that the story’s arrival at her computer didn’t get a stronger reaction.

She turned to him. “They stole Amir’s Rolex.”

“They what?”

“Look at this,” Mrs. Welsh said pointing to her computer.

Hubbard went to her and bent over her shoulder to see the computer screen. Mrs. Welsh had blown up one of the images, turning it into a close-up of his left arm.

“Amir owned a gold Rolex. It was his pride and joy. It’s gone.”

Hubbard inspected the photo. Amir’s shirt and suit cuff had risen up revealing a slight tan line by the wrist. But no watch.

“Nice job Mrs. Welsh. It’s odd though; Sheriff Toil showed me money that was still in his wallet. Why not steal it all?”

“Some people can’t pass up the prestige that comes from showing off an expensive watch.”

“Maybe—but I don’t think this was a robbery. Someone put a shotgun against Amir’s chest and pulled the trigger. A thief carrying a shotgun as his weapon of choice is hard to imagine. And if the guys who broke into Amir’s place were part of this, why were they interested in his photographs?”

Mrs. Welsh suddenly stood up. “The deadline.”

In a flurry of activity, she printed out the article and retrieved her red pencil. As she read the article she peppered Hubbard with comments and questions.

“You make Sheriff Toil and Eddie sound like Batman and Robin.”

“That’s called the home team advantage. Everyone likes to root for the locals.