Touching Evil (20 page)

“The visit was likely a bust.”  He put the car in gear and pulled away from the curb.  “He didn’t tell us anything that wasn’t part of the police report Franks pulled from a few years back.”  He tossed a look at her.  “Except for the foster kid route.  That was a good thought.”

“When he mentioned how long he’d had the guns, it occurred to me that he would have owned them while they provided foster care.  Troubled kids in the house.  It was a chance.” She leaned forward and adjusted the radio.  He restrained a wince when she settled on a classical station, but refrained from remarking on it.

“Maybe.  But it’s more likely that he was targeted by one or more individuals looking for empty houses to rob.”  Which meant that this line of questioning had been a waste of time.  Nevertheless, he’d check out the male names on the list the man came up with.  Cross-reference them with the list of the state’s violent sexual felons released in the last few years and the one of employees of funeral homes in the area.  Sometime, one of these long shots was going to pay off.

And that time couldn’t come soon enough.

He turned off Twana Drive onto Lower Beaver Road.  Headed toward Urbandale.  “I don’t know about you, but I’m hoping to get something more substantial from Kevin Stallsmith.

*  *  *  *

Alfred Fedorowicz laboriously moved box after box, peering at the dates marked on the tops until he found the one he was seeking.  He carried it over to the folding table he’d set up in the basement and started going through it for the information the agent had asked for.

It wasn’t like he had better plans for the day.  And given his blasted memory lately, if he put the task off for long he’d forget it completely.  As he and Clarice had often remarked, getting old wasn’t for sissies.

She’d never been a sissy, despite the excruciating agony she’d experienced at the end from the pancreatic cancer.  He’d had three short months with her after she’d been diagnosed.  Every day of her end had been approached with the grace she’d displayed each day of her life.

A drop fell on the folder he held.  Followed by another.  Alfred hadn’t even been aware that he was crying.  He took a handkerchief from the pocket of his shorts and wiped his eyes.  Blew his nose noisily.  Thoughts of his late wife could still ambush him, even after four years.  Make him bawl like a baby, like her death had been yesterday.

Determinedly he got back to work, welcoming the distraction.  It took hours, as he’d known it would.  There were so many children, and reading the names on the documents brought back memories that weren’t always welcome.  He’d liked the babies and toddlers best.  It had been nice to have young kids in the house again after his own were grown.  But most often they’d been chosen for kids ten and older.  More boys than girls he saw from the names on the ever-growing list at his elbow.  Some names didn’t even ring a bell.  Alfred was ashamed of that.  It only seemed right that each child would etch into his memory as they’d passed through his life.  Seemed like he owed them at least that much.

Clarice would have remembered.  He closed the tabs on one box and went for another.  She’d know every name, recall a face for each, and be able to recite all of their sad stories.  She’d had a soft spot for each and every one of the kids.  And their stories had all been sad.

Heaving a sigh, he opened a new box and carefully went through the paperwork inside.  He still recalled the ones that had been with them the longest.  And others flashed through his memory as soon as he saw their name on a file folder.  Like the name on the form in his hand.

Sonny Baxter.

Helluva a name to hang on a kid, Alfred had always thought, but it was the only one he’d had.  And he was one Alfred remembered.  One he’d never forget.

They’d had the teen for three months before the social worker had ever told him the reason for the therapist and heavy-duty medication.  And the story of the kid’s past hadn’t been a pretty one.  Knowing what the kid had been through, Alfred had even taken him shooting several times.  The boy might have had no defense against what had been done to him in the past, but he’d damn well learn to defend himself for the future.

He’d been a quiet kid.  Too quiet.  Never any trouble and kept to himself.  At least as much as he could with three other boys crammed into the house with him.  An odd duck maybe, and who could blame him?  Unlike some of the others, Sonny had never given them a moment’s worry.

A dim memory rang, but Alfred couldn’t lay his finger on the source.  He dug further in the box, for the file that Clarice had kept on each child.  A list of their accomplishments.  Another for her concerns about their behavior.

There it was then, in his hand, the thing that had been niggling at the back of his mind.  Listed in Clarice’s neat printing she’d noted the part-time job Sonny had gotten when he’d turned sixteen.

Cleaning up at Foster’s Funeral Services.

Alfred dropped the sheet as if it had burned his fingers.  Coincidence.  It had to be, didn’t it?  Many of the teenagers that had been with them had gotten jobs at one time or another.  For most it was the first time in their lives they’d had their own money to spend.  At the time, he’d applauded their initiative.

Troubled, he replaced the sheet in the file and set it aside.  But the information lodged in his head, burrowed in.

Should he call the agent with Sonny’s name?  Sic the law on him for who knows what the agent was investigating?  The kid had lived enough misery for six lifetimes.  Alfred had always felt sorry for Sonny Baxter, despite what he’d done to his mother when he was nine.  The bitch, Alfred had once confided to his wife, had had it coming.

Of course, he wasn’t a kid now.  He’d be…Alfred squinted.  Twenty-eight or so. He’d run off when he was seventeen and he and Clarice hadn’t heard a word about him since.  He had no idea whether social services had ever caught up with him.  Alfred wondered now if the kid had made something of himself.

Of if he’d done whatever it was that the agent had come here about.

Torn, Alfred struggled with his thoughts as he completed his task.  Clarice would never forgive him if he brought more misery into that boy’s life.  On the other hand, they’d been a law-abiding couple.  It would never have occurred to her to refuse to cooperate with the DCI.

In the end, he decided on a course of action.  He’d include Sonny’s name on the sheet of names and email it, as promised to Agent Prescott.  But he wouldn’t alert the agent to look at Sonny in particular.

It might be the last break he could offer that lost introverted teen that’d been through so much, while still complying with the law.  As compromises went, it was one Alfred decided he could live with.

*  *  *  *

Kevin Stallsmith ushered them inside his split foyer home, and seemed to barely listen to the introductions before demanding, “You have news?  About Emily?”

“I’m sorry.  We’re here to ask you some questions about her disappearance.”

Cam’s answer seemed to deflate the man.  “I thought…when your office called, I hoped there might be something new.  I got permission to go in to work later…”  He rubbed a hand over his short sandy-colored hair, a dejected slump to his broad shoulders.  “I talked to that detective a lot at the time.  Timmons.  He could give you all the information you need.”  

It didn’t escape Cam’s notice that Stallsmith didn’t offer them a seat.  “We have a copy of Detective Timmons’ file.  But I had a few more questions.  Maybe we could sit down for a few minutes.”

Stallsmith remained standing.  “I should really get in to work.”

“This won’t take long.”

With a show of reluctance the taller man turned and walked up four stairs to a living area.  He waved them half-heartedly to chairs but remained standing, arms folded.

His body language was more telling than a shout.  Ignoring it for the moment, Cam said, “The ballistics on a weapon used in a case I’m investigating match the bullet found lodged in your wall when you reported your wife missing a few years ago.”

Stallsmith looked at Cam and Sophie blankly for an instant.  Then he threw back his head and gave a harsh laugh. “You guys are un-fucking-believable, you know that?”  Cam looked at him.  Said nothing.  

“The cops at the time were all over me.  At first Timmons acted like I’d offed Emily and hid the body, for god’s sake.  Then got rid of the gun, because hey, they couldn’t find it anywhere.  Now you waltz in and say, ‘Wait, we think you kept the gun and four years later used it to commit another crime.”  

He walked toward the steps.  Jerked a thumb. “Get the hell out of my house.  I’m not answering any other questions without an attorney present.”

“That’s your right.”  Invoking it, however, had Cam’s instincts quivering.  

“You said ‘at first.’”

Stallsmith’s attention jerked toward Sophie, his brow wrinkling.

“You said at first Detective Timmons thought maybe you had something to do with your wife’s disappearance,” she elucidated.  “What changed his mind?”

The man snorted.  “Maybe the fact that there was a bullet hole I couldn’t explain in the garage ceiling, but no blood.  More likely because a couple dozen people swore that I’d put in  sixteen hours straight at work that day.”  His throat worked and he looked away.  “If I’d been home on time…”

Feeling Sophie’s gaze on him, Cam said, “Mr. Stallsmith received a message from his wife postmarked the day she was last seen.  A Dear John letter.”

“Which she didn’t write,” Kevin said heatedly.  “I told Timmons there was no way Em had left on her own, but he verified that it was her handwriting, so he just figured the letter meant she had reasons to split.”

“Did she have reasons?”

Cam’s quiet question had the other man flushing.  “We had our ups and downs just like any other married couple.  But things had been going pretty smooth.  We were talking about starting a family.  She wouldn’t have left then.  I still don’t believe she did.  Not willingly.”

“She took clothes.  A suitcase,” Cam said for Sophie’s benefit.  He saw the way she was looking at the guy, sympathy in her expression.  Most likely the guy deserved some slack.  But there was still the unexplained bullet hole in the garage that bothered him.  

Reaching into his suit coat he withdrew a copy of the sketch of the offender.  Gave it a shake to unfold it and rose to hand it to Stallsmith.  “You ever remember seeing this man around before your wife disappeared?  Or since?”

When recognition flickered in the man’s expression Cam felt a flare of excitement.  It was extinguished in the next moment when he said, “This has been all over the news.  It says anyone who has seen him should call in.”  His gaze went from Cam to Sophie and back again.  “He’s the case you’re investigating?”

“Take a good look,” Sophie advised.  “People change over the years.  This sketch was done a few weeks ago.”

Stallsmith studied it for several moments longer before shaking his head.  “Doesn’t look familiar.”  He handed it back to Cam.  “Timmons thinks Emily left on her own.  I’ve never believed it.  Do you think…”  He hesitated for a moment, before barreling on.  “Did this guy have anything to do with her leaving?”

There was nothing else here for them.  Of that, Cam was certain.  He rose.  “All we know is the ballistics dug out of your garage ceiling match the weapon used recently in a murder attempt.  But the weapon was stolen years ago.  And illegal guns change hands.”

“You say you got a letter from your wife.”  Sophie hadn’t followed his lead.  She was still seated.  When Stallsmith looked at her she went on.  “Did she take anything else when she left?  Was money missing out of your bank account?”

“We didn’t have a lot of savings.  But the credit cards were maxed out, the same day she disappeared.  A few clothes, but mostly stuff  Timmons said could be turned into cash.  Said she might have used it to fund her disappearance.”

Finally, Sophie got to her feet.  “And her family has never heard from her again?  Her friends?”

“Not that they’ve told me.”  His mouth flattened.  “I don’t give a shit what Timmons thinks.  People don’t just disappear without a trace.  Em was real close to her sisters.  Whatever the detective thinks about Em and me, she wouldn’t have run off and never contacted her sisters again.”

“Would her sisters have told you if she’d been in contact?”

The man’s hesitation was its own answer.  “Maybe we weren’t on the best of terms.  More than once she’d go to one or the other of their houses after we had a fight.”

“And when you’d call…they’d tell you what?”

Sophie’s question seemed to make the man angry.  “They’d tell me she didn’t want to talk to me sometimes.  Other times they’d say she wasn’t there, even after I’d driven by and seen her car.”

As if the ramifications of that admission hit him as he uttered it, he looked away.  For a moment Cam actually felt sorry for the guy.

 “Do you have a photo of Emily, Mr. Stallsmith?”  Sophie sounded apologetic.  I realize there’s probably one in Detective Timmons’ file, but I haven’t seen that.  It would save time if you had one I could look at.”

Clearly anxious to have them gone, the man shook his head.  “I got rid of them after Timmons seemed so sure she’d just left.  And that letter…”  His shrug told the story.  “I mean if she didn’t want me I didn’t want any reminders of her, you know?”

“But there was a chance she didn’t leave you,” Sophie reminded him softly.  “There were times you believed she couldn’t have.  And for those times, I’d think you’d keep a photo around.  To remind you of the possibility.”

The man looked away.  Then after a moment he turned with a jerk and went through the tiny dining room down a hallway.  Returned a moment later with a five by ten still in its frame.

It was a photo of both of them taken in one of the happier times in their stormy relationship.  Their arms were hooked around each other’s waists, and Emily’s face was tipped up to her husband’s.

A fist clenched all the muscles in Cam’s stomach into one large hard knot.  Emily Stallsmith was definitely not the woman that had been found two nights ago on the banks of the Raccoon River.  But he’d seen her before.