08-A Thousand Bones, page 18
She leaned against the wall, listening to the silence on the other end of the phone. She tucked a few stray hairs back into her sagging ponytail and started to wonder just how bad her uniform must smell. She had bought some toiletries at the drugstore near the motel last night, but there wasn’t much she could do about her clothes. Last night, she had washed out her underwear in her room and put them on the heating unit to dry, but they had fallen off during the night and were still wet.
Finally, she heard the click on the extension as someone at the vet clinic picked up. Brad’s voice was suddenly in her ear.
“Joe?”
“Hi,” she said. “Listen, we’re still in Inkster, and—”
“It’s almost three,” he said. “You coming home tonight?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Why not?”
“We made an arrest,” she said. “There are questions and paperwork and—”
“And I suppose this Rafsky guy needs you there to help him do all that?”
“No, not really, but—”
“Then come home.”
She shut her eyes, and in the silence she could hear dogs barking and another phone ringing. “I can’t just come home,” she said. “I’m on a case. And even if I wanted to, I have no way to get there. He’s in charge, Brad.”
“So you don’t want to come home.”
“It’s got nothing to do with want. It’s my job.”
The phone went quiet for a long time, but when he did speak, there was no anger. Just a surprising softness. “Maybe you should rethink your job, Joe,” he said. “It’s coming between us, and I miss you.”
“I’ll be home tomorrow. We’ll talk about it then.”
More barking and voices in the background.
“Brad?”
“Yeah, okay. I have to go. We have an emergency here. I’ll see you when you get here.” He hung up.
Joe set the receiver down slowly. She spotted Rafsky coming toward her. There was a glaze to his eyes that didn’t come from fatigue.
“We have a problem,” he said.
“What?”
Rafsky took her elbow and led her away. They stopped near a door labeled no exit. He started to say something, then paused.
“What’s wrong?” he asked.
“Wrong?”
“You look upset,” he said. “Did you get bad news on your phone call? Do you need to go home?”
“No,” she said.
“I could have you flown home,” he said. “You’d be there in a couple of hours.”
“No, I’m fine. Tell me what the problem is here.”
He glanced behind him, then his eyes came back to her. “A few minutes ago, an analyst working at the Snider house found what he thinks is old blood on the floor of the basement.”
“But why is that a problem?” she asked. “That’s great evidence, right?”
“Yes, but not for us. That and the bloody hammer put the scene of the crime here. In Inkster.”
It took a second to hit, and when it did, she blew out a breath that emptied her. They were not going to be able to take Snider back to Echo Bay. Where a murder took place—not where the remains were found—determined jurisdiction.
She instantly tried to ease her disappointment by telling herself Wayne County and a larger city like Inkster could do a thorough investigation, and a seasoned prosecutor could take Snider to trial with a sure conviction in sight. But then she thought about the other bones up in Echo Bay and the carvings on the trees. If Ronnie Langford had been only one of Snider’s victims, where had the others been killed?
“Well,” she said, “at least he’s in jail now.”
Rafsky shook his head. “Maybe not for long. The DA doesn’t want to file murder charges without a body.”
“What?”
Rafsky raked back his hair. “He has fourteen days until the preliminary hearing, at which time he has to show probable cause to bind Snider over for trial. No body, no case. He says he won’t take it to the judge.”
Joe leaned against the wall.
“We don’t have any proof Ronnie Langford is even dead,” Rafsky said. “All we have is the bracelet.”
“And no way to prove any of the bones are hers,” Joe said.
“Right.”
“This stinks.”
Rafsky sighed. “Yeah.”
She stared at the floor, her mind still trying to find something in all the information they had collected that would show Ronnie Langford was dead. But she was seeing only the scattering of bones left in the woods. All they had were disconnected pieces.
“Did they search his car for blood?” she asked.
“Yeah, but he’s only had the car a few years. His old car was repossessed, and we have no idea where it is.”
“Nothing else in the basement?” she asked.
“Not yet.”
Joe rubbed her face, her gaze drifting to the hallway. Detective Mumsley was talking to another man she guessed was the prosecutor. Mumsley seemed agitated, pointing to a door farther down the hall. The prosecutor finally nodded and left.
“What’s going on?” Rafsky asked as Mumsley came toward them.
“Snider’s back there hollering his head off about being innocent,” Mumsley said. “And now get this. He wants to take a lie detector test.”
“That’s a gift,” Rafsky said. “What are we waiting for?”
“The guy we use is in Detroit today on another case,” Mumsley said. “And I don’t want to give Snider one extra minute to reconsider what he just asked for. You know anyone?”
Rafsky nodded, reaching into his inside pocket for a small black notebook. Five minutes later, they were standing in Mumsley’s cluttered work cubicle, and Rafsky was talking to someone in Dearborn, a nearby suburb. When Rafsky hung up, he had a tired smile on his lips.
“He’ll be here in forty minutes.”
Joe was in the dark, watching the action in the harshly lit room beyond the one-way glass. Snider was sitting in a chair, his left arm resting on a table connected to the polygraph. He was sweating so heavily his hair was matted and damp.
Rafsky came up beside her, holding out a Styrofoam cup. She took the coffee gratefully. “Ever seen one of these tests before?” he asked.
She shook her head, watching as the examiner made notations on the paper spewing from his machine.
“You know how they work?” he asked.
“Body responses,” she said.
Rafsky nodded. Inside the other room, the examiner glanced toward the window. Snider’s gaze followed, but Joe knew he was only looking into a mirror. He looked drugged with fear.
The first questions were easy—name, place of birth, father’s name—all asked so the examiner could determine Snider’s response to known truths. Joe knew polygraphs were not admissible in court, and she used to wonder why they were administered. But standing here now and seeing the jumpy panic in Snider’s eyes, she understood. It was one of the few times police got this kind of face-to-face interrogation with a suspect. And it was the only chance to convince a suspect you knew he was lying.
A noise made Joe look back. Two men had come in, backlit by the hall light. The first silhouette was easy to make out—garrison cap, bulky gun belt—a cop. The second man wore a suit and held a briefcase.
“Stop this immediately,” the man said. “I’m his lawyer.”
“Shit,” Mumsley said. He hit an intercom button on the wall and ordered the examiner to stop asking questions. Someone hit a switch, and a light flickered on overhead.
The man in the suit stepped forward. He was a few inches shorter than Rafsky, brown hair cut close. There was a boyish, smooth roundness to his face and a glimmer of arrogance in the way he tipped it to the light.
The lawyer moved past Joe, sized up Rafsky, and decided on Mumsley. “I want to talk to my client,” he said. “Now.”
The room was too small, too warm, and too filled with smells. Stale cigarettes, rain-wet wool, cop sweat, and the tang of anxiety. Ken Snider hadn’t been brought in yet. The lawyer, Roland Trader, stood stiffly against the wall near the door, coat over his arm, briefcase at his side, one foot crossed over the other. He was studying them, and not discreetly. Joe watched the lawyer’s opaque brown eyes as they settled on the Wayne County prosecutor and seemingly dismissed him as a man of no importance, maybe one with too many cases and too little energy. The lawyer’s gaze moved on to Mumsley and the gold badge on his coat, seeing in him maybe what Joe had seen: hardened determination.
Rafsky seemed to be of more interest to the lawyer than anyone. Rafsky must have sensed the stare, because he looked up, and the two stood in a silent eye-lock. They held it so long Joe started counting off the seconds in her head. She was still counting when the door opened and a cop brought Ken Snider in.
Snider gave Roland Trader a quick glance, then slid into a chair and clasped his cuffed hands in his lap, head down. Mumsley stepped forward and turned on a tape recorder.
He recited the preliminary information of time, date, and those present. Then he took a breath. “Kenneth Snider has requested he be allowed to make a statement.”
Snider looked at the tape recorder, then leaned forward to speak into it. “This is Kenneth Snider,” he said in a hoarse voice. “Any crimes I may have committed were committed in the jurisdiction of Echo Bay or Leelanau County, Michigan. No crimes were committed in Inkster, Michigan, or anywhere else.”
He sat back in his chair. For several seconds, the room was quiet, except for the soft clink of handcuffs.
“That’s it?” Rafsky asked.
Ken Snider looked up at him, then away. His lawyer stepped forward. “If he is allowed to return to Echo Bay, he will be available to you for additional interviews and will provide, under certain conditions and considerations, more information.”
Joe watched their faces. The prosecutor seemed relieved, and after another few seconds, he grabbed Mumsley and motioned for Joe and Rafsky to follow him from the room.
Outside in the hall, Mumsley spoke first. “Fucking lawyers,” he said. “He killed that girl in that basement as sure as shit. What’s he gain by taking his licks up north?”
Rafsky was looking at the closed door to the interview room. “I think Trader wants his client facing a small-town police department and a small-town prosecutor,” he said. “He knows we don’t have much time to put the evidence together, and he’s betting we won’t be able to do it.”
Mumsley shook his head. “Shit, we were about to let Snider walk until we could get something solid. If Trader hadn’t opened his mouth, his client would have been out of here by tonight.”
“But now he’s given us another gift,” Rafsky said. “The only question is, are we going to take it?”
He looked to Joe for an answer. She realized she was the one who would have to take custody of Ken Snider if they were going to return him to Leelanau County. It would be her name on the arrest warrant.
“I don’t want him to walk,” she said. “He’s coming back to Echo Bay with us.”
II
A WALK IN THE WOODS
26
Things were not normal in Echo Bay. The first indication was the no vacancy sign at the Carp River Motel. The place was always shuttered right after Labor Day, old man Stocker closing up to go visit his kids in Georgia for the winter. But now the muddy lot was filled with cars and vans. All nine rooms had been booked by reporters or state police.
Dorothy Newton was still staying at the Riverside Inn. Two other mothers had checked in as well, drawn to Echo Bay by the ever-widening scope of the press coverage. One woman had come from Detroit looking for her fifteen-year-old daughter who had disappeared in July 1973. The other woman’s teenage girl had left her Toledo home in February 1972 to go to the store and had never returned. The mothers took to meeting each morning at the Riverside Inn’s restaurant. Joe saw them once, sitting at a table in the corner. They sat silent, motionless, their faces cast in the gray light coming from the window. They formed a trinity of grief, like statues in a cemetery.
Joe and Rafsky had stayed a third night in Inkster, waiting for the Inkster PD to process the transfer paperwork. Saturday morning, Rafsky called for a marked state police cruiser, and Snider had made the five-hour trip to Echo Bay in the backseat behind a steel grate. Rafsky had ridden with the trooper, hoping Snider would talk. Joe followed in Rafsky’s Chrysler.
By the time Rafsky dropped Joe off at her cottage, she felt both empty and elated, and desperately in need of something to replace the images of bloody hammers and hanging bodies. But inside, there was an empty bed and a note on the table from Brad. He said he was going home to Marquette for a couple of days for his mother’s birthday. Joe fed Chips, ate a TV dinner and slept alone. The phone woke her at eight. Leach told her the prosecutor wanted everyone at the station by ten for a meeting.
She got there fifteen minutes early, nursing her coffee and watching the others file in and take their places around the table in the suddenly crowded conference room.
Holt sat with his hands clasped before him on the table. His young face seemed to have lost some of the uncertainty it usually held. He had been assigned the task of caring for Snider’s needs, things like meals, showers, and phone calls. Mack sat next to him, his hand resting on Annabelle Chapel’s tattered folder. Leach sat at the head of the table, his gaze distant, fingers tapping on copies of Joe’s and Rafsky’s statements from their Inkster trip. Rafsky was next to Leach, sitting back in his chair, ankle crossed over his knee, eyes on a pad of paper in front of him.
The door banged open. Mike came in, and threw everyone an apologetic look as he slid into a chair across from Joe. Leach shut his eyes in annoyance but said nothing.
Everyone fell silent, waiting for the prosecutor. Joe looked at the items spread out on the table. Photographs of Ronnie Langford, Annabelle Chapel, and Natalie Newton. The glasses they thought belonged to Natalie. The charm bracelet. The rope from the tree limb. And the rusty hoist.
It all belonged to Echo Bay now. It was their case again, given to them only because Ken Snider had promised them more information. What exactly, no one knew. Snider had said nothing on the drive back to Echo Bay.
Joe’s eyes went to Leach. Even though Snider’s lawyer wanted Snider tried in Leelanau County, Joe wondered if Leach would just turn everything over to the state, given the pressure they would be under when the trial neared.
She glanced at Mack. The smug smile on his face led her to believe that would never happen. Mack would die before he let this case go.
The door opened again, and a chubby bald man came in. Leach introduced him as the county prosecutor, Gordon Adderly. Adderly went to the head of the table and threw down four newspapers. “Look, I know we can’t keep this out of the press,” he said, “but I really hate this kind of sentimental shit.”
Joe eased forward to look at the top newspaper. It was the Sunday edition of the Echo Bay Banner. She had read the story Adderly was talking about, a moving piece by Theo about Echo Bay adopting the unknown girl, buying a cemetery plot, and planning a memorial. He peppered the feature with quotes from the grieving mothers, who had all pledged to stay in Echo Bay until their daughters’ killer was brought to justice.
She knew Theo hadn’t broken the story about Snider’s arrest. That had come from a beat reporter working the cop shop in Inkster. The story was picked up by the wires and printed in papers across the state, leaving Theo playing catchup.
“Sheriff,” Adderly said, jabbing at the paper. “See if you can rein in this Toussaint guy and get him on our side. The last thing we need is more mothers holding vigil outside the jail.”
Leach nodded, making a note.
“Who have you assigned the task of keeping the reporters at bay, Sheriff?” Adderly asked.
“Myself,” Leach said. “I talked to them this morning and told them there’s nothing new.”
“Keep it that way,” Adderly said. “And if they hit you with any news you don’t already have, refer them to my office.”
Adderly sat down, shoving the newspapers aside and jerking a file folder out of his briefcase. “Okay, let’s get started,” he said. “I need someone to bring me up to speed here on what we’ve got.”
When no one answered, Adderly lowered his glasses, his eyes looking for a target. They stopped on Joe. “Talk to me, Deputy Frye.”
Joe began a summary of their trip to Inkster, wondering what Adderly thought she could offer that wasn’t in their reports. Then it occurred to her that he probably hadn’t read them. She ended with Ken Snider’s statement that any crimes he had committed had been done in Echo Bay, and his lawyer Roland Trader’s promise that Snider would provide additional information “under certain conditions.”
“But his lawyer didn’t say what those conditions were?” Adderly asked.
“No,” Joe said.
“I tried to reach this lawyer last night and couldn’t locate him.” Adderly said. “Anyone know if he’s even in town?”
“He hasn’t contacted us,” Joe answered. “We don’t think he’s here yet.”
“Well,” Adderly said, “Snider’s being arraigned Wednesday. I’ll assume his lawyer will show up for that.”
Adderly looked down at his file, a pencil seesawing between his fingers. “So absent his lawyer, I assume you’ve had no opportunity to speak with Snider. Am I correct?”
“Right,” Mack said. “The fucker’s not talking.”
“Other than this semiconfession, what else do we have?”
Again, no one spoke, and Joe felt she needed to take the lead. “We have a bloody hammer with what we think are human hairs—”
“Found in Snider’s house in Inkster,” Adderly said.
“Yes, and spots on the basement floor that may be blood and a history of arguments with Ronnie Langford and—”
Adderly tapped his pencil on the table. “But what do we have up here?”
