Alfred Hitchcock's Mystery Magazine Presents Fifty Years of Crime and Suspense (68 page)

He parked at the curb and walked toward the house. All the curtains had been drawn shut. A big plastic trash can lay on its side near the foot of the driveway.

He rang the doorbell. And waited. He knocked on the rickety metal of the screen door. The curtains in the front window fluttered, and a woman's face hovered in the shadows beyond. Erie tried to smile reassuringly. He pulled out his badge.

“It's Detective Erie, Mrs. Korfmann.”

The face disappeared. Erie waited again. Finally the front door opened. The screen door in front of it remained closed.

All the lights of the house were off. Candace Korfmann stood back from the door, away from the sunlight. “Hello.”

“Hello, Mrs. Korfmann. I'm just dropping by this morning to ask a few followup questions. Is now a good time to talk?”

“Sure,” she replied lifelessly. She was dressed in a bathrobe. Erie recalled that she was what people used to call a housewife or homemaker. She didn't have a job to give her life focus again after her husband died. And she didn't have any children to keep her busy, keep her mind from dwelling on the past, on what had happened in her own kitchen. He pictured her brooding in the darkness of the little white house all day every day, alone.

“Good,” Erie said. “First off, I'm afraid I have to tell you that we haven't uncovered any new leads. But we're putting a new investigator on the case next week, Detective David Rogers. So don't lose hope, Mrs. Korfmann. He's a good man.”

After a moment's pause she nodded. “Okay, I won't.”

“Good. Now, second, I was wondering if there was anything new you could tell me—any new memories or thoughts you've had that might help our investigation.”

Mrs. Korfmann stared at him impassively. Standing in the shadows, perfectly still, she looked flat, one-dimensional, like the mere outline of a woman. Her shape—the slumped shoulders and tousled hair and slightly tilted head—reminded him of Nancy toward the end, when she was so weak she could barely stand.

“It could be anything, even just a rumor going around the neighborhood,” he prompted. “Every little bit helps, Mrs. Korfmann.”

She shook her head slowly. “I don't know what to tell you. I haven't heard a thing.”

“That's okay. No reason you should do our job for us. I have just one more thing to talk to you about.” He pulled a card from his jacket pocket. “I'd like to give you this. It's the number of a woman I know. She runs a group for … those who've been left behind. A survivor support group. You might want to give her a call.”

Mrs. Korfmann didn't move for a long moment. Then she opened the door and reached out to take the card. As she leaned into the light, Erie could see that her skin was pale, her eyes hollow. He noticed a slight swelling in her lower lip and a dark, bluish smudge of bruised flesh under her left eye.

“Thanks,” she said.

“Sure. You take care now, Mrs. Korfmann.”

She nodded, then closed the door.

10:24
A.M.

E
RIE STARTED
his car. The digital clock on the dashboard came to life. Not even an hour back on the Korfmann case, and already he was done. He had driven across town just to stir up painful memories for a sad and lonely woman. There was nothing to do now but head back to the office and shoot the breeze with whoever he could find lounging around. Reminisce about the good old days, trot out old stories and legends, do nothing. Then go home.

He shut off the ignition and got out of the car. He walked to the house across from 1701 O'Hara Drive and rang the doorbell. An old man opened the door. He was wearing glasses so thick Erie couldn't see his eyes, just big, shimmering ovals of pale blue.

“Yes?”

Erie took out his badge. “Good morning, Mr. Wallender. I'm Detective Erie. You and I spoke about ten months ago.”

The old man bent forward to peer at the badge. “Of course I remember you, detective. Come on in.” He shuffled ahead of Erie into the next room. “You have a seat there and I'll get some coffee.” He disappeared around a corner. “I've got some on the stove. Every day I make a pot of coffee and drink two cups. I don't know why I keep doing that. I pour more coffee down the drain in a morning than most people drink in a week.” Erie could hear cabinet doors and drawers opening and closing, porcelain sliding over countertops, the hum of an open refrigerator.

“I'll just take mine black, Mr. Wallender,” he called.

“Have you arrested Joel Korfmann's killer yet?”

“Not yet. That's why I'm here. I'm making a few followup inquiries.”

Wallender shuffled into the living room with a mug in each hand. He gave one to Erie. The liquid in it had the telltale hue of coffee with skim milk. Erie didn't take a sip.

“I was wondering if you'd heard or seen anything else that might have a bearing on the case.”

Wallender lowered himself slowly into a recliner. “I've been keeping my eye on the neighborhood kids. They're always planning some kind of prank. I called the police a couple of months ago. Thought I saw a boy with some dynamite. A policeman came out. Do you know an Officer Pyke?”

“Yes, I do.” The old man's vision and hearing might be shaky, but his memory was fine. “Have you spoken to Mrs. Korfmann at all? Do you know how she's doing?”

Wallender brought his mug to his lips, his hands trembling badly.

“She kind of dropped out of sight for a while there. I figured she went to be with her family or some such,” the old man said. “She was gone maybe two months. When she came back, she seemed to be doing fine. I took it upon myself to drop in and chat with her from time to time.”

“And her state of mind seemed good?”

Wallender shrugged. “Far as I could tell. They were always standoffish people, her and her husband both. She seemed a little friendlier for a while there, but then her young man began hanging around and she was the same old Candace again.”

“Her young man? You mean she has a boyfriend?”

“I guess you could call him that, seeing as how his truck's there most nights.”

“And how long has this been going on?”

“Maybe two months, maybe a little longer.” Wallender's thin, trembling lips curled into a sly smile.

“Now, don't go thinking evil thoughts, Detective Erie. She needed a man around, so she found one. It's understandable. People get lonely. I know a little something about that. It's not easy living alone.”

Erie tried to smile back but found he couldn't. His mouth, his whole face, felt stiff, dead. “I'm not thinking evil thoughts, Mr. Wallender. I'm just curious. That's my job.”

“Sure, sure. I understand. I guess I'm curious, too. Except when it's a neighbor being curious, people call it nosy.”

“Have you ever spoken to Mrs. Korfmann's young man?”

“Well, I've tried. He's not a very talkative fella. I've been over to chat once or twice when I noticed him out working on his truck. He didn't have a lot to say. Actually, he reminds me a lot of Joel—Mr. Korfmann.”

“Did you happen to catch his name?”

“Ray. He didn't mention his last name. He works over at DeRogatis Ford as a mechanic.” The old man grinned again. “That's all I got out of him, chief. If you want me to try again, maybe I could get his Social Security number for you.”

Erie finally found himself able to smile back. “You're a real character, Mr. Wallender.”

“I certainly am,” the old man said with obvious pride. “I just wish more people knew it.”

10:43
A.M.

E
RIE WAS BACK
in his car, faced again with the drive to the station, spending the afternoon killing time, the evening killing time, the weekend killing time, the years killing time until time finally killed him.

He thought about Candace Korfmann. Her dead-eyed stare, the way she had stayed away from the light, the black eye. He tried not to think evil thoughts about Ray. But he couldn't stop himself. Good cops and social workers can smell abuse a mile away, and Erie had caught a whiff of something in the air around 1701 O'Hara Drive. Maybe he couldn't catch a killer in one day, but he sure as hell could sniff out a woman-beater. What he would do about it, he wasn't sure.

He started his car and put it in gear. As he pulled away from the curb, he noticed movement in one of the windows of the Korfmann house—a dark shape quickly replaced by the swaying of a blind. Someone had been watching him.

He drove to the intersection of Oak Hill Road and Highway 41, home of DeRogatis Ford.

11:10
A.M.

A
SALESMAN SWOOPED
down on Erie before he could step out of his car.

“Good afternoon there! What can I help you with today?”

Erie flipped out his badge. “I'd like to have a word with whoever runs your mechanics shop.”

Sweat instantly materialized on the salesman's forehead.

“Don't worry. I'm just making a routine inquiry.”

The salesman still looked panic-stricken.

“It has nothing to do with DeRogatis Ford,” Erie added. “I'm trying to locate someone who may be an employee. He's not in any trouble. Like I said, it's very routine.”

The salesman nodded and gave Erie an unconvincing smile. “Sure, officer. We're always happy to help River City's finest. Right this way.”

The salesman led him through the showroom to a bustling garage. About eight cars were being worked on, some with their hoods up, some on hydraulic lifts. Off to the side customers lounged in a waiting room watching
The Jerry Springer Show
. The salesman pointed out a short, middle-aged Asian man leaning over an Escort's engine.

“That's Frank Takarada. He runs things back here.” The salesman slipped a business card out of his shirt pocket. “If you ever want to talk cars, I'm your man. I'm here Tuesday through Saturday.” He shook Erie's hand and hustled away.

Erie pocketed the card and headed toward Takarada. The mechanic noticed his approach and eyed him warily.

“Mr. Takarada, could I have a word with you, please?”

“I'm very busy. Maybe later.”

Sometimes the badge-flash routine got quick results, sometimes—especially in public places when plenty of people were around—it just irritated or embarrassed people. Takarada looked like the irritable type. Erie leaned close and lowered his voice. “I'm a police detective, Mr. Takarada. I promise that I only need five minutes of your time. Do you have an office where we can speak?”

Takarada pulled a greasy rag out of one pocket and began wiping off his hands. “Come on,” he grunted. He led Erie to a back corner of the garage. Auto parts in plastic bags hung from pegs on a large partition. Takarada stepped around it. Erie followed, finding a makeshift office complete with desk, computer terminal, fan, and filing cabinets covered with crinkled paperwork. A large board studded with pegs hung on the wall. Car keys dangled from the pegs.

“So what do you want?” Takarada said.

“I'd like to know if you have a mechanic here by the name of Ray or Raymond.”

“Nope.”

Erie felt foolish. He had followed up a blind hunch, something that had nothing to do with his job, based on the memory of a doddering old recluse. He was about to apologize and leave when Takarada spoke again.

“Not anymore. Had one a few months ago, though. Ray Long.”

“What happened?”

“We had to let him go,” Takarada said with mock gentility. He didn't volunteer anything further.

“This is off the record, Mr. Takarada. Just between you and me. You can be plainspoken.”

“Okay,” said Takarada, who seemed glad to have permission to be blunt. “He's an ass. Always was. I put up with him for two years and then—” He mimed dropping a ball and punting it.

“When was this?”

“Six weeks, maybe two months ago, something like that.”

“What happened?”

“Instead of being late once or twice a week, he was late every day. Instead of being hungover some of the time, he was hungover all of the time.”

“How did he react when you fired him?”

Takarada laughed bitterly. “Typical macho b.s.” His voice suddenly took on a Southern Indiana twang. “‘Oh yeah, man? Well, I don't need this stupid job, anyway! I'm set up, man! So screw you!'”

Erie's fingers and toes began to tingle the way they always did when he sensed a break. He forced himself to relax before he spoke again. “He said, ‘I'm set up'?”

“Something like that, yeah.”

“Can you tell me if a Candace Korfmann had her car serviced in this shop in the last few months? She drives a silver Taurus, looks like a '95 or '96.”

The mechanic looked annoyed. “I'd have to look that up.”

“I would appreciate that, Mr. Takarada. It's very important.”

Takarada sighed heavily. “How do you spell that?” He walked back to the computer terminal and took a seat.

Erie's mind was racing ahead of Takarada as he typed. The dealership's records would show that Candace Korfmann had brought her car in about two months ago, maybe three. Raymond Long had worked on the car. He had noticed her waiting—she wasn't an unattractive woman. He took her over to show her something, began flirting. He could sense that she was vulnerable. He got her to agree to a date. He found out she was a widow. Her husband had been an insurance agent. She had received a large amount of money upon his death. Raymond Long saw an opportunity. He wormed his way into her heart, then her home. Now he thought he ran the show. Erie would figure out a way to prove him wrong.

“Yeah, we've got a Candace Korfmann in here. Drives a 1995 Taurus, like you said.”

“Does it show who worked on her car last?”

“Sure. Got the initials right here. ‘R. L.'”

Erie nodded with satisfaction. “Raymond Long. This was around June or July?”