The Botanist (10 page)

“What do you mean?”

“I’m sure there’s someone he thinks you are, but not literally. If this is our killer, he’s obviously psychotic. Whoever it is may not even be real. There’s no way to tell.”

Alex nodded. “He zeroed in on my bracelet again.”

Cody’s eyes went to her wrists, but the nurses had taken her watch and her bracelet when they’d put her in the hospital gown. All her belongings were in a plastic bag beneath her gurney.

“Are you sure?” Cody asked.

“Yes. He asked me about it four years ago. Tonight, he looked right at it, and I’m sure he remembered me.”

“From four years ago, you mean?”

“Yes.”

“What do you know about your bracelet, Alex?”

“Not much. It’s got part of a serial number on the back. My dad tried to look it up for me, once, but it didn’t give us any useful information.”

“Would you mind if I looked at it?”

Alex hesitated, suddenly possessive. She had never in her life been without that bracelet, but she trusted Cody, so she directed him to the bag under the gurney. He studied it for several minutes, as though trying to memorize the pattern of the charms. He turned it over and wrote down the number engraved into the largest charm, then handed it back to her.

Cody made several scribbles on his notepad before looking up at her. “Where did he go? I didn’t see anything at all after I hit you. No headlights, nothing.”

Alex shrugged. “When he came up behind me on the road, he didn’t have his lights on. Either time. I think he has a habit of driving without them to hide himself. Maybe he saw you and realized he wouldn’t get to me before you did, so he turned off his lights and backed off.”

“Maybe.” He sounded doubtful. “Alex, this is going to sound like an odd question, but, do you have any . . . proof . . . that this happened to you as you’ve said?”

Alex furrowed her brows at him. “You think I’m lying?”

He put his hands up in a placating gesture. “No. I believe you, but you’ve got to understand the way this sounds to other people. No one else has seen this guy. No one has ever reported him for anything. Now, twice, on the same stretch of highway, he attacks you, only to disappear into the night? It sounds kind of weird, and we only have
your
testimony to go on.”

Alex opened her mouth to protest, but Cody stood, took her hand, and looked candidly down into her face. “I want you to know that I believe you; I’m on your side in this. But you’re going to be under a lot of scrutiny until we find some evidence to stand on. Can you think of anything that might prove your story?”

Ales threw up her hands. “Why would I make up something like this? Don’t you think this might be the guy who killed those women in the desert?”

Cody sighed and leaned back against his stool. When he did, it slid several inches back, and he had to catch himself from falling onto his rump. Alex pretended not to notice.

“It’s possible, Alex, but we can’t be sure.”

Alex crossed her arms and huffed, looking at the opposite wall. When she looked back, Cody’s expression was empathetic.

“Look,” he said, “I think it would be too much of a coincidence for this guy to not have any connection to the grave in the desert, but until we have evidence to connect them, we can’t officially assume they’re related. As of right now, these are two separate incidents.”

Alex sighed. She tried to see his point, though she resented being called mental after she’d just been beaten to within an inch of her life.

“I don’t have proof. When it gets light, can we go out and follow the tire tracks? See where they lead?”

He nodded. “We’re planning to do that anyway.”

“Until then, you’ll just have to take my word for it.”

Cody stared at her for another few seconds before nodding.

Chapter 16

Cody assumed Alex would sleep most of the day away, and she was already unconscious before he left the hospital, but he felt strange leaving her by herself. He trusted the hospital staff, but made a mental note to ask the captain to allow him to post a guard at Alex’s door.

The doctors admitted her for a mild concussion. Though they assured her it wasn’t serious, she needed to be awakened every two hours for the next twenty-four, and as she was staying in town alone, the nurses would have to do it. It was nearly six a.m. before they got her tucked away into a tiny room, so she would be under the nurses’ care until the following morning.

Cody knew he ought to go home for a few hours—sleep, shower, shave. But he didn’t want to. He knew the captain would call an early meeting, and Cody was curious to know what everyone else had found.

He drove to the station and curled up—or as close to that as his six-foot figure would allow—in the back seat of his jeep, setting his watch alarm for 9 a.m. That meant less than three hours’ sleep, but he’d survived on less. As he drifted off, he wondered if his Uncle Clyde had ever worked a case this complicated.

When his watch alarm chimed, he could have sworn he’d been in the jeep for five minutes. Hoisting his heavy eyelids up, he was surprised to find sunlight streaming through the jeep windows.

He uncurled himself, finding that every muscle was stiff, and staggered out of his car, walking directly into the one parked next to his. Luckily it was just Rose’s battered Oldsmobile; she’d never been very particular about her ride.

Gathering his things and slapping his cheeks repeatedly so as not to surrender to the already-stifling morning heat, he headed into the station.

The lobby was already hopping with people, many of them unfamiliar. As he passed the front desk, Rose’s voice drifted to him.

“You know my car is made up of matter, right Cody?”

“What?”

“Which means you can’t walk
through
it?”

Cody cleared his throat, glancing around to see if anyone else had noticed his little parking lot mishap. “Uh, yeah. Sorry about that.”

Rose didn’t bother to take her eyes off her computer screen as she talked. “More worried about you than it, honey.”

Cody grinned and wove his way through the chaos until he got to the room that housed his and the other detectives’ desks, wondering if anyone had gotten more sleep than him. He got his answer when he walked through the door.

Frank and Court both sat at their desks, chins on their chests, breathing slowly and loudly. Tom also sat his desk, but his head had fallen back between his shoulder blades. His mouth was open and a sound like that of a quiet power drill was emanating from it. The noise didn’t disturb the two younger detectives.

A presence came up behind him. He turned to see the captain chuckling.

“Glad you made it in, Cody,” he said softly. “I need to address all four of you. Care to do the honors?”

He flung his hand out to the side of the room, indicating a particularly large box of files, which Cody knew to be very heavy.

Cody grinned and hurried over to his desk, careful not to make any noise or bump anyone. Then he went and picked up the box the captain had indicated. After clearing a space on his desk, he hoisted the box up until was level with his nose . . . and let go.

The resulting
bang
was at least half as loud as a gunshot, and the effect was extremely satisfying. Frank actually yelped—the sound of a frightened little girl. Court fell backward, chair and all. Tom’s head snapped up, eyes looking like bloodshot CDs, and had to slurp to keep from depositing any of the drool crawling out of the corners of his mouth into his lap.

Court was on his feet almost the instant his chair hit the ground, leaving Cody to suspect he’d awakened mid-fall. When he got up, he clasped one hand over his right ear, stomped his foot, and turned in a circle, face contorted in pain.

The other three detectives watched him with tired, passive eyes. The captain, as usual, was pretending not to notice the pranks his detectives pulled on each other, though Cody suspected he enjoyed them as much as the next guy. Even now, he was conspicuously reading the report in front of him, Cody thought he could see trembling at the corners of the captain’s mouth.

“What’s the matter, Court?” Frank finally asked. “Having nightmares about Mike Tyson again?”

Court glared lightning bolts at Frank, but his gaze quickly moved to Cody.

“Thanks a lot,
Cody.”

“Yeah,” Frank chimed in. “How was
your
beauty rest?”

“Hey.” Cody put his hands up. “I’ve been sleeping in the back seat of my car for the last two and a half hours. I wouldn’t call that beauty sleep.”

“True.” Tom was looking at Cody. “I gotta say, Cody, your eyes look kind of bloodshot. Have you been smoking pot?”

“Gee, Tom.” Cody didn’t miss a beat. “Your eyes are looking kind of glazed. Have you been eating donuts?”

Tom threw a pencil at him. Cody tried to duck but sleep deprivation made his reflex come about eight seconds too late, and the pencil hit him in the cheek.

“Back seat of a car, huh?” Frank was muttering. “Sounds hot.”

Cody rolled his eyes. “Not when you’re in there by yourself.” He glanced up in time to see Franks eyebrows go up and down several times in quick succession.

“Well that depends—”

“All right.” The captain cut him off. “Listen up. I know I said we’d meet first thing, but I’m going to push it by an hour. Linda just called, Cody. She’s finished her autopsies of the Shakespeare bodies. She wants to give you her report. I’m coming along to listen in. The rest of you, we’ll have our meeting as soon as Cody and I are finished in the morgue. Wake up and find some good news to give me.

“By the way.” The captain put one foot back into the room. “News of the flowers has been leaked to the press. They’ve named him the Botanist.”

Cody’s groan was echoed by the other three detectives.

“Fantastic,” Frank murmured as Cody followed the captain out of the room.

Chapter 17

“So what brings you down here, Mr. Stieger? Not enough excitement in the big city?”

Stieger chuckled.
“Not at all. I have a client who wanted me to come down and find out if her loved one was among the dead in your mass grave. Unfortunately there’s been little to do yet but wait.”

Griffith smiled. He had fine crow’s feet around his eyes and a pot belly, but little enough white hair for his age. “I’m sorry for your client’s loss. What can I do for you?”

“I’m looking into the history of the land out there. I understand it used to be owned by a man named Alastair Landes. I was told you might be able to help me learn more about him and his . . . circumstances.”

Griffith frowned. “You don’t think Alastair had anything to do with that mass grave do you?”

“I’m not sure,” Stieger answered, choosing his words carefully. “That’s what I’m trying to determine one way or the other. Perhaps the land’s history will have some bearing on this case, perhaps none.” He spread his hands. “Anything you could tell me would be helpful.”

Griffith leaned forward, resting his clasped hands on the mahogany desk between them. “I knew Alastair Landes very well, Mr. Stieger, for most of my life. He was a decent man. Old school, perhaps, but not the sort that would have done this.”

Stieger nodded.
“All right. Since you seem to have known the family better than anyone else I’ve spoken to, I’ll take your word on his character.”

Griffith sat back in his chair, shoulders relaxing. “What do you want to know about him?”

“I understand he and his son didn’t get along. They had an infamous falling out?”

Griffith nodded. “Jonathin was too much like his mother.”

“What do you mean?”

“Gerty was a sweet girl. She was dreamy and artsy, always creating things. She was into horticulture and cooking and crafts. Alastair loved her to high heaven, but I think he saw such things as feminine work. He was the man of the house. He had a ranch to run.”

Stieger nodded. When Griffith said old school, he wasn’t kidding. “So the son was more like the mother than the father?”

“In every way. Jonathin wanted to go to art school. Alastair was well-to-do and could have paid for it, but he refused. He didn’t see it as manly work, didn’t think his son could support himself that way. So Jonathin left.”

“Where’d he go?”

“He planned to join the army. He knew they’d pay for school.”

“When he was seventeen?”

“Jonathin didn’t leave ‘til he was twenty-two. He’d probably been talking about the army since seventeen, but he was a good kid at heart—felt guilty abandoning his old man. But, when at twenty-two, Alastair was still trying to run his life, I guess Jonathin finally decided he’d had enough and took off.”

“And you’re sure he made it out of town and to the army?”

Griffith raised one white tufted eyebrow and Stieger spread his hands. “Just trying to be thorough.”

“I know he made it out of town because I saw him myself,” Griffith said. “Beyond that, I couldn’t say. I was acquainted with Jonathin—well-acquainted, even—but the boy didn’t confide in me. Far as I know, no one in town heard another thing from him after that. He left us all behind—the entire town, not just Alastair. The problem wasn’t that Jonathin left; it’s that he never came back. That’s what started all the rumors.”

Stieger nodded.
“I hear tell from some people in town that Alastair hired a transient to help him work his ranch. What can you tell me about him?”

Griffith steepled his fingers. “I remember who you mean, but I haven’t thought about that chap for years. He just came into town one day looking for work.”

“I understand not everyone . . . liked him.”

Griffith shrugged. “That’s to be expected. He was a transient, a strange sort. People are bound to be suspicious, but Alastair hired him without pause. He was getting on in years by then, and Jonathin certainly wasn’t being much help. Alastair needed someone he could trust to run his ranch.”

“This transient have a name?”

Griffith thought for a moment. “I want to say he called himself Charles, but the last name escapes me. If you give me a few days, I could look it up for you.”

Stieger arched a brow. “You have his name on file somewhere?”

“He made a claim for the land after Alastair passed, but he had no legal right to it. He would’ve had to buy it, if he wanted to own it privately, and he didn’t have any money. I’m sure I have his name in one of my old files, but it’s in storage somewhere; I’ll have to fish it out. Might be faster to check county records for it.”

Stieger nodded.
“I’ll do that. But to clarify, this Charles came to work for Alastair
before
Jonathin left?”

“Yeah. Just before, if memory serves. Jonathin didn’t get along with his father, but he wouldn’t have left his father in a pinch. Once Alastair had a surrogate son, one who was much more like him and could take better care of both him and the ranch than Jonathin cared to, Jonathin didn’t feel so guilty leaving. I think he saw it as a sign that he was meant to live a different life. The next blowup they had, he packed his bags.”

“So Charles tried to claim the land after Alastair died . . . and then what? What did he do when he was denied?”

Griffith shrugged. “Beats me. I think he moved on. Don’t think I ever saw him after that. Probably fell back on his transient lifestyle and went to another place to live. You’re right that no one liked him, and with the ugly rumors circulating, I doubt he could find any other work in this town. Truthfully, I don’t think he tried. Just disappeared.”

“Mr. Griffith.” Stieger sat forward. “I don’t want to offend you, and I certainly don’t want to cast a shadow over a family you once knew well, but I have to ask. Was there any abuse going on in the home?”

“Alastair’s home? Nah.” Griffith hesitated briefly. “Well, I suppose you’d have to define abuse. As I said, Alastair was old school. He had acres of land, and the house is several miles outside of town, but it was said that when he and Jonathin fought, the people in town could hear them yelling.”

“Is that true?”

“I doubt it. It’s just what
they
say, but I can see that Alastair might have been verbally abusive. Jonathin himself told me that Alastair often said he wasn’t a man, wasn’t good enough, that sort of thing.”

“But nothing physical or sexual?”

“Definitely not sexual. Alastair might have cuffed Jonathin every now and again for disobedience, but understand, Mr. Stieger, that Jonathin was a teenager thirty years ago. Times were different. How do your daddy and his daddy’s discipline compare with people today?”

“I understand, but there was nothing out of the ordinary? No violence, no pattern of abuse?”

“No, nothing like that.”

Stieger nodded, thinking, while Griffith peered at him. The old lawyer leaned forward, resting his forearms on the desk once more.

“Why these questions, Mr. Stieger? What are your theories?”

Stieger smiled.
“I’m not sure I have any, Mr. Griffith. I thought—with all that ugliness out in the desert—that perhaps the killer had some tie to the land. Alastair was the last one to privately own it, so assuming the killer isn’t more than a hundred years old, any connection would have to be to the Landes family.”

When Griffith frowned, deep lines appeared around his mouth. They weren’t there when he smiled. “But why do you assume there’s a connection at all?”

“I’m not assuming anything.” He smiled, hoping to reassure the lawyer. “I may be barking up completely the wrong tree here, Mr. Griffith. Like I said, I had some time to kill, so I thought I’d find out what I could on the off chance that it might be relevant. Indulge an old PI in his conspiracy theories?”

Griffith returned the smile. “What other questions do you have?”

“Just one. From what you remember of them, do you think either Jonathin or Charles is capable of this?”

“Of what?”

“The bodies in the desert.”

“Of
murder
? On
that
scale?” Griffith’s eyes widened to the size of saucers. “No, I can’t say I do.”

Stieger tried not to sigh. Questions about murder could be a lot for anyone, and he couldn’t help but think that the town of Mt. Dessicate, collectively, was in a state of shock over the discovery of the bodies.

“Mr. Griffith, I’m not accusing anyone, or anyone’s memory. I’m not asking
you
to make any accusations, but remember back. Based on what you knew of these two men, is either of them capable of it? Is it
possible,
in your opinion, for one of them to have done this?”

Griffith shrugged, swallowed, and loosened his tie. He studied his desk for a long time before answering. “Mr. Stieger, I haven’t seen either of them in almost thirty years. For Jonathin’s part, I’d have to say no. He was a good kid, but that many decades could change a person, incomprehensibly. As for the transient, I never knew him to begin with. I think I
saw
him once when I went to visit Alastair, but Alastair didn’t even introduce us. I couldn’t say anything at all about his character.”

“What about your neighbors? None of them liked him. Why do you think that is?”

“That was based largely on suspicion, as I said before. He was an odd-looking transient.”

“Odd how? What did he look like?”

“He was tall, intimidating. And his face was scarred.”

“Scarred? How so?”

Griffith shrugged. “I never got a good look. Not anything out of the common way—he wasn’t disfigured or anything—just scarred. But it fueled the gossip and made people that much less trustful of him.” Griffith opened his mouth to speak again, then snapped it shut, throwing Stieger a suspicious look.

“If you have anything else to tell me, Mr. Griffith, now would be the time.”

Griffith stared out the window for a moment. Then his shoulders sagged. “I suppose it’s all ancient history anyway. I truly didn’t know the transient and don’t know anything about his character. I don’t wish to defame him in any way. Truthfully I always felt sorry for him—thought he got an unfair shake from the town. But I could be wrong. Perhaps there was something sinister about him but I never had occasion to observe it. That said, I did warn Alastair about him once.”

“Warn him? Why? About what?”

“Being primarily a property lawyer, I know county employees pretty well. A couple of weeks before Alastair passed—and this was several years after Jonathin left, you understand—a friend of mine called me to say that a strange man was asking questions about how to go about claiming Alastair’s land after his death. By her description, the man was Alastair’s transient, Charles. I felt kind of strange about it, so I went out to see Alastair.”

“Did you suspect anything sinister?”

“Not at all. I just thought Charles would try to disinherit Jonathin upon Alastair’s death. I told Alastair what I’d learned and urged him to draw up a will. He didn’t have one at that point. I told him that if he wanted Jonathin to have his land, he needed to make it legal.”

“And did he?”

“No. He flat-out refused. He expressed remorse about the way he and Jonathin had parted. He truly wished he could see his son again, but he said if Jonathin couldn’t forgive him enough to come back, then so be it, and let the chips fall where they may.”

“Had he tried to reconnect with Jonathin before then?”

“I got the impression that he had, but hadn’t received a reply. It made him angry, or maybe just sad. He also confided to me during that visit that he was much sicker than anyone in town knew. Even
he
didn’t think he’d be around for long. He said Charles was just helping him get his affairs in order.”

“Did you believe that?”

Griffith shrugged. “I thought Charles’s motives were more selfish than Alastair believed, but it also occurred to me that if Alastair was sick, Charles was the only one who knew that. If he knew Alastair was on the brink, that might be why he was asking after the land. Either way, you can’t force someone to draw up a will, so I left. Two weeks later, Alastair was dead.”

“And no one ever suspected foul play?”

Griffith waved his hand dismissively. “Nah. Alastair had sent Charles on a supply run up to the north, so Alastair was alone when he passed. There was no reason to believe anything other than a natural, peaceful death had occurred.”

Stieger turned it over in head while the other man peered at him. After a moment’s silence, Griffith leaned forward, clasping his fingers together.

“I really don’t see that there could a connection of the sort you’re looking for, Mr. Stieger. This was all so long ago, and this psychopath is operating
now.”

Stieger smiled.
“I’m sure you’re right, Mr. Griffith. I’m sure this will just end up being the way I entertained myself for a few days waiting for DNA confirmation of the victims. I understand Alastair’s home is still standing?”

“Still standing, yes, but it’s not much of a home anymore. Just a shell of a shack, hardly fit to get out of the rain in. It’s a favorite hangout spot of our young people, though technically they aren’t allowed to visit it. But you know how kids are.”

“So I’ve heard. I’d still like to put an image to the place I’ve learned so much about in the last couple of days. Could you direct me to it?”

Griffith smiled and got to his feet. “Let me get you a map.”