The Boy Must Die (13 page)

“Conjecture only,” answered Butch.

“Guesswork,” replied Hawkes. “This boy’s neck was bruised in a similar fashion to the other case we had last winter. The Cody Schow suicide.”

“Thanks, Hawkes,” Butch said.

“You related to a chap in Coaldale named Arthur Yamamoto?” Hawkes asked Billy.

“He was my father,” answered Billy.

“I read about him a while back in the obituary column. I offer you my condolences. Arthur sold me and my wife bulbs in the spring. He was a fine gardener.”

“Thank you,” said Billy.

“I don’t remember ever meeting you before, Inspector. I assume you’re also related to Tosh Yamamoto?”

“My half-brother.”

Billy shook Hawkes’s ungloved hand. Then he pulled out the Polaroid with the printing on the back and compared the lettering to what he could see of the bloodied note in the bag. The handwriting at a superficial glance did not seem to match. Billy decided to have the note examined and compared to the writing on the Valentine Polaroid. Taking the Ziploc with the found note, he and Butch went back to the office, where Butch pulled out the file photos on Cody Schow. Picking up copies of the recently developed pictures of the Darren Riegert crime site, Butch and Billy spread the two sets of photos on the metal table in the reception room.

“The boom box had blood dripped on its top and back. Maybe it had been under Darren and then, somehow, tipped forward before it was removed from the scene.” Billy recalled now how much the boom box had been bothering him. Why had it been hidden in the garden? Its blood splatters — small random round drops — were similar to those found on Darren’s boots and on his body. Billy also remembered there were no
blood drops on the basement floor under the pipe where the noose had been tied. Had the boom box been used so that Darren could climb on it before he was cut and before the noose was placed around his neck? But he must have been bleeding when he climbed onto the box since there were drops on the top. And why else would the box be in the basement? There had been no tape inside. Had one been removed? The stereo must have been hidden some time after the body had stopped bleeding or there would’ve been blood spatters on the surface of the concrete.

“Good day.” Constable Gloria Johnson was in the doorway of the reception room, hoisting a bag of golf clubs over her shoulder. She wore a red cloth baseball cap and a golf shirt with a silk-screened picture of a flamingo swinging a club. “I dropped in, sir, to tell you the lab is finishing the blood analysis on the boom box and the kitchen knife. I put your elastic band under the ’scope.”

“Anything?”

“Dirt, mainly. No strands of hair. No dandruff, no follicles.”

“It was a long shot.” Billy smiled. “How about prints from last night?”

“Clean. The whole place, including the broken window. No prints on the banisters. I thought I’d take an hour break since it’s goin’ slow and hit some balls at the driving range. If that’s all right? I’ll be in my lab office when you need to go over the prints and data from yesterday.”

“Thanks, Johnson,” Billy said. “Oh, before you leave, do we have a handwriting expert we can call on here in town, or in the precinct?”

“Yes, sir. The horsemen have one at
RCMP
headquarters.”

“On your way to the range, take this Polaroid and this note and see if the expert is there to check them for us. Do we need a request form for that, Butch?”

“Hell, no.”

Johnson grinned, took the picture, and left the room. Billy could hear her golf cleats clicking down the hall.

“Chief in here?” It was the dispatch sergeant from the front desk.

“Yes, sergeant. What is it?”

“I’ve transferred a call, Inspector. A woman is on line 201. She has information on the Riegert case.”

Billy picked it up. “Yes. Inspector Billy Yamamoto.”

“Mrs. Irene Bourne.”

“Yes?”

“Sharon Riegert called me just now and told me about Darren.”

“Are you a friend of hers?”

“Heavens, no! I met her once at a teachers-parents night. My daughter knew Darren. I felt I should call you.” The voice sounded imperious, nervous. Billy pictured her as tall with a pearl necklace. Irene Bourne’s voice continued with a sense of purpose. “I knew about that boy, Cody, from last winter. My daughter told me. She knew him as well, I’m sorry to say. I believe my daughter may know something about Darren.”

There was a pause on the line.

“Can you come to our house, Inspector? My husband is ill, recovering from a heart attack, and I can’t really leave him.”

Before she spoke again, Irene Bourne paused a second time. Billy could hear her cover the speaker end of the phone, muffling her voice as she spoke to someone in the background.

“Emily,” she continued, “was calling somebody all day, yesterday, from her room. My husband overheard her on the phone again earlier this morning talking about some friends being together. She used the word
witness
. And now that Riegert woman phones and tells me about her poor son. I thought it was important for the police to know since my Emily knew Darren.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Bourne. I can come over right away. I’d like to talk to your daughter.”

“She’s done nothing wrong, Inspector. She’s not a bad girl.”

“I understand.”

“Please come by all means, but I can’t guarantee anything. . . .” She stopped midsentence. “I have to go. We live at 62 Brighton Road.”

It was just after noon when Billy drove out alone to Tudor Acres, a large
subdivision built on the edge of the coulee looking west towards the Rockies. Surrounded by a low brick wall, the subdivision’s entrance was an iron gate that led into a maze of streets, each named after a city in England. Billy found himself driving past two-storey stucco houses with fake timbered fronts and huge two-car garages. The front doors were made of dark oak, and beside each door hung an antique-looking lantern the size of a soccer ball. In the distance, Billy heard the nasal high-pitched motors of lawn mowers and the jubilant voices of children in a playground.

He found 62 Brighton Road with some difficulty. The Bourne house was on a crescent and seemed to exude a smug challenge to visitors. To Billy, it was as if its architecture dared you to enter the false-fronted world of suburban respectability. Much of the yard was concrete driveway. Two plaster dogs arranged near the front steps looked as if they could be guardians to a castle’s entrance.

“Come inside, Inspector. I’ll make you a cup of coffee,” Irene Bourne said, folded her hands in front of her as if she were in a receiving line, and walked ahead of Billy into a blue-walled family room at the rear of the house. Her icy formality made Billy think she had rehearsed every move — placing a cup on the coffee table, sitting down beside him, laying one hand over the other in her lap. The room smelled of pine air freshener, and on the walls were pictures of her and her husband, of a boat, and of a young girl with long black hair wearing a white floor-length gown.

Irene Bourne placed a plate of shortbread cookies on the table beside Billy’s coffee.

“I was looking at your photos. Is that your daughter in the white dress?”

“At her confirmation.”

“I keep it there to remind me of happier times,” she went on. “It’s the nicest picture I have of Emily. Since that picture was taken, we’ve had some hard luck. Jack suffered a heart attack last fall. And Emily, well, ever since she’s been in junior high school, she’s been a different girl.”

“I am sorry, Mrs. Bourne.”

“Thank you, Inspector. I don’t think you should have to hear all my tragic tales. I apologize for bringing them up.”

“Let’s get to Emily. About the phone calls and a possible witness. Do you know what happened to Darren Riegert?”

“Yes, his mother said he was found hanging and cut up in that place downtown the press called Satan House. Knifed was the word she used. Her drinking and neglect did much harm to that boy. I met him once. He seemed very lost, very gentle. I can’t picture anyone wanting to hurt him. He was like a pathetic stray cat. I’m sorry, that must sound so callous. These are troubled children, Inspector. My daughter, unfortunately, is one of them. She ran with them, if I can use that expression. What she means about a witness is a mystery to me. This morning was the first I’ve heard of it, believe me.”

Billy sensed suppressed anger in Irene Bourne’s voice. She lowered her eyes and unfolded her tense hands.

“Come with me,” she said.

Billy followed her into the front hall and up a curving staircase. She stopped by a closed door, beckoned to Billy to sit on a small sofa, then sat on the corner of a polished side table and stared.

“When Darren’s mother called, she sounded drunk. She said she was calling everyone who knew Darren. I didn’t know she had our number. She said the oddest thing. She said I should see if my daughter was safe. If she was guarded. I thought the woman was raving, quite frankly. When I told Emily Darren had died, she went into a state. She started weeping and yelling. She ran up here, to this room, locked the door, and has been in there ever since. She refuses to come out.”

“I can hear you out there, Mother.”

Emily’s voice seemed to pierce the placid air of the hallway. It was hard and angry. Billy was surprised at its maturity. It sounded more like a woman’s voice or a young male’s than that of a fourteen-year-old girl.

“I have a police Inspector here, Em. He would like to talk to you.”

“You what?” The voice hurled against the closed door. “You called the police?” Emily’s voice then broke into a sob.

Irene Bourne stood up. “I have to ask you, Inspector, to accept something. I don’t know how much I can help you with Emily. I have tried to speak to her. She’s been ill.”

“Mother! I can hear you. Stop lying about me.”

“She’s been ill since last December. Tantrums. Failing at school. Locking herself in her room. She seemed to change right after that boy, Cody Schow, died. I took her to a therapist. But I’m at a loss. I can ask her to open her door, but I’m sure she won’t let you in.”

“Mother, go away. Leave me alone.”

Billy went to the door.

“Emily? My name is Billy Yamamoto. May I come in and talk to you? I want to know about your friend Darren. I need your help.”

“Tell my mother to go downstairs.”

“Emily!”

“Go, Mother, or I won’t open the door.”

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Bourne.”

Irene Bourne rose and walked down the curved staircase. Billy watched the handle on Emily’s bedroom door turn as a key clicked in the lock. Emily stepped back as the door swung open. She was dressed in a white nightgown and looked much as she had in the picture downstairs except for a small black tattoo of a spider on her neck.

“Do you want me to stay out here in the hall, Emily? You can talk to me from there. I can sit here on the sofa if you like.”

“I don’t want my mother spying on us. Come in.”

Billy followed her into a spacious room with a canopy bed and white furniture. The walls in front of him were bare except for a bulletin board covered with photos of kittens and whales and postcards of the Rockies. On a bureau was a photo of Emily and two other girls. When the door was closed, Emily crossed the room and sat on the edge of the bed with her legs up under her nightgown. Billy looked around and was startled by the walls opposite the bed. They were painted black and purple and were covered with posters. It was like seeing the dark side of the moon. The room had two faces, one pristine and girlish, the other Gothic and gloomy.

“You like it?” asked Emily.

“Why have you done it this way?” Billy turned to see Emily’s reaction.

“It makes my mother mad. She hates it, but I think it’s cool. It’s me.”

“Have you ever read the
Thanatopsis
?”

“I found it boring. Cody Schow loved it. He said it gave him power.”

“You and Cody were friends?”

“I got along with him okay. He was cool and treated me with respect. I don’t know what my mother told you or why she invited you here. There is nothing I have to say.” Emily’s voice had lost its belligerence. She spoke with a firm decisive tone.

“Emily, it’s not right to hold back information if there’s suspicion of a murder.”

“Darren was murdered?”

Emily’s manner changed. She covered her face and threw herself onto her pillow. She lay silent for a moment and gave Billy the feeling she was ready to weep and scream and lose control. He stepped forward.

“This morning I saw Darren’s body at the morgue, Emily. Somebody had tied up his hands. Someone had been with him in the basement. . . .”

“Stop!” She began to sob.

Billy felt his throat tighten. It had been a while since he’d interviewed someone with such quicksilver emotional reactions.
Calm yourself.
He placed his hands behind his back and raised his eyes and looked hard at the colour of the ceiling. Centring his thoughts, he lowered his voice. “I want you, Emily, to tell me about your phone calls. And what you know about a witness. You can help me and Darren’s case a lot if you try to remember.”

“Emily?” Irene Bourne’s voice flew up the stairs. “Emily, are you all right?”

Emily sprang up. She brushed her wet face with the palm of her right hand.

“Mother, do not butt in. Go away and shut up!”

Billy heard Irene Bourne retreat into the back part of the house.

“Have you got any idea how hard it is to live with my mother?”

Billy remained silent. He waited.

Emily began to shift on the bed. She took in a breath. She looked at Billy, and then she looked away at the window. Her eyes seemed to go blank for a second, and then they refocused.

“I was supposed to be there. That’s all. To be
his
witness.”

Billy took out his notebook.

“What’s that for? What are you doing?”

“I need to write things down, Emily. I need to get things straight.”

“Are you serious? Are you trying to show off or something?”

“I’m a police detective, Emily. This is what police detectives do.”

“That’s cool. I mean it. I mean I saw this stuff on
TV
. But I didn’t know you really did this stuff.”