The Boy Must Die (38 page)

Butch rubbed his sleepy face. “Jesus.” He slapped Billy on the shoulder and walked to the cruiser.

Billy hopped into the Pontiac. The western sky looked like a swath of shiny mauve cloth stretched against a deeper scarlet. A warm light breeze had come up, and the trees along Cutbill gently swayed, creating dappled shadows on the deserted sidewalks. Crossing over the Oldman River, Billy felt the advanced hour. He really was too tired to do anything but head home. But then an odd sensation, a hunch, made him turn off the highway at the university. He drove along the road south and west until his headlights lit up the huge campus map, its green bulk attached to a concrete foot by the main entrance. Billy got out of the car. The map shone in the headlights’ glare, and he had to shade it with his right hand to find the “YOU ARE HERE” arrow. He traced his finger along two curving roads to the building marked Science Complex. Then farther down to the drawing of a small round one-storey building that housed archaeology.

Billy drove on, following the yellow signs. He couldn’t help noting the banks of lights on in the study library as he headed down a narrow darkened slope leading to the Department of Archaeology. Parked in front of the entrance was a light-coloured van, its fenders battered, its back door splattered with old mud and streaked with gravel dust. He checked the time. When does security lock up, he wondered? If it was at eleven o’clock, as he remembered from his own college days, he had plenty of time.

The corridor ahead remained dark and quiet. Billy moved quickly past the locked office doors. At the corner, by a water fountain, he found a
list of the professors’ names. ROOM 43: MUCKLOWE. For the next five minutes, Billy wandered. Mucklowe’s office was locked, and through the small glass pane in the door, Billy made out a table and two bookshelves stuffed with texts and papers and what seemed like stacks of flattened cardboard shoeboxes.

Billy kept wandering. He moved through a set of heavy doors and down another hall that led towards a bank of windows. Along the hall, the doors read LAB 4, LAB 5. . . . Out of the gloom at the far end, nearest the window, a faint thin line of light emanated from under the last lab door. Billy stepped close to the wall. He walked stealthily, then stopped. What if it was a student working late? Studying for a project? Billy shoved his hands into his pockets. He walked to the door, found it open, and with his elbow jarred it slightly. The space he strolled into was a classroom with rows of desks arranged on an incline.

Facing the incline was a long counter topped in stainless steel, with two large sinks at either end. A blue light, the length of the counter, illuminated the steel with an eerie metallic glow. A man with short hair, a very sunburned neck, and thick legs in soiled khaki shorts bent forward studying seven gold objects that lay arranged in rows. The man did not look up. The objects, Billy realized, were small delicate masks. On the man’s hands were yellow rubber gloves. One hand held a pair of tweezers. He was lifting a piece of white translucent material from a Manila envelope. When he finally raised his head, the man did not seem to notice Billy, and his eyes still showed his deep concentration. Then his mouth quivered. He laid down the tweezers. Rising, his back becoming straight, Randy Mucklowe nodded to Billy, blinking and arching his eyebrows.

“You surprised me, Inspector Yamamoto.”

“Good evening, Randy.”

“Come and see what I have here.”

Billy stepped closer. Randy looked very tired. His eyes were bloodshot, and his upper arms were tanned but covered in dust and specks of dirt. There was a dark mark on his left cheek, dirt or a smudge of something
Billy couldn’t make out. Randy waved his gloved hand over the small gold and white masks glimmering in the steely brightness. “Treasures,” he said, his voice sounding almost hoarse.

“You find these on your recent dig, Professor?”

“Ah, well, yes and no. These are special. The objects we recently retrieved at Chief Mountain are still in my cabin, to be logged and studied. These are from another site. I was given them, so to speak, as a gift, and I want them to be clean and ready. I have a museum here in the province that has shown interest.” Randy spoke in a halting manner.

Billy wondered when the man had slept last. These masks were clearly those described in the bulletin Billy had read at Lorraine’s store. The theft from the lab in Missoula would have been big news in the academic world. Billy would bide his time before asking Randy about the masks themselves. One mask was broken, its golden eyes attached to a jagged strip of cracked and splintered white material.

“What happened here?” Billy asked, moving even closer and pointing to the damaged mask.

“Sadly, I received the mask this way from one of my former assistants. He had been careless. It had been dropped or broken in transit. It won’t be easy to repair it since so much is shattered.”

“How small are the pieces?”

“Do you like archaeology, Inspector?” Mucklowe evaded his question.

“It searches for the truth in its way. I admire that.”

“Nicely put. Yes, the truth is often hard to determine in cases such as these masks. For instance, we’re not sure if they were brought up from Mexico via the Pueblo and then the Apache and Blackfoot. Trading was a common activity up and down the North American continent amongst nations and tribes. Obsidian for shells, corn for copper. These masks, I believe, are very early eighteenth century — from the eye design — and made, I conjecture, by a craftsman in New Mexico.”

“What kind of glue do you use?”

“A special adhesive for mother-of-pearl. You see this section here,
part shell, part mother-of-pearl?” Randy’s hand shook as he pointed to the mask.

“Are you feeling all right, Randy?” Billy asked.

“The glue gets to me.”

“When did you get back into town?”

“When? Oh, a couple of hours ago. No, an hour ago. Sheree is up at the cabin right now. She’s very upset. I came back to get these masks ready for the museum. I should have dropped by the station. I know you wanted to see me. The last time I saw Justin, Friday night, he left with the Simonds girl, after the dig. I said they could go early, their stipends would be ready, for sure, on Monday. You needed me for something?”

“Yes, I needed to talk to you about Justin. By the way, is that your van parked outside the building?”

Randy paused for a second. He rolled his eyes up to the ceiling and then coughed. “Which one?”

“Light coloured, white, back fender dented, looks like a Chevrolet.”

“Not really mine, no. I use it once in a while. For these digs. But it belongs to. . . .”

“Randy, what time did you leave Waterton last night to come here?”

“Pardon? You mean tonight, what time did I get here tonight? An hour ago or so.”

“The van, or one very much like it, was spotted outside the Moore house late last night, around one in the morning. A cabby taking a fare home on Baroness.”

“No. Imposs . . . really? But I was at the cabin on Friday. Working.”

“Can Sam verify that for me?”

“Why not? Sure.”

“You the only one who drives that van, right Randy?”

“Me? Yes. Mostly.”

“Mostly? Does someone else use it?”

“Sam.”

“I see. How is Sam?”

“Good!” Randy broke into a wide, strained grin.

“You two getting on okay?”

“Inspector, Sam and I go way back. Best of friends.”

“Cara Simonds told me you two were fighting and doing a lot of drinking up at the dig.”

“Cara Simonds said that?”

“She also told me Sam was violent. That he had blown up a few times at you. Had even threatened Justin.”

“Well, yes, he did. Sam’s no good when he’s drunk. He took a big dislike to Justin. You don’t think Sam’s involved in this, do you?”

“How do you mean?”

“That liar. He said he was going out last night to drink. I was in bed early. Bushed. He may have, it was old Sam who. . . . You said you saw the van here in town last night? It must have been Sam. He was always sneaking off with my keys, playing Indian brother. He said, ‘What’s yours is mine.’ Yes, it was Sam. He didn’t like Justin at all, Inspector. Hated him. Now, you don’t think Sam would’ve hurt Justin in any way, do you?”

“I don’t know, Randy. I don’t know anything for certain right now. We have some prints from the crime scene. That’s one reason I want to ask you to stay in town. To not go far tomorrow. I know you have your trip planned, but I’ll need to contact you in the morning to come down to the station to give a statement. You can tell me then about last week, the problems with Sam.”

“Be glad to.”

“Where is Sam now, Randy?”

“Now?”

“Where can I find Sam? For questioning.”

Randy sighed, picked up the tweezers, grinned, and thought for a moment. His eyes were watering from fatigue. “I don’t know. He ran out last night, as I told you. Took the van, and I haven’t seen him since.”

“How did you get the van back, then?”

“What? Oh, to come in. . . . He dropped it off. . . . No, wait, he cameback very late. He was drunk as usual, slept it off, and left this morning
for Montana. He’s from Browning. You could call him or his sister Rita at the Friendship Centre there. They don’t operate on Sundays, but maybe. . . .”

“Did he take the Greyhound or get a lift?”

“I don’t know for sure, Inspector, he just up and left and told us all to go to shit. Fed up with us academic buggers, he said. I don’t know why he was so angry; you see, he was paid well to be our guide, but he grabbed his bag and left. I was frankly glad of it. He’d been getting on my nerves for some time.” Randy yawned.

Billy stood still and examined Randy’s face, its unshaven chin, the look of exhaustion in the eyes. “Call me in the morning, Randy.”

“Promise. I will.”

Billy didn’t leave immediately. Randy went back to pasting together the small pieces of mother-of-pearl. Backing out of the light, Billy turned and left the classroom. He found his way out by a side door. He walked to the light-coloured van. A Chevy. He knelt down by the front wheel. He grabbed a small chunk of the dried reddish soil that stuck to the inner rim of the wheel, placed it in one of his tissues, and then put it into his pocket. The back of the van was in darkness. The driver’s seat was covered with papers. Around the other side, the passenger seat was empty. The side window on the sliding door was opaque with dried dust.

“All right,” Billy whispered to himself.

He knew he must work fast. He unsnapped his cell phone from his belt and called Butch, told him he’d found Randy with a set of masks, one of them broken, made with mother-of-pearl. Told him there was little time for delay and that he and Johnson and two constables should come immediately to the archaeology department at the university. The masks were evidence enough to convict him for possession of contraband. They could also be linked to the materials found in the Moore garage and Justin’s clothes. Billy asked Butch to have Lorraine fax the description of the masks she had on a brochure from the border guards at Chief Mountain. Dodd could double-check the data on the Internet. Billy was breathless as he spoke. “I’ll wait in my car by the van. In the lot.
If Randy comes out and decides to bolt, I’ll try to tail him. Get Dodd over to the Mucklowe apartment. Sheree needs to be brought in, too. If she isn’t home, have Dodd alert the horsemen up at Waterton Lakes. She might be there. If so, we can arrange through Clive Erdmann to have Sheree brought into town
ASAP
.”

“We’re on our way,” said Butch.

“She was at the apartment, sir,” Dodd explained. “Came without any trouble.”

Billy knew Randy had been lying. Sheree Lynn Bird had not gone to his cabin. She was now waiting in an interview room, saying she was ready to talk. Early morning sun crept across the open floor of the quiet reception area as Butch and Billy headed towards her. Neither man had slept. Billy brushed his hand through his hair and was limping. Butch was carrying two cups of coffee; Billy had a cup of tea for Sheree.

Professor Randy Mucklowe had been arrested at 2:05 a.m. on one count of possession of contraband. He was also being detained for questioning in a murder investigation. His lawyer, Paul Barnet, had been called at 2:45 a.m. and was now in the process of preparing a plea for bail. For the time being, Randy Mucklowe was in custody at the Lethbridge city police headquarters.

Sheree Lynn Bird said she was willing to make a full confession, even without a lawyer present. When Billy entered the interview room, she was sitting alone at the table wearing a pair of jeans and a loose blue sweater. Her hands rested in her lap, and her hair was tied back. She was without makeup, and her face was white and creased with the anxious lines of broken sleep. Billy handed her the tea. He sat down.

“You look tired,” she said. “I guess it’s all over now, isn’t it?”

“Is it, Sheree?” Billy asked, his voice weary.

Sheree remained silent for a moment. Billy gathered his thoughts. He was curious as to why Sheree had consented so quickly to a police cross-examination. And so he began by asking her why she had come.
Why had she not demanded a lawyer?

“I can’t hold on to any more secrets” was her cool, laconic answer.

“Care to explain yourself?” asked Billy. Butch was sitting down, and the tape recorder was on. Billy had requested that a police matron be in attendance as a witness. She stood by the door to the interview room.

“Well, I guess I better start with the morning Randy and I got that phone call, from the teenaged girl, the one you said confessed to calling us, to warn us.”

“Emily Bourne.”

“I always feared Darren Riegert might try something drastic, like his friend Cody. Self-mutilation, suicide. But you have to know how desperately Randy and I wanted to build new lives together.” Sheree stopped for a second and glanced over her shoulder, as if she’d heard someone enter the room.

“What is it?” asked Billy.

Sheree shivered. “I was always so afraid to say these things out loud. Randy would always forbid me to share my feelings.” She regained her composure. “You see, he had suffered a bad divorce and was in debt. Well, it doesn’t matter now. Sure, it seems crazy, but it made sense at the time. Last Saturday, after we got that phone call, we went to Satan House and found Darren’s body in the basement.” Sheree paused. “I couldn’t look at him.” She shut her eyes, then opened them. “
He
made me look. ‘Go on,’ he said. ‘This stupid kid has ruined us.’ Darren was hanging, his feet must have kicked over the boom box he climbed on. His chest and wrists were cut, and the knife was on the floor next to the stereo.” Sheree pulled in a deep breath. Billy thought she was on the verge of tears, but she held her voice steady. A calm had come over her, an air of resignation. “Randy was so angry. He said he thought about covering up the whole matter, of taking the body and burying it somewhere and destroying the evidence. Worst of all, I didn’t want to stop him. But then he had a brilliant idea. Randy always had brilliant ideas, Inspector.”