Jon Talton - Powers of Arrest

The marina seemed in the country and a little down-market for Kenneth Buchanan, although it was fairly close to his house. Aside from parking lots, outbuildings, storage sheds, and boats for sale, it had room for five sets of floating berths, each one having several slips. They had wide walkways in the center and then narrow walks out to the boats. You learned many things working homicide and from a case several years ago, Will knew the narrow walkways were called fingerfloats.

He also knew from the reports of the detectives that had already been out here where Kristen’s boat had been moored. It was gone now, evidence. Buchanan’s big boat was tied up and looked deserted. About half the slips were empty. In others, groups of people were aboard their boats, either coming back or preparing to go out. It was a warm afternoon and everyone looked happy. Will parked where he had a view and turned off the engine.

“What are you looking for?” Cheryl Beth asked.

“I don’t know. I keep thinking about the river…”

“Mind if I make phone calls?”

He didn’t mind. While she called her bosses and explained the situation, Will watched.

When his phone rang, he stepped outside to take the call.

“Detective Borders?” It was a man with a heavy Southern accent, a harsh sound with none of the lilt and music in Cheryl Beth’s voice.

“This is Special Agent Ricky Northcutt with the FBI,” the man said. “I’ve been out on vacation and only got back to Atlanta yesterday. I saw your ViCAP request.”

Will leaned on the hood and his pulse picked up. “That’s right. It came back with no matches.”

“That might not be quite true,” the fed drawled. “There was nothing for metro Atlanta. But we had a case in Athens two-and-a-half years ago. A coed at the University of Georgia was kidnapped and her body turned up the next day. It had the same genital mutilation you describe. And the scene was clean as a whistle. Not a damned bit of DNA or much other evidence.”

“Much other?”

“She was restrained,” he said. “Her wrists seemed to have been tied with duct tape. There were marks on her wrists and some duct-tape fiber. Works for everything, right?”

“How far is Athens from Atlanta?” Will had never been to Georgia.

Northcutt said about sixty miles. “I’m not sure if that’s any help to you. I would have called sooner, but our resources are stretched so thin now on criminal cases. Anti-terrorism is the priority…”

“Any suspects?”

“Not a one. The other thing that caught my eye about your report was the word ‘deathscape.’ There was an index card pinned on this girl’s forehead that said, ‘Deathscape Number One.’ It was written in block letters with a felt-tipped pen.”

Will stood and nervously walked around the car, taking the information in.

“Was she a nursing student?”

“No,” Northcutt said. “I think she was computer science. But she was out on a secluded trail near campus, riding alone on her bicycle.”

Will heard the women’s laughter before he saw the boat, a sleek new model with several young women wearing bikinis and acting as if everything they heard or saw was the funniest thing they had ever experienced. The boat slowed and came to a halt three slips down from where Kristen’s craft would have been docked.

Then he saw the man.

He was standing at the water’s edge and looked to be somewhere north of sixty with the mien of a Civil War general: bushy beard and moustache and long, white hair combed back from his forehead. The image was broken by his clothes: an old T-shirt and shorts. He was filming the girls on the boat with a video camera.

Will left Cheryl Beth to her calls and walked in his direction, which, as usual, took quite a bit of time. But the man was so distracted that he didn’t notice until Will was right behind him.

“Hi.”

“Oh, howdy.” The man put down the camera and faced him. He had skin the color of Spam.

“Nice view.”

“You better believe it, and I’m not talking about the boats.” He chuckled.

Will used his left hand to show his badge and identification. “I’m Detective Borders, Cincinnati Police.”

“Whoa.” The scraggly face tensed. “I don’t want you to get the wrong idea here, officer.”

“Relax,” Will said. “Do you come out here to take pictures often?”

The general hesitated, then nodded. “It’s only harmless fun,” he said sheepishly. “My boat’s over there on that trailer. It’s not like I’m trespassing. There’s so many pretty girls, and, hell, it’s not like I’m going to get any now, but at least a man can dream, can’t he?”

“I said relax,” Will said, sounding a little less relaxed now. He felt time working against him. The detectives Fassbinder had sent out earlier last week interviewed everyone who was at the marina, a small group during a weekday, and then called each slip owner at home. This man might have fallen through the cracks.

Will asked him if he had been here the previous Saturday afternoon.

He had.

“Did you see a young woman who owned the boat that would have been tied up over there?” He pointed fifty feet to the empty slip where Gruber’s craft would have been.

“The lady cop.” He nodded slowly. “Kristen. That was a damned shame, a tragedy.” Then he stepped back and held out a hand. “God, man, you don’t think I killed her, do you?”

Will stepped in closer. “No, I don’t. But did you see her? Did you film her?”

He stared at the ground and kicked it, the camcorder held limp at his side.

“I taped her several times. I knew who she was. I liked her show. She was real friendly, spoke to me and all, knew my name. So, yeah, last Saturday, I saw her. She was such a beautiful girl.”

“Do you have that footage on your memory?” Will pointed to the device in the man’s hand. “It would really help us.”

“Well, let me see. Walk over to my truck where there’s a little shade.” The older man moved quickly ahead, Will following as fast as he could, watching every curve and break in the pavement that could bring him down.

The general leaned inside the cab of an old Ford pickup and ran through his files. It took at least fifteen minutes. Will leaned on the wall of the truck bed.

“This is it,” he said, standing up again. “You can see the date and the time displayed digitally.” He showed Will how to work the camcorder.

In the shade of the cab, Will looked into the little screen. Kristen Gruber was alive and smiling, walking down the fingerfloat, and hopping aboard her boat. Buchanan’s boat was clearly visible nearby. She wore shorts and a white shirt tied to expose her waist. She waved at the cameraman and disappeared below. In a moment, she came back up and her head turned, as if someone had called her name. A man appeared on the fingerfloat beside her boat. He was tall, muscular, and wearing a ball cap. He looked familiar, even though his back was to the camera. At first she seemed to be only listening while he talked. It was too far away and the quality of the recording was too grainy to make out her expression. Then she shook her head.

The man gesticulated-oh, for some sound. His gestures were adamant, and her body language returned the favor. Again, she shook her head and spoke. This went on for a minute.

The man pointed at her. His face was turned enough that he seemed to be shouting. Then he pulled off his cap and walked away. Kristen shrugged and waved again at the general.

“Did you hear that exchange?” Will said. “Between Officer Gruber and the guy in the cap?”

“I couldn’t hear the words, but he sounded mad as hell.”

Will rewound the segment, replayed it. He replayed it a third time, slowing and freezing the screen.