Paul Cleave - Cemetery Lake

That leaves me with Simon Nichols. He is the last person in the photos, the last person to be paid for in the bank statements. I think about what that means, and decide it stacks the odds in favor of him being the killer. I suck in a few deep breaths. I never would have thought when I woke up this morning that by the end of the day I would have the name of the man who killed those poor girls.

There are a few people with that name and initials in the phone book. I call them all, but get nowhere, which I find frustrating-I’m so close now. But then I’m able to track down his mother, who answers on the tenth ring, just before I hang up.

“I’m trying to get hold of Simon,” I say.

“Simon?” she says. “Um, can I ask who’s calling?”

“My name is Theodore Tate. I’m a private investigator.”

“What is this about?”

It’s about Simon being a serial killer. It’s about Simon being a monster. It’s about Simon killing his father then trying to frame me for murder. I don’t say any of this. Instead I say what I already had scripted in my mind. “I just have a few questions for him, just some routine stuff that might really help me out on a case.”

She doesn’t answer at first, then there are some soft sounds and I get the idea she is crying. Before she can say anything, I get another idea-I know what she’s about to tell me.

“You’re about a year too late,” she says, and suddenly I know that not only is her son dead, that he was murdered. I just know it.

And I’m right.

“It was about a year ago,” she says, then tells me that Simon was stabbed to death in his own home. “The police haven’t caught the. . the guy, not. .” She can’t finish.

Her sobs remind me of how Julian sounded when he was listening to the confessions of his daughters’ killer. I hear her cries, but all I can do is think about how empty my suspect pool is, and I now have absolutely no idea how to find the other brother who has killed so many.

I stare at the photographs of the girls as if somehow they’re going to rearrange themselves and reveal an answer. I look at Simon, dead now, one more unsolved murder in a city with dozens of murders. The killer’s signature is different for his sisters and brother. I wonder whether he’d have killed Jeremy too, whether the desire is there, or whether he even knows of the other brother. He certainly knew about Bruce. What relationship did they have for Bruce to be safe? Bruce’s last words about dignity echo in my thoughts, making me shiver. Between Bruce and Father Julian, they thought they were giving the girls some dignity, a burial place where they could be prayed over and looked after. But what of those they took from the coffins and discarded into the water? What of their dignity?

I keep starting to reach for something different, to move it from one place to another, to shift about the bank statements and the logs, hoping, hoping. . but there is nothing. I look at my watch. Saturday is shifting along quickly. And Deborah Lovatt is in danger.

I head back out to the car. The mud I splashed through it last night has dried. Dad would have a heart attack if he saw it. I dial the cell phone and try for Schroder, but he doesn’t answer. I hang up and dial back and get the same result. I leave a message, then decide to call Landry.

“Tate, you just don’t know when to let go,” he says.

“I might have something for you.”

“Really? I have something for you. You left your jacket and shoes at the church last night.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Good one, Tate, but you know what? I’m not even going to get into it. We both know you were there and we both know that I can’t prove it. So how about you do me a favor and stay the hell away from me.”

“Look, Landry, this is important, okay? Real important. Did you find a tape recorder at the church?”

“A tape recorder? What the hell are you on about?”

“Did you find one or not?”

“What? What are you on about? No, there was no tape recorder.”

“Okay,” I tell him. “I can help you find who killed those girls.”

“No, no you can’t, Tate. This isn’t your case. You’re not even-”

“Trust me,” I tell him, “and hear me out. Just listen to me, okay? Then you can ignore me or hang up on me or whatever, but at least hear me out. It’s important.”

“Okay,” he says. “I’m listening.”

“Where are you?”

“What does it matter?”

“I need you to go to the church,” I tell him.

“Why?”

“Because you missed something.”

“Missed what?” he asks. “This tape recorder?”

“I’ll tell you when you get there.”

“Come on, Tate, stop playing games. It’s too damn late for your bullshit. I’m tired.”

“Just call me back when you get there, okay? I promise you won’t regret this.”

I hang up on him before he can reply.

I drive to Deborah Lovatt’s house, and can tell immediately that nobody is home. Her mother said she lived with two roommates. If they’re around the same age as Deborah, then they’ll be out in town drinking or at the movies somewhere. I get out of the car and walk around, but nothing stands out as being wrong. No busted doors. No broken windows. I leave a card wedged in the door so it hangs over the keyhole. I leave a note on the back saying it’s urgent I speak to Deborah. Deborah’s mother will have called the police, but the way things work in this city, that doesn’t mean help is coming soon.

Traffic is thick on the way back to town, full of people all looking for somewhere better to be. Lined up at the lights, I can hear the stereo in the car behind me, the thump thump thump making the chassis of my car vibrate. I can see movement in my rearview mirror-occupants of the car are treating the ride into town as a party. The girl in the passenger seat can’t be any more than fifteen, and she’s chugging away at a beer.

My cell phone rings and I answer it. The music from the other car drowns out Landry’s voice. I push my cell phone harder against my ear.

“. . do now?”

“What?” I ask.

The light turns green. The guy behind me toots his horn even though it’s been less than a second. I move through the intersection and pull over. There’s a guy dressed like Jesus sitting on the side of the road. He’s biting into an egg carton. He looks up at me, his bloodshot eyes locking onto mine, and I realize he’s at the end of the road I’ll be driving along if I decide that maybe the drinking is for me after all.

“You there, Tate?”

“Give me a second.”

There are toots and yells and waves as the car behind me passes. I pull away from the curb and drive further up the road to find another place to park away from Egg Carton Guy.

“Okay, go ahead.”

“You’re really testing my patience, Tate. I’m at the church, so what do I do now?”

“Head down to the confessional booths.”

“Why?”

“Just do it.”

“Okay, okay. You know it sounds like you’re driving?”

“Well, I’m not,” I tell him.

“Yeah. Okay, I’m at the booths. Now what?”

“Open them up.”

“What am I looking for?”

“Check Father Julian’s side. Check the roof. The back wall. Just check all of it.”

“Check it for what? This tape recorder you’re telling me about? You think Father Julian was making secret recordings?”

“Just do it.”

“There’s nothing in here.”

“Yes there is,” I tell him. “Tap the wall or something.”

“Tap it? You think there’s a false panel?”

“Yeah I do.”

He starts tapping the walls. The small knocks carry through his cell phone. “This is a Goddamn waste of. .”