My Town

8. Carry on

"I heard you got into a bit of a scrap, Norman. That was quite the black eye you had last week."

Romero watched as the boy shifted on his chair, running his hands across his knees as if trying to make himself smaller, somehow. Most of the kids he'd interviewed had done pretty much the same thing. Most of their parents had told them, when they'd been much younger of course, that the police knew all your secrets, and that if you did anything bad, they'd come and take you away.

It wasn't the truth, but it ensured they had a healthy fear of law enforcement officers. As they got older, and a little wiser, that fear turned into something more akin to respect… as long as they stayed on the right side of the law.

"Shouldn't my mother be here for this?" Norman asked, and for a brief moment Romero saw him not as a young man on the cusp of adulthood, but as a little boy looking for the safety of his mother's presence.

He gestured at the empty classroom. "You're not being accused of any crime, Norman. We're just talking."

"Oh. Okay. Talking." Each word was punctuated by a nod of the boy's head.

"So what happened? With your eye, I mean."

"Oh, that." Norman tried for a quick, casual grin. "It's nothing. Just a misunderstanding. It's all sorted out now." Romero looked at him with his practised cop-stare. "Really."

"You know, if you wanted to press charges, you'd be well within your right."

"I don't want to do that," Norman said quickly, shaking his head from side to side. "I just want to forget about it."

Romero waited for a moment, in case anything else was forthcoming, but Norman simply sat there in silence.

"Alright," he said at last. "I understand how it is. Sometimes, young men just need to blow off steam. Believe it or not, I was young once."

"Oh, I do," Norman said with apparent sincerity.

"So. Miss Watson." The boy almost flinched at the mention of the name. "She was one of your favourite teachers, wasn't she?"

"Yes, Miss Watson was great. Just great."

Romero nodded, and pretended to consult the file he'd brought with him. "I believe she recommended you have some counselling sessions."

"That's right. She did."

"And how's that working out for you?"

"Good. Yeah. I mean, I've only been once, but I've been so busy with school, and the motel…" Norman trailed off under Romero's stare. "The counsellor said I can make an appointment any time I need to talk."

"One of the other teachers said they say you with Miss Watson a couple of times, after class. Doing some work?"

"Oh yeah," Norman said, breaking into a momentary smile. "Miss Watson was helping me to edit a shot story I'd written for class. She thought it might be good enough to get published." The smile disappeared. "I don't think that's going to happen now. I don't really want to work on it without Miss Watson's help. It makes me too sad."

Romero nodded again. "Now, when you were here late with Miss Watson, did you see anybody hanging around? A man, perhaps?"

The boy pursed his lips and shook his head.

"Did Miss Watson ever seem afraid to be here on her own? Ask you to walk her to her car? Anything like that?"

"No. She always seemed happy to be in school."

"Did she ever mention anybody to you, in passing? A man's name?"

"No, nothing like that," Norman said with a frown. "I mean, it's not like we talked about her personal life. She was always very professional, even after school hours."

A quiet sigh escaped Romero's lips. The answers Norman gave were on par with what the rest of the students and other teachers had told him. No, they hadn't seen a strange man loitering around. No, Miss Watson always left alone in her car. No, she never seemed afraid to be in the school after most people had already gone home.

"Okay Norman, you can go. But if you think of anything else, please let me know. And try to stay out of fights, alright?"

"Yeah, okay," Norman agreed, practically falling over himself to get to the door. But, once there, he stopped, and turned back with a strange expression on his face.

"What is it?" Romero prompted.

"Well… something I overheard. About Miss Watson. She asked me not to tell anyone, but if it can help with your investigation…"

"Tell me what you heard." He reached for his pen as the boy began to talk, Norman's brown eyes unfocused as he recalled some past event.

"I was walking past Miss Watson's classroom and the door had been left open a little. She was standing by the window, talking on her cell phone. She was pretty upset. Her face… I've never seen such fear and anger before. Almost like she was in shock. She was talking to a man. Shouting at him, really. She kept telling him that he couldn't say that to her, that he had to stop calling her, that she didn't want to talk to him ever again. She told him to leave her alone. After she hung up, I went into the room. She was shaking, almost hysterical. I wasn't sure what to do, but she asked me if I'd overheard the conversation, and I said no, not really. She told me to forget about everything I'd heard, and asked me not to tell anyone. Then she ran out, but I don't know where she went. Maybe the staff room."

Romero edged forward on his seat, felt the heat of his own stare burning into Norman's face. "Did you hear a name?"

"Yeah. Eric."

Eric. Not Rick, but Eric. Norman Bates, it seemed, was a better listener than Carmella Hawthorn.

"When did this happen, Norman?"

"Friday of the Winter Dance, after third period."

"That's very useful. Thank you, Norman."

"No problem Sheriff." The boy gave him a small smile. "I just want to help catch whoever did this. People hurting innocent women… it's not right."

Romero nodded towards the door, and the boy left. As the door closed, he could feel the possibilities opening up before him. He knew three Erics who lived in the town, and two of them were married. He'd arrange for his officers to pick them up so that he could have an informal chat with them about their whereabouts on the Friday night when Miss Watson had been killed. One of them would know something. One of them had to know something, because it was the only solid lead Romero had within his grasp.

Brrrrrring brrrrrring. Brrrrrring Brrrrrring.

He pulled the cell from his pocket, and noticed the ID. Dep. Ron. Moore.

"Romero," he answered.

"Sir, it's me," Moore replied. "Are you busy?"

"Just finished at the high school. Why, what's up?"

"We have a situation."

o - o - o - o - o

Dylan inhaled, breathing deeply of the fresh forest air. The smell of pine sap assaulted his nose as last year's needle-fall was crushed beneath his heavy boots. In the distance he heard a woodpecker drilling into a tree, the hollow sound reverberating around the quiet forest.

"What the hell are we doing out here?"

He turned to glance back at Remo. As usual, the man looked like he'd gone a week without a shave and less than twenty four hours without a drink. At least his red plaid shirt was relatively clean today. Sometimes he didn't bother changing.

"I told you. Hunting pheasant."

"No shit, dumbass. But why are we hunting pheasant?"

"Because Norma's got it into her head to make us a family Christmas meal, and I thought fresh pheasant would taste nicer than store-bought chicken."

"Christmas is still eight days away. It ain't gonna be that fresh."

"I'll freeze it. It'll still be nicer than chicken."

Remo waved his rifle dismissively, and took a couple of steps to catch up. Dylan fought to rein in his irritation. The way Remo was crashing through the undergrowth, he wouldn't be surprised if all the pheasants were already gone. Still, they did need flushing out, and it wasn't as if Dylan had a dog…

"You know," Remo said, thoughtfully observant for once, "most kids don't call their moms by their first names."

"Well most moms aren't Norma Bates."

"You should cut her some slack. She's a fine looking woman and she makes a mean cup of coffee."

"Dude, that's my mother you're talking about."

"And I got eyes, don't I?" Remo hurried to catch up. "So what's the deal with her? She's divorced from your dad or something?"

"Yeah." Dylan lashed out at a fern that got in his way. "They got married when they were kids, pretty much. They were young and stupid and neither knew what they wanted. She had an affair with Sam, that's Norman's dad, and my folks split."

"And where is Sam now?"

"Dead." He tried hard to keep the frown from his face. For months he'd been certain that Norma had killed Sam, for the insurance money. Just a few weeks ago, she'd told him the truth; that Norman had lashed out at his father whilst in some sort of trance, defending his mother from the man who was starting to get violent. "It was an accident."

"You think I'm her type?"

"No," he snorted, half amused and half disgusted by the thought of Remo and his mother together. Oh God, how he wished he had caustic soda for the brain, to scour away that mental image.

"Why not?"

"For a start, she doesn't like drunks. Also, she liked men who are into personal hygiene. Third, you work for me."

"Ohhh. So you think I'm not good enough for your mom?"

"What? No, just the opposite." He stopped to talk face to face with his employee. Man to man with the guy who'd been working this job longer than Dylan had been alive. "Trust me, Remo, you do not want to get involved with Norma. She's honest to God insane. She's the owner, mayor and sole resident of Crazytown, population: Norma."

"If you ask me, being sane's overrated."

Dylan sighed. "Alright, fine. But don't say I didn't warn you." There wasn't a chance in hell Norma would ever be interested in Remo. Well, probably not. At least, it was very unlikely.

A sound down to the left caught his attention, and he raised his hand as he stopped walking, indicating for Remo to follow suit. Straining his senses, he cocked his head, and listened. A few seconds later the raucous cry of angry crows reached his ears, and he saw several of the birds fly up into the sky.

"Huh."

"What are your keen forestry senses telling you, Obi Wan Dylan?" Remo asked.

"I think there's something down there," he said, gesturing down the hillside with his rifle.

"Yeah, the road, dumbass. We're like two hundred metres from a lay-by."

"No, something else. C'mon, let's go take a look."

"Why?"

"Because crows are scavengers. Carrion eaters. They've probably found something that's died."

"So? Stuff dies in the forest all the time. Great circle of life and all that."

"I just wanna take a look."

"Sure. Nothing morbid about that."

Ignoring the older man, Dylan left the high ground and began a slow scramble down the bare hillside. Years' worth of pine needles made the footing treacherous, and from behind he heard Remo following whilst cursing and muttering under his breath. At last, though, the descent ended, and Dylan set out towards the source of the avian commotion.

He found the birds not far from the lay-by, just inside where the forest ended and the road began. They swarmed in the trees, two dozen or more, and the source of their consternation became apparent. Two coyotes were half-hidden by ferns, tearing at something, denying the crows their much-desired meal. Lifting his gun, Dylan fired into the air. The crows took to the sky crying raucous calls of alarm, and both coyotes bolted for the deeper forest.

With Remo behind him, he moved forwards, and when he reached the ferns which hid the coyotes' meal, he used the butt of his weapon to move them aside. When he saw what was lying there, he almost gagged on the bile which rose in his throat.

Remo took out a cigarette, sparked it up, and sucked in a long drag before blowing out blue smoke. "Well there's something you don't see every day."

"Shit," Dylan agreed.

o - o - o - o - o

You think you know someone.

You went your whole life thinking you knew who they were, what they stood for, what their morals and ethics entailed, how much they could or could not be bought for. Romero had known Keith Summers since they were both boys, though Keith had been five years his senior. They'd hung out together, because back then White Pine Bay had been a smaller place, with fewer kids, and when you were an only child, like Romero was, you had to find a gang to hang out with so that the other gangs would leave you alone.

Keith hadn't been the leader of the gang. He'd just been one of the kids. As had Maggie Summers, Keith's younger sister. Two years older than Romero, she'd been one of the smallest kids in the group, a frail thing in a dirty dress with oft-scuffed knees. Romero had largely ignored her, as he'd ignored the other three girls in the group, because that's what you did when you were a boy; you ignored girls.

So the boys had hung out together, some ten or eleven of them staking out a small piece of territory along the coast, about a mile down from the docks, and they'd spent their time climbing around the tide pools, picking limpets, tormenting starfish, and generally not doing much of anything. When they hadn't been down at the coast, they spent their time in the fields behind the town, playing at cops and robbers, or cowboys and indians.

And the girls had tagged along, because that's what girls did. They followed boys around, and were ignored, except for when one side needed an extra cop or an extra indian. They were ignored, but in a very watched way, because a boy who didn't keep an eye out for his sister was likely to get a clout around the ear from his mother when he got home.

Over the years, Romero had continued to ignore Maggie Summers. He saw her around from time to time, but somehow he rarely found the time to talk to her. She worked as an accountant, keeping books for the family's motel business, and for a dozen other families in town. People respected her work. She never made mistakes. She was quiet, always living in Keith's shadow, especially after their parents passed away.

The last time he'd seen Maggie Summers, he realised how unkind time had been to her. He could still remember her as a child, two years older than him but half his size, with wide blue eyes which always had a look of surprise about them. But that child was gone. She had been replaced by a woman whose face had been aged almost beyond belief, a woman who'd glanced up at him in genuine fear.

He'd thought he'd known her.

Then he'd discovered the books she kept for Shelby and Keith's 'business.' He discovered she knew all about the girls being shipped in to be sold on as as sex slaves. She knew all about it, and all she did was write down numbers. She did sums. Calculations. She added decimal places and worked out percentages, and made sure the bottom line came out right. At that moment, as he read her handiwork, the little girl she had been had died forever. He realised that the face she wore was just a mask.

He had no idea why she'd done it. Perhaps Keith had beaten her. Perhaps they'd cut her in for a share of the profit. Maybe they'd threatened to sell her, along with the girls. He just didn't know. He'd never thought to ask her why she'd done it, and now he'd never get the chance.

"How'd you find her?" he asked as he stared sightlessly down at the body. It wasn't a pretty sight. The corpse was half-eaten, preyed upon by the local wildlife. But even despite that, he could tell that she had suffered a terrible death. There was blood. A lot of it. And it had been fresh, at one time.

"We were driving along the road and needed to pull into the lay-by," Dylan said, in a voice that spoke to Romero of practised lies.

"Why'd you stop?"

"I needed a piss," Remo spoke up.

Romero glanced at the older man, then at Dylan. Their faces were carefully blank. Their truck was parked not far away. He didn't know why they were lying, and he didn't care. He was pretty sure they weren't involved in Maggie's death. He hadn't known Dylan long enough to get a good sense of his character, but Remo was one of Gil's seasoned veterans. It was entirely possible that Remo had killed someone, at some point. But Gil's men knew better than to rock the boat. They knew the price of standing out in the crowd. Remo wasn't dumb enough to commit murder anywhere near White Pine Bay.

"And then?" he prompted.

"I saw a load of crows in the trees, and a couple of coyotes eating something under the brush," Dylan said. "I fired shots to scare them off—"

"How many?"

The kid looked confused. "Does it matter?"

"Police forensics teams are going to be combing this entire area," Romero told him patiently. "When and if we find bullets, you better hope that we find the same number as the shots you fired."

"He shot twice," Remo said.

"Yeah," Dylan confirmed. "Twice. Sheriff, you don't think we're involved in this, do you? We just found the body."

"Leave your numbers with Deputy Moore," he told them, ignoring the question. "I'll let you know if I have any further questions."

Dylan looked like he wanted to object, but Remo had the good sense to lead him away by the arm, to the muted mutterings of 'Come on, dumbass.' Trusting Moore to get their details, he dismissed both men from his mind, and crouched down beside Fitzpatrick.

"Please tell me this isn't my fault, Tom," he said. "Tell me that this hasn't happened because I didn't move fast enough on the Watson killing, and now he's had chance to strike again."

Fitzpatrick glanced up from his observation of the body.

"This isn't your fault, Alex. You didn't force that bastard to kill Beverley Watson. And you didn't force whoever was here to do this to Maggie Summers."

Hope fluttered within his chest. "The killings aren't linked?"

"Even before I've done an autopsy, I can tell you that Maggie suffered a violently painful death. What flesh is left shows extensive signs of bruising. And look at this." He lifted up the left hand, to show one of the fingers missing.

"Coyotes have been at the body," Romero suggested.

Fitzpatrick's eyebrows rose up towards his hairline. "With a hack-saw? No. This finger wasn't chewed off by a canid. It was sawed off, probably before she died. It's beginning to look very much like she was tortured. Poor woman."

Romero let out a long, slow breath. Who on Earth would want to torture Maggie Summers? Other than Jake Abernathy, of course. But Abernathy was dead. Romero was sure of it. The dead man's body hadn't surfaced from the dock waters yet, but it would eventually. Nothing stayed buried for long, in White Pine Bay.

"I can't say for sure, not yet, but I don't think the same man who killed Beverley Watson also killed Maggie Summers. The level of violence I'm seeing here… it's nothing like the first murder."

"Great. So instead of one killer on my hands, I now have two."

"When you put it like that, it hardly sounds like good news at all," Fitzpatrick said wryly. He looked around at the scene. "It's going to be dark soon. The forensics team from Scotswood should be here within half an hour. Tomorrow, I'll start the autopsy on Ms. Summers, and see if I can establish the cause of death."

"You'll keep me informed?"

"Of course. You're not staying until forensics arrives?"

"Moore knows what he's doing," Romero said. "I have to go open a new file for Maggie. And make some arrangements for tomorrow."

"Why, what's happening tomorrow?"

"Tomorrow, I'm interviewing Erics."