CAME A SHADOW (The Shadow Trilogy Book 1) Read online

  Without hearing him out she turned her back and began walking away.

  Suddenly the frustration that had been building in him over the past few days erupted. "Why the hell are you shutting me out, Sam?” he said, his voice raised in anger. “What happened isn’t my fault for Christ’s sake."

  She stopped and swung back to face him. "Isn’t your fault?” she spat at him. “No, of course it isn’t your fault. It’s both our faults. While we were upstairs, happily fucking our brains out, our baby was stolen from us. What does that say about us? What kind of parents does that make us?" Tears welled up in her eyes. “So help me God, I wish we were both dead.” With that she fled from the kitchen and disappeared from his sight.

  Finally, at least an understanding of what was going through her mind, what had so turned her against him. He couldn’t leave this conversation, if it could be called that, this way. He ran after her and caught her at the base of the stairs, taking hold of her arm.

  She whirled around. "Don't touch me!” she screamed. “Don't you ever … ever … touch me again!"

  CHAPTER 9

  At 2:00 in the afternoon on Christmas day Jack was curled under a blanket in his hotel room, nursing a head cold. Probably caught it from that snot-nosed deputy, he groused to himself. He had always prided himself on his ability to see the best in the people who worked with or for him but, despite this, he had developed an intense dislike for Callie’s deputy, Ralph Torrens. He couldn’t put his finger on exactly why he felt the way he did about the man - it was just one of those things that defy quantification. He was reasonably sure that Torrens was the reliable source of inside information the media had referred to on several occasions and at least part of his dislike for the deputy probably centered on that likelihood. It bothered him whenever a law enforcement official couldn‘t keep his mouth shut.

  These thoughts were interrupted by the ringing of the phone. He picked up. “Parmenter,” he said.

  “Hi, Jack,” Callie said. “Feeling any better?”

  “Surviving,” he answered.

  "If you're up to it, and you don't have any other plans,” she said, “why don't you join my father and me for Christmas dinner?"

  Jack hesitated, thinking he'd be poor company in his present condition. But dinner alone in his room was not a particularly appealing alternative. He could have caught a flight back to Augusta and spent Christmas at home of course but, the sad truth was, there was little reason to bother. His life was so devoid of human contact that he’d have been reduced to accepting a pity invitation from one of the other agents families. And it would only depress him to witness their happiness. He was better off where he was. At least Callie was in more or less similar circumstances although, for the life of him, he couldn‘t imagine why. She was a spectacular woman. Any man with half a brain could see that. "Thanks," he said. “If you’re sure it’s not too much trouble, I'd like to."

  “Come by about five. We’ll have a drink before we eat.”

  “I’ll be there.”

  He’d been laying in bed all day up to that point, mulling over the Crandall case. Suddenly, he was very pleased that Callie had called. Maybe he’d get a chance to talk to her about some things that were bothering him. The more he ran the events of the past few days through in his mind, the more convinced he was becoming that things were not adding up.

  ****

  Callie lived in a rented bungalow on a street of similar bungalows, all built after the war to accommodate returning veterans needing affordable housing. She had done what she could with paint and wallpaper to add touches of quaintness to her surroundings and the place had a kind of flower-child innocence to it that Jack found touching but, at the same time maybe, a little sad. Was there a hint here of the desperation so evident in his own life?

  His knock at the door was answered by Callie’s father, a pleasant looking man in his early seventies, dressed in tan-colored corduroy pants and an open-necked dress shirt with a thick knitted sweater over it. Jack picked up a subtle scent of tobacco smoke and an expensive cologne.

  “You must be Jack,” the old man said, extending his hand. “Callie’s in the middle of wrestling a turkey out of the oven. Come in, come in.”

  “A pleasure to meet you, sir.”

  “Hi, Jack,” Callie called from the kitchen. “Have a seat. I’ll be right with you. Dad, would you get Jack a drink?”

  The old man smiled tolerantly. “What’s your poison, young man?”

  “A beer would be fine.”

  “Good choice,“ he said. “I brought a special brew with me that you might like. Be right back.”

  A moment later he reappeared with a pair of frosted glasses filled with an amber colored liquid topped off by a two inch layer of foam. He handed one of the glasses to Jack and touched it with the rim of his own. “Here’s to a merry Christmas.”

  Jack took a sip of the frosty quaff and settled back in his chair. “Nectar of the gods,” he sighed.

  “Callie tells me you’ve been a bit under the weather.”

  “A mild cold. Comes with living too much on the road I think.”

  Callie came into the room, wiping her hands on an apron decorated with holly wreaths and red berries. Under the apron she wore black slacks and a red, turtle-necked sweater. “Dinner’s ready,” she announced. “Bring your drinks into the dining room.”

  The dining room was actually just an extension of the kitchen. An antique-looking table had been set with a festive tablecloth and what looked like a good set of fine china. The lights had been dimmed and three candles in a pinecone centerpiece provided most of the illumination. A large turkey awaited carving.

  “This looks wonderful,” Jack said.

  “I hope so,” Callie murmured. “Cooking, I’m afraid, is not one of my stronger points.”

  “Nonsense,” her father said. “You’re a great cook.” He went on to share several amusing anecdotes about his daughter’s very early cooking disasters that earned appreciative laughter from Jack and agonizing groans from Callie.

  Throughout the storytelling, there was an obvious nostalgia for the life he had left behind in Colville.

  “Sounds to me like you miss this place, Mr. Henderson,” Jack said.

  The old man nodded agreeably. “More than I can tell you.”

  "You could always move back I suppose," Jack offered.

  "Oh, I don't think so," Henderson replied. "Too much water under the bridge as they say. Besides, I'm sure my daughter prefers me far enough away so that I can't interfere too much in her life."

  Callie shook her head in a world weary way. "Oh, Dad, you know that's not true," she said. "I'd love it if you lived closer."

  Jack had the distinct impression that this wasn’t the first time they’d had this conversation.

  When they had finished eating the old man excused himself. “Think I’ll step out for some fresh air and a little exercise,” he said. “Wear off some of that great food.” He went to the door, pulled on boots, a wool toque, and gloves.

  “Watch your step out there, Dad,” Callie cautioned. “It’s slippery.”

  “I will,” he called out as the door closed.

  "That was a great meal, Callie," Jack said. “Thanks for having me over.”

  "I'm glad you enjoyed it. Is your cold easing up a bit?"

  "Matter of fact, I feel much better. Maybe all I needed was some good home-cooking."

  “Let’s move into the living room,” Callie said.

  “No, let’s do the dishes. I’d hate the thought of leaving you with all this mess.”

  “I wouldn’t hear of it, Jack.”

  “I insist.”

  She shrugged and smiled indulgently. “Okay.”

  Callie filled the sink with hot, soapy water. They cleared the table together. She washed, he dried.

  “So, do you have any family besides your dad?” Jack asked.

  “Yeah, I have a younger sister. She lives in Los Angeles. She’s married to a real estate agen
t. My mother passed away a couple of years ago.”

  “Do you see much of your dad?”

  “No, very little actually," she said, "He doesn’t visit often and never stays long when he does. In fact he's leaving in a couple of days. Has some business to attend to at home."

  "Well, you seem to get along well enough." Jack observed.

  The comment made her introspective. "The truth is, we see so little of each other we never have enough time to get on each others nerves.”

  Jack arched his eyebrows. "Well, maybe that’s not such a bad thing. How does he feel about you being a cop?"

  “It's funny,” she said, “he's always seemed kind of disappointed about that in the past - he really wanted me to be a lawyer - but this visit he seems to have come around a little. I took him over to the jail with me the other night when I went to check on Jarvis and he seemed to have a real interest in everything. Wanted to know all about the jail routine, lots of advice on how to solve the case, that kind of thing." She smiled. "It was nice."

  “Do you see much of your sister?”

  “No. Nina’s got four kids that keep her very busy. We talk on the phone pretty regularly but we never seem to have the time to get together.”

  “What about you?” Jack asked. “Never been tempted to settle down and have a family?“

  “Oh, I gave marriage a shot once. Made the mistake of marrying a cop when I was on the Newark force.”

  “It didn’t work out?”

  “His proudest claim was that, not once during his married life did he ever cheat on more than one girlfriend at a time.”

  “Ouch.”

  “Fortunately I learned just how much of a jerk he was before we had any kids. How about you? Ever been married?”

  Jack gave her a reticent smile. “Nope. Confirmed bachelor I guess. The Bureau can be pretty demanding. I never thought it would be fair to inflict my schedule on a family.”

  “Are your folks still alive?”

  “Yeah, they’re getting on but still going strong. They live in a retirement village near Phoenix. I try to get out there a couple of times a year so my dad can humiliate me on the golf course.”

  “Probably figures he’s got to get his revenge on you for not giving him a bunch of grandchildren to spoil.”

  "I suppose. Like your dad, mine is always giving me advice, too. Mostly: Get another job - one that lets you have a life."

  "Ever regret not having a wife and children?" Callie asked.

  Jack was reminded that he had turned fifty this year. "A little late to worry about it now," he said.

  "You're not exactly over the hill yet, Jack."

  He shrugged. “Maybe not,” he said. This was definitely not his favorite topic of conversation. He decided to change it. “Callie, there are some things about the Crandall case that've been troubling me. Mind talking a little shop?"

  "No, not at all. What's the problem?"

  "Well, we found a few of Sophie's hairs in that snowplow but no fingerprints, no blood, no clothing fibers, nothing at all other than the hair to substantiate her presence there. So far we haven't come up with a single additional bit of evidence to tie Jarvis to the girl. I've got to admit, that bothers me."

  "I would think the hair strands would be enough to convince you he's guilty." Callie said. "After all, what other explanation is there for her hair in that plow? And don't forget, the guy is a convicted child rapist."

  Jack pursed his lips and rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "I did some checking on that case," he said.

  "Oh?"

  "Yeah, I talked to the lawyer who represented him on the charge - guy by the name of Keeling. Apparently the whole case rested on the testimony of the common-law wife. There was no physical evidence against Jarvis at all and the girl, who was clearly dominated by her mother, testified very briefly in court. To top it off, the judge barely allowed any cross-examination by the defense. Keeling was convinced it was a revenge thing perpetrated by the mother. But Jarvis pled no contest on the guarantee of a short sentence. If he'd fought it and lost he could have faced ten years in the slammer."

  "That doesn't mean he didn't rape the girl, Jack. And even if he was innocent of that charge, what about the evidence against him in this case?"

  Jack was quiet for a few moments, thinking. "It just doesn't make sense to me, Callie. Jarvis would have had to grab the Crandall girl from the yard, then keep her captive while he continued on up the road for at least half an hour before turning around and heading back to town. He'd be running the risk of getting caught with her all that time. After all, he'd have had no way of knowing the girl's parents wouldn't miss her until 5 o'clock."

  "How do we know he didn't grab her on his way back?"

  "He couldn't have. We know from the neighbors who passed him his location after 4 p.m. heading north. And we also know by the distance he traveled north he couldn't possibly have been back at the farm before 5 p.m. By that time the girl's grandfather was back home. For this to make sense he'd have had to have gotten rid of her very soon after abducting her."

  Callie frowned, looking bewildered. "Then where is she?"

  "Exactly," Jack replied. He finished drying a dish while he thought about it. "If Jarvis took her there's only one place she could possibly be that makes any sense."

  ****

  By nine the next morning Callie had made arrangements for a county equipment operator named Gil Friesen to meet her and Jack at the turnoff into the Crandall farm. Callie introduced the two men after Friesen, wearing a red flannel coat with a wool cap, pulled up next to them in his plow.

  “Thanks for coming out here today,“ Jack said.

  “No problem,” Friesen replied. “I’m gettin’ double overtime and Christ knows I can use it what with the price of things today.”

  “What we want you to do, Gil,” Jack said, “is to re-plow the snow banks on each side of the road north of the farm. We’re hoping it might turn up the missing child’s body.”

  Jack’s notion that Sophie might be buried on the roadside seemed ultimately plausible. If Jarvis was guilty, no other explanation appeared possible.

  Friesen nodded. “Let’s get on with it.”

  Four hours later Jack motioned Friesen to a stop. “Looks like we’ve wasted our time,” he said. “You might as well head home.”

  “Sorry it didn’t work out,” Friesen said.

  “Me too,” Jack said. He waved goodbye and rejoined Callie in her cruiser.

  "What next, Jack?" Callie asked.

  Jack scrutinized her for several seconds and seemed to be on the verge of saying something. Ultimately, he said nothing at all.

  The ride back to town was spent in silence. Callie glanced over at Jack occasionally but the look on his face discouraged conversation. When she pulled up at the hotel, Jack opened the car door and stepped out without a word. He stood for a moment and then bent down, looking in at Callie. "Did it ever cross your mind that Jarvis might have been framed?" he asked.

  Without waiting for a reply he closed the door and turned, making his way toward the hotel.

  ****

  Because it was Christmas, Jarvis was being held in the Colville jail pending transfer to South Paris where he’d be arraigned and held for trial. Ralph Torrens and several county officers were assigned to watch duty until Jarvis' scheduled move on December 27th.

  On the morning of the 27th, Torrens relieved Officer Tom Wellman, a twenty-eight year veteran, who had pulled the midnight shift.

  Torrens found Wellman yawning and glad to be on his way. "Long night, Tom?" Torrens asked.

  "You got that right," Wellman said. "Jarvis has had his breakfast. Everything's nice and quiet."

  Customary procedure was for the relieving officer to check on any prisoner being held in lockup before starting his shift. While Wellman began filling in the duty log Torrens walked down the hall to Jarvis' cell.

  Seconds later Wellman was startled to hear Torrens yell, "Holy shit! Tom, get back here!"
br />   Within ten minutes of Torrens' frantic call, Callie and Jack were at the jail, crouched beside Jarvis' lifeless body. Jarvis was lying on his stomach with his head by the cell door. His tongue was protruding from his mouth, eyes staring blankly at the floor. Dishes containing remnants of his last meal had been knocked from the wooden table beside his bunk. There were no obvious clues as to the cause of his untimely death.

  “Looks like Henry just saved the county the cost of a murder trial,” Callie said. “He must have had a heart attack.”

  Jack chewed on the inside of his cheek, ruminating quietly. “Yeah.” Maybe.

  CHAPTER 10

  Doctor Ethan Phillips, duly licensed by the state of Maine to practice medicine for the past thirty-four years, and an Oxford County coroner for the past nineteen of those years, was nearing retirement. He’d long since forgotten how many autopsies he had performed during his career - it had to run into the thousands, certainly - but, despite the passage of so much time, his lifelong fascination with the science of forensic medicine had not waned in the least.

  It was Wednesday night and long past the time when Phillips would normally have departed for the comfort of home and hearth. His reluctance to leave his office stemmed from the troubling lack of answers he had derived from the autopsy performed on Henry Jarvis. The puzzle pieces with this one simply weren’t falling into place like they should.

  He leaned back in his desk chair, ran a hand over his bald pate, and lightly massaged his neck muscles, then removed his glasses and closed his eyes. It had been a long day. Still, he forced himself to mentally review his findings once again.

  By all indications Jarvis had died as a result of coronary thrombosis, occurring when a blood clot forms and attaches itself within one of the two coronary arteries. In layman's terms, a heart attack.

  That in itself was no great surprise for a man of sixty-two years. But the fact was, the man’s heart showed absolutely no signs of disease. Any first year medical student knew that disorders of the heart arose from congenital defects, structural or functional changes, infection of the heart tissues, or from the effects of infections elsewhere in the body. Very often, of course, they resulted from either high blood pressure or prolonged overexertion.