Chapter Three
Detective Eccles came to my house in the early afternoon. He carried an old black briefcase and wore an expression of mild remorse, as if he was sorry that he’d interrupted my day. He showed me his badge, identified himself, and I let him in. I’d painted the deck that morning, so we stayed inside.
I judged Eccles to be in his early forties. He wore a tan corduroy coat with brown leather patches at the elbows. Pressed white dress shirt. Blue slacks with a sharp crease on them and brown leather dress shoes polished to a high shine. Bright blue eyes with intelligence behind them. His skin was a healthy pink, and his black hair was cut short, as was his salt-and-pepper mustache. He was a few inches shorter than me, but he was built like a fireplug. When he shook my hand, he squeezed my fingers with the kind of force that implies either a challenge or massive strength. Everything about his bearing told me that it would be a mistake to underestimate him.
I’d offered to make coffee, and he accepted. I stood in the kitchen while the water came to a boil in the microwave. While Eccles waited, he picked through my record collection in the living room. I watched him take the Miles Davis Kind of Blue album from the shelf and look at the cover.
“This Miles Davis album,” he said. “One of my favorites.”
“Mine, too. You can put it on if you want.”
“Maybe some other time,” he said.
“Sure,” I said. “Do you want anything in your coffee?”
“Black’s fine.”
I nodded.
When the coffee was ready, I carried the mugs into the living room. Eccles took his mug and briefcase over to the sofa and took a seat. I sat in the old recliner and looked past Eccles through the big picture window. Seagulls riding the ocean breeze hung like kites in the air, suspended and nearly motionless hundreds of feet above the beach.
“Thank you for agreeing to see me,” he said. He took a sip from his coffee mug before putting it on a coaster on the end table. I held onto my mug because it gave me something to do with my hands. If I was a smoker, I would have lit a cigarette. I hadn’t forgotten Eric’s comment that Eccles had a reputation for being a bulldog, and I was nervous.
“Glad to,” I said.
“How long have you lived here?” he asked.
“About six months.”
“Lucky to have such a nice view. I don’t see much surf in Oklahoma. Whitecaps on Lake Hefner are about as close as I get.”
I gave a small laugh. “I enjoy it. Rainy in the winter, but the rain chases most of the tourists away, so it isn’t all bad.”
“Every cloud has a silver lining,” he said. It was quiet for a moment in the living room. I heard the surf flattening out against the beach with a sighing sound.
“Do you mind talking with me about what happened to your parents?” Eccles asked.
“Not at all.”
He nodded and said “I appreciate that. You could refuse to discuss it with me if you wanted to. Sometimes family members don’t want to dredge things up, particularly when something happened so long ago. It reawakens powerful feelings, many of them painful. I’m not telling you anything you don’t already know.”
“Ask.”
He paused for a beat and then gave a small shoulder shrug. His face conveyed harmlessness. I didn’t believe it.
“I want you to try to relax,” he said. “I’m not going to hypnotize you, but sometimes it helps to clear your mind. Just shift yourself mentally into neutral and put yourself back in that place. Closing your eyes can help sometimes, too.”
“Okay,” I said.
I shifted my position slightly in the recliner and looked past Eccles to the ocean’s horizon.
“Do you have any memories of the day when you lost your parents?” Eccles said.
I looked at Eccles. “I didn’t lose them. Someone murdered them. My contact with the witness protection program says it looks like Anthony Peck might be connected with it. I gather that someone found the body of one of Peck’s enforcers near my parent’s house.”
Eccles took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Then he pursed his lips, thinking.
“Wow,” he said. “We’ll discuss Anthony Peck at some point, I promise. Let’s start at the beginning, though. You tell me what you remember, and then I’ll tell you what I think about Peck and everything else. Fair enough?”
“Okay,” I said. “That sounds fair.”
“All right then. Relax, if you can, and tell me about that day,” Eccles said. “It must have been extremely traumatic.”
I focused on the horizon again. “I remember leaving the house in the morning after I came downstairs. My parents were both at the kitchen table when I left. I spent a few hours exploring in the woods near our house, which I often did in the summer. When I came home for lunch, I found my parents. They tell me that I called the police. I don’t remember calling, but I guess that I did.”
“Did your parents say anything when you left that day?”
“Not that I remember. They were sitting beside each other at the kitchen table looking at some papers.”
“Were they bookkeeping ledgers? You were an accountant. You know what those look like, right?”
“I’m not sure,” I said. “I don’t remember if they were looking at bills or a ledger. My father had a car dealership. He brought paperwork home pretty often.”
“But you’re sure they were looking at some kind of paperwork at the kitchen table when you left?”
I looked at Eccles. “It seemed like it. They had their backs to me, though. I didn’t see what it was.”
I watched Eccles. I could sense his focus and awareness.
“Did your parents tell you that they were expecting someone to come by the house?” He spoke so gently that his words felt more like a nudge for me to continue than a question that I needed to answer.
“No.”
“You seem sure.”
“Like I said, they barely noticed when I left the house. I told them I was going outside to walk around in the woods, and I left. They didn’t mention any visitors. We had company so rarely that it would have been noteworthy if they’d said someone was coming. Most of the traffic on our street was oil well service crews. That’s about it.”
He nodded. “All right. That’s good information. Did your parents ever tell you that they were in money trouble?”
“No.”
“Did you suspect that your father’s car business was struggling?”
“It seemed like it was boom and bust with the car dealership. It was either good or it was terrible. I guess I had gotten used to the ups and downs, and I didn’t really think about it.”
“Did either of your parents tell you that they’d been threatened?”
“No.”
Eccles sat silently for a few seconds. “Okay,” he said. “Where did you say your brother was that day?”
“I don’t remember mentioning my brother, but he was at scout camp.”
Eccles’ eyes narrowed slightly before returning to the flat, expressionless stare.
“Why didn’t you go to scout camp with him?” he asked.
“Going to camp was a reward for him being a good student. My grades weren’t good. I stayed home.”
He gave a little smile. “And did what?”
“Like I said. I walked around in the woods.”
“What did you do that summer when you weren’t walking around in the woods?” he asked.
“Caught bugs in the back yard. Built a fort out of blankets in my bedroom. Watched television. Things like that.”
“When you were in the woods, did you ever visit the oil well near your house?” he asked. He watched my expression very closely.
“Yes,” I said. “I know the one you’re talking about.”
“Okay,” he said. There was a long pause. He watched me. I watched him.
“Did you visit the oil well on the day your parents were killed?”
“No. I walked a
round on the game trails. That area has deer in it, and they cut trails through the oak forest that surrounded our house. I liked following the trails to see where they went.”
“Did you see anyone else that day when you were away from the house?” he asked.
“No.”
“Did you hear any unusual sounds? Gunfire, a car engine, anything?”
“It was a very long time ago, but I don’t remember anything unusual.”
“So you didn’t come back to the house for a snack, for a drink? You were away for several hours, right?”
“That’s right.”
“Didn’t you get thirsty? I mean, it’s summer, right?”
“Sometimes I carried a plastic canteen with me. I’d fill it up before I left the house.”
“Did you carry anything else with you?”
I shrugged. “It was more than twenty years ago. You really expect me to remember that?”
“I’m just trying to clear up a few things,” he said. “That’s why I came to see you.”
“I thought you wanted to talk to me about how Anthony Peck and his leg breaker murdered my parents.”
“We’ll get to that,” he said. “I promise.”
I didn’t say anything.
“Were you a Boy Scout like your brother was?” he asked.
“No, just my brother.”
Eccles surprised me by pulling a plastic evidence bag from his briefcase and laying it on the coffee table. I could see that the bag contained the Scout’s survival guide that I’d used as an adventure playbook. The guide was stained and yellowed by time, but I recognized it just the same.
“You ever seen this before?” he said.
“It looks like the kind of outdoor survival book my brother read when he was scouting.”
Eccles nodded to himself and then pulled a laminated picture out of his briefcase. He held the picture out to me and watched my expression closely.
“Do you recognize this?” he asked.
“Looks like a military forty-five.”
The pistol was covered in rust. The checkered wooden grip on the handle had begun to crack. A small ruler lay beneath the corroded barrel to give photographic perspective to the size of the gun.
“Good guess. It’s a Colt model nineteen eleven forty-five caliber automatic. It’s the kind of firearm that soldiers carry sometimes. The serial number on the pistol was registered to your father’s unit when he was in the army. I think he brought the pistol home with him when he mustered out.”
“Where did you find it?” I asked.
“In a shallow grave about a quarter mile from where your parents were killed. It was by that oil well I asked you about.”
I didn’t say anything.
“We also found the remains of a man in the grave with the pistol. A wallet at the scene said his name was Randall Burton. The scouting survival guide was in the grave, too.”
He pulled another laminated picture out of his briefcase, this time of a ragged piece of canvas.
“Do you recognize this?”
“No.”
“The forensics lab says that they think it’s what’s left of a backpack of the kind Boy Scouts used when your brother was scouting. Most of it had rotted and disintegrated, but enough of it was left that they’re pretty sure that’s what it was.”
I didn’t say anything.
“Let me ask you something, Delorean.”
“Go ahead.”
“Your father’s gun wasn’t used to hurt either of your parents, but we think it was used to shoot Burton, the man in the shallow grave. Like I said, the gun and your brother’s backpack and scout manual were found with the body. How do you think that happened?”
“I don’t know,” I said.
“When we started this interview, I said that I’d tell you what I think. Remember?” Eccles said.
“Sure. I remember.”
“I think it doesn’t make any sense. I can see how your father’s pistol might have wound up in the grave, but not the backpack or survival guide. I can’t see why anyone would steal them. They have no value.”
“I don’t think it’s that hard,” I said.
“Really? How do you think it happened?”
“Suppose the bad guys went through the house after the shooting stopped. Maybe they picked up my brother’s backpack and used it to collect things worth stealing. The backpack could have had the survival guide in it. They decide that one of those things worth stealing is my father’s gun, and they put the gun in the backpack, too. After they leave the house, they walk to the opening where the oil well is. Maybe they’d parked their car on the access road that the oil company used sometimes. They have a falling out for some reason, and one of the bad guys shoots the other bad guy, and then he buries him with the backpack.”
Eccles rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Wow,” he said. “That was really quick. You seem to have a knack for this. That certainly ties everything up neatly.”
“You asked me to explain how it could happen. That seems like one possible way.”
Eccles took a deep breath and let it out. “Yeah. That’s one possible explanation. Here are a couple more possibilities. Maybe your brother didn’t actually go to scout camp. I’m still working on proving that one way or the other. Maybe he was actually home while you were out wandering in the forest and you’re covering for him. Maybe he got hold of your father’s gun, chased the bad guy with the gun and put him in the ground along with his backpack and book. Maybe he thought he needed to get rid of the evidence for some reason. It’s possible that it could have happened that way. He was older and bigger than you, right? Seems more likely to me that he got into it with these guys than you did. You have an opinion on that?”
“Like I told you,” I said. “Bricklin was away at scout camp. Shouldn’t be that hard for you to find that out. He must have been interviewed by the police at the time. Don’t the records show that? You must have already checked. Right?”
He ignored me and continued. “Another possibility is that Bricklin really was away at scout camp like you say and for some reason that day you’d taken your father’s gun from the house, along with the backpack and survival book. Maybe your dad said it was okay for you to borrow the gun, maybe you thought it was fun to carry it around because it made you feel like a stud, maybe you felt like you needed it to protect yourself from rabies-infected raccoons. Who knows? After the bad guy shot up your parents’ house, you two ran into each other at the oil well. You were a little kid at the time, maybe he didn’t take you seriously, and you surprised him with the forty-five. His body is too big for you to drag very far, so you buried him where it happened, by the oil well. What do you think about that explanation?”
“I think you have a knack for this,” I said. “That certainly ties things up very neatly.”
Eccles laughed the way someone does when their patience is being tested. “This guy we found in the shallow grave wore a holster strapped to his thigh like a gunfighter in a western movie. You ever see anybody like that near your parents’ property?” he asked. “I’m pretty sure you’d remember if you did.”
His face was as expressionless as a professional poker player’s.
We locked eyes.
“Thing is,” he said. “That forty-five your father owned was empty when we found it. The damage to Burton’s body is consistent with someone putting all seven rounds into him.”
He didn’t say anything for a few seconds. We watched each other, him sitting placidly on the sofa, me in the recliner. I took a sip of my coffee.
“When someone empties their gun into somebody, Delorean, it usually happens for one of two reasons. Either it’s personal or someone wants to make a statement. Since the body was buried so no one could find it, I think it was personal. But I just can’t see why someone having a falling out with an accomplice would act that way. With an accomplice, it’s usually one shot to the back of the head, or a couple to the body. Not like this. Do you follow my logic?”
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“I think you’re looking at evidence that’s twenty years old and making wild guesses, Detective Eccles,” I said. “If you think that Burton was working for Anthony Peck, why not ask Peck if he was at my parents’ house that day, or ask Peck who Burton was running with? Wouldn’t that be more efficient than making wild guesses about me or my brother being involved in this somehow? I’ve been cooperative about answering your questions, but I think we’re done here. I’ve told you what I can remember about that day, and I’m finished with this conversation. Is that clear enough for you?”
“Yeah,” Eccles said. He nodded slightly and let out a short breath through pursed lips. His expression changed to one of resolute determination. “Pretty clear. Just so you understand where I’m coming from, if you put down someone who killed your parents and tried to kill you too, I think you should get a medal and I’d pin the medal on you myself. I’d shake your hand for what you did, okay? You were just a kid. My problem is that if an accomplice to Burton and your parents’ killing put him down, I need to find that guy and get him off the street, even after all this time. Three people were killed that day. I can’t just look the other way, even if Burton had it coming. Do you understand?”
“Yes I do,” I said.
“Then I guess we do agree on something,” Eccles said.
“Are you going to ask Peck about his connection with Burton?” I asked.
“In fact, I am,” Eccles said. He stood, stretched, and put the evidence bag and pictures back into his briefcase. “I’m supposed to meet with him in a little over an hour. Guess I better get going. Let me give you one suggestion before I go, although under that cool veneer you seem like a hothead to me. One who won’t take advice.”
“What’s that?”
“Off the record I’ll tell you that nobody’s been able to pin anything on Anthony Peck, but he’s been connected with half a dozen killings that I know of. And as bad as that sounds, there’s probably more. It’s possible that he killed your parents, and it’s even possible that he’s the one who killed Burton at the oil well. I don’t know that yet, but I will. What I’m trying to tell you is that if you bother Peck, bad things could happen.”
“I guess you better get him for what happened to my parents, then. If you don’t, I’ll make bothering him my full-time job.”
“Somehow it doesn’t surprise me to hear you say that,” he said. He handed me one of his business cards.
“Call me if you remember anything else, okay?” he said. He gave me a small, tight smile.
“I will,” I said. “Stay in touch.”
“Count on it.”