Wicked Intentions - Kevin Flynn

Скачать книгу

go in here.” Rumrill pointed to a room off the kitchen. It was a laundry room. We’re not going to be that lucky, Mudgett thought as he put his hand on the washing machine.

      He opened the top. To his surprise, there still was something inside. He peeked in, but leaned back after a smell got into his nostrils again. There was a musty, putrefied odor again. Holding his breath, Mudgett reached in and poked around. There were some wet clothes inside, but taking up most of the well was a comforter. The detective pulled it out and it smelled even worse. It reeked of puke and decomposition.

      On the second floor of the house, Jackson and Rumrill sprayed Leuco Crystal Violet throughout the bathroom. Unlike the one downstairs, it was a full bath, with a ceramic tub and tiled wall. Cast-off was found on the tiles as well as on the ceiling. What went on in this room?

      Jackson put the LCV on the sink and in the tub using a wash bottle. The pre-mixed concentration was mostly hydrogen peroxide and 5-sulfasalicylic acid. The sink and tub looked clean, until the chemical hit them. The LCV began to react with the hemoglobin in the invisible red blood cells still clinging to the fixtures. It came alive in a vivid purple. There were dilute stains over the entirety of both surfaces.

      Back downstairs, just off the laundry room, was a half-bath. Mudgett looked around and found a half gallon jug of laundry bleach. He picked it up and shook it. Mostly empty. Smart cookie, he thought. First she burned the DNA on the body. Then she destroyed what was left inside the house with bleach.

      He gave a heavy sigh. They were going to be here a while.

      Estabrook and Conte were outside the farmhouse waiting patiently for Mudgett and the others to emerge with details. The sun was bright and the view was beautiful. Every now and then, a stray rabbit moved in the underbrush, startling one of them. The two cops decided to take stock of some other things found near the burn pit.

      In the back of Sheila’s green pickup truck were a couple of yellow fuel containers. Estabrook noted the license plate number started with “AG,” the code that indicated agricultural equipment. The containers were all empty and they smelled of diesel fuel. He already knew the containers were new and knew where and when Sheila got them.

      “What on this farm runs on diesel fuel?” Estabrook asked Conte.

      “Not this pickup.” He made note of the other vehicles on the land. There was a black luxury car, a silver luxury car and another pickup truck. None of them used diesel.

      The silver car had a vanity plate. It read, “CAYCE.”

      There was one tractor, an old rusted jalopy of a thing. It ran on diesel, but its engine had given up the ghost a long time ago.

      Conte’s cell phone rang. It was the deputy state medical examiner.

      “Doctor Duval just got a second opinion on the bone photos we sent her,” Conte explained to Estabrook. “She consulted with a forensic anthropologist in Maine. They both agree the bones look human.”

      “They’re going to want to see the actual bones though, right?”

      “Yes,” Conte said. They started making arrangements to bring some of the tagged samples from the van up to the medical examiner in Concord. It occurred to them both that they could be collecting all that remained, and all that might ever be found, of Kenneth Countie.

      The lieutenant pointed across the yard to the blue Wal-Mart bag blowing in the breeze. “Make sure,” Conte said, “you bring that, too.”

       8

       You Know Who I Am

      When they woke up on the morning of Monday, March 27, Paquin and Charpentier put their heads together on how to help their new friend, Sheila LaBarre. But the buxom blonde who spent the night in Donald’s bedroom (Donald volunteered to sleep on the recliner in the living room) had already been formulating a plan on how to proceed. Sheila had been running her finger through the yellow pages seeking an attorney. She spotted one running a full-page ad and she made a note of the number and address.

      “Angel,” Sheila addressed Paquin that morning, “whatever will I do with my beloved animals?”

      “Your rabbits? Amy can watch them for you.”

      “No, dear. Not just the rabbits. My horses. I have three of them and two ponies. And my dog, Demetrius. He’s a faithful Dalmatian that comes from champion blood, a registered pedigree. They’re all on my farm and those barbarians will mistreat them. They won’t even feed them, I’m sure.”

      Paquin didn’t understand what Sheila was talking about. It was early and she hadn’t had breakfast yet.

      “I will sell them to you.”

      “What?”

      “My animals. I trust you and only you. You can take my horses and my dog.”

      “Horses, Mama?” Pam’s daughter sprinted into the room. “Can we have them? Can we?”

      Pamela Paquin thought it over. There was no place in her city neighborhood for horses. The costs of caring for such animals were more than her family could afford. And taking possession of such a thing in the middle of a murder investigation seemed an impossible task. Sheila sensed Paquin’s thoughts.

      “I’ll provide you with a notarized bill of sale. And I know some places you can board them. I’ll help you with money for hay.”

      Paquin felt there was no way she could turn Sheila down. She was sorry for this woman who didn’t seem to have a friend in the world. Paquin thought she was doing a good thing by agreeing to take care of the animals.

      Charlie agreed to take Sheila to the Wal-Mart in Manchester. Sheila bought new, more modest clothes for her visit to the lawyer’s. She chose a black blouse, sweater and skirt and a fresh pair of underwear. She grabbed a bottle of hair dye. She also purchased a cellular telephone and a pre-paid calling card. Before they left the store, Sheila went into the ladies’ room and put on the new clothes.

      Charlie brought Sheila back to Pam’s home. Sheila seemed nervous and started to complain of an upset stomach. Sandra and Pam agreed to go with Sheila to the attorney’s office. They took Pam’s car and left Sheila’s parked on the street in front of the house.

      The three women drove to Manchester’s North End. That part of the Queen City is filled with Victorian homes that had belonged to mill owners and the well-heeled at the turn of the twentieth century. By the turn of this century, many of those burnt brick homes had been changed into quaint office spaces for professionals of every ilk.

      Next, Sheila went to the law office of the attorney she found in the phone book. It was another sunny day in New Hampshire. Sure to be cold in the morning, comfortably mild by midday, then brisk again at dusk. A day when the heater knob in the car starts in the red, travels to the blue and then gets twisted back to the red before bedtime. Paquin and Charpentier waited in the car as Sheila made her way inside the building.

      “What do you think he’s saying to her?” Paquin asked.

      “I don’t know.”

      “Do you think Adam is dead?”

      “I don’t know!” Charpentier snapped as if she’d just been accused of something. “Do you?!”

      “I don’t know!”

      “Well I don’t know.”

      Pam paused. “What if he is?”

      “What if he’s what?”

      “What if he’s dead?”

      “I don’t know!”

      “The lawyer’s going to ask her if she murdered him,” Pam mused.

      “Maybe.

Скачать книгу