What Can't be True
What Can’t
Be True
Jake Houser Crime Series #1
Bo Thunboe
Weston Press, LLC
Published in 2018 by Weston Press, LLC
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual people, organizations, places, events, or incidents is purely coincidental.
Copyright © 2018 by Brian D. Moore
All Rights Reserved
Cover Design by Jeroen ten Berge (jeroentenberge.com)
Interior Design by Kevin G. Summers (kevingsummers.com)
ISBN: 978-1-949632-00-2 (trade paperback)
ISBN: 978-1-949632-01-9 (ebook)
Weston Press, LLC
Naperville, IL
www.thunboe.com
For Diane
Table of Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Chapter Forty-Eight
Chapter Forty-Nine
Chapter Fifty
Chapter Fifty-One
Chapter Fifty-Two
Chapter Fifty-Three
Chapter Fifty-Four
Chapter Fifty-Five
Chapter Fifty-Six
Chapter Fifty-Seven
Chapter Fifty-Eight
Chapter Fifty-Nine
Chapter Sixty
Chapter Sixty-One
Chapter Sixty-Two
Coming Soon
Acknowledgments
About The Author
PROLOGUE
He pushed his hand into his pocket and rubbed the rosary, the cool stone beads rolling over each other with a muffled chacking. There was nothing to think about; he’d done what needed doing. This was just the cleanup. He squeezed the rosary tight, then released it.
Sticking his head inside the car, he looked out through the windshield to check his aim one last time. The car’s front end pointed across the picnic grove, straight at the old concrete footing, all that remained of the pedestrian bridge that had once spanned the waters. Beyond the footing the Paget River rushed, the full moon’s light glinting off its rain-swelled waters. He would drop the rock on the gas pedal, force the car into gear, and get out of the way. The Buick would speed across the grass, launch off the bridge footing, and disappear into the river forever.
A harsh skritching to his left. He flinched and dropped into a crouch, scanning the parking lot and the long curve of road entering the forest preserve. His heart pounded, his ears hot with pumping blood. Again. A scraping this time. Maybe a deer working its antlers against a tree. Or a skunk rooting around in the garbage cans. Nothing to worry about. The gate closed at dark, so the park had been empty for hours.
He picked up the rock he’d pried from the mud along the riverbank. It was heavy, flat, and cold in his hands. A breeze puffed, then held steady, the cool fall air chilling his sweat.
A bulbous white shape sprang up, startling him so much he nearly dropped the rock. The shape bounded across the picnic grove and snagged on a clump of grass. The breeze dropped, and it deflated, a plastic bag turned ghostly by the full moon.
“Get a grip.”
But the bag and the clump that had snagged it had his attention now. A mound capped with a stout tuft of grass. His gaze went to the dozens more such mounds that stood between the car and the river. He ground his teeth. If he didn’t tie the steering wheel in place, any one of them could throw the car off target.
He dropped the rock and searched the passenger compartment, avoiding the body, but found nothing to use to tie the steering wheel.
He reached for the trunk release lever, then snatched his hand back. The trunk was staying closed.
Remembering the rosary, he fished it from his pocket. He gathered up the body’s wrists, pinned them to the top of the steering wheel, and tried to wrap the rosary around them. But it was an awkward job in the tight space, and the arms kept slipping before he could get them tied. He settled his hip on the seat’s edge and squeezed the wrists tighter to the wheel before trying again.
He felt a throb against his thumb.
Another.
He jerked up out of the car, bile rising in his throat.
The body looked dead, pale and limp, dark blood crusted on its face. But its lips parted, and it sucked in a long whistle of air. He took a step backwards, and another, then stopped on shaky knees. He pulled in a deep breath, rolled his shoulders, and ducked back into the car.
The body shuddered, gulped air, and arched back against the seat. He threw his weight against it, but the body convulsed so hard it flung him back onto the grass.
The body moaned, a deep vibrato that broke into gasping breaths.
He lunged back into the car, trapped the head in the crook of his right elbow, and forced it down. The body fought him, but he cranked harder, a scream escaping him. Then he heard a quick string of pops and a crack, and the body went limp.
He pushed away and slid out of the car, sucking in big slugs of air, slick with sweat and trembling with adrenaline. A hot gush rose in his throat and he puked, the sour spew fouling his mouth and burning his sinuses. He wiped his chin, blew his nose into his hand, and rubbed the filth onto the grass.
He took long slow breaths until the pounding in his head subsided. Then he got back on his feet, fished the rosary off the floor, pushed the body up straight, and got its wrists tied to the steering wheel. He lowered all the windows and started the car.
He was ready.
He set the rock on the gas pedal, and the engine rushed to a high-pitched whine. Then he put the car in gear.
The Buick leapt away, the door brushing against his hair as it swung shut. The car’s back end bobbed as it bounced across the grass, but its course stayed true. Sparks sprayed when the front bumper hit the concrete bridge footing.
Then the car was airborne.
He chased after it and saw the splash. As he arrived at the
riverbank, the car was floating, its momentum carrying it away from him across the dark waters. The engine coughed, then fell silent. The current turned the car, which was sinking slowly, its front end low under the engine’s weight.
The silence was broken by a muffled shout. From the trunk. Then banging. A film of water was flung off the trunk with each blow.
“God damn it!” He clenched his fists and stepped forward. The riverbank crumbled beneath him, and he fell backward, his hands grabbing at air, and hit hard. A short squeal of pain escaped from him before he bit it off.
A gunshot cracked, shaking more water off the trunk. Another shot.
The water reached the open windows and flooded into the passenger compartment. The car dropped abruptly, leaving only the trunk above water.
Four more shots punched through the trunk before the car slid beneath the surface with a bubbling rush.
Now the deed was done.
CHAPTER ONE
Five Years Later
Detective Jake Houser scanned the crime scene from the shade at the edge of the parking lot. The Buick had been pulled from the water trunk first, and a muck-spackled smear across the grass led to where it now slumped on flat tires in the sunbaked picnic area. The mud slathering the car’s faded blue paint was drying and starting to crack, the windows gaped empty, and the trunk lid stood open. The body was there, in the trunk. A person committing suicide couldn’t drive his car into the lagoon from the trunk.
So this was a murder. Weston’s second murder this year.
His phone buzzed with a text message. Detective Callie Diggs, asking if Jake wanted help with the case. The text he’d sent her the day before was visible at the top of the screen, and his chest tightened when he saw it. It had felt right when he sent it, but her deafening silence in response told him it had been wrong.
He put the phone away and turned back toward the car. The dead came first.
Stepping into the sun, he backtracked along the mud trail, his feet crunching the browned-out grass, to the gap in the weeds where the car had been dragged up over the riverbank. The sun was so strong he had to squint through his Aviators, his face slick with sweat.
His gaze followed the car’s path across forty feet of mudflat. Bootprints pocked the mud, left by the Boy Scouts who had discovered the car while cleaning up the lagoon. Ripe decay filled the air.
Officer Grady, the responding uniform, stepped up beside him. “I grabbed a handout from the information box, and it shows that spot as the deepest point in the lagoon. Nineteen feet.” Grady offered Jake a tri-folded piece of paper. “Probably only ten or twelve feet deep right now, thanks to the drought, or the Scouts wouldn’t have spotted it.”
Jake gave the map a quick look, then pushed it into his front pocket. He’d spent a lot of time in this park as a teenager and knew it well. Back then a walking bridge spanned the lagoon and led to the narrow island that shielded it from the Paget River’s main flow. Jake would often cast down from the bridge to that deep spot, hoping to land one of the monster flathead catfish rumored to live there. He never did. It felt strange to be here now, investigating a murder, in the same spot where his memories were full of the clean energy and hopefulness of youth. He’d never had that feeling while working in Chicago, but had experienced it often since returning to Weston.
There was nothing left of the old walking bridge now, other than a concrete footing on both banks. But even when the bridge existed it had been too narrow for a car, and any car driven out onto that mud bottom would bog down before the rear tires got wet.
Sweat ran into his eye, and he blinked the sting away. He glanced at Grady, who had an excited sheen on his face.
Youth.
Grady bobbed his head toward the Buick. “The body’s still in the car.”
“Lead the way.”
Beyond the car, a horde of boys in Boy Scout khaki, green, and red swarmed along the shade at the wood’s edge. A half dozen men dressed in similar uniforms held them in check, and a scattering of other adults lingered back under the trees, swatting at the mosquitos bombing them from the underbrush. It was a big crowd, but cleaning out the lagoon was a massive project. The boys had already filled a big Dumpster that squatted in the parking lot.
Grady went straight to the Buick’s trunk, but Jake always examined a scene from the outside and worked his way in. He knew that once he saw the victim, anger would shift his focus from the scene to the killer—and he needed to learn what the scene could tell him before allowing the shift.
He stepped to the front of the car and scraped away the muck clinging to the front bumper with the bottom of his shoe. He found a pair of holes where the license plate should be mounted and rusty scrapes down the chrome. He dragged his shoe against the grass to wipe off the mud, then called out to Grady. “Is there a plate back there?”
Grady shook his head as he came around the side of the car. “No, but I got the VIN off the dashboard and called it in. It’s owned by a Pearl Cassano. Last registered in December of 2011.” He ripped a sheet from his notebook and handed it to Jake. “Here’s her info.”
“Nice work.” The registration date gave Jake the beginning of a timeline, and the owner’s name gave him a person to question. Questioning people was Jake’s specialty. But the crime scene always came first. He had limited time to get what he could from it; after he released it, anything found would be useless in court.
He stepped over a clump of muck to the driver’s door. He could see where Grady had rubbed through the mud on the windshield and scooped mud off the dashboard to get at the Buick’s vehicle identification number. Bending down, Jake peered into the passenger compartment. The cloth seat covers hung in tatters from rusty springs. The rear bench seat had been dislodged and lay twisted across the space; light shone through from the open trunk. Mud, sculpted into smooth swirls by the current, filled the compartment halfway to window level. A tangle of riverweed hung from the steering wheel, with something caught in it. Probably a fishing lure. A whiff of organic dampness reminded him more of a compost pile than death.
“How do you think they killed him, Detective?” Grady’s voice reverberated through the car from where he stood behind the trunk.
Jake pulled back. “Let’s take a look.”
He stepped around to the rear of the car and examined the shadowy space. A skull stared back at him from the mud-filled trunk. A handprint was pressed into the sludge on a jaw stained nearly as dark as the muck around it.
“Run it for me while I look it over.” Jake pulled latex gloves from his pocket and tugged them on.
“One of the Scouts picked up the skull and waved it around before a dad stopped him,” Grady said. “Kid thought it was a Halloween prop.”
Jake removed his sunglasses, folded them into his shirt pocket, and ducked his head into the trunk. The organic stench was so dense in the tight space he tasted it. Sweat dripped off his nose into the mud.
He reached in and rolled the skull back with a knuckle. The lower jaw gaped open to reveal crooked teeth, stark white against the stained bone, the molars crammed with amalgam. In the upper jaw, a gold central incisor glowed dully. Dental work. Which meant x-rays existed to confirm an identity—when he had one to compare to.
He caught the shine of slick nylon against the back of the passenger seat, with a skeletonized hand sticking out of it. The hand looked too big for the skull, but the comparison was hard to make when all the flesh was gone. Jake shifted to get a better look, and a tight shaft of sunlight blinded him. He straightened up and found its source. A hole in the trunk lid. Six of them. Christ! Jake burped up a mouthful of bile and swallowed it back down with a grimace.
“Grady.” Jake gestured at the holes. “Take a look.”
Grady eyeballed the open lid, then walked around the side of the car and rubbed a hand over it. “Are those what I think they are?”
“Bulle
t holes.”
“When do you think that happened? Do you think he was still alive when the car went in the water?”
“I do.”
That’s exactly how it had gone down. A man locked in a trunk with a loaded gun would shoot the latch, but these bullet holes were scattered across the trunk lid, which meant the shooter had been in a panic. The panic of someone locked in the trunk of a car with water pouring in. Someone who was drowning, and knew it. Had the killer stood here on the bank and listened to the shots and the screams that must have gone with them? Did he laugh? What kind of monster killed this way?
Jake sent Grady to take down the names and contact information of all the Boy Scouts and their families before sending them home. Then he called for a forensic team and an assistant coroner. Between the two of them, maybe he’d get an identity.
Then he would find the bastard who’d done this.
And make him pay.
CHAPTER TWO
Bull Warren stared out the hospice window, nothing to do but endure. Clouds drifted across the sky, thinning into wisps that passed from view, leaving behind an empty blue expanse. He flopped his head to look out his door, but the hallway was empty.
The air concentrator thumping away in the corner and the airy hiss from the cannula under his nose wormed back into his consciousness. Again. Bull gritted molars worn smooth by decades of teeth grinding, and turned on the bedside radio just as “traffic and weather together on the eights” began. As useless as that information was for a guy in a hospice bed, even traffic reports beat listening to the constant reminder that there wasn’t enough man left of him to even breathe for himself.
He straightened the cannula under his nose—his COPD tether—and turned back to the window. He imagined that beautiful sun warming him. Maybe Bev would come by and push his wheelchair over to the baseball fields—just a girl taking her dad for a walk like a damn pet.
He closed his eyes, mind drifting, memories pulsing in and fading out. He had always lived with an eye on the future, but now that he didn’t have one his focus kept drifting to the past. The hospice social worker said this was normal. Father John said it would help him make a full confession so he would be ready to join Jesus in Heaven. The confession wasn’t going to happen. No offense to Father John, but Bull would be his own best advocate in front of the Almighty. The Big Guy would cut him some slack—almost everything he’d ever done had served a greater good.