The Boy Must Die by Jon Redfern Read Free Book Online Page B

She claimed Darren had adjusted well. I had doubts. Hell, the cable TV people grabbed hold of the story. They went nuts, calling the house a drug hangout, a nest of Satan worship. The local school boards even put out a bulletin warning parents to keep their kids away from Satan House. I was surprised no one trashed the place. Darren, though, got through the mess, so I let the matter go.”
    “This morning, did Sheree offer any theory about how or why Darren ended up dead in the same basement as Cody Schow?”
    “No. She wasn’t too clear on anything. Her boyfriend, Randy, was with her again trying to calm her. She was pretty broken up.”
    “Who found the body?”
    “The boyfriend.”
    Billy paused.
    “I asked Dodd about Sheree Lynn. He blushed.”
    “I’m not surprised.” Butch grinned.
    “Surprised?”
    “You can judge for yourself, my friend.”
    Butch steered the Ford cruiser to the curb in front of a tall white mansion covered in peeling paint. Satan House sat east-west on Ashmead Street. Two tree-lined avenues, Baroness and Dufferin, stretched southward from Ashmead. Their old-money homes had three storeys, big fences, and back gardens that butted up against each other. Satan House had a pitched roof with two identical A-frame dormer windows. Stucco and wood slatting decorated the upper half of the once-proud façade, while on the first floor bay windows with cheap curtains bordered the front door. Billy remembered the place as a grand home on a selectstreet. There had always been flowers and a clipped lawn. Stories, too, about the rich eccentric Bartlett spinster who lived alone and refused entry to all visitors. A long pillared porch once skirted the ground storey. All that was left was the line of its former roof running across the slatting like a crusted scar.
    As Butch was about to switch off the engine, a compact woman with curly brown hair emerged from the front door of the house. She marched towards them carrying a black briefcase and a 35mm Nikon slung over her right shoulder. Billy noted her powerful stride as she crossed the dirt yard. The fullness of her breasts was evident beneath her uniform jacket. She passed around a small group of people gawking at the fluttering barrier tape. At the passenger window of the cruiser, she peered with blue eyes into the shadowy interior. Butch lowered the window.
    “Afternoon, Chief,” she said. “We’re wrapping up.”
    “Meet Billy Yamamoto. Constable Gloria Johnson.”
    Johnson extended her hand and with a firm grip shook Billy’s.
    “Billy was chief homicide detective with the Vancouver city police force for twelve years,” Butch said. “He’s agreed to join us on the investigation, if you have no objections. In fact, I want Billy to take charge of what we’re doing here since he has offered us his time.”
    “Fine with me, sir,” said Johnson. With quick eyes, she looked Billy up and down.
    “What have you found, Johnson?” Billy asked.
    “We’re done with the dusting and the rest of the photos and the site sketch, sir. I got up and took a look at the overhead pipe. Lots of rust. Tommy — he’s our medic — got blood samples from the floor. We also went around the neighbourhood like you suggested, Chief. No one home at one place. But Mrs. Aileen Moore, who lives with her teenage son next door, claimed she saw and heard nothing. The neighbour on the other side is bedridden, and his nurse said she sleeps in the basement and can’t hear street noise.”
    “What did the teenager see?” asked Billy.
    “Pardon me?” Johnson replied, her voice rising a little as her lipsparted in a sudden smile.
    “You said a Mrs. Moore lived next door with her son. Did he see anything? Did you meet him?”
    “Actually, no, Inspector. At the time, Mrs. Moore said he probably was still asleep.”
    “He may have been up in the night though. Or in late. Get their number and have the son come down to the station. Just routine. Get a hold of the nurse again,