SAFELY BURIED Chapter 11: The Ex Factor

I went to my office, plopped down behind the desk, and took a deep breath. I smelled of sweat. I went to the men’s room to wash up, ignoring the grinning questions along the way.

Back at my desk, I dealt with the most pressing matters that were waiting for me, and then I called Lieutenant Bakery.

He answered with, “Hey, Phil. I hear your car was stolen.” No laughing.

“That was fast,” I said. “Did you find it yet?”

“Sorry. Not yet.”

“Damn, I thought I’d have my car back by now.”

“I’m sorry you’re dissatisfied. Excuse me a second.” He muffled the phone and said something to someone, then abruptly returned. “I understand you told the sheriff’s people you don’t know who stole it. Is that correct?”

“Yes. I imagine it was Paula Henry, but I couldn’t see her.”

“You sure about that?”

“Of course I am.”

“The sheriff’s department said you told them you saw your car being driven away.”

“That’s right, but it was too far for me to see who was driving.”

“Could you tell if it was a man or a woman?”

“No.”

There was a strained silence. Then he said, “She must be the one that took it. We’re still looking for her.”

“Have you found out where she lives?” I asked.

“I thought you said Indianapolis.”

“I mean where in Indianapolis. But wait a minute—” I tried to recall exactly what she had told me, and what I had told Sheriff Eggemann. “It just occurred to me that she never actually said she lives in Indianapolis, Lieutenant. What she said was ‘I thumbed a ride from Indy,’ and that’s what I told the sheriff. I don’t believe I ever said she lives there. I only know what she told me. But when she was talking about her friends, Cheryl and Wayne Garth, and how they had wanted to get out of Indianapolis and live in the country, she sure sounded as if they all lived in Indianapolis.”

Bakery made an exasperated noise that sounded a little bit like a machine gun: “Tu-tu-tu-tu-tu-tu-tu-tu-tu-tu,” followed by, “So, for all you know she could live in Tahiti.”

“I think we can rule out Tahiti.”

“I’m beginning to think we can rule out Indianapolis too,” he said. “We found a couple of Paula Henry’s in Marion County, but they don’t match your Paula Henry.” He let me digest this information, then said, “It might not be her real name.”

“I hope you’re wrong about that,” I said.

“I hope so too. But it shouldn’t be this hard to track down a woman with a leg in a cast. We’re checking with doctors and hospitals now on recent cases.”

“I don’t buy it,” I said. “She had no reason to give me a fake name.”

“She probably didn’t want her name in the paper.”

“That can’t be it. When she told me her name, she didn’t know I work for a paper. We hadn’t found the bodies yet. We hadn’t even found the house she was looking for. You’re right though—later, when I told her I had to write a story about the murders, she didn’t like it that her name might be in it. And she didn’t want to talk to the police, which is why she disappeared, I think.”

“Yes, you told me that yesterday. Like I said, we’ll keep looking for her. We lifted a lot of fresh fingerprints in the house. Some of them must be hers. If she has a record, we’ll make a match.”

It was time to move on. I asked if autopsies had been performed on the Garths’ bodies.

“Yes they have,” he said. I heard him flipping through his notes. “Each victim was shot several times with a .45-caliber weapon. Wayne Garth was shot twice in the chest, once in the abdomen, and once in the back of the head. Cheryl Garth was shot once in the left thigh, once in the left breast—which the bullet passed clean through—and once in the top of the head. It was not a professional hit. Too sloppy. The shots in the head were no doubt intended to make sure they were dead.”

“Must have been quite a scene,” I said. “It sounds as though Cheryl was not mortally wounded until she was shot in the head.”

“That’s how I see it. She was probably screaming like hell.”

“Do you have any suspects?” I asked.

“We have a couple of leads, but I don’t want to go there.”

“Did you come up with any more information about the Garths?”

“Some. When he was in high school, Wayne Garth was arrested a couple of times for possession of marijuana. That was in Kokomo. Later, in Indianapolis, he was arrested for dealing drugs where he worked. Nothing major. That was almost five years ago, and he’s had a clean sheet ever since.”

“That’s interesting,” I said. “Are you aware that back in 1999 a ‘crop’ of marijuana was found in a cornfield here in Meridian County, not far from the house where the Garths lived? But they didn’t live here then, as far as I know.”

“I hadn’t heard about the marijuana,” he replied. “Where’d you get that?”

I told him about my conversation with Sheriff Chuck Martin and the article in the paper. He asked me to fax him a copy as soon as I could.

“And did you know that the house the Garths lived in belongs to a guy named Walter Boofey?”

“Let’s see.” He went through his notes again. “Right,” he said. “Boofey’s wife is the former Caroline Dubbs, the daughter of Esther Dubbs, who used to own it. Walter and Caroline got married a year after he bought the property. That’s how they met. Look, Phil, I’ve got to get going.”

“Just one more thing, Lieutenant. One of the Garths’ neighbors told me they owned an RV. I’m wondering if it was in the barn. Did you see it there?”

“Yes. Why?”

“I’m wondering if Paula—if that’s her name—might have been sleeping there the past two nights.”

“There is a small RV in the barn, but when I checked it yesterday, it did not appear to have been used for some time. I’ve got to go now, Phil. Good talking to you. Keep in touch.” With that he hung up.

Before I would forget, I faxed the marijuana article to Bakery. Then I went to the lounge for a cup of coffee and brought it back to my desk. I wanted to write my next story on the Garth case. In fact, that’s all I wanted to do. But I still had my day job, and I was half a day behind on my work. No dinner at Applebee’s for me tonight. I could order a sandwich from Blimpie’s later. Or I could skip dinner altogether and lose some weight. I liked that idea better. I needed to get back in shape if I wanted to run up and down the knobs.

I had always worked long days at the Gleaner. It did not bother me. It took my mind off other things.

I finished my latest piece on the Garths about 9:30. Then I helped lay out the front page. Since there were no late meetings to worry about on Friday, I managed to get out of the office around 10:15. It was a nice night, so I decided to walk home instead of taking a company car. I wondered if I’d ever see my Civic again. The article I had just written did not mention that it had been stolen. I felt as if I was doing something wrong by withholding information from our readers, but it remained true that I did not know if Paula had taken the car, and if she hadn’t, then why would I want to mention her in my story?

I crossed the street and passed the courthouse. Now that I was on my way home, I suddenly felt tired. I had eight more blocks to walk. I crossed Washington Street, went another block on Main, and turned left on Adams. The sidewalk was filled with a noisy crowd of people piling out of the Campbellsville Little Theatre. Some headed for their cars, while others stood around talking with members of the cast who were lined up in front of the theatre. As I picked my way through the mob I came face to face with my ex-wife and her husband.

“Hi, Phil,” Vickie said. There was no animosity, no guilt in her voice, only what I always took as mild condescension.

“Hello, Vickie.” I looked at her husband. “Hi, Tyler.”

“How are you, Phil.” It wasn’t a question, so I did not answer.

“I’ve been reading your stories in the paper,” Vickie said. “Very interesting.”

“Thanks.”

She tilted her head with a smile, almost a laugh. “But what ever possessed you to pick up that hitchhiker? You always told me not to pick up anyone, no matter what.”

“I forgot my own advice.”

“What if she had a gun or something?”

“She didn’t have room for a gun in her cast.”

Her eyes popped wide, and with a short burst of laughter, she said, “That’s not the only place she could have hidden it.”

Her oval face was sensual and smart, with delicate lips that gleamed with silvery gloss under the streetlights. She had a small, pert nose and dark hair that used to be wavy down to her shoulders but was now a short, bouncy perm.

“So how are you doing?” I asked her.

“We’re doing great. We just got home from Key West. What a wacky spot. They have chickens running around all over the place.” She laughed merrily. “Ty would like to move there, wouldn’t you, Ty? But he always talks about moving to the latest place we’ve been.”

Ty was a short-bearded, motorcycle-riding, whitewater-rafting, cross-country-skiing anesthesiologist. At the moment he looked as if he wished his wife and former nurse would get this over with.

“I’m glad you had a good time,” I said.

“Thanks, Phil,” she replied. “Well, good night.”

Her high heels clicked away on the sidewalk. I wished they would move to Key West. I always tried to avoid Vickie if I saw her coming. It was usually in a supermarket or drugstore. Conversations like this one depressed me. It would take me a day to get over it.

Why did I have to bump into her tonight? Five minutes ago I had been in a pretty good mood. Tired and worn out, yes, but it was tiredness based on a sense of accomplishing something, a pleasant weariness. I was just starting to feel better about myself. Now, walking the last six blocks to my apartment, I wondered if I was the one who should move. I had been thinking about it for years. Why hadn’t I done it? There was nothing holding me here, except inertia. Why did I have to bump into her again? I wished I could get her out of my head once and for all.

On nights like this I generally ended up drinking myself to sleep. I kept a bottle of Johnnie Walker Black Label on hand for just such emergencies.