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“Do you know why Margaret murdered Elsie?”
“No. Did she?” Felton hesitated before continuing. “It’ll be Elsie’s fault for getting killed. She’s nothing but a gossipmonger.”
Gibson urged his lips together, bearing the fury he felt at the despicable man. Felton accepted the detective’s gag for approval.
“She spreads rumours like I smear peanut butter.” His snicker changed into a fit of whooping. He tugged out his grubby handkerchief and added to its ghastly stench. Gibson remained restrained, letting the aged fellow babble on.
“Ten years ago, she claimed I was a paedophile. Suggested I had something to do with…” He clamped his trap shut and launched a sneaky look toward the detective.
“With what Felton?”
“Nothing, Gibson.” He dragged out the word into a drawl and coughed.
“So, what happened lately that changed things?”
“Gregory is what happened.”
“What like father, like son?” Gibson recalled what Jackie had heard.
“Yeah, something like that.”
“Tell me, Felton, where did the rape happen?” Not that it was relevant, but he was curious.
“At the beach.” Felton’s black eyes drilled into his steely grey eyes.
“What? At Lawsons Lane?” The answer surprised Gibson. He tried to connect the dots while Felton rambled on.
“Who does she think she is? Accusing me of whatever. Moreover, Gregory didn’t even rape anyone. So the hell with that father and son bullshit.” He stopped and wiggled in his chair, sliding down further into its tortuous hardness. His face had turned crimson. “It’s all because the victim was a kid Elsie knew.”
The inspector’s cell trilled. “Gibson.” He listened for a while, his mouth twitching with anticipation. “You’re sure. Blue.” He hung up.
“Where do you fit in, Felton?” Gibson asked, trying to keep his tone detached.
“I don’t,” he answered, struggling to bolt out of his seat, but choked instead. “What bullshit!” Felton gobbed into his bandana. The coughing ceased for a time. He mopped his mouth and cleared his throat. It sent him into a fit. He clutched at his chest.
Gibson got up. He hollered down the corridor. “Hey, Cooper. Get us some water.” The old man continued to gag. “Stat.”
“Here you go boss.” Cooper came around the corner a second later.
Felton gulped down the cool liquid and collected himself. “I’ve had enough of this crap.” He licked his tobacco-stained lips.
“A few more questions, if you don’t mind,” Gibson said. He stared at the drained glass. Well water. Felton’s house next to the beach access. The tumultuous thoughts that had trundled through his mind and nagged suddenly came together—to just one outcome that made sense. “Should we search for Katie’s body at your place?” The pit-bull snarled at him.
“What? No,” Felton shouted.
“In the pump house?” Gibson bared his teeth.
Felton’s unsavoury pallor waned further. He spat on the floor.
Gibson stuck his head out the door and yelled, “Cooper.”
“What’s going on?” Eckhart looked up at the screeching and bustled down the hallway from her vigilance.
“They found some blue shorts in the pumphouse,” Gibson said as he stepped out into the corridor.
“So?” Eckhart said.
“A child’s size. Dilapidated.” He thought of the file and the description of blue shorts the young girl had worn. “It’s a long shot but what if Katie didn’t drown?”
“What? You’re kidding. Margaret?”
“No. Felton. Everything seems to be linked to that beach.”
“What does that mean?” she asked.
“I’m not sure. But a DNA test will tell us if the shorts are Katie’s.”
“Why would Felton keep them? Some kind of souvenir?”
“That’s right. He has a history of sexual misconduct. Remember,” Gibson replied.
Eckhart nodded.
“Yes, sir.” The constable sprinted toward them and skidded to an abrupt standstill in front of Gibson.
“Call your guys at the house. Tell them to search further in the pump house.”
Cooper inclined his head in query.
“With shovels,” Gibson said.
“Sir.”
“They’ll be looking for bones. Old bones. Of an adolescent.”
“Whoa. Right away,” Cooper replied. He flipped a salute and was about to charge off when a commotion snared his attention. Felton had scraped his chair along the floor and lunged at Gibson, slamming him into the metal doorframe.
“Let me out of here. You, asshole,” he shouted.
“Get this man locked up first,” Gibson said. He seized the old man gruffly by the wrist and shoved him over to the DC. As Cooper dragged him down the corridor to the cells at the rear of the station, Felton howled, wailed and cursed.
“You can’t do this to me. She stumbled and struck her head. It wasn’t my fault...” Felton bit down on his lip.
Gibson ran after him.
“What did you say?”
“Nothing. I did nothing,” he whined. His face glistened in the muddy light. His lips were chapped and raw, a dribble of blood stuck on his sharp chin.
“You did nothing all right. Not a thing to save Katie. You make…”
Cooper thrust Felton into a four-walled white box. The gate clanged shut, and with a flourish of the key the detainee was secured. He took a backward glance and snorted. Felton remained huddled on the concrete, coughing and gasping for breath.
“I’m going to die in here,” he whimpered. His body shivered in the midst of the heatwave.
“Die, you bastard,” Cooper mumbled behind his hand. He kicked at the floor as he left and headed to the house at the end of Lawsons Lane.
Gibson shook himself off and proceeded to the front desk.
“Get a doctor in there for Felton. We have to do it right. The man needs some medical attention,” he said.
“You bet,” the dispatcher replied and picked up the phone.
* * *
Eckhart leaned on the counter, already starting on the mounds of reports that needed to be done. She looked up when Gibson approached.
“Margaret won’t say a word,” she said.
“Felton made up for it.” His cell buzzed. “Okay. Yes.” He hung up.
“Keep me in suspense,” Eckhart said.
“They found bones.”
“That quick?”
“Felton didn’t stash them deep. The forensic anthropologist is on her way. We’ll find out in a few hours.”
“Oh, my god.” She held her palm to her mouth. “Is it Katie?”
“Not certain if the bones are even human at this point,” he replied. “My flight is still hours away. Should we go for a beer?”
“Sure.” She hitched. “Gibson.”
He looked at Eckhart.
“I’ll drive you to the airport. No problem.”
“Okay. Thanks. That would be really nice.”
They bumped fists. The walk to the pub was stifling, but they didn’t notice. They relaxed in silence, waiting for the call. After an hour, his cell chirped.
“Gibson.” He nodded several times before hanging up, a stern expression on his face.
“They discovered a gingham blouse in the potting shed. It was rumpled and bloodstained.”
“Margaret’s blouse?”
“Yeah,” Gibson answered.
