Fatal Error

44

Grass Valley, California

There was yellow crime scene tape plastered across the front porch of Richard Lowensdale’s house. There was crime scene tape strung across the broken front gate. There was no crime scene tape on the driveway or on the side entrance into the garage.

Donning yet another pair of latex gloves-he would need to go to the supply room for a set of refills soon-Gil let himself into the musty garage. The ten-year-old Catera was still in the same spot. Gil couldn’t help wondering who would take the car, or would it be left here to molder away?

The oil was exactly where Gil remembered seeing it-on a wooden shelf over the workbench. It was in a cardboard box that had been cut off so that the bottles stood half exposed above their cardboard container. Reaching up, Gil pulled the first one out of its corner spot. The heft of it, the play of the heavy liquid inside the plastic, told Gil that he was wrong. What was in his hand was, as advertised, a bottle of premium motor oil with, according to the buzz on the bottle, an engine-cleaning chemical additive.

There were a dozen bottles in the box-four wide and three deep. And all of the bottles in the front row clearly contained oil. The same held true for three of the bottles in the second row. When he picked up the fourth one, however, it seemed lighter than air, and instead of ponderous liquid, there was something or maybe two somethings inside the bottle that rattled when Gil shook the container. At first glance, the bottle appeared to be unopened. There was still a manufacturer’s seal over the cap, but the bottle had clearly been tampered with.

Gil returned that bottle to its place and tried the first bottle in the back row. Like the one with the rattle, this one weighed considerably less than the bottles filled with oil, and whatever was inside this one wasn’t liquid. It rustled when Gil shook it. Something inside went up and down with a kind of thump, but the noise didn’t resemble the rattle in the other bottle. Whatever was inside this one took up far more space.

The second bottle in the back row was similarly loaded. The last two were entirely empty. No rattle, no thump.

Gil returned all the bottles to the cardboard container, then he lifted it down from the shelf. Because the load wasn’t evenly distributed, he almost spilled it out onto the workbench. Then he lugged it out the door and down the driveway to his Camry, where he loaded it into the trunk.

He drove straight home and carried the box of bottles into the garage, where he placed them on his own workbench. After switching on his overhead work light, he examined the bottles from the back two rows. Under the rays of the lamp, it was easy to see that the bottoms of some of the bottles had been tampered with-cut through with something sharp and then glued back together.

Gil started with the one that had rattled. The glue, probably some of Richard’s model airplane building epoxy, had created a bond, but not enough of one that it was impervious. Gil fastened the bottle upside down in a vise. Then, using a well sharpened wood chisel and an ordinary hammer, he gave the glued surface a sharp whack. The bottom gave way and disappeared into the bottle. Reaching inside, Gil pulled out the plastic bottom as well as two small items. Gil didn’t regard himself as any kind of technical genius, but he recognized a pair of computer thumb drives when he saw them.

Setting those aside, Gil performed the same operation with one of the two thumper bottles. When the bottom gave way, it fell into the bottle, but only an inch or two, not nearly as far as the one with the thumb drives. It took some effort on Gil’s part to coax the bottom piece back out of the bottle. Then, removing the bottle from the vise, Gil whacked the open end several times on the top surface of his workbench. On the third try, a sheaf of money came shooting out through the opening-a stack of hundred-dollar bills.

For a moment all Gil could do was stare. The pile of money lying there on his workbench was more cash in one place than he had ever seen before. He performed the same operation on the next bottle with similar results, and with a stack of money that was almost equal in size to the first one. Of the two remaining bottles, both empty, both had been cut open but not glued back together.

Standing and looking at the cash as well as the empty bottles, Detective Morris was able to draw several interesting conclusions. Richard Lowensdale had been involved in some kind of illicit behavior for which he was being paid in cash. His killer had come to the house expecting to find it and had, presumably, gone away empty-handed. That was what the missing fingers were all about. The killer had tortured Lowensdale expecting him to reveal his hiding place, and he had not.

So what was Brenda Riley’s role in all this? Was she an active participant in what Richard had been doing? Had they been partners of some kind, and Brenda had betrayed him? Or had Brenda somehow stumbled upon what was going on and ended up in jeopardy right along with Richard? And did Brenda’s part in this whole puzzle have anything to do with the key that she had kept hidden in her tampon container?

Thoughtfully, Gil put the two thumb drives in the front pocket of his jeans. He didn’t have a computer at home. The family desktop had decamped to Mt. Shasta City with Linda and the kids. As for the money? Gil returned that to the applicable bottles and put the bottles back in the box. Then, he hefted the loaded box of oil up to the top shelf over his own workbench.

From where Gil was standing, it looked for the world like a perfectly innocent case of oil. He really was the kind of guy who still did his own oil changes.