Redemption

Chapter 16

Cocoon, thought Decker.

At their meeting Rachel Katz had crossed her arms and legs before settling in to answer his more serious questions. People often cocooned like that when they were getting ready to lie, or at least be evasive. It was as though they were wrapping themselves in themselves, to keep everyone else out. It was an instinctual physical reaction with people, and even though it wasn’t a foolproof indicator of someone lying, Decker had found it pretty accurate.

So, what was she lying or being evasive about?

He filed that query away since he had no way to answer it yet.

He was presently standing in front of the Richardses’ old house. But he was looking at another house that was two homes over from the Richardses’. This was the only house that was still occupied by the people who had lived here when the murders occurred. Back then Decker had interviewed them and the other neighbors. Out of that he had gotten a big fat zero’s worth of help. He hoped the second time was the charm, because Decker seriously doubted he would get a third bite at the apple.

“Mr. DeAngelo, do you remember me?”

Decker stared down at the short, balding, rotund man in his sixties who had opened the door at his knock. Though it was chilly outside he was dressed in a stained undershirt that emphasized his potbelly, and khaki pants with the zipper partially open. He had a cloth napkin in his hand and was wiping his mouth.

He looked quizzically at Decker before recognition breached his features.

“You’re that detective. Pecker?”

“Decker. Amos Decker.”

“Right, right.”

Decker glanced at the napkin. “Looks like I interrupted your dinner.”

“No, we were just finishing up. Come on in.”

DeAngelo closed the door behind Decker, whose nostrils were immediately assailed with the mingled aromas of garlic and pesto.

“Smells good,” he said as he glanced around the tidy interior.

“You want some? Ma made plenty. Always does.” He playfully grabbed his belly. “Why I’m so fat.”

“No, thanks. I already ate.”

“Ma?” called out DeAngelo. “Look who’s here.”

A petite, gray-haired woman came out from the kitchen drying her hands on a dishtowel. She wore a full apron over her skirt and blouse.

“Mrs. DeAngelo, I’m Amos Decker. I used to work as a detective on the local police force.”

“That’s right. I remember.” She looked him up and down. “Heard you moved.”

“I did, but now I’m back. At least for a little while.”

“Well, come in and sit, sit,” said Mrs. DeAngelo. “Would you like some wine?”

“Sure, that’d be great. Thanks.”

She brought the wine and poured out three glasses and they all sat in the small living room that held the exact same furniture as the last time Decker had been here.

“We’re retired now,” said DeAngelo. “Well, I am. Ma always took care of the kids and the house. Hell, worked harder than I ever did, taking care of them.”

“Now I just have to look after you,” said his wife with a knowing smile at Decker.

DeAngelo said, “We’re thinking of selling the place. Kids are all grown and gone off with their own families. Maybe get a condo down in Florida. I can’t take too many more Ohio winters. Gets into your bones.”

“I hear you,” said Decker.

The couple fell silent and looked at him, apparently waiting for him to explain what he was doing there. Decker felt this curious scrutiny while he sipped his wine.

“I suppose you heard about Meryl Hawkins?” he began.

DeAngelo nodded. “Strangest damn thing. Thought he was in prison for life. Then he’s here and then he gets killed. Is that why you’re back?”

“Sort of, yes.”

“Are you looking for who killed him?” asked Mrs. DeAngelo anxiously.

“Yes, and I’m looking at something else too.”

“What’s that?” she asked.

“If Meryl Hawkins didn’t kill your neighbors all those years ago, who did?”

The DeAngelos had both raised their wineglasses to take a sip. And both of them nearly spilled their drinks.

DeAngelo said, “I don’t understand. That Hawkins fellow did kill them. That was proven.”

“He was convicted of the murders, that’s true,” said Decker.

“But isn’t that the same thing?” asked Mrs. DeAngelo.

“Usually yes,” conceded Decker. “But not in all cases. I’m taking a fresh look at the case. You two are the only ones left who lived here when the killings took place.”

DeAngelo nodded. “That’s right. The Murphys moved to Georgia. And the Ballmers retired to, where was it again, hon?”

“Hilton Head.”

“And the other house was empty,” noted Decker.

“That’s right. Been empty for a while. It’s empty again, though a couple families have come and gone in between. There was a family moved into the Richards house, but they didn’t stay all that long.”

“Wouldn’t catch me moving in there,” said Mrs. DeAngelo. “I’d have nightmares all the time. I did anyway after what happened.”

“So that night you reported you didn’t hear or see anything,” said Decker.

“That’s right,” replied DeAngelo. “Raining like crazy. Thunder and lightning, and the wind. Holy Jesus. I remember it clear as day. We were afraid we’d get a tornado.”

“And yet you still managed to fall asleep in front of the TV,” his wife reminded him. “We were watching some movie.”

“Blade Runner,” said Decker. “That’s what you said.”

“That’s right,” said DeAngelo, looking impressed. “You’ve got a good memory.”

“So nothing you can remember from that night?”

Mrs. DeAngelo said, “Well, I saw that one car come in. Oh, it was before the storm. I was just finishing making dinner. Saw it pass by when I was looking out the window. I told you all that.”

“That would be David Katz’s car. A four-door Mercedes sedan. Silver.”

“Yes, that’s right. Beautiful car.”

“Probably cost more than our house,” commented DeAngelo.

“And you didn’t see him get out of the car when he got to the Richardses’?”

“No. Where I was standing in the kitchen, my view is blocked by the house in between ours.”

“And it was just you and your husband here that night?”

“Yes, our oldest was in college. Our two younger ones were out with friends.”

“So, no other cars? No sounds from the Richardses’? I know you’ve been asked this before. But if you could think about it again.”

“I didn’t hear anything from the Richards house, no,” said Mrs. DeAngelo.

Decker was about to move on to another question when something in her voice caught his attention. “What about one of the other houses?” he asked.

“Well, it was the empty one. Just to the left of us.”

“So the one closest to the Richardses?”

“Yes. It had been abandoned for a long time. Sometimes you had teens over there doing things, drinking and smoking and—”

“Screwing,” said DeAngelo.

“Anthony!” exclaimed his wife. “Language.”

DeAngelo grinned and settled back in his recliner. “Well, they were.”

“So it might have been the same that night?” said Decker. “Some teens over there? What exactly did you see or hear?”

“It was just a glimpse of movement, really.” She rubbed her temples. “Oh, it was so long ago.” She looked at her husband. “But I do think it was a teenager.”

“Male or female?”

“Male. At least I think so. It really was just a glimpse.”

“And do you remember what time that might have been?”

“Well, it was certainly after the storm had started. I was thinking to myself that they were getting soaked.”

“But you don’t have a certain time in mind?”

“No, I’m sorry.”

Decker nodded. “Okay. I appreciate your making the effort.”

He left them there and walked back outside. He didn’t know what he could expect all this time later. Most witnesses couldn’t remember what they saw yesterday, much less thirteen years ago. He walked over to the empty house to which Mrs. DeAngelo had just been referring.

He peered into one of the windows but couldn’t see much. He tried the door. It was locked. He had no idea who even owned the house. Whoever did wasn’t doing much with it.

He headed over to the Richardses’ house and surveyed it.

David Katz had driven his car into the driveway and then past the front of the house and behind it, where he had pulled into a small grassy park-off situated there.

Decker looked back over his shoulder. From here it would have been impossible for DeAngelo to have seen him get out of the car and go into the house. The other neighbors had reported the same thing: They hadn’t seen Katz go into the house where he would later die.

And yet it was indisputable that he had.

Decker looked down at the ground here. Katz’s car’s tires had sunk deeply into the ground, what with all the rain. He had driven in before the storm started, so there weren’t really traces of his car tires coming onto the property. As Lancaster had earlier pointed out, the rain would have washed those away. But a car coming in after the rain had started should have left some traces. So had the killer walked here? In the driving rain? And left no traces of that inclemency when he had entered the house? It made no sense. But it had to, somehow, because it had happened.

His phone buzzed. It was Lancaster.

“I think we got a runner,” she said. “We must’ve spooked her.”

“Her? Who is it?”

“Susan Richards.”