“And the name is Max Velasquez?”
“Yes.”
She stopped looking and turned abruptly. “Does this have to do with the bones you found in the woods?”
“Yes,” Decker said.
“They’re saying the bones belong to one of the Duxbury students who disappeared around ten years ago.”
“Zeke Anderson,” Decker said.
Stella sat down and looked at the wall. “So that’s why you want to go ten years back.”
“Yes.”
“Their faces were in the local papers for months afterward,” Stella said. “Velasquez was one of the names, wasn’t it?”
“Yes.” Decker pulled out a picture from his wallet. “This is Maxwell Velasquez.”
“Don’t recognize him as a user,” Stella said. “And I’m good with faces. Matter of fact, I’m pretty sure that one of them did some target practice here. He was Black.”
“Bennett McCrae,” McAdams said.
When she shrugged, out came the picture from Decker’s wallet. “Him?”
“That’s the one,” Stella said. “Always wearing an Obama cap. Occasionally we’d talk politics.”
“Different sides of the aisle?” McAdams remarked.
“What do you think? No, I wasn’t a fan, but I told him I could understand why he was a fan. We don’t get a ton of Black kids who like to shoot, but he sure did. He came to the range pretty regularly.”
“And not this one?” Decker showed her the picture of Velasquez again.
“Nope. If he came, it wasn’t on my watch.”
“When is your watch?” McAdams asked.
“From opening till closing.”
McAdams smiled. “We used our badge numbers as IDs to sign in. What do you usually ask for? Driver’s licenses?”
“That or school IDs.”
“Does the school ID have a photograph?”
“Yes.”
Decker said, “Probably easier to doctor a school ID than a driver’s license.”
Stella said, “You think this Bennett guy was using Velasquez’s school ID.”
“Possibly.”
“Why bother? We don’t check who rents the locker. If the person has a key, that’s enough.”
Decker thought a moment. “Could be he didn’t want to use his real name in case the gun was used in something illegal. Or maybe he didn’t want anyone to find out he liked guns.”
Stella made a face. “None of that makes a lot of sense.”
“Just ideas,” Decker said. “Never said they were good ones.”
Stella smiled. She put down the file. “Give me a little time, and I’ll go through everything around those dates, Detective. It’s better than me looking piecemeal.”
“How long do you think it will take you?”
“Don’t know. Give me a phone number and I’ll call you back.”
“Are you sure?” Decker asked. “We can wait.”
“Nah, I’ll call you. Be careful making your way back through the throng.”
“They don’t bother me.”
“They don’t bother me, either,” Stella said. “Sometimes, when I’m in a benevolent mood, I even bring them water on a hot day. They don’t drink it.” A smile. “They probably think it’s poisoned.”
“It’s still nice of you.”
“No biggie.” A pause. “I once batted for the other side. Then my brother—who was twenty at the time—was murdered over his sneakers. The bastards who did it were juveniles. They were out after serving six months.” Her face turned rabid. “I can’t forget and I don’t forgive. I know that’s not the Christian way. But it’s my right to hate. And hate I shall.”
Chapter 20
As soon as they walked into the station, Decker’s desk phone jangled. It was Kevin Butterfield, who was still in the field, directing the search in the mountains for additional remains. Reception was spotty at best. It took a few moments before the parties could hear each other.
“When did you get back?” he asked Decker.
“Last night. Kev, I’m putting you on speakerphone so Harvard can hear.”
“Hey, kid.”
“Hey, Kev.”
“How did it go with the parents?”
McAdams said, “They’re grieving.”
“Learn anything?” Butterfield asked.
“Maxwell Velasquez was obsessed with Bennett McCrae.”
“As in sexually?”
“Maybe, but however Max felt, it was one-way. McCrae took advantage of Velasquez. Max gave him money without any expectation of being paid back.”
Decker said, “We were at the school’s gun range this morning. Max Velasquez was on the range’s locker rental list ten years ago, but the woman in charge who has been there forever doesn’t recall ever seeing Max’s face. However, she remembered a young Black man using Max’s ID. I showed her Bennett McCrae’s photo, and the rest is history.”
“It matches up with what Harriet McCrae remembers,” McAdams said. “Bennett used to shoot at the school range, although she claims she never saw him with a gun.”
Butterfield said, “We still haven’t found any signs of a firearm near the remains.”
McAdams said, “The range empties gun lockers that are delinquent for payment after three months. If there’s a firearm inside and they can’t find the owner, they hand it over to Greenbury PD. We’re waiting to hear back to see if the range has any written records of handing the gun over to Greenbury.”
“If the gun was turned in that long ago, it was probably destroyed.”
“No doubt,” McAdams said. “What’s up with you, Kev?”
“We got a DNA profile from the blood at Elsie Schulung’s house. It’s not hers, it’s not Kathrine Taylor’s, but it is female.”
“That narrows it down by fifty percent.”
“It gets more interesting. I just got off the phone with Jake Quay from Baniff PD. It seems that Elsie Schulung had a girlfriend named Pauline Corbett. The police were at Pauline’s apartment. No answer at the door, so the management let them in. The place wasn’t emptied, but it was bare bones. Baniff canvassed the neighborhood, and Pauline hasn’t been seen in a while. She doesn’t seem to have a job. Neither does she have a criminal record. Their forensics team took several things from her place that should yield DNA.”
“What specifically?” Decker asked.
“A toothbrush and a nail file . . . maybe a hairbrush. They’re going into the lab tomorrow for testing.”
Decker thought a moment. “Kev, how much blood was found in the kitchen?”
“You tell me. You were there.”
“It was more than a nosebleed, that’s for sure. Quay was going to pull up the tile to see if even more blood seeped through. I’m wondering if it was enough for exsanguination of a human body?”
“Quay didn’t say.”
“I’ll give him a call,” Decker said. “Does Pauline have a car?”