FOLLOW THE LEADER - Chapter 55

Chapter 55


No alarm! Terry slowly exhaled. He realized he had been holding his breath. 

Once inside the bedroom, the musty odor of mold assaulted his nostrils. Neither Francis nor he had prepared for this. He reached down for his handkerchief but it was not there. 

He quickly put on his sheer plastic gloves, then rushed to the window. It was scarcely cracked open, covered from top to bottom with a thick coat of dust. And it was stuck. He pounded on it with the heel of his hand. Two quick hits.  Nothing. Three more hits. Still nothing.  Twice more. This time he heard a soft crack. It had come unstuck. The window squeaked and stopped and squeaked and stopped as he jerked the sash up as far as it would go.  He stuck out his head to inhale fresh air.

His inner clock kept clicking: Five minutes to open the damn window. He could have picked three locks in that amount of time.
Terry allowed himself a quick purview of the room before he started his search for material that could link Jason Powers to the murders: He saw three wall posters depicting Charles Manson, Hitler and Geronimo, the Apache chief. There was also a framed photo of a young woman on the bureau. His mother? His sister?

An office desk and chair sat under the Manson poster. Manson’s youthful features and impish grin did not hint at his dark side. He wore a buckskin shirt and a bead necklace that screamed “Hippy.” This guy could be the life of the party, Terry mused. Or the death of it. Sharon Tate and her friends had been partying that fateful night, he had read.

Just left of the desk was a tall bookcase. The titles were revealing: The Rise and Fall of the Third Reich, The Art of War, Helter-Skelter and The Silence of the Lambs. There were three or four volumes about Indians, including Olompali, In The Beginning by June Gardner. He had never heard of or read Gardner’s book about the coastal Indian tribe.

He quickly rifled through the desk. The big drawer yielded nothing but ordinary items, like paper clips and pencils. He saw a small stapler with a flat top and a magnifying glass. These surfaces might clearly reveal whole fingerprints or partials. He was not sure about the DNA. He slipped them into a small plastic bag.

The upper pullout drawer had folders of car and medical bills. He pulled out a medical bill because it had Powers’ social security number and “current” residence: An apartment in Victorville, not far from Death Valley. The lower drawer contained reams of copying paper.

He glanced down at his watch. Francis had insisted that he finish his search inside of thirty minutes, which seemed extremely short to him. A full shopping trip could take one hour or more, Terry had argued. To no avail. 

But what if Mrs. Latham and her caregiver were only shopping for a few items? Francis had been right, he decided.

So far he had more than enough proof to show that Jason Powers did use and live in this room. But other than Jason’s morbid taste in books, there was nothing to show that he was a killer.

He hustled to the closet and looked for an article of clothing to take back with him. He settled for a silk scarf. Would it be useful? There was no time to call Francis, who in turn would probably call Colin.

As he stuffed the scarf into his bag, he happened to look under the bed. There was a big black trunk. It was dented and scarred. And it was padlocked. Ordinarily, easily picked.

He glanced down at his watch.

Only five minutes left.

It took a long two minutes to open it.

Like most “steamer’ trunks, this one had a pull-down shelf. On it fifteen plastic baggies, the kind that you can label before you put them in the freezer.

Each baggie contained a lock of hair. And they were all different and each had a tiny label.

He heard honking. Two beeps in succession. Shit. They’re back, inside of thirty minutes!

He grabbed two baggies and dropped them into his own plastic bag. No time to grab more. He pushed up the shelf, but it didn’t click shut. He tried it again. This time it locked in place.

Reggie barked and kept it up.

He heard car doors close. They were in the driveway. 

The bottom of the trunk contained two rows of letter-size manila envelopes. His bag was no use here. He snatched up one of them and tried to rearrange the others to thinly disguise the theft. He closed the trunk, clicked on the padlock and shoved the trunk beneath bed. The dust marks would show that it had been moved. 

If someone looked.

He jammed the envelope inside his shirt and into his pants.

Keep barking, Reggie!

“You remember to take your pills after lunch.” The care-giver’s voice.

“I will, Shirley. You know me”

“I do. That’s why I’m reminding you.”

Followed by laughter.

Terry hoped that Dorothy Latham would fumble for her keys. He was in the downstairs hallway, tiptoeing into the kitchen.

But then the side door opened. 

He heard her put a sack down on the washer-dryer.

Terry backtracked and headed for the front door. He had blundered big-time. Who takes groceries through the front door? Duh. Mrs. Latham would not see him now, but Shirley might get a good look. He eased out of the front door, fervently hoping that the caregiver had driven away.

Not quite.

She was looking into the mirror and backing out of the driveway. She would undoubtedly look both ways as she reached the street.

Terry ran like hell for the next-door yard.

Suddenly a car sped toward Shirley, the driver rudely honking. 

Francis knew who this barbarian was.

Thank you, he mouthed, as he ducked around the corner.