Kindling the Moon
Page 50
And that’s exactly how we spent the drive to the evidence warehouse.
After handing over our IDs to a man behind a thick glass window—I used an ID from an alternate fake identity unconnected with Arcadia Bell, just to be extra careful—we sat on metal benches inside a white waiting room. A few minutes later, a supervisor came and we were escorted down a sad, gray hallway. We passed by a door that opened into an enormous warehouse, as big as a football field and lined with long rows of shelves. Confiscated and stolen property, the officer explained. Things that people could reclaim after they were no longer needed in a case; if left unclaimed, the goods were eventually sold off in a state auction.
The officer led us to a much smaller warehouse for sensitive evidence. A row of plastic seats sat against the wall by the door. In front of us was a ceiling-to-floor cage with a yellow sign that read authorized personnel only. Inside the cage were several evidence-processing desks; beyond them stood rows of tall warehouse shelving filled with white boxes of multiple shapes and sizes, all labeled with green and yellow stickers.
We took a seat while the officer called out to someone sitting at one of the desks. “You got visitors, Wesley.”
A short, middle-aged demon emerged from a door in the locked cage. Lon’s contact. We stood to greet him.
“Danny Wesley?” Lon asked.
“You must be Mr. Butler.”
They shook hands, and Lon introduced me as my sign-in name, Cindy. He rolled his eyes a little as he said it. I tried to give him a sharp look in return, but had to quickly change over to a smile as the evidence technician looked me over. My skunk-streaked hair was tucked under a short brown wig.
“There’s a place where we can talk,” the technician said, looking back at the other people mulling about inside the cage.
We followed him into a small room with two break tables and an old vending machine that dispensed coffee and cocoa. Sitting down at one of the tables, we all looked at each other warily.
“So, Officer Wesley,” I began.
“I’m a civilian. Just Danny is fine.” He interlaced his fingers on the table in front of him, sitting up stiffly. “The captain said you guys need a favor, and I’m to do anything in my power to help you. So, what is it that you need to know?”
“We need to borrow a piece of evidence,” Lon said.
“Borrow? I’m afraid that’s impossible. We don’t loan out evidence. Not from this room.”
I tapped Lon’s foot under the table. “Well, before we talk about that, maybe we should make sure we’re in the right place first. Could you check to see if a certain piece of evidence is on file here?”
Fluorescent light from the ceiling glinted off the skin that showed through the thinning spots in Danny’s graying hair. He smiled at me again. “Now that I can definitely do. I need some information first. Do you have the case number and the date it entered evidence?”
“Uh, no. It’s kind of a well-known case though. Perhaps you can look it up.”
“Depends. I’ve worked here for ten years, so anything before that I’d have to ask around or research. Got an approximate time frame?”
“Seven years ago. The Duval murder case.”
“Duval?” he said, wrinkling up his forehead. Something changed in his eyes, though. He blinked faster and began rubbing the knuckle of his right thumb.
“The Black Lodge slayings,” I offered.
“Oh! Of course. Yes, I know it.”
“We were hoping to take a look at the murder weapon. It was a glass knife. I’m sure you remember.”
Drops of sweat began beading on his forehead. “Yeah, I know it, but I don’t have access to that case. It’s … protected.”
“Oh, come on now. Surely after ten years, you have access to anything,” I said.
“Not really. I’m sorry.”
Lon leaned back in his seat. “Why are you lying?”
“Lying? I’m not—”
“He’s right, you are. Why won’t you let us see the glass knife?” I asked.
Danny swallowed and quickly wiped his forehead.
“Look, Mr. Wesley,” Lon said, “cut the shit. We’re here for you to sneak that glass knife out of evidence for us and you damn well know it.”
“Uh …”
Lon leaned forward and spoke in a hushed voice. “Don’t pretend to be some upstanding, moral guy. I know you’ve accidently ‘lost’ several thousand dollars in cash and more in guns from that room this year.”
Danny closed his eyes tightly for a second, then leaned down over the table and spoke in a low voice. “Look, I’d really like to help you, but I can’t. The knife isn’t here.”
“But you just said it was,” I argued.
“It was here. It’s not now.”
“Where is it exactly, then?”
He sighed. “We’ve had people asking for that knife for years. True-crime aficionados, weirdos, people offering all kinds of money. I didn’t want to touch it because it was too high profile. But a collector came in about six months ago and offered me twenty grand for it. My wife needed a new car. I’m not a bad person.”
“No one thinks you are,” I assured him. “Who’d you sell it to?”
“I can’t remember the name. It’s probably on the log. Ron Casler? Ron Castor? Ron … Castle, maybe. Anyway, I think it was an alias. Who’d come in here and sign in under their real name?”
After handing over our IDs to a man behind a thick glass window—I used an ID from an alternate fake identity unconnected with Arcadia Bell, just to be extra careful—we sat on metal benches inside a white waiting room. A few minutes later, a supervisor came and we were escorted down a sad, gray hallway. We passed by a door that opened into an enormous warehouse, as big as a football field and lined with long rows of shelves. Confiscated and stolen property, the officer explained. Things that people could reclaim after they were no longer needed in a case; if left unclaimed, the goods were eventually sold off in a state auction.
The officer led us to a much smaller warehouse for sensitive evidence. A row of plastic seats sat against the wall by the door. In front of us was a ceiling-to-floor cage with a yellow sign that read authorized personnel only. Inside the cage were several evidence-processing desks; beyond them stood rows of tall warehouse shelving filled with white boxes of multiple shapes and sizes, all labeled with green and yellow stickers.
We took a seat while the officer called out to someone sitting at one of the desks. “You got visitors, Wesley.”
A short, middle-aged demon emerged from a door in the locked cage. Lon’s contact. We stood to greet him.
“Danny Wesley?” Lon asked.
“You must be Mr. Butler.”
They shook hands, and Lon introduced me as my sign-in name, Cindy. He rolled his eyes a little as he said it. I tried to give him a sharp look in return, but had to quickly change over to a smile as the evidence technician looked me over. My skunk-streaked hair was tucked under a short brown wig.
“There’s a place where we can talk,” the technician said, looking back at the other people mulling about inside the cage.
We followed him into a small room with two break tables and an old vending machine that dispensed coffee and cocoa. Sitting down at one of the tables, we all looked at each other warily.
“So, Officer Wesley,” I began.
“I’m a civilian. Just Danny is fine.” He interlaced his fingers on the table in front of him, sitting up stiffly. “The captain said you guys need a favor, and I’m to do anything in my power to help you. So, what is it that you need to know?”
“We need to borrow a piece of evidence,” Lon said.
“Borrow? I’m afraid that’s impossible. We don’t loan out evidence. Not from this room.”
I tapped Lon’s foot under the table. “Well, before we talk about that, maybe we should make sure we’re in the right place first. Could you check to see if a certain piece of evidence is on file here?”
Fluorescent light from the ceiling glinted off the skin that showed through the thinning spots in Danny’s graying hair. He smiled at me again. “Now that I can definitely do. I need some information first. Do you have the case number and the date it entered evidence?”
“Uh, no. It’s kind of a well-known case though. Perhaps you can look it up.”
“Depends. I’ve worked here for ten years, so anything before that I’d have to ask around or research. Got an approximate time frame?”
“Seven years ago. The Duval murder case.”
“Duval?” he said, wrinkling up his forehead. Something changed in his eyes, though. He blinked faster and began rubbing the knuckle of his right thumb.
“The Black Lodge slayings,” I offered.
“Oh! Of course. Yes, I know it.”
“We were hoping to take a look at the murder weapon. It was a glass knife. I’m sure you remember.”
Drops of sweat began beading on his forehead. “Yeah, I know it, but I don’t have access to that case. It’s … protected.”
“Oh, come on now. Surely after ten years, you have access to anything,” I said.
“Not really. I’m sorry.”
Lon leaned back in his seat. “Why are you lying?”
“Lying? I’m not—”
“He’s right, you are. Why won’t you let us see the glass knife?” I asked.
Danny swallowed and quickly wiped his forehead.
“Look, Mr. Wesley,” Lon said, “cut the shit. We’re here for you to sneak that glass knife out of evidence for us and you damn well know it.”
“Uh …”
Lon leaned forward and spoke in a hushed voice. “Don’t pretend to be some upstanding, moral guy. I know you’ve accidently ‘lost’ several thousand dollars in cash and more in guns from that room this year.”
Danny closed his eyes tightly for a second, then leaned down over the table and spoke in a low voice. “Look, I’d really like to help you, but I can’t. The knife isn’t here.”
“But you just said it was,” I argued.
“It was here. It’s not now.”
“Where is it exactly, then?”
He sighed. “We’ve had people asking for that knife for years. True-crime aficionados, weirdos, people offering all kinds of money. I didn’t want to touch it because it was too high profile. But a collector came in about six months ago and offered me twenty grand for it. My wife needed a new car. I’m not a bad person.”
“No one thinks you are,” I assured him. “Who’d you sell it to?”
“I can’t remember the name. It’s probably on the log. Ron Casler? Ron Castor? Ron … Castle, maybe. Anyway, I think it was an alias. Who’d come in here and sign in under their real name?”
