“Nothing.” Devens’ thin smile reappeared. “They won’t say one word to me. But I have a good friend in the DA’s office-we graduated law school together. From what he hears, the police have run out of leads.”
“Any suspects?”
“None as far as he knows.”
“When a case goes cold like this, it gets solved because the perp does something stupid, like getting drunk and bragging about the crime or selling something he stole from the victims. Your client’s probably better off giving the police more time than spending money on me.”
Devens made a face as if he had a bad case of gas. “He doesn’t want to do that,” he said. “I told him about your background, how you solved that serial murder case back in Massachusetts, and he wants you on this.”
“Which family would I be working for?”
“What?”
“Aren’t you acting on behalf of one of the families involved?” Shannon asked.
“Hardly. I told you, I handle real estate issues. My client owns the condo that Carver and Gibson were murdered in.”
Shannon leaned back in his chair. “Why is he involved?”
“He’s being sued. Carver’s mother brought the suit, claiming that my client failed to provide proper security.”
“Did he?”
“A deadbolt on the front door is supposedly rusted and hard to turn. According to my DA friend, the door had only its chain lock on when it was forced open.”
“How much are they suing for?”
“Five million.” Devens rubbed his eyes again, this time squeezing hard enough that the whites of his knuckles showed. When he took his hand away, both eyes were red. “The theory the lawsuit is espousing is that one or more strangers were able to gain access to the condo due to my client’s negligence. My client owns several properties. He’s got money, Carver’s mother doesn’t. A sympathetic jury could wipe him out. Our best bet is to put a name and face to the killer or killers. If it turns out to be strangers, at least the jury will put some of the responsibility on them. And who knows, maybe it will turn out to be someone the victims knew, in which case I’d have a shot of dismissing the lawsuit. Maybe the murders will turn out to be drug-related.”
Shannon stared hard at Devens. “If you’re looking for someone to dig up dirt on the victims, you’ll have to look elsewhere,” he said.
Devens had no trouble meeting Shannon’s stare. “That’s not what I’m looking for. I have to be able to sleep nights. The only thing I want to hire you for is to find out who killed Taylor Carver and Linda Gibson, and why. Nothing else.”
Shannon started laughing but it died quickly in his throat. “This has got to be a first.”
“What?”
“Investigating a double-murder for a lawsuit.”
“Nature of the litigious society we live in. So Bill, are you available?”
Shannon thought about it, nodded. “I guess I am.”
“Good.” Devens held out his right hand and, outside of a slight flinch, gave no indication that the hand he took hold of was missing a couple of fingers. “I already went over your fee with my client and he’s fine with it. Before you leave, I’ll write you a check for a retainer. Just tell me the amount you need.”
“Five thousand will cover the first two weeks.” Shannon paused. “I need your client’s name and phone number.”
Devens frowned. “Why?”
“See if he knows anything. Maybe Carver or Gibson had complained to him about other tenants. Also, I’m going to need access to the condo.”
“My client’s name is Chris Jackson. I’ll get you his phone number before you leave, but he’s not going to be able to tell you anything,” he said. “He has a realtor who acts as a middleman between him and his tenants.” He lowered his hands to his desk and started making slow circling motions as if he were smoothing out wrinkles on the wooden surface. “About getting into the condo, that could be a problem. The police still have it sealed off.”
“After three months?”
“That’s what they’re doing. What I heard is two days after the murder, Taylor Carver’s mother drove a U-Haul up to the condo. I guess she was going to empty the place out, and she wasn’t very gracious when the police stopped her. They decided after that to take their sweet time in releasing the condo.”
“I’ll try talking to the police and see if they let me in, but is there anything you can do in case they’re not cooperative?”
“Okay. I’ll go to court tomorrow and file for a hearing.”
Shannon’s glance wandered towards the clay Navajo storytellers. As he absent-mindedly looked at them, he realized what the figurines symbolized: a mother caring enough about her children to make sure they knew about her people’s history. He turned back to Devens. “What about Carver’s mother-any idea if she’ll be helpful?”
Devens showed his thin smile again as he shook his head. “My impression is she cares more about a five million dollar judgment than anything else right now.”
“I probably should talk to her,” Shannon said.
“Okay. It couldn’t hurt. I’ll get you her address and phone number. She lives out in Loveland with another son. The father’s out of the picture.”
Devens collected several papers for Shannon and wrote him a retainer check. Before leaving, they shook hands again, and at the door Shannon gave the collection of Navajo storytellers a quick nod.
Shannon’s first stop after leaving Devens’ office was the public library where he searched through three months of
Shannon next visited the University of Colorado’s campus. The first half-dozen students he stopped had no idea which building the English department was in, but he found an older man with a well-groomed white beard and mustache who was able to give him directions. The man seemed to be trying hard to give the impression that he was a professor, both by the way he carried himself and his outfit, which on a summer day topping a hundred degrees, included a sports jacket complete with patches on the elbows.
“You’re not by any chance an English professor?” Shannon asked.
“No, economics.” The man’s eyes narrowed suspiciously behind designer glasses. “Why do you ask?”
“I’m trying to find people who knew either Taylor Carver or Linda Gibson.” As the man’s face remained blank, Shannon handed him copies of the newspaper photos he had made of both victims. “They were the two students murdered here,” Shannon said.
The economics professor’s face aged a dozen years as he looked at the pictures. “Tragic incident.” He handed the copies back to Shannon. “I’m sorry, I can’t help you. I never met either of them.”
“Any rumors circulating on campus on what might have happened?”
The professor shook his head. He looked past Shannon, as if all he wanted to do was get away from him. “Murders are rare in Boulder,” he said. “In my experience, the few we unfortunately suffer tend to be drug-related. I really must be going.”
Shannon thanked him for his help, and watched as the professor moved quickly down the stone path, almost as if he were in a jog.
The English department office was empty when Shannon got there. After a ten minute wait, a middle-aged woman entered and took a seat at the administrator’s desk. She smiled sadly at Shannon when he asked about Taylor Carver.
“That was just terrible,” she said. “I never had a chance to get to know him, only saw him around the office occasionally, but it is simply terrible when something like that happens.”
