The Stalking Horse

The bridge over the Occoquan stands fifty feet above the river. Looking at the remains it was obvious the fall hadn’t killed him. Below the white, puffed face was a gash that stretched from ear to ear. Mortal wounds for the most part are not pretty, and a slit throat ranks high on the list of the grizzliest. He was stuffed into a body bag. The coroner’s guys had already zipped it up before we arrived and Travis asked them to open it. When they did, I found myself looking into the lifeless face of Roy Foley. Drained of blood and beginning to bloat from hours in the water, he resembled a grotesque caricature of himself. But I knew it was him. “Know him?” Travis asked. I nodded and turned away. Taking a few steps from the corpse I got out a cigarette and lit it. With trembling hands. Travis thanked the coroner’s men and walked to where I stood smoking. I’d seen death in many forms for almost twenty years, from teenage car wrecks when I was running the back roads of Pennsylvania in high school, to shootouts in bars in Saigon. But I’ve never gotten used to it. I hate it. I try to do the best I can to keep people from turning to violence to solve problems. Some of the time, I can. Other times, there’s a Roy Foley staring at me asking, “Why?” The inside of my stomach was doing imitations of one of those lottery machines with the little balls bobbing up and down and the cigarette was making things worse instead of better. I dropped it to the ground and crushed it with my foot. “His name is Roy Foley and he lived in Sudley.” I recited the address. “There’s a wife, Arlene. I don’t think they had any kids, but I could be wrong.” We walked slowly towards the unmarked car that Travis had brought us in. Leaning against the rear fender I breathed slowly. I felt my insides coming under control again. “We’re you working for Foley?” “No. I’m looking for a guy, and when I started tracking him down, Foley’s home address came up as a place he had lived some years ago. Before you ask, I’ll tell you who I’m looking for. An ex-con named Carpenter, Jake Carpenter.” Travis took out his notebook and began to write. “My client tells me that Carpenter is a co-beneficiary on an insurance policy and I took the job of finding him.” I told Travis what I had learned about Carpenter. Or actually, what I wanted him to know, which wasn’t a lot. And it didn’t include the rumor about the stolen money. It took me all of about three minutes to fill him in on the case. I gave him Tilton’s gender, but not her name. He had a look on his face that told me he knew he wasn’t getting the whole story. I knew that look well. I kept seeing it in the mirror. “All right, Bill, I’m not going to press you for anything else right now, as long as you’re not holding back any evidence that would help us wrap this up. If your client is connected to this in any way, I expect you to let me know.” He turned to go back own to the crime scene below the bridge. Looking back, he said to me, “And if I hear anything on this Carpenter guy, I’ll let you know. Unless he’s the one who slit this poor bastard. Then I get first crack.” I nodded. Travis picked his way carefully down the hillside to a small group of uniformed and plain clothes officers standing near an outcropping of rocks on the riverbank. A uniform came over and said he was headed back to Manassas and Sergeant Travis had suggested he give me a lift. I joined him in his car and made a mental outline of what I expected to be a very busy day. Thinking about the day ahead helped to keep the memory of Foley’s face at arm’s length, but I didn’t know how long I could keep him from sneaking back into my thoughts.