Full Circle Sue Grafton

Full Circle Sue Grafton

Crime Story : Retold by John and Celia Turvey

The accident happened on a Friday afternoon, as I was driving home. The traffic was moving quickly along the Santa Teresa freeway and my own little Volkswagen was running well, although it’s fifteen years old. I was feeling good. I’d just solved a difficult case, and I had a cheque in my handbag for four thousand dollars. That’s good money, for a female private detective working for herself.

The sun shone down on the freeway out of a cloudless California sky. I was driving in the middle lane. Looking into the driving mirror, I saw a young woman in a small white car coming up behind me in the fast lane. A bright red Porsche was close behind her, and I guessed she wanted to move into the middle lane in front of me to let it pass, so I reduced my speed. Coming up on my right was a dark blue Toyota. While I was looking in the mirror I heard a loud noise, a bit like a gunshot.

I turned my attention back to the road in front of me. Suddenly the small white car moved back into the fast lane. It seemed to be out of control. It hit the back of the red Porsche, ran into the fence in the centre of the freeway, and then back again into the road in front of me. I put my foot down hard to bring the Volkswagen to a stop. At that moment a green Mercedes suddenly appeared from nowhere, and hit the side of the girl’s car, sending it right off the road. Behind me all the cars were trying to stop – I could hear them crashing into each other.

It was all over in a moment. A cloud of dust from the side of the road showed where the girl’s car had come to rest. It had hit one of the posts of a road sign, and the broken sign was now hanging across her car roof.

I left my car at the side of the road and ran towards the white car, with the man from the blue Toyota close behind me. The girl’s head had gone through the front window. She was unconscious, and her face was covered in blood. I couldn’t open the car door, but the man from the Toyota forced it open and reached inside.

‘Don’t move her,’ I said. ‘Let the ambulance people do it.’ I took off my coat, and we used it to stop the blood from the worst of her cuts. He was a man of twenty-four or twenty-five, with dark hair and anxious dark eyes.

Someone behind me was asking for help, and I realized that other people had been hurt in the accident as well. The driver from the green Mercedes was already using the telephone at the roadside, to call the ambulance and police, I guessed. The driver of the red Porsche just stood there, unable to move from shock. I looked back at the young man from the Toyota, who was pressing the girl’s neck. ‘She seems to be alive,’ he said.

I left him with the girl, and went to help a man with a broken leg.

By the time the police and the ambulance arrived, a small crowd of drivers had stopped their cars to look, as if a road accident was some kind of sports event. I noticed my friend John Birkett, a photographer from the local newspaper. I watched as the girl was carried into the ambulance. Then, with some of the other drivers, I had to tell a policeman what I had seen.

When I read in the newspaper next morning that the girl had died, I was so upset that I felt sick. There was a short piece about her. Caroline Spurrier was twenty-two, a student in her final year at the University of California, Santa Teresa. She came from Denver, Colorado. The photograph showed shoulder-length fair hair, bright eyes and a happy smile. I could feel the young woman’s death like a heavy weight on my chest.

My office in town was being painted, so I worked at home that next week. On Thursday morning there was a knock at the door. I opened it. At first I thoughtthe dead girl was alive again, and standing on my doorstep. But then I realized that this was a woman in her forties.

‘I’m Michelle Spurrier,’ she said. ‘I understand you saw my daughter’s accident.’

‘Please come in. I’m so sorry about what happened.’

She couldn’t speak at first, then the words came slowly ‘The police examined Caroline’s car, and found a bullet hole in the window on the passenger side. My daughter was shot.’ She began to cry. When she was calmer I asked, ‘What do the police say about it?’

‘They’re calling it murder now. The officer I talked to thinks it’s one of those freeway killings – a crazy man shooting at a passing car, for no special reason.’

‘They’ve had enough of those in Los Angeles,’ I said.

‘Well, I can’t accept that. Why was she on the freeway instead of at work? She had a job in the afternoons. They tell me she left suddenly without a word to anyone.’

‘Where did she work?’

‘At a restaurant near the university. She’d been working there for a year. The manager told me a man had been annoying her. Perhaps she left to get away from him.’

‘Did he know who the man was?’

‘Not really. They had been out together. He kept coming to see her in the restaurant, calling her at all hours, causing a lot of trouble. Lieutenant Dolan tells me you’re a private detective – I want you to find out who’s responsible for her death.’

‘Mrs Spurrier, the police here are very good at their job. I’m sure they’re doing everything possible.’

‘I’m not so sure. But I have to fly back to Denver now My husband is very ill and I need to get home. I can’t go until I know someone here is looking into this. Please.’

I said I would do it. After all, I already had a strong interest in the case. ‘I’ll need a few names,’ I said.

She gave me the names of the girl who shared Caroline’s room and the restaurant where she’d worked.

Usually I try to keep out of cases that the police are working on. Lieutenant Dolan, the officer responsible for murder cases, is not fond of private detectives. So I was surprised that he’d sent Mrs Spurrier to me.

As soon as she left, I drove over to the police station, where I paid six dollars for a copy of the police report. Lieutenant Dolan wasn’t in, so I spoke to Emerald, the secretary who works in the Records Department.

‘I’d like a bit of information on the Spurrier accident. Did anybody see where the shot was fired from?’

‘No, they didn’t.’

I thought about the man in the red Porsche. He’d been in the lane to my left, just a few metres ahead of me when the accident happened. The man in the Toyota might be a help as well. ‘What about the other witnesses? There were five or six of us there. Who’s been questioned?’

Emerald looked angry. ‘You know I’m not allowed to give out information like that!’

‘Come on, Emerald. Dolan knows I’m doing this. He told Mrs Spurrier about me. Just give me one name.’

‘Well . . . Which one?’ Slowly she got out some papers.

I described the young man in the Toyota, thinking she could find him in the list of witnesses by his age.

She looked down the list. ‘Uh-oh! The man in the Toyota gave a false name and address. Benny Seco was the name, but I guess he invented that. Perhaps he’s already wanted by the police.’

I heard a voice behind me. ‘Well, well. Kinsey Millhone. Hard at work, I see.’

I turned to find Lieutenant Dolan standing there, his hands in his pockets. I smiled brightly. ‘Mrs Spurrier got in touch with me and asked me to find out more about her daughters death. I feel bad about the girl. What’s the story on the missing witness?’

‘I’m sure he had a reason for giving a false name,’ said Dolan. ‘Did you talk to him yourself?’

‘Just for a few moments, but I’d know him if I saw him again. Do you think he could help us?’

‘I’d certainly like to hear what he has to say. The other witnesses didn’t realize that the girl was shot. I understand he was close enough to do himself.’

‘There must be a way to find him, don’t you think?’

‘No one remembers much about the man except the car he drove. Toyota, dark blue, four or five years old.’

‘Would you mind if I talked to the other witnesses? I might get more out of them because I was there.’

He looked at me for a moment, and then gave me the list.

‘Thanks. This is great. I’ll tell you what I find out.’

I drove to the restaurant where Caroline Spurrier had worked. I introduced myself to the manager, and told him I was looking into Caroline’s death.

‘Oh, yes, that was terrible. I talked to her mother.’

‘She told me you said something about a man who was annoying Caroline. What else can you tell me?’

‘That’s about all I know. I never saw the man myself. She was working nights for the last two months. She just went back to working days to try to get away from him.’

‘Did she ever tell you his name?’

‘Terry, I think. She really thought he was crazy’

‘Why did she go out with him?’

‘She said he seemed really nice at first, but then he got very jealous. He used to follow her around all the time, in a green Ford car. In the end, I guess he was completely crazy He probably came to find her at the restaurant on Friday afternoon, and that’s why she left.’ I thanked him, and drove over to the university houses where Caroline had lived.

The girl who had shared her room was busy packing things in boxes. Her name was Judy Layton. She was twenty-two, a History student whose family lived in the town. When I asked why she didn’t live at home, she explained that she had a difficult relationship with her mother.

‘How long did you know Caroline?’

‘About a year. I didn’t know her well.’

I looked at the boxes. ‘So you’re moving out?’

‘I’m going back to my parents’ house. It’s near the end of the school year now. And my parents are away for a month, in Canada. My brother’s coming to help me move.’

‘Did Caroline have a boyfriend?’

‘She went out with lots of boys.’

‘But no one special?’

She shook her head, not looking at me.

I tried again. ‘She told her mother about a man who annoyed her at work. They’d been going out together. They’d just finished a relationship. I expect she told you about him?’

‘No, she didn’t. She and I were not close. She went her way and I went mine.’

‘Judy, people get murdered for a reason. There was something going on. Can’t you help me?’

‘You don’t know it was murder. The policeman I talked to said perhaps it was a crazy man in a passing car.’

‘Her mother doesn’t agree.’

‘Well, I can’t help. I’ve told you everything I know.’

I spent the next two days talking to Caroline’s teachers and friends. She seemed to be a sweet girl, well-liked by everyone. But I didn’t get any useful information. I went back to the list of witnesses to the accident, talking to each in turn. I was still interested in the man with the Toyota. What reason could he have for giving a false name? I didn’t seem to be making any progress. Then an idea came to me as I was looking at the newspaper picture of the crashed car. I suddenly remembered John Birkett at the scene of the crash, taking pictures. Perhaps he had one of the man in the Toyota? Twenty minutes later I was in Birkett’s office at the Santa Teresa News, looking at the photographs.

‘No good,’ John said. ‘No clear pictures of him.’

‘What about his car?’

John pulled out another photo of Caroline’s car, with the Toyota some distance behind.

‘Can you make it bigger?’

‘Are you looking for anything special?’

‘The number plate,’ I said.

When we had made the photograph bigger we were able to read the seven numbers and letters on the California number plate. I knew I should inform Lieutenant Dolan, but I wanted to work on this myself. So I telephoned a friend of mine at the Department of Motor Vehicles.

The number belonged to a 1984 Toyota, dark blue, and the owner was Ron Cagle, with an address on McClatchy Way.

My heart was beating loudly as I rang the bell of the house. When the door was finally opened, I just stood there with my mouth open. Wrong man. This man was tall and fat, with blue eyes and red hair. ‘Yes?’ he said.

‘I’m looking for Ron Cagle.’

‘I’m Ron Cagle.’

‘You are? You’re the owner of a dark blue Toyota?’ I read out the number of the car.

He gave me a strange look. ‘Yes. Is something wrong?’

‘Well, I don’t know. Has someone else been driving it?’

‘Not for the last six months. See for yourself.’ He led me round the side of the house. There sat a dark blue Toyota, without wheels and without an engine. ‘What’s this about?’ he asked. ‘This car was at the scene of a recent accident where a girl was killed.’

‘Not this one,’ he said. ‘This has been right here, in this condition, for six months.’ He looked at it again in sudden surprise. ‘What’s this?’ He pointed to the number plate, and I saw that it had completely different numbers.

After a moment I realized what had happened. ‘Somebody stole your plates, and put these in their place.’

‘Why would they do that?’

‘Perhaps they stole a Toyota like this, and wanted new number plates for it, so the police wouldn’t catch them.’ You could see Cagle’s car from the road, I noticed.

I called Lieutenant Dolan and told him what I’d found. He checked the list of stolen cars, and found that the number which was now on Cagle’s car belonged to a vehicle reported stolen two weeks before. But Dolan thought that even if we found the man, he might not be connected with the shooting. I didn’t believe him. I had to find that young man with the dark hair and the dark eyes.

♦

I looked through the list of witnesses and called everybody on the list. Most tried to be helpful, but there was nothing new to add. I drove back to the university area to look for Judy Layton. She must know something more.

The apartment was locked, and looking through the window I saw that all the furniture was gone. I spoke to the manager of the apartments and got the address of her parents’ house in Colgate, the area to the north of town.

It was a pleasant house in a nice street. I rang the bell and waited. I rang the bell again. It appeared that no one was at home. As I was returning to my car, I noticed the three-car garage at the side of the house. In the detective business, sometimes you get a feeling ... a little voice inside you, telling you there’s something wrong. I looked through the garage window. Inside I saw a car, with all the paint taken off it.

The side door of the garage was unlocked, and I went in. Yes, the car was a Toyota, and its number plates were missing. This must be the same car – and the driver must be someone in the Layton family. But why hadn’t he driven it away somewhere and left it? Perhaps he thought it was too dangerous? I did a quick search of the inside of the car. Under the front seat I saw a handgun, a .45. I left it where it was, and ran back to my car. I had to find a telephone and call the police.

As I was getting into my car, I saw a dark green Ford coming towards the Layton entrance. The driver was the man I’d seen at the accident. Judy’s brother? He looked rather like her. Of course she hadn’t wanted to talk about him!

Suddenly he noticed me, and I saw the terror in his face as he recognized me. The Ford sped past me, and I chased after it. I guessed he was going towards the freeway.

He wasn’t far in front of me when he turned onto the freeway, heading south, and soon I was right behind him.

He turned off the road onto the rough ground beside it, to pass the slow-moving traffic. I followed him. He was watching me in his driving mirror. Perhaps that was why he didn’t see the workmen and their heavy vehicle right in front of him – not until it was too late.

He ran straight into the vehicle, with a crash that made my blood turn cold, as I brought the Volkswagen to a safe stop. It was like the first accident all over again, with police and ambulance men everywhere. Now I realized where I was. The workmen in their orange coats were putting up a new green freeway sign in place of the one that Caroline’s car had broken. Terry Layton died at the exact spot where he had killed her.

But why did he do it? I guess the restaurant manager was right, and jealousy had made him crazy. Not too crazy, though, to carry out; that careful plan with the stolen car and number plates. And now he was dead,