by Spencer Kope
“Well, that’s something you don’t see every day,” Nate mutters.
“Great! Another hunter’s shack,” Jason observes, pointing to part of the structure that looks older and more weatherworn. “The rest has been added more recently.”
“How do you know that?” I ask.
“Look at the porch.” He gestures at a collection of pallets that have been set directly on the ground in front of the cabin and hammered together into something that resembles neither a porch nor a thing masquerading as a porch.
“What about it?”
“That’s pretty cheap lumber, and it’s resting right on the ground. I doubt it would take more than a couple years for it to start rotting.”
“You think this has all been done in the last few years?” Jimmy says with a hint of urgency. “You’re sure?”
Jason lifts a shoulder in a half shrug. “Pretty sure.”
Jimmy’s eyes find me again, but I’m already pulling my glasses off. Immediately my gut goes to butterflies as I take in the incredible wash of pimpled gray.
Murphy is everywhere: on the ground, against the trees, and on the porch, the walls, and the windows. His shine is present everywhere one would have touched, pushed, held, or lifted in order to convert the old hunting shack into an ugly and confused cabin.
The shock of this revelation elicits an unusual sound from my lips: a cross between a gasp, a moan, and a laugh. Unfortunately, it’s loud enough to draw the unwanted attention of Nate and Jason, who look at me with puzzled expressions.
Thinking quickly, I say, “Sorry … excited utterance.”
My choice of words is intentional, since an excited utterance is the legal term for a statement made while a subject is still under stress after a startling event. It’s an exception to the hearsay rule, and admissible as evidence. Cops love a good excited utterance because it can convict a suspect with his own words. Usually it’s something like, “He had it coming,” or “I didn’t mean to hit her so hard.”
While my gasp wasn’t exactly a statement, my explanation is immediately understood, and both Nate and Jason grin as if I’d just told a joke … which I kind of did.
Nate walks up onto the so-called porch and knocks on the door. It’s clear he doesn’t expect an answer because he immediately rattles the door handle and finds it locked. As he moves to the large window to the left of the door and presses his face to the glass, cupping his hands to block the light, Jimmy and Jason move to opposite corners of the cabin to watch for any unexpected exits. Their handguns are still holstered, but I know they’ll come out in a startling blur at the first hint of activity.
“Can’t make anything out,” Nate says. “There’s a crack in the curtain, but…” He pauses and retrieves his flashlight. “That’s a little better. Looks like a living room. There’s a coffee table and a lamp, and I can make out part of a bicycle wheel. There’s some clutter—” A startled cry and a spasm of movement erupt from the front of the house. A loud crack rings out.
Nate goes down.
I watch in confusion as he falls backward onto the pallets, unable to stop his fall or even turn and stretch his arms out. He hits hard and the wind leaves him in a woomp of sound that carries away and dies in the trees.
He tries to scramble back from the house, but his body is demanding oxygen his empty lungs can’t give. The jolt from the fall and his inability to catch a breath leaves his efforts weak and flailing, but it’s clear he wants to put distance between himself and the cabin.
Jason has his Glock in hand and moves to a cover position with the barrel pointing at the dark window. Rushing forward, Jimmy and I grab the downed detective under both arms and try to drag him to safety. Nate can’t cry out in pain, but the look on his face and the sudden cringe of his body warns us to stop pulling.
Then I see it: his foot is wedged sideways in one of the pallets.
The loud and ominous crack was nothing more than old wood giving way. In his sudden and spasmodic rush to flee the window, his heel had landed hard on the pallet porch and pushed through one of the boards, snapping it like dry bone.
Freeing the foot quickly, Jimmy and I lift Nate until he’s close to standing, and then drag him to the security of a nearby tree cluster. Jason falls in behind, his aim never leaving the window.
A cursory and somewhat rough inspection of Nate finds no obvious injuries, and when the detective finally catches his breath, his lungs are like a reluctant engine finally sputtering to life. Each breath is stronger than the last, and less gasping.
It’s not long before he’s able to speak again, and the first thing out of his mouth is a string of sharp expletives that flow like water from a bursting dam. The explosion of profanity lasts mere seconds, but its effect seems to compose him, as if the excess adrenaline in his system had somehow attached itself to each hurtled syllable and flushed the fight-or-flight hormone from his system.
In a calmer voice, Nate says, “There’s someone inside—just sitting there! Scared the crap out of me!” As soon as he says it, another thought occurs to him. “Or it’s a body.”
“Did you see movement?” Jimmy asks.
He shakes his head sharply and wipes his face with his hand.
“Where in the house?”
Nate flails his hand loosely in the direction of the window. “There’s a chair, or a couch. It’s pushed up against the window. Only the left end of it is visible through the gap in the curtain, but you can tell someone’s sitting there.”
“Male or female?”
“I don’t know,” he stammers, and then blurts: “Female, I suppose. All I saw was her arm.” He sweeps his hand up and down his own arm by way of explanation. “It looked like a woman’s arm. You know, thin with no bicep. She had it resting on the arm of the couch. The upper arm disappeared to the right, but you could tell it was rising to her shoulder.” He shakes his head. “She’s just sitting there.”
“Was she bound in any way?” I ask.
“No. Not that I saw.”
“Sedated?”
“How the hell should I know that?” Nate snaps, and then immediately apologizes.
We stand in silence for a long moment, each of us working this development over in our heads as we decide the next course of action … or so I think. Then I realize I’m the only one thinking about what comes next. Everyone else is standing perfectly still and listening: listening for movement inside the cabin, for the soft pleas for help uttered through a gag, for the slow telltale scrape of feet upon the wooden floor.
Even the forest seems to hold its breath.
“We need to get in there,” Jimmy says after what seems like minutes.
“Exigent circumstances?” Jason suggests.
“Sounds right to me. We have seven women that are supposedly missing, one of whom appears to be immobilized inside a shack owned by Murphy’s great-aunt. I think that qualifies.”
“And if it’s the Onion King?” Nate asks.
Jimmy looks my way and I give him a furtive shake of my head. The Onion King has never been here, of that I’m certain.
“That’s a chance we’ll have to take,” Jimmy replies.
With his Glock in hand, Jimmy moves swiftly to the front of the cabin and pounds on the door three times, announcing, “FBI!” while Nate covers the window from a safe distance and Jason positions himself along the side of the house. I rarely pack my Walther P22 when we’re working a case, so I pull back and watch the opposite end of the house, just in case someone pops out through a window and goes rabbit.
“FBI!” Jimmy calls again, rattling the door with his fist. When he gets no answer, he tries the door handle and finds that the latch is loose in the strike plate. Applying pressure to it, he works the handle back and forth, but it doesn’t give.
“Jason!” he calls, jerking his head to summon him over.
The detective sergeant knows what’s needed before he reaches the porch, and quickly fishes the lock-pick set from his pocket. Inserting the tension w
rench into the lock, he uses the rake to bounce the pins. A moment later the pins are set, and he turns the tension wrench and rake like a key. Giving Jimmy a nod, he pockets the tool kit and returns to his position on the side of the house.
“Last chance,” Jimmy calls into the house. “This is the FBI and we’re coming in. Keep your hands where we can see them and don’t make any sudden moves.”
With his flashlight in his left hand and his Glock in his right, he toes the door open and stands to the right of the opening as he does a quick sweep of the left side of the room, using the outside wall as cover.
“Freeze!” Jimmy suddenly shouts, tensing up and drawing down on a target in the corner of the room. His gun then dances to a second target … and a third, moving back and forth between them.
Jason rushes forward and takes up position on the opposite side of the door opening, covering the other half of the house so that no one can move up on Jimmy and blindside him.
As soon as the beam from his flashlight cuts the darkness, Jason yells, “Freeze! Clallam County Sheriff’s Office!” Like Jimmy, his gun floats between multiple targets, only these are on the other side, meaning there are at least four or five subjects in the house.
Then, inexplicably and without a word, Jimmy and Jason lower their guns simultaneously and step through the opening.
I glance over at Nate and he just gives me an exaggerated shrug; apparently he’s as puzzled as I am. Jimmy and Jason are just inside the open door, shining their flashlights this way and that. When I can’t take it any longer, I yell, “What?” in my loudest voice.
Jimmy glances out but doesn’t seem to be in that big of a hurry to reply. “I could tell you,” he finally says, “or you can come over and see for yourself.”
We do, and as Nate and I approach, Jason pulls open the front curtain. Moving to the back of the cabin, he parts a second set of curtains, and then a third. The tepid light of the winter sun flows through the cabin like a spring flood. Corners that were once dark are now illuminated; shadows that once menaced are dissolved.
Placing my feet carefully on the pallet porch, I make my way toward the front door, pausing for just a moment at the front window to glance inside. In that instant, much is explained. And then I notice something else: an abundance of recent shine. Murphy’s stands prominent, but it’s the others that I’m interested in.
With my glasses in hand I move forward, passing through the open door as if it were a portal into a surreal world of neon color and horror. Separating out the distinct shines in my head, I count them as I go.
“Oh, no,” I whisper when I finish.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
A lot of things unfold quickly when a crime scene is discovered: CSIs are called out, detectives and deputies hurry to the location, the sheriff is notified, and the beginnings of a perimeter are set—and that’s all in the first few minutes.
After clearing the house, Jimmy asks me to do a walk-through to get my impressions. He then steps outside, consults with Jason a moment, and then places a call to Sheriff Eccles.
Since Clallam County has only four detectives—and half of them are already on scene—Jason calls Detective Mike Hopkins, who’s working a case in Sequim, and asks him to gather up any bodies that patrol can spare and respond to the cabin.
Next, he calls Detective Tony Halsted, who’s writing a polygraph report at the office. Based on what we found in the cabin, it’s clear that exigent circumstances no longer apply, and everything we do from here on out has to be meticulous.
“Tony, I need a search warrant,” the detective sergeant says without preamble.
“Sure, boss. Whatcha got?”
Jason spends several minutes detailing the case, the reason for the search, and what they hope to find—the basic elements of a search warrant affidavit. Tony takes notes at a breathtaking pace. Earlier in his career he’d signed up for a shorthand course thinking it would be useful when making notes in the field and during interviews. That was before they switched over to tape recorders.
In just a few minutes, and with little repetition or clarification from Jason, Tony has everything he needs to prepare a search warrant affidavit.
“I’ll give the prosecutor’s office a heads-up,” Tony says. “We should have it in front of a judge in the next hour.”
“That’ll work,” Jason tells him. “It’ll be a few hours before the cavalry arrives.”
“Cavalry?”
“You’ll see when you get here,” Jason replies. He thanks Tony and ends the call.
* * *
Jimmy and I have worked enough major crime scenes to know that this one is well beyond the scope of Clallam County. It’s not that they don’t have good people ready to dive into the investigation; they just don’t have enough of them. When Jimmy calls Sheriff Eccles and explains what we’ve found, she quickly agrees and requests FBI assistance in processing the scene.
Most of what the Special Tracking Unit deals with does not fall under federal jurisdiction, so contrary to popular belief the FBI can’t just sweep in and take over an investigation. Almost every case we work is at the request and invitation of a local agency. Sometimes there’s resentment on the part of one or two detectives who think we’re there to flex the FBI muscle and steal their case away. More than once I’ve heard a sarcastically muttered, “I’m from the government and I’m here to help.”
I don’t take it personally.
One of the things Jimmy tells investigators the first time we meet is, “We work for you.” The words are easily said but he means them, and our actions back them up. It probably helps that we have no interest in being in the media spotlight, holding press conferences, or taking any credit for solving the case. Mostly we prefer to just fly in, help as much as we can, and fly home without ever being referenced in the press or, when possible, case reports.
This is our fifth investigation with the Clallam County Sheriff’s Office, which explains the camaraderie and trust: We’ve already proven ourselves. There are no bridges to build or egos to soothe. It also explains the sheriff’s unflinching willingness to bring in specialized help.
The FBI has 141 highly trained Evidence Response Teams, or ERTs, attached to fifty-six field offices throughout the United States. Each team is led by a special agent, but most of the members are non-sworn professionals who are meticulous about evidence collection and up-to-date on all the latest techniques.
Whether it’s ultraviolet photography, DNA, fingerprint analysis, gas chromatography, or digital information recovery, the ERTs have the personnel, the training, and the equipment to glean the maximum amount of evidence from a crime scene.
They’re ideal for complex cases, so the decision is a no-brainer.
After getting an official request from Sheriff Eccles, Jimmy makes the call. “Here we go,” he says under his breath.
The phone begins to ring.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
The cabin is an unintentional caricature.
The rustic simplicity of the interior is accented here and there by freakish splashes of some pretend reality, and I have to admit that I’m a little creeped out at being left alone inside. Still, the seven occupants seem harmless enough, so I suck it up and move through each room methodically.
The layout is fairly straightforward. To the right is what I would call a kitchen, though there are no appliances and the sink appears to be for show, since there’s no running water and the drainpipe isn’t connected. Inside the sink, however, is a plastic shopping bag with several empty candy wrappers, two empty Coke cans, and other miscellaneous garbage. Among this refuse I find the empty packaging of something else I recognize. I leave it in place but make a mental note to point it out to CSI.
Stretching across the top of several dilapidated waist-high cabinets between the kitchen and living room is a countertop that seems to serve as a breakfast bar and includes two high-backed metal stools.
One is occupied.
Her elbows are on the counter and
she’s leaning forward, as if talking to another occupant who’s standing in the kitchen with a towel in her hand. The seated figure is dressed in dark blue sweats and white sneakers. The one with the towel is wearing a pair of jeans and a T-shirt.
Behind the kitchen, in the back-right corner of the house, is a space occupied by a single dominant feature: a barber chair. It’s not one of the old collectible barber chairs, but something more recent, less appealing. Against the wall are three cardboard file boxes, the type used by law firms and sold at office supply stores.
I learned long ago how to move through a building without tainting evidence. Crime scene investigators tend to be touchy about where you walk, what you touch, and what direction you sneeze. So, as I crouch to examine the first of the three boxes, the first thing I do is snap on a pair of latex gloves. Using both hands, I lift the cardboard lid straight up and keep it horizontal as I move it to the left, exposing the contents.
What greets me would have been somewhat surprising, even shocking, if I hadn’t already expected to find it somewhere in the cabin. Replacing the lid, I repeat the process with box two and box three, finding similar contents. I don’t have to count them; I already know they number seven, each with their own unique shine.
Something Murphy said comes back to me now, something about the soul residing in the face. That part, at least, is starting to make sense.
Moving to the living room, I ignore the three silent occupants and make a mental note of the old seventies-style console TV, the cheap exercise bike, the sofa, the two chairs, the four throwaway paintings on the wall.
The two tiny bedrooms to the left of the living room are equally devoid of evidence, except for their occupants and a single paperback book on one of the beds. Each space holds a twin mattress and box spring that rests atop a frame rail, as well as one nightstand and one picture on the wall—as if everything was purchased in pairs and then divided between the rooms.
Exiting out the front door, my mind still digesting everything I’ve seen, I pull my gloves absently from my hands. Jimmy joins me near the porch.