A copy of the arsonist’s latest taunting note was in a plastic sleeve on his immaculate desk. He pulled the case file and added the note to the others. No fingerprints so far, according to the chief. DNA would take a great deal longer to process.
After entering his reports on the welfare check and barn fire, including the fire marshal’s comments, he flipped through his phone messages. Nothing that couldn’t wait. Returning to the fire marshal’s comments, he thought for a moment, then typed some notes to himself.
Arson for insurance? Different families but maybe for hire? How contact?
Arson for a cause? No claim, and letters would reflect this.
Criminal cover-up? No evidence.
Impaired judgment? Too controlled a scene.
Anger or vengeance? Against whom?
Early in the investigation, the sheriff had asked an FBI profiler for help. The profile hadn’t added much to what they already knew. He said the criminal was likely a white male twenty-five to thirty-five years old who had a low-paying job or was not employed. Ninety percent of Idaho was white, and the median age was thirty-five. Everyone had low-paying jobs.
Bram returned to the notes from the arsonist and reread them, even though he knew them by heart. Could the content of the letters be useful? The words themselves? The Unabomber had been identified by his manifesto. And Roy had said Darby’s job had something to do with language and deception.
Or maybe Bram was just devising some way to see her again.
Sheriff Turner wouldn’t let him head back out to Mule Shoe unless he could convince her Darby might prove useful to the arson case.
He’d start with her name, job title, and work. He typed in what he knew about her.
The results were immediate. No Darby Graham lived in Washington state.
Maybe she recently moved there. He typed in the name of the company she said she worked for, Clan Firinn. A short article appeared.
Clan Firinn, located outside of Pullman, Washington, offers hope and rehabilitation to law enforcement and first responders suffering from various forms of PTSD and other disorders arising from their work. It is privately owned and funded. Clan Firinn does not accept general applicants but reviews referrals on an individual basis. While participating in the program, members experience therapeutic work, educational opportunities, physical training, a structured schedule, personalized feedback, nutritious meals, and spiritual guidance. Graduates are assisted with career counseling, job referrals, and relocation.
PTSD? Bram sat up straighter. That might explain her reticence. And possibly her limp.
He tried a nationwide search on her name with no useful results. Next he typed in the license plates for the two Washington state vehicles in the parking lot beside Sam’s Mercantile. One came back with a Teodoro Rinaldi of Bellevue. The second was for a Darby Carson, in care of Firinn Farm, Rural Route 3, LaCrosse, Washington.
Carson? She’d been introduced as Graham. Divorced?
His fingers hesitated over the keyboard. He was just following a lead about who might help him with this case. Right. He was snooping, maybe even stalking. This wasn’t healthy. The notes had nothing to do with deception.
He squeezed his hands into fists, then typed Darby + “Washington state.” Three thousand two hundred seventy-seven hits. He randomly clicked on a few before finding a photo that looked familiar. It showed a younger, much longer-haired Darby. She was dressed in a one-piece red outfit and was posed on the side of a galloping horse with only one hand holding the saddle horn and a leg through a loop.
Snohomish County News
Darby G. Bell, a youth champion rider, will be one of the celebrity judges at the upcoming Western Horseback Games Alliance’s O-Mok-See and Trick Riding event . . .
O-Mok-See. He looked up the term.
O-Mok-See: The western term derived from the Blackfoot Indians’ description of a style of riding called “oh-mak-see pass-kan,” meaning “riding big dance.” Most of these youth events are set up to show tight horse-and-rider teamwork, precise actions, and a variety of skills performed at a high rate of speed.
Trick riding: Performing stunts, usually on a galloping horse, such as spritz stand, layout fender (also known as the Indian Hideaway) . . .
When she’d mentioned she was perfectly capable of riding a horse, she wasn’t kidding. She’d competed in timed horseback riding events since she was a child.
The next article was from the Seattle Post Times.
Skagit County, North Cascades
Several people are dead or seriously wounded in a shootout outside a north Skagit County home on Saturday afternoon, according to the Skagit County Sheriff’s Department.
The incident happened around 2:45 p.m. Saturday on Pine Creek Road.
A Skagit sheriff’s deputy said the homeowner, later identified as Franklin Olsen, killed two members of the county forensic unit who were conducting a follow-up investigation on Kirt Walter Daday, dubbed the Butcher of Sedro-Woolley . . .
Bram clicked on another article written a couple of days later. Darby Carson was described as a forensic linguist working for the state crime lab and had been with the lead detective on the day of the shooting.
He jotted down forensic linguist. He’d never heard of it.
The second article mentioned the incident wasn’t discovered until a motorist driving down the road near midnight stopped to check out what appeared to be an abandoned vehicle.
The next series of essays was brutal. Mistaken identity, careless investigation, real serial killer free to murder a final time before shootout.
Harsh finger-pointing came next, including accusations about Darby’s work on the case that had bungled the correct identification. Apparently Franklin Olsen, the real Butcher of Sedro-Woolley, had asked Daday to write the notes for him as Olsen was functionally illiterate. The word choice and phrasing came from Daday, half brother to Olsen, and had led to Daday’s mistaken identity.
Bram leaned back in his chair. Darby wasn’t to blame if anyone really thought about it, but she’d been smeared just the same. He’d just caught a glimpse of Darby’s nightmare.
* * *
After leaving the gift shop, I strolled outside toward the kitchen’s exterior door, hoping to score some bones for the dogs. A variety of delicious aromas escaped the screen door, and the low hum of a generator came from a fenced-in area behind the building. Cookie answered my knock. “Miz Graham! Welcome.”
“Please, call me Darby. I hope I’m not interrupting.”
“Come in, Darby. Nope. Just working out the menu and schedules.” Her grin made her long, thin face quite attractive. The kitchen was far from primitive. All the latest commercial-grade appliances gleamed with polished perfection.
“I thought there wasn’t any electricity,” I said.
“For the guests. Way too crazy to try and cook five-star meals on a cookstove. So let me guess why you’re here. Perhaps for bones for two hero dogs?”
“So you heard about the bear.”
“Yup. And the dead raccoon.” Cookie turned and waved at one of the kitchen helpers. “Would you pull a couple of beef bones out, Maja?”
The woman nodded and opened a walk-in cooler.
“Gossip, rumors, and small talk are an art form around here,” Cookie said. “We’ve even started a betting pool as to who will get enough nerve to ask you on a date first: Bram or Wyatt.”
My face burned. “Oh no. That’s . . . what . . . I’m not . . .”
Cookie patted my arm with a callused hand. “Now, sweetie, don’t get upset.”
“Why would you all even think that?”
“Wyatt actually attempted to polish his cowboy boots, and he’s never escorted anyone to their cabin. And Bram’s horse-drawn taxi service to bring you here didn’t go unnoticed. In either case, those are two hunky men—”
Maja returned with two large bones in a plastic bag and handed them to me.
“Would you go see if the tables are ready?” Coo
kie said to the woman. When we were alone again, she said to me, “Don’t worry, Darby. I know all about you. I’m a graduate of Clan Firinn myself. Scott Thomas wanted to be sure you had someone you could turn to on your first job after going through the program.”
I almost dropped the bag of bones. “How long—”
“Since I left? Ten years. How long was I there? Two years. About the same as you. How long did I battle PTSD? I still have my moments. I didn’t lose part of my leg, like you did, but I did lose a lot.”
I nodded mutely.
“Scott told me you were a rodeo star.”
“No. I competed as a kid in O-Mok-See competitions. Did a little barrel racing, team roping, trick riding, but . . . not since . . .”
“Feel free to talk to me anytime, but please keep our conversations confidential. Like you, I don’t like to share my personal information.”
“Of course. I would like to talk to you about Mule Shoe.”
“That would be a good idea. Maybe later when I have a break and your class is over for the day. Now, why do you suppose a bear wandered so close to the resort?”
I blinked at her change of topic. “I think it was lured here by sardines.”
Cookie’s eyes narrowed and she said in a low voice, “I was afraid of that. You need to be very careful—”
Maja returned to the kitchen. “Tables are all ready.”
“I hope your dogs enjoy their treats.” Cookie’s voice was back to normal. She gave me a long look, then turned to the kitchen.
Very careful? I smoothed the scratchy feeling on my neck, then left, heading for my cabin. So much for reading a few statements, asking a couple of questions, and enjoying my stay. What had I gotten myself into here?
* * *
Bram typed forensic linguist into the search engine. More than three hundred thousand hits showed up.
He rolled his lips. He’d never heard of the profession, but it seemed both recognized and established in law enforcement. The field encompassed legal language in court, foreign languages, as well as deception and evidence. Any kind of threatening communication, such as extortion demands, could be examined by a forensic linguist. He read that linguists had been consulted in two well-known cases—the manifesto of the Unabomber and the note from the JonBenét Ramsey murder case.
He stood, grabbed up the notes from the arsonist, then paused. Sheriff Turner might be over her earlier rampage about the dogs, but he couldn’t gauge her present mood. He took a deep breath and tapped on her office door. “Got a minute?”
The older woman looked up from a stack of paperwork. “Yes, Bram?”
“I think I might have an idea for a new angle on the arson case.” He held up the copies of the notes. “I know we’ve been focusing on fingerprints and bio evidence, but what about the notes themselves? I believe a forensic linguist could—”
“Forensic linguist?”
“A specialist in clues through language. Law enforcement used one with the Unabomber.”
“Do you know where you can find a forensic linguist? I know the state doesn’t have one, and I have no budget left to pay an expert for something that could prove to be a long shot. I need results, especially . . .”
He waited a moment. “I . . . heard about the petition. I’m sorry.”
She looked out the window, eyes unfocused. “Maybe it’s for the best,” she said under her breath.
He frowned at her. “Excuse me?”
She shook her head as if waking from a daze, waved him away, and returned to her paperwork.
Bram slowly walked back to his cubicle. Maybe it’s for the best? Sheriff Turner was a good-enough chief, but something was off about this whole arson ordeal. Maybe it was the magnitude of the case. Before scoring the job as sheriff in Fremont County, she’d been deputy sheriff in neighboring Clark County, population 852. With a population of over thirteen thousand, Fremont County had been a dramatic step up for her.
He was about to return the notes to the case file but paused. Sheriff Turner hadn’t exactly said no to the idea of showing the letters to Darby. He stepped over to the copier and made several duplicate sets, then placed two sets into a file. With all the problems at the Mule Shoe, it was only a matter of time before he’d be called in and could see Darby.
Chapter 8
My walk back to my cabin took me past the horse pasture. Several stopped grazing and gave me a curious look. They appeared to be mostly Quarter Horse crosses with a few Appaloosas and a couple of mules.
The events described in Roy’s letter seemed random and not particularly unusual, but the destruction of the art room and the possibility that the bear had been deliberately lured convinced me something was wrong at the resort. Unfortunately, I’d only smelled the fish, and Roy had cleaned up the art room, so I didn’t have tangible evidence. The raccoon incident was up in the air. None of the events I’d witnessed targeted a specific individual.
One of the mules sauntered over to see if I had a treat. I stroked his velvety nose. “What do you think? Should I just hop on your back and find out if I’m ready to ride again?” He puffed into my hair and wandered away.
I continued to my cabin. The dogs were calmly lying on the small porch. When she spotted the bone I held out, Holly leaped up, grabbed it, and trotted to a nearby tree.
Maverick simply stared at me.
“Come on, big guy. You deserve this treat.” I held out the bone. “You saved me from certain death, or at least a nasty mauling.”
The Anatolian was unmoved by my words.
I placed the bone on the porch, then moved to the other side and sat in a willow armchair.
Maverick, gaze never leaving me, stood and retrieved the bone. I stayed seated. He lay down and began gnawing on it.
“You know, Maverick, everyone is betrayed at least once in a lifetime. Everyone has wounds and scars. Maybe if I knew where yours came from, you’d learn to trust me even a tiny bit.” I took the three pebbles from my pockets, rolled them around in my fingers, then put them back. “I don’t know why Shadow Woman would leave the two of you to starve. I’m trying to find out more. Maybe once I know your background better, I can find a way to reach you.”
Maverick continued to chew on his bone.
I still had the brochures Roy gave me. I opened the one on team building.
Corporate Team Building
Whether you want to bring together new employees or reenergize the creative working spirit in long-time staff, we are poised to customize the perfect program for you. Our exercises are designed to challenge and sharpen your skills, refine objectives, and develop reliance and trust.
Consider our wilderness scavenger hunt, where participants are placed in a remote location with only a few tools and must live off the land while recovering specific items.
Our most popular challenge, and most useful in today’s difficult environment, is active-shooter and workplace-violence response . . .
I stepped inside and dropped most of the brochures on the counter. I placed the one on team building in my notebook. The insurance carrier had dropped their coverage on team building. How big a hit did Roy’s pocketbook take for that? I’d need to talk to him.
The creaking and rattling of a wagon accompanied by the clop, clop, clop of a horse announced the arrival of the supplies. Liam drove Sam’s wagon around to the side of the lodge, then began unloading it into the kitchen. Perfectly timed delivery for Liam to stay for lunch.
Dee Dee Denim and Golden Girl Grace were standing under a ponderosa in deep discussion with Angie. I could have easily heard Angie’s powerful voice, but Grace did the talking. Were they discussing the bear or reviewing the deeper meaning of relative values? Or something more sinister? Now I’m getting paranoid. I wandered closer to eavesdrop.
“Yellowstone’s incredibly fragile geothermal pools and geysers,” Grace said, “can be destroyed or altered by man. For example, people routinely throw pennies, garbage, even soap into geysers and pools. This can change
the direction of a geyser or . . .”
Grace seemed to relish the subject of natural disasters. I caught a glimpse of someone near the barn before the figure dodged out of sight. Returning to my cabin, I kept an eye on the barn. When I reached the porch, I had a good view of an opening where two windows lined up. This time I saw him.
Riccardo Rinaldi, the teenage son of Teddy and Nona. The one who’d been restricted to his cabin for sneaking out last night. Obviously he’d decided to ignore his punishment.
“Well,” I said to Maverick. “You already know what I’m going to say.”
Maverick paused midchew and squinted at me.
“Right. It’s none of my business to get involved with teen discipline.”
A horse whinnied in the barn.
Maverick glanced at the barn, then at me.
“No. He wouldn’t be so foolish as to try to leave. I doubt he even knows how to bridle a horse, let alone cinch a saddle.”
Both Maverick and Holly jumped to their feet and faced the barn.
“I suppose . . . I could interview him, although I doubt I’d get him to say he trashed the art room.”
Holly whined.
“You’re laying it on pretty thick.” I stood. “You save me from a bear, I check on a wayward teen. Is that it?” I sauntered toward the barn, muttering, “Who’d have figured my two dogs were the cruise directors for a guilt trip?”
The nearest door of the barn opened to the milking stanchions, all spotless. The rich odor of hay filled the air, and light streaming in from the window highlighted a ginger-colored cat sprawled in the warmth.
Thump!
It sounded like a bale of hay had been dropped from the overhead loft. A half door opened to a hallway, with a ladder attached to the wall in front of me leading to an overhead trapdoor. The feed trough for the stanchions lined one side. The hall continued to my right, dimly lit. At the far end was a small pile of hay and something blue. I moved in that direction. Slowly the image became clearer. A second ladder to the loft was open at this end, allowing a shaft of light to illuminate the hay. The blue turned out to be jeans.
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