Some of the articles mentioned Crawford in the headlines, but in others his name was buried deep in the texts. I clicked from one screen to the next. I kept looking for something, anything that would explain the man I’d met, the one who wouldn’t take no for an answer when it came to intruding on our case.
In an old article, I found a photo of Ash with his wife at an award ceremony where he was recognized for aiding the FBI in tracking a ring of sex-trafficking suspects. Her name was Justine, and she was as petite as he was tall.
With that bit of information, I began searching for information on Justine Crawford. It turned out there were only a couple of dozen women in the US with that name. I looked at the photo again. I’d found Ash’s age at one point: sixty-four. In the photo, Justine looked a bit younger, so I narrowed the list down to only those who were fifty-five to sixty-five, and I kept searching. I scrolled and read. As hard as I tried, it seemed that Ash Crawford’s personal life was unknowable. Nothing appeared that gave justification for his interest in the bones.
I couldn’t explain how I finally landed on it. I had nearly given up, decided there simply wasn’t anything to be found, when I made one last attempt by scrolling back and starting over. This time I typed in “Ash Crawford” and “buried bones.” The reason I hadn’t noticed the article earlier was that it wasn’t in a Utah newspaper, but one out of a small town in Nevada.
The headline read: PREGNANT WOMAN’S BONES FOUND IN SHALLOW GRAVE.
The body of the article described a familiar circumstance, the decomposed body of a young woman—a pregnant teenager—found in a rocky grave in a field outside of the city. The body, like the one we’d found, had nothing with it that helped identify the girl. A reconstruction depicted a face that looked a little bit like the sketch of the teenager we’d found: long brown hair, slightly built, about five feet two.
“What is this?” I mumbled. “So strange.”
Crawford’s name first appeared low in the article, a mention that he had volunteered to consult on the case. “US Marshal Ash Crawford will work with local law enforcement to help identify the girl and determine the cause of her death,” the piece concluded.
I searched for more on the story. Two months after the grave was discovered, the girl had been IDed. Photos of the sketch ran beside a photo of a young girl from a nearby city. Her mother was quoted as saying that her sixteen-year-old had gotten pregnant and ran away from home. “We don’t know where she was during the time she was missing or what happened to her,” the girl’s father had said. “We’d appreciate any information anyone might have that could lead to answers on what happened to our daughter.”
I found a mention of a detective who’d worked the case, and I looked up the phone number for the agency. When I introduced myself, I explained that I was calling about Ash Crawford.
“What’s he doing now?” the detective asked.
“We have a case here in Smith County, Utah, sounds a lot like yours. A pregnant teenage girl found buried.”
“Let me guess: Crawford is all over it.”
When I confirmed that was why I was reaching out to him, the detective launched into a litany of complaints about how Crawford had moved in and taken over the case, barricading out local law enforcement and pushing the boundaries until the case imploded. “Looking back, we would have had a better shot at solving the case without him. But when a US marshal offers to help? You take him up on it. He had resources we didn’t have. But in the end, he kept getting in the way.”
“I don’t understand,” I said. “We talked to someone at the US marshal’s office and they described Crawford as a great investigator.”
“So I’ve heard,” the guy said. “Wasn’t our experience.”
We compared the two cases and I soon realized that they weren’t as similar as I’d thought. The girl in Nevada had only been a couple of months pregnant, and the autopsy had found evidence of a gunshot wound. “Somebody put a bullet right through that girl’s head,” the detective said. When it came to suspects, the primary one was the girl’s boyfriend, the biological father. “We felt good about charging him, that we had circumstantial evidence, but the kid has an alibi.”
“One that stood up?” I asked.
“As far as we can tell he wasn’t even in the state around the time she went missing. He was taking classes a thousand miles away. We’re still hoping to solve the case, but we haven’t gotten there yet.”
“No other suspects?”
“Only Ash Crawford.”
Despite my dealings with the retired marshal, that took me by surprise. “Crawford was a suspect? Based on what?”
“Based on the fact that he seemed inordinately interested in the case, and that he kept getting in the way while we tried to solve it.”
“But a suspect?”
“Chief, think about it. Haven’t you ever had a case where the bad guy tried to get involved in the investigation?”
It didn’t take me long to realize he had a point. “Sure, I have. Actually a couple, when I worked in Dallas, including an arsonist who doubled as a volunteer fireman. He showed up to help put out the fires he set.”
The guy laughed. “So how would this be any different?”
The Nevada cop’s words echoed in my mind after I hung up the phone: inordinately interested in the case… How would this be any different?
I called Max. “You busy?”
“Just jumping through hoops. I’m trying to get some company in Denmark to work with me on this Pitocin angle. I’ve been on and off the phone with them. That said, things are pretty normal around here. As you’d expect, Sheriff Holmes is on the warpath about the international phone charges.”
“Figures.” Still, I didn’t blame the sheriff. I knew how hard it was to balance a rural agency’s budget. “Listen, if you’ve got the time, I’d like to tell you what I’ve found out about Ash Crawford.”
Once I’d laid it all out, Max was quiet, as if thinking it through. “So, they think the girl’s boyfriend murdered her, but if he didn’t, they honestly think Ash may be involved?”
Max sounded dubious, and I understood why. But in a twisted way, it made sense.
“They didn’t have anything concrete, just suspicions based on the way Crawford wouldn’t let go of the case. The detective said Crawford got in the way of the investigation, things like what happened with us yesterday at Sam Young’s place, when Ash got Miranda all riled up and we ended up having to put out a fire to get everyone to talk.”
“Huh, that’s odd.”
“Sure is.”
Twenty-Nine
The heavy footsteps stopped at the door. Violet kept her eyes shut and waited, pretended to be sleeping. Whoever it was, the man or one of the sister-wives, turned and left.
Relieved, Violet tried to still her pounding heart. But then she felt it coming, another contraction. She grabbed the railings and held tight. Violet had begged for something to ease the pain, but they’d given her nothing. If only they’d untie her, at least until the baby came. What she ached to do was roll on her side and cradle her abdomen.
As the iron hands of the contraction encircled her body and tightened, she tried not to scream. But the intensity built, and it became her only release. “Oh, please, no!” A shiver ran through her followed by another wave of jaw-clenching pain. Her shrill cries ricocheted off the walls. Once it passed, she waited, terrified, but the man didn’t saunter back into the room, or the women. She was alone.
Once the contractions temporarily released their hold on her body, Violet thought of her mother, of home, of the bed she shared with two of her sisters, shelves that held dolls in bright dresses.
“Home,” she whispered. “If I could only go home.”
That’s where I should have gone, she thought. When I fled, I should have run to my family. Instead her mind filled with memories of the night she left the unwed mother’s home with Lori.
“We’re still doing this? Tonight?” In her blue scrubs, her blond
hair piled on top of her head, Lori had peered into Violet’s room. The aide had a bright smile on her face and looked excited at the prospect of what waited ahead.
“I’m ready,” Violet had whispered, an impish grin on her face. “Are you?”
Lori nodded. “Remember the plan.”
Nurse Gantt had ordered Violet onto bed rest the day before. For the final few weeks of her pregnancy, she wasn’t to budge off the mattress except to use the bathroom. It had all seemed peculiar to the teenager, who felt healthy and strong. Her baby bump had grown to the size of a watermelon, which made moving around awkward, but she hadn’t had any indications of any problems.
“I’ll wait in the car for you. Right after lights out, I’ll leave the door to the staircase unlocked. Okay?”
“Okay.” Every morning and night when Violet said her prayers, she thanked God for Lori. She was the only one willing to help Violet and baby Josh. If Lori hadn’t offered, what would have happened to them?
The afternoon dragged. With no television in her room, Violet combed through old magazines. The only one she had any interest in had an article on homeschooling. Violet wondered if she should do that with Josh, but even if Lori found Violet and Josh a family to live with—which she’d promised to do—Violet would need a job.
As the hours passed, her nerves pricked with expectation. After bed check, she dressed in a white maternity top and jeans with the stretchy panel in front, then hid in bed, the blanket up to her chin, until lights out. The house finally darkened, and she eased from bed.
Violet cracked the door open. The overhead light had dimmed, and she saw no one. Her heart pounding, she slipped into the hallway. Carrying her shoes, in her stocking feet, she tried the door. Unlocked.
No lights on in the staircase, Violet carefully analyzed each step by touch, lining up her heel to the riser. Her feet slippery in the socks, she clutched the bannister. At the second-floor landing, Violet heard voices.
“Shouldn’t you be gone by now?” Nurse Gantt called out.
“I’m leaving,” Lori replied. “I was just downstairs talking to one of the girls. I walked her up here to make sure she went to bed.”
“You spend too much time with them,” Miss Gantt criticized. “You shouldn’t get close to them. If you get too close, you lose sight of what we’re doing.”
Violet couldn’t hear Lori’s answer. She wished she could have told Nurse Gantt the truth: that Lori was the only one who’d made the facility feel even a little bit like a real home.
“I’m on my way out,” Lori shouted. “See you tomorrow.”
At that, Violet again began picking her way down the stairs. She arrived on the first-floor landing and slowly opened the door. A moment’s pause, and she slipped through. A brisk clip through the living room and kitchen, then to the back door. She was nearly out of the house when she heard shoes shuffling in the hallway.
“Yes, the girl with the violet eyes is nearly ready. If she doesn’t go into labor on her own, we’ll hook her up and get her going in two weeks, three at the most. The baby will be a little early, but it should be fine. Have you scheduled the auction?”
Quiet. Violet had assumed that Nurse Gantt was listening to the man on the other end of the phone. “Glad that’s taken care of.” A pause, and then she said, “No. I’m not anticipating any problems. These prairie-dress girls have been taught to obey.”
The man must have said something.
“Samantha, yes, I know, she was a disappointment, but Violet is more compliant. I’m not worried. You’ll see.”
Through the window, Violet saw Lori flick her car lights on and off, the signal to hurry. Thinking about what Nurse Gantt had said, Violet eased open the back door. The hinges squeaked. She hesitated, fearful Nurse Gantt would round the corner. Only silence.
Outside in the cool evening air, Violet rushed to the car.
“We’re off,” Lori whispered, with a playful cackle.
Unaware of the danger that lay ahead, Violet watched over her shoulder as the home disappeared behind her, grateful that the yard lights hadn’t turned on and that Nurse Gantt hadn’t run out screaming at them to stop.
Thirty
How could Ash be behind all this? Max wondered.
He felt as if he was walking a tightrope. From the moment Clara met Ash Crawford, she’d been suspicious of him, and Max had tried to smooth the tension between them. Max understood why Clara worried: the guy was acting strange. But a suspect? That, well, that was over the top. Ash Crawford, Max decided, was no more a killer preying on young pregnant girls than Max was a circus acrobat. Heck, I can barely balance my checkbook, much less twirl plates while walking on stilts.
Behind his desk, Max swiveled his chair to look out the window at the parking lot, the field behind the courthouse. In the distance, he saw the mountains. Sometimes they pulled at him, and he had to fight the urge to chuck it all, grab his rod, bait box and waders, spend the day in the river fishing for trout. Let his mind clear of all the pain and suffering he saw on the job. Weed through the remnants of his life and pull out the bad stuff.
Max figured he had a lot to deal with, more than most folks, he judged. Forced out of his family by his father, the death of his wife haunting him, a daughter in a wheelchair to raise, so much to worry about.
Clara had helped with that. Being with her, those hours together, they were better for him than anything else he’d experienced since Miriam’s death. For so long, nothing had been normal. Nothing with the exception of Brooke had mattered to him. But his time with his daughter—as priceless as it was—carried with it a shadow of remorse for not driving the night of the accident. Sometimes he pictured Miriam as she was that evening when she slid into the driver’s seat, eyes bright, smiling over at him. He’d loved her. He truly had.
So much regret.
The only one who’d been able to pull him out of the cycle of guilt was Clara.
He thought of the prior weekend at the cabin, then coming home to the bones on the mountainside. Maybe that was the way a cop’s life went: a mixture of the best and the worst. Maybe he’d always known it would be like that. He saw such sadness in his work, witnessed evil that the average person wouldn’t be able to tolerate. It wore on him, he knew.
Max thought about how long Ash Crawford had been a cop. Probably three, maybe even four decades. All Ash must have seen during those years, experienced. Sometimes that changed a person. Had it changed Ash? Was Clara right? Maybe, but… Max couldn’t get there. He couldn’t deny that Clara had a good sense about people. He’d teased her that she had womanly intuition. But this time, this time she had to be wrong.
Max didn’t care what the Nevada cop said: not Ash Crawford.
That decided, Max swung his chair back around to his desk, picked up the subpoena for the internet drug company he’d been working on when Clara called. That was how they were going to find out what happened to the teenager and her baby: narrow down the list and come up with the name of the person who bought Pitocin, the one who’d injected that poor kid and killed her and the baby. And he was going to get it done.
Thirty-One
I knew from the hesitancy of his voice that Max didn’t believe what the Nevada cop had said about Ash Crawford. One thing Max and I did agree on: that he was going to keep working the drug trail, searching for the buyer of the Pitocin. Meanwhile, I continued to surf the internet, trying to find out more about our mysterious ex-marshal. Crawford had acted oddly enough that no matter what Max thought, I was forging ahead. Besides, I was stymied on the investigation into the bones until the DNA report came in. One search engine to another, pages of news articles, but not much turned up about Crawford or his wife, Justine. I was considering what to do next when Dolores called.
“He’ll talk to you,” she said.
“Danny Benson will talk to me?”
“That’s right. I gave him your phone number, and he’ll call this morning. He’s living in St. George, so you’ll have to see him th
ere.”
“Lynlee?”
“She’s agreed, too.”
The drive to St. George took a couple of hours, even though the address was on the closer, northern end of the city, and my navigation system guided me to a small white clapboard house. I clomped up the stairs and rang the bell, and a pretty woman with a swath of pale freckles across her nose answered. She stuck out her hand. “I’m Lynlee, Chief Jefferies. Nice to meet you.”
The kitchen was cozy, roosters decorating everything from towels and tiles to napkin holders and a breadbox. Lynlee poured me a cup of coffee. “We need to talk first. Then, if this all sounds okay, I’ll call Danny and he’ll join us.”
I agreed, and answered questions. I explained that I’d found the report she’d filled out, praising her for protecting her brother at such a young age. “It seems like you’re still watching over him.”
“I am. Danny’s had, well, a rough time. Dad was brutal with him. It’s left him, both of us, with a lot of bad memories.”
“How is his life?”
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