by B J Bourg
“I need you to get on the phone and find out if anyone followed up on this information.” I took back the report and placed it on one side of my desk. That was definitely worth pursuing and I had to act fast, because we were due for another kidnapping in a few days. I certainly didn’t have time to fly to the Rocky Mountains, search for a connection, and then get back in time to set myself up as bait. Hell, I wouldn’t even know where to start looking once I got to the Rockies.
I dug deeper into the box, hoping I would find everything I needed right here. With luck, Robinson had done enough to help me solve his own disappearance and to help me prevent another kidnapping. I would love nothing more than to provide closure for his family and to rescue Kaitlin and Gloria.
CHAPTER 39
I was sitting on the floor in my office munching on a shrimp Po-boy and organizing crime scene photos when Susan pushed through the door. It was almost eight o’clock at night and Weaver and I had been sifting through the case file like we were panning for gold.
I glanced up at my wife. The tight braids in her hair were starting to unravel, her face was darker than it had been when I’d seen her last, and her uniform was covered in mud. She dropped wearily to the floor beside me and I introduced her to Weaver, who was still sitting at my desk. He was a slow reader and was still working his way through the many documents in the file.
“Nice to meet you,” he said in his gruff voice. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”
Susan cocked her head to the side, studying me. I just waved Weaver off and asked her if she wanted the rest of my Po-boy. I didn’t like sharing my food, but she looked hungry and I loved her, so I figured there were worse things to endure.
Without uttering a word, she snatched the sandwich from my hand and began wolfing it down. She moaned after the second bite and seemed to come alive. Between mouthfuls, she began updating us on the search efforts.
“We’ve covered every inch of that area at least four times,” she said in conclusion, “but we haven’t found a sign of Big Foot, a big man, or the missing girls. I just don’t know, Clint. I feel like we should’ve found something.”
I leaned back against the wall and considered her words while studying the photographs. Where could the suspect have gone? There were a lot of waterways leading into and out of the various lakes south of town, and he could’ve chosen any one of them to make his escape. I plucked the photograph of the footprint Robinson had located in the alley so many years ago. It was very similar to the prints I’d seen under Kaitlin Shelton’s tent and near where Gloria had been taken. I was no expert, but they looked to be the exact same shape and size.
“Well, this is it for the case file,” I said exhaustively. “I went through every file, read every word, looked at every picture, but didn’t come up with a damn thing.”
“You did find the tick,” Weaver offered.
Susan shot me a curious glance when Weaver mentioned the tick, and I explained about the crime lab report. I also explained how Weaver had contacted the chief of detectives in La Mort and learned that the evidence custodian had placed the report in the file box years ago. Just as he had figured, everyone assumed the case was closed with the death of the suspect, so there was no need to investigate further. After the grand jury had declared Weaver’s shooting justified, the case had been closed and filed away. But while the case was closed, the search for Robinson’s body never ended. Every time a body would be found floating, Robinson’s family and friends would all hold their breath in anticipation, hoping they could finally bury Robinson. They had been disappointed every time.
I stood, walked to my desk, and sat behind my computer. Weaver had gotten up and moved to the opposite side of my desk and was busy clearing it off. I decided to conduct an internet search for the dates June second, ninth, and fourteenth. I ran them one at a time, but there were too many results. When I ran them two at a time and three at a time, there were no results. I sat back and drummed my fingers on the keyboard.
Susan had walked over and was standing over me, leaning her elbows on my shoulders. “Why don’t you try using the search terms Rocky Mountain Wood Tick, kidnapping, and June?”
With nothing to lose, I did what she suggested. There were no results matching those key words. I then tried Rocky Mountain Wood Tick and disappearance and June. There were several pages of results, but most of them related to the Rocky Mountain Wood Tick. As I scrolled through those initial pages, I came upon a few entries relating to people who disappeared in the Rocky Mountains. One such result included the terms Rocky Mountains, disappearance, and June, so I clicked on the link. It brought me to the headline of a news article that read:
Search for Louisiana Family Continues
I scowled when I clicked on the link and learned it had to do with four hikers who had gone missing in the Rocky Mountains. I backed out of the article, glanced up at Susan. “Any other ideas?”
“What about kidnapped, Louisiana, and June 2?”
“Let’s do it.” I typed in the search terms. Over two million hits came back.
“Put quotation marks around each individual word,” she suggested. “It’ll limit the results.”
I did what she suggested and, as usual, she was right. The results were reduced to about 184. “Well, that’s more manageable. Let’s see if I can find a large needle in this small hay stack.”
Susan kissed the top of my head and then straightened. “I’ll head home now and relieve your mom. My mom said she’ll come over first thing in the morning to watch Gracie so I can get back to the search.”
I stood and followed her outside. Once there, I kissed her like I meant it and told her how much I missed her. Her eyes were glassy and her signature dimple appeared as she smiled warmly. “I miss you, too, and can’t wait until—”
“I saw that,” hollered a voice from under the police department building.
Susan and I whirled around to see Melvin sauntering toward us. His large frame was slightly slumped under the weight of his gear bag.
“I’m joking,” he said when he reached us. “I didn’t see anything. Y’all just looked like two teenagers sneaking a kiss at the end of a date.”
I grinned and slapped his shoulder. “How’s the search going?”
“Amy took over so I can get a few hours of sleep.” He nodded his head in Susan’s direction. “I’ll head out with you in the morning.” He then turned back to me. “And if you decide to set yourself up as bait, I’m going with you.”
I nodded my approval and headed back inside. I needed a break in the case—a lead, a tip, anything—and I needed it right away. I couldn’t stand around waiting for another person to be kidnapped. I had to go out and force a break in the case. I had to rattle some cages, beat some bushes. Somehow, I had a feeling the answer was right in front of me. There was no way this person could’ve come and gone without leaving a trace, and I felt like I just needed to look in the right place to find the evidence.
As I was going up the steps to enter the police department, I met Weaver coming out. He handed me a business card. “This is my cell number. I rented a hotel room when I first came into town and I’m going to snatch a few Zs. Call me if anything breaks. Like I said, I want to be there when you catch the bastard.”
I shoved the card in my shirt pocket. “And I want you there.”
CHAPTER 40
Once I was alone in my office, I plopped in my chair and leaned close to my computer. I began clicking on every link relating to the search terms I’d entered. It was quiet in my office. Other than the tiny fan blowing inside the tower of my desktop computer and the occasional traffic from my portable radio, there were no other sounds.
I clicked one link after another and made my way down the first page without finding anything of interest. The title of the first article on the second page read:
Man Arrested for Attempted Kidnapping
Not expecting much, I clicked on the link. It appeared the incident had occurred in the city of New Or
leans on June 2, and it was the year after Robinson’s disappearance. The fact that it had occurred on the anniversary of Sherry Hebert’s kidnapping wasn’t lost on me.
I had the option to read an article or watch a video clip of a news report. My eyes were growing tired, so I clicked the video and leaned forward, watching as a blonde reporter from a local Fox affiliate came into view. It was nighttime and there were police cruisers in the background behind her.
“I’m standing in front of NOPD Headquarters,” the blonde reporter was saying, “where detectives are trying to determine exactly what happened regarding an incident that occurred on River Bank Street earlier in the night. Details are sketchy, but what we know so far is that one man is in custody and another man was injured in what one witness described as a kidnapping gone bad.”
The scene then switched to a young woman standing in the foreground of a crime scene with a large microphone in her face. A portion of the riverbank behind her was sectioned off by yellow tape and there were people in matching yellow T-shirts milling around in the darkness over the woman’s left shoulder. They seemed to be speaking to a uniformed police officer.
“I was just walking my dog in the park and we stopped by a tree for my dog to do his business,” the woman was saying. “It was dark where we were standing and I guess that’s why the man didn’t see us. But anyway, I saw this big man—he was about ten feet tall—walking toward us and it looked like he was carrying something. He wore what looked like a thick coat and he had on a long wig. When he got close to us, I saw that he was carrying a person. I could see the legs kicking, like the person was trying to escape. Gus, my German shepherd, started barking and it scared the man. He dropped the person he was carrying and started coming toward me like he was going to hurt me. That’s when I started screaming for help.”
The woman paused and turned toward the group of people with the yellow shirts. “Those people with the matching shirts ran over and attacked the man. I was so scared and my dog kept barking.” She shuddered involuntarily. “They were fighting and yelling and it was so scary. I…I’ve never seen anything like that before. They saved my life.”
“How do you know he was wearing a wig?” asked the reporter.
“Because those people ripped it off his head during the fight.” The witness nodded emphatically. “It was probably the scariest thing I’ve ever seen.”
The newswoman came back and explained that the people with the matching shirts were members of a jiu-jitsu school from Australia who were in town to compete in a national tournament.
“I spoke with the group’s instructor earlier. While he didn’t want to be interviewed, he did agree to speak off camera,” the blonde reporter said. “He said he and his students were walking back to their hotel after eating dinner when they heard a woman screaming in the park. They responded and found a man on the ground and a large man fleeing the scene. While some of his students checked on the victim, he gave chase with four of his black belts and they caught the man near the water. He said he has fought many men, but he has never encountered such a large man who possessed such brute strength. It was with great effort that he and his students were finally able to subdue the man, and they held him at the scene until police arrived. If you’ll look to my left”—the camera panned in the direction she pointed and an ambulance came into view—“you’ll see the ambulance that responded. The victim, whom police identified as a homeless man, had been rendered unconscious but was treated for minor injuries and left the scene soon after police arrived. Three of the jiu-jitsu students were also treated for minor scrapes and bruises.”
I didn’t waste time scrolling through the article, which I knew would provide the same information as the video clip, but a suggested and related article popped up at the bottom of the screen. I clicked that link and began idly scanning the page. It was dated nine months after the incident near the river and it detailed the results of the suspect’s court appearance. I suddenly sucked in a mouthful of air and sat up straight when I saw the suspect’s name.
“No way!”
CHAPTER 41
“A Louisiana man whose entire family perished in the Mesa Verde National Park over two years ago has entered a plea of guilty to the charge of second degree battery,” said the news anchor, an elderly man with gray thinning hair. “Rhett Trolley, who has been in jail ever since his arrest nine months ago, told the court he is suffering from severe depression and grief over the loss of his family. Considering the attack took place on the anniversary of his mother’s death and that this was Trolley’s first offense, the judge in the case sentenced him to forty hours of community service, a $500 fine, and nine months of jail time, with credit for time served. Additionally, the judge has ordered him to undergo regular psychological treatment.
“If you’ll remember, Trolley was originally charged with attempted kidnapping, but the district attorney’s office said the plea offer was the result of a combination of issues, one of which was the difficulty in locating the victim in the case...”
I scratched my head as the voice droned on, remembering the article about the Louisiana family that had gone missing in the Rockies. I hadn’t realized there was a connection. I quickly moved through my history and searched for the article. If it was Trolley who had been in the Rockies, that would explain the dead tick being on his burlap coat.
I located the article and whistled when I saw the date. It was the year prior to the kidnappings in La Mort.
“This is interesting,” I mused aloud. According to what I knew, Rhett Trolley disappeared in the Rocky Mountains during the month of June. The very next year, a large man started kidnapping people in the month of June. The year after that, Trolley attempted to kidnap a man in the month of June, but he got caught in the act. And then last month a large man started kidnapping people in my jurisdiction. Was it all a coincidence, or was there something to it?
“And where in the hell have you been all of these years?” I wondered. Before reading the article, I did a quick criminal history check on Rhett Trolley. If he had been in prison for the past fourteen years, then that would explain the lack of kidnappings during that time period. I drummed my fingers on the desk as the computer worked. When the results appeared on the screen, I grunted. He only had one arrest to his name.
With nowhere else to turn and Trolley being my best lead, I began reading the news story. Trolley and his family had set out on a long hike in April. They were supposed to be gone for ten days. When they never returned, a friend reported them missing. Authorities searched the area for a month, but couldn’t find them. The search was eventually called off. And then one day in early August, a helicopter pilot sighted what he thought was Big Foot standing on a ridge. He circled back to get a picture and realized it was a human.
There was a video interview with Trolley embedded in the article, so I clicked on it.
“Where are your family members?” the reporter asked in a soothing voice. “Your dad, mom, and sister—where are they?”
Two hospital beds had been positioned one in front of the other, and Trolley was stretched out across both beds looking extremely gaunt and weathered. His flesh—or what I could see of it—had taken on a leather-like appearance and his hair was extremely long and tangled. It was matted in places and draped over his face. Mud and other grime was caked in his hair and clung to his beard. He was definitely a foreboding figure.
He didn’t bother lifting his head to answer. “They all perished,” he said in a low, cracking voice. His tone was robotic and void of emotion. “They’re all gone.”
“What happened to them?”
There was a long pause, and then he said, “Eaten by wolves. They were eaten by a pack of wild wolves. Can you believe that shit? It…it was the worst thing I’ve ever seen. I can’t get the images out of my mind. Every time I close my eyes…”
His voice trailed off.
“When did this happen?” the reporter asked after waiting for a long minute.
“Different days. My mom was taken first. It was the second day of June. My dad got it on the ninth, and my sister was eaten on the fourteenth. We were powerless. One moment the four of us were all just lying there, hungry and weak, and the next moment there were only three of us. They came from the dark like ghosts and took my family one by one. They would’ve gotten me eventually had that helicopter not found me.”
I sat back in my chair, numb. Those were the same dates as the kidnappings in La Mort, and the wolves seemed to have snatched their victims with the same stealth and precision that our suspect had used to take his victims. Therein lay the reasons for the kidnappings. Find the motive, find the suspect—wasn’t that what Robinson had said? But could it be that simple? Losing one’s family to a pack of wolves didn’t seem reason enough to begin kidnapping people.
I was only half listening as the reporter continued asking questions, but a slideshow of pictures began playing and that got my immediate attention. Trolley must have been the one taking the pictures, because most of the shots were of his family and the beautiful scenery of the Mesa Verde National Park. It wasn’t until the end of the slide show that I finally saw a picture of Rhett Trolley, and when I did, I grunted. It was the exact same photograph I’d seen at Trolley’s house in Scales sixteen years earlier—the one that bore the note, Me in Mesa Verde National Park.
When Robinson and I had interviewed Trolley sixteen years ago, his head was shaved and, since we thought our perpetrator had long reddish hair, we pretty much eliminated him as a suspect. Now that I knew Trolley had worn a wig during his attack, it caused me to view him in a different light. But was this enough for a warrant? I doubted it.