by Jeff Carson
Reaching in with his gloved hand, careful to not touch the edges of the machine in case of unseen blood smears, he picked through the clothing and found the Browning t-shirt Jesse had worn Friday night. There were a pair of jeans, as well as socks and underwear. One outfit.
“Got something?” Milo stood in the doorway behind him.
Wolf showed him.
“There’s a full load of laundry, and then some, waiting on the floor in his room. Interesting he decided to wash only these clothes,” Milo said.
Leaving the garments for the forensics team, Wolf and Milo walked down the hallway to another door that led to a garage.
They stepped down two stairs into a two-car space, which was illuminated and warmed by a parallelogram of sunlight streaming in through a window. One spot stood vacant; in the other stood a Yamaha YZ 450 F that looked like it had seen plenty of action hitting the ground at speed.
“There’s a shovel.” Milo walked to a yellow-handled shovel hanging on the wall.
The detective bent down and stared close at the blade. “Well used. But clean as a whistle. If there’s any dirt from up there at that campsite, they’ll be able to find it and trace it back.”
A rake hung next to the shovel. A push-broom. There were two tool boxes on the ground along one wall, a riding lawnmower parked under the window. Other than dirt, dust, and old leaves, there wasn’t much of anything else.
“No tarps,” Wolf said.
Milo nodded.
The door opened and Agent Jackson bent down and studied the knob in the glow of a powerful pen light.
“You got something?”
“Blood.”
The man set down a kit and began to work.
Wolf and Milo pushed past him and moved back down the hallway, and joined Sheriff Roll and Agent Rushing in the master bedroom.
The space yawned wide and tall. An unmade king-sized bed dominated the center. At odds with the room’s adult dimensions was the juvenile wall décor – a ratty poster of a woman holding a beer, an American flag, and an absurdly wide flat screen TV.
Just as Milo had reported, a pile of clothing mounded in the corner, filling the room with musty stench.
“You guys find anything?” Roll asked.
Milo reported the clothing in the washer, the shovel on the wall of the garage, and Agent Jackson’s discovery of blood on the doorknob. “How about you guys?”
“Luminol’s showing blood in the shower drain and the sink.” Special Agent Rushing pointed to the master bathroom.
“I’m sure we’ll find some more blood on that clothing in that washer,” Roll said. “Or will we?”
Rushing shrugged. “We’ll find out with analysis.”
“Kyle beat him up pretty good,” Wolf said. “He had a split lip. He would have been bleeding when he got home. It follows he would have prints on his steering wheel and door, the outside knob of his garage, in the sink, in the shower if he decided to clean off.”
“Beer and weed.” Roll scoffed. “Must have been some good marijuana. Made him forget to tell us about the shower he took when he got home.”
Milo folded his arms. “Again, from a defense-attorney’s point of view, maybe he was getting the blood off. Concerned about stains.”
“Yeah,” Roll said. “Or, that could be Kyle’s blood he washed off his hands. Could be Kyle’s blood all over the clothing in that washer.” Roll rubbed the side of his neck. “Fifty-caliber GSR on his clothing and skin.”
“Did you find any firearms?” Wolf asked.
Agent Rushing pointed toward the closet. “We have a Glock 17 Gen 5, nine-millimeter, and a Kimber 1911, also nine-millimeter inside there. Add that to the Kimber nine-mil you took off him down in Canyon of the Ancients, and that’s all the handguns he has officially registered under his name.”
“No forty-five,” Wolf said.
“Registered or found in our search?” Rushing asked. “Doesn’t matter. The answer’s no for both.”
Wolf walked out the bedroom and down the hallway toward the kitchen. A living room sat off to the left, where a leather couch and lounge chair wrapped around a wooden coffee table. A lipstick-smeared glass stood on an end table next to the couch.
“What do you have?” Roll appeared behind Wolf.
He gestured. “Looks like Hettie’s lipstick on the glass.”
“What does that tell us?”
Wolf shook his head. “Nothing.”
“All right,” Roll said. “Let’s head outside.”
They went back to the kitchen, where a sliding glass door led out to the back yard.
Outside, the sun beat down on the rear of the property, baking the air to oven temperatures.
The lawn was flat and spacious, leading toward a view of the mountains to the distant southwest. The behemoths rose up into the sky, sunlight shining off the strips of snow. Luckily, a breeze slid down from the heights, cooling the sweat beading around Wolf’s cap.
Two horseshoe pits were cut into the lawn to the right, and to the left stood a tall dirt berm, which was littered with shattered glass and shot-through aluminum.
Crushed beer cans were strewn on the porch, near a well-used barbecue. The grass was over a foot long, striped with motorcycle tire gouges. Dozens of brass shells sparkled on the lawn.
Must have been a fun neighbor to have. Wolf eyed the nearest house, which gleamed to the north. Thankfully for the people living inside it they were a good quarter-mile away.
Wolf went to the lawn and picked through the brass.
Roll knelt next to him. “What you got?”
He handed over a shell. “Nine-millimeter.”
Roll flicked it away and picked up another casing.
They sifted through for a few minutes, and Wolf paused as he picked up a thicker spent casing. “Got one.”
“A what?”
“A Federal forty-five ACP.”
“Forty-five?” Roll took the shell from Wolf and twirled it in his fingers. “Well I’ll be. The bastard has one after all.”
“Could be Kyle’s,” Wolf said. “Or someone else who brought their gun over to shoot.”
Roll stared at him.
Wolf shrugged. “Defense attorney said it, not me.”
Roll sighed. “And of course, those bullets were too mangled inside Kyle to trace to a gun, a gun we still don’t have.”
The sheriff dropped the shell.
“You’re going to need some patience to see this case through, sheriff.”
Roll turned to face the mountains. “Yeah. I know. Tell that to the United States senator that called me again this morning. Or the calls from three different television stations I avoided.”
Wolf picked up the forty-five shell again. “Alexander Guild’s dead. There’s nothing you can do about that, and all the outside interest and pressure’s not going to change that. Pretty soon all this evidence is going to mount, and you’ll have your answers. Other people can wait for justice to be done, the right way.”
“Tell that to Jed Farmer.”
Rachette took out his can again and packed another dip. His lip was getting beaten up by all the chewing. He’d been really going after it hard lately, knowing he was going to quit pretty soon. The only problem was he’d been doing that for over a year now.
“Hey, you mind if I get one of those?” Triplett asked.
Sobeck and Triplett sat in the open rear of Triplett’s SUV.
“Yeah. No problem.” Rachette walked over and handed over his can, happy to have a companion in his vice. “You want one too?” he asked Sobeck when Triplett handed it back.
“No, thanks. Quit that shit after the army.”
Rachette suddenly realized there was a good chance he was stuck out here for a reason. Wolf hadn’t fought to get Rachette involved in that search, which meant maybe he was out here to talk to these two and get some intel.
They stood in awkward silence, and Rachette mentally fanned through some lines that would make them friends.
“Met your
wife,” he said. “She works at Lucille’s Diner, too. Right? With Hettie?”
Sobeck nodded.
“She’s a good-looking gal.”
Sobeck raised his eyebrows.
“I mean your wife. Not Hettie. Well, she’s good-looking, too. Shit. Sorry.” Rachette quit talking.
“How many deputies you guys have up in Rocky Points?” Triplett asked, thankfully changing the subject.
“Twenty-three. Then all the brass.”
“Got that fancy new county building up there.” Triplett had chew grains all over his thin lips. “I was up there last year. Nice place.”
“Wipe your mouth, dumbass,” Sobeck said.
Triplett used the sleeve of his shirt, unperturbed by his partner’s scolding. The two were close, obviously.
“Yeah. Not bad, I guess,” Rachette said. “We used to be in a tiny building with just a few of us. We’ve grown a lot, and fast. How about you guys? How many you have?”
“Me, Sobeck, Milo, and Roll.”
Rachette shook his head. “You serious?”
“We have a few volunteers out there,” Sobeck said. “But yeah, just the four of us on the payroll.”
“You guys grow up together?” Rachette asked.
“Yep,” Triplett said. “Known each other since elementary school.”
“Right here? Or down in Ouray.”
“Here. Ridgway.”
They stood nodding their heads. Or maybe it was just Rachette. He surveyed the house, noting the professionally landscaped yard, full of shimmering aspen trees and well-maintained grass. The house was prettier than his own up in Points. Majestic Peaks rose in the distance.
“Pretty nice place for a rat-looking twenty-three-year-old kid like Jesse Burton,” Rachette said.
Sobeck fluttered his lips. “Kid’s got dough. You saw Kyle’s house. Too much dough for the amount of brains those two have, you ask me.”
“Weed,” Rachette said.
Triplett spat. “Weed.”
That got him some affirmative grunts and nods. He was doing better. The wife thing was probably coming right back to the forefront of Sobeck’s mind right now, though.
“You two had some run-ins with them, huh? Jesse and Kyle?”
It was getting awkward again. He had to push through, there was no getting around it.
“I mean, I heard what he said. And believe me, I know what it’s like to chase around the same little shits running around Rocky Points. Some of them deserve a smack to the back of the head every once in a while. Maybe more, you ask me.” He spat on the ground for effect.
Silence took hold again.
“You trying to interrogate us now?” Triplett added his own spit to the ground.
Rachette frowned, insulted. “Just wondering what he was talking about back in that interrogation room. I mean, he all but flat-out accused you of framing him. I know that would piss me off. I’m not looking for answers or anything…I don’t know.” He was floundering.
Sobeck’s face hardened and he stood up from the rear of his vehicle. “As far as I’m concerned, you and your anxiety-ridden detective buddy can go back to Rocky Points. And you can step right over there and stop talking to us right now.”
Triplett stood up, too, looming over Rachette.
Rachette stepped toward them. A few inches shorter or not, a foot in the case of Triplett, he never backed down when it came to somebody insulting his family. And Wolf was, by all definitions, family.
“You’d better watch how you talk about my boss, there, Jimmy.”
“Oh, really.” Sobeck squared his block-like body.
The man’s pecs and arms had some girth, but Rachette had experience with rumbling underneath his belt.
“Yup.” Rachette raised his chin and put his own pecs into the ring.
“Hey!”
They turned to see Roll walking quickly out of the doorway, a cell phone held up in the air.
The three of them broke like a football huddle and watched as Milo and Wolf came outside after the sheriff.
“What’s going on?” Triplett asked.
“Just got a call from Cassandra, who just got a call from Hettie’s mother. Hettie’s gone from the house and left her phone. She’s freaking out, I guess.”
“Weren’t you just over there?” Triplett asked.
“Yeah, we were.”
“You sure her mom’s not drunk again?” Triplett asked.
“Of course she’s drunk,” Roll said. “Just go see what she wants. We’ll meet back at the station.”
“Yes, sir,” Triplett said. The two of them shut the rear of their SUV and climbed behind the driver’s seat.
Rachette took his time moving out of the way as the car backed up and almost ran him over. They were gone in a cloud of dust.
Wolf came up the driveway and watched the vehicle disappear into the distance.
“What was going on here?” Roll asked Rachette.
Rachette gave him a puzzled look. “What do you mean?”
“I mean you two looking like you were going to come to blows.”
“He said something I didn’t like.”
Roll looked between Wolf and Rachette, then walked back toward the house with a quick stride.
Wolf lingered and came over to him. “What was that?”
“I was trying to get Sobeck to talk.”
“And?”
“And he got real touchy about it. Told me you and I needed to go home and not come back.”
“You got in his face.”
“It got out of hand quick.” Rachette sucked in a few breaths, feeling the adrenaline tightening his chest. “Sorry. I figured you wanted me to talk to him.”
“I did.”
“There’s something about those two guys, I’m telling you. I don’t trust them.”
Wolf looked back toward the house with that noncommittal ice-stare he got when he was thinking hard about some angle Rachette had never considered.
“You guys find anything?”
Rachette listened while Wolf told about the clothing in the washer, the blood on the exterior handle of the garage, and the .45 shells lying in the back yard.
“Did you find the gun?”
Wolf shook his head. “No gun, no boots, no tarps, no shovel.”
Rachette turned the opposite way and stretched out his back, catching a sight of a figure in the distance. “Who is that?”
Wolf turned around.
“It’s her.” A woman had just climbed out of a red Jeep. Rachette recognized those heart-shaped buttocks and long blonde curls hanging on a slender back from earlier that morning. “It’s Sobeck’s wife.”
They watched in silence as she walked without hesitation to the door of the house and disappeared inside.
“That was her, right?” he asked, already knowing the answer. Her walk was distinct.
“Mmhmm,” Wolf said.
“Looks like her house. You don’t just walk into a house if it’s not yours…wait, here she comes again.”
To put a pin on the point, she came out of the door, went back to her Jeep, opened the back, and pulled out two grocery bags. A boy came skipping outside and climbed up inside the vehicle.
After she shooed him out, the boy ran around the back of the house and disappeared.
Then Jill Sobeck put a hand up as a visor and stared down at them, her gaze undoubtedly drawn by the line of law enforcement vehicles. After a brief stare-down with the two of them she shut her Jeep and went back inside.
“Well, that’s a development,” he said, turning back to Wolf.
Wolf had that glare again, now pointed back down at Jesse Burton’s house.
“What are you thinking?”
Wolf snapped out of it. “I’m thinking if Sobeck lives right there, then you’re right. That’s certainly an interesting development.”
Chapter 31
Town Hall in downtown Rocky Points had not changed much since 1903. With each quick step she took, the worn pine fl
ooring creaked under Patterson’s feet. The window glass was warped and looking at the pines outside was like looking through a rain-soaked windshield. Or a deranged man’s eyes.
A circle of wooden chairs sat in the middle of the room. Apparently, they were having a kumbaya session. A tray of donuts sat next to a full-to-the-brim pot of coffee on a folding card table. Could they be so out of touch that they catered the event? And who eats a donut and coffee at eleven a.m.?
Margaret nodded her greeting, and when Patterson ignored her, she returned to a sober conversation with the County Treasurer, Leopold Helms, a blowhard lawyer Patterson had met during her stint working at the law firm.
DA White, dressed crisply for a city man and overdressed for a Rocky Mountain district DA, stood with two members of his staff. She ignored him, too.
Margaret came over. “Hey.”
“Hey,” she said. “Wolf’s not coming.”
Margaret nodded. “I know. I heard.”
“I don’t see how this is going to go down without him. I mean, obviously this has to do with Wolf.” She looked at her aunt and shrugged. “You’re just going to seal his fate behind his back?”
“Well, we don’t have much choice,” Margaret said. “And, as you’ll see in a few minutes, it’s not my choice. None of this is.”
She turned away from Margaret and sat down in one of the chairs.
Over the next five minutes, she crossed her legs and toyed with her phone, radiating an air that repelled everyone except Yates, who sat down next to her with a powdered donut and a brimming coffee.
Though they had agreed to carpool there, they ended up driving separately after the scene in the squad room. She looked at him and he looked at her. He nodded, she nodded back, and he took a bite of his donut. They were good. And now she wanted a cup of coffee and a donut. But she stayed where she was and stared at her phone some more.
After another few minutes, it looked like all eight members of the council were there, along with MacLean, Wilson, and DA White.
“All right, everyone let’s get started,” Margaret said. “Please be seated.”
All eyes went to the mayor, but she sat and folded her arms. MacLean cleared his throat and stood up.
“Thank you all for coming here today.” MacLean ran a palm over his mustache and hiked up his jeans. “I first want to thank all of you for your patience.”