by Rachel Ford
His job was finding the killer. And the killer wasn’t either of them. It wasn’t Brit Wynder either. Not that he’d ever really suspected that it would be, but he’d have been negligent if he hadn’t confirmed that.
Brittany had been with friends the night before, though. They’d held a prayer vigil for her dad, at an on-campus church. She’d given him names and numbers, and they all checked out.
Her Facebook page contained tagged posts from some of those friends, mentioning the memorial and offering their sympathies. She’d definitely been on campus. And her campus was about six hours from Yellow River Falls.
So she too had a rock solid alibi. Which was good. Halverson didn’t want any ambiguity there. He didn’t want it to be her. He wanted to believe at least one of the Wynder kids wasn’t a complete asshole.
Still, it left him with no suspects at all. He’d checked out the cleaner. She had a code to the back door. But it hadn’t been used, and she’d been on her way home from a job at the time of the shooting.
He knew that, because she worked for one of those home cleaning services, and drove a company vehicle. It had GPS, and the GPS tracking showed exactly where she’d been, and exactly when. Nowhere near the Wynder place. Not since the beginning of the week, on her usual day.
No, Halverson didn’t have much to go on. He had partial footprints, no fingerprints, no brass or bullets except those in the desk – and he was willing to bet those had come from the revolver. The revolver had Marsha’s prints all over it. He knew she owned a gun for home defense.
He was still waiting on the lab report, but he’d have laid money on the fact that the bullets in the desk came from Marsha’s own gun. The killer had used it so he wouldn’t have to worry about leaving evidence that could be linked to him.
He had no suspect, and no real idea of what had gone down. That was the worst part of all. Obviously, there’d been murder, and theft.
But why?
The Wynder house was full of valuables, full of electronics, full of jewelry – any and all of which could sell for at least as much as the laptop. If this was generic burglary, they would have gone for more than a single laptop and whatever they’d taken from that drawer.
So it wasn’t. It was targeted theft. The perp had broken in with a target.
And then what?
He hadn’t gone for Marsha. The angle of the shot in the wall didn’t support that. Marsha’s gun being on the scene didn’t support that.
Marsha had come to the killer. He closed his eyes and imagined the scene. She’d been in house clothes. A comfortable shirt and lounge pants, no bra. Recently showered, according to the medical examiner.
She’d probably been in her room, maybe watching television. They’d found the TV on. She heard some kind of noise down the hall, coming from the office. From her dead husband’s office.
That would have spooked her. Plus, she’d be on high alert period after everything that happened. She’d be afraid.
So she grabbed her gun and tiptoed down the hall toward her husband’s office.
Halverson could see it in his mind’s eye. He could see Marsha peering into the darkened office and spotting a figure in the room. He could see –
A heavy rapping sound shot through the stillness, and Halverson jumped in his seat. His knee hit his keyboard tray, hard enough to bounce the tray, send the keyboard flying, and probably bruise his knee. “Son of a bitch…”
The sheriff’s office was officially closed, but the rapping definitely came from the front of the building. Maybe the glass on the lobby windows, or the front door.
Never a good sign when someone was hammering away at the door after dark. Maybe someone in trouble, with someone after them. Maybe a dumbass looking for trouble.
Either way, Halverson got to his feet. He unsnapped his holster – just in case – and hustled to the door. A guy with a blocky, medium build was standing there, shoulders hunched against the cold, hand raised and in constant motion.
Halverson couldn’t see the guy’s face at first. It was too dark, and he had the hood of his winter coat drawn up around it.
And then he got closer, and he could see it; and he groaned. Ted Walters.
Chapter Eighteen
Ted stumbled into the sheriff’s office and brushed the first flakes of the coming storm off his jacket. “Jesus Christ, Trey. Can you move any slower? I was freezing my balls off out there.”
“We’re closed,” Halverson said.
“You’re the sheriff. You don’t get to be closed.”
Halverson pointed to the hours listed on the door. “The office is closed.”
Ted ignored him. “I need to talk to you.”
“I’m busy, Ted. I’ve got two murders I’ve got to solve.”
“That’s what I want to talk to you about. Is it true? Is Marsha really dead?”
Something like sympathy crossed Halverson’s face, and he nodded. “Yes. I’m sorry.”
“Son of a bitch. He went back for seconds, then.”
“Who?”
Ted’s face pulled up into a ferocious scowl. He couldn’t believe Halverson had the temerity to ask him that. Not after the warnings he’d already offered.
“Who do you think? Owen Day. I warned you last night. I tried to stop him. And instead of listening, instead of doing your damned job, what did you do? You threatened me and the boys, and let him walk.”
He shook his head darkly, still staring daggers at the sheriff. “Marsha’s dead because you didn’t do your job. Because you didn’t listen to me.”
Halverson pinched the bridge of his nose. An exasperated gesture, accompanied by an exasperated sigh. The combo set Ted’s blood boiling. But not as much as the words that came out of the other man’s mouth.
“Listen, Ted, whatever your beef with Day—”
He didn’t let Halverson finish. “Whatever my beef? How about gunning down my friend and his wife?”
“He didn’t do it.”
“Oh bullshit.”
“He’s got an alibi,” Halverson said.
“Oh bullshit.”
“He’s got multiple witnesses who can attest that he was in town while the shooting was happening.”
“Oh bullshit,” he said for the third time.
“It’s true.”
“Who the hell are these so-called witnesses? That old bastard, Tanner or Tanney or whatever he calls himself? He’s in on it with him.”
“He’s one of the witnesses,” Halverson conceded.
Ted threw his hands up in exasperation. He started to say that he couldn’t believe the sheriff was so naive. But Halverson interrupted.
“He’s not the only one, though. There’s at least six other guys.”
“Bullshit.”
“And one of them is an impeccable source.”
Ted said he didn’t believe it. “Not for one second.” He wanted to know who these witnesses were. He wanted to know why the sheriff wasn’t investigating them as possible coconspirators.
“I probably shouldn’t divulge all of their names,” Halverson said. “But I’ll tell you the name of the most important one.”
Ted nodded. That was a start, anyway.
“Theodore Walters.”
Ted blinked at the sound of his own name, and then he scowled. “I’m serious, Halverson.”
“So am I. You’re Owen Day’s alibi. You and your friends.”
“Like hell I am. I’m telling you he did it.”
“Not physically possible, Ted. He was in the parking lot at Tiny’s when Marsha was being shot. Being jumped by you and Steve and Dennis and Kevin and Dave and Russ. Oh, and Moses. But I’m not counting him as a witness, since he can’t exactly give a statement.”
Ted stood mute for a long moment. “You’re telling me whoever offed Marsha did it while we were at Tiny’s?”
Halverson nodded. “Exactly.”
“I don’t believe it.”
“There’s nothing I can do about that. But that’s wha
t happened.”
Ted scowled. “You don’t think that sounds awfully convenient? He picks a fight with us at precisely the moment Marsha’s being killed?”
Halverson pulled a face. “He picked a fight with you?”
Ted ignored the disbelief in the sheriff’s tone and expression. “Come on, Trey. This guy shows up in town and now Rick and Marsha are both dead?”
“That’s not how it happened.”
“You know that’s no coincidence.”
“Ted…listen carefully. You need to leave the murder solving to me.”
“Maybe I would, if you’d actually solve anything.”
“You need to lay off Owen Day and leave him alone.”
“Leave him alone?” Ted sputtered.
“I’m serious. No…” Halverson raised his palms, and ushered Ted toward the door. “We’re closed. You’re not on the case. We’ve got it under control. Now go home before the snow gets worse.”
Ted argued all the way out the door. He was still arguing when it closed in his face. Then he stood glaring at the sheriff’s retreating form as it disappeared into the darkness of the interior, and finally vanished from sight.
Then, the wind picked up, and he shivered. Putting his hands into his pockets, he hunched his shoulders against the gusts.
He marched back to his truck where Moses waited for him. He was thinking as he went. Mostly about Halverson’s incompetence, but an idea was taking shape in his mind.
He’d been on the right track when he told Russ and the others they needed to take matters into their own hands. He’d gone wrong in trusting them to do anything, though. Like the adage went: if you want something done right, do it yourself.
Which is what he had to do.
He didn’t plan to jump Day. Not that he was afraid of him. But Ted was no fool. Day was thirty years younger, maybe more. More to the point, he was a killer, and a sociopath. He’d murdered Rick, and he’d murdered Marsha.
That was obvious, even if the sheriff was too stupid to see it.
Ted didn’t for a minute buy the alibi business, either. No, Day had some play there, something up his sleeve. Maybe he had done it first and come there looking for trouble so people would remember him.
Maybe he had another partner, besides the old guy. Someone Ted hadn’t run into yet.
But whatever it was, Day was up to his eyeballs in this. Ted was a hundred percent certain of that. So he couldn’t risk confronting him.
No. He had to get evidence. He had to be able to prove it beyond a shadow of a doubt – prove it to someone as boneheaded as Halverson.
He got into the truck. Moses wagged his tail and danced in place on the seat. “We’re going to get him, boy. You mark my words. We’re going to get him.”
The dog whined and covered his face in cold kisses. Ted brushed them away, and wondered vaguely if the sheriff had been right, if he shouldn’t leave a dog in the truck in temperatures like these. He powered up the big engine and turned the heat on high.
“I’m going to start following him,” he said, more to himself than the dog.
That’s what he needed to do. He needed to catch Day in the act. He’d bring his phone and take pictures. He’d follow him everywhere he went from now on, until he got what he needed.
“Like stink on shit,” he said to Moses. “Anywhere he goes, I’m going to be there. If he sneezes, I’m going to be there to see it. Sooner or later, we’re going to catch him.”
* * *
He stared at the laptop: a little black box of secrets. He’d set it on his desk the night before and hadn’t touched it since. He had avoided the room for most of the morning. Then, about midday, he’d checked in.
The little box was still there, still holding its secrets.
He’d considered leaving it there indefinitely. But no, the longer it existed, the longer the threat existed.
So he’d thought about smashing it. He’d read somewhere that the only way to truly be sure that data was gone was to destroy the storage device. Smash the hard drive. That’s what he had to do.
But that was the old days, back when copies of data were printed, or stored on some kind of removable disc. That was before the Cloud.
Nowadays, everyone had a cloud drive: a OneDrive, or a Google Drive, or a Dropbox, or any of a hundred other drives or boxes or whatever else they were called. Some were free, some cost a few bucks a month for consumer use.
That came with risks, of course. Burn data to a disc or write it to a thumb drive, and the only way to steal it is to find the disc or drive. No one could hack into a desk drawer, or a safe, or a deposit box. No one could access it remotely.
But a cloud drive? Maybe. In theory. Nothing was unbreakable.
Then again, he’d waltzed into the judge’s house and taken his printouts, hadn’t he? And the big tech companies spent more on security than the entire GDP of developing nations. Google’s servers were probably securer than the Pentagon’s.
So maybe the Cloud wasn’t so risky after all. Not that he was thrilled about compromising photos of himself being anywhere he couldn’t control. But they weren’t likely to be broadcast all over the internet, either.
He did need to check, though. He needed to look at the laptop and see if Wynder had set up some kind of cloud drive. If he had, they’d need to be deleted.
If he hadn’t? Well, then the computer could go. A hammer, a little time in the garage…that would be the end of it.
He lifted the lid. Then he closed it again. He stared for a long moment at the stylized contours, the not-quite square corners, and the sleek finish. An expensive machine. A nice piece of equipment.
And the thing he’d killed Marsha Wynder for. He’d done what he had to. He’d do it again if it came to that. But he hadn’t slept a wink last night, either.
It wasn’t supposed to happen like that. Marsha was innocent. She was at worst a fool – an absurdly loyal fool. She hadn’t deserved to die. She’d been in the wrong place at the wrong time. That was all.
He stared daggers at the laptop, as if, in some way, this little bundle of glass and carbon and who knew what was responsible for his problems.
Then he sucked in a breath and lifted the lid again. Time to be a man. He’d done what needed to be done last night. He’d do what needed to be done tonight.
He pressed the power button. The manufacturer’s logo appeared onscreen. A few moments later, a textbox prompted him for a PIN to logon. Behind the textbox, the computer displayed a picture of Japanese cherry trees in blossom with a bright blue sky behind.
He thought for a long moment. The textbox didn’t specify how many characters it expected, or even what type. Could it be a blend of alphanumeric characters, or a more traditional numeric PIN?
He didn’t know. So he pressed the keyboard’s a. Nothing happened. The textbox didn’t seem to register a keypress at all. He tried another letter, to the same end. Nothing.
He pressed the 9 on the number pad. A single black circle appeared in the textbox.
It’s a numeric code, then.
He pressed the 9 again, and again a circle appeared. He tapped it again, and again. A third and a fourth circle appeared, though only for a split second with the last one; then the textbox vanished, and a message appeared on the screen.
The PIN is incorrect. Try again.
He wasn’t surprised by that. The judge was no fool. He wouldn’t use 9999 as a code. Still, the effort hadn’t been in vain. He’d figured out that it was a four-digit numeric code. Progress.
But progress of a limited kind. A four-digit PIN meant ten thousand possibilities. Or, nine-thousand, nine hundred and ninety-nine, since he’d ruled out one already. A brute force attempt would take a very long time.
And that assumed Wynder didn’t have some kind of lockout or anti-theft protocol set up. He’d heard about things like that: apps that could take a thief’s picture after so many failed attempts to log in, and send it off as evidence. The last thing he wanted was his mug
winding up in someone’s inbox, attached to Wynder’s account. Not with the kind of press coverage the judge’s death had gotten.
He started with the obvious choices, but not too obvious. Wynder was a smart guy. He wouldn’t use 1111 or 1234. He wouldn’t use 4321, or the last four digits of his social security number, or any of the obvious things people relied on.
But even smart people could be stupid. Plenty of smart people relied on dates, for instance. Dates felt safe. Dates were personal. They wouldn’t mean anything to anyone else, but they meant plenty to the individual. Which made them memorable.
He put in the month and day of Rick’s birth: March 4th. 0304.
The PIN is incorrect. Try again.
He reversed the order, and typed it in like they would in Europe, day before month: 0403.
The PIN is incorrect. Try again.
He tried the year of Rick’s birth: four digits, in order.
The PIN is incorrect. Try again.
He thought for a moment. He figured he’d try Rick and Marsha’s anniversary. He didn’t know it off the top of his head, but he knew where to look.
He brought up a file on his own computer. He skimmed until he found the relevant section. Then he typed 0613: June 13th.
The PIN is incorrect. Try again.
He reversed the order: 1306. That failed too, so he tried the year. The message was the same. He frowned and tapped his desktop. He referred to his own computer again.
Then he put in the month and day of Elizabeth Wynder’s birth. The birthday of an eldest child would make as good a PIN as anything else. But the same ugly message appeared on the screen: The PIN is incorrect. Try again.
He didn’t reverse the order this time. He was starting to get worried. He’d made quite a few erroneous guesses in a row. He hadn’t heard anything. He hadn’t seen the little light on the webcam come on. But that didn’t mean his face hadn’t already shown up in someone’s inbox, did it?
The idea made his palms slick. He got out of his seat and paced the room. He’d give it five minutes, he decided. He didn’t have any kind of scientific reason for that length of time, exactly. But he’d forgotten passwords before and gotten himself locked out of websites.