by Rachel Ford
“Shit.”
“It’s not a problem,” Walker said. “They’re looking for a dead guy. They didn’t see your face, or Jake’s.”
Ryan nodded. That was true. They’d seen the driver, and he was dead now. “Okay. So, what do we do?”
“First thing first: we need to process the bodies and the vehicle. Then we need to sweep the place: make sure there’s no DNA anywhere. Then, we go home.”
* * *
Owen and Tanney grabbed coffee from the hotel’s lobby. It wasn’t going to win any kind of roaster awards, if there were such a thing. But it did the trick. Owen felt his mind kick into gear as they traveled across town.
He was trying to piece together the pieces of this ever-widening puzzle, but without much success. He couldn’t see how Abbot’s death played into the Wynder case, but he also had a hard time imagining that it wasn’t.
What were the odds of two high profile state political figures being offed inside a month, a county apart, and the deaths not being related?
Not good, he figured. Not good at all.
So the safe money was on the murders being linked. But that raised problems of its own. In a vacuum, without what he already knew about the Midwest Interstate Killer, Owen would have assumed whoever pulled the trigger on Rick Wynder also killed Sean Abbot.
But he’d built up an entire theory that Wynder was the latest in a long series of victims, possibly of some kind of vigilante exterminator. Not a home invader. Not a guy who struck twice in a year a county apart.
So either Owen’s theory was wrong, and his mysterious serial killer had nothing to do with Wynder’s death, or Wynder’s killer wasn’t Abbot’s.
Which begged another question: was Marsha’s killer Abbot’s? That at least fit with his serial killer theory. Rick Wynder was the latest victim of the Midwest Interstate Killer. The others were victims of – who?
That, he didn’t know, and couldn’t quite wrap his head around.
“This has something to do with last night,” Tanney said after a space.
“What?”
“Halverson. It’s connected, somehow.”
Owen frowned. He’d forgotten about the sheriff: yet another wrinkle in the mess. “How?”
“I don’t know. But think about it Owen. Someone offed the attorney general the same day they tried to off the sheriff, hours apart. It’s the same group. It has to be.”
“It doesn’t make sense. They wouldn’t have had time. They would have been behind us. They would have to be, since we saw Abbot alive.”
“And?”
“They wouldn’t have had time to get back to Yellow River Falls, get ahead of us, find Halverson, and try to bump him off. There wasn’t time.”
“There was. We stopped to eat, remember?”
Owen nodded. He remembered, alright. The beer had made Tanney particularly talkative. The trip back had been torture.
“How long were we there? Forty-five minutes? An hour?”
“Maybe. Maybe a little longer. Still, it’s a tight timetable. They would have had to find Halverson, and confirm it was him. Even with an hour, that’s cutting it awfully close.”
“Close, but not impossible. But you’re not thinking it through. They would have wanted to strike right away. It was a cold night, after a blizzard. It was already dark. People were staying off the roads. It’s the perfect time to strike.”
Owen didn’t have long to think it over, though. They reached the sheriff’s department. He pulled into a spot right up front, right by the door.
“Well,” Tanney said. “What are you going to tell them?”
“The truth.”
“That you’re interfering in a police investigation?”
“I’m not interfering. I’m following a line of inquiry.”
“So we have to convince them that we’re busybodies, not killers?”
“That’s about the size of it.”
Tanney shook his head. “How the hell did I let you talk me into this?” Despite the tenor of his words, his tone was amused.
“You think talking to the cops is bad?” Owen said, turning the engine off and reaching for the door handle. “Just wait until your kids see your name associated with the case, and realize you’ve gone and gotten mixed up in a murder investigation. Now that’s an interrogation I wouldn’t want to be any part of.”
Then he stepped out into the bland, chilled morning, before the other man could respond.
Chapter Thirty-Six
His sense of humor endured through the first hour of questions. He was talking to Hawkeyes. She was visibly exhausted, and a little irritable. But she managed to keep most of it under wraps.
Then came the waiting game. Hawkeyes relayed their story to the detectives working the Abbot case. The detectives dispatched people almost immediately, with all kinds of injunctions to sit tight.
Rarely a good sign, in Owen’s experience, when the cops didn’t want you moving. Rarely a good sign when they were that eager to talk to you. But in combination?
Not good. Not even a little.
Hours passed, though not as many as Owen thought it would take. Which meant the detectives were really laying some rubber to get there.
Really not good.
And it got worse from there.
The detectives identified themselves as Shane Brady and Kimberly Davis. Davis was short and plump, and Brady was tall and plump. She looked like a small bulldog, with a determined gleam in her eye and angry set to her jowls. He looked like a bigger bulldog, just as determined and just as angry.
The first thing they did, once they’d identified themselves, was split Owen and Tanney up. Davis took Tanney, and Brady took Owen.
They moved from a comfortable room with a sofa and a bin full of kids toys in the corner – where, presumably, victims and witnesses were brought – to a room with painted concrete walls and a table bolted to the floor. An interrogation room.
So not good.
Brady put his phone on the table. It was unlocked and displaying some kind of voice note recorder application. He asked, “Do you mind if I record this?”
Owen shook his head. “Nope.”
Brady pressed a big red button on the screen, and a timer started to run. “For the record, would you state your name please?”
Owen did, and Brady thanked him. So far, anyway, he meant to maintain some kind of pretense of friendliness.
“Now,” he said, “can you tell me what you told Deputy Murphy, from the beginning?”
So Owen did, and Brady let him talk without interruption. Only when the story wrapped up did he ask questions.
They started friendly enough. He thanked Owen and asked if he could clarify a few points.
“Of course.”
“Alright. So, first of all, you said you’re – investigating, I think was the word you used? The Rick Wynder murder?”
“That’s right.”
“What do you do for a living, Mr. Day?”
“I’m an actuary,” he said.
“So when you say you were investigating the case – you were not, in fact, doing so in any official capacity?”
“I never claimed to be.”
“I didn’t say you did. I’m just trying to clarify, for the record.”
“Okay. Then no, ‘for the record,’ I wasn’t in any official capacity.”
Brady nodded. “Okay. Thank you for that, Mr. Day. Now…you mentioned a serial killer. You said you’ve been following him for a few years now.”
“Following his work,” Owen said.
“His killings?”
“Yes.”
“And this killer – he’s an unknown to law enforcement?”
“Yes. I mean, I have emailed my findings to a few departments, but as far as I know, no one has taken any action on them.”
“I see. So, you read about Judge Wynder’s death, and assumed he was the latest victim?”
“I didn’t assume. He fit the pattern.”
“I see.
So Richard Wynder ‘fit the pattern.’ And you emailed Sheriff Halverson with your theory?”
“That’s right.”
“And called his office?”
“That’s right.”
“And when he didn’t respond, you decided to come up to Yellow River Falls and investigate for yourself?”
“No. I wanted to talk to the sheriff myself. You know, in person.”
“To persuade him in person, since email and phone calls weren’t working.”
“That’s right,” Owen said for a third time.
“I see. And did it work?”
Owen shifted in his seat.
“Did you persuade Sheriff Halverson?”
“No,” he admitted. “I didn’t.”
Brady nodded again and made a little check mark on his notebook. “How did that make you feel?”
“How did that…what?”
“Were you angry?”
“What? No.”
“Really?” Brady glanced up from his notes. “Not even a little?”
Owen frowned at him. “What does that have to do with Sean Abbot?”
“Nothing. I’m just trying to figure out how you went from trying to persuade the sheriff to trying to find the killer yourself. I’m trying to wrap my head around it. I mean, I guess if it were me, I’d be mad. I drove all this way, rented a room, tried to show him what’s right in front of his face, and he just blows me off? I’d probably be pissed.”
“I wasn’t angry,” Owen said.
“Frustrated?”
“Sure, a little.”
“Okay. So you were frustrated with the sheriff. And then what?”
“I told you: and then someone killed Marsha Wynder, and I thought I got it all wrong.”
“Because it didn’t fit your pattern?”
“That’s right.”
“Okay. But then you figured out you were right after all?”
“Yes.”
“Why’s that?”
“I told you,” he said again. “Because Marsha’s death was someone else.”
“That’s right. So the serial killer killed the husband, and someone else came along and killed the wife?”
“That’s right.”
“Why?”
“I have no idea. That’s what I wanted to talk to Abbot about.”
“Okay. So did Halverson believe you that time, once you figured out that you were right all along?”
“I didn’t get a chance to talk to him.”
“Because you went to talk to Abbot instead?”
“No. Because he was gone – busy, I don’t know. But I didn’t know where to find him. So instead of waiting around until he showed up again, I thought it’d be better to go talk to Abbot, and see if I got anything else to support the theory.”
“Right.” Brady checked his notes. “The theory being that the serial killer targeted Wynder because he thinks he’s some kind of avenging angel or something?”
“I didn’t say ‘avenging angel.’ I said vigilante.”
“That’s right. So did you?”
“Did I what?”
“Get any more evidence when you talked to Sean Abbot.”
“You know I didn’t. I told you I didn’t.”
“And how did you feel about that?”
Owen frowned at him. “I didn’t really have feelings about it.”
“You weren’t disappointed?”
“No.”
“So you were glad he couldn’t support your theory? That you went all that way for nothing?”
“Of course not.”
“Then you were disappointed?”
Owen sighed. “It was always a long shot. I knew it might – probably would – turn up nothing.”
“But you hoped it’d be your break, right?”
“Sure, I guess.”
“So – even though you expected it – it was still disappointing?”
Owen shrugged. “I guess.”
Brady nodded. “Then what?”
“Then nothing. Then we headed back to town.”
“But you stopped to eat first, right?”
“Yes.”
“And get drinks?”
“I had coffee.”
“But your friend there, Mr. – what was his name? Tanner?”
“Tanney.”
“Right. Mr. Tanney got drinks?”
“Yes.”
“It was kind of early for drinking, wasn’t it?”
“Not for Tanney.”
“Really? He’s a day drinker, then?”
“No, I don’t think so.”
Brady frowned, like he was confused. “You just said it wasn’t unusual for him to drink during the day.”
“I didn’t mean during the day. I just meant to drink.”
“Ah. Would you say he has a problem with drinking, then?”
“No, I wouldn’t. He just likes a beer.”
“A beer? I thought you said he had more than one.”
Owen frowned at him. “Look, Detective, how is any of this relevant? So what if he had a dozen beers?”
“Did he?”
“No. But what would it matter if he did?”
Brady shrugged. “I’m just trying to establish if that’s normal behavior for Mr. Tanney, or if he had some particular reason to be drinking that day.”
Owen snorted. “You mean, did we kill Sean Abbot and have to go drink our guilt away afterwards?”
Brady didn’t miss a beat. “Did you?”
“No. Dammit, Detective, you think we would be stupid enough to be here at all, much less admitting that we saw him shortly before someone murdered him, if we were the ‘someone?’”
If the convoluted sentence structure stymied Brady, he didn’t make a show of it. “Most killers are stupid,” he said.
“Well I’m not,” Owen said, adding, “Stupid – or a killer, before you ask.”
“Most stupid people don’t realize they’re stupid,” Brady said. “Especially criminals. They think they’re smarter than everyone. They think they’ve thought of all the eventualities. They’re smart enough to outwit the cops and pull the wool over everyone’s eyes.”
“You think that’s what I think?” Owen asked. He was a lot incredulous and a little scared. Did this dumbass actually think he and Tanney had bumped someone off?
And if he did – what if he arrested them? What if he charged them with murder? Their DNA would be in the Abbot house. There’d be no question they were there, and right before the murder. No question at all.
“I didn’t say that,” Brady said. “I’m just trying to understand the situation.”
Owen snorted but didn’t press the point.
“Whoever killed Sean was good at what they did. They thought they were clever. Very clever. They wanted it to look like suicide. They almost pulled it off, too. But they weren’t as smart as they thought.”
Owen frowned. “Suicide? What are you talking about?”
Brady didn’t answer that. He just went on with his own train of thought. “See, they doublechecked all the property’s security systems. I assume they made Sean hand over his password somehow. But there was a login yesterday afternoon, coinciding with the general time of death.
“I can only guess they figured a guy like Sean, living in a house like his, would have cameras. And he did. But he didn’t bother with them when he was home. No need: he was there. So these guys thought they were safe. They thought they were real smart. They’d covered their bases.”
He meant to rattle Owen. That much was clear from the way he dragged the big reveal out, building and building. He wanted to make him sweat, and maybe give away something – a facial tic or a fidget or whatever.
Owen couldn’t oblige, obviously, since he didn’t know what the hell the detective was talking about. He waited, patiently.
Brady went on. “They made him write the suicide note. They put those pictures in front of him.”
“What pictures?”
Brady smiled
– an as if you don’t know kind of smile – and didn’t answer. “We assume they’re fake. Some kind of photoshop. The lab’s working on them now. But either way, real or not, it made for a good story. A powerful man who’d spent years abusing his position of authority, finally overcome by remorse. He does himself in. Everyone breathes a sigh of relief. ‘About time. If only more of the bastards would do the same thing.’”
“But?” Owen prompted. He didn’t know what exactly the pictures were supposed to show, or what abuses and crimes Sean Abbot had committed, or been framed for. It didn’t really matter to the story.
“But they forgot about the nanny cam.”
“Nanny cam?”
Brady smiled at his interest. “Right? An easy oversight. His kids are all grown and married and living away from home. He lives alone. Why would he need a nanny cam?”
“For the grandkids,” Owen ventured. “He’s got grandkids, right?”
Brady nodded. “Exactly right, Mr. Day. So our killers think their safe. But what they don’t know is there’s a camera in the kids’ gaming room. And you know what that camera saw?”
“No, but I assume you’re going to tell me.”
“Two men. Two men who are remarkably similar in height and build to you and Mr. Tanney.”
Owen frowned at him. “In height and build? What kind of bullshit is that?”
“It’s what the camera saw.”
“Well it wasn’t us.”
“Wasn’t it, Mr. Day?”
“No, it wasn’t.”
Brady shrugged and sat back in his seat. “Okay. It’s just – the way I see it, it takes a particular type of criminal to be smart enough to take care of the home security system, but stupid enough to get picked up on the nanny cam.”
“It wasn’t us.”
“Someone – or, two someone’s – who are smart, but not quite as smart as they think.”
“It wasn’t us,” Owen said for the third time.
“The kind of criminal who might think hiding in plain sight was the smart play. You know, realizing we’d find his DNA, no matter how careful he was. So confront the problem head on. March into the station, and say, ‘Hey, we were there, and we want to help find whoever did this.’”
“It wasn’t –”
“Someone,” Brady interrupted, “who might go a step further to cover his bases by, say, inventing a serial killer. Some mysterious guy he’s tracking all over the Midwest.”