by Joseph Lewis
On this late afternoon because of the summer recess on the Hill, few patrons were in the bar and fewer still ate early dinners. Towards the back of the room in a dimly lit booth with a table covered with a rich, dark red table cloth and a lit candle sat Summer in a navy jacket, cream-colored blouse and navy slacks. Thatcher Davis, having come from the office, wore a slightly wrinkled dark suit. Even wrinkled, Davis managed to look superior to everyone in the room, or anywhere else for that matter. He resembled a silver-haired college professor, and one would describe him as elegant.
“So, Barney Fife has you chasing a case of child trafficking,” Davis said as he sipped his wine.
Summer ignored the bait and sipped her wine. It was difficult because he’d been at it since she had arrived.
“Do you have anything to go on? I mean, besides the kid’s report from a mile or so away?”
“That boy is a credible witness. Everything he saw checked out, and based on his descriptions and the artist’s sketches, we identified the perps.”
“Let’s hear it for the Indian boy,” Davis said raising his glass in mock toast.
Summer tossed her dinner napkin on the table in disgust, frowning at him.
“Look, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that,” he said trying to recover. “It’s just that I see you wasting your talent with a dead-beat partner in a no-win department. You deserve better.”
Summer looked away and watched a waiter deliver dinner to a near-by table. In some respects, she didn’t know why she had decided to have dinner with Thatcher especially after the day she just had. He was condescending; cruelly so. He was also brilliant, wealthy and handsome in an aristocratic way, yet she never saw him as anything more than a friend, someone with whom to have dinner or a drink with. Someone she could talk to. She supposed she saw him as a kind of father figure. Not that he could ever come close to being anything like or as important to her as her father.
She loved her father and mother. They were hard-working ranchers, raising beef cattle on a little ranch near Crete, Nebraska. To add to their income, they grew wheat in three fields and leased out two others. Invariably, however, hail, wind, heavy rain or a combination of the three would ruin over half of their crop. While they weren’t wealthy, they were happy, and that was more than many people in the world could say.
And, they were very proud of Summer for making it through the University of Nebraska and then law school at Louisville. Upon graduation, she went right to the academy where, being a pretty fair athlete and an even better student, she excelled. She could have gone into the Behavioral Science Department, which was her second choice, or the legal division, which she found utterly boring and consequently, was never considered. Instead, she opted for ‘cop work’ as she called it. When the Kiddie Corps came calling, she jumped at it.
Kiddie Corps gave her an opportunity to not only be a cop, but to help families, and kids in particular. It made her parents even more proud of their little girl.
“I said I was sorry.”
Snapped out of her reverie, she bristled.
“It isn’t easy Thatch. I came here for support, and you mock me. I’m not having this conversation with you.”
She wiped away a single tear and worked to compose herself.
“I said I was sorry.” After a pause, he said, “But do you see what this assignment is doing to you? I don’t like it. It’s eating you up from the inside out.”
“Drop it!” she said, causing others in the restaurant to turn in their direction.
“Have you considered my offer? I’ve held the position open for you for two years,” he said softly, hopefully, gently taking hold of her hand.
“No, actually, I haven’t, and I’m not going to.”
She pulled her hand away. Thatcher didn’t know what to say to that, so he sipped his wine without taking his eyes from her and then went back to his salad half-heartedly. The cell phone buzzed at Summer’s belt.
She lifted it, looked at the caller ID, pushed the talk button and said, “Yes.”
She listened, nodded and avoided eye contact with Davis. She hung up and gathered herself to leave.
“Officer Fife beckons?”
“We caught a break. I have to go.”
“Good luck,” Davis said, sipping his wine. “I hope something good finally comes out of this.”
* * *
The bureau typically flew out of Ronald Reagan Washington National Airport in Washington D.C. Pete, grim-faced and sagging a bit more than usual, walked over to her as she got out of her car.
“Chet and Doug are coming with us. We’re flying into Green Bay and taking a chopper north and west. We want to get there quickly.”
Summer looked over at the plane, not seeing anyone other than the ground crew.
Frowning, she said, “Chet and Douglas?”
Pete shrugged, not understanding why Rawson was coming along either. He had never before accompanied them in the field. Together they walked towards the plane, but just before they got to the stairs, Pete took her elbow and stopped walking.
“When I got the call, I made a phone call to Albuquerque. I asked them to get the Tokay kid on a quick flight to Green Bay. He should arrive at about the same time we do.”
Summer frowned at him. Flying a witness to the crime scene was irregular. Flying a fourteen-year-old witness to the crime scene was irresponsible.
“The way he worked the crime scene in Arizona, he might come in handy.”
Summer still frowned at him, not comprehending, trying to find the logic. Surely, Wisconsin had a state crime lab that would process the scene. They were professionals. She didn’t know how she, or he, would explain the presence of the boy to the rest of her team or to the local authorities. Still, she knew Pete worked on and followed hunches. This wasn’t the strangest thing he had ever done. Not by a long shot.
She climbed the stairs without comment and joined Rawson and Walker, nodding at each in turn.
“What do we have?” She asked.
Chet handed her a manila folder and walked her through it.
“Two boys, brothers . . . Richard and Alan Zimmerman, were on ATVs. They stopped to take a leak. They heard voices and then gunshots. The older of the two, Richard, waits and goes to take a look. He finds a dead kid same as all the other dead kids; naked, handcuffed and shot in the back of the head twice.”
Chet looked up at Summer, waiting for her to look at him.
“What?” she asked, looking first at Chet, then at Pete.
Chet glanced at Pete and then back at Summer.
“He also found two men who were shot. The men fit the description of our two perps.”
He paused to let that sink in, but it didn’t take long.
“Our two perps?”
Chet nodded and glanced back down at the paper on his lap. Summer looked over at Pete, who merely stared out the plane window.
“Our perps . . .” she said out loud as if saying it would help her digest it.
Now she understood why Pete wanted the Tokay kid in Wisconsin.
“What’s the flying time?” She asked, taking control once again.
“About two hours.” Rawson spoke for the first time. Then, as if he needed to justify his presence out in the field he said, “Logan thought Chet and I should go along. This case is getting complicated.”
“Complicated . . . shit!” Pete said to the window. “Now we’ve got nothing!”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Ray Zimmerman raced to the boys after Alan had hung up. He found them hugging each other just off Highway 8 and Jack Pine Road. Rich walked his dad to the scene, and both came back pale and shaken. The younger boy was in tears, not understanding, not knowing what it was that Rich and his father had seen. Neither let Alan get near enough to find out.
This was how Officer Pat Blizel, the Marinette County Sheriff, found them. He followed Ray to the crime scene. A good officer who knew his limitations, Blizel took one look at the crime scene and realized he had a situation,
a situation bigger than he could handle or wanted to handle. He radioed dispatch and told them to get a hold of the FBI office in Milwaukee. He was piped through and described in very brief detail what he had. The SAC in Milwaukee phoned D.C., who got in touch with Logan Musgrave, who got Pete and the team on a flight to Green Bay.
When the team landed in Green Bay, they hopped on a helicopter and flew to the scene. George hadn’t arrived yet. The Wisconsin State Crime Lab, there are actually three of them; one in Milwaukee, one in Madison, and one in Wausau, was contacted. Because Wausau was the closest, they responded with a team of two: James Dahlke and Rosalind Wannager, who arrived about ten minutes after the team got there. State police and deputies from Marinette County had Highway 8 down to one lane a quarter mile either side of Jack Pine Road.
James Dahlke was a blond, pale, skinny young man with wire rim glasses, who looked as if he had just walked across the stage to receive his diploma- from high school. He didn’t speak much, except to Roz. His partner was a plumpish redhead, who was normally quick to smile and laugh. She wasn’t smiling or laughing on this afternoon.
Pete walked over to Dahlke and said, “You look barely old enough for this job.”
James sighed, having heard these comments most of his college and graduate life. He was out of patience, and he wasn’t about to take any crap from a suit.
“Actually, last month, I graduated from high school, got my B.S. from Carroll College in Chemistry and Forensic Science two weeks ago. Just yesterday, I received my M.S. in Forensic Science, with an emphasis in Entomology from Michigan State. I’m a bit accelerated.”
Pete chewed on the inside of his cheek, shrugged and said, “Okay, Skippy. You and your partner do your thing. We have another person coming who worked a similar crime scene in Arizona. He’s a civilian, but we think he might be able to help out.”
“Okay Boss Man. We don’t really need the help, but as long as this civilian is coming, he follows my orders, and we’ll all get along just fine.”
Summer had overheard the exchange and walked over and said, “Do we have a winner, or do we need to have both of you drop your drawers and take out a ruler?”
Pete laughed and said, “No, I think Skippy will do just fine.”
“Whatever you say, Boss Man,” Dahlke said over his shoulder, walking away to his truck.
About twenty minutes after the crime lab arrived, a helicopter carrying George Tokay landed on Highway 8, just inside the one-lane roadblock of the crime scene, but far enough so the copter rotors wouldn’t blow away any of the crime scene evidence. George was met by a deputy, who escorted him to Pete. Pete shook George’s hand, thanked him for coming and told him what they had found. He walked him over to Summer, Dahlke and Wannager.
“George, you remember Agent Storm,” he said with a nod to Summer.
Summer shook George’s hand. He smiled shyly and uncertainly.
“Skippy, this is George Tokay. We think the two perps are two of the three victims. At least, they fit the descriptions George gave us and the photos we matched from those descriptions.”
James sighed at Pete, shook George’s hand and introduced himself as James and his partner as Roz. He handed George two plastic booties and a pair of thin rubber gloves, the sort that surgeons wear, and asked that he put them on. George took off his cowboy hat, dropped his gym bag, dug out his moccasins, slipped out of his boots and put the moccasins on, followed by the plastic booties.
Dahlke handed him two large rubber bands and said, “Put these on your booties. That way, our footprints are distinguished from the others we’ll encounter.” He added in disgust, “A lot of pedestrians have already trampled the scene, so we have our work cut out for us.”
George silently did as he was told, already feeling the heat and humidity that was vastly different from his native Arizona, and knowing it was only going to get hotter.
“We’ve worked a circular pattern around the scene, starting in the center where the vics are and moved out. Picked up some trace; a cigarette butt and some fiber,” James said.
“We’re about to work from the perimeter in,” Roz said with a smile, wiping sweat from her face with her sleeve.
“Was the cigarette butt Marlboro?” George asked quietly.
Roz and James glanced at each other and then James spoke for both and said, “Yes. Why?”
“That’s what I found at the other crime scene. The tall, skinny man smokes them.”
James said to Roz, “We’ll need to cross-check DNA on the tall guy with the cigarette.”
George squatted down, glancing between the blacktop of Highway 8 and the gravel of Jack Pine Road. He bit his tongue, pretending to search the ground. He touched the turquoise and leather around his neck and silently asked forgiveness from the chindi for walking onto the scene of death. After he finished, he stood up.
“A lot of footprints.”
“Wonderful, isn’t it? Makes our job all the more fun,” James said with disgust. “And time consuming.”
“Did you check anyone’s feet?” George asked.
“Nope, but we’re about to.”
James stuck a thumb and finger into his mouth and whistled loudly and sharply.
Walking somewhat sideways about four steps, he stopped and announced, “Anyone, and I mean anyone, who walked this far needs to report to my two partners right now. We need to check your shoes against the ones who messed up our crime scene.”
Ray Zimmerman and his two boys came forward, as did Sheriff Blizel and stood in front of Roz and George.
When no more came forward, James said, “There are at least four or five more sets of prints here. Let’s get moving. I’d like to finish before it gets dark.”
Roz went to work studying the soles of the sheriff’s boots and then started on the father of the two boys. Following her lead, George began inspecting the shoes of the two boys
Their father intervened and said, “Come here boys.”
The boys hesitated and then moved over next to their father.
“We got a problem here?” Pete asked as he stepped up to George.
Ray Zimmerman didn’t respond. Neither did Rich or Alan.
Pete slipped off his wingtip, handed it to George, and said, “Tell me what you see George.”
Guessing Pete was making a point, George said, “Size ten, about 190, maybe 195. You mostly walk on your heals, but you roll the step, so you wear down the outside of the heal. Your left foot drags, because you’re wearing a gun on your ankle. Probably small caliber like a .22 or .38.”
“Thanks for the compliment, but I go 197,” Pete said slipping back into his shoe. “How about the good sheriff?”
Sheriff Blizel began slipping off his boot, but George shook his head.
“Probably 210 or 215, about six two or three. Serious heal walker. No drag, so you don’t carry a backup.”
Blizel nodded and smiled at him. Anger getting the better of him, Pete stepped up nose to nose with Ray Zimmerman, glaring.
“This young man witnessed the execution of a boy his own age. He ID’d the perps and ran the crime scene slicker than anyone we have on the force.” He let that sink in for a minute and said, “Thanks to this young man, we have our first break in this case.”
Summer stepped over, handed her stylish, but dusty gray flat to George and said, “My, my, my . . . the testosterone is in the air today. I just might have to get that ruler out after all.”
Chet Walker and Douglas Rawson walked over to George.
Walker stuck out a hand and said, “Hi, I’m Chet. I’ve heard a lot about you. Really nice work.”
George smiled and shook his hand.
Rawson introduced himself, shook George’s hand and gave him a wing tip, much like Pete’s, but more expensive and polished. George checked it out and handed the shoe back to the tall black man.
James came over, smiling, but shaking his head slightly. He handed George and Roz thin wires with yellow numbered flags attached.
; “Let’s see what we have for prints. Let’s get moving though,” James said, urging them onward. “We’ve got a lot of work to do before it gets dark.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Although one year younger than his brother, William could have been George’s twin. Their builds and temperament were about the same, though William tended to be a bit more lanky. George was more traditional than William, who didn’t care for the old ways. He cared more for the white – biligaana world. His only concession to his Indian-ness was his longish black hair under a beat up cowboy hat.
In intense heat, the desert smells like nothing anyone could name, but it smells just the same. William was used to the smell of the desert, just as George was. And just like George, he was used to the smell of sheep and horse. His quick eyes picked out a jackrabbit perched under some sage, sniffing at the air, testing for danger. The sheep either didn’t notice or didn’t care about the diminutive interloper. They continued to graze or rest under the scorch of the sun.
Like his brother, William sat in the same spot in the shade of the pine at the top of the hill in the rocks shaped like a recliner as he watched for rustlers. Ever since the murder of the boy on their land, he and George were wary, nervous when they watched their sheep. Neither found they could relax like they once had. Ever since that day, the rifle lay across a lap and not in a scabbard on the roan William usually rode or the black stallion, Nochero, that George rode.
William was envious of his brother, who just that afternoon was picked up by a helicopter. George was nervous about the trip, but William wouldn’t have been. He would have looked forward to it.
One day . . .
William took a drink of warm water from his canteen and swatted at a fly buzzing near his face. He combed his sweaty hair with his fingers and shoved his hat low on his brow. Just as his brother, he wore a pair of dusty blue jeans and a leather vest, but no shirt. In the desert, the boys knew enough about heat and dehydration to keep drinking liquid, yet he was hot. In other climates, sweat would pour out of you, but not in the desert. You could never tell, until sometimes too late, that you were over-heating. Beyond hot and wary and nervous, he was bored and uncomfortable.