by Blake Pierce
Instead of sitting down behind her desk, Timbrook crossed her arms and leaned against it. “I don’t mind admitting when I need help,” she said. “I’ve only been at this job for two years and I feel like every time something big comes along, I’m under this enormous microscope. So…all of that to say this: I’m a little over my head here. Have you ever dealt with a case like this one?”
“In terms of complexity or heights?” Mackenzie asked with a smirk.
“Both.”
“Then yes…to both. And I also have experience with feeling like every move is being observed under a microscope. It goes back to even before the Scarecrow Killer case.”
“Two victims…” Timbrook said, trailing off. She sighed and added: “Do you think there will be a third?”
“It’s impossible to say for sure,” Mackenzie said. “But since we can’t find a common link between Yorke and Evans, we have to assume they were random murders. And if that’s the case…then I’m fully prepared to treat the case as if there could very well be a third or fourth victim.”
“Not exactly what I wanted to hear…”
“I know. But if you want to step out from under that microscope, you need to start thinking that way. Assuming the worst allows you to see past hope—something you can’t afford yourself until the end of a case.”
“That’s pretty damned bleak.”
Mackenzie nodded. It did sound a little defeatist when spoken out loud. But the look of understanding on Timbrook’s face was proof that she had known this all along but had done her best to remain upbeat and positive. She looked for some encouraging words to follow up her little speech but was interrupted by a knock at the door before she had time.
Looking in that direction, Mackenzie was rather surprised to see Tyler. He gave a dramatic sigh and shook his head.
“I thought you had some sort of actual hard work, Sergeant,” Tyler said.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I got a name for you. Complete with contact information.”
“Already?”
Mackenzie checked her watch; exactly seven minutes had passed since Timbrook had handed over the two evidence bags to Tyler.
“Yeah. A dude named Vernon Wilcox. Looks like he manages a Facebook page for local climbing meet-ups…but not successfully. There are only like fifteen followers on there. But I found his name in the e-mails of both Yorke and Evans. Yorke had even saved his info to her contacts, but just hadn’t logged it in as a name yet.”
“Anything worthwhile in the e-mails?” Mackenzie asked.
“Nothing that pins the tail on the donkey, so to speak. But enough to confirm that both of them climbed with this guy. And here’s one better…both Yorke and Evans had climbed with Wilcox within a week of their deaths.”
Mackenzie and Yorke shared a look that was punctuated with a stirring of excitement.
“Can you print those e-mails out for me?” Timbrook asked.
“Already did. Should be at the printer right now.”
Timbrook moved right away, heading for the door. Mackenzie followed behind and as she did, she thought she caught some sort of tense look between Timbrook and Tyler. The lopsided grin Tyler flashed at the sergeant made it even odder. Mackenzie bit back a little smile, fairly certain there might be something between the two.
Of course, there was no time to dwell on such trivial matters. Mackenzie marched for the front door as Timbrook took a detour for the printer at the back of the bullpen area. As she waited for Timbrook to join her, she tried to again envision what it must be like to be that high up and all of a sudden knowing that you’re going to die.
And again, those old resurfaced memories came back to her, her feet dangling in the air as a paralyzing fear started to grip her. Recalling that memory did two things to her. First, it made her want to catch the bastard who would use climbing and severe heights as some sort of torturous murder device, and second, it made her not want to be here.
For about the hundredth time she wished she was back at home, holding Kevin close to her and spooling together dreams for his future. But instead, she was here, focused on death and murder.
And when the two were held together in comparison, there was no contest.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
It was eight twenty when they arrived at Vernon Wilcox’s apartment. Ironically, it was just a block away from the apartment complex they had visited to speak with Malcolm Morgan. Like Morgan’s apartment, there was a decent view of the mountains and ridges from Wilcox’s apartment complex.
Again, Mackenzie allowed Timbrook to take the lead. They walked to his second-floor apartment, down a well-lit hallway in a nice and expensive-looking building. Timbrook knocked on the door and as they waited for an answer, Mackenzie could see her younger self in Timbrook—which was odd, as Timbrook was at least three years older than she was. But she saw a determined woman, made even more determined by the obstacles in the workplace and, perhaps, even a desire to move on to greener pastures.
The door was opened promptly by a man who looked like he had just stepped off the cover of Men’s Health. His white T-shirt clung to his chest and he seemed to know this. He stood absolutely bolt upright, puffing his chest out when he saw the two women standing in his doorway. That posture relaxed a bit when he saw that one of those women was wearing a police uniform.
“Vernon Wilcox?” Timbrook asked.
“That’s me. What can I do for you?”
“I’m Sergeant Timbrook, and this is Agent Mackenzie White. We’re looking into the recent deaths of two climbers. We were hoping to ask you a few questions.”
Wilcox looked alarmed, but not frightened or guilty. He stepped aside at once and opened his door. “Of course, come on in.”
He led them into a minimally decorated apartment, earth tones and whites everywhere. A large framed print of a mountain hung on the far wall opposite the television. There were also smaller framed pictures here and there, arranged in a way that kept with the apartment’s tidy-looking layout. Wilcox could be seen in all of these pictures, scaling rock walls and, in one case, what looked like the side of a building.
As they settled down on Wilcox’s couch, he took a small chair in the corner in what looked like a small reading nook. “I assume this is about Bryce Evans and Mandy Yorke?”
“It is. We understand that you climbed with both of them recently.”
“I did. I climbed with Mandy just two days before she died. I didn’t know her very well, but she seemed nice enough.”
“How did you meet Mandy Yorke and Bryce Evans?” Mackenzie asked.
I met Bryce through one of the Facebook groups. He was looking for someone to climb with, but wanted to just take it easy. I messaged him and told him I’d like to if he was still interested.”
“And did you know him before you reached out?”
“No.”
“How about Mandy Yorke?” Timbrook asked.
“I met her a few Saturdays ago. Maybe two months back. She was at one of those haphazard meet-ups on a Saturday morning. We sort of hit it off, flirting a bit. But she wasn’t interested. I think she was seeing someone or something. But she was down to do some climbing and needed a partner.”
“So you climbed with her that Saturday?” Timbrook asked.
“I did. We tried to meet up several other times, but it never worked out. Not until last Sunday. We met up and climbed for a while, out near Teton Valley.”
“Did she seem in good spirits?” Mackenzie asked.
“I guess so. I’ll be honest, I asked her out…just to coffee or something. But she declined. She was polite about it. I asked her if she was already seeing someone and she said it was complicated.”
“Do you feel that she was an accomplished climber?”
“She was much better than a beginner, but not on an expert level. She said she’d tinkered around on Exum Ridge here and there. Some of the stories she told and vocabulary she used made it clear she was legit.”
> “How about Bryce Evans?”
“He’s a different story. I got the feeling that he really didn’t even want to climb. He told me a story about how he and his dad used to climb a bit. And then his dad died. I think Bryce just wanted to climb as a way to remember his dad. He wasn’t very good…sort of clumsy and not really committed at all. But a nice enough dude, I guess.”
“I mean no offense,” Mackenzie said, “but I’m looking around your apartment and seeing pictures of you on these massive mountains. I assume you’re an accomplished climber?”
“Some would say that. I’ve made a few climbs most people might consider to be a little insane.”
“So why were you wasting your time with novice climbers like Yorke and Evans?”
In response, Wilcox held his leg up and pointed to his ankle. “I tweaked my ankle about four months ago. Sprained it and pulled my peroneal muscle. So I was out of commission for ten weeks. I started taking these smaller climbs to start working it out once the doctor gave me the clear. And because I was a little timid about testing it out, I figured it would be safer to climb with partners. I have other accomplished climber friends that would have helped me out, but I didn’t expect them to demote themselves to lame little climbs, you know?”
“Did you connect with other novice climbers during this time?” Timbrook asked.
“A few. But nothing really ever came together.”
“Would you be willing to give us the names of these other climbers?”
“Sure,” he said. He then gave them a skeptical look. He sat forward in his seat and eyed them both before asking: “What’s going on here? These questions are making it seem like you’re not viewing these deaths as accidents anymore.”
“True, there have been some developments that have us looking deeper,” Mackenzie said. “For instance, we have one single line of rope that appears to have been cleanly severed. With your experience, maybe you can help us here. When a climbing rope eventually breaks, I would assume that it would fray or unwind like any other rope. What have you seen in this regard?”
“Well, even one that snaps from excessive weight looks a little ragged at the ends,” Wilcox said. “Even if the rope is something pretty high quality like Mammut or Black Diamond, they can snap or break. What exactly do you mean by cleanly severed?”
“It looks almost as if someone took a pair of scissors to the rope,” Timbrook said. “No frayed edges, no partial wear and tear directly beneath or above the area where the rope was snapped.”
“That’s highly unlikely. I’ve never seen that before…never even heard of it. In the first place, it takes a lot for lines to break. Even a rope scrubbing against a stray outcropping of rock or something like that is going to hold up for a very long time. Any idea how old the ropes were?”
“An officer down at the station knows a bit about climbing,” Timbrook said. “He claims they weren’t brand new, but they didn’t appear to be old, either.”
“Then I’d say the rope was tampered with,” Wilcox said. “Of course, I can’t know that for sure. I’d have to see the rope…”
“I don’t think that will be necessary,” Mackenzie said. “But we do thank you for your time. Tell me, Mr. Wilcox, would you be able to provide your whereabouts over the last few days if we needed it?”
“I can actually. I got the plane ticket to prove it. I went out to Yosemite with some friends for a three-day trip. Planning out our next climb for when this damned ankle is finally at one hundred percent.”
Mackenzie nodded, fully believing him. She had always been a decent reader of expressions and body language. She had no doubt that if they dug into Vernon Wilcox’s Yosemite story, it would all check out.
“Mr. Wilcox,” Mackenzie said, “you run your own Facebook group online, right?”
“I do, but it kinda sucks. I might be a good climber, but I’m pretty bad with Facebook and social media. I can’t get the thing to kick off. Why do you ask?”
“Is there any way to pinpoint lurkers to the page? People that just sort of swing by to read what others are doing but never actively participate?”
“If there is, I don’t know how to do it.”
Might be something for us to have Tyler look into, she thought.
“Will you be around for the next few days?” Timbrook asked. “We may need to reach out to you again.”
“Looks that way. I’ve got no plans for the next week or so.”
Satisfied that they had learned all they could from Wilcox, Mackenzie headed for the door. Timbrook followed behind her, the look of concentration on her face making it clear that she was processing all they had just heard. Sure, there were no huge bits of information to be gleaned from the conversation with Wilcox, but it made the case a bit clearer—that her hunch that the deaths were murders rather than accidents had been further backed up.
On the way to the car, Timbrook looked at her watch and sagged her shoulders. “Look,” she said. “I’m not sure how you do it at the FBI, but with no promising leads and the clock ticking past nine o’clock, I’m calling it a day. And I’m going to do it with a few drinks. You want to join?”
Mackenzie almost said no. She’d purposefully not had much to drink ever since she’d started to breastfeed Kevin; the drinks she’d had with her mother three days ago were the first she’d had in a very long time. She smiled at the thought and nodded.
“Yeah, I could go for a drink.”
It was the truth, but she had a stronger urge as well. It was getting late—and would be two hours later back home. She figured it might be a bit too late to catch a glimpse of Kevin on FaceTime, but at least she’d get to see Ellington.
But she also knew that Timbrook needed the company. She was clearly agitated that the case seemed to be eluding her—and that she was grateful for Mackenzie’s help. The least Mackenzie could do was have a drink with her to give her the chance to vent. After all, she had been there. She knew what it felt like.
Timbrook got back out onto the streets, not saying much. Mackenzie let the sergeant have her silence as she delved into her own, thinking of Kevin and kissing him goodnight on top of his still-soft little head.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Mackenzie was relieved when Timbrook selected a bar that was not as trendy or pretentious as the Cavalier had been. The bar she selected was more of a dive; only four beers on tap, two of which had the word Lite in their titles. There was an honest to God jukebox in the back of the place, playing something by Dire Straits as they walked in. They took a table tucked away in a corner, both ordering beers as a thin, tired-looking waitress came by.
“I feel like I’m missing something,” Timbrook said. “I feel like it’s right there in front of my face and I can’t see it.”
“Apparently, I don’t see it, either,” Mackenzie said. “So you’re not alone.”
“I mean, it’s dealing with rock climbers. You’d think that would narrow the search down enough for this to be easy.”
“Let’s start with what we suspect and what we know,” Mackenzie offered.
“I suspect Yorke and Evans were murdered. What I know is that there is sufficient evidence to warrant an investigation into their murders. These were not accidents.”
“Not accidents…I’ll agree with that one. But I see nothing remarkable about these victims. Quiet people…no real ties to anyone shady.”
“Unless there are people from these meet-ups they crossed the wrong way. And shit…I really don’t feel like cross-examining every single climber in the area that has been to one of these things. I know it sounds morbid, but I almost wish there was more evidence to point to suicide…”
“No way is it suicide. Seems very coincidental, two suicides by jumping from a high place so close together. Plus…why would Yorke go through the trouble? Evans might be an easier sell. His stuff was found at the top, his body at the bottom. But why would Mandy Yorke scale the side of Exum Ridge and then cut her own rope before reaching the top? It seems a little
far-fetched.”
“Well, when you explain it like that…”
The waitress brought their beers over, interrupting their flow of thought. Timbrook took hers up right away and took a large gulp. She then took a deep breath and sighed, a non-verbal cue that she was about to change the subject. As far as Mackenzie was concerned, that might be a good idea. She knew better than anyone that obsessing over a case often made it harder to view it as a problem to be solved; obsessing over it turned it into an undefeatable monster.
“I’m just going to put this out there,” Timbrook said. “But every now and then, I’ll catch you sort of staring off into space, thinking hard about something. You doing okay?”
Mackenzie would typically brush off such a comment, but Timbrook’s observation was pretty impressive. It was disarming enough that Mackenzie found herself answering openly and honestly.
“This is my first case since having a baby,” she said. “I thought this was what I needed to shake the Mommy Blues, but it’s the exact opposite. There have been far too many times today where I found myself just not wanting to be here. So I’m sorry if I’m coming off that way.”
“Oh, no, not at all. How old is your baby?”
“He’ll be four months next week.”
Timbrook pointed to the wedding ring on Mackenzie’s left hand. “Is his father home watching him?”
“Yes. My husband is an agent, too. And between him and an exceptional daycare we found, our little man is well taken care of.”
“That’s great,” Timbrook said. “Two agents married, though. How the hell does that work?”
Mackenzie took a sip of her beer and laughed under her breath. “I know. I know, it shouldn’t. But we make it work. He’s actually pretty great. We were partners first…so we sort of got to know one another really well. How about you? I’m pretty good at picking up non-verbal cues and facial expressions. What’s going on with you and Tyler?”