Justified

by C. M. Sutter

  Lieutenant Taft spoke up. “It’s all he saw of the man, Jade. Sorry.”

  The artist’s rendering of the man wasn’t any better than the actual surveillance tape. The face could be anyone. He had no outstanding features, the image was darkened because of the time of day, and the man was walking in a forward direction, perpendicular to Bobby Mills. The sketch of his face, mostly from the side and half covered with a cap, left us with little more than the dark, grainy videotape had.

  “Anything from the storefront cameras leading into town?” I was hopeful.

  Chief Faring spoke up. “The two officers that took the retail shops nearest the downtown area said they saw nothing.”

  “So that’s telling us he didn’t walk all the way into the downtown area. Is there another busy street that leads out of town?”

  The chief nodded and told us several officers still hadn’t reported in. They were checking all the stores near Speedy Time and beyond, until they reached the main intersection going northeast through town.

  “If he caught a ride, or intended to, that would be the road to take. It’s State Highway 54 that dissipates before Springfield, Missouri, but it intersects with Interstate 70, which is a main route for truckers. Interstate 70 goes through St. Louis, and there’s a half dozen other interstates in the same area.”

  I groaned with the realization that our killer could actually be anywhere. If the man that exited the park was indeed him, he had a twelve-hour head start on us.

  The four of us looked toward the door when it opened.

  Chief Faring tipped his head toward a few empty seats, and the officers that had just reported back sat down. He looked from face to face. “Anything?”

  Officer Stewart grinned and slid a flash drive across the table to the chief. “We got him on surveillance climbing into the back of a pickup truck.”

  I perked up. “Thank God. Let’s check it out.”

  The chief inserted the stick into the port on the side of the laptop that sat on the table. We crowded around the computer, and I held my breath as the video played. We saw that same man standing at the intersection of Main Street and Highway 54.

  “What store caught this image?” I asked, trying to get a perspective of the exact location.

  “This video is from Osage Auto Repair,” Officer Stewart said. “They recently installed that camera after a few of the customers’ cars in the lot were tampered with. Their system has a pretty wide range to cover the entire parking lot. I think that’s the only reason we were able to capture the man standing at the corner.”

  We watched the scene unfold in front of us. The man with the backpack approached a truck that idled at the intersection, waiting for the light to turn green. I looked at the time stamp—2:47 a.m. It appeared on the video that the stranger spoke to the driver at his window and then climbed into the bed of the truck. When the light turned, the vehicle headed northeast on Highway 54.

  “Could you make out the plate number on that truck?” J.T. asked.

  “Don’t need to,” the chief said. “That truck belongs to Doc Wilson.”

  “Doc Wilson?”

  “Yep, and that’s probably why he’s out at that time of night. I’d say he’s heading home after making a house call. He’s the main vet in the area and assists in births for horses, cattle, and the like. There could be any number of reasons he was out and about at nearly three in the morning.”

  “And he doesn’t worry about picking up strangers?” I asked, somewhat perplexed.

  “Nah, nobody is a stranger to Doc Wilson. He trusts everyone.”

  “We need to speak to him immediately, in person,” J.T. said.

  The chief jerked his head at Officer Stewart. “Make the call, Tom.”

  A half hour later, joined by the lieutenant and the chief of police, J.T. and I entered the warm, welcoming farmhouse of Dr. Matthew Wilson. The chief made the introductions as we entered the home and shook hands with the doctor and his wife, Maryanne. She led us to the large family room, where several couches faced each other with a coffee table in between. A fire crackled in the floor-to-ceiling stacked-stone fireplace.

  “Would anyone care for coffee?” Maryanne asked as we took seats.

  We gratefully declined. We had far too much to do that night and needed to stay on track. A cup of coffee on a comfortable couch with a roaring fire to my right would put me in a state of relaxation that I didn’t have time for. I wanted to hear everything the doctor could remember about the man that climbed into the back of his truck.

  “Dr. Wilson, why don’t you start at the point where the man approached your vehicle?” I said.

  “Sure thing, ma’am. The light was red, so I was stuck there, anyway. The man stepped off the sidewalk and headed toward me. I saw the backpack and figured he was about to either ask for directions or a ride. He knocked on the window, and I rolled it down.”

  “Then what?” J.T. pulled out a notepad from his inner jacket pocket.

  “He wanted to know where that road would take him, and I said northeast up toward St. Louis. He asked how far I was going, and I told him only five miles, where I’d turn off to go home. He asked if he could catch a ride that far.”

  “And that’s when he climbed in the back?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Dr. Wilson, you’re probably the only person we’ve found so far that can give us an up-close, detailed description of the man. We really need your help.”

  His forehead creased when he furrowed his brows. “That sounds serious.”

  The lieutenant spoke up. “It’s very serious, Doc. The agents need to know everything you can remember about him.”

  “We also need you to work with a sketch artist. We have to get this man’s face on the news as soon as feasibly possible,” I said. “It’s imperative you do that tonight, but let’s get the general details first. Lieutenant, can you call the sketch artist and get that set up for, say, an hour from now?”

  “Sure thing, Agent Monroe, and Doc, you’ll have to come to the sheriff’s department to do that.”

  The doctor agreed. “No problem, Lieutenant Taft.”

  J.T. continued to write. “Whenever you’re ready, sir.”

  “Well, the first thing I noticed was his height. At the truck window, he had to lean down to talk to me. I’d put him well over six feet.”

  J.T. wrote that down. “Could you tell how he was built?”

  Doc shook his head. “I’d only be guessing. That loose windbreaker and heavy looking backpack hid his build.”

  J.T. asked another round of questions. “Do you remember the color of the windbreaker and if there was any writing on it?”

  The doctor rubbed his forehead, as if in thought. “Sorry I’m not much help. It was late, and I was tired.”

  “Take your time. It’s okay.” I gave him a smile, and we waited.

  “My best guess would be navy blue or black. I didn’t see any writing on it, but I did notice the left sleeve had a long cut in it.”

  “Like a rip from walking through the woods?” Chief Faring asked.

  “No, not a rip. I’m a doctor, remember? It was definitely a cut. No shredded or jagged edges. A clean slice.”

  “Okay.” The Neko Te came to mind. The killer could have accidentally cut his own jacket while the women fought for their lives. “The backpack was dark too, correct?”

  “I’d say it was black. It was large, like the type people wear when they’re out for weeks at a time.”

  “And you said it looked heavy? How did you determine that?”

  “The straps seemed to ride high on his shoulders, as if there was a lot of weight in the back.”

  “Good observation,” Lieutenant Taft said.

  I leaned forward to face Doc, who sat on the opposite couch. “Did you notice any writing on his cap?”

  “Oh yeah. I was eye level with it since he had to lean down to talk to me. The cap had a logo for a trucking company on the front.”

  “Now we’
re getting somewhere,” the lieutenant said.

  J.T. tapped his notepad with the pen, clearly ready to write down whatever came out of the doctor’s mouth. “Think hard. This is really important.”

  “I can’t remember the name, or maybe I just wasn’t that interested. The town was written under the logo, though. Let me think, I know it was somewhere in Arkansas. Connor, maybe. No, it was Conway.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Yes, Conway was the town.”

  J.T. wrote that down.

  It could be our first solid lead. “Perfect.” I took a deep breath then continued. “Okay. Let’s move on to his features. Age range?”

  “My best guess would be late thirties, early forties.”

  “Scars or anything that stood out on his face?”

  “No, didn’t see any, but the hat hid most of his features.”

  “Pleasant looking or ugly?”

  The doctor laughed. “I’m a man, Agent Monroe. I don’t focus on that.”

  “Sorry, how about his hair?”

  He nodded, as if something came to mind. “That baseball cap covered most of his hair. All I saw were a few strands along his jacket collar, but what I did see looked greasy.”

  That made sense to me if he was on the prowl and hadn’t taken the time to bathe. “So you couldn’t see the color or style?”

  “No, but I’m sure it wasn’t light, and he wasn’t bald.”

  “Thank you, Doc,” J.T. said while he wrote that information down.

  “Okay, we’re going to head over to the sheriff’s department in a few minutes. Just one more question. How did he speak? Was there a regional accent, a dialect, and did he speak intelligently? What was the pitch of his voice like, and what did he actually say to you?” I asked.

  “Well, he didn’t sound like me, so I’d say he wasn’t from the area. He sounded like someone from the Midwest.”

  Chief Faring chuckled. “Doc, this is the Midwest.”

  “Not the same. Once you get to southern Illinois, the regional accent changes. His voice sounded like northern Midwest, and I’d only know that because Maryanne’s family is from Michigan. He only asked where Highway 54 would take him and if he could catch a ride as far as I was going. He seemed interested when I said the semis travel that highway day and night. He wasn’t rough or gruff sounding, but he didn’t use big words, either. Just sounded like a regular guy with a somewhat deep voice.”

  “Then what happened?”

  “Then I dropped him off at the intersection of Highway 54 and the road that turns west to my house. He climbed out of my truck, and I drove home and went to bed.”

  J.T. closed his notepad. “I think that should do it for now, and don’t wash your truck.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “It will have to be dusted for fingerprints. Forensics will dust the entire bed of the truck, especially the tailgate, probably the driver’s side window too.”

  Lieutenant Taft spoke up. “I can arrange to have that done while Doc’s working with the sketch artist, Agent Harper. That should speed things up significantly.”

  “Great idea, lieutenant. Let’s head out. Jade and I will follow you, and Doc can follow us in his truck. Once the sketch is complete, we’ll compare it to the one we have from Bobby Mills, and if they’re a reasonable match, we’ll air both of them on the news along with the man’s general height and weight. Hopefully, his prints are in the system. We also need to check on trucking companies in Conway, Arkansas, once we have a solid description of this man.”

  “Hold up, who’s Bobby Mills? Is there more I should know about the guy I gave a ride to?”

  We stood to leave, and J.T. responded. “Since it’s an ongoing investigation, all I can say is we appreciate your help, and if we’re lucky, we’ll be able to get something on the ten o’clock news. You’ll understand the gist of things if you watch that segment. Shall we?”

  Chapter 9

  John dumped his weapons onto the mattress. He enjoyed the process of admiring each and every one. They were his prized possessions, and he wanted to select the right tools for his evening with Brooklyn.

  What a stupid hooker name. One would think she could come up with something better since she sure as hell isn’t from Brooklyn—no New York accent. She should have called herself Branson.

  John set aside a roll of tape, latex gloves, various-sized hammers, a camping hatchet, and his favorite, the skinning knife. He remembered the Neko Te still lay under the passenger seat, but he hadn’t planned to use it with Brooklyn, anyway. He liked to mix things up. First off, he needed to tape her mouth closed and her eyes open. He wanted her to witness her own death, but quietly.

  Her movements and low moaning caught his attention. She was waking up. John tore a six-inch strip of tape off the roll and covered her mouth then secured her hands and feet with tape so she couldn’t kick or scratch him. He would begin as soon as he taped her eyes open. He pulled her eyelids upward and pressed a two-inch piece of tape over each one then secured the tape to her forehead.

  There we go. Now you can watch everything I do.

  Pleasure took over, and he grinned when the moment of realization hit her. He saw the terror on her face, and it empowered and aroused him.

  He stretched the gloves over his hands and let them snap for emphasis. “We’re about to begin, Brooklyn. Remember when you said one of you was about to get lucky? I almost pissed myself with the irony. I intended to choose you all along. Shit happens when you have a smart mouth. Let’s see if you like this.” John dug through her purse and pulled out a cigarette. He held it between his lips, flicked her lighter over the end, and sucked in a long draw. “By the way, I hate cigarettes.” He blew the smoke into her open eyes and watched as they teared up. She tried to blink but couldn’t. Brooklyn squirmed from side to side and moaned. He blew smoke into her eyes again and again then finally dropped the cigarette out the two-inch opening in the side window. Once the smoke had cleared, he rolled the window back up.

  “So, do you have any requests before I begin? This is your only chance to say something. No? Okay, let’s get started.”

  He held each tool over her face as she lay on the mattress. He wanted her to see them.

  “I’m going to start small since I want this to last a while. This here”—he held up the hammer—“is called a ball-peen hammer, and it doesn’t cause such a crushing blow, of course, unless I intend for it to. Anyway, check it out.” He gave her a tap on the top of the head with it. “See, not so bad. I could crack your skull open with it, but I won’t. I have other plans.” He looked to his side and chose another tool. “Now this here”—he ran his finger along the edge of the camping hatchet—“is a fun tool and useful. I keep it super sharp because I actually use it to cut wood for campfires when I’m out in the wild.” He gave her a slice across the forehead with it. Blood ran down both sides of her face. “See what I mean. That sucker is wicked sharp.”

  A sudden knock on the driver’s door startled John. He set the hatchet down, climbed out of the bunk, and opened the window. The blonde was back.

  “What the hell do you want?”

  “I need to talk to Brooklyn.”

  “That’s not happening, now beat it. I told you this was an all-night ordeal, so get lost.”

  “Fine, but tell her I’m leaving for a few hours.” She held up her head defiantly. “I’ve been invited to party with a few boys that just walked out of the restaurant.”

  “Good for you. Now go away.”

  “Make sure you tell her.”

  John rolled up the window, crawled back into the sleeper, and then pulled the curtain closed.

  “Now, where were we?”

  Chapter 10

  We sat in an empty office at the sheriff’s department with Doc Wilson, the county forensic sketch artist, and various people from law enforcement. J.T. had just returned from an update call to SSA Spelling. He told our boss that with any luck, we might have a composite to give to the news s
tations later that evening. Even though the case against our stranger in the woods was circumstantial, if the sketches matched well enough, we would go forward without hesitation. Same guy and same modus operandi in each park warranted a strong enough case to push ahead, in my opinion. Now, all we needed to know was his name and where he went.

  After the introductions, the sketch artist, Connie Hiller, started with the obvious. “What was the man’s race?”

  “He was white.”

  Connie opened her pack and pulled out the folder for Caucasian men. She placed on the table dozens of partial face templates made of sturdy cardboard. Templates of eye colors, nose sizes, beards and mustache examples, cheekbones, face shapes, dimples, lip fullness, and eyebrow shapes all sat in front of Doc Wilson.

  “This looks overwhelming,” he said.

  “Don’t worry. Just tell me what you know for sure. I’ll organize everything from there. Let’s start with what you actually remember, and we’ll work our way through it. Was he clean shaven?”

  “He was sporting a few days’ growth, and I couldn’t see his eyebrows because of the cap he wore.”

  “So, kind of a shadowy beard and mustache, an unkempt sort of appearance?” Connie put away the cards of full mustaches and beards and kept out the shorter version of both. “More like this?”

  He nodded.

  “Did you notice his eye color?”

  “No, but they didn’t stand out like light blue would have.”

  “So dark?”

  “I’d say so.” Doc pressed his temples.

  I smiled at him. “You’re doing fine. Just take your time.”

  Connie wrote that information down and pulled out the card for dark eyes. “Okay, was his nose sharp, hooked, wide, slender, or bulbous?”

  “I didn’t see it from the side, just straight on. It looked normal, not fat or bulbous. I could use a glass of water.”

  The lieutenant got up and left the room. He returned a few minutes later with a pitcher of cold water and a stack of plastic cups. Doc nodded a thank-you and poured himself a cup.

  Connie pulled out a few nose cards and told him to choose the one that best matched our suspect. He pointed at the third one, and she set it aside.