A Sharp Solitude_A Novel of Suspense

by Christine Carbo

  “At the base of some steps leading into the cabin. Dr. Wilson will probably be finished with the autopsy in the next day or two. If the bullet didn’t kill her right away, I’m thinking the head injury might have knocked her out. The contusion is on the back of her head where I think she hit a rock on the way down. And it doesn’t appear that she crawled anywhere for help, and there’s only one shot to the chest.” Gretchen points to the spot on herself, right near her sternum. “For her sake, I’m hoping the head trauma killed her instantly. It would be a nicer way to go than bleeding out from a shot to the chest.”

  “Is there any way this is suicide?”

  “No, no weapon. The rifle wasn’t there.”

  “Any sign that she was moved?”

  “No. No sign of that. She was shot where she went down. The pooling’s in all the right places. She was found on her side.” She’s referring to the blood and how it settles on a corpse. If you move a body, the areas where the lividity originally set will show.

  “Any signs of struggle?”

  “There’s no bruising on her arms or anything, but we’re hoping to find some trace on her clothes. We’re processing them here. Only the body’s going to Wilson. He’ll check for other signs of struggle.”

  “Can you let me know when you and Wilson get your results?”

  “Sure, but I’ll get my full report to Brander,” she says. “You don’t want to get them from him?”

  “Did you get a time of death?” I ignore her question.

  “It was a little dodgy because of the temperature outside. She’d been out in forty-degree temps for hours, so it was hard for us to quantify the time, but taking the cold into consideration, we came up with anytime between eleven p.m. yesterday and three a.m. this morning. We’ll find out from Wilson if she had anything to eat or not. And lab results should tell us if she had anything else in her system, like alcohol or drugs. I’m guessing she was coming in late at night and ran into someone who sealed the poor woman’s fate.”

  “Did you get tire tracks?”

  “No. Unfortunately, the road was heavily graveled and, as you know, gravel doesn’t show tracks so well. Too bad the driveway doesn’t turn onto a paved road, but the main North Fork road is gravel as well.”

  “And did you get a phone off the victim?”

  “We did. Smartphone, and it has a passcode on it, but the tech should be able to get records soon. Subpoena’s been sent to the provider. We’ve also got the laptop. It was in the cabin, also passcode protected, but hopefully the tech will be able to get into it to take a peek at her email and the like. We also found a spare key for the cabin on her key chain and a backpack with an extra long-sleeved shirt and a notebook.”

  “And prints?” I ask.

  Gretchen leans back and pushes a blond strand behind one ear. “Not much so far. Couple of sets all over the cabin. Both smallish, so we’re guessing they belong to two sets of women: the owner and the victim. In fact, we’re certain several sets around the bathroom and kitchen are a match to the victim. We’re not finding any that look like they belong to a man, but my print examiner is not finished examining them all yet.”

  “Could a man have worn gloves or wiped his prints?”

  “Gloves—possibly. Wiped the place down, no. The other prints would have been smeared as well if someone had done that.”

  “How about trace?”

  “Fibers from a fleece-type jacket, which isn’t saying much in Montana. How many wear fleece around these parts?”

  “Good point.” I lace my hands behind my head and arch my back to stretch, as if I’m simply bored and interested only in the brainstorming of the case, but the image of Reeve’s favorite fleece jacket burns brightly in my mind. “So you don’t have much for Brander and Reynolds to go on?”

  “There is one interesting thing. There’s dog hair on the woman, but of course I heard she was last seen with a guy who uses them for research, so that would make sense. But the dog hair is definitely not in the house, so the victim never made it home before eleven p.m. on Wednesday night, or I’m certain some of it would have transferred into the cabin. There was definitely a good amount on her. Lab hair—chocolate Lab—and those shed a lot. So that raises the question: What did she do between the time she finished observing and interviewing the dog handler and arrived home, never to make it inside?”

  “That’s for Brander and Reynolds to find out,” I say as nonchalantly as I can sound—almost in a singsong. “But you know—always here to help.”

  “You’re interested in this one,” Gretchen says.

  “Have to admit”—I lean over toward her from where I’m perched on the corner of her desk, like I’ve got a secret—“this is a lot more interesting than the stuff I’m currently working on back in my office.”

  “The homicide cases that aren’t domestic abuse typically are,” Gretchen says. “Although this one could turn out to be just that. I’m guessing the detectives are checking on all her current and past boyfriends to see if any were in the area last night. Where’s Agent Marcus?” She’s referring to Herman. We all worked together on the last case, the kidnapping.

  “Back at the office, which is where I should be too.” I grab my bag. “Thanks, Gretchen,” I say, and leave her to her work.

  Reeve

  * * *

  Present—Thursday

  THE SITTING AND waiting is getting unbearable. I figure at least one deputy is still watching me, but I avoid even looking at the one-way glass. I’m too stubborn for that. I stare at the table instead where someone before me has scratched PRICKS into the corner.

  Finally the same two deputies, Pleasant and Serious, eventually come back in with coffee and offer me a cup. I take one because my throat is dry and I’m getting hungry. I’ve been here for at least six hours—most of it sitting alone after they’ve questioned me in spurts, then have told me to hang tight while they leave me alone in the quiet, cold room for long periods—but I’ve already made up my mind that the rest of the interrogation will be on my terms. I want to help, but clearly they’re stalling, perhaps waiting to dig up some evidence that will allow them to arrest me. Their coyness irritates the hell out of me because it’s obvious they aren’t leveling with me, that they’re just toying with me.

  “Okay, let’s back up a bit, shall we? Start from the beginning again.”

  I go through all the same details I’ve already covered: if Anne Marie seemed nervous or uncomfortable about anything; if she mentioned what her plans were after I dropped her off; who she was staying with. I told them she didn’t seem nervous, that she didn’t mention any plans, and that she said she was staying with a friend at her cabin down the road.

  “Did you know where the cabin was?”

  “She explained the general area by the river, and I told her I thought I knew it and that it was a nice place that her friend had.”

  Brander continues to jot a few notes down. I watch him play with his pen for a moment, flicking it between his fingers until he asks, “And have you ever been to the cabin?”

  “No, I’ve never been there. I just thought I recognized the one she was describing—that I’d seen it from the road before.”

  “So were you there late last night or early this morning?”

  “No, I was not. Like I said, I was home.”

  “With your dog?”

  “Correct.”

  “And no one else?”

  I shake my head. Brander stares at me for a second as if he’s onto me. “For the recorder, please.”

  “Correct,” I say again.

  “Correct what? That no one else was with you? That no one can verify that you were home?”

  “Correct,” I repeat, in my mind referring only to the latter question. “There is no one who can verify that except for my dog,” and in a way, I’m not lying. There is no person who can verify I was there except Anne Marie herself.

  I’m splitting hairs, and it’s tasteless of me to play such games under the ci
rcumstances, but the longer they keep me, the more irritated I become. If they don’t tell me what’s going on soon, I’m going to defer to the infamous two words: no comment. In juvie, everyone knew that if you ever got pulled in for anything, innocent or guilty, you were supposed to play the no comment card. Your best bet was to act like a robot stuck on repeat: no comment, no comment, no comment. A huge part of me hates the idea; it takes me right back to that bruised place, to that person—a junkie, a dealer, a shoplifter—who would even need to respond with such words, and I’ve worked awfully hard to separate myself from that person, to become educated, productive, and healthy.

  “Why exactly do you think we’ve asked you here?” Brander asks.

  “I don’t know. Obviously it has something to do with Anne Marie, although I’m not certain what you mean when you say she’s not okay.”

  “What do you think we mean?”

  “Why don’t you tell me?” I can feel my spine and shoulders tighten with anger, but also in preparation for their answer because I sense it’s finally coming.

  “Anne Marie is dead,” Reynolds says without a hint of feeling, finally putting the words out there. Unlike Brander’s, his eyes seem lifeless.

  The answer stings—nicks me like a switchblade. But it’s not like I wasn’t prepared for it. I rub my face for a moment, then press my palms onto the table, staring at them. I take a shaky breath, then ask how.

  “We can’t tell you that right now.”

  “When did it happen?”

  “Last night, after you say you dropped her off.”

  I take it in as I keep eye contact with Brander. He studies me. Nervousness edges up my spine. But still, I tell myself, I haven’t lied. I did in fact drop her off when I said I did. And when I rethink it, maybe I have helped myself. I just read an article in the local news about the Montana Innocence Project, a well-intentioned group of professionals trying to exonerate wrongly accused individuals languishing in jail. The stories run through my mind: the man wrongly accused of killing his best friend who spent eighteen years in prison; another man wrongly accused of sexual assault who spent fifteen years in prison and with the advancements in DNA was later exonerated; and yet another man charged with murdering a girlfriend whose defense was conveniently never informed about the confession of a different man who had claimed to have killed her. My faith in the system is lacking, to say the least. “Am I a suspect?” I ask.

  “Hmm,” Reynolds says. “You seem awfully cool about the whole thing.”

  “Cool?” I ask. “Not sure that’s the right word. Obviously, I was already aware that something had happened to her since you’d told me, so I was prepared for the possibility that she’s . . .”

  “Dead,” he says again flatly.

  “Look, I’ve been here all day, and I may not be the smartest guy in the room, but I’m not entirely stupid either.”

  Reynolds laughs and looks to Brander. “You hear that?” he says. “He’s not stupid. Maybe just a little selfish considering we’ve just told him about a dead woman and all he cares about is whether he’s a suspect or not.”

  I don’t bother to add anything because there’s no point in it. I realize Reynolds is trying to push my buttons, perhaps rattle me. Or maybe he simply just doesn’t like me.

  “What did you think happened to her?” Reynolds asks.

  “I have no idea.”

  “What did you think it was about?”

  “I’ve told you, I hadn’t a clue. Am I under arrest or not?” I’m putting them on the spot. If I head for the door, I force their hand and they’ll have to decide whether to detain me or let me go. The last thing I want is to be arrested, but I want to leave. A caged animal must get out.

  Reynolds glances at Brander, but Brander keeps his stare on me. I can tell he’s weighing his options before answering: let a possible killer go and have their asses on the line, or arrest me without proper evidence.

  “What we’ve just told you is difficult for anyone to hear, even someone who doesn’t know the victim all that much,” Brander says nicely. “Can I get you more coffee, or even something to eat?”

  “No thank you,” I say, amused by their sudden politeness. “Like I said, I want to leave. I’ve been here all day. I’d like my phone back now, please.”

  “Mr. Landon,” Reynolds says, his voice sharp, “we don’t think you’ve told us everything. Just stay put. You can pick your phone up on the way out from the attendant.”

  I look from one to the other, itching to get out of here. I’m about to stand when Reynolds finally asks, “Did Anne Marie come to your house?”

  I want to be facetious and say, I thought you’d never ask, but of course I don’t. I wonder if there is any way they could know that she came over. If I tell them about it, I’m positive they will consider me that much guiltier, and because I didn’t tell them right from the get-go, they’re going to wonder why I kept it from them. But I’m no idiot: if I give them an inch, they’ll take a mile and pin it on me. That’s the way these guys work, and my only alibi is a chocolate Lab. I stare at them both for a moment. A cold numbness runs through me like freezing mountain water. I can feel myself going further into myself, like a piece of paper being folded into a tight origami shape.

  “No comment,” I say.

  Ali

  * * *

  Present—Thursday

  AFTER I CALL Rose, whom I actually call Shorty—an asinine little joke because she’s the opposite, almost six feet. And she’s strong. It’s one of the things I like about her in terms of being Emily’s caretaker: she gives the sense that nothing would happen under her watch. I ran a background check on her, and other than an unfortunate incident in her family involving a burglary that went wrong a few years back, she’s never been in trouble for anything serious. I even went to the extent of making her sign a contract vowing that she won’t talk about my or Emily’s family or personal matters, and she was happy to oblige, understanding that with my profession, I don’t need the community intruding in my business.

  My attitude is a little on the obsessive side, but in my job, one learns one can never be too careful about things that are important. And privacy ranks high on my list for various reasons. The biggest is that in the Newark office, another agent whom I frequently butted heads with got wind of my sister and her ugly drug habits, and rumors began to take root and spread. She was twenty-three when a friend she was riding with got pulled over for reckless driving. Besides the driver, there was one other passenger besides Toni, and one of them had a plastic bag full of narcotics that they took out and hid under the seat when they realized they were getting pulled over. The cop searched the car anyway, and they ended up playing a game of He Said, She Said—it’s not mine, it’s hers—until the whole lot got taken in. Since they couldn’t prove which one actually had possession, the driver got arrested, and the other two went free of charge. Word spread that I had something to do with that, that I pressured a local police officer not to testify that the goods were actually on my sister, even though I’ll never know who they actually belonged to, nor does it matter.

  Then other agents began saying that I was making it easier for her to get drugs, tipping her off on certain connections that I knew about because of my stint on the drug surveillance team. None of it was true, but the rumors got so bad that I was asked in by OPR, the Office of Professional Responsibility. I cleared up the situation, but once respect is lost among other agents, it becomes a scar that takes a long time to fade.

  I ask Rose to pick Emily up from school for me, and I drive to the north end of the valley and up the North Fork road again. I want to see the cabin. I know I’m skating a bit on thin ice, hanging around and acting like I’m part of the investigation when I’m not. Someone might call me out on it, and if they do, I could get into trouble for poking around where I don’t belong. I could set off a jurisdictional pissing match that could get reported to my field office in Salt Lake. I’m thinking I’d get my hand slapped by my super
ior, Special Agent in Charge Shackley—SAC Shackley—and they’d tell me to cease my involvement, but nothing more serious than that, so I take my chances and head to Vivian Gould’s cabin, where Anne Marie was apparently staying while in town.

  On the way I call Herman to check back in with him, and nothing new is up. He’s still in the office, just poking around with the Smith case, and plans to leave in the next hour. I tell him I’ll see him in the morning. Once I get through Columbia Falls, I drive several miles up a winding paved road that gives way to a gravel one. Eventually I see the North Fork of the Flathead River on my right and pull into a turnout area and look at the river. The water is dark and steely looking. I see no animals—no deer, ducks, geese—only a mixture of yellow-needled larches and dried-out, bark-beetle-ravaged lodgepole pine trees pressing toward the banks. I let McKay out again. He looks at me anxiously, his head cocked and his ears all boxy, as if I might pull out a ball for him to play fetch. “Sorry, dude.” I hold up both my hands so he can see they’re empty. “Come on,” I say, and we walk down a fisherman’s trail to the river, where he wades in and laps up the cold water. I let him run around a little longer, but when he comes to me and gives me his too-intense where’s-my-ball? stare again, with his hind legs quivering with excitement, I walk him back up the hill to the car, make him hop back in, and pull back onto the washboard gravel road.

  McKay turns in small circles on the passenger seat, scratches at the leather a few times, then settles into a curled-up wet ball of legs, paws, and a tail. My car smells like dirty wet socks, and I shake my head in disbelief that I’m carting this creature around up in the boonies.

  I continue to think of Reeve as I settle into the vibrations made from the bumps and ridges in the gravel. I first met him at the Babb Bar, which is also in the boonies on the northwest side of Glacier Park. Another agent and I had been up in the area working on a case, and he’d insisted we check out the infamous Babb Bar, known for being one of the most dangerous in the state. It’s located down the road from the Browning Indian reservation, which has historically been known for its high crime rate stemming from poverty. Many reservations across the United States in general have grappled for years with crime rates higher than all but a few of the nation’s most violent cities. But the bar has since been converted to a restaurant and is now a fairly tame place with international visitors and twentysomething-year-old seasonal employees from Glacier stopping in for a meal since it’s on the way to the park.