by Thomas Scott
Once they were properly outfitted, Virgil and Murton—no strangers to crime scenes of all kinds—stepped inside the barn, careful not to touch anything, gloves or not.
“I know you haven’t been here very long,” Virgil said. “But is there any chance you can give us what you’ve got so far?”
“Sure,” the tech said. “Three victims, all shot to death, approximately within twenty-fours of each other, though that’s just a guess at this point. You’ll get a better baseline on time of death from the coroner when he does the post. Something else: All three victims appear to have been shot with double-ought shells. We’ve recovered a few of the pellets and they are all exactly 8.4 millimeters. Can’t say if it was the same weapon, of course, because we haven’t recovered any spent shells, but definitely the same load.”
“You’ve searched for the spent shells…in the barn, I mean?” Murton said.
The tech nodded. “We have. Didn’t find a thing.”
“So it’s safe to assume they weren’t killed here?”
“More than safe, I’d say. There’s no blood spatter anywhere. These men were killed someplace else, then brought here after the fact.”
Virgil and Murton were both taking notes as the tech spoke. Then he said something that caused them both to momentarily stop writing. “There’s something I want to show you. Two things actually.”
They followed the tech to Mizner’s truck, and when they passed the bed, Virgil took a quick glance at the men who were once his minor business partners. The thought struck him that he’d have to eventually get with Rick Said to restructure the royalties from the gas extraction operation. Then the fact he had such a thought going through his head at that particular moment made him feel like an asshole, so he tried to let it go. He suddenly realized that the tech was speaking to him.
“Did you hear me, Detective?”
Virgil shook his head. “No. I’m sorry. I was looking at Graves and Mizner. They were…associates of mine.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.” The tech pulled the door of Mizner’s truck open as far as it would go, then said, “Please don’t touch anything, but I want you to lean in and look exactly where I shine my light, okay?”
Virgil nodded at the tech, who then took out a small penlight and aimed it inside the cab, close to where the flat of the seat met with its back. “It’s very faint, but if you look close, you’ll see a small amount of powdery residue…here, here, and here. Do you see it?”
“What is it?” Murton said.
“At first we thought it might be cocaine. But we were able to collect enough of a sample to determine that it is methamphetamine. We found the same thing in Deputy Hall’s seat as well. Interestingly, we found none on any of the three men’s pants or their person, the bed of the truck, or in Hall’s trunk.”
After they’d all backed away from the truck, Murton said, “What about prints?”
“The truck had been wiped, but we did get what looks like a very good single fingerprint—in blood, mind you—from the trunk lid of Hall’s squad car.”
“How soon can we get a copy of that print?” Virgil said.
“Do you have your phone?”
Virgil told the tech he did and recited his number. A few seconds later his phone buzzed at him. Virgil brought the image up, then said, “Nice work. Keep at it. You’ve got my number now. If anything else noteworthy comes from your investigation, call me right away, will you?”
The tech told him he would, and after Virgil and Murton were outside the barn, Murton said, “Dakota?”
“That’s what I’m thinking. Hold on, I’m going to call Chip and ruin his night.” Virgil made the call, then asked Lawless to get down to the MCU, where he’d have an email waiting with the print from Hall’s vehicle.
“Just text it to me, Jonesy,” Lawless said. “I’m hooked into the MCU from home. I can do it from here.”
Virgil was a little surprised to hear that. “Since when?”
“Becky got us all set up a few months ago. It’s a piece of cake. So send me the text and I can have an answer for you in about two minutes.”
“No one told me anything about all this,” Virgil said.
“That’s because no one thought you were a micromanager. Maybe that should be re-examined. In any case, my dinner is getting cold, so send it already, will you?”
“You’re starting to sound like Ross,” Virgil said. Then he hung up on him and sent the text. Two minutes later he got his reply: Negative on Dakota. He handed his phone to Murton.
Murton read the short message, handed the phone back, then said, “I thought for sure it’d be a positive match.”
“Me too,” Virgil said. He looked over at Mizner’s house, where Johnson was still sitting on the front porch steps. “I’m going to go talk with Carl. See what else you can see, huh?”
Murton said he would, then, almost as an afterthought, he said, “Text me that print. I’ve got an idea.”
And because Virgil really wasn’t a micromanager, he did what Murton said without asking why.
Virgil sat down next to Johnson and patted him on the back. When Johnson didn’t speak, Virgil said, “You did a good job, Carl.”
Johnson looked at him with sad eyes and said, “It doesn’t feel like I did. The man was laid out on the ground, dying at my feet, and I couldn’t do anything to help him. I’m no doctor, but it was clear he was having a heart attack. Wished I knew CPR.”
“So take a class,” Virgil said. Once the words were out of his mouth, he realized they may have sounded a little harsh. “What I mean is, if you took a class, then next time you’ll be better prepared.”
“I’m not exactly looking for the next time,” Johnson said.
“No one ever is, Carl, but it happens. Nothing wrong with being prepared. But listen, my main point is this: You did well. It may have been the one thing in the moment that you could do—one I might add that not many people would have thought of—and that was to use the police radio to call for help. If you’d have called 911, Ben would have died before anyone could have made it here. You should be proud. Don’t beat yourself up.”
Johnson snorted, and said, “Still.”
“Hindsight, Carl. Hindsight. Focus on the positive. You probably saved the man’s life, CPR or not.”
“How is he?” Johnson asked. “Do you know?”
“Not yet. But I’ll find out as soon as I can, okay? Right now I’d like you to walk me through it all. Get me up to speed. Think you can do that?”
Johnson said he could, so he told Virgil everything he’d been through from the time he first discovered he couldn’t locate Graves and Mizner, right up until the time Cool and Bell arrived after his call for help. Then he finished with, “I can’t believe those boys are dead. It’s not like we were the best of friends or anything, but we’ve known each other for decades. Sit around and talk about tractors and the price of corn, argue politics, and all that sort of thing.”
“I’m sorry, Carl. Truly.”
They sat quietly with that for a few seconds, then Johnson said, “You gonna catch these bastards?”
Virgil didn’t hesitate. “Yeah. It’s only a matter of time.”
“When you do, go ahead and kill them, will you?”
Murton took out his phone and called Stronghill. “Hey Tony, Murt here. What’s going on?”
“What’s going on is I’m starving to death. Haven’t had dinner yet. Just got done processing the latest group into the cultural center.”
“That’s sort of why I’m calling,” Murton said. “When you process these people in, do you print them?”
“Yeah, we do. A few of them don’t like it, but they all go along with it. What’s a little ink if it gets you off the Rez?”
“I hear you. So listen, if I sent you a print—and I mean one single print—could you match it for me?”
“Sure, if you don’t mind waiting six months.”
“I hope you’re exaggerating,” Murton said.
> “I’m not. Do you know how many people we’ve printed? Wait don’t answer, because it doesn’t really matter. We’re still doing it the old-fashioned way. Ink on index cards. Digital is something we’re looking at, but it just isn’t in the budget…yet.”
Murton smiled to himself. “I don’t need you to try to match it against all the prints, Tony. Just one particular guy.”
Stronghill caught on right away. “Hawk?”
“That’s the one.”
“You could send it, Murt, but I’m no fingerprint expert. I look at fingerprints and you know what I see? Fingerprints. They all look the same to me.”
“Can you send me good shots of Hawk’s?” Murton said.
“That I can do. How soon do you need them?”
“Before you eat dinner would be good.”
Stronghill sighed and said, “Okay, give me fifteen minutes or so. Cell phone shots okay?”
“For now, yeah. But Tony?”
“What?”
“Don’t lose that fingerprint card.”
When Virgil was done with Johnson, he persuaded him to go home and try to get some rest. Johnson told him he was going to go home and try to find a bottle of bourbon.
“Try not to overdo it, huh?” Virgil said.
Johnson said he wouldn’t, then he said something, and even though it surprised Virgil, it did help him feel better about his own thought processes…if only a little. “I guess you’ll be getting with Mr. Said to divvy up Graves’s and Mizner’s shares of the royalties.”
Virgil nodded. “Yep. Already on my to-do list.”
“Tell him to donate my extra shares to the cultural center. I don’t want it.”
And Virgil thought, me either.
Once Johnson was on his way, Ron Miles walked over and said, “What a fucking mess. Have you heard anything about Holden yet?”
“Not yet,” Virgil said. “I need to make that call.”
The coroner had arrived and his people were starting to bring the bodies out of the barn. The Shelby County deputies were still in full zombie mode. Ron looked at Virgil and said, “I got sent down here to find these guys, and even though it only took about a half-hour, it was all pure luck. The truth of it is, I didn’t find them. I just happened to show up right after their bodies had been discovered.”
“Ah, you know the job, Ron. Sometimes that’s just the way things shake out.”
“I think you might be missing my point,” Ron said. “I’m asking what you want me to do next. Should I hang around, or head back home?”
“Might as well take off, I guess. Before you do though, which one of these Shelby County guys is their ranking officer?”
Miles looked around for a few seconds, then pointed. “That guy right over there. His name is Ed Henderson.”
“Got an opinion?”
Miles seemed to be staring at a spot about six inches in front of his nose. “I’m sure he’s a fine patrol officer.” The implication was clear.
“Okay, I’ll speak with him. Thanks for the assist, Ron.”
“You got it, Jonesy. Keep me up, huh?”
Virgil said he would. As he watched Miles walk back to his car, he felt glad that they’d finally been able to put their past differences behind them. It hadn’t been an easy few years there, for a while.
Virgil saw Murton working his phone, so he let him be and made his way over to Henderson.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Virgil spent about ten minutes with Henderson, getting a feel for the man and his knowledge of the department. They weren’t yet five minutes into their conversation when Virgil discovered that Ron’s assessment of the man was about as accurate as it gets. He thanked Henderson for the information, then pulled out his phone and called Cora. “I need a favor.”
“So I’ve heard. Didn’t have the stones to ask me to my face, huh?”
“Cora, it’s not like that. By going straight to Mac, I was simply trying to be, uh, efficient, I guess.”
“What’s the favor?”
“I need a judge, in person, right now, out of Shelby County. We’ll go to his or her house if need be.”
Cora was suddenly intrigued. “Why?”
“Because Sheriff Holden is incapacitated. He’s had a heart attack, and the undersheriff has been found shot to death. Their entire department has their sails unfurled and the rudder has fallen from the stern. Somebody needs to be sworn in to take over until Holden recovers or the county can hold a special election.”
“Who’d you have in mind for the job?”
Virgil told her, and Cora said she’d call him back as soon as possible.
Murton got Hawk’s prints from Stronghill, then walked over and found the crime scene tech that had sent the print from Hall’s trunk lid to Virgil’s phone. “Take a quick look at something for me?”
The tech said, “Sure. What have you got?”
Murton handed his phone over, then said, “Can you compare this set of prints to the one you took from the car and tell me if they match?”
The tech took the phone and said, “I could, but it wouldn’t hold up in a court of law.”
Murton shook his head. “I don’t need court of law. I simply want your opinion. If you say yes, then I’ll get it done properly. Right now I just need your eye to tell me if I’m wasting my time or not.”
The tech scanned through ten separate photos on Murton’s phone, then went back to one in particular. He studied it for a full minute, then said, “I want you to know that I am in no way acting in my official capacity as a crime scene investigator when I tell you, nor will I testify to the fact that we had a conversation of this nature outside the scope of proper procedure regarding the chain of custody surrounding evidentiary—”
Murton interrupted him. “I get it. Really. I just need to know.”
The tech nodded at him. “Whoever these other prints belong to? That’s your guy. Guaranteed. But you didn’t hear it from me. At least not yet.”
Murton winked at him and walked away.
Cora called Virgil back. “I hope in the future you’ll rethink any attempt to do an end-run on me again.”
“Cora, I’m sorry. Really. I was just—”
“Yes, yes. You were just. I heard you the first time. The judge’s name is Henry Parker. He lives about ten miles from where you are right now.” She recited the address and Virgil wrote it down on his palm. “Says he’ll do it if it doesn’t take, and I quote, all damned evening. Hop to it slick.”
“Thanks, Cora. You’re the best.”
“Uh-huh.” Click.
Virgil took out his phone and made another quick call. “Where are you right now?” He listened for a few seconds then said, “Good, good. Get to the Mizner residence as quick as you can. I’ve got a job for you.”
Ross walked down to the end of the hall of the hotel, wearing nothing but his boxers and a T-shirt. He needed to get a bucket of ice. When the elevator dinged, he pressed his back against the side of the ice machine and peered around the corner. Rosencrantz and Agent Martin stepped into the hallway at the other end, her arm tucked into the crook of Rosencrantz’s elbow. She had her head tipped back with laughter. When they stopped in front of her door, there was a momentary awkwardness, then she leaned in close and gave Rosencrantz a quick kiss before ducking into her room.
Rosencrantz turned and went into his own room, which was right next door to Martin’s, directly across the hall from Ross’s. Once they were both inside their rooms, Ross grabbed his ice and hurried back. He’d no sooner closed the door when he heard another open in the corridor. He put his eye to the peephole and watched as Martin—now dressed in nothing more than an oversized man’s T-shirt, and black high heel shoes—quietly close her door and tap on Rosencrantz’s with a fingernail. Rosencrantz opened up and pulled her inside.
Ross smiled, flopped down on the bed, and called Sarah.
“I sort of wish you’d make up your mind already. I was halfway back.”
Virgil gave M
iles a fake grin. “What can I tell you? You wanted me to keep you up, and that’s what I’m doing.”
Miles gave him a fake grin right back. “I meant on the phone. Anyway, what’s up?”
“Hold on a second, will you? I’ve got to get with Murt before we go.” Miles gave Virgil a look, then leaned against his car to wait.
Virgil jogged over to where Murton was and told him where he was going and why. “Why are you looking at me like that?”
“Are you kidding?” Murton said. “I wouldn’t miss this for the world. Let me ride with you. I’ve got some intel we need to talk about anyway.”
“Let’s go, then.”
They walked over to Virgil’s truck, hopped in, and pulled up right next to where Miles was waiting by his vehicle. Virgil buzzed the passenger side window down, leaned over, and said, “Stay close. I don’t want to lose you.”
Murton looked at his brother and said, “So you haven’t told him? You’re just going to spring it on him?”
“Yeah. Didn’t want him to have too much time to think about it.”
“Why?” Murton said.
“Why else? If he says no, then it’s going to be either you or me, and I can’t do it. Too much conflict of interest for me in this county.”
Murton nodded. “Yeah, I hadn’t thought of that.”
Virgil checked his rearview mirror to make sure Miles was still with them. He was. He gave Murton a quick glance, then said, “So what’s this intel you mentioned?”
“That lead crime scene tech back at Mizner’s?”
“Yeah, what about him?”
“I had Tony send me Hawk’s prints. The tech, after making sure he had his ass covered ten ways from last Tuesday, and that I understood the legalities of acting on information not yet fully processed, informed me that the print they took off the trunk lid of Hall’s squad definitely belongs to Johnny Hawk. I think he and Dakota are operating right here in Shelby County, Jones-man.”