Maximum Exposure

by Allison Brennan

  The loss hit her. What had Scott been thinking those hours he lay in the cheap nylon sleeping bag? Had he known he was dying? How long did he stay there, too cold to move, too cold to call out? Was he disoriented? Severe hypothermia lowered the body temperature so much that victims got confused, often hallucinating and wandering, their heart rate dropping, their major organs slowly shutting down. Did it take a couple hours? All night? He would have lost consciousness before he died, but the hours leading up to that would have been full of fear and pain.

  A miserable way to die.

  But was there any good way to die?

  By all accounts, Karen had been stabbed to death—how else could she have lost so much blood? Did she die faster than Scott, and did that make it some sort of blessing? Or was it more painful, more fearful? Did it matter? They were both young people, in college, with their lives ahead of them, and they were dead. One violently, and one by the stupidity of others.

  Whether it was malicious or not remained to be seen.

  Her crab cakes came and the waitress asked if she wanted to order dinner. “Not now,” Max said. “Another glass of wine, please.”

  She nibbled on the crab cakes and watched as Chuck Pence crossed in front of the fire and sat across from her.

  “Where’s Trixie?” Max asked.

  “Home. Finding a body, even though she’s trained for it, is disturbing for her as well as us. My wife knows how to soothe her.”

  “Have a drink with me,” Max said as the waitress came with her second glass.

  He said to the waitress, “Scotch, neat.”

  “Do you have a preference?”

  “No,” he said.

  “Top shelf, single malt,” Max told the waitress. “Thank you.”

  “Reporting must pay well,” Chuck said.

  “Not particularly.”

  “Detective Horn told me you’re also a writer. Books.”

  “True crime.” She didn’t feel the need to share more of her history with Chuck. “I’m sorry I was abrupt on the phone.” Apologies didn’t come easy to her, but she had been snippy, and Chuck had been helpful. “I appreciate that you took me out with you and the Callows today.”

  “I wish there could have been a better outcome.”

  “We both knew the outcome.”

  “That doesn’t make it any easier.”

  They sat in silence while the waitress brought Chuck’s Scotch. He sniffed, sipped, nodded. “Thank you.”

  “Did you get the preliminary autopsy report?” Max was familiar enough with the process to know they wouldn’t get a final report until the exam and all tests came back.

  “The autopsy is scheduled for tomorrow morning. Amelia said she’d call me when she knew anything.” He paused, sipped some more. “She doesn’t usually do that, but she knows this has been bothering me. And she suspects I’ll inform you.”

  “Why doesn’t she call me?”

  “She’s uncomfortable talking to the press.”

  “She talked to me on the phone the other day.”

  “Curiosity.”

  “And you? You deal with the press all the time?”

  “Never. But you don’t strike me as a typical reporter.”

  “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

  “I did learn something at the coroner’s office. The visual exam of the body shows no external cause of death. There were some scrapes on his arms consistent with tree branches or falling and skinning his arm, but other than that, no visible wounds. X-rays showed a fracture in his left fibula. He probably could have walked on it, but it would have been painful. Because the body was frozen for so long, and based on average temperature for the area over the last six months, the coroner hopes to get a good tox screen, see if he was on drugs. Alcohol will be next to impossible to find—it breaks down in the system in a matter of hours, but it also speeds up hypothermia.”

  “If he was found Saturday, would he have survived?”

  “I can’t answer that. He was in apparent good health, he should have been able to survive, though he’d have had extreme hypothermia. By the second night, I would put his chance of survival—given what he was wearing and the sleeping bag—at less than twenty percent. If he’d fallen in the creek we crossed to find him, that would have lowered his body temperature dramatically and he wouldn’t have survived even more moderate temperatures than what he had. Without those answers, I can’t speculate.”

  He paused, sipped his Scotch. “You’re suggesting that had the boys informed the rangers on Saturday that he was missing, we could have found him.”

  “Yes.”

  He let out a long, slow sigh. “I don’t know.”

  “We found him in a different area than you originally looked.”

  “Correct.”

  Max nodded.

  “I don’t know what you’re thinking, Ms. Revere, but you’re thinking.”

  “Max. My friends call me Max.” He was right; she was thinking. “What if they deliberately misled search and rescue?”

  “Playing devil’s advocate, why? There’s no physical trauma. No signs of abuse, no bruising, minor scrapes consistent with the environment.”

  “If something else happened—maybe drug related, maybe something Scott knew—something that, if he were found alive, he could tell that would get the others in trouble.”

  “That’s a mighty big leap, unsupported by any evidence.”

  “There’s plenty of evidence,” she said bitterly. “It’s a matter of how we look at it. Is Detective Horn going to talk to them?”

  “Not until after the autopsy report comes back.”

  “They’ll have plenty of time to synchronize their stories.”

  “I think it would be best if you stayed in the background. Amelia is a good cop. If there’s something there, she’ll find it.”

  “She told me on the phone that there was no evidence of foul play then, and if there’s no physical evidence now, there’s not going to be an investigation. It’s not like I’m impeding an official police inquiry. I can get Tom Keller to confess. He’s the weak link.”

  “Confess to what?”

  She stared Chuck in the eye. “The truth.”

  * * *

  Max rarely found herself drunk, but she was tipsy when she walked back to her hotel room. She hoped the alcohol would help her sleep, but suspected it would more likely contribute to vivid and disturbing dreams. She drank water while checking her e-mail. Her editor—she filed it away to respond to later. Ben, again nagging her about the television show. She e-mailed him back.

  If you keep nagging me, I will block your e-mails and never return a phone call. I’ll let you know when I make my decision.

  There were several other messages she ignored or deleted, and then she saw the note from her computer genius in New York, Grant Malone.

  I analyzed the image you forwarded. It was uploaded at 8:39 a.m. local time on October 31. The image was uploaded via Wi-Fi, the code was also embedded in the image. I’ve attached the GPS location and verification of the Wi-Fi code.

  She clicked on the attachment. The photo had been uploaded from a hotel off the interstate that was nowhere near the campground. In fact, they were thirty-seven miles away, in a warm hotel room while Scott Sheldon died a slow and painful death, cold and alone.

  Chapter Eight

  When Max woke Thursday morning, she planned to go directly to the college campus and confront Tom Keller with the evidence, compel him to tell her the truth. But she needed more evidence than a photo she’d downloaded from the Internet. It convinced her, and it might convince Tom to talk, but Arthur Cowan was a wily bastard, and Max needed something irrefutable. Something else to sway Tom Keller that telling the truth was his only choice.

  She doubted anyone at the hotel would remember three college boys after six months, but she might be able to convince one of the staff members to look up information for her. It was worth a shot.

  And if they wouldn’t do it out of the
kindness of their hearts, Max had enough cash to convince them. It had worked in the past.

  The hotel was twenty-five minutes north of Colorado Springs, outside the city limits and off the interstate—the same road they used before turning up the mountain to get to the campground. On the drive, Max called the campus bookstore to talk to Jess, but learned she didn’t work Thursdays. Max couldn’t convince the person who answered to give her Jess’s cell phone number or her dorm room, and while Max couldn’t blame them for protecting Jess’s privacy, it was frustrating. She gave the person her contact information and said that it was urgent Jess contact her.

  Urgent might be an overstatement, but Max had an idea, and Jess was her best bet to put it in action.

  Then she called Chuck Pence, but he didn’t answer. She left a message on his voice mail. She considered calling Detective Horn, but feared the cop would tell her to stay out of it. Max had no plans to do that. Better to ask for forgiveness than permission, Karen had always said. Max never agreed with her … until she became a freelance reporter. Asking for permission rarely worked.

  Plus, she’d been in jail before, and it was no fun.

  The embedded photo information identified not only the hotel’s Wi-Fi, but also narrowed the location to the south wing. It wasn’t until she parked in the guest lot that she realized she didn’t have a plan that didn’t involve bribery. Not everyone could be bribed. But she was here, she wasn’t going to stop now.

  She walked in and assessed the lobby. It wasn’t a five-star hotel, but it wasn’t a dive, either.

  It was ten in the morning and the building was relatively quiet. She had three options—concierge, reception, or find the manager. There were two people at the reception counter, so Max picked the concierge, an older man in a well-cut suit. His nameplate read ANDERSON.

  She approached with a confident smile and handed him her business card. “Maxine Revere. I’m following up on information about three guests who stayed here last October thirtieth. I’m hoping you can help me.”

  “We don’t give out guest information, hotel policy.”

  “I completely understand, Mr. Anderson. I don’t need personal information. I have the names of the guests, I would simply like to confirm that they were in fact guests on that night. Even a verbal confirmation would be sufficient.”

  She discreetly slid over a fifty-dollar bill.

  He barely glanced at it, but his expression darkened. Dammit, she’d blown it. She rarely read people wrong; she thought for sure he would cave.

  “I cannot help you, Ms. Revere, and if you persist, I will call security.”

  Jerk. She forced herself to smile and walked away, taking her fifty with her.

  She could feel Mr. Anderson’s eyes boring into her back, so she turned into the lounge. Fortunately, it was open. She wasn’t much of a morning drinker, but right now she was out of options. She needed a backup plan, and that meant sitting down to think. It didn’t help that she hadn’t slept well last night, odd dreams of searching for Karen intermingled with finding Scott’s body. Only, she found Karen—bloodied and staring at her as if everything were her fault.

  Why didn’t you do something?

  Why indeed. Max couldn’t save Karen from her bad choices. She hadn’t even been able to prove who had killed her. But she wasn’t going to give up finding out why Keller, Ibarra, and Cowan left Scott to die.

  During her restless sleep, Max had come up with a theory. Arthur Cowan was the joker, and from what she’d seen on his social media pages, he could be cruel. What if he was still infatuated with Jess, but Jess wanted nothing to do with him? And then he thought Jess and Scott were together? Would he play a “prank” on Scott, leave him on the mountain? And if so, why hadn’t Tom Keller or Carlos Ibarra stopped Art from doing it? Why hadn’t they told someone sooner? Was Carlos so loyal to Art, and Tom so desperate to make friends, that they would do anything he wanted?

  All the evidence—circumstantial though it was—told Max they’d left Scott Sheldon at that campsite, by himself, all night. And Scott must have thought they wouldn’t come back, so he tried to get out on his own.

  Why, dammit? There has to be a reason!

  The bartender, a fit, attractive, forty-year-old black guy wearing slacks and a button-down white shirt, approached her with the clichéd line: “What’s your poison?”

  “Be honest. How are your Bloody Marys?”

  He smiled, revealing perfect teeth. Max had always appreciated a nice smile. “The best in Colorado. I prepare my own mix fresh every morning.”

  “I want the good vodka, but make it weak.”

  He dipped his head and mixed her drink. She watched his fluid, sure movements. He set it in front of her and she read his name tag: JOHANN. “Why do you look so glum, pretty lady?”

  She wasn’t in the mood to flirt, so instead said bluntly, “I couldn’t bribe your concierge.”

  Johann laughed, and his next words to her held a hint of an accent she couldn’t immediately place. “Sugar, you should have asked me.”

  She slid over the fifty she was going to give to Mr. Anderson. “Keep it. You can’t help me.”

  “Try me.”

  She sipped the Bloody Mary. Nodded appreciatively. “You’re right. Best in Colorado. Better than my cousin’s five-star Vail resort.”

  “I know.”

  “You know the resort?”

  He winked. “I just know I’m the best.”

  She laughed and felt the tension washing away. “Six months ago, three college students stayed here. I know it, I have a photo they took elsewhere but uploaded through your hotel Wi-Fi. But I need to confirm it.”

  “Aw, yes, our guest privacy. Wouldn’t you expect a hotel to respect your privacy?”

  “It depends.”

  “Depends?”

  “I’m a reporter. Sometimes I want people to find me.”

  “Did they drink?”

  “Probably. But they were nineteen and twenty.”

  “Did you have a fake ID when you were nineteen or twenty?”

  “No,” she answered truthfully. Then she smiled. “But my college roommate did.”

  He slid over a napkin and pen. He didn’t have to tell her to write down the names. She put them down—including Scott Sheldon. He didn’t look, but took the napkin and walked to the end of the bar, into a small office she hadn’t noticed until he stepped in and the light flickered on.

  She wasn’t going to hold out hope, and instead enjoyed her drink. Already, a plan began to form. She knew Tom Keller was the weak link, but she’d also learned from Ian Stanhope, Scott’s roommate, that he and Tom shared a class together. If she could catch up with Ian, she could convince him to reach out to Tom. She’d play on the roommate’s guilt if she had to. She’d present the evidence to Tom—the photo would have to be enough. Max could spin the story, watch his reaction, play off it, until Tom broke down.

  Johann returned and Max said, “Thank you for the delicious drink. It helped—I have a plan.”

  He smiled. “I can tell you—though I can’t give you a copy—that the third name on your list signed for a room service charge that included a bucket of Corona. Our buckets come in four or eight; he signed for the eight bucket.”

  Her heart thudded. She had them.

  “How long do you keep the records?”

  “One year.”

  She drained her Bloody Mary and left the fifty on the bar. “Thank you, Johann. That’s just what I needed.”

  * * *

  Max drove toward the police station to give Detective Horn all the information she had and ask what she was going to do about it. If Max were the cop, she’d haul all three of those boys into the police station and question them until they admitted they killed Scott Sheldon. At this point, Max didn’t think it was an accident. Maybe they hadn’t intended for Scott to die, but their callous actions resulted in his death. Manslaughter at a minimum, and maybe even second-degree murder.

  If premeditated? Tha
t would put this crime on a whole other field.

  Her phone rang; it was Chuck Pence.

  “You have news?” she asked.

  “Officially, cause of death was hypothermia. Scott’s organs shut down. The coroner is sending tissue and blood samples for further analysis, particularly drug screenings, but right now the preliminary cause of death is accidental.”

  “It wasn’t an accident!” Max pounded her fist on the wheel of her SUV.

  Chuck remained silent. Max needed to control her temper. This case had gotten under her skin, and it wasn’t Chuck’s fault. “Chuck,” she said, “I have proof that Arthur, Carlos, and Tom left Scott at the campsite then drove to a hotel where they stayed the night.”

  “Proof?”

  “That photo I mentioned to you last night—my guy in New York pulled out the GPS of where and when it was uploaded. At a hotel, Saturday morning. The photo was tagged with the hotel’s Wi-Fi and GPS location. It’s a fingerprint. I spoke to the bartender and he pulled records from the night of October thirtieth—Carlos Ibarra ordered a bucket of eight Coronas. The night they were supposed to be at the campground.”

  “The hotel just gave you that information?”

  “I asked nicely.”

  “You should tell Detective Horn. I’m not a cop, Max.”

  “But you agree with me.”

  “You can’t know that it wasn’t an accident.”

  “If they left Scott Sheldon alone on that mountain with no means of getting home, except on foot, they are responsible for his death.”

  “He should have been able to survive the night,” Chuck said. “We found his backpack and tent near the body. He never set it up; had he, he may have survived.”

  “You don’t know that! And hypothermia causes delusions and poor judgment. And just yesterday you said if he’d fallen in the creek and gotten wet that hypothermia could happen faster. He may not have had the mental capacity to pitch the tent or consider that he was suffering. And if they were drinking, that speeds everything up, right?”

  “There’s no indication that anyone forced him to drink.”

  “Scott Sheldon is not to blame for his death,” Max said. “That’s like saying a woman wearing a short skirt is to blame for her rape.”