by Steve Goble
“Shit. We need to talk about this.”
“That’s why I am at the S.O. and calling you instead of relaxing with my lady love. Get here quick. I have a warrant rolling already.”
“On my way.”
I climbed into the truck, but someone knocked on my window before I could start it up. It was Nancy.
I rolled down the window. “What?”
“Well,” she said, clearly taken aback. “I was going to ask you if you’d changed your mind about church tomorrow. I invited you the other day, remember? Reading the papers, thought maybe this was a bad week for you. You could use some church. Emmy brought me down here for coffee across the way, and I saw you over here, and … well, sorry I bothered you.”
She turned to go, walking pretty well for an eighty-year-old.
“Nancy, I’m sorry.”
She waved a hand in the air without looking back, and kept going.
“Fuck,” I said, turning the key. Stepping on the gas pedal, I rolled into traffic. I would make amends to Nancy later, I told myself. And to Bax. For now, I would forget church—all theology is amateur theology, anyway—and go catch a killer.
On the way, I pondered the best approach. That armored barn on Breakneck Hill was a powder keg waiting to go off. Should we go in quiet and peaceful, and hope for the best? Or mobilize SWAT, the National Guard, a couple of helicopters, and fucking James Bond?
However we went in, though, I saw it ending one way. I saw myself staring into Jeff Cotton’s eyes and watching him die.
And yes, damn it, I knew I was not supposed to be thinking this way. I was doing it anyway. Megan Beemer was in my head. Briana Marston was in there, too. Both of them glared at me, blaming me, telling me to fucking make amends.
Amends can get bloody.
The star linebacker was younger than me.
Faster.
Stronger.
I was going to have to cheat.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Saturday, 10:45 a.m.
“RUNYON!”
Sheriff Daltry stood in the hall. He did not look too pleased.
“Yes, Sheriff ?”
“That girl has got a warrant, and she is talking about running up Breakneck Hill to arrest Brian Cotton’s boy. I told her to slow the fuck down, but I do not believe she took me seriously. She needs to calm the fuck down!”
“I am going to talk to her now.”
He inhaled deeply. “I called Jim Bowman—he’s already here with a couple of his gung-ho boys. Him and them SWAT guys and the damned girl cop are in the conference room.”
“You called Bowman?” Daltry hated Bowman, because Daltry wanted to run SWAT himself, but the commissioners and every mayor in the county had insisted on Jim Bowman.
“Hell, yes, I called Bowman. I don’t want this going bad, and I want him under my thumb before that girl has every SWAT officer in Ohio up on Breakneck Hill. Hopefully, Jim will do what he always does and talk for three hours, give her a chance to calm the fuck down. Jesus God. You sure we are on the right track here, Ed? Brian and his crowd, they are noisy, but they are true patriots. Good people, Ed. Good American people. I don’t want this turning into some goddamned, some goddamned … what’s the word?”
“Fiasco?”
“Yeah, that. I don’t want a fiasco. I think the risks of something going wrong up there are high, so we had better not poke that goddamned bear unless we really, really have to. Especially seeing as how I know those people up there, good people, and I don’t think Jeff is your guy. I really don’t.”
“We’ve got good probable cause, Sheriff.” I told him about the flag evidence. “And Jeff was at the same party as the girl. And lives not too far from where she was dumped. How do you feel about coincidences like that?”
“Hell, lots of them flags been sold since Obama got elected, and they kept selling after he was out,” Daltry said. “Don’t prove nothing.”
“It’s enough of a connection, along with the rest, to talk to Jeff Cotton, and search those grounds.”
He stared at me as though he hoped I would come up with some counterargument for why we should not search the Cotton farm. I did not give him one.
“Well, then,” he said after a pause. “Brian Cotton is a good man and a friend of mine.” Daltry kept his voice low by chewing on every word. “But he ain’t gonna put up with much government intrusion, you know? If we go up there all half-assed, waving guns and shit …”
“I know,” I said, trying to look calm and reassuring, but I honestly felt like running up there waving guns and shit. “It is a delicate situation. I have an idea for how to approach it, without a lot of shit blowing up.”
“You do?” He looked relieved. “God damn, Ed, I thought I was the only one with any sense. That girl seems ready to just bring in the goddamned National Guard; and you know Bowman. He just loves to show off his goddamned SWAT team.”
I did know Bowman, and I was not too worried about him going off half-cocked.
“I don’t want a gun battle up there anymore than you, Sheriff. Honest. And neither does Jim.”
Bowman stepped into the hall from the conference room. His hawk beak of a nose was pointed up at a forty-five-degree angle, and his arms were crossed in a way that made it seem like he was posing for an official portrait. “Ed? John? We’re talking about busting up a fortress to catch a murderer. You might want to get your asses in here.” He returned to the conference room before Daltry could bark back. The sheriff and I hustled to join the discussion.
It was almost like the Situation Room depicted on The West Wing. Several cops sitting around a conference table, most with iPads or laptops open in front of them. A large flat-screen computer monitor on the wall, with a Google Earth aerial image of the Cotton farm on Breakneck Hill and a cursor dancing to Captain Bowman’s touch on an iPad. A separate mounted screen showed Megan Beemer’s face, Jeff Cotton’s face, and a list of weapons believed to be in the armored barn. It was a long list, and I was willing to bet it was too conservative.
Shelly held up her phone. “Got me a text right here from my partner. Flag company did not want to talk, but when they found out about the girl, well, they talked. They confirmed Brian Cotton is a regular customer of their store.”
“A lot of people buy those flags,” Daltry said. “Hell, I have two of them myself.”
“Flag fibers in the girl’s mouth, and flags on Cotton’s barn, and Cotton’s boy was at the party where she disappeared,” Shelly said. “That math adds up.”
Daltry huffed. “This is my county.”
Shelly nodded. “Yes, and we’re all going to work on this together.” It sounded very diplomatic, but her eyes said she thought Daltry should get over himself.
Bowman continued. His finger swirled around on his iPad screen, and the cursor looped rapidly around the Cotton barn on the map on the wall.
“We don’t know who is at the farm now, and it will be difficult to ascertain,” the captain said. “Thirteen men and two women in his little group. There is nothing much out there, as you can see, and no good way to park a car or set up an observation post and see who comes and goes without being seen ourselves. The only thing out there to watch would be Cotton’s barn, so any attempt at surveillance is just going to tip them off. If we’re out there, they will know it’s because we are watching them.”
“I agree,” I said, drawing a glance from Bowman. He continued before I could say any more. “And they are all bloody well convinced we are going to come in with guns blazing one of these days, anyway. So if we decide we have to go in—and Sheriff Daltry, it is your jurisdiction and your call, entirely—but if we have to go in, I have asked the state patrol to do a flyover.” Bowman raised his eyebrows. “With me so far?”
We all nodded, with the exception of Daltry, and Bowman went on. “Just one pass. Any more would look suspicious and probably raise some hackles, but we’ll get a look at how many vehicles are there, maybe see anyone out on the grounds and such. We’ll sh
oot photos and videos as we pass, and we will analyze the snot out of those. Compare what the patrol sees to this map and see if anything new has been built up there since Google added this image. The chopper will head on over to the highway like it is doing routine traffic control. If we don’t move in too quick, we might not spook them too much. Hell, if we are lucky, it’ll just be Brian and his kid there.”
“We could use a drone for surveillance, Cap’n.” That came from Zach Turner, a fairly new guy from Ambletown PD. Turner was on SWAT because he’d served as a soldier in Afghanistan, and Bowman knew the guy would not panic in a tight spot. “That’s what we have drones for, right?”
“You know what happens if a drone buzzes that armored barn, Zach?” Bowman shook his head slowly. “Cotton sees it, goes ballistic, his guns chew up our drone, and you owe me for the lost gear. No, we have to be sneaky. These aren’t a bunch of dumbass meth heads. Cotton and his friends probably watch for spy drones all the time. Hell, they probably see them when they ain’t there. But a plane or a copter flying over, well that happens from time to time and it could be for any number of reasons. They’ll be suspicious, because that’s what they are, but a single pass won’t be something they’ve never seen. They’ll most likely just jot it down in their notes and complain on Facebook that we are spying on them. But we’ve never sent a drone up there. That would spook them good, I think. By the way, they don’t announce their meetings on Facebook. Already checked. Too paranoid, I guess.”
“Jesus Christ,” Daltry said. “Are we seriously talking about a raid up there on Breakneck Hill, Jim? Or are you just trying to convince us you could do it?”
“It’s my job to know how to crack that nut if we ever have to,” Bowman said. “And I do my job, so yes, I can crack that nut if I have to. But it is your call, Sheriff. One hundred percent your call. And if we don’t have to crack that nut, well, I am more than fine with that.”
Daltry inhaled sharply. “I am glad you recognize that. I think it would be a goddamned, uh, well, a fiasco if your cowboys just raided that place. We’d have a lot of blood on our hands.”
“Captain, I agree,” I said. “A quiet approach is best. I don’t think we should go in all at once, even after the surveillance.”
“Amen,” Shelly said, drawing a glare from Daltry because women weren’t supposed to talk at meetings. If Shelly saw Daltry’s dirty look, she ignored it.
“Go on,” Bowman said, nodding at her. “It is your case. But that is one dangerous place up there, and if we have to go in, it’s my job to figure out how best to do it. But if we don’t have to go in, well … that’s best.”
“I know,” Shelly answered. “Detective Runyon and I went up there and talked to Brian Cotton. We talked with his son, Jeff, as well, in connection with this case. So we know they might be a bit wary.”
“A bit wary is their normal state, Detective Beckworth.” Bowman took a sip of coffee. “This won’t be normal. They will be ready to shoot.”
“Maybe not,” I said. “I know the guy—a bit, anyway. I believe Brian Cotton will talk to me, as long as we’re not raiding his farm, and I think I know a better way to broach it, anyway. I just think if we go in like fucking Desert Storm, we’re going to have some serious carnage.”
“So who goes up?”
“Ed and me, Captain. Just the two of us.” Shelly’s look of determination belonged in a picture, beside the dictionary definition of determination.
“Oh, hell no,” Bowman growled. “If it goes bad, you’ll be a pair of sacrificial lambs.”
“That’s on us,” Shelly said quickly. “And I think it is worth the risk. You can have the cavalry standing by to come rushing in to save us.”
Bowman looked skeptical. “Sheriff ?”
Daltry slapped the table. “I sure as fuck do not want a bunch of people shot up on fucking Breakneck Hill. I sure as fuck don’t. But I can afford to lose Runyon.”
I think he meant that as a joke.
“I said there might be a better way, everyone.” I spread my hands. “Consider this. We have enough, in my opinion, to bring Jeff in for questioning. He’s maybe got a girlfriend, he’s got football practice, so he gets away from the barn sometimes. I say we lie in wait for him somewhere, grab him away from his dad’s powder keg armored barn, and bring him in for questioning. His dad will be pissed, but his dad will have to come to us if he wants to express his displeasure. We can be ready if he brings an arsenal, or friends, which I don’t think he will, but you never know. But let’s not go up there on the hill at all if we don’t have to.”
Heads were nodding, so I kept going. “Once we do that, we can confront Jeff with what we know, see if he cracks, talk to his dad off-site, maybe convince him the best way to clear his kid’s name is to let us go up there and search, but have that discussion away from all his goddamned weapons, hell, even hold him on some bullshit charge if we have to, but we escalate slowly, away from the farm, get things under control and then go up and look the place over.”
“His buddies might hole up there if they think we are fucking with Brian and Jeff,” Bowman said. “Could be a shitstorm no matter what.”
“Could be,” I agreed. “But it could also be that if we have Jeff in custody, maybe Brian decides to cooperate. At least we get a chance to build up to it, rather than just showing up with a warrant and a bunch of cops in riot gear. Because that would be one hell of a firefight.”
Bowman nodded. “What do you think, Sheriff ?”
“I think I like it a whole lot more than having SWAT storm up that hill,” Daltry growled.
“Well then,” Bowman said. “Let’s do it that way. If Detective Beckworth concurs?”
“I concur,” she said. “I like this plan.”
And that, ladies and gentlemen, is how I, the guy who wanted to pull Jeff Cotton’s guts out through his navel if he killed Megan Beemer, calmed down all the detatched, dispassionate professionals around me. Believe me, it surprised me more than anybody.
Bowman continued. “And my team can spend time going over details in case we eventually have to hit the place. We can also be on standby close at hand when the actual arrest is made, wherever that may be.” He moved the cursor around on the aerial image. “If we ever do have to go in, here’s the scenario. We can stage in a couple places at a distance, the Baptist church here, this field here. We stage there. Quietly. A couple guys at a time, unmarked cars, gather and suit up in Burl Chater’s barn. Forest camo. Then they go through the woods, very quiet …”
“Ninja style,” Shelly said, and Captain Bowman smiled at her.
“Ninja style,” he said.
“You have been planning this for a while, haven’t you?”
“Yes, Shelly, I have.” The captain grinned. “Like I said, it’s my job.”
“Do we have to hear your whole goddamn plan?” Daltry was seething again. “Ed’s plan will make this all a moot point, anyway.”
“Maybe, maybe not,” Bowman said. “My guys are going to be ready for anything, regardless. I assure you of that.”
“Well, then,” I said. “Let’s talk about arresting Jeff Cotton, first. I like the idea of having the cavalry close by when we do that.”
“Sure, Ed,” Bowman said. “Any idea what he’s up to today?”
“I’m checking his social now,” Shelly said, tapping away at her phone. “Big Green won last night …” She looked up as a couple of guys cheered quietly. “Jeff had pizza after the game … Jesus, five sacks?”
“Five sacks of pizza?” That got laughs. I did not see who said it.
“Five QB sacks in the game—Jeff was on fire,” Shelly said, then resumed scrolling through Jeff’s Facebook. “Here we go. Looks like Jeff has a date tonight.”
“Good,” I said. “We can catch him en route.”
We spent several more minutes hashing out details. Sheriff Daltry leaned toward me. “I am counting on your powers of persuasion, Ed, to keep everything calm once we nab Jeff. A shoot-up involv
ing a bunch of decent God-fearing men ain’t anything we need. The boy might be a shit, maybe, anyway, but his daddy is a good man.”
“I will do my best, Sheriff.” But I was thinking that if Jeff Cotton was our perp, I wanted five minutes alone with him. I really, really did.
The meeting broke up, and everyone scurried off to their assigned roles. I headed to the restroom and checked my phone. Linda had called. Twice.
I called her back. “Hey,” I said, trying to sound all casual.
“Your landlord called me, Ed.”
“I am paid up.”
“He found your goddamned guitar, all smashed to shit.”
“So I will clean it up.”
I heard her exasperated, nervous laugh. “That is not even anywhere near the fucking point, Ed. What the fuck is wrong with you?”
“I dropped it. It is just a guitar,” I said.
“You dropped it all over the goddamned place! And your dad, your dad, Ed, gave you that guitar! You love that guitar!”
“Can we do this later? I have a bad guy to arrest.”
“Is that why Bowman is at the S.O.? And a bunch of other cops?”
“Jesus, are you spying on me?”
“I called Debbie when you did not answer.”
“Jesus.” I laughed, but it sounded bitter even to me. “It’s like a network of conspirators. Or a coven.”
“Let the other guys do this, Ed. Please. You stay out of it. You are not in a good place.”
“This is my job, Linda.”
“There are a lot of cops, Ed, and they aren’t all …”
I counted silently to five. “Aren’t all what?”
“They aren’t all looking to kill someone because they blame themselves for a girl’s death in New York. That’s not justice!”
“I have to go,” I said. “It’ll be fine.”
“No, it—”
I ended the call. I had work to do.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Saturday, 4:30 p.m.
I SAT IN my truck, a mile beyond the Cotton farm on Big Black Dog Road. I was parked off the road and in a copse, out of sight, waiting for Jeff Cotton to roll by. Shelly sat beside me, scrolling through Facebook and Instagram on her phone.