In Harm's Way

by Ridley Pearson

  “Franklin, as in Ben Franklin, as in a hun,” Brandon said, just to get his facts straight.

  “That’s what I’m saying. Thing is, it was like the same day, dude. So this guy’s laying down the Franklins just to be seen laying them down. Right? What a jerk.”

  “And this interests me because…?”

  “Fuck if I know. It just don’t make sense to me, and you’re always telling me you want to hear about the shit that don’t make sense.”

  “True enough.”

  “You’re looking for a cooker, right?”

  “I didn’t say anything.” Brandon scrunched up the butcher paper and tossed it over his shoulder into the dumpster without looking. They were always looking for meth cookers. They were also looking for the guy who had tossed the Berkholders’ place to look like a bear attack. One and the same? Or two different guys?

  “You don’t want it,” the guy said, “what do I care? Maybe Jimmy Johns wants it.”

  Johns was a Ketchum deputy.

  “Don’t bite the hand that feeds you, Bonehead. You’ll get credit for this if it pays off.”

  “Pays off how?”

  “Get the word out that I’d like to talk to this guy if he shows up somewhere. Can you do that?”

  “I can do that.”

  “Do that, you’ll get more credit. You got it?”

  “I got it. Could be your meth cooker, right?”

  “Could be.”

  “Worth five hours, right?”

  “Could be.”

  “He’s been around. I can get him for you.”

  “Do that.” Brandon pulled out a five-dollar bill. “For the burger,” he said.

  “On the house.”

  “Can’t accept it. You know that.”

  Bonehead accepted the cash. “Why you play it so squeaky clean? Other guys take the burger and the beer.”

  “I’ll knock ten off your time you get me this guy in the next twenty-four hours.”

  “Ten?” Bonehead’s forehead lifted so fast his entire scalp shifted.

  “Who the hell’s that important?” he said.

  “Get to work,” Brandon advised.

  “You look like something the dog drug in,” Brandon said, climbing back into the Jeep.

  Resting his hands on the bottom of the steering wheel, Walt worked to control his voice; maintaining the face of calm in the midst of turmoil was critical to rank and authority within his office. “It took them all of fifteen minutes to reach Aanestead.” The county prosecutor. “He’s blocked the shoes, at least temporarily, until it’s sorted out what my dog was doing in the house when I lacked a warrant.”

  “That was fast.”

  “He’ll question you, Tommy.”

  “And I’ll give him answers. I’ve known Doug a long time. Way before he won the prosecutor’s job. He’s okay. He gets it.”

  “You’ll give him answers keeping in mind what we spoke about earlier.”

  “Keeping in mind that we have blood evidence on the shoes of a prime suspect.”

  “The truth is a piece of glass, Tommy. It’s either whole, or cracked and broken. There’s no in-between.”

  “There’s windshield welding,” Brandon said. “Where they suck that epoxy into rock dings and it’s good as new.”

  Walt huffed.

  “You think he’ll let it through?” Brandon asked. “Let us keep the evidence?”

  “Not without a fight. Wynn’s going to put up a fight.”

  “Never known Doug to back away from a good fight.”

  Walt started the Jeep and drove off. The streets of Ketchum were quiet, the only action outside the few bars and restaurants that lined Main Street.

  Brandon caught him up on Bonehead.

  “You think it’s good?” Walt asked.

  “Felt like it.”

  “You’ve got some catsup.” Walt indicated his own cheek and Brandon wiped his face clean.

  “Could be the mountain man who did the Berkholders’ place.”

  “That’s not what you’re thinking,” Walt said.

  “You testing me? Okay, could be the contents of Gale’s wallet. We know the guy lived large and probably carried a wad. Could be our meth cooker. Could be all the same guy.”

  “That’s what I’m talking about.”

  “It’s not whoever’s using the ATM card,” Brandon said. “ATMs don’t dispense hundreds.”

  “Now you’re thinking.”

  “So it’s two different guys.”

  “And we can assume whoever got the wallet, whoever either found the body or did him in the first place is the one with the card.”

  “So maybe our meth cooker breaks into houses for his jollies, or for food, runs into money after he makes his sale, and starts spending it around. Doesn’t necessarily put him with Gale.”

  “Whatever his routine, he’s important to us. He’s a big piece of this. And according to Bonehead he’s down here in town.”

  “Staying in town? Coming and going? He’s got some money and he’s living it up?”

  “Or he’s coming down at night to sell his goods and spend his winnings. I’ll get Gilly some night vision gear and ask him to watch the trails,” Walt said. He owes me that, he was thinking. Walt had given him a second chance, not reporting the forest ranger’s drinking on the job.

  “I told Bonehead I’d knock ten hours off his PS if we caught the guy.”

  “What’d he say?”

  “Acted like it was Christmas.”

  “You’ve got to watch offers like that. They can backfire. Now he knows the guy’s important to us. May try to take cash to keep quiet.”

  Brandon stewed on the reprimand, finding something to look at out the side window.

  “Listen,” Walt said. “It’s good stuff.”

  “You’re going to always hold this against me, aren’t you, Sheriff?”

  He wasn’t talking about Bonehead.

  Walt drove for five more minutes, crossing the bridge over the Big Wood just south of Golden Eagle, a mile south of the turnoff to Fiona’s place, where he’d had to fight to keep from looking as they drove past.

  “It is what it is,” Walt said.

  “And what is it?”

  “Over,” Walt said. “It’s over.”

  Brandon crossed his arms and put his head back on the headrest and closed his eyes.

  29

  Walt dropped the girls off at the Rainbow Trail Adventure

  Camp, getting a hug from each as well as a wistful, puppy-dog look from Nikki that he didn’t know how to interpret. He wasn’t sure if this was the result of some male defect, or denial, or if there was nothing to make of it in the first place, a fine piece of acting by a daughter who wanted her mother back. Beatrice whined from the front passenger seat, wishing the girls weren’t leaving, causing Walt to once again wonder if the dog wasn’t channeling his own conscience. He hesitated there a little longer, considering calling them back to the car, playing hooky for a day and taking them to the park or for ice cream, or swimming in the public pool out at the high school. But they loved the camp far more than a day with him, or so he convinced himself in order to justify his driving off and leaving them for Lisa to pick up, which is what he did.

  Except for a chaotic press conference that had gone passably well, and some news trucks out front in the office parking lot, the prior day had moved monotonously slowly as he’d weeded his way out from behind his desk and hoped for something to bust open the Gale investigation. The county prosecutor had determined that the existence of the lilies in Boatwright’s garden, and the truck tires being the same manufacturer-Goodrich-as the impressions left at the crime scene were enough to win Walt a search based on probable cause. But he cautioned Walt not to be too hasty. There’d be formidable opposition from Boatwright’s attorneys once Walt took it to the next level, and he wanted time to prepare. He also wanted to coordinate with the King County prosecuting attorney so they didn’t accidentally jeopardize the Caroline Vetta i
nvestigation by coming off the blocks too early.

  Each day that passed decreased the odds. The farther they got from the discovery of the body, the less likely the case would be solved.

  Today passed much the same way: Walt feeling handcuffed by a cautious attorney and limited by circumstantial evidence. He called Fiona twice and left messages, fearing that she was avoiding his calls over embarrassment about the reappearance of the “stolen” Engleton truck, and let her know that he couldn’t care less and was just happy to know Kira had apparently returned. Fiona’s refusal to return his calls annoyed and frustrated him, but the next step was hers to make. Hers to take.

  With the girls asleep and the dishes washed, he sat down at the computer to catch up on e-mail.

  The kitchen phone rang and Walt snatched it up.

  “I found the guy’s vehicle, Sheriff.”

  “Gilly?”

  “I found the SUV. Avis sticker on the bumper. Plates still on it. It’s Gale’s rental.”

  “Where?”

  “Well off trail or I’d have found it sooner. Was those night vision binoculars did it. Sun warmed the metal all day and the thing gave off a signature after dark. I’m standing here looking at it. You want me to open it up?”

  “Don’t touch a thing. Give me directions. It’ll take me an hour or so. You sit tight.”

  “Got it.”

  He called Lisa and asked her to cover. Called the office and told them what he needed, including Fiona, and instructed them how to keep it off the radio, and how to release the vehicles one at a time, wanting to avoid a press stampede. Took a deep breath as he changed back into a freshly pressed uniform shirt.

  He looked in on the girls just before Lisa arrived wearing a bathrobe with jeans. She looked tired and headed straight for the couch.

  Walt offered his bed, saying, “Fresh sheets.”

  “How long are you going to be?”

  “Take the bed,” he said.

  She nodded and trundled off, scratching her backside through the bathrobe and causing him to wonder if they didn’t know each other too well.

  Gilly Menquez looked small and pale behind the glare of headlights, squinting into the searchlight from Walt’s Cherokee.

  “This is good, right, Sheriff?”

  “Very good.”

  “About last week-”

  “Forget about it, Gilly. It’s behind us.”

  “I got me a wife and four kids. Another coming.”

  “All the more reason not to drink on the job.”

  “You coulda had me fired.”

  “Just don’t make it ‘should have.’ ”

  Gilly eyed him curiously.

  “Never mind, Gilly. Just don’t let it happen again.”

  “It won’t.”

  Walt kept the smile off his face out of respect. Gilly looked all worked up, his face twisted like he might cry. Walt placed a hand on his shoulder, happy to have someone his own height, but wondering if Gilly’s devotion was to the Blessed Mother or the bottle.

  “This is exactly as you found it?” The man nodded, but submissively, and Walt was beginning to feel uncomfortable. Wanting to keep him busy, Walt asked Menquez to search the immediate area on the passenger side of the SUV. Walt took the woods to the left, awaiting Fiona’s camera and at least one deputy before entering the vehicle. He’d shined his flashlight through the glass to find the SUV was empty, keys in the ignition. The keys might come back with latent prints; he was eager to get on with it.

  Flashlight in hand, Walt moved methodically through the forest undergrowth. He heard Beatrice clawing at the Cherokee’s side window and wished he could let her out. Gale’s rental had been abandoned in a swale between two treed ridges running east-west. Given the overhead canopy of evergreens, it seemed a miracle Gilly had ever spotted the heat signature, and Walt took it as a sign that the investigation had turned. Cases either turned for you or against you, and he’d grown superstitious over time.

  He saw it as a wink of white, a color that didn’t belong in the forest palette, approached it somewhat breathlessly, nearly called out to Gilly at his find.

  He pulled back some fern, revealing the smooth, turned handle and grip of a baseball bat. Bent and reached down farther, pulling back the twist of green revealing the bat’s wide end.

  His heart was pounding now, really pounding, like he’d run a fair distance or hit the bench press. At first the discovery elated, filled him with a childish glee, cementing his theories and confirming his investigative excellence. He thought how impressed Boldt would be to discover that his own suspicions of Vince Wynn had not only been well founded but on the mark.

  Just below the crown of the bat was a rust-colored smudge and what looked to be some human hair. He was looking at the murder weapon, and though he had yet to equate the truck’s abandonment with the discarded bat, the timing and the logistics, the connection to Gale seemed inevitable. With any luck the case might be closed by noon, and the cameras and reporters could go home.

  He donned surgical gloves, checking behind him. He’d lost sight of Gilly, off in the woods. And now, from well below, the first winks of arriving headlights. And behind those another set. His team would be here in a matter of minutes and, hopefully, Fiona among them-someone to celebrate the find with.

  He dropped to one knee and was reaching for the center of the bat-keeping his contact off both the handle and the blood evidence-when the flashlight cast small shadows over the burned engraving-a script font-and three letters: ton

  He knew bats-Louisville Sluggers in particular-knew the placement of the logo and the location on the bat of certain brands or endorsements. This fit neither. Without giving it any thought his mind jumped ahead, trying to process which slugger this particular bat was named for, and why it might have been burned onto the bat so far down the head. He spun the bat slightly and the rest of the name appeared: Engleton.

  A WOOD RIVER LITTLE LEAGUE ALL-STAR DONOR: MICHAEL ENGLETON

  Walt froze, the sound of the approaching vehicles growing louder. Off-balance and dizzy, he realized he wasn’t breathing. The bat was supposed to have come from Vince Wynn’s autograph collection. It was supposed to prove beyond a doubt that Wynn had taken the law into his own hands, just as he’d threatened to do.

  The next image in his head was that of Kira Tulivich raising a bat and coming from the Engleton house toward Walt as he peered into Fiona’s window. Kira Tulivich, so traumatized and victimized that she couldn’t get through her keynote address without having a flashback that kept her from continuing.

  The vehicles approached. Walt, hand on the bat, hesitated.

  “The bat could have been stolen,” he said aloud, quickly shutting his gob and thinking of the mountain man, or the meth cooker, or whoever had vandalized the Berkholders’ place.

  The bat firmly in hand now, he held it down, in lockstep with the movement of his right leg, as he marched hurriedly toward the idling Jeep. Beatrice went frantic with his approach. The headlights of the oncoming cars grew nearer.

  Gilly Menquez appeared out of nowhere, at the rear of the SUV. “Sheriff?”

  Walt stopped, keeping the bat screened from Menquez. “Gilly?”

  “You got anything?” Walt didn’t answer. “For me to do?” he added.

  “Wave those cars down and keep them from contaminating the scene. Stop them back there as far as you can and tell them to kill their lights. Hurry it up.”

  Gilly took off running. A moment later, as the car lights went dark, Walt slipped open his Jeep’s back hatch, switched off the interior light, wrapped the bat in a blue tarp, the same blue tarp they’d used to move Gale’s body, and tucked the bundle behind his emergency backpack at the hinge of the backseat.

  He told himself he was merely preserving evidence, was hiding it so that no one would know of its existence, so that there could be no possibility of it leaking to the press before he’d had it properly recorded and analyzed. So that whatever evidence it provided could be
used effectively and properly before it was misused and abused in the court of public opinion.

  He was not withholding evidence. Not doing anything wrong.

  But then why had he hidden the bat from Gilly? Why had he secreted it in the back of his Jeep rather than record its location with a photograph-SOP for a first officer’s discovery of any suspected murder weapon?

  He shut the hatch as Fiona emerged into the glow of the Jeep’s headlights. From behind her appeared Barge Levy carrying a heavy backpack in his right hand. And then, a moment later, two deputies, one of them Tommy Brandon.

  “Sheriff,” Fiona called out, juggling two camera bags. She looked skeletal in the pale light. Fragile and pale and exhausted as she hurried ever closer.

  “Ms. Kenshaw,” Walt said, his voice breaking.

  The digital clock on the kitchen microwave read 3:07. Walt was forced to decide whether or not to wake Lisa, and he’d ruled in favor of giving her a chance to sleep at least part of the night in her own bed. She drove off in her robe and jeans, bleary-eyed but grateful for the chance to get home.

  With her out of the house, he pulled the blue bundle from the vehicle and walked it around to the privacy of the back door, never doubting for a moment that he might be watched. He’d long since learned two things in law enforcement: everyone carried at least one damaging secret, and there was no such thing as privacy.

  With the blinds drawn, he carefully unfolded the tarp and stared at the bloody bat, wondering what the hell he was doing. He had a variety of excuses at the ready: he was protecting the investigation from a leak that could potentially strengthen Wynn’s defense (though the inscription to Michael Engleton made that a difficult angle); he was keeping the first real significant evidence away from any chance of public exposure; he was sequestering evidence to allow himself to pursue a methodical investigation and interrogation of suspects-most notably, Kira Tulivich. Convinced that he was okay as long as he didn’t contaminate or destroy evidence, he wrapped the bat carefully in cling wrap, then secured it with tape.

  He hunted around in the garage and came up with an oversized cardboard box and cut it down to size with a razor knife and crudely shaped it to fit the bat. He used bubble wrap and newspaper and packaged the bat in the box, sealing it with more packing tape. He went online and filled out an overnight shipping label, printed it up, and left the package on the dining-room table as a shrine to his misbehavior.