by Emery Hayes
She gazed again upon the dead agent. In a town as small as Blue Mesa, Nicole knew most people and had at least a passing recognition of others. Not this woman, though. Which meant Baker had probably driven the seventy-five plus miles to the trendy shopping malls, restaurants, and movie theaters in Pleasant Falls. She lay in the sand, parallel to the lake, and her eyes seemed to look out over the water. She had muscle on her, long legs and wide shoulders. If all hope was lost, wouldn’t she have fought back? She had training, darkness on her side, but had been surrounded by lake and frigid temperatures.
“Defensive injuries?” Nicole asked.
“One, maybe,” MacAulay said. He reached across Baker’s body and opened her hand, gently unfurling her fingers so that her palm faced up. A laceration about an inch and a half long stretched from the center of her palm to the fleshy padding near her wrist. “There could be transfer DNA in that cut.”
“What do you think made it?”
He thought about that, pursing his lips. “It’s superficial,” he said. “A glancing blow. The angle tells me she had her arm up, above her head, and brought it down in a swinging motion that crossed her body. Arthur will need to confirm that, of course.” But he liked his theory, and Nicole could tell the time he’d spent in Injuries Resulting From Mortal Combat training two months ago was paying off. “So maybe she had her arms up, at gunpoint, and she had an opportunity to try for the weapon.”
She nodded. It was a reasonable action taken by a trained law enforcement officer, if it had happened that way.
“I’ve taken a primitive measurement here in the field. It could have been made by the front sight of a handgun.”
“That’s impressive,” Nicole said. There was a time when she had worried if MacAulay would ever embrace his role as ME. He hadn’t come looking for the job. Nicole had approached him because they were in desperate need. Coming from big-city policing, it was outside her comfort zone to stand in a crime scene, guarding a body passing through the natural decomposition stages following death, while the ME drove in from Billings—often more than a two-hour drive, during which evidence was forever lost. She had made funding the ME position her number-one cause when she took office. Into her second year, she was given budgetary approval. As it was a part-time position, she knew there was no hope of luring an ME from out of town, and with less than a handful of local doctors to choose from, MacAulay became the clear choice. He was a family practitioner who’d had rotations through Chicago’s Lower East Side. He had seen his share of wounds from bullets and baseball bats, fists and knives and more. He turned her down without consideration the first time she asked. “I left all that behind,” he told her. “I’m not suited to that kind of work, and I don’t want to be.”
Of the four local doctors, two were older and semiretired; the third, Nicole suspected, would have trouble meeting the demands of the job, which sometimes required battling the elements over rough terrain. MacAulay was fit. He had experience with violent injuries. He was their only choice.
Nicole tried again, two additional meetings. She laid out the importance of speaking for the victim. Emphasized that evidence collection was the only way to do that once a suspicious death had occurred.
“So it’s not an entirely hopeless situation?” MacAulay asked.
“I prefer to look at our work as the only hope they have left.”
He took that away with him and gave the offer serious consideration. Later, he told her he’d gotten on the web and searched, spoken to old medical school acquaintances, even interviewed a few standing MEs from the state medical boards. And he’d said yes, with conditions. He expected the department to pay for trainings but would pay for the additional certification himself. He’d gone back to school, online when possible and traveling to San Francisco one weekend a month plus a month in the summer to complete the requirements.
MacAulay drew her attention back to the present by wiggling his eyebrows in a ridiculous manner. “Give me a few hours and I’ll raise that impressive to a stunning,” he promised.
He was smiling, and Nicole got caught up in it. For a man who didn’t believe in wild cards and grand gestures, his smile was like the rushing wind. It had lift and velocity.
“Sheriff Cobain?”
The interruption was jolting simply because it was unexpected. Because Nicole had been caught in a vacuum, floating on helium.
She turned, her knees and elbows making sharp, awkward cuts rather than moving fluidly.
Arthur Sleeping Bear, her chief forensics officer. He was tall and wide and followed some of the cultural norms of his Native heritage, today wearing a single feather fastened with a copper pin in his hair, which was beginning to turn gray.
A quizzical expression fanned out from his eyes, and he took a step back. “Sorry for intruding,” he said, which only made Nicole more uncomfortable.
“Of course not,” she said. She strived for an even tone and asked, “What’s up?”
“A few things, actually,” he said. “I spent some time in the lab last night. I wanted to run some preliminary checks. You know there’s no way to add ballast to theory if the science doesn’t add up,” he said, and Nicole could tell he was troubled. He usually spoke in a sure manner, but today he was choosing his words carefully. “And sometimes the science builds momentum and completely changes the direction of an investigation. Both tracks are easy to follow. They rarely test the parameters of expectation.”
“What’s different here?” she asked.
“The reason they don’t test parameters is because each stop has expected outcomes. Tried and tested and tested again.”
“And that’s not the case here?”
“No. I came back this morning, looking for obvious reasons for the outliers that are cropping up in the lab.”
“What are the outliers?” Nicole asked.
But he wanted to take a step backward, begin with the tangible and connect some dots.
“Essentially we have five separate crime scenes, now that the body of Agent Baker was recovered. Our initial investigation centered around the ice floe, the sunken BP skiff, and a quarter mile of shoreline directly due east of the ice floe. Then we have the placenta and the surrounding area—remains to be seen if we classify that as a crime scene. We have the GSW in the house”—he turned and pointed northwest—“and we have this stretch of beach.” He opened his arms to include Baker’s body and the marshy grasslands that extended toward the Lake Road, less than a quarter mile south from where they stood. “Two homicides, one possible, the other a bread crumb, if you will, marking a desperate trail of escape.”
Nicole nodded.
“But escape from what?” Arthur questioned. “Test results are coming in, Sheriff, and there’s enough to move beyond speculation—the woman chased from the house, who gave birth next to the lake, was chased by law enforcement.”
Green had insisted the GSW and that crime scene had nothing to do with their missing agents. He had fought the removal of officers to aid in locating Adelai and baby. But Nicole had had some suspicion BP was involved, as had Adelai. That suspicion was why Nicole had refused to give Green the young woman’s name.
“I have castings and fibers that match a specific boot,” Arthur continued, “supplied only to federal officers of the following agencies—FBI, Department of Treasury, and Border Patrol.”
Nicole felt her breath bottle in her throat. “Only those?” she asked. “Are you sure?”
“One hundred percent,” he assured her. “If I’d had one or the other—castings or tread—I would be far less certain. But the ability to cross-reference makes it absolute.”
Nicole let that sink in. They had proof. This was more than one or two bad seeds. It was a handful, minimum. And how far up did it reach? Certainly Green had to be aware that he had a pocketful of bad pennies. Why hadn’t he told her? Was he part of it as well? And those above him? Were they involved? She pulled her cell phone from her pocket and dialed Lars. He was presently standing
within three feet of Green and several of his agents, and she didn’t want to tip their hand by using the radio.
He had his cell in hand and raised it to check the caller ID. Then he turned on his heel, seeking visual contact even while he connected the call.
“Get down here,” she said, and that was enough. The urgency in her voice, perhaps even the tension rolling off their little stretch of beach as they digested the ominous overtones of the evidence, alerted him to the importance of the matter at hand.
Lars disengaged and walked smoothly over the marsh, not hurriedly but in even strides. Nicole, MacAulay, and Arthur Sleeping Bear watched his progress without speaking a word.
But Nicole’s thoughts were reeling. Were Monte and Baker among the crooked? Or victims of them? It seemed to Nicole that once this question was answered the rest would fall into place, like markers in the snow. An easy trail that would lead directly to the killers. One of whom could be BP agent Luke Franks. She had trouble sliding him into place anywhere on the board. He seemed to know too much and not enough at the same time. Adelai had spoken of him with hesitation, almost fear. And Lars suspected the agent was holding back. Luke Franks was a person of interest and possibly a suspect.
As Lars drew near, Nicole turned to Arthur and asked, “Have you recovered her boots?”
“She was wearing only one, and it was the first thing I bagged and tagged.”
“From the same source as the others?”
“On visual inspection?” Arthur nodded. “I’d say yes.”
“What’s going on?” Lars asked.
Nicole let Arthur fill him in. She let her focus drift, first to Green and his agents, who were standing around one of her forensics techs while he meticulously cut a piece of bark from a fallen tree.
“Probably worthless,” Nicole murmured.
“Worthless?” Lars followed her gaze.
“The bark. That and everything else they handed over to us.”
“We have little gathered that BP didn’t first discover,” Arthur said.
“But there’s something else,” Nicole said. “When you approached me, you said outliers. Plural.”
Arthur nodded. “Yes, there is one more thing. This came from the drifting party boat. Strands of long dark hair, the root attached. We have a preliminary match to the sample the doctor took from the pregnant woman late last night.”
“Adelai was on the party boat?”
“Preliminary, but yes, I believe so. It will take up to a week for absolute confirmation.”
“Who is Adelai Amari to the United States Border Patrol?” Nicole wondered. It had to go deeper than her relation to Luke and James Franks. What did the young woman have or know that made her a target?
“And how is Monte wrapped up in this?” Lars asked. “He made the call,” he pointed out. “He brought you out to the lake. If he were involved in whatever corruption went down that night, he wouldn’t have risked exposure.”
“Not at face value,” Nicole agreed. “MacAulay discovered a tattoo on Baker’s ankle.” She pulled her phone out and brought up the picture. “Take a look.”
Lars did. “That’s on her ankle?”
Nicole nodded. “Fairly new.”
“There’s more to be discovered,” Arthur said.
“What can I do to help?” Nicole asked.
He looked at the shoreline, his eyes traveling up into the woods. “If you don’t mind me saying so, we need them out of here.”
“I gave them orders to vacate by noon,” Nicole said, glancing at her watch. “They have less than an hour to make that happen before we assist. I think we should keep to the timeline. I don’t want them to suspect that they’ve become our target.”
“I’m heading back to the lab,” Arthur said. “Come when you are ready. I hope to have something to show you.” He looked back at MacAulay. “I would like some time to speak with you.”
MacAulay stood and faced them both. He nodded toward Sleeping Bear. “I’m encountering some conflicting data as well. A few things that don’t add up.”
“Such as what?” Nicole asked.
“For one thing, I’m not so sure Agent Baker washed in with the tide,” he said.
18
When noon came, Green, as expected, dug in his heels. He postured, hands on hips and his face a florid shade of tomato. He encroached on her personal space, kicked at the damp soil with the toe of his boot, pulled in lungfuls of cool air and blew out tepid breaths that stirred the hair on her head, he was so close, and only capitulated when Nicole warned him, “My next call is the FBI.”
She wasn’t sure who would take jurisdiction over the investigation of the Border Patrol. The agency as a whole had many internal difficulties, but most of those along the Mexican border. Nicole had heard of both the FBI and the Department of Homeland Security delving into the corruption. But her words gave him pause, and that was the reaction she’d been hoping for.
“You wouldn’t.” Because law enforcement agencies didn’t do that to each other. Green was many things, including a complete buy-in on solidarity among the ranks. It was an important piece of the anatomy of a fully functioning, high-achieving force. But not at the cost of integrity. Not at the forfeit of justice.
“I would,” she assured him. “I’m required to. I should have done so already, and so should have you,” she pointed out. “The moment you suspected corruption in your office.”
Green’s eyes turned hard and brittle.
“It’s time you clean house, Green. Focus on that,” she advised.
Lars came up then and stood beside Nicole. He had a way of appearing when the time was right, allowing her to charge forward in the lead, relying solely on the magnitude of her position, and then presenting a united front when the gauntlet was thrown.
He was sensitive to her role as a female sheriff—there weren’t that many of them across the country—and the need for her to maintain the respect of the position. He was also one of the best detectives she’d ever worked with, and she would hate to lose him, or to lose to him, if it ever came to that.
“You going to round up your agents?” Lars asked. “Or would you like us to do that for you?”
As a reply, Green unclipped his radio and brought it to his lips. “We’re pulling back,” he said. “All of us. Meet at center. Five minutes.”
When he was done with the announcement, he found and held Nicole’s gaze. “I did, by the way. I want you to know that. When you’re wading hip-deep through the sewage, you remember that I was the one who brought Internal Affairs in. And on their heels, Homeland Security.”
“You called the dogs in?” Lars asked.
Green turned toward Lars. “It’s like you said. Once I suspected, it didn’t matter I didn’t like it, I had to make the call. And I did.”
Nicole nodded. “Noted,” she said, but she wondered about the timing.
“When was that, Green? Did you make the call before or after evidence went missing?”
“After.”
“How long after?” Lars pressed.
“Months,” he admitted. “December.” And he turned his attention back to Nicole. “It wasn’t an easy call. You understand that, Cobain.”
Too little too late? Probably. The best of them sometimes had trouble measuring up.
“We’ll need a point person,” she said. “We have a growing list of needs that can only be fulfilled by someone inside your office.”
“What kind of needs?”
“Evidentiary.”
“Well, I’m not gone yet, am I?” he challenged. “You can run all your needs through me.”
“Great. Let’s start with that list of all firearms used by Monte and Baker,” she suggested, and then thought better of it. “Actually, it might be a good idea to send over a comprehensive list of all firearms in use at BP.”
“Why?” he challenged. “Why guns? I haven’t heard word one that shots had been fired.”
“Well, then, you haven’t heard it all,�
� Lars said. A snarl was building in his voice, and Nicole stepped in before their first request for cooperation turned into a confrontation.
“We have evidence of an injury consistent with a firearm. We’ll need to run tests.”
“It would help if you could narrow down type.”
“Produce the list, and we’ll let you know the weapons we want brought to our forensics facility.”
She walked away from him then, feeling equal parts sympathy and disdain. Before this was over, Green would lose his job. There was no way he could survive the deterioration of his office. He led a far bigger team than Nicole, with nearly forty agents to her twelve officers. But months of knowing his agency was crawling with vipers and making halfhearted attempts at fixing it, that seemed negligent. In fact, it seemed incriminating.
Nicole stood atop the first rise and looked out over the beach. MacAulay had bagged the body of Agent Baker and transported it back to the morgue. BP agents were in various stages of packing equipment and moving out. The day before, the boats had broken up the floes, and beyond the shoreline the ice drifted now in smaller pieces that bobbed on the current.
In all likelihood, she had a polluted crime scene. What she was going to do about that depended a lot on what she learned from Arthur when she got to the lab, what she learned after she took another pass at Adelai Amari, and what was revealed along with the identity of their ice man.
Lars walked up beside her. He had his phone in hand and was scrolling through notes he’d taken using a stylus that looked like a toothpick in his hand.
“What do we know about Green?” he asked.
“Fifty-five, never married, no kids.” That was the preliminary information she’d managed to dig up by simply working her phone earlier that morning. “He drives a fancy car—”
“A Cadillac Escalade,” Lars said. “I’ve seen it. Brand-new or almost.”
“—and has a house on the lake with a private dock.”
“A lot of cash going out on a government paycheck.”
Nicole agreed. “Deputy Casper is going over bank statements today.”