Vicious Circle

by C. J. Box

  Now here he was again.

  Her method in a preliminary hearing was simple and devastating. She’d briskly state the prosecution’s case, lay out a timeline of the crime, point out the accused, and ask that the defendant be bound over for trial. She’d call as few witnesses as possible to bolster her case, preferring a bare-bones construction.

  Joe had expected that the first witness would be Wanda Stacy—but Wanda wasn’t called. He wondered if Dulcie was concerned that the bartender wouldn’t come across well or that she was uncooperative. He also knew Dulcie often held back testimony from witnesses she might be saving for the actual trial. Whatever the reason, Dulcie had opted to open the morning with Joe’s testimony.

  After he was sworn in, she slipped on a pair of fashionably mannish horn-rimmed glasses and looked over them at Joe on the stand. She asked him to state his name and occupation.

  “I’m Joe Pickett, the game warden for the Saddlestring district. I’m badge number twenty.”

  “What does badge number twenty signify?”

  “There are fifty game wardens in Wyoming. The warden with the most seniority has badge number one. I’m twentieth in seniority.”

  “So you’ve been around a while and you have a good deal of experience in your job,” she asked.

  “Yes,” he said, thinking, Maybe too much sometimes.

  She guided him through the day he was recruited to assist the Civil Air Patrol and the images he saw on the FLIR, then moved on to the next day and the discovery of Farkus’s body. He answered as simply and honestly as he could.

  “Thank you,” she said, and sat down.

  There was a long pause. Joe looked to Patterson, waiting for him to stand up or state that he had no questions.

  Patterson, though, still had his head down studying his notes, as if he hadn’t heard that Joe’s testimony was over. Dallas stared at his attorney with an amused expression on his face, then turned his head and waggled his eyebrows at the JP as if to say, Look at this guy.

  It was a reckless thing for a defendant charged with murder to do, Joe thought. As if Dallas wasn’t taking the proceedings seriously. That was a red flag to Joe. He felt a twinge in his chest.

  Then Patterson finally stood up and said good morning to Joe.

  “Good morning,” Joe responded.

  “You weren’t always badge number twenty were you?”

  Joe sat back. He said, “No. As I stated, the number changes based on how long a game warden is on duty. So the badge number gets smaller the longer I stay on the job.”

  “That’s not exactly what I was getting at,” Patterson said, not meeting Joe’s eyes. “Didn’t you lose your badge number designation a few years ago due to insubordination?”

  Joe felt his cheeks flush. “Yes.”

  “In fact, you were busted down to number forty-eight for a while, weren’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Objection, Your Honor,” Dulcie said as she shot to her feet. “This is a preliminary hearing. This is no place to badger the witness.”

  “Sustained,” Mouton said, taken aback. Then to Patterson, “What’s wrong with you, Duane?”

  Mouton wasn’t the best at proper courtroom rhetoric, Joe thought. Nevertheless, he’d been surprised by Patterson’s insinuation—even if it was true.

  “Sorry, Your Honor,” Patterson said.

  “Good. Let’s keep things civil.”

  In reaction, Dallas turned in his chair and looked around the courtroom with exaggerated wide eyes, as if he wanted a good look at everyone who was there to conspire against him.

  “Mr. Pickett,” Patterson said, “prior to going on the search-and-rescue operation for Dave Farkus, you had dealings with my client, didn’t you?”

  “Dealings?”

  “You had an antagonistic relationship with him. Isn’t that true?”

  Joe could see where Patterson was headed. He said, “I arrested him for wanton destruction of game animals and he was convicted and sentenced to prison for the offense.”

  “But beyond that,” Patterson said, “didn’t you battle with his family?”

  “Battle isn’t the right word,” Joe said.

  In his peripheral vision, he saw Dulcie stand up.

  “Is there a point to this line of questioning, Your Honor?” she asked Mouton. Joe couldn’t recall Dulcie ever making an objection in a preliminary hearing before, much less two of them.

  “Well, is there?” Mouton asked Patterson.

  “There is, Your Honor. It’s important here to establish that the witness was hostile to the defendant prior to the incident.”

  There it was, Joe thought. He looked over at the justice of the peace.

  Mouton had a pained expression on his face, as if what Patterson had said was once again too unpleasant for his hearing room.

  “Your Honor,” Dulcie said, “this is silly. The witness was asked by the Civil Air Patrol to assist on a search-and-rescue operation. While he was cooperating with them, he saw unidentifiable images on a computer screen and he testified to that. He’s helping us establish the premise of the case. He’s not making allegations against the accused. How can that be considered hostile?”

  “Good point,” Mouton readily agreed. To Patterson, he said, “That’s enough with that line of questioning, Duane. You’re really pushing it with me, mister. Do you have anything else?”

  Patterson looked down and his face flushed red. He turned slightly and made eye contact with Dallas, who once again had the half-smile on his face.

  It was clear to Joe then that Dallas had put Patterson up to attacking him, and the public defender had reluctantly gone along with his client’s wishes.

  “Mr. Patterson?” Mouton prompted.

  Patterson looked at his pad again. Dallas watched him and rolled his eyes.

  To Joe, Patterson asked, “When you were watching the FLIR, could you positively identify the victim as David M. Farkus?”

  “No. Not at the time.”

  “Could you positively identify the accused?”

  “No.”

  “But you assumed both, correct?”

  Dulcie stood up again, but before she could object, Joe shook his head and said, “We were searching for a missing hunter named Dave Farkus. We identified an individual on the FLIR in the vicinity of where Farkus was last seen. But no, I could not positively identify the individual as Farkus. And I don’t believe the name Dallas Cates even came up that night.”

  Patterson looked up from his notes at Joe. There was another long beat.

  He said, “No further questions.”

  Dallas shook his head and grinned, as if he couldn’t believe what had just happened.

  Mouton removed his glasses, pointed them at Dallas, and said, “The defendant shall refrain from acting like this proceeding is one big joke.”

  “Even if it is?” Dallas asked.

  That got a chuckle from T. Cletus Glatt, and Mouton banged his gavel.

  “The witness can step down,” Mouton said to Joe.

  On his way past the defense table, Joe looked hard at Dallas, trying to discern what he was up to. Dallas looked back briefly and smirked.

  Dulcie said, “We call Undersheriff Lester Spivak.”

  —

  DULCIE LED SPIVAK through the events of the day that they discovered Farkus’s body, then through the preliminary forensics results.

  Reed leaned over to Joe and whispered, “I didn’t see that coming. Especially not from Patterson.”

  “It’s not Patterson,” Joe whispered back.

  “Dallas is acting like this is all some kind of joke. Doesn’t he know what he’s facing?”

  “He knows,” Joe said. “He’s smart. But he has something up his sleeve.”

  “I wonder what he’s going to try and do to Spiva
k?”

  Reed sat back and crossed his arms across his chest and shook his head.

  Joe didn’t get it. A preliminary hearing in front of Justice of the Peace Mouton wasn’t the place to try to attack the prosecution’s case unless it was unbelievably egregious, which it wasn’t. Going after Joe’s credibility on the stand was a waste of time and effort, unless Patterson had a strategy no one had thought of. Patterson wasn’t known for his strategic abilities. Besides, he’d spent probably less than an hour with his client before the hearing.

  No, Joe thought. Dallas had a strategy of his own.

  —

  JOE LEARNED from Spivak that the .223 casings found at the murder scene were manufactured by American Eagle, and that the crime scene techs had discovered a half-empty box of American Eagle fifty-five-grain .223 rounds under the seat of Dallas Cates’s vehicle. The blood found on the floor mats, plus a smear of it on the driver’s-side interior door handle, was determined to be A-positive, which matched Farkus’s blood type.

  Spivak explained that the rifle, cartridges, and blood samples had been sent to the state forensics laboratory in Cheyenne for further confirmation. Although several of the bullets had passed through Farkus’s body and were therefore not recovered, three intact slugs were found by the coroner and had also been sent to the state lab. The slugs could be matched not only to the American Eagle ammunition but specifically to the rifling inside the barrel of the .223. The coroner said the slugs were found fairly shallow within the body and that, although mushroomed and misshapen, they were in good enough condition to identify.

  The coroner also found dozens of pellets in Farkus’s body—sizes BB and double-ought—indicating that he’d been hit with shotgun blasts from at least two other assailants.

  The prosecution case was impressive, Joe thought. By the time Dallas went to trial, Dulcie should have conclusive DNA test results on the blood found in Dallas’s vehicle, as well as forensics matches on the rifle and ammunition.

  —

  MOUTON RECESSED the hearing for lunch prior to the cross-examination of Deputy Spivak.

  Joe retrieved his cell phone and holster from Stovepipe, an ancient retired rodeo cowboy who manned the metal detector in the lobby.

  He was scrolling through his emails—another poaching report had been made in the county to the east, so the ring had struck again—when Dulcie patted him on the shoulder and indicated he should follow her down the hallway.

  “Please close the door,” she said.

  Her office was spare. In addition to framed graduation and law degree certificates, there were only a couple of personal photos of her parents, as well as a shot of her and Marybeth on horseback. The two of them rode together once a week in the winter and sometimes daily in the summer.

  “I don’t know what they’re up to, but it’s pissing me off,” she said as she walked around her desk, kicked off her shoes, and sat down. “I’m going to tear Duane a new one for that crap he pulled in there.”

  Joe shrugged. “It was Dallas.”

  “But why?” she asked. “Is he just trying to antagonize you?”

  “Probably.”

  “It’s a good thing we kept you at arm’s length during the investigation and the arrest, then,” she said. “Otherwise I could see them trying to spin up some kind of conspiracy. But it won’t work with Mouton. I don’t even see why they’re trying it out now. If I were them, I wouldn’t show my hand, and wait until the trial.”

  He nodded.

  She cursed while she pulled a plastic container from a small refrigerator and placed it in front of her. Dulcie ate at her desk nearly every day.

  “I was wondering why you didn’t call Wanda Stacy first,” Joe asked.

  Dulcie looked up sharply after she’d removed the lid from her salad. “You didn’t know?” she asked.

  “Know what?”

  “Stacy is in the wind. She didn’t show up for work last night and no one knows where she is.”

  “What?”

  “Her car is gone and her rental house looks like it was packed up in a hurry. We’ve got feelers out for her with her parents in Lusk and friends we can find online, but no luck so far. Mike didn’t tell you?”

  “No.”

  “He probably thought you knew.”

  “I’ve had a lot going on,” Joe said.

  “That’s right! Is April back home now?”

  “She got here last night. She didn’t like taking time off from school, though.”

  “I’ll bet Marybeth feels relieved having her here after what happened.”

  “She does.”

  “No word on who attacked Joy Bannon?”

  “Nope.”

  “How’s she doing?”

  “Still in intensive care, but the doctors are much more optimistic about a full recovery than they were. Her parents are with her, and they send Marybeth status reports every few hours. Joy’s conscious and able to whisper.”

  “Has she answered any questions about what happened?”

  “She didn’t know the woman, either,” Joe said.

  Dulcie nudged the container of salad toward him. “Want some lunch?”

  “Thanks. I’ll go get a burger.”

  “That’s what I thought you’d say.” She smiled. “See you soon.” Then: “I’ll bet they go after Lester, too.”

  —

  AFTER A DOUBLE CHEESEBURGER at the Burg-O-Pardner on the edge of town, Joe called the game warden in Campbell County as he drove back to the County Building.

  Rick Ewig was young and earnest, just two years out of the law enforcement academy in Douglas, and he wasn’t in a good mood.

  “Another one, eh?” Joe asked.

  “Yes, damn it. I got rousted out of bed this morning by the call. A ranch wife south of town said she was on a walk with her dog when she heard a shot and saw a white Suburban about a mile and a half away across their creek. She knew her husband hadn’t given permission to anyone to hunt, so she called me direct.

  “While she waited for me, she saw two guys throw a dead muley into the back of the Suburban and drive off. I missed them by twenty minutes.”

  “Buck or doe?” Joe asked.

  “Doe, she thinks. She couldn’t see any antlers.”

  It fit the pattern.

  “Did she get a good look at the bad guys?”

  “Not so she could identify them. Like I said, they were a mile and a half away from her.”

  “Plates?”

  “She couldn’t see them, either, but these guys have to be residents,” Ewig said. “Either that, or they’re rich enough to spend three and a half weeks out here shooting up everything they see and bypassing trophies.”

  Joe agreed with Ewig. The poachers seemed to be very familiar with the vast landscape of northern central Wyoming and its roads.

  “I’m standing over the gut pile now,” Ewig said. “No brass on the ground, as usual. But I may have a good partial tire impression up on a two-track where she said she saw them. I’ve got photos of it and I emailed it to the lab.”

  “Could you send that to me as well?”

  “Sure thing.”

  “I think we need to get a list of every white Suburban in five counties,” Joe said. “We can all work it until we narrow it down.”

  “I’ll make that request. Man,” Ewig said, “it’s busy enough as it is trying to keep on top of all the openers without these damn outlaws in the mix.”

  “Yup.”

  “Oh, hey, I heard about your daughter’s roommate . . .”

  Joe filled him in until he parked in the lot outside the courtroom entrance and disconnected the call. It was 12:55 p.m. Justice of the Peace Mouton would resume the hearing promptly at 1:00.

  —

  JOE WAS MOUNTING THE STEPS when his phone chimed. He paused and
opened up the photo of the tire track Ewig had sent. The tread was worn down. So they were looking for a Suburban with nearly bald tires.

  He heard a deep burbling motor behind him and a squeal of brakes. Somebody was in a hurry.

  He turned as he opened the door to see a gleaming bronze Hummer H2 with County 22 plates that read JUSTIS.

  The passenger door opened and a pair of ostrich-skin cowboy boots swung out, followed by the lanky six-foot-four frame of Marcus Hand.

  Hand looked just like he did on national cable news from his Jackson Hole in-home-studio residence: a mane of long silver hair, a craggy wide face with piercing blue eyes, huge hands like pie plates poking out from a leather-fringed buckskin jacket. He turned and retrieved his black flat-brimmed cowboy hat from inside the vehicle and fitted it on his head with a flourish that said, Let’s go to war!

  “Hello, Joe, I assume this is where the party is being held,” he said. “My client awaits. Please hold the door.”

  Joe held it because he’d frozen in place, and not just because of the sudden appearance of the most infamous defense attorney in the state of Wyoming.

  There was foremost the identity of the woman behind the wheel.

  As Hand shouldered by him in the doorway, Joe said, “Tell me that’s not—”

  “Oh, but it is,” Hand said. “And the new Mrs. Hand is an absolute menace behind the wheel. But I’m sure you knew that.”

  Joe stood there with the door and his mouth open as he glimpsed the delicate profile of the driver as she roared away.

  His mother-in-law, Missy, also known as Missy Vankueren Longbrake Alden, and now apparently Hand . . . was back in town.

  Joe felt like the air had been crushed from his lungs. He scrambled for his phone to call Marybeth at the library.

  9

  Later, as the sun set and the intense dying light through the trees created orange jail bars across the grass, Randall Luthi and Rory Cross stood outside the cabin with a six-inch hunting knife to compete for who would do Wanda Stacy first.