by Jeff Carson
Patterson and Rachette exchanged sidelong glances.
“I was first on the scene, and I was shown the animal by one Mrs. Katherine Kipling.” Dudley dragged his words. “This was the Kiplings’ cat, you see?”
Patterson nodded.
“We were concerned, naturally, and so were Mr. and Mrs. Kipling. Hell, everyone knows what the textbooks say: Anyone who could commit such an act on a household pet was borderline homicidal to humans. So for two weeks we were on edge. My partner and I spent more than a few days and nights out there in the woods. But … we never saw anything unusual. Never had any leads, and the interest in the incident just sort of faded away.
“Until a few weeks later. The Kiplings’ neighbors, about a mile away, had a teenaged son named Reggie. One morning a woman was walking her dog, and the dog ran ahead and into the woods. By the time she caught up with it, he was found licking something on the ground. She came up and saw that it was the neighbor kid, his head severed almost clean off.” Dudley paused and rubbed the back of his neck. “Cut along the front the same way the cat was. Stabbed all over the rest of his body, including the eyes.”
Patterson shivered.
“Well, needless to say, we were all freaked the hell out and on a manhunt after that. The news spread quickly, and the whole town was hysterical. Everyone was afraid of one another. Nobody went out after dark. We were working around the clock, but coming up empty on leads. If we saw anyone out after dark we would bring them in for questioning. You were the unluckiest soul alive if we caught you hitchhiking near McCall that week. We were using that interrogation room a lot for a few days.
“Then a week later, after the kid’s body was found, the Kipling house caught fire in the middle of the night, and that’s when all hell broke loose again. The fire burned hot, and there was nothing firefighters could do to save the structure. They had to stand back and watch it burn, along with a few acres of the surrounding woods.
“When it finally burned itself out, investigators determined that accelerants had been used, a whole lot of them, clear arson, and we assumed the worst for the family. When we ended up not finding any bodily remains inside, we were beyond puzzled. Even stranger, the two family cars were still in the garage.”
Dudley coughed and pulled his trucker hat off, revealing a shiny dome. He rubbed his hand over it and put the hat back on. “Nothin’. Couldn’t find the Kiplings. Dustin Kipling was kind of a big shot around town, with his statewide boat dealerships and all—Kipling Boats—and news traveled fast around the area about their disappearance. It was all the rave for a while on the news channels.
“Their disappearance, along with the news of the murder out in the woods, brought a few people of interest into our station, and things got more complicated, or clearer I guess, now that we have hindsight.
“The first visitor was a man named Dr. Lewis, a psychiatrist from Bend, Oregon, who was an old college friend of Dustin Kipling. Dr. Lewis told us that Dustin Kipling had come into his office a couple of days before his disappearance, looking for a prescription for anti-psychotic meds. When Dr. Lewis asked why he needed them, Dustin Kipling told him a story, confessing how he had killed their house cat, and how he was scared of what he might do next. Dr. Lewis was extremely concerned, but stopped short of detaining his old friend and putting him under psychiatric watch, which was within his power. Instead he wrote him the prescription with the caveat that Dustin come back and see him regularly.”
Dudley looked at Rachette and then Patterson. “When we heard about this after the family’s disappearance, our running theory was that Dustin Kipling had murdered the neighbors’ kid and fled with his family. Perhaps he’d even taken the family under duress.
“And then a second person came into our station—the child counselor at the twin daughters’ middle school. This counselor was talking about how she thought one of the daughters, Hannah, was highly unstable. She told us about Hannah attacking a boy with a baseball bat earlier that year. Vicious stuff—she was even expelled from school—but no formal charges were filed. And there were two other incidents of fights she’d gotten in before that were particularly violent, so said the counselor.”
Patterson nodded. “Yeah. We saw that in the BSD report.”
Dudley nodded. “We figured, like father, like daughter. But there was no way a teenaged girl could do the horrific things done to that boy, we thought.” He shook his head and glanced at the door behind them.
“And what about William Van Wyke?” Rachette asked. “Why is an Idaho PI’s blood smeared inside this house, while his charred remains are inside a Mercedes SUV in the next county?”
Dudley nodded and held up a finger. “We had a third visitor. A Nevada casino owner, who told us he’d seen Dustin Kipling a single day before the family’s disappearance. It turned out that Dustin Kipling had sold his entire business to this guy from Nevada for cash at an extreme discount. Three million dollars in cash, to be precise, which was apparently pennies on the dollar for what all those boat dealerships and the inventory inside ’em were worth.
“This casino owner wanted to make sure that he was in the clear as far as we were concerned. And it turned out that he was. His story checked out. Kipling came to him with the deal, insisting it be all cash. We could find no connection with this casino-man to Kipling and his family other than purchasing the boat business at a fire-sale price. No pun intended.”
“And Van Wyke?” Patterson pressed.
“Van Wyke had apparently brokered the business deal. He was present and, as a witness, had signed the business-transfer agreement the lawyers had drawn up. His payment for facilitating the deal was the deed to Dustin Kipling’s lakefront property in McCall.”
Rachette frowned. “The property that burned down?”
Dudley nodded. “The property that burned down.”
“So,” Patterson narrowed her eyes in thought, “Kipling burned down the property before Van Wyke could have it? Why?”
Dudley raised an eyebrow. “I might have a good explanation for that now that we know the truth about Hannah and Rachel. Twenty-five years ago, we found some forensic evidence at the teenage boy’s murder scene, some skin under the nails, and a few hairs that we could never match to anyone. It was public knowledge that we’d found these two pieces of evidence. When the Kiplings disappeared, we scoured Dustin Kipling’s offices for matching hair and DNA, and found a few usable samples, but there was no match. That process alone took over a month. Tracking down samples for Katherine Kipling? We never found any usable hair or skin samples for her. The two daughters, Hannah and Rachel? By the time we were done testing Dustin’s samples, we were stumped on where to get any usable samples for the girls. Maybe that was Dustin Kipling’s plan all along with burning the house—to destroy any and all forensic evidence on his family, make it as hard for us as possible.”
Patterson nodded. “That makes sense. Everything Dustin Kipling did was for the wellbeing of his daughters. That’s why they were here in the first place. But you could have gone to the girls’ middle school, right? Checked their lockers for a forensic match?”
Dudley shrugged. “We did. Didn’t find anything. A month later those lockers had been cleaned and disinfected inside, and different students were using them.”
Michelson cleared his throat. “We think Van Wyke must have heard about the bodies being pulled up from the lake here and put two and two together. He came over here looking for Dustin Kipling, perhaps looking for revenge against him for burning down the house and getting snubbed on payment. Our preliminary look into Van Wyke shows that the guy was involved with some shady people in regard to some of his business dealings.” Michelson shrugged. “When Van Wyke got here, he must have met up with Hannah.”
Rachette blew air out of his nose. “And with a few bullets, some gasoline, and a match.”
Dudley eyed Rachette and nodded. “When I saw the story on the news, I knew we’d finally found Dustin Kipling. The MO of the killer, with the h
eads severed and everything, was too perfect a match. Van Wyke must have seen the same stories and thought the same thing.”
“What about the second body found burned in his car?” Rachette asked.
Michelson nodded. “We think that’s a man named Darnell Dawkins. He’s been Van Wyke’s personal assistant, or something akin to that, for the last three years. Our department can’t find him, and it seems nobody has seen him in the last week up in Boise.”
They stood in silence for a few moments.
“Have you talked to Rachel Kipling about any of this?” Michelson asked.
All eyes fell on Patterson. “She’s been mute for five days. Won’t talk to anyone. But we’ll keep at it, that’s for sure.”
“Where is she?” Michelson asked.
“Our county hospital, under lockdown, recovering from a fractured skull. She’ll be put away for a long time when all is said and done.”
They stood quietly and then Michelson shook his head in exasperation. “And she’s not talking? Not giving any explanation about any of it?”
Rachette scoffed. “You think there’s a good reason behind it all? They were both crazy, and that’s that.”
Dudley and Michelson looked at Rachette, and then his shoulder, and nodded respectfully.
Patterson cleared her throat, breaking the silence. “As you probably heard, we found Katherine Kipling in the lake as well, dropped in a different place than the other bodies. The neighbor, Olin Heeter, saw Hannah and Rachel dump their mother’s corpse overboard all those years ago. We think they must have known how Olin Heeter had reported what he’d seen to our sheriff’s office, but they’d left him alone all these years until now.
“Whatever the reason they, or Hannah, were killing these boys and dumping them in the lake, it looks like it all came to a head with the Kipling family after Nick Pollard’s murder, and the girls had to get rid of their mother and father.
“Things went cold for SCSD for twenty-two years and then, when we started pulling up those corpses last week, it looks like they were thrust into crisis mode. They killed the neighbor, Heeter, planted some pictures to make him look crazy and throw us off their scent. Then Van Wyke and this Darnell Dawkins showed up and they killed them.” She shook her head. “I think Deputy Rachette puts it succinctly: they were crazy.”
“And they were cornered,” Dudley said. “Not a good combination.”
They stood in silence for a few seconds until Patterson held up her hand toward the house. “Shall we?”
Slowly they walked to the side of the house, and Michelson stepped next to Patterson. “What about the sheriff’s wife?”
Patterson and Rachette exchanged a glance.
“Ex-wife. And as of yet, we can’t connect Hannah or Rachel Kipling to those two murders. And, of course, Rachel’s not talking to anyone ...”
Patterson let her sentence die. She didn't feel right exposing details about the violent crime that had caused endless whispering and speculation among the locals, and who knew how much pain for Jack, Wolf, and Sarah’s family.
At the very least, the department had a responsibility to keep it in the SCSD family, didn't they?
"Yeah," Rachette piped up, breaking her thoughts. "Something is totally off about Carter and Sarah being together in the first place. And why in Rocky Points? It makes no sense to me. Supposedly that guy was a gay interior designer from Aspen, so why’s he here? Because he and Sarah worked together in the past? Margaret said she hadn’t known anything about him coming into town, and if it had been for one of Sarah’s real-estate deals, Margaret would have been in the know.” He looked over at Patterson. “And if Carter was gay, why was he putting his hand on her leg that night, like you said? If you ask me—”
Patterson stomped her heel on Rachette’s foot.
“Ah! What the hell are you …” Rachette read her death glare and shut his mouth.
She shook her head and walked, leaving the men following silently behind her.
Reaching Michelson’s Caprice Classic, she turned, hoping the red in her face had dissipated.
Michelson eyed her kindly and broke the silence. “I hope we’ve been able to shed some light. I’ll give you guys whatever you need at your station, and I’ll need everything you have to bring back to my department.”
She nodded. “Of course. I’ll see to it.”
“Maybe you two would like to come get lunch in town?” Michelson asked, clearly directing the question more to her than Rachette.
“Sorry, I have some other things to attend to. I’ll follow you guys back to Rocky Points and get that report for you, though.”
Michelson nodded, taking the rejection in stride. “Yeah, sure. We’d appreciate that. We’ll head into town and see you when you get there.”
The two men from Idaho walked to their vehicle doors and got in. The engine fired up, and Michelson backed away. With a wave and a nod, he drove off in a cloud of dust.
Patterson had no clue why she’d let herself mislead the man so much on the phone the past few days. She’d needed someone to talk to, someone besides Scott, someone in the business, and Michelson had been there for her. To think for a second that she could have jeopardized what she’d built with Scott over the past year—for what? An out-of-state flirtation?—was ridiculous.
She shook it off and eyed Rachette. “How you feeling?”
“Like shit.”
“Get in my car. I’m taking you home.”
He nodded but he didn’t move.
“What’s up?”
“You know,” he said, “I don’t know what’s going to happen in the next month with our jobs and everything, but I want you to know that I’ve enjoyed working with you more than anyone else on the force. You’re a good cookie.”
She narrowed her eyes. “Thanks. I’ve … liked working with you, too.”
“I know I’ve been a pain in the ass to you over the last couple of years. And I’m thankful for your loyalty despite everything. I know that was a bad situation with those pictures of that girl and me. And I know you didn’t want to get on the wrong foot with MacLean, and I’m going to talk to him this week. Make sure he knows loud and clear that you had nothing to do with any of that BS.”
“You don’t have to do that, just—”
“No, I do. And I’m going to. I’ve already called and made an appointment with him down in Ashland.”
She nodded.
Rachette took a deep breath. “You know, there was this time way back, when I was a senior in high school, when I really liked this girl, and she really liked me too. We even said the L-word to each other, you know? It was that kind of thing.”
She lifted her chin. “Look, Rachette, you don’t have to tell me this. Whatever it is.”
“I know. I just … want you to know where I’m coming from, all right?”
“Yeah. Okay.”
“So me and this girl, her name was Libby, we were tight. My dad used to be real tough on me growing up, and she was always there for me. Helped me through the bad times. She even helped me realize I wanted to be a cop.”
Watching Rachette speak, Patterson swallowed back a tear when she realized this was the first time she’d ever seen her partner open up.
“But after a while, I suspected she was cheating on me. So I put an audio recorder in her car. You know, to try and catch her in the act?”
Patterson tilted her head.
“And then I caught her. Got her right on audio tape, getting it on with some guy from the marching band.” Rachette glared into the distance. “I beat the crap out of that guy. And I had a topless picture of her on my phone, you know, from earlier, so I sent it to every—”
“Okay, okay.” Patterson closed her eyes and held up a hand. “Listen, are we good?”
Rachette blinked. “Yeah. We’re good.”
“Okay. Then that’s all I need to know.” She stared at her partner and smiled.
“What?”
“Nothing. Let’s go.”
Chapter 68
Three weeks later …
Wolf started at the knock on his front door. He looked over at the roll table next to him and reached over for the TV remote control, pushing it further away.
“Shit.” He gripped and wheeled the table closer, sending the almost empty bottle of Scotch thumping to the carpet.
The second knock was more insistent.
He picked up the remote and lowered the volume. “Come in!”
The hinges squealed and there was a shaft of morning sunlight, and then the silhouette of a man with a cowboy hat stood in the doorway.
“Come in and shut the door.”
MacLean did as he was told. “It’s pitch black in here.”
Wolf screwed his eyes shut, his eye sockets throbbing as MacLean hit the light switch. “Shut it off.”
There was a soft flip and the room went dark again.
With the sound of shots ringing out, he opened his eyes in time to see The Rifleman squeeze off five rounds from his customized Winchester.
“You look like shit.” MacLean walked to the hospital bed set in the middle of Wolf’s living room, crunching a plastic cup with his boot on his way over. “Jesus. Really. Don’t smell much better either. Don’t you have someone to come give you a sponge bath? I can probably get someone up here to do it. A girl if you want.”
Wolf pushed the mute button and glared at his visitor.
MacLean held up his hands. “Or not.”
“Sit down.”
MacLean looked around and turned up his palms.
“There’s a chair in the kitchen. Grab me a glass of water while you’re in there.”
MacLean eyed him for a second and walked away.
Wolf picked up a plastic bottle and rattled out two pills into his left hand. Cupping his fingers around the tablets, he felt a lance of pain in his purple-and-yellow middle finger.