“What do you have there?” She gestured to the bag I brought.
“Tuna salad sandwiches.” I held it up. “That work for you?”
“Absolutely.” She smiled. “Come on back.”
Gretchen was dressed in her white lab coat. I followed her through a secure door, down a long hall, and into a room with computers, monitors, and large rectangular machines with piping connected to them for chemical analysis. I’d been to the lab once before, but they didn’t have as much equipment then. “You’re almost catching up with the Crime Lab in Missoula,” I said, motioning to the new equipment.
“Nah, we just got a little extra funding for a few new pieces to help us out in a pinch. We still send the majority of our samples to Missoula. Wendy,” Gretchen called over to a brunette behind a computer screen, and she stood up, came over and Gretchen introduced us. “Wendy does all our latent print work,” Gretchen said.
I shook Wendy’s hand while Gretchen told me that she’d worked on the fibers out of Phillips’s Toyota all morning while Wendy worked on the prints. Then, she said to Wendy, “Monty brought us tuna salad. Eat first or after?”
“If we could just go through what you’ve got,” I said, “then I’ll get out of your hair and get back to work and you two can eat whenever you please.”
“Aren’t you going to join us?” Gretchen asked.
“No, I already ate while I was waiting for you to finish these.”
“Fair enough.” Gretchen walked me over to her desk. “Have a seat.” She waved to a chair beside it. Wendy thanked me for bringing lunch and went back to her workstation, saying, “Holler if you have any questions.”
“We’ve pulled a total of eleven good prints from the traps,” Gretchen said while opening her file. “There may be more, but we can’t get a decent read of a few of them. Of the eleven, three of them belong to your biologists: Kurtis Bowman, Sam Ward, and Paul Sedgewick; and two of them to your veterinarians: Dr. Kaufland and Dr. Pritchard. And all of their prints are on all of the traps.”
“And the other six?”
“Well, I know you can guess one of those.”
“Dorian?”
Gretchen gave me a pronounced nod. “That’s right. So”—she looked down at her paper again—“we’ve got Dorian on three of the six traps.”
“What about the others?” I could feel the tension creep back into my shoulders, my neck muscles stiffening, and my breath begin to quicken as I did the math. There were five sets left. The bright lights of the fluorescent strip lighting above stung my eyes and reminded me of how little sleep I’d gotten after Lara left.
“Well, there are four unknowns, not a match to the elimination prints and not in the system. Sam Ward informed me when he came in for his that there were other people who had helped on the project since the traps had been constructed, including the guy who built the traps, so I’m guessing they belong to those individuals.”
There was one identified set left and the look on Gretchen’s face said it all. She looked up from her paperwork, her eyes wide, her expression tentative, her chin slightly tucked down, as if she didn’t look fully up at me, it would lessen the blow.
“The last one?”
“It matches one of the prints from the collar you gave me.”
I felt something thick and murky rise up in me, but I forced myself to sit still. I realized my mouth was hanging open, so I shut it to make a clean and neat line, not pressing my lips too tightly together, and I know that sounds easy, but it wasn’t. It took effort and control because my pulse was quickening, my jaw tightening, and I felt various small muscles I couldn’t even pinpoint twitch in my body as I sat rigidly and motionless before her.
She put out a large exhale on my behalf and ran her fingers through her hair. “You going to be all right?”
“Yeah, why?” I asked stupidly.
“I’m guessing I know whose prints those are?”
“You’d be right about that. But, yeah, I’m fine. Really. In a way, it’s a relief to have some verification. To not think I’m crazy here and imagining he’s involved in stuff just because I have a few bad childhood memories.”
“That’s true,” Gretchen said.
I thanked her and stood. “I’m going to need to get on this. Any way you can rush the prints on Phillips’s Toyota?”
“I already lifted some this morning and gave them to Wendy. I’ll call as soon as anything is verified.”
“Enjoy your lunch.” I pointed to the paper bag.
“You sure you don’t want to join us?”
“No, I’m good. But thanks.”
“Okay, but let me know if I can help in any way.”
I didn’t look at her, just began to head toward the door.
“Hey,” she said, and I turned. “Did you hear me?”
“I did. I’m sorry.”
“No, sorry,” she held up her hand. “I just wanted to make sure it sunk in. I’m here if you need anything, okay? Even if it’s just an ear.”
“Thank you, Gretchen. I appreciate it.”
In a way, it was a relief; one with a sharp edge, but still a consolation. At least I was right not only in my argument with Lara about him still being toxic and bad news, but in the information I’d shared with Ken. It was a small, bitter solace, but it helped nonetheless because at least I had confirmation that I wasn’t just seeing only what I wanted to see with this case. Any good detective takes that into consideration, and even Mack in DC covered it in his class: Don’t ever let your personal shit cloud the facts before you.
It wasn’t as strong a link as you’d hope for, but with two victims and no certainty of anything, this was the strongest connection I was probably going to get. I had someone with ties to both men, and evidence that he’d had his hands on the federal box traps used by Wolfie.
When I stepped out into the late afternoon, I felt the heat rise up from the sidewalk. A diesel truck stood by the side of the building, its hot, strong-muscled fumes strangling the air. I strode to my car, got in and felt the air from the inside engulf me. My car felt confining and savagely hot, but comforting in its own strange way. I turned the ignition, rolled the windows down, and considered what to do next while waiting for it to cool off.
44
* * *
I WENT BACK TO headquarters and filled Ken in on how I wanted to handle Adam. With his prints on Wolfie’s federal traps, I had enough to demand some cooperation and to detain him temporarily for questioning under reasonable suspicion, but not enough to bring him in under probable cause.
Ken and I waited until dusk before going to Adam’s. It was already getting dark a little earlier every evening since the solstice had passed. I wanted the cover of late evening shadows so that I could approach him on my own. I knew I was taking chances by leaving Ken in the car, but still, I was clinging to the notion that I could handle Adam alone—keep it civil and under wraps. After all, I was dealing with my family, and although I had no plans to show him any mercy, I still felt that there was no need to spread my family problems all over the place in front of Ken or any other officer. The lid might be off the dysfunction jar all right, but that didn’t mean I needed to shake it, turn it upside down, and dump it all over the place. If I could keep it semicontained, I’d be happier.
We left the Park Police Explorer at headquarters since it was after work hours and took my Ford Taurus. We parked in the shadows beyond the reach of his porch light, so that if Adam were looking through his window—which I knew he would when he heard the motor—he would not be able to tell that I had someone with me. I wanted to keep him guessing and didn’t want him to feel I’d come with assistance right off the bat in case he felt threatened.
Adam opened his front door and stepped out under his porch light as I got out. It was already going on ten, the crickets had begun their clamor, and a dim light infused the night sky. A Little Brown, the most common bat in Glacier—a species highly susceptible to the White-Nose Syndrome, zigzagged above me—c
atching mosquitos and other insects.
My feet felt light on the gravel, like I was walking on air. I had my phone on in my pocket with an open call to Ken. It would probably be too muffled to hear our conversation, but he’d at least hear if anything major seemed to go wrong. As I headed closer to the cabin, an owl sailed by like a portent not two seconds after seeing the bat—all stealth and poise, hunting small creatures on the ground. I was beginning to wonder if I was the hunted or the hunter when it came to my brother.
Adam stood still in his porch light, his head high, arms rigid by his sides, fists pumping and ready as if he were a lone survivor in an apocalypse. I caught my fast breathing and stilled it, even forced a small chuckle to myself at the ridiculousness of it all—as if Adam were movie-star material, all muscle and renegade. Bugs flew above his head in the light and he lengthened his neck to get a better view of the car, but I was pretty certain he couldn’t see in even though a touch of deep indigo still hung in the western sky. I didn’t look back to check, just kept walking to the porch in the darkening twilight, anxiety pumping through me.
When I got to Adam, I could see he’d been drinking. His pupils looked dilated in the flare of the porch light and red streaks webbed out from them. “Don’t see you for years and now I can’t keep you away.”
“That’s right. Lucky us.”
“It’s late.”
“Past your bedtime?”
He didn’t answer. “Why are you here?”
“I’ve got some new information that says you’ve had more of a connection to Sedgewick than you admitted. I’d like for you to come into the station with me, so that we can have a proper chat.”
“Fuck you.” He laughed. “I told you. I had nothing to do with that guy.”
“Like I said, we’ve got evidence that shows you did, and it’s enough for reasonable suspicion.” I knew the lingo would mean nothing to him, but I was throwing it out anyway just to get under his skin.
“Reasonable suspicion?” he glared at me. “Whatever that means in your little world doesn’t carry a lot of weight in mine. You should know that.”
“And you should know that this is serious. Being stubborn isn’t going to help you here. It’s just going to make it worse. But cooperation,” I said level and flat, with all seriousness, “cooperation will be less costly for you.”
“I have no idea what you’re even talking about, and I really could give a shit about your evidence because whatever it is, it isn’t going to mean jack shit.”
I took another step closer and caught a faint smell of whiskey. Right then and there, I should have waved Ken to come on over, but stubborn is how I was feeling—I wanted to deal with my brother on my terms. Of course, I was ignoring the lecture I’d just dished out to him—that stubbornness is far more costly than cooperation. “We don’t need to go to the station; we can talk here.”
“I haven’t seen you in years and you come in here all ready and eager to solve your case on my back. Mr. Thorough coming out of the blue and making accusations about me. You’ve got to be kidding me.”
“Sensitive are you? That we haven’t spent more brotherly time together?”
“You can take yourself and all your little knickknacks”—he was referring to the weapons I had on the belt of my jeans: just my handgun in its holster, my Taser, and my cuffs in their pouch on the side—“and get the hell out of here.”
“Look,” I said firmly. “You’re not under arrest. I just want to ask you some more questions. I’d prefer the station for the sake of accuracy—yeah, call me Mr. Thorough if you’d like—but here is fine too.”
“That why you got your partner over there in the car?”
I shrugged. “What partner?”
“You think I’m stupid? As if I can’t figure out why you wouldn’t pull all the way up?”
“Maybe you should be a detective.”
“I’d rather slit my wrists. You and your friend.” He peered down the drive, and this time I did look. The car was definitely fully concealed by the dark and I couldn’t see Ken. Adam had just assumed, and I planned to give him nothing—keep him wondering. “You and your partner can just leave because I’m not going to any police station.” Adam turned, walked back into his cabin, and began to shut the door in my face, but I lunged forward and stopped the door with my palm and followed him in. Adam went straight to the fireplace and stood wide-legged and barefooted next to the iron tools. A reading lamp stood by a lounge chair, and a mass-market paperback and a glass of whiskey on a side table. “Spending a cozy evening reading, are you?”
“What do you care?”
“I guess I don’t. Just didn’t picture you as the reading type.” I tried to see the title, but couldn’t make it out.
“How the hell would you know what type I am in the first place?”
I glared at him for a second, and something bitter settled in the space and shadows between us. I didn’t need to answer that, and he knew as well that I didn’t.
“Why are you here?”
“I told you, I need to ask you some questions.”
“ ’Bout what? Your wife? Got your undies all in a bunch because she spent a little time with me—that what this is all about? You pestering me nonstop because you think I fucked your wife?”
I tried to ignore the rage shooting through me like electricity, tried to tell myself that he was just like my dad—not particularly agreeable when drinking, but the mention of Lara in his dim cabin with sinister shadows fingering across the floor and the tangy, strong smell of whiskey made my head shift and muscles twitch. “You can leave her out of this.”
Adam shook his head and began to laugh, a chuckle lined with resentment. “Just because your tidy, little life is unraveling on you doesn’t mean you need to come and push your muck in my direction. Now, get out of here before I make you.”
“I’m not going to say this again,” I said. “I need you to cooperate with me. Let’s just have a seat here.” I motioned to the table we’d sat at before. I considered pulling out my notepad and pen as a show of good faith, but the hair on the back of my neck was prickling and I didn’t trust Adam enough to tie my hands up long enough to grab it out of my pocket. It was his stance. He stood like a wild animal in his den, ready to protect, ready to pounce.
“And did you not hear me? I’m not interested in talking anymore.”
“Why not? You got something to hide?” I saw his hand slide back within closer reach of the iron tools. My breathing became shallow.
“I don’t have anything to hide. I just don’t like this. You coming in here accusing me of murder because that’s what you’re trying to do. I can plead the Fifth any goddamn time I’d like.”
“Of course you can, but that doesn’t stop you from getting charged if you’re too stupid to cooperate.”
“You calling me stupid?”
“You and Dorian both. Go ahead, stay here in your cabin in your canyon thinking you’re all safe outside the law. You’re just not very smart because, guess what, I’ll be back.” I knew I was provoking him, but that’s what I wanted. I could see the anger sizzling on him like grease on a hot pan. “Actually downright idiotic,” I added and watched his hand slide back behind his hip and reach for one of the iron tools. I instantly put my hand to my belt, grabbing for my Taser but feeling my gun instead.
In the split second that I hesitated and went to switch to my Taser, Adam lunged for me, barreling into me so that we both crashed into the wall by the front door and tumbled onto our sides. The wind exploded from my lungs when I hit the floor with a hard thud. I tried to get my breath back in the same instant I struggled to position myself on top.
Adam had gotten a hold around my neck and was trying to flip me over at the same time.
A second later, through the sound of my own gasping, I jabbed the butt of my hand into his nose hard and flat and shoved him back. Rage flooded Adam’s eyes, and he plunged back on top of me. Somehow, he had lost the fire iron in the spill of us
toward the wall, so he wound his fist up instead, raising it above me like a cobra getting ready to strike.
He was stronger and bigger than me, but—even in the jumbled mess of us each wrapping tight and jabbing for spots that would wound—I saw it, as if time had slowed to an eternity of seconds. I saw, in this particular moment anyway, that his furiousness had receded some, that it was much less than what it was as a teen, and mine had somehow suddenly been born and grown larger and more inflated. I could feel it surging through me, permeating my body, each cell vibrating with wrath.
I used it to my advantage, and with all my ire, I forced my arm up between us, pressed into the sensitive apple of his throat with the hard side bone of my forearm and broke his armlock, flipped him off me and crashed my fist into his jaw. As I reached for my Taser, he scrambled back on top of me and had somehow managed to grab the iron. He held it up with one arm, his face a dark shadow of anger, the smell of animal rage, my own deodorant, and sour whiskey filling my nostrils.
I tried to get my knee up and under him to smash it into his nuts, but he had me, hovering above me. The bright white of his T-shirt against his tan skin that glistened with sweat somehow seemed feral, daunting, and anything but a surrender. The sheer panic of feeling his weight crush me and seeing him hold the iron poised above flooded over me. My mind skidded across images of him pushing pillows over my face until I flailed like crazy, halfway suffocating me and laughing after letting up; of him wrapping me in bedsheets as I screamed and squirmed from claustrophobia; of him locking me in dark closets and down in cold basements. . . .
I could feel a sheen of sweat prickle every inch of my skin. I wanted to spit in his face. But still, I could see him hesitate, the gears turning and him stopping himself from swinging. Again, I felt that something had shifted, that something seemed different. Adam was considering things, and I could see the glimmer of anger recede from his eyes as he did so. He was resisting the urge to just act from a base of pure rage.
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