by Adira August
He couldn’t believe she was this stupid. “But investigation of what? You do have to tell me. It's the law.”
Ruth cast about as if a solution would appear on the dark window. She found the charge sheet in the file. “I suppose they give you this at the jail, anyway …” Her finger found the right line. "Investigation false imprisonment—”
He cut her off. “What's that?”
“Oh. Um. Like kidnapping or keeping somebody hostage?”
“That's ludicrous.”
Ruth shrugged and slid the sheet back into the file.
“Stop. There was more. Read the rest.”
In Ruth’s world, people either gave orders or took them. She opened the file. “It says … oh … ‘homicide with special circumstances’ … (voice drops) ... ‘minor under fourteen years of age’ … ‘sexual-’ "
She stopped. Stricken.
“What? What does it say about sex?”
She shoved the charge sheet back into the file, fumbling the papers.
He leaned toward her. “I didn't have sex with— I've never had any illegal sex.”
“I just have these forms to fill out and someone will take you away so... It'll just take a few minutes.” She kept her eyes on her work.
His eyes darted to the clock. 2:03.
“Look at me. You can't possibly think someone like me would do those things.”
She kept her head down. He regarded her with utter contempt.
Ruth put a booking form in plain view. The top line was NAME. She waited with her pen poised.
Silence.
She looked up.
He was impassive.
She fished out her cell. “Lieutenant? ... Yes, I'm sorry. Mister Ferriter doesn't want to say anything, and I need his full name and— Oh.”
In the back of the file, she found the evidence envelope with Ferriter's wallet inside.
“Okay. I see it. ... Yes. Thank—”
He’d hung up.
Bent over her task, she didn’t notice the outrage flash across Ferriter's face as she handled his property.
“I suppose it doesn't matter if I do talk to you or not, does it?”
Pen up. “I don’t understand.”
“Your friends behind the glass can listen as long as they like. Record anything they want.” Ferriter gestured with his cuffed hands at the notice that all interactions are recorded. “They believe I've done something heinous. They're wrong, but”—he waved at the one-way glass—“clearly, they watch my every move. Record my every word.”
Half-rising from her chair, looking hopefully at the dark glass, Ruth flipped a wall switch next to the window. Lights came up in the observation room. Empty. An unplugged, wall-mounted camera canted toward the floor.
Looking more disappointed than Ferriter surprised,she left him there, walked into the squadroom and opened the observation room door.
Through it, past her, Ferriter could see most of the squadroom. Empty desks. Dark TV. Ruth’s shoulders sagged. She walked out and left the door standing open.
Beneath the whipping canopy of the forest, a child’s labored breathing.
On the ground, the last of the duct tape shreds and Brian Trowbridge's feet spring apart, almost free.
Feet kick furiously, to release one pant leg. Then, one heel holds the flapping tape end down; the other leg rips free. The legs rest.
A rush of wind. Sticks and dirt, leaves and the remains of a bird’s best tumble across the legs in the strong gusts.
The feet and legs start moving again. Scooping the forest mulch, leaves and twigs together.
Pulling the piles close with his feet and legs, the child covers as much of himself as possible. Layers of duct tape wound around his torso, over his jacket sleeves, tightly secure his arms to his sides, cold-reddened fingers exposed.
Brian Trowbridge fights for his life.
DEPUTY LONNY VARGAS guided his vehicle around an upsloping, hairpin switchback. The Bronco easily kept up. Cam had driven hundreds of mountain roads far higher than this—on ice, not dry pavement.
Intermittent breaks in the forest showed them well above the surrounding countryside. Near the top of the mountain, they passed a Forest Service sign:
BLACK RIDGE PEAK FIRETOWER - CLOSED FOR THE SEASON
A narrow gravel drive led to a small paved lot in front of a bronze plaque mounted on a concrete plinth:
NATIONAL REGISTER OF HISTORIC PLACES
A brief history of the tower followed in raised bronze letters.
Cam parked the Bronco and met Vargas exiting his vehicle. “They don’t look for fires from here anymore?” Cam shouted over the buffeting wind.
“Maybe tourists do. Park Service rents it out by the week, from May through September.” Vargas hung high-powered binoculars around his neck and rifled through the vehicle’s console for keys labeled "Black Ridge."
Cam scanned the countryside, wind whipping blond spikes of hair into his eyes.
“Too many trees in the way at this level,” Vargas said. “Let’s go up.” He gestured at tourist-friendly wood stairs to a catwalk that bordered the observation cab atop the thirty-foot tower.
Cam took the stairs a few at a time. At the top, he positioned himself against the railing and faced the direction he thought the development should be. The wind was brutal. Vargas joined him a minute later, breathing heavily. He swept the landscape through the binoculars, bracing himself against the railing so the wind didn’t knock him sideways.
No signs of human habitation—a cell tower, a glint of sunlight off glass—were apparent to Cam shielding his eyes with his hands, from wind and glare. What he did see was a wrinkled carpet of forest blanketing the countryside from Mount Evans, across the valley, and over to the town of Conifer.
Vargas lowered his binoculars; it was a frustratingly large area. He smacked both palms on the wooden railing.
“Shit!” He snatched one hand back, but Cam already had hold of Vargas’ wrist, keeping his fingers back to examine the wound. Blood oozed in a line across the deputy’s palm. “Get inside. Take care of that.”
Giving Vargas his hand back, Cam examined the railing. The top of a metal rectangle, a brace of some kind, stuck up just enough to have caused the cut. Oblivious to the wind, Cam swung one leg over the railing, hooked a foot between two balusters and held onto the railing with one hand. He lowered his body and examined the brace.
The metal plate supported three metallic rods with short sections of thick wires spaced perpendicularly along its length. A cable from the thing went under the catwalk. Strong and sure, but not a fool in gale-force wind, Cam grabbed a few shots with his cell and pulled himself up onto the catwalk.
Vargas waited for him with his injured hand clenched. “Are you out of your fucking mind? What kind of arrogant, goddamned, circus stunt was that!”
Cam plucked the key from Vargas’ uninjured hand. “C’mon. It’s cold out here.” He held the door open against the gale for Vargas, who seemed torn between getting out of the wind and shooting Camden Snow.
He opted for stubborn pride. He was the law enforcement officer in charge. Cam was a civilian. Vargas refused to move.
Cam went inside, making sure the latch caught when he closed the door so the wind wouldn’t blow it open.
The cab—like a cabin in the sky—comprised a largish square room with 360 degrees of windows. The views were spectacular.
There were two sets of bunk beds and signs like "Carry away your trash" and “Food left outside attracts bears.” Cam found a tiny bathroom and a first aid kit on a plain wood shelf inside. When he turned around, Vargas was waiting and grabbed it out of his hand.
At the single wood table, Cam sat across from Vargas and slid the phone over with the first shot of the metal thing on screen. “It’s not arrogance, just experience. Been in a lot of high wind on a lot of mountains. Had to climb down from a ski lift one time.”
Vargas gave him a hard look. “One mistake or miscalculation and it’s my ass o
n the line. You should have consulted with me. We could have accomplished the same thing in relative safety.”
Camden Snow wasn’t used to consulting with anyone. Even on a case, Hunter usually trusted him to make his own decisions. But Vargas was the top cop here. He was the only cop here.
“I apologize. I was disrespectful. Won’t happen again.” Vargas nodded. “Let me wrap up your hand while you see what you can make of that.” Cam smiled. “I also have a lot of experience with injuries.”
It had been widely reported when injury ended Camden Snow’s ability to compete. Vargas picked up the cell and laid his bloody hand on the table.
There was a lot of blood. The water supply to the cab shut off for the winter, Cam cleaned up Vargas’ hand with antiseptic wipes from his pocket. Working efficiently, he applied antibacterial ointment from a packet in the kit, covered the cut with a gauze pad, and taped it in place.
“Wear a glove over that all the time,” Cam said, cleaning up after himself and putting the first aid kit back where he’d found it. When he sat down, he used one more wipe to clean his own hands.
“I never met anyone who carried antiseptic wipes around.”
“So, what do you think that is?” Cam asked off the cell.
Vargas pushed the phone back to him. “Alien fishing poles?”
Cam picked up his cell. “I’m gonna send this to somebody who can identify it, okay?”
“Sure. Who?”
“A nerd with a gun,” Cam smiled. He put some distance between himself and Vargas in case he needed to speak privately. “It’s me. … Conference this with the Lieutenant.” He sent the images and waited for DiMato to get Hunter on the line.
“Snow?”
“Yeah, Boss. You both have the pics?”
“We do.”
“Describe the location,” DiMato said.
Cam explained about the firetower. Wandering restlessly, Vargas checked his watch and went outside with the binoculars.
“Can you give me a range?” Cam asked
“Five miles as the crow flies. Especially if he has a signal booster with the camera,” DiMato said. “Those aren’t for strengthening your WiFi signal at home or some small business.”
“Those?”
“You have three high-gain antennas, there. I don’t know why three, it doesn’t increase the distance.”
“Accuracy,” Hunter said.
“Hang on, I have to enlarge.” DiMato continued in less than a minute. “Yeah. They’re all pointed in slightly different directions.”
“They have to be facing the camera?” Cam asked.
“The high-gain kind do.”
“This killer is more than organized. He’s meticulous. Compulsively,” Hunter said. “But he might not be tech-savvy. He can’t consult or hire anyone. So there’s going to be overkill. Like mounting those on a metal plate.”
“How does this help me?” Cam asked.
“Follow the directors,” DiMato told him. “The position of the things that stick out. They’ll be pointed at the camera.”
“And narrow the search area.”
“What’s going to narrow the search area?” Vargas had come back in.
“Let me brief Deputy Vargas and get back to you,” Cam said.
“We’ll get an as-the-crow-flies radius from your location.”
That was Hunter.
“I’ll see if I can get the pellet stove fired up,” Vargas said. “If they left any pellets.” Walking toward the kitchen, he almost tripped on a lump of something.
“This’ll be a five-mile radius?” Cam asked.
Vargas bent down to pick up whatever was on the floor.
“Right. We’ll shoot you a map with a circle marked,” Hunter said. “Go brief.”
Cam had an eye on Vargas, still bent over, touching the thing.
“Hang on.” Vargas was speaking to himself.
Cam craned his neck for a better view of what Vargas found. He took a step closer.
The cable Cam had spotted outside fed inside through a small hole drilled into the floor near the wall.
The cable ran to a cupboard over a minifridge.
Cam tapped off and pocketed his cell.
Vargas opened the cabinet door.
“Hang on…”
Cam closed the distance between them.
Inside the cabinet was a laptop. Open. The monitor dark.
Cam reached past Vargas and felt along the computer's power cord. The cord connected to a portable power pack at the back of the cabinet.
Vargas surveyed the cab, unsure if he was looking at a crime scene of some sort.
Cam swiped the touchpad. There was a rustling sound. Clinking. The screen came to life.
A child, the lower body covered by leaves, struggles to get one arm pulled up and out of his jacket sleeve. Like Houdini shedding a straight-jacket. It works. The arm is free. The hand moves up ...
“Hang … on.” Vargas whispered so quietly he could not be heard over the wind.
... past a heavy chain wrapped twice around the boy's neck, then twice around the tree trunk. Padlocked. No hope of escape.
The boy’s fingers scrabble over layers of duct tape around his head and over his mouth, looking for purchase.
Cam shifted his gaze, seeking something else—anything else—to look at, only to be confronted by the vast wilderness.
The boy was so small.
RUTH ENTERED Interrogation One and went to her chair.
“Do not sit down!”
She halted in an awkward half-crouch.
Ferriter had his head back, eyes narrowed. Snapped out his orders. “Go back out. Turn the weather on. Loud enough for me to hear.”
She straightened and backed out of the room.
Ferriter's eyes flicked to the clock and back. 2:11.
Through the open observation room door, Ruth was easily visible turning on the television. Wendy's voice came through distinctly. She turned it up, keeping an eye on Ferriter until he raised a hand in an OK gesture.
She came back and slipped into her chair, earning a brief smile of approval.
He leaned as far toward her as he was able. “I guess it's just the two of us.”
Ruth put the file back together and gathered her things, refusing to look at him.
“What are you doing?”
“I just think this will go more quickly at my desk.”
The clock read 2:15.
Ruth was at the door when his voice reached her. A voice on the verge of tears.
“Please. Please don't leave me. I— I'm sorry. I'm—”
Little Boy Ferriter.
She looked around at him.
“—so frightened. It's what I do when I'm scared. Bark orders at everyone so they won't see me like this.” A tear spilled. “Men aren't supposed to be …”
She returned to her chair but didn’t put her things down.
“And I'm so worried about my Mauxie.” Watery smile. “You've never heard of one, right?”
“You mean a cross between a Dachshund and a Maltese?”
“Oh, you have heard of them! I know it doesn't seem like a pet for a grown man, but I couldn't resist her. Like a warm dust bunny in the palm of my hand as a pup.”
Ruth couldn’t help but smile at the image.
Ferriter seemed suddenly unsure of himself. “There's a picture of her in my wallet. I mean, if you wanted to see her. It’s in that envelope.”
Ruth hesitated. “I can’t just go rooting through your things unless it’s for an official reason.”
“Oh, please would you look for it? I want to make sure it's still there.”
“I don’t know. Well, I suppose I can if you ask me to. You know, if you want that.”
“I really do,” he said warmly. “Please look.”
Taking his wallet back out of the property envelope, Ruth’s fingertips flicked over the edges of business cards and bits of paper. They stopped at a three-by-three-inch picture of a white and tan, b
utton-eyed, Disney character of a dog.
Her face softened.
He smiled. Sweet Ferriter. How could anyone with a dog like that hurt a child?
She held the wallet open, angling it to get more light on the snapshot. “She's adorable.”
The dark monitor behind her reflected the puppy picture.
“Her name's Cecily. I call her Silly,” Ferriter admitted with a fond glance at the little dog.
Amongst the tangle of wires and computer detritus, the reflection on the monitor was repeated on the lens of a tiny webcam.
“OH, MAN, DID he just hand her a key piece of evidence?” DiMato enlarged the image on his screen.
“He did if that's the same picture he showed other kids,” Hunter answered.
Garza leaned back against the wall of the dimly lit video surveillance room on the floor above Homicide. “He's trying to lure her. Smart.”
On the monitor, Ferriter looked worried.
“She's outside, you see. I'm just concerned because it was so nice this morning I left her tied up in the yard.”
Ruth’s brows knit.
“Mom will be home at three, but if the storm comes in early … she could die!”
Chang raised the volume. The corner of his monitor displayed a small overhead shot of the room. The main picture from the webcam showed all of Ferriter above the table, part of Ruth from the back.
Ruth pushes her chair back. “I'll call dispatch and get animal control to pick her up.”
“Stay where you are.” Ferriter’s voice is stone cold.
She obeys.
Ferriter leans over the table at her as far as the cuffs allow. “Oh, I’m so sorry. Was that rude?”
Ruth’s eyes dart away from his penetrating gaze.
“DiMato, send Merisi the dog picture; he can go back to his witness,” Hunter said.
“On it. I’ll find some matching pups for a photo array.”
“Good,” Hunt said, distracted by how intensely Garza fixated on the action taking place on the monitor.
Ferriter cocks his head at Ruth, dead-eyed, smiles almost lovingly. “It's the thought. To be locked in a cage. Handled by strangers. It … upsets me.”
Ruth’s eyes widen. A fawn in headlights waiting for annihilation.