by D. L. Keur
She grinned. They’d been spying on her. “They just aced, not only human remains detection, but then scent discrimination to choose only one specific dead human’s remains,” Jessie called.
“Can we come out there?”
Jessie nodded. “Yes.”
Maneuvering around the tiny markers, both her dad’s and her granddad’s horses ambled up. Her dad dismounted and dropped his horse’s reins. At her granddad’s signal, every one of their dogs immediately sat.
Her dad walked up to her, reached out and hugged her. “Watching you work,” he said, then shook his head. “Jessie, that was amazing. You’re actually communicating with them. It’s uncanny.”
“Thanks, Dad.”
“Our own Dr. Doolittle,” her granddad said with a grin. “Solid gold work, Jessica Marie.”
And that, coming from her granddad, was high praise, indeed.
***
8 – Clubbing
An appointment had been set up to interview one Bill Craven, owner of The Craven Inn, and Landon decided he’d go along with his lieutenant to meet the owner of the town’s most notorious liquor joint and dance club. Thirty-one-year-old Bill Craven had a reputation, and it wasn’t a good one. Landon’s plan was to let his lieutenant do the talking. He just wanted to study the man as he answered. Their appointment was at four. The place opened for business at five.
“Yeah, I know the girls,” Bill said when he finally sauntered out of his back room ten minutes late. His wavy, dark hair all mussed and uncombed said he’d just gotten out of bed. So did the pillow marks on his grinning face.
He didn’t invite them to sit. He didn’t offer them anything to drink. Just stood smirking, his hands stuffed in the waistband of some garishly colored pants that looked like he was actually still wearing his pajamas—adult-sized kids pajamas. “Used to come here every weekend. They’d show off on the poles.” The man gestured with his head, his hands never leaving his waistband. “Haven’t seen them for a couple of weeks, now.”
Landon’s eyes flicked to the two dance poles up on either side of the raised platform, between which sat a counter that held lots of electronics.
“They were pretty entertaining. Made a good bit, I think, on tips.”
Landon frowned at that. So was that where the money had come from? Or did Craven have back rooms for entrepreneurial prostitution? He blew a breath, and saw Bill Craven notice.
“Nope,” the man said, as if reading his mind. “Make my money on booze and cover charges.”
“How much does it cost to get in?” Red asked.
“For you? Nothing.”
“For the patrons,” Landon said dryly.
“Twenty bucks on Monday, Tuesday, and Thursday. Thirty on Wednesday, and fifty bucks on Friday and Saturday nights. Plus I.D, of course. Always I.D.” He smirked even more as he said it.
Fifty bucks!
“We do a ‘girls night free’ and a ‘stag night’, too. Once a month each. On Tuesday or Thursday.”
Yeah. Those are the nights when the P.D. calls us to help break up the fights and help take kids to the ER.
“How many people are in here on any given week night and how many on Friday and Saturday night?” Red asked.
“Monday, Tuesday, and Thursday, maybe ten to twenty, except on the free nights. It loads up, then. Wednesday is over the hump night, so it gets up to thirty or forty total. Weekends, we’re up to fifty on the floor during peak hours and, sometimes, we’ll hit capacity—eighty—if we can get this one DJ in.”
“And Sue and Debbie came in on weekends?”
“Yeah. Sometimes Wednesdays, too, but that was hit or miss. They made the most booty for their booty show on the weekends.”
So maybe that is how they made their wad, Landon thought.
“Did they always come in together?”
“Yeah. Never seen ’em apart, actually. Always left together, too.”
“And anyone in particular that hung out with Sue or Debbi?” Red asked.
“Just the usual lesbos.”
“Lesbos?” Red came back, scorn saturating his voice.
“Yeah,” and, again Bill Craven’s eyes flicked to Landon’s. “Girls who are into other girls. Big hit with the guys, too. They somehow think two or three gals rubbing themselves against each other is a turn on. To each his own, and all that.”
“And which guys paid the most attention?” Landon asked.
The man shook his head, but his eyes slid sideways—lying. “Couldn’t tell you that. Don’t know the younger crowd much, and that’s who comes here. They all kinda look the same, y’know? Especially under the lights.”
“But you know Sue and Debbie.”
Craven laughed. “Everybody knows Sue and Debbie.”
“Why?”
“Because they flaunt it more than anybody else.”
“You have surveillance tape?” Landon asked.
“Erased every morning unless there’s a robbery or assault.”
“Right.” And probably erased then, too, unless it’s somebody robbing you.
“Have you kept any from the last month?”
“Nope. Sorry. It’s programmed to auto erase unless I take a copy of it before 4AM.”
“All bases covered, huh?” Landon remarked.
“Got to. Get folks coming in here wanting to know if their kid or their wife or their husband was here. I can’t go squealing on my customers and all, y’know. They’d stop coming, and I’d be out my livelihood.”
“Right.”
Outside, Red stood looking down the street to the other dance club. “Want to check them out, too?”
“We can. Do we need an appointment for this one?”
“Nah. I know Jerry Bingham. Besides, they’re open from two in the afternoon till two at night. Serve some pretty good food, too, if you’re hungry.”
“No.”
They walked the block, but quizzing the owner there netted them nothing useful. This joint was a “cowboy” club that played live music—country western, with mostly local groups doing covers, the patrons invited to come up and sing if they wanted. It served all age groups with some nights—the slow ones—reserved for old timers. “We even feature some square dancing. Offer classes, too. Got a good caller. Local fellow.”
Pete Campbell, the manager, said he’d never seen either girl, and, yes, they did keep their video surveillance for a week. Then it got overwritten. “Women who come here are …looking to catch them a man. Guys who come here are looking to catch them a lay. We’ve got a dress code, too. No bling, no pasties—gotta be wearing a top and a bottom—but, yes, booty shorts allowed, though few wear them. Must wear hat and boots, though,” Pete told them. “We’re strict about the hat and boots. Gotta look the part.” He grinned saying it.
And that left out Sue and Debbie. Their wardrobes had held no boots, just mostly spike heels and flats. There certainly hadn’t been any Stetsons®, Resistols®, or even kids’ cowboy hats from Walmart® in their possession.
“Well, that was pretty much a wash,” Red said as they headed back to the unit.
“Lesbians,” Landon said, thinking.
“What about ’em?”
“Fake or real for Sue and Debbie?”
Red shrugged. “I think it’s mostly a fad—a gimmick to be ‘different’. I think most people ‘grow out of it’, if you follow.”
“I follow. But were they just mining for money, playing at it, or were they actually gay?”
Red shrugged, again. “Could be all three between the two of them, I suppose.”
“Sue’s pink hair that she was so well known for, that tells me she was just playing it for the money, I think.”
“I don’t know. She started dying it that way before she graduated high school. Got her kicked out of her house.”
“And you know this how?”
“It’s in her records. She got picked up that night by the P.D.. They took her to the women’s shelter since she was already eighteen going on ni
neteen.”
“Ah. Guess I should have read a little deeper in the file.”
“Naw. That’s what you’ve got us for,” Red said with a grin. “And, actually, I’m finding myself kind of invested in this case. I don’t like the smell of it.”
“I don’t either,” Landon admitted.
“I know. You wouldn’t have called Wilber in otherwise, and I’m glad you did. I think this is serious.”
“Me, too. You heard anything?”
“Nope. He’s still huddled up with the ME, last I heard.”
“Taking that long, huh?”
“Seems so.”
And that did not bode well.
***
9 – A Local Killer
It was just light enough to see, the morning twilight still not bright enough to ‘see color’. Jessie was just starting her morning run, the dogs trotting along with her, stopping here and there to sniff something delicious to their senses as Jessie ran on.
Acer suddenly bounded to her side. Then the rest came running, dodged in front of her, then stopped, barring her way, their heads up, ears pricked. Forced to stop, Jessie wondered if a bear was nearby, hoping it wasn’t a grizzly. One had been sighted in the area last week. She checked her right pocket for the bear bomb, then pulled the canister of bear spray out of her left and waited.
Long seconds later, faintly she heard the sound of a vehicle. That vehicle got closer, then faded again. It’s on the old Forest Service road. It was an odd thing to hear this early. The public had the right to be there, but, earlier than a half an hour before sunrise, it was unusual.
The body and the red truck her drones had sighted flashed to mind. Certainly, the killer wouldn’t come back up, would he? Could be a turkey hunter getting an early start. That was the only season open at the moment. Could be a poacher, too.
The sound of the vehicle returned and faded twice more as it climbed, then faded completely. The dogs relaxed, and Jessie resumed her run. But her nerves were on edge, especially when the dogs moved to position themselves strategically around her, Acer and Britta to either side of her, Milo and Mitch in front, Queenie, Sumi, and Oso bringing up the rear.
Jessie hadn’t taught them that. They’d come to that arrangement on their own. We really are a pack, Jessie thought. What bothered her was that they considered her the most vulnerable of their number. She was ‘the pup to be protected’.
Thinking about it, though, maybe she was. She didn’t carry more than bear repellent, despite both her dad’s and granddad’s admonishments that she needed to, at least, take a revolver with her. “Just in case.”
In case of what? Anything smaller than a .357 magnum couldn’t stop a grizzly, a black bear, or a charging moose. Bear spray and bombs were better, and she had those tucked in her pocket, more in the small emergency pack on her back. A gun was good against people, feral dogs, scaring off a big cat or the occasional wolverine—that sort of thing—but mostly against people, and there just weren’t that many people to be wary of in their locale. The incident two days ago was an anomaly. Still, though, maybe she should pack iron—her .22, maybe—just in case. Tomorrow, she told herself. She’d do it starting tomorrow.
*
Landon’s phone buzzed as he was just getting a mug out of the cupboard. He ignored it. It was too early for phone calls—just after 5AM—and he needed coffee before talking to anyone.
Moments later, the darned thing buzzed, again, though. This time, he glanced at it, recognized the number, and answered, “Sheriff Reid.” In the background, he heard the distinct sound of a small plane’s engine. Schmidt was already headed home.
“This is Captain Wilber Schmidt, CSI, Idaho State Police, Sheriff Reid. Can you hear me all right?’
“Loud and clear, Captain.”
“I’ve finished my report and left it in your office. Evidence is logged in, samples, including semen samples, sent off to the lab. I’ll have my office bill yours, but I wanted you to know that I think you may have a serial killer on your hands. He may be early to mid stages, but definitely showing all the hallmarks of having orchestrated this before. This is just my opinion, but this young woman is not your victim zero.”
Reid’s stomach had lurched at the word ‘orchestrated’. Now it did a full flip. “What makes you say that, Captain?”
“It’s all in my report, but, well, like the lack of hesitation marks on the body. Your ME and I are in complete agreement about this. There’s also the distinct and careful lack of evidence all around the scene—no misplaced footprints, no fibers or hairs, not even tire tracks that were distinct and recoverable. He made sure to park on rock. On purpose. Like I said, I think he’s done this before. Why he wasn’t careful about the evidence left on the body makes me suspicious that what you actually have is a leader and an apprentice-helper, the apprentice being the rapist and someone the principal considers disposable. I’m guessing it’s the helper’s DNA we’ll have recovered from the victim’s body.”
Now, he was wide awake. Without coffee. And he wouldn’t need any. “All right, Captain. And thank you.”
“One more thing, Sheriff.”
“Go ahead.”
“I think your perp knows the area.”
Reid frowned. “A local, then?”
“I’d say so. I’d check out other locations in your county with similar terrain. That he chose that particular spot says something. Again, it’s all in my report. In detail.”
“All right. Thank you for telling me.”
“Till next time.” The man paused, then added, “Because there will be a next time.”
A chill ran down Reid’s neck. He felt the start of a headache and his stomach had turned into a festering black pit. Not if I can help it.
Homicides were rare in his county—maybe two or three in a year. Most of them were heat-of-the-moment shootings at a bar or between antagonistic neighbors. Then, there was the occasional domestic like the one that had almost killed his undersheriff—Landon hated those. Once in a blue moon, there might be a death as a result of a home or property invasion, but it was usually the perp who got shot—Darwin Awards®. Mostly, his county was quiet and well-behaved. Farmers, ranchers, and small business owners didn’t have the time or the inclination to act out, and Landon liked it that way. It was those they employed who mostly got into trouble, but that trouble usually involved money …or the lack of it.
Reid, like his dad before him, tried to keep their county that way—quiet. While his dad had done it with a swift, uncompromising response, Reid did it mostly by trying to stay ahead of trouble …or at least even with it, using special intercession workers provided by the local women’s shelter, NAMI, and Health and Human Services, his reservists going along to keep things peaceable. It had taken him all last year to organize, but it was proving out, keeping trouble at a minimum. Of course, there were the teenagers who could get a bit wild. But, mostly, a couple of swift kicks in the right direction got them straightened out fast. And, since he’d been one himself here, he knew all the places used for keggers and other illicit activities.
Still, though, when all was tallied, he didn’t have much practice at any of it. But he was duly elected, the youngest sheriff on record in Idaho, and there it was. And all because he was a Reid, and folks in this county trusted the Reids because of his dad’s and his granddad’s reputations, both sheriffs of this county before they’d retired to pass it on to their sons.
‘Head them off at the pass and shoot to kill. Saves the taxpayers a load of money’, his dad still always told him. Repeatedly. Landon tried not to follow the shoot to kill advice, but he certainly did the rest. This time, though, there’d been no advanced warning of trouble brewing. This time, somebody had beat him to, then through, the pass. They were way ahead of him.
***
10 – Morning Rituals
Back from her run, Jessie took a cup of coffee into her gram who was just waking up, stuffed the breakfast casserole in the oven, then fed her dogs before go
ing out to help feed in the big barn.
Darby, her dad, and John were already at it. “You’re late. Cows and hogs are done, already,” Darby said.
Grabbing one of the empty rolling carts, she loaded the stainless steel bowls her granddad was filling onto it. When all six tiers of the cart were full, she scooted it away and got another. By the time, she’d loaded them, her dad and John were back with the other two. “This’ll be the lot, Jessie,” Oli said.
“Okay.”
Darby started spraying off the counter, so Jessie grabbed a towel and followed after him, wiping down the stainless steel as she went. Done, Darby grabbed the towel from her, wadded it up, and threw the soggy thing across toward the open washer. “Dern thing’s getting full again. Guess I’ll turn it on,” he told her. “You come back later and put the load in the dryer?”
“I’ll do it when I come to let the horses out. I’m heading to do the chickens, then over to the horse barn, now.”
“You mind that you don’t go getting nailed by that rooster.”
“Yeah, I’m good. He’s a pushover …when you’re armed with a garbage can lid.”
Darby chuckled. “That’ll do it. Just so you know, your dad, your grandmother, and me have to meet somebody in town this afternoon. John will be here, of course.”
“Okay,” Jessie answered.
“Give my mare an extra ration, would you?” he called after her. “She’s getting a little weedy-looking.”
“Okay.”
In the chicken yard, the rooster ignored her. The momma duck and her mate, on the other hand, took swipes at her. Jessie ignored the birds and finished gathering the eggs, then loaded the feeders. She got a pinch on the back of her calf as she scraped the floor clean.
Turning on the creatures, she shooed them off.
The ducks hissed at her.
“Okay, okay. Nobody’s going to touch your ducklings, Sadie Duck and Sam. Back it on off.”
The ducks both reared up, wings flapping.
When they settled, Jessie took advantage and swooped Sam up. The drake immediately hollered until Jessie gave him strokes and a kiss on the beak. Calm again, she gave him a few more strokes, and the bird rewarded her by tucking his bill into the crook of her arm.