by D. L. Keur
Barry shook his head. “That can’t have made her family too happy.”
“Oh? Why’s that?”
“Got a call back from Lemhi S.O. They knew she was homosexual, and, ah, they don’t approve of it. Kind of sticklers about it, in fact. They have their own church. Not part of any recognized denomination.”
“Right.”
Landon started to head back to his office, stopped when a hunch hit him square in the forehead, turned around, and said, “Barry?”
“Yeah?”
“What are the chances that our perp killed Sue because she was homosexual?”
The man didn’t even hesitate. “Doubtful.”
“Why?”
“We just don’t have that kind of extremism here.”
“What if we do and just don’t know about it?”
If the flesh on a man’s face could suddenly loosen up and physically droop, that’s what Landon swore happened at that moment to Barry’s. “I—I can’t even imagine….” Barry shook his head. “Good people live here. They may be old-fashioned, even fanatic in some cases about their beliefs, but they’re not …capable of doing what happened to Sue. No way. Not in the Bitterroot.”
“Well, somebody is.”
“Got to be somebody from outside,” Barry said, and Landon could see he was resisting the idea.
“What if what we have here is a hate crime and the killing has just started?”
“Then we’d have a problem, sir.”
And a possible motive for our killer. “Have somebody pull all the missing person files going back five years and have them delivered to my office, would you? I want to follow a hunch.”
The man looked skeptical, but said, “Will do.”
***
15 – Flight Trauma
Getting Mitch and Milo accustomed to flying proved a very noisy experience. Milo kept shaking his head, whining, and rubbing his ears with his paws. Mitch just howled the whole first test flight.
“Maybe I should just drive,” Jessie said.
“Call the vet,” Oli suggested, but, when Jessie did, the solution was sedation, something she was loathe to do.
“Can we try again?”
“Sure. Let me get my earplugs.”
The second time up wasn’t nearly as bad, but still not good. Jessie went to a different veterinarian—a woman who had just moved down from Alaska and who had a reputation for seeking cause, not just reaching for the standard treatment protocols.
“First, I want to take a look in their ears, then maybe do an x-ray.”
Half an hour later, both Mitch and Milo bounded out of the clinic area all wags, and Jessie had a diagnosis. Milo had tiny Eustachian tubes. Mitch? Just nerves or, perhaps, Dr. Kathy Caldwell suggested, he was sympathetic to Milo’s misery. “They’re very bonded,” Kathy noted.
Jessie smiled. “Yes, they are.”
“So here’s my suggestion. Diphenhydramine for Milo—what you probably know as Benadryl®—and valium for Mitch if necessary …which, if Milo responds well to the antihistamine, may not be necessary. Can you take another test flight?”
“I think my dad would, maybe, suffer it again.”
“Would he allow me to come along?”
“I suppose. Misery loves company, and all.”
Kathy smiled. “My thought is that, if either or both show distress, seeing it would allow me to better diagnose a potentially effective remedy. And, of course, I can alleviate their discomfort and your dad’s in moments with a quick-acting sedative.”
Jessie nodded. She really liked this woman. “Okay. I’ll ask. When would you be available to do this? We’re kind of running out of time.”
“Let me check my appointments.”
They scheduled it for the next afternoon, but they needn’t have. Milo pretty much managed with only a couple of headshakes, and Mitch settled down once Milo did. “Take doggy chews with you so they can keep clearing their ears. But I think they’re going to do fine.”
Jessie agreed. Dr. Caldwell had found the cause and affected the perfect solution. Now all that was left was to go inform the sheriff.
*
“Why do you have to okay it with the sheriff?”
‘’Technically, I don’t, Dad. It’s a courtesy.”
“Jessie, I never, ever agreed with your choice to go into law enforcement. You know that.”
She did. But you’re okay with the military for Erik, then frowned as she realized that she was still angry about her older brother’s decision to become a SEAL like her father.
“I play nice with them for business reasons, but I don’t respect many of them. Known too many bad ones—criminals with a badge, a bunch of hooligans licensed to kill. Give them an inch, and they’ll not only try for the country mile, but the whole territory.”
That was true for a lot of different occupations, especially business. But, yes, it was there in law enforcement, too. It had certainly been evident in the attitude of some of her fellow deputies in Blaine. But it wasn’t her attitude, and, because she knew the reason for that attitude, she knew how to defuse it …or thought she did, anyway.
“Let’s get your lawyer’s take on this, first, okay?”
“Already did,” she said. And she had. He’d agreed with her.
“I don’t believe you.”
That made Jessie step back. Her dad had never, ever called her a liar before. She felt something break inside, and it hurt. A lot. It also made her angry, because she had never, ever lied to him.
Her mom? Yes.
Her sister? Definitely.
Her brothers? Maybe.
Her dad, granddad, or grandmom? Never had and never would. The most she would ever do would be to keep silent unless they asked her a direct question. Then, no matter what, she’d answer them honestly.
Fixing him a look, she took out her phone, hit Pearson’s picture, and, when it connected and started ringing, she put it on speaker.
“Hogalby and Pearson.”
Her eyes steady on her dad’s, his on hers, challenging her, she said, “This is Jessica Anderson. May I speak with Mr. Pearson, please. It’s important.”
“One moment, Ms. Anderson. Let me see if he’s available.”
Moments later, Pearson’s voice came on. “Jessica? What’s up?”
With a sweet smile in her voice, she said, “I have you on speaker for my dad’s sake, Mr. Pearson, because he just called me a liar.” At that, she saw her dad drop his head. “So, if you’d please answer honestly for his benefit: Did you agree that it was best that I advise the sheriff that I plan to leave the state for a week?”
Audible through the phone was an intake of breath. “Hello, Oli. And, yes, I did advise that to be the best course considering the circumstances. It demonstrates Jessica as a cooperative potential witness.”
If a man such as her father could squirm, he would be doing so now. “When did she become a witness?” he asked, his voice gruff.
“The moment her property, and, therefore, she, through her property, surveilled a felony crime scene.”
Her dad leveled accusing eyes at her. “First I’ve heard about it.”
“Jessie?”
“Yes, Mr. Pearson?”
“Haven’t you told your dad what you’re potentially facing?”
Of course she hadn’t. “…Mmm, no.”
“Maybe it’s time you do that.”
Jessie thought about it. Didn’t want to. Knew he’d find out eventually. “Okay, Mr. Pearson.”
“I’d like to hear how it goes with the sheriff before you leave, all right?”
“I’ll call with the details.”
“Good. And, if I forget to say it, have a good trip.”
“Thank you.”
When the connection terminated, Jessie stood watching her father, waiting for some sign. He, in turn, sat watching her. He gave in before she did, also pretty much a first. “Well?”
He’s not going to like this. “Well,” she began, “it’s what Sheriff Reid mentio
ned. Idaho Code Section 19-4301A—Failure to Report. I could face a fine of ten-thousand dollars and five years in prison.”
The frown descending her dad’s face was one she’d only seen a few times in her life, and never had it ever been directed toward her. It was, now, though. “Explain,” he commanded.
Jessie sat down, and took a huge breath, trying to decide how to approach it. Straight out, she decided. “Because I’m a certified CSI, because I have a degree in criminal forensics and an associate’s degree in criminal justice, the fact that I witnessed what they deem I would know, by virtue of those degrees, plus my time as a sworn deputy, to be a felony crime scene and did not immediately report it as such, makes me guilty of violating the law. It’s circumstantial, but it would be hard to convince a jury or a judge, if I chose a bench trial, that I didn’t know.”
Her dad was ever so slightly nodding his head up and down, up and down—the merest suggestion of movement. His eyes had gone hard, glittery, and sharpest blue. His face had gone to that curiously expressionless poker face that Jessie knew harkened back to his time as a Navy SEAL. “Did you know?” he asked, his voice so soft that the question was barely audible.
But Jessie heard. “Yes.”
*
Reid was sipping his third cup of bad coffee, still working his way through last night’s activity logs, checking the status of those arrested and those simply detained for their own safety, when, once again, Red poked his head around the door of his office. “Incoming,” he said.
Landon looked up to see a deputy pushing a rolling cart laden with two boxes down the hall toward his office, Red standing back to allow the man past him. “What’s this?” Reid asked.
“What you asked for. The unsolved missing person reports from the last five years.”
Startled, Reid had the man unload the boxes against the wall behind the visitor chairs—one full of clasped files, one half full. “That many?” Reid asked. He couldn’t believe it.
“Yep,” Red replied. “If you want help, do give out a shout,” he said. Then, as he left, tossed, “Not that anyone will answer,” back over his shoulder.
Getting up, Reid tentatively unsnapped the catch and opened the cover of the top file in the nearest box. A couple a sheets of paper, a picture, some hand-written notes—that was all that was in it. “Oka-aay.” He grabbed a handful and returned to his desk, pulled the top one, and began to read. Then, he read the next and the next. There wasn’t a whole lot there. These were the oldest.
Two hours later, he finally found one with something to bite his teeth into—a case that went back two years. The missing person was a young woman—Lily Thompson. She was in her twenties when she went missing, the daughter of a well-known family. A known lesbian, she was reported missing by her partner, a woman named Sheila Simpson. She’d disappeared after leaving work at the The Club Cafe where she worked as a waitress, the same place Sue Bigsby had worked. A connection? Or just coincidence?
He read on.
No trace of her whereabouts had ever been found. Sheila Simpson disappeared a week later, but she was found by the FBI. She’d moved to L.A. without so much as a word to anyone.
The next one he found happened two months after that—a woman in her thirties named Frieda Bates who worked as a court stenographer. She had failed to appear for work, and, when Northridge P.D. officers went to her home, they found no vehicle and the neighbor taking care of her dog. The neighbor claimed that they took the dog because it hadn’t been fed or watered in two days. They’d called animal control about it, but nothing had been done.
Talking to Frieda Bates’ workmates netted them the fact that she was a Methodist. One of the other court stenographers said that Frieda had mentioned that she thought she was being stalked by a guy in a red pickup.
“Yes!” Landon grabbed more files out and dug in.
***
16 – Courtesy Call
“There’s a Jessica Anderson here to see you, Sheriff. She insists she’ll only speak with you and won’t state the nature of her business.”
Jessica Anderson. Just who he didn’t want to see. Not with the mess of going through old missing person’s files piled around everywhere as he tried to find evidence for his hunch. Still, there was nothing for it. “Go ahead and escort her to my office.” Landon’s eye caught again at the craziness of his unkempt office. “…Wait.” Then, with a sigh, he shook his head. “…Yeah. Bring her here.”
“Yes, sir.”
But the woman who walked in wasn’t a Jessica Anderson he recognized. Smartly dressed in heels and a tailored suit, her platinum blonde hair coifed like she’d just stepped out of a salon, the woman who walked in a few minutes later was confident, in charge …together—like a VIP corporate CEO. He stood up. “Ms. Anderson,” he said. “To what may I owe the pleasure of this visit?”
“This is a courtesy call, Sheriff Reid. I’m advising you that Dad and I are flying down to California for business. We plan to be gone a week, starting tomorrow and, weather permitting, we should be back by next Wednesday.”
“I see. Sit down, Ms. Anderson.”
She eyed the chairs—one filled with files, the other loaded with more files. “Let me get those,” he said, scooping up the pile from the nearest chair, his intent that of stashing them …somewhere. He looked around, desperately searching for some place safe to put them other than on his desk to get mixed up with the ones he was reading.
His movement was too much for the disorganized stack, though. It promptly shifted, the slick file folders sliding sideways despite his attempt to pin them with his chin.
Anderson’s hands reached and caught at them, steadying them, as her laughter broke loose. “Must be the week for it. My hanging files just jumped out of their frame in my filing cabinet yesterday. Let me help.”
She grabbed the top of the stack and stashed them on the floor near the cabinet where her drones were locked up. He followed suit with the rest that he still held clamped tight in his arms. “Thanks,” he said, instantly grumpy.
“Obviously, I caught you at a bad time.”
“So how about lunch?” He said it out of the blue, his own mouth never warning him of what it was planning.
“Sure. Dutch, though.”
He hadn’t heard that term used except by his grandmother. He faked it. “Don’t know that place. How about The Hereford?”
“Steak for lunch, Sheriff?” she asked, tipping her head and grinning.
“And for breakfast and dinner, too, if possible.”
Again, she laughed.
Who was this woman? And he seriously considered the possibility, rare as it was supposed to be, of dissociative identity disorder. “Let me get my hat.”
*
“I’ll have the special,” Jessica Anderson told Jeremy, their waiter.
“Yes, Miss Anderson. Would that be medium, as usual?”
“Yes, please.”
“Sparkling water?”
“Yes, please. With a lemon twist.”
“Yes, Miss.”
Landon blinked. So she was a regular here. They knew her personally. And her tastes. Why hadn’t he seen her here before, then.
“Sheriff Reid, sir?”
“Yeah. I’ll have the same, but just knock the horns off, and wipe its butt. And give me a couple of extra rolls, would you?”
Jeremy chuckled. “Yes, sir. Something to drink?”
“Coffee with cream.”
“My dad says that—knock the horns off, and wipe its butt,” Jessica said after their waiter left. “Must be a man thing.”
“It’s something my dad always says, and I’ve just continued the tradition.”
“Tradition is good.”
“Sometimes.”
She gave him an odd look, dropped her eyes and gave a little nod as if to herself.
“What?” he asked.
“Hmm. I was just thinking that some traditions need to be …retired.”
“For instance?”
“Oh, I was just thinking about my older brother. I got a call from him this morning. He’s a SEAL, just like Dad was. He went in, because, well, I think it was because it’s what he thought Dad expected. And Granddad, too, maybe. Something military, though Darby was a Master-of-Arms in the Navy, not a SEAL.”
“I don’t think they had SEALs back in your grandfather’s time,” Landon said dryly, “but you don’t think Erik would have done it otherwise?”
She turned her head to face him. “Actually, I think they did have SEALs when my granddad was in the service. The SEALs started in 1962. How do you know my brother’s name?”
“He was in my high school graduating class. We played football together.”
“Oh.” She looked away, her eyes going far away for a second. “Right.”
Her sparkling water arrived, and she took a sip. “So you’re heading to Cal, huh?” he asked.
She nodded. “Dad’s flying us.”
“Call me nosy, but what for?”
“I’m hoping to impress Callen Parker, again, this time with Milo and Mitch for human remains detection, what we in dogs call HRD. They’re both doing really, really well for me.”
He nodded. “Don’t know of this Parker you mention, and don’t know much about anything dog-related. Horses are my thing. And cats.”
“Callen is one of the top experts in canine SAR and HRD both in the U.S. and overseas.”
“I see. So this is a good thing if he gives his stamp of approval.”
“Oh, he already has on my SAR methods. HRD is a whole different thing, though.”
“Well, I can see, with your credentials, that, yeah, his sanction would work well for you, maybe.”
She gave him a look that was just nigh short of peeved, then said, “You know all about me, don’t you?”
“I know what’s a matter of record. You did it to yourself, you know. Not my fault you were flying your drones that day. But that’s got nothing to do with the conversation, does it? What’s Callen Parker do for you?”
She seemed to weigh his response, then said, “HRD is a closed shop. Just like SAR is, now. You have to be a first responder, or retired from it, and know how to handle evidence to even play.”