Dream of the Wolf

by Bradley McKenzie

  Leeman and his people were changing the game statewide. Hackett must know this, she was the governor’s man, and yet she acted toward them like a cat with a mouse. Playing, posturing, as though she could pounce when the game grew tiresome.

  Brouwer’s lace up boot was on her knee, tight riding jeans rumpled around the boot top, the boot was out of view and she bounced it up and down lightly. You’ve stepped in political bullshit, she thought to herself. She met eyes with Sheriff Hargrove and he winked at her.

  Leeman relaxed beneath his buffalo print. The smell of the desk, slathered in disinfectant, stung with sharp pine. Hackett’s voice was firm through the speaker. “In regards to your questioning Agent Brouwer’s conduct, Mr. Leeman, I have to ask, when was the last time you had an elk gun pointed at you?”

  Hackett purred with mockery, catlike through the phone. Brouwer appreciated her friend’s support but could do without games. Brouwer could do without having the county prosecutor as an enemy. She could do without ambitious people politicizing the fundamentals. It didn’t pay for anyone, and nobody won. She didn’t seek Jennifer Hackett’s support; she could answer to Attorney Leeman herself. Hackett was a powerful ally, a big cat, but she doesn’t know these mice. Attorney Leeman grinned to himself while Hackett spoke, a mouse building a cat trap.

  Hackett and Brouwer had known each other in college at Bozeman. They had been starkly different women in their college days, just as they were now. Hackett the society girl, extended hair in enormous curls whipped about in auburn, bouncing as she strode the halls to class. Planning and attending parties, celebrating the campus sorority life. Surrounded by homecoming queens from mountain towns, dominating campus, that small world, for Hackett, was an open social competition. Not so, for the twenty-year-old Brouwer, a funded student on scholarship for Alpine Skiing and Rodeo, a farm girl at school while the family farm slipped away. A girl nobody knew, who rode the fastest time on a borrowed horse to make the varsity Rodeo racing team. Practice drills, winding through barrels on a college horse, every morning and night. Then study, long winter nights in the campus library, for grades high enough to keep scholarship money rolling in. While Brouwer was back at the farm seeding soybeans, Hackett was on spring break in Florida. She planned parties that Brouwer was not invited to and, had she been, would not have attended.

  Her first posting at Highway Patrol, Brouwer drove a hand me down pickup truck packed with an old sofa and an older saddle, to a windblown town where, she soon learned, Jennifer Hackett was a rising County Attorney and the secretary of the district political committee. A sharp pang of familiarity uneased her stomach. Hackett was not someone Brouwer had wanted to know. She had hoped to leave the sorority crowd behind her, in College, where those women belong for eternity.

  They ran into one another in the town’s only grocery store. The towering Hackett, dressed to the nines on a scalding, windblown prairie day, and the petite Brouwer in jeans and white undershirt, her hair cropped short at the time, only accepting an invitation to coffee out of politeness. There were no other women to coffee with in that emptying town but she had not felt lonely there, not until she agreed to meet Hackett at the café on main. She called Hackett later that day, the phone to her chest, thinking of the right excuse to cancel the coffee date, when Hackett answered, she pretended to be confirming the time they were meeting at, when the call ended, her cheeks reddened.

  They began renting movies on snowy weekends when Hackett had to stick around, and they became friends, of a kind. Hackett was not as shallow or as spoiled as Brouwer expected her to be, and Brouwer was not as plain or as clueless as Hackett must have assumed she was in the beginning. Deeply cold winter nights, snow drifting on the door of the rented townhouse, moonless prairie night, black as paint, they shared boxes of red wine, the only wine available from the town’s grocer. Despite her weighty flaws - superficiality, a presumptuousness that assumed others aspired to what she already was - Hackett grew on Brouwer. Hackett was shallow, to be sure, but Brouwer began to see that Hackett trait in a different light. Hackett used shallowness to keep the world at bay. If the surface is the only part of you in the world, then that’s the only part of you they can harm. Hackett came down to earth by spending time with Brouwer and they both learned to be real with one another. Jennifer Hackett could make a trucker blush, could make Brouwer laugh until she cried, and they began to depend on one another. Over more time, Hackett had become a powerful ally, statewide.

  Jennifer Hackett said, “We want justice for these women. We can agree to put the differences between the Governor and the county aside, and find who killed these girls. Our expectation is that our detective follows the leads of this investigation, and she’s doing that.”

  “What we can agree on,” Attorney Leeman said, “is fear. The people are afraid. They’re not used to this kind of fear in the Park. A killer is hunting girls. Tourist season is underway for the summer months ahead, so we feel the urgency here; however, the county is leading the investigation into these murders. The state can lend support but never again get in the way of our investigation. This is a County investigation. The state police, through Miss Brouwer, have come dangerously close to de-railing it.”

  “How so?” Hackett asked.

  “She has continually undermined our focus on the obvious suspects, and instead of interrogating our suspects, she went after this poor bastard Petrie.” Attorney Leeman said.

  “The obvious suspects?” Brouwer had wanted to remain quiet.

  “Helen Hearne was with both victims the night that Catherine Kinderdine died. The Hearne woman is our principal suspect,” Sheriff Hargrove said, his tone helpful.

  Attorney Leeman licked his thumb and thumbed his notes. “We have a case on Helen Hearne; this blonde thing is some piece of work. She’s the girl that links all the girls; she was the last to be with Catherine at the time and place of her death. Moreover, her coconspirator, the brown girl, what’s her name? Avina Zadeh; is a girl about whom we know remarkably little. She’s transient. There’s something unsavory going on here with this group of girls, Jennifer. Two of whom are now dead. Avina Zadeh has admitted that the vehicle used is hers and that she took Catherine to the woods. It’s in those same woods where they strangled her. We believe the witness from Salt Lake saw the same SUV with spotlights at Lara’s body dump.”

  Brouwer said, “I agree that a full evaluation of this Helen Hearne woman is critical. Sheriff, you interviewed her, what did you . . .”

  Attorney Leeman cut in. “We’re getting information on these girls from our tip line, and it’s brutal stuff. These girls were a vicious clique. We have video of seedy activity.” He rehearsed his argument. He was sketching the picture he would paint for jurors. “We have abusive, bullying messages from Helen Hearne on one victim’s smartphone. Do you know Jennifer, that on more than one occasion, Helen Hearne calls Catherine Kinderdine a cunt? A cunt, Jennifer, imagine that.”

  “I’m familiar with the term Mr. Leeman, thank you,” Hackett said.

  “This Helen Hearne has a history of menacing other girls. Our tip line received report of an incident where Helen Hearne ridiculed another young woman so viciously that the young girl cut her arms up with a kitchen knife at her family cabin. The folks came home to blood everywhere.”

  “We have not had a chance to follow up on that alleged incident,” Brouwer said.

  The sheriff spoke, “We know that Helen intimated the other witnesses. The girls from the party campsite are afraid of her. It was Helen that brought Lara into the clique, just before Lara was killed.”

  Leeman said, “We can show that they party every day and flaunt unearned wealth. Life, to these girls, is an advertisement. They are without a moral basis, obsessed by materialism and status. A jury will eat them up. We’ll paint a picture for the jury of the dynamics of these girls. How the infighting among them deteriorates into violence. It’s a familiar story. We get the rest from interrogation.”

  Jennifer Hackett said, “
Help me understand the motive.”

  The sheriff said, “We have video of a house party last winter at the old Oates homestead where strange sex acts may have occurred. This group of girls was involved. They burned the old abandoned mansion to the ground. These kids are out of control and a jury will see it plainly.”

  “The recovered video doesn’t prove that any sex act took place,” Brouwer said.

  Jennifer Hackett started to speak but Leeman cut her off.

  “These girls are on some other plane of existence. They got themselves to a point where murder was possible. We’ll learn how the pecking order turned to depravity.”

  The light reflected off black and white glossy photographs spread across the shining desk. Helen Hearne, Catherine Kinderdine and Avina Zadeh, with a Japanese American girl named Aoki, spending almost day and night together last summer and ski season. Image after image of the girls spilled out of folders. Leeman spoke of how women die at the hands of those closest to them.

  “To answer your question about their motive, Miss Hackett,” Leeman said, “well, their motive is an old one. Killing a social rival provides emotional payoff. It provides satisfaction; it has no real rationale beyond itself. Something strange took place among this group of women and they became consumed by one another. It went too far. There was no calculated plan, only emotion. More often than not, violence is not cold. Violence is hot. These women weren’t killed by strangers, they were killed by friends.”

  The room sat quiet. Sheriff Hargrove played with his Stetson on his knee and Brouwer took a sip of cold tea from a paper cup. It tasted of pine disinfectant as the office was shining with it. Their eyes met and the sheriff examined his hat.

  14.

  The girls arrived at the County office in a Land Rover Defender with a cargo-racked roof; its spotlights were bold across the top. The black luxury truck sparkled clean.

  Brouwer watched them enter the building on a monitor in the security room. They opened the doors to the county building then stood at the threshold, huddled close together against the wind, and shared the final drags of a cigarette. Helen Hearne entered at a brisk pace through reception and the outer offices, wearing short shorts, a light cotton t-shirt and flip-flops, her shoulders square, her chin up and forward. Avina Zadeh followed closely behind her, her eyes downcast to the back of Hearne’s sandals, long black hair down the sides of her face, the much shorter woman wore a cotton muscle shirt exposing lightly browned arms and shoulders, the shirt ripped at the front to offer further views of her small cleavage and designer tattoos. Both girls carried iced coffees.

  Brouwer let them sit in an interview room and watched them on the digital screen. Together at an aluminum table, the girls were underdressed for the coolness of the small air-conditioned room. Brouwer had turned the thermostat down well below room temperature. The women crossed their arms around themselves. Helen Hearne sat still and patient as the moments ticked by, her chin up, unmoving. Avina Zadeh fidgeted and changed her position repeatedly as though to find comfort on the hard chair. With constant movement next to her, Helen Hearne seemed yet more still and unflinching. Zadeh crossed her bare legs, and bounced a dangling foot up and down beneath the table, a low cut sneaker moving up and down with force enough to snake the rest of her body through the same rhythm.

  “They don’t know anything about what happened to Cat,” Helen Hearne finally spoke.

  Brouwer met Helen’s eyes in the monitor. Hearne studied the camera. Her peculiar beauty only aided by the masculine edge to her flat features. Brouwer recognized a fellow athlete, ballet not broncos, but Hearne’s body was coordinated and capable. She was composed. The digital camera whitened her blonde hair in a messy bun up on her crown. Her eyes were large, open and calm.

  “Then again,” Helen Hearne said, studying the black camera lens imbedded high in the interrogation room wall. “This so-called sheriff doesn’t seem to know anything about anything.”

  Brouwer followed Sheriff Hargrove into the small room and both girls turned their full attention quickly from the sheriff to Brouwer. They straightened, their eyes moving up and down her. She introduced herself as a Detective with the Wyoming Division of Criminal Investigation. Helen Hearne stared openly into her eyes and seemed to be reviewing her face in detail. “Oh good,” Helen Hearne said. “I’m glad someone is finally looking into this.”

  “What does that mean, Helen?” Brouwer asked.

  “Oh I don’t know. Just that it’s been two full days and nights since Catherine was taken from us and the police haven’t done anything about it.”

  Avina Zadeh took a quick look at Helen then back to Brouwer.

  “Unfortunately, Catherine wasn’t the only woman attacked over the weekend. How did you know Lara Mazer?”

  “Lara is our friend. We hung out with her. I told him that already.”

  Helen took them once again through the night. The girls gathered at the remote campsite, when they couldn’t find Catherine in the morning; they left, thinking she had walked out. It was as if someone had flown down into the forest and stole her. Catherine had disappeared.

  “It’s terrifying,” Helen said.

  “You couldn’t find her but never called her the next day?” Sheriff Hargrove said.

  “We didn’t know anything was wrong. I wasn’t worried.”

  “She was alone in the wilderness and you weren’t worried?” he said.

  “She went for a walk, maybe to make a call, look, I was on mushrooms, we had eaten magic mushrooms, and I assumed she wigged out and left.”

  “You had taken hallucinogens?” the sheriff said.

  “That’s right,” Helen said. “We didn’t know she was in trouble but why are you asking me? Someone followed us, someone was up there, there was a man up there, and they must have tracked us and stole Catherine.”

  “How much camping do you do Helen?” Sheriff Hargrove asked.

  “Until this summer basically none. Catherine always wanted to be out in nature. She was developing a naturalist aesthetic. The mountains were really her thing. Frankly, the forest scares the shit out of me, for good reason, obviously.”

  “You believe that a man followed you up the mountain. What man?” Brouwer asked.

  “I don’t know,” Helen said.

  Brouwer presented the photo of the man standing on a bed in a house party, wearing black robes and a fairy tale wolf mask. “Who is in this costume?”

  “Where did you get this?” Helen said.

  “Who is the man in the wolf mask?” Sheriff Hargrove said.

  “I don’t know, officer, he’s wearing a mask.” Helen rolled her eyes.

  The sheriff said, “Helen, Lara Mazer was raped and murdered, now is not the time to be a smart ass.”

  “Do you have to use those terms? It’s extremely disturbing to have someone speak about my friend in that language.”

  “You should be more disturbed that I find you to be. The words about it bother you but not the thing itself. You seem surprisingly undisturbed, in fact,” Sheriff Hargrove said.

  “Why does this all have to be so melodramatic? I cannot believe how distasteful you are. You insist on saying the word rape. You use insensitive and offensive language to describe this tragedy. It’s extremely aggressive; you’re only amplifying the trauma, making us relive the horror, when you should be caring for the victims. This should be a safe place, instead you are totally disturbing me.” Helen crossed her arms and faced the wall.

  “Helen, I’m using offensive language because what happened to Catherine and Lara is offensive. Rape and murder are the most offensive things that can happen to someone, that’s why we are using aggressive terms,” the sheriff’s voice was deep and loud.

  “You’re hysterical,” Helen said.

  “People become melodramatic when they are in pain,” Avina Zadeh offered.

  “Let’s take a step back,” Brouwer let a moment stand in the room. “Where was this costume party?”

  “It was at an
old house outside of town.”

  “Who hosted the party?”

  The girls glanced at one another, “I don’t know, a group of people were going after night skiing,” Helen said.

  “Who invited you to it? Be as specific as possible,” Brouwer said.

  “I don’t remember,” Helen said. “It was a snowboarder party, someone told us about it on the hill.”

  “If you had to think of someone who would dress like a wolf, who would it be?”

  “How should I know? The party sucked.”

  Sheriff Hargrove said, “The house was an abandoned ranch house down toward Hoback junction. You kids burned that house to the ground. Why would you do that? We need you to cooperate, and to answer our questions, so we can find who did this to your friends.” Hargrove was surprisingly aggressive; he threw Brouwer off with his accusatory stance. He liked them for these murders more than she thought. But so far, he was going along with her plan to build trust with the girls, to gain their confidence, to work from the assumption that a man was stalking the group of girls.

  Helen leaned across the table, her face jutted toward the sheriff. “I’m not lying and I’m not making shit up. I don’t know who was in the mask; he looked like an idiot so we left.”

  Brouwer placed a photo on the table. The group of girlfriends intertwined on a velvety lounger.

  “Avina, can you tell me who’s in this photo?”

  Avina Zadeh slowly said each of their names while pointing to the photo as she went. “Aoi Aoki, Helen, Catherine, Lara Mazer and me.”

  “Who is the boy in the background?” Brouwer asked. A tall boy with curly hair and sleepy eyes stood at the edge of the frame. He was the only male Brouwer could find in Catherine’s recent phone and social media.

  “Oh, that’s Decklin Siboda.”