Under the Agent's Protection

by Jennifer D. Bokal

  Padding softly across the floor, Gus approached and put his head in Everly’s lap. She stroked his ears and the dog closed his eyes, sighing in complete bliss. “If only it were that easy,” Everly said.

  “Pardon?” Wyatt stood. His body was backlit by the flames and Everly swallowed. He was strong, solid and unyielding—much like the mountains around his home.

  Looking back at the dog, Everly said, “If only it were so easy to be at peace. Just a warm lap and someone to scratch you behind the ears.”

  “It’s a whole lot easier to be tranquil when you only focus on what’s important.” He stoked the logs with a poker. “It’s why I left the FBI.”

  “Have you found it, yet?” she asked. “Peace?”

  Wyatt sniffed and Everly lifted her gaze. “Not exactly, but I’m closer than I was.” He turned to a desk that sat in the corner and opened a drawer. After pulling out three accordion files, he returned to Everly’s side. He let them drop and they hit the sofa with a thwack.

  “What’s all this?” Everly asked.

  Wyatt sat down on the opposite side of the pile. “This,” he said handing the top file to Everly, “is everything I saved from my final case in Vegas. Some of it is just media reports. Some are my notes. Some is confidential—but nobody asked for anything back when I left, and I sorta kept it all. I also have a flash drive with information on each of the victims’ social media accounts and some pictures we took at the time of the murders. I also have copies of every victim’s text messages and emails.”

  “Let’s start with all of your hard copies.” Peeling back the flap, Everly removed several sheets of paper.

  “It’s all in chronological order,” he said.

  Everly read through several police reports and couldn’t help but wonder how often Wyatt looked through these files. Had he spent years perusing these same pages as he searched for clues that he’d missed?

  She’d never ask, but somehow knew that her suspicion was right.

  Everly held a newspaper article, probably one of the final ones written.

  It was much like what she’d found on the internet earlier in the day. Over the course of eighteen months, five men had been murdered. It wasn’t until corpse number three turned up that the local police involved the FBI.

  At the time the article was published, a blackjack dealer was in custody and prime suspect. Yet, Everly knew that eventually, he’d been set free.

  “You arrested one man for the crimes,” said Everly. “What made him a suspect?”

  “Serial killers seek to relive their crimes. They take trophies from the victims. They can also leave calling cards. It was my belief then, as it is now, that the killer keeps the other halves of the two-dollar bills found with the bodies. Another way that the killers relive their kill is to revisit the scene. The blackjack dealer made trips to all the sites where bodies were found. He attended all press conferences and discussed the murders in general with his coworkers. He fit the profile,” said Wyatt. “So, we brought him in.”

  “Aside from Larry is there anyone local you suspect?”

  “Until a few hours ago, I didn’t have any reason to suspect anyone of any crimes. Give me a bit to see what I can find.”

  “We,” Everly corrected. “What we can find.”

  “We,” said Wyatt with a snort.

  The conversation waned and Everly turned her attention back to the stack of papers she held. The next sheet was a letter from the Office of Professional Responsibility for the Federal Bureau of Investigation.

  The letter stated that the OPR had opened an investigation into the conduct of Wyatt R. Thornton for suppressing an alibi that cleared the dealer from one of the murders—and therefore exonerating him from all of the crimes.

  Due to the egregious violation of Bureau policy, the OPR recommended that Wyatt’s position be terminated.

  A handwritten note was scrawled across the bottom of the page. It stated simply that, “Thornton has chosen to resign. No further action will be taken.”

  Everly felt ill and slipped the letter back into the file folder. Had Wyatt’s lie ruined his career? Was he really so bent on appearing to solve the case that he was willing to let an innocent man go to jail?

  If he was, what did that mean for Everly—and her search for Axl’s killer?

  Chapter 5

  Wyatt’s eyes burned. He’d looked at all these documents hundreds of times. Hell, maybe even thousands. There was nothing new to see, and yet, he had sat and shuffled through papers as the snow quietly fell and covered the ground.

  He flipped over a piece of paper and set it in the appropriate stack. There were still thousands of documents remaining. “I’ve looked at all of this before,” he said. “Every damned time I go through the file, I think I’ll find something that I missed before.”

  “What about now?” Everly asked as she rolled her shoulders. Reaching her arms above her head, she arched her back.

  The thin material of her sweater strained against her breasts and the hollow of her neck was visible. For a moment, he imagined what it would feel like to slide his lips over the spot, to kiss his way lower, until—“Sorry, what did you say?” Busted.

  “What about now?” she asked.

  What about now, indeed?

  “Did you find anything new?”

  He shook his head. “Nothing.”

  “What should we do next?” she asked.

  “Let’s take a break and eat something. Then we’ll get back to reading these documents to see if there’s something—anything—that has been overlooked. I’ve got a pizza in the freezer. It’s not fancy but it is edible.”

  “Edible is my favorite kind of food,” Everly joked.

  Getting to his feet, Wyatt took the pizza from the freezer to thaw a bit on the counter while he let the oven preheat. “It’ll be ready in a bit,” he said.

  “Isn’t there more we can do—about the case, I mean?”

  “Unfortunately, most cases are like a puzzle—but we’re looking for the piece that doesn’t quite fit.” He stood. Blood flooded his legs in a hot rush and his feet tingled with pins and needles. It had been too long since he’d studied a case for hours. The aches and pains were minor when compared to the gale of adrenaline that blew threw him.

  “Sounds tedious,” Everly said in response to his previous comment.

  “More than tedious, it can be downright mundane. Until it’s not.” Wyatt slid the pizza onto a baking sheet, then put it into the oven.

  “When does that happen?”

  “When you find something important. That’s the worst of it,” he said. “With an investigation, you can’t make something happen—as tempting as it sometimes seems.”

  “Why did you choose to focus on investigating serial killers anyway?” she asked. “What was the draw?”

  Wyatt hadn’t meant to start a conversation about his past life. He knew that he could stop it with a brusque reply. Yet, he drew in a lungful of air and exhaled slowly. “Tracking a killer is usually about trying to understand how the killer thinks and predict their next move. Solving a puzzle. Looking for that missing piece is mundane, like I said—but it can also drag you into the darkness.”

  Even in the firelight, Wyatt could see Everly’s cheeks redden. “It sounds like more than a job, but it was a calling.”

  She was right. But there was so much more to it—the camaraderie of the team, their dependence on each other. Knowing too well that their backup was often the only thing that gave him clarity as he lost himself in the depths of an investigation.

  Not for the first time, Wyatt felt a connection to Everly. First it had been physical, now it was emotional. God, he wanted to kiss her, make that connection complete. Then he would finally know if her lips were as soft and full as they looked.

  Wyatt forced his libido to chill and moved to the window
. Wind buffeted the house as drifts of white snow blew past. He needed to concentrate. He hadn’t caught the serial killer in Vegas and he’d had the full support of the FBI behind him. Back then, he didn’t have any distractions like Everly Baker, either.

  For the first time in years, Wyatt was having company for dinner. Or any meal really. He’d come to Wyoming for seclusion and to turn his back on all of society. But as Everly moved to the kitchen table, making stacks out of his clutter, Wyatt felt a warming in his chest. It was tempting to think that somehow his life had changed with Everly’s arrival. But he was smarter than that and this moment of domesticity was fleeting and fragile as a single snowflake.

  Wyatt knew if he wanted to find this killer, he needed a focus. One that was so narrow it didn’t have room for romance.

  * * *

  Everly stood at the sink and rinsed the final plate.

  “You don’t have to do that,” Wyatt said for what felt like the hundredth time. “I can do my own dishes.”

  Everly tucked the plate into the dishwasher and dried her hands on a towel. “I was brought up to be a good houseguest,” she said, joking slightly. “If someone makes me a delicious dinner, I can at least clean up afterward.”

  “It was just a frozen pizza,” he said.

  She threaded the towel through the refrigerator’s handle. “It wasn’t freshly made, deep-dish-pizza good, but it was tasty.” She turned to Wyatt and winked, to show that she was still teasing.

  He gave a snort of a laugh.

  “Next time I’ll let you make me dinner,” he said. “Maybe some famous Chicago-style pizza.”

  Her chest constricted, squeezing her heart. “Will there be a next time? Don’t you think that Sheriff Haak is going to kick me out of town? I’ve definitely become persona non grata.”

  “You aren’t going anywhere until we figure out what happened to your brother. In fact...” He paused and pivoted to face the desk. “Let’s do a little internet snooping and see what we can find out about Larry Walker—the cook from the Pleasant Pines Inn who argued with your brother.”

  Wyatt pulled a kitchen chair up next to his desk for Everly and then sat in his own seat. He powered up the computer and entered a few keystrokes. “I paid a fee for access to a site that finds criminal records.”

  She scooted closer and examined the screen. A previous search bar was open and filled with three words. Axl James Baker. Her throat felt raw, like she had just swallowed a handful of gravel. When she spoke, the words were filled with flint. “You looked up my brother? Why would you do that?”

  He glanced her way and then looked back at the screen. “Your brother’s corpse was found on my property. You think I wouldn’t be curious?”

  Everly admitted he had point, even if she wasn’t willing to say so out loud. “I thought you said you didn’t want to be involved.”

  “I might not want to actively investigate a suspicious death—to take responsibility for clearing up a mystery. Tell me who wouldn’t want to know more about a dead person found on their property?” He exhaled and turned away. “I didn’t mean to upset you by digging into your brother’s background. But I’m not going to apologize for looking. Especially since it’s the only way to help gather information that might lead us to our suspect.” After clearing Axl’s name, Wyatt began to type.

  She wanted to pursue the conversation, but how? Wyatt Thornton was proving to be an enigma and yet she sensed one thing. Wyatt was more than alone—he was also lonely. She returned her attention to the computer screen.

  On a different website, Wyatt spent a few minutes finding Larry Walker’s birth date. Then, Larry Walker’s details, along with the locations of Las Vegas, Nevada and Pleasant Pines, Wyoming, had been entered into the original search field.

  One hundred and twenty-eight hits were found.

  Everly pointed at the number. “Seems like Larry has been busy being bad.”

  “It does,” said Wyatt. He clicked on the first link. “Assault. Pleasant Pines, Wyoming. Seven months ago. Looks like Larry got into a bar fight at the Pleasant Pines Inn. He spent the night in jail and was fined five hundred dollars and released.”

  Wyatt scrolled through the list. “Assault. Larceny. Driving under the influence. Possession of a controlled substance.”

  “Doesn’t sound like a nice guy. In fact, his criminal record makes him look like a total creep.”

  “It does,” said Wyatt. He leaned back in his chair and cradled his head in his hands. “And that is what bothers me. Most serial killers aren’t crooks and delinquents. They’re methodical. They fit in to society, so nobody suspects them of anything—especially nothing so horrible as murder. They’re violent, sure, but it’s like the cold precision of a scalpel. This guy is an inferno—out of control and raging hot.”

  “The way I see it is that this Larry guy is violent and that’s all that counts.”

  “That’s just it—I’m not saying that Larry wouldn’t hurt someone. He will. He has. In fact, I think he could actually kill someone.”

  “There you have it,” said Everly. “He’s capable of murder.”

  Wyatt held up a hand. “Not so fast. Larry would beat a person to death. Or shoot them in a fury. Not pump alcohol into their system and then leave them outside to freeze to death.”

  “Is that what you think happened to my brother?”

  Wyatt sighed. “I do. There’s no other explanation.”

  “But why?”

  “Why was the one question I could never figure out. I guess that’s how I never caught the guy. As far as the FBI is concerned, there are four things that define a serial killer. First is that the same kind of attack is repeated over time.”

  “As in a series of murders,” said Everly. “Hence, a serial killer.”

  “Exactly,” said Wyatt. “The second is that the methodology is the same. They might get more efficient, but the mode of killing never varies.”

  “So, all of these men were given too much alcohol and, once incapacitated, left for dead.”

  “That’s how we know all the deaths are connected, and it was unquestionable once the link was made with half of a two-dollar bill found in their wallet.”

  “Did you ever try to get fingerprints from the money?”

  “During the investigation, we got fingerprints from everything. Nothing turned up on the money—aside from thousands of other partial prints—and no two were the same. We figured our doer wore gloves. Still, we can ask the sheriff to run prints on the bill found in your brother’s wallet.”

  Just thinking about the stubborn cop left Everly frustrated. “Do you think he’ll do that for us?”

  Wyatt sighed. “I have no idea.”

  “What about finding other fingerprints? The killer couldn’t have worn gloves all the time. They had to have made a mistake once.”

  “The problem with the killer in Vegas, and here, is that the deaths all looked natural. After the victim’s been buried—or worse, cremated—there’s very little or no evidence to be collected.”

  “Too bad it hadn’t been that easy.” She hated to hear about the perverse mind of a serial killer, but if she was going to find justice for Axl, she needed to understand everything. “What else do serial killers have in common? You said there were four hallmarks.”

  “Third is that the victims are similar. Same gender. Same build. Same race. Same hair and eye color. In other words, they have a preference in the type of victims and the killings aren’t random.”

  Everly stomach roiled. “It’s all too twisted.”

  Wyatt nodded. “Then the last factor isn’t going to make you feel any better.”

  “Which is?”

  “There’s usually a sexual nature to the crime. And that’s one thing in this case that had me stumped. There was no sign of sexual contact between the victims and the killer—consensual or otherwi
se.”

  “Then why do you assume there was a sexual element?”

  “It could have been one-sided. Perhaps the killer masturbated into a condom at the scene. Or maybe he took pictures and used them for gratification later. Or maybe there was another motive entirely.”

  “If everything you said is true, and the serial killer is active in Wyoming, then there have to be more victims here.”

  Wyatt leaned forward and brought up another website.

  “The Pleasant Pines Gazette,” she said, reading the masthead.

  “The sheriff mentioned that he sees deaths like your brother’s all the time.”

  “He did,” said Everly. “He even brought up the fact that Axl might’ve had too much to drink and that’s how he got lost. Funny that it turned out just like he predicted.” Everly shivered. “Do you think he’s involved?”

  “Sheriff Haak?” Wyatt shook his head. “No way.”

  Everly wasn’t willing to let go of her theory so easily. “Isn’t Haak the one investigating all the killings? Who better to be the killer than the man who determined the deaths to be accidental?”

  “For one thing,” said Wyatt. “He doesn’t have a connection to Las Vegas. You heard him. He’s lived in Pleasant Pines his entire life.”

  “He could have traveled back and forth between Wyoming and Nevada,” she said, realizing even as she said it that Wyatt was right. Haak wasn’t guilty of anything beyond overlooking some pretty subtle clues.

  Wyatt spoke. “What I do think is that this has happened before enough times that Haak recognizes the situation. Yet it hasn’t happened so much that he’s gotten suspicious. He’s not wrong, Everly, when he says that people die of exposure out here all the time. Which is why it could be especially tough to catch whoever did this.”

  Wyatt navigated the newspaper’s site, pulling up the police blotter. He entered several phrases. Death from exposure. Blood-alcohol content. Male.

  “Try searching ‘out of town,’ too,” suggested Everly.

  Wyatt did as she advised and then hit the magnifying glass icon. The search lasted only a few seconds and a list of five men appeared. The first death had happened a little less than three years ago. The last was from the day before yesterday. Axl James Baker. Wyatt hit the print icon and a sleeping printer sprang to life and whirred as it reproduced the police reports for each of the men.