Under the Agent's Protection

by Jennifer D. Bokal

  “I do remember,” said the sheriff, “and I’m sure you can recall that I told you there was no way in hell that a serial killer was loose in Pleasant Pines.”

  “I know you’ve been in law enforcement for years,” said Wyatt. “I trust your instincts, but we’ve done a little digging of our own and have a total of five men who’ve died over the past three years—all of them died due to a combination of alcohol poisoning and exposure.”

  “I’d say you went digging in the wrong place. The number of those types of accidental deaths is likely three times as high. This is Wyoming. People go hunting and twist an ankle, making it impossible to get back. They go skiing and lose the trail. Hell, sometimes they just go outside, and a blizzard catches them unawares. Do you want me to continue?” asked the sheriff. Everly could imagine the older man sitting in his office, finger stabbing the desk as his face grew redder and redder with rage and frustration.

  Wyatt continued, the pulse at the base of his neck thrummed with the urgency of his words. “Each man was in his early to mid-thirties, from out of town, visiting alone—or waiting for his group to arrive. The cause of death was exactly the same.”

  “Anything else?” asked Sheriff Haak, his voice small.

  “And,” Wyatt continued, “each man was found with half of a two-dollar bill in his wallet.”

  Sheriff Haak didn’t respond, yet the seconds of the call ticked by.

  “I know how much you care about this town,” Everly said. It was time for her to contribute and do her job. “I know you’ve dedicated your life to keeping everyone in Pleasant Pines safe, but there’s too much evidence to ignore.” She paused, waiting for the sheriff, or even Wyatt, to add something to the conversation. Neither did, so she continued. “I’ve been attacked twice since arriving in Pleasant Pines and started asking questions about Axl. It’s hard to believe that those are random events and not meant to scare me into leaving town.”

  “Why’s this the first time I’m hearing about you being attacked?” the sheriff asked.

  “You haven’t been interested in seeing Axl Baker’s death from another angle,” said Wyatt. “We needed more information before speaking to you again.”

  “Can we meet with you? We can be at your office in a few minutes,” said Everly.

  “I’ll hear you out,” said the sheriff, “but not at my office. The county building is a busy place with folks coming and going all day. I don’t want any of your theories being overheard and needlessly frightening anyone.” He sighed.

  “Obviously,” said Wyatt, “we’d be discreet.”

  “I can’t use my place,” said the sheriff. “We have contractors working in the office. It’s too chaotic.”

  “Where then?” Everly asked.

  “There is no discretion in my office, trust me.”

  The line was filled with a moment of silence. Finally, the sheriff said, “There’s a conference room we sometimes use at the Pleasant Pines Inn for training and such. At this hour it’ll be empty and private. Meet me there in twenty minutes.”

  Everly exchanged a glance with Wyatt. A conference room at a hotel? How secure could that be? All the same, she wasn’t well-versed in small-town American law enforcement. Maybe this is just how it’s done here, she thought. Scooping up her notepad, Everly said, “We’ll be there.”

  “Before you go,” said the sheriff, “I have one question. How’d you know that the men were found with half of a two-dollar bill?”

  Wyatt answered. “An old friend of mine works for Rocky Mountain Justice. He let me access databases from his office.”

  “I don’t know what Rocky Mountain Justice is, so you need to bring him, too,” said the sheriff. “I have lots of questions and if I don’t like the answers I get, there’s going to be hell to pay.”

  * * *

  The conference room was located on the first floor of the inn, just a space tucked off of the now closed restaurant. Darcy, the desk clerk, had been overly helpful when they arrived. She arranged the room for the meeting, bringing water bottles, a tray of sandwiches, and pads of paper emblazoned with the Pleasant Pines Inn logo. By the time Sheriff Haak appeared, Everly, Wyatt and Marcus were fully prepared to brief the local lawman.

  Since then, more than an hour had passed. The water bottles were empty, and the tray only held crumbs.

  Everly sat at the circular table with Wyatt on her left and Marcus on her right. Sheriff Haak sat directly across from her. His sheriff’s hat, with the tin star on the band, rested on the table in front of him.

  Wyatt had just finished going through all the connections between the local deaths, Axl Baker and his former case from Las Vegas, painting a grisly picture. Wyatt concluded with “That’s why I’m convinced that Pleasant Pines has become the hunting grounds for this murderer.”

  Running his fingers over the brim of his hat, Sheriff Haak asked, “This is your professional opinion, Mister G-man?”

  Wyatt ignored the comment and tapped a pen on the table. “It is.”

  Sheriff Haak turned to Marcus Jones. “What about you? What do you think?”

  “I think that Wyatt Thornton is as fine an agent as there is,” he said. “This information is real—and you need to open a full investigation into these killings.”

  The sheriff’s cheeks turned a blotchy red. He obviously took a great deal of pride in his community. Moreover, Everly guessed that he didn’t welcome anyone telling him how to do his job. Nor did he want to be accused of having missed something so important as a serial killer in his town. If pushed too hard, she knew that the sheriff would push back.

  “Sheriff Haak,” she said. “I don’t have experience in this kind of thing, like the three of you. But I do want to know what happened to my brother. Believe me, I wish his death was a simple accident, as you originally told me. But that’s not the case. No one is accusing you of being a second-rate sheriff. If you don’t look into these cases now and find out what’s really going on, the whole town will be at risk. You’re too good of a man to do that,” she said.

  With a grunt, the sheriff asked, “What do you know about the killer?”

  “Typically, the profile for most serial killers is similar,” said Wyatt, nonplussed, as usual. “They tend to be Caucasian, highly intelligent and in their late twenties to early thirties.”

  “Is that always true?” asked Sheriff Haak.

  Wyatt said, “No, not always. Maybe eighty-five percent of serial killers are Caucasian men. Some can be people of color. Even fewer serial killers are female. During the initial investigation in Vegas we assumed that the killer fit the most basic profile. There was never any evidence to prove otherwise.”

  Wyatt continued. “Because of the simple mode of killing, we doubt that the killer has much more than a high-school education but is intelligent. He is most likely manipulative or, at the very least, charming. Leaving half of a two-dollar bill with each victim, I believe, represents a broken promise. In Vegas, we suspected a hospitality worker.”

  “Any old hospitality worker, or a specific one?” the sheriff asked.

  Everly knew the answer to this question. In Las Vegas, Wyatt had accused a blackjack dealer and the man had been arrested. Later, an alibi was established for the suspect, and Wyatt’s career had been left in tatters. It wasn’t a fact he’d confessed to her and it left Everly wondering what Wyatt would say.

  “We arrested a man who worked in a hotel casino on the Strip. Not all the facts fit, and he was let go,” said Wyatt. “After that, the killings stopped, and then local law enforcement took over. There were never any other arrests and to this day, case is cold.”

  “What you’re telling me is that you don’t have a clue,” said the sheriff.

  “I still believe the killer worked in the service industry. We just had the wrong guy in Vegas.”

  “That makes sense. There’s a connection to this
inn,” said Marcus. “All the victims have been guests here.”

  “This is the only place in town,” said the sheriff. “It’s not like visitors have much of a choice.”

  “But they were here,” said Marcus, his fingers splayed across the table. “It’s also the last place any of them were seen alive.”

  “That has to be a clue worth something,” Everly said.

  “It’s worth a lot more than something,” said Wyatt. “Especially since we found a link. Axl Baker had an argument with a cook at the hotel—Larry Walker.”

  “I know Larry,” said the sheriff. “What’d they argue about?”

  “I’m not sure,” said Everly. “The bartender overheard them having a heated discussion. From what she said, it had to do with what my brother was here to photograph.”

  “It might do for us to have a chat with Larry and see what he remembers about Axl,” said Marcus.

  “Larry fits your profile from the Nevada case,” the sheriff said to Wyatt. “Down to the age, educational level and employment. He was even a troubled kid—fights at school, running away when he got mad at his mother and the like. He’s no charmer, though. Larry was born and raised here, but he left five or six years ago to find work. Came back less than three years past.”

  “Not too many months before the first victim was killed,” said Wyatt.

  “It might do to ask Larry more than what he remembers about Axl Baker, but what he knows about all of these men,” Marcus suggested.

  “I agree,” said Sheriff Haak. “I’ll bring him in and officially question him about all of these deaths...”

  His statement was followed by a clattering in the hallway. Metal clanged against metal and the sound of shattering glass screeched. Everly’s heartbeat hammered against her chest and she swiveled in her chair toward the sound. A lanky man with sparse dark hair and a high forehead stood in the doorway, with an oval tray in his hands. A coffeepot, broken cups, spoons and saucers littered the floor at his feet.

  He stared into the room with a wide-eyed gaze. The tray wobbled on his hand before toppling from his precarious grasp with a clang. With a final, wild-eyed look the man turned and sprinted from view.

  On their feet in the same instant, Wyatt and Marcus rushed from the room. Their footfalls were thunder in the small space.

  Then they were gone, and silence followed.

  Everly turned to the sheriff. “Who was that?” she asked.

  Haak shook his head. “That was Larry Walker. Your prime suspect.”

  * * *

  Wyatt’s heart hammered against his chest, his breath resonating in his skull. His footsteps slapped on the floor of the cramped hallway. Marcus was just a step behind. But Wyatt wasn’t concerned about who followed. Rather, he was focused on who was in front.

  He’d never met Larry Walker, yet Wyatt would bet good money that he was the man they now chased. Wyatt reached out and his fingers touched the fabric of a sleeve. He tried to grab hold, but the man slipped from his grasp.

  Daylight erupted into the dark corridor, the glare blinding, as the man pushed the side door and exited. Wyatt’s speed carried him forward a pace or two, then he skidded to a stop. He pivoted and burst through the same door.

  He was in a parking lot, half-full and covered in gravel. Larry was a full ten yards away. The lights on a small pickup truck flashed and the engine revved as Larry used a key fob to engage the remote starter. Larry was already halfway to the truck. And if he got there before Wyatt got to him, he knew the suspect would disappear—and it would be hell to find him.

  Wyatt had only one chance. He caught up and dove forward, grabbing the other man around the middle. They tumbled to the ground, coming to a stop with Wyatt pinning Larry facedown. Gravel gouged his flesh and scraped his skin raw. Wyatt cared nothing for the pain.

  Larry clawed at him, trying to escape, but Wyatt grabbed the other man’s arm and tore the key fob from his grasp. He stood slowly and turned off the truck. The motor fell silent. Wyatt’s labored breathing was the only thing he heard.

  Marcus approached. He’d drawn a sidearm and was pointing it directly at Larry. “Hold your hands where I can see them,” Marcus ordered.

  Larry lifted his palms. A tremor shook his arms. “Come on, what’d you want, man?”

  “We need to talk,” said Wyatt.

  “Talk if you want, but you don’t need to point that gun at me. I didn’t do nothing wrong.”

  “If you didn’t do anything wrong, why did you run?”

  “Because a room full of cops was talking about me in connection with the dead guy,” said Larry. “If you were in my place and had any sense, you’d run, too.”

  “On your feet,” Marcus ordered. “I think we need to have a little chat with the sheriff.”

  Hands still lifted, Larry walked back to the conference room. Marcus was directly behind Larry, with Wyatt bringing up the rear. Once in the conference room, Marcus gestured to a chair with the barrel of his gun. “Sit,” he said.

  Larry took a seat and turned to the sheriff. “What the hell’s going on? Those two chased me down. That one—” he pointed to Wyatt “—took the keys to my truck. And the other one pulled a piece on me. I can sue for this. I have rights, you know.”

  “Shut up, Larry,” said the sheriff.

  Larry fell silent.

  Marcus slid his gun into a holster on his ankle and sat. Wyatt took a seat as well, choosing one directly across from Larry.

  “We need to ask you a few questions,” said Wyatt.

  “I don’t have to answer anything,” said Larry. “I know my rights.”

  “You don’t have to say anything here,” said the sheriff. “Even more than that, you aren’t under arrest. This is a friendly conversation, but if you don’t want to talk, I can take you to my office and things will work out different.”

  Larry rolled his hand. “Fine. We can talk.”

  “What do you know about Axl Baker?” Wyatt asked.

  Larry pulled his eyebrows together. “Who?”

  “Axl Baker,” said Everly. “My brother. You argued with him at the bar and then his body was found the next morning.”

  “That’s bad luck, man,” said Larry.

  For the first time, Wyatt saw yellow sweat stains on Larry’s shirt at the underarms and neck. He also noticed how they’d become damp again as the other man perspired. He nervously folded his hands together and unfolded them, moving constantly. Signs of discomfort were uncommon for sociopaths, the likes of which had been killing people for years.

  “Whose bad luck?” asked Wyatt. “Axl’s or yours?”

  “Both, I guess,” said Larry.

  “Tell me what happened the other night,” said Wyatt.

  “Nothing,” said Larry.

  From years of training, Wyatt knew that the best way to get information was to wait. A subject with ample time and too much silence would eventually fill both with what they assumed an investigator wanted to hear. Eventually, it would lead to the truth. Too bad Wyatt didn’t have the patience to wait for Larry to talk in circles. “Don’t screw with me,” he said. “I’m not in the mood.”

  Larry looked at the sheriff and then back at Wyatt. “We argued a little, it’s no big deal.”

  “What’d you argue about?”

  “Nothing.”

  Wyatt slapped the table, the sound causing everyone to jump. Larry leaned back, his eyes went wide. “Let’s assume it’s not nothing.”

  “It really wasn’t anything important. The Baker guy wanted to track wolf migration. I told him that the wolves weren’t for his amusement. He said that he was on an assignment, trying to do a job to educate people. I didn’t care. Things got a little heated and voices were raised. That’s all.”

  Sheriff Haak asked, “Why were you listening at the door?”

  “Darcy told me
to bring some coffee to this meeting. I was about to knock but heard my name.” Larry shrugged. “I eavesdropped a little, I guess.”

  It explained the shattered coffeepot and broken cups.

  “Where were you the night before last?”

  “Come on, Sheriff,” said Larry, his tone wheedling. “You aren’t going to let them question me like this, are you? I have the right to my privacy.”

  “If you have nothing to hide, then answer the questions,” said Sheriff Haak.

  Larry cursed under his breath and wiped a hand across the back of his neck. “The kitchen closed around nine o’clock. I cleaned up and came out for a drink. That Baker guy started chatting me up. Had I always lived in Pleasant Pines? What did I know about the wolves? I just wanted my drink and to relax. His constant questions were annoying, and I said something. Johanna said I couldn’t fight with the customers and told me to go home. I did, and it was quarter after ten when I walked out of the inn.”

  “Wife? Family? Roommates?” asked Marcus. “Anyone who could corroborate your story?”

  Larry shook his head. “I live alone in an apartment two blocks away.”

  “What about last night?” Wyatt asked. He had a hard time imagining Larry Walker breaking into his home much less thinking to barricade the door and then getting away. But, if Larry was the killer, then he’d done just that. “Where were you?”

  “Home by ten thirty. No arguments in the bar, so I got to finish my drink.”

  “I have one more question,” said Wyatt.

  “No.” Larry held up his hands and waved away the probe. “No more questions. I haven’t done anything wrong and I’m not going to be treated like a criminal. I don’t have an alibi for the night that Baker was killed, but unless you’re going to arrest me, Sheriff, I’m leaving.”

  “Consider yourself a person of interest in this case, Larry,” said Sheriff Haak. “Don’t leave town or I’ll issue a warrant for your arrest and throw you in jail.”

  “For what?” Larry asked.

  “For killing Axl Baker,” the sheriff said.