by Box, C. J.
Most of all, Judge Hewitt was a big-game hunter, and he structured his world around trips to go after exotic prey. He was working on his second North American Sheep Slam now—killing a Dall, desert bighorn, Rocky Mountain bighorn, and Stone sheep. He’d killed a brown bear in Alaska that was still on the record books, and a twelve-hundred-pound Asian water buffalo in northern Australia. Hewitt knew Joe’s views about trophy hunters, though, and he steered clear of that subject when they talked about the outdoors.
An alternative weekly newspaper in Jackson Hole had once written a cover story about him titled “ ‘Hanging’ Judge Hewitt—the Law East of the Bighorns.”
Hewitt had framed the cover and it hung with pride behind his desk in his chambers.
Joe said to Marybeth, “The question isn’t who would love to see Judge Hewitt get shot. The question is who wouldn’t?”
“Poor Sue,” Marybeth said.
Joe told her how the governor had become involved, and that every law enforcement principal in Twelve Sleep County had been ordered to assemble at the courtroom, including him.
“That’s unusual,” she said. “Why is the governor involved?”
“Beats me,” Joe said. “But the request was made to Director Ewig. That’s why I’m back here.”
“I’ll ask around,” Marybeth said. “I’ll find out the connection between Judge Hewitt and the governor. It’s likely to be sordid.”
Joe agreed. Just about everything about Governor Colter Allen turned out to be sordid. Joe knew that from past experience, although for the past year Allen had left him alone, for which Joe was grateful.
After a slew of #MeToo allegations had emerged regarding Allen’s conduct before being elected, the governor had gone to ground. Like other politicians he no doubt observed, Allen hadn’t addressed the charges or really denied them. He’d simply refused to talk about them, and moved on. It was a new political world, Joe had learned. Politicians who were snared in scandal didn’t fight back or resign in shame, because there was no personal shame. They simply kept going, and it appeared to be working. Talk about recall and impeachment had died down. And for Joe, it meant Governor Allen hadn’t bothered him in months—until now.
“Will you be home tonight for dinner?” she asked as she slowed down on Main near the courthouse.
“I don’t know, but I hope so.”
“How are you going to get your truck back?”
Joe thought about that. “I have no idea.”
*
JOE BOUNDED UP the granite courthouse steps toward the large wooden double doors. He glanced down while he did so and grimaced. Although the blood of the victims had been scrubbed from the steps, the pockmarks from machine gun rounds still scarred the stone. He realized he hadn’t been on the steps since it happened, and it jolted him. The photos he’d seen of the crime scene, the four bleeding bodies sprawled on the steps, Sheriff Reed’s dead body in the street where his wheelchair had rolled, would always haunt him.
The fact that he could have easily been with them haunted him as well.
He paused on the landing and slowly turned around. He saw where the vehicle with the shooters had been on the street. He remembered the photos of scores of brass casings from the weapons on the asphalt.
Joe tried to shake the images of those photos from his mind. He couldn’t.
So he went inside.
*
STOVEPIPE, THE EX–RODEO contestant and stock contractor who’d manned the metal detector in the county building for as long as Joe could remember, stood up from his stool to greet him. He wore his usual black cowboy hat and purple scarf, but his face was ashen.
“Did you hear about Miz Hewitt?” Stovepipe asked.
“I did,” Joe said as he emptied his weapons, phone, cuffs, keys, and other metal into a basket. “That’s why I’m here.”
“It’s a terrible, terrible thing,” Stovepipe said. “That poor lady.”
Stovepipe wiped tears away from his eyes with the tips of his cowboy scarf as he motioned Joe through the machine.
“Are you okay?” Joe asked Stovepipe. “Did Sue . . .”
“No, no,” Stovepipe said. “She’s still in critical condition. But she’s been so kind to me. She brings me cookies and brownies, just to be nice. I’ve seen her a lot more in the last couple of months and it’s just hard to believe that she got shot like that.”
“I agree,” Joe said. “I think we’ll find that shooter.”
Joe gathered his gear on the other side. He was allowed to retain his equipment if he wasn’t going to court. The security exercise was pointless and it had always been so, but Joe had quit objecting to it because he never got anywhere. Not only that, but the metal detector only worked about half the time.
“I hope you do,” Stovepipe said. “But more than that, I hope Sue makes it through all right.”
“Me too, Stovepipe.”
*
DUANE PATTERSON WAS loitering in the hallway outside the door to Judge Hewitt’s chambers. Patterson looked up when he heard Joe’s boots coming down the tile floor.
“I’m glad you finally got here,” Patterson said. “I’ve never seen him so pissed off.”
“That’s saying something,” Joe replied.
Duane Patterson was gaunt and bony with a round baby face and a closetful of suits that didn’t really fit him. He’d been the public defender for years and had endured more than his share of courtroom abuse from Judge Hewitt. Despite that, he’d been as surprised as anyone when the judge recommended him to the county commissioners to fill out the term of County Prosecutor Dulcie Schalk after she’d been incapacitated by the shooting on the courthouse steps.
Joe had been impressed how quickly Patterson had adapted to the job. Because he had been on the other side so long, he was experienced in the strategies, rhythms, and occasional tricks played by prosecutors toward defendants and their counsel. He knew which buttons to push, because Dulcie had been pushing his for years.
“Why’d you take so long to get here?” Patterson asked Joe. He was obviously annoyed.
“I was in Jackson Hole.”
“I think we could have done this without you, but the judge didn’t agree.”
“Sorry.”
“I’ll let him know you’re here.”
Joe nodded. He opened the door to discover that a state trooper, the chief of police of Saddlestring, and the new county sheriff were impatiently waiting for him as well. Joe removed his hat and nodded at the others.
“About time,” the trooper grumbled. “Why we was waiting for a game warden is beyond me.”
The highway patrolman’s name was Tillis, and Joe recognized him immediately. He’d met him in Jackson a couple of years back, when Tillis had refused to let Joe past the checkpoint of an exclusive gated community even though a crime was taking place.
Tillis was a big man with a square head and a crew cut dashed with silver. His aviator sunglasses hung from his collar and his flat-brimmed hat was on his lap. Tillis, like a few other troopers Joe had encountered, had a territorial bias against game wardens. He assumed Joe and his colleagues spent the bulk of their time hunting and fishing while real peace officers like himself were exposing themselves to drug dealers and other outlaws on the highways. Joe thought of Tillis as a blunt object.
Joe nodded to the state trooper and sat down. There was no point engaging with the man, he thought.
Chief Williamson of the Saddlestring Police Department sprawled on a plastic chair and greeted Joe with a wave of his hand. Williamson had been fired by the city council the year before for overzealously citing tourists for speeding and parking violations, but he’d since been rehired because his replacement had made it a policy to shoot stray dogs in town, not realizing that one of them belonged to the mayor.
The new county sheriff, Brendan Kapelow, sat ramrod-straight in a hard-backed chair with his wide silverbelly Stetson clamped low and hard on his head. His eyes flitted to Joe as he entered but shifted back t
oward the door where Judge Hewitt would emerge from his back office.
Joe didn’t know yet what to think about Sheriff Kapelow, although he hoped his first impressions of him would turn out to be wrong.
Kapelow was in his early thirties, a marine who’d seen combat in Iraq and Afghanistan, who was new to the sheriff’s department and had surprised everyone when he decided to run for the office after Sheriff Reed had been gunned down. Reed’s senior deputies, Ryan Steck and Justin Woods, had long been thought to be the likely replacements, but the once-close friends had turned on each other when the campaign heated up. They’d accused each other of being lazy and corrupt, and the race had gotten personal and nasty in a way very few Wyoming local elections—except sheriff’s elections—ever did. Joe had kept his distance during the campaign season and he’d been disappointed in both Steck and Woods for going after each other, because he liked and respected them both.
Kapelow, an unknown with an impressive background and the cool-eyed demeanor of a mysterious cowboy who had just ridden into town, beat the two deputies primarily because he hadn’t slung mud or taken a side. Since the election, Steck and Woods had mended fences and become friends again but found themselves working for a boss they knew very little about.
Which created a natural and obvious problem within the department, Joe noted. Since his election, Kapelow hadn’t reached out to the two deputies to smooth things over and welcome them to be a part of his team. He’d chosen to keep them isolated, and rather than speak to them during briefings or over a beer after work, he communicated in terse memos or text messages. Joe had seen a couple of the missives that Woods had showed him on his phone. One had read, Cut your overtime by forty percent. You’re costing me too much money. Another read, Iron your uniform and shine your boots. Appearances are important and every member of my staff needs to look sharp at all times. Appearance = Professionalism.
Sheriff Kapelow, as far as Joe knew, never smiled or joked. He was an imposing physical presence, tall and very fit, and when he spoke it was so softly that listeners had to lean toward him to hear.
He wore his sidearm low on his right hip like a Wild West gunslinger, and his service weapon of choice was a stainless-steel Colt .45 Peacemaker with an ivory grip. He’d made no attempt to get to know Joe, or ingratiate himself into the community. Kapelow seemed to be a blank slate. Locals projected their wants, needs, and observations on him, often unfairly, Joe thought.
The new sheriff was either “strong and silent just like Gary Cooper” or “too full of himself to talk to anyone.” He was either “a no-nonsense lawman” or a “humorless stiff.”
In the short time he’d been sheriff, there had been no major felonies, cases, or controversies for which Kapelow would have had to prove his competence.
Until now.
Joe deeply missed Sheriff Mike Reed’s presence in the room. And he missed Dulcie Schalk’s calm and reasonable approach to every situation brought before her. He felt uncomfortable and out of place in this group of law enforcement people.
Because the local sheriff could request backup or assistance from the local game warden at any time, Joe’s relationship with them was important. Wyoming game wardens could be asked to help with raids and assaults, or called in to assist with ongoing investigations. Kapelow was the fourth sheriff Joe had worked with in Twelve Sleep County. The first two, Bud Barnum and Kyle McLanahan, had been autocratic and corrupt. Mike Reed had been just the opposite: fair, honest, and straightforward.
Thus far, Kapelow was simply inscrutable.
*
PATTERSON CAME INTO the room and shut the door behind him. Because there weren’t any more open chairs, he moved to the back and leaned against the radiator with his arms folded over his chest. It was a signal that Judge Hewitt was on his way.
Joe noted Patterson’s demeanor. The acting county attorney was drained of color and Joe could see that his hands were trembling. Sue Hewitt’s injury and the judge’s reaction to it seemed to have really shaken him up. Joe thought that even though Patterson dealt with crimes and victims every day, he had likely not experienced anything this personal since the massacre on the courthouse steps.
The door burst open into the chambers and Hewitt stepped in. As always, he was in a hurry. His eyes were red and he had bags under them from lack of sleep.
Joe was used to seeing the judge in his robes, and without them Hewitt looked . . . mortal. He wore casual dark slacks and a rumpled white shirt with an obvious bloodstain on the front of it. He probably hadn’t changed his clothes since the night before.
“I just came from the hospital,” Hewitt said, standing behind his high-backed swivel chair and placing his hands on the top of it. “Sue is in critical condition and the doctors are talking about an induced coma so her body can maybe recover. It doesn’t look good, though.”
Hewitt’s eyes misted and he looked away. Joe had never seen him like that before, and he felt his own eyes well up. It was a surprising reaction and he hoped the others in the room didn’t catch it.
Judge Hewitt recovered and he looked from Tillis to Williamson to Patterson to Kapelow to Joe. He held each of their eyes for a moment.
Then he said, “Someone in this room knows who tried to kill me.”
FIVE
THE STATEMENT HUNG IN THE AIR.
In his peripheral vision, Joe noticed that Chief Williamson had blanched and reached for a bottle of water. Tillis had stiffened and his face reddened. Behind him, Joe heard Patterson gulp. Sheriff Kapelow sat stoic and ramrod-straight, as if the accusation had nothing to do with him.
Joe thought Hewitt had meant something else entirely, and it was borne out when the judge cleared his throat and went on.
“Each one of you has brought a long list of miscreants and offenders into my courtroom over the years,” he said. “You’ve taken the sacred oath and made the case against them and testified to put them away where they belong. No one knows these reprobates better than each of you, not counting their mothers. You’ve been there during the investigation, the arrest, and the trial. You were likely in the room when they were sentenced, so you know what their reactions were to my judgment of them.
“What I want each of you to do is to reflect on those cases,” he said. “Make a list. Write down the names of the pukes who reacted to their punishment by saying they wanted retribution against you, your fellow law enforcement officers, witnesses against them, and especially the judge who sentenced them.”
As his request became clearer, Joe noted that Williamson relaxed and Tillis seemed more annoyed. Kapelow was apparently unaffected.
“Duane,” Hewitt said to Patterson over Joe’s shoulder, “you might be in a really good position to know what threats were made against me, since you defended a number of these pukes. How many told you after sentencing that they’d like to burn down my house or take me out?”
Patterson cleared his throat. “More than a few, Your Honor,” he said.
“Write down their names,” Hewitt said to him. “See how many are presently in Rawlins at the penitentiary and who might be out wanting to seek revenge. Deliver that list to the sheriff and me by the end of the week.”
“Yes, Your Honor,” Patterson said weakly.
“Is there a problem with that?” Hewitt asked. His eyes were on the acting county prosecutor.
“No problem, Your Honor,” Patterson said. “The list might be longer than you want it to be.”
“I don’t care,” Hewitt shot back. “That comes with the job.”
Patterson said, “I’ve got a lot on my plate right now, sir.”
“Not as much as Sue,” Hewitt said sharply. “Sue is in the process of dying right now due to a high-powered bullet that entered her left breast and plowed through her lungs.”
“Yes, sir,” Patterson said with a yelp.
“Kapelow,” Hewitt said, focusing on the sheriff sitting in front of him. “This is now the first and only priority of your department. Ask all of your de
puties to make lists and start questioning everybody on it who is not currently in jail. Tell all your people to clear their schedules until we have the shooter in custody.”
Kapelow nodded so imperceptibly that Joe could barely see it. Joe wondered what the sheriff’s reaction would be to being ordered around like that.
“I’ll do the same,” Williamson said.
Kapelow turned in his chair toward the others in the room. He said, “The club is outside city limits. This shooting is clearly in the sheriff’s department jurisdiction. It should all go through us. All of it. We want a well-coordinated investigation and not a bunch of guys tripping over each other with their own personal agendas.”
He didn’t look over at Williamson when he said it, although it was obviously directed at the chief.
Joe narrowed his eyes at the man. Although it was technically true that the sheriff had jurisdiction over the crime scene, the way he stated it was haughty and unnecessary, Joe thought. He’d aligned himself with Judge Hewitt against the others in the room.
Kapelow turned back to Hewitt. “I’ve got my guys on the scene out there right now.”
“Good,” Hewitt said. “Tell them not to disturb anything in my house or there will be hell to pay. I’ve cleared out for the time being so you can do your work. But when I move back in, there better not be any damage or anything missing.”
“Yes, Your Honor.”
“Have you determined where the shot was fired from?”
“We think it was from the bunker of the seventh green,” Kapelow said. “We think someone climbed the fence, trespassed on the property, and lay in wait at dusk. We’re combing the area for physical evidence: footprints, the casing, cigarette butts or spent chewing tobacco—anything we can find to help determine the shooter’s identity.”
Joe was impressed with what Kapelow had done so far.
Hewitt wasn’t. “Your ‘bunker on the seventh green’ theory is outright bullshit,” he said. “I sit at my dining room table every night and look out over the golf course and the hills and mountains behind it. From where I sit, I can’t even see the sand trap on the seventh fairway. Anybody hiding there could barely see the roof of my house, much less the back window.”