Текст книги "Winter Kill "

Автор книги: Josh lanyon

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Chapter Four

 

“I don’t get it,” Russell said. “Why us?”

Tall, dark, and handsome, Russell could have served as a poster boy for the modern FBI. He was smart too. And personable. Though he didn’t waste much of that personability on Adam.

“Murder on federal property,” Adam replied. Most of his attention was on the road ahead. It was starting to snow. Not hard, though it was sticking, and he wasn’t used to driving in these conditions. A born and bred California boy, he preferred sailing to skiing. He knew enough to know he didn’t have winter tires, and all the training in the world didn’t help when the other people on the road were idiots.

Not that there were a lot of other people on the road. Right there was probably an indication.

They’d arrived in Medford that afternoon, rented a car, and were now on their way to Nearby. The curator of a small museum at the edge of the national forest had been found dumped in a Native American exhibit with her throat cut. Sheriff McLellan had invited the FBI—and Adam personally—into the investigation.

It was hard to know what was bothering Russell more: that the Bureau had been dragged in, or that Adam had been requested. He asked again, “Why you? Why ask for you specifically?”

“I don’t know. I guess we’ll find out.” He was glad though. Grateful. It stung that his SAC had no hesitation in releasing him from the Ripper taskforce, but frankly it was a relief to get off morgue patrol. It wasn’t that he didn’t think they were doing useful work helping to compile the database of the Ripper’s victims for eventual possible federal prosecution. It was work a probationary agent could handle. Just about tolerable when he’d been partnered with Jonnie. He and J.J. Russell had been at odds from the moment they’d shook hands. Russell resented morgue patrol even more than Adam did, and Russell nearly was probationary. First office agent. Bu-ease for an agent who didn’t know enough to realize how little he knew.

Maybe what really bugged him about Russell was he reminded Adam too much of himself. Or at least the self he’d used to be.

“If they’re a substation then they’re too small to handle a homicide investigation, and they need to hand it off to the state police. Or to a larger sheriff department in the county,” Russell said.

Which was perfectly true.

“There’s nothing about this that justifies bringing in the Bureau.”

“Murder on federal property,” repeated Adam.

“We’re from Los Angeles. This is Portland’s case, if it’s anybody’s.”

“They asked for us. They requested our help. Portland signed off on it.”

“Because Portland doesn’t think it’s worth their time or manpower.”

Russell was probably right about that too. Adam said neutrally, “Maybe we should wait to draw any conclusions.”

Russell’s silence was stony.

So that was the drive from the airport. It took about an hour. Then another two minutes after they reached Nearby to locate the sheriff’s office tucked between the library and the optimistically named Tourist Center.

Over the past months Adam had been inside so many of these small town police departments and sheriff stations, he could have described the interior without ever opening the door. It was always the same setup: from the female deputy frustrated with being the one stuck manning the phones, to the bulletin board papered with the crimes and tragedies of distant metropolises. Be on the lookout for…other people’s problems. Because nothing bad ever happened in these small towns.

Until it did.

This time the deputy was tall and boyishly thin, with dark hair tied back in a tight ponytail that would be a liability in a street fight. Since she would probably spend most of her career doing paperwork and answering phones, her hair style was likely not a concern. Her eyes widened at the sight of Adam and Russell.

“Frankie!” she called without glancing at the identification Russell proffered.

From an office on the other side of the long wood-paneled building, Sheriff McLellan called back, “Yep?”

“They’re here.”

Russell put his identification back. Sheriff McLellan bustled out of her office to meet them. She was shorter, stouter, and redder than Adam remembered. “Thanks for coming on such short notice, Agent Darling.”

It was always short notice. Nobody planned for a murder or a kidnapping or a bank robbery. Adam shook hands and said, “Of course, Sheriff. This is Agent Russell.”

McLellan nodded a curt hello to Russell. She looked haggard. Like she hadn’t slept in forty-eight hours. Which was probably accurate. There were bags beneath her eyes and lines carved around her mouth. She pointed to the front desk deputy. “That’s Aggie. Deputy Hawkins. You know the rest of the team. Zeke is out interviewing residents of the homes nearest the museum. Unfortunately, we’ve got a number of vacation properties out that way with nobody home this time of year. Rob and I have been going over the crime scene photos.”

Adam didn’t like the way his pulse gave a kick at the mention of Deputy Haskell’s name. That was the last thing he needed. He’d enjoyed their previous encounter, but it had been a one off. It had to be.

“Help yourselves to some coffee.” McLellan led them into her office. “So far the media hasn’t caught wind. We’re hoping it stays that way.”

“That won’t last,” Russell said. “Some blogger will get hold of it. Somebody’s going to go on Twitter.”

Rob was sitting to the side of McLellan’s desk. There was a coffee cup and a half-eaten sandwich on a paper plate near his elbow. He was poring over a gruesome selection of crime scene photos. Glancing up, he met Adam’s eyes, gave a tiny nod, and returned to scrutinizing the photos.

That was a relief. Nothing to worry about there. Rob clearly shared his desire to keep things on a strictly professional basis.

So why he felt ever so slightly piqued, Adam wasn’t sure.

Funny thing: he hadn’t recalled Rob being so handsome. He was. From that strong, square jaw to those expressive, dark eyes, he was by anyone’s standards a very nice looking guy.

“Rob, you know Agent Darling. And this is Agent Russell.”

“Agent Russell.” Rob glanced again at Adam. His mouth quivered ever so slightly as he added, “Darling.”

“Who processed the crime scene?” Adam asked. “State police?”

“That’s right,” McLellan said.

Russell said, “Sheriff, why is a substation attempting to conduct a murder investigation? Why has this not been handed over to the Medford or—”

“Because Medford is Jackson County,” Rob said, and all good humor was gone from his face and voice. “You’re in Klamath County. And we’re not a substation. Nearby is an incorporated village. We’ve got our own civic charter, and we’ve been recognized by the state legislature. Frankie is the duly elected sheriff of this community.”

Russell turned red, met Adam’s eyes, and looked away.

Adam said, “Whatever advice or assistance you need, Sheriff. Say the word. This is your investigation.”

“Good,” Rob said. “Because one way to guarantee media coverage is inviting in the FBI.”

“Robbie,” McLellan cautioned.

Rob shrugged.

“You called us, remember?” Adam said.

“I didn’t call you,” Rob said. “If it had been up to me—”

“No, I called Agent Darling,” McLellan cut in. “Duly elected or not, we’re out of our depth. And the last thing we want is to have to turn this over to State or KPD.”

“Then let’s stop pissing on trees and start working the case,” Adam said.

Rob said shortly, “Suits me.” He pushed the photos across the desk. His hands were strong, capable. Nails clipped short, cuticles a little ragged. Adam experienced a sudden, vivid memory of those hands stroking his back, caressing his ass.

He swallowed and said to McLellan, “Is the body in the mortuary?”

“No. Not this time. The remains have been transported to Klamath Falls.”

Adam turned to Russell who said, “I’ll interview the ME.” Adam nodded.

Russell wanted to return to civilization ASAP, and Adam didn’t really blame him. Russell believed they were on a wild goose chase, and Adam thought he was probably right. The difference was he was grateful for the break. Russell, on the other hand, resented spending time on anything that would not potentially bring him to the attention of his superiors and possible promotion. Adam got it. Once upon a time he’d felt the same way.

As Russell left the office, Adam picked up the crime scene photos.

You got used to them, of course. You couldn’t do the job if you didn’t manage to develop a high threshold for other people’s pain. Not so high that you stopped caring, but high enough that you could look at the slaughter of a woman like Cynthia Joseph and not lose your lunch.

It did make it hard to sleep sometimes.

Cynthia Joseph had been about forty. A dark-haired woman with strong rather than pretty features. Granted, it would be impossible for anyone to look pretty with her throat cut.

He opened his mouth and Rob said tersely, “He hit her over the head with a metate. Hopefully he knocked her cold.”

Hopefully, yes. Adam said, “A metate?”

“Handheld grinding stone.”

“Did you recover a weapon?”

“No,” Rob said. “We think he used one of the knives in the museum. A display case was smashed open, and it looks like one of the knives is missing.”

“Do you know time of death yet?”

“Not yet. Just that she died sometime during the night. She was found a little after nine o’clock yesterday morning.” McLellan said, “Pete Abrams was delivering propane to the Josephs. He saw the museum door standing open and went inside. He found Cynthia.” The lines on her face grew more pronounced. “Our killer dropped her body on one of those displays—”

She looked at Rob who answered, “Diorama.”

“That’s right. It was a funeral display. Well, the Modocs cremated their dead so it was supposed to show the body being prepared for the ceremony.”

Rob said, “He dumped her body on the funeral pyre.”

Adam said thoughtfully, “Hm. He didn’t light the pyre.”

“Jesus,” Rob muttered.

Adam asked, “Was there a mannequin in the display? What happened to it?”

“No. No mannequin.” McLellan was watching him as though awaiting some grand pronouncement. He didn’t have a pronouncement for her. Initial observation maybe. Nothing they wouldn’t have noticed themselves: that it had been a crime of opportunity, and that they were dealing with someone likely both deranged and disorganized.

McLellan said, “Cynthia and her daughter lived next door to the museum. Back in October someone tried to break into the museum, and Cynthia scared them away. We think that may have happened again.”

“Only they didn’t scare this time,” Rob said.

Adam asked, “What’s so valuable in that museum?”

“Nothing.” McLellan met his gaze and repeated, “Nothing. No precious metals, no gemstones. There are a couple of stuffed animals displays—dioramas—a few maps, a lot of information about nature and the woods. And there’s a collection of Modoc antiquities that belonged to Cynthia’s family. Bowls and baskets. Costumes and beads and feathers. She donated the lot to the Park Service when she married Henry.”

“Henry?”

“Henry Joseph. Henry and Cynthia were both park rangers. Henry died five years ago. Cynthia stayed on as a tour guide and the museum curator.”

“You said there’s a daughter?” Adam questioned.

“Tiffany. Aged seventeen. She’s staying with friends in Klamath Falls this weekend.”

“You said you believe a knife was taken from a display case. Was anything else taken from the museum?”

Rob said, “That’s what we’re trying to determine. It looked like maybe a couple of items have been removed. Cynthia may have pulled them for her own reasons. We’re hoping Tiffany can shed some light on that.”

Adam said slowly, “You haven’t spoken to her yet?”

“We’re working on it. She didn’t go to school yesterday, and we don’t know the last name of the friend she was staying with. Aggie’s tracking her down now.”

Not good. In fact, suspicious. Although the previous attempt at a break-in did offer an alternative scenario. A preferable scenario.

Adam shuffled through the photos, considering the possibilities. He said finally, “I’d like to walk the crime scene if that’s all right?”

“Sure. That’s the idea. Rob will do the honors,” McLellan said wearily.

Rob rose at once, removed his jacket from a hook on the wall, and pulled it on. “Let’s do it,” he said.

In silence, they left the sheriff’s office, walked around the corner of the building, and climbed into a white SUV with the official green and gold Sheriff’s Office insignia. The snow had turned to a slushy rain. The interior of the vehicle was cold. Adam could smell Rob’s aftershave—that blend of green citrus and sequoia—and he was disconcerted at how familiar it seemed.

Given that he hadn’t had anything but solo sex since the night with Rob, it was probably a Pavlovian response.

“So. How’ve you been?” Rob’s gaze was on the rearview mirror as he reversed, the wide tires leaving deep tracks in the snowy mud and gravel. “How’s your Roadside Ripper doing?”

As a matter of fact, the Ripper had been taking it easy lately. Nearly five months since his last kill. Not his longest cooling off period. That had been six months. Long enough to make you hope he’d finally picked up the wrong guy. Not that you were supposed to hope for that. The aim was always to catch the offender.

“Good. Busy,” Adam said. “Sorry we’re meeting again under these circumstances.”

Rob’s laugh was short. “Are there any other circumstances we would have met under?”

Well, no.

“Did you know the victim?”

“Yep.” It was a flat smack of a word. “Everybody knows everybody in Nearby. Cynthia wasn’t just ‘the victim’ to people around here.”

“I realize that.”

“No, you don’t.” Rob threw him a hard, white smile. “This is personal for us. For you, it’s just another case. Not that we don’t appreciate the expertise you bring. I don’t doubt you’d rather be working on your high profile taskforce.”

“You’d be surprised.”

Rob’s gaze slid sideways. The windshield wipers beat out a few moments of silence before he said—sounding more friendly, “You got a new partner?”

“God help me.” Adam hadn’t meant to say that aloud, but when Rob laughed, he laughed too. Still. Not professional. Adam asked, “Did you ever find out the identity of your logging road John Doe?”

Rob half lifted a hand from the steering wheel in absent greeting as they passed a couple of elderly men in cowboy hats. “Yes, we sure did.” His grin was mocking. “Surprised?”

He was, yes. It wouldn’t be diplomatic to say so. “He was local?”

“Yes. Dove Koletar. According to local legend, the only other gay man to ever live in Nearby. His parents used to own the campground cabins by the lake. He left for the big city thirty years ago. Left a goodbye forever note and everything.”

“A hate crime?” Adam asked. If that was the case, there was a good chance Koletar had been killed by someone local. Maybe even someone still living in Nearby. Thirty years was a long time, but it wasn’t a lifetime.

“That, we’ll probably never know. Koletar was the invisible man. Nobody remembers anything about him. Even his own mother forgot about him.”

“Everybody copes in their own way.”

Rob made a noncommittal sound.

They had left the brief stretch of small businesses that made up the village proper and were picking up speed as they headed toward the national forest. Despite the sleety rain, the snow was sticking, glazing the ground and powdering the trees. Behind walls of fir and pines, Adam glimpsed the roofs and windows of large, expensive homes.

“What’s the year round population up here?”

“A little over fifteen hundred. It’s shrinking steadily. During the summer season we see over a hundred thousand visitors annually.”

“What?”

Rob laughed at his expression. “Not all the same week luckily.”

“One hundred thousand visitors?”

“This is a very popular recreation spot in Southern Oregon.”

“This is? What the hell do they do here?”

Rob was clearly amused at his ignorance. “Hiking, biking, and horseback riding. Among other things. People come here to swim, fish, canoe, water ski. You name it. If it can be done in water, they do it. And a lot of winters we get them ice fishing. Not this year. This is warm winter.”

“It is?” Adam doubtfully eyed the windshield wipers briskly beating back the fall of fat, icy raindrops.

“Yep. Very warm.”

They were only about five minutes out of the village when the SUV slowed and Rob turned off the main highway. The road was still paved, though the asphalt was wearing thin. The SUV hit a couple of teeth-rattling potholes in quick succession.

Rob said, “There’s the museum up ahead.”

The museum was an A-framed log cabin which sat in a clearing surrounded by deep forest. Two wickiups sat to one side of the main structure. The main building was constructed of wood that shone almost golden in the dreary light. Window frames, door, and steps were all painted in bright primary colors and adorned with Native American symbols.

“It’s small,” Adam commented.

“Yeah. Pretty much a one-woman enterprise. Cynthia was the curator and sole employee. Most of her time was donated. A few years ago—when the economy was better and we had more visitors—she had part-time help, but for the last few years it’s just been her.”

“And it’s way out in the middle of nowhere.”

Rob made a sound that was somewhere between a laugh and a snort. “That’s right, city boy.”

Adam glanced at him. “Correct me if I’m wrong. Isn’t Portland the largest city in Oregon?”

“Why yes, it is. I’m flattered you remember that I’m from Portland.”

“I remember.” He held Rob’s gaze for an instant.

A yellow crime scene banner and rope stretched across the road. Parked by the side of the road, a state trooper was pouring himself coffee from a thermos when they pulled alongside.

The trooper and Rob spoke briefly, and then he unhooked the rope, and Rob drove through and parked in the small parking area reserved for visitors.

They got out and crossed the empty lot, boots crunching the thin crust of snow.

“Was it snowing Thursday night?” Adam asked.

“Raining. We didn’t get any usable tracks from the lot or the road.”

“Maybe he didn’t drive up.” Though it would be a long way from anywhere to walk.

The wooden steps creaked forlornly as they walked up to the porch. Rob pointed out one of the tall windows along the side of the structure. The window was covered by a tarp.

“That’s where he got in. Nothing fancy. He just smashed the window. Cynthia must have heard the glass breaking. The Josephs live over there.” Rob indicated a small single-story white house on the far side of the clearing. “Out here sound carries at night.”

Adam studied the house. It was not immediately visible from the road. “You said in October there was an attempt at a break-in?”

Rob nodded, opening the door and holding it for Adam. “Though it doesn’t prove this was the same guy.”

“You’ll want to put together a list of everyone who ever worked in the museum,” Adam said.

“Why didn’t we think of that?” Because of the high ceiling Rob’s sarcasm seemed magnified, echoing emptily as they walked past the reception desk with its tidy display of maps and NPS brochures. Adam’s nostrils twitched at the scent of raw wood, old leather, and crime scene chemicals.

“This way,” Rob said, and they turned left, passing a tall display case containing a full-size mannequin wearing ceremonial dress and a fierce and elaborate black and orange bear mask. The mannequin held aloft a painted staff which he seemed to point at the viewer. Glass case or not, the masked figure was pretty intimidating. The eyes behind the mask glittered with lifelike alertness.

“Imagine seeing that out of the corner of your eye all day long,” Rob commented.

“Maybe she considered him a coworker.” Adam stared up at the cathedral ceiling with its steeply sloping open beams. “I’m not seeing surveillance cameras.”

Rob said, “That’s because there aren’t any.”

For God’s sake. In this day and age?

Rob stopped in front of a dugout canoe propped on pedestals a few feet above the glossy floor. Behind the canoe was the broken window, now secured with tarp and heavy duty tape.

Adam stepped forward to examine the shattered, scattered glass on the floor behind the canoe, careful not to disturb any of the plastic crime scene markers.

“He’d have to know he was in full view of Joseph’s front window. If this was the same intruder, he’d certainly realize there was a chance she might see him breaking in.”

“Maybe he thought he was invisible. Or maybe he didn’t give a shit if he was seen or not.”

Adam nodded absently. Maybe there had been a plan. Maybe that plan had been to get Joseph over here on her own. “Why wouldn’t she call for help? Why did she storm over here on her own?”

He was thinking aloud, but Rob answered. “She wasn’t afraid.”

He turned and Rob was right behind him. Not really enough room for two grown men in this small confined space. They looked uncomfortably into each other’s eyes. Rob backed up and Adam squeezed past the canoe. He was conscious of the warmth of Rob’s body. He remembered how it had felt to lie in Rob’s arms.

It took him a second to remember what they had been talking about. He said, “She should have been. This was a bold and aggressive intruder. Why wasn’t she afraid?”

“She thought she could handle the situation.”

“Did she? Because that’s the question. Is the X factor here Joseph’s character or the character of her killer?”

Rob raised his eyebrows. “Maybe both. Maybe she thought she knew who the intruder was.”

Adam’s gaze zeroed on Rob’s. He nodded. “Maybe she did. Yes. Where did he leave the body?”

“The other side of the museum.” Rob turned away, and Adam followed him past a display of baskets and woven bowls and bottles, and then a wall of maps and black and white photos of early Twentieth Century Oregon.

The rain was coming down hard now. He could hear it drumming against the sloped roof. The light through the windows cast an eerie blue tinge over the rooms and their contents. It felt much later in the day than it actually was. An artificial twilight.

Rob paused, pointing out a few dots of red brown on the knotty paneling. “We think she came around this corner, and he hit her using one of the stones from that display.”

The display dealt with diet and food preparation. The Modocs had been hunter-gatherers subsisting on everything from grizzly bears and pelicans to rye grass and yellow pond lilies. There were fishing spears, bows and iron-tipped arrows, boiling stones and grinding stones.

“He picked up a stone instead of an arrow or a spear,” Adam said. “It’s possible he didn’t initially intend to kill her.”

“Or, on the spur of the moment, a rock seemed less complicated.”

Adam murmured acknowledgement. Rob was right. The unsub’s election of weapon could have been based on something as simple as the grinding stone being closest to hand.

Rob said, “He knocked her out. Stunned her at the least. You can see by the smeared blood that he dragged her over here.” He skirted the gruesome stains on the wood floor and led the way past a couple of glass cases to the far end of the building.

This final exhibit was a beautifully conceived diorama. The raised flooring was covered with dirt and grass. The painted backdrop depicted trees, lake, and wickiups in the far distance. In the center of the diorama was a funeral pyre of real wood piled several feet high. Very lifelike.

The most unrealistic element were the plastic crime scene markers surrounding the pyre. Now there was irony for you.

Rob said, “I’ve been reading up on this. The Modoc washed their dead, wrapped them in tule mats, and carried them headfirst out of their homes. The body was taken to the cremation grounds and laid on a funeral pyre with the head pointing to the west. That’s supposed to be where the entrance to their underworld was.”

West. The direction of the setting sun. That made sense.

“Was Joseph’s body arranged so that her head was pointing west?”

“Yeah. He undressed her, but wasn’t able to wrap her in the tule mat, so he just draped it over her. She was lying with her head to the west.”

Had it been a real attempt to adhere to ritual, or just a sick joke? Impossible to know. The staging of the body suggested someone familiar with Modoc death ceremony and/or the museum. Given that this was a very small museum in a very small town, it was possible that everyone in Nearby had visited the museum at some time or the other.

Watching him, Rob said, “So is this the part where you close your eyes and a grainy flashback of how the crime was committed comes to you?”

Adam smiled faintly. “Complete with Theremin soundtrack and slashing sound effects? No.”

“You’re sure? Because that would be convenient.”

“Wouldn’t it?”

“Seen enough?”

“I think so.”

“I want to show you something else.”

They started back toward the front of the museum. Adam paused at one of the smashed cases. There were three masks similar to the one worn by the mannequin near the entrance doors. Old and elaborate concoctions of carved cedar and brilliant plant dyes. They were large and would be very heavy and awkward to wear. Visibility would be nil. You couldn’t wear them hunting or fighting. Their purpose would have to be ceremonial only.

On the far right was a bear mask, similar to, though larger than, the one worn by the mannequin in the front lobby. The second was of a dog or a wolf, and the third seemed to depict a bald man with a pierced lip and goggling eyes.

“What was he after here?”

“We think he took a mask,” Rob said. “That’s what it looks like. If so, he took the card with it. If he took one, I don’t know why he wouldn’t take all four. They’re probably the most valuable things in the museum. Collectors pay big bucks for these ceremonial masks.”

Beside the case was a placard with browned paper. Adam leaned forward to read it. “‘Spell of the Laughing Raven’?”

Rob shrugged. “A story. A Modoc legend.”

Adam read.

At “dance place” when the Klamath Lake people danced, many people were there.

Kemush, Old Man of the Ancients, went there. Then Old Raven laughed at them, laughed when they danced, and all people dancing there became rocks.

Gray Wolf entered Kitti above, from the north. There he stopped and lay down, although not yet having reached his home. In full dress, at that spot, moccasins with beads on toe, stopped and rested.

Then Old Grizzly approached Old Gray Wolf while lying asleep. And Old Grizzly stole from Gray Wolf his moccasins, beads also, and put them on to go to the fishing place.

Upon this, Old Gray Wolf, waking up, threw Old Grizzly down hill. He rolled him down over the rocks for having robbed him of moccasins and beads also. Thus killed he Old Grizzly.

Upon this, the Klamath Lake people began fighting the Northerners because Old Grizzly had been killed by Old Gray Wolf.

Then Old Raven laughed at them when fighting and they became rocks.

He looked over at Rob who was watching him with an odd expression. “What does it mean?”

“You’re asking me?”

“You said you’ve been reading up on this stuff.”

“I just started,” Rob said. “We’ve been a little busy around here, you may have noticed.”

Adam turned to examine the case contents again. “I’ll tell you what he took,” he said. “He took the raven’s mask.”