The Hunting Season

by Janice Kay Johnson - His Best Friend's Baby

  “Have you let her know he’s dead yet?” Daniel asked. Fingerprints had already confirmed the victim’s identity.

  “No, I thought you might prefer to do that.”

  “I would.” He was surprised at her restraint, although it was possible she just hadn’t wanted to do a death notification. Who did? “You’re sure she wasn’t here in Oregon when you talked to her?”

  “Pretty sure. I reached a cleaning lady at the house, who gave me Mrs. Schulze’s work number.”

  “Took the new husband’s name, huh?”

  “Apparently.”

  He kept eyeing Lindsay sidelong, wondering if she’d just tamped down the hostility or whether she had let some of it go. Not all, or she’d be willing to look at him. And why would she, once she guessed he had to consider her as a possible suspect in the murder of the man who’d brutally beaten the boy under her charge?

  Truthfully, Daniel couldn’t see it. He’d walked out to the woods where she thought she’d seen someone watching her, but found nothing. Given the extremely dry ground, the guy would have had to do something as stupid as drop a cigarette butt to leave any evidence of his existence, and he hadn’t. That’s if he existed at all. But Daniel wouldn’t hold it against her if she’d been scared enough to imagine someone.

  Earlier Daniel had gotten the quickie summation of her job history. Apparently, she had received nothing but sterling reviews by supervisors in Child Protective Services. A few quotes from her annual reviews said things like, “Really cares for the kids,” as well as “Lindsay is practical, kind and refuses to let down a child who counts on her.” If the supervisor was to be believed, she was adept at dealing with the abusive adults as well as the children. She had a talent for matching adults and children with the right therapists, too.

  She’d done social work for nine years, the last three with CPS. If she hadn’t yet cracked and knocked off a vicious abuser, why would she now?

  Of course, cops were known to break eventually, too, and do something they wouldn’t have ten years before or even a month before. While Daniel couldn’t entirely rule her out as a suspect, he was more interested in Shane, and then in gathering information from neighbors, friends and people who’d hired Martin along the way. If the man had been capable of losing it with his nephew the way he had, he could have lashed out at other people as well.

  At Martin’s house, Daniel parked, turned off the engine and looked at Lindsay. “I’m taking you in with me because you’ll have a better idea what Shane had with him and whether anything is missing. I’ll ask you not to touch anything and to stay with me.”

  She retorted, “Why are you treating this like a crime scene?”

  “Because trouble could have started here and followed him to his brother’s house.”

  Her clipped nod managed to convey surface agreement underlaid by skepticism.

  Daniel had the keys that had been in Martin’s pocket. It took him a few tries to find the right one to open the front door. It led directly into the living room, which lacked any suggestion of a woman’s influence. Scratched, worn hardwood floors were matched by dingy off-white walls, unadorned by art. Instead, a big recliner faced a flat-screen TV. The sofa seemed an afterthought.

  His nose twitched at the trace of an unpleasant odor. Lindsay’s eyes widened and her head turned. She locked her fingers together at her waist. “Is that…?”

  “Something dead? I don’t think so.” That would be an all-too familiar odor for him. This wasn’t the singed smell that had permeated the kitchen at the crime scene, either.

  She didn’t look all that reassured but followed him to the kitchen. He almost gagged when he pulled the trash from under the sink.

  “Can we relax the ‘don’t touch’ rule long enough to throw this out?” she asked, making an awful face.

  “Once I poke through it.” He’d found useful evidence in garbage cans or dumpsters before, but felt certain that wouldn’t be the case here.

  When he donned latex gloves, Lindsay retreated a few steps. “You’re braver than I am.”

  He smiled. “I doubt that. Cowards don’t do your job.”

  Those blue eyes flashed at him. “You’re right about that.”

  Beneath dirty food containers and a bunch of beer cans, he found a pound of hamburger that was now gray and all too clearly the source of the stench. Daniel took the plastic bag out to a garbage can he’d noted during the earlier visit. Lindsay stayed on the back porch, sucking in fresh air.

  “None of that looked recent,” she said when he returned.

  “No.” He’d noticed the same.

  “But…does that mean neither of them had dinner the night before last?”

  “Let’s look in the fridge.”

  “Do we have to?” she mumbled.

  Daniel outright grinned as he swung open the refrigerator door. Another package of hamburger wasn’t looking good. Otherwise, racks held mustard, mayonnaise and ketchup, a half gallon of milk—nearly empty, he discovered, when he lifted it—onion and celery in the vegetable drawer, and a pizza box on the top shelf. He took it out and decided it was still edible. He tipped the open box toward Lindsay.

  “I suppose that was dinner.”

  “His, maybe. More would have been gone if Shane had had some. He’s a teenage boy.”

  Her eyes glittered with anger he understood. “You’re saying the creep beat him because, what, he didn’t throw away some wadded paper towels and a few beer or pop cans?”

  “Something like that,” he agreed.

  “I assumed Uncle Martin had cooked, with the understanding that Shane would do the clean-up.” That anger still carrying her, she said, “Can we check out Shane’s room?”

  “You know which one it is?”

  “I was with Shane when Martin helped carry his stuff up. Saying how glad he was to have Shane, and how he wished he’d known how his brother had treated his own son.” She shook her head in disgust. “Apparently, the abuse was okay for him because Shane wasn’t his.”

  They started up the stairs. To distract himself from the sway of her hips in front of him, Daniel commented, “In my experience, it’s not usually the good guys who get murdered. It’s drug dealers, gang members, people trying to screw other people over. The exception is victims of domestic abuse.”

  She waited for him on the landing, a crinkle forming on her forehead. “This is a turnaround for you, then.”

  “When this happens, it’s usually because a woman or an older kid fights back. Grabs a knife or gun.” He shrugged.

  He almost regretted saying it, because wariness showed on her face again. “That’s why Shane is at the top of your list.”

  “I’m afraid so,” Daniel admitted. “I won’t railroad him, Lindsay. I promise.”

  She searched his eyes with an intensity that shook him. He wasn’t used to suspecting someone might have actually seen parts of his psyche he’d rather keep hidden. As a cop and a former soldier, he had plenty he never talked about. He didn’t look away, though; he wasn’t sure he could.

  Finally, she dipped her head, indicating—what? Acceptance? Belief in him?

  He could only hope.

  One step into Shane’s room and Daniel knew the boy had been here today and was gone. Dresser drawers remained open. Lindsay peered under the bed, urged him to open the closet door. Empty.

  Finally, staring into the closet, she said, “At least he has his stuff.”

  If that was the good news, he didn’t want to hear the bad.

  His phone rang while he was locking the front door, Lindsay having already started down the porch steps. Unfamiliar number, but local area code. He answered.

  “Detective Deperro, this is State Patrol Officer William Lasher. I have the boy I was told you’re looking for.”

  “That’s good news.” He was aware of Lindsay stopping, turn
ing to look at him. “Where did you find him?”

  “The kid had gotten a surprising distance from Sadler. He’d had his thumb out on Highway 97 near Redmond.”

  “I’ll come pick him up,” Daniel said.

  “Oh, we’re on our way to you. Can’t say the boy is happy—” there was a smile in Lasher’s voice “—but he’s gobbling a double cheeseburger and fries, so I’d say he’s okay.”

  Daniel laughed. “Hey, he’s a teenage boy. Bottomless pit.”

  “That’s for sure. I have two of ’em at home.”

  Daniel thanked him and they agreed to meet at the Sadler police station. He could see from Lindsay’s expression that she thought he’d isolate the kid in an interrogation room and take out his rubber hose.

  “I want to sit in on your talk with him,” she said firmly.

  “You’re entitled,” he agreed. “Unless you or we come up with another family member willing to take responsibility for Shane, you’ll need to stand in as his guardian.”

  She eyed him suspiciously, then climbed into his SUV. Lindsay Engle was one feisty woman, who wouldn’t appreciate his smile.

  THE BOY STARED anxiously at Daniel. Small for his age, he looked downright pathetic with the bruising in full color, the swelling that distorted his face, and the way he held one arm across his torso as if protecting it. Daniel had broken ribs before and knew how painful they were. Shane’s right hand was wrapped to immobilize several fingers, which would rule out writing or texting. The still grossly swollen lips turned his speech into a mumble.

  Lindsay had very gently hugged him and murmured something in his ear. Now she sat on the boy’s side of the table, where she could fix a distrustful gaze on Daniel.

  “Are you making me go back to that foster home?” Shane asked her.

  Lindsay shook her head. “No, we’ve found a permanent placement for you. You’ll like this family.”

  Not hard to see Shane’s doubt.

  “Why did you leave the Prices’ home?” Daniel asked. “Ms. Engle has been worried about you.”

  Shane shot a quick look her way. “I’m sorry. I just thought…” He didn’t finish.

  “Did either of the Prices do or say anything that frightened you?” she asked him.

  His shoulders hunched. “Not really. He—Mr. Price—looked mean.”

  Enough chitchat. “When did you last see your uncle Martin?” Daniel asked.

  The kid’s puzzlement appeared genuine. “Yesterday morning. When he said I had to go to school and to get out of the house.”

  “Has he contacted you?”

  “How could he?” He sounded confused. “I don’t have a phone or anything like that.”

  “He could have had his call put through to your hospital room.”

  “The only person who called was Ms. Engle.” His expression changed. He drew into himself, appearing to shrink. “Is he trying to get me back? Like, claiming it wasn’t him who hurt me?”

  “No—” Lindsay broke off at Daniel’s signal.

  He said bluntly, “Your uncle is dead, Shane.”

  Shane gaped. “What? How?”

  “He was murdered. Ms. Engle found his body.”

  His wild stare swung between Daniel and Lindsay. “But… I don’t get it.” And then he drew in a sharp breath. “You think I killed him?”

  Daniel modulated his tone. “I have to ask, Shane. The fact that you were missing at the same time he was murdered doesn’t look good.”

  “I wouldn’t! I never saw him!” He focused on Lindsay. “I didn’t!”

  She reached for his uninjured hand. “It’s okay. Just answer Detective Deperro’s questions so he can eliminate you as a suspect.”

  Well, at least she hadn’t said, I believe you, although Daniel felt sure she did.

  Trouble was, despite a usually cynical nature, he believed Shane, too.

  Chapter Three

  Shane eyed the molasses cookies Rhonda Manning had set out. She and her husband, Lyman, both beamed at him. Lyman designed games for a small software company in Bend. He worked remotely three days a week, only going into the office the other two days. Maybe five foot nine or ten, he was as scrawny as Shane, and certainly not physically prepossessing, which made him a good choice for Shane.

  Lindsay thought this was the perfect home for Shane.

  She smiled at Rhonda. “If you don’t mind me snitching a cookie or two, I’d better get back to the office.”

  “Of course not. I’ll grab a napkin.”

  Lindsay turned to Shane. “Remember your promise to the detective.”

  Shane ducked his head. “I won’t run away again. If I freak, I’ll call you.”

  She laughed, hugged him and murmured in his ear, “You do that.” Lindsay thought he was smiling when she let him go, although given the swelling on his face it was a little hard to tell.

  Shane was shyly reaching for a cookie when she thanked the Mannings and left.

  Unfortunately, she’d lied; she wasn’t going to the office. Her destination was once again the hospital. As medical personnel were legally required to do, an ER doctor had contacted Child Protective Services to report his belief that a twelve-year-old girl was being sexually abused by her stepfather. Lindsay’s supervisor, Sadie Culver, had asked her to take this investigation. The only other caseworker free to pursue it was male, and Sadie assumed the girl would feel more comfortable with a woman. Given that Deperro had allowed Lindsay to take Shane, exacting only the promise that he stick around, she thought she had the boy settled. She couldn’t forget that she had dozens of other open cases, but the most urgent leapfrogged to first place on her agenda.

  Nobody in Kaila Kelley’s family had appeared on the Oregon Department of Human Services’ radar before. That wasn’t unusual in cases of sexual molestation; those children rarely told anyone what was happening. Shame and threats were such an effective one-two punch that a father could work his way through three or four daughters before even a hint of the ugly situation surfaced. Lindsay hated knowing that Kaila had an older sister, Kira.

  She learned at the hospital that the observant ER doc had admitted Kaila over the objections of her mother. Going to her room, Lindsay found Mrs. Norris sitting solicitously at her daughter’s bedside. The slight figure in the bed lay curled on her side, looking toward the window instead of her mother.

  When Lindsay introduced herself, Kaila rolled over, her small face with delicate bones drawn with anxiety. The mother jumped to her feet.

  “I just don’t understand why that doctor insisted on calling CPS!” Anxiety underlaid Mrs. Norris’s anger. “My husband thinks of Kaila as his daughter. He’d never do anything so awful! She had to have been raped, maybe by a boy at school. It’s the police who should be investigating.”

  They would be, but Lindsay didn’t tell her that. Rather, she said calmly, “I’m here to find out what Kaila says happened.”

  Mrs. Norris turned her head to look at her daughter. “Tell her.” Her voice rose to near-hysteria. “Tell her your daddy wouldn’t hurt you.”

  Before the girl could open her mouth, assuming she intended to, Lindsay took two steps to place herself between the mother and child. “I know this is difficult for you, Mrs. Norris, but I need to speak to Kaila alone. You can wait in the hall or go down to the cafeteria and get a cup of coffee or lunch. If you give me your phone number, I can—”

  “I have a right to be here! I’m her parent,” the woman cried.

  “Under usual circumstances, that’s the case. However, we need to offer the children we protect the chance to speak freely to us. I feel sure you understand that.”

  Paige Norris understood no such thing, but eventually, reluctantly, withdrew.

  “Hi, Kaila.” She sat in the chair pulled close to the bed and smiled sympathetically. “I’ll bet you have awful cramps.”

>   Wary brown eyes focused and unblinking, Kaila nodded.

  “Are your parents divorced? Do you have contact with your biological dad?” Lindsay already knew, but this seemed like a good way to edge into the difficult part.

  “Daddy died,” Kaila said in a small, husky voice. “In a car accident.”

  Lindsay touched the girl’s nervous hand. “I’m sorry. It’s hard to lose a parent.”

  Tears shimmered in Kaila’s eyes but didn’t fall.

  “When did your mother remarry?” Lindsay asked.

  “Four years ago. I was eight.”

  “That’s been a long time. Do you think of your stepfather as your dad now?”

  The girl shook her head vehemently. “He’s mostly nice. You know? But he always liked to hug us and we had to sit on his lap and stuff like that. Mom said he’s just touchy-feely. Like that. I didn’t like it, but I just—” She broke off.

  I just endured it. That’s what she wasn’t saying. And her mother had sent the message that she should ignore her own instincts and allow a man to handle her any way he wanted. Lindsay had to struggle for a moment with her temper.

  Once she had it mastered, she asked, “What about your sister? Kira? Does she like him?”

  “Uh-uh. She hates him. She never said anything, but I think he did this to her before. I’d find her crying, and she’d tell me to go away.”

  “And what is ‘this’?”

  Getting a child her age to spell out the details took patience. But Lindsay sat quietly and allowed Kaila to take her time. Finally she admitted to the molestation, but her eyes glistened with tears when she said, “He told me I couldn’t tell anyone, or bad things would happen.”

  Starting to weep, she exclaimed, “But I can’t go home! I can’t!”