The Hunting Season

by Janice Kay Johnson - His Best Friend's Baby

  He’d just pulled into the parking lot behind the police station when her phone rang.

  “Gayle,” Lindsay murmured. She answered, said, “Thank you for calling,” then listened with only an occasional interjected word. “Really?”

  Gayle was the older caseworker in Lindsay’s office. Daniel hadn’t gotten a read on her.

  He turned off the engine but made no move to get out. He did shift his gaze from mirror to mirror and the windshield, watching for movement. The parking lot might be reasonably safe, but he still felt exposed. He’d have hustled Lindsay into the station, midconversation or not, but he could tell this was no idle chat.

  Finally, Lindsay thanked her and said, “I can’t believe I’ve never heard about this before. I really appreciate you telling me.”

  A moment later, phone still clutched in her hand, she turned in the seat to face Daniel. “Gayle has been with the local office of CPS for, oh, eight or nine years, with an intermission of a couple of years when she couldn’t work for health reasons.” She took a deep breath. “She says in her early years here, when anyone was especially angry or frustrated, they’d be encouraged to start a fire in a burn barrel out back. Glenn thought it was a healthy outlet. He’d say, ‘Every time you’re ready to lose it, start a fire.’”

  Daniel swore. Way to go for a supervisor: tell his people to start fires to express their rage.

  Lindsay bit her lip, then continued, “They had celebrations, too, when a particularly vicious abuser was convicted in court. They’d, um, do things like roast hot dogs or make s’mores. She said it was usually lunch hour, so nobody got drunk or danced naked around the fire, but…”

  But overt celebrations couldn’t be PC—and Gayle had just tied those small fires firmly to the local CPS.

  “Did she say whose idea it was?” he asked.

  “Glenn at least condoned it.” Lindsay sounded reluctant to say even that much. Now she took a deep breath and met his eyes, her own turbulent. “She also said there’d been a series of fires set in wastebaskets in our offices. Gayle thinks that’s why Glenn allowed the burn barrel thing. Eventually, word got out and he was ordered to stop it and get rid of the barrel.”

  “The surprise is that they got away with something that insane for more than a day,” he growled.

  Lindsay only nodded.

  “Damn.” He’d quit paying attention to the people coming and going in the parking lot. “We need to get inside. Wait for me to come around.”

  Compliance wasn’t in her nature, but she didn’t argue. The way he hustled her the short distance to the back door probably scared her, but it beat the alternative.

  THE DAY WAS incredibly tedious, lanced with occasional anxiety when someone wandering into the break room seemed especially interested in her.

  Of course Lindsay knew a number of the officers. Joe Capek sat down to keep her company for a few minutes and commiserate about her house fire before he went out on patrol. Evidently he’d crossed paths with Daniel, who told him that she was condemned to near-solitary confinement here—or, as he put it, hanging out.

  Otherwise, the first stranger in uniform she met was a man who had to be near retirement age. He was barely inside the door when he saw her and came to a halt.

  “Who are you and what are you doing here?”

  Taken aback not by his question, but rather by his near hostility, Lindsay said, “Detective Deperro brought me here for the day as a safety measure.”

  “Yours the house that burned down yesterday?”

  She nodded.

  Finally moving on into the room, he said, “So you’re the CPS worker.”

  “I am.”

  He grunted, grabbed a plastic dish from the refrigerator and heated it in the microwave, his back to her. When the microwave beeped, he took his meal and left the break room without another word.

  “Nice,” she mumbled.

  An interminable hour later, a tall thin officer around forty entered, his gaze going right to her. “You must be Lindsay Engle.”

  “I am.”

  “Heard you got fired.”

  She stiffened. “I was suspended with pay only until Detective Deperro arrests the killer.”

  The cop watched her with enough intensity to have her nerves prickling, especially since he didn’t pour himself coffee, go to the refrigerator or drop coins in either of the vending machines. She had the uneasy feeling he was here for the sole purpose of getting a good look at her.

  “You can’t possibly be mourning any of the scumbags who’ve died,” he said.

  Her tension ratcheted up. “Who’ve died? You think they just tipped over when their hearts inexplicably stopped? Surely you know how brutal these killings have been.”

  He shrugged. “Pieces of shit we won’t have to arrest again.”

  Lindsay felt sure his attitude was as, if not more, common in law enforcement circles than social services. Frustration was inevitable. Either way she didn’t like it. Many of the abusers she dealt with had been abused as children themselves, or their anger control issues had other understandable roots. Some were alcoholics—but stopping drinking wasn’t as easy as a lot of people wanted to think. She’d dealt with several men who were recently returned veterans battling PTSD. She had also seen plenty of abusive or negligent parents who did kick their drug habit or their alcoholism, or who got a handle on their personal problems in counseling because they loved their children.

  Lindsay did not like Officer… She strained her eyes to read his badge. Jones? James? Something like that.

  The door opened behind him and Daniel appeared, taking in the situation with a glance. “You need something in here, Jonas?”

  The other cop’s lip curled in a sneer even as his flat gaze remained on Lindsay. “Nah.” Without another word, he left. The door swung shut behind him.

  “Wow. Great guy.”

  “When I saw him heading this way, I thought I ought to intervene.” Daniel pulled out a chair beside her. “How are you holding up?”

  “Bored but fine. What’s his problem?”

  “Lousy attitude. He’s had a couple of warnings.”

  “Are you sure that’s all?”

  He grimaced. “Yeah.”

  Annoyed, Lindsay said, “You know, all those online videos you see of a cop slamming a teenage girl to the sidewalk seem surreal, until you meet a charmer like Officer Jonas.”

  He cocked an eyebrow. “And all of your colleagues are compassionate, dedicated, professional and unfailingly patient with the people they have to investigate?”

  She wrinkled her nose at him. “Point made.”

  As always, his grin warmed her. “I ordered lunch from Sandwiches and Such. Hope you’re not picky.”

  “I’m not.”

  She had to admit she looked forward to lunch after a morning of doing nothing. She hadn’t even returned more than a few of the calls that had filled up her voice mail. She didn’t feel like talking to anyone she had to suspect. “Have you called Glenn or Sadie about the burn barrel thing?”

  “Glenn. He admitted it was his idea. He really thought it was a stress reducer, but he understood why he had to ditch it.” Daniel spoke carefully, as if trying not to let his opinion leak into his voice.

  “He wouldn’t have known about the connection between these killings and the fires until he watched his morning news,” she pointed out, ignoring the obvious.

  “I’m not jumping to conclusions about him,” Daniel said with equal care. “You have to be aware that he does fit the profile in some ways, though.”

  Lindsay fired back, “Except that he was an amazingly supportive supervisor who taught me everything I know. I can’t believe—”

  “Whoa!” Laughing, Daniel held up his hand. “I didn’t say I was going to arrest him. The truth is, anyone around when everyone in the office vented th
eir frustration with fire could see it now as a symbol. I’d look harder at caseworkers who were here then but have retired, except—”

  “For the fact that the killer must know me. Or thinks he does.” She’d thought about the symbolism in those fires. “What if he’s protesting, in a way, that he’s being denied the chance to burn away his frustration?”

  Daniel shoved back his chair and stood, lines deepening on his forehead. “He’s crazy. He could have gone home and lit a damn fire in his fireplace.”

  Well, yes, that was true, but…

  Daniel didn’t give her a chance to argue. “Call people back. Get a sense of how they felt about the famous CPS bonfires, why don’t you?”

  Then he was gone, leaving her alone with her phone.

  AS DANIEL BUCKLED his seat belt, he contemplated the fancy building housing the real estate office. He’d just interviewed Hank Cousins, a guy who’d quit his job with Child Protective Services only ten months ago. That meant he’d worked in the same office with Lindsay for two plus years, yet she hadn’t mentioned him. He’d be asking why.

  Daniel had run the names of former caseworkers—specifically, the ones who still lived locally—by Sadie Culver and Glenn Wilson. Sadie knew Cousins only by reputation. Sounding tolerant, Glenn had said, “Classic burnout. Last thing he said was that no amount of money could make him keep spending his days talking to people who didn’t deserve the space they took on this earth.”

  Cousins interested Daniel more than other names on his list for two reasons: he’d studied for his real estate license for months without anyone in the office knowing he intended to leave, meaning whatever his level of rage he was capable of restraint—and the very nature of selling real estate meant he was hard to track down during the day.

  Daniel’s phone rang before he left the parking lot. He recognized the number, not surprised when the fire marshal confirmed that Lindsay’s house fire had been started with gasoline.

  “From the burn pattern, it’s obvious this guy wet down a good part of the back wall of the house with gas, and I wouldn’t be surprised if he didn’t splash some on the roof. Looks like the homeowner had a woodbox out back, the kind with a plywood lid. That would have given him something to boost himself up on.”

  “No gas can found, I presume.”

  The fire marshal thought there had to have been at least two five-gallon cans, which would have been heavy.

  “He didn’t have far to go if he parked on the side street,” Daniel pointed out. “The two houses along with the trees and shrubs would have given him some protection from being seen by a passing car. Besides, I’m guessing this SOB had been watching her place and knew which neighbors were gone daytimes.”

  The marshal grunted his agreement. “My job is easier when arsonists get fancy. This fire could as well have been set by a teenager. The barrel is the only thing we can call a signature, but it may be relevant only to these murders. I have to wonder if he’s set fires before that didn’t result in fatalities. Maybe just for fun.”

  Daniel had thought the same. Quite a few years had separated the burn barrel at the CPS office from this outbreak of murder. As fixated as the killer was on fire, it was hard to imagine he’d gone without all that time.

  “You plan to look back for similar fires?”

  “Damn straight. If I find any strings to pull, you’ll be the first to know,” the fire marshal assured him, and signed off.

  Fifteen minutes later, Daniel arrived at the home of another ex-CPS employee who had caught his attention. This one lived on acreage outside the city limits. The multiple, deep potholes in the long dirt driveway didn’t seem to encourage visitors.

  Daniel parked in front of a log house with a carport extending from one side. It had been converted into a workshop. Ross Zeller had left the security of state employment to carve wood with a chainsaw. In fact, in the shade of the carport, a brawny, bearded man was currently working on a six-foot-high log standing upright. Looked like it might become a leaping salmon. He turned when he saw Daniel getting out of his SUV, letting his chainsaw idle.

  Daniel didn’t rest his hand on the butt of his weapon, but he kept it close. This was the first time he’d found Zeller at home, but neighbors and his former coworkers described him as a strange man. The postal worker had seen him pacing his acreage yelling at someone who wasn’t there. His wife had apparently left him about the same time he’d changed careers. Was that one more thing he could blame on the high-stress job and the abusers who were the reason for his burnout?

  Any of several outbuildings on the property could be hiding that stolen white Corolla.

  The chainsaw coughed and died. Zeller didn’t sound friendly when he said, “What’s a cop want with me?”

  “If you’ve heard about the string of murders locally, you know fire is part of them.”

  The big man waited warily.

  “I’m trying to talk to everyone who worked at CPS when the burn barrel was being employed as a stress-reducer.”

  Zeller snorted. “That was the best idea Mr. Follow-the-Rules ever had. Surprised me, to tell you the truth.”

  “Anybody seem to especially enjoy the fires?”

  “You’re kidding, right? We all enjoyed them. Fire awakens something primitive in all of us. You must know that.”

  Daniel couldn’t deny it. Who didn’t stare with fascination into the leaping, multicolored flames of a campfire? “Tying them to a rage to kill is a little different,” he said, keeping his tone conversational.

  Zeller’s expression went chillingly flat. “Wouldn’t know. If you don’t mind, I have work to do.”

  Daniel had no excuse to push the guy, so he thanked him for his time and retreated to his vehicle.

  As he jolted back down the driveway, Daniel saw in his rearview mirror that Ross Zeller hadn’t returned to his carving. Instead, he stood unmoving, watching the cop drive way. Daniel wished he had a clue what Zeller was thinking.

  Funny thing: self-employed, living alone, Zeller too was next to impossible to eliminate as a suspect by alibi. Who was there to provide him with one?

  Chapter Thirteen

  Hustling Lindsay out to his truck at the end of the day, Daniel had to wonder how safe she really had felt here at the police station today, stuck having to deal with cops like Al Jonas. There was a good reason he’d asked only a select group of trusted fellow officers to guard Lindsay.

  Maybe he should consider taking her out to the sheriff’s ranch after all. Chaney had several men working for him who were retired army rangers—his partner, Gabe Decker, and foreman, Leon Cabrera. Daniel had fought at their sides in the gun battle when they’d been surrounded by the forces of a major drug trafficking organization. If one or the other could assume bodyguard duties…

  But Decker was now married and stepfather to Chloe, the little girl he’d been protecting back when Daniel encountered them, and Cabrera had a family, too. Daniel wouldn’t want to bring trouble down on them. Besides…damn it, Lindsay would be nothing but a job to either of them, while for him—

  He shut down on that thought.

  He had more confidence in himself. Right now, that’s what mattered.

  “Daniel?”

  At her soft query, he turned his head. Seat belt fastened, she was watching him.

  “Is something wrong?”

  Yeah, something was wrong. He had started the truck but not put it in gear. Shaking his head, he lied, “No. I need you to get down on the floorboards, though, just until I’m sure we’re not being followed.”

  As she unfastened the seat belt and crouched down, he grimaced. Like most cops, he tried to keep his address unlisted. Didn’t mean he couldn’t be found. He entered cutting horse competitions and judged and refereed them, too, ensuring that he was well-known among local horse owners. In fact, too many people knew him. Still, cops didn’t take witnesses ho
me with them. Lindsay had been careful to stay away from windows. Unless the guy was staking out his place twenty-four-seven and saw Daniel ushering her into the house, why would he suspect she was staying with him?

  Daniel had made the decision to be sure Lindsay had a guard when he couldn’t be there, but even though he’d have liked someone else to be there nights, too, adding a bunch more vehicles coming and going would be the equivalent of him waving his arms and shouting, I have something to protect.

  All the time he brooded, his gaze flicked from mirror to windshield to mirror…and to his passenger.

  “Okay,” he said gruffly. “You can get up now.”

  She untangled herself and settled in the seat. “That was fun.”

  He liked her attitude, a cross between humorous and snide. Under pressure, she didn’t buckle; she got mad.

  Taking advantage of this uninterrupted time together, he asked about both Ross Zeller and Hank Cousins.

  “Hank was friendly, almost too talkative. It was kind of annoying when I was trying to concentrate. I guess I wasn’t that surprised he quit. He looked for any distraction from his job, you know? Um. Ross Zeller. He was…unsettling. I don’t mean violent or anything,” she hastened to say, “just weird.” Her nose wrinkled. “It seemed like every time I looked up, he was staring at me.”

  Daniel mentally ticked off one of the boxes on his list.

  “The only thing is, other people told me the same thing, so it wasn’t just me. And he never came on to me or even suggested coffee. He was married, though I heard he and his wife split right before he quit.”

  “I was told the same,” Daniel said. “Was he good at his job?”

  “I…don’t really know,” Lindsay said hesitantly. “He was…volatile, I guess is the best word. I think Glenn only assigned him low-level abuse accusations.”

  Serial killers were often categorized as “organized” versus “disorganized.” Lindsay was implying he fell on the “disorganized” side—except that from what Daniel had seen and heard, his carvings were fine and sold for substantial amounts. That meant he was disciplined enough to work hard. He’d been cagey when Daniel talked to him, too.