18
THE BODIES YIELDED FEW CLUES.
The basement was far more interesting.
Puller and Cole had searched the lower level and come to a door that was locked. With Cole’s okay, Puller opened the door using a tire iron he found in an old storage bin set against one wall. The revealed room was ten feet wide and twelve feet deep.
On a long folding table were propane tanks, bottles of paint thinner, a can of camp stove fuel, Mason jars, rolls of tubing, gas cylinders, pill bottles and rock salt, funnels and clamps, coffee filters, pillowcases, coolers, and thermos bottles.
“You got a biohazard team?” asked Puller, putting a hand over his mouth and nose to shield his lungs from the smell of solvents and chemicals.
“Meth lab,” said Cole.
“Meth lab,” repeated Puller. “You got a biohazard team?” he asked again. “This thing could blow up. And take the crime scene upstairs with it.”
“We don’t have a biohazard team, Puller.”
“Then I’ll make one.”
Twenty minutes later, with the neighbors and Cole and her deputies watching, Puller reentered the house dressed in a hooded green biohazard suit with an air filter, red shoe coverings, and green gloves, all of which he kept packed in his rucksack. Puller methodically pored over the site, dusting for and lifting prints, separating potentially volatile substances from each other, and photographing and tagging all of it. Two hours later he stepped outside and noted the sun was nearly down. He took off his hood. His body was drenched with sweat. The house had been hot. Inside the suit added at least another twenty degrees.
Cole saw the beads of sweat on his face, the flattened wet hair. She handed him a bottle of cold water. “You okay? You look whipped.”
He drank down half the liquid. “I’m good. Lot of stuff in there. I worked a bunch of drug lab cases in the Army. That lab was pretty rudimentary but effective. They could turn out some decent product, just not that much.”
“While you were working that I found a place to take the bodies.”
“Where?”
“Local funeral home. They have refrigeration facilities.”
“It needs to be secure.”
“I’m posting two deputies here and one there. Rotate 24/7.”
Puller stretched out his back.
“You hungry?” she said.
“Yeah.”
“There’s a good restaurant in town. It’s open late.”
“Late enough for me to grab a shower and change my clothes?”
“Yes. I plan on doing the same. Try to get the stench out.”
“Tell me how to get there.”
“Where are you staying?”
“Annie’s Motel.”
“Restaurant’s only three minutes from there, two blocks to the east. Hang a right on Cyrus Street. Can’t miss it. Hell, everything here is only three minutes from each other. That kind of town.”
“Forty minutes to the hotel. Ten minutes to shower and dress. Five minutes there. I’ll see you in sixty minutes.”
“But the minutes only add up to fifty-five.”
“I need five minutes to communicate with my boss. I should’ve done it before now, but things got a little busy.”
“A little busy? You have high standards, then. I’ve got my stopwatch. Don’t disappoint me.”
He drove back to the motel, passing the restaurant where they would be eating, showered, and changed into fresh jeans and a T-shirt. He pulled out his mini laptop, plugged in his communication fob, and sent an encrypted email back to Quantico. Then he spent two minutes on his secure phone filling in the SAC on what he had discovered and his progress so far. Don White wanted detailed reports sent out the next day by email with more formal ones in the snail mail shortly thereafter.
“Lot of eyes on this, Puller.”
“Yes, sir. You made that very clear.”
“Any theories yet?” White asked.
“As soon as I have them, so will you. The colonel’s laptop and briefcase are secure. I’ll try to get them released from police custody and drop them off at the DHS site.”
“Have you readied anything to be sent to USACIL yet?”
“In the process, sir. Should go out tomorrow. At least the first batch. There’s a lot to process. Two crime scenes instead of one.” He paused to allow the SAC to offer more manpower to assist him. The offer never came.
“Lines of communication open, Puller,” the man said instead.
“Yes, sir.”
Puller closed his phone and slipped his mini laptop into an inner pocket of his jacket. He didn’t like leaving things like that behind in a motel room that anyone could break into with a jackknife or credit card. He gunned up, one front, one back.
He passed his car on the way out and double-checked that it was locked. He decided it would be faster to walk to the place than drive.
So Puller walked. He’d get a better lay of the land that way. And he might just see the person who had wiped out two households. He had a feeling this killing was local. But not necessarily in all respects.
CHAPTER
19
THE PLACE WAS like a million others Puller had eaten at in rural towns. Plate glass windows overlooking the street with the name “The Crib Room” stenciled on the main window in letters that looked older than Puller. Another smaller sign promised breakfast all day. Inside there was a long counter with swivel seats topped in cracked red vinyl. Behind the counter were rows of coffee pots that, despite the late-night heat, were in continuous use—although Puller saw many bottles and drafts of cold beer circulated to the thirsty patrons too.
Through a serving window connecting the front to the kitchen, Puller could see columns of ancient Fry Daddies, racks of wire cook baskets ready to be dropped into vats of hot, bubbly oil. And there were big blackened pots over flaming burners. There were two short-order cooks with little white hats, stained T-shirts, and weary faces manning the kitchen. Throughout, the place smelled of decades-old grease.
Past the counter stools were four-person booths in the same checkered vinyl set in an L pattern against two walls, and tables with checkered tablecloths perched between the counter and the booths. The place was three-quarters full. Sixty-forty men to women. Many of the men were lean, almost gaunt. They were mostly dressed in jeans and work shirts, steel-toed boots, hair slicked back probably from a recent shower. Maybe mining employees, Puller thought, just off their shift. Cole had said they didn’t dig here for the coal. They blew it out of the mountain and then hauled it away over treacherous roads. It was still dangerous, hard work. And these men looked it.
The women were halved between matronly types in wide knee-length skirts and modest blouses and younger wiry females in cutoff shorts and jeans. A few teenage girls wore skintight outfits short enough to reveal glimpses of panties or pale bottoms, probably much to the delight of their rugged-looking boyfriends. There were a couple of men in jackets and slacks, button-down shirts, and scuffed wingtips. Maybe mining executives who didn’t have to get their hands dirty or their backs ruptured for their daily bread. But apparently they all had to eat in the same place.
Now that was democracy for you, thought Puller.
Cole was already there, at a booth near the rear. She waved and he headed over. She had on a jean skort that revealed muscled calves and a white sleeveless blouse that showed off firm, tanned arms. Her sandals revealed the woman’s unpainted toes. Her large shoulder bag was next to her and inside it Puller figured she kept both her Cobra and her badge. Her hair was still damp from the shower. The coconut smell of it cut through the grease as Puller approached. All eyes in the place were on him, a fact he recorded and recognized as perfectly normal under the circumstances. He doubted many strangers found their way to Drake. But then again, Colonel Reynolds was one of them. And now he was dead.
He sat. She handed him a plastic menu. “Fifty-eight minutes. You didn’t disappoint.”
“I scrubbed fast. How’s the coffe
e?” he asked.
“Probably just as good as the Army’s.”
His lips twitched at her comment as he scanned the menu. He put it down.
“Already made up your mind?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“I guess quick decisions are a necessity for someone like you.”
“So long as they’re the right ones. The Crib Room?”
“Coal miner slang. Means the area designated at a mining operation for miners to eat and take a break.”
“Looks like it does a brisk business.”
“Pretty much the only place in town open this late.”
“Cash cow for the owner.”
“That would be Roger Trent.”
“He owns this place too?”
“He owns most of Drake. Got it cheap. Place is so polluted people just want to sell and get out. Those that remain he gets coming and going. Groceries, vehicle repair, plumbing, electrical, this restaurant, that gas station, bakery shop, clothing place. List goes on and on. They ought to rename the place Trentsville.”
“So he profits from creating environmental nightmares.”
“Life’s a bitch, ain’t it?”
“How about Annie’s Motel? Does he own that?”
“No. Owner wouldn’t sell. Barely makes ends meet. Doubt Roger was really all that interested in buying it.”
She scanned the other customers. “People here are curious.”
“About what specifically?”
“About you. About what’s happened.”
“Understandable. Word travels fast?”
“It’s like an old-fashioned viral. Mouth to ear.”
“Media inquiries yet?”
“It finally hit. Messages waiting for me on my phone. Newspaper. A radio station. Got an email from a TV station over in Parkersburg. Expect to get one from Charleston too. Something bad happens they all want to jump on it for about fifteen minutes.”
“Executive-lag them all for now.”
“I’ll hold them off as long as I can, but the last word’s not up to me.”
“Your boss?”
“Sheriff Pat Lindemann. Good guy. But he’s not used to media inquiries.”
“I can help with that.”
“You handle lots of press relations, do you?”
“No. But the Army has folks that do. And they’re good at it.”
“I’ll let the sheriff know.”
“I’m assuming everyone has heard about the second house?”
“You probably assume correctly.”
They had found ID in the house. The dead man was Eric Treadwell, forty-three years old. The lady was Molly Bitner, thirty-nine.
“So the imposter used Treadwell’s name when talking to my guy. That was still a big risk. If Lou had asked for ID, or wanted to get in the house. Or what if one of my guys knew Treadwell? Drake is not that big a place.”
“You’re right. It was a big risk. A calculated one. But it worked out in their favor. And guys willing to take those kinds of risks and play them out successfully make for tough opponents.” What Puller was actually thinking was that the imposter had some special training. Maybe military. And that would make things very awkward very fast. He wondered if the Army had had an inkling of that, and whether that was the reason he’d been sent out here solo.
The waitress, a short, crusty type with gray hair, dark eye circles, and a raspy voice, came to take their order.
Puller had decided on breakfast: three eggs over light, bacon, grits, hash browns, toast, and coffee. Cole had a Cobb salad with oil and vinegar dressing and an iced tea. When Puller moved to hand back the menu, his jacket opened and his M11 was revealed. The waitress’s eyes flickered and then she gripped the offered menus and walked off. Puller noted this and doubted it was the first time the lady had seen a gun.
“Breakfast?” asked Cole.
“Didn’t have one yet today. Figured I’d get it in before I go to sleep.”
“So did you check in with your boss?”
“I did.”
“Is he happy with the progress?”
“He didn’t say. And there wasn’t much progress, frankly. Just lots of questions.”
Her iced tea and his coffee came.
Cole took a sip of hers. “Do you really think those people were interrogated before they were killed?”
“It’s somewhere between a guess and a deduction.”
“Meth lab in the basement?”
“I’d like to keep that one under wraps.”
“We’re doing our best. I put a seal on everything with my guys.” She hesitated, looked away.
Puller read her mind. “But this is a small town and sometimes things slip?”
She nodded. “What would they have been interrogating them about?”
“Let’s say the folks who killed Treadwell and Bitner were working with them in the drug business. One or more of the Reynoldses sees some suspicious activity. They’re caught doing that. The druggies want to find out how much they’ve seen, who else they might have told.”
“And put it on a video for someone else to see? Why, if this is local?”
“May not be local or entirely local. Mexican drug cartels have set up shop all over the country. Metro and rural areas. Those guys don’t play around. They want to see everything. And they have first-rate equipment, including communications gear. And it could have been a live feed.”
“But you said it was just a simple meth lab, with not much product coming out.”
“That may have been a sideline for Treadwell and Bitner. They might have been working for a distribution ring in another capacity. You have drug problems here?”
“What town doesn’t?”
“More than most?”
“I guess we have more than our share,” admitted Cole. “But a lot of it is prescription drugs. So go on with your theory. Why kill Bitner and Treadwell?”
“Maybe they drew the line at murder and they had to be killed too, to keep them silent.”
“I don’t know. I guess that works,” Cole said.
“It only works with what we know so far. That can change. There weren’t wedding bands on either of their fingers.”
“From what I was able to find out they were just living together.”
“How long?”
“About three years.”
“Planning on tying the knot?”
“No, according to what I found out, they were just doing it for expenses.”
He looked at her curiously. “What?”
“Makes the paychecks stretch further if you have just one mortgage or rent payment. Common enough practice around here. People have to survive.”
“Okay. What else do you know about them?”
“Did a quick and dirty while you were playing biohazard boy. I didn’t know them personally, but it’s a small town. He went to Virginia Tech. He started up a business in Virginia that failed. Went through a series of jobs pretty quickly. He’d been a machinist here for years, but got laid off a while back. He’s been working at a chemical supply store on the western edge of town for about a year.”
“Chemicals? So he’d know his way around the equipment for a meth lab. And he might also be sticking his hand into the inventory if he is in the
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