by C. M. Sutter
I addressed the officers. “So what exactly did you see when you arrived here that night?”
Larry spoke up. “Even though it was a week ago, it’s permanently etched in my mind. It was like the man’s body was staged. Of course, at that time of night, we had less than ideal conditions as dark as it was out here. I used my flashlight to get a better look, and later, after that lane was blocked off and the ME and his assistant showed up, they set up portable spotlights so the forensic team could take their pictures.”
“Sure, and back to why you think the body was staged,” Renz said. “Wouldn’t you consider that risky behavior on the perp’s part as close to the freeway as the body was?”
“Absolutely, but I have to agree with Larry.” Ross nodded for Larry to continue.
“Anyway, the young man’s arms were straight out to the sides, and last time I looked, a dead person doesn’t lie or fall that way.”
I frowned at the image that created and wondered if the killer had done that deliberately so the body would stiffen in that position, but that made no sense. “Didn’t the ME say the man had been dead for several days?”
“He did, and I imagine you’re thinking about rigor, correct?”
“That’s exactly what I’m thinking about, but rigor would have subsided by the time the killer brought the body out here, so why pose it like that?”
“No idea, ma’am. That was a mystery to us as well.”
“Who called 911?” Renz asked.
“A long-haul semi driver. As high as the cab is, it’s easier to see what lies along the roadsides than one would see from a car.”
“Hmm… makes sense. And his statement was taken and he was cleared?”
“Absolutely,” Ross said. “His employer was interviewed as well, and the driver’s logs and tracker were verified to be accurate. Over-the-road drivers are restricted to around six hundred miles a day or eleven driving hours, according to state and federal laws.”
I piped in. “I see, but that would only apply if they worked for a company. An independent driver can skirt around those rules, right?”
Ross scratched his forehead. “I suppose they can.”
I took a few pictures of the area even though nothing stood out other than that orange evidence flag.
Renz gave Cal and Larry hearty handshakes. “I guess that’s all we had for you. Appreciate your help.” Renz tipped his chin at Ross. “We’ll follow you to Boulder if you’re heading back that way.”
“Sure am.”
We crossed over to the cars and climbed into our rental. Once the traffic had passed, we pulled out behind Ross and followed him east to the Highway 69 exit.
I was quiet as I thought, and Renz apparently noticed.
“There’s smoke coming out of your ears.”
“Ha ha. You know me too well.”
He laughed. “It’s one or the other with you.”
I raised a brow. “Meaning?”
“You’re either talking or thinking, but you can’t do both at once.”
“So what am I doing when I’m sleeping, Mr. Know-it-all?”
“Dreaming about talking.”
I punched him in the shoulder. “Smart-ass.”
Chapter 7
Cassie woke to aching bones and chilled muscles from the near-freezing temperatures of the night. As she was about to stand and catch warmth from the sun, she heard voices in the distance. Scared for her life but needing to know how close the men were and if they were part of Bart’s crew, she carefully peeked around the rock wall. They stood at the edge of a ridge a hundred feet behind her, and Cassie immediately recognized them. Rifles were slung over their shoulders, and they were definitely hunting—but not for deer or antelope. She was the game of the day. She’d seen four of them on that ridge, but were there more? If law enforcement ever learned about Bart’s enterprise of free child labor, abuse, and eventually murder, he and his crew would never see daylight again. Instead of a hundred-thousand-acre Montana cattle ranch, prison would be their new home.
As long as Cassie could remember, she and Jolie had lived there. She had no memory of a life prior to that, yet she was sure they weren’t related to Bart, and she’d never seen a woman there in a mothering role. Kids arrived now and then but from where, she had no idea. Yet like her and Jolie, they’d all shown up at a tender age. Their memories of life before the ranch would quickly be forgotten along with their true names and where they came from. Cassie had seen it happen to more kids than she could count, and usually, when they reached their late teens, they disappeared.
It’s probably because by my age, they’re strong enough to fight back and old enough to figure out how to escape. Bart and his men get rid of the older ones before that can happen.
She was sure that she and Jolie were scheduled to disappear next. Cassie was eighteen, or so she thought, and Jolie was a year or so younger. They’d arrived together as kids, and on occasion, a flashback of a desolate home with other children and the word “adoption” popped into her mind. She didn’t know if they were real memories or just disturbing dreams that she’d had one too many times. At the ranch, they had no access to information of any kind. All she knew was work, day and night, and the changing of the seasons.
Loose rocks rolled past and brought her back to the present. The men were getting closer. A twig snapped only feet behind her, and Cassie froze. Bart’s ranch hands talked among themselves on the rock outcropping above her. She backed against the stone face as tightly as she could, afraid to take a breath.
“Now where? We’ve been on this side of the mountain for damn near twelve hours, and none of us have had her in our sights.”
“I’ll radio Bart and see where he wants us to go. If she’s cleared the top and is working her way down the other side, we can ambush her from the east. We’ll head up Sawmill Road and then park at the base of the mountain and work our way up. If she makes it to a main road where someone might see her, we’ll be screwed.”
“Then it’s a good thing she has no idea which way to go. Come on. Let’s get out of the sun and see what Bart has to say.”
Cassie recognized one of the voices as belonging to Malcolm, Bart’s second in charge. He was as mean and abusive as Bart and wouldn’t hesitate to shoot her on site and leave her for the animals to clean up. She would have to be careful, stay behind the rocks, and watch her steps. A loose rock or a snapped twig could easily give away her location. She needed to put distance between them, but at such a cautious pace, that wouldn’t be easy to do.
Chapter 8
After reaching the county sheriff’s department, we parked in a visitors’ spot and joined Ross inside. The sheriff, James Clayborn, was expecting us and welcomed us into his office. We needed to know about the body they’d found and if they had any clue about the brand on the man’s hip, if anyone in the area had those initials, or if they knew of a person evil enough to commit that type of crime.
“Let’s head to the cafeteria,” he said. “Can I offer you folks a cup of coffee? I was about to grab a cup for myself, and we can talk in there.”
We accepted his offer, thanked him, and took seats at the table nearest the vending machines. The sheriff said nobody came to mind who had a first and last name that began with O. He didn’t know anyone in the county, any company locally, or a ranch name with those initials either.
“What if they were two zeros?” Renz asked.
Sheriff Clayborn shook his head. “Sorry, but I’m drawing a blank. No double zeros or double O’s ring a bell. I can’t even think of anyone locally who would commit such a heinous crime. This is ‘good ol’ boy’ country if you know what I mean. Folks don’t lock their doors at night, and everyone knows everybody else.”
I never understood the concept of not locking doors. It took only a second to do. I wondered if admitting that they didn’t lock their doors was something the locals prided themselves on—meaning their community was safe—but it made no sense. Lock the damn doors at night and go to
bed. I was positive I slept more soundly at night with them locked.
“What about a wallet? Any ID or phone on the man?”
“Nothing. We even printed him, but nothing came up in the database. He’s truly a John Doe.”
I had a feeling we were about to run into four more John and Jane Does during the investigation. I moved on to another topic. “I hear there are a lot of cattle ranchers in Montana.”
“That’s correct, Agent Monroe.”
“Do most of them brand their cattle?”
He rubbed his forehead and frowned. “Well, I suppose most do. It’s a personal choice, but as big as the spreads are out here, cattle can wander off if a fence is down. They need to be identified one way or another. Even though ranchers use ear tags, brands are permanent and can’t be removed like an ear tag can.”
“I’d imagine there could be old brands lying around from days gone by?”
“And you’re probably right.”
Renz took over. “Are there records kept on that?”
“I’m not following, Agent DeLeon.”
“Do the ranchers have to register their brands with the county or township for identification of their livestock?”
“These days, yes, but I don’t really know when that began. They’d have those records at the county clerk’s office, though.” The sheriff shook his head. “It’s a real shame. So, five bodies in total have been found with that same brand on their hip?”
I nodded. “That’s correct, and we’ll be going to every location. Montana was our first stop, though.”
“We’re hoping with the information we get from each medical examiner, we’ll learn in what order the victims died and how much time there was between deaths. That could tell us if the killer dumped all the bodies during one road trip or several,” Renz said.
The sheriff blew out a long sigh. “It’s too bad their deaths are reduced to a timeline of events.”
I had to agree. “It is, but it helps us do our job and catch the bad guys. Knowing when each person died could also tell us if the killer used a regular-sized vehicle or something larger due to moving several bodies at once.” I turned to Renz. “We aren’t going to get anywhere with those brands when the clerk’s office is closed on Sundays. We may have to stick around for another day unless we can figure out how to access that registry online.”
Sheriff Clayborn said he would call in a favor since he knew the clerk personally. He’d let us know if he had any success.
Meanwhile, we asked directions to the medical examiner’s office, thanked the sheriff, and said we’d be expecting his call. Renz and I headed out. The medical examiner’s office was on the Boulder Frontage Road a few miles away, and the ME, George Kraft, was expecting us.
Chapter 9
Renz and I sat at the desk across from Dr. Kraft. To our backs were the autopsy room and morgue. Even as we sat in the doctor’s well-appointed office with the door closed, my body was still chilled. The autopsy room, like most, was probably kept at a cool sixty-eight degrees.
The medical examiner read aloud his initial findings from the night he was called to the site a week prior. He went over everything he’d seen from the moment they set up the portable lights. “There was something other than the brand I thought of as strange.”
“What’s that?” I asked.
“The man was positioned as if he was about to take flight.”
Renz nodded. “Arms straight out to his sides, correct?”
“That’s correct, Agent DeLeon. Oddest thing.” Dr. Kraft shook his head. “There was also the bullet to his forehead that made a pretty big exit wound at the back. I found slug fragments inside the skull but not enough to identify the caliber of the bullet. Because I didn’t find gunpowder residue on the man’s face, I’d venture to say he was killed from a distance and possibly with a rifle.”
“So he was facing the shooter?”
“Yes, but that doesn’t mean he saw it coming. A hunting rifle with a decent scope can take down an animal a good distance away.”
I grimaced. “Or a human.”
“Unfortunately, that’s correct—or a human. My report says the man wasn’t killed where he was found due to the lack of blood beneath his head. That’s especially true because during daylight hours, he would have been noticed right away. He was killed somewhere else, dumped there during the night, and by the advancing decomp, I’d say the man had already been dead for several days when he was placed there.”
“What was the victim’s height, weight, and approximate age?” I asked.
Dr. Kraft flipped the page. “On the table, stripped down and washed, he weighed in at one hundred forty-seven pounds and was five foot eleven.”
Renz wrinkled his brow. “That would be considered skinny, wouldn’t it?”
“Yes, and since there was nothing as far as food contents in his stomach, I’d say he was undernourished and hadn’t eaten anything on the day he died.”
“Was he wearing shoes?”
“He was.”
“What kind?”
“Tattered black sneakers. Actually, I have all his clothing in a bag and was saving it for the sheriff’s office to pick up.”
I shook my head. “We’ll be taking that bag, but I’ll let the sheriff know. We need to have our lab go over the clothes from every victim. Hopefully, we’ll find matching trace evidence on the clothing.”
“May I ask why you questioned the shoes?”
“I was hoping for a discussion with law enforcement about scuff marks from heels, but sneakers wouldn’t leave that type of mark. The right shoes could have told us the physical strength of the assailant. If he dragged the victim across the interstate, I’d think a shoe might have come off, or at least there should be heel-mark evidence on the freeway. That might mean the perp wasn’t physically strong enough to carry a man that distance. If there’s absolutely no scuff marks, then possibly the perp carried him, but knowing now that they were sneakers makes it a moot point.”
“That’s too bad.” Dr. Kraft pushed back from his desk. “If you agents are ready, I can show you the deceased.”
We walked with Dr. Kraft through the steel double doors. He’d recently moved the victim out of cold storage to the autopsy room so we could view his injuries. Lying on a stainless steel table in front of us was a male body with a sheet pulled up to his neck. As we stood at John Doe’s side and the medical examiner described the wounds, I stared at the black hole in the man’s forehead. The killer had to be a good shot and maybe even a hunter. There was plenty of game in Montana—if that was where he was from. I gave that some thought. If the shooter traveled for his job, then the victims could be from anywhere and not necessarily the state they were found in. That made chances of identifying them or the killer even tougher.
“Rifle?”
The doctor nodded. “Likely shot with a hunting rifle that had a scope on it.”
“What would you put his age at?” Renz asked.
He was probably thinking the same thing I was—the man looked extremely young.
Dr. Kraft scratched his chin. “He still has his wisdom teeth, but many older people do too. I don’t think he’s hit his twentieth birthday yet, but unlike trees, where you can count the rings, there isn’t a definitive way to know a human’s age. Speaking of teeth, that young man has never been to a dentist. Not a single filling in his mouth but plenty of cavities and chipped teeth.”
“So neglect or abuse probably comes into play.”
The doctor agreed. “I’d say so.”
As I stared at the body, I wondered who he was, where he came from, and if anyone was looking for him. I was sure he had a story but died before he could tell it. My gut told me his story wasn’t a good one but one of sadness, pain, and possible abuse. I wondered if he knew his assailant or if a crazed killer had happened to come across him—hitchhiking, maybe—saw an opportunity, and took it.
Dr. Kraft’s voice brought me back to the present. “The brand is right here.�
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He lifted the sheet to expose the tennis-ball-sized brand on the man’s left hip. It was thick, red, and raised, with two perfect circles, one inside the other. I leaned in closer to see if I could tell if they were plain circles, zeros, or O’s. A zero, I thought, would be more oblong than an O or a circle, but I really couldn’t tell, and while I hated to admit it, my thoughts were nothing but guesses. No matter what, we had no idea what the brand stood for.
Renz turned to the doctor. “Once the brand is healed, is there any way to tell the age of one over another?”
Dr. Kraft tipped his head as if in thought. “I really don’t know, but I doubt it. Can anyone tell the age of a typical scar? That’s all a brand is, you know.”
I pointed my chin at the deceased man’s hip. “How long would that take to heal?”
“Everyone is different, Agent Monroe. If it was left alone and not fussed with, I’d say anywhere from six months to a year depending on how long the branding tool was held against the skin.”
I couldn’t imagine the pain those victims must have gone through, yet I’d seen plenty of professional athletes who proudly wore visible brands on their shoulders.
I pulled out my phone and looked at Dr. Kraft. “May I get an up-close shot?”
He nodded, and I snapped off several pictures of the brand and a few of our John Doe’s head wound too. Since we already had a copy of the autopsy report, Renz and I thanked Dr. Kraft, took the bagged clothes, and left.
Renz checked his phone to see if anything had come in from the sheriff about taking a look at the brand registry records. “Nothing has come into my phone yet. How about yours?”
I shook my head. “Nope, nothing. Meanwhile, we can get this clothing overnighted to the crime lab. May as well get a head start on that since we’ll have to do it at every site.”
Renz agreed, and we left for the nearest shipping office that could take care of that for us. After dropping off the package, I called our crime lab to give them a heads-up and tell them that the first package to arrive would be from the Whitehall, Montana, crime scene.
