by C. M. Sutter
“Hmm… happen to know the crossroad? We can take it from there and maybe pay the owner a visit,” Renz said.
“Sure, it’s just north of East Fortieth Avenue.”
I wrote that down but didn’t feel confident about that being our man. Kansas had more farmland than cities, and we couldn’t fault anyone for having an enterprising nature.
“So no local truck drivers who seem a bit secretive or even angry?”
The sheriff spoke up. “I know two truckers, and only one is an over-the-road trucker. He lives in town and works for Flying H Trucking.”
I nodded. “Yeah, that doesn’t fit our profile. Know of any trucking firms with two zeros or O’s as their logo?”
“Nah, can’t say that I do, but I’d imagine you can find all that information on the internet.”
“Okay, we sure appreciate your help, and we’ll be visiting the medical examiner’s office in the morning.” I placed several of my cards on the table and asked for a call if anything new came to light. “We’ll be in town until early afternoon tomorrow, and then we’re off to Missouri.”
I groaned as we climbed into the rental.
“What does that mean?”
“What? The groan?”
“Yeah. You did it with emphasis, didn’t you?” Renz asked.
“I guess I did. I feel like we’re in that Groundhog Day movie. Different day but nothing has changed.”
Renz chuckled. “You know what they say about change, don’t you?”
“Nope, so go ahead and tell me.”
“It’ll happen when you least expect it.”
“Good, because I’m more than ready for it.”
By the time we had supper and checked into our hotel rooms, Taft and the team had already called it a night. We had two more locations to go, then we would fly back to Milwaukee on Thursday unless a reliable lead came in and kept us in the field.
Tomorrow, I would call our Milwaukee base after talking to the ME and find out if any auction sites were near the killer’s route. If so, we needed to know the names of the truckers who dropped off or picked up livestock during the time frame in which the killer disposed of those five teenagers.
Chapter 21
Cassie was overjoyed. When she finally reached the bottom of the mountain, she cried openly yet tried to remain quiet. She hadn’t run into any predator, in either human or animal form, and she thanked God for that.
Nightfall had overtaken the sky, and while tired, she still had to be cautious and watch her surroundings. The drone, unless it was a heat-seeking one, wouldn’t be able to locate her at night, but the men could have continued their search. She prayed that they hadn’t, and at first light, she would move closer to the road, stay well-hidden, and watch for cars. She wouldn’t get far on her own without food and water or a way to call for help. She needed the aid of strangers, whether they were local to the area or travelers, but as long as they had a phone or could take her to a police station, she would be grateful.
Sitting against a tree trunk for support, Cassie let her guard down for a minute to enjoy her victory. She drank the last sips of water from the plastic bottle and munched on a couple of crackers. She closed her eyes and listened to the night sounds. As quiet as it was without another human nearby, the woods seemed to come alive. Owls hooted, and small animals skittered around. An occasional twig snapped in the distance, but as she squinted toward the sound, she saw only the shapes of deer pass by.
Cassie longed for Jolie, but she was gone. All the years they had been with Bart, they’d had each other’s backs, and now Cassie was alone.
How am I going to do this? I’ve never gone a day without my sister.
Tears rolled down her face and stung her windburned and scraped cheeks, but Cassie was strong. She would be okay once the sun lit the morning sky. After finding help, she would somehow lead the police to the ranch and see justice served. Bart and his men would go to prison for killing Jolie and countless others. The rest of the kids would be safe, and the authorities would find loving families who would take them in.
Cassie wiped her wet cheeks with her sleeve. Once she was safe and settled in, she planned to do something special in Jolie’s honor—in memory of her. Her murder wouldn’t be forgotten, and Bart would pay, one way or another. She would make sure of it.
She relaxed, and the night sounds drifted away.
Cassie woke to something cool against her forehead. She opened her eyes to daylight and a rifle barrel pressed against her face. Her victory was short-lived, Donny stood in front of her, and she was sure to join Jolie in a dark suffocating hole in the ground.
Donny grinned. “Gotcha. Now stand your ass up and start walking.”
Cassie rose to her feet and looked from left to right. It was only her and Donny.
He chuckled as he pushed her forward with the gun’s barrel. “Think you can outrun my rifle? Go ahead and try. I dare you. All that running and hiding you did would be for nothing. You’d be as dead as your sister in a second’s time.”
Cassie spat in Donny’s face and cursed him. “I’m not afraid of you. You’re nothing but a piece of shit and Bart’s bitch.”
Donny cocked his fist and delivered a blow to her face, bloodying her lip. “Keep it up, smart-ass, and you’ll be lucky to make it back to the ranch alive.”
“Why should I care? Bart is going to kill me anyway!”
“I’m sure you’re right, so start moving. We have a half-mile walk to the truck.”
Chapter 22
“You sure you can’t hold it until we get to the next town, honey?”
She grimaced. “Sorry, but in case you’ve forgotten, I’m pregnant. What do you expect from me? Who knows how far the next town is, and you’re hitting every bump in the road.”
“Okay, okay, I’ll pull over.” Byron Philips slowed the car and stopped on the side of the road. He looked out the rearview mirror. “You sure? We just passed a truck parked back there along the shoulder.”
Tara waved him off and grabbed tissues from the console. “I’ll hurry. I’m sure it’s just a hunter who’s probably halfway up the mountain, looking for something to shoot.”
“Well, that’s worrisome. It isn’t like your green jacket is blaze orange.”
She grinned. “Give me three minutes. I’ll be right back.” She climbed out and stepped into the ditch.
Byron lowered the passenger-side window. “Go find a rock to squat beside.”
Tara looked back and laughed. “Hush. Maybe you should relieve yourself, too, as long as we’ve stopped. You always did like aiming at tree trunks.” She continued through the ditch and into the woods.
Now to find someplace private.
Tara looked around and spotted a group of large boulders.
There we go. That’s perfect. I’ll be well hidden and—
When she heard a man’s voice nearby, she froze.
“I told you to move along. You’re getting into that truck whether you like it or not.”
“What if I don’t?” said a girl’s voice. “What if I sit down and refuse to go?”
“Then I’ll shoot you in the head and leave you for the cougars to eat.”
“Yeah, that’s a real shame about Malcolm. Couldn’t have happened to a nicer guy.”
“Shut up!”
They were closing in on her, and Tara needed to hide. She couldn’t get to the car without crossing their path. As she backed up, a downed branch snapped under her foot, and she lost her balance. She fell backward and landed on her butt.
“What the hell?” The man grabbed the girl’s arm and yanked her over to where Tara sat on the ground, her eyes bulging. “Oh, hell no!” He spun toward the girl, smashed the stock of his rifle into her head, then disappeared into the woods.
“Oh my God!” Tara ran to the girl’s slumped, unconscious body. Blood poured from the deep gash above her right ear. “Honey, honey, can you hear me?”
She didn’t get a response.
“Shit!
” Tara plowed through the brush to get back to the car, screaming the entire way. “Byron, Byron, I need help!”
With the car window open, Byron clearly heard her yells and had already leapt from the vehicle. “Honey! What’s wrong?”
“Call 911. Hurry! There’s a young girl out here who’s in bad shape. A man with a rifle just cracked her in the head. I saw everything!”
“Jesus. Where is she?”
Tara led her husband to the girl’s side and pointed. “Right there.”
“Damn it. She’s really bleeding.” Byron knelt down and lifted the lifeless body. “I’ve got to put her in the car, then we need to get the hell out of here before that man comes back. Run to the car and make the call. The phone is in the cup holder. I’m right behind you, honey.”
Tara rushed ahead, and Byron caught up a few minutes later. Carrying dead weight through the woods and brush wasn’t easy.
“Byron, I can’t get a signal out here.”
“Damn it. Then we’ve got to get her to the nearest town.”
Tara opened the door to the back seat, and Byron carefully placed the unconscious girl inside.
“Look.” Tara pointed up the road. The truck that had been parked behind them just minutes earlier was gone. “Do you think it was that guy?”
“I’d bet my bottom dollar it was. Let’s put something around her head to slow the bleeding and get the hell out of here.”
Tara rushed to the trunk and tore open one of their suitcases. Their weeklong vacation had just ended, they were driving the five hundred miles home, and as fate would have it, they now had a severely wounded stranger lying on their back seat.
Tara slammed the trunk closed and ran to Byron. “This T-shirt should work. Cut it with your pocket knife so it’s long enough.”
Byron did, and Tara gingerly wrapped the shirt around the girl’s head.
“Okay, that’s the best we can do. Let’s go!” Tara jumped into the passenger seat, Byron climbed behind the wheel, and they sped down the road.
“Did you even have a chance to pee?”
“No, and it doesn’t matter anymore.”
Byron shook his head. “What are the odds of us stopping right where we did? Unbelievable! Keep checking your phone, honey. As soon as you get service, make the call.”
“On it.” Tara looked over the seat. “She’s in bad shape. We’ve got to hurry.”
Chapter 23
Luckily, the medical examiner was right in Wellington, and we would be able to interview him and see the body in person. I was sure the ME was a male since his name was George. I’d never met a woman by that name and didn’t expect that I ever would.
We had a filling breakfast at the Waffle Stop. Mine was two waffles, hash browns, and a side of bacon, and Renz had the Doubler, which was the same breakfast as mine except twice as much. A carafe of steaming coffee topped off our meal.
Renz pushed back his sleeve and checked the time. “It’s eight fifty.”
We still had forty minutes before our meeting, and the medical examiner’s office was only eight blocks away.
“Want to go over things for a half hour?” I lifted the carafe, and it felt nearly empty. “I can get us a refill.”
“Yeah, let’s make a to-do list for today, then we can chat with Taft and the gang after our meeting with the medical examiner.”
“Works for me.” I pointed with my chin. “You get the carafe filled, and I’ll get my briefcase.”
“Deal.”
I was back at the table minutes later, opened my briefcase, and pulled out a legal pad and pen. Renz poured coffee for both of us as I tapped my pen against the notepad.
“What?”
“If this cattle-hauler theory is wrong, that means we have nothing.”
“It sure does, and that would suck, but unless the nutjob is caught in the act, it’s going to be tough to ever find him. He could even change his MO and bury the victims instead like you suggested yesterday.”
“What I’m wondering is where and how he gets those teenagers.”
Renz nodded. “Write that down. Keep in mind, they may not have been teenagers when he”—he made air quotes—“got them.”
“That’s even sadder. Who are those kids? They certainly can’t be his flesh and blood if they’re all around the same age.”
“And they don’t have physical similarities either. Black hair, blond hair, short, tall, light skin, and dark skin. But there is one thing they all have in common. They’re undernourished and in poor physical condition.”
I groaned. “Okay, we need to know the auction locations in relation to the driving route the killer took.”
“Yep, and where those kids could have possibly come from.”
“Orphanages don’t exist anymore, do they?” I asked.
“No, but you might be on the right track. What about shady adoption agencies or even ones that have been shut down in the past? There would be records of that, along with possible felony charges brought against the people who ran them, but we might be looking at something that happened five to fifteen years ago or longer.”
“Right.” I jotted that down. “We need to find out about the residue left in their shoe treads too. Even though only two sets of shoes have been sent to our headquarters so far, if the organic material matches exactly, then we can assume they all will.”
“Absolutely,” Renz leaned across the table, “and we need to find out what area of the country has that type of soil, rock, sand, grass, or anything else that might be pressed into the shoe tread. Then we can pinpoint the locations of the auction sites, which could actually give us the county the killer lives in. From there, we can find out what landowners have cattle ranches and an abundance of property. We’ll ask around the area. Somebody has to know which ranchers stay low-key and don’t allow people near their land.”
I wrote that down and grinned. “We could be making progress.”
“Hell yeah.” Renz caught the waitress’s attention. “Can we have the check, please?”
Once in the car, we headed to the building that housed the Sumner County Medical Examiner and Coroner, on North A Street. We would ask the same questions and listen to the same answers we’d gotten from the previous medical examiners. The victim we were checking on that day was a male, and from the photos included in the report, he might be Hispanic. If that was the case, then our theory of the victims being unrelated would hold true.
We arrived on time and introduced ourselves to Dr. George Kingston, the medical examiner. He looked around fifty, a gray-haired, twinkling-eye type of man. He seemed nurturing, and I instantly liked him. He said he was well aware of the other cases, so he made sure to be thorough with his report and his own ideas.
“You’ve read the other autopsy reports, then?” I asked.
“I have, Agent Monroe.”
“And do they all seem to follow the same pattern in your opinion?”
“Yes, as far as what is in the police reports. The autopsy reports are what caught my attention, though.”
Renz scratched his cheek. “In what way, specifically?”
“All five teenagers died around the same time, and the reports show as much, yet decomp was much more pronounced on the last ones found than on the first two, meaning the last three were with the killer the longest. That in itself can tell you the route he took.”
My eyes nearly popped out of my head. “So after comparing all the autopsy reports, in your opinion, which body was in the best condition?”
“The one found in Montana.”
“Bingo! Just so we’re not misunderstanding anything, you’re saying it’s more than likely that the killer began his route in Montana with all five bodies, dumped them as he drove, and the amount of decomp on each one will tell us his route?”
“Absolutely, without a doubt. The last body dumped would have the most decomp because it was in his possession the longest and not in a morgue’s cooler.”
“And the amount of decomp is desc
ribed in the autopsy reports in layman’s terms?” I asked.
“Not exactly, but I’d be happy to send an email to you stating the degree of each victim’s decomp. That way, you’d know what state came first, second, and so on.”
“And definitely the body in Montana had the least amount of decomp?” I asked.
“Yes, that’s correct.”
“Okay, good to know.” I wanted to jump out of my skin, but I needed to show some decorum. “May we take a look at the body now?”
“Right this way.”
Renz and I joined the ME in the far too familiar autopsy room, where the male body had been brought in for our view. Like the other two before him, he was covered to the neck with a white sheet. His feet extended beyond the end of the sheet, and a toe tag with John Doe written on it was attached to the large toe on his right foot. Like the male and female we’d already seen, he was young—less than twenty, I imagined—and with a small amount of patchy beard growth starting up. His skin was definitely darker than that of the other victims.
“Hispanic?” Renz asked.
“I’d say he’s Native American, which would also fit with Montana being the starting point for all of the teenagers. About six and a half percent of people living in Montana are American Indians. Of course, that may or may not mean anything. Who knows where those kids originally came from? Without names, fingerprints, or DNA in any database, they’re unidentifiable.”
I huffed. “Right, except for the brand each one is wearing.”
“Ah yes. The brand. That’s more than disturbing.”
We rounded the table with Dr. Kingston and walked to the young man’s left side. The doctor lifted the sheet to show us the brand, the same one we’d seen twice before.
“Would you say this was done with a branding iron meant for cattle?” I asked.
“It’s hard to say in this day and age since people deliberately get branded.” He shook his head. “Might be worth checking into, though. The brands used for human mutilation might be something completely different than what we imagine. What are the youth thinking these days?”
