Leave No Trace

by Sara Driscoll

  “Pretty town,” McCord commented. “Classic Americana. Like it’s out of a Rockwell painting.”

  “Especially on a sunny day like this. Hawk, up,” Meg commanded. “Let’s go. I made our excuses to Sam, but I don’t want to stall him longer than necessary.” She jabbed an index finger at McCord. “You stay quiet until I say so. This is already going to be touch and go as far as bringing you in.”

  “Got it. I’ll leave my introduction in your capable hands.”

  Meg walked away, muttering to herself about reporters.

  They circled the old stone building to Church Street and climbed the steps to the main door. Meg flashed her badge at the officer at the front desk, informed him they were to meet Special Agent Torres, and the officer waved them through. They found Torres in the same conference room, seated at the table, surrounded by files and piles of documents.

  Meg waved Brian through and then paused in the doorway, McCord out of sight around the corner of the jamb. “Hi, Sam.”

  Torres looked up. There were dark smudges under his eyes and the furrows in his forehead spoke of frustration. “Thanks for coming in. Not that I have much to share with you at this point.” He slapped his palm down on papers surrounding him and shook his head, his lips a compressed line. “Hitting a lot of walls.”

  “That’s where we’re hoping to help. We’ve had some luck today, but I can maybe go one better.” She reached behind her, grabbed McCord’s arm, and drew him into the doorway beside her. “This is Clay McCord.”

  Torres’s eyes went to slits. “We discussed this already.”

  McCord took a step into the room, so Meg stood behind him. “This isn’t Meg’s fault. I insisted. I’ve been following the case, because I follow all of Meg and Brian’s cases. They do good and interesting work, and because I know the personalities and the dogs in the unit, I can write about the case like no one else. Frankly, it shines a positive light on the unit and the FBI as a whole.” His voice went flat. “In this day and age where certain law enforcement agencies are getting an unfairly bad rap from the leaders of the country, I’m happy to counter that. In this case, because I’ve been following along, I took it upon myself to do a little research.”

  “So you can write a headline-grabbing story? Sorry, not interested.”

  “I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t going to write a story. The relevant issue for you is when, and it’s not now.”

  “Won’t that make your editor angry?”

  “Sykes? Not a chance. He doesn’t expect me to file stories daily. He knows that would actually backfire. Great investigative stories take time. More than that, they take discretion. Someday there’s going to be a Pulitzer on my shelf and it’s not going to be from a racy exposé. It’s going to be from a thoughtful, well-researched piece. I have information I think you’ll find useful. I’d like to offer it to you.”

  “With what string attached?”

  “I’m not sure I’d call it a string. I’d like to write this case, but only when it’s wrapped and you have a suspect in custody. Up to then, the story isn’t complete.”

  “And if it takes weeks or months?”

  “I’ve had stories take longer. Would you like to hear my information?”

  Torres’s gaze shifted from McCord to Meg.

  “I wouldn’t have brought him if he couldn’t be trusted and wouldn’t be an asset. I’ve learned over a number of cases that having McCord on board is never a bad thing. He has contacts we don’t. He can talk to people who won’t talk to us. And he won’t say a word until we clear him. You won’t be sorry.”

  “And if you are, you can cut me out at any time and I still won’t write the article until the case is closed. It just won’t be nearly the story it could have been. So it’s in my best interest to play by the rules.”

  Indecision played out over Torres’s face as his gaze darted from McCord to Meg to Brian, who nodded encouragingly.

  Torres sat back in his chair and crossed his arms over his chest. “Okay, trial run. Convince me. But the moment I don’t like it, you’re out.”

  “Deal.” McCord pulled out a chair, sat down, leaned his laptop bag against the leg, and dug a small notepad out of his back pocket.

  The notepad was a familiar sight to Meg. McCord never went anywhere without the small notepad with a pen jammed down the spiral binding. He preferred it to making notes on his phone. Some people got nervous when a phone came out, as they feared being recorded, so McCord swore that low-tech was always the best way to go. He pulled the pen free, flipped open the cover, and leafed through a number of pages. “I know the basics of the case from local reports about the deaths. You’ll be looking at motive and you’ll have access to information I don’t have unless you choose to share it with me and let me run with it for research purposes. So I went for the obvious tack—not motive, but means.”

  “Meaning the ability to make that shot?” Brian asked.

  “Yes. This isn’t an amateur, at least not in the strictest sense of the word. It’s someone with professional-level skills. One of two things is happening. Either someone with motive is making these shots and taking out the victims, or he’s contracted someone with those skills.” McCord shrugged, telegraphing his disconnect with the latter. “It’s possible it could be a contract killing, but I think chances of that are slim. If you put out a contract on a victim, you’re going to get someone who kills with a gun in relatively close quarters. The chance of having serious long-distance skills like that for sale is much smaller. But it’s not impossible, so it stays on the table as a less likely option. Either way, no matter what the motive, no matter whether that motive belongs to the killer or the person who hired him, you’re looking for someone with impressive skills. So that’s who I went after. And if any of the people I’ve short-listed come up in your lists for direct motive, then all the better.”

  “How did you find these short-listed people?” Torres asked.

  “I started big with USA Archery and worked my way down. If you’re going to hone your skills to the level of an actual competition, this is the overarching body. From there, it breaks down into states, which leads us to the Georgia Archery Association, the North Carolina Field Archery Association, and the National Archery Association of Tennessee. They’re each essentially an association of local clubs that teach archery to young kids and teens, and run the local competitions. Those competitions go all the way to the state and then the national level. A lot of people are very serious about these competitions. It’s a source of personal and family pride to medal at them.”

  “You were looking at kids?” Torres’s unease was clear in his tone.

  “Not unless they started as kids, aged through the different competition classes, and are now over eighteen. This isn’t going to be a twelve-year-old, but I considered anyone who has reached the age of majority.”

  Torres’s shoulders relaxed. “Okay, that seems reasonable.”

  “I looked into all three state associations simply because while the killings have been in Georgia and Tennessee, all the locations are close enough together that I thought it would be unwise not to include North Carolina.”

  “There may be a North Carolina connection,” Torres said.

  “Oh, really? Then I’m glad I included it.”

  Meg was impressed with McCord’s ability to appear completely in the dark when he was, in fact, fully informed. If she didn’t know he knew about the possible involvement of the Cherokee, she’d have never guessed it.

  “While not all the deaths have occurred in Fannin County,” McCord continued, “the majority of them have, so I started here for research at the Fannin County Public Library over on Main Street. They have a complete archive of The News Observer, Blue Ridge’s local newspaper, all the way back to its conception in 1990. I was searching for any story relating to archery competitions or training. Then I moved on to each individual state group. All the websites have news sections that go back multiple years, and had information on every
competition they’d run and all the rankings. That was particularly helpful. But the human touch was still missing. That required a trip down to Suches and the local office of the Georgia Department of Natural Resources, specifically the Wildlife Resources Division. And that’s where I met Beverley.”

  Brian leaned around Meg to look at McCord. “Beverley, huh? Sweet-talked her into giving up the goods?”

  “Would I do such a thing?” McCord’s smirk belied his words. “Beverley was particularly chatty, especially once she had my business card in her hand. Which reminds me.” He fished in his laptop bag for a moment and then pulled out a business card and slid it across the table to Torres. The classic Washington Post masthead was emblazoned across the top, with its slogan “Democracy Dies in Darkness” below. McCord’s full contact information was listed underneath. “You should have this so you can contact me. Anyway, Beverley knew as well as I did that hunting licenses are public record, so she was happy to save me the research. She also happens to have a mind like a steel trap. Not just who had a hunting license, but what kind, and for how long.”

  “There’s more than one kind of hunting license?” Brian asked. When Torres chuckled, he shrugged. “City boy.”

  “Yes, believe it or not, there is,” said McCord. “There’s the standard license that covers small game like rabbit, opossum, or fox. Then there’s a big game license that covers turkey, deer, and bear. But with those you also need a harvest record to document every kill. Unless you’re hunting gators and then they have their own harvest record. Beverley looked up all the information, but a lot of it she had right off the top of her head, which is impressive because it was a lot of names. Then she started naming off archery competitors and giving background on them. Turns out our Beverley is a member of the Fannin County Archery Club because there isn’t one in Union County, where Suches is located. And from that, I started building a list. Beverley herself used to compete and win awards, and one of her kids was really into the sport as a teenager, so she went to a lot of the competitions and got to know the local families and who the major competitors were, including the JOAD kids.”

  “JOAD?”

  “Junior Olympic Archery Development. Kids start in JOAD around age seven, but they’re really focused on finding older kids to shuttle into the Olympic system if they’re good enough. But if you want to shoot in the Olympics, you have to have serious recurve skills. That’s the bow that most looks like what you or I would think of as a classic bow, although that’s technically a long bow. But it doesn’t have any of the pulleys or cables to shape the bow like a compound bow does, or the locking mechanism of a crossbow.”

  “We’re only looking at a compound or a recurve bow. Not a crossbow. Wrong kind of arrow.” Torres picked up his coffee and drained the dregs.

  “Then we’ll concentrate on just the two. The recurve is the Olympic archery standard because it’s so difficult. Recurve bows require increased accuracy and steadiness because of the draw weight and the lack of stability other bows provide. If you’re a top recurve shooter, then you have skills you can take to other platforms. But because of the level of skill required, most hunters prefer to use the compound bow or the crossbow.”

  “I follow you,” Meg interjected. “You’re suggesting that because it requires the superior technical ability, anyone skilled with the recurve can also shoot a compound bow, but not necessarily the other way around. So we need to know who shoots what.”

  “Exactly.”

  Meg turned to Torres. “You know, I’d really like to get my hands on one of these bows. I understand the whole sniper mind-set, but I feel like I’m missing a piece of how he thinks and the skill required because I don’t have a handle on his weapon of choice.”

  “I can arrange that. Let me contact Captain Wilcox. You remember him? The Georgia State Patrol captain who walked us through the first crime scene? He knows his way around archery and if he can’t set it up, he can point us in the direction of someone who could.”

  “That’s a great idea.”

  “I’ll call him as soon as we’re done here. Maybe I can set something up for later this afternoon or tonight.” Torres nailed McCord with a hard stare. “So you’ve done all this research, and you’ve talked to Beverley. What’s the bottom line?”

  “The bottom line is a list.” McCord flipped a page in the notebook. “The first part of it is made up of a variety of different competitions over the past ten years to show continuing aptitude with the weapon. Those are mostly young people. The next part consists of individuals Beverley considers to be the top area bowhunters based on harvest records. There are a couple of standouts there, though those are mostly adults. I’ve narrowed down the list to anyone living in the tri-state area, though I’ve specifically marked those within a hundred miles of here. I’ll copy down the list for you. Got a piece of paper?”

  Torres slid a pad of paper across the table to McCord. “Can you organize it by how you found them? Hunting license versus competition, and add in ages and locations if you have them.”

  “I sure can.” For the next five minutes, the room was quiet as McCord made his list into neat columns. When he was done, he passed the pad of paper across the table. “What do you think?”

  “I think I see a few names I recognize right off the bat, or at least family names.” He picked up a red pen and started circling. “Chuck Gammon. Michael Carter. Jamie Trammell. Will Cavett. Ike Mynatt. Aaron Kite. Stephen Trammell.”

  “That’s two Trammells,” Brian said.

  “Mason Cavett makes for two Cavetts,” Torres continued. “Hugh Young. Thomas Atwell. Tim Neale.” He put down the pen. “And that’s just at first glance. I don’t even have full names for everyone involved in the businesses affected, so there may be more here. But this is good stuff.”

  “Thanks,” said McCord. “There’s more where that came from. It will just take a little more time and elbow grease.”

  Torres began packing up his papers. “I need to get going. I’m supposed to be in Atlanta at six for a meeting to wrap another case.”

  “Thanks for the time,” Meg said, pushing back her chair to stand. When Torres bent to pick up his briefcase from the floor, she motioned to Brian and McCord to leave and then waited until he looked up again as she paused in the doorway. “Do you still want me to get SAC Beaumont in contact with you as a reference for McCord?”

  Torres hesitated, looking down the list on the pad of paper, the circled names standing out in bold red. He shook his head. “I think I’ve seen enough. I have your word I can trust him?”

  “You do. He won’t let you down.”

  “Okay, let him run with it, then. Give him whatever info you feel he needs. But he sits on it. Not one word gets out until I say so.”

  “I’ll make sure he knows that’s non-negotiable. Thanks, Sam. You won’t regret it. Call me if you get through to Wilcox?”

  “I’ll try him right now and let you know.”

  They weren’t even at their cars when Meg’s phone rang.

  “Wilcox will be happy to take you and anyone else you need to the Fannin County Archery Club tonight. He suggests meeting at seven.”

  “That works for us.”

  “Report back to me on it?”

  “I will. Thanks for setting this up.” She mimed writing something down to McCord and he pulled out his notebook again. “What’s the address?” She repeated the address to him for McCord’s benefit. “Thanks. I’ll let you know how it goes later tonight.” She ended the call.

  McCord tapped the pad with the end of his pen. “This is the archery club?”

  “Yes. I’m a dead shot with a sniper rifle. Let’s see if I can translate that skill to a bow and arrow. If I want to get into the head of the person who would use this kind of weapon to kill, this is the way to start.”

  CHAPTER 14

  Syllabary: A writing system that contains one unique symbol corresponding to each spoken syllable in a language. Languages like Cherokee, which use
a complete syllabary, enable a speaker who learns the syllabary to be immediately able to both read and write. After adopting their syllabary in the early 1820s, the entire Cherokee Nation achieved 95% literacy within five years, well before the Trail of Tears.

  Friday, April 12, 6:55 PM

  Fannin County Archery Club

  Blue Ridge, Georgia

  Meg led the way into the archery club, a long, squat building about ten minutes out of town. She approached a teenage girl behind the front desk. “Hi, I’m looking for Captain Wilcox from the Georgia State Patrol.”

  “Are you the party from the FBI?” The girl’s eyes were huge as she rose slowly out of the chair, her gaze tracking down. “And you brought dogs?” Her words pitched unnaturally high with excitement.

  Meg looked down to where Hawk and Lacey patiently stood beside their handlers. Both dogs still wore their work vest with FBI on them in big yellow block letters. “They’re our search dogs.”

  “Cool! Can I pet them?”

  “Sure. Hawk, Lacey, sit.”

  The girl came out from behind the desk and slowly approached the dogs, both hands extended, one toward each dog. Hawk and Lacey had a sniff and then sat patiently under her stroking.

  Meg gave her a full minute with the dogs and then asked, “Captain Wilcox?”

  The girl straightened and pointed down the hallway. “He’s in the range. First door on your left.”