“Yes, Gordon Dillahunt. Only he’s not your client; you haven’t passed the bar yet. I don’t know what game you’re playing here, Ms. Holden, but knowingly aiding and abetting a felon to send death threats through the United States Postal Service is a crime.”
The young law student went white. “What do you want?”
“Like I said, a moment of your time.”
We found seats at a wooden picnic table near the prison parking lot, under the shade of a dying maple tree. Holden spoke first, having recovered her wits on the short walk from the lobby to the table. “I don’t have to tell you anything.”
I nodded. “That’s true. So how about I talk first while you shut up and listen. Judge Caleb Montgomery was killed Monday night in a car bomb. You’re familiar with Dillahunt’s trial, so you know Montgomery was the presiding judge. Not only that, he was a close friend of my family, so please understand, I’m serious when I say this is all very personal to me. And I’m mad as hell right now.”
Holden nodded slowly, her eyes never leaving my face.
I continued. “Turns out Montgomery’s been receiving death threats for the last five months. They started just about the time you and Dillahunt got friendly. And guess what? Dillahunt admitted to writing them, just now.”
Holden gasped. “You spoke with him?”
“Yes. You’ll find him a little brokenhearted, actually. Seems writing those letters was keeping his mind off his very long prison sentence.”
The young law student exhaled. “So that’s what they were. I didn’t know, I swear.”
“Bullshit.”
“No, I promise! I didn’t know!”
“You’d better start from the beginning.”
“I first heard about Gordon Dillahunt my freshman year of college. I grew up here, in Belle Vista, and have always been fascinated with true crime. What motivates people to kill, that sort of thing. Anyway, I had to choose a research subject this year in law school and I chose Dillahunt. I was thrilled when he actually agreed to speak with me in person. We met, and he took an interest in me. No, not like that, it’s not sexual. He considers me a … a friend, I suppose. Anyway, at the end of our first meeting, Dillahunt promised I could continue to visit on one condition. I had to mail a letter for him, anytime he asked, from my post office in Boulder.” Holden paused, sniffed. “Look, I’m not an idiot. I knew where the letters were going, saw who they were addressed to.”
“And yet?”
Holden exhaled. She slid her sunglasses off her head and began to play with them in her hands. “I need high marks on this project. I need Dillahunt. It was the only way he’d agree to meet with me on a regular basis. I didn’t know what was in the letters. Dillahunt used me to bypass mail-room searches and to be honest, I didn’t see what the big deal was. I could tell by their feel and weight that they were just papers.”
“What do you and Dillahunt talk about when you meet? May I remind you, you’re not bound by attorney–client privileges.”
Holden took a deep breath. She stared up at the dying maple’s leaves above us. “He’s told me a lot about his trial. There was definitely something fishy with the evidence that finally convicted him. Someone was dirty, and I think Montgomery knew who it was. But the judge kept his mouth shut, and Dillahunt went away for life.”
“And you think that was the wrong call?”
“Yes. Dillahunt may be a monster, a terrible person. But he’s still a person. He deserved a fair trial. This is America, after all.”
I stood up. “You’re naïve, Colleen. I hope it doesn’t hinder your career.”
“You’re not going to report me?” She tucked her hair behind her ears and chewed her lower lip, tears welling in her eyes. “I didn’t know.”
“But you should have.” I looked to the prison walls and decided that sometimes, a sentence of remorse can be harder than time in a cell. Holden regretted her actions, that much was clear. What she would now do with that remorse was in her hands; I had a killer to catch and to do that, I needed to get back to Cedar Valley and look at everything from the beginning.
The answers were there, not here.
I gently patted Holden on the shoulder. “Consider our conversation a harsh lesson from my side of the street. Don’t ever enter into a bargain with the devil again. He’ll get your soul, every damn time.”
Chapter Twelve
I did as Warden Harrison had suggested and stopped for lunch in downtown Belle Vista. I found the Indian restaurant he mentioned and enjoyed a generous platter of rice, lamb, and vegetables. Sitting outside in the brisk breeze, the sun shining down on me, it was easy to forget that just a few miles away, some of the state’s most notorious criminals whiled away their time.
The trip hadn’t been a total waste of time, as it was a relief to know that the death threats Caleb had received were themselves a dead end. The timing of him bringing them to my attention, and then being killed mere minutes later, seemed to be a terrible coincidence.
It had only been twenty minutes since I’d sat down, but once again I was struck with the urgent sense that I needed to head back to Cedar Valley. Reluctantly, I paid my bill and gathered the remaining half plate of food into a take-out box. As I left the restaurant, I bumped into the warden.
“I told you this place was good, didn’t I? I eat here nearly every week.” Harrison shook his head ruefully. “You’ve sure stirred up a hornet’s nest, Detective. Gordon Dillahunt had to be sedated after you left. He about near ripped off Santiago’s ear. As it is, I’m going to have to reassign Santiago to another floor. He’s refusing to get anywhere near Dillahunt.”
I was surprised and said as much. I’d had no idea my visit would set off such a reaction.
Harrison ran a hand over his close-cropped hair. “We’re accustomed to drama at the prison, Detective. Nothing shocks me anymore. But Dillahunt … well, he’s a creepy little weasel. He sets people on edge in a way that the other prisoners don’t. He’s like a worm and once he gets in you, he’s there for good. Best you don’t come back for a while.”
“You can count on it.”
I drove out of Belle Vista with the windows down and the radio turned up high, fifteen miles over the speed limit, desperately trying to shake images of Dillahunt’s crime scene photographs from my mind. Slowly, with each mile I put between us, my time with the serial killer seemed less reality and more nightmare.
I made it back to the station in record time. Inside, I found Finn at his desk, Liv Ramirez at his side. The two of them sat close together, huddled over something on her phone, laughing. I fought the urge to roll my eyes. People are allowed to cut loose every once in a while. Who was I to begrudge a few laughs? Even Moriarty and Armstrong were in on it, chuckling every time Finn and Ramirez erupted with another set of giggles.
“Ahem,” I said by way of greeting, setting my stuff down.
“Have you seen this? This video where the cat is dressed as a pirate with a wooden leg?” Finn sat back and wiped tears from his eyes. “I could watch that all day.”
“I’m sure. Liv, how’s the investigation into the car bomb going?”
Ramirez smiled at me. “It’s done. I brought copies of my findings. Can we talk through them?”
I held an arm out to the side. “Be my guest. Let’s go in the conference room.”
As we walked down the hall, Finn asked in a low voice, “How was Belle Vista?”
“Dead end. Dillahunt wrote the threats. Colleen Holden smuggled them out for him and mailed them from her house in Boulder. But, Dillahunt’s devastated about Caleb’s death. He didn’t have anything to do with the bomb. His hate for Caleb was about the only thing keeping him going.”
Finn exhaled. “At least it’s an avenue we can close off for the time being.”
We reached the conference room and took seats around the table. Ramirez slid a thick, spiral-bound notebook across the table to each of us.
“Caleb Montgomery was murdered, plain and simple,” Ramirez
stated. She held up a hand. “Yes … we’ve known that since Monday. However, my report will show it without doubt.”
I flipped through the pages, pausing a moment on the photographs, nearly able to smell the scene once again. No matter what sins he may have committed, or believed he committed, from his seat in court, Caleb Montgomery didn’t deserve the death he got. “Can you give us the highlights?”
“Of course.” Ramirez sat up and folded her hands in front of her. “Caleb Montgomery’s Mercedes was packed with dynamite. It was placed in the trunk, along with a small detonator, tucked just behind the right taillight. The killer fired a bullet that pierced the light and detonated the explosives. It was a professional job.”
“Professional how?” Finn set aside the report and rubbed his jaw. “You mentioned black ops a few days ago.”
“Yes. I stand by my initial thoughts; you’re looking for someone with a military background. If it was just the dynamite, I’d lean to a suspect who’s worked in construction, or mining. Someone comfortable with explosives.” Ramirez paused, considering her next words. “When you add in the sniper shot … and it was a sniper shot, I’d stake my life on it. The angle of the car was such that the shot had to have come from the roof of the restaurant across the street. I checked it out and ran a few scenarios. Look, you two are the detectives, but this is simple math. Explosives plus sniper equals military.”
It was an easy conclusion to draw, and one that may have been right.
But I could think of a few other scenarios. “What about a contractor who likes to hunt? Or a cop, with an affinity for blowing things up? Point is, I think you’re probably right. It feels right and instinct is ninety percent of this game. But as you said, we’re the detectives. We’ve got to keep an open mind and open eyes until we’re positive.”
“Yeah, sure.” Ramirez bent over and flipped through her own copy of the report, taking what seemed like a long time to find what she was looking for. When she looked back up, there were high spots of color on her cheeks. “Like I said, I did some trajectory analyses. The killer had to have been watching Montgomery for some time, had to know that was his typical parking spot. Anywhere else on the street, there wouldn’t have been a clear shot. Too many trees, streetlights.”
Finn leaned back and crossed his legs. “We watched footage of an obese man steal dynamite from a mine fifty miles from here. Different guy than the man we chased in the alley the night of Caleb’s murder, so maybe there are two killers: one who set up the bomb, the other who detonated it with a rifle.”
“Let’s not make it more complicated than it already is,” Ramirez said with a groan.
“We’ve got to go back to character and motive on this one. Our suspect is a planner; he’s not impulsive. This was a killing that intended to send a message, to us, to the community, or to some unknown person or persons.” I sat back, thinking. “And yet, at the same time, it was a risky killing; as Liv says, had Caleb parked anywhere else on Main, there would not have been a clear shot from the roof of the restaurant.”
“And why Halloween night?” Finn asked. He flipped through Liv’s report again, stopping, as I had, on the crime scene photographs. “Was there something special about killing Montgomery on that night, of all nights?”
We fell silent, each thinking.
Finn spoke. “Everyone was in costume. The killer could have been anywhere on the street, disguised, and we’d not have known it. Think about the man, the hooded man, in the alley. Halloween is a night of intrigue, mystery. A thrill-a-minute kind of evening. If you want to make a dramatic statement, blowing up a car with dozens of trick-or-treaters a few blocks away will do it.”
“We need to keep those two things at the forefront of this case: the method of killing and the night. There’s something important, something telling, about both.” I leaned forward, rested my head in my hands.
Ramirez checked her watch. “You guys want to continue this conversation at a bar? Preferably somewhere with greasy burgers and generous pours? First round is on me.”
“I’m in. Gem?” Finn stood up. I nodded in agreement and sent a quick text to Brody that he should go ahead and give Grace dinner, and I’d bring him some takeout.
We agreed to drive separately and meet at O’Toole’s, a dimly lit pub on Fifth Street where we’d be guaranteed privacy amidst the pool tables and the mixed crowd of hip young professionals and wizened older men.
Within minutes of the server taking our order, she appeared with a frosty pitcher of light beer, two ice-cold mugs, and a sparkling water for me. I stared longingly at the beer but images of my wedding dress kept dancing in front of me. It would do me good to watch what I ate for the next few weeks.
Or more realistically, what I drank, as I never could say no to a good meal.
We sat and drank in silence, letting the cool, dark bar numb the edges of the day. It wasn’t until our food arrived, cheeseburgers heaped with lettuce and tomatoes, fries and spicy pickle slices piled high on the side, that we began to talk.
Ramirez went first. “I dreamed of food like this when I was overseas. Chow-hall meals have nothing on a beef patty slung in some grease on a skillet by a guy who’s been cooking the same burgers for thirty years.”
As if on cue, a hunched man with deep grooves in his skin and gray curls peeking out from a hairnet glanced through the open window in the kitchen, taking in the crowd. Ramirez flashed him a thumbs-up and the man grinned, his toothless mouth gaping with pride.
“Did you like it, being over there?” I asked.
Ramirez shrugged. “Iraq was … hard. I was a medic and saw some terrible, terrible things. My last tour, I treated troops at a military field hospital outside Fallujah. The insurgents had control of the city for a long time; they had time to prepare to inflict the most damage possible. We saw a lot of shrapnel, close-explosion injuries. The human body can only take so much. We’re more fragile than we like to believe.”
“You said you did three tours, though?” Finn asked. He’d finished his first beer and was pouring another. “There must have been something about it you enjoyed.”
“Pour me another, too, would you? I liked the camaraderie. My parents adopted me when I was a little girl, and I grew up an only child. My mom split when I was four, and my dad tried the best he knew how, but I was a hard kid. Always in trouble, always on the offense. Easier than being on the defense. I never knew who my birth family was until I was eighteen and tracked them down. They’d dealt with their own shit for years and weren’t too excited to see me. By then, my adopted dad had passed. I didn’t have anyone. The military gave me a second family.” Ramirez took a long swallow from her second beer, taking down half of it. “Damn, that’s good. Look, I’m not justifying the killer’s actions … but if he’s military, a veteran … he may be dealing with some dark things. Some of us come back with more baggage than others … but we all come back with something. Anyway, enough about me. Talking about Iraq is depressing. What about you two? How’d you end up wearing the blue?”
I shifted in my chair. “My parents died when I was a little kid. My grandparents raised me. My grandfather was a judge, and I was always fascinated by the law. I liked the rules, the structure of it, but I wasn’t a great student. Law school never seemed like a possibility for me. Then, at a career fair my senior year, I listened to a female detective from Denver talk about her job and I was smitten. I haven’t looked back since.”
Ramirez nodded. “So you’re an orphan, too.”
She slipped off her jacket and I was surprised to see she had full sleeve tattoos on both muscular arms. I was about to ask her how long it had taken to get the ink done when she turned to Finn and said, “How about you, Francis?”
“Francis?” Finn blinked in surprise.
“Yeah, Ol’ Blue Eyes. You got Frank Sinatra peepers,” Ramirez said with a wink and tucked back into her burger.
Finn grinned. “No one’s ever said that to me. I went to school at Florida State on a golf
scholarship and got a criminal justice degree along the way. My folks live in a condo in Miami. I’ve got a couple of brothers that I see every year at Christmas. No skeletons in my closet; nothing terrible happened to me as a child. I thought I’d work for the feds but I got tired of the local news, tired of seeing crime in my own backyard. Thought I could do more service in my own community than pushing papers in some office in DC.”
“And how’d you find yourself in Cedar Valley, Colorado? It’s not exactly excitement central,” Ramirez said with a smirk. Then she looked at me. “No offense.”
I shrugged. “None taken. Yes, Finn … how did you end up here?”
I knew the answer—he’d followed a love interest from Miami—but I was curious to see if he’d share it with Ramirez.
He didn’t and instead simply lifted his glass and said, “To second chances.”
“To second chances,” Ramirez and I muttered in unison.
We stopped talking then, and concentrated on finishing our food. The crowd had picked up and I noticed a particularly rough-looking trio in the corner. They’d been eyeing our table since they came in. Ramirez saw where I was looking. She stared at the men a moment, taking in their greasy shoulder-length hair, ball caps set low on their foreheads.
“You know those guys?”
I shook my head. “No. They’re probably truckers, passing through. Finn?”
He took a look as the server dropped our bill on the table. “Never seen them before in my life. Hey, this one’s on me. I feel guilty; between my sweet pastel-wearing parents and college years on the golf course, I’ve got nothing on the two of you.”
We walked out single file, headed toward the table of truckers on our way to the door. Finn was in front, followed by Ramirez, while I brought up the rear. As we passed by the table, one of the truckers, a short florid man with a dirty bandanna around his neck, quickly shot out his hand and firmly squeezed Ramirez’s buttock. Before I could even register what had happened, Ramirez had flipped around and had the man in a stranglehold, her right arm around his neck, her left hand with a pocketknife to his throat.
Shatter the Night Page 15
