by Jeff Carson
“Let’s go.” Milo walked toward the bumpers of four cars shining inside the garage.
“Can’t wait to see this,” Burton said.
Wolf had to admit he was curious to see how a billionaire bomb-maker who shot the locals lived. Judging by the four vehicles lined up in the garage, the man was not one for blending in. The two cars on the left were near-identical Ferraris, one black, the other red. Their paint jobs were polished to a liquid shine. Next to the Ferraris sat a Mercedes SUV and a Land Rover. Beyond the cars was another perpendicular bay that housed a small fleet of ATVs and dirt bikes.
The door leading to the house was propped open and Sheriff Roll stood inside waiting for them. “Booties. Gloves.”
Wolf and Burton took the offered slips for their shoes and latex gloves. Burton gripped Wolf as he struggled to bend down to get the sheaths over his feet. After three attempts the man was still without the proper shoe coverings, as well as breathless.
“Give me those.” Wolf bent down and put them on for him.
“Sucks getting old, eh Roll?”
Roll pretended not to hear Burton as he stepped up the stairs and into the house with the pep of a much younger man. Wolf and Burton followed. They walked down a long silent hallway and entered a vast kitchen.
Two refrigerators, three ovens, three sinks, a granite island the size of a ping pong table, copper pots hanging off an iron rectangle dangling on chains from a vaulted ceiling, all backdropped by huge windows framing the mountains outside—the place was impressive.
In the next room, a hand-carved table about the same size as the kitchen island was surrounded by eight heavy chairs carved from the same wood.
Another hallway led to the other end of the house. Photos of Alexander Guild smiling and shaking the hands of U.S. presidents hung on the walls. Another photo showed Guild in a line of military men wearing foreign uniforms, one of them adorned with enough gold to sink a ship.
“Out here,” Roll said.
The opulence of the house fell away as Wolf looked through the sliding glass door. They stepped through it, back into blazing sun. A breeze ruffled the side of a forensic tent that had been erected on the expansive deck, and the unzipped door yawned open, revealing a reddish-brown stain on the composite deck board.
“Ground zero,” Roll said.
Burton leaned inside. “That’s appetizing.”
Triplett and Sobeck were at the edge of the deck looking toward the trees.
“You get a good look, old man?” Roll said to Burton. “We’re headed up to the trees. You still want to tag along?”
“Up there?” Burton wheezed.
“You should stay in the car,” Wolf said, thinking about the doctor’s warnings the day before.
Burton’s eyes flashed. “Nope. I’m okay. Let’s go.”
Five minutes later, they had walked the stretch of grassland and reached the edge of the trees.
“You gonna make it?” Wolf asked Burton.
Burton’s face had that slick white look again, and Wolf was asking the question sincerely.
“Yeah. I’ll be fine.”
“Any of you have some water?” Wolf asked.
“I said I’ll be fine.”
A heavyset woman stepped forward and offered Burton a plastic bottle. “Here. Take it, I don’t need it.”
Burton started waving it away, then grabbed the container and swilled it greedily.
“This is Deborah,” Roll said. “She’s one of the department volunteers.”
“Somebody got after it too hard last night.” She laughed and waved a hand in front of her nose. When nobody laughed, she stepped away.
A gruff-looking man dressed in ratty jeans and a red and black flannel appeared next to Roll, Sobeck, Triplett, and Milo.
“This is Pete Hammond,” Roll said. “Pete, this is Detective Wolf and former Sheriff Hal Burton down here from Sluice-Byron County.”
Pete’s hand was a rough chunk of granite. “Nice to meet you.”
The man’s eyes were hooded, with deep, tanned wrinkles. He was short and squat and the outward sway of his arms suggested he had some muscles under his clothing. He spat on the ground, pushing a wad of chewing tobacco to the other side of his mouth. “You gonna make it?”
“Pete is a local tracker and hunting guide,” Roll said. “Pete? How was the walk down?”
“Plenty of sign from Kyle Farmer’s house to right here.” Pete turned and looked back. “I found two prints with tread in them you’ll be able to cast. Otherwise the dirt is loose, and anything detailed is pretty much washed out by the rains yesterday.”
Roll nodded. “Good work.”
A few paces away, a team of civilian volunteers in yellow traffic vests looked down at a string grid staked into the ground. A man in a white CBI jumpsuit was hunched over inside the grid.
“That’s where we traced the line of fire,” Special Agent Rushing told Wolf. “We’ve found a GSR pattern.” He pointed at an orange ribbon hanging from a pine-needle laden branch.
“The GSR pattern on the ground indicates the shooter was lying down, using that crook in the branches to steady his aim. Other than that, we’re finding very little other forensic evidence.”
“You’re sure it was a he?” Wolf asked.
“We did find multiple shoe prints of a size and depth suggesting it was definitely male. Shoe size approximately nine to eleven. Weight approximately one hundred seventy to two hundred pounds.”
“The two prints I found are pristine,” Pete said. “And I’d put the weight at the lighter end of that spectrum. I flagged them, put in the waypoints in the GPS.”
“Thanks, Pete,” Roll said.
“I gather you walked from Kyle Farmer’s house?” Wolf asked.
Pete nodded. “Yes, sir.”
“How long did it take you?” Wolf looked up at a valley covered in pines. There was no sign of a trail anywhere.
Pete spat at his own feet and pointed the way Wolf was looking. “Chimney Rock Wilderness trail is over that hill.”
“That’s the same one that’s now cut off by Mr. Guild’s new gates and fence down there,” Sobeck said.
Pete grunted in agreement. “Once you reach the trail, it’s practically a straight shot up the valley to Kyle Farmer’s place. He lives a quarter mile or so off the beaten path, so to speak.
As for how long it would take a killer to walk from Kyle’s to here, I’m not sure. I was dallying around. Took me a couple hours. I figure it would take no more than twenty minutes at a brisk pace.”
“You know Jesse left that bar fight at around 8:30,” Wolf said. He looked at Milo, letting the man finish Wolf’s thought. He was observing, not trying to step on toes.
“We’re gonna need to know the exact time,” Milo said. He looked at Roll. “I’ll walk it back to Kyle’s and time it, sir.”
A knot had balled up in the middle of Wolf’s back, something that happened every time he sat behind his desk or behind the wheel for too long. “Mind if I join you?”
“I’ll come, too,” Pete said.
Roll looked at Burton.
“Hell if I’m walking that,” Burton said.
“Good,” Roll said. “We’re in agreement.”
“We’ll drive it,” Burton said.
“That’s the idea.”
Burton’s eyes flicked from Wolf to Roll, then back. He held out a hand, which trembled slightly. “Give me the keys. We’ll meet you up there.”
Wolf pictured the remaining liquid in the bottle of Jack Daniels underneath his car seat, and a BAC number that started with point two, and shook his head.
“You’re in no condition to drive,” Roll said, saving Wolf the trouble. “You’ll come with me.”
“Bah. Whatever.” Burton turned and stormed away back toward the house.
“We’ll see you three up at Kyle Farmer’s house.” Roll said and followed Burton down the slope.
Pete checked his watch and walked up the mountain, into the trees. M
ilo and Wolf pulled out their cell phones, started their timers, and followed after him.
Chapter 16
“I grew up right here,” Detective Milo said over the sound of their marching feet.
“And you said you were army?” Wolf asked.
“Yep.”
“Afghanistan?”
“Served three tours. You?”
Wolf nodded. “Six.”
“Ranger?”
“That’s right. Fort Lewis.”
“Gotcha. I was a Green Beret. I was probably over there more recently than you.”
Wolf smiled. “I look that old, huh?”
Milo’s face went red. “No, shit, well, yeah, I guess. But I meant you were probably closer to 9/11.”
“Yeah, we were the first over there after the towers fell.”
“I got back just a few years ago.”
They walked in silence for a bit, taking long strides to keep up with Pete. The old man kept up a relentlessly quick pace, and Wolf thought of ruck-marches through scorched earth in the middle of summer, carrying a weighted pack and rifle over his shoulder and wearing boots that never fit right with the matching blisters on either heel to prove it. He remembered walking through narrow ravines, and the fear of hot lead punching into his body from above.
“Not quite as beautiful as Afghanistan, though, is it?” Milo asked, one side of his stubbled lip curled up. “Driving up into valleys, listening to them Taliban on the radio, calling out to each other as they were watching us come. IEDs. Frickin’ kids and old men the only ones coming out of the woodwork to talk to us. That feeling. Don’t miss that shit. Heck, you know.”
Wolf nodded. “You said Pete was a hunter outfitter. A local tracker. Was he given the combinations of those locks down there?”
“As a matter of fact, he was.”
Wolf raised his eyebrows.
“Pete was in Vietnam,” Milo said loudly, eyeing Wolf.
Pete grunted.
“And Pete was down in Durango Friday night,” Milo said, this time lowering his voice for Wolf’s ears only. “And that’s confirmed.”
Wolf took his word for it, but didn’t like it. Pete was carrying a .45 Ruger on his hip. Was Pete a disgruntled outfitter? Out to get revenge on Guild for a deal gone bad? With tracking skills like his, he would be good with faking tracks and covering his own.
“And I haven’t killed anyone since Vietnam,” Pete said over his shoulder, apparently reading Wolf’s mind.
Wolf checked his phone. The stopwatch ticked onward, showing they’d just passed the eleven-minute mark.
Milo squinted and surveyed the land ahead. “I think the house is over that second mountain on the north side.” He pointed to the left side of the valley. “Can’t be more than the distance we’ve already traveled.”
“How sure are you about that 8:30 time for the bar fight between Kyle and Jesse?” Wolf asked.
“That’s according to Sobeck,” Milo said.
“Have you double-checked with the bartender? Other witnesses?”
“Not yet. Ever since we went to Jesse’s place yesterday morning, we’ve been on the move. It’s on my to-do list to check with the bartender and servers to lock that time down.”
A pair of female deer watched them from the clearing, ears swiveled like radar dishes.
Sweat slid from under Wolf’s ball cap and down his temples. It felt good to be getting some exercise. The knot in his back was loosening.
“So, you have them reportedly leaving the bar at 8:30 pm, but from a reliable source,” Wolf said. “How long does it take to drive from that bar to up here? To Kyle’s house?”
“Let’s see.” Milo pulled out a small notebook and flipped some pages. “I did a Google Maps search, and mind you this is at the exact speed limits, here…it takes sixteen minutes from Soaring Eagle Bar to Kyle Farmer’s place. I’m gonna tell you right now Jesse Burton takes the speed limit and doubles it most of the time.”
Wolf eyed him.
“Okay, say sixteen minutes,” Milo said. “So, he gets up here to Kyle’s at 8:46 p.m.”
“And he’s pissed off. You guys said that Jesse was getting beaten up pretty good by Kyle before Sobeck broke up the fight. So, out of anger, he shoots Kyle?” Wolf asked.
Milo shrugged. “There’s a blood stain the size of a lake up there at his front door. Looks like it to me.”
“And Jesse grabs the .50 caliber from up here at Kyle’s house,” Wolf said, pointing up the valley.
“The rifle is kept in an external shed. You’ll see. Kyle has an arsenal bigger than ours down in Ouray.”
“How does he get access to the shed?” Wolf asked.
Milo shrugged. “He shoots Kyle, takes his keys, gets in the shed to retrieve the fifty-cal.”
Wolf continued. “So, starting over with the Jesse as the killer scenario: he gets in the fight, comes up here, arriving at 8:46, give or take a few minutes.”
“He shoots Kyle,” Milo said. “Takes the .50 caliber sniper rifle from the shed. Walks down here to Guild’s place.” Milo checked his phone.
Wolf did too—eighteen minutes, twelve seconds had elapsed on their hike.
“We’re almost there,” Milo said. “It’s only going to take another few minutes. The timing works perfectly for Jesse.”
Wolf put himself in Jesse’s shoes. The kid would have had a fresh shiner on his eye, a fat lip. Wounded pride. But he had the girl. He’d lost the battle but won the war. Why the rampage when he had the girl?
“How did Hettie get to the bar?” Wolf asked.
“She told us she got there with Kyle. But she left after the fight with Jesse.”
“And Jesse dropped her off at home,” Wolf said. “As her phone indicates.”
Milo nodded. “And Jesse takes out his phone battery. I mean, come on. It was him. This is all him.”
“When did you talk to Hettie?” Wolf asked.
“Yesterday. We were searching for Jesse.”
“And what, exactly, did she tell you about Friday night?” Wolf asked.
Milo consulted his notebook. “She told us that Jesse dropped her off at home. She stayed there for a few minutes, and then drove over to Jesse’s, where she stayed the night. I asked her if we could check her phone data to corroborate her story, and she willingly handed it over to us. But now this business about Jesse taking out his phone battery?” Milo shook his head. “I don’t know what to think about her. This could be an elaborate murder they’ve been planning for months for all we know.”
They walked in silence for a bit.
“We need to talk to Jesse,” Milo said. “Get him to trip up on the details.”
If they ever talked to Jesse, Wolf thought. A good lawyer would keep his client’s mouth shut.
They rounded a turn and saw Pete fifty yards ahead, flickering in shafts of sunlight as he walked through a copse of trees. He came to a stop and turned around. “Cut up here! You’ll see two evidence tents marking the clearest boot treads I could find!”
Pete veered left and hiked into the woods without waiting for a response.
“Almost there,” Milo said. “Just on top of that rise.”
Wolf looked up the slope and saw an A-frame roof poking up among the trees, beyond it blue sky, the sun a beating heart inside clouds that looked like a giant, wispy ribcage.
They veered off the trail and began climbing up the incline through the pines. Wolf’s toes gripped on exposed rock in places, other times dug into soft soil covered in pine needles.
The first evidence tent came into view and they veered sideways to meet it.
The print was a stamp in dust next to a tree trunk. If it were a fingerprint, it would have been a partial. Here the sun failed to reach the forest floor, blocked by dense branches covered in needles, acting as an umbrella against the previous night’s rains.
Wolf studied the ground, seeing the rain runoff had veered to either side of the small raised portion of land.
They moved on, us
ing the second yellow evidence tent as a bearing. Above them, Pete stood with his hands on his hips, looking down at his own cell phone screen. “Twenty minutes, forty-eight seconds!” he called down.
“Yeah, at a sprint!” Milo said.
“After you shoot someone’s head off, I doubt you take the scenic route back,” Pete said.
They slowed and studied the next footprint, and Wolf saw it had the same tread pattern as the first. This one was much more pronounced, punched into crusty earth that held the shape of each circle and square on the underside of what looked like an average-sized men’s’ hiking boot.
They summited the hill. Behind Pete stood the boxy A-frame structure whose many windows shone in the sun.
“Did you find footprints down by Alexander Guild’s back field that match these?” Wolf asked.
“Nothing with definitive tread, but the sizing is the same.”
“How sure are you?”
“One hundred percent.”
That was pretty sure.
“I only saw one set of prints veering off that trail near Guild’s house,” Pete said. “One set going up the hill, over to the point the shooting took place, one set coming back. I measured over a dozen impressions I found in the loose soil, compared them to all the other prints around here. I’m sure.”
Wolf tapped his cellphone screen and stopped the stopwatch, which showed 23 minutes, 31 seconds.
Detective Milo turned down valley and eyed his own phone. “Twenty-three minutes.”
“That’s what I got.”
“Check me if I’m wrong,” Milo said, “but that’s perfect timing for Jesse to get in that fight, drive up here, and walk down to Alexander Guild’s in time to be our shooter at 9:38 p.m.”
“There’s only one thing I’m not liking about all this,” Pete said.
They looked at the wiry old man. He was staring down the mountain with pinched eyes.
“What’s that?” Milo asked.
“You know all those boot prints left in the blood around the front of the house?”
“Yeah?”
“Those don’t match these prints.”
“How sure are you about that?” Milo asked.
