Bone Rattle

by Marc Cameron

  In any case, the scene told him plenty from a dozen feet away. As far as direction of travel, Cutter had little doubt that the shooter had been picked up by a boat.

  He explained it as he went, mainly for Lola’s benefit, but Detective Van Dyke listened with rapt interest.

  “The flat of that old stump provides a good rest,” he said.

  “And a perfect line of sight to the window,” Lola said.

  “This guy knew his way around a sniper hide,” Cutter said. “He trimmed the lower branches on this spruce and pruned back the foliage on the highbush cranberries to give him a clear line of fire but still give him a good place to hide. See how the twig ends are snipped off at right angles? They’re not cut with a knife, but with small pruning shears – something a sniper would carry in his kit.”

  He nodded at the stone church, gritting his teeth, thinking through the ramifications of going inside. He wasn’t squeamish, not by a long shot, but he wanted to take a look at the tracks before he risked clouding his judgment by seeing another person he knew with his brains blown out. “I’ve changed my mind. I do need to check on a couple of things now that I’ve had a chance to look at the ground.”

  * * *

  Detective Van Dyke provided paper shoe covers for both Cutter and Lola, allowing them to walk up the stairs without transferring in debris from the outside. Cutter didn’t think he’d find actual tracks. This shooter was too much of a professional to risk coming inside to admire his handiwork. Still, there was more to the art and science of tracking than simply looking at footprints.

  The upper end of the Alaska State Troopers chain of command was comprised of a colonel and two majors. Major Chris Terry, the less senior of the two, or “minor” major, had come to Juneau on the same flight as Cutter for meetings with the governor’s protection detail. He’d assumed command of the scene until FBI brass arrived. Terry was an affable man with sandy hair and a pencil-thin mustache, trimmed to the regulation corners of his lip. Like a good boss, he talked little and listened a great deal while Cutter briefed him on what he’d seen outside.

  As Cutter suspected, the scene added a layer of answers to what he’d seen outside, as well as new questions.

  The young woman’s torso draped across Van Tyler’s legs, which at first glance would indicate she’d been shot second and then fallen across his body. But that didn’t seem right. Tyler was in the lead, with Ensley behind him. The shot had killed her instantly – the explosive damage to her skull left zero doubt about that. Judging from the blood spatter, she’d been bunched up close to Tyler, crowded in, maybe even clutching the back of his jacket. His back was covered in her blood. He’d been facing away when she was shot. He’d turned then, catching one in the jaw. If Tyler was the target, then Cutter guessed the shooter had taken out the girl first, dropping her at the top of the narrow stairwell. It was something Cutter would have done – had done – if he wanted to block the escape of a group of bad guys at a choke point.

  The real question was why Ensley Rogers was even there. She was a secretary, not an investigator or a paralegal. Van Tyler was a smart guy. He’d obviously come to meet someone in the middle of a high-threat trial with nexus to drug cartels.

  Cutter had seen Ensley that morning, when she’d come into the courtroom to deliver a message to Tyler. As always, she’d been dressed to the nines. He’d noticed then how they seemed close, comfortable in each other’s space, but hadn’t read too much into it at the time. People could say the same about he and Lola Teariki. If you worked with a person long enough, you could become something like siblings. Under the circumstances though, Cutter wondered if this might be a little different. One thing was certain, this was not the kind of meeting where you brought your secretary.

  He could smell Ensley’s perfume, obscenely stark now amid the metallic scent of blood and gore. Both had taken the time to change clothes after court, though they’d seemed in a hurry when they left. Cutter had heard that Tyler had opted to stay at a hotel near the airport. Their personal relationship mattered little in the great scheme of things, but it did paint a picture.

  The attorney had come to the shrine to meet someone – and she’d tagged along, likely to spend every off hour together that they could. It might mean nothing at all, but it would complicate the investigation, add to the conspiracy theories on the Internet.

  Cutter stood at the balcony rail, looking across the small chapel. It was maybe seventy feet from where he stood to the broken windows. The shooter had been another hundred feet or so beyond that. An easy shot.

  “Okay,” Cutter said. “Your call, Major, but I’d suggest you pull back and secure the scene until the Bureau agents get here.”

  “That’s it?” Major Terry asked, like he expected a little more out of Cutter.

  “I’m supposed to look at the ground,” Cutter said. “Tell you what I see.”

  “A couple of snipped bushes and the order of the shots,” Van Dyke said. “I sure as hell hope we find a little more evidence than that.”

  “FBI techs might find something,” Cutter said. “But this is a lot, really. The shooter knew Van Tyler was going to be here, in this spot, at this time – far enough in advance to set up a shooting position. That means there was a plan – either to lure him here, or to kill him and the person he was supposed to meet. It’s highly likely that Tyler told someone who that person was.”

  “Maybe we’ll find something on his cell phone,” Lola offered.

  “Maybe so,” Cutter said. “In any case, this gives the Bureau something to work on.”

  A woman spoke from somewhere below, out of sight from the balcony. Detective Van Dyke’s head snapped up as if she recognized it immediately and she leaned over the balcony. Major Terry saw who it was and shook his head, making his way down the stairs to call the AST colonel on his cell.

  Van Dyke barked to the woman below. “You need to wait by the parking lot with the rest of the media.”

  Lori Maycomb, the Native woman from the beach, stepped into view, both hands open, palms out.

  “Come on, Rockie,” she said, just short of a plea – like she knew it was fruitless, but had to ask anyway. “Gimme something broad for the six o’clock news.”

  “JPD isn’t in charge here, you know that,” Van Dyke said. “Trooper public affairs office will put out a statement. Get your ass back to the parking lot before you get me in trouble.”

  Maycomb stuffed her tape recorder in the pocket of her jeans and ducked out the door.

  “Aren’t you afraid she’ll stop and talk to Roy?” Lola asked.

  Van Dyke shook her head in disgust. “Serve her right if she reported his theory.”

  “She seems harmless enough,” Lola said.

  “Don’t let her little act fool you,” Van Dyke said. “Oh, she’s all goodness and virtue at first – but that little bitch is just one lie after another when you get to know her.”

  Lola shot Cutter a look, startled at the sudden vehemence in the detective’s voice. “You’ve arrested her before?”

  “Don’t I wish,” Van Dyke said. “No, my maiden name is Maycomb. Lori was married to my brother. I’m pretty sure she killed him.”

  Chapter 22

  “Your guy had one job!” Harold Grimsson pounded his fist on the top of his desk. “One simple job.”

  Dollarhyde was accustomed to the shouting, especially when they were on the island, away from listening ears. Screaming was the way Grimsson conducted business. If he was happy with your performance, he slapped your back and yelled his praises. If he was upset, he pounded whatever he had at hand – and screamed his displeasure until spit dribbled down his skunky beard. He might even stab you with the end of his damned pipe.

  “I want him to take care of the leaker,” Grimsson went on. “Is that hard to comprehend? The informant. The person selling information. The one who can bring this whole operation down around my ass if they connect me with that heroin. But, oh no, your expert marksman and his magic rifle d
idn’t shoot the one person I wanted shot. He had to murder the US attorney and, for God knows what reason, some secretary.”

  “In his defense,” Dollarhyde said, “the secretary came up the road after the attorney. The spotter naturally assumed she was the informant. When Childers saw her talking with the attorney, he assumed she’d passed on sensitive information and did what he believed was necessary to protect you. It was an unfortunate, but understandable error.”

  “See!” Grimsson railed. “Right there. That’s a shitload of assuming going on. Your guy’s error might have been understandable if the leaker wasn’t still in play, and as yet still unidentified. Do I need to remind you that an avalanche of federal agents is about to fall down on top of us – because your man killed one of their own? That gives dozens more ears for our unidentified leaker to whisper into. You understand me here?”

  “I do, sir,” Dollarhyde said.

  Grimsson put his tirade on pause for a moment, heaving to catch his breath, wiping froth from his beard. “Tell me you have some idea who the leaker is? My money’s on your man, shizzle or schnitzel or whatever the hell his name is.”

  “Schimmel.”

  “Whatever,” Grimsson said. “He was the one who identified the assistant as our leaker. That makes him likely.”

  “Kind of a reach,” Dollarhyde said. “Don’t you think, sir?”

  Grimsson’s eyes narrowed, obviously working hard to rationalize his conspiracy theory. “The man’s awfully jumpy. Seems like he’s carrying around an ore car full of guilt.”

  Dollarhyde grunted, nodding to show he was still personally engaged in his ass chewing, no matter how misguided. Grimsson jumped through a lot of hoops to ensure that the lion’s share of his business was legal – hence all the extra effort for the archeologist on the road project to the new dig. The cadre of people who knew about the rest of it was relatively small – maybe a dozen. All of those reported directly to Dollarhyde, and each of them knew too well what would happen if they flipped.

  The tone and pitch of Grimsson’s voice changed, causing Dollarhyde to grunt out of habit, though he’d not been paying attention.

  “Are you even listening to me?”

  “I am,” Dollarhyde said. “While at the same time trying to solve our problem.”

  “Tell me what you are going to do about Schnitzel.”

  “I don’t think Schimmel is our rat.”

  “It’s someone who works for me.” Grimsson pounded the desk again, knocking a pencil to the floor. “I can feel it. Hell, for all I know, it could be you.”

  “Also doubtful,” Dollarhyde said.

  “Your swift denial inspires buckets of confidence.”

  “You can be sure I’m not the informant, sir,” Dollarhyde said. “I’ve done too much of your… heavy lifting, shall we say. If your ship sinks, I go down as well.”

  “That may be true. But someone in my organization is making deals. I’ve gotta tell you, I don’t like that Schnitzel kid very much. He smells… wrong to me.”

  Dollarhyde leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers together, professor-like. “Childers is pissed, too, sir. He feels like Schimmel made him look bad, let him down.”

  Grimsson gave a nod of approval, jabbing at the desk with his index finger. “Now, I like that Childers kid. He doesn’t mind getting his hands dirty.”

  “He’ll take care of Schimmel.”

  “Take care of him?”

  Dollarhyde held up an open palm and shook his head. “Not kill him,” he said. “Just tune him up, tell him to pull his head out of his ass.”

  “A tune-up from Dallas Childers…” Grimsson chuckled softly, rubbing remnants of saliva off the desk with the cuff of his sleeve. He picked up his pipe, thinking this through. “Schnitzel’s going to wish he was dead…”

  Chapter 23

  It always amazed Cutter how quickly the FBI could drop into a scene with a dozen black Pelican cases and put down roots like an invasive species of khaki slacks and blue windbreakers. In this case, they were welcome, but they made no bones about the fact that they were the ones running the show. “Right-of-way by tonnage,” Grumpy had always called it. The FBI was in charge because so many of them showed up. They ran all the databases, got the latest in crime-solving technology, and had the personnel to stand up an army. The agency was a byzantine labyrinth of culture and regulations, seemingly incapable of making the simplest decisions without checking in with some muckety up the chain of command at the Hoover Building. But if the need arose – like when someone murdered an assistant US attorney, decisions were made on the spot and agents appeared to materialize out of thin air.

  Assistant US attorneys were not technically criminal investigators, but they were part of the executive branch – the top twigs of that branch, really. As such, they were considered part of the law enforcement family. Petty squabbles over jurisdiction would return, but for now, the death of one of their own pushed everyone together toward the same goal.

  Mostly.

  “They just had to bring Beason.” Lola Teariki leaned forward in her seat so her elbows rested on her knees. “That guy—”

  “I know,” Cutter said. “Chief wants us to help out, so we’ll help out.”

  Lola chewed on her bottom lip in thought. “His boss’s boss is here, so maybe he’ll play nice.”

  Cutter nodded. “Maybe,” he said, but couldn’t bring himself to believe it.

  FBI Special Agent in Charge Skip Warneke had arrived in Juneau on the 9:51 p.m. flight with fourteen agents from the Anchorage field office. Warneke and six of his agents who specialized in crime scenes had gone straight to Shrine of St. Therese. For some reason known only to him, the SAIC had elected to bring Charles Beason, a supervisory special agent notorious for his apoplectic temper and utter contempt for anyone who was not part of the Bureau. Beason had come to the Juneau federal building to set up the command post with the remaining seven agents. A mix of special agents from the DEA, ATF, DHS, and four troopers from the Alaska Bureau of Investigation who’d been on the flight came with him. The National Marine Fisheries sent two criminal investigators, as did the Coast Guard. Both would liaise with other maritime assets in Southeast Alaska should they be needed. Eight more FBI agents were in the air, arriving on the 11:02 flight from Seattle.

  Most of the men and women gathered in the courtroom command post had worked with Van Tyler – discussed cases, shared a beer. Many of them knew Ensley Rogers, at least by sight. This was not just a murder investigation or a manhunt for some random escapee. Members of their family had been murdered. This was personal, and the urgency in the room was palpable.

  Judge Forsberg went on the record long enough to release the jury from her sequestration order and declare a mistrial on United States v. Hernandez without prejudice. Some of the jurors looked worried about threats, but she explained that since they would have nothing further to do with the case, there was no reason for anyone to harm them.

  The jury gone, Forsberg approved the use of her courtroom as a command post for the ad hoc task force – and then got out of the way, remaining on hand and available to review any search warrants the FBI might require. Deputy marshals, formerly charged with the sequestered jury, now staffed protection details on both the judge and the remaining assistant US attorney who’d been working with Van Tyler. Both the Marshals Service and the FBI were in the middle of conducting threat assessments.

  Scott Keen tried to fold Cutter and Teariki into his two protection details, but Chief Phillips ordered them to assist the Bureau task force since they’d already put eyes on the scene.

  Mim and the kids had returned to Anchorage – away from the danger.

  Whiteboards were rolled in from the clerk’s office. Access to all but a few support staff was limited, especially from the US Attorney’s office since they were possible witnesses to Van Tyler’s plans before he was killed. FBI technicians wired secure Internet to the telephones and computers that appeared to sprout up from ever
y table in the courtroom. Two junior FBI agents recently out of Quantico came along as gophers. They set up urns of coffee on tables in the back with sandwiches from the grocery deli around the corner. Everyone knew they were in this for the long haul – until they ran down the person who pulled the trigger. One agent worked on getting Tyler’s cell phone records, while others conducted interviews with anyone who’d had contact with Tyler or Rogers.

  Charles Beason stood at the front of the courtroom with the Chief of Juneau Police Department and Major Terry from the Alaska State Troopers, hopefully making sure to de-conflict the agencies’ various roles.

  Cutter recognized a Forest Service uniformed law enforcement officer named Tarrant in the jury box. He started that way when his phone began to buzz in his pocket. The caller ID was blocked, which meant it could be a political pollster or a government number.

  Cutter nodded toward Officer Tarrant, getting his attention, then turned to Lola before answering the call. “I need to take this. Would you mind asking Tarrant not to leave before I get a chance to talk to him?”

  “No worries, boss,” Lola said, happy to have a mission.

  “Arliss Cutter?” the voice on the other end asked as soon as Cutter accepted the call.

  “Speaking.”

  “This is Skip Warneke.”

  Cutter had met the Anchorage FBI boss a couple of times at leadership breakfasts he’d attended with the chief, but he doubted the guy would have been able to pick him out of a lineup. He sounded pleasant enough.

  “What can I do for you, sir?”

  “Jill Phillips said we’re working together on this one?”

  “Yes, sir,” Cutter said. “Here to help.”

  “Yes, well, I’m out at the scene. Seems as though there are no surveillance cameras here or on the highway leading this way. There was no one on the grounds but for a gardener named…”