by Lisa Gardner
Shelly wasn’t feeling so amused. “Maybe.”
Cal shrugged. “Agencies like their toys, but end of the day, there will always be work for guys like me.”
Shelly couldn’t argue with that. In the post-9/11 law enforcement funding world, “toys” such as infrared imaging, choppers, GPS devices, etc., etc., were easy to come by. And yet, here they were, back to the basics.
“I have a canine unit assigned to assist,” she said tightly.
Once again, it was Cal who spoke up. “Nothing against Lassie, but have you thought about cameras? Aerial imaging might be out, but ground-level cameras, say trail units, they might be able to help.”
Shelly stared at her tracker. Of course. She couldn’t believe she hadn’t thought of it sooner. Every place had eyes now, even in the wilderness. From state and federal parks installing motion-sensitive cameras to track wildlife, to Shelly and her own detectives installing surveillance devices to catch drug dealers growing marijuana on county land. Yeah, the forest was vast and mysterious and filled with places for a shooting suspect to hide. But it was also dotted with cameras.
“Shit,” she muttered. “Where was this idea three hours ago?”
“Situation was different three hours ago. We were talking a suspect on foot, following an unknown path. Now we have a campsite. Known destination, off of known trails. Meaning we can check those trails for cameras.”
“I don’t know if I like you or hate you,” Shelly said tiredly.
Cal smiled. She could tell from his face he understood her frustration, was feeling it himself. They all were.
“I have that effect on people,” Cal assured her. “Then I feed them cheese.”
Shelly turned her attention to her lead sergeant, Roy Peterson. “Trail cameras,” she said. “You find them, we’ll start studying the footage.”
He nodded.
“Any other bright ideas before we approach the campsite of a mass murderer?” A broader question, which Shelly posed for the entire team.
“Bring surveillance cameras with you,” Quincy said. “That way, if Telly’s not there, rather than risk keeping a team at the site, you can install equipment to do the monitoring for you.”
Shelly nodded. “I like it.”
It was also easily accomplished, as motion-activated cameras came with the mobile command center.
“That it?”
A short pause for consideration, then her entire team nodded back.
“All right. Let’s get this done.”
—
CAL ASSUMED THE ROLE of lead tracker. Technically speaking, Shelly wasn’t in charge of such things; the SAR team had its own leadership and took care of its own. She wasn’t surprised, however, to learn that Cal was once again setting out. Given what had happened to his team, he had a personal stake in matters. And despite having already led one effort this morning, he didn’t appear any more tired or wrung out than the rest of them.
Quincy agreed to wait at the mobile command unit with her. If Roy could find any relevant trail cameras, Shelly and Quincy would review the footage as fast as humanly possible.
The state’s SWAT canine unit arrived. Shelly had met its star, Molly, once before at a demonstration. The stocky black and white mutt looked nothing like any police dog Shelly had ever met. Boxer’s awkward body. Pit bull’s square head. A blotch of black fur forming a perfect pirate-like patch around her right eye. Combine all that with her panting grin, and “Mollywogs” appeared more like a sidekick in a comedy movie than the state’s favorite action hero.
Which, according to her handler, Debra Cameron, made Molly perfect for her job. Rescued from a pair of drug addicts, the young dog had a natural drive to work and an even bigger desire to please. Last year, Deb and Molly had tracked a murder suspect three miles through the streets of Portland, Oregon. The suspect, a strung-out hooker who’d stabbed another working girl, had crisscrossed through various abandoned buildings, even hid for a while in an unlocked car, before finally passing out on the top of the fire escape of a deserted warehouse. Molly had been relentless on the trail. Up, down, all around. The suspect had apparently regained consciousness to discover the dog drooling on top of her. The addict had lunged forward with her bloody knife. And goofy-looking Molly had clamped down hard on the woman’s arm.
End of story for the suspected murderer. The beginning of many commendations for Molly and her handler.
Now, as Shelly watched, Deb geared them up. The dog had her own vest. Military issue, it looked to Shelly. Heavy black fabric that fit snugly around the dog’s compact frame, leaving only the white legs, tail, and pirate-patched head unprotected. The vest included pockets and straps, maybe for Molly to carry her own gear. For now, however, Deb the handler seemed content to be placing bottles of water, snacks, and a collapsible water bowl in her own pack.
Shelly had seen some search dogs with foot protection as well, but given the conditions—hiking in deep summer woods—Molly’s paws remained boot free.
Cal walked on over. He glanced at Molly, who cocked her black and white head to the side and grinned at him.
“Cal Noonan,” the tracker said, sticking his hand out.
“Debra Cameron.”
“Mmm-hmmm.”
The handler smiled, swinging her pack up and on, adjusting the straps. “Don’t worry. Molly can keep up.”
“What is it?” Cal indicated the dog, who was still panting cheerfully.
“She’s most likely some kind of boxer–pit bull mix.”
“I’ve never heard of a boxer who tracked.”
“Well, Molly and I have never heard of a cheese maker who tracks, so guess that makes us even.”
Cal blinked several times. He turned back to Shelly as if looking for help. She merely smiled. Of course she’d provided his background to the canine unit. Professional courtesy and all.
“Hot,” Cal said.
“Yes it is.”
“Gonna need a lot of water.”
“Understood.”
“Our suspect shot two of my team members this morning.”
“I’m sorry. How are they doing?”
“One’s stable. Other’s critical.”
“I’ve been briefed on the situation. I understand surprise is our best option.”
“And that beast has a stealth mode?”
“This beast not only has a stealth mode, this beast also has a drool mode. So be careful, or I’ll let her at you.”
Cal finally cracked a smile. He reached down, scratched behind the dog’s ears. Molly leaned into his hand, sighing ecstatically. Cal’s smile grew. “Drool mode it is,” he murmured. He straightened, did his best to appear more professional. “Ten minutes, then we’re outta here.”
“Not a problem.”
Cal moved off to the side. Shelly watched him check his rifle, then guzzle more water.
Four twenty-five. Thermostat topping a hundred. Around four hours till sunset.
In the law enforcement world, a near-lifetime of possibilities.
Quincy came to stand beside Shelly. “Miss being part of the action?” he asked her.
“Maybe. You?”
“Don’t envy them the task ahead.” Then, a heartbeat later, just a whisper of a question: “Any word?”
“Sorry. But I’m sure she’s all right. Keep your phone on. Sooner versus later, Sharlah will reach out. Especially, you know, since you lied and said we’d found her brother.”
“It’s only a lie if we haven’t located Telly by the time she reappears.”
“Parenting has turned you into a Machiavellian master and you know it.”
“Sure it was parenting?”
Shelly shook her head. She and Quincy went way back. The profiler was known to do whatever it took to get his man. Or, apparently, draw out his errant daughter.
Roy stuck his head out of the mobile command unit. “Found us a camera. Only one, might not even be the right trail. But still . . .”
Shelly and Quincy took the hint.
Both of them went back to work.
Chapter 27
RAINIE HAD NEVER BEEN GOOD at waiting. As Quincy had requested, she’d called Dr. Bérénice Dudkowiak, the forensic psychiatrist who’d performed the initial assessment of Telly Ray Nash eight years ago, only to learn the doctor was with a patient. Please leave a message.
So she did. Then she paced. Cell phone in hand, rounding the kitchen table, down the hall and back again. Laps around the sofa. Interspersed with long moments when she stood on the front porch, waiting for her daughter to magically return.
Rainie hadn’t grown up with the kind of mother who read fairy tales. And Sharlah had come to them too late in life for sharing children’s classics. And yet Rainie kept thinking about The Runaway Bunny, a story about a little bunny threatening to leave his mother, and his mother promising to find him wherever he went. If he became a fish, then she would be the fisherman. If he became a mountain, then she’d be the climber.
Rainie wanted to be the mother bunny. She wanted to know where Sharlah was right now, simply so she could be that tree, or stone, or flower in a meadow, to be by her daughter’s side.
But she wasn’t any product of a classic childhood tale. She was an investigator. So, instead, she printed out crime scene photos. Bloody images from the Duvalls’ house. Close-up frames from the EZ Gas security footage. Pictures of a search team down in the grass. And alone with her collage of death and destruction, she studied, studied, studied.
This was her job, her legacy. And she’d earned it.
Phone ringing. She was so lost in her thoughts, her eyes zooming in on one image in particular, it felt a million miles away. With effort, she pulled herself back. She straightened, fumbled for her cell, blinking her eyes even as she continued to puzzle over what she was seeing. One thing here was not like the other. But how could that be?
More ringing. She glanced at the phone’s screen, then pulled the rest of her thoughts together. Time for focus. The office of Dr. Bérénice Dudkowiak was finally returning her call.
—
“MY NAME IS RAINIE CONNER. I’m an investigative consultant with the Bakersville County sheriff’s department. As you may have heard, there has been a string of shootings this morning.”
“Telly Ray Nash,” the doctor replied without hesitation. “I saw his face on the news. Meaning, when I received the subpoena a few hours ago, I wasn’t surprised.” While court-ordered evaluations such as the forensic exam prepared by Dr. Dudkowiak eight years ago didn’t fall under the same confidentiality laws as private counseling sessions, they were still subject to restrictions. Hence the county prosecutor, Tim Egan, had volunteered to send over the proper paperwork after speaking with Quincy this morning.
Continuing with the formalities, Rainie stated, “I should tell you that while I’m working in conjunction with the police, I’m also the foster mother to Telly’s younger sister, Sharlah. She’s been with me and my husband for the past three years. We hope to complete official adoption proceedings in November.”
“Congratulations.”
“Thank you. We love her very much.”
“Which makes you even more concerned about her brother. I’m assuming you’ve met him.”
“Never. When Sharlah was placed with us, we were explicitly told she was not to have contact with Telly. We assumed that was due to his assault eight years ago. She still has the scar on her shoulder.”
There was silence on the other end of the line. The doctor thinking.
“To be fair,” Rainie continued slowly, “Sharlah has never asked about her brother. Though now, of course, I wonder about that. We have reason to believe Telly is interested in seeing his sister again. In fact, he might be actively looking for her.”
“You’re scared,” Dr. Dudkowiak said softly.
“Terrified.”
Another pause. The doctor digesting this latest news.
“I understand you’re the one who interviewed both Telly and Sharlah about the events surrounding their parents’ deaths,” Rainie prodded.
“True. And given the situation, not to mention the subpoena, I’m happy to help. You should understand, however, I only ever spoke to Telly and his sister regarding one situation in one moment in time. Then I never saw either of them again. Given that limited interaction, I’m not sure how much insight I can offer.”
“Eight years ago, Telly Ray Nash beat his father to death with a baseball bat, under mitigating circumstances. This morning, he shot both his foster parents to death. Except, based on what we’ve determined so far, there were no mitigating circumstances. The Duvalls have been described as supportive, mentoring foster parents. And yet . . . Telly murdered them both in their bed. Then it appears he continued on to a local convenience store, where he shot two complete strangers, before opening fire on the fugitive-tracking team pursuing him. Telly Ray Nash is on a spree. Even if you don’t have all the answers, we’ll settle for any theories, suspicions, niggling doubts. Time matters here.”
“You said you believe he’s looking for his sister?”
“He had pictures of Sharlah on his cell phone, taken in the past week. My husband just called to inform me they discovered more photos at Telly’s house. Taken on a different day, these photos have crosshairs hand-drawn around Sharlah’s face.”
“But they’ve never seen each other or spoken in the past few years?”
“To the best of my knowledge, that is correct.”
Silence. Then: “That recommendation did not come from my report.”
“What do you mean?”
“Separating the children. I’m not sure who made that decision, but I would’ve advised against it. Eight years ago, Telly Ray Nash was a troubled nine-year-old who didn’t have a lot of points in his favor. But he did have his sister. From what I observed, he genuinely loved and cared for her. And she loved him, too. Why the system would sever that relationship, I have no idea. But it probably fractured one of the only true bonds in young Telly’s life. After that, he’d have been even more rudderless and angry.”
“Telly broke his sister’s arm. According to the family counselor, when she interviewed Sharlah in the hospital, Sharlah claimed Telly hated her. The counselor thought Sharlah was afraid her brother might hurt her again, hence the decision to separate.”
“Most likely, Sharlah was responding to the trauma of the moment. What matters, however, is the breadth of her and her brother’s relationship. Let me ask you a question: How has Telly fared in the eight years since that night? Does he have a history of additional acts of violence?”
“He’s been described as having an explosive temper, as well as oppositional defiant disorder. He’s currently on probation for an incident at school. Apparently, he trashed some school lockers, then was suspended. However, he returned to school grounds and refused to leave. At which point he was charged with trespassing as well as resisting arrest.”
“And his time in the foster care system?” Dr. Dudkowiak continued. “Longest time in any given home?”
“It sounds like he’s bounced around. I, um, I know Sharlah did, before she came to us.”
“And she’s not nearly as angry as her brother.”
“She has her own challenges.”
“I’m sure she does.”
“The Duvalls . . . They’ve been described as Telly’s last chance, but also his best chance. Telly’s probation officer recommended them. The husband, Frank, was a high school science teacher, and by all accounts a favorite with students. Their approach was less ‘forever family’ and more ‘the real world is coming, and we’re here to help guide you through it.’”
“How was Telly doing with them?”
“Appare
ntly, Mrs. Duvall taught him how to cook. And Mr. Duvall, well, he taught Telly how to shoot.”
Very long pause this time.
“All right, I’m going to give you my official Lucy assessment. As in, this is the best opinion you can get for a nickel—or, in this case, with such limited information.”
“Okay.”
“Eight years ago, Telly already showed signs of RAD. Reactive—”
“I know RAD.”
“Growing up with two addicted parents, neither of whom showed much parental instinct—combined with constant exposure to domestic violence—set the stage for a young boy to feel very angry, alone, and, at times, explosive himself.”
“I understand.”
“The bright note in Telly’s world was his sister. According to the children’s teachers, Telly and his sister were tight. Telly assumed the role of parent for Sharlah. He took care of her, which didn’t have to be the case. If you consider he was four years old when she was born—meaning he’d already suffered four years of abuse and neglect—he could’ve been angry at his baby sister. Resentful, even abusive.”
“Trickle-down theory of pain,” Rainie supplied. “The parents abuse the first child, the first child abuses the second. Practices what he’s been taught.”
“But not Telly.”
“Not Telly,” Rainie repeated, and found herself already softening toward the four-year-old boy who could’ve made Sharlah’s young life an even bigger hell but had chosen to love her instead.
“It matters,” Dr. Dudkowiak said now. “Bonding is a spectrum. From complete inability to bond—the psychopaths of the world who care about no one—to the overly bonded, the Mother Teresas of the world who must save everyone. On that spectrum, Telly would definitely fall closer to the psychopathic end. Except, his relationship with his sister anchored him. And in young kids especially, it only takes one bond. I can’t emphasize that enough: one single relationship to make all the difference. By virtue of caring for his baby sister, Telly planted in himself the ability to forge another close relationship later in life.”
“Such as with the Duvalls?” Rainie asked. But Quincy himself had already posed this question. If Telly had once loved his sister, had some definition of family, why hadn’t it enabled him to feel closer to his supposedly supportive foster parents?
