“You think Linstad cut himself while stabbing her?”
“Happens all the time. Especially if the victim puts up a fight.”
I remembered the crime scene photos. “She sure did.”
The Jeep juked toward Susanville. I went after it, cutting off a van. The driver leaned on his horn.
“Where are you, anyway?” Schickman said.
“Let you know when I get there. Hey, but, that’s fucking fantastic, man. Thanks.”
“No worries,” he said. “Thank you.”
—
THE BULK OF the traffic split off southbound: downtown Reno, airport, Carson City.
Karen Weatherfeld went north, toward the hilly fringes of civilization.
Finding myself directly behind her, I eased off on the accelerator. I still had my chains on, and whenever I broke forty miles an hour, a guttural protest rose up from the undercarriage. The Jeep had no such trouble. It had snow tires. The gap between us began to grow, until all I could see was two dancing red spots.
We’d been traveling for over an hour and a half. It was fully night now. In my rearview mirror, the lurid glow of downtown receded. Homes and businesses began to thin, blank patches appearing on the phone map.
Without warning, the Jeep veered from the middle lane toward the exit.
I cursed and gave chase.
The off-ramp bent violently, forcing me to jam on the brake. Once I’d straightened out, I spotted her taillights far ahead. The highway had dwindled to a single, unlit lane. I sped up, ignoring the noise, the steering wheel battling me. Drawing closer, I made out the Jeep’s square profile as it turned left, toward Panther Valley.
The road doubled back under the freeway, and for the next half mile the modern world flared up in the form of freight yards, an RV park, off-brand gasoline. Soon, though, darkness pressed down its thumb, and the asphalt broke up into gravel, warped spurs running off into oblivion. Fists of cloud silenced the stars, smothered the moon.
It was just the two of us out there. No streetlamps. If she was even the slightest bit aware of her surroundings, she would’ve realized I was following her.
Quickly I consulted the map. The neighborhood we had entered was stubby and self-contained, petering out in dead ends. There was only one way out, the same way we’d come in. Unless she intended to go off-road, she couldn’t get very far.
I took a measured risk: I pulled over and cut my engine, letting her drive on.
The Jeep bobbed, swayed, vanished.
I sat out five long minutes, restarted the car, and crept forward.
According to the map I was on Moab Lane. Snow clumped in the desert scrub. Shoved back from the road, every hundred yards or so, were small clapboard houses, half a step above trailers, dropped down at nonsensical angles. Weak moonlight touched mangy grass, woodpiles, lengths of collapsing chain-link, propane canisters, lots of vehicles in varying states of decay. The odd mailbox, sitting atop a four-by-four post, hammered into the dirt.
Near the end of the road I came to a compound of sorts, though nothing to inspire envy in the likes of, say, Olivia Harcourt. To the right of the main house stood a pair of padlocked wooden sheds. Junk lay out like rejected offerings: hubcaps, a smashed-up bicycle. A hammock drooped. I could make out the shape of a fourth structure toward the back of the property, most of it hidden behind an orange pickup a quarter of a century old. A black Camaro, no more recent, sat up on blocks.
Parked a few yards away—as if to distance itself—was Karen Weatherfeld’s green Jeep Cherokee.
Dark.
My phone was getting one bar, but the data network refused to budge. I mulled it over, then took another measured risk.
I called my office.
“Coroner’s Bureau, Deputy Bagoyo.”
My lucky night. Lindsey Bagoyo was good people.
“Hey there,” I said. “It’s Clay Edison, from B shift.”
“Oh hey, Clay,” she said, her voice cutting in and out. “What’s up.”
“Not much. Listen, I’m checking something out here, and I can’t get reception for shit. Can you do me a favor and look up an address for me?”
“Yeah, no problem.”
I gave it to her. Added, “It’s in Reno.”
“As in Nevada?”
“The very one.”
“What’s up there?”
“Long story,” I said. “Remind me to tell you sometime.”
I heard her typing.
She said, “I’m getting a couple names associated with that address. Arnold Edgar Crahan. Michael Wayne Crahan.”
What about the friend you mentioned from work?
You mean Wayne.
“Can you see if either of them have a record? I need to know who I’m dealing with.”
More typing; a beat.
“Nothing on our end,” she said.
“Okay. Great. Thank you.”
“Clay? Everything all right?”
“Fine,” I said. “I’ll fill you in later. Have a good night.”
“You too.”
I put down the phone and strapped up, vest and gun.
Dry frigid air constricted around me, tightening the skin on my throat as I approached the gate and lifted the latch.
It squeaked.
A thousand dogs began howling.
I stopped dead, my hand hovering at my pistol.
I could hear the dogs, but I couldn’t see them. The ruckus echoed across the frozen earth, fracturing crazily: claws on wood, steel chains tested, meaty bodies slapping together. All from the sheds to my right.
The main house porch light snapped on.
The screen door banged open.
A man in a flannel shirt leaned out. He swept a flashlight over the yard, landing on me. I raised an arm against the glare. “Mr. Crahan.”
“Who’s that.”
“Sheriff. I’m gonna put up my badge. Okay?”
“Stay put.”
He ducked inside, reemerged dragging a baseball bat, his moccasins crunching snow and gravel. In his late forties, he was Anglo and sinewy, with thin brown hair and a wire of scar tissue connecting his left ear to the left corner of his mouth, where a lit cigarette dangled.
He stopped within swinging range. “Lemme see it.”
I held out my badge. He snatched it and scurried back.
The dogs bayed and scratched and wailed.
“Are you Wayne or Arnold?” I asked.
“Arnold’s my uncle,” he said.
He tossed me the badge. “What do you want?”
“I’d like to speak to Julian, please,” I said.
No reply.
“Is he in the house?” I asked.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Wayne. Come on. That’s Karen Weatherfeld’s Jeep.”
“Jeep’s mine.”
“With California plates.”
“I used to live in California,” he said.
I squinted past the pickup truck. “Is he out back?”
Wayne Crahan took a drag. “What’s the problem?”
“No problem. Just want to say hello to him.”
He chuckled, smoke billowing. The dogs were still going crazy.
I said, “You have my word.”
“See, friend, I don’t know what your word’s worth.”
He flicked ash toward the sheds. “Hush,” he said.
The barking ceased.
“Well trained,” I said.
“Nobody wants a pit bull don’t listen to instructions,” he said.
He sucked the cigarette down to the filter, dropped the butt, and toed it out.
“Do I have your permission to look around?” I said.
Before he could reply, footsteps came up the side of the house.
Karen Weatherfeld emerged from the shadows, saw me, and stopped short.
I raised my eyebrows at Crahan, who shrugged.
“You followed me?” she said.
I said, “How’
s he doing?”
She seemed torn over whether to yell at me or thank me. At last she sighed, rubbed her forehead, came over to join us. “Not great.”
“Can I talk to him?”
“Not tonight. He needs to rest and let the medication take effect.”
“Tomorrow, then.”
“Let’s see how he is,” she said. “I was planning on coming by to check on him.”
“Did you give him my message?” I asked.
“I think it’s a bit much for him to handle right now.” She turned to Crahan. “You’ll keep an eye on him overnight.”
“Yup,” he said.
“Thank you,” she said. Adding: “I wish you’d called me sooner.”
Crahan sniffed. “We’re fine.”
“I’m sure you are,” she said. “But that’s what I’m here for.”
“I said we’re fine.”
They regarded each other tautly.
“Here’s what I don’t understand,” I said. “It’s been probably two, three months since he ran out of meds. How’s he been managing this whole time?”
“I split him some of mine,” Crahan said.
We both looked at him.
“What,” he said.
—
WE ALL ARRANGED to touch base in the morning. Before leaving, Karen Weatherfeld went back to check on Julian once more. I stood in the yard, chapping my hands against the cold. Crahan fired up another cigarette and offered me the pack.
“I’m good, thanks.”
He blew out smoke. “Sorry I had to lie to you there.”
“I get it,” I said. “He’s your friend.”
He nodded.
“You two lived together long?” I said.
“Couple years. My uncle don’t charge no rent cept he takes half what we make from the dogs. Good dog get you three, four hunnerd.”
“You and Julian used to work together,” I said.
“Not since I hurt my back. He still likes to mess around. Him and tools, they get along.”
“I know, I’ve seen his stuff.”
“Oh yeah? Cool. I was the one helped him get the site set up.”
“Site…Website?”
“Yup.”
I said, “Julian has a website.”
“Etsy, man,” Crahan said. “People go crazy for that shit.”
“What’s he make? Chairs?”
“Nah, not no more. We don’t got the room for a workshop, pretty much just the lathe. Cutting boards, bowls. Little sells quicker and anyhow it’s easier to ship. He helps out with the dogs, too. The dogs like him.” He coughed. “Straight up: what trouble’s he in, huh?”
“None. I gave you my word.”
He nodded skeptically. “Then what’s your message for him?”
“That it’s okay for him to come home.”
Crahan sniffed, sucked in smoke.
“Whatever, man,” he said. “He’s home.”
CHAPTER 41
I checked into a hotel-casino in downtown Reno, fifty dollars for a nonsmoking room that smelled like a bonfire of used jockstraps. The window opened a maximum of six inches. I left it cracked and cranked up the thermostat. Let the elements slug it out.
For the next couple of hours I wandered neon streets, breathing steam, enjoying my anonymity. Dinner was a cheeseburger and fries. From my booth I watched through fogged glass as the lucky and the unlucky stumbled by.
Wayne Crahan’s words kept coming back to me.
He’s home.
Crahan had given me the address of Triplett’s Etsy page. The shop was called Two Dogs Woodworking; it made no mention of either man by name, which was why it had escaped my previous searches. Licking grease from my fingers, I thumbed through the catalog on my phone, browsing pet food bowls, salad bowls, birdhouses, coasters, bracelets. By and large, their feedback was positive. Beautiful item. Well made. Good deal. A few people had complaints about the seller’s slow response time or his grouchy attitude, which I had to laugh at. Michael Wayne Crahan, friendly face of customer service.
Back at the hotel, the heater and the window had fought to a comfortable stalemate. I showered off a day’s worth of driving, then called Nate Schickman to tell him the news.
He congratulated me, asking if I could collect a DNA sample from Triplett.
“Let me see first how’s his state of mind,” I said. “I’m not sure trying to swab him is the best way to establish trust.”
“Gotcha,” he said. “Listen, I’ve been thinking on what we do next. Say we get everyone on the same page, it pans out, we wind up with enough to show it wasn’t Triplett. That only takes us so far. Overturning a conviction?”
“Bigger deal.”
“Exactly. So I was thinking. There’s this group over at the law school works on these sorts of cases. We could throw it to them.”
“Your bosses okay with that?”
“Ordinarily, hell no. Right now? You know how shit is.”
I did. Trust was at a low ebb. Even a cop like me, largely removed from the grind of the streets, felt it. I thought about the woman in Berkeley who’d cussed me out, flipped me off, called me a fascist. Both sides felt misused, hamstrung, frustrated, spooked.
“This prof, Berkowitz, runs the place,” he said. “It’s not like we’re her favorite people in the world. Or vice versa, frankly. Now imagine we bring her this on a platter.”
“Building bridges,” I said.
“Ames is a politician at heart. That’s as good a reason as any for him to sign off.”
“Plus he gets to put Bascombe on a spike,” I said.
Schickman laughed. “Yeah, that too. So what do you say?”
“Fine by me.” Then, thinking of Vitti, I said, “You’ll have to keep my name out of it.”
“No way, dude. I’m not taking credit for your work.”
“Still plenty left to do,” I said. “I’ll call you tomorrow, after I’ve met with Triplett.”
“Enjoy Reno,” he said. “Stay classy.”
—
THE PRICE OF my room included the breakfast buffet. Eight a.m., Karen Weatherfeld met me in the restaurant, nursing tap water while I feasted on tough eggs and pale toast.
“I wish Wayne had come to me sooner,” she said. She looked exhausted and sounded anguished. “I had no idea things had deteriorated to this point.”
“I’m sure he would’ve called if it became an emergency.”
She waved, denying herself forgiveness. Then, reconsidering, she said: “The fact of the matter is, Julian has done very well. As well as you can expect for someone with schizophrenia. If that’s really what he has.”
“You don’t think so?”
“I wish it was so clear-cut,” she said.
I thought about Alex Delaware’s reply when I asked what was wrong with Triplett.
It would be convenient if everyone fit into a diagnosis. Or if a diagnosis was all you needed.
“You have two kinds of symptoms,” she said. “Positive, like hearing voices or paranoia, and negative, like social withdrawal or diminished affect. Julian has always shown more of the latter. Certainly he’s shy.”
“That’s what comes across on the tapes.”
She nodded. “It could simply be that he’s an extreme case of social anxiety, or that he doesn’t understand social cues the same way most people do. To me it feels more appropriate to put him on the autism spectrum. Even that’s not a perfect fit.”
“He hears voices,” I said.
“Does he, though?”
I looked at her with surprise.
“He never complained about it to me,” she said. “Personally? I witnessed what you’d regard as irrefutable proof. Mumbling to yourself when you’re experiencing stress isn’t quite the same as being plagued by an internal monologue that you can’t turn off. I’m not a psychiatrist, granted. But, again, it feels like we have a hammer and we’re seeing nails everywhere.”
He’s always been like that. Not dangerous. Just…himsel
f.
Kara Drummond had said that.
I said, “His mother described him as afraid of his own shadow.”
“That’s definitely true,” Weatherfeld said. “He was—is—extremely anxious. You could label it paranoia. It’s a fine line. If it were me, I’d probably be paranoid, too, at least by now. Think about what he’s been through.”
Enough to induce a false confession.
Enough to hide and stay hidden.
I said, “Why keep him on antipsychotics, then?”
“Because they make him feel better,” she said. “Risperdal helps with other things, too, like mood. Understanding the mechanism isn’t as important as knowing that it works for him.”
“Does he see a psychiatrist?”
She shook her head. “In the beginning we wanted to keep a low profile. If I’d noticed anything worrying I would have insisted. In fact, later on I tried to refer him for a checkup. Meds aren’t a silver bullet. There are side effects, and it pays to recalibrate every once in a while. But he refused. He has a hard time trusting people. It was hard enough for him to learn to trust me.”
“I can’t blame him for that.”
“Me neither.” She clutched her water. “It was supposed to be temporary.”
“Him being up here.”
“Just till things calmed down. Walter and I never explicitly discussed the terms, or how long it would last. If I had any idea it’d turn into a permanent arrangement, I never would’ve agreed. You have to realize: after Nicholas died, Walter was in a frenzy. He was absolutely convinced the police would come swooping down on him, or Julian, or both of them. Talk about paranoia…He had me convinced, too. All I had to go on was what he told me.”
“Which was what?”
“There was an accident,” she said. “It looked bad for Julian.”
“He didn’t say Julian was involved.”
“No. Walter was adamant about that.”
“Did you and Julian ever discuss him going back?”
“It never came up. In the beginning I was more concerned with short-term goals, managing his stress level. Once he did get settled, a certain amount of inertia set in, I guess.” She paused. “He never raised the subject, either. For the first time, he was living on his own terms.”
Crime Scene Page 29
