“That’s unfair,” Chuck snapped.
Maybe it was, but it was also true. “If those boys had not left the mountain, Scott would be alive. They played a cruel joke on him, and he ended up dead.”
“Good luck in convincing Amelia. You’re going to need a lot more than a photograph.” He hung up.
Max took a deep breath, but it didn’t make her feel any calmer. She hadn’t wanted to antagonize Chuck—she liked the guy—but didn’t he see what she saw?
Horn hadn’t impressed her as someone who saw the possibilities of the situation. Max needed something more, something that would convince the police that there was a criminal case to pursue, that three selfish college students had led another student to his death.
She drove past Colorado Springs and continued south, to Cheyenne College.
It was nearly noon when she walked into the bookstore. Jess wasn’t there. She approached the long-haired guy behind the counter. “I’m looking for Jess,” Max said.
“She doesn’t work today.”
“I called earlier. Maxine Revere. Did she get my message?”
“Like I said, she doesn’t work today, and I’m not her personal message service.”
“Do you know where I might find her?”
He sighed dramatically. “I’m not supposed to give out information about students.”
Max didn’t want to line this jerk’s pockets, but she’d paid bigger assholes for information. She slid over a twenty.
“Music theory, Stevenson Hall.”
She didn’t bother to say thank you, and strode over the Stevenson Hall.
By the time she arrived, students were streaming from the building, some carrying instruments, others with the typical backpack or messenger bag. Her height was an advantage, and she stood on a small, decorative bridge that gave her a better vantage point. The gray sky suited her mood.
Max had to convince Jess that her theory was solid. The girl already suspected something went wrong that weekend, even if she didn’t say anything at the time. Maybe Jess didn’t realize she knew something important, or maybe she did but she was too scared to talk.
As the crowd thinned to a trickle, Max grew increasingly discouraged, fearing she’d missed Jess. Then she saw the petite sophomore walking with her head down, her messenger bag slung over her shoulder.
“Jess.”
The girl barely looked at her. “Go away.”
“I can prove they killed Scott.”
Jess stopped, and looked at Max. Tears filled her dark eyes. “Wh-what?”
“They left him on the mountain. I don’t know if it was supposed to be a joke, or if they intended to kill him, but it was malicious and they need to be held accountable.”
“How do you know?”
“I have a photo uploaded to Facebook Saturday morning from a hotel, not from the campground. And Carlos Ibarra signed for a bucket of beer Friday night. I think you know why they didn’t like Scott, why they would pull such a cruel joke that ended up getting him killed. Tell me, Jess. Scott deserves for the truth to be told.”
Jess stood there shivering, but made no move to go inside. “I—I didn’t know.”
“I was with search and rescue when they found Scott’s body yesterday.”
Her eyes widened. “You found him?”
“Huddled in a sleeping bag under a tree. He died there, cold and alone, while Art, Carlos, and Tom were partying it up in a hotel.”
Her lip quivered.
“Why did you stop talking to Art after Scott disappeared?” When Jess didn’t say anything, Max pushed. “You dated him last year.”
“Not for long. He’s an asshole.” Jess took a deep breath; then everything poured out. “His pranks are mean. He told me he found a kitten behind his dorm, then held up this paper bag and threw it in the pond at the quad. I jumped in and it wasn’t a kitten in the bag, it was a rock, and he stood there and laughed at me. Tried to convince me that it was just a joke, that he would never hurt an animal, but I didn’t believe him. I broke up with him and he spread nasty rumors about me. He doesn’t have many friends, except Carlos. I don’t know why people believed him, but you know how people are.”
“Were you and Scott involved?”
“No—maybe we could have been. But we were just friends. I told him not to go camping with Art, that he and Carlos couldn’t be trusted. Once, when Art and I were making out in his dorm room, Carlos jumped out of the closet and they laughed at me. Art had my shirt off, it was so humiliating. I should have broken up with him then, but I believed him when he said he didn’t know. It was only later—” She looked away.
Max reached out and squeezed her arm. “Jess, this isn’t your fault. Art is a bully and enjoys hurting people.”
Max added, “Did Art think that you and Scott were involved?”
She shrugged. “But he’s never hurt anyone. His pranks are just mean.”
“Hurting people doesn’t mean physically hurting them. But this time, with Scott, he went too far. Help me prove it.”
“He’ll never admit it.”
“He doesn’t have to. I need you to get Tom Keller to meet you in your room.”
“Tom’s just like them—maybe not mean, but he tries so hard to get people to like him.”
Max could work with that. “Please, Jess.” Max was out of options. If Jess didn’t agree to help, Max would have to turn over what she had to Detective Horn, and she didn’t think it was enough. Max could think of a half dozen ways the boys could explain away why they were in the hotel, and without proof that they maliciously left Scott Sheldon to die, they’d get away with it.
Just like Karen’s killer got away with murder, because her body had never been found and he had a damn good lawyer.
“You really think they left him up there? By himself?”
“I do.”
Jess looked at her feet. “All right. I’ll call Tom.”
Chapter Nine
Max sat with Jess in her dorm room, an awkward silence between them. “Jess, is there anything else you want to tell me?”
She’d been biting her nails ever since she got off the phone with Tom. “I shouldn’t get involved.”
“Someone has to stand up for what’s right.” In all the investigations Max had covered, too often people had turned their back on someone who needed help. Or, were blinded by the evil in another. And just as often, Max had met people who did help, who went out of their way to care for those who couldn’t care for themselves. People who recognized evil for what it was and did something to stop it. “Do you really think Art will stop being cruel? Do you think he’ll learn any lesson from this, other than he got away with it?”
“It had to be an accident.”
“That’s what you want to believe,” Max said. And maybe it was. Maybe Art didn’t want Scott dead, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t culpable in his death.
Something Tom had said when she first talked to him came back to her.
It’s not our fault he left.
The comment could be taken in two ways. Either he left because he was mad, or left the campground before they returned for him. What if Scott didn’t think they would return? What if they gave him the impression that they wouldn’t? And when the weather turned, he might have thought he had no other choice but to try to find his way out on foot.
Jess jumped when there was a knock on the door. Max got up to answer it.
It was Tom. He saw her and turned to leave.
Max grabbed his arm and pulled him into the room. “You’re not going until you tell me the truth.”
Tom looked at Jess. “What’s going on?”
“You killed Scott!”
Max winced. Going for the jugular wouldn’t get them answers.
“Is that what she told you? That’s not true!”
Max closed the door so they wouldn’t attract an audience.
“You went along with one of Art’s stupid jokes, didn’t you?” Jess said. “I thought you were bett
er than that. I thought you were Scott’s friend. That’s what he thought.”
“I was! I liked Scott! He just wandered off. We didn’t know what to do.”
Max said, “Tom, I know what happened, and I can prove it. You, Art, and Carlos went to the campground with Scott. But you left him there. Maybe you were having a few beers, and thought it would be fun to play a joke. He goes to pee against a tree and you all leave. Or he falls asleep by the fire, and you sneak off. Whatever you did, he was alone, and you, Carlos, and Art drove thirty-seven miles to the interstate, checked into a hotel, and ordered Corona beer from room service.”
He stared at her, obviously stunned that she knew. “Then,” she said, “Art posted a photo of you, Carlos, and Scott at the campsite. Only, he didn’t realize that whenever you upload a photo through a mobile device, it logs certain information. In this case, the GPS and time where you uploaded it. Eight thirty-nine Saturday morning—through the hotel’s Wi-Fi, with the GPS putting you at the hotel that morning. The same morning you said you woke up at the campground and Scott was still not back.
“What I think—and jump in if I’m wrong—is that you went back there Saturday morning and Scott wasn’t there. You may or may not have looked for him; probably called for him a few times. But it was raining, and it was cold. You went back to the college late, then tried to find him again Sunday morning. But it was snowing and either you pretended to look, or you didn’t even go all the way to the campsite. You didn’t tell the campus police until Sunday that Scott was missing.”
Tom was so pale, Max knew she had pegged the truth. “Had you contacted search and rescue Saturday morning, when you first realized Scott wasn’t where you’d left him, Scott would have survived.”
Jess gasped.
Tom was trembling. “No. It wasn’t like that, not exactly.”
“Then how was it?”
“I can’t—”
“Fine. Don’t tell me. You’ll be talking to the police very soon. I’m meeting with Detective Horn to give her all the evidence I uncovered, in addition to a signed statement by the bartender that Carlos Ibarra’s credit card was used on a hotel charge the night you told police that you were camping in the mountains.”
She had no qualms about lying. She was pretty sure the police would be able to get a statement from the bartender. They could also get a warrant for the hotel guest records.
“I—I—I didn’t want to. It was just a joke, we didn’t know it was going to snow. We didn’t know he wouldn’t be there. If he’d stayed, we would have brought him back.”
“But he didn’t stay. He was scared, lonely, didn’t know you were going to return. Probably mad, too. He broke his leg, couldn’t move. We found his body yesterday. Two miles from the campsite, in the opposite direction from the entrance. He broke his leg because you and Art and Carlos left him up there alone with an inadequate sleeping bag.”
“I’m s-so sorry.” He bit his lip and stared at Jess. “Jess, I didn’t mean to hurt anyone.”
“Tell that to his mother,” Max said.
“It was an accident. I didn’t want Scott to get hurt. I didn’t want to stay out all night, just a couple hours, but—”
“Was it Art’s idea? Or Carlos?”
“Art. It was his idea.”
Jess interjected, “And you didn’t have the balls to stand up to him? To tell him he was being a jerk?”
“I—I couldn’t. Art, well, I—I—,” Tom stuttered, unable to finish his thought.
Jess started to cry. “Art’s mean and spiteful and he makes you feel like anything that goes wrong is your fault. I know. Oh, God, this just sucks. Scott was a good guy.”
“I will get Scott justice,” Max said. To Tom, “If you confess, the police will go easy on you. Just remember—if you continue to lie, you’ll only get yourself into deeper trouble.”
She waited until Tom left, then picked up her iPad, which was sitting on Jess’s bed. She stopped recording. “Thank you, Jess.”
“I—I didn’t believe you.”
“Yes, you did, otherwise you wouldn’t have gone out on a limb to set this up.” Max put her iPad in her bag and said, “Stay away from Art and Carlos. Tom isn’t going to be able to keep this conversation secret, and I don’t want you to get hurt.”
“I’m okay,” Jess said.
“Art lost his temper with me when I confronted him Tuesday. He pushed me. He’s a hothead. If he has a weapon, or uses his weight to bully you—”
“I’ll stay away from him,” Jess said. “I don’t have classes tomorrow. I think I’ll go visit my mom.”
“Good idea. You have my numbers. Call me if you have any questions. And if Art harasses you, call the police.”
Jess walked Max to the door. “Thank you. I—I didn’t think anyone really cared what happened to Scott, but you do.”
Max left the dorm room and walked through the campus to where she’d parked her car. She got in and called Detective Horn. It took several minutes before she could finally get her on the phone. “Detective, Maxine Revere.”
“I remember. Chuck told me you put yourself in the middle of this investigation.”
“You mean there’s an investigation?”
“You know what I mean.”
“There’s an investigation now. I have evidence that Arthur Cowan played a prank on Scott Sheldon and left him in the mountains without any way to get back to the campus or phone for help. Carlos Ibarra and Tom Keller were complicit. They stayed in a hotel that night. I’ll bring everything to you—”
“I already talked to Chuck. There’s hardly enough evidence to counter what they’ve told us.”
“Tom Keller confirmed everything. It was Cowan’s idea and Tom went along with it because Cowan intimidated him.”
Detective Horn didn’t say anything for a long minute. “Bring me what you have,” she finally said. “I’ll see if there’s anything here. But even if the boys left Scott up on that mountain on purpose, there may not be a crime here.”
“Why the hell not?” Max said, then cringed. Being confrontational at this juncture wasn’t going to help her get in the detective’s good graces.
“I said I would look at what you have, but I’m not happy about any of this. A kid is still dead, and no one can bring him back.”
Max stared at her phone. The detective had hung up on her.
Max tossed her phone on the passenger seat and pulled out of the parking lot. She mentally wrote a few possible headlines.
POLICE REFUSE TO SEEK JUSTICE
STUDENTS WHO LEFT COLLEGE BOY TO DIE ON MOUNTAIN WALK AWAY FREE AND CLEAR
DELAY IN NOTIFYING SEARCH AND RESCUE LEADS COLLEGE BOY TO DIE OF EXPOSURE
None of them were good. She’d leave the headline to her editor, but she already had half the story written in her head. She wanted to highlight Scott Sheldon’s life, his innocence, his trust, his stolen future. She wanted to highlight the failure of a system that didn’t have a clear process to deal with missing students. She wanted to expose the three boys—particularly Arthur Cowan—for their culpability in the death of a peer.
Max had never been religious, but she’d read Bible stories, and one that always stuck with her was the Good Samaritan. That someone would stop and help another, who was obviously ill and in pain, even though it wasn’t expected of him—resonated with Max. It pained Max that others would walk by and not give the ailing person the time of day, avoiding them, ignoring them. And too many people had looked the other way with the disappearance of Scott Sheldon. The boys who left him on the mountain. Tom Keller, who knew he’d done wrong but kept the secret. Ian Stanhope, Scott’s roommate, who didn’t think it was his responsibility to look out for his roommate. The campus police, who waited too long to notify the ranger station. Even the detective, who didn’t think there had been a crime.
Someone had to stand for Scott.
Maybe because Max was hot under the collar, or maybe because she was preoccupied, trying to come up with a perf
ect headline for her article, she didn’t notice that the car behind her was gaining until it was right on her tail. She glanced in her rearview mirror in time to see the large truck a second before it rammed her. She couldn’t see the driver, it happened so quickly.
Her head hit the steering wheel even though her seat belt locked. She couldn’t maintain control of her car around the bend.
Thoughts flitted in and out of her mind so fast, she barely acknowledged them. First, that she was in trouble. Then, that when she died she might finally find out exactly what had happened to Karen. Then her survival instinct kicked into high gear as she fought the urge to brake and instead sharply turned the wheel to avoid hitting a thick tree head-on.
The SUV spun twice, and didn’t flip over. The air bags didn’t deploy, maybe because there was no front-end collision. She rolled to a stop.
Her heart raced as she sat in the car, in the middle of the road, her hands gripped tight around the steering wheel.
She couldn’t move. She wanted to. She wanted to get out of the damn car and walk—no, run—after the truck that hit her. She looked around, but didn’t see it. Hit and run. Dammit, someone had rear-ended her and left. She was shaking, and she didn’t want to be scared. She refused to be scared. Her breathing was shaky. She focused on slowing her heart rate, taking long, deep breaths.
She hadn’t noticed another car pull over until the driver tapped on her window. “Ma’am? Are you okay, ma’am?”
She tried to nod. Her neck was stiff. But nothing felt broken. She took a deep breath. Her chest hurt where the seat belt dug into her skin.
But she was alive. She was alive and scared, and that made her angry.
“Ma’am?”
She slowly put the SUV in park. The engine wasn’t on, probably stalled out or broken. With shaking hands, she fumbled with the door latch and finally opened it.
“Ma’am, my wife called 911. Help is on the way.”
“Thank … you.”
He put his hand on her shoulder. “Don’t try to get up. I got the other driver’s license plate. The police will find him.”
“Good Samaritan,” she mumbled. Her head hurt.
Maximum Exposure Page 8
