by Jeff Carson
Her former boss turned and stared out the window.
She took out her cellphone and pulled up the text messages. Ignoring the four missed ones from her new boss, she tapped the screen and held out the phone.
“I have to show you something.”
“I have to tell you something.”
They spoke at the same time.
She pushed the phone closer. “Here. Look.”
His face went through a series of expressions—incomprehension, annoyance, confusion as to why she’d showed him a picture of a naked man. Then he blinked and there was surprise as he realized the naked man was Tom Rachette. Then he grabbed the phone out of her hand and his face dropped as he studied the finer features of the photo—the bound hands, the pile of straw underneath, the blood-caked hair … the closed eyes.
“Where did you get this?” He stood up.
“From the number provided.” Her voice cracked. “I called you.”
“That’s a Colorado phone number.” Wolf sounded surprised.
“Yeah,” she said. “I can tell that from the area code. Why are you pointing that out?”
Wolf raised his watch. “It’s one fourteen.”
“I know,” she said. “We have two hours and forty-five minutes until they call.”
The message she’d received this morning had come in two parts—a photograph of Rachette, naked and hogtied on a bed of straw, bloodied and beaten, and then a text message immediately after telling her: Get to David Wolf. Both of you answer the next call at four p.m. or he dies. Tell nobody else or he dies.
“That’s all you got?” Wolf scrolled the screen.
“That’s it. I just got the picture and then the message. What’s happening this morning? I saw Pat Xander’s car being towed into the garage. Everyone’s running around like something’s going on. And I get this text message.” She gestured to the computer. “And what was that video you were watching? The guy said, ‘It’s your fault, it’s your fault.’ What’s your fault?”
Wolf handed back the phone. Running his hand across his face stubble he turned back to his computer. “We have to check on Paul Womack. That’s why I came in here.”
“The guy in the video.”
“Yeah, the guy in the video.”
Wolf sat down at the computer and pulled up a New Mexico State website. He clicked through to the Sheriff’s Department website for Taos, New Mexico.
“Taos, New Mexico?” she asked.
He was on a mission and ignored her. He found a number, dialed it on his phone, and sat straight.
“Hello, this is Chief Detective David Wolf from the Sluice–Byron County Sheriff’s Department up in Colorado. I need to speak to your sheriff, please … okay …”
She paced the office and listened to Wolf try to figure out the fate of the man in the video. Another text message from her boss came in for her. He wanted the photos. He’d have to wait.
Pocketing her phone, she stared out the window. It still poured and the thought of Rachette lying naked on a bed of straw made her shiver.
“Paul Womack … W-o-m-a-c-k. Is he in your morgue right now?”
Pacing some more, she punched out a message to her boss.
I got your messages. I’ll be in touch soon.
Bad move. Her phone vibrated and rang immediately.
Hesitating, she answered it. “Hello, Bryce.”
“Where the hell have you been?”
“Aspen.”
“And?”
“And I got the photos.”
“So why aren’t you here?”
“When’s your meeting with her?”
“Three hours.”
Frustration mounted inside of her, threatening to materialize into a stream of cusswords. “You’ll have your photos in time for the meeting.”
“I’d better have.”
“Bye, Bryce.” She hung up just as Wolf did. “What’s the news?” she asked.
“Taos SD has no reports of anything when it comes to Paul Womack. No John Does in their morgue. So they’re sending over a unit to his house. They’ll be in touch.” He leaned back and rubbed his temples.
“Look,” she said, “I need to know everything that’s going on. I feel anything but up to speed on all this. Pat Xander’s car being towed into the garage earlier—what was that? It looked beat up, like it’d crashed in the trees.”
Wolf stood. “This morning we found Pat Xander’s car in the trees off County 18. Pat’s body was in the trunk, shot twice. Once in the head and another in the back.”
Her face dropped. “Jesus. County 18. Rachette’s new place is on County 18.”
“I called Rachette right after we found Pat’s body. It’s Rachette’s day off but I knew that he knew Pat and would want to know what had happened. But he didn’t answer. And then Lorber found his fresh prints in the passenger side of Xander’s car, so we triangulated Rachette’s phone and found it alongside County 18 next to the crime scene. Along with two spent cartridges and what looks like blood.”
“Pat Xander’s blood and the two shots that killed him,” Patterson said.
He nodded.
“And there’s this video,” she said.
“Which I’m not sure what to make of.” Wolf made to pass her. “He was at Beer Goggles last night. I’m going to talk to them, see what I can find out.”
She put a hand on his chest and stepped in front of him. “Wait a second. What about this guy, Paul Womack? He’s from New Mexico? How do you know him?”
Wolf dismissed the question at first, then stood and rubbed a hand over his stubble again. “He’s an old army buddy.”
Patterson waited for more explanation but none came. “This number that texted me his photo—was there anything from this number on Rachette’s phone?”
Wolf shook his head. “No.”
She crossed her arms and chewed her bottom lip.
“There was nothing out of the ordinary,” Wolf said. “He talked to Charlotte and Yates, and called Pat Xander for a ride home just after eleven last night.”
“Latents on the shell casings you found?”
“Lorber found prints. He’s running them in the database now.”
“DNA match on the blood?”
“He’s on it.”
“Prints on the car? His phone?”
Wolf blinked.
Patterson nodded. “Sorry … Paul Womack. I need to know more.”
He lowered his gaze. “He was recently let out of Leavenworth for something that happened in Afghanistan.”
“What happened?”
“He killed some people. Civilians.”
Patterson nodded, trying to fit the pieces together. “When did you get the email?”
“This morning.”
“A dead man couldn’t have sent that video,” she said. “And the way it’s edited suggests somebody besides Paul sent it. Otherwise, this Womack guy would’ve said what he wanted to say and not done a cut-and-paste job on the video.”
Wolf stared at the floor.
“Which means he’s dead, right?”
He nodded.
“So somebody’s mad that he’s dead. Somebody found the video and they’re blaming you.”
Wolf rubbed a hand over his stubble and turned to the window.
Two knocks hit the door and it opened. “Hey, DNA match shows it’s Pat Xander’s blood. And I got a match …” Lorber gave Patterson a double take. “What are you doing here?”
She noted the hostility in the medical examiner’s voice and decided to ignore him.
“Uh, I got the other match,” Lorber said.
“The shell-casing prints?
“Yes.”
“So tell me.”
“With her in here?”
Patterson got the sense Lorber had stopped himself short of spitting on the floor. Lorber had taken her under his considerable wingspan when she’d joined the department years ago. She’d gotten the sense that she was the daughter he’d never had, and her lea
ving had hit the man hard.
Like a pouting child, he’d been hostile every time they’d interacted since. At first, she’d felt touched that he’d been hurt so deeply by her absence, perhaps even a little guilty for leaving him high and dry, but right now she couldn’t have cared less.
“Yeah,” Patterson said. “With me in here. Wolf told me everything, so why don’t you tell us whose prints are on those shell casings?”
Lorber’s eyes flared, then he looked at Wolf for confirmation.
Wolf nodded. “Whose are they?”
“Guy named Ethan Womack. Found his prints on the driver’s-side door handle, too.”
Patterson watched Wolf’s eyes turn to glass.
Volleying glances between them, Lorber folded his arms. “What? You know him?”
Patterson opened her mouth to mention the video, then decided Wolf was being silent for a reason and closed it.
“Well … anyway, it’s about time we brief MacLean on this, right?” Lorber hitched a thumb over his shoulder.
“We’ll be right there,” Wolf said.
Lorber stared at them for a few moments and then left.
“You didn’t tell him about the video,” she said. “You don’t want to tell anyone?”
“The text message said, ‘Tell nobody else or he dies.’”
“Technically it said tell nobody about Rachette being kidnapped and hogtied. About the call at four p.m. Not this video.”
Wolf shook his head. “They’re tied. I’m not telling MacLean about this until we know more.”
“But …” The sentence never came out, because she understood. The SBCSD was filled with well-intentioned men and women, but given the proper situation, and especially under the leadership of Sheriff MacLean, the group could turn into an overreactive beast.
“Never mind,” she said, following him out into the hall.
CHAPTER 14
Wolf opened the door to Sheriff MacLean’s office without knocking.
The sheriff had a semi-steadfast rule of leaving his window blinds cracked open so the entire squad room could see into his aquarium-like office, so he’d seen Wolf, Patterson, and Lorber coming.
The man had had his own thermostat installed to counteract the building’s arctic temperatures and walking into MacLean’s office was like entering a sauna.
“Sir,” Wolf said.
MacLean leaned back in his chair, eyeing Heather Patterson. “What’s going on? Why’s she here? And … oh, yeah, hello, Patterson. Or is it Patterson-Reed? What are you calling yourself out in the civilian world nowadays?”
“Heather.” She smiled. “But you can call me Patterson, sir.”
“What are you doing here?”
“Sir.” Wolf cleared his throat. “Tom Rachette’s missing.”
“What?”
Wolf looked at Lorber.
Lorber said, “We found a set of fresh fingerprints on the passenger-side door of Pat Xander’s sedan. The prints match Tom Rachette’s.”
MacLean stroked his mustache with thumb and forefinger.
“And Rachette’s not answering his phone,” Wolf said.
“Triangulate it,” MacLean said.
“We did. And Dr. Lorber and I found it a short distance from Pat Xander’s car. Up the road, fifty yards. We also found two shell casings and blood matching Pat Xander’s.”
MacLean eyed Lorber. “You get any latents on the shells with that new doohickey?”
Lorber nodded. “A man named Ethan Womack. The same prints were on Rachette’s phone and on Pat’s driver’s-side door.”
“Who’s Ethan Womack?” MacLean asked the room.
Wolf and Patterson exchanged glances.
Lorber looked at Wolf, who remained silent. “The system has him living in Taos, New Mexico. Has aggravated assault on his rap sheet.”
MacLean swiveled to the windows and stood up. “Shit. So, what are we making of all this?”
“Rachette drank at the Beer Goggles last night,” Wolf said. “Looks like he called Pat Xander at eleven p.m. They must have been forced off the road or something, and this guy Ethan Womack shot Pat Xander.”
“And where’s Rachette?”
“That’s what we have to find out, sir,” Wolf said.
The sheriff petted his mustache some more and looked at Patterson. “Shit. Okay, answer me now. Why’s she here?”
“I called her in,” Wolf said.
Patterson lifted her chin.
“I want her help on this. I need her. You should deputize her, sir.”
“Heather Patterson, I deputize thee.” MacLean flourished a hand toward her, then looked at Wolf. “Satisfied? If you need any more help, I have a room full of actual Sluice–Byron County Sheriff’s deputies on the other side of that glass. Now what’s our next move?”
“Rachette drank at the Beer Goggles Bar and Grill last night,” Wolf said. “We need to go there.”
“And we should get Taos police to go to Ethan Womack’s house,” Lorber said. “Check into him, too. Where he works. Get his cellphone number ASAP and get a location on him. All of it.”
MacLean nodded. “I’ll make the call to the Taos SD. I know the sheriff.”
Wolf ignored Patterson’s glance. “I called them a few minutes ago and requested they go to his house … but you calling and lighting a fire under their asses for all the rest wouldn’t hurt.”
“Okay, I will.” The sheriff leaned over and looked past them through the windows and into the squad room. “Who’s going to tell her?”
They followed the sheriff’s eyes to Charlotte Munford, who sat with her back to them at her desk.
Then the gazes of the three men retracted back to Patterson.
Patterson looked like a cornered cat. “I don’t know whether everyone’s aware of this, but she’s pregnant.”
“So?” MacLean asked.
“So she’s in a sensitive state.”
Lorber nodded. “She had a doctor’s appointment for it this morning.”
Patterson looked up at him and her face dropped. “Shit.”
“What?”
“She’s had a miscarriage before.” Patterson shook her head. “I saw her crying earlier. What if she …”
“What if she what?” MacLean’s impatience was cranked to ten.
“What if she received bad news again at the doctor’s, you know, about the baby. And that’s why she was crying?”
They collectively exhaled.
“Well, we have to tell her, right?” Lorber folded his arms. “You can’t just leave her in the dark in this. It’s gonna get out.”
They looked at Patterson again.
MacLean raised his eyebrows. “Deputy?”
CHAPTER 15
Patterson felt detached from her legs as she approached Charlotte’s desk.
“Hey, Char.”
Charlotte stopped typing on her keyboard and turned. “Hey, I saw you in MacLean’s office with Wolf and Lorber.” She stood up and hugged her with a big smile.
She was happy, not someone who’d received devastating news this morning.
“What’s happening?” Patterson asked.
“Oh …” Charlotte lowered her eyes. “Not much. Just another day.”
She glanced down at Charlotte’s stomach, and Charlotte saw it.
Looking side to side, Charlotte’s eyes beamed. “Went to the doctor today, actually.”
“You did?” Heather swallowed. “Oh … and?”
Charlotte turned and opened a drawer, then turned back and thrust a curly ultrasound photograph into Patterson’s hand. “It’s a boy. A healthy boy.”
Emotion flooded through Patterson and a tear ran down her cheek. “Oh … great. That’s so good to hear, Charlotte.”
They hugged and Charlotte spoke as she clutched onto her. “We were going to tell everyone … but Tom’s a dickhead.”
“What do you mean?”
Charlotte let go of her and stood back. “I mean he never came home last night af
ter drinking. He knew I had a doctor’s appointment this morning.” She wiped the corner of her eyes. “Whatever. It’s Tom. This is what he does. When the going gets tough, he runs away and leaves me alone to pick up the pieces. I don’t care.” There was real anger in her eyes. “I really don’t. I’m done. I’m going to raise this kid by myself. He’s not fit to—”
“Charlotte.”
“—raise a child anyway. He’s a child himself.”
“Charlotte.”
Patterson’s tone stopped her.
“What?”
Glancing back down at Charlotte’s stomach, she said, “Sit down, please.”
“What?” Charlotte’s face collapsed. “Oh, shit. What? What’s happened?” She looked past her.
Wolf walked up to join them.
“What’s going on?” Charlotte asked him.
“Tom’s in trouble,” Wolf said point-blank.
“What do you mean? Is he hurt?”
“We don’t think so,” Wolf said. “But … we don’t know. Pat Xander gave him a ride home last night, and we found Pat’s body this morning.”
Charlotte collapsed into her chair, landing hard on the armrest.
Patterson and Wolf leapt forward to help her sit.
Lorber came rushing over with Sheriff MacLean.
Charlotte’s face was white and she breathed like she was hyperventilating.
“Listen, Charlotte,” Wolf said. “He’s okay. He’s alive and we’re going to find him.”
Lorber and MacLean took up positions behind Charlotte and shot glares at Wolf.
“He’s fine? What do you mean? But Pat Xander’s dead? He’s the body found in the trunk this morning on 18? So what’s happened to Tom? How do you know he’s fine?”
“We believe he’s been taken by someone,” Wolf said.
Lorber and MacLean looked uneasy. Like they could barely contain their confusion at Wolf’s leap in logic. And who could blame them? They hadn’t seen the picture on Patterson’s phone.
Wolf stared into Charlotte’s eyes. “We’ll get him back, Charlotte.”
At that moment, Patterson believed her former boss’s words. “Yeah, Charlotte. We’ll get him back.” Her voice sounded a lot less sure than Wolf’s had.
