Have the full report over to him directly.
Apparently that explanation wasn’t sufficient.
Shoving out an angry sigh, Sharp rubbed his trademark red handkerchief over his face. Emerged from behind the stone fireplace on the east end of the structure, one of only two pieces left standing.
Was surprised to find the solitary figure approaching him wasn’t Paul Taggert.
“Morning,” the man said. Walked to just a few yards beyond the stretch of black soot staining the ground. Stopped and shoved his hands in the front pockets of his jeans. Pushed a plume of white out with each heavy breath.
Whereas Taggert was tall and lean, his hair sandy brown, this man was short and stout. Dressed in work attire, he wore a dark chocolate canvas coat. Had a grizzled thatch of hair to match it. A week old beard on his cheeks.
“Morning,” Sharp said. Narrowed his eyes slightly. “Can I help you?”
The man opened his mouth twice to speak, neither time finding the words. He rotated at the waist and looked the length of the house, his eyes pinching tight.
In that moment, Sharp understood.
“You’re the groundskeeper.”
The man rotated back. Forced himself into composure. “Wylie Dern. I’d walk up and shake your hand, but...”
“No, that’s alright,” Sharp said. Waved his hands before him. “I’m Waylon Sharp, arson investigator for Silver Bow County.”
At the word arson Dern’s eyes slid shut. “So you know for sure?”
“Yes,” Sharp replied. He knew he probably shouldn’t be sharing the information with the public. He had yet to even draft the report for Taggert. Still, for whatever reason, looking at the man made him certain in making the disclosure.
“I’m sorry.”
Dern nodded, again looking the length of the house. “I guess that’s a blessing and a curse. I know I shouldn’t be out here, but I just had to come take a look.”
Sharp felt his brow draw together at the comment. Said nothing.
“I just mean,” Dern said, turned back to him, “it’s a damn shame what happened, but I’m glad to know I didn’t do something to cause this.”
Raising his head in a nod of understanding, Sharp remained silent.
“Ever since the officer showed up yesterday, I’ve been trying to think if I left anything on when I left.”
Remaining rooted in place, Sharp watched the man. Could see the remorse on his face. Any annoyance he had upon being interrupted had fled away.
“No,” Sharp said. “The evidence here is pretty overwhelming. This place was doused in something and set to blaze. It started near the kitchen, burned out from the center.”
Dern listened in silence, the pained expression growing a little deeper.
There was more Sharp could have added. He could have mentioned that the amount of accelerant used was extraordinary. Torched the place in a fraction of the normal burn rate for a house of this size.
That whoever had done it had been in a hurry. Had not had enough fuel to make it to either end.
That the ignition source seemed to be a road flare tossed from afar.
“I wasn’t even in the house on Monday,” Dern said, his voice low. “Sharon – the other woman that works here – is on vacation. Without her around I keep to the barns out back.”
Sharp knew that all this would come out later when Taggert sat down with Dern. He knew that every moment of the last few days would be scoured through.
And that without question Dern would come out innocent.
The kind of remorse he seemed to be exuding was just too much to fake.
“I know he had a reputation,” Dern said. Again looked back to Sharp. “And he could be a mean old cuss, I’m not saying he couldn’t. But he was always very fair to me, was polite to my family.”
“Hmm,” Sharp said. Nodded.
This too was something far beyond his purview, though he wasn’t about to stop the man in the off chance he shared something useful. If not to Taggert’s investigation, then perhaps his own.
“When was the last time you saw Mr. Koenig?” Sharp asked.
“Whew,” Dern said. Pursed his lips and blew out a puff of air. “Maybe a month ago? Back around the holidays.”
He glanced up to Sharp and added, “He has a couple of homes, I guess. Doesn’t like to stay anywhere too long at a time.”
“Have you talked to him?”
“No,” Dern said. Shook his head. “I called and left a message. Told him I was sorry, I’m around if there’s anything I can do. Haven’t heard back yet.”
This time Sharp only nodded. Said nothing.
A few moments of silence passed before Dern raised a hand to his brow. Offered a small wave.
“Well, I’ll let you get back to it. Sorry to interrupt.”
Sharp matched the wave. “No bother.”
Another moment passed as Dern stared at the remains of the house. “Sure was a pretty place. Designed it all himself, on account of his wheelchair and things.”
Scraping his boots against the frozen ground, Dern departed without another word.
Sharp watched as he made his way back towards the barn and climbed into his truck, never once looking back.
Chapter Eighteen
Butte, America.
The self-dubbed moniker most residents in the city preferred to be known by.
An extension of the expression that Montana doesn’t claim Butte and Butte doesn’t claim Montana.
Despite living just an hour and a half away for the better part of seven years, Drake had never spent any real time in the city. Had passed through a number of times.
On his way to Yellowstone. Into Bozeman to play the Bobcats.
Never had he stopped in Butte for more than a few minutes. Grabbed gas. Got a sandwich. Not once had he ever even made the trek for the famed St. Patrick’s Day festivities.
The sky overhead was only nominally lighter than it had been snowshoeing that morning. High above somewhere the sun was in full force trying to get through.
The cloud cover was just too thick to be penetrated.
Instead it cast an even haze over the ground as Drake pushed east. Reflected off the splotchy banks of snow covering the ground. Shined off the streaks of salt striping his front windshield.
Keeping the radio off, Drake rode on in silence. Processed everything he knew, which was precious little. The hope was that he would soon be uncovering much more.
A hope he wasn’t entirely banking on.
Driving in the middle of the week, the road was almost clear, only a handful of long haul truckers out. Giving them a wide berth Drake made decent enough time. Arrived just before eleven in the morning.
Following I-90 through the heart of downtown, Drake glanced out his window at the cityscape sliding by. To his left, rising high on the hill, was Old Butte. Built entirely from faded brick and wood, it harkened back to the heyday of the copper mining empire. Just beyond it was the Berkeley Pit, one of the largest open pit mines in the world.
Driving past, Drake couldn’t help but agree that it had earned its new title as simply The Pit.
On the south side of the freeway was the urban sprawl that accompanied any city. Strip malls. Fast food joints. Gas stations.
Looking down on everything from up high atop the continental divide was Our Lady of the Rockies. Standing on the rocky skyline she looked to be no more than an inch tall.
In reality, Drake knew her to be larger than the Statue of Liberty.
Using the directions Kara had given him the night before, Drake pulled off at the second exit into town. Wound his way north into Old Butte. Pulled into a diagonal parking spot along the street in front of the original police department housing the town jail. Fed the meter and stepped inside at eleven o’clock exactly.
Seated on a black plastic chair just inside the door was Kara, her cheeks still blotchy. She stood as he entered, a look of relief accompanied by a large exhale.
“Thank y
ou so much for coming,” she said. Took three quick steps forward as if she might hug him. Pulled up just short of it.
“Absolutely,” Drake said. “Like Wyatt said last night, he would have been here but has class obligations he couldn’t get out of.”
Every person in the room had known it was hogwash the moment Wyatt said it. Nothing more than an excuse to step away from the case.
Nobody had a said a word to call him on it.
Extending a hand towards the front counter, Drake followed Kara forward. Stood before the faded laminate top. Waited as a harried woman with short dark hair approached. Eyed them both suspiciously.
A name placard on her chest identified her as Humboldt.
“Good morning,” Drake said. Tried his best to appear cheery.
“Morning,” Humboldt said. Worked her hardest to seem bored.
“Drake Bell and Kara Riggins here to see Tyce Riggins.”
A long moment passed as she looked at them both. Eventually nodded. “Right. The pyro.”
A handful of responses came to Drake’s mind as he watched Kara’s knuckles grow white against the countertop.
Even in his limited time with the justice system, Drake knew better than to correct her. It would only make things harder on him and Tyce both.
“Sign in,” Humboldt said. Turned on a heel and departed. Reappeared a moment later at a side door, holding it open wide.
“This way.”
Allowing Kara to take the lead, Drake followed through the open door. Nodded his thanks to Humboldt. Was met with an eye roll.
“Last door on the left.”
Nodding again, Drake followed Kara down the hall. Past a handful of open doors. Noticed the stares of men inside each one. Bad ties and coffee cups, as if cut from a crime fiction novel.
Felt the weight of Humboldt’s gaze on his back.
The appointment had been set up for eleven clock. As such Tyce was already inside the holding room as they entered. Seated behind a single metal table, he rested on a black plastic chair. He tried to stand as they entered but was stopped by his hands cuffed to a metal bar rising from the middle of the table.
Kara let out an audible gasp at the sight. Covered her mouth with one hand. Rushed forward into the room.
Stopping in the doorway Drake turned and stared at Humboldt. Let any notion of friendliness fall away.
“Officer, can you please come remove the handcuffs from my client?”
Standing with her arms folded across her chest, Drake watched as her features hardened.
“No. He is a suspect in a violent crime.”
“Arson is not a violent crime,” Drake corrected. “He doesn’t need to be restrained.”
“We find him a flight risk,” Humboldt snapped back.
“Based on what exactly?” Drake asked. “He has a clean record and is from Butte. Besides, you think he’s going to go sprinting out of here?”
Humboldt opened her mouth to respond again. Was cut off by the emergence of a tall man in a sport coat and moustache stepping from his office. His hair was mashed down into a ring around his head.
“Patty, he’s right,” the man said. Extended a hand down the hall. “The suspect doesn’t need to be restrained.”
He stepped forward and extended a hand to Drake. Drew himself up as tall as he could.
“Paul Taggert, detective.”
Drake returned the shake. “Drake Bell, counsel.”
It was obvious there was more the man wanted to say, but he let it go at that. Stepped past Drake into the holding room. Removed the handcuffs and pocketed them.
“One hour,” Taggert said. Sidled past Drake in the doorway. “Station closes at noon for lunch.”
A smart remark came to mind, but Drake chose only to nod in understanding.
Instead he glanced inside the holding room. Saw Kara sitting on her husband’s lap. Both openly weeping as they embraced.
“Actually,” Drake said. “I think you might be the person I need to speak with first.”
At the opposite end of the hall Humboldt continued to watch everything. Nearby, one of the men in their office craned his neck to get a better view.
All sound seemed to fade as the two stared at each other a long moment.
Finally Taggert relented. Extended a hand towards his office.
Said nothing.
Chapter Nineteen
Statue.
That’s how the second man in the room looked to Drake.
He had stood as Drake and Taggert entered. Introduced himself as Detective Foye.
Had promptly settled himself back into his seat. Sat just off the back corner of the desk. Opened his eyes as large as possible to stare at Drake.
It was everything Drake could do not to laugh at him.
Instead he focused his attention on the older man before him. Clearly the leader in the power dynamic. The one that had a couple decades of experience on the younger man.
Would have made the decision to place Tyce Riggins under arrest.
Once the door was closed and Taggert was seated behind his desk, Drake launched right into it.
“Detective, I am here at the request of Mrs. Riggins. She said last night you folks came to their home and asked a few questions about the fire at Wes Koenig’s house the night before.”
The statement was left deliberately vague. Intentionally made to be a declaration and not a question.
Meant to see how the detectives would choose to answer.
Leaning back in his chair, Taggert stared across at Drake. Laced his fingers atop an oversized belt bucket.
“That’s correct.”
The hope had been for more to come across. It was readily apparent from the look on Taggert’s face he had no intention of doing so.
“And a few minutes later returned and placed my client under arrest.”
Again, left intentionally blank.
“Yes, that’s also correct.”
Drake made sure his face remained expressionless. As with Humboldt earlier, he needed to remain as anti-inflammatory as possible.
“Can you please share why?”
Silence was his only response.
“Or why you chose to question my client to begin with?” Drake followed up. “He has an alibi for Monday night, corroborated by three different people.”
“All of which are family,” Taggert replied.
There was just the tiniest hint of defensiveness in the tone. The response came just a bit too fast.
Drake sensed a crack. Did nothing to let it show.
“That is how most people spend their evenings,” Drake said.
A frown started to tug downward at the corners of Taggert’s mouth. Most of it remained hidden behind the drooping moustache covering his upper lip.
“Mr. Riggins is a person of interest,” Taggert said. “We are within our rights to hold him for three days.”
“Yes,” Drake conceded, “but you must have probable cause to do that. I assume you have evidence to support his status as a person of interest?”
At the end of the sentence Drake leaned back in his seat as far as possible. Made sure no hint of threatening was in his tone.
Stared back without appearing defiant.
“We don’t have to share our case with you,” Foye said from the corner, his voice surprising Drake and Taggert both.
At the same time they each turned to stare at him. Drake hiding just the slightest hint of amusement. Taggert appearing somewhere between mortified and furious.
“Actually, you do,” Drake said. “You must prove you have reason to hold him or cut him loose. That is the law.”
Color seemed to rise up the young man’s face. Filled in around the blotches on his cheeks. Painted his entire visage crimson.
Across from Drake, Taggert set his jaw. Glared at Foye.
Slowly turned his attention back forward.
“Monday night we pulled Riggins’s truck from a traffic camera on the edge of town. He was returning fro
m the direction of the Koenig property during the time frame that fit the fire.”
“Right,” Drake said. “He was returning from the home of his in-laws in Anaconda. They both told you this straight out when you spoke to them.”
“And clearly strapped into the bed of their truck were two ten gallon gas cans,” Taggert said.
Drake waited a moment for further explanation.
None came.
“So? They also told you they had been snowmobiling for the day. Their Arctic Cat was on the trailer behind them. I’m assuming you also saw that on the camera.”
Across from him Taggert shifted his jaw to the side. Snaked his tongue out as if he were going to pull his moustache into the corner of his mouth.
Thought better of it.
“We did,” Taggert said. Nothing more.
“So you’re trying to hold my client as a person of interest for a felony carrying a twenty year maximum sentence on nothing but driving back at the wrong time of night?” Drake asked.
For the first time, made sure his tone conveyed how ridiculous the charges were.
Three feet away from him Taggert shifted a bit on his chair. The frown lifted a bit. Was replaced by a touch of condescension.
“We also know that eleven years Mr. Riggins’s aunt was one of the people swindled in the real estate scam spearheaded by Mr. Koenig.”
Drake gave the detective across from him a moment. Allowed the look of victory to remain on his features.
Processed what he’d just heard before launching forth with a response.
“So, the sum total of what you have is a traffic camera picture of a man driving home from snowmobiling,” Drake said. “A man who’s aunt, eleven years ago, when he was only seventeen, three states away, lost some money on a land deal?
“That’s what you’re holding him on?”
“That’s more than enough to make him a person of interest,” Foye said, venturing back into the conversation for the first time since his faux pas.
This time Taggert didn’t bother to look over at him. Kept his attention on Drake.
“That barely meets the line for circumstantial,” Drake said.
“But luckily for us, this isn’t a trial yet,” Taggert said. “As long as we have him in holding, we know he isn’t going anywhere. We can use the next few days to speak to people and determine if charges should be brought.”
The Glue Guy: The Zoo Crew Series Book 4 Page 7
